#but i think your blood is actually syrup and butter

[dynamitekansai]

WWE: good luck, jey! 😂👀

[l1tw1ck]

Newlyweds

bottom!ftm Miguel x top!male reader

🕷️Word Count: 1,947🕷️

[Part One] | AFAB Language Used

CW: Menstruation (No Period Sex), Lingerie, Dom/Sub, Daddy Kink, Cunnilingus, Squirting, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Impregnating, Mating Press, Lactation Mention, Praise Kink

Miguel wakes up with pain. A lot of pain. Along with discomfort and the familiar feeling and smell of blood. Of course he starts his period unexpectedly in your bed. Not only that but he has cramps and a hangover. Great way to start the morning. He hopes you at least have advil. He taps your shoulder and wakes you up.

“What's wrong?” You ask, noticing that it's still pretty early in the morning.

“I’m on my period.” He frowns. “Sorry…about your sheets.”

“Don't apologize, it's not your fault. Do you need anything? Food, meds, something hot?” You get out of the bed. Miguel shakily gets out as well.

“A shower would be nice…and some ibuprofen? Or advil?”

“No problem. Luckily for you, I have some pads or tampons you can use. I keep them for when family visits. Do you use a heating pad? I have one of those too.”

“Yeah, a heating pad would be helpful.” He nods. “I prefer pads.”

“Okay, go ahead and get in the shower, I’ll leave some clothes out for you to wear. Oh, and you’ll need to eat something too. Is there anything you prefer?”

“Whatever you can make is fine.”

“Alright, I'll get everything you need. Take as long as you want in the shower.”

.....

Miguel gets out of the shower and walks into your room. The bed is stripped and the bloody parts are being soaked in a cleaning mixture. He hopes he didn't ruin your mattress. He looks at the pair of boxers you left for him and frowns. It's no surprise that you don't have any panties, why would you? But wearing pads with boxers isn't very….safe. It's a good thing the two of you are neighbors, he’ll have to ask you to get him a pair of underwear. He pulls up the boxers half way and applies the pad, praying that it’ll do the job, and pulls it up completely. He puts on your shirt, happy that it's big on him, and puts on the pair of shorts.

He walks down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Hey..”

“Hey! There’s the meds.” You point to the bottle of ibuprofen and cup of water next to it. “I’m making pancakes. How do you like ‘em?”

“With butter and syrup.” Miguel looks at the medicine bottle and concludes that he’ll thankfully only have to take one. He hates taking pain medication because of the risks but they're unbelievably helpful. He sighs, putting a pill in his mouth and swallowing it with water.

“...Hey, at least you're not pregnant yet.” You smile sheepishly.

Miguel chuckles. “We should probably start planning for when I actually am pregnant.”

“Yeah…I’ll have to start packing my things soon, right? I don't want Gabriella to have to worry about moving her stuff here.”

He appreciates how you consider his daughter too. “That’d be the best way.”

“At least we're neighbors, that’ll make the process much easier.”

“That reminds me…can you…can you go to my house and get me a pair of panties? They're specifically made for periods…I have a box of period stuff in my closet, you’ll know it when you see it. I’d go myself but-”

“Don't worry about it, babe. I’ll get it for you. After you eat, you can go lay down in the guest bedroom, I already put the heating pad in there. If you want, I’ll pick Gabi up and bring her here.”

“Please. Thank you so much.”

“Of course.” You kiss his forehead.

Gabi walks up to your car, confused. “Why are you picking me up?”

“Your dad’s feeling sick so he asked me to come get you.”

“Oh. Is papá okay?”

“Yeah, he's fine. He’s just on his period.” You nod. “Come on, get in.”

Gabriella grimaces, feeling bad for her dad. She gets into the backseat and buckles her seatbelt.

“So…What do you think about coming to my place and eating dinner with me and your dad?”

Gabriella grins. “Are you gonna cook?”

“Of course! Whatever you want.”

“Then…Can you make burgers? I haven't had a burger in soo long! Papá sucks at cooking and he thinks fast food burgers are made of rat meat!”

You laugh. “Sure thing. What kind of burger? And do you want fries too? I can make ‘em from scratch.”

Her eyes widen. “Really? I love fries! And I really wanna try a bacon cheeseburger!”

“You got it, Gabi.”

“You’re so good at cooking! I wish Papà could cook like you.” Gabriella wipes her face clean.

“Hey! I can cook just fine, Gabi!”

“Then how come we had to order takeout the other night because you made green goop?”

“Green goop?” You look at Miguel, grinning.

“It was supposed to be green, okay?!”

“Mhm~” You hum in a sarcastic tone. “Maybe I need to save Gabi from your horrible cooking.”

“Please! You guys should get married. Then you can cook us dinner all the time!”

You look at Miguel.

Miguel looks at you and nods. “Well…Actually, mija…”

She looks at him curiously.

“We are getting married.” He can't hide his happiness.

Her entire face lights up. “Really?!” She puts her game down and stands up. “Am I really gonna get an hermanito now?!”

“Yes, mija.” Miguel chuckles.

“When are you gonna order them?!”

“...Order?” You raise an eyebrow.

“You know, go to the stork postal service and order a baby!”

You and Miguel look at her, dumbfounded.

“What?” She frowns.

“Mija…We need to teach you where babies really come from..”

After the horrifying explanation (which was actually very tame compared to the talk Miguel’s parents gave him), Gabriella accepted the fact that babies are in fact not delivered by storks. Miguel doesn't even know where she got that from.

Now she's started to see you as the second father you’ll soon become. Rather than using your name, she calls you dad. It makes you happy to know she's so accepting of you as her father. She invites you to her soccer games and school events and of course you show up to everything you can. She loves that she has two parents. It's so comforting to see the two of you in the bleachers while she's playing. And now it's a lot less likely for her to be alone at events. If Miguel’s working, you usually show up and vice versa.

And of course she’ll be the maid of honor at your wedding. She’s almost more excited about the wedding than the two of you are.

Miguel walks down the aisle, holding a beautiful bouquet of red and blue roses. He looks gorgeous. You can't wait for your honeymoon.

He walks up to you and gets into place.

“You look beautiful.” You smile at him.

“Thank you..” He replies, bashful.

You’re lost in Miguel’s beauty for the entire ceremony, only paying attention to when it's time to exchange rings, say your vows, and say “I do.”

You go in to kiss Miguel, sad that you can only peck him on the lips. You don't want to traumatize all the children with a french kiss. You pick him up and carry him bridal style.

“Do you wanna stay?” You ask.

“I wanna make our baby.” He says.

You nod and start running towards the jet you rented. Everyone in the crowd watches in shock as you abandon the wedding. Miguel throws his bouquet and a ton of people scramble to grab it. Thankfully for you two, Gabriella is staying with her grandparents so you can escape to your honeymoon without worry.

Miguel walks out of the bathroom, dressed in a beautiful lingerie set. A red lacy bra and panties along with matching stockings with garters to hold them up.

You hurry over to him. “You look amazing.” You grope his ass and give him a soft kiss. “Lay down.”

Miguel gets onto the bed and lies down, waiting for your next move. You grab his thighs and kneel in front of the bed, pulling him close to you. There's a gap in his panties for easy access. You press kisses along his thighs, occasionally sucking and biting them. You move to his pussy, pressing a kiss against his erect t-dick. He twitches in response. You bring it into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it.

“Fu- fuck–” He moans, curling his toes. He throws his head back and gasps as you start sucking him off while simultaneously slipping two of your fingers inside him. Miguel arches his back, moans getting increasingly louder as you finger him. “God yes–” He grins. “‘M gonna come-”

You pull away from him, still working his insides with your fingers. “What do you say, Miguel?”

“Pl- please~ please let me come, Daddy~”

“Good boy.” You go back to sucking on his dick. Miguel shakes as he squirts, drenching you in his pleasure. You lick up his slick before pulling away. “Tell me when you're ready.” You stand up and take your clothes off.

“I’m ready..” He moves backwards and spreads his folds with two of his fingers. “Please breed me, Daddy..”

You smirk. You climb onto the bed and align your length with his hole. Miguel watches intently as you slowly ease yourself inside him. The two of you watch as a bulge appears in his stomach the further you go in. “You're gorgeous, Miguel.” You run your hands up his body and grope his breasts. “You’ll let me get a taste once you start lactating, right?”

Miguel smiles. “Just a taste.”

You bring him into a deep kiss and inch yourself further inside him. Miguel gently moves his hips once he feels you bottom out, desperate to have you fuck him. You part from the kiss and move to his neck, lightly kissing his skin. “I love you.” You murmur before pulling away. You grab his legs and move him into a mating press. Miguel barely has time to process what you just did thanks to your sudden and rough thrusts. He grabs onto your shoulders, nails digging into your skin, and moans loudly as you properly breed his pussy. He can barely keep his eyes focused but just glimpsing upon your aroused expression makes his heart race even faster. It perfectly displays how much you love him and how good he's making you feel. He happily listens to your breathy words of praise and your low sounds of pleasure, falling deeper in love with you as the two of you completely tie yourselves together forever. He’s never been happier.

He already feels himself reaching his orgasm. “‘M clo- oh- close~!” He cries out. “Fuck-” He gasps, suddenly coming. He digs deeper into your skin when he feels you slow down. “Don’t- don’t you dare stop-” He almost growls at you. You take that as a warning and resume your previous pace. He manages to stay sane even as you continue to fuck his sensitive cunt, all for the sake of feeling you impregnate him. Just that is enough to give him strength to keep going.

“You're doing so- so good, Miguel.” You let out a low sound of pleasure. “Such a good boy for me..”

He moans happily.

“And you feel so fucking good..” Your breathing becomes more labored. “Making me come so fast with your tight pussy-” You groan, stopping as you fill him up with your first load of the night. He feels euphoric as your cum invades his insides.

“More…” He looks up at you with the cutest expression.

“I won't stop until I’m shooting blanks, baby.”

Miguel grins. He can't wait to spend the rest of his life with you and your kids.

[doorrobloxstuff]

What if snare has like a lil terrarium instead of a playpen like a human kid

Like lots of moss n plants and soil and stuff and its nice and warm and humid so the little baby can have a place to relax :)

What is he talking about I do not know.

Imagine Screech causes chaos by purposely shaking the terrarium and Seek just loses it like “Curses child, I just got that toddler to sleep!!”

But I feel like snare would be more a “shitty terracotta/clay pot” kind of baby. It’d eat the delicious clay for nutrients. Or maybe not even clay- maybe one of those extremely delicate fiber pots it’d gobble that shit up like a snack. Tastes like pancakes and sates the critter temporarily. Snare loves them.

Are they pancakes stolen off of dead intruders??? WHO would in their right mind would take pancakes with them while exploring a seemingly abandoned hotel??

It’d be cool to think of what entity..”pancakes” are. What snare defines AS pancakes. Is blood used in them?? (Blood pancakes ARE a thing.) Actually, blood could be used to replace the egg components due the complete lack of eggs.

Are they real thin or real THICC pancakes?? I like to imagine their thin yet biiig and sorta crusty around the edges. Served in stacks or even as just individual. The closest I’ve been able to show you guys is this.

(‘But Rush!’ You might say; ‘those are basically crepes are!’ I put a pipe bomb in your mailbox. Open your mailbox open it open it now)

Update: Found an even more accurate pic of what I’m talking about. Behold. Blood pancake. Do not ask me to censor blood pancake. You came here, to the horror blog to look at horrors. You will get speculative biology and blood pancakes. Bare witness.

Witness it. Witness the pancake made with pig/maybe reindeer blood depending on were you live.

Full of iron and proteins. Mystery entity, Snare and Screech will grow big and strong.

All the first floor entities actually share food together at a big old dining table, so everyone can witness Snare wolfing them down before attempting to steal other people’s pancakes. (Much to the great and terrible ire of Halt, Seek and Ambush alike.)

I wonder what fucked up syrup/butter they put on these things.

I might have said entities are obligate carnivores but that was thrown out the fuckin window given all the lore these past few months. Omnivore it is.

Ambush would make them big and fluffy btw

[anawkwardlady]

Ruined Napkins

Are you, just like me sitting there and trying to survive during the holiday season ? Because while doing it, I literally just wrote a some kind of os/drabble and called it a day. Cielois awkward family dinner simulator. Ciel and Alois are older, modern day setting. A bit of blood is involved. Merry Christmas everyone ! (literally just realized but : kinda inspired of a Fleabag episode)

(Warning for disordered eating, upsetting family dynamics, Mention of being sick/throwing up)

(also sorry i'm trying my best but english is not my first language lol)

-

"Actually... I can't think with low sugar so I'm just going to.."

Ciel disappeared behind his menu while Alois still nibbled on tiny pieces of bread, ignoring a headache. Sebastian and Claude, not really on the sweet tooth side, let their children choose while sipping their drink and discussing various subjects.

"Alois you're weirdly silent tonight, what is new in your little life ?"

Claude asked as he was folding his napkin in some kind of origami piece. His mostly empty plate was stained with the blood and butter of his rare steak. Sebastian who went for poultry tonight left a cleaner plate but with an even cleaner bone sitting in the middle. Okay, Alois might only be a rotating picky flexitarian who still accepted to wear fur when offered to him but it didn't help with his general uneasiness.

"Nothing really, working, training, just got out of a fitting and costume measurements thing. Greatest boyfriend ever right there was being a helpful gentleman the whole time. Everything is great."

"I just held your coat and took pictures." Ciel mumbled.

He was playing with the untouched crust of his truffle pizza and stopped, remembering how his father used to lightly slap his hand with his fork to make him stop when he was smaller. He threw a glance at Sebastian who relaxed his hand and smiled at him.

"You know, I went to see you on stage a week ago, Alois." Claude started with his same monotonous tone.

"Seriously ? And you don't call... you don't come to see me right after ? I've been pleading you to come and see me ?"

"I did not want to distract you, I just wanted to take a look."

"Sure. Okay, weirdo. What's my score then ?" He said, crumbling his bread on the rest of his salmon salad and stretching on his chair.

"Good. But actually, since you want to get hostile you do look a bit off sometimes."

"I think I will go for pecan and maple syrup pie, Al’, what about you ?"

The young blue haired man preferred to intervene as he felt his boyfriend slowly boiling up inside and his caregiver crawling up over the warmth, seeking for fire. He placed a hand on Alois' waist who softened a bit. He knew he looked tired. It's been going on for weeks.

"Not hungry anymore."

"Are you sure because they have raspberry and white chocolate macarons and-"

"I need to go to the bathroom"

The blond man rapidly disappeared leaving Ciel and the two headed beast. No solidarity from his lover, really. They stayed in silence and the younger one distracted himself by scrolling on his phone and looking at pictures Alois sent him of them they took earlier in the day. He wanted them to match tonight so both wore a satin blouse with black bottoms. Emerald green, crew necked top assorted with high waisted dress pants and high heels for Alois. Dark blue, flowy, buttoned up paired with fitted trousers, derbies and gold earrings for Ciel. Claude interrupted his train of thoughts.

"With me, he was healthy."

He said it without even looking at him. Which is, still better than having those amber eyes pierce his skull.

"Well, I wouldn't know about anything, since you never call…" Sebastian added, also aiming at the young one.

Now crimson eyes were burning his'.

Okay this was just unfair. He couldn't fight both rancid idiots at the same time, he had to make choices or he would lose his mind. Sebastian sipped his wine, smirking at his son who sighed like a teen. Fuck that.

"One : No he wasn't. Two : I'm busy. Don't fucking start if you still want to go anywhere with me."

Must do the work for now since it did cut the three way conversation after Sebastian glared at him and complained to Claude about the ungratefulness of the youth. After being served his cake he started stabbing it with anxiety. Alois was gone for a bit now.

"I should check on him"

Ciel sneaked to the restaurant's bathroom and looked around. He didn’t see anything and was about to check outside when he heard someone coughing and gagging.

"Oh fuck... Oh fuck.." followed uncomfortable sounds.

"Alois, you're okay in there ? Please open the door."

"I'm fine I'm fine" he answered with a weak voice.

".... Can you open ?"

He heard Alois swearing again, flush and open, looking red and ill as hell. Ciel stopped him from going out, gave him a tissue and massaged his shoulder. Before Alois flushed it out after cleaning his mouth and nose out his boyfriend noticed tiny red sparks on it.

"What happened, what's this ?"

"Nothing, I'm sick. Sometimes it happens when your throat is all irritated, I think, I read that on internet."

"... Were you sick ? Or did you make yourself sick ?" He asked all serious.

"... Ciel, don’t, no…"

"Which one is it ?"

Alois looked at him like a guilty dog.

"Maybe a bit of both."

"...Okay, we are going to the hospital to check if it's nothing."

Ciel tried to sound soft, control his trembling voice and tipsy thoughts. He left everything unaddressed for too long as he didn’t know how to do it properly. He was enabling him. Maybe Faustus was right.

"Fuck no, I want to go home and rest"

"No we are not going to just go home, silly."

"Okay honey, how about this : you go to the hospital, and I go back to the table, hm ?"

The blond man walked up the marble sink and washed his face, trying to save what was left of his makeup. Then put his clothes together and fluffed his hair up before going back. Ciel was fed up. The night was fucked from the start, his boyfriend was sick and triggered. He felt cornered. He had no issue ending it all on a chaotic note. And his lover just provoked him. Fine. He composed himself and went sitting back too, following conversation and drinking a bit more, waiting for his moment to come.

"You both took a really long time, we were a bit worried"

"Oh ?" Ciel smiled at Alois who recognized a weird sparkle in his eye.

"Worried ? No. We definitely can't have that. Worrying is bad." He followed up with a condescending tone, sat up on his chair really straight, displacing anything in front of him.

"I just want to say : I am having a fantastic night."

And violently smashed his face on the table.

Everyone froze up with shock as Ciel (a bit dizzy), lifted up his head showing his profusely bleeding nose. Sebastian was the fastest to hold his nose with a tissue while everyone panicked around them. Waiters ran around, looking for ice, other clients stood there, not understanding the situation.

"Oh my god I'll call, i'll call someone"

"No-no wait we'll get him in the car, Alois, hold him"

"Why ? I want to go home, nosebleeds happen." Ciel asked.

Sebastian ran outside, swearing something about "attention seeking brats" between his teeth, getting the car closer while Claude brought other tissues.

"So" Ciel began, a few moments alone with Alois, smiled then winced.

"Seems like I am going to the hospital. Still coming home ?"

"Shut up, you're sick, you're insane !"

As Alois angrily yelled at him, he tried to check if the bleeding kept going. Ciel drew back, still in pain.

"You're lucky it doesn't look broken, oh, you can whine now, it was your stupid idea !"

Feeling worry and a beginning of tears in his boyfriend's voice, Ciel slowly kissed his knuckles to appease him. Alois rested his forehead on his shoulder, calling him stupid again and again. The injured one made a sign to Claude who was about to take the boys coats and who crouched at his sitting height. He said something in his ear which was answered by a simple nod by the man with glasses. They all got up and walked outside. On the way Alois gave a last glance to the table behind them. Spilled drinks stained the cream tablecloth, leftovers soaking in wine, champagne and water, blood poisoning food, mixing wine, dripping on tissues and ruining it all for good. They got in the car and the blond man held on to his lover for dear life, even after he got better.

Ciel apologized.

He firstly wanted to say "Now, you know what it feels like."

He then felt cruel and stupid. But it was so much better than feeling hopeless.

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

We've Got Tonight - Ch 5

Summary: “It’s not your job to do this, Andy. You make people happy. I was in the diner all of ten minutes, and you knew exactly how to get me to smile. You do normal, real things like garden and sing karaoke. Saving the world is my job, Sam’s job. Sometimes it’s even Cas’s job, but it’s not yours.”

Inspired by Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight”

Warnings: Major Character Death, More Major Character Deaths (sort of?), higher than show level violence, blood, light smutting, language, demons, apocalypse, inferred suicide, cult activity.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This story is set hazily around season 8. Just squint a little, and it’ll settle in somewhere. I wrote this story after certain big revelations in the show, but before other big ones; you’ll most likely be able to tell which. I play with time a bit in the story itself, so if things seem out of order, they are. Hopefully, by the end, all the pieces will fit together.

What the hell, let’s give it a shot.

Image and major edits by the incomparable @there-must-be-a-lock . Heavy editing and cheering by @thoughtslikeaminefield . Thank you both so much.

This chapter in particular is dedicated to @foxyjwls007 . If I'm going to torture you with something, it's not going to be a cliffhanger. I'm going out of town for two weeks, so you get an update early since I won't be able to post while I'm away. Thank you for the encouragement.

In case you missed it: Chapter 4 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

...

We’ve Got Tonight

Chapter 5

“Miss? Miss? Hey, are you okay?”

A hand grips Andy’s arm, firm but polite, and she jerks to, almost losing her footing. It’s been a long day already, and she still has two hours before she can go home, shower, and put her feet up for a little while before karaoke at the Brass Monkey starts up.

Maybe I can even fit in a nap, she thinks excitedly. But first, gotta wake up and make it through the rest of my shift.

Of course, if she hadn’t been tossing and turning all night from a crazy dream, she wouldn’t be as tired as she is now, but that’s neither here nor there. And it doesn’t help that she can’t even remember the stupid dream. It was really long, though, and there was blood and books and…someone...

“Can I get a refill over here?”

One hour, forty-seven minutes, and twenty-two seconds to go. She can do this.

