#and it’s funny that when there are wheels or blades under my feet I become a graceful swan who never falters lmao

[drunk-poets-society]

I used to own a skateboard when I was young but never used it much and then our old house got sold and everything in it was given away, including the skateboard. However, recently I’ve purchased a brand new skateboard and I thought I had lost the skill and zest but then the moment I got on it I felt like I was born for this and I’ve been practicing some stunts on it in the past few days and only fell once, but boy did that make me feel alive like nothing else.

[thekillingjoke-haha]

Prime Time,Bitch!

Tagged: @spnquotebingo the keep reading function is messing up for me

Sam said he was locked up tight in the dungeon. He was never locked in with her. She was locked in with him. The hunter becomes the hunted with no where to run.

Warning: Mature Language,Blood,Gore,Character Death?

-"Thoughts"- (they are red for those who can see)"Quotes" 'Reading'

"I'll be right back. This demon side is fighting to stay in control. I just need a few more pints of blood." Sam said as he slung a bag on his shoulder. "Yeah I got it get some food to!" Y/n said with a smile as she walked him to the impala. The roar of the engine rumbled as she waved him off going back inside what she didn't know was Dean knew that Sam just left and a chilling smile grew on his face.

Y/n popped popcorn as she sat in her room a horror movies playing as she got comfortable. A scream came from the movie drowning out the sound of the dungeon door opening up. The youngest Winchester laughed as a girl tripped over nothing her and Dean always make fun of them they had no real reason to hit the ground so they should get right up. This made her slightly sad. Was Sam going to fix Dean or was it already to late for him? Shaking off the thought the killer was about to crush the women's skull when the power cut out,but the red emergency lights didn't cut on yet which was weird. "God damnit." She grumbled getting up and grabbed a flashlight and went to the breaker to fix it walking right past the open door. Flipping the switch the normal lights don't turn on only the red ones and she turned around to get her phone to call Sam when she dropped her flashlight. Y/n gazed at the empty chair in the center of a devils trap she took off running to her room,but paused he knew she would run there for her phone and Dean or the demon he's become won't let her get help. She changed course to Sam's panic room to hide.

"Oh N/n where are you? I miss my little sister don't you miss me?" A metal sound of something dragging on the floor made her tense. Thinking of all possible things it could be of how she's going to die.–'It could be a bat,but we don't have any metal ones in the bunker. Maybe a sledgehammer,but that would have ment he when into the garage and the power going out would have locked everything.''– Her eyes widen as she released what it was he must have been carrying around she was sharpening it with the rest of the blades earlier that day."Have you figured it out yet? I know how you think when a horror movie is playing you see ever scenario before the movie can catch up. No wonder Sammy says you cheat at Clue!" Dean laughed as he seemed to wander to each room. The sound of wood splitting as he yelled "Here's Johnny!!!" It seemed so much worse that Dean was the evil this time a normal demon would know her so personally this seemed almost cruel him quoting films they watched together. "What to clichés? I admit the axe is old school."

The panic room the size of a cubbie it was so small,but just big enough I could calm down and think properly. Looking up another version of myself sat in front of me...my conscience. I could speak,but she could she's in my head after all. –"You can't run. There's nowhere to go doors locked down the moment the lights went."– I saw a illusion of myself running through the halls just to hit a corner and get a axe to the chest before it faded away. –"Can't go for your phone or your laptop he probably broke it the moment he noticed you weren't in your room."– I saw myself creep into my room just to see a shattered phone and my laptop with a cracked screen buffering to open instant messenger to text Sam. The laptop was slammed shut on my fingers causing some to break and get sliced by the glass looking up the sick grin of the Demon caught my eye before the axe ended that path. –"The burner. The one in your dresser Dean doesn't know about it so neither would the demon.Get it and get back here as quickly as possible. "– It was settled call for help. Listening for any foot steps I creep out of the hiding space a faint whistle going off down one of the many halls way from my room. Sneaking down the hallway staying low I get to my room where the door is torn to shreds as I open my drawer and fish out the phone. Going back down the hallway I get back to Sam's room and immediately call him.

"This call has been forwarded to a automatic voice message at the tone ples–" Hanging up I call again and again with no answer. At this point help was no longer a option. The whistling seemed to get closer and I rushed to the panic room until I paused. –"A enclosed space in a closet. There's not much space to move around if he finds you there your done for."– I back away slightly. –"Behind the door offers a easy place to hide and get out,but if he does the same to Sammy's door he did to yours it's not much of a hiding spot then."– A axe goes through the door creating a massive hole and Dean peaks inside and sees the white of you tank top in your (f/n) flannel. The door was whole again as I looked around the sound of metal getting louder running out of time. –"Under the bed allows you to see him without him seeing you,but like the panic cubbie not a lot of wiggle room if he hears you your done."– It was too late running to the metal door of the panic room she slams it shut not to loud to sound like she's trying to hide it,but just loud enough for the demon to register it. Sealing it shut I slip under the bed and wait for the time to get out and hopefully find a weapon.

Boots walked into the room turning to the closed closet. "Oh N/n!~ There's only so many places to hide in such a small room. Did you really think I wouldn't hear that heavy ass door close?" He chuckled darkly as he opened the closet and went to the small door. Dean tried turning the wheel to unsealed it,but it seemed to dawn on him that it could only be opened from the inside. With a huff anger he began pulling the brick of the wall started to bend outwards and crack. I was glad I wasn't in there. Going to slip out from under the bed while he's distracted the burner phone rang its annoying ringtone. Not even bothering to stop it I rush to get out faster,but a firm grip caught my ankle and dragged me out. Turning onto my back Dean stood their his apple green eyes staring at me. "Found you." He lifted up the axe having let go of my ankle lifting up my feet I put as much strength as possible into kicking his stomach. The demon was knocked back into the closest hitting the ground. Unfortunately axe still in hand. Stanfing up I ran leaving the phone behind. -"Sam took Baby so the trunk armory is out of the question. The garage has so pretty handy tools too bad that it was sealed along with the front and only entrance. Kitchen has knifes none that can hurt him,but just enough to slow him down. Library demon blade was in there last you checked,but Sam could have grabbed and put it on a high shelf."– Too many options and the kitchen was closer so that was the first stop grabbing a knife I held it tightly as a stalked slowly to the Library to see if there were any supernatural weapons.

The library was dark and the red lighting barely lit up the large room. "Would you like to play a game?" Dean mocked in a deep voice as he went around the bunker his voice echoing no real pinpointing where he is. I can't call Sam and prying to Cas hasn't worked meaning Dean made angel banishing symbols in most of the rooms. Y/n was getting desprit the bunkers massive size most of it was unexplored by them so being lost in a underground maze b wasn't the best option. "Are you scared yet Y/n? Well be afraid. Be very afraid. I'm what goes bump in the night sweetheart! Never thought the Winchester’s downfall will be by the hands of the oldest. What a twist!!! Right?" Dean yelled turning to the table I saw the supplies I cleaned with,but the weapons were gone and a note was left on in their place. 'Hey Y/n I put the weapons back into the trunk for tomorrow's hunt so you wouldn't have to...you're welcome and your blade was just sitting on the table so I put it up. ~Love Sam' I wanted to cry oh chuck nothing can save me in this buncker Bobby was sending us gallons of holy water next week because we were low...all rooms were demon proof,but he seemed to be a exception now,so no calling Crowley either.

Turning around the library doors open and I duck behind one of the many shelves. "Welcome to my nightmare!~" He said with a chuckle that bounced from every wall. Dean knocked down books and destroyed anything in his way while he looked around. Crawling on the ground I go to leave when the sound of something whooshing in the arm made me drop like a bag of rocks. The axe meet the shelf and I gazed at the red illuminated face of my brother eyes now black and demented. Laughter bubbled out of his chest as he mumbled. "Carful dear wouldn't want to lose you head." Yanking the axe free many books tumbled down. Taking the kitchen knife in hand I slash his calf and go for his thigh when the knife is flung out of my hands. "You little bitch!!!" He hissed now holding the knife and showing it into my stomach. A silent cry came from my lips bot to give him the satisfaction of my screams just yet. I look up at him and just past his head where I couldn't normally reach was the handle of my blade peeking over the shelf.

I begin to giggle and it turns into fits of laughter. Black eyes flicker back to confused green ones. "What's so funny?" I catch my breath as I lean up slightly. "You picked the wrong place to corner me. Wanna play?" Grabbing his knee and pulling it buckled under him causing Dean to hit the shelf letting the blade fall freely. Reaching out I catch it "Let’s play." Stabbing upward into his stomach the same place the knife was lodged in my own stomach. He howled in pain as I removed the blade and ran keeping pressure on the knife wound as I turned corners just to get away. -'He played with your head play with his. The intercomes...a good distraction can lead him away and let you get the jump.'- I hurry to the intercoms not before making a pit stop.

Demon!Dean POV

I growl at the wound on my body the little shit stabbed me. This makes killing her so much easier then she can be just like me. Grabbing the axe I stomp through the bunker. "What a excellent day for an exorcism." Her voice sounded through the speakers now I know were she is. "Would you like that?" I said aloud with a grin. "Intensely." Y/n said trying to make her voice horse before the clipping sound of the intercom stopping rang out before being replaced with a creepy melody that always scared her. "There was a crooked man. He walked a crooked mile he had a crooked six pence upon a crooked stile." It went on with childish like tones until it got further in the song it was so god damn loud though. "The crooked man stepped forth and... rang the crooked bell and thus his crooked soul... spiraled into a crooked hell.Murdered his crooked family... and laughed a crooked laugh." My ear drums almost burst at the loud deep voiced scream ears still ringing I didn't register the blade being driving into my sholder flinging her back I turn around as she's running down the narrow hallway taking the axe with both hands throw it straight and the axe hit her almost dead center in the spine. The audio cut off after the song and I stood over her. Y/n had her face turned coughing up blood I definitely hit her lung. "Thanks for catching it for me." I smile as I heavily put my foot on the small of her back pulling the axe out. She screamed out it was mildly gurgle from the blood. Turning her over my little sisters eyes shined with unshed tears. "Oh,no tears,please. It's a waste of good suffering." I said with a small whipping the few that slipped by she whimpered Sam's name and I grew frustrated. Lifting the axe again. "Looks like you couldn't make the cut,N/n. Just another extra that stuck around for too long." Dropping the axe down it went into her chest the creaking of her collar bone and sternum were whispers compared to the blood curdling cry. They soon died out as her skin paled and her breathing stopped she'llmake a strong demon. "See you soon." Taking the axe out I begin to drag her body.

The lights in the bunker cut back on meaning Sammy was home. Having placed her perfectly in the chair I was tied to I wait until he finds her standing next to the door. "Y/n?! Y/n!?" He yelled most likely having gone to her room rushing the the dungeon his heavy foot steps abruptly stopped. "Oh God! Y/n come on!" The moose of a man rushed in the room cradling her face in his hand. "You were too late, Sammy. She called your name before she went,but I guess five missed calls wasn't enough for you to rush home. N/n fought for so long waiting it out just for you to never show." I said closing the door as he turned to me standing infront of her corpse. "You didn't make things easy on her. I mean you took all the weapons and put the only thing to defend herself on the top shelf...like keeping the cookie jar way from a child. In some way you killed her before I could." Lifting the demon blade that had his own blood on it. I stalked towards him cornering him in the room. "Sure you won't give me a good chase,but woah she wore me out." Holding the blade to his throat when a gun shot fired and a sting hit my arm causing me to drop the knife.

Y/n stood colt in her left hand the axe keeping her up in her left. "Demons always so sure that what's dead is dead and can't be undead. Ever heard of a pulse jackass. " so distracted that she was alive Sam was able to restrain and she held a handful of bags of blood. "Let's get this over with." She bagan to inject me and I felt myself become mire human and I started thrashing hard. With the last vile in hand she looked into my eyes. "You should be dead." I hissed as she pushed the needle in. "Sorry. I'm into survival."

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A/n This is the last one in round one of the Spnquotebingo and I ended with a dozen quotes.

Title: "Prime Time,Bitch!" Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors

"Here's Johnny!" -The shinning

"Would you like to play a game?" - Saw

"...be afraid. Be very afraid"- The fly

"Welcome to my nightmare."- Nightmare on Elm Street

"..lose your head." Alice in Wonderland

"Wanna play?"- Child's Play

"What a excellent day for an exorcism...Would you like that?....Intensely." - The Exorcist

"There was a crooked man. He walked a crooked mile he had a crooked six pence upon a crooked stile." It went on with childish like tones until it got further in the song it was so god damn loud though. "The crooked man stepped forth and... rang the crooked bell and thus his crooked soul... spiraled into a crooked hell.Murdered his crooked family... and laughed a crooked laugh." - The Conjuring 2

"Oh,no tears,please. It's a waste of good suffering." - Hellraiser

"See you soon." - Coraline

"She called your name before she went,but I guess..." -Hadestown

"...what's dead is dead and can not me undead." -Jacksepticeye (DBD playthrough)

"I'm into survival." ‐Nightmare on Elm Street

[lostinwildflowers]

Night Changes

Jean Kirschtein x Reader

Word Count: 2.2 K

Warnings: May contain slight spoilers for S4!!!! Slight mention of self-harm and suicide, low self-esteem, maybe one or two curse words (I think that’s all, let me know if I missed any.)

A/N: BEAN I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS!!! You have now been dubbed my first ever request!!! I hope this is what you were looking for :)

Air. It seemed to be all around you, whipping at your face, tugging at your clothes. No, not regular clothes. A uniform. The black fabric of the uniform was slightly scratchy, so it must have been fairly new or not worn.

A familiar feeling of leather straps makes you look down at the rest of your body. ODM gear? But what are these long pipes? Where are my blades? You don’t have much time to think as you hear the unforgettable sound of a titan’s screech.

You look around at the scenery in front of you, a city. But not from Paradis, it was across the ocean. Marley? I’ve never been to Marley before though. You see a huge plume of smoke erupt from a building below you, and you feel the airship turn to avoid the pieces of shrapnel that flew from it.

The sudden lurch makes you fly forward off of the landing strip of the airship. You instinctively go to engage your ODM gear, but the leather straps around your legs break. A silent scream leaves your lips as you fumble through the air.

A handsome and familiar face appears as you start to fall through the sky, hands thrashing to grab onto something, anything solid. Jean tries to reach for you, but he had no gear on. You see Jean turn behind him to yell at someone to get down there and save you.

Jean’s features start to become distant as your body flies to the earth. You hear your name ring out from his lips, echoing as everything around you becomes silent. The last thing you see is his hand reaching out toward you, a terrified and helpless look on his face.

A loud crack makes you jump, sleepy eyes suddenly focusing from the loud noise. Heart pounding in your chest, your body convulses and shudders, trying to calm down. Your (colored) eyes look out of the window a few feet away, pitch black outside, and rain drizzling down against the roof. You take a deep breath in, although it was shaky.

It was just a dream. Just a dream. Jean… where is he? You sit upright clumsily, orbs searching in the dark for the large figure of your boyfriend. They settle on his muscular build that is starting to stir. Shit. I must have woken him up with all of my thrashing and kicking. I know he trained hard yesterday and wanted to rest.

“Babe...?”, the sleepy and deep voice comes. You shut your eyes and curse yourself out in your head. “Hey, go back to sleep, I’m okay,” you coo, hand traveling to the soft head of hair that faces away from you. Your fingers card through the long locks on the back of his head, then hazel-colored eyes open to meet your own (colored) ones.

Jean takes one look at your disheveled and tear-stained face and immediately starts to shuffle to sit upright. “Hey hey hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” he questions, one hand cupping your cheek while the other pulls you into his lap. Your hands find a spot to lay on his bare chest and tears start to drip down your chin.

Neither of you says anything while you cry, Jean’s arms stay wrapped around you as your body heaves and shakes. Ever so slightly, he slowly strokes your head of hair in an attempt to help calm you down. After a few minutes, your eyes run dry of tears and you are left lying curled up in Jean’s lap.

It's quiet for a moment and then you pull away from him slightly to look him in his eyes. “I uhm...” you glance down and clear your throat, words coming out hoarse from all of your sobs. Jean’s features soften and quickly shushes you, “It’s okay honey, you don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to. I will listen if you feel like you need to get it off of your chest, though.”

You shoot him a small and quick smile and then nod faintly, hands tracing over his collarbones and chest. “I want to talk about it,” you whisper to him. “I was, we were uh. We were in the air, I don’t really know how, it was an airship or something.” Jean cocks one eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. 

You take this as a signal to continue and you murmur, “We were in these heavy black uniforms with straps, like ODM gear but really upgraded. There was a noise, the ship turned and I fell out. My gear wouldn’t work and you couldn’t save-” Your voice breaks harshly as the scene comes back into your mind. Jean pulls you back to his chest and sets a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

A deep sigh leaves your lips as you refocus your attention. “But my gear broke, the leather straps of my ODM gear broke, and I plummeted to the ground. You tried to save me, but, but you couldn’t because you didn’t have any gear on.” Jean squeezes you again, regaining your eyes. 

“Well I didn’t lose you, and I’m still right here for you,” he chides, golden orbs raking over your now puffy face and red eyes. You whimper softly and wrap your arms around his neck, giving him a true hug and then whispering in his ear, “Jean, I love you. I- I have something I need to tell you though.”

Jean’s eyes widen, although you couldn’t see his face, and he pulls away slowly from the hug as though not to alarm you. “Okay honey, you know I won’t care if it’s something about your past or anything like that.” You nod at him and then remove yourself from his lap. You roll out of the bed to the large window, where the rain has stopped and moonlight covers your frame. 

You rest one hand against the wall and gaze out upon the field in the distance, covered in now twinkling flowers and small grasses. You hear shifting behind you, and you turn to see Jean at his full height gazing at you, love in his eyes. 

“Wow,” Jean huffs out with a smile, “You are absolutely gorgeous, y/n.” A slight blush arises in your cheeks at his words but dissipates quickly when you realize what you have to tell him. “Thanks, Jean. The thing is, I’ve never really felt, well… uhm” Your (colored) orbs trail down to your feet, hands dropping away from the wall to clinch at your sides.

Jean takes a step toward you, long slender fingers reaching under your chin. Your gaze is lifted to meet his hazel ones, and you bite at your bottom lip before spitting out the word with a built-up frustration, “Pretty.”

Your lover’s eyes widen in surprise and then he shakes his head to try to help him comprehend what you just said. “You’ve never felt pretty? Really? You are so hot though, just look at ya!” Jean takes a few steps back, arms widening to point at all of you, looking at you like you were a goddess.

You turn away, arms tucking further around your body and you look out the window again. Jean’s arms fall to his sides silently as he takes in your stressed form. “Look I didn’t mean-” he starts slowly, but you interrupt him, “No it’s. It’s okay, Jean. There’s more to it.”

He gulps and then returns to your side at the window, where he wraps an arm around your shoulder. You let out a shuddery breath and begin, “I never felt pretty because I always had to compete with my best friend when I grew up. She got all of the guys, she was so beautiful and funny, charismatic and smart.”

Your head turns to look at Jean and whisper, “And I was just me.” At your words, his head snaps toward you, a new expression on his face. Anger. “But you are so much more than just you,” he barks, eyes now ablaze with a new-found purpose. “You are a reliable scout, you are an amazing caretaker for our horses, you are an amazing caretaker of me. You are my girl. You are more than enough to me, because I love you for you, y/n.”

You try to will the fresh tears away at his words, and you try to turn your back on him, but Jean is faster. “Hey, I’m not done yet,” he calls, hands gripping your shoulders as he stares at you. “You are so incredible, so irresistibly gorgeous, and so, so many other things. You may think you are flawed or not enough, and that these things define you, but they don’t.”

“It’s okay to not feel like enough sometimes, but when you feel like that, you need to tell me. Because I’ll be there by your side to tell you that you are more than worth it. You are the love of  my life, y/n.” Jean cries out, tears starting to fill his eyes and he looks away for a second, just to wheel back around and say, “I have something I need to tell you too.”

You nod quickly, arms wrapping around Jean’s shirtless form and holding him close to your chest. He rests his chin on top of your head before he whimpers, “Y/n, you were the only thing that kept me going after Marco died. I had contemplated taking my own life, so I compensated by hurting myself to deal with the pain.”

You let out a small gasp at his words, and you feel wet drops hit your head, but you didn’t care. “Jean, I had no idea… thank you for telling me.” You both pull back a few inches and rest your foreheads against each other. You stare into his golden eyes and his handsome moonlit face, tears staining his cheeks. He gazes straight back at you, your (colored) eyes lit up by the moon’s glow, beautiful features smoothed over by the soft light.

Jean leans in slowly and sets a delicate kiss on your lips, holding you close to him for a few seconds. He pulls away carefully and whispers, “I loved you when I couldn’t love myself, y/n. You loved me right back, and I can’t stand to hear you talk bad about yourself like this.” You pull him back into the kiss, savoring his taste as you try to gather your thoughts to respond to him.

“Jean, I love you because you support me, and never once have I doubted you. I really hope you haven’t hurt yourself or had those thoughts in a while, it’s been a few years since Marco passed.” Jean smiles at your words and then sighs out, “No, I haven’t thought about any of that stuff in a while. He moves further to the back on my mind the longer I spend with you, and the more I think about your gorgeous body and what I want to do with it.” You bury your face in his chest as a harsh blush arises in your cheeks, and you can feel him let out a hefty chuckle.

