#blindness implication cw

[bitterrfruit]

kerosene

ghost x f!reader. 17k words. cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him. or [read on ao3]

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say. 

The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left. 

You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull. 

They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer. 

You had been offered the morning shift when you first started. 

The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer. 

You refused, in the end. 

Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you. 

There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying. 

The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company. 

It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use. 

But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always. 

Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left. 

Today was no different. 

You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh. 

It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls, a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left. 

Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand. 

You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer. 

Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there. 

You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic. 

Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves. 

Black hood pulled up. Could only see the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky. Padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.

Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue. 

There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe. 

Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing. 

Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till. 

He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans. 

That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out. 

Instead, it was you. 

Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry. 

Unluckily for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money. 

Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too. 

He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack. 

Pretty wee thing. 

He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead. 

None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions. 

You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty. 

“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious. 

Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brow as you all but tilted your head in nervous confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to. 

His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet. 

Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it. 

“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to well. “Oh my god — y-you—”

It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your rheumy eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call. 

“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”

“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”

You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor. 

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”

He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter. Your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid. 

A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way. 

You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm. 

The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding. 

Pretty much empty. 

“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!” 

Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet. 

“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!” 

“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip. 

He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds. 

Fucking joke. 

He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change. 

“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.” 

You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him. 

Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him. 

He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing. 

He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it. 

Little red wallet. 

He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera. 

“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall. 

He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in. 

He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the ring that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag. 

As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—

His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag. 

You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees. 

A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?” 

“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss. 

“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least. 

“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.” 

“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?” 

“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor. 

He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now. 

As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—

A fucking panic button. 

His rage burst like a purulent blister — apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you. 

“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground. 

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek. 

“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that. 

“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”

He huffed, jaw rigid. 

He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin. 

It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill. 

“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw. 

Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.

“What are you—”

“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor. 

You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?” 

“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?” 

Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”

“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.

The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there. 

He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour. 

He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north. 

You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”

He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door. 

He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.

“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech. 

He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet. 

You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself. 

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right. 

Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle? 

Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next. 

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet. 

His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable. 

You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty. 

Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over. 

All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid. 

He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life. 

Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself. 

There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones. 

You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door. 

“Eh?” He huffed dryly. 

Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?” 

“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration. 

“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated. 

He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.” 

You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?” 

“S’what I said.” 

“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”

You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night. 

He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct. 

“Dunno yet,” he said. 

You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before. 

“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?” 

He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.” 

A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet. 

“Hopefully not.” 

“Then — then why did you take me?”

His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?” 

“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.” 

He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.” 

“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring. 

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied. 

“Why not?” 

He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it. 

“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight. 

You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological. 

“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue. 

“Goin’ to what.” 

A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.” 

He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips. 

“Thought about it,” he said. 

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs. 

Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy. 

“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea. 

“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.” 

A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot. 

“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously. 

“To fuck?”

You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response. 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl. 

Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no? 

You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you. 

It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt. 

He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them. 

Perhaps you’d be a hisser. 

He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers. 

There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see. 

You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you. 

Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent. 

He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination. 

Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money. 

“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice. 

Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up. 

“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.” 

He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort. 

“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word. 

“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”

“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.” 

He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?” 

“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.” 

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.” 

“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.” 

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?” 

“Why do you care.” 

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him. 

“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.” 

A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that. 

Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while. 

Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for. 

Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.  

“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.” 

He glanced at you, you picked at your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel. 

“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat. 

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.” 

“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle. 

You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet. 

“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?” 

“Worse than that,” he said frankly. 

Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?” 

“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed. 

“Then what?” 

“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness. 

“A gang?” 

“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.” 

Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself. 

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?” 

“Not anymore,” he said. 

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?” 

“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat. 

Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. He had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.

He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them. 

The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham. 

Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road. 

“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly. 

He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought. 

“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered. 

“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit. 

Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh. 

“You’ll be fine,” he said. 

He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5. 

He got cocky, he supposed. 

Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen. 

“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him. 

He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention. 

He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.” 

And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance. 

He hoped you weren’t that stupid. 

“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly. 

“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat. 

“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”

You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies. 

“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin. 

Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book. 

Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself. 

He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please. 

The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line. 

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply. 

“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary. 

Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely aware, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less. 

“You bet,” was all he said. 

“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?” 

Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel. 

“We are in a bit of a hurry.” 

“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?” 

“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.” 

The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. 

“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.” 

To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that. 

“Need to rein your fella in, love.” 

“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”

Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous wife itching to castigate her reckless husband for getting in trouble. 

Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?” 

Simon snorted, electing to play along. “That she is.” 

“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.

Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”  

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.” 

“Understood.” 

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?” 

Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar. 

He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard. 

“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.” 

The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word. 

Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead. 

You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight. 

“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.  

“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked. 

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?” 

Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought. 

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled. 

“Should I?” 

“You didn’t get arrested because of me.” 

He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him. 

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp. 

“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff. 

He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat. 

“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?” 

Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on. 

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.

“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?” 

“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window. 

He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not. 

“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?” 

“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin. 

He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Uh-huh,” he laughed. 

You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.” 

He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed. 

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.  

“So?” 

“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it. 

Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north. 

It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway. 

You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.

“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so. 

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?” 

“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing. 

“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.

“I can’t,” you grouched. 

“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.” 

Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.” 

He smiled. Something cute about you. 

“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?” 

“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.  

“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.” 

“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?” 

He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while. 

“Taking the long way,” he answered. 

“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry. 

He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.” 

You didn’t need to pee at all. 

In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight. 

You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him. 

The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement. 

There was shame brewing within you, now. 

Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen. 

You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable. 

Reality stung. 

You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing. 

Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss. 

Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be. 

It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face. 

You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you. 

His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed. 

The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring. 

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking. 

That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye. 

So you didn’t. 

You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you. 

It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.

“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door. 

He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to sleep in the car?” 

He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.” 

Us. You shivered when he said it. 

A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy. 

What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it. 

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

You refused to turn and look at him. “What.” 

“Grab me a fag, will ya?” 

Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?” 

“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.” 

“Fine.” 

You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.

You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons. 

“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.

He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?” 

“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”

“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted. 

You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless. 

Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll. 

He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter. 

“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window. 

Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough. 

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently. 

“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted. 

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?” 

“No,” you said curtly. 

“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.” 

There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow. 

A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance. 

You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head. 

Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash. 

“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.” 

You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real. 

You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm. 

“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth. 

You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip. 

“What d’you think will happen if you do.” 

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.” 

He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.” 

A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?” 

He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter. 

You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink. 

The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place. 

“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long. 

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?” 

“No,” you chirped. 

He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?” 

You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek. 

With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him. 

Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away. 

He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up. 

“Get out,” he said.  

You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete. 

“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam. 

You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. 

“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.” 

“No?” He snorted. 

“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself. 

“Obviously.”

The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner. 

Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow. 

“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously. 

“Standard double.”

The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth. “How many nights.” 

“Just the one.” 

Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.” 

“Y’take cash?” 

The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.” 

“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes. 

Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agape as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen. 

The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you. 

He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said. 

“Cheers.” 

Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours. 

You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation. 

“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe. 

“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed. 

In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you. 

A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you. 

“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open. 

The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather. 

Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —

Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall. 

Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs. 

He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him. 

He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him. 

In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told. 

He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor. 

Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin. 

He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.

You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front. 

“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted. 

“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door. 

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.” 

“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.” 

Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water. 

You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap. 

He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him. 

This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your hind foot. 

“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly. 

“What?” 

In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.” 

You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.” 

He snorted. “Why would I do that?” 

The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you. 

“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?” 

“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word. 

“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.” 

You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”

He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.” 

He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension. 

“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand. 

You went cold. “Why?” 

“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry. 

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked. 

He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.” 

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.” 

There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.  

“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.

He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet. 

“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it. 

“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused. 

“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears. 

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side. 

He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch. 

The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head. 

He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious. 

With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded. 

Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang. 

You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept. 

Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided. 

You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom. 

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway. 

Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go. 

Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either. 

It was as if you didn’t want to go back. 

The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future. 

It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all. 

Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it. 

It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension. 

You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side. 

You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself. 

You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that. 

Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—

You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep. 

A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours. 

“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you. 

“Too hot, eh?” 

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” 

“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.  

“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth. 

“Bit restless, are ya?” 

You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch. 

“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch. 

“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath. 

He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear. 

You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin. 

“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear. 

His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”

“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue. 

His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans. 

He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?” 

You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine. 

“N-no, I—”

Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice. 

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.” 

“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest. 

He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air. 

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered. 

You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable. 

Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—

“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans. 

Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered. 

“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.

He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat. 

The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up. 

You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore. 

You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet. 

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.” 

Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.” 

“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath. 

“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.

You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable. 

The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.

“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.” 

You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke. 

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep. 

Morning came with rain. 

The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside. 

Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance. 

The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours. 

You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you. 

The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.  

You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came. 

Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another. 

He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him. 

Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet. 

The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.  

You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail. 

You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid. 

The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin. 

You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.

“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib. 

He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout. 

He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step. 

You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed. 

“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him. 

You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers. 

“You can’t—”

“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.

“Get off—”

You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance. 

It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you. 

“Lovely little cunt.” 

And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry. 

“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out. 

He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.

You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair. 

“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck. 

He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall. 

You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter. 

His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over. 

The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening. 

“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.” 

It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were. 

“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”

You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?” 

He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention. 

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” 

He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life. 

“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust, 

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.” 

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?” 

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?” 

“Might just keep you forever.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?” 

Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.” 

His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you. 

“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?” 

You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you. 

“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.” 

You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it. 

“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”

He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to. 

His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently. 

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower. 

He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp. 

He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat. 

There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised. 

You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it. 

“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.” 

You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs. 

Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take. 

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips; 

“Can we get breakfast first?” 

i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while

[lvlybin]

harddom! bin fucking yn into overstim and subspace + aftercare 😗☝🏻

cw unprotected p in v sex, creampies, overstimulation, mentions of passing out, oral (f!receiving), mentions of spanking, praise, a little bit of self-doubt, implications of a dom/sub lifestyle, little bit of edging, aftercare! 18+ MDNI

✉️ YES YES YES! I think hanbin is such a soft dom, but I think that when he gets angry, he definitely has the potential to be a harddom :P

“Nuh uh. You’re not tapping out yet,” Hanbin gets out between his teeth, and you feel his fingers tangle in your hair close to your scalp to tug your head back. The sharp sting that’s not painful enough to actually hurt, making you yelp. Hanbin didn’t have many rules for you to follow when it came to your sex life, but there was one he never budged on: no making nasty comments about yourself.

You were supposed to be out on a date with him right now. At a nice restaurant or something (you couldn’t even remember, that’s how far gone you were), but here you were–three orgasms in with a sore ass as you watch yourself get fucked in the full length mirror in your bedroom. All because of one little comment about how you didn’t like how your body looked in the dress you were going to wear. Hanbin didn’t let that slide.

He had stalked over to where you were sat at your vanity slowly, and you had practically seen how the self-deprecating words had made him angry. Not for his sake, but for yours. Because you were perfect in his eyes, and you were perfect in that dress. He had made you repeat those words as he ate you out from behind. “My body is beautiful”, “I’m perfect the way I am”, “I’m loved”–mantras Hanbin had drilled into your head. And he’d made you say them over and over again until he was convinced that you believed them. Only then did he let you come. 

But with the reassurance out of the way, then came the punishment. As if the edging wasn’t enough, he’d spanked your ass raw–a reminder of one of the few rules he had set for you. And he didn’t even let up when you started crying. Not until you were truly sorry for speaking poorly about yourself.

“We wasted a reservation because of this… All because you decide to act like you’re fucking blind,” Hanbin mutters, his dick slamming into you after each word. You’re sure he can feel the way your swollen walls throb around the thick length of his cock. Just like how you feel every drag of his veins and each little gush of pre-cum from his tip as he fucks into your oversensitive cunt. It feels like the fluid is sticking to your cervix; that’s how deep he is.

Hanbin huffs, releasing your head to wrap that arm around your body, fingers finding your pulsing clit. The harsh movements against the bundle of nerves has you jerking wildly in his hold, desperate to try and get away. He holds you firm. “Your body is beautiful. You are perfect, and this cunt–” 

You yelp as the pads of his fingers spank your clit softly.

“This cunt is perfect for my long cock.” And with that, you’re cumming for the fourth time that evening. And then he fucks you through another. And another. Another. Another. Until you’re on the verge of passing out from the pleasure. Only when you’re a sobbing, trembling mess beneath him–unable to form a single thought, does Hanbin finally let himself go. 

It had been torture for him to hold back his own orgasm as he practically split you in two, your gummy walls sucking him in so deliciously. But now, his job is done. Well, almost. With your pussy pumped full of his cum and your brain filled with his praise, he had to bring you back to earth. So reluctantly, Hanbin removes himself from you. You whimper as you feel him leave.

“M’coming right back, baby, I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers reassuringly as he rushes off to your bathroom to get a washcloth. If he had things his way, he’d give you a bath with the lavender bubble bath he’d just bought for you, but Hanbin knew that you were too sensitive to move at this moment. So cleaning you up with a warm washcloth would have to do.

He returns to the bedroom, handling your body carefully as he spreads your legs again. “You did so well, my love… My beautiful girl.” He can’t stop himself as he gently parts your folds with his fingers, admiring the sight of his thick, pearly cum oozing out of your hole. “So good…” 

Hanbin cleans you up and gets you water, slowly massaging lotion into the sore skin of your ass after he helps you drink. Throughout the whole process, he’s whispering even more praises to you. Even though you’re already half-asleep, you’ve never felt more loved. Especially as he pulls you close to his chest to sleep, telling you how much he loves you <3

[thescarletwitchsapprentice]

My Princess (Yandere!Rio Vidal x female!autistic!ADHD!glasses-wearing!reader)

(CW: Break-in, murder implication, thievery, kidnapping, internalized ableism

Summary: After you're stood up by your third blind date and come home feeling nearly sick, there's someone waiting to make you feel like the most important person, but at what cost?

Author's Note: Of course I'm gonna make auDHD reader stories with Yandere Rio. What do you think I am? Mentally and emotionally stable?

Two hours.

That's how long you've been waiting at the restaurant for a blind date you're supposed to be on and they haven't shown up. And your autism is backfiring on you because this is a major change. It was already nerve-wracking getting the courage to go on a blind date, but for them to not even show up? That's just asking for anxiety.

You haven't even ordered anything yet; it'd be impolite to order before they got there, but you can feel your stomach begging for food.

All this six months after your break-up with your ex-girlfriend, when you finally managed to get the courage to get back out into the dating scene. But third time's the charm post-breakup, right?

"Just another half an hour," you think, glancing around the restaurant. "They're just running very late, right?"

You've been telling yourself that for the past two hours. Maybe they just need reminding?

You check the DMs you sent; no response. The last message you sent was an hour ago and the last message they sent was two hours ago; they said they'd be there later. You decide to type one in to send.

"Hey, where are you? It's getting really late."

You click send.

Wait, what?

MESSAGE COULD NOT BE DELIVERED.

You decide to check the website to see what that means. Anxiety is pinballing around your stomach until you find it; it means the account was banned or they blocked you. You click on their profile; the account is still there.

It's official; you've been blocked.

At that moment, you feel the crack form in your heart and the tears forming in your eyes. You pushed through discomfort to pluck your eyebrows, wear contacts, get your nails done, do your hair up nicely, wear a form-fitting dress, AND put on makeup; all for you to get stood up...

It's the third time in a row too. Your heart sinks.

"What am I doing wrong?" you think, trying to hold back your tears. "Am I not pretty enough? Am I too weird? What's the problem?"

"Miss, are you going to order anything?"

You tense up as you hear the waiter ask you again for the seventh time tonight. You sigh.

"I....I don't think I'm gonna. I'm sorry for wasting your time. I think I'll just go."

You decide to leave a tip--$20 sounds about right--and head out of the restaurant. You hear the sky rumble and droplets on your head. Great. A thunderstorm. At least the walk to the parking lot isn't too lo--

Wait, where the hell is your car?!

You could've sworn that you parked it here. Where did it go? Did it get stolen?

The sky rumbles again.

It doesn't matter. You need to get home, so you try to flag down a taxi, but no dice. And now it's practically pouring and none of your friends are picking up to take you home. And why do you still have your ex's number?

"I can't believe I forgot to block her," you sigh.

You decide to take care of that when you get home, which is a thirty minute drive....and a sixty minute walk.

Great.

Just great.

By the time you get home, your legs are blaring with pain and you feel like you're going to freeze from the cold rain gushing down on you. You can barely make it up the steps to your top floor apartment. Almost immediately, you head to your bathroom and swipe up the makeup wipes, still trying not to cry even as you wipe it all off get the contact lenses out. The glasses are much more comfortable, but they don't alleviate your broken heart. Even a warm shower doesn't help.

As soon as you're finished, you're wrought with exhaustion; all you want is to go to sleep. But as you pass through your living room, you get a strange feeling, one that's telling you that you're not alone.

But that makes no sense. You live alone, so who coul--?

"Surprise, m'lady."

The voice is low and soft, and familiar. Whirling around you find one of the last people you expected to see; your ex-girlfriend, Rio Vidal.

"H-how did you--?!" you stammer.

"Door was unlocked," she shrugs. "But that's not the issue; you look like you've been through the wringer, sweetheart. Let me take care of you."

"I don't nee--"

"Yes, you do," Rio insists. "I know how you are when it comes to self-care and it's abysmal, so I'm going to be taking care of you, whether you like it or not."

In one swift motion, Rio sweeps you up into a bridal carry and takes you to your bedroom.

"This is it?" she asks. "What do they think you are? A peasant?"

She sets you down on the bed and uses her magic, transforming your bedroom into something more akin to a princess' bedroom and then your PJs into something more akin to a princess' nightgown, soft and white, draping down to just above your ankles.

"Rio--" you begin as she shuts the door.

"Shhh," she shushes gently. "Don't you worry; I'll take care of everything. You just stay there and look pretty."

Rio pulls the blankets up to your chest before using her magic to conjure up a feast of your favorites. The smell wafts to your nose, and you're caught in its enchantment. Of course your stomach definitely doesn't object and you go to grab a fork.

"Ah-ah-ah," Rio scolds with a playful smirk. "Princesses shouldn't have to do the work meant for servants."

She sits down on the bed next to you and snatches up the silverware before digging into one of the dishes and feeding you.

"You're so beautiful, like the cosmos full of shimmering stars," she sighs with a tone that's a mixture of affection and obsession. "Anyone with common sense would be euphoric if they got to date you."

You try to hold back a wince as you remember why you returned to your apartment looking like shit to begin with.

"You are an angel, so full of sweetness and light," she continues, her tone becoming gentle and soothing. "You deserve to be with someone who appreciates how unique you are, who sees you as one-of-a-kind, who treats you like a princess, their princess."

She leans in and whispers.

"My princess."

Hearing this, the hair on the back of your neck stands on edge. You try to escape, but why isn't Rio trying to go after you? You go to the door and open it, your stomach flipping at what you see.

You're not in your apartment anymore; no, instead you see a long, elegant hallway, the walls a regal dark blue, like something from a castle....Rio's castle.

"You like it?"

You jump upon hearing Rio's voice purr in your ear. She uses your shock as an opportunity to lead you back to the bed, clearing off the food with her magic.

"Why are you so stunned?" she chuckles. "I should think seeing how luxurious your new home is would help you forget about the car and the date. Both are....rather out of commission anyhow."

You freeze upon hearing this; no, surely Rio wouldn't go THAT far?

"You're why I've been gettin--?!"

"Those mortals would never treat you like the princess you are. I did you a favor."

In an instant, Rio pins you to the bed. As you look up at her, you see that all-too-familiar look in her eyes; obsessive affection.

"You really didn't think you'd escape me that easily, did you?" she chuckles. "Every mortal has to face Death eventually, after all."

Rio moves off of you and onto the bed. She pulls you to her, your back against her chest and her arms around you tightly before conjuring up a blanket around the two of you.

"Except, for you, it won't be for being guided to the afterlife."

She moves close to your ear, her breath hot and smelling of peppermint as she whispers, causing shivers to run through you....

"It will be right back to me...."

[hrtwve]

dissociate ౨ৎ

౨ৎ about ─── you died moons ago. now, you sit, running your hands through viktor's hair as stars pass around you.

or: viktor shares bad news. (viktor x gn! reader)

౨ৎ cw ─── angst heavy, mentions of death, physical intimacy (mwah), sexual implications if you squint.

author notes can be found at the end of each fanfiction ⟡ ⋆˚

(total w.c 1.2k)

₊˚⊹ ───

Light fragments fall from elsewhere, drawing bodies closer to the centre of existence; crystals, broken, dance. There is blinding, piercing, light balanced by dark which exudes everywhere. Memories faded from view, burning through the mind in a supernova crashing across space; memories of life now gone. The echoes of past drift through this place, cascading down in waterfalls of rainbow and pooling through the air. The ground is hollow, the sky pure. Stars glitter the lining of the horizon and burn through forms, hands and heads barely visible in the glow. Glorious technicolour spins, raining o'er static objects.

Your fingers run their steady hand through his soft hair, the sensation quite real, nerve impulses binding to the shape of a caress to maintain response. Yet your nerves were no more, shattered by the mere mention of nightmare, the very core that pulled you, strangled you, straight through its heart. Your nails find his scalp, tickling his head before returning to the soft mass of glittering fibre. A low hum sounds from his parted lips, head lolled onto its side, comfortably situated in your lap. His weight is light, his cheek locking into your leg like a lost piece of a forgotten puzzle. His shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh, a break in his thoughts, a signal. Your hand continues its journey.

"I do not wish to alarm you." His voice barely below a whisper, accent dripping from his tongue, bleeds into the air. His hands are lulled, placed adjacent to his face, hair is messy against your form as it flows beautifully, rivers of white drooping along high cheekbones. He sighs yet again, the pause in his continuation a clear sign of heavy heart. You almost wonder if he will complete the statement, stomach-turning in noughts from your quick worry, although your hands still find themselves absentmindedly stroking curls. "But," Another beat. "I feel I am slowly... decaying."

You half expect him to turn, to face your wide eyes as tears threaten to fall. Yet he reclines, stagnant, like a memory frozen in time. Body glittering with the strength of a thousand suns, he lays, surrounded by the blanketed mist of beams. The light, a sacred entity to this space, without it ─ oblivion. A single droplet topples down your cheek, rushing a translucent tear behind. Salted water splashing against the high bones in his face, dissipating into nothing when it lands. He stirs, your hand moving to accommodate the new position of his head, brushing soothing patterns into his hairline. Glittering gold eyes meet wandering stare, weeping, tearful, and a furrow appears in between the folds of his brow.

"Don't shed tears for a man predestined for a premature death." He mutters, taking one of his striking hands, colours drifting through the transparent skin, and placing his fingertips against your jaw. The friction barely scratches the surface, nails briefly leaving their mark on your star-clustered skin. Soft, gentle, his features dance across his face in haze covered glow, affection dripping from the droop of his eye, the parting of his lip.

Nature strikes another good soul from its pedestal, although he was always given fewer opportunities than the others. From childhood, born different, odd. Youth prejudice is born as maturity arrives, resulting in isolation from those he loved most. Outcast, he found solace in intimacy within his own soul, introverted, shy; but not helpless. Until compassion forgave his innocent mind, blessing him an angel. Childhood love blooms into bouquet in adulthood; intimacy beckoning from a hollow wound of loneliness. Your fingers tangling in accidental hallway bumps, resulting in longing glances; picturing the coming hours when dusk had finally settled. Souls intertwined, abandonment could not be pondered. Galaxies withheld your love, your passion, you would dissipate as he did.

"I feel I must." You breathe, highlights dancing through your dreams, floating on a cloud of affection. Reaching higher, his calloused fingers cup your cheek, rubbing slow circles into your skin. Time ticks on like a slow heartbeat, the wave of love bleeding through the atmosphere in tidal fashion. "I care for you so, Viktor."

The comment alerts him, frightens him, from his familiar position. He changes his nature as he rises, straightening himself away from your grasp. You twist, finding solace in his gaze, a soft expression momentarily dances before a serious brow plays upon his features. Shards of stardust play against his cheek, colours dancing through his locks, brushing down the sides of his face. Respect twangs upon your heart strings, like a bard on a lyre — he looks, feels, dream-like. The sensation of fingertips caresses your skin like nothing before, warming your soul in the colours of amber. In his movements, he brings your faces together, kissing your foreheads, embracing minds into one.

"Do not fret." The words pour like honey, yet they still lay heavy on your already breaking heart. You find your hands climbing, losing themselves in his already messy hair. Your breaths mingle, if it were temperate you would feel the air leave and form clouds between your bodies. "This was always meant to be," He pauses, pulling his head back to stare into your eyes, yet never removing his hands from their position. "Surely you were aware?"

A recollection of suffering plaques your downtrodden mind, swimming through pools of sorrow and lapping in an ocean of despair. Your attempt to strangle the siren's call ultimately resulted in failure, the depressing truth now set out before you; anticipation returning as dred. You envisioned his passing, decaying from the mortal domain, returning to the cosmos of wence he came; materialised in the stars above. Yet this place was neither Heaven or Hell, and both parties would be banished in future; you weren't aware of how soon this future would be.

"I was." You breathe, tickling your fingers up his sideburn and into his platinum hair, tugging in a quick sign of affection. Catching a strand in between your digits, you twirl the curl through and allow it to spring back, meeting its maker. Although your tears have left their parting gift, your chest tightens with sorrow, becoming increasingly agonising and bubbling deep within your throat. A choke escapes your throat, "I was not quite aware of the immediate action."

His eyes dare part for yours as the words fall from your whisper, blowing into his psyche, toppling his confidence. In this moment you are forever, timeless, stuck in an everlasting loop of forgiveness and pain. He pulls you towards him once more, connecting your bodies in a state of pure bliss, lips brushing yours in a delicate kiss. His hands roam, traversing the back of your head like buried treasure, padding their way across the skin lying there. You press a quick sound into his lips, but it is quickly lost in the entanglement of both body and mind. Your fingertips dance against his cheekbones, forgetting, only for an instant, that you were lost to your mortal frame. He retreats for a moment, tucking a solitary strand behind your ear into its rightful place.

"For now, my love, I shall remain," He whispers, so low that the cosmos could bearly apprehend, placing a solitary kiss on the tip of your nose, and wrapping your body closer to his chest. Blossomed warmth fills your once hollow chest, an urge to believe in the present.

₊˚⊹ ───

i hope you enjoyed my first offical post!. i really adore the shots within season 2 picturing viktor, jayce, or sky in the beautiful galaxy space, where their features (save face and hands) are glowing white; it's just so breathtaking. as you can probably tell, my love for those moments brought me to writing this short piece! i must say this is shorter than i am used to writing, but think of it as a short piece to get me back into the swing of things... anyway i love you so much for making it this far mwah! x

[moonsaver]

hesperus

The evening star calls home. Ruin is your saving grace.

Tw/Cw; Suggestive/explicit scene, gender neutral reader, implications of religious themes (not great), dubious morals(?), reader is a COUGARRRR (implied), Sunday loves older authority figures (guilty), just guess at this point. Also reader is implied to be like a parental figure to Firefly. OOC because i love making canon characters my own ocs.

Pairings: Stellaron Hunter!Reader x Sunday (romantic), (hinted) Firefly x tb, (platonic) Firefly x reader.

A/n: 5.8k words, i hate this fic, enjoy whatever whatever.

——

“Will you be okay?”

The small girl looks up at you - trepidation and concern visible in her eyes.

“I should be asking you that, lovely.” You smile, gently tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hair was beautiful, in your opinion. You often verbalized how beautiful it looked, mentioning it as silver under a blue moon.

Firefly still had concern in her eyes, dampened by your words, her hand clasped over the middle of her collarbone.

“I'll make it.. I think.” Her determination made way through uncertainty. You hum, smiling at her.

“You will, as shall I. If you ever need, I will be there.”

You wink, making the young girl smile a bit. The small, almost sad smile, still breaks through her worry.

“I've heard they've been on the lookout for us. I'm..”

She didn't have to continue. You already knew. Your hand comes up and pats her head, gently.

“We'll be fine. Go on, my sweet.”

You smile, softly. It seems to melt away the rest of her trepidation.

She takes a moment. Then nods. Worry and uncertainty now embers as determination fires through her eyes.

You wave her off, as she makes her way.

You are being watched. But you are aware.

–———

You hum, swirling the champagne glass in your fingers, watching the bubbles rise to the top, and stick to the edges in clusters.

“Interrupting your break, am I?”

The man beside you laughs, softly. Almost forced. He doesn't respond further.

“I'm guessing your weekends are spent tending to your white coat.”

You tilt your head, looking at him, a small smile playing on your lips. He doesn't bother acknowledging you.

“I give it to the dry cleaners, actually.”

“Ah, busy man. I suppose I should leave you be.”

“..I have an inkling you won't.”

His wings bristle slightly. His halo shines beautifully – a sort of warning that hangs over his head. Sharp edges, blinding gold. Angels crafted to deter the evil.

But you aren't phased. Perhaps it is the alcohol.

“There was a story, I remember. If you're up for it, of course. It's quite old.”

“Ah, an anecdote from your life?”

“I'm not an ancient tablet.”

“I wasn't aware.”

You chuckle, setting your glass down, the glass base clinking as you do.

You take a brief moment; simply to compose and immerse into the present moment. You look over at the man, allowing yourself to shamelessly scan him despite the unreturned glancing or staring.

“Owls and Ravens were once friends. And both had snow-like feathers. As pristine as white clouds on the expanse of a sky.”

His hair is soft, blue and hazy under the warm light of the bar, shimmering the slightest bit. He shifts in his seat, perhaps to get more comfortable.

“They decided, then, to paint each other, since nothing else was there to do. The Raven painted the Owl diligently, in patterns and dots. And the Owl sat patiently through the process.”

His eyes are piercing, golden, yet they rest, conserved and distant.

The alcohol hazed your vision, smoothing out the edges like a loving artist's strokes against the canvas of his visage.

Your fingers circle the rim of your glass, returning your gaze, watching the bubbles clear.

“But when the Raven's turn came, it never sat still. And as the Owl painted, it painted over the Raven entirely, marring it's feathers as black as obsidian.”

“What a shame.”

Your foot playfully taps the side of his, making his leg stop jittering up and down.

“Indeed.”

He hums, his gaze temporarily flitting from your foot to your hand, placed on your knee. He almost acknowledges you.

The background is a warm blur against your view of him, almost as though he's the sole performer on a podium – the light seemed to belong to him, and him only. 

“You have a daughter, am I correct to assume?”

