#finally i can canonize leather jacket

[halcyyan]

guess who miraculously made it to sophomore year just in time for his villain arc

[wannabespacesmuggler]

L.H. | Like a Moth to a Flame

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Logan Howlett is a dangerous man; at least, that's what he wants you to think when he first meets you during your shift at Lucky's. However, he only seems to prove the opposite as he becomes a more constant presence in your life. After learning his true identity in a dark back alley, he's certain you want nothing to do with him. But against your better judgment, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Pairing: Lumberjack!Logan Howlett x Bartender!Reader

Warnings: canon typical violence, men being creepy in an alley, canon divergent (because fuck the timelines), mutual pining, miscommunication

Word Count: 3.4K

Author’s Note: I am overwhelmed with the love and support for my first Logan fic. This man has taken over my ever waking thought. I wrote this while picturing lumberjack Logan from X-Men Origins: Wolverine and listening to Hozier (this man is so "Too Sweet" and "NFWMB" coded). Super proud of how this turned out, hope you enjoy it.

You’re used to a rough-and-tumble, rough-around-the-edges kind of crowd — blue-collar workers, committed hunters, down-on-their-luck drifters. Maybe that’s why you don’t think twice when he enters the tiny dive bar. He’s clad in a deep maroon flannel tucked into a tattered pair of jeans. You don’t even look in his direction as he sidles into a seat at the end of the bar. He looks like any other patron you’ve met while bartending at Lucky’s. 

“Hey there, what can I get for you?”

He leans forward, forearms flexing against the counter. A shiver runs down your spine as your eyes linger on the deep scars etched in between his knuckles before traveling up his broad frame. It’s as if your fight or flight response kicks in, and suddenly, a voice in your head tells you to run. But as you finally meet his hazel eyes, you freeze. There’s a hollowness in how he looks at you — a profound sadness that makes your heart ache for the man sitting before you.

“Whiskey, neat.”

You simply nod at his request before turning to pour him a glass. As you place the drink before him, a flash of metal across his chest grabs your attention. The man follows your gaze, and his features harden at the realization of what caught your interest. He quickly shoves the dog tags hanging loosely around his neck under his shirt — out of your line of sight. Your cheeks instantly flush, humiliation washing over your body. You begin to apologize, but the man downs his glass of whiskey and slaps some cash on the table.

“Thanks for the drink.”

With that, he grabs his leather jacket off the back of his chair and stalks out of the bar. You watch him leave in stunned silence. You hadn’t meant to invade his privacy in any way. You’re used to the anonymity that some men around here need to survive — hell, you don’t even know the names of some of your regulars. Before you can get swallowed up by embarrassment, one of your other patrons calls for another drink. Shaking off your previous interaction, you return your attention to your job.

After work, you couldn’t stop thinking about the encounter. With a deep sigh, you pour yourself a drink and collapse into your couch. You don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it. In reality, you probably won’t ever see the man again, which should relieve you; however, the thought only disappoints you.

To your surprise, he walks back into the bar three days later during your shift. You try to ignore his presence as he moves to sit at the same spot at the end of the bar. To make amends, you pour a glass of whiskey and set it in front of him.

“This one’s on the house.”

The man looks up, giving you a confused expression. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.

“Don’t. It’s just an apology for the other night.”

He gives you a nod before grabbing the glass and taking a long drink. You turn away from him, but his deep voice cuts through the rowdy Friday night crowd before you can take a step.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I still expect a tip, though.”

A chuckle reverberates in his chest. The sound of it causes your face to light up. The man’s lips pull up into a small, gentle smile. You force yourself to return to work before you get further drawn into him. Unlike the other night, he sits at the bar for the rest of your shift, ordering several glasses of whiskey and keeping his eyes trained on the television above your head.

“It’s the end of my shift. Ready to close out with me?”

Logan nods, downing the rest of his whiskey and then placing several bills on the counter.

“Keep the change.”

“Wow, thank you…” 

You trail off, realizing you still haven’t learned his name. Looking down at the money he placed before you, you notice he’s tipped you at least fifty percent. You don’t want to invade his privacy again, but a part of you wishes you knew his name so that you could thank him properly.

“Logan.”

“Thank you, Logan.”

He stands up from his seat before clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You working tomorrow?”

You bite your lip at his words, trying to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot. Trying to ground yourself back into reality, you remind yourself that you don’t fraternize with your clientele. While working at Lucky’s, you’ve learned one thing about the men who frequent the establishment — they’re bad news. But then you look back up at him. He’s got to be over six feet tall; his simple white t-shirt accentuates just how broad his body is, and yet this sturdy, well-built man looks almost nervous standing before you. Your body responds before your brain can catch up.

“My shift starts at 6:00.”

Logan slides his leather jacket on, and a slight smirk spreads across his features. He’s a devastatingly handsome man, and you’re no better than a moth to a flame — irresistibly attracted to that which you know will hurt you. 

“See you then.”

And you do see him during your shift the next day, and your shift after that, and the one after that. Logan’s there in his seat at the end of the bar during all of your shifts, ordering whiskeys and making polite conversation until he’s become a constant presence in your life. 

Today is no different. You have a glass of whiskey ready for Logan when he enters the bar. His schedule with the town’s logging company is pretty consistent. Logan accepts the glass graciously as you slide it in front of him. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

You ignore how nonchalantly the term of endearment slips past his lips — and how your heart lurches as he says it. Instead, you focus on his features, which somehow look more exhausted than usual today. His work is hard, long, and labor-intensive; however, throughout your conversations with the hardened lumberjack, you’ve also learned that Logan’s sleep schedule is abysmal.  He’s a grown man; he can decide what he wants to do — or doesn’t want to do — but a part of you can’t help but want to care for him.

“You gotta get some sleep, Logan.”

He scoffs in response, looking up at you with tired eyes. You know he isn’t angry at your suggestion, but the pointed look he gives you is a warning. He’s opened up quite a bit throughout his frequent visits to the bar, but there is still an air of mystery about the man sitting before you. You know better than to push him, so you raise your hands defeatedly.

“All I’m saying is that those dark circles do nothing for that handsome face.”

A warm laugh reverberates in Logan’s chest. He takes a long drink from his glass before responding, downing a considerable amount of whiskey with absolutely no reaction.

“You think I’m handsome?”

You roll your eyes at the man, trying to keep your cool. Logan is an enigma to you — simultaneously socially awkward and overly flirtatious. It’s as if he has two personalities — two completely different sides of himself — fighting for dominance at all times. And yet, it works because he’s catastrophically charming. 

“Shut up.”

A smug smirk spreads across Logan’s face, and you decide it’s getting a little too stuffy in the small dive bar. You grab the pack of cigarettes you keep stashed under the bar and turn back to Logan. He already knows what you’re about to ask. It’s become routine for Logan to join you during your fifteen-minute break, sharing cigarettes in the secluded alley behind the bar.

“I’m going for a smoke. You coming?”

“Let me finish my drink. I’ll be right out.”

You nod at him before moving towards the back door. As you step out into the alley, you’re met with a much-appreciated, cool breeze. It causes a shiver to run down your spine as your body adjusts to the sudden difference in temperature. After placing a cigarette between your lips, you pull a small silver lighter out of your back pocket. You slide your thumb over the engraving on the side: L.H. Logan had given you the lighter after yours burnt out about a month ago. You tried to give it back, but he insisted you keep it. You bring the lighter up to your face, but a voice surprises you before you can light your cigarette. 

“Those things’ll kill you, sweetheart.”

A man you’ve never seen before emerges from the darkness and approaches you with an uncomfortable air of familiarity. The way this man says Logan’s term of endearment makes you sick to your stomach. It sounds sweet coming from Logan’s lips — grounded in a deep respect and laced with affection. 

You were simply going to ignore him, knowing Logan’s presence would deter him in a matter of minutes; however, your body bristles as two more figures join him from the darkness of the alley. Your body moves on its own accord, seeking the comfort and safety of the bar — of Logan. But the man closest to you grabs your arm before you can step out of their reach.

“Where you going, sweetheart? The party’s out here.”

His voice is sickly sweet and dripping with venom — a stark contrast to Logan’s low, warm timbre. The two men behind him laugh at his words. Your fight or flight response kicks in, and you struggle against the man’s hold as you’re hit with the gravity of your situation.

“Just let me go.”

Your voice is stern as you rip your arm away from the man’s grip. You rush to get away, but he’s quicker. He places both hands on the brick wall behind you, caging you in. Now you’re panicking. A threatening growl interrupts the encounter before the man in front of you can say anything else, and Logan emerges from the darkness. His features are menacing in the dim light of the alley, but you’re met with a sense of relief rather than fear.

“You heard her. Let her go.”

The tiny hairs on the back of your neck raise at the sound of his voice; however, the stranger in front of you doesn’t seem to find him as frightening. Instead of backing down, the man lets out a dry, unamused laugh at Logan’s words.

“We’re just having some fun here.”

Bile rises in your throat at the insinuation in his tone. Logan seems equally displeased by his response as another animalistic growl rips through his body. He takes an intimidating step forward before speaking.

“You don’t want to do this, bub.”

It’s almost as if he’s pleading with them — begging them to stop so that he doesn’t have to act first. Your eyes find those dog tags hanging around his neck again. Your heart breaks as you realize Logan doesn’t want to fight, but he will — for you. Based on the look in his eyes, he’ll rip these men apart limb from limb if they lay a hand on you. 

“No, buddy, you don’t want to do this. You’re outnumbered — three to one. You don’t stand a chance.”

The man’s tone is amused but impatient. He’s itching for Logan to either leave them be or throw the first punch, but he does neither. Instead, Logan squares his shoulders and extends his arms out at his sides.

“You sure about that?”

Your brow furrows at an unfamiliar sound — a strange, metallic snikt. You’re surprised when the man’s arms fall from either side of your shoulders. You take the opportunity to create distance between yourself and the group of men who are all staring at Logan. Not understanding what caused their sudden hesitation, you also look over at Logan. Your body tenses at the sight of him standing in the middle of the alley with long, metal claws protruding from his fists. He takes another step forward, and the men scatter, running for their lives. 

