#falling into disbelieving glee

[blithesharem]

Spent my 3 hour car ride thinking about the look on Solomon’s face when you kiss him for the first time

[thetarttfuldickhead]

It’s a little unclear, in the end, how the conversation gets there, because all in all the Richmond dressing room isn’t the site of that many sex jokes, not since Colin came out and no longer feels the need to make them. But they’re still lads, yeah, and young, mostly, so the jokes still happen, even if it’s just gentle ribbing, and silliness.

So: somehow, one morning halfway into Roy’s first year as head coach, the topic turns to sex, of the rougher variety. Roy’s only listening with half an ear, he’s busy sketching out the new trick plays Nate’s dreamed up on the whiteboard, and he doesn’t really catch the build-up, but when Jamie’s name is mentioned his ears perk up without him even really noticing. It’s become instinct at that point, keeping track of Jamie (even as Roy does his best to give all his players at least some semblance of equal attention).

“We know that Jamie likes it rough, though,” Zorro says, and the rest of the group oh:s and ah:s either knowingly or in surprised glee.

“Eh?” Jamie sounds startled by the assertion, but not particularly put off. (He never really is, as long as he gets attention, Roy thinks with an internal scoff that’s far fonder than he’d ever admit to.) “What makes you say that?”

“You told us!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy can see Jamie shake his head. “I don’t know what you’re on about, mate.” Still not bothered, but clearly not understanding what Zorro is getting at either.

Isaac throws him a disbelieving glance. “You don’t remember, bruv? It was when you first came here, before you started going out with Keeley.”

“Yeah,” Colin interjects, “You’d only been here for about two weeks, I think, but you came into training with these marks and bruises, and it turned out you’d hooked up with a girl the night before, but you hadn’t known she was a professional dominatrix before you got to her place.”

Hoots and titters at that, delighted and amused but not unkind.

“Exactly,” Zorro says. “And you told us you’d just gone with it because you have to try everything at least once, and it hadn’t been bad.”

Ah. Roy remembers now. He’d already been absolutely fed-up with Jamie’s attitude, the arrogance and selfishness and incessant need to put others down, and the striker’s total lack of shame and casual smugness about the marks had rubbed Roy entirely the wrong way. Not because people should be ashamed for liking that sort of stuff, of course (Roy wasn’t), but there was such a thing as common decency and unspoken rules about not parading around the dressing room like you were in a fucking porno or some shit and—

If Roy was honest about it, he’d mostly been pissed because it was Jamie, and everything Jaime did pissed him off back then (though, to be fair, most of what Jamie did back then was fucking shitty, so it’s not like Roy was wrong to be pissed. Most of the time).

“Oh.” Jamie’s voice is soft, suddenly. Small, in a way that has alarm bells going off like air raid sirens in Roy’s head. “Yeah. Um.”

The realisation hits Roy a second before it does the rest of the team, and his ears are already filling with a terrible ringing as the room falls silent behind him. He can feel himself grow rigid with rage, and with cold, curdling shame.

“Shit, man,” Isaac says eventually.

“Jamie, I’m so sorry.” It’s odd, the way Colin’s earnest, unhappy voice seems to be coming from so very far away.

“What?” Zorro, still not getting it, and then he does, and Roy, at a great distance, can hear his face crumpling. “Oh shit, Jamie, I didn’t mean—“

“No, don’t worry about it, man. It was a long time ago, yeah? It’s fine.” It’s a heroic attempt at sounding casual. Might have succeeded, too, back before they all knew Jamie as well as the do now.

Roy doesn’t stick around to hear the team offer their comfort and Jamie try to wave their concern away. He walks into the coaches’ office, and the only reason he doesn’t slam the door as hard as he can is because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. 

“You all right there, Coach?” Beard looks up at him from behind his book, brow creased in quiet assessment.

“Oh my God, what happened?” Nate jumps down from the desk he’s been perched on. “Did someone die?”

And Roy wants to tell them to fuck off. Wants to punch the wall so hard it stops his mind from spinning. But he’s been talking with Dr. Fieldstone about that, hasn’t he, how his maladaptive coping strategies are tripping him up, and fucking over the people he cares about in the process.

So he takes a deep breath. And he doesn’t look at them when he starts talking. “Back before Ted came here Jamie came in with these bruises all over his chest and back one day, and he told us he’d had sex with a fucking dominatrix. And I believed him, okay? I just… I fucking believed him, even though it was weird fucking bruises for— That’s not the fucking point. But because I thought he was an arrogant fucking prick and I fucking hated his guts, I told him— “ He trails off, looking up at the ceiling. Uselessly, his cheeks are burning. Maybe his eyes are, too, if he’d let himself feel it. “I told him I’d be happy to pay to see someone give him a trashing. Give ‘em extra if they knocked a couple of his teeth out so he’d shut up for once.”

Beard doesn’t say anything, but he leans back in his chair with a look on his face that lets Roy know that, yeah, he’d fucked that one up good and proper.  

“Oh,” Nate says. “So it was his dad who— That’s— But— I mean, that’s not good, obviously, that’s awful, but it’s… It wasn’t you who hurt him, Roy. And I mean, you and Jamie have said all sorts of thing to each other. Done all sorts of things.”

And that’s true, isn’t it. And mostly Roy is happy enough to write it off as tit-for-tat, old foolishness and bygones, Jamie a prick and Roy sometimes an idiot, and they’re both better now. And he doesn’t know how to explain to Nate and Beard how knowing that Jamie looked up to him ever since he was a kid, knowing that he never took that poster down, even after that, after everything, makes his casual cruelty and failure to protect Jamie all the harder to bear, even if he hadn’t known at the time that there was anything to protect Jamie from.

“Coach—“ Beard begins, but is interrupted by a knock on the door, and before Roy can tell whoever it is to fuck off, Jamie sticks his head into the office. Must have made his escape from the rest of the team, then. “Sorry, Coach, are we getting started or what? The lads— “ He catches sight of Roy’s face and his eyes widen. “Jesus, Roy, what happened? Are you all right, man?”

Under other circumstances, Roy might have found it remarkable how quickly and effortlessly Jamie makes the switch from Roy’s respectful star player to Roy’s friend, his entire demeanour changing as he moves into the room. As it is, Roy doesn’t say anything, but he must have made some sort of noise or moved some sort of way, because Jamie’s face twists in alarm, and then he’s across the floor and gently but firmly pulling Roy into a hug. “There, it’s all right, man, I’ve got you, lad, it’s all right.”

Roy blames all the fucking therapy he’d been doing for the past eight months for not pushing Jamie away but instead allowing the other to hold him, and allowing himself to hesitantly wrap his arms around him in turn. Fuck Nate. Fuck Beard. Fuck the team. Fuck anyone who thinks they get to have opinions on that.

He’s got an inch on Jamie, but Jamie’s broader, solid and strong. Steady, as he puts a hand on the back of Roy’s neck, murmuring nonsense that Roy knows is supposed to be soothing, and which maybe is. Mostly, it’s reassuring to have Jamie there, whole and hale and safe.

“What’s going on? Is Phoebe all right? Did something happen to your sister? Keeley?” Jamie is starting to sound a little freaked out, and Roy realises that he can’t just stand there mutely forever and let the fears grow in Jamie’s mind, he needs to fucking say something, explain.

He’d rather never say another word.

Tough fucking luck, Kent. “Do you remember what I told you when you said you’d had sex with a dominatrix?”

The way Jamie stiffens tells him that, yeah, Jamie does. “Roy—“

Roy tightens his grip, not wanting Jamie to pull away. “Don’t fucking tell me it was fine, because you were a nightmare for the rest of that day, you were absolutely fucking horrible to everyone.” Worse than usual, lashing out—not that Roy had known it at the time, or had thought it anything more than Jamie being a fucking prick for no other reason than to be a prick.  

For a few moments, Jamie doesn’t say anything. Then he lets out a long sigh, relaxing into the embrace and pressing his face against Roy’s neck. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, “it was all shit, mate. I mean, all of it was, it wasn’t just you— But, Roy, listen… “ And now Jamie does pull back, just enough so that he can look at Roy. His eyes are tired, but the set of his jaw determined. “You fucking hated me, right? Back then, I mean. You hated me, ‘cause I was a prick, and I hated you, ‘cause you were a bitter old cunt.”

There’s no fucking denying it, is there. Roy gives a sharp nod. “Yeah, but—“

“No, let me just— I’m not saying that makes it all right, yeah, I just— You hated me, okay. But, would you have said what you said if you’d known what really happened?”

Roy’s lips twist into snarl. “What? No! Of course I wouldn’t fucking have— “ He might have ached to put Jamie’s head through a wall several times a day, but he wouldn’t have stood by for Jamie’s piece of shit father—

“See?” The little twat has the audacity to look triumphant at that, as if he’d scored a particularly neat goal. “That’s what I’m saying, yeah? Even when you hated my guts, you wouldn’t have said that, if you’d known what was going on. But you didn’t know, ‘cause I didn’t want you to, or anyone to, and I’m an amazing actor, yeah? So, like, it’s not fine, but it’s… Don’t beat yourself up over it, man. You didn’t know.”

It’s absolution, the kind Roy doesn’t think he deserves and the Jamie is far too quick to offer. But Jamie is also right: Roy hadn’t known. Wallowing in guilt won’t do anything to change the past, or help Jamie now.

“All right,” Roy says. “But that was still a shit thing to say and I wish hadn’t done it. You never deserved any of what that arsehole did to you, and if… fuck it, when I made you feel like I thought otherwise, that was my fucking bad, and I’m sorry.”

Jamie nods. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, man.” And there’s a tremulousness to his faint smile that makes Roy think that for all his claims to the contrary, it had still been something Jamie needed to hear.  

It does Roy’s fucking head in that Jamie’s been up to see his dad several times since he got word that James Tartt is in rehab. But they’ve argued about that already, bitterly, and Roy has very reluctantly admitted that it’s not his call. All he can do is offer Jamie whatever support he needs, whenever he wants it.

Clearing his throat, Roy gives Jaime an awkward pat on the shoulder before carefully extricating himself fully from the hug. “We’re still on for dinner with Keeley tonight?” He’ll make Jamie’s favourite dish, he decides. Throw in some dessert.

“Yeah, of course, yeah.”

“Good.” He jerks his head to the door. “Go on then, tell the lads to get on the pitch, and we’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, Coach.”

As the door shuts behind him, Roy turns on Beard and Nate who – wisely – don’t say anything.

“I don’t want to fucking talk about this,” he tells them sharply. “I don’t want you mentioning a fucking word of it ever again.” Because maybe he’s gotten to a point where having a fucking breakdown and hugging it out with Jamie in front of them isn’t the end of the world (even if it’s a near fucking thing), but if someone tries to make him discuss it, he’ll need to start head-butting people, and he’s been trying to stay off that since he became manager, because it just isn’t a good look, is it, and he’s trying to be better about that sort of thing.

Nate and Beard glance at each other. Roy doesn’t really care for the knowing look in their eyes, but they merely offer a nod and a yeah, yeah, of course, sure in reply, and that will have to do.

In this messed up world, a lot of things would have to fucking do.

“Right,” Roy says, already moving to follow Jamie. “I’ll see you on the fucking pitch.”

---

A/N: This was supposed to be the fourth of the stand alone ficlets I call The Locker Room Conversations, but it got quite a bit darker (and less team focused) than I usually do for those, so I’m not sure. I’ll sit on it for a bit, maybe fiddle a little, and see where I put it when it goes up on AO3 eventually.

If you like the idea of the team uncovering sad truths about Jamie’s past and are into heavier angst (and more of the team taking care of Jamie), I highly recommend checking out i should be the poster kid for this shit by anotherlongstoryshort / babytarttdoodoo

[rubberstains]

lestappen secret Santa

words: 1k

pairing: max/charles

warning(s): little explicit at the end

Charles deals with his new feelings regarding Max, like Max's hair, his eyes, his hands... Whilst an oblivious Max receives a funny secret Santa. They're both idiots.

Charles felt like he was always chasing Max, scurrying after the trail Max’s tenacious shoulders had cleared. When Charles’ hair flopped down into his eyes, they had karted against each other, but Max was first to progress into Formula One. Charles chased him, joined Ferrari, and felt the ever-present weight of expectations gnawing at his muscles just like Max surely had. 

But every time Charles would spy the angled eyebrows and pursed lips, the icy blue stare, Max seemed to be unfazed.

The impulsive snap of his jaws mellowed after his first championship. The frostiness in his eyes melted, darting pupils seeking out Charles in the paddock. He would gaze unabashedly at Charles, squinting in facile joy, relentlessly littering fleeting touches along the grooves of Charles’ back and waist. Max’s long fingers easily engulfed him, broad palm a steady, heavy weight on Charles’ skin.

So Max occupied Charles’ thoughts in a different way. No longer did he have to swallow down the ugly bile of jealousy clawing up his throat. Or lock away the frustration accumulating into incessant throbbing headaches. 

Charles would flinch awake, chest heaving, skin glistening under the pale moonlight that sneaked through flailing curtains. He could only remember a vague blur of his dreams; the golden flash of skin emphasised by the intense embrace of sunlight, the murky gradient of blues, and a blase rasp of laughter. 

He would fling the damp sheets off his body and rub his thighs together to confirm the stickiness painted along his skin. Blood would rush through his head like sand grains in a timer. He stripped off his underwear, silk boxers ruined, and carelessly chucked them into a laundry bin. A cold shower eased the erratic gush of blood in his heart. He’d flick the switch for the fan off, then the lights, hastily rub a towel over his body, and trundle back to a sheet-less bed and fall asleep. It became a routine that Charles found himself having to repeat at least twice a month. 

The sexual frustration was beginning to rattle Charles and his ability to function normally. A track walk became precarious, eyes itching to spot a glimpse of any Red Bull team members so he could avoid them. Max’s pallid, calloused fingers grazed the fine hair on the back of Charles’ neck. Max’s frame caged Charles in inadvertently, the sharp lines of his jaw and nose daring Charles to move away. 

Charles felt his dick twitch in his pants whenever he replayed that particular memory. He squeezed his eyes shut almost painfully, reopening them when pulsing patterns of white and black swam under his eyelids.

A woman handed him a bright, childish Santa hat which he pulled over his ears. Her hair was brown with streaks of blonde that reminded Charles of—

“Alright. Ready to find out who you’re going to be secret Santa for?” A nondescript crew member behind the camera asked, handing over a pouch with strips of paper inside.

Charles tentatively reached inside and grabbed the first piece of paper he could.

His eyes wrinkled subconsciously. His lips parted to emit a light, disbelieving giggle. 

“Max Verstappen,” he said, still laughing, unable to mask the glee blooming across his face. 

xxx

Thanks for the gift mate. Haha! Loved it.

The text was so Max, breezy and sincere all at once. Pierre had told him Max had asked for his Whatsapp so he could thank Charles for his present. 

When the video finally came out, a few days before Christmas, Charles was hunched over in his bed, sheets messily drawn around him like a nest. He turned the brightness up on his laptop and sunk back into his pillows. 

Max’s Santa hat rested atop his Red Bull cap, of course, and his erupting throaty laughter as he ripped open the wrapping paper and saw a photoshopped Charles tripled across the cover of the F1 video game, made Charles pause the video and collect himself. 

Max’s lengthy fingers delicately cradled the Ferrari notecard, turning it over and laughing that raspy, breathy chuckle of his. "For my biggest fan" he read out, voice delectable. The combination made Charles distinctly aware of the prickly sensation dancing above his skin. 

What he did next Charles was not proud of. He dragged his hoodie over his head in one rapid pull. The heater whirring through Charles’ apartment did little to alleviate the balmy flush of his chest.

The video, forgotten on Charles’ laptop, had ended. Charles manoeuvered his laptop off his lap so it lay to his left. 

With his right hand, he rubbed loose circles on his naval. With his left he replayed a section of the video, chewing on his lip as he concentrated on how tight Max’s shirt was around his upper arms. 

Charles snaked his hand under his boxers and hissed at the dry scrape of skin against skin. He’d been hard since the first viewing of Max’s portion of the video. He gathered the pre-cum that had accumulated at his tip and used it to soothe the glide of his hand. 

Max’s section ended and Charles dutifully rewound to play it back. He briefly wondered if he should try and loop it. 

Charles’ groan snagged on his throat, hand working faster as Max giggled again, eyes narrowing until they were two arched slivers of blue. 

Charles could not help his eyes fluttering shut as he spilled into his hand, the image of Max in a stupid red hat and navy team shirt burned into his eyelids. The whisper of Max’s name curled around Charles’ tongue. 

Dick barely softened, Charles smacked his laptop shut and stretched for his phone. He unlocked it and located Whatsapp. Max’s profile picture glared at Charles like he knew what the Monegasque had just done. His face erupted into a shade resembling vermillion. The colour bled through to his neck and sweat-covered chest. 

Charles swallowed the guilt. It instead settled in his gut. 

With his clean hand, he slowly typed out a message.

Hey Max. Would you like to go to Jimmyz tonight with Pierre and me?

His phone buzzed with Max's reply as he was crumpling dirty tissues.

Yeah sure. See u tonight.

[rocorambles]

What Is Love?

Pairing: Gojo x reader (Main), Nanami x reader (Side)

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Dub-Con/Non-Con, Rape, Sacrilegious, God Complex and Delusional Gojo, Somnophilia, Slapping, Choking, Humiliation, Coercion, Non-Con Infidelity

Summary: Gojo learns what love is and unfortunately, you're the object of his newfound affection.