His fingers tap, rhythmically, like patters of rain.

“No, just.. a friend. But I consider her as such.”

“She left in quite a hurry.”

“She did, didn't she?”

“has the dream not been to her liking? In the case something has gone awry, The Family hopes–”

“Oh, you know, kids these days. They see someone they like and skitter like a fool.”

He doesn't seem to take your words in stride. But you smile.

“I see.”

You stretch, spinning in the small loveseat, planting your feet down as you rise,

“See someone you like?”

“Already got a view.”

Sunday finally acknowledges you - his eyes trailing your form as you walk away.

——–

“I love you!”

The voice crackles from the plush toy's broken voice box, as Sunday peers down at it. He doesn't move – idly looking at it, and yet not bothering to pick it up.

He stares, for a few more moments, noting the grime and the tears at the seams. The small stains of probably candy or something sweet sticking to its “paws”. The bear had worn down inexplicably from love. The very love it spoke at every press. And from abandonment. He found himself wondering at the fleeting childhood passing by like a reeling ribbon from a child's hands, as if the bear had been dropped unwillingly, and had not been allowed to reunite with it's owner again. A strange dilemma – not alive, yet full of the most humanly feeling. So full, infact, the cotton burst at the seams, and it's button nose was dull. 

With careful movements, Sunday picks it up, by its collar behind its “neck” [if you could even say it had one]. His hand holds it at a bit of a distance.

“A fan of soft toys, Mr. Dreammaster?’

Your voice teases him. You watch his arm slightly falter, imagining a plethora of emotions on his face you'd love to pull at like strings of a tapestry falling apart.

“..I am the Head, of The Family. The Dreammaster would be–”

“It's alright. I was joking.”

“I wasn't.”

His voice is still, flat. There is no semblance of emotion.

“Feisty, today. Was your toy missing for a long time? Sour about how it looks, hm?”

Sunday breathes out; an amicable replacement for a drawn out sigh. He turns to you, still holding the bear at a distance, staying quiet.

“Now, that is no way to hold a gentleman.” 

You walk forward, and gently grasp the bear in both of your hands. Sunday's eyes flicker to your gloved hands, as though in his own curiosity of your lack of concern in terms of hygiene.

“There. Better. You ought to be respectful to your elders.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies. I should have bowed when you spoke to me.”

He bows slightly in jest, his hand on his heart,

“Hm, that's right.”

Sunday smiles, looking up at you from his bowed state. You seem to pay more mind to the bear in your hands, an array of similar thoughts in your head as you process it's appearance.

“Do you want to take it with you? Who knows, you might come to like it.”

“Please, that's no way to ask someone to get rid of it.”

You eye his non-faltering, feigned innocent smile. He simply closes his eyes and continues smiling.

“Well, turns out it has a nametag. It won't hurt to stitch it up a bit and return it back.”

He hums, watching you fix the bear's little dishevelled bowtie.

And then he clears his throat, catching your attention.

You tilt your head, curiously looking at him.

“Yes?”

Sunday points to his own tie, slightly miffed. You chuckle,

“Well, now. Whoever shall fix that?”

“Perhaps an elder. They know better than I.”

You roll your eyes, setting the bear down gently onto the side, removing your gloves and fixing his tie.

———

“Cozy, cozy.”

Kafka purrs into the phone, the rasp of her voice not blurred by the digital medium, as you stare in the distance at the blue-haired halovian.

“Kafka, I'm gonna have to call you back soon.”

“Just when things were about to get interesting..”

You roll your eyes – she can't see it, but she chuckles, knowing what your silence meant.

“Alright, goodluck. Looks like you'll need it.”

You hang up before she has anything else to say, pulling out a compact mirror, and adjusting your appearance. Just as you snap it shut, a small creak of the loveseat beside you indicates his occasional arrival.

“You're late. And I hoped a man of your stature was more punctual than that.”

You tease, watching his eyes never meet yours. Only this time – you catch it. He swallows, rather thickly, watching his adam's apple bob as he does. 

“I don't recall having scheduled any meetings with you.”

“Oh?”

His reply is curt, almost condescending if you weren't the type to brush it off.

“Seems my last story hasn't melted the ice yet.”

“Not an inch.”

“D'aw, alright. Wanna hear more, lovely?”

His wings – not his ears – twitch slightly at the pet name. You notice the faint rush of blood to the tip of his ears.

He doesn't answer, choosing to be chaste in silence. You huff out a chuckle,

“Alright, drink's on me then. I'll tell you something interesting.”

——

In your travels as a stellaron hunter, you've assorted many into repulsions and desires that draw you in.

To fast thrills, versus the indignancy of a dragging present. You find yourself drawn to the bright lights of a night bar, versus the blinding array of a scorching sun. To shallow connections in lieu of heavy and complex relationships. Attachment would be your downfall. Ruin is your saving grace.

However, you find yourself looking for your repulsions.

The grey haired girl stands in front of you once again, shuffling from foot to foot, her eyes low and shy as her hands fiddle with a stray lock of her own hair. You eye her for a moment, before humming, and gently coax  her to face you by placing an index finger under her chin and raising it up.

“Little bug, what's on your mind?”

“Um..”

“Script not to your liking?”

You watch her mumble under her breath, her face slightly tilting down as she resists the urge to tuck it away again. As she does, you gaze from over the top of her head; a familiar blue haired man walking into the distance, followed by panicked coworkers. It seems he will be amiss once again, for today.

“I couldn't.. tell them.”

“The trailblazer?”

She hums, nodding.

You huff out a chuckle, patting her head.

“You have your chances, do you not? Rest easy, your time will come.”

She visibly relaxes, her shoulders slightly dropping, and her hands leaving the lock of hair to return to her sides. Her eyes are still low, as though scanning the pavement under your feet, as she contemplates. You watch her bite the inside of her cheek before she raises her face again and nod.

There is a fire in her eyes.

It is almost like the Sun.

You are almost afraid of it.

“I'll do it. As many times as I need to.”

You smile, leaning back onto the cold wall behind you.

“We should go shopping after your next attempt.”

You find your jaw clenching after the words slip from your mouth. Your repulsions are your weakness. Yet you still seem to subconsciously seek them out. It's a testament to your human nature.

She nods, smiling at you. She stays in her place for a moment, before she speaks again,

“I could.. ask Kafka to go with you if I don't make it.”

You turn and glance back at your usual spot at the open bar‐empty without you and the man you've been missing lately. Your smile only widens at her perception. Clever girl.

“No need. I'd like some silence anyways.”

She seems a bit unconvinced, as she continues to gaze at you for a brief moment more, scanning you for any deception. Out of worry than any ulterior motives, unlike the woman she mentioned a while ago.

Truthfully, you were lonely. This is what your ruin does to you, regardless of how it saves you. A few conversations lure you into a false sense of companionship, regardless of however brief it must have been, even encouraging you to divulge more than necessary if desperate enough. You find your eyes flitting at anything the colour of pale blue. At anything that glows gold under a light.

You chuckle and wave,

“I'll be fine, honeybee. Go, be on your way, now.”

She nods, smiling at the pet name. 

You find your repulsions carry you elsewhere, the bar fading into the background as you walk the opposite direction, once all spying eyes have cleared. You find your eyes flitting to find him. However, no matter how blessed your vision may be, the absence left behind can only be described, not pointed to. Ultimately, it is your mind that hinges on the assessment of what you have lost, or gained. 

But it seems this time your heart has taken the hit – a burrowing feeling between the slats and the depths of your ribs as though an animal had sprung from it, and left it behind as a husk of what it once was. 

–——

Sunday tuts, his fingers taking a bold graze of your hair, sliding and gently tugging out a lock.

“You ought to take better care of your hair.”

You stay silent for a brief moment, and it's apparent to him aswell that you hadn't expected him to do something so.. casual, considering his formalities. He takes his time to address it in your period of silence.

“I simply noticed and commented on it, no need to look like a deer caught in headlights.”

His eyes flicker to yours for a moment, and avert immediately. You watch his hand fall to his side, his fingers slightly shaking. You can't tease him on it – it would be hypocritical. A slight, excited sort of feeling sparks in your stomach.

You lick your lips, and take a sip of your beverage, feeling your senses dry up a bit. The liquid instead burns at the dryness of your throat.

“You're into haircare, hm?”

You reply, ignoring the brief silence and the tension it carried.

“Often. It comes with taking care of my wings.”

“Ah, I see.”

Silence once again. Unlike the pleasant one you two usually shared, this felt different; it felt electric. Thick, a bit suffocating. 

“I like your piercings.”

His hand, previously resting on the counter, subconsciously raises up to fiddle with his earring,

“Thank you.”

You stay silent again, almost inviting in the tension that causes him to graze his teeth against the inside of his cheek, a step away from chewing on the sides of it.

You break the ice first.

“Do you prefer gold or silver?”

“Silver.”

He stays silent for a moment. He's often found his mind wandering when it comes to you – wondering how various adornments would suit you.

“Really? Didn't take you as a silver type.’

“Ah, about me?”

“Who else?”

He felt silver suited you; more than your complexion, he simply felt.. drawn to it. Like the faint glimmering of a moon's reflection on a lake. You were someone who's depths were mysterious, almost alluring to him.

You stay silent, too. The question hangs in the air for a brief moment.

You watch his shaky fingers rub slightly at his nose. You've noticed a lot of things about him. The tips of his nose and ears that turns red a bit too easily. The faint fluttering of his ghostly blue lashes. The twinkle of gold – not just of his halo, but the various imprints of it on him; jewellery, and the woven golden threads of his pristine suit.

His eyes follow to your hand, on the bar's countertop, swallowing thickly again.

It seems despite everything, he's still a fool in the grasp of his shame.

He looks away,

“I prefer gold.”

——

Sentience is a curse, he thinks.

His fingers tap and circle the perimeter of the frail glass, a clink accompanying each one. Waves form on the surface of the shimmery liquid from the small force.

Morality is a cruel beast. Because it is unrecognisable. And it knows you.

It follows you, through your ages. A small, ghastly and putrid thing, akin to a shameful, big animal. Hunched over, following you like a chore. Like a lost, stubborn child. It grows with you. It becomes bolder. It becomes aware. It has your voice. Soon, the mind caves and buckles into the grasp of the dastardly beast, that grows like uncontrolled weed on a substrate. It grows and envelops. And it tells you – can you truly allow yourself to do this? And the answer is never yes. Morality is a curse. A big ugly thing, unafraid to show it's face. It fills the room when silence staves arguments in the form of chastened tension.

Yet he finds himself, almost seeking it out. Searching the cruel shackle of his morality, almost wanting it to shame him into hiding. 

Your place is empty. He notes. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, fluttering lashes coming to a halt. He envisions the faint waft of your perfume, the dainty clicking of your fingers over the rim of the glass, the cheeky tap against his agitated foot. Sunday would find himself already ashamed, if he'd outright admitted he'd actually been staring at you, from his periphery. You overshadow the ugly beast, drawing out a sort of soft, beautiful serenity with a hollow voice, and an elusive persona. 

Angels are, by design, made to stave evil. Somehow, however, it seems he has attracted one. A devil in the form of you. And yet, like a man yet to feel the cold relief of forgiveness on his lips, he wanders aimlessly in his mind, as though in search of you. Sin is unbeknownst, ignorance is plaguing, and yet he revels in it. Even for a moment.

He huffs out a laugh. A novel turn of events. Its his turn to wait for you, isn't it?

Yet it seems easy to do, simply imagining your form beside him once again, telling him another strange tale, either for your own amusement or to reel him in. He disregards the source. His weary face finds an ache, a pleasant one, as it pulls into a faint smile. 

As sentience drives a being to deviate from instinct, his awareness has driven him to exhaustion. Yet you are a double edged sword – a balm for his exhaustion yet endlessly pushing him to caution.

——

“You've been gone too long, haven't you?”

You croon, a cheeky smile on your face, Sunday bashfully keeping his eyes locked to his drink. Despite everything, he cannot meet your eyes.

“I have.”

For the first time, the pastor is of the guilty. The devil has come to exorcise him. But exorcism does not mean erasure of sins, neither does it mean cleanly cutting off the strings that attach one to them. You may as well weave more of these strings, and craftily ground him to you.

“How will you make it up to me?’

You drawl, leaning on the palm of your hand, speech slightly slurred from the alcohol.

“..How would you like me to?”

His gaze is trained on his hand – gripping the fragile neck of the glass with a bit too much force. 

You hum, twirling your own glass, watching the liquid rush and bubble at the edges.

“Tell me a secret.”

He swallows. 

A secret?

“Is that.. truly what you desire?”

“Mhm.”

You take a sip of your beverage. Sunday is relieved, yet almost disappointed.

“..very well.”

He breathes in, and takes a moment to compose himself. His eyes flit to you, a small flicker of boldness somehow making him hover over a line he dares not cross. His gaze wanders to your lips, the slight crinkle beside your eyes, the squish of your cheek against your palm. He eyes your clothing. 

A stellaron hunter.

It was as though he was placing himself as the bait in a trap. As though he was the one caught in the trap. What else could he complain about? Except for that of which he can't admit – his unbecoming is his fault.

His fault for unreeling like a ribbon under your daft fingers. He finds himself wanting to spill like an ink bottle, the surface tension of the liquid keeping it from just flowing over the thick, glass borders.

And he breathes in your perfume. He breathes in the expanse of the night's air. And he spills. He spills so cautiously, so quietly, as though he is afraid of staining his own lips with the tenacity of his words.

He has many secrets. Most of which were handed to him, more akin to an heirloom than an actual personal matter. More akin to a treacherous contract than whispered confessions. How he wishes this was a confession to you, than an unveiling over his disgusting innards.

But you listen, unwavering. A lazy smile still gracing your lips, stained with grapes and understanding. It is as though you were stained in so many ways, his words are unflinchingly simple to you. It becomes a confession, rather than a revelation at the altar of the cartilage shell of your ear.

And you keep it. You keep it like a lost prayer. Like a silent vow. 

“..want me to whisper it to you?”

You return the sentiment, offering a request. It seems you are no guiltier than he innocent. 

———

“Can't convince you, can I?”

“Not at all.” Please don't try, anyway. He lets those words die on his tongue.

You huff out a laugh, a bit forceful, as you look away from him, folding your arms.

“Shit, you don't pull any punches, huh?”

A pang of guilt hits him at the slight hurt in your forced laugh. But he can't be deterred.

Not that you were going to, considering Elio's script. It's on you, really. But you didn't expect it to actually hurt.

You watch the empty audience seats, his back turned to it.

“It's a pity. I wish I could have seen this theatre when it was filled to the brim with people.”

“..it would have been an extraordinary view. It always is.”

“You look forward to it?”

…

“Not anymore.”

You hum, your teeth nipping at the skin of your lips. The quietness of the theatre is exemplified at the rustle of your clothes, as you turn to look at his back. The light of the podium makes him look beautiful. His halo is almost blinding. He looks like the Sun. You'll be lead to your death, at this rate. Wasn't Ruin supposed to be your saving grace? Here you are – disguised as both Icarus and the blinding Sun.

Sunday stands still, a cleancut form, unable to face you. You can stare at his back all day. But the pain resounding in your chest from your heart hurting strings you back into the present. You breathe deeply, and sigh,

“Alright. Goodluck, then.”

With one step forward, you disappear as quietly as you came. It's a trick familiar to your group; as Sunday knows. But even then, he braces himself to greet the empty space you leave behind, his heart sinking further at the loss of your presence. 

———

Sunday finds the shackles of punishment more liberating than death on his knees.

He learns this in isolation. He learns many things in isolation.

He learns how to miss you.

Phantoms and taunts of your words echoing the empty expanse of his empty mind, wafting through the many whispers of the stellaron that plagued his mind. 

His finger twitches upwards, when his lifeless eyes imagine the faint illusion of your affection, grazing fingertips over his knuckles. You hadn't actually ever gotten so physically close to him, but he indulges himself. He imagine the soft sensations of your lips on his jaw, trailing up to ghost the shell of his.

“Miss me, Mr. Dreammaster?”

He shivers at the illusion. Your voice is close yet far; reverberating in the hollow wasteland of his mind like a single thread of gold.

A lot. He wants to say. He swallows the words, and for the second time, the fruit lodges in his throat. To admit is to acknowledge the sin.

“Make it up to me, Mr. Dreammaster?"

A knock. Your phantom, agonisingly so, vanishes like a mist casted away by a gush of wind. But the interruption is far from divine.

Jade, from the IPC. 

——

Like gently settling fog, rumours stagnate over a crowd. The whispers and the hushed words are not elusive to your ears.

Your phone buzzes, but you ignore it. Firefly is accompanied by Silver wolf, you wouldn't have to worry.

As much as your thrills lure you to the lavish party to celebrate the Nameless, your repulsions seem stronger. 

You sip your beverage, tipping the glass up, but your eyes stay on your phonescreen. You hadn't ever texted Sunday, and neither had he texted you. You two hadn't even called. There was no history. It would be as though you could keep your phone open for hours and no one would bat an eye. Even for the most prestigious of those in stature would have to occasionally practise patience when it came to him. Who would you be? The vague, elusive stellaron hunter who's suspected of causing trouble wherever they go? Like a stray piece of pebble that's easy to disregard and kick away, who is he to ever glance at you?

And so you stare, measuring in silence, the strange stirring of feelings in your stomach. You could blame it on your beverage, but you hadn't drank enough really, mainly because you couldn't even bother keeping it down.

Buzz

You blink, watching a notification pop up, and promptly retreat as you click on Sunday's contact again.

He messaged you?

No, it couldn't be. It must be one of The Family's members.

You push yourself off of the wall you'd been warming with your back, and take a small step forward in contemplation, your eyebrows knitted as you stared.

Why would they send you to his office's location?

——

Sunday breathes in, the cool, familiar air of his office hitting the back of his throat as he does.

There is a certain pleasure in ordinary things. 

The patience of a ceramic cup that stays warm with coffee. The smooth crafting of the surface of a wooden desk. The ambience of the air conditioner accompanying the steady scribbling of a pointed tip on paper. The comfort in reclining back in a cushioned office chair. Things he may as well soon never come across again.

He swallows, his eyelids doing little to shield the overhead lighting of his office, but still keeping them closed to simply savor the feeling.

A shadow emerges, obscuring the light from his eyes, casting a shade on his face. It's soon accompanied by the faint wafting of perfume.

“Miss me, Mr. Sunday?”

This wasn't Ena's dream. But for a moment, he could have considered it.

You're leaned over from behind him, watching down at his face as he opens his eyes. He opens his mouth, but decides to stay silent.

Your hand comes up to gently cup the side of his face, your palm pressing beside his eye, fingers reaching the bottom of his chin. Your thumb lingers around the edge of his mouth. You both stare at each other, simply noticing the dilation of each other's pupils.

“It's just Sunday.”

He tells you. There is no animosity, no hostility in his voice. It's almost a whisper, as though he's unsure if you are real. His own hand reaches up, and cautiously, his fingers graze the side of your face.

Your skin is warm. Your relaxed smile widens as he does so. He shivers.

“Savouring your final moments?”

He smiles.

“I am.”

You stay that way for a moment, before slowly leaning back and standing up straight. Sunday gets up from his chair and moves to stand across you.

“Couldn't let me know where you were a little earlier?”

You tease him, but he can sense the slight irk in your voice.

“My deepest apologies. How can I make it up to you?”

You hum, spinning on your heel and walking around his office, fingers grazing the edge of his desk as you walk beside it, and to the front. You turn, leaning on it, your back facing him.

“A secret won't be enough this time, y'know?”

He watches your hand fiddle with a few trinkets on his desk, your other hand supporting you. He makes his way to you again, rounding the desk, and stands in front of you,

“What may help?”

You hum again, but he knows better. You're feigning your contemplation.

You smile, still leaned back against his desk.

“I wouldn't know. Something special before we depart?”

“Hm.. is that so?”

He steps closer, his hands placing themselves right beside your waist on the desk behind you, caging you in. His eyes never leave yours.

“Mhm.”

You smile, looking at him.

He leans in, eyes falling lower, on your lips, as he asks,

“Now, what shall I do?”

His warm breath fans over the lower half of your face, and the small exposed bits of your collarbone.

“Perhaps do as your seniors advise you.”

“Hm? Who?”

You grab him by the collar of his shirt, push off of the table and swerve him, pushing him against the desk as you lean in,

“You can listen, can't you?”

He breathes in, slightly winded at the switched positions.

“I might need guidance.”

You huff out a laugh,

“I'll guide you, so listen well.”

You lean in, your lips almost brushing his, but pull away when you sense he might lean in, his lips stay slightly parted as he watches you.

“You need to be patient, okay?”

He almost doesn't hear you, swallowing as he eyes your lips, his abdomen constricting, feeling something tighten and coil.

“I will.”

You smile. And lean in, testing his resolve,

“Do as I say, alright?”

His lips twitch, and his breath hitches. He waits, agonisingly, as your lips brush against his, but don't press. He whispers out,

“I will.”

.

“Good.”

You finally press your lips against his, and it's as though a river rushes through his veins, as he eagerly kisses you back. His breathing is heavy, his hands unsure as they hold onto your waist, but you're made aware of his desperation as his nails unconsciously dig into your flesh, through the thin fabric of your shirt. You suck in a breath at the feeling, and he almost moans, his wings bristling and tensing as he desperately tries to deepen the kiss, almost panting into it as your tongue brushes against his lower lip, eagerly parting them open.

Sunday can taste the alcohol mixed with your sweet saliva, causing his head to spin a bit, but instead he presses further, his tongue eagerly lapping at every inch of your mouth. You pull away for a moment, but his mouth follows close, kissing the side of your mouth and trailing them down the column of your throat. You breathe in, shivering as you close your eyes for a moment, each wet kiss electrifying and going straight down to your core. 

He mumbles your name against your skin, his tongue laving at a spot before his teeth nip at it, causing you to gasp. Your hands crawl up to the base of his head, one pushing into his fluffy hair and fingers entangling within the strands.

“It's okay.”

You breathe out, but he shakes his head slightly.

His tongue presses against the base of your throat, and drags up all the way to the corner of your mouth, before his lips envelop yours again in a heated kiss. He parts, panting,

“I wanted to see you. Every second I spent there..”

His hands run up and down your sides, feverish at the contact they'd been restrained from,

“I know.” You say, looking at his dishevelled state, your hands coming to rest on his chest.

"I wanted to return to you."

You feel his hands slide down and rest on your hips, his knee nudging between yours, before he slides up further and pushes his thigh at your core, making you jolt for a moment at the contact. His hands stay firm on your hips, almost pressing you down onto his thigh. Your hands clench at the fabric of his shirt as the contact shoots up your spine, making you arch slightly into him.

He breathes in, leaning down, his lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath coming out in puffs as he whispers,

“I'm yours, aren't I? So go ahead and prove it.”

You smile.

“Alright, then.”

–——

“[Name]!”

Firefly's voice calls out to you, and you smile, looking over her winded appearance.

But you weren't in the state to complain. You looked similar, if not even worse. Your shirt was slightly wrinkly, tie askew, your hair patted down in a rush. You hope no one noticed you wobble.

“are you okay?”

Firefly would be more worried instead of confused if not for the wide smile you've donned. She glances over her shoulder at the bustling crowd, her eyes almost searching for someone, before returning to you.

“I'm alright. Your hair.. seems exciting.”

You comment, and Firefly blushes, patting down her own hair.

“I'll tell you what happened later, but.. we should leave now.”

You nod,

“Silverwolf?”

Her hologram appears without a second's delay, her annoyed resting face almost lovingly familiar to you.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard.”

You both chuckle slightly at her.

The party ends on a positive note.

———

“Quite a pleasant surprise.”

“Greetings, to you too.”

You smile, your virtual form glitching slightly. Although Himeko doesn't disregard you as she does Kafka, she's still wary of you, as are the rest of the crew.

“Settling in well, chicken boy?”

Himeko cuts in,

“What do the Stellaron hunters need now?”

You chuckle, softly,

“Miss Himeko, it's been a while, hasn't it? Regardless, I sincerely apologise, but these questions are solely for Mr. Sunday here.”

Her face shifts, almost unnoticeable, clearly displeased by your words. She sighs, and glances back at the new recruit. The rest of the crew follow her suit.

Mr. Yang's voice flows in,

“Perhaps there remains any unfinished business with the stellaron hunters? It would be wise to address it sooner than later.”

“None of the sort, Mr. Yang.” You reassure, hands neatly folded, as you smile,

“Just a few, simple questions. Think of it as a.. survey, of sorts.”

“A survey?”

Sunday steps forward, facing your hologram directly. You would have blushed if it wasn't virtual.

“3 questions. That is all.”

“..alright.”

You sense his hesitation, slowly melding into trust as his thoughts process. Although relationships between your factors are complex and messy, it is you that's asking him.

“What is your name?”

“..I am Sunday.”

“Where are you stationed?”

“The Astral Express.”

“Are you happy?”

The question makes him hesitate, words stuck in his throat like a grape seed for only a moment.

“..yes. i am.”

You smile. Sunday faintly returns the expression. After a brief moment, you turn to Himeko,

“Kafka will speak to you shortly, Ms. Himeko.”

And you vanish. Just as mysteriously as you'd come into his life.

[sailortongue]

Laboratory Mishap

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

wc: 2.9k

summary: after a lab experiment goes awry, you and spencer find yourselves in a heated situation

cw: smut, aphrodisiac/sex pollen (its not actual pollen but it fits the trope), oral (fem receiving), dubcon?, power dynamic, unprotected sex, semi-public sex

-------

Chemistry was the bane of your existence. You had never struggled so much with a subject. You had completed three general chemistry classes, two genchem labs, three organic chemistry classes, two ochem labs, and now you were taking biochem and a biochem lab. But despite all of your academic background, you still didn't have the slightest iota of understanding.

Even so, you couldn't stop yourself from looking forward to the weekly lab. You hated having to change from shorts into pants in the tiny bathroom stalls (no way in hell were you walking all the way across campus in high-humidity weather wearing pants). You hated the red line on your forehead from the goggles. You hated having to stand for 2+ hours because the lab wasn't equipped with stools. You hated chemistry in general. But you loved seeing the uber attractive GA, Spencer Reid.

More often than not, you spaced out during his pre-lab instructions. You were too busy focusing on anything about him that wasn't the jargon coming from his lips. Your poor lab partner always ended up having to re-explain the procedure. But today, that wasn't an option. Your lab partner had a wedding to attend today and, instead of being in your usual lab session, had opted to join yesterday’s lab session, leaving you all by your lonesome. Initially, you had cursed their name to hell and back for forsaking you like this, but, after Spencer offered to give you all the extra help you needed, you were suddenly exceedingly happy that your partner wasn't here.

You could see the scathing looks directed at you by some of the other girls in class. Of course you weren't the only one who had immediately taken a liking to the young GA. Only a blind person wouldn't be able to see how good looking he was. And the girls in your class were definitely not blind. You couldn't help but feel a bit smug that you would be getting his extra attention and not them.

Spencer, unbeknownst to you, was having similar thoughts and was mentally extending his gratitude to your absent lab partner. He was more than aware of the implications of coming onto a student, especially since as a GA he was in a position above you. But he wanted to be above you in the literal sense, and it was beginning to cause him to question his morals. You were the same age, so how bad could it really be? He’d noticed your frequent glances at him and reveled in the fact that you couldn't keep your eyes off of him.

During the course of the lab, Spencer was essentially your replacement lab partner. In an attempt to not show his blatant favoritism, he didn't actually guide you through the lab and instead just followed your instructions, such as pouring out chemicals into the waste bucket and washing beakers. Labs were lengthy enough with two people working together, and although Spencer would like to keep you all to himself past the time the others had already left, he remembered how miserable it was to have to stay late.

But even with his help, you still found yourself to be the last one. And not only were you the last one, but you weren’t even close to being done. Since there wasn't anyone to tell him otherwise, Spencer took pity on you and gave you far more help than he probably should have. But if he was being totally honest with himself, he just wanted an excuse to be close to you. Even though there was more than enough room at the bench, he still stood near enough that your arms occasionally brushed. Every time you handed him something he made sure his fingers met yours. And when you asked for his input about the data report? That was his favorite. His stature gave him the perfect excuse to lean down under the guise of seeing better, but he always bent down lower than he really needed to, just to have his face right next to yours and give him a front row seat to your flustered expression.

It took all of your willpower to keep your head out of the gutter. You were trying in vain to rationalize his actions. Like maybe he just didn't realize how close he was actually standing to you, and you were definitely overthinking the hand-to-hand contact, and maybe he just didn't have his contacts in and that’s why he was leaning so close. But try as you might, it wasn't enough to prevent you from getting severely distracted by the handsome GA, and getting severely distracted in a lab was typically advised against. In your flustered state, you grabbed the wrong pipette, and Spencer, just as distracted as you, didn't notice and was unable to stop the impending mistake.

Pipettes were made to measure precisely, but they don't all measure the same. So you'd royally fucked up the experiment by adding 10x the amount you were supposed to. And thanks to the stir plate the beaker was on, the solution was rapidly mixed together.

“Is it supposed to smell like that?” you asked nervously. It was a sharp, acrid smell, one you surely would have noticed earlier when your classmates were on this step.

Spencer was abruptly snapped out of his thoughts and looked at the beaker, the stir bar still spinning wildly within. He noticed the smell you were speaking of and instantly pulled you backwards. “No, no it's not. Don't breathe it in.”

He covered the lower half of his face with his elbow and grabbed the beaker from the stir plate with his other hand. He made his way to the fume hood as quickly as he could and shut the beaker within. But it was too late. You’d both inhaled the gas already, and, thanks to your biology major, you were more than aware of how sensitive the lining of the lungs is. It was literally designed to allow for gaseous exchange. Whatever you’d accidentally created was already making its way throughout your body.

As Spencer was making his way back over to you, he noticed that he was beginning to feel incredibly hot, and his breathing was becoming shallower. It was shortly after the onset of those systems that he realized his pants were progressively getting tighter in the crotch. This could not be happening. What in god’s name had you created? He was practically panting when he got back to your workbench and found you in a similar state.

You immediately began to spew apologies, but Spencer wasn't listening. No, he was far too focused on keeping his hands at his sides and not on you. He held a hand up to stop you rambling and swallowed harshly, trying to get himself under control. “It was an accident. Are you feeling okay?”

“Feel like I have a fever and my heart is beating way faster than it was a minute ago.” Your panties were also becoming wetter by the second but he didn't need to know that.

Spencer’s normally sharp mind was in a flurry. Even though you hadn't told him in words, your body betrayed the fact that you were just as aroused as he was. The subtle rubbing of your thighs together was a dead giveaway. You had your back to him, hands braced against the edge of your workbench. If Spencer was thinking straight, he never would have acted on his inappropriate thoughts; but he wasn't thinking straight. He closed the distance between the two of you, leaving no space between your bodies. He placed his hands on either side of yours, effectively caging you in his arms. Your breath hitched at the intimate position you found yourself in.