Logan waits a few moments, ensuring that the men are actually gone. Then he lets out a deep sigh as his metal claws retract back into his hands. Your hands meet the cool brick behind you, grounding you in this incredibly unreal moment. You blink, expecting to wake up from whatever dream you’re having right now — but you’re not dreaming.

Logan finally turns to face you, and his features soften. His eyes scan your body, checking you over for injuries. He takes a step toward you but stops as you take a step toward the bar's back door. You can’t seem to look away from his hands — at those deep, pronounced scars between his knuckles. His eyes follow yours, and you’re met with instant regret as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. You finally look up at his face and are anguished at the sight of his hardened features.

You want to tell him a million things. Your body moved on its own accord. You didn’t mean to stare at his scars. You’re just confused. You’re grateful for his help. You’re not afraid of him.

But you don’t mutter a single word. It’s as if you’re frozen in place. 

“Alright.”

Your heart almost breaks in two at the pained sound of his voice. Logan meets your eyes one last time, disappointment evident in his gaze. Finally, your body shakes out of its paralysis, but it’s too late — the damage has already been done. You watch helplessly as he begins walking away from you. 

“Logan, wait.”

But he doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking until he vanishes into the darkness. Tears begin rolling down your cheeks as you slide down against the brick wall — partly because of what could have happened and partly because of what did happen. And just like the first day you met Logan, you fear you may never see him again. 

But once again, you were wrong. 

Eight unbearably long days later, Logan enters Lucky’s again. You watch his bated breath as he approaches, hoping he’ll sit at his usual spot at the end of the bar. Instead, Logan places a few bills on the counter before meeting your gaze. You draw in a shaky breath as you look into his hazel eyes — the hollowness is back, and our heart aches as you realize you’re now the reason behind that sadness. 

“Didn’t feel right not closing out last time.”

You almost laugh at his words — the free glass of whiskey was the last thing on your mind. He rolls his shoulders back nervously, his muscles flexing under his black t-shirt. You reach out and grab his hand before he can pull it away from the counter. His eyes instantly widen, but the physical contact seems to make him relax ever so slightly.

“Can we talk, please?”

Your hand tightens around his, physically begging him to just stay. Logan nods in silent agreement. You pull your hand away from his and try to push down the sudden disappointment caused by the loss of his touch. You move toward the back door, and Logan follows you into the alley from a safe distance. For a moment, you’re lost in a bout of deja vu as you lean against the brick wall, and Logan stands before you. Your hands nervously find Logan’s lighter in your pocket, looking for something to occupy yourself with. The movement catches Logan’s eyes, and you swear the corners of his lips twitch up into a small smile at the sight of his lighter in your hands. 

“I’m sorry.”

The words tumble out of you clumsily. Logan’s brow furrows, and you watch as his head tilts slightly to the side. 

“What?”

“I’m so sorry, Logan.”

Logan’s lips pull into a small frown as he considers your apology. He takes a cautious step forward, watching you intently. He’s waiting for you to pull away, but you stand your ground.

“Why are you apologizing, sweetheart?” 

You can’t help the small smile that spreads across your face. Hearing him say that name — the word that’s been keeping you up at night — you realize just how much you missed the sound of his voice.

“I made you think I’m afraid of you.”

Logan takes another step forward, testing you. You know what he’s trying to do — he’s giving you an out. Pull away, and he’ll stop, but you lock eyes with the man before you. His movements might be cautious, but his eyes are wild with unspoken emotion.

“Well, are you?”

“No.”

Another step forward. He’s now standing within arm’s length. You could reach out and touch him. God, you want to reach out and touch him. Logan looks down at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. No man has ever looked at you like this, but then again, Logan certainly isn’t like any other man. 

“You should be.”

That voice from the first day you met him appears yet again, telling you to run. But you stay put. You don’t need to run from him. You don’t need to fear him. He protected you from those men. He was prepared to fight for you. He revealed his true identity to keep you safe. And once again, you’re like a moth to his flame — gravitating towards him.

“I’m not afraid of you, Logan. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s a breath away, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding in your chest as his gaze moves from your eyes to your lips. His hand covers yours, stopping your anxious fidgeting with his lighter. You watch in awe as he takes it from your grasp and places it into your jacket pocket. He moves his hand out of your pocket; his fingers leave a scorching sensation behind in their absence as they slide across your skin until they reach your waist. His other hand comes up and tenderly caresses the side of your face.

“Say it again.”

Your breath hitches at his request, but you do what he asks — hell, you’d do anything for him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan shakes his head. His hand moves to take hold of the other side of your waist. The grip he has on you is secure but gentle.

“No, sweetheart. Not that part.”

Oh. Oh.

You could cry at the realization — at his need to feel wanted and appreciated. You move your hands to either side of his face. He melts into your touch before meeting your eyes again. A part of you wonders if anyone has ever touched Logan like this — if he’s ever known what physical contact feels like outside of a fight.

“I’m not afraid of you, Logan. I trust you.”

And suddenly, Logan is pulling you into him. His lips desperately find yours. Your fingers thread through his hair as his body pushes you into the brick wall. His movements are rooted in a deep hunger — not driven by lust, but in a need to be known and loved and touched. So that’s just what you do. Your hands move through his hair, down his neck, across his chest, over his back. You attempt to touch every bit of Logan to prove that you want this — that you want him. 

A low growl reverberates in his chest as he pulls away from your lips. Unlike the night before, this growl isn’t rooted in anger but, instead, the result of a deep desire. His hands move away from your body and find the wall behind you. Your brow furrows at the loss of his touch until you hear a familiar sound on either side of you — a sharp, metallic snikt. He leans down, forehead resting against yours as his short, rapid breaths fan over your face.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t control it sometimes.”

You shake your head at his admission. He did control himself — he purposely removed his hands from your body before his claws extended. He protects you as if it’s just his second nature — something he doesn’t even need to take the time to consider. You run your hands up his chest, feeling the tense muscles under his t-shirt, before gently grabbing his face.

“Hey. Hey.”

You pull away slightly so you can look him in the eye. Your words grab his attention, grounding him.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I trust you.”

His breaths gradually even out, and eventually, you hear his claws retract and feel the familiar warmth of his touch against your skin again. As Logan maintains eye contact, looking at you as if you’re the answer to some unspoken prayer, you begin to think you’ve gotten this all wrong: maybe you’re not the moth, but the flame.

[deconstructthesoup]

Okay, now that all of the Bad Kids have their new art out... I can finally freak out/gush over/analyze it, because I didn't have the energy to do posts for every single one.

GUYS

Fig!!! My girl!!! The mismatched shoelaces! The bass guitar from Gorthalax! The phoenix feather earring for Ayda! The fishnet! The classic leather jacket/gray band shirt/red pleated skirt combo! The fingerless gloves! THE CHAIN WALLET!

KRISTEN IS BUTCH. Let me repeat that---KRISTEN! IS! BUTCH! And she's wearing the yellow jumpsuit that we saw in her figurine but she still has the purple in her backpack and her staff and her TIE-DIE SPORTS BRA! And she's got a new hairstyle! And a rainbow bracelet AND a lesbian bracelet! THE TEDDY BEAR! THE ICE CREAM SANDWICHES!

RIZ HAS AN UNDERCUT AND GLASSES AND HE KEPT HIS TATTOOS!!!! We've got the briefcase! We've got the angelic weapons! We've got the sword of shadows! We've got GADGETS! WE EVEN HAVE ARO/ACE RINGS! He looks so cool and nifty and crafty and BADASS! My boy has grown!

Gorgug. Oh my god, I can FEEL the "going into a worry" energy radiating from this. But he's got the axe! He's got artificer goggles and tools and a rucksack! He's FINALLY got the emo ripped jeans that he always deserved! He looks so sweet and huggable and perfect! AND HE HAS THE BIG HEADPHONES STILL!

ADAINE. My god. I love this girl so much and her art is perfect. She has patches on her jacket! We can see the cool design on her shirt! She's got high-fantasy boots and belts and she's got her new arcane sword! BOGGY IS THERE! And she looks so lovely and cool and her hair, oh my god, her hair is perfect! I'm so proud of her!

And lastly, the man, the myth, the LEGEND. Fabian looks perfect. Everything from the sword to the sheet to the expression to the tap shoes is spot-on. And his outfit? He's got harem pants! He's got a stylish shirt! He's got wraps around his hands! He's doing a dance move! Man-bun Fabian is now officially canon!

(Also, I'm never gonna shut up about how the Bad Kids are now all spellcasters, and almost all of them are different than how they were in freshman year because that's how growing up works! Fig's ditched College of Whispers as she learns to be truer to herself and has claimed the coolness of College of Lore, and she's got some warlock action to be closer to her dad! Kristen's a Twilight Domain cleric instead of the Life Domain, and I remember being so excited when that became official because that domain is so freaking cool! Riz is an Arcane Trickster, just! Like! Penny! Gorgug's an artificer as well as a barbarian, which is one of my favorite classes, and it looks like he's leaning even further into it! And we can't forget Fabian double-classing as a College of Swords bard! It's so beautiful! It's amazing! Maybe we'll get Adaine doing a martial multiclass to round out the "we're doing different things!" ANYTHING'S POSSIBLE!)

[emilzke]

Bingo

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x gn!Reader

Summary: The village square was overrun and you & your mission partner Leon fought hard to survive. Yet, the villagers left under the command of the church bell, all dazed, without an explanation—leaving you both with relief and a joke that will change things between the two of you. [Inspired by: “You’re laughing. I told you a joke and you’re laughing. I love you.”]

Content: canon-typical violence, near-death experience, mutual pining ish, fluff

Word Count: 1.6k | Read on AO3

A/N: This can be read as a prequel to Extra and it’s part of a collection of works set during the events of RE4 with agent!Reader. I decided to write this because I thought the text post was very Leon and because you all seemed to enjoy Extra a lot :) way back when.