A/N: Thank you as always for beta-ing @sawamooora and dedicating this to my dear @lets-go-datehoe. Thank you for sending this request, Yuli~

Love? Gojo Satoru doesn’t believe in love. Love is for hopeless, lonely souls. Love is for miserable pathetic wretches desperate to fill an emptiness in their hearts, in their lives.

When everyone in the world is already falling head over heels to serve him, to be with him, when he's given everything he's ever wanted and more on a silver platter, why would he need love?

Gojo Satoru is already at the top of the world, with or without love.

Now lust? Gojo understands lust.

Carnal pleasure is never unwelcomed and unlike his elders, his head isn’t shoved so far up his ass to deny that he adores the feeling of his cock inside a slobbering mouth, a sopping wet cunt, an exquisitely tight ass.

But more than that, his arrogance and ego thrives and swells as women throw themselves at him, the feeling of being desired only fueling the prideful monster inside of him, only fueling his borderline delusion.

Of course everyone wants him. He’s Gojo Satoru after all.

And so he lets himself be worshipped, lets woman after woman praise him, reveling in the way they chant his name like a prayer as he returns their devotion with thick sticky white blessings. He smirks at the way they kneel before him, staring up at him in reverence, their pretty mouths and throats stretched wide across his cock.

Gojo Satoru is a god, and gods do not chase after mere mortals. So when he meets and you barely give him the time of day other than a polite bow, he shrugs his shoulders.

You’re just another disbeliever. Another silly lamb he needs to convert. Nothing more. Nothing less. Definitely nothing to get worked up about.

It’s almost amusing how you’re playing hard to get, sinning by spitting such crude and crass remarks at a deity like him every time he tries to speak to you. And it’s almost infuriating how you turn your nose up at him, as if you’re qualified to have an opinion of him, let alone think of him as beneath you. But he hides the pleased smile on his face when he sees your gaze linger just a tad too long to be mere coincidence the first time he reveals his eyes to you, a look of awe slipping past your scowling countenance.

See? They all come around eventually.

And so he lays it on thicker, draping his tall figure over yours, letting his warm breath grace the back of your neck, murmuring coy words in your ear. His long fingers find themselves tangling in your hair, brushing against your hands, touching every part of you as much as he can get away with.

You’re so close. He can feel your walls slowly crumbling away, can see the unsureness in your eyes as you half heartedly nudge him away after unconsciously leaning into his touch. Just a little more…

Except something, or rather someone, stops him.

Gojo Satoru isn’t usually caught off guard, especially not by the likes of Nanami Kento. The ex-salary man is a good man, but just a man nonetheless, no matter how you dress it up. But Gojo grudgingly admits at least surprise, if not something more, when he hears you’re in Tokyo and decides to pay your apartment a visit, only to find the Grade 1 sorcerer’s tongue shoved down your throat, your naked bodies entangled in rumpled bed sheets.

He tells himself it’s just a one night stand...maybe a friends with benefits relationship at most when he happens to catch both of you holding hands in broad daylight, a carefree smile he’s never seen before stretched across Nanami’s face as he sits at a cafe table with you, watching you happily munch on some pastry his underclassman has purchased for you.

Nothing he can’t handle.

But if you were a bitch before, a snarling ferocious wildcat whenever Gojo was around, you’re even worse now. Your apathy, the nonchalance with which you politely smile and nod in acknowledgement at Gojo before promptly ignoring him for the suited man by your side, gets under his skin like nothing ever has before. For once, Gojo is at a loss.

Ahh, so this is what denial feels like. This is the rejection and emptiness that he’s seen drive others to madness. This is love.

Gojo Satoru experiences his first heartache, but he doesn’t break down into pitiful sobs, he doesn’t mope around in self-pity.

He laughs.

He’s lost the battle, but he hasn’t lost the war. And when others would have turned tail and fled, he stands his ground, icy blue eyes sparkling in glee at the prospect of a new challenge, the prospect of his sweetest victory yet.

Gojo Satoru is a dangerous man. You know that with all your heart and soul, so it only makes sense that your hackles raise anytime he’s in your proximity. Maybe you take it too far, disrespecting your senior to an extent that would bring shame to you if it were anyone other than the Special Grade sorcerer. But in hindsight you’ll wish you did more.

You’ll wish you hadn’t caught the attention of the world’s strongest sorcerer. You’ll wish you hadn’t found yourself mesmerized by his sheer power, by those damning, dazzling eyes. You’ll wish you hadn’t begun to be ensnared by his allure, a trap you’ve heard the consequences of far too often from your heartbroken and weeping fellow female sorcerers. Maybe you’ll even wish you had just let him have a taste of you, use you before tossing you out like trash, like every other woman who’s fallen in bed with him, instead of whetting his appetite only to deny him of his feast, only to have him fixate on you even more.

But like Gojo, you know love and lust are two different things. And when Nanami shows up in your life, like a knight in shining armor, you feel Gojo’s spell on you shatter, your heart fluttering and thawing the ice that had begun to creep up your body, trapping you in endless blue.

Love is blinding, and really, you should have known that normal boundaries don’t exist in Gojo’s world. But your adoration for your lover has you hesitantly, but politely, letting the cheerful sorcerer into your shared home with Nanami — even though your boyfriend is overseas for a mission, not due back for at least another week.

It would be a lie to say you’re completely relaxed and fine with the circumstance you’re in, alone with Gojo Satoru with no chance of anyone being able to help you if something were to happen. But for whatever reason, Nanami respects the man, even considers him a friend, and in turn you feel an obligation of sorts to at least be cordial. And besides, Gojo isn’t a good man, but he’s not a bad man…right?

You find it difficult to believe that Gojo didn’t know Nanami was out of town, that his pout is sincere when you tell him that Nanami won’t be back anytime soon. There are only so many Grade 1 sorcerers in Tokyo and even less that Gojo actively keeps in touch with. But what’s the alternative? Believe Gojo came to see you? Unlikely.

Gojo is a womanizer, a slut, whatever other word you want to use. But a homewrecker? Especially of a dear friend? Never. (Frankly, you think it would just be too much of a bother for the emotionally stunted man.)

And you’re glad to see that your theories are proving to be true as the night continues, wondering if maybe the white-haired man is just lonely.

He’s strangely pleasant as he keeps a respectable distance from you, no suggestive comments spewing from his mouth, even his obnoxious arrogance kept to a tolerable low. You feel your guard drop, your smiles feeling more natural, genuine laughs slipping past your lips as he tells you about his latest adventures and missions.

But as a yawn interrupts your conversation and you stare askance at how late it is before urging him home to get some rest, apologizing for keeping him so long, your heart drops as you feel an overwhelming presence caging you against your living room couch, long limbs on either side of your body.

“What do you see in Nanami that you don’t see in me?”

The question is so jarring you almost forget the panic rising in your chest, mouth moving soundlessly as you try to process the meaning of his words. But instead of an answer, all that bubbles out of you is a shaky plea for him to leave.

Gojo’s never been good at following orders or commands. Why would he be? Since when has a god ever needed to listen to mortals? And you’re no exception.

You whimper as you’re suddenly transported to the bedroom you share with Nanami, struggling to no avail as Gojo easily tears your clothing off, positioning you on all fours in front of the floor-length mirror that decorates the corner of the room. Bile rises in your throat as he takes his blindfold off, blue eyes seemingly piercing your soul even through just a reflection and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to imagine you’re anywhere but here, with anyone other than him, trying to grasp at every fond memory you have of your blonde lover. But Gojo has a point to make and you gasp, eyes snapping wide open as a large hand wraps around your neck, choking you until you’re forced to stare at your joined bodies on the mirrored surface.

“Look at how perfect we are together. Look at how perfect you are underneath me. You chose that instead of this?”

You sob when he twists your head and forces you to look at a framed photograph on your vanity, a photo Nanami and you had taken together when he had brought you overseas with him for a mission.You regret not insisting that you go with him this time around, wishing more than anything else that you were wrapped in his strong arms.

There’s something irritating about your wailing and blubbering, your little hiccups and sniveling only fueling something dark and twisted inside of Gojo. Maybe it’s the way he knows that you’d never act like this if he was Nanami. Maybe it’s the way he knows you’re lust incarnate whenever Nanami has his hands or mouth on you. Maybe it’s the way he knows that you despise him and his touch so much, that you’d rather die than let him have you.

Ungrateful bitch.

Well if you’re going to cry, Gojo might as well give you something to cry about. A crazed grin slices his handsome face as your screams reach an all-time high, a frenzy, as he shoves his cock inside your unprepped hole, his shaft twitching in interest when you desperately wail his name over and over again as if that would do anything other than have him intensify his pace. But as pretty as his name sounds from your mouth, he tires of your useless pleas for him to stop. Gojo uses one hand to shove your face into the floor, your garbled cries muffled by the carpet as he chases his end, moaning at how perfect your tight, gummy walls feel around him. He’s dreamt of this for far too long and with a grunt, he cums inside of you, draping over your body and pressing his lips against the back of your neck, affectionately marking and tasting you as he empties his balls.

Through the pain and shame, relief floods through you, hope that this is finally all over, that he’ll leave you and your battered body alone. And you play dead, letting him do as he pleases, only occasionally wincing when he leaves a particularly intense mark on your skin, momentarily cringing when he pulls out, thick liquid trickling from your abused hole.

But you should have known better, should have known this was just the beginning.

You weakly paw at the strong arms easily cradling your exhausted figure, trying to wriggle as much as your aching body allows you to, sobbing into his shoulder when you see the direction you’re headed in. You wonder how it’s possible to feel even dirtier as calloused hands lather you with soapy suds, as Gojo takes his time scanning every inch of your body, intimately caressing and mapping every line and curve. And you plead for forgiveness from Nanami when slick begins to pool between your legs, as Gojo gently kneads and experiments with your breasts, rolling your nipples, long fingers expertly circling your clit and slipping inside of you.

Your orgasm shatters you and you stand there like a rag doll, body convulsing and eyes rolling back in your head as you drench Gojo’s digits with your arousal, the sticky strands of betrayal staining his hand as he brings it to your mouth. He gently peppers your neck and shoulder with encouraging kisses as you submissively suck him clean, tugging you along as he dries you off before tucking the both of you in bed, holding you in the mockery of a lover’s embrace. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s chosen to sleep on Nanami’s side of the bed and shame has you curling into a fetal position, has you burying your face in the bedsheets, hoping for at least a whiff of Nanami’s familiar scent, a reminder of his presence.

It works, and you let yourself fall into a restless sleep, your lips twitching every so slightly upwards despite the tears still trapped in your lashes as you think of a tall blonde man, a yellow spotted tie wrapped around your hands as you teasingly pull a spectacled face in for a kiss. You writhe and twist in your sleep, heavily panting as you imagine Nanami’s hands roaming on your figure, his lips tenderly kissing a bold line down your neck and in between the valleys of your breasts. And as you imagine his fingers carefully rubbing your clit, you sigh his name, only to be abruptly woken as a lance of pain shreds through you.

Eyelids still heavy with sleep, body still groggy from being so suddenly roused, you can’t piece together what’s happening, one of your hands instinctively cupping your smarting cheek. But you frantically claw and bat in the dark, knowing exactly who’s on top of you despite the fact that your eyes haven’t fully adjusted to the blackness, the way your body is ripped apart once more, a telltale sign of whose cock is penetrating you.

“It’s very rude to say another man’s name when I’m the one making you feel so good. Let me teach you the only name you need to know."

There’s something horribly intimate about the position you two are in, the way he’s tainting the very sheets and mattress Nanami had made love to you on countless times. You wish you could force yourself back to sleep, could gouge out your eyes as you begin to make out the man pistoning in and out of you. But it’s no use and you know even sightless, those icy blue orbs are branded in your mind.

You vow to at least not give him the satisfaction of hearing his name from your mouth, pressing and biting your lips until a copper taste assaults your tastebuds. But Gojo has always been talented at everything he does, those gifted eyes seeing far more than they should. You shake your head side to side in denial as a knot quickly begins to form in your gut, body tensing as you feel another wave coming over you, only to let out a confused whimper when everything suddenly stops.

“You get to cum when you say my name and the magic word.”

The playful lilt and childish tone have you seeing red and you sneer in twisted pleasure when a gob of your spit hits him squarely in the face, a litany of curse words and insults spewing from deep inside of you, uncaring of how you’re more like a raving madwoman than a victim.

But you’re not the first brat Gojo’s had to tame, and he just smirks condescendingly down at you before playing you like an instrument, easily bringing you to that narrow brink where even a single breath of air, or a simple flick of a finger seems like it would have you toppling over the edge, only to relentlessly snatch you right back before you can fall.

You don’t know how long he goes on for, your shattered and denied mind barely cognizant of the beginnings of daylight creeping through the window. But as the rays of light make it to your bed, you break.

“Gojo-”

You howl when he pulls out, hips wantonly thrusting in the air for more friction as he crudely slaps his tip against your clit, a frown on his lips.

“That’s not the name I want to hear.”

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. Where’s your fucking backbone? How could you even entertain the idea of screaming another man’s name in your lover’s bed?

But when he steps away, your eyes zero in on how his cock separates from the sopping wet mess between your thighs, an unbidding distressed whine clawing up your throat at the thought of being left high and dry, mind hazy with lust and arousal.

“Sa-Satoru…Satoru, please.”

There’s work to be done and he’s not entirely pleased by the note of hesitancy and reluctance he still hears despite the hours he’s taken out of his time to educate you. But a promise is a promise and fuck if he doesn’t love the way his given name sounds in your mouth. And with just a few more meticulously placed thrusts and practiced twists of his fingers, you come undone, your lewd sex-crazed appearance and dopey smile from finally getting your sweet release dragging him down with you.

But it doesn’t end there and Gojo makes good use of your empty house, of the week he has alone with you.

There’s not a single surface in your home, not a single hole on your body that isn’t used and marked thoroughly. And even he briefly wonders if he’s being too rough with you, a flicker of concern crossing his mind as he pouts at the idea of his new toy breaking so soon.

But you prove your resilience and a strange concoction of pride and irritation festers inside of him as you determinedly clamp your mouth shut, a spark of defiance lighting up those lust-clouded eyes whenever he urges you to say you love him back, despite the way you practically ride and hump his face as he kneels between your legs and eats you out in the kitchen, despite the way you slur and babble his name over and over again like it’s the only thing you know how to say.

You’re adorable and he wishes he had all the time in the world to break you fully without using his trump card, to see just how durable you really are. But time is ticking and Nanami is due back any day now.

“Say you love me.”

He coaxes you by gently holding you in his arms, peppering your face with butterfly kisses, endearingly observing the way you seek the little comfort you can get despite the fact that he’s the giver, so deprived of anything other than frenzied arousal. But steely resolve hardens your eyes and you turn your face away.

“I love Nanami.”

You brace yourself for a cock slamming inside of you, a hand wrapped around your throat, but you aren’t ready for the endless galaxy that suddenly surrounds you, and blood-curling fear washes over you.

Unlimited Void.

You’d have to be living under a rock not to know of it, and yet, seeing it in person, you can safely say the rumors and tales don’t do it justice. Gojo laughs at how you frantically cling onto him, your arms wrapping around him, your face burying itself into his chest, voice trembling as you beg him to release you, beg him to get rid of his domain expansion, beg him not to let you go. You’ve seen the aftermaths of his technique, seen curses and sorcerers much stronger than yourself reduced to brain-dead husks from mere seconds in his domain.

“Say you love me.”

The words are on the tip of your tongue, fear making you docile. But a flash of blonde, a glimpse of a tailored suit in your mind keeps your saving grace stuck in your throat. You tell yourself it’s okay, you don’t mean it, it’s just a means to save yourself, surely Nanami will understand. And you begin to open your mouth, only to break off in a scream as you’re roughly shoved away, your hesitation speaking volumes to the white-haired sorcerer who sighs in irritation.

Not that you really notice or maybe you notice too well. You aren’t sure. You are sure. You can feel your sanity rapidly slipping as everything and nothing slams into your senses at once.

“Satoru, I love you!!”

It’s barely comprehensible, a shrieked frantic wail muddied by anxiety. But it’s enough and you sob in relief when Gojo ruffles your hair like you’re a well-behaved pet, leaning into his touch and digging your nails into his wrist, keeping his contact on you still and steady, dry heaving as you come back to your senses.

You don’t even realize that the repeated mantra is still coming out of your own mouth as you fling yourself onto the sorcerer as his artificial universe fades away, curling up in his lap, heart pounding as you chant “I love you, I love you, I love you” over and over again like it’s your holy scripture.

Gojo is on cloud nine watching you finally come to faith, finally worship him and praise him. You were lost, and now you’re found. And he has no intentions of ever letting you stray again. It’s not like there’s anywhere else for you to go, anything else for you to do other than warm his cock anyway.

He crashes his lips against yours as he easily slips inside your well-used cunt, walls molded and shaped perfectly after countless rounds. It’s sinful how good you feel, how good you sound, and he can feel his balls tighten, his own end quickly approaching as you shatter to pieces over and over again around him, quivering walls milking him, clamping down on him as if you can’t bear the thought of being empty.

But there’s nothing to worry about. What god would leave his faithful disciple unrewarded? What declaration of faith comes without a baptism? And he cums inside of you, hot spurts filling you up, branding you, marking and claiming you as his, the sticky white trails leaking out of your stuffed cunt a public declaration of who you belong to.