“I know you feel what I do,” he said, slightly pushing his hips into yours, his hard cock straining against its confines. “We can help each other out. Or, you could tell me to fuck off and I’ll let go as soon as you tell me to. Whatever we do or don't do, it's your choice. Just tell me what you want.” His voice was breathy and high-pitched by the end, and his self control was splintering by the second.

You adjusted your stance, the movement causing you to brush against Spencer’s front. He gasped and his hands flew to your hips, gripping them tightly and holding you in place tightly against him. “Don't-,” he panted. “Don't do that. Not until you answer me. I won't be able to stop if-”

You cut him off. “I don't want you to stop.”

And that was it. Throwing caution to the wind, Spencer spun you around to face him. “Are you sure?”

You surged forward to kiss him. Your goggles clacked together and you pulled away with a giggle. “Very sure,” you said, pulling your goggles off. Spencer followed suit.

He nodded. “Ok. Ok.” He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself that this was really happening. Despite his nearly painful erection, he tried to be as gentle as he could with you. He reconnected your lips in a tentative kiss as he wrapped his arms around your waist, but with the strange gas the reaction produced was still in the air and still wreaking havoc on both of you, it didn't stay gentle for long. What had started as a hesitant kiss devolved into a harsh collision of teeth and tongue.

Spencer’s hands migrated from your hips to your ass, pulling you flush against him. He couldn't stop the involuntary thrust of his own hips, desperately seeking friction. His mouth separated from yours as he dragged his lips down your jaw and reattached to your neck, sucking harshly and surely leaving dark marks all along the column of your throat.

He lowered his hands just enough for his fingertips to brush the back of your thighs, squeezing twice in a silent indication to jump. You tightened your grip around his shoulders to give you leverage. He hoisted you up to sit on the countertop and pushed your shirt above your breasts. You removed it entirely to give him full access. He groaned as he took in the sight of you breathless before him. “You're so pretty for me,” he praised before roughly pulling the cups of your bra down, exposing your nipples to the chill air of the lab, a stark contrast to the heat that had spread throughout your body so rapidly. He latched his lips to the newly exposed skin, his hand groping the other one. You reached behind your back to unlatch your bra and tossed it aside.

You threaded your fingers through his hair and tugged, pulling him off of your chest and back up to your lips. Both of your patiences were wearing thin, and neither of you could get the other undressed fast enough. You tugged on his tie and it soon joined your bra and shirt on the floor. You continued to unbutton his dress shirt as his eager hands groped at every part of you they could reach. When you’d finally gotten his dress shirt open, he didn't even give you the time to admire his physique and instead pulled you from the counter top to stand again.

He tugged on the waistband of your pants and pushed them down, leaving you to kick the material off of your feet. He quickly spun you around and placed a hand between your shoulder blades, urging you to bend over. You did as he wanted and felt his hands caress and grope your behind before his fingers hooked under the waistband of your panties and pulled them down just enough to expose your cunt to his hungry eyes. He groaned at the sight. “You're so wet baby. All for me.”

Spencer dropped to his knees behind you and immediately pressed his face between your legs. You squealed at the sudden contact, his tongue doing wonders for the built up need you had for him. He licked a broad stripe up your pussy before alternating between suckling and licking the sensitive flesh. Your whines and whimpers only spurred him on further, becoming more vigorous with his ministrations. The increased intensity had you gasping for breath and calling his name. “That’s right, angel. Who's making you feel this good? Hm? Whose face are you going to cum all over?”

“Yours! Please, Spencer, don't stop!”

He chuckled briefly before resuming his eager lapping at your core. He hummed against you in affirmation, pushing you closer and closer to the edge until the pleasure was just too much to bear. You came with a cry of his name, and he didn't stop until you were begging for a reprieve.

The unnatural heat that had spread throughout your body upon inhalation of the fumes was finally dissipating, leaving you with the normal flush one would expect afterwards. But Spencer was nowhere near recovered, and he had no intentions of letting you go until he was satisfied. He stood from his place on the floor and made quick work of his belt, only pushing his pants low enough to free his aching cock, dripping with precum. He stroked himself as he spoke. “We’re not done yet, angel. Not by a long shot. Not until your sweet cunt is dripping with me.”

His words sent heat racing to your core. Who needs aphrodisiac fumes when Spencer can talk to you like that.

He swiped the tip of his cock through your folds a few times before lining his tip up with your opening. He pressed forward and groaned at the sensation of you squeezing around him so deliciously. He pushed further and further until he bottomed out. His jaw fell slack in complete and utter bliss. “Oh, you feel so good, baby. Can I move? Please, please, I can’t wait any longer,” he begged. You’d let him do anything if he begged you as prettily as he did then.

You hummed in assent, and he wasted no time in pulling out until just the head of his cock remained buried in you and then thrusting back in. You let out a loud moan, already completely overwhelmed with just how good he felt inside of you. The more he thrusted, the needier he got and the more that unnatural heat in his chest smoldered. His hands gripped your hips tightly and he pulled you back to meet him with every thrust into your sopping cunt.

“I'll bet none of those silly little frat boys can make you feel like this, huh. I’ll bet they always leave you unsatisfied. But you're gonna cum for me again, right? You can do that f’me, can't you? Be my good girl and cum all over my cock.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin increased in tempo as he chased his high, wanting nothing more than to feel you clench around him as he emptied himself inside of you. You moaned shamelessly, the deep and harsh thrusts of cock almost too much to bear. You couldn't speak even if you wanted to. The only word you were capable of uttering was his name.

His grunts were turning into whines the closer he got to his impending orgasm. “Cum with me, baby. C’mon, you can do it,” he said, moving one of his hands down to rub circles on your clit. That was all it took to have you creaming around his cock, your orgasm triggering his. The moan that came from him was pure sin as he spilled himself inside your cunt, just as he had promised. He collapsed on top of you, cock softening within you as it twitched with every flutter of your walls around him. When you had both sufficiently caught your breath, he stood back upon and gently pulled himself out of you. You winced at the loss of contact, still extremely sensitive. You pushed yourself off of the workbench and turned to see Spencer tucking himself back into his pants. It was then that you realized you were stark naked in a university laboratory. You saw your panties lying near your feet and you hastily put them back on, followed shortly after by the rest of your clothing, which Spencer helped pick up from the floor where they had been unceremoniously discarded.

“Would you want to get coffee with me sometime?” Spencer asked suddenly, the words spoken so fast they nearly blended together.

You were taken aback. You had expected him to want to pretend this never happened but here was asking you on a date. You grinned, a prominent blush on your face as you accepted his offer.

He beamed, a broad smile overtaking his face. “Great! I’ll pick you up Saturday morning?”

“Yeah, sounds good. I think I can safely assume it won't be the coffee shop on campus?”

“Even though we're the same age, you're still one of my students. So until you finish this course…” he trailed off.

You grabbed his tie and pulled him closer to you until your faces were a hairsbreadth apart. “I’m completely fine with being your dirty little secret until then as long as you fuck me like that again.”

[roseyreveries]

Journalism

Summary: You’re a journalist chasing the Daredevil story, hell-bent on uncovering his identity.

CW: injuries, blood, angst, sort of enemies to lovers?

A/N: This was originally a Batman x reader fic I had saved in my drafts for a while, but I’m not all that into Batman anymore so I remastered it into being Daredevil x reader. Apologies if there are any discrepancies I may have missed <3

Directory <- click!

The neon buzz of Hell’s Kitchen bled into the haze of cheap whiskey and crumpled notes spread before you on the bar. The Daredevil story wasn’t just a story—it was the story, the one that could finally yank you out of the shallow waters of clickbait articles and catapult you into headlines that mattered. But Hell’s Kitchen’s devil wasn’t making it easy. He moved like smoke, left chaos like a storm, and stayed maddeningly out of reach.

And then there was Matt Murdock.

The smug, blind lawyer with his disarming charm and infuriating habit of dodging your questions. Every time you brought Daredevil up, he’d flash that crooked smile, toss out a few words that said absolutely nothing, and leave you steaming. You knew he knew more than he let on—he was practically daring you to figure it out.

And, hell, you were close.

“Rough night?”

The voice slid through the din, smooth and calculated.

Your stomach tightened before you even turned. Speak of the devil.

Matt Murdock stood there, his red-tinted glasses catching the flicker of the neon sign outside. His tie hung loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to make him look more dangerous than approachable. He didn’t wait for an invitation, just slid onto the stool next to you like he owned the damn place.

“Murdock,” you said, trying to keep your tone even. “What a surprise.”

He tilted his head, smirking in that way that made you want to smack it right off his face—or maybe wipe it off with your lips, depending on the day. Tonight, though, you weren’t in the mood.

“Surprise?” he echoed, his tone light but his words sharp. “Come on, you don’t really believe that, do you?”

You set your pen down and turned to face him fully, your pulse thrumming. “Let me guess. You just happened to wander into this exact bar, at this exact time, knowing I’d be here?”

“I don’t need to guess,” he said casually, resting his elbow on the bar. “You scribble loud enough to wake the dead. Or maybe I just have a good sense of where trouble likes to settle.”

“Trouble? That what you call me now?” you shot back, arching a brow.

“I call it like I see it—or hear it, in my case.” His smirk deepened, and there was something wolfish about it.

Your grip on the glass tightened. “You’re awfully invested in what I’m doing, Murdock. Makes me wonder why.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “You’re chasing shadows in a city full of monsters. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get eaten alive.”

Your heart skipped, but you refused to let it show. “I can handle myself.”

“Maybe you can,” he said, his tone edging into something darker. “But Daredevil? He’s not the type to appreciate being stalked. He doesn’t take well to being cornered.”

There it was, the warning hidden behind his honeyed words. You met his gaze—or where you thought his gaze would be behind those glasses—and leaned closer. “Funny. You talk about him like you’ve had dinner together.”

He smiled again, slow and deliberate, as if you’d just given him exactly what he wanted. “You’d be surprised what a good listener can pick up. Something you should keep in mind, yeah?”

The air between you crackled, his words dripping with implication. You were sure now—he knew something, probably everything. But Matt Murdock wasn’t just a lawyer. He was a wall, and cracking him would take more than words.

“Well,” you said, breaking the silence and lifting your glass. “I guess I’ll just have to keep digging. Trouble’s kind of my thing.”

His smile lingered, razor-sharp. “Good luck with that, sweetheart. Just don’t dig yourself too deep. Some holes are harder to climb out of than others.”

The fire escape creaked softly under your weight as you climbed, the chill of the night air biting at your skin. You heard from a sweet old lady who lived nearby that she’d see him standing here some nights. You weren’t sure what you’d expected to find when you followed the whisper of a lead to this rooftop, but as you pulled yourself up, your breath hitched.

There he was.

Daredevil.

He sat perched on the edge of the fire escape, one knee up, his red suit blending into the shadows like he belonged to the night itself. He didn’t move as you approached, didn’t even turn his head, but somehow you knew he was aware of you. His stillness felt like an acknowledgment, like he’d been waiting.

“I didn’t think you’d actually be here,” you said softly, pulling yourself fully onto the landing.

“I knew you’d come. Heard the elderly give her statement to you the other day,” he replied, his voice low, almost detached.

You paused, shivering under his cold, steady presence. “Then you know why I’m here.”

He tilted his head slightly, and though you couldn’t see his eyes beneath the mask, you felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. “I know everything I need to about you.”

That stopped you in your tracks. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, but you forced yourself to steady your voice. “If you already know, then you know I need an interview. Just ten minutes of your time. That’s all I’m asking.”

He let out a quiet exhale, the kind that wasn’t quite a sigh but carried the weight of one. “No.”

You blinked, stunned at the finality of his tone. “What? You didn’t even think about it!”

“There’s nothing to think about,” he said, standing now, his movements fluid and effortless. He stepped closer, his boots landing softly on the metal grating. “You’re chasing a story you don’t fully understand, putting yourself in danger you’re not prepared for.”

You squared your shoulders, your hands tightening into fists at your sides. “I can handle myself. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I know what I’m risking.”

His jaw tightened, but his tone remained even. “You think you know. But you don’t. And you won’t—because I’m not giving you an interview.”

Your frustration boiled over, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “Why not? You talk like you’re on some crusade to help people, but you won’t let them know who you really are. You hide in the shadows and leave everyone guessing while people like me try to tell the truth!”

His head turned slightly, the mask catching the faint glint of the city lights. “The truth?” he repeated, his voice soft but cutting. “The truth doesn’t change what I do. It doesn’t make people safer. All it does is make them targets.”

You faltered, the conviction in his tone slicing through your determination. He wasn’t just cold—he was certain, and that certainty rattled you.

“I…” you began, but the words died in your throat.

He turned back toward the edge of the fire escape, his posture rigid. “If you want to take a picture when I leave, go ahead. That’s all I’ll give you.”

Your heart sank at the finality in his voice. “That’s it? A picture? No words, no explanation?”

“No,” he said simply, the word dropping like a stone between you. “Because anything I say, anything I give you, will only pull you deeper into something you’re not ready for.”

Despite his coldness, there was something in his tone—a faint thread of concern that softened the blow just enough to sting.

“Why do you care?” you asked, your voice breaking slightly.

He paused for a moment, the silence stretching unbearably before he finally spoke. “Because people who get too close to me usually end up hurt.”

With that, he stepped onto the railing, his balance effortless, and turned back to you one last time. “Take your picture, if you want. But stay out of this. For your sake.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the night like a ghost, leaving you alone with your unanswered questions and a hollow ache in your chest.

The next few weeks turned into a twisted game, a dance you hadn’t signed up for but couldn’t seem to stop. Every time you got close to something—anything—Matt was there, slipping into your path with maddening precision. It was almost as if he wanted to frustrate you, to keep you chasing your tail.

One afternoon, as you stepped out of the courthouse with your notebook in hand, he appeared out of nowhere. His cane tapped lightly against the pavement, but the smirk on his face told you this wasn’t some random coincidence.

“Let me guess,” he drawled, falling into step beside you. “You’re here to dig up dirt on Daredevil’s last fight? Hoping for a juicy quote, maybe a headline?”

You stopped dead in your tracks, glaring at him. “Do you have a tracker on me or something?”

He chuckled, annoyingly unbothered. “You’re predictable,” he said with a shrug. “Same courthouse, same sources. You’re practically leaving breadcrumbs.”

“Funny,” you shot back, shoving your notebook into your bag. “You sound a lot like someone trying to cover his tracks. What are you doing here, Murdock? Hoping to throw me off again?”

“Throw you off?” His tone was playful, but there was an edge beneath it. “Why would I do that? I’m just here to offer my services. You need an interview, right? I’ve got some time.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Unless you’re Daredevil, you’re not the interview I need.”

His smile faltered. Just a fraction of a second, but you caught it. The mask he wore—figurative, for now—slipped, and in its place was something raw, unguarded. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it was enough to send your heart skittering.

“Careful,” he said quietly, his voice dipping low. “Throwing accusations like that could get you into trouble.”

“Is that a threat?” you challenged, stepping closer. You weren’t about to back down, not now, not when the tension between you felt like it was about to snap.

“Just an observation,” he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching into another maddening smile. “You’re obsessed, you know that? This whole thing—chasing Daredevil—it’s consuming you.”

You scoffed, though his words landed harder than you wanted to admit. “I’m doing my job. If that makes you uncomfortable, maybe you’re the one who should be asking questions.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might snap back. Instead, he leaned in closer, his voice soft but heavy with meaning. “Maybe you should ask yourself why you’re so desperate to figure him out.”

The proximity was unbearable—too close, too charged. His words hit like a punch to the gut, leaving you reeling. You wanted to push him away, to tell him he was wrong, but something in the way he looked at you—or didn’t look at you—kept you rooted to the spot.

“Why don’t you tell me?” you said, your voice quieter now, the fight in you mingling with something else entirely.

His lips quirked into a faint smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the one chasing ghosts.”

With that, he stepped back, his cane tapping the pavement as he turned to leave. You stared after him, your chest tight with a mix of fury, confusion, and something you didn’t want to name.

This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was war. And you weren’t about to lose.

The turning point came late one night, the kind of night where the city felt alive and malevolent, every shadow a threat.

You’d been following a lead, tailing a low-level thug rumored to have ties to Wilson Fisk. The alley stank of rot and desperation, but you stayed hidden, your camera ready to catch anything that might blow the Daredevil story wide open. And then all hell broke loose.

The thug had barely turned the corner when he was intercepted, the dark shape of Daredevil descending like a predator. The fight erupted fast and brutal—fists cracking against bone, bodies slamming into dumpsters. You stayed frozen, heart pounding, snapping photos as quietly as you could.

But chaos doesn’t care about quiet.

A thrown blade missed its mark, spinning wildly before burying itself in your shoulder. Pain exploded through you, a raw and burning shock that stole the breath from your lungs. You stumbled forward, your cry piercing the fray.

The fight stopped.

In an instant, Daredevil was on you, his presence like a force of nature—overwhelming and commanding. He caught you before you collapsed, his hands firm and steady despite the violence still radiating off him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice a rough growl that sent a chill through you.

Your vision blurred as you tried to focus on his face—or at least the mask that hid it. “Doing my job,” you bit out, clutching at the hilt of the blade. Pain ripped through you, and your knees buckled.

“Your job?” His voice was laced with anger, though it wasn’t clear if it was aimed at you or himself. “Your job is going to get you killed.”

“Yeah, well,” you gasped, teeth clenched against the agony, “newsflash—dying’s not in the budget this month.”

His jaw tightened beneath the mask. For a moment, he just looked at you, his head tilting slightly like he was listening to something you couldn’t hear. Then he cursed under his breath. “Can you walk?”

“I think so,” you said, but your legs betrayed you as soon as you tried.

Without another word, he lifted you into his arms like you weighed nothing. You swore, weakly pounding your fist against his chest. “I’m fine! I can—”

“Shut up,” he interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re bleeding all over the place. Stop being stubborn.”

The world spun as he carried you, moving through the labyrinth of Hell’s Kitchen with a confidence that felt inhuman. The smell of incense hit you before you realized where he’d taken you: an abandoned church, its walls cracked with age and its air heavy with dust and decay.

He laid you down gently on a makeshift cot, his movements careful but unceremonious. Without a word, he pulled out a first aid kit and went to work, cutting away the fabric around your wound with swift precision.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of his gloves peeling off and the sharp hiss you let out when the antiseptic hit your skin.

“You’re not going to scare me off,” you said finally, your voice shaky but defiant.

He paused, his hands hovering over your bandage, before letting out a low, humorless chuckle. “I’d be disappointed if you were that easy to scare.”

He finished wrapping your shoulder, his touch firm but not unkind. Then he leaned back, his masked face unreadable as he looked at you. “You shouldn’t have been there.”

“And you shouldn’t be running around in red tights picking fights with mob bosses,” you shot back, exhaustion dulling the sharp edge of your tone. “But here we are.”

For the first time, his head tilted toward you in something almost like amusement. “Stubborn doesn’t even begin to cover it, does it?”

“Guess not,” you muttered, leaning back against the cot. Your eyelids felt heavy, but you refused to look away from him. “So, what now? You keep playing knight in shining armor, or are you finally going to tell me what the hell’s really going on in this city?”

He stood, his broad shoulders casting long shadows in the flickering light of the church. “You want answers?” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “Then stop putting yourself in the crossfire.”

He moved toward the door, pausing only to glance back at you. “Next time, I might not be there to save you.”

You lay there for a moment, watching Daredevil move toward the door, his silhouette framed by the soft, dying light of the church. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to let it go, to take the bandage and your bruised pride and call it a night. But you weren’t wired that way, and if you were going to end up in his world tonight, you sure as hell weren’t leaving without answers.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you called after him, your voice sharper than you intended.

He stopped mid-step, his head tilting slightly as if weighing whether to engage. After a moment, he turned back toward you, his arms crossing over his chest. “Doing what?”

“Showing up out of nowhere, pulling people out of danger, and then disappearing without giving me anything to work with,” you snapped. You propped yourself up on your good arm, glaring at him. “I’m not just some idiot with a camera, you know. I’ve been digging into this for months—years, even. I know there’s more to all of this than just a masked guy punching bad guys in alleys.”

His lips pressed into a thin line beneath the mask, and when he finally spoke, his voice was maddeningly calm. “What exactly do you want to know?”

You blinked, momentarily stunned. “For starters? Why Fisk’s men are running scared of you. What you’re trying to accomplish out there. Hell, who you even are!”

He stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. “Who I am doesn’t matter,” he said evenly. “What matters is that people like Fisk don’t get to run this city unchecked.”

“That’s not an answer,” you shot back, frustration bubbling under your skin. “That’s a slogan. Try again.”

He tilted his head, his lips quirking in the faintest hint of a smirk. “What I do isn’t exactly something you put on a résumé, you know. It’s not about me—it’s about stopping people who think they’re untouchable.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the cot. “God, you’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told that,” he said dryly, leaning down slightly.

You looked up, opening your mouth to fire off another retort, but the words caught in your throat when you realized just how close he was. He’d stepped into your space, his presence overwhelming, and you could feel the heat radiating from him even through his suit. His gloved hand rested on the edge of the cot, his other hovering near your bandaged shoulder as if he were still checking on you.

Your breath hitched, the charged air between you crackling with something that wasn’t just frustration anymore. His head tilted slightly, his red-tinted lenses trained on you—or at least giving the impression that they were.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice softer now, barely above a whisper.

“Making sure you’re not going to pass out,” he replied, his voice lower, rougher.

“I’m fine,” you said, though the waver in your tone betrayed you.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he murmured, his lips quirking again.

You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re not helping, you know.”

“Not trying to,” he admitted, his voice dropping even lower, almost teasing.

The tension between you was unbearable now, thick and suffocating. Every part of you was hyper-aware of how close he was, the way his broad shoulders seemed to block out everything else in the room, the subtle flex of his jaw beneath the mask.

“This whole vague, mysterious act of yours?” you said, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and something else. “It’s not going to work on me.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

You held his gaze—or at least where you thought his gaze would be. “Yeah. I’m not scared of you.”

He leaned in slightly, close enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek. “You should be.”

Your breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs. You didn’t move, didn’t look away, even though every nerve in your body screamed at you to.

The church was eerily quiet, the faint scent of old incense lingering in the air as Daredevil knelt beside you. The makeshift cot beneath you creaked softly as you shifted, wincing at the sharp, hot pain radiating from your shoulder.

“Stay still,” he said, his voice low but firm. His gloved hands worked quickly to gather what he needed—a bottle of antiseptic, gauze, scissors. The sound of his movements echoed faintly in the vast, empty space.

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, biting back a hiss as the adrenaline began to wear off. “You’re not the one with a knife sticking out of your shoulder.”

He glanced at you—or at least turned his head slightly in your direction, the red lenses of his mask catching the faint glow of candlelight. “It’s out now,” he said flatly, his tone a little softer. “But it’s going to hurt worse before it gets better.”

You rolled your eyes, your lips quirking despite yourself. “Great bedside manner, really. You ever consider a career change?”

“Funny,” he replied dryly, reaching for the bottle of antiseptic. “Hold still. This is going to sting.”

You braced yourself, clenching your fists against the scratchy fabric of the cot as he poured the liquid onto a clean piece of gauze. When he pressed it to the wound, you couldn’t stop the sharp gasp that escaped your lips.

His hand immediately came to rest on your good shoulder, grounding you. “Breathe,” he murmured, his tone gentler now. “I’ve got you.”

The warmth of his touch, even through the glove, sent a shiver down your spine. You focused on his voice, letting it pull you back from the edge of the pain.

“You’ve done this before,” you said after a moment, your voice shaky but laced with curiosity.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rough. “More times than I’d like.”

“Lucky me,” you muttered, your eyes darting to his face. Even under the mask, his presence was overwhelming—calm, steady, but with an undercurrent of something darker, something electric.

“Lucky,” he repeated, almost like he was testing the word. He tilted his head slightly as he worked, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his lips. “Most people wouldn’t call it that.”

“Well,” you said, biting back a grimace as he applied pressure to the wound, “I’m not most people.”

His hands stilled for just a moment, his head tilting again as if he were studying you—or listening to something only he could hear. “No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, how the heat of his body seemed to seep into yours. His fingers brushed your skin as he reached for the bandage, and it was impossible to ignore the way your pulse quickened.

“Is this part of the whole ‘devil-may-care’ act?” you asked, your voice a little too breathless.

He smirked, the curve of his lips just visible beneath the mask. “You tell me. Does it feel like an act?”

The question sent a rush of heat through you, and you hated how much he could rattle you with so little. “I think you enjoy this,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended. “The mystery, the danger. Keeping people guessing.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower. His fingers lingered on your shoulder as he smoothed the bandage into place, and the light touch made your stomach twist. “But you’re not like the others. You don’t scare easy. You said it yourself.”

You scoffed, though the sound was shaky. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you want,” he said, leaning back slightly to look at you.

Your eyes locked with his—or where you thought his eyes would be—and the air between you grew thick, charged with something you couldn’t name. His hand was still on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that felt far too intimate for the circumstances.

“You don’t make this easy,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not trying to,” he replied, and for the first time, there was something raw in his voice, something vulnerable beneath the cold, calculated edge.

The silence stretched, the weight of it pressing down on you both. You couldn’t look away, couldn’t bring yourself to break the moment.

His fingers lingered for just a second longer before he pulled away, standing with the smooth, effortless grace that always seemed to remind you how different he was.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, his tone shifting back to something cooler, more composed. “Just… stay out of trouble for a while.”

You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Right. Because you’re so good at that yourself.”

He hesitated, his head tilting slightly as if he wanted to say something else. But instead, he turned, his cape shifting as he moved toward the shadows.

“Get some rest,” he said over his shoulder, his voice softer now. “You’ll need it.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the dim light, your heart pounding and your thoughts spinning in a way that had nothing to do with the wound in your shoulder.

After that night, something shifted. The line between Matt and Daredevil blurred in ways you didn’t expect, leaving you teetering on an edge you weren’t sure you wanted to cross. Matt had grown softer—not in the dismissive, charming way he used to handle you, but in a way that made him more frustrating. He deflected your questions as always, but there was something protective in his tone, something that suggested he was more invested than he’d ever admit.

And Daredevil? He was everywhere now. Sometimes just watching, sometimes stepping in when danger got too close, but always lingering just long enough to leave you questioning everything.

It was that same infuriating pattern that brought you to Matt’s apartment one stormy night, your resolve hardened by weeks of half-truths and unspoken tension. You weren’t leaving until you got the answers you’d fought so hard to piece together.

When Matt opened the door, his expression flickered with surprise before settling into something guarded. He stepped aside to let you in, his jaw tight as he shut the door behind you.

“You’re here late,” he said, his voice low.

“I figured it out,” you said, no preamble, no hesitation. The words spilled out like a challenge, filling the small space between you. “You’re Daredevil.”

The air seemed to still. Matt froze, his shoulders stiffening, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t deny it immediately, and that told you everything you needed to know.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally, his voice a fraction too calm.

You stepped closer, your heart pounding, a heady mix of pride and adrenaline thrumming in your veins. “Don’t I?” you shot back, your voice sharp but steady. “You’ve been stonewalling me since day one. You always know where I am, what I’m doing. And Daredevil? He’s too… you. The way he moves, the way he talks. You’re the most religious man I know and Daredevil took me to a church for gods sake. It all fits.”

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he turned his head slightly, as if trying to decide whether to keep arguing. “Stop,” he said quietly, his tone firm but strained. “If you’re right—and I’m not saying you are—then you’re in more danger than you realize.”

You let out a sharp laugh, the sound almost bitter. “Danger? You think that scares me? I don’t care about the danger, Matt. I care about the truth. I care about you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. For a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, fear, frustration. He exhaled slowly, stepping closer, the space between you evaporating.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

“Maybe not,” you whispered, lifting your chin defiantly. “But I’m asking anyway. Because if this is you, Matt… I can’t finish the story..”

His hand came up almost hesitantly, brushing against your cheek. The touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. His thumb lingered near your jaw, his head dipping slightly as if he couldn’t decide whether to move closer or pull away.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.

“Probably the same thing you’re doing to me,” you said, your voice trembling but steady enough to meet his intensity.

And then the tension snapped.

The kiss was inevitable, a collision of frustration, need, and something deeper that neither of you could put into words. His lips crashed against yours with a desperation that made your head spin, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to pull you closer. You gripped his shirt, pulling him down to you as if the heat of his body could ground you in the chaos.

It was messy, frantic—his lips trailing fire down your jaw, your hands fisting in his shirt as the world narrowed to just the two of you.

When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. His hand lingered on your cheek, but his expression was torn, the war inside him written all over his face.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he said, his voice rough, almost pained.

You swallowed hard, your heart still pounding in your chest. “No,” you agreed, your voice quiet but steady. “But it’s a start.”

His thumb brushed against your cheek one last time before he stepped back, the distance between you suddenly unbearable. And as you stood there, your breath catching in your throat, you realized just how deep you were in.

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@cakesandtom

[mothiir]

not a request, more of a fun fact because i saw another sanguinius fan here yesterday and i can’t find her blog for the life of me.

supposedly birds, particularly male birds, associate their wings being stroked with sexual stimulation and will become very sexually frustrated if it’s not taken care of. Stroking their wings too often will also cause them to associate you with being a mate instead of a friend or companion, which causes them to be jealous and possessive over you.

do with this information what you will

So what I did with this is write some sanguinius being a wee bit feral but also being the noble boy we love. Also I need to start writing things that aren’t dubcon because why is this the healthiest relationship I’ve written so far

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cw: slightly lewd, implications of violence

—

—

It probably starts off completely by chance: you’re cleaning, and Sanguinius swans into his quarters without noticing you. Even the noblest of the Emperor’s sons will sometimes fail to acknowledge the staff, especially when he is distracted -- and oh, is the poor thing distracted. He’s just had to sit through a four hour meeting -- hosted by Roboute, with the Lion in attendance, and he has been zigzagging between acute boredom and blinding frustration -- and, on top of all of that, he is moulting. He claws his robe off his body, stretching his wings out to their full span. He makes a primal sound of pure satisfaction, contorting his sleek golden body to dig his fingers into his tender flesh, trying to unroot the snarls of not-quite loose feathers. Some come free easily; others snag. He wishes he was in Bhaal, where he could stretch himself out in the hot dry dust, and squirm back and forth, letting the acrid soil scratch the most stubborn of itches. Alas, there is no such amenity here, only -- 

It’s then he notices you, cloth in hand, frozen. At his gaze, you immediately drop to your knees, touch your forehead to the floor. 

“My lord Primarch -- forgive me --”

“Forgive you for what?” he says, lightly. “There is nothing to forgive; you are doing your duty. You are excused -- there is plenty aboard to be cleaned.”