You almost thought you were hallucinating. Between your ragged panting, trying to regain your breath after fighting off hordes of infected villagers, and the sound of your heart pounding against your chest and your blood pumping, the sound of the church bell ringing and chiming was clear to hear throughout the village. One old villager, who just a few seconds ago was about to snap your head right off your neck, turned around and ignored you with glazed eyes—muttering something in Spanish that you couldn’t quite hear as he walked away slowly in a daze.

Just a few seconds ago, you had that villager’s hands wrapped around your neck as you desperately swiped your knife back and forth at his torso, hopelessly hoping to get some sort of damage in. And just a few minutes before that, your shrill cry to your mission partner could be heard.

“Leon! I can’t hold them off for much longer!” you called out as your voice broke from panic, something you would never do under normal circumstances. You felt some sort of instinctual need to prove yourself to him, your dashing mission partner that you swore would have a much better career as a model with his looks. Why was he wasting his time trying to save not only the President’s daughter but also you when things got really bad, even if you stubbornly never asked for it?

“Huh?” The sound of your partner’s voice shook you out of your confusion and memory, making you turn to him—opposite the pyre in the middle of the square that was still burning. You thought back to his shrill voice calling out to you too. “Hang on! I’ll be right there!” you heard him shout and multiple gunshots subsequently after, you could only assume he was trying his best to get to you as soon as possible. And seeing his position now, closer compared to before, you couldn’t help but sigh in relief.

Leon looked over at you, his heart still pounding with the thought that he would see the life drain from your eyes and your head ripped off your body because he wasn’t quick enough to get to you in time. The walking villagers with their mutterings in a daze put him in a daze as well, all he could do was look and turn around in bewilderment at the scene unfolding in front of him. The sound of an axe falling into a muddy puddle from a villager’s hand made you both whip your heads around with wide eyes, still on edge and bodies fighting for survival in fight or flight. You raised an eyebrow at him, a silent question that he could answer with nothing but a shrug.

He shrugged in his brown leather jacket and could feel his hands shaking, one of them still gripping his gun until his knuckles turned white. The door to the town hall slams shut and your eyes darted around to see the entire village empty.

Leon’s eyebrows furrowed with confusion as it settled in, now that he finally wasn’t fighting for his life. His head turned around and he couldn’t help but take a few steps to see further. Empty. All gone. As if nothing ever happened. As if the sounds of your desperate shouts and panicked gasps didn’t fill his ears and travel straight to his heart, making it pound fast—searching for you—just a few minutes ago. Surreal. Absurd. Ironic.

He scoffed at the barren and empty village surrounding the two of you and shrugged. “Where’s everyone going, bingo?” He asked with a now laidback tone since you both were safe—for now. His tone made your eyes slowly trail in his direction, processing with your eyebrows raised.

“…bingo?” You spluttered out, dumbfounded at his joke, and suddenly it occurred to him that not everybody appreciated his… strange sense of humour, so his eyes darted the other way. You, on the other hand, felt the ends of your lips being brought up without you even having to think.

Your amusement at his joke and the relief it—and the realization that you two were alone for now—brought, started off as a slight chuckle under your breath before your eyes trailed towards his direction. You found his eyes darting from looking at you and at the ground. His blond hair, as he cast his gaze downward in what seemed like a bit of embarrassment, couldn’t hide the slight smile, awkward as ever.

So, your amusement turned into not a slight chuckle but a bright laugh, a giggle at the sight of him and the thought that only Leon would be able to make you this… relieved, amused, and grateful… all at the same time. A weight seemingly lifted off your chest and the thought of the villager just now that had his hands wrapped around your neck just made you laugh even harder. Bingo. You nearly died and yet here you were, cheeks warm and chest light with relief, gratitude, amusement, and some kind of fondness.

Leon’s eyes darted back to you when he realized you were not only chuckling but laughing at his joke, your cheeks scrunched up from your wide smile. With every crease he found from your amusement, the more he couldn’t look away. Your laughter was unrestrained and sure, you might’ve just been a bit delirious from nearly dying but it didn’t matter; he made you laugh and feel comfortable enough to laugh after something like that. Leon felt warmth rise up his neck to his cheeks, making him brush the hair out of his face in reflex.

He’d love to know what was so fascinating about your laugh that made him unable to think clearly, to breathe properly. It was nice to make someone laugh, of course. But the sight of your smile and the sound of your relieved laughter felt like a light was shining brightly at him, interrogating him for his true thoughts. True fondness.

You both had only just arrived in this village and yet there was now an undeniable sense of gratitude that you were the one here with him, that you got paired with him even if it led you into danger like this. At least he was with you. To keep you safe. To keep you from harm so he could continue to see you laugh. The feeling of the bright interrogating light of your smile turned into feeling like there was a cartoon light ball above his head in realization, heart pounding so fast he almost swore it was slower when fighting for his life moments before.

You sigh deeply after chuckling with a slightly giddy grin, falling back to lean against one of the walls of the village's houses, your eyes trailing towards Leon. Your eye contact was what broke him out of the trance that made him stare at you and every crease in your face from your smile. He gulped nervously as his legs moved on their own towards you, thumbing the hem of his leather jacket at the uncertainty his realization brought.

I love you. Those three words so foreign to him never made more sense. Every memory Leon had with you changed, even though they were just late nights scanning over paperwork at the office or you desperately trying to land a kick at him during training. Every memory he had of seeing love everywhere when he couldn’t fully understand it changed too. Leon repeated those over and over again in his thoughts. I love you. Now he knew how it felt to have the words creep up from his heart to his tongue, lips parting with nothing but a ragged sigh escaping and spilling out of him instead of those three words he knew would change things too much for the both of you.

You cocked your head to the side with an amused smile and your eyes narrowed in question—this wasn’t the somewhat calm reaction you expected from him making you laugh deliriously. Leon reached out a shaky hand that went unnoticed by you and placed it on your shoulder. His eyes trailed from his hand placement to your neck, handprints had begun to show now from earlier.

One minute or second more and you’d be taken from him. He wouldn’t be joking then. And you wouldn’t be laughing either. He wouldn’t get to hear the sweet cadence of it or see the creases in your face as you smiled—the features that interrogated him and illuminated a deeper feeling he held than just fondness.

“You… okay?” You asked with a raised eyebrow. You knew he was trying his best to calm your nerves and comfort you after what nearly happened but you figured your reaction to his joke would’ve told him you were okay, more than.

“We should probably… get moving,” he replied, the breathiness in his voice that wasn’t there normally caught your attention and it dawned on you that maybe it wasn’t you that needed calming but him. Leon’s hand fell from your shoulder and his lip curled upwards, making you rethink. “Before more of them come,” he added with a tired but relieved sigh, looking back at you with what you could only describe as gratefulness. You smile back, a fond and thankful smile this time instead of an amused one.

Those weren’t the words Leon wanted to say to you, those three words that he repeated over and over again in his mind. But they made their home there until he could think of nothing else but you when the thought of the word love crossed through his mind.

thank you for reading! . link to series masterlist . masterlist

© emilzke : please do not copy, translate, or repost my works.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience. 

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream. 

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel. 

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside. 

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement. 

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either. 

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day. 

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price. 

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear. 

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks." 

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke. 

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes. 

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things. 

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to. 

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not. 

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed. 

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant. 

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick. 

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car. 

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh. 

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for. 

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old." 

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had. 

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his. 

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away. 

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in. 

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point. 

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest. 

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects. 

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…" 

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple. 

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want… 

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying. 

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already. 

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull. 

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth. 

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago. 

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed. 

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap. 

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too. 

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say. 

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes. 

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart. 

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?" 

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco. 

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not... 

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong. 

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in. 

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream. 

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?" 

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise. 

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel… 

And Alaska. 

[drabbles-mc]

You Have Friends?

Richie Jerimovich x F!Reader Richie Jerimovich & Carmy Berzatto & Neil Fak

For @the-slumberparty's Bingo Challenge! Bingo Square: friends with benefits

Warnings: 18+, language, canon-typical chaos

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: I love them. I love them all so much. I can and would kill a man for Neil Fak.

The Bear Taglist: @garbinge @withmyteeth @justreblogginfics @narcolini (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

You had your phone out, ready to call or text him to come and meet you outside. You weren’t expecting the door to be unlocked, but it pulled open with no resistance. Your eyebrows lifted, and for a moment you still contemplated just calling him anyway. But then you heard the crashing sounds, the subsequent yelling after the fact, and you knew that even if you called him repeatedly he wasn’t going to pick up the phone. Especially not when he was one of the people doing the yelling.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind you. The metallic clanging of the door hitting the frame was a sound you were certain no one else heard other than you. You took careful steps through the restaurant, or what used to be a restaurant, what was going to be a restaurant again in a couple months, apparently. There was debris everywhere, and the deeper you walked, the more the yelling made sense. Although, knowing Richie, yelling would happen even when it didn’t make sense. Italian aesthetic for the least Italian man you know.

Passing by a tarp, the one spray painted by someone who was clearly angry when they got the can of paint in their hand, you finally landed yourself where everyone was gathered. Carmy and Richie were chest-to-chest, or their approximation of that as Richie towered over him. Fak was on standby, and based off of what Richie had told you, you were certain that Fak was ready to jump in on Carmy’s behalf and not Richie’s.

There were a few other people there too. You recognized Natalie, worry and frustration all over her face as she watched Carmy and Richie yell and duke it out with each other. Your eyes widened as you took in the entire scene playing out in front of you. It clicked for you why Richie never told you to stop by.

Finally, she snapped. “Will you two shut the fuck up, please?! This isn’t solving anything!”