The minutes crawl, though, and it’s all she can do to stay on her feet and focus. The lunch crowd has long since thinned, and she’s about to ask if she can maybe take off a little early when the door chimes, and she catches the tail end of the entering customers’ conversation.

“Could you at least consider putting something green on your plate? Like, ever? Broccoli won’t kill you.”

“I’ve already told you, I’m getting breakfast since you didn’t wake me up early enough to eat a decent one this morning. Pancakes, bacon, and coffee, which, I might add, grows on a tree, so it counts as a plant. That’s balanced enough for me. You like broccoli; knock yourself out, Jolly Green.”

“Sam isn’t green, Dean. Is your vision faulty? Perhaps we should get your eyes examined. Or you could try carrots along with the broccoli. Carrots are supposed to improve vision.”

No. No, no, no, she thinks, her mind whirling frantically. It was a dream, they can’t be here. This is...this is how it started, and...

She turns, and there they are, Sam and Dean dolled up in their clean, pressed feds suits and Cas looking just as rumpled and bewildered as she suddenly remembers. They seat themselves at an empty table in her section, but any thoughts of leaving early evaporated the second she heard their voices.

Every moment of the dream, every minute of those four weeks comes screaming back, cramming each terror-laden, tension-ridden second into her mind so fast she actually does stumble and has to grab the back of a nearby booth to keep from hitting the worn-out linoleum.

“It...hasn’t happened yet.”

“I’m sorry, did you say something? Hey, hey, hold on there. Are you okay?”

Then Sam’s hand is supporting her elbow, helping her straighten up, and she looks up into his concerned eyes, unable to express how glad she is just to see him breathing. Behind him, Dean and Cas are arguing about something trivial, wonderfully animated and alive and completely unaware of her.

“I’m sorry, hun, it’s just been a long shift. Gimme a minute to grab some waters and menus, and I’ll be right over.” Sam accepts her flimsy excuse at face value, and why wouldn’t he? He hasn’t lived with her for the better part of a month, hasn’t saved her life once, hasn’t tried to save the world with her. He doesn’t know her at all.

Why should he question a strange waitress in a strange diner who says she’s had a long day? He’s met hundreds of women just like her, maybe thousands, and he’s got no reason to question a completely legitimate statement.

She rushes into the back to find the coldest water possible to splash on her face. Her reflection gapes back at her from the staff bathroom mirror as the enormity of her situation begins to dawn on her.

Why? Why is this happening? Either she actually lived through those weeks and is somehow getting a do-over, or she dreamed the whole thing and is getting a shot to fix things from this end. But why? And how?

How in the hell?

Think, Andrea, think. It was real. It will be real. It hasn’t happened yet. You haven’t screwed everything up yet. You have to fix this. But how? How can I fix it when I screwed everything up so very badly last time?

Just...think. Think. Start small. Try to stop it before it happens. But...the cult. Crowley said they were real. They found me before, they’ll find me again. I could talk to Sam and Dean and Cas about what's going to happen. They’ve been through enough insanity in their lives that I actually have a pretty good shot at convincing them.

She stares into the mirror, racking her brain for every helpful detail she learned during her time with the Winchesters.

They're already investigating all the break-ins hereabouts; those were the cultists looking for me in the first place. Then they find me, take me, bleed me, and start the apocalypse. The boys could stop the ritual before it even happens.

Her reflection in the mirror frowns, unconvinced the solution could possibly be that easy.

But the literature, the books, it’s all still out there. Someone else could find it, could come after me. My blood is the problem. I’m the key. As long as I’m around, someone could still use me to end everything. Crowley can still use me to get to them. Think. You’ve got to actually stop everything and save them this time.

Her eyes widen as realization dawns. The world can’t make it without the Winchesters. There’s only one way out of this.

Fifteen minutes later, she sets a fresh green salad in front of Sam before dropping a towering stack of steaming pancakes in front of Dean.

“Fresh pot of coffee coming off in two, be right back with your refills. Need any more butter or syrup, hun? How ‘bout a couple of extra pieces of bacon on the house?”

“Don’t encourage him, please,” Sam groans. Dean slaps his brother on the back of the head, sending Sam’s coiffed hair into a tizzy of disarray. Sam swipes back at his brother, who waves off Sam’s attempts at retaliation like he’s swatting a fly.

“You shut your pie hole. She said free bacon. That makes her a queen.” He turns his most charming smile on her, glancing down at her name tag then back up to meet her gaze squarely. The crinkles around his eyes deepen with his grin. “Andrea, is it?”

“Andy,” she corrects automatically, and she can’t help her answering smile. He throws her a wink that clearly says he knows he’s cheesy but it's all part of his irresistible charm.

She doesn’t disagree.

“You are a goddess, Andy. I love you, and you need to know that.”

“You don’t,” she says, only just managing to keep her voice and smile level, “but you could.” His answering laugh sends a twinge through her chest, and if she clenches her jaw a little around her smile, she figures she’s entitled.

When the men finally finish eating, she offers a slip of paper to Dean, while Sam pretends he isn’t rolling his eyes.

“There’s a karaoke competition at the Brass Monkey tonight. Winner gets tab on the house for a week. Interested in maybe meeting up there around ten or so? We could have a drink, sing a song, and see where the rest of the night takes us.”

He grins and takes the slip from her with sure fingers. She’s certain he has her number memorized before the paper even retains his prints, but he makes a special show of tucking it safely into his pocket.

“Dean, do you think it wise to allow yourself to be so distracted when we’re in the middle of an investigation?”

And without even realizing it, Cas gives her the perfect opening.

“Oh, you boys investigating all the break-ins hereabouts? Were they too much for our local boys to handle? Listen, hun, my friend was one of the ladies whose house got broken into. If you want to stick around for a few minutes, I can fill you in on what I know and send you her way. Would that help?”

Castiel’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and he is clearly pleased with his first-rate investigating skills. “That would help immensely, Miss Andrea. Thank you.”

She can’t believe her luck at such a perfect lead-in, and she runs with it.

“Now that I think about it, the shop next door mentioned something about their alarm getting tripped a few nights in a row. Maybe I could talk to your friend while you two check it out? And I’ll see you tonight, Dean? Ten o’clock?”

Dean’s grin softens, and she can see the faintest tinge of red along his cheeks. She didn’t notice it the first time around, and now she wishes she’d paid more attention. Then the brothers leave, and she’s alone with the angel. ...

Chapter 6

[rhyswhitethorn]

Steel and Fire (NESSIAN)

A Court of Silver Flames in another half year—damn right your girl had to write some Nessian before it did.

Not quite sure if I should make this a continuous chaptered series or keep this as a short story, do share your thoughts :)

AO3 if you prefer it here.

Nesta was in one of her moods again.

The one where she was easily irritated at every single being that breathes in her sight of vision, where a stray strand of hair would cause her to tug everything back harshly, and where she would hold her breath when someone speaks, as if the world reeks of rotten eggs.

It was written in her stormy eyes, where the azure hues once laid were drowned by the thunderclouds that rested before a treacherous sea, taking all life with it.

If the first thing that scared the shit out of Cassian was seeing Bryaxis, then this was a close second. He watched quietly as she stabbed her scrambled eggs and dug into them, still maintaining her straight posture and chewing like a proper lady. Well, at least her etiquette remained the same, shitty mood or no.

His pancakes sat in front of him, the butter already melting with the maple syrup. If it were up to Cassian, he would have picked his plate up and moved to eat in the sitting room, preferably with hard liquor, no matter that it was still morning. You can’t say you drank all day if you don’t start early, Mor had insisted time to time.

Alas, his High Lady had forced him to have this conversation. Cass had ran off to Illyria for a good two weeks, knowing that it was unavoidable. Nothing had happened between Cassian and Nesta when he had to bring her to the Illyrian Camps. Not when the High Lord had called them both to come back to Velaris to celebrate Starfall together, not until that night. It came to a point where Feyre, who couldn’t talk some sense into him, had to beg Rhysand and Azriel to haul Cassian’s ass back. And here he was, in the townhouse against his wishes.

The night was filled with spirits migrating, and bottles were opened to celebrate. Laughter and joy brimmed the brisk air in the House of Wind, Feyre and Rhysand swirling around, dancing together. His head was dazed from the drinks that he guzzled down before dinner on an empty stomach, added on with the ones after dinner. Elain and Azriel were trading shy looks, blushing once in a while as they drank on the balcony, the falling stars behind them. They remained unaware as they were lost in each other’s eyes.

Truly the Shadowsinger and the Fawn.

Cassian blinked out the memory from a fortnight ago, and beheld the eye of storms staring right into him. 

He grinned at a Nesta, knowing it’ll piss her off more, before cutting up his pancakes to eat them. He had gone through three bites before she spoke.

“What are you doing here.” Not a question, by the sound of it. Never a question with Nesta, no. It was always an order.

Cassian stayed quiet for a few mouthfuls, aware that she was watching every bite he was taking. “You should ask your dear High Lady sister about that.” Cassian simply said after he was done with his breakfast. He really didn’t want to do this now. A headache was beginning to spike up at the back of his head.

Cassian was lounging on the loveseat with Mor. Amren had already vanished with Varian, no doubt heading back to her apartment. He drank straight from the bottle of wine, as if it would wash away his burdens. Mor got up and ruffled Cassian’s hair, pulling some of it from his man bun.

“I’m leaving now,” she had said, glancing at Rhysand and Azriel, both occupied. “Take care of yourself, you Illyrian prick.” Cassian had grunted at that, shooting her a smile. He heard as she walked out of the sitting room, careful not to disturb the remaining members of the Inner Circle.

“Nesta.” At the name of the person Mor greeted, Cassian sat up. A door shut, and he was hoping, praying, that Mor walked in—but the Cauldron must have decided to punish him for his sins there and then, because it was Nesta, clad in a lavender gown trimmed with blue hems, her hair in its usual updo, who entered.

Cassian was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard plates clattering in the sink. Nesta had gotten up and strode past him without him realizing, and he hated her for that. Hated that the walls he had raised up and the defense mechanism he built for the last 500 years melted when Nesta Archeron was in his vicinity. He turned his head, facing her back, and said, “We need to talk.” Even from behind, he knew her face had gotten slack. Her body stiffened.

She washed her plates too slowly, but he waited until she was done. Nesta wiped her hands dry and walked to the table, choosing the furthest possible seat from Cassian. Across him. Not the usual one they had adopted during her time at the camp with him; on his left hand side.

He rubbed his hands against his thighs underneath the table, trying to get rid of the sweat on his palms. “About Starfall,” he started, but her sharp tongue had cut him short. “What about it?” Fuck. The venom in her words had returned. Seems like his efforts during the year at the camp, getting Nesta to stop speaking to him like an animal and more like an actual being were gone to waste.

“You and I both know what happened between us was not.. normal,” Cassian managed to grit out. Fuck, there was definitely a migraine coming, not your everyday headache. He looked into those eyes again, the ones he was so scared of when his pancakes were still on the table. He shouldn’t be scared. Not when Starfall had changed things between them.

Before he knew what he was doing, he placed the wine bottle on the table at his side. He stood up and walked towards Nesta, towering over her. She looked up, and her High Fae features softened, the face she hid from everyone, the face Cassian would only see when she’s beneath his shadows. Feyre and Rhysand were heading towards the kitchen, to find something to snack on, Cassian assumed, as they had wasted their energy on dancing. Azriel and Elain were still on the balcony, both now watching the falling spirits, talking about what the history of each spirit may be.

He didn’t even realize his lips were forming a sentence until it was out of his mouth. “Care to dance with me, sweetheart?”

And Nesta Archeron, who, a year ago, would’ve spat on his face and called him a stupid ass for even thinking he was deemed worthy to ask for a dance with her, simply allowing her soft hands be enveloped into his large ones. He brushed his thumb on her palms, feeling the small calluses that had formed when she finally had the guts to ask him to train her at the camps. Their year together, far from the City of Starlight, had brought change into the human-turned-Fae.

Nesta didn’t look like she was breathing as she stayed still. In fact, if Cassian had painted her a dark marble colour and placed her in the Court of Nightmares, no one would realize that there was a living being between the statues that littered the courtyard. He let her collect her thoughts together, expecting her to spit poison itself, yet hoping her soft words and rich vocabulary came out instead.

His head pounded as minutes passed by, and he was half-tempted to walk over to Nesta and shake her, as if that would get her to spill her thoughts. But that was what Cassian would do a year ago. Now, after things had changed from time spent together and he had learnt Nesta’s tells, shutting the fuck up and waiting patiently was the best way to play this out.

He could feel the curves on her waist as he held her close, one of her hands gripping his shoulder softly, the other on his chest. It wasn’t as smooth as the ballroom dance that Feyre and Rhys had shared. This was the intimate kind where two Faes wanted to be close enough to each other, no care for the world. The hand on his shoulder slowly made its way to the base of his neck, tugging his hair, fingers twirling in it. He leaned in and rested his chin on her head, breathing in her scent. Florals and mint filled his nose. Mint for the icy fire that burnt within her.

“Nesta, we don’t have all day, sweetheart,” Cassian said. Each time the memories resurfaced, the pounding increased tenfold. He knew where exactly that pounding was coming from. But he’ll handle it, he’ll do it for Nesta’s sake. “What..,” she begun, but closed her mouth. As if her side of what happened is flashing through her mind.

Her scent was intoxicating. Cassian didn’t want this to end, not as he felt more alive than he had in all his years. They had slept in the same bed at the camp, nothing more, and her scent was always pleasant for him. But it was different now. It was as if it called to his very soul, trying to devour him.

Must be the alcohol, he thought to himself.

They danced slowly, holding on to each other for a few minutes. Feyre was already sleeping on Rhysand’s lap on the couch, Elain and Azriel joining them for their last glass of wine. Cassian thought he would be able to sneak in a kiss on Nesta’s forehead, had been yearning to taste her again ever since that day in the Mortal Lands, when her mortal blood still ran true. Grateful that his brothers paid no heed, he lifted her chin up and pressed his lips right beneath her hairline.

Something had snapped in Cassian, so loud in his ears, his head, that he was disoriented. Nesta’s fingers dug into his chest and pushed him away with such force, Cassian had almost tripped over his feet. She was clutching her chest, Feyre and Elain already running to her side. His brothers stopped short before Cassian. He watched as the two younger Archerons held Nesta up, his eyes shooting to Nesta’s. Rhysand, Feyre and Azriel stiffened, as they finally understood what had happened.

Before Nesta could understand what was happening and truly murder his ass, Cassian ran and jumped out of the House of Wind, evading the migrating spirits, and flew into the night skies.

“What happened that night?” Nesta asked, softly. Her eyes were roaming his face, searching for the right words. All the venom from before had evaporated, and sitting before him was the quiet, smut reading lover whose company he had come to enjoy in Rhys’ mother’s cabin for a whole year.

Cassian gulped. He had ran off on Starfall to avoid death at her hands, but he may very well face it now, even if her mood had lightened up over breakfast. With Nesta Archeron, there was no telling. But he would not run from her, not again. Never again.

“Nes.. we’re mates Nesta. Mates.”

[aquaticalay]

F.R.I.D.A.Y. I'm in Love (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Summary: While singing 'Friday, I'm in love' by The Cure in the kitchen to yourself, a certain AI thinks you're talking to her. She tells you something you didn't know, and decides to play matchmaker on Christmas morning, because why not?

Genre: christmas fluff :)

Word count: 2.5k

Song: Friday, I'm in Love by The Cure

Note: Merry Xmas! This is my last fic before vacation! This is also my first one shot in a while. Hope you like it!!

You were the first one awake at the compound, but that wasn't anything out of the usual. You always wake up at least half an hour earlier than anybody else in the compound without fail, every single day. It was simply an old habit you can't seem to get rid of, no matter how tired you were or how late you slept the night before.

The only thing that made a difference was that it's the day before christmas. Since you and Bucky were the only people with no family to celebrate it with, the two of you stayed behind to keep an eye on the compound. You had somehow convinced Bucky to agree on helping you set up decorations today. Besides, you also need help setting up the realistic-looking artificial pine tree at the corner of the common room. You already had a vision: green, white, and red ribbons filling up the ceiling and fairy lights as far as the eye can see. 

But that was your plan for later in the afternoon. Right now, the sun had just barely began to rise.

You made your way to the kitchen, thinking of making pancakes for breakfast. You hummed a tune as you opened the cupboards for a pan and ingredients. You eyeballed the flour and sugar, sifted them in a bowl and went to the fridge to get the rest of the contents needed.

Lost in your own world, the tunes you hummed turned into cohesive words, an actual song that you had been listening to lately and can't seem to get out of your head.

"I don't care if Monday's blue," you sang, cracking the eggs, making sure the shell stayed out of the batter, "Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too."

You poured the milk and butter, "Thursday, I don't care about you," you grabbed a whisk and pretended it was a microphone, "It's Friday, I'm in love."

"May I guess with who?" FRIDAY quipped suddenly.

You yelped in shock and dropped the whisk into the batter, some of it splattering to your shirt and face. Just a little, but enough to piss you off.

"What?" You asked, slightly annoyed.

"You told me you were in love," you heard the AI say through the built in speakers of the room, "may I guess with who?".

You let out a lighthearted laugh, "First of all, it's just a song," you rolled your eyes with a smile, amused by the misunderstanding of the supposedly smart AI. "Secondly," you continued, "I am not in love with anybody at the moment."

FRIDAY then said, in a matter-of-factly manner, "But you are."

Furrowing your eyebrows, annoyed, you stubbornly told her, "No, I'm not."

"You are," the AI insisted, and before you can deny it once again, she told you, "You show all physical and hormonal signs of being in love— increased levels of dopamine, adrenaline, and norepinephrine, increased heart rate, and dilated pupils— in the presence of Sergeant James Barnes."

Your mind stopped just enough to catch up with what FRIDAY. was telling you. 

"What?" You asked, flustered, as blood rushed to your cheeks, "No!"

"It's true," said the AI calmly, then displayed a panel of hologram on the island kitchen, usually used for mission briefings— your vitals, including your hormone levels. "These are your average body scans whenever you are in the same room as Sergeant Barnes," she said.

"That's enough, Friday!" you exclaimed, almost squeaking, embarrassed. She then took down the hologram, to your relief.

You admit, you have always been fond of Bucky, and dare you say, quite attached to him, but it never occurred to you that you loved him, mostly because everytime you even thought of the four-letter terrifying word, you pushed it to the deepest, darkest corner of your mind, lock it in a glass box and throw away the key, never to be seen again. The subject of love terrifies you, though the thought of being romantically involved with Bucky did give you a certain feeling of satisfaction and comfort, and maybe, just maybe, hope of it being able to work out.

Oops, there's the thought again.

Time to bury it six feet underground.

"In case you're curious, Sergeant Barnes also—" the AI started, but you shushed her furiously, "Fri, I don't want to hear it."

"But—" she began, but you cut her off again, "Please don't."

Sensing your discomfort, she stopped saying whatever she was about to say.

You continued to make your pancakes in peace, if there was ever any. 

You hummed the tune of the same song, careful not to say the actual words to it. You turned on the stove an put a frying pan on it measuring your batter out for an even and fluffy pancake. 

The automatic door opened, and Bucky entered the room, yawning. He was wearing a grey shirt and shorts. As he smelled the sweet aroma of the batter cooking, his gaze turned to you. 

"Mornin' doll," he smiled lazily, greeting you. He seemed to be in an especially good mood today. Ever since you joined almost a year ago, he had given you the nickname, and you adapted to it quickly. 

"Morning, Buck," you hummed, flipping the pancakes. Bucky walked towards you and took in the smell exaggeratingly. "Hope you made some for me."

You chuckled, "Of course." 

You stacked the first three pancakes on an empty plate and handed it to Bucky, who gave you a chaste kiss on the side of your head.

This type of casual affection has been going on for a while now, a little over five months. He'd kiss you on the cheeks or forehead whenever he said thank you, hello, or goodbye. You'd also cuddle against him on movie nights and lean on his shoulder while sitting on the dinner table, but neither of you ever spoke about it. You never wanted to think much about these flirtatious exchanges. You assumed this was just who he was, and you were just playing his game. He was a ladies' man in the 40s, after all, and you were just all-all round playful person.

You stacked your own pancakes and turned off the stove. 

You sat next to Bucky on the couch, who was currently pouring a shit ton of maple syrup on his pancakes, squeezing the bottle with his metal arm.

You chuckled at his behaviour, and he raised his eyebrows at you.

"What are you laughing at?" He tried to pretend to be serious, but he can't help but show a hint of a grin on his adorable face.

"Nothing," you shook your head playfully and started eating the sugar-filled breakfast.

Deciding it was too quiet, Bucky decided to ask FRIDAY a favor. "Friday," Bucky called, "play some music, please."

FRIDAY complied almost immediately, and the tune of the song she played was too familiar.

Your cheeks turned bright red in a matter of seconds. Why would she play that?

"I don't care if Monday's blue

Tuesday's grey and Wednesday, too

Thursday I don't care about you

It's Friday, I'm in love"

Bucky stuffed pancakes in his mouth as he listened to the song, "I've never heard this song before," he mentioned, his head moving subtly to the tempo of the song, "It's nice."

"Uh, yeah," you managed to nervously blurt out.

Bucky turned his head to you, "You cold, doll?" He asked, concern in his voice.

"No, why?" 

"You're red," he pointed out worriedly, "Are you sure you're not sick?"

"No, I'm just—" you started, trying to find an excuse, but nothing comes to mind. You couldn't tell him you're embarrassed, and you already told him you weren't cold, "—I don't know."