You stand somewhat shakily, twisting the cloth between your hands. “Yes my lord. Of course my lord. It is just --”

You know a little about birds -- enough to recognise the signs of a highly uncomfortable moult. And Sanguinius is not a bird but the greatest man you have ever known, and yet…and yet you cannot help yourself. 

“--I wonder if I could be of assistance? With the uh -- with the pin feathers. The ones that aren’t open, I can see a few -- “

You make an aborted little gesture: fingers closing, as if around an invisible reed, pinching slightly, dragging up. Precisely the way he sees to his own pin feathers, letting the keratin sheathe surrounding them crumble against his grip, freeing the filament within. 

“My mother keeps birds,” you offer, as an explanation, then flush. “Not that you are one, my lord -- not --”

He chuckles at your unease, and settles himself down on his bed, patting the red silk quilt beside him. 

“Come. Assist me, if you are so keen.”

Many quail at the sight of him -- despite what Horus thinks, Sanguinius is more revered than beloved, and the difference between the two is stark -- but you do not. You approach him with downturned eyes, smelling faintly of fear, but you still approach him. 

Your hands are small and swift, deftly opening up the feathers in need of help, leaving the ones not yet ready. You work for hours, until your hands must be cramping from effort, but you do not quibble or complain. You smooth his primaries, straighten them in line with each other; you tug free lumps of down with sharp efficient gestures. Slowly, the itching fades, and with it the frustration. Before Sanguinius quite knows what he is doing, he has sprawled himself back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You use the new angle to your advantage, reaching under his flank to work at the feathers closest to his wingjoints. 

“There,” you say, just as he feels about ready to drift off. His eyes are half-lidded, and a slight smile curves his lips. “That looks…better. You’re not done moulting yet, but that’s what I can do for now.”

“You’ll return tomorrow,” he says, a request and a command and a question all at once. Your cheeks are wonderfully pink as you nod. He ponders briefly what all that delicious blood would taste like, spilling down his throat, and then shoves the thought to the side. He will not ruin your helpfulness with his hunger. 

The next night, you perform the same job, and the night after that, and the night after that. His moult ends, but he thinks it best that you keep returning: caring for his wings is an important duty, after all, and you are so very good at it. So eager to please.

(A voice that sounds distressingly like Konrad’s says what else would she do to please you, golden one? -- but he ignores that, for he must.)

The problem becomes apparent not during those long late nights as you preen him while he tries to think of anything but how sweet your blood would taste, but in the middle of his ship. He has just led his sons to an astounding victory, coming to the aid of a local governor against a fleet of xenos raiders, and -- as is tradition -- they are celebrating, hosting the Imperium’s great and good aboard the Red Tear. The ballroom they gather in is built to accommodate a Primarch, with a huge arched ceiling, draped with scarlet silk. The walls are festooned with artwork of immense beauty, most painted by the Blood Angels themselves: scenes of battles hard won, golden cities on green hills, birds flying free over great glittering lakes. Sanguinius makes a speech, praising the well-fought battle of the planetary defense force against the raiders -- and meaning every word -- and then retires to a corner to sip his wine and try to relax. He cannot walk amongst the delegates without people dropping to their knees in supplication, so he finds that becoming part of the furniture is the best approach for a restful party for all.

That is when he sees you. You’re wearing the same basic formal outfit all of the serfs wear -- fine scarlet linen, embroidered with gold -- but you’ve altered the wide-legged trousers into a skirt, which swishes around your ankles as you move; a slit halfway up your thigh gives him a tantalizing glimpse of pale flesh, and his mouth goes dry. 

Deep in conversation with one of the proud young soldiers, you’re completely oblivious to Sanguinius’s hungry gaze. At least -- he hopes you is, because you laugh at something your companion says and then he touches your shoulder.

Before he can control himself, Sanguinius crosses the ballroom, picks up the young human and rips him in two, showering you both with a fountain of gore. Your scream stills in your throat, eyes bugging with terror, as he gathers you close, tongue running along your pulsing jugular, claws biting into your flesh as he shreds your garment, intent on claiming you then and there, his mate, his woman, his --

That, of course, is not what happens. What actually happens is that Sanguinius stalks towards you, a beatific smile pasted over his face, and the poor young man immediately steps backwards; his logical mind sees the Primarch, and is awestruck; but his primal lizard brain screams this is a predator you have to run. 

“I will have to steal you away, if you don’t mind,” he says, and of course you do not mind -- because you are his. His woman. His mate. As he steers you out of the ballroom, you confide in a low voice:

“Thank you. He was lovely, but just a little too eager. I think he was all of seventeen!”

Sanguinius knows he should feel ashamed that he had come this close to gutting a child-soldier who had the misfortune of making you laugh, but he doesn’t. He feels a little guilty at his lack of guilt, but that is it. If he had slain the boy it would have been his right, as your lord and master --

No. No. That is not him; that is not how he acts, nor how he behaves. Those impulses come to him for he is a warhawk and a warrior, but he does not act on them because he is not a monster. 

“These parties do get tiresome,” he says, ushering you ahead of him. “I am glad I have you to keep me company while we avoid them.”

You end up back in his bedroom, combing your fingers through his feathers. He melts under your touch, every sinew in his back starting to relax. Soon -- hopefully soon -- he will have you squirming and mewling under him, your legs spread eagerly for him, your tight little body welcoming him deep inside. Soon. When he is sure that you are saying yes because you want to, not because the overwhelming force of his desire is warping your own feelings. When he can trust himself not to hurt you anymore than you want to be hurt. 

Sanguinius can hold tight to his self control for that. For your sake. For his. 

[ryder-the-kooikerhondje]

Your Daughter is Getting Bullied- Dad!Kiribaku x Reader

CW: Bulling, your kid has a bruise, implication of Kirishima dealing with SH in the past

A/n: I randomly got motivation to write angry dad Kirishima so here we are lmao.  It is not said whether you had your daughter biologically or if she were adopted. If u read my Dad!Bakugo fic and recognize your daughters name no you don’t. Also u can tell when I lost motivation💀

WC: 1.1k

Eijiro Kirishima was blinded by rage. He couldn’t see anything but red.

"What do you mean my daughter is being bullied?!" He yelled, demanding an answer.

"Mr. Kirishima, please calm do-"

"Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!" He slammed his hands on the principal's desk. "When I come to pick up my daughter I should not see a bruise on her arm!"

"Mr. Kiri-"

"No. I'm going home to talk to my daughter and partners about what to do about your unprofessional and incompetent school staff." He spat. He turned around and grabbed his daughter's backpack from the office chair before walking toward the door. He stopped in the door way and turned his head back toward the principal. "Expect a letter from my office." He snarled. He made his way to his daughter's classroom, controlling his breathing as he walked. Once he was calm enough, he walked into the classroom.

"Dada!" Enya yelled, running to hug her dad.

"Hey, Sunshine." Eijiro smiled. He turned to her teacher. "Thank you so much for looking after her."

"Oh of course, Mr. Kirishima. I apologize for not noticing sooner." She apologized. He raised his hand;

"No, no. This isn't your fault." He sighed. "I want to say thank you for being such an amazing teacher. Enya really enjoys your class." He chuckles under his breath, "She talks about it all the time at home." The teacher smiled.

"I'm thankful that I could teach your daughter."

"Well, we should get home." Eijiro said as he picked up Enya. "Say goodbye, Sunshine." Enya turned around and waved:

"Bye-bye! See you tomorrow!" Eijiro bit his lip.

-

Eijiro turned the key and unlocked the front door to your house. Enya immediately ran inside to go greet you and Katsuki. He sighed and closed the door behind him. He dropped his duffel bag (filled with his hero gear) and Enya's backpack on the organizer by the door. He walked into the dining room to see Katsuki at the dinner table. Enya was on his lap, talking to him about her day. Eijiro assumed he was reading, as there was a book folded on the table, as well as his reading glasses perched on the top of his head. You were across the way in the kitchen, cooking dinner. He walked over to you, letting his head fall on your shoulder and his hands grab your waist.

"Hello, Ei." You chuckled as you turned your head and kissed his head. He grumbled in response. "What's wrong, love?" You asked. You knew that it wasn’t good to hide your emotions; Eijiro taught you that. He buried his head deeper into your shoulder and mumbled something. "Hmm?" You asked for clarification. Your moment, however, was interrupted by a loud voice.

"WHO THE HELL DID THIS TO YOU!?"

"Katsuki! Language!" You yelled, leaving Eijiro's grasp and making your way towards Katsuki. "Now, what…happened..." You were in shock. Right there, on your daughter's arm, was a bright purple and yellow bruise. You immediately ran over and crouched down next to your daughter (who was still on Katsuki's lap). "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, it doesn’t hurt anymore." She answered. In your peripheral, you saw Katsuki's eye twitch.

"Okay, that’s good. Go change out of your uniform then we'll have dinner, okay?" She nodded and walked away to her room. As soon as she was out of earshot, Katsuki dragged his hands across his face.

"Fucckk." He groaned. "Why would anyone do that to her?!" He stood up from his chair and started pacing. You grabbed his glasses off of his head, just incase he accidentally broke them from his rage again.

"I don’t know, Kats." You sighed. Your heart sunk. "Do you think it's because of us?"

"What? No, of course not baby." Eijiro comforted you by grabbing your hand.

"I don’t know." Katsuki interjected.

"Kat!"

"What? I mean it's possible. I know for a fact that no one else in her class has three parents." He reasoned. You shifted your weight, uncomfortable with the fact that Katsuki was probably right.

"Okay, but that doesn’t have to be the case." Eijiro tried to reason. "There could very well be another reason."

"Like what, Red?" Katsuki took a step toward Eijiro. "Fuckin' tell me what else." Eijiro remained silent. "Can't, can you?"

"Guys." You sighed. They both immediately stopped and looked at you in unison. "Let's just ask Enya." You suggested.

 Eijiro chuckled dryly:  "Yeah, that might be better."

-

"So, Squirt, do y'know why you got hurt?" Katsuki asked. You four were now in her room, putting her to bed.

"Well, Abby pushed me into my desk today." She answered.

"Did she say why?" You inquired.

"Uh- she said it was cause I didn’t have 'good normal parents'." She made air quotes with her hands. Your eyes all widened . Eijiro immediately stood up and left, clenching his fists. You noticed Enya watching him leave.

"Don’t worry sweetheart, Dada just needs some time." You kiss her forehead tell her goodnight before heading out to where Eijiro had gone. You found him pacing around the living room, hands mindlessly scratching at his arms. You immediately walked over in front of him and grabbed his hands, ceasing his movement. You interlaced you fingers with his, bringing his attention to the semicolon bracelet he wore.

He exhaled. "Thank you." You hummed in response. "I just don’t know what to do. I want what's best for her but… she loves that school."

"That doesn’t matter if she's getting hurt." Katsuki remarked from the hallway. "I don’t care what she thinks. I'm not willingly let her go to a school where she's getting bullied."

"Her opinion is still important, Kats." You reasoned.

"Yeah, yeah. Sure."

"Okay, but I think Katsuki is right, Hun." Eijiro Let go of one of your hands to grab onto one of Katsuki's. "I don’t feel safe sending her there anymore."

You sighed: "Yeah, you're right. I just feel bad for her."

-

"Dada, why didn’t you wake me up?"

"Oh, sorry Sunshine. You're not going to school today."

"Oh." Enya paused. "Why?"

"Uhm, we just want to make sure that you're getting a good education." Eijiro rubbed the back of his neck. You and Katsuki both knew that meant he was lying. Luckily, Enya hadn't realized that yet. You walked into the living room, seeing him sitting on the couch on his laptop, talking to Enya who had just woken up. He was looking at new schools, since his patrol wasn’t until later. You called Enya into the kitchen, telling her it was time for breakfast. Eijiro got up and joined her as well (Katsuki had left already).

"Honey, can we talk real quick?" You asked.

"Of course." He answered, following you into the hallway.

"I was thinking, what if she gets bullied at her new school?" You whispered, voice laced with concern. Ei gave you a sympathetic smile.

"I don’t think she will. And, even if she does," He rested his forehead against yours "we'll be there for her."

A/n Pt.2: Okay, okay. I know the ending sucks, I had plans to write more I swear but motivation's a bitch. Anyways, if you enjoyed Dad!Bakugo and Dad!Kirishima, feel free to check out my masterlist, with more dad content.

[dynasty889]

Love in Paradise (Warrior!Penelope AU: Updated Version)

I made some changes to the old Love in Paradise drabble I did for this AU. Also I did the entire song. You’re welcome :)

(Obviously, CW due to suicidal thoughts and vague implications of SA)

—————————————————————————

Telemache smiled at the god of war. You’re a good kid. That’s what he had just called her. She didn’t know much about Ares, but she could guess that it wasn’t every day Ares’ softer side made an appearance.

“So you’re gonna help that friend of yours?” she asked with an eager, hopeful smile.

Ares nodded. “I will. Thank you for…inspiring me.” Telemache’s smile grew. “I will be back.”

Ares glared down into the abyss as he stood atop the hourglass. It had been seven years since he had last seen Penelope. The sting of the words she had yelled at him long ago remained, but he pushed that away. This wasn’t just some woman, but a mother and a queen, and she had been away from home for far too long. Now that he knew of the daughter she had left behind, it seemed the only logical thing to do would be to help.

Ares put his helmet on. All around him, Penelope’s memories jumped out at him. “Old friend…it’s been so long since I last saw you,” he said softly. If he wanted to find her, he had to start where it had ended for both of them.

“Remember me! I am the infamous Penelope!” She stood at the entrance of Polyphemus’ cave. Despite his warning, she didn’t listen to him. He was furious.

Ares, standing at the edge of the hourglass, leaned forward and let himself fall into her memories. “Let’s see where you’ve been!” He plunged into another memory.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer!” Aeolus warned. The wispy god cackled cheekily as they watched their little Winion friends mess with Penelope’s crew. Ares watched the fleet be blown away from Ithaca.

The winds settled, but a new storm began to stir. “Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves!” yelled the Queen of the Sea. Tidal waves and the Laestrygonians crushed Penelope’s fleet until only her ship remained. Bodies and debris littered the sea. Ares paused momentarily to watch Penelope unleash the remaining wind to save herself and her crew.

“One wrong move and you’re done for! Anything I—!”

“—Song of past romance! I see the—“

“—We won’t take more suffering from you!”

“Drown in your sorrow and fears!”

Ares followed each memory to the next: an encounter with a cunning witch, a trip to the Underworld to learn of a horrible fate, the killing of Sirens, a sacrifice of six comrades for quick passage.

“Captain?” Ares barely recognized that voice, though he knew it was one of Penelope’s comrades. Waves lapped against the hull and rain poured down on the crew. He looked over his shoulder. At the bow, Penelope stood. Hera’s hands lingered on the mortal queen, a devious smile playing at her lips.

“I have to see him…” Penelope choked out. Her clothes were torn and stained with blood, she was hunched over, and she had a black eye. Ares remembered when Hera had left Olympus to deal with ‘troublesome mortals.’ He didn’t know that it was Penelope’s crew she was going to punish.

“But we’ll die.”

“I know.”

Hera chuckled quietly. Madness fell over the crew and in an instant, the ship was reduced to nothing. He couldn’t find Penelope among the wreckage. His heart started to swell with anxiety.

“Penelope…where did you go?” he wondered aloud. One more memory gravitated towards him. Perhaps this one would finally lead him to her…

Penelope swam until the darkness of the night made things too hard to see. Until her legs gave out. She had managed to drag herself to the shore of an island, where she passed out. The next day, Penelope awoke to the sounds of gulls crying and the waves breaking on the shore. The light of the sun was nearly blinding. Every muscle in her body ached.

A stifled chuckle echoed in her ears. Blinking, she looked up and saw a man sitting beside her. “Morning, sleepyhead. You’ve been resting for a while,” he teased. His voice was deep, but despite that and his gruff appearance, it carried a humorous air. It was one Penelope did not like at all.

The man laughed again. Penelope’ confusion was adorably amusing to him and he decided he would savor it as long as he could. “I swore that you were dead when you washed up on my isle,” he mused. “Did you know you talk in your sleep? Tell me, though, who’s Odysseus?”

Odysseus. That name, like sweet honey, lingered in her ears. It was like medicine to soothe her aching head. Though she was still groggy and dazed, her senses were slowly coming to her. “He’s my husband…” she murmured. It was at that same moment she realized how close the man was to her and that his hand was gently resting on her thigh.

He blinked like he was confused. Penelope, equally confused, stared back. They exchanged stares in awkward silence before the man spoke again. He pulled Penelope up to her feet and dragged her behind him. “Anyways, I’ve got all you could want here, all you could need here. Just you and me, my dear, my love for life.” His hands trailed down her body and he brought her close to him, like an embrace. “Soon into bed we’ll climb and spend our time.”

Penelope pulled away immediately. Turning her head, she began to walk in the opposite direction. “You’re not my man,” she asserted. What a bold thing to say. The man’s smile faltered slightly, but once he caught up to her and retook hold of her hand, it returned.

“I’m what you want here. I’m what you need here. Just you and me, my love, in paradise.” He again forced her to look at him. He didn’t seem as innocent—if ignorant—as before. Dread began to creep inside Penelope. With lust sparkling in his eyes, he brought a hand to her cheek and caressed her softly. “Now till the end of time, from here on out, you’re mine, all mine—”

Penelope shoved him off a second time. His lips had been dangerously close to touching hers. “Hell no! I could kill you where you stand! I’m no pet, I’m a married woman!” She drew her sword and widened her stance, but the man only chuckled.

“Oh, darling, you may try, but last I checked one of us can’t die.”

“What…?”

He reveled in the reveal of his true nature. He had so much power over her. He flicked the blade away and leaned back on a rock. “You’re adorable. Bow down now to the immortal Antinous, here to entertain. But fear not, I bring no pain…”

Penelope’s eyes widened in horror. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening! Not again. Her stomach sank. Antinous shot her a sinister smirk as he demonstrated for her his powers. Penelope could feel herself starting to crumble along with her hope.

“‘Cause we’ve got all we could want here, all we could need here. Under my spell, we’re stuck in paradise,” Antinous said once more. Penelope was really starting to hate those words, but Antinous only seemed to be getting more and more joyful. “No one can come nor go. My island stays unknown.”

That was the last straw. The sky felt as if it were falling, as though Atlas’ strength had finally abandoned him. Penelope rushed back towards the beach, but to her horror, there were no islands nearby. She felt a sharp twinge in her abdomen and she fell to her knees. Her hand was covered in blood and she cursed under her breath as she realized her wound had reopened.

She couldn’t run her way off the island, she couldn’t swim her way off the island, she couldn’t build way off the island. The terror she felt grew tenfold. She groaned, unable to stand back up as searing pain shot through the rest of her body.

“No, no!” she cried. “I don’t belong here, there’s something wrong here!” She looked to her left and standing beside her, as always, was Antinous. She mustered all of her strength and hobbled a few steps away, but Antinous could’ve crawled and it wouldn’t have mattered for she was too slow.

Penelope’s eyes darted up, down, left, and right. She had to find a way off the island. This couldn’t be her final fate. She hated that she was feeling so much panic, that Antinous was watching her completely fall apart. But she couldn’t be stuck. Not here. It wasn’t right. “I won't be drawn to love in paradise. Not till the end of time. There is no way—”

Antinous whipped her around. She was like a rag doll to him. “You’re mine. All mine.” Finally, he got what he wanted. His lips latched onto hers.

Ares’ shoulders heaved up and down, as did his chest, as he tried to process what he had just witnessed. Penelope was stuck, completely helpless, with some god. Guilt surged within him like a tidal wave. He shouldn’t have ever left her. He wouldn’t have if he knew this is where she had ended up.

“Seven years he’s kept you out of your control. Time can take a heavy toll…” murmured Ares. Although he didn’t want to, he needed to know what happened next.

Rain battered against Penelope’s skin. Her hair was longer, her frame was lighter, and her eyes were dull. The wind howled in the night, and it was as if it was urging Penelope closer to the edge. Several feet away was Antinous, whose face was contorted with dread and anger.

“Penelope!” he called.

“All I hear are screams…” The mindless mumble was just a fragment of the despair that had tortured the broken queen for the past seven years.

“Penelope! Get away from the ledge!” Antinous screamed. But it wasn’t just a plea, it was a demand. He had demanded so much from her, though sometimes he wouldn’t even demand. He would just take it.

Antinous grabbed her wrist, squeezing it tightly as he pulled her back to him. Penelope recoiled and ripped herself away from him. Tears swam in her eyes. “You don’t know what I’ve gone through!” she snapped and for once, Antinous’ reaction to her recoiling at his touch was not anger. It was shock.

The despair was getting darker and darker. It felt like her vision was starting to fade as all she could see was darkness. She turned away from him, as she so often did. The powerful breeze moved her along the cliff that urged her to its edge. “You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed. Every comrade I long knew…every friend. I saw them die! And all I hear are screams…”

“It will be fine, dear. Come back inside, dear. Love of my life, come back to paradise…”

“Let me close my eyes…”

Penelope staggered. What if she just…fell? She had been away from home for too long. She didn’t know how she had managed seven years of an unwanted love. Each day, the sea had taunted her. She once had loathed the sea as all of her problems seem to come right out of it, but she had spent each day of the last seven years staring at it, longing for home, as it crashed against the beach. It had taunted her. Now, it beckoned her.

“I know your life’s been hard. I’ll stay inside your heart…”

“All I hear are screams!” Penelope yelled. She couldn’t stand it. Voices were starting to echo in her head. They were getting too loud.

Antinous was getting more distressed with every moment Penelope refused to hear him. “I love you, my dear. I love our time here. Life would be so much worse if you had died—”

“Just let me close my eyes!” she screamed.

“—Please stay away from harm! Stay in my open arms!”

“All I hear are…”

This life was amazing when…

How much longer till…

…you greet it with open arms.

…your luck runs out?

The voices were starting to get louder. Penelope closed her eyes, hoping the wind would just knock her off her feet already. She could see Melantho’s smile, full of innocence. She saw Ctimene’s eyes that glared at her with disapproval. How in the world would she explain to her husband she had sacrificed him? How would she explain that to her husband?

Waiting…

Whatever we face…

…waiting!

…we’ll be fine if we’re leading…

How much longer…

…from the heart.

…till the show goes south?

Penelope pressed her hands against her ears, but she couldn’t drown out the voices of the ones she had lost. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she teetered between life and death, and death was calling. They were calling.

Tears slipped down her face. Everything was too loud, too much. She couldn’t think. All she could do was scream.

No matter the place we can…

How much longer…

…light up the world, here’s how to start…

…till we all fall down?

The world grew darker, her mind grew louder, her despair was all-consuming. She had no time to breathe. All she heard and all she did was scream.

…greet the world with open arms, greet the world with open arms.

…you rely on—

“ARES!”

Ares breathed heavily. Too much time had passed. In all his years of knowing Penelope, there was nothing that drove her determination quite like her family. And now, even that wasn’t enough. It was clear what he needed to do; if he couldn’t find a way to get her off that island, she would never see her home again.

He took one final glance at the memory. Antinous had lunged forward to catch Penelope as she reached out to the sky. The manner in which she screamed his name haunted him. It was raw and distraught and sounded like Penelope’s throat ripped apart just to say that one word. Everything was still in that moment. “She needs my help,” Ares decided. He would do everything he could to get her out of there.

[purin-gambler]

‘a piece of advice’ - suna rintaro

wc: 1.3k

cw: timeskip spoilers, minimal cursing

⚄ notes: bestfriend suna, fem reader, fluff, heavy implications of romantic feelings, suna might be terribly in love you as way more than friends- but you didnt hear that from me, mentions of past failed dates, suna kinda clowning atsumu at one point ( affectionate )

☁︎ a/n: i kept thinking about this troupe with suna??? the ‘hes your best friend but hes in love in you and is tired of seeing you go through other men that isnt him’ troupe and ughhh i had to write it myself. this was supposed to be a drabble oops, but i started to write it like a fic… i just might love this man. like a lot.

“i told you. you shouldve listened to me.” suna’s expression through the handheld device was deadpanned, as he knew from the very second your contact name popped up onto his phone for a video call, he would have to pull the ‘i was right, you were wrong’ card on you. all on the very same evening you would come home from this blind date, he would remind you of your decisions, and hed only received a huff of your breath in response.

clicking suna’s contact name and dialing his number was a common reflex at this point. especially during times like these. suna made it all too accessible to talk to him, knowing that he had no excuse not to answer, since the man was always glued onto that device of his no matter what situation he found himself in.

with all the times youve called, he would answer before the first ring had even rung, never wasting a second, always immediate to talk to you as if he were waiting to hear your voice again.

his willingness to chat and your endless rambles made it easy to connect, considering he was all over the country for the sake of his volleyball career. so video calls like the one you found yourselves in now were more common than youd like to admit. calls where suna found himself taking it easy in his hotel room, miles upon miles away from you to participate in a volleyball match the following morning. while you on the other hand, are on the line ranting in a frustrated manner to him. the opposite demeanors in your personalities clashing at this very moment, suna unsure of what to make of your current rambling outbursts of disappointment.

because calls like these were about men that werent him, taking you out on dates, and disappointing you again.

“i cant believe you went on a blind date with a guy atsumu set you up with.” he sneered.

with an elbow prompted against your desk to support your head resting on your hand, you slouched over your desk, the uncertainty of the matter apparent in your wavering tone. “but the guy sounded nice enough though… thought id give him a chance.”

hearing the way your voice faltered, he mused shortly after, “seemed nice? give him a chance? this guy walked out on you before you even got the bill.”

you watched the way he slouched back onto his chair, arms crossed, and not sparing you a second away from his disapproving gaze. “you couldve left first you know? but youre telling me you stayed, listen to him give you shit, watched him leave, and ended up paying the dinner for his sorry ass instead-?!”

silence was all that sat on the line, suna observing the expression sat onto your face. the display was clear as day, you embodied a disappointed frown that radiated your upsetness through his phone screen. all the time you wasted on some guy who couldn’t even spare you a glance, a ‘date’ that didnt care to let you utter a word, or understand you any more than just your name. an absolute waste of time he was, and it was a mutual agreement between the two of you. suna knowing well that you were way too good for him, and way too good for all these horrible excuses of dates you would find yourself going on. it was unfortunate to him that he knew all these experiences were accumulating in your memory, all too aware of the way they would tear you down.

these were absolutely memories you really didnt need. suna hadnt even experienced what you would tell him, but he began to grow frustrated with the way he had to hear you come home disappointed every single time. though he was never upset with you spilling all the details to him, in fact, he always encouraged it. always keeping an open ear to attentively listen to the spews of the pain and frustration you expressed onto him. listening to the way you explained how these dates wouldnt even give you the time of day. weather they had gotten too caught up in their distaste for your softer appearance, or found your personality unalienable with their own. your best friend couldnt deny his own disappointment that these guys were too stubborn to see you on a deeper level, hours gone on men who wouldnt dare to go as far as to desire any part of you. it upset him more than you knew, even though he never expressed all of it to you.

he just failed to understand time and time again, why they werent able to see you the way he did.

was it so hard? to love your curves of you body he found so beautiful, to love your face he was so happy to see, to love your voice that filled his heart with each of your words, to love the entirety of who you are and your existence without wanting to alter a single thing? he just couldnt understand.

because such a thing was as easy as breathing air for him.

loving you is just that easy.

“you know, atsumu can set volleyballs, not set you up on good dates. this better be the first and last time you take a suggestion like this from him.”

the stiffening weight of the silence between you both being fully broken once you responded with a grumbled, “lesson learned…” falling bitter from your tongue.

“good.”

though the frown on your face was all but faded, still all too prominent for his liking. he was fed up with this sight, because it was too familiar now. a light sigh escaped suna’s lips before he prompted himself forward, taking his phone into his hands.

“now give me the details. full name, photos- it can be some drivers license photo or some shitty thirst trap selfie- i dont care, occupation, date of birth- whatever atsumu showed and told you about. tell me everything.”

you scoffed in disbelief clearly laced with amusement, watching the way suna’s camera paused and cut off, indicating he was now tapping through his phone and opening up social media. ready for you to spill the details, until he was typing various combinations of your date’s name into the searchbar.

whatever he did with that information you provided him was far from your care or concern, knowing that suna was always just on his phone, doing who knows what. you assumed this was just him curiously trying to match a face to your story, since it wouldnt be the first time hes asked about these things.

though with you unaware of that growing irritation from your best friend on your behalf, you wouldnt have known that the second he found the guy, suna, with absolutely no hesitation, compiled together a little message to be sent his way. something he hadnt bothered doing before, but was sure as hell doing now. it was a message he couldve tied up in a little bow if he wanted to, hoping that it wouldve at least softened the blow of the contents written inside.

lets just say, the following morning, you received a heavily detailed apology from your previous date. a message which had caught you completely off guard and jolting you awake in the early hours of the day. staring at the detailed apology, you screenshotted the entirety of its pathetic glory, ready to relay the large paragraph to your best friend after his volleyball match later in the day.

if only you got to see the stupid look of pride on suna’s face after he received your messages.

[show-your-fangs]

make a wish, huh? i wish i wish with all my heart for reader to have pissed off her daddy dom in the field. so as a punishment she has to sit on this big man’s shoe while he does paperwork. cockwarming him with her mouth until he decides no matter how bad she’s whining and needing him, that she can rock and get herself off. but only if she listens to him. if not? if she’s a brat and she’s being really really needy?? i do believe that causes for a spanking, don’t you? over his knee, skirt rolled up.. you know. just a wish 😈🙏🏻

Knees | Dom!Aaron Hotchner

The Secrets We Keep (a Bunny and Clyde story) - Blurb

Pairing: Dom!Aaron Hotchner x BAU/sub!Reader

Words: 2k

CW: 18+, nsfw, mdni.

Tags/warnings: master!hotch, bunny!reader, established D/s relationship, cockwarming, oral (m receiving), pet names (bunny).

a/n: when Morgan asks for something, you give it to her.

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.

You swallowed and his entire body tensed up under you. He hissed in disapproval, his darkened gaze almost searing a hole through yours. You couldn’t help it, saliva had been pooling in the corners of your mouth for a few minutes and it was either swallow or let it drip down your throat. And let’s be honest, the latter did not sound as naughty as the former. You knew how he’d react, knew that his cock would twitch at the slight change in pressure, knew that he would know what you were doing. 

You didn’t let his stare scare you. Instead, you returned your own — round, innocent eyes that glistened with tears. It wasn’t that he was hurting you, on the contrary, he was giving you something that you craved yet it was a punishment that he knew was sure to make you lose your mind. His cock in your mouth, warm and heavy on your tongue, thick and hard against your throat. Unmoving, still, agonizing. 

He’d asked you into his office the second the last agent had left for the night. You knew what it was about, knew what awaited you the second he locked the doors and closed the blinds. And fortunately for you, it had not been the professional reprimand that you’d thought.