There’s silence as he lets you collapse on top of him, grinning at how blissfully fucked out you look, cock already twitching in interest again as he spies the mess of tears and drool dripping down your chin. But there are matters of business to attend to first and he nudges you to look at him, cooing down at vacant eyes still hazy with pleasure.

“Nanami is returning tomorrow-”

Blinding pain shocks you as a large hand tangles with your roots, pulling your head back so far you think your neck might snap.

“What are you so happy about?”

There’s a lightness to his question, the silence before the storm, and you wipe the smile off your face, hissing as he tugs harder.

“I know you like me more, but I didn’t think you would be heartless enough to be so excited about breaking up with your boyfriend. Poor Nanami.”

Even through the pain, the unspoken weight of his words registers in your head and you snarl at him with a vengeance.

“I’m not breaking up with-”

Your throat goes dry as he relinquishes his hold on you, one hand raising to eye-level, pointer and middle fingers beginning to cross, and you go still, mouth snapping shut.

“Good girl. Now you’ve experienced Unlimited Void for yourself. What do you think would happen to Nanami if I left him in there for even a second? Do you think he’d ever be the same even if he were to somehow survive, even if he were to go through months of rehabilitation?”

The inquisitive tone makes it sound like just a bunch of theoretical questions, but you know better, know the ramble for the threat that it is.

Love is about sacrifice, and you’re willing to give it all up for the man whose contact Gojo is pulling up on your phone, whose number is being called. And as the ringtones finally stop and a familiar voice greets you over the speaker, you seal your fate.

[steps-to-parnassus]

dead men tell no tales reimagined as horror-action

thinking again about how dead men tell no tales had so much wasted potential to be a fantastic horror-action film. instead of focusing on j*hnny d*pp and his stale, washed-out-drunk “comedy” or trying to shoehorn in yet another love story to replace will and elizabeth, the writers/producers/directors should have taken a look at the absolutely phenomenal make-up, costuming, digital effects, and actors’ performances that they had on their hands for the crew of the Silent Mary, and at how the original script written by Ted and Terry heavily played up the horror element.

a horror-focused film would have been a breath of fresh air for the series and could have even made several other elements of the film (lieutenant scarfield, shansa, etc) work better. it would have made the idea of a “final adventure” ring much more true, and most of all, it would have harkened back to the horror elements prevalent in curse of the black pearl and ESPECIALLY dead man’s chest, which worked very strongly in those films’ favour.

just think about the possibilities (quite long, so i’ll put it under a cut):

ghostly hands coming out of the walls of the Monarch like in the trailer, but the viewer never sees what happens next. all we get are flashes of the massacre and Henry’s perspective, trapped in the brig with no light as he struggles to see and hears screams of terror and demonic shrieks of glee.

we don’t see the ghosts coming into the brig due to the darkness; all we see are golden pinpricks in the dark, noises of shuffling and agonized breaths and the sense that something is terribly wrong. they only appear to the audience as one of them brings a torch down into the brig for Henry’s benefit, and suddenly the Mary’s crew is revealed in all their terrifying glory to both Henry and us.

they stare and leer at him, and crewmembers in the background have red blood around their mouths. the audience gets the sense that they very much don’t want to let Henry go.

when we next see Henry in Saint Martin, he’s raving. he still meets Carina, still speaks with her, still agrees to help her, but he is terrified by what he has seen. he tells her about the corpses and the pools of blood he had to walk through to get to the Monarch’s longboat. he tells her how the demons watched him go with hungry eyes. he tells her that he can still hear the screams.

Scarfield does not seek to kill Henry just because he is a traitor - Scarfield sees him with Carina, whom he lusts after. Henry might help her off the island, might protect her. Scarfield wants him out of the way so that he might possess. he has heard plenty of the ghostly crew and cares not that they are attacking british ships - every officer not himself that dies is a greater chance Scarfield will be promoted in the seniority-obsessed ranking system.

Jack is doing well when we first see him, the cunning fast-talker we’ve always known him to be. it is only after the rumours of a ghostly crew with a captain calling himself Salazar spread like wildfire around Saint Martin that he starts trying to drown himself in liquor to assuage the bone-deep terror. 

when Salazar and his crew are freed, they don’t have a mild little cheer. no, they tear their hair and howl like madmen. they have been storing all their pain and hate against pirates and empires for decades - they are going to bathe the oceans in blood.

when we first see Shansa, she is hooded and cloaked, somehow able to track the movements of the dead. she takes her robe off and we see why: she is covered in scars from blades and fingernails and teeth, wounds left her when she was the “one man left alive” from a voyage into the Triangle many years ago, back when the Mary’s crew could not control their bloodlust as well as they can now. and that is terrifying to us - what they did on the Monarch was their version of being restrained.

we see the news of the dead crew spreading as they attack pirates and british ships alike. churches are overflowing with terrified citizens; people bar their doors and hold fast their rosaries and guns at night.

Jack’s crew were loyal to him up until they heard of the dead - now they must be paid off by Henry to rescue Jack, because every pirate in the Caribbean knows who Salazar is; and now that he is the undead, they daren’t let him find them. the rumours are coming back from men left alive that the crew of the Mary sing and laugh as they butcher without remorse, that the evil curse they lay under forces them to feast on human flesh just to keep going, just to feel anything. Jack’s crew do not mutiny later because he suggests it - they mutiny out of sheer terror.

the scene with Salazar and Barbossa’s first encounter is one of the few in the film where the horror element is quite prominent (the other being Salazar’s intro, and it isn’t a coincidence that these are two of the film’s strongest and most compelling scenes). very little about this would need to be changed to work, save for one thing: Salazar does not tap his sword five times at the end. instead he simply says, “you can take what’s left of them,” and nods to his lieutenant and his men, who all begin to smile as they turn to the crew. when we see them next, Barbossa’s crew are down to less than half. we never find out what happens to them.

when Salazar tells his story and we see the past, we are stunned. here is the crew of the Mary, working together, smiling, laughing at their victory. we see and hear them talking about how finally civilians will be safe; about how they can retire, go back to their wives and children and parents and siblings. we see them as normal men with a noble goal. 

we see them awake and scream in pain and terror, and it is on their agonized screaming at the start of their decades-long imprisonment that we cut back to the present. now we can understand, at least a little, how once-good men became monsters.

Carina, Henry, and Jack would have far more dramatic reactions to the Mary’s crew on the beach. for Henry, these are the demons that slaughtered an entire crew as he sat in the brig, trapped and helpless and terrified that his horrific end was imminent. for Jack, these are men whom he’s seen before as humans, and whose hatred and bloodlust is directed at him. for Carina, who has never seen ghosts before, she is struck dumb. these men have horrific injuries, and they are looking at her with detached curiosity and bloodlust that seems a thousand times more horrifying than the looks Scarfield gave her. she can almost see what they would have done to her had they caught her.

there is no ridiculous wedding scene on at hangman’s bay. instead, the locals saw the giant ghost ship sailing into their waters. they know who it is the demons want, but are not aware that the Mary’s crew cannot set foot on land. they intend to give Jack up to the ghosts in exchange for their own lives.

Salazar still executes Barbossa’s men in the name of the king. he is completely mad, but some part of him still thinks himself a righteous naval officer.

Scarfield wants the trident, but more than that, he wants to use it and Shansa’s knowledge to control these dead men. he remembers the reign of terror Beckett wrought with the Dutchman. he would see it repeated for his own personal gain.

in the ship-to-ship battle, Henry initially tries to defend Carina until he realizes that the ghosts aren’t attacking her. they want her to lead them to the trident so that they can seize it for themselves. our heroes do not yet know that they want to end their curse. in fact, the crew of the Mary don’t really know that themselves - they’d much rather have the pirates surrounding them dead to rights, and then free themselves.

every time one of the Mary’s crew is dissipated due to contact with land, the others react. they scream and howl and gnash their teeth and their eyes flare gold. the viewer can feel how much they would like to crush the heroes’ bones into pulp.

when Henry is captured, the officers of the Mary cannot take their eyes off of him. he is terrified for his life, shaking the whole time. when Lesaro mentions that they have tried possession before, the other officers mourn their comrades who became trapped in human bodies and slowly died of thirst, still unable to leave the Triangle, all because they wanted to see the sun again. the viewer is conflicted - are we supposed to pity these monsters? there are flashes beneath the madness that suggests that deep down, they just want to be human again.

when the crew’s curse is broken, we see more of it. we see limbs regrow, bodies knit together again. we see the bloodthirsty monsters we have come to fear laughing and weeping with joy, embracing each other. we hear their terrified screams for help as Salazar finally demonstrates that his own bloodlust was decidedly not the byproduct of a curse as was the case for his crew and pursues Jack.

Barbossa climbs down the chain to kill Salazar, but the former spanish officer deals a mortal blow. just as he is about to kill Barbossa, Jack himself decides to muster up his courage and sacrifice to save those dear to him, which throughout the films, he has always done. he falls from the anchor, and together with his rival-turned-best-friend, he plummets to his death with one last jaunty sweep of his tricorne hat.

there are many dead from the battle. Barbossa’s pirate empire is in ruins, and british power in the caribbean has taken a massive hit. people everywhere are terrified. Henry, however, finds that his terror has stopped and resolves to be a braver man after witnessing what Barbossa and Jack have done. Carina pledges to honour her father and never again to disbelieve in ghost stories. she decides to become a pirate.

in this bittersweet ending, a glimmer of hope: the Dutchman surfaces, with two new crewmembers. Will hangs up his hat to Jack, with Barbossa as his first mate, and Jack is finally reunited with Bill, who has made amends with Barbossa. the old captain-versus-captain dynamic is back - and destined to play out forever. with uncharacteristic solemnity, Jack vows to ferry Salazar’s crew to the other side so that they can finally rest.

Will climbs aboard the Black Pearl, where the crew has elected Carina Barbossa captain. he asks if she might sail him to Singapore - his wife is the pirate king and lord of the south china sea, and that is where she holds court. Henry and Carina, true pirates, share a kiss as the sun rises and our heroes head off to find new adventure. the nightmare is finally over.

[colossal-fallout]

I just need another Porco smut for some reason 😩🤚

We all do.

Here's a rushed shitty short to tide us over for now.

WARNING: NSFW  18+ ONLY   SMUT SHORT 

    The room was bursting at the seams from the sounds of your boyfriends low moans of disbelieving pleasure as your lips slid up and down his thick shaft. His legs were splayed open in the desk chair he was sat on; his head thrown back and his mouth agape.   He didn’t seem to mind that Pieck was only next door. In fact, you swear he actually gets louder when he knows there’s people around.  His large hands guided your head gently as you bobbed up and down, your tongue flicking and mouth slurping inelegantly with each push of your neck.  “Fu~~ck...” He hisses through his teeth as you feel his length pulse and throb every single time it slid down into your throat. “You’re so amazing that that, y/n...” 

You hum in response, the vibration of your vocals only adding to his ecstasy, as your free hand moves up to gently caress his balls.  You wanted - no needed that thick, ropey cum to splatter and pump into your mouth. You craved the taste of your boyfriends hot junk, his oozing pre-cum only the side dish that accompanied his large, meaty dick. 

He pops his swollen head out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting you and your source for insane pleasure for a moment; his dick looking fit to burst as the swelling only pronounced his veins even more so than they usually were.

He pulls you up to his face level where you plant your lips onto his hungrily, his hands gliding through your hair as he gently pulls your bottom lip with his teeth. 

Porco gets to his feet, picking you up with ease and wrapping your legs around his muscular waist, not once breaking his lips from yours as he pushes you against the wall - starving for your cunt. 

“Y/N...” He breaths into your ear as he lines up to your heat, trembling from holding himself back. As much as he wanted you, he couldn’t bear the thought of his monster cock hurting you. “You ready, for me, baby?” 

“Yes...” You breath into his mouth, his tongue now wrestling with yours as he lowers you slightly and thrusts up, his shape filling your insides deliciously. 

 He calls out loudly as he fully sheaths in you, the tight, warm embrace of your centre feeling heavenly as he begins to nail you into the wall. His eyes are hazed with longing, lids heavy and lips parted looking like he’d just taken a large dose of the best drug known to man.  You pull his hair, your voice not working for some reason as he hits your beauty spots with a dazed glee, his handsome orbs not once leaving yours.  The muscles under his skin dance along to the rhythm of his movements, his abs rolling with each powerful thrust and his back and shoulders tense as he keeps you elevated with little effort.  “N’argh... fuck, y/n. I love being inside of you...” His voice breaks as he begins to fight against his eyes crossing. “Shi~~t...”

“P-porco...” You manage to squeak, your nails digging into his back. “Fill me up, baby...”  He buries his face into your neck kissing it sloppily, his basic controls totally out of the window.  “You want my cum, huh? You love it when I fill you up, don’t you? Ah...it’s all yours, princess...”  In one swift movement, he swoops you to the left and throws you on the bed in haste.  You hadn’t even stopped bouncing when he was back between your pins and re-entering you, pushing those gorgeous legs against your chest and groaning out loudly.  Your insides embrace him tighter, as if his cock was a long lost friend.  “Do I feel good? Let everyone know how good I fuck my woman.” His teeth bare into a snarl, his grip on your thighs becoming tighter as he feels your orgasm peeping around the corner.  “Porco! Yes! Baby! You fuck me so good!” You cry in hysteria, well and truly suffering from Pock cock shock.  Your teeth clamp down onto his muscular neck as your eyes roll, your insides spasming you into your climax.  “Yes, cum for me baby...” He hisses, feeling your natural lubrication splashing against his head and gushing down past his shaft. 

Every inch of you is on fire, Porco’s dick is like the gasoline to your libido, and himself is the ignition, your pussy squelching as it greedily takes him into his own blazing glory.  “Y/N! Fuck me?!” 

The intensity of his orgasm took him by surprise, making his cussing sound more like a question than a demand, his hips stuttering and eyes rolling as his pipe blows every drop he has going inside of you, his seed colliding with your cervix and your tunnel sucking it all up with your delicious golden end. 

He groans and falls onto you, his chest dampening with sweat as it heaves with his breathing, his lips caressing any inch of your skin they can find.  “...God I love you.” He laughs breathlessly. 

[calaofnoldor]

Sixth Time’s the Charm [3]

(not my gif)

Characters: Sam x F!Reader, Dean

Words: 3,695

Series Summary: All the times Dean has tried to get Sam to admit his feelings for you.

Chapter Summary: Dean suggests the two of you pose as a couple for a case. Sam objects wholeheartedly. (aka Sam and Y/N go to therapy.)

Warnings: jealous!sam, jealous!reader, language, idiots in love, mutual pining, fake marriage, kind of a case!fic, slow burn, fluff, basically all the tropes

A/N: hi loves, sorry this took so long! had some trouble with this one and i’m still not completely happy with it but hopefully you guys enjoy anyway. and i’m sorry the chapters keep getting longer, haha this whole series was only supposed to be a one-shot. oops.

written for @spnfluffbingo and @girl-next-door-writes make me feel bingo!

Square Filled: Fake Marriage for @spnfluffbingo and Mutual Pining for @girl-next-door-writes​

← BACK UP | MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST

The third time was honestly quite fun for Dean. It started with a rare night of relaxation. The three of you were hanging out around a table in the bunker library, steadily working your way through a six-pack Sam had brought back from a supply run earlier. Dean had his legs crossed and feet propped up casually before him, while you and Sam were scrolling leisurely through the internet on your respective laptops.

“I think I just found us a case,” Sam had started with furrowed brows, as he sat up to get a closer look at his screen. “So get this, two married couples in Wisconsin were found dead after visiting the same couples therapist.”

“Does it say how?” you asked, fidgeting with the label on your beer bottle.

“Yeah, they all fell from windows in upper stories.”

Your brows flew up and you huffed in disbelief, “You’re right, seems like a rather unlikely coincidence, probably something up our alley.”

At this point, Dean was ready to burst with glee. God himself could not have presented a better opportunity. If things worked out, he could finally put an end to Sam’s petulant spasms and eradicate the sexual tension that hung so potently (and disturbingly) throughout the air whenever you and Sam were in the same room.

“Well, I guess we know what we gotta do…” Dean tried to fight the grin on his lips as he turned to you, “Hey, Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

With a perfectly straight face, he managed to ask, “Will you marry me?”

The mouthful of beer that Sam was about to swallow erupted forth in a cascade of tiny droplets, spritzing through the air as he began to cough and choke on what little alcohol had somehow made it down the wrong pipe.

You immediately looked over to see if he was alright, not expecting to find the usually adroit and graceful man a sputtering, red-faced mess, “Geez, Sam. Are you okay?” Rising from your seat to move towards him, you stopped when he held out a large palm and waved it at you as a form of both reassurance and interception.

“Yea- yeah, I’m fine,” Sam wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a moment to recompose himself before sending you an awkward little smile of gratitude.

Dean cleared his throat, “So whaddya say, Y/N/N?”

“Huh?”

“About my proposal, before Sammy so rudely interrupted.” Sam was glaring holes through his brother now, but Dean paid him no attention.

“Oh, right,” you chose your next words carefully, “Umm, you mean you wanna go undercover?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders, tilting his head to the side as he raised his eyebrows in a suggestive smirk, “If the shoe fits…”

“Well aren’t you romantic?” you quipped sarcastically.