“Whatcha say we wash up and then get back to bed, sweetheart?” Jean murmurs as he grabs your hand. You let him pull you into the bathroom, eyes blinking blearily at the bright candle lights. His grip tightens around your waist, hoisting you up onto the counter. He situates himself between your thighs, a now damp washcloth in his hands.

Jean carefully wipes your face down with the warm washcloth, making sure to be careful around your eyes. You watch him with a loving admiration as he does the same to his face. When he sets the small towel down, you wrap your arms around his neck loosely, hands pulling through his brown waves.

A barely noticeable hum escapes his lips, and he melts into your hands like butter. Your grip then tightens, pulling you close to him, and his grip on your thighs becomes harder as well. Jean picks you up slowly, blowing out the candle as he carries you back to your bed.

You immediately dive under the covers, while Jean crawls in after you, taking his time so he doesn’t crush your now balled-up form. He pulls the sheets over the two of you, and you snuggle your way up to his chest. With your head resting under his chin, he presses a final kiss to your forehead and whispers to you, “Y/n, I love you.”

“Jean, I love you too. Maybe we can talk about this more in the morning?” you question, but are met with silence. You turn your head up to look at him, but a barely audible snore answers you. A smile creeps onto your lips, you had a cute boy wrapped around you, the moonlight casting an ethereal look on his relaxed face. In that quiet moment, peace fell around you like a blanket, and then the call of the night pulled you in.

[jawritter]

The Fine Line Between Love And Hate

Summary: You love the man he was, not the man he is now, so why does he still affect you this way.

Rating: Explicit

Created For: @spndarkbingo

Square Field: Hatred

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons <3

Pairing: Michael!Dean Winchester x Reader

World Count: 1597

Warnings:  Hatred, obviously lol. Smut, unprotected sex, slight breading kink, some knife play, blood, spn level gore, bondage, blood, language, I think that’s it.

A/N: This is actually my first time writing Michael!Dean, lol. So go easy on me y’all. Please do not copy my work!! Feedback is golden!

**MASTERLIST**   ~  **BECOME A PATREON**

The first thing you are aware of is the throbbing headache that radiates through your skull, all the way down to the back of your neck. The more alert you become, the more you realize that there are thick, heavy chains holding your arms above your head The chains are  tied to a pole in the center of what looked to be an old, abandoned church. 

The only thing you could  think about  through the pain that seemed to be seeping  into your brain, and fogging your judgements, was to test the stability of your restraints. Pulling on the chains with all your might, you let out a huff of frustration when they didn’t give at all, staying secured tightly to the pole. 

From the corner of the room you couldn’t see, a deep chuckle resounded from the throat of the man you once loved. Micheal walked around to where you could see him, adorning your boyfriend's meat suit that he’d prettied up in a suit, and a butcher's apron. 

“Glad to see you decided to join us, Y/N. I was just beginning to worry I’d struck you too hard back there. Your kind is so fragile after all.” 

You swallowed down the bile that rose in your throat at the sounds of Dean’s  smooth, deep trimble, and glared at the face of the man that you loved so much. The man that was so familiar, yet so foreign  all at the same time. He may have looked like Dean, but everything about him screamed that he wasn’t Dean. From the tone of his voice, to his wide eyes, all the way down his well dressed body, to his tall and proud stance. 

“What’s wrong? You don’t like the look?” he chided in what was intended to be a playful manner, but it did nothing but make your blood boil. “I personally think Dean here cleans up pretty good for a human.”

You said nothing, just maintained eye contact with the pale green eyes that were staring into yours. You were trying to find any sign, any little thing that said Dean was still in there, still alive, but so far all you could see was a blank, empty canvas of what your boyfriend once was. That spark that only Dean carried had been snuffed out by the arch angel that was wearing his body, and it made you, if possible, even sicker to see it. 

“Not much of a talker are we? That’s funny, because you were always pretty boisterous in the bedroom with Dean here,” he said with a sneer that made you shiver against the cold draft drafting that flowed through the holes that littered the walls of the old church. 

“Fuck you, Micheal,”  you spat, venum thick in your voice, but the angel didn’t seem to notice or care. “You lied! You lied to Dean, and I’m going to figure out a way to get you out of him. He doesn’t belong to you!”

Micheal threw Dean’s head back in a humorless laugh, picking up a large knife off the table that stood in front of the altar, eyeing it curiously as he twisted the blade between two fingers, before cold dead eyes met your gaze again. 

“He’s still in here you know, screaming for me to let you go,” Micheal said, making lazy strides over to where you were chained, running the cold blade of the knife down your collar bone, leaving a thin red line in its wake that stung as blood started to trail down your bare body. “He’s normally pretty content on his little hamster wheel of a reality I’ve created for him, but as soon as he heard your voice back at that hotel he started clawing at the cage.”

Micheal’s gaze followed the red liquid as it made it’s decent over your breast, and down your stomach. The wound wasn’t deep enough to kill you, or cause you to bleed to death. It was only intended to scare you, but you were past fear. It  no longer existed in your way of thinking. The only thing you could feel as you stared at Micheal was pure, white hot hate.

“So let me go,” you tell him coldly. “Maybe then he will settle down for you again.”

If you could just get some backup, you’d try and take this mother fucker down, but you had to do it without hurting Dean, and that was the part that would be tricky.

“Oh no. You see, Dean in here, he misses you, craves you even. Even though he’s usually pretty happy, his body still longs for yours. Like you're connected on a level that was never established in my world. If I’m going to bring purity and order to this world, I need to understand this connection.”

Micheal stepped closer to you, running a finger through your clevage and the trail of blood there as he stopped. Your body shivered at the contact of Dean’s skin against your own. Even though your mind knew it was not your Dean, your body didn’t seem to care.It just craved the warmth of the man you’d been missing. 

“I’ve got to say, the control that sex can give you seems quite intising. Especially when it’s laced with so much loathing. I feel it coming off of you right now.” 

Pressing the sharp tip of the knife against your skin, he cut a small knick right above your pulsepoint, then licked the little beads of blood away with his warm tongue. 

You had to bite back the moan that almost slipped past your defenses as your thighs tightened on their own in search of friction against the frustration building in your core as his  teeth grazed your throat, leaving a smeared blood trail in his wake. 

You pulled against the restraints as your pulse quickened with each new little cut he made over the top of your breast, letting the blood trail down over your nipples, before his fingers twisted and twerked them, getting them to stand at  full attention.Your cunt throbbed with each twerk of Dean’s fingers against your sensitive  flesh, and slick gathered uncomfortably at your thighs under his administration. Your body was calling out to the man you loved, but you hated the one controlling him more than anything you had ever killed as a hunter. 

When he was fully satisfied with his work, he sat the knife down beside him, and started to strip away the crisp suit he was adorning on Dean’s solid body, each layer falling to the floor, as his eyes raked over bare skin that was blood stained, sweat glistening lightly  in the dim light from the candles he had lit around the old decrepit  sanctuary. You hated the way your body seemed to be screaming for him, begging for him to touch you like he used to, stretch you out in a way only Dean could. 

“Dean’s enjoying this you know.You should just sit back and do the same,” Micheal said, stroking Dean’s length as he stepped up to where you were standing, kicking your legs apart with his feet as he slipped the tip of Dean’s leaking tip through your dripping folds. 

“I hate you,” you spat at him, but Micheal seemed unfazed, filling you up in one harsh thrust to the brim and making you both groan at the feeling of Dean’s body filling your own, your walls already fluttering around his greedily. 

“Oh Y/N,” Micheal said. Dean’s voice strained the way he used to when you were together this way, as he held himself still for a moment. “There’s such a fine line between love and hate. Your lips say you hate this, but that greedy little pussy of yours,” pulling out almost all the way, he slammed back in, “begs to differ.” 

He was right, and he knew it.There was nothing you could say to disagree with him when he was buried so deep inside of your body, pounding into you at a relentless pace, sweat mixing with blood and your back scraping against the pole you were tied to. Dean’s length hit all the right places, like he’d  done so many times before. 

Every cell in your body seemed to be vibrating with each pass of his manhood through your heat, and when your orgasm washed over the both of you, all hate was forgotten for a moment.All that remained, was the bliss that washed over you in waves as Micheal spilled his seed deep inside of your womb. Dean’s lips smirked as you fell apart around his length. 

Micheal’s mind taunted the man trapped in his head.  Dean screamed over and over again. He was thinking of what the  two of you had just created that would help him take over the world. You may never love Micheal, and he knew that, but you loved Dean and he’d use that until your job was done. Then he’d kill you, just like he was going to kill everyone his father ever created with his own son at his side. He’d then be God.

Forever Tags: @deanwanddamons​ @rvgrsbrns​ @bi-danvers0​ @onethirstyunicorn​ @i-love-superhero​ @akshi8278​ @lyss-dw79​ @magssteenkamp​ @lemondropirwin​ @squirrelnotsam​ @hobby27​ @spnbaby-67​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @defenderrosetyler​ @screechingartisancashbailiff​ @thecreatiivecorner​  @aflamboyanceofgays @vicmc624​ @busy-bee-angel-misska​ @justanotherwinchester​ @brilovesdeanwinchester​ @idksupernatural​ @lyarr24​ @amandamdiehl​ @love-jackles-37-blog​ @miraclesoflove​ @Waywardsistershy @emoryhemsworth​ @dean-winchesters-gardian-angel​ @softsebastian​ @tatted-trina6​ @deanmonandnegansbitch​ @hayleeharling​   @flamencodiva​ @coldmuffinbanditshoe​ @bxbyizzy @dirty-pan-goblin​ @itmejado​ @supernatural3002​ @teresa-67​ @thoughts-and-funnies​ @hearteyes-j2​ @miss-nerd95​

[softguks]

angst drabble with jungkook please? HIT ME WITH THE PAIN. COME AT ME BRO. i’m probably going to regret this LMFAO

primroses

order description. Jungkook’s always missing you, it’s just on a rainy day that’s also your anniversary that he’s missing you the most.

customers. jeon jungkook / reader course. angst / teeny tiny bit of fluff :’) total bill. 1.5k words allergies. angst, character death (major), grieving, pain, crying :(

note ! @sketchguk thank you for being there for me during my rambles of how insecure i am about my writing sjwjsjsjjs. if the read more doesn’t work on mobile, i’m sorry :(

— primroses: i can’t live without you, eternal love

Jungkook’s made this trip more times than he count, comes probably every other week or so, and has visited so many times that he could probably get here with his eyes closed —even though that wouldn’t be very smart— but for some reason, today feels harder than normal.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, the ridges of his knuckles going white as he clenches his jaw, chest heaving with each shaky breath that fills his lungs. The skin under his dark circles is tinged pink, red-rimmed eyes staring out into the distance as he musters you the courage to grow some balls and get out of his car. His legs feel like deadweights, and he can barely get himself out of the driver’s seat, eyes cast downward at the cracks and divots in the concrete. He follows each line and chasm in the asphalt that’s stained with rainwater. The squishy sounds of his shoes against the freshly trimmed, damp grass momentarily distracts him from his thoughts. Drops of dew cling precariously onto the blades of grass, glittering like jewels. He looks for anything and everything to get his mind off of her. His heart feels heavier today, the ache that resounds in his heart worsening with each day that passes.

Tears sting the base of his eyes, pooling in the corners of his doe eyes as he sniffles, struggling to hide the trembling of his body and the quivering of his bottom lip. Pearly, white teeth graze over the plump flesh of his bottom lip as he tightens his grip on the bouquet of flowers in his hand. His feet seem as if they are glued to the ground, imprinted in the soft and slightly damp, muddy patch of grass. Squatting down, he places the bouquet of primroses next to the structure, the pad of his thumb gently brushing against the yellow and pink petals. He glances up at the sky, trying his hardest to blink back the burning tears that threaten to slide down his cheeks.

Carding slender fingers through brown hair, he swallows the lump in his throat, unable to hide the pain that swallows him whole. It throbs in his chest, eating him out from the inside, burning him alive. It hurts, hurts so bad that some days he can’t get out of bed. Some days, his hyungs have to drag him out of bed for him to function. Some days, the most he can do is take a shower and down a glass of water before it all hits him like a truck again, and the pain becomes too much too handle. It’s funny, how bright and full of life he used to be. And now, he’s just a ghost, a husky of a human being, a lifeless soul residing in a shell.

It feels different without you. It feels wrong, it feels weird, and he hates it. It feels wrong to come back to a place he can’t even call home without you waiting with open arms. It feels wrong not to see your pair of shoes placed on the shoe rack next to his Timberlands, without your set of keys plopped in the little bowl at the front entrance, without your smile brightening his day. It feels too quiet, without the low hum of the dryer in the background, the illuminated TV playing softly, the bubbling of a boiling pot on the stove, the padding of your footsteps as you run to him. It feels wrong to sink down into the couch, waiting for you to run from your shared bedroom with lotion in one hand and a blanket in the other. He finds himself wanting nothing more than for the world to swallow him up whole as he barely lives through the days.

It feels wrong for him to fall asleep at night, without you curled up in his arms, the soft snores tumbling from your parted lips, your soft locks of hair fanned out around your head like a halo. He finds himself glancing over to the empty side of the bed more times than he cares to admit, unable to fall asleep because it’s too quiet and too cold. He misses the warmth that radiates from your sleeping figure, the beauty that astounds him when shards of silver moonlight illuminate your figure with a soft glow. It feels wrong to eat dinner alone, missing the warmth and homely feeling of your home-cooked meals. Recently, he’s been eating at the dorms to avoid feeling so lonely and lost in his thoughts.

Performing on stage is the worst. It doesn’t bring him the same euphoric feeling of pure bliss as it used to. He finds himself staring into the distance, at that one spot in the arena where you would normally preside, a proud smile playing across your rosy lips, your eyes bright with excitement. The thrill of it all, the rush of adrenaline, the cheering of the crowd, and the magical warmth that used to throb in his veins is now not enough. It takes too much out of him to sing the songs that were carefully crafted for you, to pour out his heart to someone who isn’t there anymore.

Jungkook finds himself falling deeper and deeper into a hole he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to climb out of.

He places the flowers down, next to the engraving in the stone, next to the plaque with your name carved on it. He lets the tears flow freely from his eyes, wide, broken, and blank eyes filled with more anguish than the amount of space in the universe. His heart quite literally shatters at the thought of your angelic smile. His voice comes out in a breathy murmur, soft and soothing as he gently traces the lines on the stone.

“Hey. I-I’m here again. God, this is so fucking stupid isn’t it? I’m sorry, it just-just hurts so much. I haven’t figured out how to live without you. It hurts too much to not see you, to not be able to touch you, to not be able to have you in my life. I love you, I love you so fucking much and if that means pouring my heart out to you on a rainy day, then so be it. You are the light of my life, and you’d probably be scolding me for crying, for dwelling on my feelings, but I can’t help it. I was going to marry you. I decided that I was going to propose on our anniversary, which is actually today.”

The words are falling from his mouth before he can stop them, and he can taste the saltiness from his tears on the tip of his tongue, and yet even the streams of grief aren’t enough to wash away the anguish that envelopes his entire being. It feels as though he’s drowning, the water rising faster than he can fight it, filling his lungs and yet there’s nothing he can do but breathe it in.

“I was going to spend the rest of my life with you, I’d decided, and we’d talked about our wedding, and the color dress you wanted, the flavor of cake we’d decided on, and we decided we were going to have kids. I had the ring ready, I made a reservation two weeks before just to make sure it would be at your favorite restaurant. I bought my suit already, I had the whole day planned out. In fact, I almost proposed to you that day in the diner, at two o’clock in the morning and goddamnit I wish I did. But I’m just too much of a coward and I loved you too much, getting lost in your eyes as you laughed over some shitty joke. It would’ve been worth it, to be promised as yours even if it only lasted two weeks. I’m never going to stop loving you, and I know you hate it when I cry, but I just have to tell you. If only I-“

Another sob tears through his throat, disrupting the peaceful silence that has settled in the quiet field of flowers. All of a sudden, his body is shaking with the sobs that erupt from his throat, the bitter scars and broken pieces of his heart pouring out of him. He waits a few moments, steadying his breathing and piecing himself back together before he continues. He has to finish, he can’t bear to hold onto the feelings anymore. They sit like burdens on his chest as another sleepless night passes, they hang onto the tips of his fingers when he grips onto the tear-stained sheets. He waits until he feels ready to continue.

“I brought you flowers. Primroses. And you’re probably thinking that I’m such a cheesy dork for it, and I am, but they’re primroses because the florist told me they mean eternal love. This sounds so fucking stupid but it’s worth it if it makes you smile. I wish I could see you smile again. But, I have to go now, Jimin-hyung will murder me if I don’t make it to dance practice on time. I’ll see you next week, hm? God, I probably sound like an idiot right now. I’ve always been your idiot though.”

He wipes away the wet patches of salty liquid that stain his cheeks, the skin around his puffy eyes blotchy, streaked with tears. But there’s a small, half-tender half-sad smile playing across his lips when he finishes.

For the first time in a long while, Jungkook smiles a genuine, real smile.

“I love you, I really hope you know that.”

the read more link doesn’t work on mobile, i’m sorry 🥺 thank u for reading pls reblog and leave a comment if you liked it!!

[adrenalinesaint]

When one departs from under the sheltering wing of one’s benefactor, one must reckon with a sudden and profound lack of money. And while poverty had been a running theme in Jonathan’s life, having to clear out his old laboratory and find a new one, with all of three hundred dollars in his checking account, was more than difficult. Penguin’s people lock the door behind him, and all he’s got are his costume and a few barrels of toxin.

Three years ago, he would have been utterly defeated.

Gotham City, 3:24 AM, on the interstate-405, an armored car bearing the Waynetech logo is maintaining a steady 60 miles per hour. The woman in the driver’s seat and the man in the passenger’s seat are armed with bulletproof vests, stun batons, mace spray, and pistols -- all of which are hidden behind tinted glass. Their destination: Wayne Tower, where their payload would sit under guard for another two days before the weapons and defense exhibition the following week. Developers in the field of defense would be arriving from the world over to see what Waynetech had created for their militaries -- and, with a little finesse, they won’t find what they came for.

On an overpass overlooking the interstate, a tall, thin silhouette stands out against the streetlamps behind it, standing on the edge as though it may jump to its demise. With careful calculation, it’s possible to gauge whether or not human bones will break upon impact -- although there are a few other factors to consider: traction, for one. So, the figure on the overpass, getting a clear view of the armored car incoming, reaches down to tighten the cramp-ons its secured to its feet.

When the armored car comes fully into view, the driver gestures to the passenger. A figure standing on an overpass in Gotham can mean only a few things: suicide, or a heist. The passenger brandishes his pistol first, checking the chamber for a bullet and nodding to his driver when the confirmation comes in the form of a solid click. When they pass under the overpass, the sound of something heavy hitting the roof of their car is followed by a long, shrill scraping sound. From up top, the black-clad figure’s cramp-ons leave long, silvery streaks where they’d gripped into the metal roof.

Footsteps echo overhead. The passenger holds their finger over their lips to the driver, and the driver, now starting to sweat, keeps a trembling grip steady on the wheel. They don’t speak, but there’s a mutual understanding that if they crash this car, this entire section of the interstate is blowing up along with them. The dangers of driving delivery in Gotham. And the driver had just quit their pizza delivery gig.

For a few moments, it seems as though nothing will happen. In hopeful confusion, the driver wonders if whatever had happened was all a bad daydream.

And then the blade of a scythe comes crashing through the windscreen, the point of which stops mere inches in front of the tip of the driver’s nose. Letting out a shriek of sudden fear, she swerves, forcing the passenger to drop his firearm to reach over and grab the wheel to stabilize. They cannot run off the road. They cannot crash. With a heavy foot on the break pedal, the armored car comes to a skidding stop in a tunnel, fishtailing out in the middle of the lane.

The passenger gets out first. The driver is too frightened by the near-death experience to stir for a few moments, frozen in terror, but does only after her comrade is outside the car and appears relatively safe. When she too comes stumbling out of the driver’s seat and into the tungsten-lit tunnel, she finds her comrade aiming a shaky firearm just above the exterior roof of the car. But, when she looks, there’s nothing there.

“Mark, what’s going on?” She asks, out of breath from the adrenaline.

“There’s -- there’s something there -- something on the truck, Esther...” Mark’s pistol is wavering in his trembling grip. Esther can’t see from the distance at which she stands from him, but his pupils are dilated and the veins in his neck are throbbing. His sympathetic nervous system is on fire.

“Let’s get out of here -- “

“There’s a fucking scythe stuck in the windshield!”

From the angle of the handle of the scythe, it appears as though someone was standing on the roof of the truck and impaled it downward. As she approaches, she can see the silvery streaks from where the cramp-ons gripped the roof. Someone was here. But not anymore.

With Mark aiming his firearm at the truck, Esther swallows a mouthful of hot, dry air and resolves to move in. He can cover her. They aren’t going anywhere until this truck is secured. An explosion in a tunnel would cause significantly more damage than above-ground -- damage to not just the tunnel itself but the surrounding infrastructure. For a moment, she debates the virtues of calling GCPD so they can get the bat-signal up.