Unfortunately for you, he had made you strip completely, only allowing you to keep your panties. The cold air made your nipples hard and your skin erupt in goosebumps. He led you down on your knees, your pussy landing on his expensive leather shoe. He was calm and collected as he rolled his desk chair further into his desk, caging you against the wood at your back and his wood at your front.

“Open,” he commanded, and fearing any more repercussions after your major, his words, mild, your words, fuck up in the field, you eagerly did as he asked. A hint of a smile graced his lips as he watched you, an overwhelming sense of pride and satisfaction burning through his body as he unbuckled his belt. It was painfully slow and you were overly eager as you realized what he was commanding you to do. You were about to reach out to help him speed along the process when his eyes darkened in warning, your hands immediately falling against your sides. 

“Color?” he asked, a hint of cockiness in his voice startled you.

“Green, sir,” you replied, the implications of your consent not yet clear.

“Good,” with that he sprung his cock free from his underwear. He was already semi hard, the tip glistened with pre cum and you couldn’t help but salivate at the excitement. “This is not a treat, bunny,” your eyes met his again before he continued. “You are going to take me in your mouth but you may not make me cum, am I understood?”

Oh no. Aaron knew how much you loved to give him head, how you reveled in watching him come undone by your skilled tongue. It was one of the first things he’d learned about you, one of the things he couldn’t believe you liked doing. Which is why he knew that every fiber in your body would light up in protest. You wanted to scream, argue, throw a tantrum — but you didn’t. Instead you simply nodded solemnly. You had done this to yourself and there was no one else to blame.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl,” he praised and the excitement in your lower belly went up in flames again. “You will be a perfect, still angel until I finish my paperwork, and then we’ll see if you’ve earned the right to get yourself off on my shoe.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And with that he rolled his chair all the way into his desk, one hand around his cock, the other grabbing your chin and pulling you where he wanted you. The movement made your pussy graze against his rough laces and you had to stop yourself from moaning. You could already feel your wetness start to pool and he’d literally done nothing yet. His fingers pressed against your cheeks and your mouth opened on its own, wide and eager, as he placed a third of his length on your tongue. 

You could’ve started crying right then and there, but you didn’t. You would not let him break you that easily. 

“Do you remember how to safe word, bunny?” He asked, he always asked.

You nodded, making your tongue rub against the underside of his length. You tapped his leg once. Yes. “How do you tap out?”

You tapped his leg twice and he rewarded you by patting your cheek, gently at first, but then his pats turned into soft smacks, right against the tip of his cock inside your mouth. He groaned loudly, the sounds slowly making you lose all sense of self as you felt him twitch inside your mouth. 

“Fuck, bunny,” he moaned. “This is going to be a long night.”

And long it was. You had lost track of time. At first you decided to count the seconds, minutes, hours, whatever to distract yourself from moving, from what you actually wanted to do. But it was impossible. Your arms had wrapped around his leg to hold yourself steady, your legs had started to wobble and so you’d given up and fully sat yourself down on his shoe.

You were gone, your brain wasn’t working anymore. All you could think about was the weight of his cock in your mouth and how much you wanted to move. Move your tongue, move your head, move your hands to wrap around his base, move your hips to give yourself some kind of relief.

You swallowed again, this time accidentally, and because of your miscalculation, your flat tongue grazed against his length, making you roll your eyes back in euphoria. You didn’t register as your hips started moving, as your pussy made contact with the rough, uneven surface of his laces, as your wetness drenched his shoe. Your clit grazed against a buckle and you moaned, loudly. That was the final straw. 

Without a word of warning he rolled his chair out, his hands quickly grabbing you under your armpits and effortlessly lifting you from under the desk. Your mind snapped back to reality in an instant. Glazed eyes turned sharp, numbness turned responsive, daze turned into realization. You were about to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, to let the tears fall when he sat you down on his lap, your legs on either side of his own. 

“Sir—”

His palm landed with a smack on your ass, the sting making you whimper. You had learned early on that there were times when he was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t bring himself to verbalize his commands. Instead, he’d gotten into the habit of turning them into action. A single spank was a warning to be quiet, to save whatever groveling — he wasn’t going to listen to it. 

“When I give you a command, I expect you to follow it,” he said, anger lacing every word.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your head hanging low avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t mean it—”

That made him snap, his right hand landing another smack against your reddening ass as his left tightly grasped your jaw, pulling your head up to face him. 

“Like you didn’t mean to go into that apartment without backup?” 

He was concerned, so much in fact that it was the easiest you’d ever been able to read him. You knew he’d been concerned for you. As your boss, you knew he cared for you. But as your Dom…that was a whole different story. You’d done your best to compartmentalize, to trust the other in your skills and training, to accept that you would both be put in scary situations when out in the field. But right then and there, you knew, you saw. He was terrified.

“Yes,” you breathed, the heavy understanding of your punishment washing over you like ice cold water. “It will not happen again. Sir.”

His eyes bore into yours, searching, but you knew what he would find. You cared too. It wasn’t like you had planned on going in without backup, it was that you both understood that the job came first, that whatever instinct made you follow through, no matter how reckless, had probably been for the best of the case. And as much as you both knew, if it made him feel more comfortable to remind you to be careful in this way, you would let him do it every single time.

“Good girl,” he praised, his lips hovering over yours teasingly. “I think you deserve a treat, don’t you?”

You nodded rapidly, making him smirk. You reveled in it, in his smile, in the warmth that was seeing him experience happiness in whatever form it might take. He gently guided you back to your knees in front of his chair and your eyes lit up.

“Make me cum, bunny,” he sat back down, legs spread open like inviting you to a buffet, chest rising and falling, his white button up straining with each breath.

You wasted no time getting to work, your hands quickly wrapping themselves around the base of his cock. He was still a little slick from your saliva, but it wasn’t enough, so you reached one hand down your panties, fingers eagerly collecting your slick before you slathered it all over his rock hard erection.

“Jesus Christ, bunny,” he groaned as your hands started to move up and down his shaft. Moves calculated, perfectly pressured, expertly avoiding his needy tip. Pre cum started to leak once more and that’s when you couldn’t hold back any longer. Your tongue darted out on its own volition, eagerly rolling around his tip, hungrily drinking him all in. He moaned loudly, his hand wrapping around your hair and pushing you further down against his length. 

You let him, flattening your tongue and opening your throat as you swallowed more and more of his length into your mouth. He stopped at your hand, letting you work your magic then. You wanted him to cum, needed to feel his spend down your throat. Your hands sped up their movements, meeting your mouth sloppily as you bobbed your head up and down to meet them at the base. You continued to roll your tongue around his length as you sucked in your cheeks, tightening around his cock. You could feel him tense, his moans becoming louder and louder, his breathing uneven, his heartbeat aggressive.

“I’m close—” he didn’t even manage to finish his sentence as you removed your hands and took him the rest of the way down your throat. His chest erupted in an animalistic groan as the tension snapped and he spilled down your throat. You moaned at the feeling, at the power that you had over this beautiful man in front of you. As much as you wanted relief of your own, there was nothing more satisfying than having him spill down your throat, than having him come undone by your tongue. The tears finally spilled as you kept him there, patiently waiting for him to finish before you pulled yourself off him. Your eyes locked onto his as you swallowed, making a show of it. 

You were both breathing rapidly, both stuck in a pocket of time where nothing else but the two of you existed, both completely satisfied in your own ways. He ran his hand over his face then, breaking the spell, knowing that if he stayed any longer, he’d say something he’d regret. Instead he took in a sharp breath and placed himself back into his pants before he reached out to help you to your feet. He led you back on his lap and this time he cradled you, warm hands running all over your cold body. You hummed against his chest, your own hands tightly grabbing a hold of his suit jacket. 

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he murmured before he pressed a kiss to your temple. 

“Yes, Master.”

idk if i'm "back" yet, but here's my offering to you on this saturday. but mostly bc i wanted to fuck with morgan while she's busy and can't do anything about it.

tags: @ssamorganhotchner, @criminalskies, @callm3c0nfus3d, @xladyxdreamer, @gr3enflowers, @lilyviolets, @howabouticallyou, @shadowmemory, @simp4f1, @honeylovemoon, @powerlvr25, @formulapierre, @spenciesprincess, @extra-trash77 (if i missed anyone please let me know!)

[starseneyes]

Part I - Destiel Meta - Dean Winchester / Castiel - Supernatural

I remember Supernatural being on the air way back when. Hell, I briefly worked for three CID-owned The CW television stations when it was on the air.

I just realized that as I typed this. Wow, that's wild.

Tumblr's been a favorite place throughout the years to find new shows and ships. I suppose it was only a matter of time before your GIFs, posts, Summaries, and Headcannons drew me in.

WARNING: These are only my opinions. Your mileage may vary. We can all have different takes on the same source material.

SPOILERS: Nothing is held back. So, proceed with caution.

You ready? I'm ready. Let's dive in...

S4E01 -

It begins… with a handprint. That’s all Dean has as a memento of his time down below.

His scars from his violent death are gone. Any signs of what he endured—or dished out—in Hell are gone. But there’s a fiery handprint on his shoulder that is mighty unsettling.

With everything Dean knows to this point, the only possible explanation is that whatever dragged him out did it as a sick joke or a punishment of some kind.

Maybe, maybe he can believe Sam made some kind of deal, but he hopes he’s wrong on that one because he never wants Sammy in harm’s way.

He sets out to find whatever brought him back, and after it blinds someone he trusts, he’s ready for blood.

Remember, this is fresh-out-of-hell Dean. The audience doesn’t yet know, but they’ll soon enough learn what it was really like for Dean down there. What was done to him… and what he did.

So, Bobby and Dean set a trap to take out whatever this thing is. And as the light bulbs shatter and sparks rain down, the most unassuming man in a long trench coat that looks like the one my grandmother wore in the 1970’s strolls in.

It’s his gaze that makes you take pause as he strides. Yes, he blinks as the bullets slam into him, but he doesn’t slow. He remains fixed on the humans, but not with malice or ill intent. He’s focused and steady.

And in my head, I’m thinking of the Biblical Angels who often started their contact with cowering humans by saying, “Be not afraid”.

But, that’s kinda out of the question with trigger-happy Dean and Bobby. It’s more like, “Be Not A-“ BANG! “Be Not A-“ BANG! BANG!

So, I understand why Cas doesn’t even try.

Some meet the loves of their life at a bar, a place of worship, at school, or any number of mundane places. Dean and Cas first speak in a blaze of bullets, spray of sparks, and whipping wind.

“Who are you?” “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

Dean thrusts the knife into Cas’ chest, and the Angel actually looks annoyed. But he also knows that he’s got Dean’s attention, now.

Castiel pulls the knife from his chest, to Dean's horror. His eyes locked on Dean, the Angel anticipates Bobby’s attack from behind and neutralizes him.

“We need to talk, Dean. Alone.” … “Who are you?” “Castiel.”

And Cas is already going through Dean’s stuff, nonchalantly.

From moment one, this Angel has zero boundaries and no problem poking around. At this point, it’s not intimate in any fashion, but almost a disregard for personal boundaries, as though they are not of import. He simply wants to look, to see, to explore.

“Yeah, I figured that much. I mean, what are you?” “I’m an angel of the Lord.” “Get the hell out of here. There’s no such thing.” “This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.”

And I love the implication here that faith isn’t about faith in God. It’s about faith in anything.

Dean has been through the wringer down below, and he’s seen the worst of monsters and humanity. Very little light and love has touched his life, so for a reasonable person, the lack of faith makes sense.

But, Cas isn’t a person, not really. He’s an Angel and he doesn’t quite understand.

“This is a vessel.” “You’re possessing some poor bastard?” “He’s a devout man. He actually prayed for this.” “Look, pal, I’m not buying what you’re selling. So who are you, really?” “I told you.” “Right. And why would an angel rescue me from hell?” “Good things do happen, Dean.” “Not in my experience.” “What’s the matter? You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

This is the first time Cas uses his Angelic abilities to see through Dean—to see to the core of him.

That last bit isn’t a question. It’s Cas answering his own question with the information he sees within Dean—the human truly doesn’t believe he’s worth saving.

He wouldn’t have saved him. Not after what he did down below.

And Dean does not like Cas seeing him so clearly. It unnerves him. Dean is very good at burying everything deep so others can’t see it, but Cas sees through all that because of what he is—an Angel. So Dean’s usual defenses won’t save him, here.

“Why’d you do it?” “Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”

At this point, Dean still thinks the Angel is full of shit about what he is and what he’s saying. But he doesn’t try to fight him anymore. He listens enough until the Angel is gone.

S4E02 -

“Look, all I know is I was not groped by an angel. “

Really, Dean? Groped!? And, yes, at this time you were not groped by an angel, but that story may change in a few years for ya. Just sayin’.

“I’m not gonna believe this thing is an Angel of the Lord because it freakin says so.”

Oh, Dean, how little you know. Yes, there’s a lot that little Angel says that’s untrue. But he will come to believe things this Angel says just because he says them.

Later, Dean sleeps. We hear the flutter of wings and see a slumbering Dean’s eyes flutter open. The camera shifts from Dean to beyond, where we see Cas waiting.

“I thought angels were supposed to be guardians. You know, fluffy wings. Halos. Michael Landon. Not dicks. “Read the Bible. Angels are warriors of God. I’m a soldier.” “Yeah, then why didn’t you fight?” “I’m not here to perch on your shoulder. We had larger concerns.”

Cas here is everything he was supposed to be. He’s keeping an appropriate distance from the human in his charge. He’s keeping this duty entirely Heaven-oriented and not with Dean.

“The Lord works-“ “If you say in mysterious ways so help me I will kick your ass.”

Cas is exasperated here with the human. Like, oh, you sweet summer child. You think you can kick my ass?

And that annoyance turns to frustration as he steps into Dean’s personal space in a big way for the first time.

“Our numbers are not unlimited. Six of my brothers died in the field this week. You think the armies of heaven should just follow you around? There’s a bigger picture here. You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of Hell. I can throw you back in.”

It’s the dick-ish attitude that Dean ascribes to Cas, and Cas plays into here. He’s not yet enamored with the human, and it shows.

There’s no lost love between these two… yet.

S4E03 -

Ah, yes, we’ve gotten to the famous bed-sitting incident.

Cas sits on the bed, waiting for Dean to wake. And, come on, it’s not like he’s disrobed wearing nothing but a strategically placed teddy bear lounging beside Dean. He’s fully clothed, y’all. He’s perching on the edge of a bed, people.

And, look, I love the Destiel of it all. But I think it’s wild that a higher up was that incensed by Misha Collins sitting on the bed. And he just… sat on it.

Holy Cats, have we gotten this far without me mentioning the bloody actors!?

Destiel is what’s on the page and screen, yes, and it’s also the incredible chemistry between Collins and Jensen Ackles.

They’re both just sensational in their roles, with Ackles quite settled into Dean and yet still delivering such a layered performance that allows the room for a potential romance with the Angel of the Lord.

Collins comes into an established series for what he thought was a 3-episode guest arc, which is a good get for an actor, if we’re being honest (especially in this economy).

Collins has an impossible task of making an impression on the audience and TPTB… which he did. And part of that is because of these early scenes between the two performers.

There’s a level of intelligence in their scenes, a harmony of performance that sings. Some performers just click on the screen. These two do.

“Hello, Dean. And what were you dreaming about?” “You get your freak on from watching other people sleep?”

This is early on, so Dean’s still making sex jokes as a defense mechanism.

As time goes on, Dean will stop joking about sex with Cas and will even get to the point where he’s embarrassed… but we’ll get to that later.

“Oh, come on! What, are you allergic to straight answers, you son of a bitch?!”

I could say… so much. But I’ll hold my tongue… for now.

Throughout the course of the episode, Dean sees Cas doing his job. He’s supposed to make a point, supposed to show Dean something, help him learn a lesson. And he’s doing a fine job of it until the moment he sees Dean in true pain.

To me, this is the point of no return.

This is the moment Cas stepped outside of the lines for Dean Winchester. Because when he puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, it isn’t to zap him back to the present—it’s to offer comfort.

Dean stands there, alone, with a wealth of space behind him. Nothing there. Nobody to support him. And then the camera swoops to reveal Cas standing there as the hand lands on Dean’s shoulder.

When Dean pivots to look at Cas, he sees the compassion in the Angel’s face. He feels the hand on his shoulder as companionship and connection. And as they meet one another’s eyes, it passes between them.

This isn’t a romantic moment… not, yet. But, to me, this is the inception of everything that will come to pass.

Those of us who know how the rest of the story goes know that Angels often offer nothing but contempt to humanity. Cas is later revealed to see them differently, to truly marvel at humans and all of God’s creation.

Yes, he is an Angel who tries to toe the company line—but he’s also something more, something closer to… human.

Connection is a dangerous and wonderful thing. A person could tear the world apart for the sake of connection.

But it can also be the only thing that makes getting out of bed worth a damn. Dean is driven by his determination to do the job—so other people can truly live.

But he’s also bound by the connections forged in blood and trust.

Up to this point, Cas has offered nary a glimpse of empathy. But something in Dean’s suffering tugs it to the surface.

Later, an Angel will say of Cas that too much heart was always his problem. But for us, the audience, this is our first glimpse.

And, for Dean, it’s the first time he’s seen the angel in a different way.

This moment is necessary for anything else to happen. It’s foundational. The cornerstone.

This is all head cannon, but I earnestly believe this is the point where the other Castles in all the other versions of reality tapped the guy on the shoulder and zapped him home without fanfare.

But this Castiel, our Castiel encounters Dean Winchester in a human moment—of heartache and loss—and he doesn’t stand by and wordlessly observe.

Castiel interacted. Castiel engaged. Castiel reached out at a time when Dean desperately needed it. Oh, yes, this may not be where their story begins, but I think it’s where it shifts—because they connected.

By the time they land in the present, Cas has composed himself, but he can’t look at Dean. He faces away from him as Dean laments what he couldn’t change.

I wonder if Cas already realized he’d overstepped, that he’d felt the connection for the first time and couldn’t ignore its pull.

That invisible string is thin, so thin, but it’s there… tying Cas inexplicably and irrevocably to Dean.

S4E04 -

“Why did an Angel tell me to stop you?” “Cas said if I don’t stop you, he will.”

The first “Cas”! Now, we will later hear others call Castiel “Cas”, but Dean’s never heard it before, so he’s made this choice to give the angel a nickname of his own making.

And from this point on, Dean will very rarely address Cas as “Castiel”.

S4E07 -

“It’s Castiel. The Angel.”

Like here. When Sam meets Cas, it’s as “Castiel”. We are three episodes later, and the course of history has been changed because Castiel has stuck around beyond his initial three-episode engagement.

*happy dance of shipper glee*

Collins has pulled off an incredible feat—whether it was because of his performance or because of something broken in the room, I don’t know. But, I’m glad they kept the angel around, obviously.

Now, at this point there was no guarantees of what it would become, but this episode is important.

“There’s a bigger picture, here.”

This is one of those things that Cas says a lot the first season, and it makes me laugh, a little. His view changes so many times throughout the series, as he constantly tries to balance saving Heaven and Earth and saving one man.

“We have no choice.” ”Of course you have a choice. I mean, come on, you’ve never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?”

Dean knows this isn’t true about Cas. He knows because he saw something else there when they were alone.

Wow, that sounds more suggestive than I meant, but, when in Destielland, why not?

“I mean, for all we know, God hates these jerks.”

Welp, he’ll certainly come to hate Cas, but you’re not there, Winchester boys. Just wait.

“Sam, no, you’re not using your psychic whatever.” “But-“ “Don’t even think about it. Ruby’s knife is enough.” “Why?” “Because the angel said so, for one.”

I love how Cas is just “The Angel”, here. Later, this will come back in Purgatory as a big deal, but in this moment, Dean and Cas don’t have the relationship they will.

Dean’s making a point that Cas is an Angel and maybe his God-believing little brother will listen to the Angel if he won’t listen to him.

“Let me guess. You’re here for the ’I told you so’.”

Dean sits alone on the bench—a pair of benches angled inward, looking like wings if one stood in between. He sits on the far edge, closest to the inside. And when Cas appears, he appears in the exact same spot on his own bench.

These two aren’t quite aligned, yet. They aren’t sharing a bench or a table. They aren’t quite on the same page, but they’re angled toward one another as they both regard the beauty of innocence, of childhood, of playtime and imagination free of the burdens they both bear.

“Our orders-“ “Yeah, I’ve had about enough of these orders of yours.” “Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain, they were to do whatever you told us to do.” “Your orders were to follow my orders, it was a test. To see how you would perform under battlefield conditions, you might say.” “It was a witch, not the Tet Offensive.”

Cas chuckles at this. It’s so… human.

“This here, these kids. The swings. Trees. All of it is still here because of my brother and me.” “You misunderstand me, Dean. I’m not like you think. I was praying that you would choose to save the town., you were?, These people, they’re all my father's creations, they’re works of art.”

Cas leans forward, admiring humanity, and Dean watches him.

Yes, he’s still keeping Cas at arm’s length. They don’t have that strong a bond, yet, but this is another moment where Dean sees how Cas is different from the other Angels—he appreciates, even admires humanity.

“The seal was broken and we are one step closer to Hell on earth for all of creation, and that’s not an expression, Dean. It’s literal. You of all people should appreciate what that means.”

This hits Dean hard. Because now he realizes that the Angel knows everything. All the things he can’t bring himself to share with Sammy, Cas knows.

Dean averts his eyes from Cas as he processes that—the Angel saved him in spite of knowing everything.

“Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?” “Okay.” “I’m not, uh, hammer, as you say. I have questions. I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore. Whether you passed or failed. But in the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, dean. I truly don’t.”

They hold one another’s gazes here. Cas just opened up to Dean in a truly profound way—and Dean doesn’t even realize it.

Doubts are a big deal topside. Questions, too. And despite knowing all the terrible secrets Dean carries, Cas still entrusted his to him.

Oh, sweet Angel, how you’ve already begun your freefall and you don’t know it. The words you’d never utter at this point to another angel, you speak in hushed tones to this human.

S4E10 -

“Where’s your boss?” “Oh, Castiel. He’s not here. See, he has this weakness. He likes you.”

Now, at this point would anyone know it was going romantic? No. But allegiances in Heaven are important.

Dedication to the cause. Detachment from the humans. Weakness is not to be tolerated, and Cas’ growing connection to Dean is already gaining attention. It’s a problem.

Later, when Anna and Dean kiss in the most passionless and zero chemistry relationship of the series, Cas looks away.

We could intimate it’s because he’s uncomfortable with this display of human-on-angel affection. Maybe he’s wistful, wishing it were his own angelic lips pressed against Dean’s. Perhaps the easy forgiveness she offers the human for giving her up that she will never extend to Cas.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but she doesn’t believe him. She sees him as she sees all other Angels. She doesn’t yet know what Dean knows—Cas isn’t a tool. He’s so much more.

When Alastair chokes Cas, it’s Dean who stops it, hitting the Demon upside the head with a tire iron.

It’s Dean’s first time saving Cas’ ass, and he doesn’t know it’s about to become a habit, the two of them coming to the rescue for one another time and time, again.

And when Uriel lurches at Dean and Cas stops him—the human and angel connect eyes. I don’t know if it was on the page, but the first time I saw it, I got super excited.

I realized they’re starting to silently communicate with one another. That’s important later.

There’s also the way the coverage is shot—those tight shots of Dean and Cas during moment of intense eye contact. Yes, the Eye Fuck is a big thing for these two.

But that’s part of what makes it so delicious. Not everyone has expressive eyes, but both Ackles and Collins do, so we get to really savor every. Single. Eye Fuck.

C’mon, we need something to savor since this show never gave us actual meals but plenty of crumbs!

S4E15 -

“What the hell?” “Guess again. … Why do you think I recruited you and Sam in the first place?” “You recruited us? … If you want our help why the hell didn’t you just ask?” “Because whatever I ask you seem to do the exact opposite.”

Gosh, Cas has Dean’s number already.

“You made an exception for me.” “You’re different.”

This one is so fascinating to me, this little exchange. Dean doesn’t yet know the way the Angels will use him because he broke the first Seal.

But, we can also read it romantically, if we want. Personally, I don’t think that’s what Cas meant—he was just following orders when he saved Dean, after all.

But, if we look forward, oh, Dean is different to Cas.

S4E16 -

“Dean, we know this is difficult to understand-“ “And we don’t care.”

Cas looks away when Uriel interjects, and Dean clocks that bullshit quick.

Castiel is an Angel, yes, but Dean already knows that he has the capacity for compassion, for appreciation of humanity, for questions and doubt.

Dean knows there’s more to Cas than the other Angels. And he knows something’s wrong immediately.

“No. No way. You can’t ask me to do this, Cas. Not this.”

Dean is appealing to Cas, pleading with him. He knows that Cas knows what Dean’s done. He knows that Cas is aware of humanity and empathy, if not fully engaged in either because of his celestial nature.

But Uriel interjects with pomposity, “Who said anything about asking?”

“This is too much to ask, I know. But we have to ask it.”

Look as how Cas takes steps closer to Dean, how he wants to be closer to him. He understands the stakes, but also cares about this human.

And as they hold one another’s gazes, Dean remembers the Angel who placed a hand on his shoulder when he tried not to weep over his family in the past. He remembers the Angel who sat with him on a bench and watched children play, glad that he and Sam saved the town. He asks to talk to Cas alone.

“What’s going on, Cas? Since when does Uriel put a leash on you?” “My superiors have begun to question my sympathies.” “Your sympathies?” “I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You.”

Hold the phone, honey, it hasn’t even been a whole season.

You’re telling me folks were calling Hellers all manner of things for years, claiming they were reaching and seeing things that weren’t there, and Cas just admitted he’s a near-eternal being whose power and authority are being usurped because he got one touch of Dean Winchester in his system and now he can’t break free… but it was all in the shippers’ imagination!?

Y’all Destiel fans must have felt so gaslit, and I am so sorry because, wow.

“They feel I’ve begun to express emotions, doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment.”

And Cas turns away from Dean. I don’t know if I’m reading too much into it—it could be an actor choice, a director choice, a writing choice, or simple coincidence—but it feels like Cas does this when he tries to distance himself from Dean.

Later, there’ll be shame and bad blood between them that will cause him to avert his gaze. But here, at the beginning, there’s a tiny thread that is multiplying into a cord of connection, and Cas thinks if he looks the other way, it won’t braid itself into a rope that cannot be severed.

“You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out.” “For what it’s worth, uh, I would give anything not to have you do this.”

Dean closes his eyes, realizing there’s no way out. The only Angel who would speak up for him, who would stop this, is utterly powerless. He’s out of options. And he hates it here.

“You shouldn't be here. We still have orders to kill you.” “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll try. … What you’re feeling, it’s called doubt. These orders are wrong. And you know it. But you can do the right thing. You’re afraid, Cas, I was, too, but together we can-“ “Together? I am nothing like you. You fell.”

He doesn’t understand. He thinks the fall is so far down, that he isn’t over the edge yet.

But his trust is teetering for the sake of a man whose piercing green eyes cut through the programming of Cas’ existence. He thinks he’s still planted and rooted in his grace, but he’s already got one foot off the ledge and the other’s not far behind.

“I’m considering disobedience.” “Good.” “No, it isn’t. For the first time I feel… Anna, I don’t know what to do. Please tell me what to do.” “Like the old days? No. I’m sorry. It’s time to think for yourself.”

This is important. After saving Dean from Alastair, Cas is starting to realize just how far he’s already falling. And as soon as Anna tells him to think for himself, he reasons what happened with the Devil’s Trap and smites his own brother.

“Be unafraid,” Uriel tells him. “For the first time in a long time, I am,” Castiel responds.

He’s taking ownership of his story, of his journey, of his fears and doubts. He doesn’t yet know if he can falter without falling, but this is another one of those steps along the way.

He witnessed what happened to Dean Winchester at the hands of an Angel he trusted. And so he goes to Dean’s bedside.

“Why didn’t you just leave me there, then?” “It’s not blame that falls on you, Dean. It’s fate. And the righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it.” “Lucifer. The apocalypse. What does that mean?” {Cas doesn’t answer} ”Hey! Don’t you go disappearing on me, you son of a bitch. What does that mean?”

I find this exchange so fascinating. Dean already knows that he’ll get more of an honest answer out of Cas than any of the other angels. And, to note, we don’t see Cas leave. We don’t end the scene with Dean alone.

Because though Cas said he wasn’t going to be the Angel perching over Dean’s shoulder back in 4x02, here he is, doing exactly that. It’s enough that Castiel’s superior, Zachariah, makes a personal trip to be a dick the next time an Angel appears.

S4E18 -

“Well, I feel stupid doing this. But I am fresh out of options. So, please, I need some help. I’m praying, okay? Come on. Please.” “Prayer is a sign of faith. This is a good thing, Dean.”

We learn later that an Angel can hear when someone is praying to them, specifically, but it’s unclear if Dean was praying to God or to Cas at this moment.

Still, when Cas is the one to show up, Dean doesn’t seem surprised.

“Does that mean you’ll help me?” “I’m not sure what I can do. … It’s a prophecy. I can’t interfere.” “You have tested me and thrown me every which way.”

Dean approaches Cas and the Angel looks away. It’s his distancing, his way to distract himself from that tug, that connection, that pull.

“And I have never asked for anything. {Cas looks back} Not a damn thing. But now I’m asking. I need your help. Please.”

This feels like a variation of “I need you”, a first request. It’s Dean asking Cas to do something for him.

Back with Alastair, he asked Cas to not make him do something. This is the time when he first asks Cas to do something for him.

“What you’re asking.. it’s not within my power to do. … I’m sorry. “Screw you. {Cas looks away} You and your mission. Your God. {Cas looks back} If you don’t help me now, when the time comes and you need me, don’t come knocking.” “Dean.”

Pause. Right. Here. Do you hear how soft Cas says his name here?

There’s a familiarity, a gentleness, as the realization strikes him.

“Dean!” {Dean stops} “What?, You must understand why I can’t intercede. Prophets are very special. They’re protected.” “I get that.” “If anything threatens a prophet, anything at all.”

Pausing here in the middle of Cas’ lines because look. At. His. Face. Listen to his tone. There’s the begging of, “Please hear me, darling. Please listen”. And Dean starts to get it.

“…an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. Archangels are fierce. They’re absolute. They’re heaven’s most terrifying weapon.”

Cas lowers his head, willing Dean to get it. And Dean does.

“And these Archangels, they’re tied to prophets?” “Yes.”

Dean steps closer to Cas, closing the distance he created. They’re coming back together, facing one another, united for the cause.

Some call this Cas’ first rebellion for Dean, and I can see why. Cas has been tiptoeing closer to that edge—to choosing Dean over Heaven.

And, y’all, Cas doesn’t understand romantic love. Remember, he’s an Angel and they aren’t supposed to experience that. As Hannah will later say, that’s a human thing.