“Oh sweetheart, just you wait and see,” Dean sent you a wink that you were sure had dropped many a panty in his time yet held little to no effect over you because… well because you were busy being a little too enraptured by his baby brother. That didn’t seem to stop Dean though, “Trust me, as your loving husband-” It was Sam’s turn to clear his throat, but again Dean ignored him, “I'm gonna romance the shit outta you.”

You scoffed at him in amusement, “Right, you mean when we go to couples therapy?”

“Baby girl, you’d be surprised-”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Sam couldn’t hold it in any longer, throwing both hands up in objection, “Can we just back up for a minute? Why does anyone have to get married?”

Dean shot him an incredulous look, “Come on, Sam, we've worked enough of these cases to know this is always the easiest and fastest way.”

Through stiff jaws Sam released a harsh, conceding sigh, “OK... then... why does it have to be you and Y/N?”

“Cause we’re best friends; it'll be more believable,” Dean answered easily with a grin.

A disbelieving stare crossed Sam’s indignant features before he looked down to suppress his emotions with a sardonic nod and pursed lips. It was one thing for Dean to suggest playing your husband but to claim that you're his best friend instead of Sam's... That was too far.

“Plus, you've always been better at playing FBI,” his brother continued with that irritating smile.

Sam gave himself a moment before stating adamantly, “I don't think it should be you.”

“What, why? You don't think we can get the job done?” Dean’s tone was accusing, and you knew he was trying to provoke Sam, but ever since the notion that two out of the three of you needed to play a married couple had been introduced, you found yourself at an inevitable impasse.

“No, I-“ Sam could barely get any words out before Dean circled back to you instead.

“Y/N?” The look Dean sent you forced you to face your inner dilemma head on. On the one hand, you wanted nothing more than an excuse to get close to Sam, to hold his hand and gaze at him adoringly without worrying about anyone seeing, and so much more… but on the other hand, you feared that a glimpse of the ‘real deal’, however contrived, might just push you over the decisive edge. What if you couldn’t go back to your platonic guise after? What if you broke your own heart?

“What? Um, yeah, I think it could work,” you rubbed the back of your neck nervously, keeping your eyes on Dean’s to avoid meeting Sam’s.

Your response elicited a smug expression on the older Winchester’s face however, as he returned to questioning his brother, “So what is it, Sam? You don't think I can pretend to be in love with Y/N? Cause trust me, that'll be easy.” There was that wink again, prompting a roll of your eyes.

“No, I just-“ You were worried Sam’s jaw might fall off if he clenched it any tighter. Why did he seem to care so much anyway? Was he jealous? The thought popped into your head almost as quickly as you dismissed it.

“Then what, Sam?” Dean plucked at that final straw and an explosion of the type that had seemed to become increasingly common from the ordinarily calm and gentle giant followed.

“IT SHOULD BE ME, OK?” Sam roared in frustration, his expansive chest was heaving and his hazel irises had darkened immeasurably. “It should be me,” he repeated more quietly.

Dean smirked; this was exactly what he wanted, exactly what he expected. “Well geez, Sammy. If you wanted to get with Y/N so bad, you could’ve just said so.”

“Wha- that’s not- I don't,” Sam looked extremely distressed and you couldn’t blame him. Whatever Dean was playing at had led him to essentially force Sam to reject you out right, and being the compassionate soul that he was, you knew Sam never wanted to hurt you that way, even if it was indirectly. “I just- I think it would work better this way. You're not exactly the marriage or therapy type and you're just not-“

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You wanna shack up with Y/N and who could blame you? There’s no need to throw a hissy fit, baby brother. She’s all yours.” Dean chuckled at the sight of your averted eyes and Sam’s burning cheeks, thinking his work was just about done, “Alright, I’m gonna go get Baby ready. You kids have fun.”

When the echo of a closing door filled the room, Sam turned back to you, “Y/N, look I-“

“Don’t worry about it, Sam, I know what you meant,” you brushed him off hastily, “And you’re right, Dean would probably have a hard time keeping up the act. He’d end up flirting with the therapist or something.” Laughing always did help you conceal the pain in your chest.

As it turned out, it was a flirtatious therapist you should have been more concerned about. The woman had eyes for Sam only as soon as the two of you walked into her office and sat down on the tiny loveseat before her.

“Welcome, I’m Dr. Ryan, but you can call me Marlena,” she paused to perform a not-so-subtle scan along the length of Sam’s body before smiling at him seductively, “Why don’t we start by introducing yourselves?”

You kept your expression neutral though there was an urge to glare at her. After all, didn’t she think Sam was a married man? Perhaps this was part of the scam that got the couples before you killed, your rational side countered.

“Uh, OK…” Sam appeared rather uncomfortable beside you, pressing his lips into a tight semblance of a smile, “Umm, I'm Sam and this is my wife Y-Y/N.”

The damn Winchester was always so adorably flustered every time someone hit on him, something you never failed to find incredibly endearing, especially considering he was a 6'4” hunk of a man who could surely get inside the pants of any woman he wanted. You assumed, being that good looking, he’d be used to the attention by now, but the fact that he still reacted this way was a true testament to his humility.

“And how did you two meet?”

“Through work,” Sam answered shortly. A resounding pang had shot through his chest when he introduced you as his wife and he was still trying to recoup. If only this wasn't all make-believe, if only he could sit close to you and hold your hand in his whenever he wanted and not just for the sake of a ridiculous pretence. The Mr. and Mrs. titles and matching rings weren't even necessary. He just wanted to make you his as much as he was already yours.

Fuck, Dean was right; Sam was in deep. Just the thought of Dean acting as your husband had his heart racing and every muscle in his body tense with envy. There was no way he could have handled seeing his brother all over you, even if it was pretend. And if the fact that he had to make Dean go get the rings for your current ruse, because he had a strong suspicion the act of buying you a ring yet knowing it wasn’t real might just annihilate the final pieces of his fragile heart, wasn’t telling enough... Sam was finally beginning to realize that he could no longer deny his feelings for you.

“Tell me about that. What is it you two do?”

Although the questions were directed at both of you, Marlena’s gaze remained resolutely transfixed upon Sam, but the man was much too busy thinking about you to notice.

“Uh, well it was about 3 years ago. We’re firefighters and Y/N had been sent from another division to help out with a particularly bad… fire. But she somehow got there before we did, and when I arrived on the scene, I saw her walk out of the burning building in a blaze of smoke and dust. She was carrying a little boy, who she had just saved, covered in ash and soot, a-and there was scrape above her left brow that had left a trail of darkened blood down the side of her face,” Sam smiled to himself at the memory, “But I couldn’t move. It was just all so surreal because it was the last thing I expected to find, and I thought she was the most beautiful soul I had ever set my eyes on. I knew right then that I would gladly devote the rest of my life to getting to know her better, to becoming worthy of her, but when she came up to us, I could barely speak in full sentences and I made a fool of myself by stumbling over my own feet. My brother, who’s uh- also a firefighter, later told me he thought I was having a stroke.” Sam chuckled softly. His eyes were downcast, and he seemed to be a little lost in his own world.

By contrast, you were staring at him in shock. You remembered the day quite clearly, although in reality it was a wendigo that you were forced to kill by starting a fire since your flare gun wouldn’t work, but Sam got the rest of the details spot on. The lilt of his voice as he spoke had made it all sound so real, for a moment, you nearly tricked yourself. Who knew he had such incredible acting chops on top of all those other skills?

“Well, that sounds like a beautiful start. I’m assuming you work together now?” Taking note of the new edge in her voice, you gave her a nod and Dr. Ryan continued, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a pen, “It must be terribly hard to maintain a work-life balance and keep the romance alive. I’m sure there are issues from work that you’ll often bring home, conflicts that can never be resolved considering the lack of alone time? Maybe something you found annoying about the other that seemed bearable in the beginning but has now festered to become an unmendable chasm between the two of you?”

Your eyes narrowed of their own accord. Between the obvious flirting to the now obvious attempt to instigate discord between you and Sam, you were starting to think Marlena was undoubtedly the monster (that or she was an awful couples therapist). Her motive remained unclear though, so you played along.

“Uh, well Sam can be a bit… overprotective, at times, when we’re working, and sometimes it can get in the way of the job.”

“Ok but that’s only because Y/N can be ludicrously stubborn, at times, and she has a habit of running headfirst into danger." Sam was surprisingly quick to retort.

"It's literally our job to run into danger, Sam.” Your body was now twisted to face his, “And if I recall correctly, my ‘ludicrous stubbornness’ has led to the saving of multiple lives, yours included."

Sam lowered his head and scoffed lightly before he too turned to face you completely, golden eyes boring into yours with an intensity you were not prepared for, "I know it has but sometimes you act like other people's lives are worth more than yours and that's not true. Besides, it's my job to care about you, to protect you… I-I mean as your husband."

For a second, things got a little too real there, but you took a deep breath to remind yourself this was all just an act, "And I appreciate that Sam, but sometimes it can be a bit overbearing-"

"Well if I'm overbearing it's only because I'm terrified every time we go out there,” Sam began to enunciate every word stiffly, speaking almost entirely through gritted teeth, “Because I can't bear the thought of losing you, because I can't fathom living a life without you!"

And once again, you were left staring at him with your mouth agape. He sure was laying it on thick, or perhaps he just wanted to win the fight, because you had no idea how to argue against that.

“Alright, I think that’s enough on that topic. Maybe we should try something else,” Dr. Ryan interjected, “Oh look at that, time’s almost up! I always end my sessions with a fun little exercise. I want you to look each other in the eyes and take turns coming up with one positive word to describe the other, something you love about your partner, but it must be genuine.”

Quirking your brow, you struggled to restrain the smile on your face as you turned back to Sam. Well this’ll be easy.

“Intelligent,” you stated matter-of-factly, figuring you’d start with something relatively un-incriminating.

“Strong,” Sam came back at you immediately. There was a fierceness in his eyes, almost as if he was daring you to bring it on.

“Kind,” came your simple response.

“Discerning.” His voice seemed lower for some reason.

“Capable,” you kept your eyes locked on Sam’s as you lifted your chin.

“Tough.” There was an undeniable fondness that accompanied the word when it left his lips.

“Sassy,” you replied, unable to stop the smirk that tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Tenacious,” Sam narrowed his eyes at you.

“Selfless.” Why did you sound so out of breath?

“Complex.” He was smiling at you now.  

“Protective,” you finally admitted despite your earlier complaints.

“Beguiling,” Why were you both whispering?

“Tall.” Was that lust you could hear in your own voice?

“Badass,” Was that lust you could hear in his voice?

“Gorgeous… or handsome if you prefer.” When did your faces get so close?

“So fucking beautif-”

“Woah! OK, I think we’re done here.” Shit, you had almost forgotten about the therapist. “That was… excessive. I don’t think I’ll be needing to see you again,” she declared as she stood up rather suddenly, prompting you and Sam to do the same though you were both still a little caught up in your game.

“Wow, you really are tall,” Marlena breathed out as she smoothed a hand down her pencil skirt. The provocative tone of her voice had you back down to earth in no time. "And those years of firefighting have definitely paid off, what with all those big muscles.”

Sam gave an awkward half laugh as he wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you tight against his side. You weren’t sure what compelled you to but as if on instinct, you raised your outer hand and placed it lightly on Sam’s stomach, feeling his abs contracting even through the soft flannel beneath your fingers as you replied, “Yeah, that’s just another one of the many things I love about Sam.”

The laugh that escaped Sam this time was much more sincere, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Ryan.” He kept his hand on your waist as he led the two of you out the door, trying his damnedest to ignore the enticing sensation your touch had evoked throughout his body, as well as the subsequent questions of what your little hand might feel like on other parts of him if a simple graze of his abdomen could produce such a dramatic effect.

“Did it seem like she was rushing us to you?” you questioned Sam pensively when you were back at the motel half an hour later.

“Yeah, like the more we spoke, the more she lost interest in us,” he agreed.

Your next words tumbled out without permission and you could only cringe at the bitter inflection of your voice, “Well, she didn’t seem to lose any interest in you.”

Sam felt himself smile at your adorableness; he couldn’t help it when your bottom lip jutted out like that. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought you were jealous.

“Are you two outta your damn minds?” Dean looked from his brother’s face to yours. “Did you even check the time? She only gave you about half of what we paid for!”

“What, really?” you and Sam responded in chorus.

“Yeah, but luckily I’m a genius and I got everything we needed within the first few minutes.” Grinning in that cocky way of his, Dean explained, “Your EMF sensors were off the charts as soon as you walked into her office, and I found ectoplasm in the bathroom.”

“She’s a ghost?” Sam did that adorable scrunchy thing with his face and you had to physically stop yourself from staring.

“Possessed by one, yeah. And I checked the records. She spent at least an hour overtime with both of the dead couples.”

“So, what, are we not good enough to be her next victims?” you wondered.

“Maybe she saw through the act?” Sam suggested.

Dean was fumbling through a stack of papers until he found something, “Yeah, I don’t think that’s it. Here, check this out.”

Sam started to read out loud, “’Grave of local girl found desecrated by joggers passing through the cemetery early Sunday morning…’”

“Turns out the kid got pushed out a window accidentally when her parents were fighting... Splat.” Dean elaborated, ever so tactfully.

You were starting to piece it together though, “So now she’s seeking out dysfunctional couples to kill them the way she died… for what, revenge? Or to stop them from accidentally murdering their own kids?”

“That’s my best guess,” Dean confirmed.

“Huh… nice work on research, buddy. I’m impressed,” the playful grin you sent Dean’s way was not lost on Sam.

“Yeah, well your husband’s not the only one who can look stuff up around here. Besides, someone had to do the work while you two were off playing Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

“Sam and I have never tried to kill each other,” you argued.

Dean snorted while grabbing his jacket, “And that’s about the only way your relationship differs.”

When he saw your brows pull together in confusion, Sam quickly cut in to change the subject, “So uh- what’s the plan?”

His brother was nearly out the door when he responded, “Nice and easy. I’ll go burn the bones while you guys go back and distract her with your little love fest, capiche?”

The ghost was surprisingly open this time around, admitting freely to her past crimes and even explaining her methods. Apparently, flirting with the husbands was a routine and easy test to spot any cracks in the relationships, one that she claimed Sam had passed with flying colors. But you knew better than to assume his achievement had anything to do with you. After all, you’d seen the man hold fast against the fervent advances of a high-end stripper before, while he was drunk. This was nothing.

“But why kill them?” Sam questioned, with the kind of genuine curiosity that only he could exhibit towards a murderous monster.

“Because it’s better to die than stay in a loveless marriage… But of course you two wouldn’t underst-“ Dean must have completed his task because the therapist was interrupted by a shapeless black plume bursting through her mouth.

‘Oh Shit,’ you thought relentingly as you watched the spirit eject itself and disappear into a fiery cloud of dark fumes, a forlorn expression upon your face, ‘I’m in love with Sam Winchester.’

→ CARRY ON

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[when-they-write-stuff]

-

Fucking Stiles Stilinski.

That’s what Derek would like to say.

Fucking Stiles Stilinski and his stupid face, his stupid smile, and the stupid way that Derek would always see him in the hallways and that bright look in his eyes always made him stumble. Fucking Stiles Stilinski and the way that Derek couldn’t get him out of his head for some reason.

For some stupid, unbelievable reason.

Cora thought it was hilarious. Derek thought it was the most annoying thing ever.

Stiles was the most annoying thing ever.

“Hale!”

Derek nearly stumbled over his own feet at Coach’s shout, turning around to see a basketball sailing right toward his face. Eyes rounding, he barely had the chance to duck as laughter filled the air and he glared across the gym— where all the cheerleaders stood in their little group, Stiles right splat in the middle.

Fucking Stiles Stilinski.

“I said, Hale!”

Growling, Derek turned back around as Coach stalked toward him. Derek’s older sister used to tell him that Coach’s bite was worse than his bark, but Derek had come to realize that was utter bull. If there was one thing BHHS’s basketball coach was good at, it was yelling.

“Where the hell is your head, Hale?” Coach shouted, jabbing him on the forehead. Derek swallowed another growl and let the man poke away, knowing better than to ever avidly seek out Coach’s wrath. “You’re living in a daydream today!”

“Sorry, Coach,” Derek mumbled, dropping his gaze. The sound of laughter was still in the air, though, and his eyes snapped back up unconsciously, over Coach’s shoulder as he took in Stiles’s bright and grinning face.

He was always grinning and that bothered Derek like nothing else. The way his eyes would dance, his laughter would make Derek’s heart skip a beat, and— and—

“Hale!”

Derek blinked at the shout right in his ear, feeling like he’d just been dunked into cold water. Coach was scowling now and Derek felt his face turn redder, wishing he could be anywhere else but practice at the moment. “Uh, right. Sorry, Coach.”

“Yeah, kid, you’ve said that already. Are you feeling alright today?”

“I’m fine,” Derek said, forcing himself not to look back over at where Stiles was. “Really.”

“Good,” Coach said. “Because if you miss the game this week, I’m taking you off the starting lineup for the rest of the season.”

Derek looked back at the man in alarm, but Coach just raised his hands, turning away.

“Don’t force my hand, Hale.”

Derek watched him walk away and then despite himself, despite everything, glanced over his shoulder. Most of the cheerleaders had lost interest at this point— except for Stiles. Stiles, who was still staring at him, that crooked smile still hanging on his lips. And the moment his eyes met Derek’s, something in his expression changed. He grinned wider, raised a hand, and Derek quickly turned back around.

He wasn’t doing this. He wasn’t… ugh. 

Fucking Stiles Stilinski.