When she rounds the other side of the truck, she finds nothing but a strange discoloration on the ground. In the orange tungsten lighting though, it’s hard to tell what exactly it is -- probably just some oil leaked out of a passing car. Her feet splash quietly as she walks through it.

“I’m starting to think we may be in over our heads...” Mark is on the other side of the truck, voice starting to quiver with fear. Esther has never seen him like this before -- usually he makes a concerted effort to seem unflappable, but something is under his skin.

“Hey, come on. Robin’s like, what, twelve? If he can do this, so can we.”

“Doesn’t he say he trained all his life with elite assassins?”

“And what are we? Chopped liver?”

“I don’t know about you, but I used to be a schoolteacher before this job. Gotham’s one hell of a town.”

“No shit?”

“No --- “

Esther, while checking the undercarriage of the truck, promptly straightens, kneeling in that puddle, knees wet, ears open and alert like a feline in danger.

“...Mark?”

Nothing.

“Mark, this isn’t funny. We get scythed through the windshield, you can’t play games with me, man. M-Mark?”

When she stands, she finds that the scythe is no longer in the windscreen. For a moment, she stands in the still silence that’s fractured only by the humming of overhead lighting and the distant whooshing of far-away cars on far-away roads. In that moment of stillness, everything around Esther becomes saturated in color and texture. The cracks in the floor are darker. The lines painted on the road seem to wave and breathe in her peripheral vision.

“Mark?” As she utters her partner’s name one final time, the sound of her own voice seems to warp in pitch and tone, like dropping her own voice down a chute. “Somethings --- wrong --- “

“H̸͕͆̍i̴̻͈͂̀c̷̖̾͝k̵̖̖̂o̷̝̅̀ṛ̴͑y̸̺̏̆ ̶̲̋̊d̶͕̑í̵̢̀ċ̴͈͙k̴̭̊ó̵̜͗r̷͉̀̾y̵͖̑͠ ̴̣̊̚d̶̹̎̓͜o̶̥͌č̴͇͠k̷̙̯̈́͋.̶͉̎͠ͅ ̸̡̀T̴̻̥̂̕ḩ̶̡̐ẻ̸̛̟ ̶̐͝ͅm̸��͙̯̎ô̷͇̯̕u̷̘̹̾s̷͓̖͝e̷̝̕͝ ̴̥́̈́ŗ̷̘͌a̷͙̟͐̚n̷̼̣̒̀ ̸̢̄̆u̸͓͊p̸̩̋ ̶̧͎͗͠t̶̢̆̎ĥ̷̲͕e̵̬͙͗ ̴̠̏͝c̴͉͗̓l̷͇̍͗ȯ̶̬c̴͓̥̔̑k̸̹̳͐.̷̡̃“

As though she were in a movie, she feels the world come into focus centered around her. In a radial blur all around her, all she can see clearly are her hands, so she reaches for her pistol. But what she finds there instead is a cold, wet slab of meat in her holster, forcing her to drop the thing in disgust. When it clatters to the ground with a metallic sound, she watches in horror as it sprouts several non-uniform spider legs and scurries away.

“Mark -- ?“

The world is spinning. Esther stumbles backward and trips, landing in that strange-smelling puddle. It’s all over her hands clothes now. The smell is overpowering -- her nose is burning -- where’s Mark?

Several gunshots echo through the tunnel, and in a whizzing ricochet, several overhead lights explode, showering Esther with sparks and shards of glass that, as they fall, transform into ash and blood and salt water. In a warp of psychadelic colors, her stomach turns and she vomits. When she comes back up from it, the tunnel is full of crows. So many that she can no longer see the pavement under her feet. The writhing mass of black feathers moves and sways like an ocean, and she’s deafened by the sound of them all screaming in unison.

Her mace. She has mace spray.

As the mass of feathers overtakes her, forcing her to the ground and pressing her face into the puddle where she sputters for air, she manages to barely pull her can of mace out of her belt and -- there! The birds wail in agony as she sprays them back. Several more gunshots go off -- and this time, when the last one echoes through the tunnel, she feels something.

Something in her side -- right in the weak point of the vest.

She looks down: her flank is black in the tungsten lighting. Maybe it would be red under white light. Is this real? Or is this part of the dream? Stunned and already in shock, she can’t feel it yet. She puts one hand over the bullet hole and pulls back, fingers stained. So it is real.

As she rapidly loses blood, the hallucinations begin to wane. There are no feathers, there was no chunk of spidery meat. Her gun sits useless on the ground beside her, and her comrade Mark stands over her, huffing lungfuls of air desperately as his shaking hands clutch his gun. Even as she watches him in her final moments alive, she struggles to understand what’s happened to her. He doesn’t seem to see her at all. Already, he’s shooting at random it seems, screaming about “They’re everywhere! My god! Everywhere!”

In an hour or two, Esther will finish bleeding out and die. For now, she loses consciousness as Mark descends further into madness.

“Ì̵͈̈́t̶̼͔̿'̵͔̤͆s̶̖̰̀͐ ̸̯̄͂ș̷̎͘o̷̮̚ ̸͖̈̊ͅh̴̲̮͊̔a̶̹̪̓̾r̵̻͚̍̓d̴̩́ ̸̣̰̂t̶̲̋ơ̶̥ ̴͖͆̚f̶̣̄̄i̴̫̻̾̂n̸̟͒̌d̶̬̃̆ ̸̘̣̐g̸͍̯̀͠o̸͘͜͝o̷̭͒́d̷͇̙͒͛ ̷̨̒͝h̴̞͔͊̿ę̴̱̆ḻ̶̬͌̈p̵̡͎̆ ̶̄͜t̸̜͝h̸̙̆̆ê̸̫͌s̵̪̦͆̈é̵̡̳ ̷̣̭͌̚d̴͓̋̑a̵͇͑̇y̵̼̬̽̑s̵̹̿ͅ.̵̩́”

The fluid on the ground was fear toxin, of course. The tungsten lighting is orange and masks the orange-colored gas that fills the tunnel. Standing perfectly within view, and yet perfectly masked by the effects of the toxin, the Scarecrow watches as the guards tear each other apart. The male shoots the female in the stomach, mistaking her for a schoolchild, as he’d developed quite the phobia of children since working as a teacher in the lower grades. She maces him in the face, mistaking him for a flock of birds from Alfred Hitchcock’s titular film that scarred her for life as a child.

In the end, Mark is left standing, but not for long. Scythe back in hand, the Scarecrow makes one fluid motion powered by whatever slight muscle he may possess and failed to behead the fellow, but does more than enough damage to his neck to ensure a swift exsanguination.

Already, though, the gunfire has drawn some attention. And the idle nature of the truck had triggered a safety protocol that alerted HQ. When the guards failed to respond to their radio pings, the bat signal went up. There are only so many things an armored Waynetech truck can run into, after all. A rogue is bound to be one of them.

Pressing the filter of his mask against his mouth, Scarecrow laughs from the sheer thrill of it all. He feels quite young again.

Hopping into the front seat of the truck, he leaves his scythe embedded in the neck of the dead guard. Let it be a love-note to Batman when he comes to clean up the crime scene.

As the truck peels out of the tunnel, leaving behind two corpses and a trail of exhaust, Crane leaves a handful of sweet Georgia straw in the wind, where it scatters through the crime scene to leave his mark.

And what’s next? Well. Someone just came into quite a bit of money.

[delldarling]

chasing truth | merrick

implied past male faerie x male faerie male faerie x gender/body neutral reader 5823 words note: Aodhfin is pronounced EY-f-hin sfw | prologue ; a task given chapter index?

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

“Merrick is an absolutely horrid name,” Roran says, without prompting. He sounds indifferent, dark eyes focused on a distant point in the room, long fingers curled carelessly around the sharp angle of his jaw. He would look indifferent too, if Aodhfin didn’t know him intimately. Aodhfin recognizes the sullen, downward tilt to Roran’s lips, the shadows gathering under his brow. And the tension in his legs, crossed awkwardly at the ankles, like he’s trying desperately to appear relaxed and uncaring? There isn’t hiding any of that. Roran is angry. 

“I suppose what’s important is that I find it funny,” Aodhfin tells him with a shrug, tucking a trinket of a blade into his bag. “Merrick,” he says again, and then twice more, just to be sure. He tilts his head from side to side as he tests the rhythm of the name, white curls falling into his eyes. Aodhfin smiles down at his packing, small and sly, a hint of a dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth. 

The levity it brings to mind, the joke of it, is worth having to take on another name. After all, he can’t take his current one to the human realm. ‘Aodhfin’ is reserved for the halls of the Court of Air, gifted personally by the King. It’s far too intimate for the mouths of quick creatures like humans, and hearing it on ill suited tongues would only make him long to be home all the sooner. “More amusement never goes awry on tasks like these,” he adds, fussing over a pair of sandals he knows he shouldn’t be taking. He’ll have no use for them. Aodhfin packs them anyway, ignoring Roran’s shuddering, in-drawn breath.

“I still think it unwise that you’re going alone,” Roran bites out. He hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at that distant point, ink-dark hair just barely brushing the tops of his delicately pointed ears. He’s losing his composure though, jaw clenched, thrumming with tension the longer Aodhfin stares. 

“Questioning the King?” Aodhfin finally asks archly, abandoning all pretense with his bag and pushing it away from himself. He needs to nip this bout of temper in the bud before he leaves, or he’ll never hear the end of it. Roran is much too attached, despite Aodhfin’s repeated refusals, and the King will take issue if this goes on much longer. It would be best for the both of them to avoid a personal reprimand.

“Hardly!” Roran snaps, but he finally turns to look Aodhfin in the eye, pushing himself stiffly to his feet. His wings flare open to help him keep his balance, light catching the faint iridescence and casting wheeling prisms across the floor. “I question your judgement,” he whispers harshly, as if he’s worried about being overheard. “The King wouldn’t care one whit if you asked for a partner. Not only have we worked together before, we work well-”

Aodhfin crosses the room in two short strides and clasps Roran’s shoulder before he can continue. His fingers press just shy of too hard into the wiry muscle, a quiet, though regretful, warning. His heart is heavy - he doesn’t want to hurt Roran, but the idiot is going to become a nuisance for everyone if Aodhfin doesn’t do his best to make things clear. Which means it will have to hurt.

“I don’t need you,” Aodhfin says softly. The words come out clear and easy, and there’s no hint of sourness upon his tongue or in the expression on his face. They’re the truth. Anyone with eyes can spot it, clear in the straight line of his lips.

Roran tenses, wheezes, as if he’s been stabbed through the heart. His freckles are stark in his pale face, dark eyes void of any of their typical humor. He knows then, that Aodhfin doesn’t just mean on this task, but here. In his private quarters. 

“You have your own orders to attend to,” Aodhfin follows it with, verbally distancing himself, “and I can complete this on my own. Now, when I get back and I find you passing time with Kiera or Muiren, or both-” and now Roran’s cheeks flame, as red as the blooms that pepper the mountainside of the Court. “Ah, you thought I didn’t know?” Aodhfin laughs, and pushes Roran away. The push is gentle, and not unkind, but the longer Aodhfin stares with a smile on his lips, the more tense Roran becomes. His eyes dart to the side, a guilty tell that he only ever seems to display with Aodhfin - though Aodhfin is fairly sure that Roran lets the tell come through, and… That’s the problem, really. Roran has never held any part of himself back, and Aodhfin has never been able to find a part of himself to give. 

“You don’t-” Roran says softly and nearly flinches when Aodhfin lifts his hand to place it back upon his shoulder. His touch is much gentler this time, barely there, almost clinical.

“I’ve told you, Roran. My heart remains my own.” Sometimes Aodhfin wishes he felt even a hint of sadness in saying that. It would be easier for them both, but for Roran especially, if he loved him. He cares, but that’s all he can muster when he deigns to think about his feelings. Aodhfin rarely considers them anyway, not when he loves his work so thoroughly, loves the places it takes him, the secrets he learns- No. Not friendship, nor pity, can push him to change his feelings. 

“When I find that you’re passing time with one or both of them - and I don’t blame you if you are,” Aodhfin teases, arching a brow in a jovial manner. Roran glances away again, shy, for all his bluster. “I would be perfectly happy to celebrate with the lot of you. As friends. After all,” Aodhfin says, straightening up and touching a hand to his chest, sketching out a bow that is all theatrics with fluttering wings. The floor is a dizzying array of color when the sunlight catches his wings, too. “When I get back, my work will have united the Courts. I’ll be a hero.” Aodhfin straightens as he finishes speaking, smile turned slightly pompous.

Roran’s chest rises as he sucks in a deep breath, but in the end he only exhales, whatever words he’d planned so carefully left unsaid. He already knows that nothing he says could ever change Aodhfin’s mind.

“I still hate the name. You don’t look like a Merrick,” Roran insists, glancing around the sparsely decorated room. There are a few useless trinkets cluttered together on a shelf, gifts that Roran had given him, mostly, but even those don’t quite make the place look lived in. Aodhfin is gone far too often. 

“I feel like one though,” Aodhfin- Merrick - says. The name will settle, as much a part of him as the one he was born with, as every one given to him since, and with it will come widespread recognition of his accomplishments and accolades from both the King of Air and the Queen of Land. “Besides, can you imagine the traitor’s face when I tell him I chose it because of him? They rhyme.” Aodhfin tilts back his head to laugh, utterly delighted by the thought.

The laughter proves to be too much for Roran. His mouth quivers, eyes caught on the beauty mark on Aodhfin’s chin. For a moment, Aodhfin thinks he might cry.

“You’re idiotic,” Roran snaps at him, and his voice has gone sullen again, though his expression is back to his typical stoicness. He retreats back to his seat, hands clenching tightly to his knees, knuckles tense and pale. 

“My humor is simply wasted on you,” Aodhfin laments with a sigh, turning back to his packing. He’s unable to stop the twitch of irritation zipping through his wings. “The King will appreciate the irony though. He thinks I’m funny,” he says, and tucks a pale curl behind his ear. His finger pauses, stroking, and then his hand freezes over the pointed cartilage, eyebrows drawing together in concern. The sudden stillness, the change that comes over Aodhfin, clues Roran in almost immediately.

“Have you seen the error of your ways, or is something bothering you?” Roran asks, tone sharp, as if he’s hoping to spite him by asking such an inane question.

“Too much glamour will be like a beacon to the traitor,” Aodhfin mutters, ignoring Roran’s request for him to speak up. “It won’t be an issue,” he throws over his shoulder, before Roran can truly get going with some kind of tirade. “But, as we were speaking of Kiera, send her my way, won’t you?”

The silence behind him is so rife with tension, with anger, that he wonders for just a moment if Roran is going to throw something at him. He doesn’t dare turn around and invite further ire. Roran is hurt already, there’s no need for Aodhfin to add fuel to the fire by pestering him. The atmosphere starts to ease- and then the door slams shut, rattling his lonely shelf and the useless trinkets lined up by size.

Aodhfin sighs.

Roran will do as he’s asked, if only because Aodhfin asked, and he asks for so little from him. Kiera won’t thank Aodhfin for the tide of emotion she’s going to be left with though. He’ll have to promise a favor for her help.

...Which will only make Roran angrier that he can’t lend aid somehow, though he doesn’t have any of what Aodhfin will need where he’s going. Roran has even less experience with humans than he does.  

“He’ll get over it,” he muses and steps away from his bed to glance around the room. There’s nothing left that he needs to take, though his gaze lingers on the shelf and some of the items Roran’s given to him. If he takes one of them, no matter which, he knows that it will completely mollify Roran’s anger. And yet... If he takes any one of them, Roran will likely hold onto his hope that something will change. He swallows, knowing what his decision should be, will be, but- 

Aodhfin looks away, choking down regret, just as the door swings open on creaking hinges. 

“That was rather fast of you,” he says, pasting on an easy smile as he turns towards the door, expecting to see Roran in the frame. 

The King stands there, a wry smile on his thin, pointed lips. Aodhfin has the chance to spy long, dark windswept hair and topaz gold eyes before he drops to his knees, one forearm across his chest, while the other is thrown out to help him to balance. His wings are laid close to his back in a subservient gesture, held utterly still so as not to offend.

“My King,” Aodhfin greets, barely daring to draw breath lest he risk his wings shifting with the motion.

“Expecting another?” The King asks, curious. A heavy dragging noise drowns out his footsteps, the King’s fair feathered wings brushing over smooth stone, until he comes to a slow stop in front of Aodhfin. 

“Kiera, your Majesty,” Aodhfin breathes out, almost trembling when the King taps a fingertip to the back of his skull. The curved edge of a nail just barely pricks his skin before the King retracts his touch. Aodhfin lifts his head, slowly, heat crawling down his spine when the King laughs. There’s always been an echo when the older Fae speak, a shadow to their voices that gives hint to their talents. The sound of leaves rustling and wings flapping seems to trail after the King’s every word, frightening and awe inspiring, all at once. 

“She’s overfond of humanity, isn’t she?” The King asks, and the way he asks, the unpleasant tone of his voice- Aodhfin… He may not hold any special love for Kiera, but that tone makes Aodhfin want to lie. 

It’s the urge of every young being, mind wanting to supply words before thought can form, though Aodhfin can beat it down. There’s no use in lying to the King, and he’s no desire for the sourness of a lie to twist his tongue and stop his words. 

“Fascinated, I believe. Fond of artisans, perhaps?” There is no fault in that, at least. The Fae as a whole have been fond of those who create for a millenia. “I thought to borrow some of her uncommon work. Glamour will hide me from humans, but draw attention from-”

“The traitor,” the King sighs, eyes closing, heavy, sooty lashes fanning across his cheek. “Correct. You think well ahead,” he says, and the compliment sings through Aodhfin’s veins. “I knew I had chosen wisely.” The words leave Aodhfin feeling as brilliant as the fire he was named for. His wings buzz against each other before he forces himself to be still. “I know you will do everything you can,” the King says, and there’s a sudden weight to his speech, golden eyes locked with Aodhfin’s dark ones, intent on getting his point across. “But I would like you to promi-”

“Merrick, now, is it?” Kiera barks out, slamming the door open with a swirl of skirts and tousled red hair. She takes a half step inside, and then chokes, promptly dropping to her knees at the sight of the King. She whimpers, frightened enough that her wings vanish into her flesh, hands shaking around the sack she’d been carrying. She clutches it weakly to her chest. “Your Majesty,” she manages to say, not daring to lift her face. 

The King’s hands tense and curl into fists at his sides, his eyes blazing with fury. For a moment Aodhfin is sure that the King is going to strike Kiera. He’ll have to shield her then, no matter how much or little care he feels for her, he could never just stand by and watch. As soon as he tenses, ready to throw himself in the way, the King whirls away from them both, his wings and shoulders trembling. 

“I’ve other matters,” he says, voice frigid, void of emotion. “Do as you’re told, Merrick,” he adds, wind echoing heavily in his words, and strides for the door. His wings are the barest whisper over the stone, and he doesn’t react in the slightest when Kiera has to throw herself to the side to get out of his way. He doesn’t close the door behind him. 

Both Aodhfin and Kiera are still for likely far too long afterward, but it’s Kiera who finally gets to her unsteady feet, frowning. “How.. how long has the King been visiting your private chambers?” She asks idly, and then grimaces when Aodhfin says nothing, his expression unchanging. “Never mind. Glamour, then?” She asks, tone brisk as she opens the sack in her hands and starts tossing out clothes on the bed. 

Aodhfin lingers in his kneeling position on the ground, suddenly wanting to put off using his new name for as long as possible. He’d agreed to nothing, and the King hadn’t even gotten the chance to explain - but something about the whole ordeal feels… Strange. This might not be the first time the King has given him a task, out of view of the Court, but it is the first he’s ever hinted at a promise.

He gets to his feet, wincing when they prickle, and glances at the bed. Kiera’s hands are still trembling, but Aodhfin won’t dare draw attention to it. Instead he let’s the clothing catch his attention, notes the cut of them and the plain brown, green, or fair colored shades. A single flash of brilliant red catches his eye, the last item out of Kiera’s sack. It’s a cap, laid out over the top of the pile and it looks… It looks like it should be his - Merrick’s. He’s Aodhfin no longer, then. The King had Named him, truly.

“What will this cost me?” Merrick asks, arching an eyebrow as he picks up the cap. The texture is soft, but the weave is heavier than most Fae use these days. He wonders if this is the product of those large wooden needles Kiera carried around with her for over a month, brandishing them like daggers whenever anyone teased her. 

“What will you give?” Kiera asks sharply, crossing her arms over her chest when he lifts his eyes from the cap. Her gaze is razor sharp, expectant. 

Merrick stares at her for a moment too long, and then his nose wrinkles. He knows exactly what she wants, what her and Muiren both have been desperate for, ever since Roran proclaimed his intentions to court Aodhfin, and Aodhfin alone. “You want me to swear him off?” He asks, pleasant mood fading. “I’ve already claimed my heart as my own, Kiera. I confess, I’m not sure what else I can do that won’t come off as-”

“I know,” she interrupts with a sigh, shoulders slumping, glancing down at the floor, guilt in the purse of her lips. “And he would never forgive me. I just want him to move on from you, even if it isn’t with me.” Her eyes trace over the paltry gifts on the shelf and then shoot back to Merrick. “He hasn’t been kind to himself,” she says quietly, worrying at her lower lip before she continues. “Not when it comes to you.”