Richie shook his head, stepping back from Carmy only to aggressively gesture at him instead. “Nothing this dickhead is doing is solving anything! That’s the whole fuckin’—”

“I’m sorry,” Carmy interrupted Richie’s tirade, no longer looking at the man who had just been about to throw him through the crumbling sheetrock walls around them, “um who, who are you?”

Your eyes widened further not just at the fact that he was looking at you, talking to you, but at the drastic shift in his voice. He was quiet now, tone almost gentle, but clearly very confused. You cleared your throat, the nerves you’d felt standing in front of the restaurant were back in full-swing now that the yelling had stopped.

“Hi, sorry. I just—” you stopped short and held up the leather jacket in your hand as your only explanation.

Richie’s originally surprised expression had shifted to confusion. But once he saw the jacket in your hand, it changed into something else entirely. Almost soft. As soft as he would allow himself to be in the middle of the warzone.

“Shit,” his shoulders dropped and he stepped away from Carmy. “Thank you. Completely fuckin’,” he didn’t finish the sentence throwing out a vague hand gesture instead.

You chuckled quietly, still feeling awkward in the midst of it all but not quite as much now. Richie was, strangely enough, your tether in the midst of whatever storm you’d stumbled into. “I know.”

You handed it over to him, looking around at everyone who was looking at you. Maybe you should introduce yourself to the room. You knew most of them, or knew of them at least. Richie talked about them enough to make you feel like you knew them—you saw the pictures in his apartment, on his phone. Judging by the various looks of shock and confusion on everyone else’s faces, he was not as talkative about you as he was about all of them. That was about what you expected. You waited to see if Richie was gonna introduce you instead of making you do it, but he looked just about as lost as anyone else.

Clearing his throat, he nodded back the way you’d come in. “I’ll walk you out.”

You nodded, looking around at everyone. “It’s was nice to…you know…” you waved awkwardly. “Bye.”

The variety of goodbye’s that you got from everyone in the room was humorous. Or it was to you, at least. Judging by the look on Richie’s face you had the feeling that he was never going to be hearing the end of everything that just transpired over the last sixty seconds. You knew that whatever that was wasn’t their best behavior, but it was the best they could conjure up given your unexpected arrival and the fact that they had no idea who the fuck you were. It was a little impressive, honestly, especially if any of them were anything like Richie.

“I was gonna call,” you said as you and Richie made your way back through the minefield, trying to take all the same steps you had on the way in but in reverse lest you cause something else to collapse, “but then the door was open so I sorta just let myself in.”

He shook his head. “It’s fine. You’re fine.” He paused as he reached to open the door for you. “How much of that did you catch?”

You laughed. “Um, caught just about everything after you told one of them that you are ‘perfectly fucking capable’ of tearing the wall down safely.”

Richie shook his head. “Fuckin’ Fak.”

 You continued, not acknowledging his statement with anything but a smile. “Which, no offense,” you looked over at him, “I heard the crashing when I walked in. Not sure how true that is.”

“Not you too,” he shook his head as you both stood in the doorway. You were standing just out on the sidewalk, Richie just barely inside the hollowed-out restaurant.

“Just keepin’ it real,” you said, holding your hands up in surrender.

Richie was still shaking his head as he looked up at the sky for a moment, like he was visibly trying to talk himself out of saying something shitty. Finally looking back at you, he said, “Thanks for the jacket.” He shook it in his hand to emphasize his point.

“I know you guys are,” you made a general circling motion with your hand in the direction of the restaurant, “but call me when you’re done if you want.”

“Alright, yea.” He ran his hand across his brow-line. “I’ll let you know.”

You nodded. “Sounds good.” You leaned in, stealing a chaste kiss before stepping back away again. “Oh, and Richie?”

He looked at you, eyebrows raised. “Yea?”

“Take it easy on Carmy.” You laughed. “It’s fucked up to bully children.”

Richie laughed, tension dropping from his shoulders a little bit. “He makes it too easy, though. Candy from a fuckin’ baby, I swear.”

You laughed a little harder at that, shaking your head. “That’s exactly my point.” You watched him roll his eyes at you and all you could do was smile. “Talk to you later.”

“Yea, yea, I’ll see you.”

Richie stood there in the doorway and watched as you walked back down the sidewalk. You got a few strides away and realized that you hadn’t heard the clattering of the door shutting. When you turned around and saw him standing there still looking at you, you laughed and shook your head at him. He smiled, but rather than saying anything else, he just gave you the finger before pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his track pants.

When he walked back into the construction area, everyone stopped what they were doing to look at him. By that point, everyone only consisted of Fak and Carmy. Natalie must’ve handed out tasks to just about everyone else, things they could do that didn’t involve trying to work through the mess that Richie had just inadvertently created with the disintegrating wall.

“Who was that?” Carmy immediately asked when Richie stepped back in the room.

“Don’t fuckin’ worry about it.”

Fak piped up. “Is she your girlfriend? Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Shut the fuck up, Neil,” Richie snapped with a shake of his head.

“Is she, though?” Fak didn’t let up.

“No—what—what are we, fuckin’ twelve? She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She’s stopping by!” Fak countered. “With your jacket!” He gasped dramatically. “Do you sleep over?”

“I’m gonna put you through that fuckin’ wall, I swear to god.”

Carmy was half-covering his mouth with his hand watching the two of them going back and forth. He tried not to smile. “She’s not your girlfriend, then. So, so what is she?”

Richie threw his hands up, jacket flapping as he did. “Why are we even talkin’ about this right now? Don’t you have a restaurant to open?”

“Can’t open shit when you’re knocking all the walls down,” Carmy shot back with a small smirk pulling at his lips. He paused. “What’s, what’s the deal?”

Richie shook his head, knowing that he wasn’t going to get out of the conversation without giving some kind of answer. For as annoyed as he was, he also had a sliver of awareness in the back of his mind that when the shoe is on the other foot he was just as relentless, if not more.

“I met her on, fuckin’, you know,” he patted at his pants pocket where his phone was. “And she’s cool.”

“But not your girlfriend,” Carmy clarified.

“No. We’re like, friends with benefits or whatever you fuckin’ lizards call it.”

“You have friends?” Carmy asked with a laugh.

“She gives you benefits?” Fak piped up, his voice that same shocked almost-whisper he used so often.

Richie was shaking his head at both of them. He pointed at Carmy, using the hand that was still clutching his jacket. “Fuck you—yes, I have friends.” He turned to Fak and pointed at him next. “And fuck you, yes I get benefits!” He punctuated the sentence by giving him a good shove.

“Think she’s still gonna give you benefits after seeing you act like a fucking maniac in here today?” Carmy asked, eyebrows slightly raised as he tried and failed miserably at not looking amused.

“Pfft,” Richie shrugged like he was so unbothered by it, like he was far cooler than he really is, “bet I’ll get even more benefits now.”

“Gross,” Carmy responded with a laugh.

“So gross,” Fak agreed.

“You fuckin’ asked,” Richie argued, pointing back and forth between the two of them.

Before they could descend further into the madness, Natalie’s voice came ringing in front the office. “Neil! Sweetheart! Come here for a second, please.”

“Coming!” he called back, charming as ever. He looked at Richie, pointing at him accusingly. “You’re gross.”

“And you don’t fuck, Neil Fak,” Richie replied without missing a beat.

Once he walked out of the room, Richie and Carmy both instantly broke down laughing. They were both shaking their heads, at each other, at Fak, at all of it. The entire morning had been a mess, just like most of the other mornings preceding it. It was so easy to get lost in it sometimes that giving each other shit over things like that was a breath of fresh air in the strangest way. Bullying each other just for the sake of it not because it felt like the restaurant was imploding and they were each trying to cope with it the only way that they really knew how.

“Hey, cousin,” Carmy spoke up after things had quieted between them again. It looked at Richie who was looking down at the jacket in his hand.

“Yea?” Richie pulled his eyes back up.

He nodded in the direction of the door. “That all good?”

Richie shrugged, nodded. “It’s all good.”

The ends of Carmy’s mouth lifted into a tiny grin. It was genuine, still just a touch of humor to it because they were still the exact men that they were. “Alright.” He clapped Richie on the back. “C’mon, let’s clean up this fuckin’ wall you knocked down.”

“I didn’t knock—”

“You fuckin’ did!” Carmy said with a laugh.

“You know what? Whatever,” Richie shook his head. Turning on his heel, he went to put his jacket away, somewhere out of the danger zone. “Grab a fuckin’ broom, then.”

Carmy was shaking his head, already making his way to get supplies to start containing the mess. He grabbed a garbage can and a broom, chuckling to himself when he heard Fak and Richie pick up their arguing all over again just a few yards away.

[lazypanartist]

Hobie Brown x Artistic/DIY Reader

I love him 💙

pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4

Warnings: maybe spoilers for ATSV, IDK. Reader's in the punk scene and from Hobie's universe. Whole lotta projection. Canon-typical injuries

Features info dumping and personal Hobie HCs I guess. It's long ASF. And just self indulgent

Please RB, likes alone don't do anything for the algorithm!

-----

DIY/punk Hobie Brown

If you're in the scene, you know the basics

Patches?

Hand-Stitched

Usually with dental floss for durability/cost efficiency

And originally painted with white-out for the same reasons

Spikes or studs?

Cheap, bulk buy, screw em on yourself

Or just make em out of cans

Hobie's fit looks like it fits the bill

Old leather or denim jacket with the sleeves cut off

FN/SM painted on the back

Shirt's kinda tattered iirc

Spiked collars are easy

Same with the wristbands

When he meets you?

Whoo boy

It was one of his shows he was putting on

New songs, new faces in the crowd

He spots you from a distance at first

Little sketchbook in hand

You stay through his whole performance

When he's chatting up the crowd afterwards, though?