-

“I don’t know why, man,” Stiles said, slamming his locker shut. “But the guy hates me. You should’ve seen him at practice yesterday.”

“I don’t think he hates you,” Scott said, shrugging on his backpack. Stiles shot him a disbelieving look and the boy shrugged, starting down the hall with Stiles at his side. “I just don’t think he knows you. I mean, you guys never even talk, right?”

Stiles glowered. “I was his chemistry partner last semester and I’ve been on the cheerleading team since I was a freshman. He should know me well enough to at least smile back when I wave hi.”

“He just ignored you?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I dunno, dude. He gets all weird, clams up, and then pretends like I don’t exist.”

Scott gave him a curious look, but Stiles wasn’t paying his friend any attention anymore. Speaking of the devil, he eyed Derek as they passed him and a few of his buddies gathered around their lockers. And for a moment— one brief, making Stiles’s stomach clench moment— grey-green eyes met his own. 

But then Hale’s face tightened, his eyes snapped away, and he slammed his locker so hard, all of his buddies jumped.

Stiles rolled his eyes, walking faster past. “See what I mean?”

Scott was still giving him a strange look. But Stiles only half-noticed it, forcing himself not to glance over his shoulder as the sounds of the jocks' voices faded. Glaring down at the floor, he wondered what the hell was so wrong with him. Or maybe what the hell was so wrong with Derek Hale.

So Stiles might have been crushing on him for three years now. So what? It wasn’t like it actually mattered judging by the fact that Hale had never even really acknowledged his existence anyway.

“Whatever,” Stiles said. “Screw Derek Hale.”

“Sure, man,” Scott said, shaking his head. And honestly, Stiles thought he was holding something back. But did he care? Absolutely not. Stiles had no cares in the world.

Especially not about Derek Hale.

-

“I’m just saying,” Erica said, readjusting her uniform and dabbing at her glossed lips. “If you like him so much, you should consider talking to him once in a while.”

Derek pulled a face, making Boyd snort at the girl’s side, one arm wrapped around her waist. The rest of the cafeteria was far too loud around them and he was trying to concentrate on the chemistry homework that he had definitely not done. Back when Stiles had been his partner, Derek had actually been driven to get it done, if only to impress the boy. Not like it’d ever worked, he didn’t think.

He didn’t really know how the hell to impress Stiles Stilinski.

“I don’t like him,” Derek growled, ignoring Isaac’s disbelieving scoff. “I just think he has no right being so loud and what the hell is up with the outfit?”

Erica shot him an obvious look, gesturing down at her own, and Derek rolled his eyes. 

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” Isaac asked mildly, attention fixed on the orange he was trying and failing to peel. “Or is it because whenever you catch the sight of Stilinski in a crop top on the court, you trip over your own feet and lose the ball?”

Derek shot him an annoyed look. Isaac wasn’t even paying attention.

“He’s right,” Erica said, smirking wickedly. “But if you’d like, Der, I can put in a good word. Stiles is my Batman and he sure could use his own Clark Kent.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, whatever,” the girl shrugged. “Just tell me if you change your mind.”

Derek glowered even more, gaze still drifting across the cafeteria. Totally not toward the table where Stiles sat surrounded by his friends, Scott’s arm slung over his shoulders in a way that definitely didn’t make Derek frown. 

“Whipped,” Erica snorted across from him. Derek turned the weight of his glare toward her, trying to wipe at least some of that knowing smirk from her lips.

It didn’t work.

-

If Stiles was sure of one thing, it was that Mr. Harris hated him.

It wasn’t like chemistry was his least favorite class or anything— or at least, it didn’t use to be. But he was pretty sure Mr. Harris hated him with all his heart and soul, and that had kind of soured the class for Stiles as the year went on.

Which was why when the man stuck them with some lame-ass book assignment and proceeded to get on his phone, acting like none of his students existed, Stiles shot Scott a grin and held out his hand, making a grabby gesture.

“How much money would you give me to flip this table, right here, right now, in the middle of class?”

Scott gave him a wide-eyed look, which only made Stiles grin wider. 

“Cause I swear, I’ll do it.”

“Don’t,” Scott said, eyes darting nervously to where Harris sat. “He’ll have you in detention for the rest of the year.”

“It’s almost over anyway,” Stiles said, still grinning. “And he can’t give me detention if I accidentally ‘fall’ now can he? Twenty bucks and I’ll make him forget all about this stupid time filler assignment, easy peasy.”

“Stiles—”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

Stiles turned around, blinking in surprise at Erica Reyes. She smirked, nodding toward Harris.

“But you have to do it so hard, he falls out of his chair.”

Stiles looked at her for a long moment, debating. At the desk beside her, Boyd shifted a little nervously, but didn’t say anything to talk his girlfriend down. Chewing on his lower lip, Stiles thought for one more moment, then grinned brightly, holding out his hand.

“Deal.”

“Money after,” Erica said, eyes glinting. “But he has to be out of his chair, Stilinski.”

Scott was still giving him a pleading look, but Stiles pretended like he didn’t see it as he turned back around. Harris was still fixated on his phone, feet propped up on his desk. Stiles studied the man, tilted his head, and then shoved himself up so fast, his chair went tipping and he caught the underside of the table, taking it with him as everything went spilling to the floor.

There was a shout, a yelp. Stiles watched in absolute glee as Harris jerked so hard, he kicked his coffee cup off his desk and his chair tumbled backward, taking the man and the cord of his laptop, wrapped around his foot, with him.

For a moment, the classroom was silent. Stiles glanced back at Erica, who looked like she was just barely containing a fit of laughter.

Then, “Stilinski!”

Stiles winced, shooting Erica one last look. Her face was bright red now. “Twenty bucks, Reyes.”

“Derek will cover me,” Erica said, jerking her head to the table across the room. Stiles looked over, startled, to see Hale looking at him with wide green eyes, face a little pale.

Stiles offered a weak smile, raising a hand in a small wave. And then the boy was looking sharply away.

Stiles didn’t even have a chance to feel insulted before Harris had grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him from the room. 

-

Stiles did, after all, get Friday afternoon detention for the next month, despite his protests that the whole ‘table flipping accident’ was really an accident. He supposed it was worth it though; twenty bucks was a two or three milkshakes at his favorite diner if he didn’t get fries.

“I can’t believe you, dude,” Scott said, elbowing him in the side. “That was so stupid.”

“That was so genius,” Stiles said, elbowing him back. “Harris completely forgot about the assignment and I’m up twenty bucks.”

The boy just grilled his eyes. “From Derek?”

The grin slipped off of Stiles’s lips. In all of the excitement, he'd completely forgotten about Erica absolutely screwing him over. Catching his expression, Scott barked a laugh, patting him on the back and starting away.

“Best of luck with that, man.”

“Hey, wait! Scotty? Scott!”

The thing about Derek Hale is that Stiles wasn’t really intimidated by him, per-say. Sure, the guy was a year older, constantly gave him the cold shoulder, and was always surrounded by his ‘too cool for school’ jock buddies. But Stiles was also pretty sure Derek was a bit of a nerd. Even if it was just secretly so.

He’d probably been the best chemistry partner Stiles had ever had. Even if he’d pretended like Stiles didn’t exist the entire time.

He sought him out before the game, heart thudding against his chest in a way that Stiles didn’t really understand. It was hard enough separating Derek Hale from his buddies, but his sister also stuck to his side— and she was intimidating. 

Cora was Stiles’s grade and, like him, a few classes ahead. She also scared the crap out of Stiles whenever those eyes lit up with anything close to mischief.

“Good afternoon, Stilinski,” she said as Stiles approached, arms folded across her chest. “Nice top.”

Stiles glanced down at himself and then rolled his eyes, glancing at Derek. For some reason, the boy looked a little constipated and his face was bright red. “Erica owes me twenty bucks.”

Cora raised an eyebrow, glancing over at her brother. Derek just stared.

Stiles sighed. “She said you’d cover her.”

“She— what?”

“Twenty bucks, dude,” Stiles said, sticking out his hand. “Pay up.”

Cora made a scoffing noise and clapped Derek on the shoulder before giving Stiles an amused look. “And that’s my cue to leave. Go easy on him, Stiles. Derek gets a little tongue-tied when he can see skin.”

Stiles blinked, unsure what to do with any part of that sentence. But Derek’s face was red all the way to his ears now and before Stiles could say a word, he was turning away too, starting toward the locker room.

Stiles blinked again, rooted to the spot for a moment. Then, shaking his head, he started after the boy.

“Hey, dude, wait!”

Derek did not, in fact, wait. 

Stiles followed him into the locker room, stumbling over his own feet as he tried to catch up. Derek went straight for his locker and started to tug off his shirt, making Stiles yelp and avert his eyes.

Which was stupid, right? Yeah, that was stupid. It’s not like he’d never seen another dude change in the literal locker room before.

“I don’t have your money,” Derek said, sounding like he was grinding his teeth together. Stiles licked his lips nervously, turning to face the boy again.

He was still shirtless.

“Uh, right,” Stiles said, shaking his head. Silently, he willed Derek to pull on his jersey or maybe just stop stripping altogether. His mind was blank for the entire time that Derek finally pulled his basketball jersey over his head, raising an eyebrow afterward as if he didn’t know why Stiles was still within spitting distance of him.

“Well?”

Stiles opened his mouth, closed it, and then frowned. “Okay, dude, what the hell is your problem?”

Derek paused with the jersey half pulled down his torso. Stiles tried not to blush.

“You’ve literally only spoken to me like twice,” Stiles said. “And still hate me for some reason. Have I ever done something to offend you? Are you offended by all that is—” he gestured to himself up and down— “This?”

Hale looked taken aback. Stiles’s throat tightened.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I don’t…” Derek shook his head and pulled his jersey all the way down. “You’re fine.”

“I’m fine?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

Stiles stared at him. He couldn’t see much of the boy’s face in the darkness, but he was pretty sure he was still lying about something. Derek grabbed his bag, starting to brush past, but Stiles caught his arm before he could go anywhere.

Derek made a noise of surprise, spinning back around. And Stiles quickly let go, retreating a step back, and promptly got his feet caught in his own bag, a noise of surprise leaving his mouth before he started to topple over.

He definitely wasn’t going to be fine after this, some part of his brain supplied helpfully.

Only, Stiles didn’t brain himself. Suddenly, there was a hand around his forearm and seconds before Stiles hit the lockers, Derek hauled him back up, grunting slightly.

Except, just because Stiles excelled at making bad things even worse, he found himself lurching forward with the momentum, slamming right into his so-called “you’re fine, I guess” savior.

This time, it was Derek’s turn to go toppling. And the only help Stiles provided was him falling right after the boy.

In all the ways he could die, Stiles never thought it would be death by angry-jock-who-just-got-tackled. Underneath him, Derek’s eyes were wide, face pale, and Stiles stared back, pretty sure his heart had stopped beating in his chest.

For a moment, he was almost terrified to breathe. Then, slowly, he realized he wasn’t dead yet.

“Um,” Stiles said, face turning hot. “Sorry.”

He half-expected Derek to shove him off or maybe give him a good punch in the face first. But instead, the boy just stayed there, frozen, eyes wide and pupils dilated. Stiles felt his throat close, carefully starting to push himself up.

“Stiles,” Derek said croakily. Stile abruptly froze.

“Oh my god, dude, I’m so sorry. Did I break something? Please tell me I didn’t break anything.”

Derek was still staring at him. And Stiles didn’t mean to drop his gaze to the other boy’s lips, he really didn’t. It wasn’t like he’d never imagined what it would be like if Derek one day kissed him. Possibly after he realized Stiles actually existed, possibly after he realized how damn hot Stiles was.

Because he was, thank you very much.

“Stiles,” Derek said again. And Stiles realized he’d been staring for much too long.

Shit.

In a second, Stiles was pushing himself up. He half dragged Derek with him, swaying a little as his heart thudded against his chest. The silence in the locker room was almost too loud as Derek stared at him for a long moment, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“So,” Stiles said, running a hand through his hair awkwardly. “About that twenty dollars—”

He was cut off by the action of Derek kissing him.

Derek Hale. Derek Hale was kissing him and Stiles was pretty sure he hadn’t just hit his head too hard when they both fell or something. For a moment, he was too surprised to do anything but make a startled noise at the back of his throat, and then Derek was crowding him against the lockers, one hand carding through his hair as Stiles came snapping back to himself like a rubber band stretched too far.

Derek Hale was kissing him. And dammit if Stiles didn’t kiss him back the moment Stiles exe. was working again.

If he found out later that he had just hit his head too hard or maybe Derek had actually killed him, Stiles supposed he’d be fine. He’d be fine because yeah, he’d probably thought about this a thousand times, but he’d never actually seen it happening.

He also kinda hadn’t ever done anything like this before, so he really hoped Derek wasn’t about to call him the worst kisser ever or something.

Stiles let Derek take the lead as the boy tightened his grip in Stiles’s hair. And yeah, he was so glad he’d decided to let it grow out Sophomore year. Because this? This was every one of his fantasies.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a buzzer from outside. 

Stiles jerked so hard, he slammed his head against the lockers, groaning in pain as the kiss broke. He felt a little dazed, a lot shocked, and the moment he opened his eyes, Derek was looking at him with that ‘caught in headlights’ expression again.

Buzzer, some part of Stiles’s brain offered. 

The game.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles said, snapping back to reality. If he was the reason that the star player of the basketball team was late to the game, Lydia was totally going to kick him off the cheer squad. Derek was starting to look a little more grounded too, thankfully, and even in the dim light, Stiles could tell his face was bright red.

“Um…”

“Yeah.”

“That was—”

“Mm-hm.”

Derek snapped his mouth shut, eyes flitting from Stiles’s face, to his lips, and then back up. And that was Stiles’s move, wasn’t it? “Was that bad?”

Stiles blinked. Once more, Stiles exe. logged off for a second and then he shook his head, staring. “No? No, definitely not. No.”

“I, uh, don’t hate you,” Derek said. A small, almost shocked laugh built up in Stiles’s throat.

“I could tell.”

Derek looked down at himself, his uniform, and then toward the door. When he looked back, his expression was almost hesitant, and Stiles was almost surprised he’d never seen a look like that before. “I have a game.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, finally cracking a small smile. Because his heart had stopped thudding against his chest now and he just felt a little warm. A little tingly. Which, if this was all real, was actually quite pleasant. “Yeah, dude, I’m usually there too.”

Derek’s ears turned red. “Oh, yeah.”

Stiles looked at the boy, hesitated for a moment, and then leaned forward, pecking him on the cheek. Derek immediately went statue-still again and Stiles snorted despite himself, patting the boy on the shoulder as he slipped by. “That’s for good luck, Hale. I’ll see you out there?”

Derek was still wide-eyes and speechless when he turned around. Still grinning, Stiles offered him a wink and salute, before all but stumbling toward the door.

He could feel Derek staring after him. But the boy didn’t say another word.

Stiles had never seen himself the one to break Derek Hale.

-

Derek stayed after the brown-haired, amber-eyed boy in silence, his thoughts moving slowly. For a moment, he felt dazed. Then winded. Like he’d already played the game, won, and had maybe been declared MVP or something.

But then Stiles was gone, Derek was left in the silence, and he finally snapped out of his trance.

A trance, yeah. That’s what he could call it.

Because he had just kissed Stiles. He had just kissed Stiles Stilinski.

Derek blinked, then reached up, touching his lips. And fuck, Stiles had tasted like cinnamon and spices. And somehow, it had all been better than Derek might have ever always wondered.

He had just kissed Stiles.

“Oh,” Derek said, as the sound of the scoreboard buzzer went off outside the locker room again. Game— starting— right.

Oh. 

Fucking Stiles Stilinski.

-

Oh gosh, so I've never actually written a Sterek High School fic, so I apologize if it's a bit rough around the edges. I couldn’t figure out to work the jumper part in, but I hope crop-tops were a okay substitute @wolfile​! Thank you so much for the prompt <3

(if you enjoy my writing, consider sending a coffee? You can also request a prompt if you’d like!). https://ko-fi.com/rh27writer

[bedlamsbard]

670 words written today -- I passed my Camp NaNoWriMo word count goal today when I wasn’t paying attention, that’s nice.  Finally watched Avengers: Endgame today for MCU watch -- my verdict is that it’s fine; has some really good moments, has some really bad moments, but overall fine.  I’m sure it was an incredible theatre experience.

Snippet from Better in the Morning 4.

In all his long life, Thor had only ever really been afraid of his father once, and at the time it had happened so quickly that he hadn’t registered it as fear until afterwards, suddenly exiled to Earth with unworthy unworthy unworthy pounding in his ears.  He had stood in the Observatory with the slowly-dawning realization that something was about to happen, something bad, and it was his father – his father – who was doing it to him.  Even then, he had known it from Loki’s horrified expression first, because until it was happening Thor hadn’t been able to bring himself to believe that his father would actually hurt him.  And then it had been done and he had been in the Bifrost alone – falling for an interminable amount of time that could have been eons until he finally landed.

Until just now, it had been the only time in his life he had ever heard his father’s rage directed at him – a god’s unyielding anger, the kind of fury that burned enemies to ash and consumed worlds.  Odin and I drowned entire civilizations in blood and tears, Hela had said back on Asgard, her voice bright with barely contained glee, and while Thor hadn’t disbelieved it then, this was the first time he had known, deep in his bones, that it was true.

“I haven’t even done anything,” Loki protested wearily, making Thor blink and look down at him. “I’ve been too busy being strangled.”