As the song continued playing, Bucky placed the back of his hand on your forehead to check for a fever, but he was met with a normal, cool skin. He tried not to think too much about it. He shrugged and told you, "Just let me know if you feel unwell, okay? I know where Scott keeps his emergency cold medicine."

You managed a nod, and tried to distract yourself by eating your pancakes.

You started to feel relief wash over you as the song came to an end, but when it did end, it started to play again, as if FRIDAY had it on loop.

"Weird," Bucky quipped.

"Yeah, weird," you said, a little quieter than usual, "Friday, please play another song," you said, but Bucky cut you off, "No, I want to listen to it again," he said, "One more time? I really like it."

You sunk into your seat, having forced to suffer through this song again.

-

That afternoon, Bucky helped you set up the ribbons and lights, and now he was helping you with the tree ornaments.

The time you spent together were spent in laughter and joy, playfully teasing each other. He told you a lot about his old family traditions, how his little sister Rebecca and him would use their spare money to get their mother a gift every year. In return, you made him hot chocolate, made from your grandma's special recipe.

"Bucky," you called, "give me a boost so I can get the star on top of the tree." 

You showed him the star. It was brilliant red. He chuckled to himself, wondering if you intentionally got it to match his old logo.

Without warning, he grabbed your waist, and spun you around playfully. You yelped in shock, steadying yourself by putting a hand on his shoulder. You laughed a little, "The tree, Buck," you reminded him, and he chuckled, rolling his eyes. "okay, okay."

You placed the star on top, and he set you down gently. You were facing him, and for a split second, you nose touched his and you were looking straight into his icy orbs. 

You looked away, pretending it didn't happen. 

"Help me with the ribbons," you quipped. Bucky grabbed the box full of colorful decorations. "Okay," he replied. You weren't sure, but you could've sworn he sounded a little bit disappointed.

The rest of the afternoon was spent decorating the tree, and it was all fun and games until Bucky started humming 'Friday, I'm in love,' under his breath, a song that seems to be stuck in his head.

-

You and Bucky fell asleep on the couch after a Christmas movie marathon. You woke up in the same position you fell asleep: cuddled up against Bucky, you head on his shoulder and his human arm wrapped contently around your waist. You adjusted your eyes to the light coming in from the big glass windows, and tugged on Bucky's side, "wake up."

He groaned a little, his eyes blinking to life. 

"Merry Christmas," you smiled, still leaning your head on his shoulder, too lazy to get up.

"Merry Christmas, doll," he replied, a sleepy but sincere smile on his face.

You mustered enough energy to look at the Christmas tree, and was shocked to see one small red box under the tree, decorated with a fittingly small green bow. It was empty the last time you saw it.

"Did you–" you turned to Bucky, who nodded right away, "How?" You asked curiously.

"I slipped it there before we started the movie," he admitted, a slightly rosy color on his cheeks.

"Is that for me?" You asked, and he nodded.

"I- I've got a present for you in my room," you told him, half-way panicked that you've forgotten his present in your quarters.

Rushing out of the common room, Bucky watched you as a sigh left his lips. 

He found himself humming the song he heard yesterday again. He took the present from under the tree to give it to you first hand, then walked to the island kitchen to get some water. He doesn't remember all the words, except the ones at the very end of the chorus.

He mumbled a string of noises, but lightly sang the last part in his best singing voice, "Friday, I'm in love."

"I know," Friday said through the speakers. It surprised Bucky, but he didn't show it. Sitting down on the bar stool of the island, Bucky asked, "What?"

"I know you're in love, Sergeant Barnes," the AI said.

Bucky let a heavy breath out. Friday was right. He was in love. With you. "How did you know?"

"Your physical and hormonal body scans when you're around Miss (Y/n)."

Bucky only chuckled dryly. It was nothing he didn't already know, "Too bad she doesn't feel the same, huh?" 

"Actually—" the AI started, but suddenly stopped when you rushed back in the room, a heavy box decorated with a patterned white wrapper in your arms. It was huge compared to the gift he got you. You put on the marble countertop and climbed on the stool next to his.

"Here," you said excitedly, "open it!"

Your excitement was contagious. He gave you a hearty laugh and ripped the wrapping paper. When he was finished, he realized what it was. A record player.

"Wow, (Y/n)," he said, twinkle in his eyes. He raised it so he could see it better, "I- thank you."

"You've been telling me about how you used to listen to music," you told him, "So I got you a more modern one."

"Your turn," Bucky said, giving you your present.

It wasn't wrapped, it was just a red box with a bow. You opened it and you looked to him for explanation.

It was a necklace with a dark silver star pendant.

"It's beautiful," you sighed, admiring the jewelry, "Thank you."

He gently took the necklace in his fingers, and looped it behind your neck, hooking it so now you were wearing it.

"I asked Shuri to make it from the scrap vibranium used to make my metal arm," he told you, a warm and loving smile on his mouth, "So you can have a piece of me with you."

Suddenly, you wondered if FRIDAY was right about you being in love with him.

"Ahem," said a human-like voice from the ceiling. It was FRIDAY, calling so you would look up.

The two of you saw a holographic mistletoe from the projector above you.

Damn, FRIDAY.

You smiled. It was a good excuse to kiss him, right? Wasn't that the rules of the mistletoe?

You reached up a little to press a short but sweet kiss on his lips, catching him off-guard. 

"I-" Bucky turned beet red, "can you do that again please?"

Pleasantly surprised, you nod as you let him caress your cheeks, and pull you in for a longer kiss, his lips moving against yours in sync, like you were pieces of a puzzle. You melted into his arms and laid a hand on his thigh for support.

"I love you," Bucky said as he pulled away. Wait, he thought to himself, I love you?! 

He meant to say merry christmas! 

In his mind, you only kissed him because of his mistletoe. He was seconds away from apologizing, but then a content sigh left your lips, "I love you, too," you admitted shyly

He looked at you with a loving look that has always been there, yet you've only noticed it now. His thumb stroke your cheek softly, the contrast of metal and flesh strangely comforting.

"What is it?" You asked.

He cracked a smile. "My dad used to spend christmas morning with my ma," he said, "She told me one day I'd find someone to spend it, too."

"Would she have approved of me?" You asked, curiosity laced im you silky voice.

"I swear to god she'd love you," he cupped both your cheek and pressed a kiss on the tip of your nose, "Merry Christmas, doll."

"Merry Christmas, James."

You made an internal note to self to thank FRIDAY later.

-end.

[my-one-true-l]

Hey luv!!🖤 Can I order a microfic for wammy's boys by taking their child trick-or-treating on Halloween with his parents? Hope you have a good time this Halloween! 👻

Hello My Darling Anon! I put a rush order on this one to get it ready in time for Halloween! I hope you have a good one as well!!!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Come on Daddy! Let’s go!” The tiny child dressed all in black with the oversized cat ears and velvet tail dragging on the ground behind them tugged on L’s sleeve, trying with all their might to yank him towards the door. “If we wait much longer, there won’t be any candy left for me!”

L pressed his thumb to his lip, a smile growing beneath it as he looked at them lovingly. “I’m sure there will be no shortage of treats. It isn’t even dark yet.”

“Granddaaaad!” They whined at Watari, their huge greyish-blue eyes pleading up at him. “You’ll take me, won’t you?”

“Patience, child.” Watari’s grin widened under his moustache. “Your mother and father will take you in just a moment.”

“What about you Granddad? Aren’t you coming with us?”

“Someone has to stay here and hand out candy to the children that come here. We wouldn’t want them to be disappointed by trick-or-treating at an empty house.” He handed them a pumpkin-shaped pail before straightening the pointy cat ears.

“Just don’t give it all away, ok?”

“Little One, you will have plenty of candy of your own when we return home. There’s no need to be greedy.” L gently took their hand in his.

“They remind me of someone else when he was their age.” Watari patted L on the shoulder kindly.

“So you’re blaming genetics?” L smirked at him.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Little One’s mother hurried into the foyer, also donning cat ears on top of her head. She squatted to be eye-level with her kitten and whispered, “Everything is ready for Daddy’s birthday party.”

“Even the cake?” Little One’s excitement rang out a little too loudly.

“Mhmm. Even the cake.” She stood up and took their hand, pumpkin pail dangling between them. She gave L a little wink, who had no doubt heard what they were planning. “Ready to go?”

“YES! I’ve been ready since this morning!” Little One pulled them both towards the door.

“Sounds like someone else I know.” She smiled playfully at L.

L sighed as they stepped into the cold night, together as a family. “Apparently I’ve made quite the reputation for myself.”

“That’s ok Daddy.” Little One squeezed his hand a little tighter. “I’ll share my treats with you.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“That’s it. Let’s have them.” Mello frowned down at the tiny biker that stood before him, leather pants and a tattoo of a dragon drawn in marker on his arm made them look even more like thier father.

“I wasn’t going to use them. I just wanted them, you know. In case.”

“Mells, are you shaking our kid down for their chocolate?”

“No, but I might have to do that later.” Mello’s scowl softened when he spoke to her. “Look what our little darling decided to bring trick-or-treating?” In Mello’s hand was a half-used can of shaving cream.

“Did you really think it’s ok to vandalize someone’s house?” Their mother asked sternly.

“Only if they don’t hand over the good candy.”

“That is not ok. Your mother and I taught you better than that.” Mello turned to his Love. “There’re some eggs in their pillow case, too.”

“I thought I bought more than what is in the refrigerator!” She held her hand out to them. “Give them over.”

“You don’t want that. They broke when they set down their treat bag.”

“And it ruined all my goodies.” They yelled angrily at their parents.

She sighed and looked to her husband. “We really raised a mini-Mello. What are we going to do?”

“I think you should-“

“Your mother wasn’t talking to you.”

She closed her eyes for a second to clear her head. “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to go get you a clean pillowcase and we’re going to try this again. We’ll go door-to-door as a family. You’re too young to be going trick-or-treating alone anyway.”

“And tomorrow starts your grounding. Two weeks. No T.V, nno video games.” Mello doled out the punishment. “And I get half your chocolate.”

“HALF?!” They growled at their father before his eyes grew wide. Mello didn’t need to say anything. His kid knew he meant business. “That seems fair.”

“Now that’s settled. Let’s go. And I don’t want to catch you pulling something like this ever again, you got that?”

“I sure do. Sorry Dad.”

“You know that’s a bunch of crap, right? They’re just like you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mello lowered his voice to keep the words between him and his wife, a smile making his scar even more beautiful. “Is it bad I’m a little proud of them?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“It’s alright sweetheart. Go knock on the door.”

The little vampire hugged their mother’s leg, peeking around the woman with wide eyes as they stared at the stranger’s door.

“There is nothing to be afraid of. Pumpkins are not frightening and the spiders and bats are merely decorations, made of plastic in some factory.” Near reassured his child the only way he knew how.

“But I’m scared.”

“That’s ok. Halloween can be scary, but if you’re really brave and go to the door, you can get candy.” She stroked her child’s hair, still clinging to her leg.

“What are you dressed up as?” Near asked his child, twisting his hair around his finger.

“I’m a vampire.” Their voice shook the response.

“Are you an actual vampire or is it pretend?”

“It’s pretend.”

“As are these decorations.” Near held his hand out to his child. “Now let’s not be frightened of something that is pretend. I will go with you if it will give you courage.”

The little vampire with the flaxen hair nodded at their father, taking his hand and stalking toward the door, cape pulled up over their nose. Near’s Love couldn’t help but giggle at the sight. They looked like Dracula from all the old movies.

Together, Near and his child walked up the porch steps, between the cotton cobwebs and glowing pumpkins, the baby vampire building courage with every step before ringing the doorbell.

The door opened and a kindly older woman smiled at them.

“Trick-or-treat.” The tiny vampire could barely speak the words.

“Oh, aren’t you adorable! Such a cute little vampire.” She plopped a handful of chocolates and lolllies into their pail before turning to Near. “And what are you supposed to be? A ghost?”

Near frowned at the woman. “I’m a detective. Thank you for the treats.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*

“Alright, on our Trick-or-Treat bingo, we have skeletons, pumpkins, spider webs and bats all checked off.” Matt held the card in his hand, crossing out the words in purple marker as he read them aloud. “We need those eyes that are peeking in the bushes still…”

“And something inflatable. Oh and we need a house that is playing scary music.” The small Yoshi excitedly chimed up at their father. “Oh, this house has purple lights! Cross it off dad while I go to the door!”

“Haha, alright. Go get them. Make sure to say thank you!” Matt called after them before turning to his Love. “You did a damn good job on that costume.”

“Anything for my two favorite gamers.” She smiled proudly at him, never telling him it took her the last 6 months to perfect it.

“Mom! Dad! I got M&Ms and a Reese’s peanut butter cup! Your turn mom, cross it off.” Their face beamed from where Yoshi’s mouth should be. “Did I get Bingo yet?”

“You are one Milky Way away from getting candy Bingo.”

“And you need Orange Lights and you will have it on the decorations one.”

“Alright! I’m on it!” They ran to the next house, green and white tail waddling behind them as they hopped up the steps and knocked on the door.

“So what are we going to do when they win?”

“10pm pizza and scary movies until they fall asleep on the couch?” Matt grinned, proud of the prize at the end of the game he created. “I think they will love that.”

She smiled softly at him. “I think all three of us will love that.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Hey Dad! Check me out!”

Beyond’s child bound towards him, rubber butcher’s knife sticking out of their head, red corn syrup running down their face with eyes ringed in black, which Beyond was not fond of. It reminded him too much of someone he had tried hard to forget.

“Wouldn’t you rather go as the murderer than the victim?” Beyond hated even the slightest hint of his offspring being weak, even if it was only a Halloween costume.

“I’m not a victim. I’m a scary undead dude.” The excitement fell from their face. “You’re no fun sometimes. You don’t know how much work it was to look like someone you’re not.”

B knew all too well how much effort that required.

“On second thought, I think you look quite scary.” Beyond’s compliment brought the smile back to their face. “I think you’re going to get a lot of candy this year.”

“I think so, too!” The sweet voice of the child’s mother announced her entrance into the room, standing at B’s side & whispering in his ear, “I hope you don’t mind I let him use that old stage makeup you have hidden in your drawer.”

Beyond fought back a frown. “Of course not. Why would I have a use for that? I don’t even remember why I have that.”

“Mom? Dad? Can we get going please? I don’t want all the blood to dry up before I can collect my candy.”

“Alright, let’s go.” Beyond mustered a smile, letting a bit of the corn syrup drip on his finger, sucking the sweetness from his nails. “It’s terrible once the blood dries on.”

[purplesurveys]

1180

The last time you washed your hair, did you use conditioner? Yeah, I’m pretty paranoid and always feel the need to use conditioner because of a bad rebonding job from like a decade ago that stiffened up my hair as soon as it would get wet. It lasted for around a year, so I formed the habit of always using conditioner every time I shower. I don’t think I’ve ever used just shampoo since then.

Do you prefer light or dark jeans?  Dark, but I suppose it would be nice to start experimenting with lighter shades as well.

When you listen to music, do you generally sing along, or just listen?  It depends if I know the lyrics or I’m feeling the song at the moment. Obviously with my new obsession with BTS I can’t really sing along to entire songs, but I do sing the few English lyrics they have per song, hahaha.

Do you have any of your exes as friends on Facebook?  Yeah but she’s been muted for like half a year already, as is the rest of her family. I do have plans to unfriend her entirely; I’m just not sure when I would push through with it, and I already gave Angela permission to log onto my account one of these days to be the one to do the unfriending.

Who was your first love? Do you ever miss that person?  Gabie. I miss the friendship sometimes; I don’t think I’ll have a friendship as deep and connected as the one we had, so I will always feel sorry about how that went to waste. But I don’t really think about our relationship anymore as I’m pretty good at blocking off certain memories, so I don’t miss her in that sense.

How many cars are parked at your house right now?  Two.

Do you have any Italian ancestry?  I highly doubt so. If anything there’s probably a tiny drop Spanish blood in there but that’s the most European I’ll ever get.

Do you prefer water to be ice cold or at room temperature?  Like, drinking water? Ice cold, always. I hate warm water.

Has anyone ever told you you’re a control freak?  Not to my face, but I know I’m one so I’m sure other people have said that about me at least behind my back.

Do you know anyone who has gone missing? If so, were they ever found?  Yes, my friend Mik and one of my aunts. They were both found eventually.

What was the spiciest thing you’ve ever eaten?  Eating ghost pepper instant noodles was a pain I would never want to go through again...I threw that shit out after my first forkful, lmao.

Do you need to talk to someone?  No, not in particular. In a more general sense I do wanna start gaining more friends though, so I’ve been meaning to expand my circle by creating a new Twitter account just for my BTS dump. In other words, I am a 23 year old with a stan Twitter HAHAHAHA

Is something confusing you at the moment?  No, I’m good.

When was the last time you had a real deep chat?  Maybe my conversation with Andi a couple of nights back. We were talking about a tricky situation with their ex-friend who turned out to be a real dick when they came out to him a year ago, and they just wanted to get my perspective on how I would handle it.

Who did you last see on webcam?  The PR manager for one of our clients, who we all despise because he doesn’t know how to do his job. Thankfully he’s resigning soon so we’re all just waiting for him to leave and finally meet a much more competent replacement.

What’s your best friend’s pet’s name(s)?  Angela has two dogs, Hailey and Kennedy. Andi had Apollo, who I wanted to meet so badly but sadly he passed away a week ago at 15.

Have you ever taken a picture while laying in the grass?  There are photos of me sitting on grass, but not lying in it. I would imagine that would feel very prickly and uncomfortable.

Who’s your favorite Disney character? Baymax or Flynn Rider.

Have you ever deliberately tried to get someone drunk?  I’ve made my friends chug drinks or down shots and it’s happened vice versa, but it was always in good fun and we never made each other harassed from it. It’s just your typical college rambunctiousness, and if anyone felt uncomfortable or iffy then we didn’t hesitate to move on.

When was the last time you used a pay phone and who were you calling?  I’ve only ever seen those in my first school, when I was in kindergarten. I never got to use it and they also took them out not long after.

Do you like being kissed on the neck?  Yessssssssss

Have you ever had sex with someone you weren’t dating (but had feelings for) in the hopes that they would ask you out later?  Nope. I don’t think I would have sex with anyone I wasn’t dating.

What’s the most you would be willing to spend on a good bra?  Probably a couple thousand bucks if I thought I looked good in it.

Do you have any of your teachers’ personal cell phone numbers saved in your contacts list?  I don’t think so. I never tried getting close with any of them, and I always tried to stay hidden as much as possible. I was just in class to get good grades and pass.

Do you ever stalk peoples’ personal blogs, even if you don’t know them very well?  I never really scroll through people’s Tumblrs anymore. That was more of a thing I did in like 2013, but these days going through my dashboard is enough.

What’s one thing about today’s generation that you just can’t stand?  Some social media trends done for clout make me revolted, especially when it has anything to do with wasting food. I also hate when they do extreme pranks that I know I wouldn’t find funny if I were ever the victim, like tossing someone’s phone into the ocean.

Be honest: how do you feel about abortion?  Pro-choice. 

Is there anyone you currently want to reach out to?  I would love to catch up with Katreen at some point, but I know we’re at different points in our lives now and it would probably never happen.

What is your favorite piece of art you own?  I commissioned my sister to make an artwork of the 2D1N cast, and she did a great job making it! I haven’t gotten to use it or promote it yet, but I will soon. It’s really well-done.

What’s the one thing you apologized for this month?  Replying late.

My favorite color is ______?  Pastel pink.

I wish I had _____?  Longer weekends.

What did you buy today? Nothing – I’d call that a success lmao, I’ve been spending money as if I had a million fucking bucks over the last week. I did have some packages arrive today though: my own copy of 2 Cool 4 Skool (my first physical BTS album!!!!!!); the official poster from their album BE; the Ivy Park sneakers I ordered earlier this month, and an Ivy Park bucket hat Bea had apparently gotten for me as a birthday present.

What has challenged your morals?  Vices.

What made you pick up the last book you started reading?  I had to read it in preparation for a one-on-one session with my employer’s CEO.

What about your life concerns you the most? Whether a stable future is in the cards for me.

What do you find particularly offensive? Would you say you’re easy or difficult to offend?  Probably Filipino-American comedians or influencers who use stereotyping of Filipino accents and habits as a punchline; they do more harm to the culture than good. I can tell you not one Filipino who lives in the Philippines actually finds those funny, and Bretman Rock is probably the only personality who’s able to flaunt the culture in an entertaining and hilarious yet classy way.

When it comes to being offended, I guess it depends on the context. My humor can get pretty dark and low-blowy, but I would have a problem with someone who I know has genuinely problematic views.

What was the last series you finished watching? Do you have any plans to begin another?  I think it may had still been Start-Up from last December. I’m not too big on Korean dramas since I find one episode waaaaaaayyyyyyy too long. I don’t think I’ll be starting on anything soon, Korean or otherwise.

What is one way in which you are different from a year ago? What is one way in which you are still the same?  I’m single now, for the first time in technically six years. I also think I’m doing better and happier, breakup notwithstanding. OH and I love wasabi now, hahah. As for what’s unchanged, I still like taking surveys and I’m still stuck at home, though the latter’s not really in my control anymore.

If you could learn about anything without the stress of grades or cost, what kind of classes would you take?  I’d just go back to UP for the free tuition. We also have the widest range of programs out of any university in the country, so it’s a damn good deal.