So, he doesn’t know what he is feeling or why. But this is more than simple allegiance. He’s not aligning himself to a cause, but to a man. Just a man. A man who challenges him in every way and makes him want to be better.

“So if a prophet was in the same room as a demon-" “Then the most fearsome wrath of heaven would rain down on that demon.”

Dean realizes what Cas has just given him. What Cas has done for him. This is no small thing.

“Just so you understand… {Cas looks up} why I can’t help. {looks back to Dean}” “Thanks, Cas.” “Good luck.”

As I rewatched this conversation, it took me right back to Cas’ declaration of love from S15E18. Why? Because I realize that sometimes Cas is saying something to Dean and it takes him a second to catch up.

What Cas and Dean really lacked for resolution in that episode way in the future was time. But, I’m skipping ahead…

The other thing I love about this scene is the spatial relations representing Dean and Cas. Cas appears on the steps, above Dean, like an Angel looking down. He steps down to Dean’s level so they can talk, and Dean steps closer to Cas as he attempts to get through to him.

But when Dean thinks Cas is going the other way, he puts as much distance between them as possible. He only closes it when he realizes what Cas is saying, what Cas is doing, what Cas is offering.

Only he doesn’t fully understand what will happen to Cas when Heaven figures it out.

S4E20 -

The next time Dean sees Cas, it’s in a dream. A quiet, beautiful dream that’s peaceful—something Dean rarely finds in life. Something he won’t allow himself so long as he can grant it to someone else.

“We need to talk.” “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” “It’s not safe here. We need to talk somewhere more private.” “More private? We’re inside my head.” “Exactly. Someone could be listening.” “Cas, what’s wrong?” “Meet me here. Go now.”

It’s clear that their last conversation got Cas in some trouble, so he’s trying more creative ways to get Dean’s attention.

But it’s not enough. They’re too late. They don’t find Cas… they find Jimmy Novak, the Vessel.

The first time I watched this episode, I wrote this down: “The episode where someone went, 'wait a second… this guy can act. Let’s use it!'”

But, seriously, Collins does such a great job of crafting a character that is so incredibly different from our Cas, not just in physicality and vocal performance, but in terms of the micro expressions that flit across his face in moments of contentment and terror alike.

“It’s Cas. He got sent back home. Well, more like dragged back.” “To heaven? That’s not a good thing?” “No, that’s a very bad thing. Painfully, awfully bad. He must have seriously pissed someone off.” “Cas said he had something to tell me, something important.” “What?” “I don’t know.”

Now they get the stakes. Now they understand something is seriously wrong, even mores than they imagined. And they don’t know what’s going to happen to their unlikely Angel ally.

“Please, Castiel. I mean, just take me. Take me, please.” “I want to make sure you understand. You don’t die or age. If this last year was painful for you, picture a hundred, a thousand more like it.” “Doesn’t matter. You take me. Just take me.” “As you wish.”

I think part of the heartbreak of this episode is Jimmy Novak no longer blindly trusting the Angel, but giving up his vessel, anyway, if it will spare his daughter.

We need to see Jimmy make this choice to not hate Cas, right? But, also, it’s gut-wrenching to know this man will be trapped within there, unable to live.

“Cas, hold up.”

Cas stops, looks away, then looks to Dean. It’s a choice. It’s a centering. It’s avoiding Dean.

He’s trying so hard to remember his programming, to stay within the rules, to not fall. But he’s already fallen. That cord is strengthening between them the more Cas gives, the more Dean trusts.

“What were you gonna tell me?” “I learned my lesson while I was away, Dean. I serve Heaven. I don’t serve Man. And I certainly don’t serve you.”

Wow, Cas got chewed out topside. But I love that the second Cas took Jimmy back over, we knew. It’s in the way Collins holds himself, the way he looks at the world, the way he embodies each character separately and independently.

There are roles where actors bring a lot of themselves to it, right? And there are roles where you share nothing with your character. But then there are roles where you fit a “type” and end up playing those roles the rest of your life.

Collins has the opportunity here to show the Supernatural audience he can do more than Cas and he does not waste it.

And though Jimmy is a sympathetic character, I’m glad we got to hold onto Cas narratively so he could continue this incredible dance with Dean.

S4E21 -

“Well, it’s about time. I’ve been screaming myself hoarse out here for about 2 and a half hours now., What do you want?” “Well, you can start with what the hell happened in Illinois?” “What do you mean?” “Cup the crap. You were gonna tell me something.” “Well, nothing of import.” “You got ass-reamed in Haven but it was not of import?”

Cas meets Dean’s eyes for just a moment before looking away.

“Dean. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Cas is on the move, keeping himself from Dean, looking away.

“Get to the reason you really called me. It’s about Sam, right?” “Can he do it? Kill Lillith? Stop the apocalypse?” “Possibly, yes. But, as you know, he’d have to take certain steps. … We believe it’s you, Dean, not your brother. The only question or us is whether you’re willing to accept it. Stand up and accept your role. You are the one who will stop it.” “If I do this, Sammy doesn’t have to?” “If it gives you comfort to see it that way.” “God, you’re a dick these days.”

Let me give you some backstory, here, on my personal experiences within the Purity Movement. Oh, yes, this is a story told by an exvangelical who understands what it is to think, “This isn’t right”, but to have everyone you’ve ever known and trusted tell you, “this is how it’s gotta be”.

I’m asexual, but when I told a family member I wasn’t sure I could have sex on my wedding night, I was told, “But it’s your duty!” I wasn’t permitted body autonomy by the system I was in. Thank God my husband didn’t share the same sentiments as my family or that system.

And I didn’t actually know I was Ace until my late 30’s. We didn’t have a term for that in the 90’s…not really. I couldn’t understand why my girlfriends chose favorite singers based on looks and not the quality of their voice. Yes, I was that oblivious. And watching football for the players’ asses? Why!?

But I tried to live within the rules of heteronormativity because I had it hammered into my head that, “this is what is right and anything else is wrong” and that’s a helluva thing to break out of. It takes more effort than you might think, and it’s painful.

Cas isn’t a bad Angel. He’s kind and caring, and he gives a damn and Dean knows this. He knows that Cas isn’t like the others. But he also knows that Cas is holding back. He can feel it.

And as they finish the conversation, we go to the most fascinating crane shot.

I mean, I have watched this shot over and over wondering what the original intention was. If it was as hard as they say to have any of the Top 3 billed actually keep a straight face for more than 20 seconds, how many times did they have to shoot this? The director must’ve really wanted it.

We can posit it has to do with God’s eye looking down on them, perhaps. Or as a reminder that they are never truly unobserved, but it’s fascinating.

S4E22 -

“Hello, Dean. It’s almost time.”

Cas is looking down when Dean first appears, like he doesn’t want to meet his eyes. All of this is… so wrong.

And Cas knows it. It’s why he was standing by the water during the last episode. He is as contemplative as George Bailey before Clarance found him.

Later, when Zachariah speaks with Dean, Cas stands behind him with his arms behind his back—the good little soldier.

But it’s the framing that is fascinating. Because as Zachariah moves around Dean, and Dean turns to face him, Cas is now Dean’s good little soldier.

“Because you swore your obedience, so obey.”

Dean looks past Zachariah to Cas and gets the confirmation he needs—Cas doesn’t feel good about this, either. He’s watching Dean until he can’t, so he looks away.

Something is off and Dean knows it and now he knows Cas does, too.

“You asked to see me?” “Yeah, listen, I uh, I-I need something.” “Anything you wish.” “I need you to take me to see Sam.” … “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Cas looks over his shoulder, the same shoulder when he gave Dean the tip about the Archangel. He knows they are listening. He knows he’ll be punished. He knows it won’t help.

But despite everything Cas knows, there’s a helluva lot he doesn’t, yet.

“You can’t reach him, Dean. You’re outside your coverage zone.” “What are you gonna do to Sam?” Nothing. He’s gonna do it to himself.” “What’s that supposed to mean? {Cas looks down, away}, Oh, right. Right. Got to toe the company line. Why are you here, Cas?” “We’ve been through much together, you and I. And I just wanted to say I’m sorry it ended like this.” “Sorry? It’s armageddon, Cas. You need a bigger word than sorry.”

Cas truly is sorry. He’s hating every second of this, but he doesn’t feel like he can break away from his family. I’ve stepped away from a couple churches. Do you know what happened every time? I became persona non grata.

The Angel is trying to be who they tell him he is supposed to be, to carry out the things they’ve drilled into his head he is supposed to do.

"You know what’s real? People. Families. That’s real. And you’re gonna watch them all burn?” “What is so worth saving? I see nothing but pain here. I see inside you. I see your guilt, your anger, confusion. In paradise all is forgiven. You’ll be at peace. Even with Sam.”

Cas realizes he brought up, Sam, the whole thing he’s keeping Dean away from. Cas looks away, yet again. But this time Dean searches his eyes out and draws him back.

“You can take your peace and shove it up your lilly white ass. Cause I’ll take the pain and the guilt. I’ll even take Sam as-is. It’s a lot better than being some Stepford bitch in paradise.”

Cas turns away from him and walks away so he can’t even see him, so he can’t be tempted to look back into his eyes.

Because when Cas does he sees Dean. He sees Dean in a way only Angels can. And what he sees right now isn’t the anger and guilt—he sees the love.

Remember, we of the future know about Cas’ speech to Dean before he was taken away by the Empty—he told Dean what he saw in him, how he saw Dean. And Cas can see it every time he looks at Dean.

The pain. Yes. The guilt. Yes. The anger. Yes. But also the love.

“This is simple, Cas. No more crap about being a good soldier. There is a right and there is a wrong, here, and you know it. Look at me. {Dean grabs Cas and turns him around to face him} Look at me, you know it. You were gonna help me once, weren’t you? {Cas looks away} You were gonna warn me about all this, before they dragged you back to Bible camp. Help me now. Please.”

Cas still can’t look at him, but you can feel the shift. You can hear the urgency in his voice.

“What would you have me do?” “Get me to Sam. We can stop this before it’s too late.” “I do that, we will all be hunted.”

Cas finally looks to Dean on “hunted”. He dares to meet his eyes. He thinks perhaps he can dissuade him.

“We’ll all be killed.” “If there is anything worth dying for, this is it.”

Cas shakes his head and looks away, again. And disappointment settles on Dean’s features.

“You spineless, soulless son of a bitch. What do you care about dying? You’re already dead. We’re done.” “Dean.” “We’re done.”

The “you’re already dead” hits me hard because I have the “I’m dead to you” from Season 15 playing on loop in my head every time I hear Dean say this.

It’s not just that he thinks Cas is dead inside, but he is dead to him. And that cuts through Cas in ways he doesn’t yet understand.

Cas does not understand romantic love. He has never experienced it. He has likely never observed it. But he knows that he cares more about Dean Winchester than any human on Earth.

He knows that he feels the temptation to disobey for the sake of this one man.

Cas leaves because Dean won’t listen. But while he’s gone, Cas makes a decision. And just as Dean is about to give in and eat the food—reminding me very much of why you should not eat food offered to you by anything fae—Cas appears.

Cas grabs Dean and pins him against the wall, covering his mouth. Cas stares hard and Dean nods. He understands. He knows the choice Cas has made.

And we know all this from their eyes. Ackles does a helluva job with half of his face covered by Collins’ hand. We see the initial confusion and panic in his eyes. Then, the understanding setting in before the nod.

“Yeah, but you guys aren’t supposed to be there. You’re not in this story.” “Yeah, well. We’re making it up as we go.”

Knowing what we know now about Chuck, this is kinda insane. He seems absolutely flummoxed that the Angel of Thursday is so defiantly changing everything.

And I love the way Dean looks at Cas—this is going against the Word of God. When Cas commits, he commits! And the “we” here is an extension of “us”. Cas is firmly team Dean, and Dean knows this, now.

“It’s the Archangel. I’ll hold him off. I’ll hold them all off. Just stop Sam!”

Now, we know that Castiel is no threat to the Prophet, but I have a feeling Chuck willed Raphael in there, anyway, to take care of the Cas problem.

But part of me wonders if they considered moving on from Cas being in the story at all after Season 4. I mean, they had an easy out, there. Death by Archangel.

So, why did Chuck bring Cas back in Season 5? I mean, obviously the writers found more usefulness for his character, but I wonder if Chuck enjoyed the addition of the Rebellious Angel as much as the audience did. Certainly someone fun for Lucifer to play opposite, to try to manipulate, to try to recruit.

But as far as Dean knows, this could be the end for Cas. He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t know.

But he does know that Cas knew he would be hunted, he would be killed… and he still helped Dean. He still made the right choice at the right time, and that means something to Dean.

S5E1 -

“We need to find Cas.”

I love how high this is on Dean’s to-do list. Cas came through for Dean, and that means Dean is not going to abandon Cas.

With his abandonment issues, he knows it’s something he would never want to do to someone else.

“Where’s Cas?” “He’s dead. Or gone. The Archangel smote the crap out of him. … He exploded. Like a water balloon of chunky soup.”

Chuck, you asshole. I mean, this is God fucking around with Dean’s emotions to see how much he will crack.

Now, whether or not the writers knew at this point that they wanted Chuck to be God is a different thing entirely. But, in canon aired television, Chuck is God and this is fucking diabolical.

And though Dean didn’t know Cas that well, he knows what Cas did for him. He liked the guy. And he feels responsible for his death.

“Cas, you stupid bastard.” “Stupid? He was trying to help us.” “Yeah, exactly.”

This time it’s “stupid”. Later, after the Leviathan, it’ll be “dumb”. Dean probably shouldn’t be asked to write eulogies.

“Learned that from my friend Cas, you son of a bitch.”

This is the first time Dean called Cas “friend” and I think it’s absolutely in Dean’s character that he 1) didn’t ever say it to Cas and 2) said it only after Cas died.

This sets us up for how Dean takes a moment to process things. No, seriously. When it comes to Cas, it often takes him losing Cas for him to realize just how much he means to him at a given time.

This is only Season 5, so their relationship has a long way to go before that iconic confession (that was, of course, my introduction to Destiel via Tumblr memes).

But even now, Dean might not have called him “friend” so quickly if he hadn’t lost him.

Cas shows up later, out of nowhere, and he’s killing Angels. He takes out two of them and then goes after Zachariah, making it clear that he’s chosen his side in this battle.

He carves sigils into the boys’ ribs, and Dean’s look of shock and awe is sensational. I mean, props Ackles for the microexpressions of awe, confusion, interest, and a touch of fear as he processes what the Angel just did to them.

S5E2 -

“It’s a pipe dream, Cas.” {Cas steps into his personal space} “I killed two angels this week. Those were my brothers. I’m hunted. I rebelled. And I did it, all of it, for you.”

Pausing to say: Ho. Ly. Shit. I mean, that is some heat in his tone and some tension and he is not being subtle with this one.

“And you failed. You and your brother destroyed the world. And I lost everything for nothing. {whispering} So keep your opinions to yourself.”

Why is this so hot? Like, I’m asexual, but even I can tell that this was really fucking hot.

Cas stepped into Dean’s personal space in front of others without giving a shit, told it like it was, and then lowered his voice to an even more intimate level while laying it out for Dean. Like, yeah, human, shut the fuck up.

“I did come for something. An amulet.”

And this is when Dean finally steps away and gives them space. But if I were Bobby and Sam, I’d be wondering what on earth I just witnessed because there’s no way that was a hetero interaction.

Cas tells them about the amulet, and it’s another case where Dean and Cas have an entire interaction without speaking.

Cas looks to Dean. Dean looks back, expecting Cas to say something. Cas looks down. Dean registers.

“What, this?” “May I borrow it?” “No.” “Dean, give it to me.”

This is such a fascinating and frankly married interaction. Cas asks at first and Dean instinctively says no. But when Cas insists (not angry or threatening… just matter of fact), Dean acquiesces.

And you can see Dean thinking through everything. Look, he still hasn’t told Cas that he sees him as a friend, someone he can trust. But as he thinks through everything, he realizes if there’s anybody he can trust with this necklace, it’s him.

Cas has lost everything for Dean and Sam and they still failed. So, why not give the Angel a fair chance at his pipe dream, all things considered?

S5E3 -

“Hello, Dean.” ”Cas, We’ve talked about this. Personal space.”

When!? I mean, last episode Cas was all up in Dean’s personal space and the human didn’t say a damn word.

So, has Cas been flitting in between last episode and this one and we just didn’t see it? Why would he come a-callin’?!

Like, I feel like they wanted to address the fact that Cas gets into Dean’s space a lot, but in my brain I’m wondering when they had this conversation. Anyway…

Cas asks for Dean’s help. Remember last season when Dean asked Cas why he didn’t just ask for help? Well, he’s asking, and Dean’s

“You’re serious about this.” “Yes.” “So, what, I’m Thelma and you’re Louise and we’re just going to hold hands and sail off this cliff together?”

I think it’s fascinating that Dean is the first one comparing them to a couple who choose their deaths together and before that share a kiss.

Like, that’s the movie. Thelma and Louise realize they’ll never get justice and they want to choose their own destiny. They kiss before they join hands and drive off the cliff.

And Dean Winchester just compared himself and the Angel to these women. It’s just damn fascinating.

“Give me one good reason I should do this.” “Because you’re Michael’s vessel and no angel will dare harm you.” “Oh, so I’m your bullet shield.” “I need your help because you are the only one who will help me. Please.”

There’s so much going on as they look at one another, here. So much behind the eyes, so much each is playing with in what their characters needs and wants, what they’ve been through and why Dean is the only one who will help Cas and why Dean would do this for him.

It’s a suicide mission for Cas. Dean can already see that. But, it’s Cas asking, and Cas has already died for him once. That means something to Dean Winchester.

“We’re humans. And humans want something really, really bad, we lie.”

What is this… fiddling. Dean is opening Cas’ jacket to put the badge in there. He’s fixing his buttons and his tie.

It’s all very personal and there’s no discomfort or tension at all. It doesn’t feel paternal or whatnot, but simply familiar. There’s an ease between them that is really lovely, actually.

“Do we have any chance of surviving this?” “You do.” “So, odds are, you’re a dead man tomorrow.” “Yes.”

Cas commits. Dean saw it truly for the first time with Chuck when Cas said “we are making it up as we go”. Cas has no concern for his own life, and I think that’s something that has always appealed to Dean—they both care more about others than themselves.

But, the unspoken here is that when Cas is gone, he’s trusting Dean to have the information they need to locate God. And it will be up to Dean to do what he will with that information.

Cas has no way of knowing if Dean will continue the mission, but Cas is willing to sacrifice himself if there’s even a chance of achieving their goal.

“Well, last night on Earth. What are, what are your plans?” “I thought I’d sit here quietly” ”Dude. Come on. Anything? Hmm. Booze? Women? {Cas looks away} You have been with a woman before, right? Or an angel, at least?” {Cas rubs his neck, uncomfortable}

Poor Cas is embarrassed to be a virgin? Oh, honey, this is a new day and age! You don’t have to have sex. But, for Dean this is a new mission—getting the Angel laid.

“Let me tell you, there are two things that I know for certain. One, Bert and Ernie are gay. Two, you are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch.“

Why those two things in that order, Dean Winchester!?

This is such a crazy errand. Like, Dean is seriously setting out to get his friend laid, but the other thing he states right before that is, again, about a queer couple.

This is the same episode, people. He has referenced two queer-coded couples while in Cas’ company. It’s just… fascinating.

And, of course, poor Castiel biffs it at the brothel by being… himself. He’s just himself.

He wants to comfort this poor girl and instead comes off like a freakin’ stalker. Of course, Dean and Cas high-tail out of there, and Dean chortles so heartily he doubles over

“What’s so funny?” “Oh, nothing. It’s been a long time since I laughed that hard.”

Dean pats Cas’ shoulder in a friendly manner, then places his arm around Cas as they walk. It’s the first time I can remember Dean being this physical with Cas—again, not in a romantic way, but in a familiar way, certainly.

And Cas is fascinated by Dean’s smile, by the energy pouring off of him. Look how Cas looks at him adoringly with wonder.

Even as they switch sides to get in the car, Cas sneaks another look at Dean, reveling in that glee.

He doesn’t know how he brought that on, but he knows that somehow he made Dean smile. Mad him laugh. Made him light up inside.

And, oh, he likes how that feels, to bring Dean joy.

“I’m here, Raphael. Come and get me, you little bastard.”

It’s Season 5, so we still get these occasional reminders of the warrior Angel that Castiel is. And I love the look from Dean, because we transition from the close up shot of Cas by the man’s head to a rack focus to Dean, reacting.

He appreciates the style, I think. And he and Cas are starting to learn one another more. Just look at when Raphael does appear and Dean lures him into the circle of oil. Dean looks to Cas as Raphael steps into position, and Cas receives the message.

“Hey, don’t look at me. It was his idea.”

Cas casts a look to Dean that reads, “really!?” to which Dean responds with a look that says, “What!?” And it occurs to me how far we’ve come from last season, already. These two are working as a team.

Neither of them are strangers to working with others in their respective lines of work, but there’s a partnership really at play in this scene, specifically from Dean’s side. To me, this is an important episode for the pair of them because they are working the problem together.

And it really comes to play when Raphael starts rattling Cas. Our Angel tries not to show it, but Dean can feel Cas wavering, so he steps in to fill in the gap. This is something he offers without being asked—he keeps the conversation moving and he keeps Cas steady throughout.

“So Daddy ran away and disappeared. He didn’t happen to work for the post office, did he?”

Dean offers a smirk to Cas, referencing their very bizarre, humor-filled night. It’s a tactic to help keep Cas steady, to keep things light. Dean does this for himself when he’s stressed or worried, but now he’s doing it for Cas’ benefit.

“If God is dead, why have I returned? Who brought me back?” “Did it ever occur to you that maybe Lucifer raised you?” “No.” “Think about it. He needs all the rebellious angels he can find. You know it adds up.” “Let’s go.” “Castiel, I’m warning you. Do not leave me here. I will find you.” “Maybe one day. But today you’re my little bitch.” “What he said.”

I love the note of pride in Dean’s voice. Castiel is still a fucking warrior, and though he’s rattled—and Dean can tell—he kept his composure. These are qualities Dean appreciates, and I think it helps him bond more with Cas, indirect as it is.

In the car, Dean checks in on Cas. He can tell the Angel is still rattled.

“I do know a little something about missing fathers.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, there were times when I was looking for my dad when… all logic said that he was dead. But I knew in my heart he was still alive. Who cares what some ninja turtle says, Cas? What do you believe?” “I believe he’s out there.” “Good. Then go find him.”

Dean looks to Cas, and this is the first time Cas looks back at Dean this entire conversation. Cas was lost in thought, as lost as he was when he stared over the water during Dean’s interrogation of Alastair.

But this time he has Dean to steady him, to pull him back from the weight of his thoughts.

And as Cas looks at Dean, he sees Dean instead of the invisible nothing he’d zoned into back there. He sees Dean and he sees the weight Dean is carrying and the walls he’s put up.

“What about you?” “What about me? I don’t know. Honestly? I’m good. I can’t believe I’m saying that, but I am. I’m, I’m really good.” “Even without your brother?” “Especially without my brother. I mean, I spent so much time worrying about the son of a bitch. I mean, I’ve had more fun with you the past 24 hours than I’ve had with Sam in years. And you’re not that much fun.”

There’s something about this moment and this admission. I mean, yes, Dean is distancing from his brother. He’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need Sam, and Cas can see that.

Cas can see the truth beyond what Dean’s willing to admit—but Cas won’t call him on it. Not yet. They aren’t there, yet.

Instead, Cas absorbs what Dean says and how the human processes his hurt. But, also, I love the idea that Dean realizes he can have fun with Cas.

They’ve never “hung out” together, not really. Before their little brothel run, everything they’d shared was for someone’s mission or another.

But, on this trip they got to bond and form memories together. I mean, Dean will smile nostalgically every time he even thinks about a brothel now because of his adventures with Cas. That’s a part of him, now.

And, yes, I know it’s linking sex and Cas in Dean’s head indirectly, but we’re not there… yet.

“It’s funny, you know, I’ve been so chained to my family. But now that I’m alone, hell, I’m happy.”

But as he looks back to meet Cas’ eyes, the Angel is gone. And the facade falls. Much as Dean wants to believe what he’s saying, it’s not all true. And the Angel knows it. He can always see the truth in Dean, no matter how much the human wants to hide it.

And, yes, this is because Cas is a celestial being whose abilities go beyond the human levels of perception. But, it’s also true of those who know and love us best. I remember during our infertility battle, our friends conceived on their first try. We’d been trying for two years.

I smiled and congratulated them—because I really was happy and I’d been the one to tell her she was pregnant on the day she went to the doctor to confirm it. I just knew. And, yes I did it with two other friends, too. I knew they were pregnant before they told anyone.

But a few moments later, I went to my room to “get something” (we’d invited them to dinner at our place) and I shed a few tears. Matthew was there in an instant. He knew. I didn’t have to ask him to be there. He was the one person who saw through my smile. He knows me better than anyone.

And while we’ll see that Cas doesn’t always know what Dean needs when it comes to comfort or communication—even Matthew and I still get it wrong sometimes after 21 years together—he does see Dean in a way nobody else can. When it comes to romantic partners, that’s special.

Plus, this is the first time Dean really asks Cas how he’s holding up. Dean lacks Cas’ abilities, but he was able to read Castiel plenty well in this episode. He knew when Cas needed him to step in with Raphael. He knew that Cas needed him to check in on the road.

Dean is learning Cas. Cas has the advantage of not having to learn to read someone. His challenge will be learning how to respond. Dean’s challenge will be learning to value what he has while he has it, and not after it’s gone.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself, again…

S5E4 -

“This isn’t funny, Dean. The voice says I’m almost out of minutes.”

Oh, what a snapshot of time that was. Like my clear telephone with the multi-colored wires of the 90’s, that single mention of “minutes” takes me straight back to College when I had to wait until after 8PM to call my best friend when the minutes were unlimited.

Yes, I’m old. You didn’t need to think it so loudly.

“I’m human. And there’s stuff I gotta do.” “What stuff?” “Eat, for example. In this case, sleep. I just need, like, four hours once in a while, okay?” “Yes.” “Okay, so you can pop in tomorrow morning.” “Yes. I’ll just… wait here, then.”

You are the sweetest, awkwardest little angel to ever live and I want to adopt you.

But it’s another example of how Cas doesn’t quite understand human needs, yet, but once they’re explained, he is willing to stand by the side of the road for hours if it means giving Dean what he needs.

Yeah, the Angel’s smitten.

“Damn it, Cas, I need to sleep.”

Dean doesn’t even look to see who it is. He just assumes the person who’d be calling him is Cas.

“Rhonda Hurley. We were 19, I think. She made us try on her panties. They were pink and satiny. And you know what, we kind of liked it.”

I’m sorry, the memory Dean taps into to convince himself that it’s him is wearing a girl’s underwear?! And liking it!?

This is something he wouldn’t admit to anyone which is why Dean knows it’s Dean. This is something he has tucked so far away in his subconscious because he knows admitting it would change things, somehow. He may not even yet understand how, but Future Dean’s good with this admission.

“What are you, a hippie?” “I thought you’d gotten over trying to label me.”

Woah, woah, woah. What does this mean!? Like, I often think about Dean and Cas post-canon up in Heaven living without labels, and it frankly makes me smile with glee. But, wow, there’s a lot of implications here from future Cas.

“Cas, we gotta talk.” “Woah, strange.” “What?” “You… are not you. Not ’Now’ You, anyway.” … “What, are you stoned?” “Uh, generally… yeah.” “What happened to you?” “Life.”

This whole interaction is wild. As soon as Cas sees Dean, he knows this isn’t the Dean of his time. He may be more mortal than Angelic, but he still knows Dean. And Dean’s getting a glimpse of a Cas very different from the one he knows.

He doesn’t yet realize, but this is a Cas without hope. That’s what he lost. A Cas who followed Dean’s example into drink, and women, and coping mechanisms on the wrong side of healthy.

“The colt?” “The colt.”

Our Dean was busy arguing with Cas about the reality of the Colt existing, but now he knows from future Dean that Cas was on to something.

“Our fearless leader, I’m afraid, is all too well-schooled in the art of getting to the truth.”

Cas glances to past Dean, knowing exactly how our Dean is going to take this.

“Torture? Oh, so we’re torturing, again. No, that’s good. Classy.” {Cas chuckles} “What. I like past you.”

Oh, honey, we know. Heaven is already well-aware of your attachment to Dean Winchester, and it won’t take long for Hell to get wind.

Besides, past Dean isn’t quite the shell of a man that Future Dean has become—and yet Cas hasn’t left his side.

“Oh, good, it’s right in the middle of a hot zone.” “Crawling with crotes, yeah. You saying my plan is reckless?” “Are you saying we, uh, walk in straight up the driveway, past all the demons and the crotes, and we shoot the devil?” “Yes.” “Okay, if you don’t like, uh, reckless, I could use insouciant, maybe.”

Cas and Dean arguing. Yeah, this feels almost right.

“Are you coming?” ”Of course. But why is he?”

Cas is always going to go with Dean. We don’t know what happened in the last five years, but we do know that Cas is living the way Dean taught him in the very last episode.

Seriously! Dean spent a night trying to get Cas to drink and have sex and now Cas’ addicted to both.

Sometimes, we seek out sameness in people. Sometimes, we need something different. And every time Dean time travels, he learns things about the people in his life. The last time he time-traveled was the first time he saw a different side of Cas—compassions instead of dick-i-tude.

This time, he sees Cas under the influence of a Dean who lost hope. And this is a Cas who lost hope.

“You ever get back there. You hoard toilet paper. You understand me? Hoard it. Hoard it like it’s made of gold.”

Gee, Chuck, should’ve saved that advice for another time because people apparently believed you in 2020 and created all sorts of shortages. Yet another example of Chuck being tool number one.

“Let me see those.” “You want some?” … “Don’t get me wrong, Cas. I, uh, I’m happy that the stick is out of your ass, but, what’s going on? What’s with the drugs, and the orgies, and the love guru crap? {Cas laughs}, What’s so funny?” “Dean, I’m not an angel anymore. … And now, you know, I’m practically human. I mean, Dean, I’m all but useless. … And now I’m powerless. I’m hapless. I’m hopeless. I mean, why the hell not bury myself in women and decadence, right? It’s the end, baby. That’s what decadence is for. Why not bang a few gongs before the lights go out?”

Dean looks contemplative. Sad. Because this Cas is a fucking wreck, and he learned it all from Dean. Dean knows that’s his influence on this Angel.

In this world, it all went to shit, and future Dean didn’t do anything to save him. Future Dean was so focused on his mission he lost sight of everything else—he forgot what it was to be human and dragged Cas down with him.

“They’re the decoys. You and me, we’re going in the back., You mean you’re gonna feed your friends into a meat grinder? Cas, too?”