“I don’t think he’s talking to you, brother,” Thor said.  

[sulphuryasecretcloset]

The Challenge

It starts when Paz and Raga enters the common room and finds the former Troopers and Din gathered around a table, watching and cheering as Jana and Zev'sonya are locked in the middle of what looks like an intense arm wrestling contest.

Raga instantly perks up and hurries over, no surprise there, so Paz saunters after her to watch the battle. The two combatants look focus and determined. Both have shed their coats and their biceps are bulging with the strain.

After a bit of struggling back and forth, Jana's hand hits the table and the blond former-Imp throws his up in the air and cheers while Kiergan and some of the others halfheartedly grumble.

Zev'sonya is leaning back in her chair, smug smile on her face, and Jana is glaring and rubbing her arm, when Raga slaps the back of her hand against Jana's shoulder. “Move. My turn.”

Everyone's attention turns to Raga.

Zev'sonya stops smiling.

After a couple of seconds where no one moves, barely breathes, Jana gets up and barely has taken a step away before Raga takes her seat, places her elbow on the table and holds an open hand up for Zev'sonya to take.

Snorting a disbelieving laugh, the Twi'lek shakes her head. “Are you serious?”

“Too scared?” Raga taunts. (Paz has to bite his lip to keep from proposing again.)

Zev'sonya's eyes narrow and she leans forward to place her elbow on the table again.

“Zev, maybe you shouldn't...” Leave-it mumbles anxiously. Corin points at him for her to listen.

“Shut up.” Zev'sonya snaps. She takes Raga's hand and prepares herself. “Bring it, Mando.”

Raga does. Zev'sonya tries to stand her ground but while she puts up a brave resistance, Raga's brute strength forces the back of her hand to touch the table.

Snarling with the anger of defeat, Zev'sonya jumps to her feet and stalks away from the table, rubbing her shoulder. Leave-it instantly runs after her to help.

Raga leans back in her chair. “Who's next?”

The ex-Troopers look at each other after a faint plea Din's way is met with a firm shake of his helmet. He's not defending their honor, they're on their own. In the end, they decide their unofficial leader should go first and Kiergan is shoved forward.

Nervous and reluctant, he ends up placing his elbow on the table and take Raga's hand.

It's a more even fight, has Raga's arm trembling a little, but even Kiergan's hand ends up touching the table. He seems almost relieved when he can get up and flee from the chair.

Raga holds her arms out to invite the next.

Flare makes a lot of noise as she uses all of her might, but loses anway. Heiden falls out of his chair when Raga pushes against his grip. Kinnon scoffs and finds herself a drink instead. Mokae puts up a decent fight against being pushed over right away but doesn't have the strength to counter and ends up losing after using up all of his stamina on defense.

“Corin!” Flare declares, pointing at him. “Come on, man! You gotta save us here!”

All eyes, Corin takes a step back when everyone stares at him. “No, uh, I... I don't think I should...”

Raga waves her fingers for him to come over.

“You don't have to.” Din reassures his partner quietly.

Corin swallows hard, sees his fellow ex-Imps look at him with pleading eyes and sighs. “It's just a game. Right...?”

“Right.” Raga answers, with such malicious glee that Paz has to stop himself from proposing again.

The first attempt has Corin yelping with surprise when she pushes at his hand and he fails to put up any fight. “You're supposed to push back, remember?” Raga grumbles, before they try again. This time Corin puts up a better fight, but despite giving her quite the challenge, she can tell he's not really using all of his strength. He just looks uncomfortable, wanting to please his friends but also not wanting to upset her. His heart is not in the fight. He doesn't want to do this.

Raga grunts, tightens her grip to grind bones and pushes hard, forcing his hand down against the table. Then she orders him away from the table. Corin nervously scuttles away, cradling his hand.

“Now him.” Flare declares with glee, pointing at Paz. “Let's see who is the better Mando.”

Paz snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. There is no way he's going against Raga.

Raga slowly turns her t-visor and looks over at him. Uh oh. That's not good. He knows that look.

She points at the chair.

Dammit.

Sighing, Paz walks over and sinks down to sit. He reluctantly places his elbow on the table and sighs again when she grabs his hand and wiggles her bum a little on the chair and places her feet down flat to have the optimal position to take him on.

Raga is strong, there is no denying that, so it's not really that difficult to pretend defeat. Paz just doesn't expect her, moments after the back of his hand barely touches the table despite his heroic efforts, to reach out and slap the side of his helmet with a flat hand.

“If you're not going to put up a proper fight either, get your ass away from my table, boy.”

Annoyed, Paz gets up and steps away. Just in time for Din, who had been cradling Corin's hand between his and checking for injury, to stalk over and sit down like he's going to war.

Raga places her elbow on the table, Din does the same, and their hands clasp in a tight grip.

This is a proper fight, with both sides giving it all, the table creaking and muscles bulging and trembling, and Paz forgets to breathe.

She does her best, it's a valiant fight, but in the end; Din gets in a final push and gets her hand down against the table despite her angry yell. Now Paz is the one who stalks back and is going to war.

“My turn.” He rumbles.

Raga snarls annoyed. “Paz, don't-”

“My. Turn.” Paz grits out, even more provoked by how Din is just leaning back and staring at him.

Sighing, Raga gets up and steps away. “Fine. Get it out of your systems.”

Paz takes her seat. He places his elbow on the table, Din does the same, and they grab each others hand. Even with the t-visors separating them, Paz can feel Din's glare and Din can probably feel his.

“Go!” Flare exclaims, and the two start into battle.

It's an even fight at first. Din is putting up an impressive resistance. He's strong, always has been, to Paz' irritation. Paz' pushes meets what feels like a Beskar wall and Din's counter-push is a bit like being headbutted by a Bantha, but brute strength is what Paz was bred for. It's his specialty.

He gives Din an inch, then counters with all his might and slams the back of Din's hand against the table so hard everyone in the room, except Raga, gives a startled flinch.

Letting go of Din's hand, leaning forward to really rub it in, Paz lets Din feel his smug grin.

Din stares at him for exactly two seconds.

Then he throws himself forward and delivers a skull-splitting kov'nyn to Paz' helmet, and that triggers a fight that has them falling on top of and breaking the table, roll around on the floor punching and cursing and trying to beat each others brains out.

“Stop them!” Corin steps up next to Raga, all horrified. “Make them stop!”

Raga shrugs. “You stop them.”

In the end, there is a powerful grip on Din's neck and a powerful grip on Paz' neck, and they are separated and hoisted up in the air like naughty loth-cats by a very annoyed looking Mose. He gives them a shake by their scruffs when they try to reach the other. “Enough.”

“Fine!” Din spits. Paz merely nods.

Mose puts them back down. Din stalks over to Corin, who is all eyes and horrified at what just happened. Paz shuffles over to Raga, but can't help but to send a thoughtful glance back at the Hutt.

Mose's arms and biceps are actually bigger than Paz'. Huh. He lifted Din and him like they weighed nothing. Would he be able to defeat Mose in an arm wrestling contest? Now 'that' could be interesting. He could actually give Paz a challenge.

“No.” Raga suddenly says, grabbing Paz' wrist and dragging him along, stepping over the ruined bits of the shattered table.

“No?” Paz says.

“You're not challenging the Hutt.”

Paz is a bit creeped out by how she easily can read his mind. “But...”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Simple.” Raga replies. “Either you'd lose, which would leave you insufferable, moping for weeks and sulking for months. Or, worse, you'd somehow win, and trust me; the Galaxy wouldn't be able to hold your giant ego, which is already too big.”

Paz looks back at Mose, studying those arms again. “But...”

“We're leaving.”

“But...”

“I'll let you touch a boob.”

Paz' attention snaps back to Raga and suddenly he's completely uninterested in arm wrestling. “Okay.”

Despite Kiergan sighing “This is why we can't have nice things.” over the ruined table, Paz is grinning. He's not bored anymore.

[yourlocalhazbintrash]

Today was the worst day of Anthony Ragno’s entire life, and that was no exaggeration. Sure, he’s been beaten, he’s been mugged, he’s been insulted, but nothing compares to what was happening right now.

“It’s almost nine thirty and he still hasn’t said anything!” Angel slammed his head on the kitchen table, where everyone but Alastor had gathered. Believe it or not, they were all just as shocked by the news, but not really all that surprised. “How could he forget somethin’ like that?!”

“It’s Alastor, kid.” Husk muttered. “He’s a genius when it comes to hunting and deals, but an absolute dumbass when it comes to important dates... don’t tell him I said that.”

“We’ll use it as blackmail.” Vaggie chuckled. Her normally serious demeanor had been pushed aside so that she could comfort Angel to the best of her ability. Which wasn’t very good, considering her mistrust and general hatred for Alastor. “He probably thinks this is some sort of game. Most likely using you so that he can see you cry your eyes out before pretending to care about you.”

“Vaggie! Don’t say that!” Charlie huffed. “Angel, don’t pay them any attention. Alastor loves you, and I’m sure he has something wonderful planned for... tonight...?”

“That was a question, Charles.” Angel grumbled. “Just forget it, guys. He forgot, and I might as well accept that.”

“Maybe you should remind him!” Niffty chirped. “It’ll be funny to watch boss freak out!”

“I shouldn’t HAVE TO REMIND HIM!” Angel screamed, making everyone take a step back. “Ugh! Look, I’m sorry for losin’ my cool, I just... I can’t right now.”

“Can’t what?” Charlie asked nervously.

“Can’t anything, Charlie.” Angel sighed. “I’m too tired to worry about this anymore. Tell Al if ya want, it’s not like he would care.” Angel stood up and started to walk out of the room. “I’m goin’ to bed early.”

Once Angel was gone, Vaggie sneered. “I’m gonna kill that deer.”

“Vaggie, no.” Charlie sighed, hugging her girlfriend. “The last thing Angel needs right now is the knowledge that his husband is hurt or killed.”

Vaggie growled, but agreed. She nodded before scowling as Alastor walked into the room, whistling happily. He didn’t seem to be worried about anything, if anything, he seemed like his normal, chipper self.

“Why hello my dear friends! What brings us to have such a late congregation?” Alastor inquired. He got nothing but pissed off looks in response. There was no sign of concern in his face as a response. “Oh dear, have I done something worse than usual?”

“Do you know what today is?” Vaggie asked, arms crossed.

“Hmm... Sunday.” Alastor replied, still happy as ever. “Just a normal day of the week.”

Vaggie scoffed, throwing her arms in the air and giving a disbelieving look. “It’s not just Sunday! How are you this st-”

“Alastor, when did you and Angel get married?” Charlie asked, her tone serious and commanding.

“Hmm... we’ve been together for quite some time, but I remember our wedding as if it were yesterday.” Alastor reminisced fondly. “But, to answer your question, February twenty eighth! Why do you ask?”

“What’s today’s date?” Husk asked in response.

“Well, Friday was the twenty sixth, yesterday was the twenty seventh, making today...” Alastor froze, his smile growing smaller at the realization. “TODAY IS OUR ANNIVERSARY!”

“Yeah, no SHIT, Al!” Husk scoffed, pointing a claw in the direction that Angel left. “Your husband just went upstairs as pissed as Vaggie.”

Alastor worried his lip for a moment before his smile grew again and he gave a grand hand gesture. “There’s a simple fix to this! All I need to do is go up there and apologize! Then he’ll forgive me and this whole mess will be put behind us! As easy as that!”

And, of course, it wasn’t as easy as that.

“Darling, please, I-”

“I don’t want your fake ass apologies! You fucked up! Just accept that and go away!” Angel shouted from the other side of the door to their shared bedroom. “I’m not in the mood to talk to you right now!”

“Angel... Anthony, please! I forgot, I own up to that, but at least tell me how I can make this up to you!” Alastor got closer to the door, waiting there like a desperate puppy. “I don’t like seeing you upset! You know that!”

“I wouldn’t be upset if you had remembered one of the most important dates of our lives!” Angel hissed. “Did our wedding really mean that little to you?!”

“No! Of course not! Marrying you was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life!” Alastor leaned against the door. “I would trade anything to stay your husband!”

A silence reigned for a second or so. “Even your power?”

“Even my power.” Alastor confirmed.

“Even your title?”

“Even my title.”

“Even your cute little tail?”

“Anthony...” Alastor sighed. He never liked when his husband brought up the wretched little thing, but he couldn’t bring himself to be upset this go ‘round. “Even my cute little tail.”

Angel opened the door just a smidge, looking down at Alastor with mascara running down his eyes. Fat Nuggets tried nudging the door open even more, but Angel was stronger.

“Well even still, you owe me.” Angel huffed. “Ya better make it worthwhile, too.”

Alastor chuckled. “I can think of a few things. Most of which can’t happen if you leave me out here by myself.”

Angel giggled, opening the door and quickly pulling Alastor in. They shared an intimate kiss before falling onto the bed. Angel looked at Alastor with glee.

“I love you, mon amour.” Alastor whispered.

“I love you too, mio amore.” Angel replied. “But next time, don’t forget. I’m not afraid to make you sleep on the couch.”

“Duly noted.” Alastor chuckled, kissing Angel’s neck sweetly. “Now, about that favor~”

[commander-krios]

From the writing prompt list: “I’m going to die. I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!”

Ended up going with Bash Shepard and Jack! Hope that's ok! This prompt fit their dynamic the best. Here ya go!

Bullets ricocheted off of the wall behind Bash Shepard, narrowly missing his head. He’d seen Jack fall earlier in the battle, the biotic worn down by the amount of energy she’d used to keep a barrier up. Furious, Shepard glanced around the crate he was using as protection. A Mech was just ahead.

Taking the chance, Bash ran towards where Jack had fallen, his gaze on the Mech. The machine caught the movement and fired. Diving out of the path of the rocket, he felt the explosion at his back, the heat nearly scorching him where he knelt.

Jack was leaning against a wall, her leather vest burned from the hit she’d taken.

“Jack?” Bash called out over the sound of the Mech’s movements. “Are you ok?”

His girlfriend turned a disbelieving expression on him. “Is that a fucking serious question?”

Bash grimaced as another shot barely missed him. “Move over.”

“Wha-”

Throwing up his own barrier, Bash ran to where Jack was hiding. When he was securely sitting beside her, he glanced over his girlfriend’s wounds. His eyes investigated the burned area, grateful to see that the damage was to the vest and not Jack herself. It was a huge relief.

He met Jack’s gaze and was surprised to see anger there. “Is something wrong?”

The Mech let loose a barrage of bullets at where they hid. They covered their heads, not that it would protect them if a bullet hit. Once it was finished, Bash glanced at Jack once more.

“You’re a dumbass… coming after me like that! You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Please, babe. You know I’d walk through fire for you.” Bash joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Jack rolled her eyes and grabbed the pistol that lay beside her. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die with an absolute idiot!”

“Yeah, but the sex is good, right?” When Jack didn’t respond, Bash raised an eyebrow. “Jack?”

With a frustrated shout, she moved to a different crate, pulling the fire of the Mech with her. Once the Mech stopped to reload a rocket, Jack took advantage. Conjuring her biotics, she aimed a shockwave at her enemy and then watched with glee as the mech exploded at impact, pieces of metal flying in all directions.

Bash exited his own cover, a smile on his face. “You don’t know how hot it is watching you destroy shit.”

Jack glared at him briefly before throwing her hands up in defeat. “Goddammit, Shepard.”

Gripping the front of his chest plate, she pulled him closer, standing on her toes to reach his lips. Bash smiled into the kiss, knowing that she could never resist him, no matter how stupid he was. Sometimes, he wondered if she even liked getting angry with him. It wouldn’t surprise him. He liked it when she got angry.

He really liked it.

[madamewriterofwrongs]

For AUs, how about 9-1-1/Castle: Buck and Eddie end up called to an emergency at a crime scene that Beckett and the gang have also been called to :)

Prompt Me with AUs

I just finished watching an episode of Castle and I forgot how sexy all those motherfuckers were. Damn. Add the 118? That might be too much sexy.

This one kind of got away from me a little. Oops?

Here’s a little excerpt from my series: Unashamed.

Beckett was supposed to be on vacation - an actual vacation not a pretend vacation where she actually spends her time fighting bad guys. This was supposed to be her and her husband, celebrating their anniversary on the other side of the country where no case could follow them.

She should have known better. 

Los Angeles is exactly how she remembers: hot, crowded, and filled with people who make her feel mildly self-conscious about her body.

For example: the two firefighters currently pulling the body of some mysterious woman out of the tree in their front yard, who look like they walked off the set of Baywatch.

Seriously, what is in the water out here?

They answer questions from a woman whose glare could put Gates’ to shame - they should call her and thank her for the gift she sent - and then wait on the lawn until they’re condo is cleared of first responders.

While they lounge, they overhear some of the firefighters chatting and stop pretending that they’re listening in. Five years of marriage has not made Castle any less nosey, nor Beckett any less inquisitive (yes, it’s the same thing, but it’s all in the wording). 

“That girl was totally hitting on you last night.” The blond’s voice isn’t necessarily accusing but he certainly isn’t pleased about the development.

The brunet simply shrugs in response. “She wasn’t my type.” 

“Oh yeah? And what is your type?”

“Tall, blue eyes, blond, muscular, kind of dumb but in a smart way, good with kids.”

As if he hadn’t actually heard the intense declaration of love, the other firefighter chuckled without looking up from his work. 

“That kind of sounds like me. Too bad it isn’t.”

Of course, the brunet rolled his eyes to the back of his head. “Did I mention ‘dumb’?”