Name a song you’ve listened to today?  Fly To My Room - BTS

When you were younger, did you have a swing set or a playhouse in your backyard?  We didn’t; but one of our relatives that we’d regularly visit did have a playground that I’d use all the time. It’s still there, just very unmaintained since no one uses it anymore.

Is your mall nice?  Which one? We have five different malls nearby lol. Mall culture here is on another level.

Do you have a Sonic near you? If so, what’s your favorite drink from there?  No. I’m not so sure what they serve there, either. I’m guessing milkshakes?

Will you be voting in the presidential elections next time around?  I’ll always exercise my right to vote.

How do you feel about chocolate-covered strawberries?  I hate strawberries and I hate fruits, so even if you coat that shit in Nutella and cookie butter and chocolate syrup I still wouldn’t touch it.

Did you ever stop having feelings for someone and then started having those feelings again for them? No.

Do you hate the last guy you had a thing with?  I’ve never had a thing with guys.

To whom did you last give the finger?  I haven’t had to do that in a while.

What was the last musical instrument played in your presence?  My sister’s keyboard.

Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream?  Not particularly. They make things look cute, but they never taste like anything tbh so I never saw the point in paying extra just to have them on my desserts.

Honestly, have you ever crashed a party before?  Nah. I cringe thinking about that.

Do you know how to do the moon walk?  I don’t.

Has anybody ever told you that you have a good singing voice?  Never gotten that specific compliment before because I know I don’t have one.

Onion rings or french fries?  Onion rings.

Has anybody ever described you as a heart breaker? No.

Has anybody ever told you that you talk too fast?  I don’t think so, but I know I have the tendency to do so occasionally, especially while I’m presenting a deck. Once I notice it I make an effort to pace myself.

Who is the best cook that you know?  My dad and both my grandmas all deserve that title.

Which meal throughout the day do you skip the most?  I literally never have lunch ever.

What’s the largest amount that you can juggle at one time?  I can’t juggle.

What was your favorite thing to go on at the playground as a kid?  Sandboxes, since I liked the texture; the sandboxes in school were also often empty, which worked well for my introvert self. I find that it’s carried over to today, since I still enjoy touching things like slime and kinetic sand.

Do you know how much you weighed at birth? How much?  I think 5 or 6 lbs, I’m not exactly sure but it’s definitely somewhere in that small range.

Which aspect of your daily routine takes the most time? What do you do?  Work, for sure. I work a normal 9–6 so that’s already 8 hours out of my day, but I also OT a lot after hours, and I work throughout my lunch break as well so that technically makes it 9 hours. I also like getting up earlier and starting some work before my shift so that I would have less tasks on my plate for the day.

Do you enjoy buying gifts for others, or could you do without this?  I LOVE getting people gifts. Food is especially my love language, and I always get food delivery for my friends, family, and my team at work.

What is one thing you are expected to do, if anything?  I mean, I have work deadlines tomorrow so there’s that.

How do you tend to view driving? Monotonous or entertaining?  I love driving. I don’t think I ever complained about having to do it. It’s calming and relaxing when I’m doing it alone or with a partner; and it can be entertaining with the right set of people.

Do you enjoy talking about music with others? Not always. If I don’t listen to the artist then I can find the conversation quite boring, like if my friends would get into a full-blown discussion about Taylor Swift.

Is acting something you enjoy?  No. It wouldn’t even be something I’d be interested in doing.

When do you feel most accomplished?  Finishing a work day with no tasks left behind.

Do you think Manwich is amazing or completely gross?  Idk what that is.

How many best friends do you have?  Two.

Are you a smoker, drinker, pothead or none of the above?  I drink sometimes. I also kinda smoke, I guess.

If you have your ears pierced, when did you get them pierced?  My mom had them pierced when I was a month old.

Do you own any exercise machines?  My mom has this rowing equipment thingy. I don’t have any of my own, though.

On Facebook, do you have people listed as your siblings who aren’t really your siblings?  No.

Have you ever drawn or painted a self-portrait?  I remember having to draw one as a school assignment, but I’m pretty sure I half-assed that because I couldn’t care less for art class back then.

Who was your last voicemail from?  We don’t have voicemails.

Have you ever been falsely accused of something serious?  I don’t think so. That’s the sort of situation that would stick out in my memory if ever.

Did you ever set up a lemonade stand when you were a kid?  No, not a thing here.

When was the last time you spoke to someone in a different language?  Around an hour ago when I went downstairs and chatted with my sister briefly.

Have you ever received an anonymous gift?  Nope.

Have you ever camped out somewhere for an event the next day?  Nope but I definitely still wouldn’t be opposed to doing that haha.

When were you the saddest in your life? 2016 was fucking miserable. < I’d have to agree. 2017 was also awful.

Do you know anyone, personally, who is in an abusive relationship? Are you?  I used to know one but she got out of it. In a sense, I suppose I also was in one.

If you have siblings, have they moved out or do they still live with you?  Well they’re younger, so they definitely still live here, with our parents. I’m the first one expected to move out, but I’m taking my time.

Have you ever gotten searched by the cops?  No.

Do you like fried rice?  Of course. I like any kind of rice.

What was the last thing you drank?  Water.

[chipper9906]

Bound To You - Chapter 6: Dead Ends

< - - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 15

NOTE:  Pairings and Ratings Will Change As Story Is Updated

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 9,111 

Overall Word Count: 43,900

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Profress (6/?)

Chapter Preview:

Dean could see just how bad of a state the guy was in; dark bruises were littered all over the man’s pale skin, multiple cuts and lacerations decorating every piece of skin Dean could see, oozing out streams of dark blood that stained the button-up shirt of the man’s suit.

‘Jesus… what the hell are they doing to the guy?’

‘That’s not a “guy”, Dean…’

‘Huh?’

‘I recognize the man… that was the last vessel I saw Atheed possessing…’

‘You telling me the Men of Letters managed to trap an angel?’

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Character Key For Telepathic Conversations

'Italic Text' - Castiel

'Bold Text' - Dean

* * *

Dean found himself waking up the next morning to the delicious smell of bacon wafting down the hallway and into his room. It was this – and only this – that convinced Dean to haul himself out of the comfort of his warm bed and pull himself into his chair.

He had only just settled into the chair when there was a light rap of knocks on his bedroom door. He looks up to see Sam poking his head through the gap he cracked open in the door, eyes briefly scanning across the room before landing on Dean.

“Oh, good, you’re up! Thought if the smell of bacon wouldn’t get you of bed, then nothing would…”

“I’m always happy to be woken up for bacon, Sammy.”

Sam glanced at something behind the door, chuckling quietly to himself before returning his attention to Dean. “There’s someone here that’s dying to see you…”

Dean didn’t even have time to ask Sam who he was talking to before Sam opened the door a tad bit wider, giving enough room for a blur of fur to shoot into his room, claws skidding on the concrete floor as Miracle runs to him.

“Hey, girl!” Miracle was jumping excitedly at his wheelchair, desperate to get as close to Dean as possible. It didn’t even seem to faze her that Dean wasn’t quite the same as he was when he left. She just cared he was home.

‘Is… is that a dog?’

‘Yeah! This is Miracle!’

Miracle had managed to get her two front paws atop of Dean’s legs, and Dean got the jarring feeling again when he realized he couldn’t actually feel her weight on his legs. He didn’t have much time to ponder over this as Miracle had reached his face, running her slobbering tongue everywhere she can reach.

“Blegh – Good to see you too, girl.” Dean lightly pushed her away from his face, ruffling his hands along the sides of her face.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” Sam said through his chuckles, backing out from the doorway and disappearing down the hallway. “Breakfasts waiting – don’t let it go cold!”

‘Oh - this was the surprise you were talking about?’

‘Yep! You don’t sound too surprised?’

‘Just… processing it. I didn’t think you were much of a dog person?’

‘Eh, not really… But ever since Colonel, they’ve earned a bit more of my respect.’

‘The… German Shephard that was a witness to murder?’

‘That’s the one. Sometimes I think about making that disgusting potion thing to talk to Miracle. I never did learn what dogs were put on Earth for…’

‘…What?’

“Uh, nothing, nevermind. So, you wanna meet her?’

‘Am I not doing that right now?’

‘Not properly! You should take control, meet her right! Give her a good scratch behind the ears.’

‘You want me to take over? You’re sure?’

‘No Cas, I’m not sure; I’m worried you’ll take control of my body forever and kill my dog. Yes I’m sure you dumbass, now get up here!’

Miracle was able to pick up the change immediately. The second the familiar green eyes of her owner turned into that dazzling blue, her furiously wagging tail came to a stop. Yet, she did not move from her position. She didn’t back away from him in fear like Castiel was expecting her to.

“Um… hello,” Castiel greeted the dog leaning on his lap awkwardly.

‘Dean, I’m worried I’m going to startle her.’

‘Why? Can she sense you’re an angel or something?’

‘Dog’s have incredible senses, far beyond what humans are capable of. It’s likely she can feel my grace inside you, perhaps even smell it.’

‘…What does grace smell like?’

‘It varies from angel to angel. The scent typically expands out to the vessel, so it’s likely you may even be able to pick up on the smell if you were close enough.’

Cas stretched out a tentative hand towards Miracle, slowly moving his hand as not to spook her. He stopped his hand right in front of her snout, to which Miracle gave him an eager sniff.

‘Huh… that’s kind of cool, actually. Is it kind of like humans, where our body odor can smell different to other people?’

‘Not entirely the same, but similar. A human’s scent is used for mating purposes, typically. If a person has a pleasant smelling odor, it’s because their immune system is vastly different to yours.’

‘And that’s good for mating because…?’

‘Because then if you were to have a child, their immune system would be the strength of both of yours combined. It’s nature’s way of increasing your offspring’s chances – of course, humans have adapted so well in most countries that infant mortality rate isn’t much of a problem anymore.’

‘Huh… you know a strange amount about humans, Cas.’

‘Well, it was my job to watch over them for millennia’s. There’s not much else to do but learn about them.’

The longer Miracle spent sniffing Cas, the faster her tail began to wag – going from a steady swing back and forth to a blurred mess of fur. Castiel wasn’t too sure why, but the sight brought a warmth to his chest and a joyful smile stretching across his face. Miracle only became more excited at the sight of his smile, trying to pull herself up even closer and bury her head into his hands for more scratches and pets.

‘Think it’s safe to say she likes you, Cas.’

Even Dean was smiling within his own mind, watching as his best friend bonds with his other best friend.

‘I like her, too. Her fur is addictingly soft.’

‘Great for cuddles.’

‘Dean Winchester cuddling a dog? I’m sorry I missed such a sight.’

‘Says the big scary angel of the lord that’s practically melting in her paws…’

‘You think I’m scary?’

‘Now? Nah, but only because I know you wouldn’t hurt me… too bad. But when I first met you? Yeah… when you showed me your wings for the first time, I was both in awe and seconds away from pissing my pants.’

‘As soldiers of God, I suppose it makes sense that we were created to have a fear invoking appearance. In fact, when he was still in Heaven, Gabriel would often regale the story of talking to the shepherds; how he had to call after then to not be afraid as they ran away…’

‘I think I’ve heard of that story before… wasn’t it in the Bible?’

‘That it was. Gabriel begged for the story to be passed onto the prophets…’

‘Sounds like Gabriel. And that sounds like my stomach growling… Let’s get this show on the road, Cas; bacon’s awaiting.’

Switching possession was still a strange feeling for Dean. It was almost like trying to squeeze past someone in a tight corridor, going from this muted and out of focus vision to a sharp and overwhelming reality.

Miracle happily trotted alongside Dean as he wheeled down the bunker’s hallways, plastering on a smile as he descends the little ramp over the stairs into the kitchen. Sam and Eileen were situated behind the kitchen counter, Eileen sipping on a fresh cup of coffee whilst Sam finished up plating a towering stack of fluffy pancakes.

“Morning!” Eileen was the first to spot him, lowering her mug back down and returning Dean’s warm smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Good, actually,” Dean answered honestly, wheeling himself over to the kitchen island and eying up the food goods on display; an appetizing spread of bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and – the newest addition from Sam – a plate of pancakes.

“You guys make all this?” Dean was fighting himself tooth and nail not to snatch a piece of bacon for himself (and slip a piece for Miracle….)

“Yep,” Sam replied, looking proudly to the spread. “Eileen cooked up the bacon and eggs. Thought you might want some good eggs and not my rubber eggs.”

“Good call,” Dean had given in to the urge, speaking through a mouthful of perfectly crispy bacon. “Surprised you’re not serving me those egg whites only omelet and fake bacon…” Dean paused, glancing down frantically to the half piece of bacon in his hands. “Wait, unless-,”

“It’s real bacon,” Sam assured him, though rather disapprovingly as he began shoveling some eggs onto his own plate. “I’m not that cruel.”

“You did it before! Brought home that synthetic crap from the store…”

“It tastes just the same!” Sam argued over his shoulder, searching through one of the cabinets for their depleting bottle of maple syrup. “And it’s better for you.”

“It does not taste the same,” Dean grumbled in response, accepting the freshly poured cup of black coffee Eileen passed over to him. “And that’s why I don’t let you go shopping for groceries on your own anymore.”

‘Sam does raise a valid point, Dean.’

‘Oh no. Don’t you start with me too, Cas. I’m already sacrificing my whisky for you, do not ask me to give up my bacon on top of that.’

“I was starting to worry when the smell of sausages cooking didn’t rouse you from your slumber,” Sam commented, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “Good thing the bacon did the job, or I’d have assumed you passed in your sleep.”

“Eh, what can I say,” Dean shrugged his shoulders, wheeling himself and his plateful of food (very carefully…) over to the kitchen table. “Getting stabbed through the back really takes it out of you. Plus, you see this face? Doesn’t stay this pretty at my age without some beauty sleep, Sammy.”

“You’re not that old,” Sam scoffed. “Besides, since when do you sleep in till noon?”

Dean nearly spat out his mouthful of coffee, frantically shoving his flannel sleeve back to check the time on his watch. Yep, just as Sam had said, his watch blinked back the numbers ’12:23’ at him in bright white lettering. “Huh… would you look at that…”

“You have a good dream you didn’t want to wake up from something?” Sam joked, having no idea how close to the truth he actually was.

“Something like that. Man… can’t remember the last time I slept that long. You know, without being knocked out or forced unconscious, or anything like that.”

“Obviously, your body needed the sleep,” Eileen commented, finishing off her last triangle of toast and placing her leftover scraps of sausages and bacon on the floor for Miracle to feast on (which she definitely didn’t leave on purpose). “Doesn’t matter how much drugs the hospital pumps you with; you’ll never have as good of a night’s sleep as you do in your own bed.”

“Amen to that,” Dean stretched out his arms in front of him, listening to the satisfying cracks and pops of his elbow and shoulder joints. “So, what’s the plan for today? Straight to the library, skim through books till we’re bored to tears?”

The happy go lucky smile on Dean’s face slowly slipped away as he saw the anxious looks Sam and Eileen were sharing. Uh oh… That was never good. That was the look of ‘we have something we need to tell you, and we know you’re not going to like it’. Dean hated that look… especially since he knows he’s been one to sport the expression for himself many times over the years.

“Uh, actually…” Sam begun, looking to Eileen for help. “Eileen actually kinda… found a case… while you were in the hospital.”

“Oh…” Dean squeaked out, the remaining few bites of pancake left on his plate no longer looking as appetizing as they did a few seconds ago.

“I wasn’t looking for one,” Eileen stressed that fact, guilt already twisting at her features. “It’s… it’s kind of been all over the news, actually.”

“Yeah, and that’s kinda the reason we’re bringing it up,” Sam added in, backing up Eileen. “From what we think we know… there’s already been seven deaths connected to this thing.”

“Jesus… seven?” Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t caught wind of this himself. Then again, it wasn’t as if he had been actively searching for a case these past few days…

“We did some more research into it this morning. We’re pretty sure it’s a simple salt and burn job – a day, maybe two. It’s local too, just a few towns over.” Sam told him.

“And you’re… what, asking me for permission?” Dean wheeled himself over to the sink, focusing on dropping his plates into the soapy water rather than on Sam and Eileen’s matching looks of guilt.

“No, just… wanted to let you know is all,” Sam forced the words out rather awkwardly, unsure whether to keep in place or walk over to Dean. “We, uh… we’ll be heading off in about twenty minutes. We’ve already burnt enough daylight, so…”

“Yeah, course. Sure,” Dean forced out, pushing down the bitterness that wanted to enter his tone. “Don’t want to be the one that’s holding you guys back like I have all morning, so don’t hang around for me or anything.”

“Dean-,” Sam tried, taking a single step towards him. 

“It’s fine, Sammy,” Dean snapped, holding out an arm to stop Sam from getting any closer. “Seriously. You two can watch each other’s backs, so I’m not worried there. You guys need any help, then – y’know – don’t know there’s much I can do but, guess you can call me; be whatever FBI director or whoever you need to call if the local badges start asking questions.”

“Dean… you know we wouldn’t be doing this usually, but… with the hunt so local and so many people already dead…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean brushed Sam off. “Go. Really, go on the hunt. I’ll be fine here. Get some research done for once.”

“We won’t take long,” Eileen assured him. “We want to help Cas, too. We’ll be here for that, we promise.”

“Uh-huh. You guys better get going then. Don’t let me stop you,” Dean rolled away from the two of them before they could say anything, forcing himself back up the ramp and down the bunkers hallway, which never seemed as long as it does now.

Miracle, ever loyal, trudged on after him, slipping into his room before he slammed the door. Turns out that slamming the door is more difficult when in a wheelchair, having to grab hold of the edge of the door behind him and force it backward. It didn’t quite make the echoing slam the heavy wooden doors usually do, which only pissed him off more. What’s the point of slamming a door if the person you’re mad at can’t feel it shaking through their bones?

‘You not gonna say something? Tell me off for getting snappy at them or some crap like that?’

‘I thought that if I remained silent that you wouldn’t direct your anger at me. Clearly, that didn’t work. I get that you’re frustrated Dean, but it’s not fair to direct that at Sam and Eileen. They haven’t done anything wrong-,’

‘Haven’t done anything wrong!? I haven’t even been home a day and they’re already ditching me for a hunt!’

‘Are you saying you wouldn’t do the same in their place? Knowing that seven innocent people have already lost their lives?’

‘No! I mean… maybe… it’s just… I just got home. Now I’ve got to sit around here doing nothing while they’re out there working?’

‘I know you want to be out there with them, Dean; but Sam and Eileen are just doing what’s right. And I think you know this, otherwise, you wouldn’t have been provoking me into “telling you off”.’

‘Really don’t like how much of me you’ve figured out after being in my head for like, three days.’

‘Does that mean I was correct in my assumption?’

Dean sent over a slightly blurry, staticky, barely put together mental image of his middle finger over to Cas, hoping it’d ruffle some feathers.

It did.

‘No need to be rude, Dean. I think I’ll retreat for a bit while you get over your temper tantrum.’

‘Temper Tantrum? Seriously? You treating me like I’m five - is that it? That how you think you’re gonna solve things?’

Cas stayed true to his word, only silence filling the gap in his mind which Cas’s words typically took up.

‘Temper Tantrum… say’s the guy that’s giving me the silent treatment. Now that’s childish.’

Silence. Nothing but silence and his own thoughts echoing in his mind.

‘Fine. Be like that. I’ll go find my own damn work to do…’

  * * *

The library never felt quite so empty and… boring. Sure, he still had Miracle, who was curled up in her memory foam dog bed that Dean had dropped a few pretty pennies on (and still hasn’t told Sam about the actual price). As great as she was for company, it turns out that dogs aren’t so skilled in the whole conversation part of companionship. Unless you count Dean talking to her in that way people talk to their dogs - which he once found annoying but would now be a hypocrite to say so.

Dean had scoured through all the book titles that seemed to allude to any information on angels and vessels – well, those on the bottom of the bookshelves anyway – and now had them neatly stacked on the table in front of him. Sam and Eileen had long since left the bunker, wisely choosing not to say goodbye – or anything for that matter – disappearing into the garage and leaving him here. The hours had ticked by way too slow, the words on the page in front of him starting to blur together and become an incomprehensible mess. He had re-read this particular passage on the comparisons of the limited real-life encounters with angels to their bible counterparts about five times now, but his brain was stubbornly refusing to take any of that information in.

Dean slammed the thick-binded cover closed, choking back a cough when it kicked up a mini mushroom cloud of dust, sliding the book across the table away from him. It was all starting to feel pointless. He knew that angels were pretty elusive creatures in the supernatural world, but he had no idea it was by this much. Damn near every book on angels, or any mention of angels in any creature encyclopedia he’s scanned through all seem to have the same message of “we’re talking out of our ass here”. All these books were nothing more than guesses based on other supernatural creatures. And sure, yeah, they got some of those guesses right from the limited knowledge of angels he’s got from Cas, but there was no guarantee on any of the info. What if they find something that can bring Cas’s body back, but it’s another hypothesis? What if it goes wrong? What if it doesn’t work at all? What if messes Cas up on the transfer, especially if they need to use all of Cas’s grace for it to work, and-

‘You’re panicking.’

Dean startled in his chair, Cas’s voice joining the spiraling thoughts in his mind for the first time in a good few hours.

‘What?’

‘Your heart rate has increased to a hundred and five beats per minute and you started screaming in your head again.’

‘Oh, and so you decided to take pity on me and stop the silent treatment?’

‘I decided it was best to interrupt your incoming anxiety attack before you put too much strain on your healing body. And it seems to have worked, considering you’re converting your worries into pettiness and directing it at me once again.’