Dean of 2009 already differentiates Cas from the others. Cas is special. Cas is different.

Cas is set apart from others, and it’s the one time Future Dean seems to show a shred of remorse about the whole situation—but he’s so focused on his goal that he’s ignored everything else. Yes, even Cas is on the chopping block.

“Oh I’ve learned a lesson, alright. Just not the one you one you wanted to teach.” “Well, then I’ll just have to teach it, again! Because I got you now, boy, and I’m never letting you-“

Enter Castiel and Exit Dean. It’s a blink, but it is a reminder of how the Angels think they have it all under control, but as long as Dean and Cas are together, they’re going to fuck up the plan.

No, really! Dean and Sam are tornadoes on their own, but when you add in Castiel, their odds of defying the grand plan inevitably increase. The Winchesters and their Angel with a crack in his chassis.

And when they appear in the road, Dean is alone in the shot. All it takes is a quick pivot to see Cas standing there, over his shoulder.

“That’s pretty nice timing, Cas.” “We had an appointment.”

Cas smiles a bit as he says his line, but the look on Dean’s face is more than appreciation—there’s a touch of awe, of adoration. Because this is his Cas. And his Cas is very different from him in some ways, but that’s okay.

He saw the future where Cas blindly followed him to his death, where his loyalty was so absolute he died for it, where Cas followed Dean’s rulebook for life and it wrecked him. Because they are different people.

So, Dean takes a big step to try to prevent that future from ever happening. Yes, of course, reconciling with Sam is a big part of that. But, on a smaller level, he wants to help Cas.

He blinks back tears as he places a hand on Cas’ shoulder—the second episode in a row showing him tactile confirmations of affection.

"Don’t ever change.”

And look at how Cas absorbs that.

He doesn’t know everything that Dean went through and saw, but there’s this acceptance that is so important. Dean just affirmed, “I like you the way you are”.

And that’s a powerful thing for any being to hear, especially as Cas has been cast out by the Angels.

He’s on the run. He gave up everything. And the one he gave it up for just told him not to change, that he likes him just the way he is, that he’s appreciated for who he is.

And in this one exchange, Dean just changed the course of their future. Yes, it’ll change when he reconnects with Sam, too, but here Dean has given Cas a light post that Future Cas lacked—a moment locked in where Dean appreciates Cas for Cas as-is.

My head keeps fast-forwarding to “From the moment we met, you changed me” and how that looks in the Endverse situation. Dean going into it gave him a rooting he needed that he lacked previously, and because of that, he and Sam will reconcile, and Cas will hopefully never become that hopeless wreck.

Because when Dean lost sight of who he was, Cas wasn’t strong enough to hold him up and they both fell… to their deaths. Dean’s affirmation of acceptance of Cas is important and I think the Angel needed to hear that more than he might’ve realized at the time.

S5E06 -

Next we see Cas, he’s off to murder the offspring of a demon and a human. And though he seems to feel remorse, he’s still got a lot of Angel programming in there.

It’ll be a while before he faces a decision like this one, again, but… in the meantime, Dean seems to like his action figure boyfriend.

C’mon, it’s very noticeable how gentle Dean is with toy Cas while Sam isn’t at all.

“Was he your friend?” “Him? No” … “Look, uh, truth is, he’s kind of a buddy of mine. Is there any way you could turn him back?” “He tried to kill me.” “Right, uh, but he’s a good guy. He was just confused.”

Dean knows Cas better than most, and he has hope the Angel can come around from all this, I think. It’s a bit gutsy to stick his neck out for Cas, but he does. After all the Angel has done for him, he owns up to Cas being his friend and tries to save him.

It won’t be the last time he tries to ask a powerful being to save Cas… But I’m getting ahead of myself.

S5E07 -

“You’re not useless, Bobby.”

Yes, I know this is Dean to Bobby, but it ties back to Cas talking about himself in the Endverse and how useless he was without his powers. He fell into drink and drugs and dalliances… and Dean saw how it destroyed him.

Dean loves Bobby like a father and doesn’t want to see that happen to him, too. To see him fall into hopelessness.

“Are we done feeling our feelings because I’d like to get out of this room before we both start growing lady parts.”

Poor Dean and the heteronormative examples in his life… feelings aren’t bad, Bobby. And it’s okay to show them. The publisher of the Supernatural novels talked about real men and their emotions for a reason. It’s not bad to have feelings.

And I ache for a Dean who in the very next episode displays some bi-coded feelings. How tough must it be growing up with these expectations of who you’re supposed to be?

Dean liking the cheesiest porn and one-night-stands with hot women doesn’t mean he can’t also like men. Just to be clear, here. He likes Westerns, but he also likes Chick Flicks. A man can be more than one thing.

And there have been a lot of hints this season that there’s more to Dean than we know, especially in the attraction department.

S5E08 -

Dean knows all the storylines of Doctor Sexy, MD, and calls out the sexy receptionist and sexy women doctors. But when does Dean get flustered? Oh, our boy is blushing when Doctor Sexy, himself, strolls up.

This isn’t hero worship or awe. This is straight up kicking feet, giggly, crushing Dean. Yes, he figures out that Doctor Sexy isn’t really Doctor Sexy, but those 12 seconds he thought he was talking to the guy himself? Oh, Dean was giddy.

“Well, first of all, you’re gonna bring Cas back from wherever you stashed him.” “Oh, am I?” “Yeah, or we’re going to dunk you in some holy oil and deep-fry ourselves an Archangel.”

Second time this season Dean’s asked a powerful creature to give his Angel back. It’s turning into a habit, Dean. You might want to look into that.

“Cas, you okay?”

Cas looks from Gabriel to Dean, then back to Gabriel. And it’s the patented “swoop from Dean to Castiel” shot, again, that makes me feel things.

Yes, it’s a classic trick for “someone appears” so you don’t have to Bewitched that sucker every time, but I get excited every time it happens with these two.

Why? Because how often must Dean feel utterly alone? So alone. And time and time again, the camera swoops to show Cas standing behind him, backing him up. It’s a little thing, but I love it.

S5E10 -

“Lucifer.” “So, I take it you’re here with the Winchesters.” “I came alone.” “Loyalty. {chuckles} Such a nice quality to see in this day and age. … What a peculiar thing you are.”

Because Cas is different, and Lucifer already knows it. That Cas would ride in a car with the Winchesters when all the other angels complain about humans and their stench is a big, flashing, neon light. There’s definitely something different about this angel.

“You are not taking Sam Winchester. I will not let you.” “Castiel. I don’t understand why you’re fighting me of all the angels.” You really have to ask.” “I rebelled. I was cast out. You rebelled. You were cast out.”

Yes, Luci, but not for the same reasons. Lucifer is self-serving. Castiel’s rebellion was sacrificial—he sacrificed for earth, for humanity, for someone else. You rebelled for yourself. Cas rebelled for Dean.

“Almost all of heaven wants to see me dead, and if they succeed, guess what? You’re their new public enemy number one.”

I think about this a lot. There are times throughout the next few years when Cas is going to go from being lauded to loathed and back, again, depending on what actions he’s taken. He constantly shirks leadership despite it falling upon him time and time, again.

But right now, Lucifer is right—besides him, the Angel in the trench coat is much-hated.

“You think Lucifer got him?” “I don’t know what else to think.”

This amuses me, because there will come a time when Cas will bail on them. But he hasn’t, yet. So, Dean’s first thought is that the Angel is in trouble.

S5E13 -

“Why are you gate crashing my head? Why don’t you just swing by the motel?” ”I can’t find you.” Oh, Cas did this thing-“ “Cas, right. Now there’s a friend you can count on.” “What?” “He didn’t tell you?” “Tell me what?” “Where I’ve been. Of course not. Why would he?” “When have you been?” “Prison. Upstairs. All the torture. Twice the self-righteousness.” “Why wouldn’t he have told us where you where you were?” Because he’s the one who turned me in.”

I love this. It’s incredibly manipulative of Anna. She’s talking trash about Cas and counting on Dean to believe her because they fucked in the backseat of the impala, once.

Honey, Dean might’ve been in your pants once but that man’s got Cas' brand on his chest and his prayer line on speed dial. You’re the one night stand and Cas' the real deal, so back off, bitch.

ahem I might be a little protective of Castiel’s human. But, it’s a Destiel Meta, so I don’t think you expected any less, right? Anyway…

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the Winchesters don’t trust me.” “They do. I don’t. I wouldn’t let them come.”

Hold the phone. Instead of screaming tires into the night, Dean reached out to Cas for a double-check? That’s fucking awesome! Dean slept with this other Angel, but he still didn’t make a move until he talked to Cas.

In the immortal words of How I Met Your Mother: “That’s love, bitch!”

“The answer Is still no. Because Sam is my friend.” “You’ve changed.” “Maybe too late, but I have. Anna, we’ve been through much together, but you come near Sam Winchester and I’ll kill you.”

This is the first time someone has remarked on Cas being changed by the Winchesters, though it will come up, again, of course. Anna was the one who wanted Cas to think for himself, and now that he is, she doesn’t like how he’s thinking.

“Cas, what do you think, does Anna have a point?” {Dean searches for Cas’ eyes. Finds them. Cas considers}, “No.”

I love how Dean searches for Cas’ eyes, here. There’s pain in Dean’s eyes, and Cas recognizes it, immediately. Yes, there is a scenario where it makes perfect sense for Sam to die—like it did with the demon/human child.

But Sam is Cas’ friend and his lover’s brother, so there’s no way in Heaven, Hell, or Creation that Castiel is letting Anna succeed.

“Anna can’t get to you because of me. So she’s going after them.”

I kinda like that Anna realizes Castiel will fight her to the death for the sake of the Winchesters, and that it’s not worth it to try.

“An angel zapped us back here. Not the one that attacked you, friendlier.”

That’s one way to describe him.

I’m always fascinated by the evolution of how Dean describes Castiel to others and to Cas, himself. To think that only a season earlier he was still stuck on “Dick” as the primary descriptor for Cas. Oh, how far we’ve come!

“This is it.” “This is what?” “Team Free Will. One ex blood junkie, one dropout with 6 bucks to his name and Mr Comatose over there.” “It’s not funny.” “I’m not laughing.”

I kinda love this, because fans like to come up with names and such, right? I mean, for Leverage, Hardison, Parker, and Eliot was just “OT3”. There are a million and one ship names—GSR and Caskett still amongst my favorites—but sometimes the show hands them to us.

Team Free Will is an excellent encapsulation for the Winchesters and their emotional support Angel.

Speaking of Angels… how fucking adorable is it that Mary chose an angel to watch over her Baby Dean? She had no idea how that would factor into his future, how Dean would be the one human in the world to have a personal Angel perching over his shoulder and watching over him on a day-to-day basis.

She had no idea her little one’s greatest love would have wings.

S5E14 -

In the hospital, Dean nearly walks into Cas as they talk on the phone, and though they are plenty in each other’s personal space, neither moves. In fact, they keep talking like a pair of fools, but it makes me laugh every time.

They’re also noticeably in one another’s personal space, and neither is moving.

It’s such a fascinating choice because we have Cas holding the phone with his non-dominant hand for the sake of the framing, and it’s for a blink-and-you-miss-it shot.

It does make me laugh every time, because they are both being so weirdly awkward—especially for Dean. I mean, Cas is the one to say, “I’m gonna hang up now” with the narrowing of the eyes because this is weird.

Like, I can draw meaning out of a scene fairly easily most of the time. Now, whether it’s anywhere near the intended meaning is anyone’s guess, but I can find some meaning in what I see on the screen.

This little moment feels like its sole reason to exist is for comedic value.

And yet the way the two performers play it is fascinating to me. Dean is the one to step into Cas’ personal space, because he doesn’t see him there. And rather than back off or comment on said violation of personal space, they just stand there, regarding one another.

Now, Castiel is our little non-human entity, here. He doesn’t always understand human culture and norms. But Dean is just standing there, staring into the Angel’s eyes, and with their inner arms raised and near meeting and their bodies both angled slightly out I see the angel wing motif, again—Cas on the left of our screen, and Dean on the right.

But, honestly, I can’t come up with the true character reason Dean just stands there except maybe he actually likes being that close to the Angel and feels too awkward to say it.

“Everyone seems to be starving for something. Sex. Attention. Drugs. Love.”

I love that Cas takes that last one to Dean—love. It’s such a tiny thing, but I wonder if that was a Collins choice—to take the one thing to Dean that would apply to Cas.

Castiel says his vessel likes red meat, which we have seen before in our brief glimpses of Jimmy. But if Castiel, the Angel, were affected by this hunger, the one thing I think that little Angel would crave would be love—Dean’s love.

And I don’t think Cas even knows it, yet.

He knows he gave up everything for Dean. He aligned himself with Dean.

But in Heaven, aligning yourself behind one being is in the programming, right? And when Civil War breaks out later, there are folks who align themselves behind Cas and folks who align themselves behind Raphael.

So, aligning with a being of choice isn’t necessarily romantic to Cas—it’s a matter of loyalty and righteousness. But in that, I think Cas misses the romantic overtones to his attachment to Dean. He simply isn’t human.

But the more he’s exposed to love and understand love, the more I think he realizes exactly what he feels towards Dean. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Also, how sick was poor Misha Collins during this episode?! I hope he has an iron stomach because if I had to eat that much red meat take after take after take it would not be pretty.

For those in the know about production, you can go ahead and skip this, but if you’re curious why I bring this up—every scene you see takes actual hours (or days) to film.

Even if you have multiple cameras working at once, there are still often multiple set ups, which take a lot of time because you sometimes have to move walls (yes, sets on soundstages pull apart so you can literally move a wall and shoot), the lights, the camera equipment, re-lay the track for the camera or switch to steady-cam.

There’s makeup and costuming re-touches and sound considerations and so many moving pieces that bring a television show to life. Growing up on set, I especially loved the directors who adopted me and placed me over their shoulders so I could see everything that was happening at once.

And I loved the costumers who gave me clothespins to put on crew members’ clothes… It was a weird, 90’s set thing that I still think on with love.

But that means that maybe there were a series of takes for every time Castiel had to stuff his face. So, that’s Collins eating and eating and eating and eating over and over. I mean, I’m getting a stomach ache just thinking about it!

Any time I see an actor have to cram their face with food throughout a scene or episode, I cringe in sympathy. Poor Collins!.

“These make me {chuckles} very happy.”

This makes me think… things. Because Castiel has never encountered wants and needs the way a human does. Yes, he’s the Angel with “too much heart”, but it’s still not human.

Imagine what it’s like to not have wants and needs. And then to have this not quite satisfying him, but tamping down the need… imagine how he is with his growing need for Dean. His longing. His love.

And how the slightest affirmation from Dean can set him flying on broken wings, and the biggest reprimand can send him crashing down.

It may not consume him during this episode, but his desire for Dean’s love will grow and grow and become the one need he truly understands whether Angel or mortal.

Because love transcends. It slips between the cracks of well-mortared walls and slides under warping gates where too long love has crashed in waves against the wearing wood, unanswered.

Castiel never realized that when he raised Dean from Hell itself, he rescued a piece of himself he didn’t know was missing—love.

Later, Dean and Cas stand outside the room where Sam is locked away. And it’s one of those cases where Cas wants so badly to help, to be there for Dean, but it’s too much.

Dean doesn’t want to talk. He wants the problem to be gone. He wants his brother to be safe.

Sometimes love isn’t enough for a given situation. In this case, Cas still doesn’t understand how to comfort Dean, how to help him when he’s hurting. Because Cas hates to see him hurting.

But some things in this human condition must be felt to be dealt with. We have to let ourselves move through the pain and not simply wish them away with a catchy phrase or alliterative affirmation.

A desperate Dean prays to God. And knowing what we know, oh, how this aches. And while Cas is inside, we can imagine he still hears Dean out there and wants so desperately to help.

S5E16 -

“Dean!” “Cas?”

I love that it’s the swoop shot, even with Cas not in the shot. We move with Dean to the car and then swoop over to the radio.

“Yeah, it’s me.” “You gotta stop poking around in my dreams. I need some me time.”

He’s bemused… which is wild. He says he needs “me” time, but he doesn’t seem that annoyed. Maybe he’s just relieved Cas didn’t pop into one of his stripper dreams.

But when he learns he’s in Heaven, oh, our boy is confused. And that does break my heart a bit. Yes, Dean has done some terrible things, but he has also done some incredible things and is currently trying to save the whole bloody world.

“Please listen. This spell, this connection, it’s difficult to maintain.”

That last bit haunts me. What is the basis of this connection? Of this spell? Because Castiel cast a spell to connect to Dean specifically, probably because the connection would be easier than with Sam.

By this point, it’s obvious to all of Heaven that Dean and Cas have a special connection. A bond. A relationship.

The parameters of that relationship don’t really matter in Heaven. Any relationship that causes an Angel to turn away from their duty is enough to be “bad” regardless of the specifics.

But it’s also very clear to Castiel that the human he connects most with is Dean. He may not yet realize that he’s in love with the man.

But he knows he regards him in a way that is different from how he regards the rest of humanity.

Cas is one of the last Angels who truly appreciates humans, who truly cares for them, who wants to help them. And in that openness, his being found connection with a human who never saw this romance coming.

“Where’s the triplets and latex? Come on, a guy has needs.”

It’s such a stark difference from when he arrives in Heaven at the end.

Not to say that Dean still wouldn’t appreciate triplets and latex, but Dean of Season 5 is still looking for his freedom. And Dean of Season 15, having achieved his freedom, is finally ready for peace.

Well... kinda. Depends on if you consider The Winchesters canon, I guess.

“Cas?” “What are you doing?” “What’s it look like?” “Like you’ve lost your mind.” “Cas talked to me before using this… this phone home radio thing. So, I- Cas!” “I can hear you.”

Hold the phone—or the interdimensional spell—this time it was Dean activating the connection. Did y’all catch that?

I mean, yes, Cas can hear those who pray to him, right? But this must mean that Castiel is tuned in to Dean, because Dean is able to activate it in reverse despite having none of the ingredients or the words of the spell.

“You find him.” “I can’t. I can’t return to Heaven.”

That’s what convinces them to do this for Cas. Because the reason he can’t return to Heaven is because he chose to help Dean try to save Sam to save the world. It’s because of them.

“You are my little Angel.”

Aw, Mom. Pre-disposing your kid to associate Angels with family. I mean, not all Angels, but at least one!

“God saved you, already. He put you on that plane. He brought back Castiel.”

Oooh, that’s pretty wild. I mean, it’ll be nice for Cas to get the confirmation that it was God and not the Devil who brought him back, I guess.

But to what end? For what purpose? To watch it all fall apart? Man, God’s a fucking sadist.

“Maybe, maybe, Joshua was lying.” “I don’t think he was, Cas. I’m sorry.”

Sam is the one to say it, but the camera shows us Dean. Dean, who saw how much Raphael’s words injured Cas, who saw the Angel falter. Here, he sees the Angel fall.

Not for love. But for its inverse—heartbreak. And in that heartbreak, an Angel of the Lord loses faith.

“You son of a bitch. I believed in…”

Cas faces away from them, looking for something he cannot see—his father.

Dean is watching, though. He can’t take his eyes away from Castiel. He’s watching an angel lose faith in real time, and more than that, this is his friend.

And his friend is hurting in a way that’s all too familiar to Dean—the pain of being disappointed in the one most idolized, a father.

And Joshua delivered the message to play at Dean’s heart, at his faith in anything. And to see Cas fall into hopelessness fucking sucks.

There will be times in the future when Cas’ faith is enough to carry Dean through. But not today. Neither of them has much faith in anything right now.

Cas turns around… Dean looks at him, but Cas isn’t looking back. He fishes the necklace out of his pocket and tosses it to Dean. He’s taken it everywhere he went to keep it safe, never leaving it behind. He kept his word to return it, but Dean throws it away.

They’ve lost their faith. What else is there to do?

S5E17 -

“Are you… drunk?” “No. Yes.” “What the hell happened to you?” “I found a liquor store.” “And?” “I drank it.”

I’m sorry, but this always makes me laugh. Much like the Galaxy Quest exchange where they ask Alan Rickman’s Arthur Dane where he’s going and he responds, “To see if there’s a pub!” this line gets me every time.

And we all know it would literally take a liquor store to get this Angel drunk.

“Where the hell have you been.” “On a bender.” “Did he say, did you just say on a bender?” “Yeah. He’s still pretty smashed.”

Okay, the “on a bender” line gets me, too. And, in one version of reality, maybe this is the beginning of Cas’ downfall to debauchery and addiction. But not this one.

“Yeah, I’ve been there. I’m a big expert on deadbeat dads. So, yeah, I get it. I know how you feel.” “How do you manage it?” “On a good day, you get to kill a whore.”

Cas finally looks up at him, half bemused, half confused. Dean looks back pumping his eyebrows up and down once for emphasis.

He’s doing that thing, again, where he tries to pull Cas out of a mood by giving him something else to think about, something to maybe smirk at.

And it occurs to me that this is Dean’s attempt at comfort. He’s actually trying to be comforting to Castiel. Because he doesn’t do flowery words and hand-holding, but he can do pop culture references and distraction, well.

These are the defense mechanisms he’s built up his whole life, and I wonder if he sees such similarities between himself and Cas because they both loved their fathers a bit blindly. Dean was still enamored with his father, despite his faults. Same with Cas.

But while Dean’s had his heart broken by his father many times, this is Cas’ first go at it. So, Dean tries to use the methods that help him to help Cas. Because, let’s be real, none of us are great at comforting others right out the gate.

It takes time to learn how to comfort others, how to talk to them, how to give them guidance and assurance. Later in the series, Dean will realize the weight of his words with Cas—and he’ll feed Cas words of affirmation.

But, we’re not there, yet.

S5E18 -

“What the hell happened to you?” “Reality happened.”

This mirrors hopeless, hapless Cas of the future. Dean has given up. And while Bobby gives a rousing speech, Cas has his eyes on Dean the entire time. Our Angel has sobered up and he is pissed at his chosen human.

And then he has to go out and kill two more Angels. Remember the last time he had to kill Angels on Dean’s behalf? He was furious. Imagine the fury, now, that he sees Dean faltering so astronomically.

“That’s our brother.”

I include this because I find the reaction shots here fascinating. We have the two shot of the Winchester boys, which makes absolute sense. This is their brother, and this is a brotherly moment.

But they take the time to work in a glance from Dean to Cas. And I find that choice fascinating because you could easily exclude Cas from this particular moment. It’s not about Cas. This is about the Winchesters and their estranged brother.

Is it to tie it back to the Angels? To plant the idea in our head before the commercial break? I simply find it an interesting choice, here.

Later, after Adam’s gotten cleaned up, they all chat. And angry as Cas is at Dean right now, he’s still framed in the background behind Dean, the angel over his shoulder.

“Maybe they wrongly assumed Dean would be brave enough to withstand them.” “All right, you know what, blow me, Cas.”

Cas’s confusion there amuses me. It was a choice to include that 1.2 second shot of Collins, and I have to wonder if it was script-based or if the actor chose that reaction and it was too funny to leave out.

After all, levity is important to this show. It’s how Dean processes his emotions, and it’s essential to the rhythm and tone. But, still, does the Angel truly wonder if Dean invited him into a sexual situation accidentally? The mind boggles!

And, yes, maybe this reaction is purely there for the fan-folks. But, y’all, I’m damn happy if it is because it’s brilliant and one of those micro-moments that builds the Destiel lore and strengthens its fandom.

Later, Cas glares at Dean from behind the door. Dean’s face is curious as he takes it in, because that look is familiar, but not on Cas’ features. He tries to deflect with humor.

“Well, Cas, not for nothing, but the last person who looked at me like that… I got laid.” {Cas glares harder} {Dean raises his eyebrows and winks}

In my head cannon (and feel free to correct me in the comments), this was Jensen Ackles fucking with Collins and it made the show.

We know from panel appearances that Ackles liked to make faces at Collins to try to get him to break. And I’ve seen that supported by the bloopers.

So, seriously, if anyone’s to blame for Destiel shippers going gaga over this one… it’s you, Ackles.

As for the lines, someone in the writer’s room was having a great time and got this in the show. Like, even the implication that something sexual could happen between these two is going to get the shippers in a tizzy.

But it’s yet another reminder that early Dean interactions with Cas still included lots of sexual innuendo intended by Dean to deflect and de-escalate. Dean uses humor and whatnot to process and get through, right?

But there will come a day in the future when sex becomes a more taboo subject between these two, and I want you to keep that in mind as we go. Why do I think that shift happens? Well, I’ll tell you my thoughts when we get there.

A while later, Dean tricks Cas into coming into his locked room and releasing him—which is such a Dick move. He knows it’s going to be Castiel to care enough to open the door. He knows how to create the handprint to blast Cas away.

Dean uses the relationship against him. He does! He knows Castiel enough to know how he’ll respond to the perception of Dean in danger and uses it to manipulate him.

Now, later Cas will use their relationship to manipulate Dean, and it’s frustrating that the moments that show how much each understands the other are often used in a negative fashion to further the story.

Yes, it’s good storytelling. No doubt! We have fanfiction and other avenues for filling in the gaps.

But, some of my favorite moments in Canon are the ones where we see Dean and Cas using their knowledge of one another for good, and there’s far too few of those for my liking.

“What, are you crazy?” “I rebelled for this!?”

Oooh, Mama. Wow. Just… wow.

“So that you could surrender to them?” “Cas, please.” “I gave everything for you. And this what you give to me?”

Down the alleyway, we can see it’s raining. It has to rain hard for the camera to pick it up, so this must’ve been a fun “cover the camera with plastic” day to shoot. And Dean stops trying to stop Cas.

Is it because he knows he’s wrong to give up? Is it because he’s just so damn tired? I don’t know. But this time when he sees Cas’ balled fist, he doesn’t ask Cas to stop…

“Do it. Just do it!”

Cas’ fist unclenches. He’s been holding back the whole time, or Dean would be dead. But now, he releases because Dean’s no longer fighting him. And if Dean’s no longer fighting him to get to Michael, then Cas doesn’t need to stop him.

“What happened to him?” “Me.”

Cas shows up holding Dean the exact way Dean held him when he was injured last episode. Arm over the same shoulder, holding the arm in place with the left hand. It’s a minor detail, but one I noted with admiration last episode.

“How are you feeling?” “Word to the wise, don’t piss off the nerd angels.”

There will be times when Dean will call Cas the “AV Club” and whatnot, so it’s consistent that he sees Cas as a nerd.

But, bro, he’s a fucking warrior who has saved your ass many times already. You know he’s not a weak link in a fight, especially at full power.

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re gonna take on 5 Angels?” “Yes., Isn’t that suicide?” “Maybe it is. But then I won’t have to watch you fail. Sorry, Dean. I don’t have the same faith in you that Sam does.”

Dean is hurt when Cas says he won’t have to watch him fail. But I also kind of love this—because Cas isn’t acquiescing to whatever will make Dean feel better.

Cas literally gave up everything to prevent this future, and now Dean is considering running toward it.

Cas feels betrayed. And he’s not afraid to let Dean know it. And I think Dean needs to hear this. His friend would rather die than watch Dean fuck it all up. And yet… he’s still here… dying to give Dean that chance not to.

Love’s a bitch, sometimes.

“You think Adam’s okay?” “Doubt it. Cas either. But we’ll get ‘em.”

Dean’s the one to bring up Cas. He’s thinking about a lot right now. And while it was his little brother’s faith in him that helped him get through that shitty, shitty moment, now he’s thinking about the other people on his unspoken “list”. The list of people he cares most about in this world.

And included on that list is a particular Angel we all know and love.

S5E19 -

"We’re gonna find a way to beat the Devil. Soon. I can feel it. And we will find Cas. We’ll find Adam."

I find it fascinating that Cas is mentioned in so many episodes where he doesn’t make an appearance, and almost always by Dean. It’s a nice little nod, but also very gratifying as a fan.

Look, I’m a Destiel shipper, yes, but Cas is probably my favorite character. I’ll get into why Dean is number two later on in this Meta, and it’s a bit personal. But Cas’ growth is so important to me from the point of view of an Exvangelical who is probably undiagnosed Autistic.

Cas has so much to learn about the world, so much to comprehend, and figuring out who he is separate from Heaven is pretty much the arc of the show for him. He spends so much time trying to fix Heaven that he doesn’t realize dismantling it is what is best for Heaven. He won’t see that vision until Jack helps him see it.

And he’s going to fuck up along the way. He’s going to make mistakes. He’s going to make the wrong choice. That’s part of being human, which he isn’t and yet he is. In some ways, he’s one of the most human characters in this whole show.

So, my heart does a little pitter patter when he’s thought of by those he loves so much, even when he’s not around.

S5E21 -

“We all thought you were dead. Where the hell are you, man?” “At a hospital.” “Are you okay?” “No.” “Do you wanna elaborate?”

Cas is mostly human. And Dean knows what happened to Cas the last time that happened—he lost himself. But, I don’t think that’s going to happen this time. Dean’s already set things in motion to prevent it.

“No worries. Bobby’s here. He’ll wire you the cash.” ”I will?!”

Bobby has missed some things, here, between Dean and Cas. But that declaration is pretty clear—it’s happening and there’s no arguing. Cas is one of theirs and they are bringing him home.

Castiel is going to have his first airline ride, and first airplane food, and first time using an airplane bathroom.

Yeah, now I don’t want to get on another plane, again. But, I imagine the little Angel will have a swell time.

“Dean, wait. You said no to Michael. I owe you an apology.” “Cas, it’s okay.” “You are not the burnt and broken shell of a man I believed you to be.” “Thank you.”

Cas just does not understand how little of a compliment this is, but it’s so adorably Cas.

“There’s not a speck of Angel in you, is there?” “Maybe just a speck.”

Fuck, yeah!! Because Cas is so much more than his Grace. He’s an Angel, yes, but he’s intelligent and resourceful and dependable. Cas is so much more than his powers, and I love that he’s getting to show it, even if he doesn’t yet see it himself.

I mean, he gets the ring and kills the other chick. Nicely done, Castiel!

Later, Cas is framed over Dean’s shoulder, and you can see the wear on him. He’s sitting more casual, less rigid, possibly because he’s shifting to accommodate for some ache or pain he never had to deal with before.

He’s human and just learning his limits, so I imagine it’s a bit jarring.

“Well, it’s the 11th hour and I am useless. All I have is this. What am I even supposed to do with it?” “Point it and shoot.” “What I used to be-“ “Are you really gonna bitch to me? Quit pining for the varsity years and load the damn truck.”

This is such a good perspective that Cas lacked before—someone who is already working with limitations and has been for some time. This is part of that growth I was talking about. Cas is constantly growing.

“You and Dean have a habit of exceeding my expectations. He resisted Michael. Maybe you could resist Lucifer."

Okay, I admit the first time I heard this line, I laughed aloud. It was completely inappropriate, but the fact that he couldn’t just talk to Sam and had to bring up Dean had me cracking up. Like, “No, I can’t compliment you without bringing up my wannabe boyfriend, sorry!” Oh, Cas.