Merrick does his best to ignore her words, and tugs the hat over his head. He willingly lets Kiera dart in close, adjusting it until his ears are covered and his hair isn’t matted around his face. His hair will always be a strange shade of white, but he’s heard that humans are fond of dyes these days. Or perhaps he can claim an illness.

“If nothing else, that is why I believe he would be happiest with you,” Merrick murmurs, grabbing at the next item in the towering pile of clothing. “I’ll be forced to wear my wings in my skin,” he says sadly, noting the lack of holes on the backs of the garments. “You have my blessing, not that I should give it. I am not, cannot, be what he wants,” Merrick says decisively, meeting Kiera’s reserved gaze. “I will not promise any-”

“I suppose that’s payment enough,” she says with a sigh, turning away and trying not to frown. She fails, refusing to look back at him, to see him witnessing her unhappiness. She’s twisting a lock of hair round and round her hands, worried enough that the emotion is fast chasing away the awkwardness. “Don’t die, will you?” She asks finally. “I would rather not pick up those pieces.”

Merrick says nothing at all to that. Nothing he could or would say in response to such a request will be the complete truth, and there’s no reason to give any of them, himself included, false hope.

“I do believe you’ll come back alive, if that helps any,” Kiera backtracks, sensing the dour mood overtaking him. From anyone else, the statement would be too much of a falsehood to even attempt to utter - but Kiera does believe it, and she wants it. If only for Roran’s sake.

Merrick wants to believe it too, though. That he will come out of this alive. The traitor is nothing more than one of the Queen of Land’s gardeners, spouting lies that might prevent the uniting of the Courts.  Merrick has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, if only he does this one thing. It’s just that… The King’s visit had been a strange one, and he has very little time, if any, to seek the King out for clarification. He was supposed to be able to relax in the Court for a few more hours, but it doesn’t matter now.

“You’ll have to find more clothes while you’re there,” Kiera adds, when Merrick doesn’t show any signs of responding. Her hands have stopped their constant fidgeting. “Humans own more than two pairs of hose and a good shirt these days, and while I think these won’t draw unneeded attention-”

“Muiren says that humans once walked about bare,” he murmurs, lifting a long sleeved item up to his chest. They’ll all fit, of that he has no doubt, but his wings- It’s a shame he’ll have to hide them.

Kiera scoffs. “Muiren is only a few years older than Roran. Neither of them have any notion of what humans are like or what they’ve done. You should know that, Aodh- Merrick.” Kiera watches him in silence, likely recounting everything he’s done wrong with the clothing in front of him, but eventually she shakes her head.

“When do you leave?” She asks, gaze darting around the room. She’s likely eager to get back to Roran, to comfort him - or to escape the scene of her less than cordial encounter with the King.

“Today. Tonight,” he tells her, opening his bag back up and shoving a few of the clothes inside. He keeps out a long sleeved shirt and a pair of dark trousers. “Unless you have instructions for me, you’re free to go.” Merrick finally looks her in the face, noting the tight corners of her mouth, the concern still writ in her hazel eyes. “I won’t forget this,” he says, by way of thanks, reaching up to tap at the red cap on his head.

Kiera looks torn. She’s still facing him, but her eagerness to leave is palpable. “The only thing you can’t forget is this,” she says quickly, back to her usual self, “no dying.” Her eyes meet his for a single moment, and then she walks out. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving Merrick alone.

“Human clothes,” he mutters to the empty room and proceeds to strip off his things, arching his wings as far as he can to either side and relishing the stretch of his muscles. It’s not uncomfortable, wearing his wings in his skin, but he can’t say he’s used to it. The Fae he tracks are generally too frightened to leave Faerie entirely, and wings like his are common enough. He hasn’t needed to hide his wings in years, and when last he had, the task had lasted only a few short days. This one will likely last the month, at least.

He smooths his hands over his own shoulders, his wings following, leaving nothing more than ink dark lines behind before he pulls on the clothes. He adjusts his hat one last time, and snatches up his bag. “Be b-” Merrick starts to say idly, and then bites his tongue viciously, unused to the sour tang. Be back soon is too close to a lie, then.

It’s not as if there’s much he’s leaving behind anyway. Merrick sighs, shouldering his bag on his newly wingless back, and leaves. His hand might linger a fraction of a second upon the door handle, but he doesn’t look back.

And yet, every hall he walks down, Merrick finds himself pausing. His eyes trail over the fine details carved into stone pillars, they linger on the glowing cloud lights, bobbing down the halls with every breath of wind or flutter of wings. What memories he has of his parents are vague, so the Court is nearly all he’s ever known, but.. He’s always found himself more at ease outside the mountain. He drags a hand over the roughly hewn walls, caught in old memories, and then spots one of the King’s Pages. She’s a slip of a young fae, proudly sporting the heavy looking brooch of her rank on her small shoulders.

“The King,” Merrick blurts, rushing to stop her before she can leave the hall. Her wings flare, feet lifting off the ground for a moment in surprise. “Could you tell me-”

Her narrow eyed glare makes him pause, her feet touching back down when he keeps his hands to himself. “The King, last I heard,” she says, high voice gone haughty, “asked to be left undisturbed. I’ve little idea where he might be, but if you need an audience, you’ll have to wait with the rest two days from now. He’s much too busy to mitigate any kind of disputes right here in the hall.”

Merrick grits his teeth, but lets her snub him, tossing her hair over her shoulder and fluttering her fragile looking wings. There are four of them, opaque and frail without the sun catching their iridescence, and he rather thinks that she might put on a burst of speed to leave the hall behind. She’s coasting on the current of her status then, and is likely quite new. 

Even when Merrick turns to other Court denizens though, he can’t seem to find pinion nor down feather of the King. If he pushed, if he made a fuss, Merrick might be able to track him down, but the thought doesn’t sit well with him. If the King has sequestered himself, has told his pages to leave him undisturbed, he’ll simply have to continue with the task he was given, promise unmade.

He heads for the cliffs on the Eastern side of the mountain, and the rippling Veil, almost visible if you look straight down over the edge. He’s tarried far longer than he should, and the sun is already fast setting, turning the Court of Air golden in its last rays. Merrick takes one last look, but his gaze is caught by the Veil and the shifting shapes beyond it. He concentrates on thoughts of the traitor, of the task he’s been given, and then steps off the cliff face, free-falling.

There’s a single moment of breathlessness, and then the Veil is crackling through his hair. Merrick slides into a roll, tumbling over the rooftop of a human building and coming to a stop in the middle of laundry lines, sheets snapping in the wind.

He sets himself up on the rim of the roof, a small scroll open on his lap so he can sketch out a rough map of the city. It isn’t until he’s half finished, ink leaf growing brittle and dry in his hand, that he realizes how little information he has to go on.

The traitor is a gardener, no one of consequence, normally. Perhaps he’d been given a distasteful task? Whatever the actual reason, something had driven him to tell lies great enough that it was threatening the uniting of the Courts. Merrick wasn’t sure how the gardener could - he’d over ever tasted the beginning of a potential lie, and he’d never been able to finish it. To say them repeatedly? 

“Perhaps he’s human-born,” Merrick murmurs, mulling over the thought, and the brand new map of the human city. Even if the gardener is human-born, it likely won’t matter. Human parentage isn’t something terribly uncommon, but it’s generally ignored. The rumor though, is that those that hold even a drop of human blood are supposedly better at bending a truth to their own ends. He doesn’t need information about the gardener’s parentage, not really, but part of Merrick does wonder at the truth of it. He hopes the gardener hasn’t gone so mad with lies that he no longer makes sense or has become a danger to others. The humans will be cut down in seconds. Though if he has, it’ll be much easier to find him. He taps at one of the green areas he’d detailed on the map, thinking of gardeners and the proclivities of those Fae who reside within the Land Court, tracing the outline that he can just barely spy from the rooftop. 

Merrick doubts the gardener will be there though. If it had been an easy assignment, the King wouldn’t have sent him in the first place. The gardener hid much too well, and had escaped someone from his own Court once already. His hand moves to what he hopes is the market district. If he’s masquerading as a human, he’ll need to pick up supplies, if only to keep up appearances.

He wishes that he were allowed to use his wings to help speed his search, but he’ll have to wait for the night to do anything of the sort. Those small squares of electricity the humans all seem to carry don’t guarantee he won’t be seen though. He’s been watching them from the building edge all afternoon, tapping away at the little things - taking photos. Merrick’s last memory of human photography involved great hulking cameras and frames of fragile glass. The humans truly change so fast. 

A door scrapes open to his right, and a very human gasp reaches his ears. Merrick tilts his head, meeting an old man’s eyes through sheets and clothes fluttering in the wind, and arches his eyebrows. 

“Son,” the man says, dropping his laundry basket and raising his gnarled hands, like he’s ready to reach for Merrick, to pull him away from the drop. “Could you- could you come away from the edge?” He sounds choked, rheumy eyes wide and scared.

“Ah,” Merrick says, sitting back up, one leg still dangling over the edge. “I won’t jump, if that’s what you’re getting at. Would you mind telling me where one might find gardening equipment?” He shakes out the map, pointing at a spot that seems likely.The panic on the elderly man doesn’t ebb, but he no longer looks ready to keel over. “I’m- I’m sorry?” He asks, hands only dropping very slowly.

The words make Merrick’s nose wrinkle. “Perhaps you are,” he offers, hoping he sounds proper. “A market, however. Where would we find one?” He swings his leg back onto the roof, not wanting to startle the old fellow more than he already has, and gets to his feet. He’s a fair bit taller than the man, so he keeps what he hopes is an acceptable distance, not wanting to tower over him, and displays the map so it can be easily read. 

The old man blinks, glancing past Merrick to the building edge and then back to the map. “Son, how did you ever get up here?” His arms cross over his chest, but the motion doesn’t read as defensive or aggressive. The old man is still scared. 

None of what he could say will make the man happy. The veil between your world and Faerie is particularly thin at the right corner, would only leave the man thinking Merrick crazy. I jumped, won’t help much either. There will be follow up questions that he’s both unable and unwilling to answer.

“You don’t know where the market is?” Merrick asks, letting his shoulders slump. Perhaps the man will assume he’s a very strange foreigner. He just hopes he won’t decide to call the local guard. That would turn things ugly fairly quickly. “Then could you direct me to someone who does?”

The panic is gone, though the confusion isn’t. “What kind of supermarket are you looking for? We have, we have too many shopping centers, if you ask me, but I still don’t see-”

“The largest then,” Merrick interrupts, realizing he’ll have better luck asking someone he hasn’t inadvertently frightened. Once the old man gets talking though, Merrick isn’t sure he’s going to stop. He has too much to say about parking structures and the state of traffic - but he is all too happy to give Merrick directions. He makes careful note of them, though he wonders at the length of steps he’s supposed to take, and then heads straight for the door the man left open, murmuring a hasty farewell.

Apartment buildings, Merrick finds, are confusing things. His elderly acquaintance has to give him another set of directions to the stairs in the end, and then mistakenly assumes that Merrick must be a new tenant. 

It almost makes him laugh, though. Humans are all too quick to answer their own questions, and he doesn’t even have to attempt to circumvent a lie of any kind. It turns out that apartment buildings are less confusing than the market. The sheer number of the quick creatures is absolutely staggering, but the old man had assured Merrick that this was the largest market. He has his doubts about finding Garrick in this place - a gardener to the Queen of Land, amidst all this man-made material? But he supposes it will serve as a good place for research. At least there are clothes. He picks at the shirt Kiera gave him, noting that the copper buttons at the collar are of.. Much higher quality than what many of the humans are wearing.

He needs human currency then, and clothes. He turns on his heel, keen on finding a pocket to pick and just barely avoids a running child. He scowls at the little beast, brushing the curls out of his eyes and takes another step-

Straight into you.

You stumble, shimmering square of electricity flying from your hand, but Merrick snatches it before it can crash to the ground. You save yourself, unsteady, but still on your feet, arms out to either side for balance. 

“Holy-” You laugh, apparently not caring about Merrick nearly knocking you to the stone - though you rub awkwardly at your shoulder. “That was a great catch!”

The device is heavy, he notes. Man-made, then, full of iron. He grabs your hand, shoving the device back into it and then takes a step back, eyes darting to either side of you. Some of the humans are looking, though the lack of yelling has several of them continuing on without comment. 

“Not hurt?” He asks, because that’s the human thing to do, isn’t it? 

“Maybe my pride,” you murmur, glancing yourself over. You open your mouth again, a small smile growing on your face as you meet his eyes, but Merrick wants no part of it. You’re useless as a mark - he’s made himself memorable, and you seem keen on continuing a conversation, which won’t help.

“Good,” he blurts and then sidesteps you entirely, ignoring the questioning noise you make as he walks away. He can’t afford to have any distractions: Currency, clothing, and studying the map of the city. That’s all he needs to think about for the rest of the day. He finds himself glancing back over his shoulder, just to check that you aren’t following, and sucks in a breath when he finds your eyes still upon him.

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

...turn the page?

[strangestdrabbles]

Don’t Take My Sunshine Away

A/N: life and work has been overwhelming but i’m so glad that i was able to finish this,, thank you for this request i really enjoyed writing it ! also i called bill’s daughter april to make it easier

Pairing: Bill Denbrough x daughter 

Warnings: violence,, blood mentions,, gore,, death

Bill’s hands tightened against the steering wheel as he drove past the sign that read ‘Welcome to Derry, Maine’, an anxiousness clawing at his chest as fear blacked around his peripherals. 

“Dad are you okay?” April spoke in a soft voice, clearing away the aching fear clinging to him and leaving a soft prickling panic. 

“I’m fine darling, I just remembered something.” Bill whispered before coughing and looking at his daughter in the rear view, smiling and feeling his heart swell when April smiled back. 

“Was it scary?” 

April’s eyes were wide as the slowly setting sun softly winked through the car, a familiar sleepiness filling Bill’s mind and bringing hazy memories of a summer passed to the forefront of his mind. The slow echo of voices sounded like they were coming from the far end of a tunnel as Bill slowly was pulled into the recesses of his mind, a shadow overcasting on Derry as he continued through his childhood town while trying to be present with his daughter. 

“Just a little.” 

--

It felt like he was outside of himself looking in. 

Bill had listened to Mike and began to explore Derry to recollect his memories, holding April’s hand as fear slowly overtook all his nerves and thumped painfully in his stomach; yet as he began to slip into repressed memories his hand loosened the hold on his daughter, not noticing her watching him with her eyebrows pulled while she tugged on his finger. 

“Dad? Dad?” April called, not understanding the aching fear that was beginning to thrum in her veins. 

It took a moment for Bill to pull himself back to the present and look at his daughter, taking in her worried almost terrified expression and feeling a lump grow in his throat; noticing that Derry was beginning to sink it’s claws into him once again as memories fought for attention in his peripherals. 

“Yeah love?” Bill spoke but his voice sounded unlike his and far away, clearing his throat before repeating the question and feeling the relief when he began to sound normal. 

“Are you okay?” 

The sincerity of the question had Bill’s heart filling with an abundance of love before he crouched down and held April close, kissing her forehead and then the crown of her head. 

“Yeah darling, I am.” 

-- 

Bill didn’t realise that April wasn’t beside him until her giggle reached his ears and he saw her run around the corner at the end of the block, passing a closed down store that Bill remembered to be one of the Loser’s Club’s favourite hangouts; a candy store run by a sweet elderly couple that doted on the seven children. 

“April come back.” Bill spoke as the anxiety clawed at his insides, not understanding why he wasn’t able to go faster to reach his daughter even though he willed his body to do so. 

It didn’t take too long for the main square of Derry to fall away and for him to be standing in front of the shrubbery that had grown in an entangled mess next to the kissing bridge, a memory coming to the forefront of Bill’s mind of the Losers’ Club standing in the same spot on their bikes and Bev’s voice saying they needed to help Mike. A soft breeze rolled through and rustled the leaves while also making a painful shiver stagger achingly up Bill’s spine, an overwhelming feeling of pain and fear filled his chest and clouded his peripherals like a noxious fog; trying and failing to clear his mind as he began to once again be pulled under. 

“April?! Please come out, this isn’t funny.” Bill attempted to speak with conviction but he could hear his voice waver. 

Instead of properly replying April’s giggle floated through the breeze and for a moment Bill thought it was just curiosity, but then another familiar laugh joined the innocent one of the child; a laugh that left Bill short of breath and almost close to tears. 

Pennywise. IT. The source of intense fear and aching anxiety. 

Bill swallowed the fear that was slowly pulsing in time with his heartbeat before taking a tentative step forward, silencing the voice that urged him to go back to safety as he continued to walk and then pushing through the foliage; not registering the coarseness of the leaves and twigs against his skin as he continued to look and call out for April. 

The sound of the creek was calming as the sun reflected ethereally of the barely rippling water, Bill attempting to control his heart rate as it began to crawl slowly up his throat; April’s voice innocent yet wavering. 

“April please come back to me. I’m worried and I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

There was a moment of silence aside from the soft rustle of leaves and the faint chirp of birds before something caught his sight. 

Red. 

Just red. 

His hands shook as he moved quickly up the creek a way, the sound rocks moving sounded under his feet as the creek babbled and the sun warmed his skin. Bill came to a stop suddenly when he took in what was in front of him, the sight of Pennywise standing behind April as they both stood across from the anxious man on the bank that he had stood on in 1989; during the rock fight against Henry Bowers and his goons. 

“P-Please,” Bill began, his chest aching and bile gathering in his throat, “please don’t d-do th-this.” 

April giggled a few more times before a worried expression overtook her face, Pennywise’s grip slowly getting tighter and a malicious smile on his mouth growing. 

“D-Dad what’s going on?” April’s spoke softly, her voice wavering as it filled with fear. 

“Oh Billy boy, look at you trying to save her but let’s not forget that you couldn’t save Georgie and that was all your fault, just like this will be.” 

“Please take me instead. Let her go and take me.” Bill’s voice was unsuccessful as he did his best to swallow down the overwhelming hysteria he was feeling.. 

April watched her father but couldn’t form words, feeling her eyes sting with tears before her cheeks became wet and an aching sting throbbed in her shoulders as the creature’s claws broke the skin; her teeth sinking hard into her bottom lip to hold in a sob of pain before her mouth filled with a faint metallic taste. 

“Let her go. Take me ins-.” 

Bill wasn’t able to finish the sentence due to Pennywise tilting his head slightly to the side with a malicious smile larger than the last, a moment where a gasp left April’s mouth before a wet ripping sound filled the open space, an overwhelming metallic smell sticking to the air and on Bill’s tongue which was all his brain was able to register for a prolonged moment; forgetting his surrounding in the haze of red. What brought him back down to earth was the loud choked hiccup before Bill’s ears were able to register April’s voice. 

“D-Dad it h-hurts so m-m-much.” 

Bill could feel the tears wet his cheeks as he took in April, covered in blood while her skin drained to a sickly grey and the only source of stability was the clown behind her; his mouth covered in blood and slight gore which turned Bill’s stomach. 

“D-Da Da-Da,” April attempted to speak through the blood that was filling her mouth, bringing her remaining hand to her face and drowsily dragged her weak fingers across her mouth and under her nostrils; her hand coming away red and wet as she held it limply in front of her eyes. She began to stumble forward then as she wanted to be with her father, hiccuping and feeling the blood catch up her throat and bleeding from her nose; her mind full of static and her body feeling tingly as black crept stealthily into her peripherals. She felt the faint dig of claws yet again but it felt like it was happening to someone else, the pain from the open wound of her removed arm feeling like it was pulsing from the other end of a tunnel; not understanding why her father felt so much further away than she needed. 

Bill couldn’t take his eyes away from April as her clothing and face were becoming saturated with blood, taking steps forward to try and get closer but it never seemed close enough, a full body ache pulsing through his veins at how familiar it all seemed and yet again he couldn’t do anything to stop it. 

“Fear fear beautiful fear.” Pennywise sung, smirking at the pungent smell of fear in the air. 

It was silent in a way that seemed to be closing in aside from the comforting sound of the small brook, Bill’s chest rising and falling quickly in a way to signify the beginnings of hyperventilation; not being able to speak as the words caught painfully in his throat. 

“Please just let her go.” Bill whispered, his throat feeling like he had swallowed razor blades. 

Pennywise laughed maliciously before maintaining eye contact with the distressed man, his eyes rolling back slightly and his mouth widening before what seemed like slow motion the clown brought his head down to cover half of April’s head and with a tight hold and a soft wiggle April’s head came off with a suctioned pop; an arch of blood following the gore; April’s decapitated body held in his left hand as he rested her head in the right. 

And then Bill felt absolutely nothing.

[driedletters]

The Cruel Prince • Holly Black     ★★★★★

•  Quotes

Jude ran at the man, slamming her fists against his chest, kicking at his legs. She wasn’t even scared. She wasn’t sure she felt anything at all.

•

As for dancing, once begun, you mortals will dance yourselves to death if we don’t prevent it.

•

Three is an odd configuration of sisters. There’s always one on the outside.

•

“Dirt. It’s what you came from, mortal. It’s what you’ll return to soon enough. Take a big bite.” “Make me,” I say before I can stop myself.

•

Nicasia’s wrong about me. I don’t desire to do as well in the tournament as one of the fey. I want to win. I do not yearn to be their equal. In my heart, I yearn to best them.