“Yeah.” 

“Just checking.” 

As the pair walked out of earshot Beckett turned to her husband who held the same disbelieving - yet highly amused - expression. They exchanged gaping mouths and halted sentences, struggling to find the words to describe the exchange they’d just witnessed.

Nothing came to mind.

Before they could continue to flounder, the couple returned, carrying even more nonsense.

“Okay, so my husband’s birthday is coming up,” the blond explained. “but I’m afraid to admit that I don’t know what to get him. Everything I can think of is either expensive or sexual.” He made a face. “Or both.” 

The brunet rolled his eyes fondly. “I’m sure your husband will like whatever you get him because it came from you.” 

Beckett mouthed her surprise to her partner (who silently echoed her disbelief) as the boys continued their conversation as though they weren’t at an active crime scene.

“So how do you figure she got up in the tree?” The brunet asked.

“Fell out of a plane?” The blond supplied.

Three voice answered at once: “She didn’t fall out of a plane.”

Castle and Beckett looked more startled at the police officer approaching the group, than at the fact that they’d been caught listening in to the pair’s conversation. 

The firefighters took their intrusion with welcome curiosity, raising an eyebrow without questioning their presence. 

The officer, on the other hand, still had some questions. “And how do you know that?” 

Again, both Castle and Beckett opened their mouths to speak. “Well...” but Beckett cut off her husband. She could at least speak, one cop to another.

“This far west, we aren’t in the path of any commercial flights.”

“And the way she landed suggests a slightly softer landing than falling from 30,000 feet.” Castle interjected - speaking as one private investigator to... a cop.

There were few people who could intimidate Kate Beckett with a single look, but this woman was certainly trying her hardest. 

And succeeding, as far as the NYPD captain was concerned. She was not afraid to admit that she shrunk into her husband’s side as the other woman scrutinized the couple. 

Finally, the woman impatiently asked: “Any suggestions?” 

Castle opened his mouth but only glottal uncertainty came out. Luckily, he was saved by the rather enthusiastic blond. 

“A hot air balloon.” 

“Gold star for Buckley-Diaz.” The sergeant congratulated him, earning a preening look of glee that even Beckett could admit was adorable. 

His brunet companion snorted. “Which one?” 

“The one who solved the case.” The woman replied with a smirk. “Dispatch got a call from a sightseeing company twenty minutes ago. Said they lost a passenger somewhere in the area. We’ll investigate but it sounds like a terrible accident.” 

With that, she walked away from the quartet without so much as a nod goodbye. 

“Nice solve.” The brunet high-fived his partner who smiled brightly in response. 

Castle conceded the win to the dynamic duo before them, but Beckett was still caught on one specific detail. 

“You’re both Buckley-Diaz?” The boys shrugged in affirmation. 

“We wanted to hyphenate instead of one of us taking the other’s last name.” The brunet sent a fond look that Castle recognized from the mirror. “Create our own family, you know?” 

Wait.

“Are the two of you married?” He tried to conflate this new information with what they’d received earlier.

The blond winked at Castle in response. “Guess you’re out of luck.” 

Before the writer could even compute the last five minutes, the pair were gone and out of their lives forever. 

The couple sat silently on the lawn as first responders finally rolled away from their rental condo, leaving them in stunned disbelief. 

And they sat. For what could have been minutes or hours, but was certainly not how they planned on spending their first day in LA.

Beckett broke first.

“Do you want to go to Disneyland?” Castle was up and packing their bags in an instant.

They officially needed a vacation from their vacation. 

Prompt Me with AUs

[kurosakikai]

. xx5. Poker and Ramen

Find me on AO3 Find me on Ko-Fi Also available to yell at on Twitter

“Hi Urahara-san,” Kai-kun greets him cheerfully, and Kisuke looks up from his magazine, raises a brow as he pops the lolly back into his mouth.

“You’re here early,” he remarks with a smile, and Kai-kun gives him a shy smile.

“I was hoping I could pet the pretty kitty again,” he says, and Kisuke chuckles.

“You like cats, then?” He asks, and Kai-kun beams brightly.

“They’re fluffy! And they kinda remind me of Papa,” the seven-year old informs him chipperly, Kai-kun looking around hopefully.

“Oh?” Kisuke puts his magazine down even as Yoruichi comes down from upstairs. “How so?”

“Papa looks really pretty but can also kill things lots,” the boy says, distracted by Yoruichi. Which Kisuke thinks is for the best, given he chokes on the mint in his mouth. “Hi pretty kitty,” he gushes, and Yoruichi purrs at him, jumps up into his arms. “Oooh! You’re so friendly, pretty kitty!” Kai-kun gushes, scratching her on the top of her head.

“So you came by early so you could pet a cat?” Kisuke says, once he’s recovered.

“Yep!” He says happily. “Plus, spies are never late,” the boy says frankly. Kisuke smiles, chuckling indulgently at the boy and surreptitiously dropping the lollipop in the trash so he won’t choke again. The boy spends a good ten minutes cooing over Yoruichi, who purrs happily at her appreciative human audience, the boy giggling and scratching her wherever she wanted, and even giving her several appreciative little nose kisses.

Yoruichi was most certainly in her glee, Kisuke thinks with amusement, watching the little boy gush happily.

“So you’re going to adopt a cat?” He says, chuckling when Kai-kun hums.

“Maybe. Of course, I have this pretty kitty to pamper, so I don’t have to be in a hurry to adopt when I’m old enough,” the boy says, giving Yoruichi one last smooch to her nose. “Thank you pretty kitty,” he tells her, before looking expectantly at Kisuke.

“All done?” He asks, chuckling, and the boy beams up at him.

“Yep!” he says happily, and Kisuke chuckles. “What’s today’s lesson Urahara-san?” He asks, and Kisuke smiles, amused.

“Well, I thought we could work some more on the dinner forks...” he teases. When Kai-kun shoots him a look that promises murder, he laughs aloud. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he chuckles, and Kai-kun gives him such a disbelieving look he actually snorts. “My my Kai-kun, you have such an expressive face,” he teases again, tugs on a lock of dark hair until Kai-kun whines and smacks at his hand.

So much like Jinta, his cute little protege.

“Papa warned me about you.” He says, tone suspicious, and Kisuke laughs, amused.

“I’m offended, really.” He says, entertained by the boy’s sharp look, chuckling.

It reminded him of Kaien, actually -

Kisuke freezes a little, but recovers before Kai-kun can truly notice.

“Today we’re going to work on your expressions!” He manages to say with nary a shake in his voice. “You see, the reason you always get caught lying is because you have such easy tells! So we’re going to play poker.”

“Not shogi?” Kai-kun asks, distracted by his cheerfully flapping fan. Maaa, another thing to teach his little spy in training, he supposed. Some traitorous part of him shriveled inside at the realization that he was only furthering the divide between Kai and Kaien, but a greater part of him - the parent, the caretaker, the guardian - slaps his own traitorous heart.

Ichigo had incredible faith in him. He would not betray that. More importantly, Kai-kun was young, and looked towards him for guidance. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him for anything resembling such a thing.

“Ah, Shogi’s more familiar to you,” Kisuke says, smiling. “I’m using an unfamiliar game so I can better see how much I need to teach you.” The boy blinks at him, before nodding.

“Okay Urahara-san. So you’ll teach me the rules and then I’ll learn how to play?” He asks innocently.

“Partly. The other part, of course, is to see how well you hide your expressions.” Kai-kun stares at him for a moment. Then sighs.

“We don’t have to bet anything, do we?” Kai-kun says hesitantly, and Kisuke grins.

“Am I that predictable?” He teases, and Kai-kun scowls at him. “How about this. If you win even one game against me, I’ll start early on more self defense. If you don’t, we have to finish the formal dinner lesson.”

Kai-kun looks appropriately horrified.

“You’re mean, Urahara-san,” the boy says, wilting. “You know I’m going to lose.”

“Maa, maa, I can’t say that,” he teases fondly. “You might be good at this, and you have to learn the formal rules of dinner eventually, Kai-kun.”

Kai-kun looks at his smile, looks at the deck of cards, and wilts further.

Maaa, this was fun.

*

Ichigo takes one look at Kai-kun, puddled on the floor and sulking, and laughs.

“I see you two wrapped up your lesson on the dinner forks,” Ichigo chuckles, picking the boy up and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Hi there, cutie,” Ichigo says fondly. “How are you? Do you feel up to eating dinner?”

“I ate with Urahara-san. He bribed me into attending the lesson after I lost against him in poker,” the boy grumbles, even though he was obviously lapping up the attention like a pushy little kitten.

Goodness, the boy was bringing up all sorts of associations today.

“Poker? Why were you learning that?” He asks, looking amused.

“Urahara-san said that a good spy needs to be able to conceal his facial expressions, and that poker was an easy way to learn how,” Kai-kun grumbles, and Ichigo chuckles, bounces his son lightly as he regards Kisuke.

“Should I be worried?” The shopkeeper wonders, and Ichigo rolls his eyes.

“No, it’s fine.” Ichigo’s tone is light and casual.

Oh no.

“When are you working on self defense?” He asks his son, and the boy’s cheeks puff out.

“Next week. But only if I can show him that I learned how to fall safely.” Kai-kun pouts.

“We can work on that together then, cutie. Learning to fall safely is a really important step in martial arts. Do you know why?” Ichigo asks, and Kai-kun’s nose scrunches up, and he huffs a little.

“No...” He sounds disappointed with himself, and Ichigo gives his son a fond little smile.

“Don’t be. It took me two years before I learned why, cutie.” Ichigo says fondly, and Kai-kun looks up, eyes round.

“Really?” he asks, looking bemused.

Ah, children. The stage where they thought parents knew everything was always the cutest age for a child.

“Really really, cutie.” Ichigo shifts his son to his other hip as he says, “Learning to fall is important because your body can be very fragile, especially when you’re young. It keeps you from breaking important things like your wrists and your ribs, and helps keep unnecessary bruises from important parts of your body like your neck, or more importantly,” Ichigo hefts Kai-kun up to press a kiss against his head to the boy’s surprised squeal, “Your head.”

“Papa!” the boy giggles, and Ichigo grins down at his son, ruffles unruly black hair. “Mmh, okay, okay. Can you practice with me tomorrow?”

“Is that your day off?” He teases, and Kai-kun pouts.

“Paaaaaapa,” he whines, and Ichigo laughs again.

“I’ll let it slide this time cutie. Since you’re full from dinner, does that mean you can’t join Papa in having dessert?” He asks, picks up Kai-kun’s bag when Urahara offers it to him.

“But you haven’t eaten dinner yet Papa!” Kai-kun fusses, tiny hand pressing against his face, and Ichigo laughs fondly. “Papa! You said you wouldn’t eat desserts before dinner anymore if I didn’t either!”

“You can eat dessert, cutie. I’ll eat some actual food. Uncle Keigo opened a restaurant, and he promises that you’ll get the first dessert on the house.”

“He opened his ramen store?” the boy squeaks, and Kisuke flaps his fan, watching them indulgently. “Can Urahara-san join us?” The boy says, suddenly shy, and Kisuke blinks, openly thrown by Kai-kun’s request. Ichigo too, is surprised, but his eyes soften with warmth.

“I suppose he can join us, if he wants,” Ichigo says, ruffles Kai-kun’s hair. “What about it? Care to spend an extra hour with me and Kai?”

Kai-kun turns big, pleading eyes on Kisuke, and he stares down at the child.

He has things to do.

But those eyes are so round and cute -

No. No Kisuke, resist.

Oh shit, was he going to cry? No, please don’t -

RESIST, KISUKE.

A sniff, and Kisuke finds himself defeated.

“I guess I have free time...” he mumbles, scratching his cheek with a finger. Kai-kun beams brightly, and jumps up into the air, pumping a small fist up.

“Yay! Papa, did you hear?” he says, eagerly turning his gaze to an amused Ichigo, who is giving him a knowing look.

“I did, cutie,” he chuckles, hefts his son up to plant a kiss against his cheek. “C’mon. Let’s go eat.”

*

Urahara was never one for sweets, Ichigo thought in amusement. The man could dole out candy free as he pleased, but heaven forbid he eat too many of them himself. He’d ordered a small ramen instead of the water drop dessert, and was now under force of Kai’s big, round doe-eyes as he sniffled pitifully at Kisuke.

Ichigo takes a bite of ramen to hide his grin. Kai hadn’t pulled out the wet kitten eyes on Ichigo for nearly a year, but he’d clearly found a new subject to try it on, and Ichigo had no intentions of stopping his only son from having fun.

Oi. King. Zangetsu’s voice was a welcome distraction, and he gives a hum as he nibbles on his food thoughtfully. Kai’s getting trained to be a spy? Ichigo nods along, smiling a little at his baby boy as he pouts at his teacher.

He wanted to, Ichigo thinks quietly, and Zangetsu snorts in his head.

Yeah, because it’s not a job Kaien did, King. Ichigo sighs internally, takes another bite of crunchy bacon - Keigo’s experiment was pretty nice, he’d recommend Keigo keep this one.

Why do you think I’m not complaining? Ichigo asks, and Zangetsu sighs, unbearably fond and yet worried. Kisuke’s keeping it light, for now. Information gathering, a little bit of self-defense. Dinner forks, Ichigo adds cheekily, and Zangetsu laughs as Ichigo brings up the memory of Kai hiding under a blanket.

Our son is growing well, Zangetsu concedes fondly, cooing over the little boy in the memory. Strong and full of justice for those around him.

Ichigo smiles softly.

He is. And he will continue to, no matter what. Ichigo promises, smiling to himself.

Even if that means facing Rukia? Zangetsu asks, and Ichigo allows his smile to get a little sharp as Kai, having won his argument, cheerfully shares the sweet with Kisuke.

Rukia is not my child. I’m done holding my son back for her sake.

Zangetsu’s pleasure is a low, purring rumble.

[sapphos-poets]

enough (m!mc x f!blaine)

Credit to @i-cant-think-of-a-name-15 for the prompt idea! I had lots of fun with this, I hope you like it :)

Pairing: M!MC (Kennedy Monroe) x F!Blaine Hayes 

Word count: 1.8k

Summary: board game night shenanigans with a sprinkle of pining and angst! also slightly crack-ish. 

"Boardgames," Blaine deadpans. "Seriously? You promised me fun, Rutherland."

"This is fun," Dionne insists. She's sitting with her legs pulled up on the couch, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, dressed in silk pyjamas. Peter's awkwardly perched next to her, hands clasped in his lap.

Kennedy looks from Dionne to the stack of boardgames on the coffee table in front of him, to Blaine standing in the doorway. He told her to show up at his and Dionne's suite in the evening in comfy clothes for a night-in to celebrate finishing their end-of-term exams. He hadn't specified what they would be doing exactly, but he'd hoped for the best.

And now, she did show up. In a too-large full sleeved top and leggings. That she looks adorable in. It isn’t helping Kennedy's blood pressure.

He clears his throat. "Blaine, come on. We're celebrating!"

She sighs and closes the door to the suite behind her, crossing the room to sit at the other end of the table, opposite Kennedy. Her eyes flick to his for a moment, and then back to Dionne's. "So, what are we playing?"

Kennedy shuffles through the stack on the table in front of him. "Whatever you want."

"There's also a bottle of champagne I've wanted to open since forever," Dionne adds, nodding to the bottle she placed before the couch earlier.

"Fine." Blaine surveys the stack. "How about that one?"

____________________________________________

"Peter.

How?

"

All four of them gaze down at the Jenga tower that's barely holding together. It had already been on the verge of collapsing before, but Peter had managed to somehow wrangle a piece out without upsetting the tower.

Peter shrugs, his discomfort obvious. Dionne gives him an appreciative glance that has him looking away in self-consciousness. "This isn't going to be fun for the next player." She looks to Kennedy, who's staring nervously at the teetering blocks.

"Come on, Rutherland," Blaine smirks, leaning back on her hands. She'd put her hair up in a bun, the loose strands now framing her face. "Don't tell me that you're scared of a board game."

Kennedy squares his shoulders, determination crossing over his features. It's just a board game, it would be fine. And he can't give in to Blaine's teasing. His hand hovers over the tower as he scrutinises it for the safest block to remove. Finally, he selects one and gently pries it out.

The resulting crash is loud enough to tear a little shriek out of him, which sends Blaine doubling over in laughter.

"P-R-E-O-C-C-U-P-I-E-D. That to your P-I-E, and the double word score, gives me 26 points, right?" Dionne glances up from where her pen is poised over the notepad.

Three disbelieving stares gape back at her. Blaine's frozen with a drink halfway to her mouth, Kennedy appears exhausted, and Peter looks like he can’t decide between impressed and amused.

"What?" she says, bending over the notebook again. "I had to be well versed in classic literature and poetry. Part of being a princess."

____________________________________________

"Left hand, red."

"Seriously? Red, again?"

"Yep."

Kennedy suppresses a sigh and looks around the mat. The closet circle is right next to the one Blaine has occupied, which would put him right beside her. On second thought, this was a terrible idea.

As he struggles to manoeuvre himself into the free spot, Blaine calls out to him, "Give up, Rutherland."

"Never, Ardona," he scoffs, settling into his new position. As he glances back at Dionne to ask for the next instruction, she jumps up. "Crap, my phone died—I need to plug it in. Come with me, Peter?"

Great. He doesn't know how long he can hold on in this awkward pose. His arms are already quivering. Blaine smirks from beside him. "Just let go, Rutherland."