You're already gone

(Bitch writes a song about the pretty thing watching from afar, bc ofc he does)

He next sees you during one of President Osborne's speeches

Standing in the front row of a gathered crowd, shaking your head at the screen

He drops down after a few minutes, hanging upside down and blocking the less-than-pleasant view

He takes a few moments between questions from others

Little explanations

A promise to do what he can

Takes just a glimpse to look you over

You have a similar touch to the rest of the crowd

Worn out boots, tattered clothes, hand-sewn and painted patches

And your sketchbook still in hand

It's a little peculiar for the crowd

But he doesn't question it

What he does question is where you've gone after he turns to look at you

He only took a second for more reassurances

But when he goes to see you again

You're gone, just like the first time you caught his eye

He realizes then

That he's intrigued

He doesn't know what it is about you

Until he keeps seeing you pop up again

Riots

Concerts

Shows

Speeches

His immaterial object of interest

He finally starts actually talking to you the third or fourth time he sees you

At another of Osborne's liefests

An ambassador on a stage, surrounded by punks

Speaking of the President's virtues

Yeah

Spider-Punk shows up pretty quickly to run him off

And gets to chatting with you

When he first approaches, you ask for his opinion on a patch idea

And turn your sketchbook to show him the page

His spider symbol backpiece

But instead of FN/SM, it simply states

"Down With President Osborne"

He takes your pen and signs as a seal of approval before swinging away

Sure, it was a short interaction

But it led to even more meaningful ones

Like, say..

Him practically dropping out of the sky into a park

You were just minding your business, sketching the scenery

When he almost fell on top of you.

Covered in injuries

He laughs when he looks up and sees that it's you

Because of course it's you

Tries to resist when you start futzing over him

If you're the parent friend like me?

Patch him up

PLEASE

Even if you can't see him back together

Just

Bandaids and gauze pads

And maybe some candy

Bc suckers help with creativity

Or it's just my neurodivergence? Idk

Just. Offer him one in case he needs to bite on something while you're putting alcohol on his injuries

When you're done he looks them over

Promptly winces when he twists his arm 🙄

But then thanks you for your help and swings off

Again

These kinds of interactions become common

He'll find you hanging around the city

Either doodling or just vibing

And drops down to talk for a bit

Or get patched up

Loves when you offer to fix his costume

Bc it looks just as nice & homemade as the rest of your/his fits

Grins under his mask when he sees a new patch or two

And starts snickering if you deny their application

He really appreciates everything you do for him

And figures he should prove it

Sure, he's saved you

But he's saved a lot of people..

He wants this to be special

Unique

And he thinks he knows how to do that..

---

Click for next part

[theyanderespecialist]

Base Yandere Apollo Headcanons: Sunshine Muse (Greek Mythology)

[Hello My Sexy Muffins, we are back with a new chapter and in this chapter, it is Apollo as a yandere. I hope that you all enjoy this!] 

(Disclaimer: To my knowledge, Apollo is not canon to be a yandere in greek mythology does not make him a great person though. Most gods from many mythologies played by different rules. They were Gods and were in the past and the past was a freaked place. Simping for greek gods and fictional yanderes is fine as long as you separate fiction from reality! Greek Gods and yanderes are not ideal partners to have, in real life.) 

-Base Yandere Headcanons With Apollo-

.Apollo is the god of divine distance—the god who made mortals aware of their own guilt and purified them of it, who presided over religious law and the constitutions of cities, and who communicated with mortals his knowledge of the future and the will of his father. 

.He was also a god of crops and herds and the sun. 

.He loved music, poetry, and dance. 

.He would watch the herds and play sweet music. 

.It was a simple life. 

.Though just like most gods Apollo was a frisky thing. 

.Chasing women around some transforming themselves into trees and such to just get away from him. 

.He also was an oracle seeing the future. 

.Now in the modern day he has a still love for music, mainly rock music. 

.He wakes up at sunrise every single morning and plays rock music. 

.You can see him in a leather jacket sunglasses and a smirk on his face. 

.He is a ladies' man and a player. 

.He knows he will never settle down. 

.Well that is at least what he thought he would not do. 

.That was until he met you a mortal who was at the same rock concert you were at. 

.You may have chosen to be there or dragged there by a friend either way you bump into the greek god in his human form. 

.He has smitten with you right away, trying to flirt with you and hit on you. 

.At the time you were not impressed by him. 

.He of course did would not take no for an answer. 

.He let it go though but you would consume his thoughts he could not stop thinking about you. 

.He used his powers to see into the future to see your future. 

.At the first time he did it you ended up with your partner happy and it made him so angry. 

.Who was this person that they thought they were worthy of you? 

.He could not stand it. 

.So he made it so he would change the future. 

.First, he worms his way into your life making him have a friendship with you. 

.Then he is the type of yandere that would not kill his rival, your partner right away. 

.No he is going to manipulate the situation so you start to not trust him and you and your partner start to resent each other. 

.He is a crafty yandere and has an advantage with seeing how things will play out. 

.When he finally gets your partner to break up with you he is the one there to help you back up and to make you feel loved. 

.He has manipulated all of this to make it so you accept his love. 

.He would deal with other rivals by making them commit unalive he is not taking any chance of any more rivals. 

.He would make music for you, as you are his muse. 

.He will also see you as his sunshine and the light of his life. 

.He is also a persistent yandere. 

.So it does not matter how long he has to pursue you, he will wear you down until you can no longer resist him and then you will be his and his alone. 

.So it does not matter if you say yes or no he will wear you down and chase you like the sun chases the moon. 

.You are his sunshine after all. His muse.

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS another chapter done, I hope you all enjoyed and stay sexy all of my sexy muffins!] 

[mcuamerica]

The Lake | Eris x Reader

For Eris Week 2024 - Day 5: War | Adventure @erisweekofficial

Summary: The war with Koschei gives Eris and you an adventure you weren't expecting.

Warnings: 18+, suggestive sexual content, canon level violence, not well-proof read (let me know if I forgot anything!)

Dividers by @tsunami-of-tears for Eris Week.

It wasn’t exactly easy convincing Rhys to let you spend your time with Eris. You may have eased the worry that Eris was going to hurt you, but that didn’t mean he trusted the male. And he certainly didn’t want you marrying or mating him. Not yet. Not with Beron’s sadistic mind still around. 

But you could spend time with Eris now. And after he helped win the war with Hybern… let’s just say Rhys was more inclined to leave you alone with him. 

When Koschei came about… when he took Elain and Lucien begged Eris for help, you were the one who offered to go with. Because you loved Elain like a sister, like all the Archeron’s. And for Lucien… for the male who helped save your life… you would help his mate. 

Eris needed to help his little brother. Needed to ensure that even if he couldn’t erase the past, maybe he could aid in the present. For Lucien’s future. 

Here you were, Eris and you trekking through some human land where Koschei should have been. You should have found him days ago. Found the lake. But nothing was around. 

“If we don’t find anything by tomorrow… we might have to go back.” You said, finally giving up and sitting down on a rock. “We’ve been at this for days and we haven’t found a thing.” 

“Don’t give up so easily, darling.” He said and knelt down in front of you. “Maybe we need a little… adventure.” He said and stood up, smirking slightly. 

You looked up when he held a hand out. “What would you call what we’re in right now?” You asked. 

“War… but war doesn’t have to be all bleak. And while we look for Elain… maybe we keep have a little fun.” He said. 

“Elain could be suffering-“ you had been thinking as much for the past few days. Lucien was on some curse bound to the Night Court, of course set on by Koschei. The rest of the night court was finding ways to find Elain. And you… for whatever reason whenever Koschei was about to attack… you could sense it. As if your power came from the same darkness he possessed. Eris was there as an anchor for you. To ground you. Ensure your safety. Because even knowing the rest of your family would protect you… no one would do it as fiercely as your mate. Even if it wasn’t official yet. 

“Hey, we’ve been looking. Let’s just… I think there’s something down here. Maybe it’s good. Maybe it’s bad.” He said and shrugged, taking your hand and tugging you down a path. 

You picked up running water and as you rounded a corner full of trees, you found a small lake with a beautiful waterfall. “How can something so beautiful be near something so terrible?” You asked. 

“You’re next to me, I think that speaks for itself.” He said. 

You looked up at him and frowned. “Eris Vanserra… you are not terrible.” You said and cupped his cheek. “You’re the most kind… handsome… amazing male I’ve ever met. And that includes all other High Lords.” You said. 

“I think you’re obligated to say that, you’re my mate.” He said and smirked. 

“Well I mean it.” You said and leaned up, kissing his cheek. “Now what about that adventure?” You asked. 

Eris stared into your eyes for a few more moments. “Hmm… how about I get to see you out of these leathers?” He said, his hands trailing to the buttons on your jacket. “It’s way too hot. And if we’re having an adventure…”

You smirked. “Only if you get to take this off too.” You said and tugged on his tunic. 

His answering smirk only heated your core. “To the water we go, my love.” He whispered and nipped at your neck before pulled away. You watched as he completely stripped, leaving nothing for your mind to imagine as he strutted into the water. Your eyes lingered on his ass, lip between your teeth as he submerged. 

He came out a moment later, dripping in water. His hair was wet and stuck to his head, which struck something deep in your core. 

“Are you coming, darling?” He asked, his large biceps flexing as he leaned against the raised earth. 

With that, you stripped off your top. “Anything you want, High Lord.” He said and smirked, watching as you walked towards him and stripped your clothes. 

“You are magnificent.” He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. 

You hummed as you walked over to the lake, slipping in the water so your hair didn’t get wet. “Am I?” You teased and swam over to him, smiling when his hands landed on your waist. 

You could feel the wet earth on your toes, sinking just slightly before Eris picked you up. You squealed, laughing as you wrapped your legs around him. You could feel his hard length pressing against your core as you tangled your fingers with his hair. “Why don’t you show me how magnificent I really am?” You whispered, nipping his ear. 

Just as he was about to, you felt him tighten his grip on you, sinking deeper into the water. “What is it?” You asked. 

“This isn’t a normal lake.” He muttered. Before you could inquire further, he hoisted you into the earth. “Run.” 

You watched as he was sucked under water, a yell coming from your lips. “Eris!” 