•

Cardan is even more beautiful than the rest, with black hair as iridescent as a raven’s wing and cheekbones sharp enough to cut out a girl’s heart. I hate him more than all the others. I hate him so much that sometimes when I look at him, I can hardly breathe.

•

You mean because of Cardan and his Court of Jerks?

•

The pictures are taken one right after the other, the kind you have to sit in a booth for. Vivi is in the photos, her arm draped over the shoulders of a grinning, pink-haired mortal girl.

Having stepped off the edge, what I want to do is fall.

•

Liking both girls and boys is the only thing in this scenario Madoc wouldn’t be upset with Vivi about.

•

I delight in the chemicals that would doubtless sicken all the lords and ladies at the Court.

•

We’ve gone three rounds like this already. I keep thinking of the lazy blink of Cardan’s lashes over his coal-bright eyes. He looked gleeful, gloating, as though my fist tightening on his shirt was exactly what he would have wished. As though, if I struck him, it would be because he had made me do it.

•

Beg. Make it pretty. Flowery. Worthy of me.

•

You think because you can humiliate me, you can control me? Well, I think you’re an idiot. Since we started being tutored together, you’ve gone out of your way to make me feel like I’m less than you. And to coddle your ego, I have made myself less. I have made myself small, I have kept my head down. But it wasn’t enough to make you leave Taryn and me alone, so I’m not going to do that anymore.

• 

As I make my way back to the tournament and my sisters, I can’t stop thinking of Cardan’s shocked face, nor can I stop considering Locke’s smile. I am not altogether sure which is more thrilling and which more dangerous.

•

Not that I’d be the first to green gown her. Faeries

•

It feels a little bit like expecting a proposal of marriage, only to get offered the role of mistress.

•

“Now no one will be able to control you,” he says, and then pauses for a moment. “Except for me.”

•

Truly, he has come by his cruelty honestly in Balekin’s care. He has been raised up in it, instructed in its nuances, honed through its application. However horrible Cardan might be, I now see what he might become and am truly afraid.

•

Welcome,” says the Roach, “to the Court of Shadows.”

•

Not totally Cardan’s puppet like the rest of them.

•

Hard enough to dig through the page, maybe to scar the desk beneath. If that’s what he did to the paper, I shudder to think what he wants to do to me.

•

I have been trying to feel nothing about what happened. I am afraid that if I begin to feel, I won’t be able to bear it. I am afraid that the emotion will be like a wave sucking me under.

It’s not the first awful thing I have endured and pushed into the back of my brain. That’s how I’ve been coping, and if there’s another, better way, I do not know it.

•

He’s kind of a weird kid, maybe because he’s a faerie or maybe because all kids, human or inhuman, are equally weird.

•

Why don’t you ever trust me with him?” I shout, and Oriana wheels around, shocked that I said a thing we don’t say.

•

Mithridatism, it’s called. Isn’t that a funny name? The process of eating poison to build up immunity. So long as I don’t die from it, I’ll be harder to kill.

•

I do not understand why he likes me, but it is exciting to be liked.

•

We are children of tragedy.” He shakes his head and then smiles. “This is not how I meant to begin. I meant to give you wine and fruit and cheese. I meant to tell you how your hair is as beautiful as curling woodsmoke, your eyes the exact color of walnuts. I thought I could compose an ode about it, but I am not very good at odes.”

•

He watches me as the girl kisses his mouth, watches me as she slides her hand beneath the hem of his silly, ruffly shirt.

•

Do not reveal your skill with a blade. Do not reveal your mastery over glamour. Do not reveal all that you can do. Little did Prince Dain know that my real skill lies in pissing people off.

•

I think of Cardan’s mouth, flaked with gold

•

I love my parents’ murderer; I suppose I could love anyone. I’d like to love him.

•

Time to change partners,” a voice says, and I look to see that it’s the worst person possible: Cardan. “Oh,” he says to Locke. “Did I steal your line?”

•

Dark silver paint streaks over his cheekbones, and black lines run along his lashes. The left one is smeared, as though he forgot about it and wiped his eye.

•

With a sigh, I take down my braids, rubbing my hands through my hair until it hangs wild in my face. “You look…” he says, and then trails off, blinking a few times, not seeming able to finish. I am guessing the hair thing worked better than he had expected.

•

Jude?” he asks, up against the wall, pronouncing my name carefully, as though to avoid slurring. I am not sure I have ever heard him use my actual name before. “Surprised?” I ask, a fierce grin starting on my face. The most important boy in Faerie and my enemy, finally in my power. It feels even better than I thought it would. “You shouldn’t be.”

•

The High King Balekin is a friend to my lady’s Court,” Cardan says, silver-tongued in his silver fox mask.

•

Tell me anyway,” he says, and yawns. I really want to slap him.

•

I hate how I feel around him, the irrational panic when I touch his skin.

•

Cardan’s clothes are disarranged, from crawling under tables or being captured and tied, and his infamous tail is showing under the white lawn of his shirt. It is slim, nearly hairless, with a tuft of black fur at the tip. As I watch, the tail forms one wavering curve after another, snaking back and forth, betraying his cool face, telling its own story of uncertainty and fear.

•

Only in my dreams has Cardan ever been like this. Begging. Miserable. Powerless

•

...a love mark on my brow so all who looked upon me would be sick with desire, ...

•

Let’s talk about your behavior tonight,” says Madoc, leaning forward. “Let’s talk about your behavior tonight,” I return.

•

So he proposed to you,” I say. “While the royal family got butchered. That’s so romantic.

•

I think of Cardan tied to a chair to cheer myself.

•

Then I think of the way he looked up at me through the curtain of his crow-black hair, of the curling edges of his drunken smile, and I don’t feel in the least bit comforted.

•

... ‘mortal feelings are so volatile that it’s impossible to help toying with them a little’.

•

He smiles down at me, as if the reason I’m on my knees is because I am curtsying.

•

I’m nervous,” he says. “I smile a lot when I’m nervous. I can’t help it

•

Very well.” He fixes me with a spiteful look. “I hate you because your father loves you even though you’re a human brat born to his unfaithful wife, while mine never cared for me, though I am a prince of Faerie. I hate you because you don’t have a brother who beats you. And I hate you because Locke used you and your sister to make Nicasia cry after he stole her from me. Besides which, after the tournament, Balekin never failed to throw you in my face as the mortal who could best me.

•

Most of all, I hate you because I think of you. Often. It’s disgusting, and I can’t stop.”

•

Just looking at him makes me feel hot with shame. “You sure you brought me here just to talk.

•

Jude Duarte, daughter of clay, I swear myself into your service. I will act as your hand. I will act as your shield. I will act in accordance with your will. Let it be so for one year and one day…and not for one minute more.

•

I fix him with a look. “I can be charming. I charmed you, didn’t I?” He rolls his eyes. “Do not expect others to share my depraved tastes.”

•

Oh, really?” The human surprises me by speaking first. “Yes, mortal,” I say, like the hypocrite I am. 

•

We go over the plans again, and Cardan helps us map out Hollow Hall. I try not to be too conscious of his long fingers tracing over the paper, of the sick thrill I get when he looks at me.

•

By this point, I have told this story enough that it’s easy to hit only the necessary parts, to run through the information quickly and convincingly

•

With Vivi, I feel forever doomed to be the little sister, foolish and about to topple over onto my face.

•

I do not have endless patience,” Balekin growls. “Cultivate it,” Cardan says, and with a small bow, he navigates us away from Balekin and Madoc.

•

Jude?” I may never be used to the sound of my name on his lips.

•

The Ghost tosses the crown to my identical twin. It falls at Taryn’s feet.

•

Of Nicasia giving Cardan a lingering kiss on his royal cheek.

•

He rises from the throne. “Come, have a seat.” His voice is replete with danger, lush with menace. The flowering branches have sprouted thorns so thickly that petals are barely visible. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks. “What you sacrificed everything for. Go on. It’s all yours.”

•  Black, Holly. “The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air Book 1)”. 2018.

[thewhiterabbit42]

Wicked Games Part 2

Pairing: Gabriel x reader

Series Summary:  When a trickster seeks revenge on Gabriel, he traps the archangel in a sex dungeon with the person he despises the most: you.  

Word Count:  2726

Written for:  @spndarkbingo​ - sex dungeon

@heavenandhellbingo​ - dark fic

Chapter tags/warnings: kidnapping, nonconsensual removal of clothing, threats of violence

Series tags/warnings (as it stands): dark fic, medium burn, kidnapping, sex dungeon, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, violence, graphic depictions of horror, dub con, non con, oral sex, it’s a sex dungeon so likely all the sex, confessed feelings, bondage, more tba

<<Part 1

“You are such an asshole!” 

You’re crouched behind - well, you honestly don’t want to think about what it is you’re hiding behind.  Your stomach flips just acknowledging the combination of wood, leather, and metal bars, let alone the variety of uses one could get from it.  

There’s a chill to the room that settles across every inch of bare skin, which happens to be just about all of you, because someone decided to outdo themselves in the giant dick department and play the douchiest prank of the century.  Possibly the last several by snapping you to some god awful place in a matching set of black lace bra and panties.

This isn’t what you expected to find walking into an abandoned hunting camp in the middle of the woods.  It has to be Gabriel’s doing.  There’s no way that faded wooden planks can disguise this much concrete, let alone double in size the moment you walk through the door. 

You know you saw windows, a little sliding glass door off the side, but the only glass you can find comes in shapes for things you’re trying really hard not to remember exist.  

“This isn’t funny!”

“Do you hear me laughing?”  The sardonic edge beneath his words becomes lost to you as you look up at the wall.  

There are rows and rows of hooks with various items hanging from them.  Floggers, paddles, canes, whips, all staring back at your wide-eyed face.

Then there's the restraining materials; ropes, chains, zip ties, leather cuffs, actual manacles, metal ones that belong in medieval dungeons.  

Given the lack of anything but wall to wall stone, you can't discount that you might really be in one.  

What the actual fuck. 

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you have to remind yourself that none of this is real;  you haven't actually woken up naked in some sort of sex dungeon.  This is just Gabriel being a shit.  

The worst kind of shit, but one nonetheless.

"Bring us back," you order, hugging your knees to your chest.  

"You need to calm down," he barks right back at you. 

Yeah, like that's helpful.  Like you want the sensation of your lungs shrinking as another windowless room starts to overlay this one.  

You try to focus on something else, but it’s hard to ignore the way your head begins to spin as you struggle to take in air, how unforgiving the lights above you are, highlighting all the physical reminders of why you hate being boxed in by concrete.  

The back of your neck begins to burn with a familiar feeling of helplessness, signalling things are about to get messy real fast.

"You need to bring us back right fucking now!" You've never yelled at him before, not like this, and he has to know how much he's messed up and snap you back.  He has to.

"I can't!"  He erupts, voice booming through the large room.  "You really think I'd snap myself naked into a place like this?" 

The unspoken with you is a given, and you're so done with everything that it takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in.

He’s naked?

You lean toward the end of the table, curiosity making you slowly peek around the side.  A muscular thigh greets you, pale golden skin offset by meticulous black stitching that runs nearly to his knee.  He shifts his weight, and you yank your head back a split second before anything else can slide into view.  

Oh sweet jesus.

Heat sweeps into your cheeks.  Of course he’d be naked.  Why wouldn’t he be?

"You know anyone else that can pull things out of thin air?"  Your retort comes out a little less confident, though you’re still not convinced he’s not to blame.  Who’s to say he’s not smart enough to put himself in a precarious position to prove his supposed innocence?

He goes silent, and after several seconds of nothing you begin to worry.

Your second glance around the corner gives you an eyeful of firm backside.  He’s drawn up to full height, spine straight and proud as if surveying his handiwork.

What.  A.  Jerk.  

"It's got to be another trickster," he announces.

Yeah.  Like you’re going to buy that.  

Your eyes are drawn past him to the carnival-esque signs that detail what can be found on each wall, as if advertising for things like ring tosses and balloon popping rather than dildos and nipple clamps.  Not to mention how every wall of sex toys is backlit in some gaudy display, surrounded by obnoxious flashing lights you might find on a gameshow.

What really makes you suspicious is the giant wheel in the midst of it all, which is clearly the centerpiece of this freakshow.  

"You're so full of shit." And you're so so over this. “Give me back my clothes and get me out of here right now.”

Apparently, so is he.  

“Are you really that brain dead after spending so much time with the dynamic duo?”  He snarls, and it isn’t the contemptuous bite of his tone that has your stomach knotting, but the black bands you notice as he throws his arms out wide.  “Because what part of I can’t did you not understand?”  

His hands shake with his frustration, the material around his wrists flaring bright with his anger.   

You swallow, more than familiar with the types of symbols that glow a heavenly blue before fading from sight once again.  

Oh fuck.  

“God dammit, Gabriel!”  You scream, because you have to scream at something.  Someone.  Anything.  

You drop your head back hard against the metal eyelets behind it.  For a moment there’s nothing but the small flare of pain and the increasingly frantic cadence of your heart thumping away in your ears.  

You’re actually trapped.  In a sex dungeon.  With a powerless archangel who hates you so much he'd likely prefer to bury his angel blade inside you before he touched you with his personal one.   

“What the hell did I do?” 

He has the gall to sound miffed, and you cling desperately to your fury like driftwood to keep your head from going under. 

"Anyone else kick a hornet’s nest lately and now has a host of vengeful deities on their ass?”  

He at least has the decency to shut his mouth for three seconds.  

You, on the other hand, lose the ability to close yours.  “Let’s not all speak up at once.”

"Just... let me think.”  The bite beneath his words unexpectedly vanishes, and you don’t like how deflated he sounds.

Your mind starts to race, the frantic pace pushing the fringe of hysteria with how fast it whirls.

You should have seen the signs.

You should have walked away.  

You didn’t, and just like before, you’re going to pay for it.  

“Jesus Christ, kid, can you take a breath?  I can’t hear myself think with the way you’re panicking.”  

He’s not harping for once.  If anything, he might be the one panicking, but you’re beyond being able to read the subtleties of his demeanor.  All you hear is the same message he’s been feeding you for months.  

You’re the problem.  You’re always in the way.  Useless.  Useless.  Useless.

“Why is it always my fault?”  You yell.  “I’m the one that always ends up as collateral in the collective shitstorms you bring down upon yourselves.”

You know you’re not thinking clearly.  You’re falling straight down a rabbithole that has nothing good on the other side.  But your brain doesn’t see that, and it can’t do anything other than fire away with warning.

“For all the bitching you do with each other, you’re exactly the same.”  Your voice continues to rise, adrenaline saturating your system.  “You’re so wrapped up in your own agendas that you can’t see what it’s doing to anyone around you even when the damage is sitting in front of your god damn face.”

For the life of you, you don’t understand why you do it anymore.  Your relationship with Dean is so broken you’re not sure it can ever be repaired, and you’re pretty certain what shred of one remains with Gabriel won’t survive this encounter.  

The archangel says your name, but you can’t hear him.  There’s so much you’ve held back and desperately tried to bury that there’s no more space for it to go.  Everything comes barreling to the surface in a tidal wave of rage, because you can’t allow it to be what it actually is.  Hurt layered upon injustices that fester so deeply, trying to cleanse yourself of it at this point might actually destroy you.  

But hate, you can handle that.  

“I don’t need either of you or your bullshit excuses!”

For a moment there’s nothing but seething red and an overwhelming need to release it.  You don’t even know what’s happening with your foot until it slams against the pillar in front of you.  The stone doesn’t give, but your ankle does, and you growl at the explosion of pain that cuts through the whirlwind of emotions inside of you.   

“Now, now, we can’t have you damaging the goods so early in the game…”  

You can’t tell where the voice is coming from, only that it’s everywhere.  Above.  Behind.  Flooding in from every side, wrapping you within the confines of its sultry accent and sending a knot through your stomach.  It pulls your head back above the water, where you find you’re dragging in lungfuls of air no differently than if you really have been drowning.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”  Gabriel knows who it is, and given recent events, you’re not reassured, even if he sounds more peeved than anything.  

The air next to the cement column shimmers, and if there was any give to the object at your back, you would have shot back several feet.  The thing sits bolted straight into cement, however, and it doesn’t do much other than wiggle as your spine slams against it.  

You’re not sure what materializes in front of you.  Those are definitely human legs rising up from the floor, long and lanky, with golden bronze skin that make you think of places filled with warmth and sunshine.  The rest of it is most definitely not a person, though you’re grateful at least one member of this party comes with clothing.  

Somewhere beneath the brightly colored wrap around its waist it changes, skin giving way to a sprinkling of fur that thickens the further up your eyes travel.  It’s chest is fully covered with a coat so glossy you’re tempted to see if it really does feel as silky as it looks.  As odd as the whole thing is, it helps make the coyote head sitting on top of humanesque shoulders a little less shocking.  

You take in the regal headdress that you imagine says something about its status, the red and yellow feathers a colorful contrast to the sea of blacks, metal, and greys of the room.  Nothing about the figure jars anything specific loose from your lore knowledge, though by it’s accent and appearance your guess would be some sort of deity from Latin America.

“You.”  The archangel grumbles, accusation threading through his word. 

The creature smiles.  “Me.”  He spreads his arms wide, an exorbitant amount of pride accompanying the gesture, and it’s not lost on you how very Gabriel-esque the whole entrance is.  “How are you, old friend?  I imagine you’ve seen better days?”

His gaze drops to where you’re sitting, and his head gives a curious tilt.  “And I imagine you have too, my dear?”

“Who the hell are you?”  You don’t feel as fierce as your words would imply, and you could be wrapped from head to toe and still feel exposed with the way he drinks the sight of you in without shame.  

The thing chuckles, clearly amused.   

“Kid, meet Huehuecoyotl,” Gabriel announces.  “Another trickster.”  

You can feel the smugness permeating the space around you, bordering on hubris in a way that’s been inauspiciously absent.  You can’t help but feel like it’s an act, no different than yours, and it only makes you that much more nervous.

“Now are you going to tell me what is going on, or are you here to finish that round of twenty questions we started at the turn of the century?”  He demands.

You can just see him now, hands on his hips, boorish indifference splashing across his features.  

The whole act is just as ignored by the thing in front of you as it would with you.  

“May I?”  The trickster inquires, though he doesn’t actually wait before he reaches for your ankle with grotesque nubs caught somewhere between a paw and a hand.  

You jerk back and he pauses, letting out a soft snort.  “Ah, yes.  How silly of me.”  

An unsettling popping fills the room, and you watch as it’s joints begin to shift, tips extending into fully-formed, fingers.  The fur covering them adds another touch of surreal to the whole situation.

“That’s better.  Won’t get very far without these.” He wiggles the new digits at you, bones cracking as they shake off their stiffness.  

He’s not going to get far, period, opposable thumbs or not.  

You’ve never been so relieved to hear Gabriel open his mouth or intentionally diminish your presence.  “C’mon, Coy.  Stop wasting time with her.”  

The thing smiles, and your stomach drops at the row of long, jagged teeth that emerges.  

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what to do with my time, Loki, or should I say, Gabriel.”  He draws the archangel’s true name out, rolling the r on his tongue in a way that’s intimate.  

There’s an unmistakable gleam in his gaze when he glances up, and the moment the weight of his stare shifts from you, you realize how magnificent it is. Copper hues blend seamlessly with bronze, the colors tied together with flecks of gold that sparkle more playfully than anything. 

It tugs at something in your chest, something you immediately smother.

“That was quite the trick you both pulled, making the world believe that only one of you existed.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.  “But we’ll get to that in a moment.”  

With a wave of his hand, the room around you fades to darkness, as the light above your head intensifies.  The sudden spotlight makes you uneasy, as does the way you can still touch the floor beneath you, but not the table at your back.

“Seriously.  Stop dicking around with her and let’s talk about this.”  Gabriel’s voice floats in on the fringes, but it’s like he’s calling across a chasm, the familiar timbre distant and faded.   

It takes all of an instant to realize what’s happening.

“What do you want?”  Your arms tighten across your chest, and you’re even more acutely aware of just how exposed you are.  

“So many things.”  You can’t begin to unpack the complexities of his statement or the ones that follows.  “Mostly, I just want to help.”

Your eyes widen at the knife he brandishes, stomach plummeting well beneath concrete as he holds the blade up in front of your face.  Power pours off the metal, prickling over your skin in a way that alarms you.  It has to be ancient, filled with something you don’t recognize or understand.  

“Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, we must first destroy it.”

You can’t help but notice the short but curved blade attached to the end or the spiked ridges along the inner edge that can’t be for anything other than tearing through flesh. 

“Pain, as a construct, is ultimately fleeting, though the weight of breaking or watching someone break can be unbearable, no matter which side of the knife you are on.”

You swallow, eyes drifting up to the handle, trying to find something you recognize.  

It’s exquisite, a combination of beautiful gems and the finest spellwork you’ve ever seen with ethereal, symbols and lettering shifting along the surface in a way that almost makes them seem alive.  There’s no rhyme or reason to how they move, not that you can tell, and you’d be otherwise fascinated with the weapon, except it’s leveled in your direction.

“Now hold still,” He instructs, his grip on your calf tightening. “I’d prefer not to hurt you more than necessary.”