‘I get it, Cas. I’m being a dick. That what you wanted to hear?’

‘I was hoping for an apology, but I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get.’

‘Damn straight it is. Now, you gonna help me here for what?’

‘Help you how?’

Dean pulled the next book out from the top of the stack, thumping it down on the table and flipping it open to the first page. ‘You can put your special angel eyes to use and help me find something of use in here.’

‘My… special angel eyes?’

‘Yeah. What, you telling me an angel's eyesight is the same as a human’s? That the high and mighty angels of the Lord were cursed with the same pathetic eyes as the mud monkeys-,’

‘Dean, you know full well I do not look down on humans like my other brothers and sisters occasionally do.’

‘I know, Cas. Was making a joke. I’m just saying, could use a second pair of eyes as I read through this. Point out anything I might miss. Which I will. A lot.’

‘I’ll try my best.’

Another two hours passed in companionable silence, the only sounds in the library being Miracle’s snuffled snores and the occasional flip of the ancient and fragile papers under Dean’s fingers. Cas hadn’t said or anything to him in that time – or pointed out something that Dean had skipped over – which only made Dean feel all that more disheartened about this whole ‘creating a body’ idea. He hadn’t really considered the possibility that the idea might not be possible… He had just assumed he’d find something about it in one of the Men of Letter’s countless collection of books and that eventually, it would lead them to somewhere.

‘Dean… what’s that?’

‘What’s what?’

‘At the end of the table. Where you scratched your names into the table. Is that…?’

‘Oh, right. Didn’t show you…’ Dean wheeled himself over to the end of the table, the beginnings of a smile on his face as he looked down at the names crudely carved into the wood. ‘After we came home, we, uh… added you and Jack to the table. Bunker felt damn quiet and I, uh… It’s stupid, but I went back into the dungeon. Thought maybe… I dunno, maybe you’d still be there. You weren’t of course, and… next time I saw the table, I realized we should have added you long ago. Should have had the opportunity to carve your name yourself, but… yeah…’

‘Oh…’

‘You’re… okay with this, right? I’d ask Jack too but, y’know…’

‘I’m more than okay with it, Dean.’

‘You good, man? You kind of sound like you’re about to cry. You’re… not about to cry, are you?’

‘No…’

‘That didn’t sound very convincing.’

‘Didn’t sound very convincing to myself, either. Dean, do you… do you mind if I take over for just a moment?’

‘Uh… sure, Cas. Go ahead.’

Castiel pushed himself into the front of Dean’s mind, waiting for his grace to settle into full possession. He pulled himself closer to the table, reaching out with Dean’s hand and placing it down on the carvings. As gently as possible, he traced the letters of his name with his finger, ignoring the sharp bite of the rugged edges. His name. It was his name that Dean had taken the time to painstakingly carve into the table, both his and Jack’s resting alongside the Winchesters like they were always there.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to add your name sooner.’

‘I never expected you to. Which is why, perhaps, this is… affecting me more than I thought it would.’

‘Yeah… one of the things that made me realize how crappy I can treat you sometimes, Cas. Hell, you should have demanded to have had your name added here.’

‘I would never demand such a thing, Dean. This is… a very personal decision that only you or Sam could have decided, and I… truth be told, I don’t have the words to say how much this means to me.’

‘I don’t think you need words when you’re making my eyes cry, Cas.’

‘Oh, sorry – I’m still not used to your body…’

Castiel raised a hand to his eyes, finding that Dean was telling the truth when he wiped away the tears that were moments away from spilling over. He gave one last look to the names on the table, one last touch to the aged wood before handing Dean’s body back to himself.

‘Guess we better get back to researching… good old research…’ Dean held back a groan as he wheeled back over to the seemingly never-ending pile of books stacked on the table.

‘Probably for the best, yes. Actually, I was thinking before… I wonder if any of these study pieces are by Lilly?’

Dean closed the cover to the third book they had been smimming through, pushing it over to the ‘completed’ pile at the other end of the table. ‘Who’s Lilly?’

‘Lilly Sunder. You don’t remember her?’

‘Oh. Course I remember her. Huh, I didn’t consider it… She did say she had studied angels, didn’t she?’

‘Devoted her life to us. Both in scientific curiosity and… for revenge. I know her studies were from a long time ago, but it’s a possibility that her work could have ended up here. Perhaps under a different pen name, though.’

‘Why would she use a different pen name?’

‘Lilly was working on her studies back in the turn of the nineteenth century. The world wasn’t exactly accepting of women who were interested in the scientific field – especially when that involved mixing science with religious aspects. Trying to theoretically dissect a biblical creature back then… even a man in that field would receive quite the backlash.’

‘Right… Wow, humans suck, huh?’

‘You have your moments of beauty, just as you can have moments of cruelty. I like to think that you’re still maturing as a species. Someday, there will be nothing left but beauty.’

‘Very poetic, Cas.’

Dean couldn’t muster enough energy to pull another book towards him, rubbing at his tired eyes with a frustrated groan. He leaned back in his chair, glancing around at the books on shelves that surrounded him. “All the knowledge in the friggen’ world… but nothing of use.”

‘We don’t know that for sure.’

‘Doubt we have enough time left to comb through every book here, Cas.’

That gave Dean an idea. He perked up in the chair, swiveling his head towards the file cabinets that lined the back of the room. ‘Maybe it’s not in the books… maybe the Men of Letters did some research themselves? There could be something in their files!’

‘It’s a possibility. Though, I do not know of any angels that were in contact with the Men of Letters during the time period they worked in.’

Dean wheeled over to the first cabinet on the left, guessing that anything to do with angels would be stored under the ‘A’ section. ‘You say that like you were aware of every angel's movements.’

‘Not myself, but… As I’ve said before, angels rarely visited Earth before the start of the apocalypse. Only specific cases that were deemed necessary for intervention by those higher up.’

Dean’s finger stilled at the file he had reached, feeling a kick of hope burst in his chest at the title: ‘Angel Exorcism – Exorcising An Angel Whilst Leaving The Vessel Intact.’

‘Cas? You heard of something like this?’

‘An angel exorcism? Other than the relic you used on Lucifer whilst he was possessing your president… Typically, the only way to ‘expel’ an angel is for the vessel themselves to revoke their permission.’

‘You think it’s possible?’

‘I don’t see why not. If humans have found a way to place such magic into a relic… it’s a possibility.’

The file – though, it was more of a folder – was made from thick parchment paper and had been written up by a typewriter. Much to Dean’s excitement, within the folder was a reel of film that was labeled with the same title as the file.

‘Dean… I don’t see what this has to do with recreating a vessel.’

‘I’m just counting our blessings that there’s something angel related in these cabinets. And there’s talks about the vessel here, too. It’s worth a watch at least, right?’

A few minutes later (and a near tip over on a ramp that Dean would rather not mention), they found themselves in the projector room. Dean pulled out the old reel stored within the projector, feeling a fresh wave of sadness wash over him when he recognized it as the tape of Mr’s Butters that Jack had found. Dwelling on those feelings never led to anything good, so Dean hurriedly shoved the other reel into the projector slot and pressing the play button before any more thoughts of Jack begin to settle into his mind.

A grainy mess of greys and whites sparked to life on the screen, frames flickering past until the image of a man in a sharply dressed man came into view. Ah, seemed it was their favorite Men of Letters, Sinclair… Dean could recognize the room as their dungeon room, the sigils painted on the ground looking freshly painted. Behind Sinclair, just out of view, sat a battered-looking man in a chair. His hands were bound in a familiar-looking pair of silver cuffs, head slumped down in apparent unconsciousness. Next to the chair was a wheeled table, a silver tray sat atop bearing tools that Dean couldn’t quite identify yet.

“Experiment Number two-zero-seven for the Men of Letters Archive. This experiment is led by me, Mr. Cuthbert Sinclair. And my assistant behind the camera is one of our new initiates of The Men of Letters, Mr. Henry Winchester.”

‘Henry Winchester… your grandfather?’

‘Yeah… On dad’s side. I didn’t really think about how much he did in the Men Of Letters; I just knew he died after Abaddon possessed that other chick that joined the same time he did.’

“Now what we have here… is a rare occasion. The second I’ve seen. Most of humanity believes angels to be God’s messengers… there to pass on the good Lord’s words to those that are meant to hear it. Some believe them to be God’s minions, there to dish out miracles when God is… unavailable. Neither of these are true. Angels are soldiers, created to carry out God’s dirty work… And if one ever decides to bless you with their presence? Well, I’m afraid to say that a miracle is the farthest thing that will happen to you…”

Sinclair turned away from the camera, which followed him as he stepped up the side of the man still slumped over in the chair. He had come more into focus now, and Dean could see just how bad of a state the guy was in; dark bruises were littered all over the man’s pale skin, multiple cuts and lacerations decorating every piece of skin Dean could see, oozing out streams of dark blood that stained the button-up shirt of the man’s suit.

‘Jesus… what the hell are they doing to the guy?’

‘That’s not a “guy”, Dean…’

‘Huh?’

‘I recognize the man… that was the last vessel I saw Atheed possessing…’

‘You telling me the Men of Letters managed to trap an angel?’

‘It seems so…’

‘You know this angel?’

‘Not too well… We had occasionally crossed paths I suppose, but… I wouldn’t say I “know” him, no. Atheed’s garrison had been dispatched to survey a particularly troublesome band of demons who had managed to fatally wound one of us… the demons were dispatched with, but Atheed never returned. It was assumed he fell in battle, but… now that seems not the case.’

“Now, our inhabitant here hasn’t been particularly talkative… Some of the hunters under our employment were working on a typical demon case when it seems our winged foes here took a particular interest… One was left severely injured once the dust had cleared, and our hunters thought it best to bring him here for help.” Sinclair clicked his mouth and shook his head in disappointment, using his index finger to lift up the angel's chin. “A shame most will never know the true evil of these creatures… these beings with unfathomable power we foolishly believe to be our side…”

Sinclair let the angel's chin drop back down to his chest, turning his face back to the camera and flashing a smile. “See, here’s the thing – best thing we can do for most is to take this here-,” Sinclair gestured to the tray next to him, pointing directly to the angel blade – which likely belonged to the angel in question. “-And rid the world of one of these things… but in doing so, we create waste; somewhere hidden in there, crushed by the weight of this creature, is a human being. A devout believer tricked by this angel’s silver tongue. Some may say that they already sealed their fate when they agreed to possession… but as I said, angels can be very persuasive. Why should this innocent man have his life cut short? Why isn’t there a way to remove the angel, but keep the man inside alive? Today, we’re going to try just that with a little theory of mine.”

Much to Dean’s confusion, Sinclair then proceeded to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt. Then, Dean caught sight of the thin silver chain wrapped around his neck, leading down to a small glass vial that Sinclair lifted up to the camera. The vial contained a bright liquid-like substance, it’s color hidden by the black and white footage. Not that Dean needed to see the color; he already had a feeling he knew what that swirling mixture inside the bottle was…

‘It’s… it’s grace. Atheed’s grace.’

“The last time we had access to an angel, we were able to perform another experiment; finding a way to extract an angel of their grace to see the effects it had on the angel, and to see what uses the grace can provide outside its host. I have repeated the same procedure here, but this time I have not extracted all the grace. You see, when we first performed the procedure, we expected for the removal of the grace to also remove the angel. Not so, unfortunately. It simply stripped the angel of their power, leaving them mortal… taking over control from the vessel. So this time, our angel here still has some of his grace left, but not much. Barely enough to keep himself an angel.”

Sinclair dropped his hand away from the vial, now reaching for a small box contraption sat atop the tray. He picked it up, thumb hovering over a plastic window which encased a big red button that gave Dean some serious villain type vibes.

“For our next step, we will be moving our angel outside the bunker. If things go right, there shouldn’t be a mess to clean up, but for safety sake, this is best done outside.”

Just as Sinclair had said, the footage shifted from grainy footage of the bunker interior to a shot of the forest outside the bunker. Atheed was still sat in the same chair, handcuffs still secured around his wrists, but now he seemed to be regaining consciousness. He was clearly out of it, eyes half-lidded as he blearily took in his surroundings, barely having enough strength to lift his head up from his chest. As usual, Sinclair was stood next to him, though this time a few steps away. The contraption was still sat snugly in his hand, that infuriating smile remaining plastered on his face. Strangely, Dean could see a few wires extending out from Atheed’s body, trailing down from his chest to the ground, connected to the contraption in Sinclair’s hand.

“Not only will we be removing the angel… but my hope is we are also able to kill the angel. The amount of Grace it has left is dangerously low – not enough to survive a transfer to another vessel. And these cuffs here are helping to dampen that even more… Otherwise, our angel here would have fled long ago. The only thing keeping this angel alive, to exists in this plane… is the vessel he resides in. So, it goes to say that it would be in his best interest to keep the vessel alive, wouldn’t it?”

Sinclair flashed one last smile at the camera, gesturing for the cameraman his grandpa to step back. Henry did as he was told, walking backward from Atheed as Sinclair followed him at a leisurely pace. The camera panned around to reveal a makeshift cover of sorts, a few sandbags hastily put together in the form of a wall, just enough space for two men. Henry settled behind the sandbags, camera pointed towards Atheed as Sinclair took his place behind the cover next to Henry.

“Our angel has had some… minor surgery beforehand. That is to say, we’ve stuffed him with a few pieces of explosives. Small pieces of dynamite. We left an opening for the wires to be connected to the detonator in my hand.”

‘They’re… they’re insane. They’re just going to blow this guy up?’

‘I… I feel sick. I’m not sure if I can watch this…’

“This is a risky theory, but… it’s the best we got. We need to put the vessel through some serious damage. So damaged that the angel will be forced to intervene. In its last-ditch effort, the angel will use what’s remaining of its grace to heal the vessel. But in doing so… it will have burnt through all that remains of its grace. We are left with the human, fully healed and soul still intact, whilst the angel… has been burnt out from the body. Dead. That is the theory, anyway. All that’s left now… is to see if my theory rings true.”

If Dean wasn’t so desperate for answers, he would have shut this torture porn off long ago. Instead, he – and in turn, Cas – were forced to watch the horrific event unfold. Sinclair flipped the little plastic covering of the detonator up, pressing his thumb into the big red button as casually as one would call an elevator. What was once Atheed disappeared in a spray of meaty chunks within a fine mist, the chair underneath reduced to a pile of singed timber, half of it thrown across the forest by the blast. As disgusting as it all was, Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from the carnage. He was waiting to see those chunks of flesh on the floor start to connect back together, the spray of blood on the floor to collect and go back to its rightful body.

That didn’t happen. For a good ten seconds they could only stare at the stain on the floor that moments ago was a human being and an angel, four observers spanning across two centuries watching as an experiment fails quite spectacularly.

“Damn!” Sinclair exclaimed, tossing the detonator in his hands to the floor. “Experiment number two-zero-seven… has failed. Both the angel and human in our possession have been terminated… General conclusion seems to be that the angel did not have enough grace left to heal its vessel… Perhaps, if we’re given the opportunity again, we can repeat the experiment – but reduce the amount of grace we take from the angel…”

The frames begun to flicker, left on Sinclair’s pondering expression as the tape began to wheel down to nothing, the projector shutting off and plunging Dean into darkness. He had yet to say anything, nor had Cas. He could only stare vacantly at the blank projector screen, hoping that the image of that angel being blown into little pieces would eventually disappear from his vision.

‘Cas… you okay?’

‘No. That’s – what they did-,’

‘Yeah… I know…’

‘I know that the relationship between humans and angels have been complicated at best, but… to think the Men of Letters were capable of doing such a thing… To see us as nothing more than an ‘experiment’, it’s…’

‘It’s messed up. After all that, we’re no step closer to finding anything that’ll help you. I really thought there would be something in there, and… Jesus, I can’t stop thinking about how my Grandpa had a part to play in it… I guess they saw angels as… monsters. A threat to humanity.’

‘Our mission was to watch over humanity… We lost sight of that somewhere along the way. Now, though… I’m hoping things will change under Jack’s rule.’

‘You think he’ll make more angels?’

‘It’s a possibility. He has the power for it, even before he absorbed Chuck’s and Amara’s power. It would certainly help to stabilize Heaven, reducing the chance of the souls there being cast out and locking out those that are supposed to ascend.’

‘If only we knew what the kid was doing… would be nice if he dropped in every now and then, you know? A phone call maybe.’

‘…Huh…’

‘Huh? What’s “huh” supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing really, just… for a moment there, you sounded like a stereotypical grumpy father.’

‘Yeah? Well, we have a friggen’ God as our kid – you expect me not to be a little grumpy that he up and vanished on us? Are you not kinda pissed too, Cas? I mean – you died. And he didn’t do anything about it. Not even when you came back.’

‘I’m not going to say I understand why he hasn’t intervened in everything that’s happened since, but mostly… I miss him.’

‘I miss him too, Cas. I’m still pissed, but… I don’t know, maybe it’s more disappointment than anything. I thought – hoped, really – that once we dealt with Chuck we would all have a bit of a break. Chill in the bunker for a bit or, hell, maybe we’d finally take that beach vacation. Jack would probably go all giddy over the concept of sand-castles…’

‘That sounds nice… I think Jack would have loved that.’

‘It’s easy to forget he’s only what, three? Maybe four? Our new God is the son of Satan who is four years old… that’s not a recipe for disaster or anything, right?’

‘He hasn’t gone crazy with his newfound power and tried to bend everyone to his will yet, so he’s doing marginally better than I was.’

‘That’s… one way to look at it. And you were, what, a sprightly couple of billion years old?’

‘Not sure. I stopped counting somewhere after the eight billionth birthday.’

‘Well, if it makes you feel better Cas – you look damn good for your age.’

  * * *

It was rare for Dean to have a good dream.

This was something Castiel had learned over the years. Even though Dean would often voice his displeasure at him about watching over him as he slept, Cas would continue to keep an eye on his slumbering form. Occasionally, he would look into Dean’s mind to see what dream was playing out. If it was a nightmare, he would simply place his hand on Dean’s shoulder and ebb a little bit of grace through him, flushing out the nightmare from his system. It was the least he could do, and Dean always seemed to be that extra bit more rested when he did it – so he never really stopped.

That was until he lost his wings and the boys moved into the Men of Letter’s bunker. It was easier before when he could just fly over to whichever sleazy, rundown motel they had stopped in for the night and keep himself hidden while he watched over Dean. He knew that there was nowhere safer for Dean to sleep than in the sigil covered bunker, and yet… that urge to watch over him always remained.

Nightmares were a common occasion for Dean. That was to be expected of course, with all the unimaginable horrors he’s been through in his short forty-one years on Earth. Now that Castiel was residing within his head, he could finally brush away Dean’s nightmares whenever he stepped into them.

This nightmare, however…

It had caught him off guard. It had felt as if he had woken up to the nightmare himself. At first glance, he was certain he had entered Dean’s memories of Hell. The heat was unbearable, stifling him of any air. The room he was in was packed with smoke, filling his lungs and making it near impossible to breathe. Flames licked down the walls, the ceiling above him ablaze with red-hot flames. There, in the center of the ceiling, were the charred remains of who Castiel was certain to be Mary Winchester. Even though she was nothing more than a burnt corpse, she still screamed in agony, the sound piercing as it echoed around the room.

This dream… it wasn’t acting out like the actual horrific event had. At this point, John Winchester should have already been in the room. He should have been there to witness his wife pinned to the roof; stomach ripped open as the flames erupt. Dean should have run into the burning room, should have had his baby brother placed into his arms and commanded to “Get your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean - Go!” from his father.

Instead, Castiel stood frozen at the sight of Dean, four-year-old Dean leaning over the white crib, its paint peeling from the intense heat as Dean tries desperately to reach for baby Sam within. The sounds of young Dean’s panicked cries as he reached for his screaming brother were overwhelming and heart-breaking, but it was what Castiel needed for his mind to kick into gear.

What he should have done was force the nightmare to disappear. Except, he wasn’t really thinking. More… he was acting on instinct. He had rushed forward, using his arms to shield himself from the embers that danced in the air as he raced towards the crib. Within seconds he had plucked baby Sam from the crib, holding him close to his chest as he wrapped his other arm around Dean, hauling him up and tucking him into his side.

Castiel could feel the burning heat behind him as he ran, pieces of the ceiling collapsing as the fire raged on. His lungs burned with every inhale of smoke, each breath resulting in a choking, spluttering cough that left him gasping for air that wasn’t there. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, matching his rapid steps down the damaged and soot-covered staircase. He very nearly ran into the closed front door, bracing himself before bringing up a leg and slamming it into the weak spot next to the lock. The door flung open from the force, the doorframe splintering and sending shards of wood flying. Cas ran through the front door and into the front yard without looking back, keeping his hold on Sam and Dean tight.

The first few breaths of fresh air were wonderful, and he would have collapsed to his knees and sucked in as much as he could if it weren’t for the two children he held in his arms. Little Sam was still wailing in his arms, struggling against the hold of a man who, technically, was a stranger to him at the time. Dean had since gone quiet, trembling in Cas’s arms as the two of them watched what was once Dean’s home burn.

“It's okay...” Castiel whispered to the two boys in his arms, lowering himself down into the damp November dew-covered grass and watching as the roof of the house collapses in on itself. “You're okay, now. I have you.”

“Is Sammy okay?” Deans' first question came in the form of a frightened child’s broken, trembling voice. A boy that was trying to be brave - even in the face of absolute horror.