Your eyes widened as the air became cold, your naked body being drained of all the heat. And with Eris potentially drowning… 

Like hell you were going to run. He was your mate. He may have the intrinsic need to protect you but you have the need to protect him too. So, without even trying to grab your leathers, you dived into the water. 

Black murky water devoured him. It was almost as if he was stuck in the mud itself. He held his breath, knowing he couldn’t keep it up for long.

There was a faint yelling he couldn’t hear. How long has he been down here? He hoped you got out. 

The pulling started. He felt as if the water-mud around him was sucking him dry, even though he was under water. These damn lakes in the human lands. Unless this is Koschei… it can’t be. Eris was shown the lake by Rhys. Who saw it from Vassa. This wasn’t it. 

Unless Koschei changed the appearance to lure you in. Considering how powerful you both were… he might just want to trap you as well. He hoped you ran. 

The water wasn’t clear as you swam through it. You made sure to steer clear of the mud, searching for Eris. Anything at all to let you know that he was still here. You didn’t see his fire bright hair. Or anything to indicate he was here.

You held in screech when you felt something grab your ankle. When you looked back, you couldn’t see anything. But you felt like you were being dragged further. You shot out your magic, but whatever grabbed you didn’t react. If anything, it took your magic. Grew stronger. As soon as you realized it, you stopped. You didn’t have your weapons. They were on shore with the rest of your clothes. How stupid were you both to go into a strange lake without anything on? 

You continued to hold your breath, glad that you had enough capacity as the creature pulled you further down. Were you in the mud? Were you still in the water? You couldn’t tell. But as soon as you tried to take a breath, you saw a light. You kicked the creature off and swam towards the light, gasping for air. 

The land you found was not the same. But a land that had a cabin just on the other side of it. You took a deep breath again, knowing you found Koschei. You looked around, finding Eris’s red hair pop out of the water. You let out a quiet sob as you swam towards him. “You’re okay.” You said, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I am… and we found Koschei.” He said. You nodded and looked around. “I can get clothes from the pocket realm. But we need to get out of this lake.” You whispered, then swam to the shore. If Koschei was here or not, he didn’t let on. You got out, mind fully gone of lust as you went towards the wood. You didn’t feel any wards pull at your magic, so you pulled the clothes you held in the pocket realm for this reason. You slipped them on and then tossed a few to Eris. “They’re Cassian’s… he never knows how to hide them.” You said. 

Eris cringed as he put them on. You noticed how the slightly sagged on his body but still fit. Cassian was a large male… and Eris definitely had the same strength if not more, but his build was different. “If you say I look hot in these clothes…” he growled. 

You let out a small giggle, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t even think it.” You said. Honestly, it was a miracle that you even had a sense of humor at all. But… being around Eris did that to you. 

“We need a plan.” You said. “Our magic might make him stronger.” 

“I don’t suppose you have any weapons in the pocket realm?” He asked, sighing when you shook your head. 

He saw the spark in your eye the second the thought reached your mind. His eyes narrowed just as you said, “You’re not going to like this idea…”

Eris walked along the forest edge of the lake, watching as you dove back into the water, swimming straight for the cabin at the other side. Your idea was insane. Maybe genius… but insane. He was fighting every instinct in his body to go after you and pull you away. He knew you could protect yourself. At least for a moment while he got away with Elain. And you. 

He watched a male… creature… walk out of the cabin door, calling to you. His hair was white, his eyes black. Eris knew it was Koschei. And you did too as your head perked up. You used your magic to dry yourself as you swam out of the lake, feigning innocence. Eris walked towards the back of the cabin, knowing the male was distracted by you - the female - too much to notice as Eris AND you probed at the wards, taking them down one by one. 

He walked in the back of the cabin, finding Elain in a room not far from the door. Her clothes were in tatters, but he knew her mind was clear. 

“You should not have come.” She said, standing up. “He will know. He will kill you.” She said. 

“Elain, we need to go.” 

“This is my war to fight.” She said firmly. “Not yours, not my mates, and not (Y/N)’s. You both need to go.” She said. “I have a plan.” 

“Tell it to me now because we aren’t leaving without you.” 

A sense of fear struck him the moment she opened her mouth. The bond… why couldn’t he feel the bond? 

“That would be because I took it away, fox,” a low, gravel-like voice said. It was like sand paper and nails on stone combined. Horrible, ancient. How had Elain stood this? “You won’t be getting to see your mate for a long long time.” He said and smirked. 

Eris turned towards him, shaking with rage. If he so much as laid a hand on you- “What did you do to her?” He asked. He’d worry about that missing piece of him. That hole in his chest later. He needed to see you. Where you were. Bond or not, you were his mate. The one thing in this world that truly made him happy. 

“Oh, she’s in the darkness where she belongs. Where her magic will be mine forever.” He said and smirked. “So much as she stays alive.. Which I plan on making sure of. Such pretty creatures that come from your land… Elain.. (Y/N).. It’s too bad I’m stuck here.” 

Elain had gone quiet and Eris knew well enough to not look at her. If she had a plan, she had to do it now. “And the magic from your lands… the sweet magic.” He smirked. “I can’t wait to see what I can take from a future High Lord, as you like to call yourself. What will I do-” 

His eyes, dark as the night without the moon or stars, turned white. “What are you doing?” He let out a rasp, hand immediately reaching for Elain. She sidestepped him, an uncharacteristic smirk dawning her lips. 

“You will never take from females- or anyone, ever again.” She said and took a deep breath. Eris finally turned to look at her. The eyes she shared with Feyre, white as well. She was somehow in his mind. “Not his mind,” Elain corrected. “I’m in his soul… You see, I found it yesterday. In this little box. And my magic called to it, told me to destroy it. I’m a seer… and I saw all that you’ve done. And I also saw exactly how to kill you. Release everyone from your grasp.” Elain stepped up, a dagger- Lucien’s dagger at her side. “This box really is pretty, too bad I have to destroy it.” She said, placing it on the table. All around her white power glowed, radiation off of her skin, her torn clothes. “Goodbye, Koschei,” she finally said, stabbing the box. 

Eris blocked his eyes as the creature ignited a light brighter than anything he had ever seen before. “What-” 

And just as quick as it happened, he was gone. And the bond… he could feel it again. But it was distant. 

Elain held onto the table and he went to grab her. “I’m fine… go find (Y/N)... Koschei… many of those trapped are going to come out. We need to get her out of here.” 

It was a different kind of darkness, the hole he put you in. Or… whatever it was. You were used to darkness. Your powers craved it most of the time. But this was different. It was void of all life… hope… anything to give you some semblance of reality. You may have only been in there for a few minutes but it felt like days. 

Your magic was being drained from you, every second it would replenish and then be pulled out. Painfully. And the bond with Eris that you tried to tug on to give you some hope… it was gone. You couldn’t feel it. A part of you thought you died. Maybe Koschei killed you and this is what the outcome was. This is what death- what fading truly was like. A miserable darkness that was void of all light and goodness. But then you saw it. That bright, fire red hair. 

Your eyes adjusted as a door opened above you. All the light streamed in and a gasp left your breath. “Eris!” You yelled, taking his hand. He pulled you up right into his arms. 

“Oh thank the Mother.” He whispered. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” 

You sobbed as you buried your head in his chest. “I want to marry you.” You whispered. 

His head pulled away from yours, cupping your cheeks. “What did you say?” He asked. 

“I want to marry you. I want to mate you. I need- I need this to be official. To be strong.” You answered. “I can’t go another second without being your mate.” 

Tears lined Eris’s eyes. “I will marry you, and mate you, and make you my High Lady whenever you want, my love.” He whispered, kissing your brow. “Let’s get back to your family first.” 

You took a shaky breath, holding onto him. “I’ll kill your father myself. We will be together.” You said. 

“Let’s focus on killing one big bad at a time, shall we?” Elain asked. 

You let out a squeal and looked towards her. “Elain! Thank the Mother you’re okay.” You said and hugged her. “You saved me. You saved everyone. You’re amazing.” You said. 

“I’d like to go home… and speak to my family before we get that far.” She said, a small blush creeping up her cheeks. 

You nodded and smiled, taking Eris’s hand. “Will you do the honor?” You asked him. 

He winked at you. “Of course.” 

“Remind me to never follow you on an adventure.” You teased, Eris’s loud, bright laugh echoing in your ears as he returned you all to the Night Court.

A/N: honestly this is kind of all over the place but I still like it lol

[yourmomxx]

Father of Mine

father of mine masterlist

summary: All Dean Winchester ever wanted was to protect the people he loved. Sometimes, in order to do that, he had to make hard decisions, Lisa and Ben were the prime example. Years after making another one of those hard decisions, he has to come back to the place where he had left a piece of his heart - only to be constantly reminded of what he had to sacrifice in order to keep his family safe.

warnings: canon violence, child abandonment, swear words, angst, daddy issues, character death, throwing up, this is written like an episode of Supernatural

word count: 8,2k

a/n: I’ve been writing this story for … a year now? I think? And I’ve gotta admit, I am so happy that it is finally out. Everything that I write means incredibly much to me, but this story just holds such a special place in my heart and I am very happy to share it now with you guys. I do hope you like it, and, as always, reblogs are very much appreciated because that way the story gets spread to more people! Now, enjoy!

flashbacks are written in italics

pt1 pt2 pt3

Cleveland, Ohio 2002

The bar was crowded with people.

Gruffed men wearing leather jackets and intoxicated women in crop-tops were all sprawled out around an alcohol booth in the middle.

In another corner, currently bathed in purple and orange spotlight, a guy with an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a bucket-hat was giving a lousy cover of ‘God save the Queen’ by Sex Pistols.

♫ ♪ “Don't be told what you want. Don't be told what you need. There's no future, no future, no future for you!” ♫ ♪

On one of the way too small bar chairs, sipping a burning mix of whiskey and ginger ale, was sitting Dean Winchester, and he was pissed.