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[antiquechampagne]

Beastly Kingdom - CH 9 - Greatest Show on Earth

( Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric from Pexels)

Liz loved watching the bustle around the park for the nearly invisible signs of her plan showing themselves. The invisible cogs quickened their pace when she received word the General was on his way from Sanctuary. Everything was coming together, even better than she had anticipated. As the General entered the park late in the afternoon, her sealed final instructions made their way to the respective gang leader. Liz decided to put Nate up in her penthouse for the night, satisfied with Dixie and Gage standing guard so no one would dare to try any funny business. The General wasn’t too happy about spinning his wheels for the night, but Liz had a few more final touches to complete before the show could start.

The sun rose in a hazy sky, but Liz had little time to sit and enjoy it, she had been up for hours. Dragging nearly ever raider to one place was a serious pain in the ass. The only venue large enough to house everyone was the main Nuka-Town square, right outside the circular market. A rudimentary stage had been built to add height and extend the 'map alcove', allowing those on stage to look down at the gathering crowd. Liz counted on the long-standing animosity to prompt self-segregation between the gangs. All she had to do was seed the prospective areas with the certain people to make sure each gang stayed in the zones she designated: Operators to her left, the Pack to the right with the Disciples milling about in the middle.

It was growing close to eleven when Liz got word that everyone was in attendance, the final few drug to their spots by an ornery Gage. She stood at the side of the stage as Mason and the rest of the leaders shuffled around off stage, trying to hide their boredom but keeping a cool eye on Nate. The crowd was getting restless. Liz let them stew a few minutes longer than was strictly necessary before ascending the steps, the other leaders trailing behind her.

Standing at center stage with her entourage flanking her, Liz looked out, quickly scanned the faces and belted out, “ALL RIGHT! EVERYONE, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The crowd fell silent. She felt her voice could carry to the very corner of Nuka-World.

“I know what you assholes want to hear, but you… and the General…“ She glanced behind, glancing Nate up and down. "Are going to have to wait.” She heard a shuffle as, on cue, Mason guided Nate to upstage right, Mags and Nisha backing to the other.

“I want to make it absolute clear to each one of you sons-of-a-bitches here, that what we have here in Nuka-World is something unique… something fucking special. You aren't going to find anything like this anywhere else. And, as your Overboss, I'm not going to let anyone or anything take Nuka-World from us. I will do anything to keep us safe.” The crowd was drinking in her words. She decided to step it up a notch.

“Who’s going to keep you safe?” A weak chorus answered. She gave a death-glared down at the crowd, arms crossed. “Who?”

“The Overboss!” That was better.

She wanted more. “WHO?”

Nearly everyone was on their feet now “THE OVERBOSS!” Their answer thundered, followed by whoops and flailing weapons.

“That’s how I expect a true Nuka-World motherfucker to answer!” Liz puffed her chest out. “And who’s the baddest motherfucker in Nuka-World?”

“THE OVERBOSS!”

She thrust her hands out, quieting the cheering crowd.

“You’re damn right.”

She couldn't stop a smirk from spreading over her scarred lips. Time to make them shit their pants.

“Now, I want you to meet the newest member of the Nuka-World family.” She slapped her thigh, as if calling a dog to her side, only instead of a whistle; she let out a low growl.

The crowd glanced around nervously, confused. In the distance, a deep rumbling growl answered. Liz's smirk bloomed into a full on grin as she watched the audiences faces fill with fear. They all knew that sound. She just stood and drank it all in.

Behind the stage, a huge black clawed hand rose from inside the closed market and grasped the roof. With a swift feline-like grace, Big Mama made her entrance. Vaulting herself over the structure, the huge glowing creature landed with a thump next to Liz, snarling. The scattered screams and horror-filled eyes staring from the crowd was totally worth clearing out the market in the dead of night to lock Mama inside with a huge pile of meat.

Liz casually scratched Mama’s chin. “Say ‘Hi’, Big Mama” she prompted.

Mama trumpeted loudly, a supersonic shock wave knocking back the throng, several people in the front blown over by the force. The crowd semi-recovered, but were still frozen, unsure how to react.

In a distant corner, a single triumphant roar rippled across the impromptu theater.

"Fuck YEAH!"

The sound seemed to break the spell, as the entire crowd broke into a raucous applause, shouts and gunfire. Liz let the audience party as she directed Mama to stay behind her, motioning to her underbosses to join her by her side. The crowd, having released some nervous energy, naturally calmed down to where she could address them again.

“Now,” She walked to the edge of the stage. “Let’s get down to serious business at hand. There are only two organizations that pose any real threat to Nuka-World: The Minutemen and The Brotherhood of Steel. Our very existence is a bloody thorn in the side of the Minutemen's peaceful and flavorless vision of the Commonwealth. The Brotherhood, on the other hand, would cream themselves if they got their hands on all our pre-war tech and fire power. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that shit out. I'd been planning for since we started to expand outside of the park."

"Here, imagine my surprise when the Minutemen’s very own General Popsicle walking through the doors, offering a deal nonetheless.” Liz walked over to Nate, stretching her arm over his stiff shoulders. “Gotta hand it to’em, that took balls. More than I thought any Minuteman might have.” She gave him a little squeeze as her other hand slipped her knife out of its sheath on her hip. "But this deal, it got me thinking. -Thinking hard- about the future of everyone here. Here we are sitting pretty in our park, but how can we become something even stronger... spread our influence over the all Commonwealth, maybe even further? Would an alliance with the Minutemen be worth it?" Letting go, Liz began to pace next to Mason, picking at her teeth with the blade. "Just ask Gage... I thought about all this shit ‘till my brain was leaking out my ears. Then, I locked myself up tighter than Bradberton's hidden office bunker to figure all this out."

She made her way over to where three of raider leaders stood. This time she hung herself between the Black siblings, one arm draped over Mags' shoulders, the other over her brother. She still held her knife loosely, weaving it idly through the air under William's chin as she spoke. "I talked to all my underbosses about it, feeling everyone out. Getting their input, as it were."

Liz pursed her lips as if in thought for a moment, every movement calculated to pull in the audience's attention. With a disappointed shake of her head, her blade straightened itself on William's the stubble-speckled neck. "I hate to say it, but one gang just wasn't on-board with my plan." Her free hand gripped Mags metal clad shoulder. "And that is just unacceptable. I won't stand for it." It was so hard not to smile as she watched the shock and fear once again creep over the watching crowd.

Without another word, she swiftly turned the blade away from William and plunged it straight into Nisha's neck. Blood gurgled to her lips. She slumped to the floor. Mason grabbed Nate, whisking him off-stage to safety. On cue, the trusted senior members of the Operators and Pack in the audience unleashed a deadly storm of bullets on the Disciples sandwiched between them, slaughtering many before they even had the chance to draw their own weapons.

"NO!" Dixie sprang on Liz, her blades already drawn, her shock quickly dissolving into a murderous rage. "YOU DOUBLE-CROSSING BITCH!"

Liz didn't even have to move. She watched and grinned as a giant clawed hand effortlessly pinned Dixie to the boards. With a guttural snarl, Mama's giant jaws latched onto Dixie's metal-strapped helmet, crushing the life out of her lover in a matter of moments.

"Careful now, Mama," Ignoring the occasional projectile, Liz coaxed Mama to reluctantly let go of the twitching body. With a few quick slashes, she removed a few choice bits of metal armor. "I don't need you getting anything unpleasant stuck in your teeth. There you go, sweetie. Go to town." She gave an affectionate thump on the deathclaw's luminous hide.

A bullet grazed the Overboss's shoulder, causing her to wince. Turning on her heels, she faced the crowd, searching for the offending shooter. Once she locked eyes on the desperate man, she quickly dispatched him with a knife to chest.

"Ugh, seriously?" Fussing over her bloodied sleeve, she returned to Mama, who was happily munching away in the middle of the stage. The screams and gunfire began to wane. She gave the glowing creature a scratch before returning to the edge of the stage, looking at the bloody, body-filled ground where hundreds of people had once stood.

"Where were we... ah, yes. The plan. The remaining gang leaders have been briefed on the plan and have agreed to the terms." She motioned to Mason to bring Nate back on stage. He was looking decidedly greener around the gills. "Those terms being as follows. The Nuka-World raiders will aid the Minutemen in their offensive to end the Brotherhood. We will withdraw all our settlements and cease any expansion into the Commonwealth, keeping to Nuka-World." Liz pulled a cigarette from a pocket and lit it "In return, the Minutemen will share the spoils, as well as give us access to all established trade routes, along with exclusive and complete control to all chem trade and mercenary contracts within the Commonwealth," she nodded to the Blacks and Mason, respectively.

Nate, recovered, nodded in agreement. He stretched out his hand. Liz grabbed it, pulling him in close. "You're gunna love this next bit... soldier boy..." she whispered to him, pulling a lung full off the cigarette.

Liz gave a nod to Mason, who pulled a cowering Dr. Mackenzie up on stage. Liz reached into her pocket and pulled out a chunky black remote. Mackenzie gasped. The doctor knew a bomb collar detonator as soon as she saw it.

"Not only are we going 'legit', but, as an act of good will...“ Liz opened a compartment on the side, slipping a key into the waiting slot. As she turned, the red light on the detonator and Mackenzie's collar turned dark, the lock sliding open with a clunk. "All of the traders are now free to go and do as they please." She puffed, releasing a long stream of smoke. "However, as an incentive to stay and help Nuka-World grow, I am officially setting aside the town Bradberton as an area for anyone who wants to settle down in, under the complete protection of the Pack, of course."

Mason released a bewildered Mackenzie. All she could manage was to nod of comprehension, slowly skittering off stage as soon as Mason let go of her shoulders.

Liz turned back to the crowd. "And just to be crystal clear on this... anyone not on board with my plan..." she opened her arms dramatically before the sea of bullet ridden bodies before her, "can see my established termination policy." The whole park was as quiet as the grave, all except for the wet crunching of bone and meat from Mama and her meal.

"Seems we are in agreement then! Who's up for making the Brotherhood and the Commonwealth our little bitches?"

Every corner of Nuka-World rang with their thunderous answer.

[kinetic-elaboration]

March 11: Bellarke, Warmth

Bellarke + Warmth, requested by @pawprinterfanfic​

~1,000 words, canon-divergent (slightly) post-S2

I somewhat suspect this is not the kind of fic you were looking for with this word, but I started writing and somehow this happened! Literally just wrote this straight out, did a tiny bit of editing/typo-fixing, and here it is.  So tired now, must sleep.

Tagging some people per my post about tagging: @ciewill @dealingdreams @shadowheron2013 @julyrubyrose @wonderland-promises @hanav @thelittlefanpire @rycewritestrash @musicnote902 @stonybnatural @goggledwreck

*

Clarke is not widely known for her warmth, but Bellamy's seen sides of her that no one else has. Like now, leaning back against the side of Alpha Station in the half-light at the end of the day, arms crossed against her chest, looking out toward the gate as if it were the horizon. They're calling her Wanheda and he thinks she's started to believe it. Her hair has grown ratty at the ends and is stained a once-deep red, now faded pink.

He thinks her idea of a disguise is almost funny, but not in the sort of way that makes him want to laugh.

They've been standing outside so long that his legs have become, if not tired, rather restless, but instead of walking around to regain feeling in them, he bends down into a squat like he's about to examine the dirt. Above him, Clarke sighs and lets her arms fall to her sides. He can't see her face but he knows that her expression is softening.

Has she come to see herself like the Grounders do, half-mythical creature risen up out of the mythical Mountain, a hellfire creature, a portent of death? Ever since she came back, he's been wondering, because she doesn't seem like the Clarke he thought he knew. So much colder, and hollow. Maybe in the sense of being fragile.

He pulls himself back up to his feet and then stretches his arms up above his head, yawning.

"You tired?" Clarke asks, wry, out of the corner of her mouth.

"No." He knows she's not up for sleeping, or even lying in bed, though who knows where she's been sleeping and the beds on Alpha, he must say, are rather nice. "I thought you said you wanted to take a walk."

She shrugs. "I don't know. Changed my mind, maybe."

She's been back four days, and he's not sure she's gotten even one good night's sleep. Her mother's set her up in a room near medical, a quiet little corner of the ship just for her, and every night Bellamy walks her back to that room and, after the door closes, leans his forehead against it wondering if he just imagined the way she hesitated, like she wanted to invite him inside. There is no question of whether or not he forgives her for leaving, not because he does or he doesn't, not because it is obvious, but because he simply is not thinking of problems like that. She's here and when he looks at her face, he imagines her hiding in the woods, scurrying in the animal dark, hearing rumors of the bounty on her head, trying not to be found.

Except for their nights, they've spent most of their time together, not speaking much, and he wonders if she is delaying going back to her room because she does not want to leave him. Or the other way around.

He's seen her bedside manner, first and most hauntingly in the moment of Atom's death, so he knows that Clarke can be soft, can be kind even when kindness requires a certain cruelty, can be strong and loving and unafraid all at once. That's the order of the new world, he'd thought, at the time. And he knew then that she'd rise to the top of it.

He sees her hands now, cracked and reddened from winter and the outdoor air, and remembers them stroking through Atom's hair. Remembers them blood stained from dropship surgeries. Remembers how once by the campfire at the old camp, she sat next to him and let one of those hands rest on his knee, the whole night. Small moments when he thought he could see the future of them, growing like the infinite blades of grass on the ground.

Sitting by the fire those nights, listening to the crack and spit of it, watching the flames and the tiny branches burning up into ash and smoke, and feeling the hazy warmth of it reaching out through the dark to them, he'd felt like this thing they were fighting for wasn't so much survival but home.

"So you just want to stand here?" he says, aloud. The half-light is dipping into no-light. After dark, the season feels like winter, though sometimes during the day he can almost smell spring coming in on the wind.

"Or we could break out of Arkadia," Clarke suggests. He has to look at her face to see if she's joking, but it's hard to make out her features, and he still can't tell. But it must be a joke. He quirks the corner of his mouth up.

"I don't want to go foraging for berries in the woods," he answers. A dumbass answer: he doesn't want to sleep on the ground or freeze among the leaves or lose sight of her again, with her darkened hair, her camouflage, but he does want to get out of the looming shadow of her home station, the dark wheel of the arch, never spinning. He wants to huddle up around her, hold her, fall asleep with his nose in her hair. If she told him that were only possible if they threw the rest away, he'd toss it: the Guard jacket he's been given, the gun he's allowed to carry, the soft and sorry looks that people who don't know him always give.

Sometimes he is angry that she left, because he wanted to leave too, but he didn't.

Did she come back for him? Are they both stuck now?

Clarke has edged a little closer, her arm pressed against his arm. He tells himself that this next gesture, how he wraps his arm around her shoulders, lets her tuck her head in under his chin, is just to keep her warm, safe from the night chill. But really it's just to keep her safe. Another moment no one else sees: Clarke, requesting safety, curling her arm around him, sticking her hand in his jacket pocket. When he holds her, she does not seem like the Commander of Death, like a spirit or a demon or a creature. She feels soft and vulnerable and human. Just human, seeking out comfort and kindness, and at least he does not find this hard to give.

[badboys-imagines]

Cassidy in love - PART II

Pairing : Loki, Bucky, Reader

Last chapter : Y/N has become the official chief of the Cassidy’s gang. In the meantime, Loki accepts to help kidnap and seduce the young woman in order to regain the esteem of his own clan.

Summary : Y/N is the chief of Bucky’s gang, the Cassidys. While she’s in a peaceful relationship with him, the young woman has to deal with tough guys. What she isn’t expecting is that Loki, a mysterious member of an enemy gang, infiltrates her crew …

Y/N was lost in her thoughts as she rode peacefully. It was just another beautiful day under the burning sun and she loved it. 

The young woman took advantage of the straight road to close her eyes for a moment, just one. 

Suddenly, the engine raced, dealing too much strength and Y/N lost control on her motorcycle. Fuck. Don’t panic. She took a deep breath and glanced at the side of the road. Y/N did her best, tugging at the handlebars to straighten the path of her motorcycle, but nothing did it. It’s going to hurt anyway. Once again, the young woman inhaled deeply and extracted her hands of her gloves. Fuck it. She jumped on the side, rolling into the sand as she violently hit the ground. ‘’Shit !’’ she growled, mostly because her motorbike crashed a few inches from her.

Y/N let her head fall back on the sand as she caught her breath. What the hell did just happen ? The young woman sat up, observing the damages. Thick clouds of dark smoke came out from the engine and she got closer, frowning as she tried to understand what the matter was. A ray of light reflected off a piece of metal she had never seen before and she stretched her arm to grab it, unsuccessfully. 

From the distance, Y/N heard another motorcycle roaring. Shit. Was it a trap ? Her heart started racing in her chest as she quickly looked for some place to hide. Fucking empty desert ! Before she could even run away, she saw an unknown motorcycle approaching. Dazzled by the sunlight, Y/N had nothing left but hope. The biker pulled over and her eyes narrowed as she wondered who it was. A silence fell between them and Y/N heard the wind whispering something to her ear. Careful Y/N ... 

‘’Need help ?’’ his voice finally broke the silence as he adjusted the kickstand of his motorcycle. Y/N could now distinguish the stranger’s features. He was tall, rather young. His dark hair and pale skin told her he wasn’t a local. Still suspicious, Y/N shook her head, ‘’I’ll be fine.’’ With that, she bent towards the remains of her motorcycle and cursed as she tried to grab the piece of metal that still sparkled behind the wheel. Finally, she heard a swift noise and managed to pull the blade out of the debris. Got you. Discreetly then, Y/N put it into her pocket. 

Her bike was definitely lost. Behind her, the man cleared his throat, ‘’Are you sure you don’t need any assistance ?’’ Y/N dusted herself off and rolled her eyes as she turned to the source of the insistent voice, ‘’I’ve got this ...’’ she sighed, but there, she stopped. The mysterious man was surprisingly handsome. Stay focused ... Recollecting herself, Y/N shrugged ‘’You’re gonna stay here all night ? Because that’s weird.’’ she spat. ‘’My name is Loki.’’ he reached out to shake her hand, ‘’And there comes the weird name ...’’ she muttered, but wrapped her fingers around his hand. Loki gave her a satisfied smile and nodded towards the motorcycle, ‘’I didn’t mean to scare you.’’ what ? Proud, Y/N scrunched an eyebrow, ‘’You didn’t.’’ Loki stared at her, a wide grin spreading on his lips, ‘’Why refusing my help then ? You can’t ride ... this thing.’’ he took a quick glance at the broken motorcycle. Unfortunately he was right, there was no way Y/N could ride it again. After some hesitation, the young woman surrendered, ‘’Who are you ?’’ 

‘’I told you, my name is ...’’ Y/N cut him off, ‘’Where are you from, what are you even doing here ?’’ Loki shrugged, ‘’I was just passing by. I’m moving into town, looking for a place to stay for a while.’’ 

Y/N kept staring at him, inspecting every detail her eyes were able to catch. She could smell he was trouble from miles away, and yet there was something so attractive about him that was impossible to ignore.

‘’Can you give me a lift ?’’ Y/N risked, shifting on her feet. Loki’s eyes sparkled as she spoke, ‘’Of course. Miss ?...’’ the young woman looked up to the sky, hoping it wasn’t a huge mistake, ‘’I’m Y/N. Y/N/  Y/L/N.’’

With that, Y/N finally let Loki drive her home. 

On the road, she had to hold him tighter as they went faster than she usually did. Secretly, Y/N enjoyed feeling the abdominal muscles of the mysterious man under her fingers. Her head rested on his back and she didn’t even know why, but her heart started to beat faster. Think about something else, anything else ... Focusing on the landscape, the young woman slightly released her grip, causing her fingers to dangerously slide down Loki’s waist. The muscles tensed beneath her hands, bringing her back to reality. Y/N recognized the funny fluttery feeling in her stomach and quickly glided her fingers back up on his chest. Shit.

Loki pulled over in front of the hotel and as soon as the motorcycle slowed down, Y/N jumped of it. While Loki stopped the engine, the young woman closed her eyes. She couldn’t do this. She had Bucky, her Bucky. He was the one. ‘’You’re running a hotel ?’’ Loki’s voice came tingling her ear, ‘’Yeah sort of ... Listen, thanks for the lift ...’’ his piercing eyes met Y/N’s and he stepped towards her, ‘’Do you have free rooms ?’’ the young woman felt her stomach tightening. When you’re fucked, you’re fucked. ‘’Yes.’’ she paused, blood rushing to her face, ‘’I mean, maybe. I’ll have to check.’’ Loki slowly nodded. He was incredibly close and the increasing sexual tension Y/N was feeling became almost unbearable. ‘’Well, after you, Y/N.’’ 

Come on, you can do it ... The young woman walked around the desk and grabbed a key she handed to Loki. ‘’Here, this one is free.’’ she declared. Loki’s fingertips brushed against hers as he grabbed the small object and she felt it. The electricity, the warmth of his skin, the attraction. Looking up at him, she saw his eyes sparkling again. 