“Sammy's fine. He’s a little shaken up, but he’s okay.” Cas lowered his arm down to Dean’s level, who immediately peered over the crook of Cas's elbow to keep a watchful eye on his baby brother.

“Thank you, Cas.”

Cas's eyebrows shot up at the mention of his name. "You know who I am?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, his eyes still glued onto Sam. “You’re my angel. Mommy says you watch over me.”

“I... I suppose I am your angel, yes. Your mommy’s right – I do watch over you. Well, big you, anyway.”

“I know,” Little Dean asserted, reaching out to trail gentle fingers down his little brother’s face, the soothing touch quietening the young boy's wails nearly instantaneously. “Big me say’s you’re my bestest friend in the whole world.”

Despite the horrific situation that was currently playing out in Dean’s subconscious mind, Castiel couldn’t help but let a small smile curl at his lips. “In the whole world, huh? Wow, that’s quite the honor.”

“Big me doesn’t have many friends,” Little Dean continued, the words dampening Cas’ smile just a bit. “Anyone he tries to get close to seem to… go away. Kind of like mommy and daddy did.”

Castiel tightened his hold on Dean a little bit more. “Yes… you’ve been through a lot – the both of you.”

“I have lots of friends at school!” Little Dean’s voice brightened considerably. “It’s not big school yet, mummy calls it kin… kinder…”

“Kindergarten?”

“Yeah! I started not long ago, and my friends are really fun! But… do you think I can keep going to kindergarten now?”

It pained Castiel to see those hopeful young eyes peering up at him, looking to him as if he held all the answers. The real Dean – at least, the Dean he knows today - is there inside this young child’s mind. That Dean knows what comes of this day, of what is waiting for him; and yet, to tell this innocent child the truth… it seems unfathomably cruel to do so.

“I, um… I think that might not happen, Dean.”

Dean’s hopeful gaze slipped, dropping his head back down to look to Sam. “Yeah… I don’t think so either…”

“You will get through this, Dean. Both you and Sam – you’ll grow up into the two most important men on this Earth. Not only will you save the world, but the entire Universe – and all the other Universe’s to ever have been created.”

“We will? Me and Sammy?”

“You will.”

“But… Sammy’s so tiny.”

Castiel chuckled quietly, looking down to the baby in his arms that was barely heavier than a bag of flour, eyelids drooping shut as he began to feel comfortable in Castiel’s hold. “He is right now, yes. He’ll grow to be taller than you, though.”

“What!? That’s no fair! I’m the big brother! I should be biggest!” Dean pushed out his bottom lip into a pout, looking from Sam to Cas with big, wet eyes that Cas is sure got Mary to cave into Dean’s demands once or twice.

“If it helps - even though he’s taller - Sam still looks up to you. No matter what.” Castiel assured him.

The pout disappeared just like that, the first smile he’s seen from young Dean this night appearing on his face. “He does?”

“Of course he does. It’s what you two do; always looking out for each other.”

“And you!” Dean insisted, leaving no room for argument. “Big Dean and Big Sam look out for you too, like you watch over us!”

“Yes, you do,” Castiel agreed gently. “You always do.”

The last of the flames were dying out now. The house was left as a pile of blackened wood, the bare-bone frames of it barely standing after the damage. Smoke billowed up from the remains, blocking out most of the clear night above them. It was almost beautiful; the last of the dying embers glowing softly amidst the pile of soot and rubble – like an abnormally large bonfire.

“Cas?”

Castiel tore his gaze away from what was once the Winchester’s family’s house, eyes landing on Dean’s searching stare. “Yes, Dean?

Little Dean glanced away from a moment, watching baby Sam’s peaceful sleeping face before risking another glance up to Cas. “Can… Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course, Dean. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

Little Dean paused, looking to him for a moment before scrambling up to his feet, leaning closer to Cas and cupping his small hands around Cas’s ears, whispering, “Big Dean is really, really scared.”

“He is?” Castiel asked, just about able to see Dean’s head furiously nodding up and down out of the corner of his eye. “What is he scared of?”

“That he’s going to lose you again.”

Dean had whispered it no louder than his last statement, yet he might as well have yelled it for how hard the words punched him in the gut.

Dean was stood by his side now, bracing himself against Cas’s shoulders as he waited patiently for Castiel to speak. It was jarring, seeing Dean like this. He was so used to Dean being the taller one than him - and now, even standing, Dean just barely reached his chin whilst he was kneeling down.

“Can I tell you a secret too?” Castiel asked, keeping his voice as hushed as Dean was. Dean eagerly nodded his head, eyes wide as saucers as he waited for Cas to spill his secrets. “I’m scared of losing you, too. And it never goes away. That’s what happens when you love someone.”

“Big Dean doesn’t like feeling scared.”

“Oh, I know he doesn’t. Could you do me a favor, then? I need you to tell Big Dean that I’m not going anywhere. As long as he wants me here, I’m not leaving.”

“You can’t promise that,” Dean said, much to Cas’s surprise. “Sometimes people don’t get to choose when they leave. If he could, Big Dean would keep you in his head forever, coz’ at least then he can protect you better.”

“I thought I was the one that was supposed to be protecting you?”

“You do. But Big Dean wants to protect everyone.”

Castiel sighed, looking up to the surroundings beyond the remains of the house. The stars were disappearing from the sky, the black of night spilling out and claiming everything else. Soon, everything around them would be nothing but an endless blackness.

Dean was waking up.

“Yes, he does... even when doing so risks himself...” Castiel noted, preparing himself to be ripped from this dream and into Dean's groggy, wakening consciousness mind.

“You're different, though,” Little Dean added, his voice fading away with the rest of the dream. “And that's why bigger me is so scared. You're something different to him – and he's too scared to find out what that kind of different is.”

[ikesenhell]

The First Thing

You can find all other IkeSen/IkeVamp works of mine here! NOTES: AT LAST I RETURN. I made this almost explicitly to annoy @a-shout-to-the-void. I had to make an entire playlist to write this... you know that ‘boyfriend’ by Ariana Grande actually is very helpful for this? (and ‘bitches broken hearts’ by Billie Eilish, who knew) ---

When she started looking at him--really looking at him, investigating his features and cadence, memorizing the sound of his voice--she noticed his hands first. She never told him. If she’d asked what he wanted her to notice, she assumed Arthur would chuckle (in that delightful, infuriating, charming accent of his) and say, “Darling, aren’t there a thousand things about me you could look at?”

Famous author he was. ‘Pain in the ass’ could be added to that list. 

His mouth was a liar and she wished it would shut up more often (the man wrote Sherlock Holmes and couldn’t catch a clue, apparently; his motor-mouth flirtations drove her insane). His eyes went along with the facade. What a liar the body could be! 

But his hands? They were the crack in his armor. She learned the way he curled his fingers slow around mugs when he was thinking, curled playfully in teacup handles, rapped annoyance against his pockets. When nothing else in his flirtations gave him away, that did. 

(As much as it was the chink in his mask, it was hers, too. It was the first thing she’d liked about him. His hands made her think he might even be tolerable.)

The second thing she liked was his idiosyncrasies. She wasn’t too given to sweets--she’d always preferred savory things--but the day she rapped on his door to deliver a fresh mug of coffee and a block of fudge, he was too distracted to disguise them. 

“Set it down there,” he gestured, not rising from his typewriter (a horrific, spiderweb contraption that the Comte got for him and he so obviously hadn’t adapted to). “I’ll get to it.”

She set the platter down within his arm’s reach and set about collecting the other stray mugs around his room. When she turned, he was absently breaking off hunks of fudge and dropping it into the coffee, brow furrowed, chewing on his lip, pecking away with a single finger on the keys. It was almost charming. She thought about her grandfather doing his best with his home computer, hammering out emails punctuated with ellipses between his pointer fingers. 

“Has no one taught you how to type on that?” She asked. 

Arthur blinked owlishly over his frames at her. “Is there a certain way?”

Did Arthur Conan Doyle write by hand? She cast the thought from her mind and instead savored that he’d addressed her like a human being and not a snack conveniently wrapped in a skirt, that out of his vest and with his shirt slightly unbuttoned and the sweet abomination of chocolates in his coffee, he was almost lovable. She placed the last dirty mug on her tray and balanced it against her hip. “There is. There’s a hand placement that makes it easier. After that, it’s just practice.” A beat. “It’s sort of like playing the piano. Have you played?”

“No. I play violin.”

She almost asked, ‘like Sherlock Holmes?’ and thought better of it. “Well, I suppose it could be a little like that. Do you need anything else?”

“No. Thank you.” Arthur cast her a smile--a wonderful, ordinary smile. “I don’t suppose you’d teach this old chap how to type sometime?”

“I suppose I could do that, if Sebastian doesn’t need me at some point.”

Arthur’s eyes crinkled. “Well, do let me know.”

When she left the room, he was back to pecking away at the keyboard. She cast one glance back--he was slurping down the sludge of chocolate and sugar and coffee--and wondered if the warmth in her chest was something she ought to worry about.

---

The third thing she liked was his puppy. Vic was adorable; watching them cuddle and romp on the lawn behind the mansion warmed her heart. The spaniel bounded after her skirts as she hung the wash, rolled on her shoes and looked longingly up at her. 

“Hey baby!” His head was silky under her fingers; obviously, he was cared for. Arthur, panting, caught up a few moments later. 

“My apologies, my dear.” He played at an approximation of Napoleon’s bow, but too loose and formless, smiling all the while. It was so boyish and delightful that she smiled despite herself, heart surging. “It seems he’s gotten away from me. I’ll get him out from under you.”

“It’s no problem. I love dogs.” She scratched under the puppy’s chin, watching the tail wriggle on the grass. “I had one, actually. Her name was Neo, short for Neopolitan.”

“Neopolitan! What a divine name.” Arthur dove over Vic, nuzzling the spaniel. “Almost as regal as you, baby boy!”

She grinned and flapped out another shirt (one of Arthur’s, incidentally), pinning it to the line. “You’re not getting blood on your shirts anymore.”

“Am I not?” He shrugged, as if it were nothing at all. “Interesting. Vic! Want to play fetch?”

Vic yelped happily, darting away once more, and as Arthur cursed and scrambled to his knees after, she found herself watching as he ran. 

---

Seasons turned, and so did they. As gradual as the waning months from summer’s height into the shimmering twilight of fall, everything changed. 

“You know, my dear,” he said one night, hunched over the typewriter he still had not mastered (but he was using all of his fingers now at her instruction, which she considered a win), “I’m rather fond of you.”

“You’re fond of all women,” she replied easily, fixing his hand placement on the left. “You hit the ‘enter’ key with your little finger. Trying to use your ring finger like that is causing you problems.”

He wasn’t looking at the keys anymore. Those blue eyes were trained on her, mouth set in a long frown. “I’m serious.”

Was he? She faltered, uncertain of where to turn. Arthur showing vulnerability was almost impossible to comprehend. Was this a ploy? Was this how he lured so many women into his arms? Was this why his shirts were so often flecked with stranger’s blood? Come to think of it, that hadn’t happened in a while. 

“I…” She trailed off. “I don’t know what you mean by that. I guess I’m getting close to everyone.”

His correction was as swift as sharp. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Have you seen blood on my shirts recently? I’m not out looking for any old skirt to bring home.” He peered intently at her, waiting for a reaction. She stood stone-faced. 

(Because what if he was just saying that? What if he--with all his quirks and humor and love of animals and quick tongue and razor mind--was playing the latest caper on her? What if he truly just thought she was someone to play with? What if this was all a sick game? Her heart hurt--it hurt, it hurt, it hurt under the weight of imagining him wrapping her in those arms, with the imagined long evenings in his room reading the latest books.) 

“What,” she scoffed, disbelieving, “should I give you a piece of paper to check off to ask if you ‘like’ me or ‘like like’ me?”

Arthur cocked a brow. “Would that clarify things for you?”

She turned on her heel and left, swinging the bedroom door hard behind her. 

---

Damn him, he was telling the truth. 

Quizzing Theo was exactly as illuminating as she’d suspected it would be. He’d noticed Arthur’s recent change--that he came home from the bars at the same time without vanishing into some side room, that he was ordering alcohol (which he never did when he was chasing a woman), that he was drinking blanc like water (and he was, she could vouch to that--he kept ordering it to his room). 

“Is there a reason for all the questions, Hondje?” Those piercing eyes cut straight through her. Determined to stay them, she slid another warmed pitcher of syrup to him. 

“I mixed it with butter this time,” she told him. “The way my grandmother did. You’ll probably like it like that.”

He frowned, placated for the moment, and tested it on a bite of pancake. Success; his whole face illuminated. “Not bad, Knabbeltje.”

“Glad you like it.”

Theo reached out and caught her by the wrist before she could turn away, expression serious once more. “He’s fallen for you.”

(And she wanted to say ‘Good for him’ and pretend not to care, but she remembered the way his shoulders curved over a piece of paper as he wrote with an ink pen, how he could take the tiniest pieces of information and discover everything about it, how he’d smuggled so many of the encyclopedias into his bedroom that the Comte caved and bought Arthur a shelf full of his own, how he smiled when he was really and truly enjoying himself.)

She swallowed. “How do you know?”

Theo released her and leaned back in his chair, scowling as if he’d never cared to begin with. “Pretty sure you knew that already. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here asking me all this.”

---

It was raining cats and dogs that night, and she hadn’t talked to Arthur in three days. But he was heading out with Theo to the pub, and Sebastian was nowhere to be found, so she took it upon herself to find their raincoats. By the time she returned to the hall, only Arthur was standing there. 

“Where did Theo go?” She asked. 

Arthur shrugged and pointed up the steps. “He forgot his wallet.”

It sounded like a lie, but it wasn’t delivered like one. Arthur’s hands remained telltale still at his wrists, picking at the buttons. She draped Theo’s coat across the rack and held out Arthur’s, helping him into the sleeves. He let her adjust his raincoat, eyes never leaving hers, not once. She  just busied herself with the buttons. Then he took one step forward, gloved hands pinning hers to his chest. 

"I know what game you're playing," he whispered. Was he serious? Joking? It was impossible to tell. "You're waiting to see if I’m serious or simply indulging a passing fancy."

Theo wasn't back yet. She swallowed hard. "Am I?"

"You are." A pause. He trailed his nose against the ridge of her ear and she shivered. "If I break and pick up a skirt at the bar. If I come back with blood on my vest. If I have someone else's perfume on. You don't trust me--not yet."

Her fingers, somehow, were bunched in his vest. She tried to ease up, turned her head away from him. He just followed. The slope of his mouth skated down against her neck and she wondered what it would be like for him to leave a hickey there instead. Would it burn like her heart did around him? She could smell his cologne and coffee and fudge and ink and it all spelled ‘Arthur’ in cursive letters, etched in the most primal part of her soul. 

"Maybe," she hedged, breathless.

"No 'maybes', Love," he sighed against her. "But I'm a stubborn man. You'll see. I meant every word."

---

His whole body wrote love letters to her. 

She knew it, too. He was so touchy when she’d first arrived at the mansion, and now--now the gulf between them was thick with the promise of all he might do. Arthur lingered around her shoulders, his hands deftly handing her pins to hang the laundry when she dropped them in the garden, appearing as if summoned when she needed something from a high shelf. It made her ache. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” she fussed at him in the pantry, soft so Sebastian couldn’t hear. Arthur smiled at her over his coffee mug, finger tapping. She was right. 

“Am I?” He evaded. 

“You are,” she pressed. 

“What, praytell, am I doing?”

(Making me want you so badly I could scream. Ghosting around me.)

“Being a fucking dick.”

Arthur’s eyes blew wide with surprise, and then he laughed so loud and genuine that Sebastian appeared around the corner and squinted. “My! That’s a turn of phrase I didn't expect.”

“You deserved it,” she announced. “I’m not taking it back.”

She still corrected his typing when she came through to fetch his coffee mugs. He was fast now. The metallic hammer of keys echoed down the hall, silencing only when she entered. Thick flakes fluttered past his windowpane, falling in sheets over the gazebo, and Arthur looked up with a paintbrush and a capful of white oil paint. 

She paused. “What are you doing?”

He scowled and motioned at the page. “Typo. That’s how I know I’m old; misspelling words that I ought to know better about. I found that it’s much easier to simply paint over the word, wind it back, and retype the blasted thing on top when it dries.”

Was that how White-Out got invented? She didn't mention that and instead commented lightly, “Smart.”

Arthur shot her a wink and a smile, turning in his chair and taking his coffee with murmured thanks. “What are you doing after this?”

“Nothing, I suppose. I was thinking about doing some journaling.” 

His smile vanished into nothing, fingers rolling thoughtfully along the ceramic mug. At long last, he said, “Is that pressing?”

“I guess not. Why?”

“Then stay.”

Somewhere above them, Mozart’s piano started, a sonata he’d been slaving on for months. Apparently he’d finished it; the notes glided through the ceiling, echoing against her hammering ribs. Arthur waited, silent and pensive. 

She swallowed. “What happens if I stay?”

“Nothing.” A beat. “Everything. Whatever you like.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Those blue eyes roved around the room, as if hiding all the things they could invent. “If I’m perfectly honest, I was thinking of a cuddle.”

“A cuddle? Just one?” She teased, propping her tray on her hip. “You Brits have to specify.” 

He chanced a grin. “Well, perhaps more than one cuddle. We could sit together on the couch, perhaps read a while. Something quiet. Would that suit you?”

Overhead, Mozart hit a sour note of frustration and fell silent once more. She inhaled sharply. 

“Two conditions.”

“I’ll have them.”

“One, I have to bring Sebastian his tray back. Two, I’m bringing you some rouge. You have to drink it beforehand.”

Arthur clicked his tongue, but smiled again. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll take it.”

---

He was pacing when she returned, sleeves rolled back, a few books lying on the coffee table as if he would need to sell her on any of them. He didn't. She shut the door tight behind her and handed him the rouge (which he drank a little too quickly, fingers fumbling with the stopper as if he’d never seen the bottle before). 

“Well.” He slumped into the couch, bringing his legs up with him. “I laid out some novels--”

“Great,” she replied, and settled inbetween his legs to rest on his chest. “You enjoy them.”

Arthur inhaled. His pulse thrummed wildly against her ear, the smooth plane of him comfortable and easy. “Do… do you want any of them?”

“No. I’ve been working all day. I’m alright with resting.”

He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her shoulder, hands cool and nervous on her skin. “I’ll admit, I didn't expect you to just go for this.”

She paused only a moment before admitting, “If I didn't just do it, I knew I was going to be too scared.”

“Too scared for…?”

“Doing what I wanted to do.”

Arthur’s hand--one of those honest, understanding hands--slid upward into her hair, easing her body upward along his. He was all high-strung sinew and bone and flesh, reassuringly solid and hypnotizing. His mouth against her forehead was a relief; against her ear, a taste; against her jaw, a promise; against her shoulder, a tease. 

“Stay tonight,” he whispered in the curve of her skin. Only Arthur could make begging sound seductive. “Here, with me. Don’t make me let you go. You’ve only just arrived, I can’t possibly let you go now.”

She entwined her fingers with his (the very first thing she’d ever liked about him), relishing the ghost of his mouth against her skin, and then--oh, there he was, his lips near hers, and regardless of who leaned first she tasted him with abandon. She was more given to savory things, but when it was him, she supposed a little sugar didn't hurt. His tongue tasted of chocolate and coffee and moved so slow and smooth that when they parted, she gasped. 

“Please,” he murmured, and punctuated it by sucking on her lower lip (damn writers; they always knew how to end a sentence). 

“I’ll think about it,” she breathed, knowing full well the answer. “But you can try and convince me.” 

[callboxkat]

Infinitesimal (part 51)

Author’s note: Sorry about the wait! Hope you guys enjoy this one. There won’t be a new chapter next Monday, since I’ll be away from home, but I’m hoping to at least update A Little Nightmare once more before the end of the year.

Warnings: injury mention, food mention, talk of overworking, blood mention, talk of vampires

Word count: 3000 

Infinitesimal Masterpost!

...

Logan almost hated to admit it, but Roman was right. Taking the day off had been a good idea. He woke up feeling much more relaxed than usual, calm in the knowledge that he didn’t have any responsibilities for that day. He actually slept in for once, even, until nine o’clock. For him, that was like sleeping until noon.

He was in a good mood when padded into the kitchen in his favorite molecule-patterned pajama pants and the soft, worn gray t-shirt he had slept in. He started the coffee machine—very important, even on days off—and while that began to brew, he moved to the fridge to grab the ingredients for breakfast. He pulled out a package of turkey bacon and a carton of eggs, then paused, glancing contemplatively towards the pantry. It was his day off….

A few minutes later, Logan was mixing together a bowl of pancake batter, leaning against the counter with the bowl held in one arm and the spoon in his other hand. Usually he would have just stuck to frozen wholegrain waffles popped in the toaster, but he had plenty of time today. Why not make the most of it? Why not make some pancakes from scratch?

He added some cinnamon, mixed that in, and then turned to the stove. He set down his bowl, took out a pan from the cabinet, and got to work.

He had just finished cooking the first few pancakes when he heard footsteps approaching, and then a gasp of delight.

“Are you making pancakes?” Roman cried. He sounding like a child on Christmas morning who’d just found the shiny new bike he’d asked for sitting under the tree with a big red bow.

“Clearly,” Logan replied, amused, carefully flipping one over. “I was planning to cook some bacon, as well, if you’d like to help. Only if you feel up to it, of course.”