S5E22 -

“Aw, ain’t he a little angel?”

What is this comment, Dean!? Like, it’s adorable.

“Angels don’t sleep.”

Cue Sam with the sobering reminder.

“It’s starting.” “Yeah, you think genius?” “You don’t have to be mean.”

This makes me smile, just a bit, because eventually Cas will bite back at Dean. We’re not there, yet. They are still building their relationship and their trust, but it strikes me.

“I just want you to understand, the only thing that you’re going to see out there is Michael killing your brother.” “Well then I ain’t gonna let him die alone.”

Cas is trying to protect Dean, but this is one of those cases where Dean is going to do the “heart thing” in Sam’s words. It’s one of those “for love” things in the words of Cas.

Dean is doing this not because it’s smart or because it makes sense, but because he loves his little brother. Also, important to note that Dean doesn’t want his little brother to die alone, so no wonder he didn’t want die alone, either.

“Hey, Ass-butt.“ “Ass-butt?” “He’ll be back. And upset. But you got your five minutes.”

It cost him his life, but Cas did this for love, too. He was inspired by Dean and chose to do something that seemed impossible, that seemed like a Hail Mary. But Dean’s influence on Cas is growing.

Also, I have to call out this beautifully edited sequence of the Winchester brothers. No, it’s not Destiel related, but it took my breath away the first time, and the sound editing leading to the hug is exceptionally done. Wow.

“Cas, you’re alive?

It’s another one of those swooping shots of Dean and Castiel, showing that Dean isn’t alone. The Angel heals Dean, then he heals Bobby. Bet you’re glad you wired that money to him now, ain’t cha!?

“What are you going to do now?” “Return to heaven, I suppose.” “Heaven? … Wow. God gives you a shiny new set of wings and suddenly you’re his bitch, again.” I don’t know what god wants. I don’t know if he’ll even return. It just seems like the right thing to do. … You’re angry.” “That’s an understatement. … All I got is my brother in a hole.” “You got what you asked for, Dean. No paradise. No hell. Just more of the same. I mean it, Dean. What would you rather have? Peace. Or freedom?”

One of the greatest lines of the series, honestly. This is where it was all going, right? This was the original ending—and it’s the ultimate question. Which do you want?

“You really suck at goodbyes, you know that?”

Dean [UNKNOWN MIDDLE NAME] Winchester, what the hell!? You don’t know it, yet, but you’re gonna be the worst at goodbyes with this particular Angel going forward. And he’s gonna change your life with a goodbye. So, settle down, dude.

“Dean didn’t want Cas to save him.”

Did Cas really save him? I mean, he healed him, but are you counting that as saving him? Just sayin’…

And it’s the end, right? The end. The end of a sad, tragic tale. But, the show went on…

Want to read more? Here's the link:

Part II: Seasons 6, 7, & 8

Thanks for reading!

[moonjellyagain]

Happy Father's Day - Ishna

I have literally fuck all to do for father's day and haven't done much since restarting my acc. So dilf reader time.

cw; implied mental instability, implied unhealthily childhood due to mental health, vague discussion of the ethical ramifications of having a child when you have a mental disorder, obsessive behaviors, ultimately unhealthy but happy family dynamics, potential implication that you murdered your daughter's mom but I didn't intend that.

Your child was an angel, not just to you but to many around her. She had ascended humanity despite her ties to your tainted soul. Sometimes it seemed as if the weight of the world rested on her little wings and you'd certainly washed her a bit to harshly as a child, hoping desperately to remove the stains of your genetics. She never seemed to mind. To her, you were everything, and in that way your world was contained within your home. You and your daughter were so tightly knit that most people saw you as a unit, folks cooed at how much you cared for her and how you were 'such a great father' for being a single parent. You hardly felt they were right, after all, you'd become a single father for a reason and you had both the scars and invisible blood stains to prove you must be unfit.

Your daughter could not disagree more, however. She knew you must be the only person in the world who could understand her. She could see the maroon that coated your teeth and dripped down your chin most mornings, she could taste the droplets that mixed into her breakfast by way of your hands. To her, these were sacred things, evidence that she was loved more than children blind to the vile messes their parents left behind them. She saw each new stain on your hands and watched her hands closely in hopes of finding her own secrets bubbling to the surface.

When she first got to stay with you at work, having just graduated kindergarten and not having time to set up daycare for her, she was elated. She tried her best to help around the cafe, eventually settling for cleaning the counters when you kept deterring her from other tasks. Ishna wandered into the cafe, fiddling with the hem of his shirt in regret for not arriving sooner, and your daughter felt as if a familiar smell had suddenly appeared.

She recognized the face, she had never seen him up close before but he was the man who whispered for her to call him momma or dada in her more echo-y dreams. She jumped up and gasped, running over to him and grabbing his sleeve with more strength than any 6 year old should have.

"You're finally real!! Papa will be so happy!" she bounced on her feet, beaming at the bewildered man

"Oh no," You cursed under your breath and called your daughter back to your side "Sorry, sir, she's an- imaginative girl..."

Ishna watched you gently reprimand the now pouting child as you picked her up to set her on your hip. He felt emotions surge over him even more so than when he normally saw you at work or even on the days he followed you home or to pick your child up. He looked down at his wrist where your daughter had grabbed hold of him like he was staring at an acceptance letter to Harvard.

"But papa... dada just wants to be my mom again... I promise he'll be nice!" You daughter pleaded to you in the same tone she'd used to convince you your house needed a cat.

"Hunny, it doesn't work like that, I-"

Ishna cut you off. "I-I never said I would mind being a mom... Especially... If I get to join your family..."

Your child was an angel, to both you and Ishna. It had been a few years since she demanded you keep the man and she could not stop bragging that she found her better mom. You had to agree with the girl, Ishna was a great parent and despite him being a strange intrusion to your world, he assimilated as if he'd always been a part of it. He adored your daughter just as much as you did and he fretted over you far more than you had time to think of yourself. Together, your family was your whole world and nothing beyond mattered. Though your floors were soaked in maroons and your walls bruised mauve regularly, your daughter delighted in splashing about the puddles and your wife painted the mauve into spectacular flower murals. It was bliss.

Your daughter could not be more proud of herself. She'd found her mother, remade from scraps and born anew as a second father. She found the person who was meant to be her parent in place of the flesh that bore her. She adored her fathers more than anything, they were her everything. And the whole of her world was contained in her home.

[oopsallgoalies]

Snitches Get Stitches: Chapter 3

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: Jake Seresin, golden boy of the NHL and Captain of the Dallas Stars makes headlines when he unexpectedly signs with newly-formed San Diego Dogfighters. When your future seems at the verge of crashing down, you receive the opportunity of a lifetime to become the team physician for the Dogfighters. You never expected to be working directly with your favorite hockey player. Jake has a secret and you have a job to do. Will he be able to trust you enough to help and will you be able to trust him with your heart?

Series CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, violence, sports violence, medical stuff, blood probably, angst, fluff, (eventual) smut, forbidden romance, sexual harassment, suggestive language, medical inaccuracies, hockey inaccuracies etc. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: This is a repost of my completed series, Snitches Get Stitches. It was originally posted in October-November 2023, and was lost when my blog was deleted.

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

You don’t see Jake again until the next day. Three days in and you’re up to your eyeballs in paperwork that Beau dropped into your lap this morning. You’re starting to understand why they call him Cyclone, he blows in and right back out, leaving you in perpetual chaos. Admittedly he got it for doing that on the ice and he’s actually an extremely reasonable person, you just don’t particularly appreciate getting swamped when you’re already booked full with the physicals. There’s only one way to get both done and that’s how you find yourself in your office working through your lunch break, trying to ignore the angry protests of your stomach after being on your feet all morning working through the last of the second line guys. You half expect the knock at your door, absently calling out to invite the knocker in, expecting Zam coming to investigate your absence from the unofficial girls' table in the break room. That’s why the southern drawl catches you off guard and your head whips up so fast you almost tumble out of your chair.

“Hey, Bugs.” Jake Seresin is standing in the doorway, holding a white plastic bag and a steel water bottle. “You got a second?”

You most definitely do not have a second but your patients come first so you rush to rearrange the paper chaos on your desk to clear some space, waving a hand at the chair opposite inviting him to sit. “Sure Jake, what’s up?”

He sits, his large body dwarfing the office chair and you do your best not to stare, the lack of food in your stomach must be making you mildly delirious. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday about trust, and you’re asking me to trust you. And not your title, you’re asking me to trust you the person if that makes sense?” You nod slowly. “And I was thinking that to trust you as a person, I can’t really do the blind faith thing. I can do that with a title because the title has implications, like because you’re a doctor I know you have over a decade of school and studying to back that title up. But I don’t have anything to trust you as a person because I just met you two days ago. You’ve done your research on me, you said so yourself, so I think I need to do my research.”

“Is this you asking for my Instagram…?” He laughs at that and this time you have time to appreciate how beautiful and full the sound is.

“No Bugs,” he chuckles, placing the plastic bag and water bottle on your desk. “This is me asking you to have lunch with me.”

“Oh. Oh yeah, sure.” You do your best to quiet the part of your brain that’s spiraling to figure out when you’re going to be able to finish all this paperwork. It’ll have to wait, you’re finally getting somewhere with Jake. He opens the bag pulling out a wrapped package and a plastic container.

“I didn’t know if you were more of a cheeseburger or salad person so I just got both.” You almost melt into your seat at the gesture. Before you can say anything, however, your stomach beats your mouth and growls so loudly you want to sink through your chair and die. Your cheeks flush as Jake grins. “Sounds like you’re a both girl.” He places the cheeseburger on top of the salad container and slides the stack across your desk.

“Thank you, Jake, seriously.” You stammer as you grab the cheeseburger with shaking fingers, doing everything to not rip the wrapper to shreds and devour half of it in one bite. “And for the record, I’m a cheeseburger girl.” You give him a shy smile as you bite into it, groaning.

He chuckles as he takes out three more cheeseburgers and starts on one as well. “And here I thought bunnies liked carrots.”

“Actually rabbits don’t naturally eat carrots. They’re too high in sugar.” You say around the cheeseburger in your mouth.

“Noted.”

You swallow. “So what do you want to know about me?”

“I guess let’s start broad. What made you want to do this, working with athletes? You mentioned you watch hockey in your spare time?”

“Yeah, I grew up watching the Ducks with my dad.” You smile at the memory. “Hockey is our thing, one thing we can always talk about, do together.”

“I bet he lost his mind when he found out you’re working with three former Ducks.” He says with a grin. You laugh at that.

“Are you kidding? The man lost his damn mind. He always said he’d never go to an NHL game that wasn’t an Anaheim game but he’s already got tickets for our season opener. The man worships Maverick.”

“Are the Ducks your favorite team too?”

You hesitate at that. Before it was easy to keep yourself separate from Bugs, they were two circles that didn’t overlap but there’s nothing professional about eating lunch with one of your patients in your office. You’re finally making progress with Jake and while you hate lying to him, you’re not sure now is the time to mention that you’re a super fan. “I’m pretty sure I’m contractually obligated to say my favorite team is the Dogfighters.”

“Good point.” He chuckles. So you love hockey, but there’s plenty of ways to work with it without being a physician, so why that?”

“Well I’ve always felt connected to the players on a team, so naturally it always hurt a little to see them get injured, and as a viewer, I hated that there wasn’t something I could do about that. Turns out there was something I could do. I’ve always loved taking care of people but being able to apply it to something that means so much to me is kind of like the sweetest possible deal. I like to think I have a unique perspective with hockey athletes specifically since I grew up watching and playing the sport, I feel like I know them.”

“Wait a second, you play hockey?” His eyes are glowing with excitement.

“Played, past tense. Just for a little bit as a kid, until high school. I never really had the build and body for it, so I played as long as I could before it got to a serious level and I couldn’t make the teams anymore. My dad used to coach a kids league so that’s how I started.”

“What position?”

“Goalie and that’s the only reason I managed to make teams for as long as I did. The body was less of a requirement next to flexibility and agility.”

“Like Bob?”

“Yup, just like Bob, but look at him, he made it to the NHL. It’s nice to see, I think I would have fought harder to keep playing if I’d seen a goalie like him.” You give a rueful smile. “But if I’d kept playing, I never would have found my calling for sports medicine so it worked out in a way. This way I understand what it’s like to be a player so I can level with my patients better because I understand where their coming from.” He nods, turning this new information over in his head.

“Any siblings?”

“Two older brothers.”

“Did they play hockey too?”

You nod. “My oldest brother played through college but didn’t get drafted so he went to law school for sports law and now he’s the one signing players. My other brother plays for the Predators.”

“Damn Bugs, you’ve got an NHL player in the family? No wonder you’re so chill around us.”

“Idiot boys are idiot boys no matter how much they get paid. My brother may play for the Predators now but that’s the same kid who had to get his stomach pumped at age six for eating two whole tubes of play dough on a dare.” Jake chokes on his burger as he laughs.

“Are y’all close?”

You nod. “We all work in different facets of the same sport so it keeps us pretty tight-knit.”

“So who are you gonna be rooting for when we play the Predators in November?”

You make a face. “Are you kidding? The Predators can’t play for shit.” Jake barks out a laugh at the disgusted look you throw his way.

“And the Dogfighters?”

“That remains to be seen. I still haven’t seen their star centre at the top of his game so I can’t form an opinion about them quite yet.” You give him a soft smile, hoping that it comes across like gentle encouragement instead of a cruel dig. He sighs and sits back and you’re afraid you’ve crushed the delicate bubble you’d just created. “I didn’t mean it like that, Jake, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.” You stumble over your words as you try to backtrack. Before Jake can respond, a knock sounds at your door and you call out for them to come in. Cyclone enters and you can’t help but wither a little at the sight.

“Cyclone, what can I do for you?” You give him a tight smile trying to ignore the way his eyes rove over the scene in front of him, Jake, the food, the pushed-aside paperwork.

“Bugs, I wanted to see if you’d finished up with the paperwork I dropped off this morning?” Finished? You’d be lucky if you were even halfway done. “I’m going to need those on my desk by the end of the day.”

“Sure thing, sir.” You chirp, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. You’re so completely, totally, fucked. Your afternoon is booked full with physicals, so you’ll have to stay late to finish the paperwork.

“Jake? What brings you here?”

“Just chatting, sir, getting better acquainted with the person responsible for my health for the foreseeable future.” Jake offers Cyclone a wide grin that’s pure charisma. He could charm the pants off a horse. Cyclone nods in response, turning back to you.

“Bugs, if you could come by my office when you’re done here I’d like to have a chat with you as well.” You feel your stomach sink. You know what this is about. Your mind falls back to the day of your interview and you grimace at exactly what Cyclone is insinuating.

“I’ll be right up, sir.” You miss the worried look that Jake gives you. His eyes scan the papers scattered on your desk as Cyclone leaves.

“Hey Bugs, did I interrupt your work?” He looks guilty.

“No! Well technically yes I was working on some paperwork but you’re my patient so you’re my work too, and either way, I was on my lunch break so legally speaking I wasn’t working either way. There was no way this was all getting done by the end of the day anyway.”

“But Cyclone just said-“

“It'll be done by the end of THE day, just not his day. I’ll just have to stay late to finish it up. I’ve got back-to-back physicals for the rest of the day after this. It's no big deal.”

He shakes his head, frowning. “That’s not fair, you shouldn’t have to do that. Doesn’t he know how busy you are?”

“You of all people should know life isn’t fair, Jake. We’re starting a team from the ground up, this may be the first late night, but I promise you it won’t be the last.” You start collecting your trash, already missing Jake’s company at the thought of your meeting with Cyclone. He’s deep in thought, still frowning. “Sorry to cut things short, but I do have to meet Cyclone before my next appointment.” Something pops into your mind that you’d meant to mention as Jake starts to clean up as well.

“Wait, Jake, I need to tell you something.” He looks up, and the seas in his eyes are calmer than you’ve ever seen them even as you see the question in them.

“What’s up, Bugs?”

“Bob knows.” He looks confused so you clarify. “About your leg…” you watch the walls slam back up in his eyes as he frowns, anger flooding into his face. “I didn’t tell him, I swear! He asked me about it yesterday during his physical. Apparently, he studied kinesiology in college and has been watching you and he noticed something was up.” You’re suddenly worried that you’ve made a terrible mistake in telling him but ultimately you thought it was the right decision.

“Fuck…” Jake runs an irritated hand through his hair and you watch the blonde strands stick up on his wake. “FUCK!” You jump at his raised voice and he turns to you at the movement. He must see the fear pass through your eyes because his shoulders slump and you see the same look mirrored in them. You come out from behind your desk, laying your hand on his absurdly large bicep.

“It’s okay, Jake. I know this is scary but you’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.” You add without thinking. He turns to look at you and you see the fear swirling in his eyes and it breaks your heart. “But your team deserves to know what’s going on, Jake. You owe that to them as a teammate and especially as their captain. You have to lead by example.” He nods silently.

“I know.” You’re not sure if you imagine the waver in his voice.

“I gotta go before Cyclone comes back down here looking for me, but you can take your time if you need some privacy.” You take a deep breath that doesn’t go unnoticed by Jake, straightening your shoulders before grabbing your white coat from the hook on the back of your door, giving Jake a little wave as you leave.

***

The walk up to Cyclone’s office feels like walking through wet cement, but when you get there, the door is open and he’s waiting at his desk, lips set in a grim line. You close the door behind you, taking a seat across from him when he invites you to.

“Bugs, I was hoping we wouldn’t have to have this conversation at all, let alone three days into the job.” He looks frustrated and you can’t blame him but you also know he’s misunderstanding what he saw. “When I hired you, you made me a promise.”

“I know sir, and I’ve kept it. My relationship with Jake Seresin, if you can even call it that, is strictly professional. As the captain of the team, he’s expressed interest in maintaining a good relationship with me so he wanted to meet to discuss how the physicals have been going and lunchtime is the only free time we both have, currently.” You hope the lie sounds as convincing as you need it to as you silently chastise yourself for putting your hand on Jake’s arm earlier. It was unnecessary and unprofessional. Anyone could have walked in and gotten the wrong idea. You need to stop touching him so much, but you can’t help it. He’s like a magnet, and you’re helpless to his pull.

He nods curtly but doesn’t look convinced. “And how are they going?”

“Everyone I’ve finished with is in perfect condition.” This time it’s not a lie. Technically Jake hasn’t had his physical yet.

“Good.” He sighs. “Bugs, we’re not going to have a problem here, are we? I took a chance hiring you, you know that. There are multiple accounts that contrast the story you told me. You’re outnumbered and I still chose to trust you, I hope I made the right decision.”

“You did, sir. There won’t be any problems.” At least not in this department. You can’t imagine how he’ll react when he finds out his star goalie is injured.

“I hope so because if we do, I can assure you that you’ll never work in the NHL again, let alone in the hockey world.” You swallow, hard, glad that your hands aren’t visible where they’re tightly fisted under the table to contain your anger. This shouldn’t be happening, you shouldn’t have to be dealing with this, and yet you’re sitting here being scolded like a child for something that’s not even your fault, being threatened with losing everything you’ve worked so hard for, that you’re more than qualified to do.

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all Bugs, I expect to see that paperwork on my desk first thing tomorrow.” You do your best to leave without looking like you’re actively fleeing the scene, but as soon as his office door shuts you’re practically sprinting back to your office. With the endless pile of paper on your desk, every second counts.

***

You glance at the clock as you grab what’s finally the last piece of paper on your desk. It’s a little after eight and honestly, you’re doing a lot better than you expected. You silently thank Jake’s lunch interruption or else you’d be positively delirious from hunger at this point. Even now, you can feel the all-to-familiar gnawing that comes after a hard day’s work. You’re thankful to be sitting after standing for pretty much the whole afternoon. By the end of the week you should be done with all the physicals except Jake’s, ahead of schedule you might add. You can’t find it in you to be proud, though, as you try to focus your brain enough to read the letters swimming on the page in front of you. Letting out an exhausted groan, you lay your forehead down on the table, as a knock raps at your door.

“Sorry, I’m almost done here, it’ll be good to clean in like twenty minutes!” You call out to who you assume is the cleaning crew, anxious to finish their jobs and go home like you.

“Good to know.” A familiar voice answers as the door swings open to reveal Jake, holding a pizza box. He’s got a backward cap on his head and a gentle grin on his face as he takes a seat in his spot across from you, placing the box on the table and you can feel the heat coming off of it as your mouth starts to water. You’re sure you’re making heart eyes at it as he opens it and helps himself to a slice. “I figured you probably hadn’t had dinner since you seemed so used to skipping lunch.” You give him an embarrassed smile as you finally pull your eyes away from the pizza.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He waves you off with his free hand. “What’re you still doing here, anyway?” You turn back to the pizza, selecting a slice and barely stopping the moan from escaping your lips as you take a bite.

“You said you were staying late and I wasn’t sure how safe that was so I figured I’d hit the gym and get some extra reps. No leg stuff, don’t worry.” He says misinterpreting your wide-eyed expression.”

“You stayed here for me?”

“I mean you’re staying here for us, so yeah. Plus, I owed you after interrupting your work earlier.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know I’m almost done.” You wave your free hand at the paper in front of you. “Last one!” He lifts his fist in a silent cheer as he chews. You wipe your greasy hands on your scrubs and turn back to the paper, and suddenly the words are legible again. You skim the text before adding some notes and signatures where necessary. You work in a comfortable silence punctuated by the sound of Jake’s chewing. Finally, you set down your pen and sit back in your chair with a sigh.

“All done?”

“All done!” You turn back to the box to see two slices left.

“Those are all yours, Bugs. You earned ‘em.” You smile shyly at him as you dig in. “So, how’d the meeting with Cyclone go?” He looks slightly concerned and you wonder why.

You shrug as you swallow. “Fine, I guess. He wanted to know how the physicals were going. At least I’m ahead on those, they should be done by Friday, except for you, that is. You have until the end of next week.”

“About that…” Jake looks at you sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I think I’m ready.”

You almost fall out of your chair for the second time today. “Jake that’s great news! Thank you so much!” You pause to swallow. “Wait did you mean right now, right now, or like just generally ready?”

He chuckles nervously. “Just generally. You can fit me in whenever, I’ll be there.”

“I can do it first thing tomorrow if you’d like? Get it over and done with so you don’t have to worry about it anymore?” He nods at that.

“Yeah, that’ll work.” His eyes are fixed at some invisible point on the desk.

“Hey, Jake?” He doesn’t raise his head.

“Yeah, Bugs?”

“No matter what happens tomorrow, it’s gonna be okay. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” He nods, still not looking at you. “It’s okay to be scared, you know? You just can’t let the fear paralyze you, you have to move through it.” He lets out a shuddering breath and you wonder just how long he’s been holding it.

When he speaks again, you almost don’t recognize his voice. It’s gravelly and full of fear. “What if you can’t fix it?”

“Then I’ll do whatever I can to make you more comfortable and we’ll move from there. There’s no scenario where things don’t change, I promise. I can’t promise how much I’ll be able to do until I’ve seen your leg.” He nods again.

“Everything changes tomorrow.”

“Everything’s already changed today.” You say with a small smile. “We had an actual conversation like sane human beings, we shared two meals, and you decided to trust me with your care. The hard part’s already over.” You watch his cheeks flex as he smiles too.

“Thanks, Bunny, I mean it.” You try to ignore the way your heart beats a little faster when he calls you that.

“Thank YOU, for trusting me.” The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before you add. “Hey, Jake? You should talk to Javy. He loves you a lot and he’s really tearing himself up over this.”

He nods. “I know. We usually tell each other everything, I haven’t been fair to him.”

You stand. “I’m gonna run this paperwork upstairs if you want to grab your stuff to head out.” You stack the piles of paper in your arms, careful not to drop them, and Jake stands, holding open the door for you. You give him a smile of thanks before heading off to Cyclone’s office to drop them off.

***

You find Jake waiting with his stuff by the door to the parking garage. “Sorry, you didn’t need to wait!”

He shakes his head with a smile. “You just don’t get it, do you? I’m walking you to your car.”

“What if I’m staying late in an attempt to get kidnapped so I can sue for the money I need for my loans?” You pout up at him.

“I’d say you’re better off trying that on a team with more money.” You laugh. The only cars left in the garage are yours and a silver Ford F-150 that you assume must be Jake’s. “I’d say nice ride, Bugs, but what happened to the front?” He squats down to examine the scratches on your front bumper. “Oh, I hit Maverick on his bike.” His head whips up to gape at you.

“You WHAT?”

“Yeah, that’s actually how we met… He drove in front of me when I was pulling into a gas station. I was freaking out and told him I was a doctor so he’d let me check him out and then he offered me a job interview.”

“Damn Bunny, you’re a hustler.” You blush.

“HE drove in front of ME.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He stands back up. “I know a guy who could take a look at those scratches if you want?”

“Oh no, don’t worry about it, they’re just scratches, it’s not worth the money, honestly.”

“I promise you, Mav can afford it. And remind me to never let you drive my truck.” You roll your eyes, unlocking your car and tossing your stuff into the passenger seat.

“Goodnight, Jake.” You say as you slide into the driver’s seat, rolling down the window so you can keep talking to him.

“Drive safe, Bugs.” He gives you a pointed look that says he means it.

You can’t help it, you stick your tongue out at him as you shift the car into reverse. Jake stays and waves you off until you can’t see him anymore. All in all, today was a success, you think as you pull out of the garage. Jake trusts you, except now you have a different problem. Can you trust yourself with Jake?

[whumpsoda]

WSFSP - A is for Apology

For the first prompt for this month’s event Alphabet of Whump by @alphabetofwhump!! Who knows how many of these I’ll do, I just loved the prompts!

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpees, implications of past abuse, recovering whumpees

——————

When Prince had brought up the prospect of joining the others for lunch, which in turn obviously meant leaving the two’s shared room, Mutt had panicked, instantly shooting him down with a shake of the head.

In the end Prince left anyway - as if he even needed to listen to Mutt in the first place - Mutt obediently and cautiously following in suit. Keeping his chest puffed and his scowl solid, Mutt ensured an intimidating presence.

It didn’t last long.

The glass, formerly halfway empty, was now a shatter of slick, knife sharp shards scattered across the wood of the kitchen. It happened so quickly Mutt couldn’t so much as tell how he broke it, too caught up in his own world to notice, only sure that it was his fault. He always was humiliatingly clumsy.

And everyone stared daggers at him, the room falling eerily silent, as if Mutt was under a blinding spotlight. The sting of their gazes made him cower, curling in on himself as a pounding sensation of horror began. nearly enough to get him to drop to his knees and beg had he not been paralyzed with fear.

“I-,” Should he have spoken, spilling meaningless apologies that could never overshadow the mess he had made? Should he have stayed silent, and be reprimanded for thinking something like him wouldn’t need to grovel? Mutt took a shaking breath, clenching his fists. “I’m- I- I’m sorry-,”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Isaac stole a swift step forward, far away enough not to step into anything that may cut her, hands out as if to stabilize him from feet away. “Just a glass. An accident.”

She said it so reassuringly, but Mutt was well aware that all of his accidents had piled up since he’d gotten to this strange place, and now he was finally going to be punished for every single little thing. How could they not be completely fed up with him?

Sniveling back ugly tears, Mutt choked out more apologies, biting at his quivering lip. “I- I, um, I’m sorry-,” his hands were trembling - no, his whole body was.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. No one’s mad, nothing bad is going to happen, I promise.” Her voice wavered with a slight of urgency, each wary of how the other might react. “You can cry if you need to, I understand. Just- look at me, okay, can you do that?”

“Y- yes, yes ma’am.” Doing exactly as ordered, all the while holding back his overflowing emotions, Mutt met her glimmering brown eyes. Leaning toward her, almost enraptured by her stare, he looked to Isaac for any sort of guidance.

“Take some nice, deep breaths. In, and out. In… and out. In… and out.” She guided him along as he obeyed, keeping a wave of sobs at bay all the while calming the drumming beat in his heart. “Better?”

Salty tears flooded his gaze as he stumbled backward, bumping into Prince who caught him by the arms. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-,” he always was a crybaby, as his masted had deemed him.

He hadn’t even noticed how long it had been without a punishment until then, he hadn’t been grateful for it. They were going to make him pay. Master always did.

She shook her head, just by a bit, curls shaking along with the movement. “Accidents happen, we all make them. You’re all good, man. Swear on it.”

His vision flickered to a woman - Edith Prince had called her - bumbling in front of him with a tall broom as she got right to work cleaning up Mutt’s mess.

He reached out for her. “Can- I can help, please-,”

A hand, absentmindedly and gently placed to Mutt’s arm, was soft with a slightly cool touch. Unfamiliar it was, but he didn’t realize until then how terribly he craved it. “Oh no, my dear. You have no shoes on. You might step on something and hurt yourself.”

“But, but, please-,”

“Isaac will help you to the other room, okay honey? Me and Oscar will clean this up, no problem.” She had this smile that bubbled a sugary warmth in his belly, even through the horror running about his mind. “Don’t even worry about it.”

Shaking his head, Mutt insisted, begging to be of service, to try even the slightest to make up for himself. “I can help, I can do anything, please.”

Swiftly and carefully Isaac cut between them, with a soft force stealing Mutt away from the kitchen, tears running down his flushed cheeks. “Come with me, okay? We’re just going to go over here by the couch.” She took him by the hand, her far smaller fingers curling over his as Mutt took Prince’s hand in his other, pulling the pet to his guard’s side.

Mutt whimpered, realization striking him hard in his knotted stomach as he stole a glance outside. “Do- do I… have to go in the dog house?” He was sure it was coming, positive there was no way they would let him off scott free for his undeniable insolence.

“Dog house?” Isaac took a piece of his tear stained hair, gently brushing it back into place. “Is that like… that’s a punishment, yes?”

“Uh, uh huh.” He sniveled, wiping one eye with a burly fist.

Her warmth hardened, expression going cold. “No. No, never ever, I promise you. There’s no such thing as that here - not even punishments.”

“No… punishments?” The idea was completely foreign to both him and Prince, the other pet quietly chiming in with his own confusion of the concept.

“Nope. You will never be punished, disciplined, or anything else your owner may have called it ever again and that’s final.” Isaac stated, sternly. “That goes for the both of you.”

“B- but-,”

“Never.”

“What if-,”

“Hey.” Isaac stopped the two, putting both of her outstretched pinky fingers to them. “Never. No what ifs, no buts. Pinkie promise.”

Prince carefully interlocked his own finger with hers, letting out the faintest of a chuckle as Mutt watched in confusion.

“It’s like a regular promise, just better. One for both of you.” Isaac whispered to him, and he, drying his face with his shirt, followed along with Prince. “Good.”

No punishments.

That’s what she said at least, and Mutt was inclined to believe her.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper

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