However, a familiar voice broke them out of their reverie, ‘’Hey sweetie,’’ Bucky stormed into the room like a cyclone, ruining the moment. Planting a kiss on Y/N’s lips, he didn’t even seem to notice her messy hair and the scratch on her cheek. Instead, he glared at Loki and wrapped his arm around Y/N’s waist. Shit, shit, shit. The young woman gave an apologetic gaze to her now client ‘’Welcome to the Cassidy’s hotel, Sir. You can call the reception if you need anything ...’’ as she slightly looked down, Y/N could have sworn Loki’s fists were clenching. ‘’But this pretty girl is mine !’’ Bucky interrupted her, pressing his lips against her temple while his girlfriend pretended to fill the record, ‘’Do I know you ? I’m pretty sure I know you …’’ his eyes narrowed as he observed the new client. ‘’I don’t think so, I was in Philadelphia lately …’’ Loki chuckled uncomfortably. Elle’s boyfriend wasn’t buying it, ‘’Nah, I know you.’’ he started to sound threatening, ‘’I saw you somewhere, in town ...’’ Unbelievable. Is he really doing that ? Elle was losing patience. This interrogatory was absolutely ridiculous. ‘’Alright, Buck, I think you got … work, things to do.’’ Y/N patted his shoulder, beckoning him to leave.

‘’See you later then, sir.’’ once more, Bucky glared at Loki before disappearing in the backroom. Holy shit. He’s going to hear me about this. Elle’s cheeks had turned crimson.

Instead of leaving, Loki leaned against the desk, enough to talk without being heard by Bucky, ‘’Are you alright ?’’ Y/N took a look around her and nodded vigorously, ‘’Yeah ... He’s my ... boyfriend.’’ a faint smile crossed Loki’s lips, ‘’I think I got it. I was talking about these ...’’ With his fingertips, he gently traced the outline of a scratch she had on her hand. Oh. This time, Y/N wasn’t dreaming. 

‘’Would you have time to show me my room, Miss Y/L/N ? I’m not quite sure I can find it alone.’’

[fanfic-scribbles]

13 Kisses (And One To Grow On)

A/N: Took these kiss prompts from a few lists I’ve found and collected over time. Removed some and added others.

Summary: While browsing mindlessly one day, you stumble across a list of the most underrated places to be kissed. Gabriel decides to test them out. For science.

Quick facts: Romance fic – Gabriel/Reader – Established relationship

Warnings: Implied smut/sexytimes, some heated intimacy, language, fluff

Words: 4242

  1. Forehead

It’s a boring day. Normally that’s fine –a day without death is a respite– but everyone is gone and you are bored. Dean and Sam are in town getting car parts and groceries, respectively, Gabriel is busy, Castiel is who-the-hell-knows where, and you can only go to the shooting range so much before it stops being practice and starts becoming a waste of ammo.

You frown when you think of what Gabriel might be getting up to. It figures that you finally get a day (and the entire bunker!) all to yourself and your boyfriend is hopelessly busy. At least you know he’s actually busy and not just blowing you off to torment some schmuck. But still.

“Hey sugar,” Gabriel says from behind you and crosses his arms loosely over your chest as he leans in.

“Gabriel!” You lean back and relax into your angel. “I thought you were busy today.”

“Still am,” he says. “But I heard you calling for me and I wanted to check in.”

“Oh.” Oops. “Sorry.” Prayer is, you have learned, a very loose concept and when you have a connection with an angel it unravels even more.

“I don’t mind.” He rests his head on your shoulder and reads out loud from your computer. “‘The Thirteen Most Underrated Kisses’.”

You snort and look for what he sees. It figures that he’d find some crappy Cosmo-adjacent article you weren’t even reading. But it sounds amusing so you click the link and start skimming. “It’s…cute, I guess.”

Gabriel chuckles in your ear. You turn to smile at him. “Speaking of kisses– can I get one before you leave?”

His grin is impish at best and you have the sense to be slightly worried. ‘Slightly’ because you know that Gabriel will never hurt you. ‘Worried’ because, well, he’s still Gabriel.

Even so, you expect a kiss on your lips. You don’t expect him to move up your face and press a firm smooch to your forehead. Even as he pulls back there’s a feeling, almost like an indentation, left on your skin. “You didn’t–” You look at the list and, sure enough, ‘Forehead’ is number one. You laugh. “You little bastard.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he says, so obviously pleased with himself.

“You know it,” you say and, because two can play at that game, you kiss his forehead. “I’ll see you soon?”

“You can’t keep me away. Just ask Dean.” He winks and is gone, leaving you with the lingering feeling of his lips on your skin. You smile and actually start to relax for the first time all day. Maybe it is a little underrated.

  2. Cheek

You’re at a diner with Sam and Dean when someone suddenly appears on the bench next to you. You smile as Dean rolls his eyes and leans his head back like this day is just the worst. Only one person can make Dean so annoyed by their mere presence.

“Hey Sweet Thing,” Gabriel says and presses a kiss to your cheek. Again, there’s the feel of lips left behind and you giggle and touch it.

“Oh jeeze, knock it off you two. Some of us need to eat,” Dean says and Sam shakes his head. He hasn’t quite come around to Gabriel yet but at least he’s trying.

“Well you better settle your own stomach, because some of us don’t care,” you say and wrap your arm around Gabriel’s back. Dean fake-retches and you laugh, and when you steal a look at Gabriel as your food arrives you catch him smiling brightly at you.

   3. Back of the Hand.

“You guys okay?” you ask Sam and Dean.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Dean grumbles and Sam groans. You sigh. Well, at least they’re alive. Dean is leaning on the trunk, Sam is sitting with his back against the wheel, and you’re kneeling on the ground, spent. Gabriel is admiring his work– his work being a currently burning abandoned farmhouse. You can’t help but think how nice he looks in the glow of the fire, hair lightly blowing in the wind.

He flashes you a grin and you roll your eyes. “You better not be in my head,” you grumble without any real anger.

“I don’t have to. I can just tell by the way you look at me,” he says with a wink and leans over, hand stretched towards you. You’re not sure you’re ready to get up yet but you take the offer anyway. But he doesn’t yank you to your feet. Energy fills you slowly and your aches and pains fade away.

Only after you’re back to normal does Gabriel help you up. “Thanks Gabe,” you say and press a quick kiss to his lips. He smirks and pulls your hand up for a kiss. You’re starting to get used to the tingling that comes with these strangely purposeful kisses.

“Anytime, Sugarplum.”

   4. Shoulder

It’s storming outside. The thunder has calmed down a bit but you know it’s still pouring. You’re alone in the library, putting away books, and just being…lonely. Sam and Dean are around, you could probably have their company if you really want it, but you can’t have the company you want the most.

You stop in the middle of pushing a book into place to swear at yourself. You knew you wouldn’t get Gabriel 24/7 when you both entered this relationship. And honestly, you’re still okay with that. Gabriel all day every day is something no one but Gabriel can handle. Still, right now you can’t help but miss him. It’s just one of those days.

Arms wrap around you and you gasp. Gabe is quiet. Too quiet. “I– crap, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to–”

“Shh.” He holds you close and you can feel his breath on your neck, in your ear. “I kinda think I missed you too.”

You smile. It’s about as close to real emotion that Gabriel can express. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade and there’s the newly-familiar feeling of his lips lingering. Even as he speaks it feels like he’s still kissing you. “I’ll see you soon, Cupcake.”

“Are you gonna bring a new nickname every time you come around?” you can’t help but joke.

He chuckles into your skin, chasing a chill up the back of your neck. “I’ll do my best, Sugarlump.”

You laugh. “Okay,” you say, and you feel it. Even when he’s gone you can shut your eyes and it’s like he’s still there. These kisses are starting to feel like promises and, sappy as it sounds, you don’t mind that at all.

   5. Fingertips

“Ow, fuck!” you hiss and slide the hot tray of fresh-out-of-the-oven cupcakes onto the counter before going to the sink.

You wait as the cold water runs over the burn and you appraise your work from a distance. Three trays of cupcakes and they all look really good. You don’t bake often but it seemed better to have a vehicle for that amazing-looking frosting you just had to buy.

And if there was an extra tub of it just lying around that maybe made its way to your room accompanied by a spoon…well…

“Oh Sugarlips; what happened?”

You snort. “Too bad you already used ‘Cupcake’, isn’t it?”

Gabriel sidles up next to you and wraps an arm around your waist. “Nah. That’d be too easy.”

“Hm.” You turn off the faucet and pat your finger dry to find a blister. “Damn it. It just had to be my trigger finger…”

“Allow me,” Gabriel says and steals your hand. When he presses his lips very deliberately to your finger you smile because by now you know what’s coming.

But the tingling sensation moves down your finger to pool in the base of your palm and your breath hitches. Gabriel then moves to the next finger, and the feeling repeats. He moves his way across your digits, thumb and all, and when he holds up your other hand you realize you’re staring and barely breathing. But Gabriel pays complete attention only to his self-assigned task, shutting his eyes with each kiss, like every single one is a blessing.

At the end of it your heart is beating faster and you have to catch your breath. The intimacy is suddenly too much and you scramble to find your footing. You wiggle your fingers, noting how heavy they feel, and you exhale a breathless laugh. “Really? You had to do all of them?”

Gabriel grins, winks, and disappears.

Once you have yourself under control you rub your hands together to ease the feeling left behind. Then you roll your eyes, huff, and turn back to the counter. And freeze.

“Gabriel you little shit BRING BACK MY FROSTING!”

   6. Collarbone

You are going to finish this book.

…Well, if you’re being honest with yourself, it probably won't happen tonight like you had intended. But you have so little left to get through and it’s still early…ish. You're not going to check the time.

You're dozing (again) when you realize someone is standing next to you. It takes a moment, but once you realize that fact you snap to pretty suddenly. You drop your book to the table and your arms do this weird flailing thing that confuses even you, until your chair falls forward and is on four legs again. Once you get a hold of your body you blink, and realize that Gabriel is caught in nigh-hysterical laughter. You scowl at him but the sound is so genuine that it warms your heart and you can’t help but smile. You probably did look ridiculous.

After a good (maybe too) long laugh, he sits sideways in the chair next to you and stretches his legs over your lap. “What’re ya doing Gumdrop?”

For some reason that name makes you giggle. A lot. Shoulders shaking, you realize, aw hell, it’s not that funny and you must be more tired than you thought. You gain some self-control and settle back into place with your book, eyes already starting to droop again. “Readin’.”

“Really? Because it looked like you were sleepin’.”

Rats. “Nope,” you say and try again with the page. Fifth time’s the charm, you hope.

“My bad. You must have been reading with your eyes closed.”

“Shut up,” you say and shoot him a smile. You turn back to your book and focus because Gabriel is watching now. Every word is as much a slog as every step after a marathon run but you’re getting through. Mostly.

You jerk your head up, having caught yourself about to fall asleep yet again. Gabriel chuckles. He’s sitting so much closer to you now and his feet are back on the ground. He’s staring at you and you stare back, trying to figure out what he could be up t–

He presses a light kiss to the end of your collarbone closest to your shoulder. Then he moves in and presses another one right next to it– this time with a little suckle that makes you drop your book. “Gabriel,” you say, sounding strangled as he places open-mouthed kisses all the way down, stopping at the middle to dip his tongue to the space in the middle and you let your head fall back. “Damn it,” you mumble, completely unable to open your eyes now. Apparently you’ve reached your quota.

“Let’s go to bed, Lemon Drop,” Gabriel chuckles and picks you up.

   7. Nose

“Let’s give ‘em some space,” Dean says and you listen as they shuffle away awkwardly. You don’t look away from the unconscious angel under you. You’re kneeling behind Gabriel’s head, having moved there to give Castiel whatever room he needed, but now you can’t seem to move anywhere else. You lean down and study his face, now calm and peaceful whereas before he had been screaming in agony, trapped in his vessel while a warded knife had tried to destroy his true self.

He’s safe now, he’s fine; Castiel told you he’s going to be just fine, but how close he had been still makes you tremble. The demon-led coven of witches is dead, razed to the ground with everything they had, but you’d kill them all with your bare hands if you could. You’d–

Gabriel’s eyes flutter open and all thoughts of murder leave you as he takes some time to stare up at you. It’s an alien reaction, probably unnerving with how utterly still he is, but you’re used to this sort of thing by now. You force a smile. “How you feeling, Fruitcake?”

He blinks and slowly grows a smile. He holds your head and picks himself up enough to place a kiss to your nose. As per his new habit, it lingers. “Like I could use about a week in bed, Bonbon. You up for it?”

You laugh, relieved tears coming to your eyes. “Don’t do that to me ever again.”

“I can’t promise that.” His smile turns to that same cocky expression you know and alternately love and hate. “Especially when I get such a nice view when I wake up.”

You shake your head and rest your forehead against his. “As long as you wake up.”

   8. Throat

You’re cuddling on the couch, watching a monster movie marathon when Gabe starts to squirm. You lift your head to look at him but he keeps his frown focused on the TV even though he moves like his back itches. And itches. And it must really itch back there.

“You okay?” you ask and he snaps his head down like he forgot you were there. Maybe he didn’t know you were still awake, judging by his embarrassed smile. You smile back, because who would have thought he’d be this comfortable with you? “Need me to scratch your back?”

He squints, sort of looking like Castiel for a moment and you have to bite down on a laugh. “Yeah, actually,” he says, surprising you. You sit up and he flops down on his stomach. He looks back at you and flutters his eyelashes. “Pretty pretty please, my little Snickerdoodle? I’ll pay you back.”

You laugh and start scratching his back all over. “That might be even more ridiculous than ‘Sugarlump’.”

“Oooof,” he says and his eyes partly shut in bliss. You half expect him to start purring. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s ever done. “Whatever you say, as long as you keep doing that…”

You chuckle but keep up your work, alternating between using your nails and pressing in hard with your fingers. Gabriel is content through it all and you can feel him relax and then come back to himself. When he stretches you sit back and ask, “Better?”

“Oh. Much.” You barely catch a flash of the mischievous look in his eyes before he pounces and has you pinned to the couch. You squirm but his grip is light and the look on his face is playful.

“What are you up to?” you ask suspiciously, fighting a losing battle against a smile.

“I told you I’d repay the favor,” he says and dips down to kiss your throat.

You gasp as his tongue and lips work their way up your neck. He kisses, nips, and suckles at almost every inch of flesh and you wiggle underneath him, unable to grab, hold, or do anything else as your angel teases his way up and over to your jaw line. You moan approvingly as he starts to go for your ear–

The light flicks on and you blink at the sudden brightness.

“Oh– oh, son of a bitch my eyes!”

Gabriel’s eyes flash as he sits up and turns to glare death at Dean, and you sigh and throw your arm over your own eyes, mood effectively killed.

You hope Gabriel takes requests for TV Hell.

   9. Eyelids

You’re lying in bed with Gabe. Nothing is happening. The hunt you just went on was nonstop from the second you left the bunker and ended with you and the boys being chased on your way out of town, making a thirteen-hour trip back home in half the time and leaving you so full on adrenaline you could barely sleep the entire way, especially with Dean keeping himself awake by blasting his music. You’re finally back home, showered, and coming down from the stage of ‘somehow too tired to sleep’ much to Gabriel’s annoyance.

So now you’re dozing, on the very cusp of sleep when Gabriel leans over you. You can sense it. You can certainly feel it when he presses a kiss to each of your eyelids. “Hey, don’t send me to the ferryman yet,” you mumble, waking up just slightly.

He snorts and nuzzles you. “Go to sleep, Sweets.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

   10. Spine

“Hey, see if you can find this book?”

“On it,” you say and snatch the index card Sam’s holding up. He won't look up from his computer and he probably won’t even remember he sent you to get the book when you bring it to him, he’s so deep in his research hole. You grin at the thought and go to one of the larger sets of shelves, searching high and low for the book on ghouls Sam needs.

Of course it’s high. You stand on your tip toes and reach, just barely able to grab the book, when arms wrap around you. You freeze. Seriously, Gabriel is lucky you’re not as high-strung as you were before you started living in a heavily fortified bunker, or his vessel would resemble a colander by now.

One arm is wrapped around your hip and the other one crosses up over your stomach. His nose pokes into your lower back and you whisper, “Gabe, what are you doin–”

“Shh,” Gabriel whispers and presses a kiss into the base of your spine. You gasp and look back but Sam is, thankfully, still in his own little world. You turn your head forward again, keeping quiet as Gabriel kisses up your spine. Despite the loose shirt you feel each and every kiss as surely as if you were wearing nothing. There are no nips, no tongue, just lips moving up your back and ending just under the back of your neck. Your breathing is shallow and it sounds like Gabriel’s is too, as he just stands there, his arms tighter around you, breathing you in.

“Happy researching, Honeybun,” he says with a smile in his voice before he’s off again.

You barely manage to pull the book out and you move more slowly, as if dazed. Sam takes the tome from you with a, “Oh, thanks, how did you know I…” and he’s back in the zone again, utterly oblivious as you slump at the table and take a moment to collect yourself.

You are suspicious that any of these kisses could ever be underrated.

   11. Stomach

You wake up, too comfortable to be on an old warehouse floor. It’s warm and you’re laying on something so soft that for a moment you think you might be dreaming. You hear Gabriel murmuring in some other language– Enochian. This is a surprise. He never speaks it, at least not where you can hear it, and it sounds almost beautiful coming from him. You’ve only heard the language in halting syllables born of Sam’s inexperience, and rough, start-stop words from Castiel’s rough gravel and grave voice. Gabe’s words are light, almost sing-song, and carry the harsh language more smoothly than you would have thought possible.

It takes you a minute to realize your shirt is off. It bothers you less than you think it should– but when Gabe presses heavy kisses in a small circle around a spot on your stomach, you understand why. You, a rogue angel and said angel’s blade made for a very unhappy meeting.

You blink your eyes open and lean your head to the side so you can look down at Gabriel. Hazel eyes glinting gold look up at you as he presses one last kiss to the new scar just an inch or two from your bellybutton. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says.

“I can’t promise that.” You smile and run your fingers through his hair. “Especially when I get such a nice view.”

He snorts and shoots you an ‘I’m so not amused’ look, but he rests his head on your stomach so he can keep his eyes on you. His fingers stroke so lightly down your other side you can barely feel them. “It was so much easier. Before.”

“It always is,” you say levelly. As much as Gabriel is known for running, he hasn’t done so yet. He could have healed you in the warehouse and left, digging a hole too deep for anybody to ever find him again. But he’s here, now, and that means something.

“Do you ever wonder if it isn’t worth it?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

He looks like he didn’t expect that. Your smile feels a little more natural, a little less forced, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “I wonder sometimes, and every time I realize that it is. Even when you annoy the ever-loving shit out of me…even when you scare me…even when I scare myself with just how much I care.” You shrug with one shoulder. “I’m not here to worship your every move without question. And I’m pretty sure you could find that elsewhere. No, worship isn’t my bag. Love, though…even with all the doubt and questions and frustration…I can do that.”

He just stares for a moment. Then he relaxes his head and shuts his eyes.

   12. Hipbone

You’re reading in your room at night. When half the bed creaks and dips you don’t even look over, you just grab the bag of chips and set it in between the two of you.

“No thanks,” Gabe says and moves the bag elsewhere. He puts his head on your shoulder. “What are you reading now?”

It’s the same book you hadn’t finished the night that Gabriel…ahem. You shake your head slightly and refocus your attention on the story. It’s not hard, and you’re drawn back into an engrossing resolution.

Until Gabriel bites at your hip and gives it such a filthy tongue-involved kiss that you jerk and your book crashes painfully into your face. You ignore the throbbing of your nose, though, to stare at Gabriel. His smile is so delightfully wicked and you can still feel where he kissed you.

“That might have been the most underrated one yet,” he says and sits up.

You flash hot and glare at him, laying the book on your chest. “You teasing little bastard.”

You’re on your way to giving him a piece of your mind when Gabriel’s eyes darken and in a second he’s straddling your waist and moving the book over to the table. He grabs your hands with his, palm-to-palm, and laces your fingers together as he sinks his weight on top of you.

“Oh no, Honeybear.” He licks his lips. “‘Teasing’ implies no intent to follow through, and me? I’ve got plenty of that.”

You swallow hard. And smirk. “Prove it.”

   13. Thigh (and Oh My)

You’re sweating, gasping; your lips feel well-used and you’re sure you have a thousand and one hickeys all over your body. Right now Gabe is adding to the collection by kissing your thighs. Outer, on top, maddeningly not inner but you refuse to beg. So far. This might be how you die; he might kill you just by sheer want.

But oh, what a way to go.

Finally he moves inward. His kisses are small but sizzle with his magical indentations. He licks a small stripe up the skin and peppers the area with even lighter, more sensitive kisses. He repeats the motions on your other thigh, lick, kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss, and you moan at the pressure in your body building increasingly (too) fast.

“You know…my favorite type of kiss is definitely not underrated,” Gabriel chuckles from between your legs.

You find you have no problem with the addition.

 As you both lie in the afterglow –Gabriel smug and pleased, and you spent and pleased– you manage to croak, “You were right. Definitely not underrated.”

“Mm hm.” He pulls you closer into his arms. “What do you think, Muffin? Is it your favorite too?”

You think. And smile. And laugh. You roll over to lie half on his chest and meet him face to face. “One of them,” you say, considering. “But you don’t have a catalogue to compare it to like I do.” He raises an eyebrow but you stick with your idea. “I just think that little list of yours was…interesting. You might like some of them more than you think.” You know you have.

His eyes take on that mischievous shine you love so much. “Maybe I will.”

“You might have to come around more often.”