“Pancakes and bacon?” Roman said, walking over to grab the apron that hung on a hook on the wall. “Sign me up.”

Logan set his now finished pancake on top of the growing stack, his mouth quirking up in a smile. “I was thinking that, for the “mouse-men,” we could make tiny pancakes,” he admitted. “It would be… cute. And functional, for them, of course, which is the most important thing—”

“Ah, functional. Of course,” Roman said, the smile audible in his voice. He was tying the back of his apron, the black one with the word “Prince” on it in the iconic Disney font. “That sounds perfect.”

Logan nodded, pleased.

“Sure you don’t want your apron?” Roman teased, opening the package of bacon. He paused to cough into his shoulder.

Logan glanced at the second apron that hung on the wall, never worn. It was a match for Roman’s, except it said “Princess.” It was a gift. From Roman, of course.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“But what if you get pancake batter… on your tie?” Roman asked, reaching behind his roommate to grab their other spatula.

“Impossible,” Logan said, straightening and turning slightly to make his t-shirt more obvious, as if it hadn’t been already. “I am not wearing a tie.”

“Then… how are we supposed to know you’re serious?”

Logan shot him a dry look, flipping over the pancake he was working on.

“Fine, fine. I’ll take laid-back… day off Logan without the apron,” Roman shrugged, grinning. “For now. I’ll get you to wear it one day… just wait.”

“Falsehood.”

“We’ll see.”

…

“…come on, please, you’ll—"

“…mile, Emile, stop! Wake up!”

Emile’s eyes flew open with a start; and a hand appeared on his chest, gently pressing him back down.

“Sorry, kiddo, we didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?”

Emile blinked and looked around several times, disoriented. “What…?”

“You were pulling off your bandages,” Virgil said. He was holding onto Emile’s good arm with both hands, keeping it away from his other arm. Meanwhile, Patton, sitting on his other side and watching him sympathetically, was the one whose hand had been on his chest. As Emile gained his bearings, Virgil seemed to realize he didn’t need to hold his arm anymore and slowly let go.

Emile took a second to calm his pounding heart and look around. Judging by the light coming in through the curtains, it was midmorning. They were alone in the living room, but Emile could hear the humans talking and making noise in another room, probably the kitchen.

“Did you have a bad dream or something?” Virgil asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

Emile didn’t remember. He would have shook his head, if doing so weren’t such a bad idea. As it was, he just made a noncommittal sound, taking a few deep breaths.

As he started to calm down, he winced, realizing his broken forearm hurt more than before. Nervous about what he might see, he hesitantly looked over at it. The arm was laying in his lap rather than at his side, and the bandages had come partially unraveled. Emile didn’t remember doing that.

“It’s okay,” Patton said quickly, bending over and starting to fix the bandages. “The splint’s still in place. I’ll just wrap it up again. Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s okay.” It ached more, yes, but not in a way that made him think he’d done more damage. He watched as Patton retied the bandages. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not the weirdest thing you’ve done while asleep,” Virgil joked, though he still sounded a little on edge.

“No harm done,” Patton said, tucking the edge of the bandage in. “I’ll just have to see if I can get a new piece of tape. This one doesn’t want to stick. But this should hold for now.” He set the old piece to the side. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“No,” Emile assured.

“That’s good,” Patton said, glancing him over.

Emile let his head rest back against the blankets. His head throbbed, but that wasn’t surprising. Jumping awake like that hadn’t done it any favors.

Before either he or Virgil could ask Emile any more questions he was reluctant to answer, there was a soft knock on the door. Emile was almost glad to see the humans who stood there, one standing slightly back and fiddling with the collar of his shirt, the other balancing a tray on one hand. Emile had somehow missed their approach.

“Anybody want breakfast?” Roman asked brightly, shifting the tray to both hands once more. “We have pancakes!”

The littles shared a glance.

…

Patton poked at the pancakes in front of him, lifting one up with his fork. He felt almost amazed, looking at them. How had the humans managed to make them so small? They were the perfect size, and nearly perfectly cooked. Only one of Patton’s was burnt, and it certainly wasn’t enough for him to care.

There was a saucer of bacon, set to the side where its smell wouldn’t bother Emile as much. Patton had finished his half already, partially so that he could eat the rest of his meal near Emile, and also because it was delicious.

“We have butter and maple syrup, if you’d like,” Logan offered. He and Roman had asked if they could stay in the room for the meal. Virgil had looked annoyed at the very idea, but Patton had softened at the hope in the humans’ eyes. Emile had seemed nervous, but almost glad to see them. Whether that was because he wanted to avoid more questions about how he was or because he was hoping to see more cartoons, Patton didn’t know.

In any case, here the humans were.

Logan carefully set down two more bottle caps on the table. One was filled with butter, the other a dark brown liquid that must have been the maple syrup. “I would advise against Emile having any toppings, as they might upset his stomach,” he said, not looking directly at them. “Personally, I find I enjoy pancakes just as much without them.”

Virgil, who had been chewing on a piece of bacon, paused to eye the syrup and butter with an air of suspicion.

Patton, meanwhile, waited until Logan had sat back down with his food, then moved towards the toppings. He hesitated for a second before he reached in with his fork and took a chunk of butter, dipped that in the syrup, and then scooped up a bite of the pancakes.

Roman stifled a laugh.

Patton glanced up at him, his mouth full of pancakes. Had he messed up somehow? The pancakes tasted fine. Delicious, in fact. He might’ve gotten too much butter, but these were definitely butter than any pancakes he’d had before. They were warm, and soft, and fluffy, and the syrup was sweet. He didn’t think anything was wrong. So why was Roman laughing?

“Sorry,” Roman said as Patton chewed, looking amused. “We didn’t really explain. You’re supposed to spread the butter over the pancakes and let it melt, and put some maple syrup on top. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone take a forkful of butter and dip it in syrup. I like your creativity.”

Patton swallowed, paused, then tried it how Roman described. He put the butter between the pancakes so it would melt faster, then went back for a sunflower seed shell so that he could pour the syrup over them without tipping over the entire bottle cap.

“Don’t put too much on at first,” Logan advised as he dipped the shell in the bottle cap. “You might overestimate how much you desire. And of course, you can always add more.”

Patton glanced up, antsy because they were both watching him; and the humans both looked away as if suddenly becoming aware of that fact. Patton let out a small breath and poured the maple syrup over his pancakes. Like Logan had suggested, he didn’t put much for the time being. He tried them, added some more, then took his pancakes and went back to join Virgil and Emile. Virgil had finished cutting up Emile’s pancakes for him, and now glanced between his own plain pancakes and Patton’s .

Emile, meanwhile, was picking at his food. Patton could tell Virgil was watching to see if he needed help, but Emile seemed to be doing fine, just uncertain about the food and probably about Logan and Roman being there. The humans were eating, too, studiously avoiding looking at the littles.

“Want to try?” Patton offered his bottle cap to Virgil. After a hesitation, he reached out and took a small piece of Patton’s own buttered, syrupy pancakes.

Virgil put the fork in his mouth and went still, then made a small noise. He pulled out the empty fork and swallowed the pancakes.

“Not bad,” he mumbled.

He picked at his pancakes for a short while after that, but he kept glancing back towards the syrup and butter. Patton decided not to say anything. He wanted to encourage Virgil to go ahead and get some, but he was worried that if he did, his friend would insist that he was fine without them. Finally, Virgil seemed to give in; and, all while glaring at the humans as if daring them to try anything, he grabbed his food and one crutch and made his way over there.

Logan and Roman were careful not to move until Virgil had settled himself back with his family.

They ate in silence for a while longer. Then, Roman set down his fork on his plate. “So,” he said conspiratorially. “We have today off work. What do you guys say… to maybe watching some more cartoons?”

Emile, who had stiffened nervously when Roman turned his attention to the littles, now looked cautiously hopeful.

“I don’t know,” Virgil said evasively.

Patton glanced at his friend, who was looking very uncomfortable. He knew how Virgil probably felt. He knew from personal experience that being around humans was stressful—and that would probably only be worse for Virgil, who wasn’t as used to it as Patton. He was already massively uncomfortable with the situation they were in, needing to stay until Emile was well enough to go home; and he was probably only growing more stressed because of how long the humans had been there that morning alone.

Patton bit his lip. He didn’t want to make his friend do something that made him uncomfortable, but Emile did seem to want to watch more cartoons…

“Um,” he said awkwardly, drawing everyone’s attention. His face flushed. “M-maybe not right now? In a—in a while?” he suggested, hoping for a good compromise.

Roman’s face fell marginally, but quickly brightened again. “Oh, of course,” he said. “That’s okay. Maybe we could put something on at lunchtime?”

Virgil let out a small breath. Emile, who had, of course, also been tense in the presence of the humans, didn’t seem too disappointed, since he still got his cartoons.

Patton nodded, relieved.

“Do you require anything until then?” Logan asked.

“Oh, um—” Patton glanced at Emile and back to Logan. “Could, um.. could we maybe get a p-piece of tape?”

…

Lunchtime rolled around, and the humans were back. While Logan cooked in the kitchen, Roman sat at the base of the television, getting the DVD player set up.

“Here we go,” he said, pulling out a flat box triumphantly. He opened it up and popped out the disc he wanted: the second one, since they had finished the first the day before. He flipped it over to check out the silvery side and make sure it wasn’t dusty, then paused. His grin fell into a look of dismay.

He glanced towards the kitchen and briefly considered calling out to his roommate, but he knew better than that. The mouse-men were right there, after all. Instead, he pulled out his phone and sent off a text.

Princey: Loooogaaaaannnn it’s scratched! SCRATCHED!!

He could hear Logan’s phone chime in the other room. There was a long pause, and then:

That Nerd: Could you not watch it via a streaming service?

Princey: nooo they’re lame and don’t have it

That Nerd: We could purchase a new disk, but it would be preferable to watch something else for the time being to avoid a significant delay.

Roman pouted at the disk in his hand, trying to figure out how this tragedy had occurred. The disk had just been sitting in its case since the last time he’d watched it, hadn’t it?

Princey: Did you scratch it??

That Nerd: No, you know I don’t touch your DVDs. You likely scratched it the last time you returned it to its case.

Roman knew he was right, but he wasn’t happy about it. He popped the disc back in its case, put it away, then turned to face the direction of the mouse-men’s table, sitting with his legs criss-crossed.

“So,” he sighed, “there’s a small problem. The next disk in my Avatar set got scratched, so we can’t use it. I can get a new one, but it wouldn’t be until tomorrow. Want to watch something else for now? I have some other excellent choices.”

The mouse-men shifted. Emile looked a little put-out, although it was hard to tell given his size and the fact that a large part of his face was still hidden by bandages and greenish bruises.

“Like what?” Virgil asked from where he was seated, practically pressed against his brother’s bed.

“Um…” Roman looked back to the collection of DVDs. He pulled out several, then started listing off titles.

“…Moana, Coco, Lilo and Stitch—”

“That one.”

Roman glanced up from the DVDs. Virgil was watching him, arms crossed.

“Lilo and Stitch?” Roman repeated, just to be sure.

Virgil and Patton both nodded. Emile was harder to read, but he seemed to perk up at the possibility of watching that movie.

Roman smiled and set it to the side. “Okay, then; Lilo and Stitch it is.”

…

Roman lay on the couch, his legs lying stretched across Logan’s lap. Logan had complained about it at first, but Roman had just grinned at him until he accepted his fate. He knew Logan didn’t actually care, he was just arguing for the sake of it. They were watching the movie, occasionally passing a bowl of popcorn back and forth. The dishes from dinner had been returned to the kitchen, to be washed later.

The movie had reached the part where Nani loses her job but insists it’s due to her boss being a vampire, and not her sister’s and Stitch’s shenanigans. Roman loved Nani.

“What’s a vampire?” a small voice asked, so quietly Roman almost missed it. He glanced over. It had been Emile, addressing the question to his brother and Patton.

Virgil shrugged, and Patton just shook his head.

Roman cleared his throat as softly as he could manage. All three of their gazes immediately were on him.

“Um… a vampire is a mythical creature,” he said softly, uncertain if his input was welcome. “It’s fake, 100% fictional, from a bunch of old stories. They supposedly have fangs and drink blood. But they’re not real.” He wanted to emphasize that point. He didn’t want to make the mouse-men worry that a bloodthirsty vampire was going to burst in and eat them.

Thankfully, no one looked scared, though Emile looked mildly disgusted. “Oh,” he mumbled.

“There’s more to it,” Roman explained. “They can’t go in sunlight or be seen in mirrors, or eat garlic. But they’re also immortal, and they have an enviable sense of fashion that I wish I could pull off.”

Well, Roman could pull off pretty much anything, but he might get some strange looks. Modern everyday clothes could be so dull.

There was silence for a moment other than the film. Logan didn’t seem inclined to weigh in, apparently not overly interested in discussing a creature that didn’t actually exist (at least, as far as any of them knew).

“Weird,” Virgil commented at last.

[artificialqueens]

Like They Do in Vegas, 2/5 (Vanique) - Mac

AN: Thanks a million to Meggie and Alex for betaing this chapter and being legends, icons, and stars.

Hope you enjoy!!

BGM Challenge Notes: Vanessa and Monique’s friends show up in Chapter 4! And here is the playlist I made for this fic.

Summary: Monique and Vanessa get to know each other over a very early (2 am) breakfast, with the backdrop of the Las Vegas strip.

They didn’t go back to Monique’s room like Vanessa expected.

Instead, Monique hailed a cab with one outstretched, manicured hand, gave the address of The Venetian, and they climbed in the car without another word.

The drive was short even though the roads were packed. Vanessa stared out the window to keep from staring at Monique.

They called New York the city that never sleeps, but Vanessa would bet her left tit that New York didn’t have the same energy that Vegas did at 3 a.m. The sidewalks were packed, and the lights were bright as sunlight. Vanessa would have winced if her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the brilliance years ago.

They pulled up to the hotel, the fountains and massive scale of the whole place only really hitting Vanessa when she stood next to it. Monique thanked their driver with a twenty. Vanessa held her head high and pretended this was normal, that beautiful women with deep pockets took her out regularly.

They made their way inside the lush reception area and Monique led Vanessa with a hand to her back up the intricate staircase. Vanessa had been to the Venetian before. When friends came to visit and wanted to see the infamous hotel, or the rare occurrence when she would go home with a target. She was never there for longer than a handful of minutes. Hadn’t gotten the chance to stare at the gold-flecked columns, or the rose-dipped ceiling. The plum color drenching the seating that littered the floor, the layout both relaxed and rigid in the same breath.

Vanessa was in awe. People milled about the lobby like they belonged, walking slowly, taking their time. The luxury practically sang in their blood.

They ascended the stairs and headed toward the Grand Lux Cafe. Monique requested a table on the outside balcony, and before Vanessa could blink, they were seated high above the twinkling city, breathing in the open air.

Their waitress greeted them with that quintessential Vegas charm in that she barely looked at them and grunted after each of their orders.

Vanessa went to order something dainty, like a salad or a soup, but Monique cut her off saying they’d both take a full order of waffles with all the sides and extra butter. Vanessa just quirked an eyebrow up at her.

“So tell me about yourself.”

The sudden absurdity of the situation, as well as the question, caught Vanessa off guard and she let out a laugh that could have shaken the tables. Monique let her, grinning wildly in the interim.

Vanessa made a wide sweeping gesture with both hands, chest feeling oddly light.  “What do ya wanna know?”

“Well, first of all, you can start by telling me your name,” Monique teased. “Your real name.”

Vanessa started at this.

Her reaction must have not been what the older woman was expecting, because she quickly went to correct herself. “Or not! You don’t have to tell me.” Monique looked down at the table.

“No, no, it’s fine, I just…” Vanessa shook her head slightly. “Most people don’t care enough to ask.”

Monique looked up at her, a trace of sadness in her eye. Vanessa chose to ignore it for now in favor of the conversation.

“Vanessa.”

“That’s pretty.”

Vanessa hummed. “It does the job.” She looked up at Monique from under her lashes. A practiced move. “What do you do, Monique?”

The older woman’s eyes flicked over the balcony to the city below. “I run a marketing management firm.”

Makes sense with the watch, Vanessa’s mind interjected.

“What does that mean?”

Vanessa knew what it meant. She’d met with more businessmen than she knew what to do with over her three-year residence.

HR was where the older men went after Wall Street prowling. Social Media Management was for the younger ones, early/late twenties who were still wet behind the ears. Marketing could go either way, usually catering to the folks with accounting degrees and an interest in psychology.

Vanessa knew. She played dumb because targets always liked telling you about what they do. They liked explaining things to the poor uneducated little girl with wide eyes and a slit in her dress. Vanessa played her part, still unsure of where she stood with Monique.

The older woman chuckled, her eyes darting back to Vanessa. “It means I boss around the people that boss other people around, and we create promotional materials for major companies.”

“Anyone I’d know?” Vanessa asked absentmindedly, allowing plenty of time for her present company to drone on and on about how incredible her business ventures were. How rich she was. How important it all made her.

The left corner of Monique’s mouth twitched up. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

Vanessa chuckled, a bit taken aback by the lack of droning. “Oooh, mysterious.”

Monique hummed.

“Well, you clearly good at your job,” Vanessa said.

Monique quirked up an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?”

“The watch,” Vanessa said before she could think better of it.

“Yeah, I noticed you eying it earlier,” Monique said, voice calculated. Not judgmental, but measured. “Is that how you pick your…”

“Targets?”

“People?”

They answered simultaneously.

Monique chuckled. “Well, when you put it like that.” She took a long sip of her drink and Vanessa found herself wanting to apologize. She bit her tongue before she could actually follow through with such a hair-brained idea.

Instead, she shrugged. “It is what it is.”

Monique nodded, still not giving away her feelings, face set in a slight upturn of her lips. “So how do you pick your marks then?”

Vanessa ran a hand through her hair absentmindedly. “Why do you wanna know?”

Monique shrugged. “Humor me,” she said. “Walk me through the steps, Vanessa.”

Monique’s tongue curling around the syllables of her name made Vanessa’s insides light up in an all too familiar way. She had to break eye contact or she was going to do something stupid.

She also had to take a minute to collect her thoughts. No one had ever asked her anything like this before. Targets didn’t usually want the illusion broken. They knew what they were to her, but you weren’t supposed to acknowledge it. It was a weird game of social chicken.

“Okay. Well.” Vanessa coughed. “First step is lookin’ the part.” She motioned to her dress, still reflecting the city lights below them. “You gotta be eye candy.”

Monique bit back a smile, and Vanessa could feel her eyes trailing down the length of her neck. The flush spreading to her cheeks made Vanessa’s head a little fuzzy.

“Second step is knowin’ your worth. You don’t go to seedy casinos or you get creeps. You wanna roll high, aim high. Bellagio, Caesars Palace, Cosmopolitan,” Vanessa said matter-of-factly. “They put you out, you’re better off working the corner. Casino girls get paid dust. Less than dust. But you don’t wanna be on the streets.”

Monique hummed noncommittally, prompting Vanessa to continue.

“Step three ain’t somethin’ you learn. You gotta be good with people. Know what they want. Men are easy. Sex, booze, drugs, gettin’ off. Simple.” Vanessa let out a breath. “The real art in it all comes in the form of pretendin’ to not know any a that. A lot of what you do is pretendin’ you can’t tell your left foot from your right. Targets love explainin’. Makes ‘em feel good to brag to somebody they ain’t ever gonna see again.”

The older woman nodded, crossing her legs under the table.

Vanessa nodded to herself. “Then you got ‘em. Make ‘em feel special, get ‘em drinks, whisper in they ear till they pockets empty. You get that check from the casino at the end of the week, and sometimes targets offer you more to sleep with ‘em. If that’s your thing then there ya go.” Vanessa leaned back in her chair, just in time for their food to arrive.

The waitress set their plates down none too gently and scattered the second she affirmed they needed nothing else.

“Sounds like a lot to keep track of,” Monique mused, twirling her empty fork in her hand.

“It ain’t so bad.” Vanessa shrugged. “I could be out on the street.”

They paused for a moment to dig into their food, Vanessa’s stomach noisily thanking her for the extra syrup. Monique watched her with light in her eyes. It was unnerving. Not in a bad way per se. It was just different.

A not wholly unwelcome different.

Vanessa read people well, it was her job. But for some reason, she couldn’t get a clear read on Monique, her motivations, or what drove her. Usually, Vanessa only had to nod and smile as people freely offered up information about themselves for her to use. Monique was playing her cards close to her chest, not unlike the way she had been playing the games earlier.  

Monique hummed as she set her fork down gently next to her plate. “Will you show me?” she asked.

“Huh?”

Monique looked around at the other tables for a moment before pointing to a well-dressed man, early thirties, younger than her usual targets.

“Walk me through how you would… acquire him.” Monique settled on.

Vanessa was intrigued. This woman, she wasn’t doing anything by the book. Targets didn’t ask her questions, didn’t listen to her answers. They talked and she half-listened and wished she were anywhere else. Monique was throwing that all out the window, or, over the balcony.

“Why?”

Monique shrugged simply, still hiding her motivations behind a curious smile. “I wanna see you in action.”

“How do you know you ain’t been seein’ me in action?” Vanessa quirked up a brow. Challenging.

“You wouldn’t have left the casino with me if I were just another target.”

Monique had her there.

Vanessa swallowed pointedly. “Well, he’s young,” she threw out, eyes trailing up the man’s form. “Thirties. No wedding ring, which is a good sign, makes my job easier.”