Pissed at his stupid father, who was acting like Dean was a 15-year-old with no common sense whatsoever, pissed at the goddamn ghost that had found an incredible pleasure in almost ripping his fingers off his hands, and pissed at stupid Sam for just getting up one day and leaving him - didn’t matter if that had been months ago.

And with every drink that Dean downed, he started feeling more like “Dad can kiss my ass” instead of “Dad has been doing this much longer than you and just knows better”. Meaning, he should probably slow down.

But whatever.

His Dad could kiss his ass.

♫ ♪ “Oh when there's no future, how can there be sin? We're the flowers in the dustbin!” ♫ ♪

“Why, hello,” he suddenly heard a sweet voice next to him say.

Dean turned his head and was met face to face with friendly, glimmering eyes.

Those, just as the voice that had spoken to him, belonged to a young woman who seemed to have just appeared next to him.

He moved his gaze up and down her body.

Apart from her eyes, she had smooth skin, that was covered with glowing sweatpearls, most likely because of the stuffy air around them.

Or maybe, just like Dean, she had had a couple drinks too many.

A few, fine strands of her shoulder-length hair were tousled, likely from combing her hands through it.

He licked his lips. “Well, hello you. With whom do I have the pleasure?”

He was laying on thick and he knew that, but it’s not like he could care about it.

“Gloria. Richards.” She was speaking in a soft, honey voice, and Dean urged himself to focus on her face, and not the way her neck and chest were lightly gleaming from the thin layer of sweat covering them.

“What’s yours?”

Dean Winchester.

But no, that wasn’t his name. Not today at least. If he could just remember what was. And the drinks didn’t exactly make thinking easier.

“Dean Hansley.”

Gloria smiled again.

What a nice smile she had.

"Dean Hansley." She tasted the words, let them burn on her tongue. "That's a nice name."

And then she sat down at the stool next to him, without waiting for him to invite her, and she started talking.

And he talked back with her.

And time went by, and she kept finishing and ordering drinks, that Dean all offered to pay, and she never refused.

By now, the guy in the Hawaiian shirt had been thrown off the karaoke stage, after heavily throwing up into one of the other guest's handbags, halfway through a tedious ballad about life, and love, and its misery.

The only source of music was coming from the colorful jukebox next to the pool board.

A couple drunk-off-their-asses idiots, trying to play billiards, were loudly roaring along to AC/DC’s ‘You shook me all night long’.

♫ ♪ “She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean, she was the best damn woman that I ever seen!” ♫ ♪

Gloria was still sitting next to him, although a bit closer, and she was sipping at her third drink he had bought her tonight.

And damn, that girl had high tolerance.

Dean thought she was amazing.

“That thing with your family sucks, really.” She scrunched up her nose in slight discomfort.

Dean let out a humorless laugh and took a sip of the whiskey he was still stuck with. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Yes, he had told her about his - family issues. But so what?

It felt nice having someone listening to him for a change. Someone who wasn’t his family, didn’t even know them, and wouldn’t try to disregard his frustration by telling him to ‘put himself in his father’s shoes for once’.

Gloria finished her drink and used the palm of her hand to wipe the sweat off her forehead.

Dean tried his best to not think too much about her knee touching his, her being so close him.

“The air in here is terrible,” she said, heavily emphasizing the last word.

Dean’s attention was turned to her again. He knew she had said something before that, but he hadn’t been able to catch it, too lost in his own mind.

He kind of felt bad for not listening to her.

Dean threw a look around.

“Yeah, it’s getting pretty hot in here,” he agreed, feeling pearls of sweat rolling off the little hairs on his neck.

Gloria looked directly into his eyes, then up his body, down his body, before settling on his eyes again.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Then her lip.

“I mean,” she slowly spoke, “we could continue this conversation somewhere else if you want. Where there’s not so many people and the air doesn’t taste like salt.”

♫ ♪ “You really took me and you shook me all night long! Ooh, you shook me all night long!” ♫ ♪

Hell yeah.

A boyish grin started forming on his face.

“An offer like that - how could I say no?”

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Now

“Read it again for me.”

Dean was staring straight ahead onto the road, his gaze hard and jaw clenched.

Sam sighed and opened the newspaper again, for what had to be the seventh time now since they had first found it.

They were both sitting in the Impala, Castiel in the backseat. The angel could have just flipped his wings and flown to the destination they were headed, but he had insisted to take the drive with them, claiming he had “nothing better to do anyway”.

“St. George, Louisiana,” Sam started to read.

“In the night of Wednesday to Thursday, a young man was found dead in his room in Saint George’s Children’s Home. The 17-year-old Roy Kendall hadn’t come out of his room the first half of the day, and when a woman of the working personnel - whose name has been withheld - came to check on him, she discovered his mutilated body draped out on the bed. According to the police, the young man’s rib cage had been compressed with such force that his ribs were broken and had managed to pierce through the young man’s internal organs, which resulted in him slowly bleeding out internally. Authorities are still in the dark about the exact details of the tragedy and the questions of “Why” and, particularly, “How” something like this could even be possible. The head of the Children’s Care Institution …, blah blah blah.”

Sam purposefully drifted off and ended his reading session therefore. He folded the newspaper back together and stuffed it into the Impala’s globe compartment.

“And that’s it, I am not reading this again. Next thing you know, I’m going to dream about squished organs and ribcages.”

He shuddered.

“I just don’t get it, man,” Dean said, ignoring his brother’s complaints, but he didn’t seem to address anyone in particular.

“I mean, I checked everything, Sammy. No demonic omens, no strategic killings, no recent disappearances. That place was all white picket fences and summer barbecues when we- ”

He was quick to cut himself off.

Sam threw his brother a side glance, but decided to not address his slip-up.

“Well, Dean, sometimes monsters just … turn up, you know.” This time Sam turned his head to get a proper look at his older brother.

“Maybe it’s just passing through, or simply moved there from somewhere else. They aren’t exactly tied to a specific place.”

Dean ran his hand over his face and through his hair in distress. “Out of all places, why there?” He muttered in a low tone.

And again, he was more talking to himself than anyone else.

“I don’t understand.” Cas was suddenly talking from the back seat. “What is in this Children’s Home that is of so much importance to you both?”

Dean was quick to answer a “Nothing,” but Castiel didn’t quite believe him.

Sam turned in his seat to face the angel.

“We were working a case near there a while back,” he simply explained.

Cas frowned, still not quite convinced, but he decided to let the topic rest. For now, at least.

“I understand,” he said. “Then it would probably be of benefit for you to stick with your past aliases. Just in case anyone there should recognize you.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Dean vaguely answered, but he seemed trapped deep in his own thoughts.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Black Hawk, Colorado 2002

“To listen to this voicemail, call-”

A dial tone sounded. The message was a few months old.

“Hey, Dean, it’s uh … it’s Gloria. You know, Gloria Richards, from a few nights ago?” A humorless chuckle was heard on the other end of the line.

“Though, guys like you don’t usually remember their casual one-night hookups. So I’ll cut straight to the chase.” One heavy inhale.

“I’m pregnant. And I know the chances of you wanting anything to do with me are zero to negative six, but I just wanted to-”

“To delete this voicemail, press 2.”

A tone.

“Voicemail deleted.”

“To listen to this voicema-”

The woman on the other end sounded more outraged this time, even though occasional cracks or hiccups in her voice gave away that she had been heavily crying moments before. Maybe still was.

“Hello Dean, it’s me again. You know, I didn’t expect you to jump up high at the news, but ignoring me?” She scoffed. “That’s a different type of low.”

She sniffled. “I’m just calling to tell you I’ve decided to keep the baby. So you can still change your mind, if you-”

“To delete this voicemail, press-” “Voicemail deleted.”

“To listen to th-”

“Hello, Dean. It’s Gloria. Again.”

This time, she seemed calmer, which could be reasoned with the tiredness her voice was radiating.

“I suppose I’m still kind of hoping that you will call me back. Or even pick up.” She sighed.

“I wanted to tell you that she’s perfectly healthy and growing. That’s right. She. Our baby is going to be a-”

“To delete this-” ”Voicemail deleted.”

John Winchester stared at the small phone in his hand and pressed a button.

“You have no more voicemails.”

That moment, Dean came bursting into the motel room, looking around the empty shelves and patting up and down his jacket- and jeans-pockets.

“Hey Dad, do you know where my phone is? I heard it ringing,” Dean asked.

“Yes, just some spam-callers,” John neatly lied. “I took care of it, but I’m gonna put it out of service, just in case.”

Dean looked at him and for a moment, John thought his son would grow suspicious, but he just nodded. “Alright. Thanks, Dad.”

John nodded and Dean left the room with his bag in hand. When he was certain Dean wouldn’t come back, John took the phone apart and crashed the SIM Card on the nightstand with the lamp.

Then he put the pieces in the bin, took his duffel bag and followed his son to the car.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Now

The St. George’s Children’s Home was somewhat of a small castle, kept in a renaissance style.

Around a large courtyard, archways connected four round-towers, which were slightly higher than the rest of the castle. The walls were painted a pale yellow.

Trees grew in the gardens around the castle, flowers in planted beds, and as far as Dean could remember, there was a hedge maze behind the walls, not visible from the gateway.

They had parked the Impala in one of the parking spaces next to the tall, elegant terrain fence.

Sam and Dean were wearing black suits and their fake badges, Castiel - as always - stuck with the trench coat.

Dean was eyeing the building suspiciously.

In fact, he had been doing so for the last three minutes, in which they had all sat in the Impala in complete silence.

Sam threw a quick, concerned glance at his brother before clearing his throat.

“You really wanna do this?”, he asked quietly.

“No,” Dean answered and opened the car door, “But it’s not like we have a choice, right?”

Sam sighed and did the same, not before exchanging a quick, apprehensive look with Castiel, who still didn’t quite know what was going on.

The castle’s inside was considerably more modern than its outside.

With brightly-colored walls and furniture, and minimalistic decorations all over.