His expression softens. “I think I can do that.” He leans in to kiss your lips. You move your face at the last second and press a kiss to his forehead. You have no grace, no pagan magic, so you treat it with reverence. Like a promise.

…

“No to sound like I’m in a hurry, but I can’t wait until we get to the end of–.”

“Shut up, Gabriel.”

[carelesslytrying]

Lose You.

Pairings: dean x reader Summary: You and Dean went on a hunt that quickly went bad, resulting in you getting injured. Warnings: angst, cursing, angry!dean Words: 1,408 A/N: Hey! This is my first imagine I think I’ve ever done so please, light criticism! And, if you like my work, please message or ask me any of your suggestions! : )

You watch as Dean grips onto the steering wheel, his knuckles turning a bright white even in the dead of night. The car was completely silent, other than the sound of the Impala’s engine roaring down the backroads of Lebanon, Kansas.

Dean was mad. No, scratch that, he was pissed. 

You couldn’t really blame him either, no matter how much you wanted too. You knew it was stupid, jumping in front of the rogue hunter that held Dean at gun point. You knew you were cutting it close as you wrestled the gun out of his hands. And, you realized that you should’ve let Dean handle it as the hunter pulled the trigger, the bullet landing deep into your shoulder.

It hurt like hell, no doubt about that, but the pain was worth it in your eyes. You’ve known Dean since Bobby introduced the two of you back on a wendigo hunt ten years ago. Since then, you’ve been on the road, hopping from case to case with him and Sam. The three of you were family, and everything and anything that was thrown at you, you pushed through.

But sometimes, it got hard.

You’ve watched Sam and Dean be tortured, kicked, punched, stabbed, and shot at it, but nothing compares to watching them die. It’s happened a few times now, and each time is worst then the last.

The latest and worst one yet was Metatron killing Dean.  

You could still remember how your heart pounded against your chest as you sprinted up the steps of the abandoned warehouse, Sam in toe. How the angel blade in your hand shook from the adrenaline pumping through your veins. How relief washed over your body when you finally saw Dean, but felt the color drain from your face as you watched an angel blade plunge into his chest.

The rest of the night became a blur. And, all though you tried to block out all the painful details, they still came back to haunt you when you couldn’t sleep at night. The sound of Sam’s piercing scream, Dean’s blood staining through your shirt, your throat becoming raw from your cries.

The sound of the Impala’s engine cutting off snapped you back into reality. You turn to Dean, hoping his anger had cooled, but you were met with a slamming car door. You roll your eyes, slipping off your seatbelt and throwing open the passenger side door.

Instead of helping to bring the bags in, you made your way to the bunker door. You knew all his bottled up angry would spill over soon enough, and to be quite frank, you didn’t want to deal with that right now. You were exhausted, you were covered in mud and sweat, there was a bullet about five inches deep in your shoulder.

As you pulled open the door, you could already hear Dean’s footsteps following close behind you. You quickened your pace, practically skipping down the steps as you heard the bunker door shut. You barely made it pass the war room before you heard the duffle bags drop onto the map table and his rough, low voice grumble. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

You stop abruptly, mumbling a few curse words under your breath before turning back around.

“I’m sorry, but when did my boyfriend suddenly turn into my father?” His jaw clenched as he shrugged off his jacket, laying it down on the table.

“The day you decided to get yourself shot.” You roll your eyes, feeling your blood begin to boil.

“I mean, really Y/N, what the hell were you thinking?” He held his fists tightly, trying to conceal his anger.

“Besides the lyrics to ‘Heat of the Moment’ playing, nothing much really.” The sarcasm practically oozed out of your mouth, causing him to send you a fierce glare.

“Do you think this is funny? You could’ve gotten yourself killed!” His voice boomed throughout the bunker, sending chills down your spine, but you refused to step down. 

“Key word, ‘could’ve’. It’s only a bullet wound, I’ve been through worse.” You could feel your anger rising up in your chest, wanting more than ever to just get the stupid bullet out of your shoulder and spend the rest of your night in your room. 

“Only a bullet? Godamnit Y/N it wouldn’t be anything if you would’ve just stayed the hell out of it!” He pointed his finger accusingly out you, his green eyes filled with anger and rage.

“Are you kidding me Dean? George lost his fucking mind. The only way that gun was gonna leave his hand was by force and you know it!” 

“Yeah and look where that got you.”

You scoffed loudly before shaking your head “If you’re not gonna help me get this stupid bullet out of my fucking shoulder then consider this conversation over.” 

With that, you turned on your heal and headed towards the hall. You wanted nothing more then to just take a shower and go to bed, and if that meant stitching yourself up then so be it. You barely walked two feet until coming to a stop, Dean’s voice becoming ever so clear in your ears. 

“Well if you weren’t so stupid, you wouldn’t have a bullet in your shoulder.”

You could’ve just ignored it, could’ve just walked back to your room and called it a night. But the tone in his voice broke the dam in your chest, causing all the water to spill out. 

“You piece of shit! You don’t get to be mad!” Your sudden outburst as you turned back around to face him caught his attention. 

“Ten years! Ten fucking years I’ve been on the road with you and Sam. And if someone told me, sitting there drinking a beer with you and Bobby in his kitchen that night, how much heartbreak and torture I was gonna endure ahead of time, I would’ve walked right out!” 

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and he opened his mouth to speak but you plowed through.

“Do you know what I’ve had to go through? The pain I’ve had to experience? Not only did have to deal with the death of my family, my friends, and the poor people that get caught in the crossfire, but with several deaths of both you and Sam.”

Angry tears clouded your vision, but you wouldn’t dare let them fall. You didn’t want his sympathy, you didn’t want him to look at you as weak.

“I wake up everyday, terrified of what’s going to come out of it. Because one day, whether it be out on a hunt or because of some fucked up hunter, you’re gonna die. And some celestial being is going to make sure you stay dead.”

At this point, you could slowly feel your anger subsiding. Leaving you with the left over pain and sadness.

“And when-” you pause, choking down the sob that was built up in your throat “-when that day comes, and you and Sam are long gone, and it’s just me. It’s not gonna be another ‘Get up and get to work so you wont think about it’ type of death.” 

You looked up at him, your eyelids incapable of holding your tears back as they began to stream down your face. “Dean, I-I don’t know how I’d live.”

Dean’s eyes brimmed with tears as a silence took over the two of you. The words you’ve been tucking away finally out in the open and sinking in. After a moment, you took in a sharp breath, using your free hand to wipe away your stray tears.

“So no, you don’t get to be mad. And if I can save your ass to make up for all the times I couldn’t, then goddamnit I’m taking my chances. Because I can’t lose you, not again.”

A small tear cascaded down Dean’s face, but it was gone as soon as it was there as he picked up his hand and quickly wiped it away. He cleared his throat slightly before walking over and wrapping his arms around you, minding your shoulder.

He held you like this for a moment, placing a kiss to your temple as you rested your head on his chest. Not long after, he pulled away and placed his hand on your good shoulder, his face filled with sympathy and a hint of guilt.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s get you patched up.”

[thejokersenigma]

Joker x Reader - Strictly Business Part 4

Hi guys, sorry this part is a bit late, I’ve been struggling to concentrate, especially when it comes to editing!

I’m also back at uni now, so I’ll have a little less time to write, but I will still try to make sure I get at least one piece of writing out a week!

Hope you enjoy!

As always, I’m happy to take any requests and if you’d would like to be tagged in any of my work just let me know which ones and I’ll happily tag you!

MASTERLIST

When I woke up, the first thing I tried to do was move. Soon figuring out that I couldn’t. My legs and hands pulling against a course rope-like material to what could only be a chair beneath me.

The room around me was completely dark, no single glimmer of light could be found anywhere, not even the faint glow often produced from a window. Nothing.

The darkness was so complete it felt solid and oppressive, like it was closing in on me, forcing me into a tiny box with no air. Though I had never been one to suffer from claustrophobia, I couldn’t help the increase in heart rate and sharp breaths I took as the sensation overwhelmed my senses.

I pulled again, this time more desperately, at any part of my body that would move. My head was free, not even a gag wedged into my mouth, but this just told me that there was no point in screaming for help, as clearly this wasn’t a threat to my imprisonment. My legs, however, were bound close to my ankle so they were pressed up against what I could only assume was the leg of the chair I was sat on, and my wrists were tied together against something hard behind me in a way that meant my shoulders were pulled at an achingly uncomfortable angle.

I pulled at my bindings in any direction I could, searching and praying for some weakness or loosening that I could take advantage of. Suddenly my ears pricked up and I froze. For a moment, I thought I had imagined it, but then the room filled with a harsh, bright artificial light that scorched my eyes and forced me to squint in pain.

“Ah, good, the beauty awakes.” Came a smooth, almost sinister voice from behind me, all too familiar and I could suddenly feel my heart, strong and heavy in my chest. I wanted to crane my neck around to look at him, but I resisted, trying to maintain my composure and acting like being tied to a chair - in what I now could see was a solid concrete room – was only a minor setback in my life.

I heard the heels of his shoes tap lightly on the bare floor as he moved up behind me and I felt, rather than saw, him circle around me, my eyes still adjusting to the light.

“I like you, doll.” He purred at me, and I felt like I could feel the sound vibrating through my bones. “You’re not stupid like most…” He drawled, stepping further around till he was stood directly in front of me, leaning down so his face was level with mine. He studied my face as though he was looking for something in my eyes and I found it hard to keep his gaze, wishing my legs were free so I could jerk a knee right up to the unprotected area between his legs and show him just how much I appreciated this situation.

He seemed read what I wanted to do in my face, because he chuckled at me. “You see, doll, you’ve got brains,” He reached out and took my face in his hand forcefully, his fingers digging into my chin as I tried to pull away. “You know when to fight -” He purred, uncaring towards my struggles and his heavy breathing pushed against my lips, the scent of whiskey and smoke curling under my nose. I was now all too familiar with the feeling worming its way in my lower abdomen and I twisted my head away as strongly as I could, finally slipping free of his grip, “- and when to concede.” He growled through gritted teeth, and a cold, sharp object under my chin made me realize my freedom was short lived.

I met his gaze once more, staring determinedly back at his stony eyes, refusing to show fear at my vulnerable position. We stayed in that position for a few beats, neither of us bulking under each other’s gaze, until the Joker’s face erupted into a grin and he removed the pressure on my skin and holding the blade aloft between our faces before he then wrenched himself backward till he towered above me once more

I scowled up at his little game, but he ignored me, turning his back and wandering to the wooden desk that I now noticed sat directly in front of me. He didn’t take the seat behind the desk, instead propping himself on the edge of it, fiddling with the purple handled blade that had, a moment ago, been at my throat.

He was clearly waiting for me to say something, and though I didn’t want to satisfy him, the silly game was getting to me, and my head was still heavy and clouded from the drugged rag. I sighed to myself, rolling my eyes at his ridiculous behavior.

“So, tell me.” I said, trying to keep my composure calm and uncaring about the fact my arm felt like it was going to fall off and my feet were becoming numb. “How long am I supposed to be your prisoner?” I asked politely, maintaining my eye contact with him. “Just till you get bored? Or till you decide to kill me?”

He stopped twirling his knife for a moment, leaning back slightly in theatrical shock, “Aww, doll! You’re not a prisoner!” He exclaimed. “You’re a… Guest!” He said, twirling his wrist and flicking the blade around without a care, as he sought the word from his messed-up mind, “A colleague!” He amended.

I couldn’t help noticing that he had ignored my question, but I let it past. “Funny.” I muttered, watching the knife spin in his hand with a bored expression on my face. “Do you tie all your colleagues up like this?” I asked with a raised brow and slight smirk.

The Joker considered this with exaggerated concern for a moment. Almost instantly, like a swtich had been flicked, his face was wiped clean, his features now deadly serious. He leapt off the desk dramatically, landing cleanly on his feet and turning back to me. I watched him carefully as he strolled back toward me, swinging his arms carelessly, the knife still in his hand.

He paused in front of me again, leaning down once more to my level and pointing the knife at my chest, though it didn’t touch me. I dragged my gaze from the weapon to his face and was almost flinched at the look in his eyes, the odd fire bringing back the sharp memory of last night’s kiss and causing my skin to burn. “Only if they beg for it, doll.” He purred seductively. I couldn’t find I clever come back to this, suddenly becoming mute.

“As much as I’d love to stay and chat, doll,” Joker proclaimed, straightening back up right and slipping the blade back into his pocket, “I have a few more things to take of.” He said cheerfully, already moving past me and disappearing out of my peripheral vision. The minute he had stood back I felt myself able to breathe again and I allowed my eyes to follow him, craning my neck as I tracked his movement to the solid door directly behind me which was flanked by two large, burly men.

Joker glanced back at me in the doorway, a grin on his face once more, “I’ll leave the light on for ya, doll.” He teased, “You’re beginning to look as pale as me!” He gave a sharp bark of laughter before disappearing through around the corner, the heavy door closing behind him with a firm thud.

I could feel the eyes of the men on my back and I waited a few beats before I even dared to move. I looked down at my chair – it was old, spindly and wooden – and I began to try to shift and twist where I could in an attempt to identify any weak spots or loose bindings that I could use to my advantage. I sensed no movement behind me from the men, and a quick glance showed only impenetrable masks of indifference on their faces.

I stopped my squirming for a moment. “So, are you guys allowed to chat or…?” I asked, not bothering to turn around and addressing the desk instead.

Nothing.

“Aww, come on….” I whined, practically mimicking the Joker, “I’m bored!” Still nothing. As I had expected. They were my silent guardians, no chatting, no chance of convincing them to release me or getting them close enough to pull anything. Great.

One thing left then. I needed to get myself free and somehow take down the two men that were going to try to stop me. I couldn’t hesitate. I was going to have to do this and get it right the first time – if I messed it up, the movement alone would trigger a response in the men. Surprise would be my only weapon here.

I leant backwards, tipping my chair onto the back legs and steadying myself with the tips of my toes. I then, quickly, used all my strength to jump the chair as high as I could before I came crashing back down on the back legs of the chair, bracing myself as the wood splintered around me and I smacked into the concrete floor.

I didn’t have time to worry about any injuries, immediately pushing myself up into a crouch as the men came running at me from across the room. I snatched up one of the broken chair legs that lay dislodged on the floor and scrambled to my feet, spinning and using my momentum to crash my makeshift weapon into the nearest man, knocking him squarely on the head and toppling him to the floor.

The other man didn’t hesitate from his buddy’s take down, continuing to run straight at me and knocking us both to the ground. He would easily have pinned me with his weight but I threw my arms up so my hands landed on his solid chest, then I locked my elbows so that I caught him, though my arms were jolted under his weight and I grimaced in pain.

The guy seemed surprised at my reflexes and I made the most of this, instantly moving my arms to grab his upper arms and managing to curl my legs up from under the guy so they were folded onto my chest. I then kicked out violently at any body part I could reach, managing several hits to the chest, stomach and crotch sending him wheeling backwards. I rolled out from under him in the few seconds I had, reaching for another piece of broken chair and swinging round with all my weight to crash it into the guy’s head.

The minute it was done I snapped back to myself, acutely aware I had just done rather serious damage to two of the Joker’s huge henchmen. I instinctively crawled backwards away from the unconscious bodies, my heart pounding and my breath coming in short pants. I half expected the noise I’d created to have drawn reinforcements and I watched the door warily, waiting for it to slam open and for me to be surrounded by even more goons and a raging criminal clown.

But nothing happened. I waited a few more minutes, too stunned and out of breath to move, but no sound came from the other side of the door and I calmed slightly, taking in the scene around me. I pushed myself to my feet, rubbing at the bruises formed from the multiple collisions with the solid floor. I grabbed the pieces of rope from the wreckage of the chair and, after pushing and pulling the two large men so they were leant up against each other, I bound them up – feel no remorse for how tight I wound the rope.

I stepped back from the men, admiring my handiwork - I didn’t want them waking up whilst I was still here. I returned my attention to the rest of the room, drinking in any possible escape routes. There were no windows in the room, just 4 solid concrete walls lined with a few pieces of furniture such as filing cabinets and locked cupboards. I glanced up, taking note of the vents in the ceiling, but soon realizing they were too high even if I could manage to drag the desk directly below them to use as step up. I might have been able to reach, had I placed the chair on top of the desk, but now that plan lay in pieces at my feet - so that was no longer an option.

My only choice left was the door. I tried it, despite my doubts - hoping that the Joker might have been naïve enough to think that me being tied to the chair would have been enough security - but a quick twist of the handle – or lack thereof – proved that theory wrong. I turned back to the still-unconscious men tied together and rummaged through their pockets on the off chance they had a key, but my search came up empty.

I stepped back upright again, sighing heavily in defeat. So much for taking out the guards, there was still no way out of the room. My plan wasn’t looking so clever anymore. All I could do now was wait until someone came back and found me waiting for them. Maybe I could sneak up behind them and knock them out like I had the other men, then make my escape out of the door. Though, that plan would only work if it was only one person at the door, and so far, J had always come with at least two other men in tow.

Frowning to myself in thought, I impatiently paced the small room, scuffing my feet on the floor in agitation. My eyes were drawn to the desk and I moved over to it, examining it. It wasn’t the most expensive and newest desk, but it wasn’t exactly a school teacher’s throwaway either, and in its day, it had probably been very handsome, but now the leather features were worn and the surface scratched and abused.

I trailed my hand over the marks on the wood, wondering what had made them, before I worked around my way around to the other side of the desk and threw myself down into the leather office chair, not before noticing many large gashes in the upholstery that reminded me of the marks from a knife. I surveyed the desk from my seated position now, my eyes immediately flying to the drawers on either side of - one on the right, 2 on the left. I tried to pull at the one on the right, but I soon found it was locked tight. I frowned in annoyance, but turned my attention now to the left ones instead. The top drawer was full of general stationary and a few odd scraps of paper with scribbles on them. I pulled open the one beneath to find a drawer of files like that in a filing cabinet. Each file was numbered and I pulled at one of them randomly – #967 – and flipped open the file, exposing documents and blueprints for a heist and ransom on a gala, not unlike the one from last night. I put the file back, plucking out another one –  974. This one showed the details for a bank robbery that, according to the date, took place 2 weeks ago.

I returned the files. All the ones I had chosen were for past crimes. I worked my way further forward in the filing system, choosing the one right at the front. I pulled it out, opening it up. #981. This one was due to take place tomorrow night.

My curiosity got the better of me and I leafed through it. This job seemed to be a hit on the Gotham museum thanks to a precious artefact display having recently been advertised – I remember seeing the bill boards for it on my journey to work over the last few weeks. I perused the plans and couldn’t help but, based on my knowledge of the museum, criticize some of the choices that had been made. I bit down the urge to correct the mistakes, but the flaws stood out like sore thumbs and the alterations were just too simple to resist. Hell, it wasn’t like I had anything else to do and besides, I couldn’t stop them from doing the job – not whilst I was stuck in here. I dug around in the top left drawer and extracted a pencil, circling and scribbling notes on the papers.

Plus, I continued to argue with myself, still trying to console my guilty conscience, if the Joker and his men went in with this plan with all these errors, they would surely run into the police, then there would bound to be a shootout at the very least and casualties would occur on both sides. At least this way – with my edits - they would get in and out with few injuries to either side.

Of course, it was the side of the police that I cared about.  

I added arrows pointing directions, wrote in notes about cameras I knew existed, but which didn’t seem to be on the map yet. I sat back after what felt like at least 30 minutes of pouring over the work and smiled, content at my additions, and I slid it back into the drawer, ready for the day it would be needed.

As I waited, common sense warned me to get out of the chair, but a stronger voice piped up, urging me with a new-found confidence and cheek that told me to stay at the desk and wait for the look on the Joker’s face when he found me lounging in his chair with the bodies of his two henchmen knocked out at my feet.

Let him make what he wanted of that.

With that thought I put my feet up on the desk in front of me and leant back, relaxed and waiting for the door to open.

I didn’t have much concept of time as I waited in my square, windowless room, but eventually I heard the scratching of the key in the lock, and the door swung open to reveal the famous criminal framed in the doorway.

Any surprise he got from the scene laid out before him must have been quickly hidden because I saw no hesitation in his steps, his eyes briefly surveying the bodies still unconscious and tied together, before they moved to me still propped up in his desk chair.

“Doll.” He greeted, eyeing me up. His lack of care was unsettling, I had been so confident whilst I had waited for him to return, but now he was here, his whole attention focused on me, I was quickly sobering up and I could myself dwindling under his glare.

I sat up a bit straighter, taking my feet off the desk, but refusing to leave the chair as he stepped into the room, two new, conscious, men behind him, though they remained at the door as he wandered closer.

“I see you’ve entertained yourself.” He pointed out, his eyes not leaving mine, though I knew he referred to the men.

I didn’t say anything, refusing to break his unyielding gaze and returning my own cold glare, attempting to be undeterred by his lack of response. His eyes turned back to his two men bound together by the rope that had previously held me.

“I must admit, doll, I’m impressed.” He admitted, his eyes still on the men, surveying my methods.

“Thank you.” I said defiantly and his eyes flashed to mine, a look of warning at my cheek automatically flaring in his eyes before it was replaced with a mad gleam and a grin spread across his face.

“Come on, doll. Let’s find you a new room with a bit more light.” He beamed, signaling for me to follow him. I hesitated only briefly before I slipped out of the chair and followed after him.

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