Monique’s eyes darted back over the balcony.

“If we were at a casino he’d probably be playing Texas Hold-Em. All the bachelors love that game, I swear.” Vanessa smiled to herself. She looked over to see the young man grinning widely with his date. “He’s wearing Valentino, so he’s definitely a fan of the classics, old movies and old stereotypes of women included.”

Monique chuckled “And you know that just from his suit?”

Vanessa nodded. “His haircut says accounting, but he ain’t got a watch, so he probably works in an office building. My guess is he a trust fund baby workin’ for daddy’s company in a big city.” Vanessa shrugged, satisfied with her answer. “But he’s not a local,” she added as an afterthought.

“How do you know?” Monique questioned.

Vanessa allowed a smirk to envelop her features. “He keeps lookin’ over the balcony.”

Monique’s eyes widened for a split second in shock. But only for a second.

Vanessa smirked inwardly. The first slip of this woman’s cool facade hit Vanessa like a drug. She needed more of it.

“If we was at the casino I’d bump into him on accident, pitch my voice higher, like this.” Vanessa demonstrated, clearing her throat before she spoke in a squeaky and unfamiliar way. She feigned dainty. “Oh, my god, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I did that, I’m so clumsy. Let me make it up to you with a drink.”

“And that works?” Monique raised a brow incredulously.

Vanessa nodded. “He’d be thrown off at first but he’d get a good look at me and say no harm done. He’d probably make some comment about how ‘the man should buy the drink.’ And I’d smile and look down at my feet. Make myself small. He’d offer to buy me a round. I’d refuse ‘cause I’m workin’. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer, those guys never do.”

Monique’s smile faded and she nodded slowly, understanding crossing behind her eyes.

“Bada-bing, bada-boom. I hit my quota for the night.” Vanessa tried to finish with a bit of a flare to lighten the suddenly tense mood.

Monique was just looking at her stunned, mouth gaping open.  “That’s amazing.”

Vanessa was thrown by the compliment.“W-well, it’s the job.” She cursed her voice for coming out unsteady.

“No, the way you did that, just then.” Monique reached across the table to grasp Vanessa’s hand. “Observed all that about him just from one look.”

Vanessa was most assuredly blushing now. “Oh, well, I—”

“It’s amazing!” Monique exclaimed. “Really, Vanessa you’re so incredible.”

The tone of Monique’s voice was too genuine for Vanessa’s liking. She didn’t know how to respond to that, to any of it. People didn’t act like that. They weren’t nice for no reason. Monique had an agenda.

Everyone did.

Still, Vanessa could feel in her gut that Monique wasn’t out to hurt her. Monique was different. Or maybe that was the silly romanticism getting in Vanessa’s head again. It was getting harder and harder to tell the difference.

“I wouldn’t say that…”

Monique cut her off. “I would. I just did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Then that settles it.” Monique smiled. “You’re amazing.”

[captain-s-rogers]

It’s time for a challenge ladies and gents!

I absolutely love the TV show Psych! It’s one of my all time favorite shows and the dialogue in it is downright hilarious! Because of this I thought why not do a challenge using the dialogue from the show as prompts! That being said, I have selected 50 quotes from the show for the prompts! 

ON TO THE RULES, REGULATIONS AND PROMPTS!

Rules

No need to be following me, but it would be nice, this is open to everyone.

Send me an ASK with your prompt choice (along with a backup) and your pairing of choice. Reblogs or replies with entries will be ignored. Asks without pairings indicated will be ignored. It just makes everything easier for me to keep track of this way.

I will be answering these asks privately so I don’t clog up everyone’s dashboards, which means no entering on anon. If you want to enter and will be posting on a side blog just let me know the name of the blog in your ask.

There will be only one spot open per prompt, however if this garners enough interest and all the prompts get taken I may open it up to two

This can be used as a oneshot, drabble or start of a series. Please don’t make it part of an ongoing series, I want to be able to read every fic in the challenge and I will not be able to catch up on a bunch of series.

Use the tag #ivehearditbothwayschallenge within the first five tags on the post

Be sure to mention that the fic is for my challenge as well as tag me in the actual post.

All pairings are welcome but please check my FAQ to see what I do and do not read.

Your pairing must be within the Marvel fandom.

It can be as short or as long as you’d like. All I ask is that if it is over 500 words to please use a keep reading feature.

Sign ups begin as soon as this is posted and will end April 30, 2020 the day before the challenge due date.

Posting begins whenever you finish writing!

Entries will be due by May 1, 2020. If you need an extension at any point or need to drop out just shoot me a message chances are I’ll say yes – we all have lives and things get in the way so I totally get it.

I will update the prompt list as often as possible with what is still available. Once a prompt has been filled I will cross it out.

Some of the prompts have characters’ names from the show, I will put these in [ ] so you know to change them!

HAVE FUN! I want you guys to enjoy this!

I think that just about covers it for the rules! If you have an questions feel free to drop an ask! Now let’s move on to the prompts!!

Prompts

“Just because you put syrup on something don’t make it pancakes.”

“Well, much like Lady Gaga, I was born this way.”

“We take our hand-held entertainment very seriously.”

“Everyone stop what you’re doing and only pay attention to me.”

“They tell me I got something called Narcissistic Personality Disorder. But, uh, the truth is this lustrous hair and dimpled chin are merely chapter one. I’m a veritable cornucopia of high-octane maladies, such as outrageous intelligence syndrome. And a little obsessive successful disorder.” @captain-rogers-beard

“I can’t help being a gorgeous fiend. It’s just the card I drew.” 

“What isn’t clear is why people always say ‘goes without saying’, yet still feel compelled to say the thing that goes without saying. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“First question. What is your name?” “There is a murderer on the loose.” “That is not your name.”

“Sorry, I was too busy James Bonding it up in here.” @sagechanoafterdark

“I will eat you in manageable, bite-sized pieces.” 

“She’s obviously meeting a new boy toy. Maybe one even younger than the last.” “Younger? Who do you think she’s meeting with, Justin Beiber?”  @arrowsandmixtapes

“[Guster], you have to wake up to the real world: people have sex and kill each other. That’s the real world. Not some magical ‘feelings’ place.”

“Holy crap, are you checking your email?” “I get productive when I’m nervous.”

“I wanted to be heroic.” “Oh, [Mary], with a flare gun?” 

“I’ve seen it all.” “You’ve seen it all through the cracks in your fingers while you were hiding your eyes.”

“I still smell like stinky nuts!” 

“I’m not big on nude handshakes.”

[Gus] don’t be Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Marzipan.” “It’s Azkaban.” “I’ve heard it both ways.”

“I don’t lose things. I place things in locations which later elude me.”

“I’m just saying, technology is way overrated.” “That’s interesting -- just yesterday you told me you intend on having your wedding in space.”

“Are you in my apartment?” “Please. I haven’t snuck into your apartment for weeks. Which reminds me, you’re all out of peanut butter.” @thorfanficwriter

“I can’t believe you thought that text was from me. It lacked all nuance, my signature mocking tone, and was utterly devoid of emoticons.” 

“Well, fooling around with your best friend’s sister certainly wasn’t your most brilliant idea.” “No, that was the toaster alarm I invented in the third grade that woke you up by smacking you in the face with a waffle.”

“I have an idea, but we’ll need cool names.”

“[Mindy] it’s official: you’ve won bitchiest banana.”

“Just call me the suck-stopper. No, wait. Don’t ever call me that.”

“Well, at least that gives us the ‘how’. Now we just gotta figure out the ‘why’, which reminds me, [Gus], will you please get us those tickets for The Who?” “Where?”

“Where do I get a juice box and does it come in grapalicious.” 

“I think your shirt and his shirt should get together and go bowling.”

“I’m gonna crack her like a bad back!” 

“How about you play six degrees of kiss my ass?”

“Where’d you get that suit, the toilet store?”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve got an ice-cold can of whoop-ass just sitting in that fridge!” “Actually, it’s diet whoop-ass.”

“Hooray for loopholes!”

“The chips say you’re a cheater, cheater pumpkin eater!”

“Clouds don’t kill people. People kill people.”

“We find the mystery lover, we find her.” “Dude. Why don’t I ever get to say things like that?” 

“There is something I’ve got to get off my chest.” “Is it your shirt? Please say no.”

“Heard about Pluto? That’s messed up.”

“This place is trashed.” “Maybe Johnny Depp stopped by.” “I’m sorry, did that joke just arrive in a time machine from 1992?” 

“Don’t touch that, it’s blood.” “It’s not blood.” “Enjoy your hepatitis.” 

“There’s a Lt. Crunch here to see you.” “Crunch?” “Actually, I’ve been promoted. It’s Captain Crunch.” 

“How do you just eat when there’s a dead guy laying there?” “What, is that rude? Am I supposed to share?” @mermaidxatxheart

“I just got a lap dance from Patrick Swayze!” 

“Kudos on the childrearing. Let me know how the therapy goes.” 

“You’re dating a murderer!” “Not exclusively.” 

“Okay, you have got to stop calling your nose the Super Smeller. If you want to nickname a body part, nickname your butt, man. Call it the Tight-Bouncer or the Hexagon. Ladies are gonna dig that.” 

“You cannot sit here alone in the dark in a parked car. You’ll get picked up for Mopery.” “Mopery?” “With intent to creep. Trust me, you don’t want that. It’ll put a big hole in your future.” 

“How can you tell that someone’s a compulsive liar? I mean, assuming that their pants aren’t on fire.”

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is precisely why time travel is not only possible but may have already happened.” 

Tagging for interest and signal boosting!

@arrowsandmixtapes @the-murder-strut-murdered-me @growningupgeek @captain-rogers-beard @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan

[sweetenby]

Here’s an article about common first aid mistakes it’s short but I’m still going to copy the text it in this post because this is Important. Please read this, you may say “Oh I’m never going to use first aid on anyone else I wouldn’t trust myself” that may be the case but you’re very likely going to have to treat yourself one day! Even if you think you’re never going to use first aid I think it’s important to learn because there’s going to be a time when you yourself are injured and it’s not serious enough go to the doctor over but it’s serious enough you may not have the fully knowledge of how to treat it!

Common First Aid Mistakes  

When you're scrambling to make a burn feel better or stop a bleeding wound, it helps to know what to do. We've all heard some common first aid folklore. But rather than helping, those first aid myths can actually make things worse. Here are a few common first aid mistakes and advice on what you should do instead.  

Mistake: Putting butter on a burn.  

You've probably heard the tip to put butter on a burn. But this is bad advice. Any greasy substance on a burn keeps heat in. This could make it hard for a burn to heal or be properly treated.  

What to do: Run cold water over the burn to ease the pain. Then gently dry the area and keep it loosely covered. If it starts to blister, changes color, or seems infected, get medical treatment. 

Mistake: Using ipecac syrup to cause vomiting.  

When someone swallows a poisonous chemical, you might think that vomiting it up right away would help. In the past, a medicine called ipecac syrup was used to cause vomiting. But ipecac syrup has been discontinued and should not be used. In some cases of poisoning, experts say it's best not to induce vomiting. It can even cause more damage. Some substances actually can be worse for you when they are vomited up again.  

What to do: Immediately call your healthcare provider or the national Poison Control Center (800-222-1222) for advice about handling the situation. Ipecac syrup is no longer sold. Don't keep old bottles of ipecac syrup in your home. They can be accidentally used in an emergency by someone who doesn't know better. 

Mistake: Putting heat on a sprain or fracture.  

Heat can be soothing for aches and pains. But you shouldn't apply heat to a sprain or fracture. Heat will only increase the swelling.  

What to do: Apply ice or an ice pack for about 20 minutes. To make an ice pack, put ice cubes in a plastic bag that seals at the top. Wrap the bag in a clean, thin towel or cloth to protect your skin. Never put ice or an ice pack directly on the skin. Use the RICE treatment of Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation for the first 24 hours. 

Mistake: Putting hot water on frozen skin.  

You might be tempted to run hot water over a frozen patch of skin or an arm or leg (limb) to warm it up. But this increases the risk of damaging the skin if the water is too hot.  

What to do: Slowly thaw the skin or limb with a warm — not hot — water bath. 

Mistake: Using rubbing alcohol to bring down a fever.  

Wiping rubbing alcohol on your skin makes your skin feel cooler. But this cooling doesn't help that much when you have a fever. In addition, alcohol can be soaked up through the skin. For small children and infants in particular, this increases the risk of alcohol poisoning.  

What to do: Try a medicine that reduces fever and contains ibuprofen or acetaminophen. Call your healthcare provider if you don't know what to do or if the fever doesn't go away.  

Mistake: Using a tourniquet for a snakebite.    

After a snakebite, it may seem like a good idea to tie off blood flow to prevent poisons from spreading. But that might just cause more harm. In some cases, the poison is then concentrated in one area where it can be damaging. In other cases, damage happens with the sudden release of snake venom into the blood once the tourniquet is taken off.  

What to do: The most important step is to calm the person who was bitten. Help him or her to keep the bitten body part completely still. This slows the flow of venom in the body. Since swelling can become severe, remove jewelry and tight clothing from areas near the bite. A medicine called antivenom (antivenin) is the most effective treatment for most poisonous snakebites. But this is a complicated situation that needs expert treatment. Get emergency medical aid as quickly as possible.  

Mistake: Using a tourniquet to stop a bleeding wound.  

For a deep wound in an arm or leg, you may think about tying a tourniquet around the thigh or upper arm to stop the bleeding. But that could stop the flow of blood to the entire limb. This could cause serious damage.  

What to do: Apply direct downward pressure on the wound (use a thick layer of sterile gauze under your hands if it's available). Then wrap the wound securely when the bleeding stops. If it continues to bleed or seems to need stitches, seek medical care. 

Mistake: Rubbing your eye to remove a foreign object.  

When you have a speck of dirt or some other small object in your eye, the feeling can be extremely annoying. You may want to rub your eye to remove the object. But don't rub your eye. Rubbing your eye when there is a foreign object in it can cause more damage to your eye.  

What to do: Tears alone likely won't be enough to wash out the object. Instead, rinse your eye with clean tap water. Get medical care if the feeling continues. 

Mistake: Leaving an adhesive bandage on a cut.  

Putting antibacterial ointment on a cut and then leaving on a bandage for a few days doesn't speed healing. Doing this increases unwanted moisture over the cut.  

What to do: Clean the cut and apply ointment. But then let it heal in the fresh air. If you need a bandage to keep the cut clean, change it about twice a day. Also, keep the entire area clean and dry by using gentle soap and water when changing the bandage.  

Mistake: Putting coffee grounds on a cut to stop bleeding.

Putting coffee grounds in a wound to stop bleeding can infect a wound. It also makes it very hard for healthcare providers to clean out your wound if stitches need to be placed. Bleeding that can't be stopped at home likely needs medical care anyway.  

What to do: Apply direct downward pressure on the wound (use a thick layer of sterile gauze under your hands if it's available). Then wrap the wound securely when the bleeding stops. If it continues to bleed or seems to need stitches, seek medical care.  

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Resolution || Solo

For her birthday, Morgan Beck decided it was safe enough to visit Al’s Diner alone. It was eight, an auspicious time only because it after the elderly dinner rush but before students with free Friday’s would come stumbling in to eat away their benders. 

Morgan smudged the snow into her pea coat before walking in. It was a Goodwill find with cat hair from its last life stuck to the wool, but it was still designer, and Morgan prickled in her cheeks to be seen wearing it in town, lest it draw someone’s attention and send rogue ripples into the universe she wouldn’t be able to call back. She couldn’t stomach embracing full-on-frump; her mother had raised her right, except for all the lying, and she worked hard enough at being pretty not to cover it up. No, Morgan wanted to look nice. Just not...too nice. Not ‘hey universe, you almost forgot about me but here I am getting cocky and cozy’ nice. 

The bell over the door jingled as she came in, dulled and muffled with neglect. A tarnish-splotched mirror showed her reflection, warped with self-consciousness and perhaps too big a smile for the venue. Morgan only let herself look at it for a moment; doing anything else would only make her sad.

“Hi Nikha!”

Nikha grabbed a menu without looking up from her notepad. “Sit anywhere you like. Want your tea?”

Morgan hadn’t thought out her evening this far. This time of year, it took her an hour just to decide whether to leave her apartment. She stopped and considered the risks: it was a Thursday, just before the full moon. Thursdays were a little charged with expectation, this close to the weekend, but the waxing period was the time for pulling energy to oneself; going a little fancy would be like swimming out to sea in a crowd. Granted, it was a special Thursday for her, but...

“I didn’t think it was going to be a hard question,” Nikha said.

Morgan gave her brightest apology smile. It was old hat by now, easier than making explanations. “About that. Actually, I would like a hot cocoa, please. With whipped cream.”

“O-kay.” She eyed Morgan, who was holding her smile for good measure, like she might drop her face and shout boo! But the moment passed and Nikha backed towards the kitchen. “Coming right up.”

Morgan ordered a cheeseburger, fat and cooked medium, with hashbrowns instead of fries. 

Having a birthday so close to Christmas meant most Morgan’s parties were attended only by her parents and Mrs. Campell from her mom’s work. After the flood forced them into a new neighborhood, her mom made her a new offer. “I’ll make you anything you want for dinner, as long as it’s something out of the ordinary,” she said. This seemed like an unfair challenge for Morgan, who liked rules as long as they were fair, even the rules of dinner. She asked for burgers and hashbrowns, and stacked the crisp potatoes into her bun when her mother looked underwhelmed with her show of creativity. The next year, Morgan asked for waffles with all the toppings on at once. Another, she had chicken and vegetables doused in maple syrup, though this didn’t quite live up to her imagination. Around fourteen, when Morgan started wrangling oddball friends over for the occasion, she and her mother hatched multi courses together: green beans and bacon, eggplant parm, butter biscuits and chocolate gravy for dipping. If nothing else, it made her known around school for something besides dressing up too much, and this made Morgan sparkle with pride while it lasted. But for herself alone, nothing ever matched this: breakfast and dinner tucked together under a bun. 

“Any desert tonight?” Nikha asked. 

“Yes, please,” Morgan said. “What’s your favorite?”

Nikha rattled off the specials and made a half hearted defense for the chocolate sundae, although they were out of maraschino cherries. 

“What would you want someone to order you for your birthday?” Morgan asked. 

“Easy. That whole damn chocolate cake,” Nikha said, and gestured over her shoulder to a four tier cake iced in crooked swirls and topped with a plastic bow. It took Morgan back to the year she asked for an everything cake, with four cake flavors and three different fillings, all hidden behind ordinary chocolate. Her mom had urged her to do better, and not for the first time Morgan wanted to scream that if it wasn’t good enough for her, she should just decide for herself, and what was so wrong with wanting a cake that was still just a cake anyway? What was so wrong with wanting something nice and normal? 

Morgan’s mother hadn’t told her then. She’d made her the cake and given her an apology by way of a one-armed hug. But Morgan wished she could reach back into their sad, too-small kitchen and shake her. Ask her, was this your stupid way of trying to prepare me? Was this really worth all your energy and power when you could have been fixing our family?

Still, it had been a really nice cake.

“I like the way you think, Nikha,” Morgan said. “I’ll settle for just one slice.”

When the cake appeared on the table, Morgan urged her to have a bite, just one, as a birthday favor, and after enough urging Nikha agreed with a sheepish smile. They looked at each other, and it was almost like bonding.

Morgan paid her bill, tipped well, and watched Nikha’s retreat to the kitchen through the mirror panels. When the coast was clear she took out her candles: black for protection, white for summoning, and purple for remembrance.

She propped them around her in a circle and lit the wicks quickly. The purple one, she squished into the heavy center of her cake. She said her words of cleansing. Her words of blessing. She said the words of gratitude, though her teeth ached to speak them. And at last, she said what she had come to say.

“The bullshit stops here. Not one more year, not one more daughter, not one more fuck-up will I permit from your shadows. I call those responsible to me on my thirty-ninth year. Answer my call.” She reached for the fork, the one Nikha had used, and jabbed it into her dry, peeling cuticles. The blood came quick, and Morgan felt a rush as it connected with the residue of Nikha’s energy, and powered something bigger than she had ever laid her fingers on at her parents’ knee. “Answer my call, by the promises you made and the promises you broke, by the blood we share--” At the edge of Morgan’s attention, Nikha’s body collapsed on the kitchen floor. She’d be fine; it wasn’t like a little saliva and intention could kill a person, at least not that Morgan had been able to guess from her scant reading. But Morgan’s real focus remained on her birthday cake, which had begun to tremble on its plate. Moran raised the fork and flipped through the whole stack of disasters that had followed her here, the secrets that had screwed her over, the pain her family had carried for no good reason, one after the other, she imagined them skewered on the crooked prongs. She stabbed it through the cake flesh, done, and said through her teeth, “So may it be.” 

The cake went still. A drip of wax fell on the icing, and Morgan felt the crackle of energy flutter away. Had she done it? Did she just have to...wait? Or was this one more failure to add to the stack? Somehow, it seemed just about right to Morgan that she couldn’t tell one way or the other. She slumped in her book and picked the candle out, slid the waxy pieces of cake to the corner of her plate, and nibbled at what was left with a clean fork. “Happy thirty-nine, me,” she sighed. “Here’s to not losing everything this year. And to finishing the job.” Morgan swirled a piece into her mouth and let it melt on her tongue. The snow tumbled harder around White Crest and as the buttercream took the edge off Morgan’s disappointment, she found the old bounce in her step and left the diner smiling.