He ignores her, focusing on keeping steady. And then, as if he doesn't have enough to worry about, she leans in. He tenses, feeling the warmth of her body. Just her proximity is enough to send his heart-rate into a frenzy. "Blaine," he warns.

She doesn't listen, moving closer. He catches a faint whiff of her soap—she must have showered earlier—now familiar and comforting. It's intoxicating, with the promise of more. With effort, he brings his head back to the game. Just as he opens his mouth to tell her off, he feels a gentle brush of lips on the exposed skin of his neck.

The gesture is the final push. His arms buckle and he collapses onto the mat. From the corner of his eye, he sees her stand and stretch. "Good game, Rutherland," she says.

"Good game?" Kennedy flips around onto his back, the strain of the game combined with the kiss leaving him breathless. She's grinning at him. "You cheated!" he complains, though he can't bring himself to be angry as he takes in the glee on her face.

"It's all in good fun," she responds. She hops onto and sprawls across the couch just as Dionne returns. "Okay, I'm done," Blaine announces.

Kennedy flops down beside her; playing Twister had tired him out more than he thought—which had nothing to do with Blaine of course. Dionne looks at them with disappointment. "I expected more drama from you two."

Their heads snap to her. "What are we, your entertainment?" asks Blaine.

"I did tell you my love life is pretty dry right now," Dionne shrugs, unrepentant as she takes a sip from her champagne glass. Kennedy's just glad Peter hadn't returned yet so he couldn't hear that; it isn’t that hard to see that there’s something between them.

He meets Blaine's eyes and looks away just as swiftly. The technicalities of whatever was going in between them was not something they wanted to hash out today. Not missing the exchange between them, Dionne hides a smile.

"How about a movie?" She grabs the remote. "There's a Pavadenian classic airing now." She finds the channel in response to assenting hums and settles back on the couch.

____________________________________________

"Is that a good idea?" Peter asks, his eyes on Dionne's champagne glass.

"Peter, we're celebrating," Dionne emphasises, her words slurring slightly. Kennedy isn't sure how many times he's heard that by now.

Blaine chuckles, amused. "He means the fact that you're on your third glass."

Dionne blinks slowly at her. "So?"

As she tries to focus on the television screen, Kennedy makes a point to grab the bottle and stash it away.

Kennedy looks down at the couch where Peter and Dionne have fallen asleep cuddled up next to each other. They look too comfortable to disturb, and rousing them would mean that the night would end. Which would mean Blaine would leave. And Kennedy doesn't want Blaine to leave just yet.

"Should we wake them?" Blaine asks, coming up beside him. Kennedy glances at the clock on the mantel—it's almost midnight. They hadn't meant to celebrate this long, and he definitely hadn't planned for two of their group to fall asleep on the couch.

He shakes his head and drapes the spare blanket over them.

"I guess I should get going then," Blaine says. Kennedy takes her in. Her hair's mostly come out of its bun and her clothes are rumpled. Her eyes are tired—no doubt because of the stress of exams but also from the late night—but bright. He doesn't want her to leave.

"No," Kennedy says, surprising himself. "Stay."

Blaine's shoulders sag. Kennedy wonders if it's too much to hope that she was waiting for him to ask her to stay. He flicks off the light and opens the door to his room, nodding at her. She gets the hint and trails after him.

Kennedy flops down onto his bed and watches Blaine, her cautiously curious gaze roaming the room as she perches on his chair at his desk. He almost wants to invite her to sit beside him, but squashes the idea, deeming it too forward.

"So," he begins, "did you have fun?"

Her eyes snap to his, startled before a slow smirk spreads across her face. "I did, actually. Who knew you'd know how to have fun?"

"Hey," he grins. Talking with Blaine is effortless somehow. They click, and he feels that he can open up to her. It helps that Blaine is an open book. "I do know how to have fun. You'd know that if you spent more time with me." Immediately, he wonders why he said that. His mom doesn't make it easy, but they do spend time together—a lot actually. Somehow, it never is enough for him.

He can't deny it anymore: he likes her. But the timing can't be worse, and so he's been keeping it buried, though he can't help his feelings and the consequent longing glances and stomach butterflies. Dionne argues that this is a terrible idea, but he knows he has to prioritise his mother's reelection campaign.

Blaine leans forward, that smirk still gracing her face, and Kennedy’s heart speeds up. "Don't we hang out enough?" she asks. "You really can't get enough of me, can you?"

No.

But she doesn't wait for his answer, turning back around to his desk and fiddling with a pen. Then, her shoulders begin to tremble, and a mixture of panic and dread creeps over Kennedy. Is she crying? Or possibly laughing? But unless she's lost it, there's nothing to laugh at.

Maybe she did want to leave then, Kennedy thinks miserably, and she felt obligated to stay when I asked. He gathers his courage and asks, "Are you okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine."

"Then... why are you shaking?"

She whirls around so fast that it startles Kennedy, before pulling her legs up and hugging them. She's still shivering as she speaks in an indignant voice, "Your room is freezing."

Caught off guard and slightly alarmed, Kennedy stares at her for a second before letting out a laugh. "That's it? I thought—" He decides not to complete that sentence in order to maintain his dignity and instead gets up to rummage through his closet. He pulls out a clean hoodie and tosses it to Blaine. "Here."

She regards the clothing for a moment before tugging it on. It's big on her, like the top she's wearing, and Kennedy ignores how his heart flips at the sight. Not dwelling on it too much, he decides to take the leap and pats the bed next to him. "Come here."

Shoving her hands in the pocket, Blaine eyes the spot before crawling into the bed beside him and leaning her head on his shoulder. Kennedy tries not to tense in surprise and relaxes into it, hesitating before sliding an arm around her. To his insurmountable relief, she snuggles closer.

They settle into easy conversation late into the night, until Blaine's speech starts to slow and her eyelids begin to droop, and she falls asleep with her head on his lap. Blinking back his own sleepiness, he smoothes back her hair and smiles down at her.

They may not be able to be together, but he could treasure these moments that only he is allowed to see—and just maybe, that would be enough.

[matildaofoz]

Memento Mori Pt 3. (Michael Langdon x Fem!Death!Reader)

You reached the courtyard of Kineros Robotics in record time, Michael hot at your heels.

“Can you walk a little slower?“ Michael complained, walking quickly beside you to keep up despite his long legs. You weren't lying when you had told him that you were on the clock.

„No can do, kiddo. Now come on, use those wonderful legs of yours,“ you threw at him over your shoulder, your hands searching for the car keys you had stashed in one of the conveniently hidden pockets of your dress without slowing down. Why weren't those a thing yet when humanity had invented every other type of useless thingamabob and yet pockets on a dress were blasphemous, you wondered. The intricacies of humankind often evaded you. The fingers of your right hand grazed the keys in your pocket and with a satisfied smirk you pulled them out.

“I'm not a kid, you know. I'm the Anti-,“ Michael began, irritated.

„The Antichrist, yes and you were born exactly when, 2012? You may not look it Michael, but in the grand scheme of things you're barely an amoeba,“ you interrupted him, not in the mood for any more temper tantrums. Without having to look back at his face, you felt the anger rolling off him in waves. He really was not used to being treated as anything less than the son of Satan. If he wanted you to lick his shoes, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, he should be on his knees before you, praising the universe for having sent you in his hour of need.

Continuing to ignore a seething Michael, your eyes zoned in on your newest toy. A 1965 Black Ford Mustang Convertible with bright red leather seats. Seeing as you were all things considered an ancient being and material things meant positively nothing to you, you did have two weaknesses. Fast food and fast cars. You liked to think that it was due to the human form you took, your immense power being pressed into the confines of a limited body and your patient nature being expressed in a rather paradoxical instant gratification. Thankfully, you couldn't gain any weight nor die in a car crash, remaining ever the same, and so you chose to indulge yourself at every given opportunity. Soon enough, those fleeting pleasures would come to an end. Might as well enjoy it while you could.

You skipped over the curb to the driver's side, admiring the way the inky paint coat glistened in the late afternoon sun, not a speck of dust in sight.

Michael came to stand by the passenger door, now more confused than angry. He was ever-changing, you mused.

“Did, did you sell your soul to my father too?” he asked, mustering the convertible before his eyes searched your face.

“No, Michael,” you chuckled amused. H really didn't know the first thing about the Apocalypse or his place in all of this. Maybe there would be time to give the boy a lesson, but not until you had had a good meal.  

“I think I'm out of your dad's league if we're being honest. I am more a collector of souls myself. Your father or God don't actually hold the monopoly even though that's what they like to tell everyone. Tell you what, over dinner you and I will take a little trip down memory lane,” you explained, watching him with intent.

“Liar,” Michael said lowly, processing your words. His icy blue eyes narrowed at you. You could feel his power trying to claw at you, yet it felt distinctly like a kitten lick.

“Oh please, Michael, I don't lie,” you retorted unaffected, your hand grabbing the door handle and sliding into the seat, grabbing the pair of sunglasses on the dashboard and putting them on before looking at Michael, your fingers drumming on the steering wheel. This was not going nearly as well as you had planned and if you wanted to keep the plan you had set in motion rolling, you would undoubtedly need to change course, despite the fact that you loathed having to do so. Death be damned, you thought.

“I don't like repeating myself, Michael. I don't owe you any answers but perhaps I'm growing soft and the fact that you are left to your own devices, trying to figure out the single most monumental task on this rock hurtling through space has me feeling a little...sympathetic,” you stated, leaning over to push open the passenger door as a sign of goodwill.

“Tell you what, you can ask me all the questions you like, deal?”

Michael contemplated for a few seconds. He didn't like to admit it but so far he hadn't been the one to come up with any good plans that didn't involve The Omen 3 plot and his father had been absent throughout his accent so far. He didn't trust you or anybody bar Ms. Mead and yet you presented an enigma to him, one he needed to crack open. He was brilliant at problem-solving and he would solve you too, he thought to himself, a little grin creeping into the corner of his mouth. His invisible claws retracted.

“Deal. But I get to ask as many as I want,” he replied, pulling the door open all the way and plopping himself into the passenger seat beside you, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Fine, a deal's a deal,” you groaned only halfheartedly, shooting him a grin of your own as you fired up the engine and pulled out onto the road. You really did have your work cut out for you. Lucky for Michael, he was so easy on the eyes that you didn't mind as much as you should have. You pressed the 'on' button of the radio and stifled a laugh at the song that had just started playing:

I see the bad moon a-rising I see trouble on the way I see earthquakes and lightnin' I see bad times today

Don't go around tonight Well it's bound to take your life There's a bad moon on the rise

°°° 20 Minutes later, you pulled into a parking lot, turned off the engine, hopping out of the car, and came around to Michael's side to take an unneeded but deep breath, filling your lungs with crisp evening air and the distinct smell of desert. The sun had just begun to set, a slight chill setting in and the last remaining rays illuminated Michael's blond hair in a way that reminded you an awful lot of his father before the fall. You let your gaze wander over his sitting form for a second, before lightly slapping the arm he had draped over the side of the car, lost in his own thoughts.

“Come on, Angel, we're here,“ you chided playfully, knowing it would rile the blonde man up unnecessarily. On cue, Michael's gaze shot up to meet your own, nostrils flaring at the more than holy pet name.

“Don't call me that! I'm anything but that!“ he bit out but couldn't keep the blush from creeping up his neck. He didn't like the way you made him feel. Weak and unsure of himself. No power he had encountered could match his, not even Cordelia's and then you came along. As if he wasn't already feeling insecure enough, even after having massacred the witches and warlocks, you only added to the sense that he hadn't yet achieved what he was meant to do, or be where his father expected him to be. Sensing his unease, you tussled his locks with your left hand, pulling him out of his self-induced reverie.

“There is nothing a good cake can't fix, Michael. Trust me,” you smiled at him, hoping he would pull himself together and get out the car. At the word cake, he did perk up, finally glancing behind you to look at where you had taken him.

“The Cheesecake Factory, really?” he looked up at you quizzically, disbelieving. If you were in fact Death, and he wasn't yet sure you weren't lying to him despite your overpowering aura, shouldn't you be dining in some high-class restaurant on the other end of town where they didn't even have prices on the menu?

“Are you food shaming me?” you retorted, one eyebrow shooting up.

“Err, no. It just doesn't...suit you,” Michael replied, his right hand coming to massage the back of his neck, embarrassment evident at his remark.

“Wouldn't you like to know what does and doesn't suit me. If you must know, it's kind of my thing. Don't ask me why but I just can't keep my hands off sweet things,” you explained, winking at him and only adding to his embarrassment. Before the Antichrist could slide any further down your passenger seat and be swallowed whole by the ground, you opened his door and gestured for him to get out.

“Relax. You clearly don't know how to take a joke. Come on, I can smell the cakes from here.” You turned on your heels, cape dress swishing behind you as you made your way across the parking lot to the entry. You weren't quite sure your words were meant as a joke but that was a heart-to-heart you'd have with yourself later. The only sweet thing on your mind right now was cake and soda. The slam of the car door indicated that Michael had managed to detach himself from the red leather interior and he jogged up beside you, matching your stride.

“I hope you're hungry. I'm paying,” you said, smiling with glee and making Michael chuckle. Another thing to add to your slowly growing list of likes about the spawn of Satan, you noted to your dismay.

°°° You placed the fork neatly back onto the now empty plate, devoid of even the smallest crumb, that had held an entire ultimate red velvet cake, groaning blissfully. Eyes closed, you swallowed down the last bite. Opposite you, Michael had stopped eating his pasta dish some time ago. When you had said that there is nothing a cake couldn't fix, you had meant an entire cake after all.  The hunger you felt whenever you were in a human body was not easily satiated. Something that Michael or the waiter were clearly not prepared for. Both had been watching you for the last 5 minutes, jaws slack, as piece after piece traveled on the fork and into your mouth.

“That was positively delicious,” you hummed, casting a glance at Michael, fork suspended in mid-air.

“W-would you like anything else, Miss?” the waiter stuttered, taking your plate and admiring it as if it were a rare antiquity.

“Oh no, I think I've been quite naughty enough, don't you think?” you giggled, reaching for the Fanta and taking a large sip.

“Michael, you've hardly touched your food,” you noted, your voice rousing the young man out the trance your display of gluttony had placed him under. He cleared his throat, putting the fork down, adjusting his seat on the table.

“I'm not hungry anymore.”

“Oh, ok, well in that case we'd like the bill please,” you addressed the waiter with a satisfied grin, gulping down the last remnant of orange soda in your glass.

“Hey, you said you'd answer my questions! I knew you were a liar!” Michael intercepted, trying his best to keep his voice down.

“ I don't lie, Michael. You chose to watch me enjoy some cake instead of asking questions, didn't you?” you countered, your elbows coming to rest on the table, fingers intertwining. His anger and frustration bubbled to the surface once again. If he weren't the Antichrist, you were sure he would have a heart attack by the time he hit 30. His body tensed at your statement of truth, eyes squinting menacingly at you. Yet you were right, he had been so busy watching you, he had forgotten all about the myriad of questions buzzing in his mind like moths around a flame. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, gulping down the rage that threatened to burst out his chest. You watched as the blonde man tried to gain back his composure, your finger coming to run along the rim of the empty glass in front of you.

“Michael,” you demanded. His eyes opened to meet your own and you could see his restraint hanging by a thread in them. He did have a temper and you didn't want him setting fire to your favourite restaurant just yet.

“I'm in a good mood tonight. Instead of just answering your questions, I would like to show you something that will answer almost all of them. A deal is a deal,” you tried to reason. Michael mulled your words over in his head, sizing you up while doing so.

“Oh for goodness sake, Michael! I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm trying to help you!” you exclaimed, exasperated at his hesitance and mistrust. While you knew his beginnings on this earth weren't exactly peppered in love, warmth and trust, you couldn't afford him seeing you as the enemy. Neither could he.

“If you don't believe me, take a peek. Make it last, this will be a one-off,” you encouraged him, an invisible finger beckoning him closer and allowing him limited access to your mind momentarily. Michael's mind pushed through your doors, grazing, flitting over millennia of memories before you let him look at your core.

No lies, Michael, you see?

You eased him out and sealed the doors shut tightly once again, leaning back in your chair, the restaurant coming back into focus.

“Here's your bill, Miss. Thank you for stopping by at the Cheesecake Factory tonight,” the waiter had brought you the bill. Wordlessly, you handed him a 100$ bill, nodding your head briefly at him to suggest that he could keep the change and waited for Michael's response.

“Ok,” Michael finally replied, rolling his head on his shoulders, resulting in a gratuitous cracking sound. You weren't sure if he was entirely satisfied with your show of goodwill. Not that it mattered.

“Let's take a walk,” you suggested, getting up without even the slightest hint of a stomach after decimating an entire cake. Michael's eyes never left you and the enigma you were to him just became a lot more enticing. A boyish smirk crossed his face as he stood up to walk in front of you. At the exit, he held open the door.

“My, my Michael. Didn't take you for a gentleman,” you chuckled, gracefully pushing past him and into the cool night air.

“My Ms. Mead would expect nothing less of me,” he offered, not bothering to hide his Cheshire cat smile. You had allowed him access to your mind and the things he saw, he desperately wanted to see again. You were like a box of confectioneries to him. For once in his life, his pride and ever-growing sense of entitlement took the backseat.  He felt like he had finally met someone of his own caliber and the feeling was exhilarating to him. You weren't his father but you were the next best thing and best of all, right in front of him.

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