It seemed cozy.

They were headed for the office of the youth center’s director, Maria Whitlock. Dean remembered exactly where that was. Down the hall, left. Past a few closed bedroom doors. Last door at the end of the corridor.

Dean cleared his throat and knocked on the door, Sam right behind him. Castiel had left before they had entered the castle, claiming to look for a suitable Motel nearby, and telling them to contact him if they needed his help.

There was a beat of silence before they heard a woman’s voice reply “Yes?” and entered the office.

Maria Whitlock was an elderly woman, with dark red hair that she kept in a low bun. She was around a head smaller than Dean, and wearing a grey blouse combined with a wine red jacket and a black pencil skirt.

When she heard them enter the room, she looked up from a few papers she was filing, and her face immediately fell.

“Hello, Maria.” Sam greeted her.

“Dean and Sam Winchester,” she breathed out, startled.

“I never thought I would see you two again.”

Dean felt a sting in his chest.

“Yeah, well,” Sam said and tried a clumsy smile. A heavy silence followed, and Dean shifted uncomfortably.

Maria frowned. “Not to seem impolite, but what are the two of you doing here?” She asked.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly.

“We, uhm, we heard about Roy and we thought that, maybe, we should just check if everything was alright and, of course, speak our condolences. You know, for old time’s sake.”

She nodded and closed the pen. “Yes, right. Roy. I completely forgot that they put that in the paper.”

A look of dark grief fell over her face and her gaze drifted into nothingness. She suddenly looked much older than she was.

Dean cleared his throat. “I gave you my number, Maria,” he spoke. “If you would’ve called, we could’ve been here sooner.”

She blinked rapidly, pulling herself out of her thoughts and looked at him for a second before she replied.

“I know, I know, but to be honest - it slipped my mind, in between all of this … chaos and tragedy.”

While she was talking, she got up from her chair and walked around the table, getting a clearer view at Sam and Dean.

“Of course,” Sam hastily said. “No worries. We are very sorry for your loss.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Dean was glad that it had been Sam who had spoken up. He wasn’t very good at that sort of things. Nor did he aspire to be.

“You said you were here because of Roy’s …. passing,” Maria continued, and the brothers nodded.

“But that would mean that this was some sort of - unnatural incident.”

Sam swallowed hard.

“Well,” he started, trying to find the right words that would not trigger a breakdown for the woman, “we saw the article in the newspaper and thought that we would just have a look at it. The circumstances of Roy’s passing aren’t exactly common for a person his age, after all.”

Or for any person, really.

She nodded lazily. “Yes. I suppose you are right.”

Dean could swear that another minute of awkward silence between them would probably kill him, so he took it upon himself to prevent it before it started.

“I get that this is hard, Maria,” he said, “But if we could maybe ask you some questions? Maybe speak to the person that found him?”

She sniffled.

Oh dear God.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Her voice was a bit higher than before, and her hands grabbed for a handkerchief lying on the table.

“Uhm, the woman who found him was one of my responsible supervisors, Betty Langston. She should be present in the building today, but the last time I spoke to her, she was still pretty shaken up. I mean, who can blame her? I can’t even imagine what it must have been like, seeing that poor boy lying on his bed, just- ”

She broke off and a sob escaped her lips, before she buried her face in the kerchief.

“I’m sorry,” she cried, “I’m sorry, it’s just - he was such a kind boy. He had his whole life ahead of him. And the way that he had to go…”

She raised her head and shook it, eyes reddened and filled with tears.

“I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.”

“We understand, Maria,” Sam spoke in a comforting, low voice.

And Dean added, “And I promise we will find whatever did this and make sure this happens to no one ever again.”

She forced herself to a smile.

“Thank you, boys. May the angels be with you.”

Dean forbid himself a snort.

“Thank you for your time, Maria. We will let you know when we know more,” Sam said and left the office.

He wouldn’t risk making her cry again by bothering her with questions about her dead fosterling.

Dean smiled at Maria and turned to follow his brother, but she stopped him.

“Dean.”

He turned to face her.

“You do know that it won’t be possible for you to investigate here, without … encountering a certain someone.”

Dean straightened his shoulders.

“Yes, I know.”

“Have you thought about it? What you will say to her?”

“Gotta admit, I haven’t.”

She hummed and nodded. Dean noticed that she had resumed her usual upright position, and if he hadn’t just witnessed it, he probably would not know that she had been crying.

“I should warn you,” she said gently, “It probably won’t be easy.”

“I honestly didn’t expect it to be.”

She smiled a gentle smile at him and he returned it, before finally leaving the room and joining his brother in the hallway.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Lewiston, Michigan 2004

The first time he had read it, John Winchester had been drunk. He had spared a quick glance at it after coming home from a bar, before throwing himself onto the motel bed and passing out.

The second time he had read it, he had been sober, but suffering from a skull-splitting headache.

The third time he read it, it was simply to make sure his hungover mind wasn’t making any of this up. But no, the words on the newspaper stayed the same, grinning up at him with a sickening smirk that made his stomach turn.

In the small corner of the left page, where the lesser important news were usually placed, throned the bold-printed, black words:

24-year-old woman dies in tragic car accident, leaves 1-year-old daughter behind

No. God, no.

He read it again. Read the headline, read the article, the name that had been shortened but to him unmistakable: Gloria R.

R. Just like Richards. Gloria Richards.

There was a picture placed right next to the text, held in color, of a young woman that was clearly putting on a smile for the camera.

John slammed the newspaper on the round table.

“Damn it!” He yelled.

And in that moment, John was grateful that Dean had offered to go on a coffee run.

—

He was ‘going on a quick hunt’. That’s what he told Dean.

He was ‘going on a quick hunt and if anyone needed anything, they should contact Dean’. That’s what he told Bobby. And everyone that reached his voicemail.

Cleveland, Ohio. That’s where he was going. He had some business to attend to.

—

Central Nebraska

To say that Ellen Harvelle wasn’t delighted about John Winchester showing up inside the Roadhouse would be quite an understatement.

She was furious.

John paid attention to enter the wooden cabin carefully. He didn’t expect Ellen to be pleased by his sudden presence, especially considering their last encounter with each other.

It was a random Wednesday afternoon, and there wasn’t anyone seated in the Roadhouse, except for Ellen herself, who was busy cleaning the bar with a half-wet kitchen towel.

The brunette woman looked up for a quick second, as a form of formality, before she dedicated her attention back onto the dirty surface.

“I’ll be with you in a secon-” Then she realized. Stopped. Did a double take.

“Winchester.” The word was dripping from her lips with loathing.

“Hello, Ellen,” he started, but she cut him off.

“What do you want?” Her question was blunt and her tone cold and unwelcoming.

John cleared his throat and stepped from one foot to the other. He had to sell his story good, if Ellen wouldn’t get on board with his proposition, he had nobody else to go to.

“Look, Ellen. I get that you’re mad- ”

“Mad?” She let out a short, sour laugh.

“Mad doesn’t even begin to describe what I am feeling towards you, Winchester. Try hatred. Pure disgust.” She scoffed again.

“You must have a death wish, because I couldn’t think of any other possible reason why you would drag your dumbass out here again. ”

John swallowed hard. She was right. Who was he to just show up here again? After what happened?

But there was no turning back now, he had to go through with this.

“You’re right.” He spoke in a low tone to try and seem less intimidating and also attempt to soothe her temper towards him.

“I am sorry about what happened, Ellen. If I could go back and do it any different, then I would.”

A lie. She knew that. He knew that she knew that. Still - she didn’t interrupt, just kept glaring at him, so he decided to continue.

“But unfortunately, I can’t. And I know you have every right and reason to hate me now.”

Agreeing and empathizing with her.

“But there is something extremely important that I need to ask of you.”

Again, he didn’t have much time to talk, before Ellen raised her voice.

“You damned son of a bitch!”, she yelled, tossing the kitchen towel onto the counter with such force, the leftover water splashed around.

“You ain’t got no right walking in here, after what you pulled, and ask a goddamned favor of me!”

Her voice was loud in the silence of the Roadhouse and John lifted his hands up in defense.

“Ellen, please! Listen to me!”, he pleaded. Ellen wasn’t yelling at him anymore, but her jaw was still clenched and her entire body tense.

“I wouldn’t be here if I had any other options. Like you said, I must have a Deathwish to show up here. And I understand that. But you are the only person that I can trust with this. You can toss me out all you want after. You can yell, and scream, and punch me, and shoot at me. Just please, hear me out first. ”

There was silence, where John just stood there, his hands still raised in the air in front of him, and Ellen grinding her teeth as she thought about what to do now.

Because by God, did she hate him. And a part of her wanted to take a rifle and first shoot a bullet into his feet and then his di-

But on the other hand, she could not recall a time that John Winchester had ever gotten himself into a position to beg.

No, he was too proud for that. So whatever he wanted must be goddamn important for him, really.

“Tell me what you need, Winchester,” Ellen said eventually, “And let me decide afterwards.”

Her body language didn’t show one sign of hospitality still, but John interpreted her words as somewhat of a good sign.

Hopefully.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Now

After their talk with Maria, Sam and Dean settled on questioning Betty Langston.

In the middle of the wall in the entrance hall, a big frame with the pictures, names and duties of the working staff was hung up.

Above the name ‘Betty Langston’ was a picture of a friendly looking woman in her mid-twenties, with a pointed nose and blonde strands of hair framing her face.

Underneath, the duties “Social Worker” and “Deputy Manager” were listed.

When they knocked on the door which was labeled “staff”, a young man opened and told them that Betty Langston was currently positioned on the second floor.

Dean wanted to take the elevator, but Sam dragged him up the stairs.

“It will be faster,” he guaranteed, and Dean just rolled his eyes with a groan.

The hallways on the second floor were surprisingly wide, with doors placed across each other in a zig zag pattern.

Here and there were a few paintings on the walls, old and new, and green neon signs pointing toward the emergency exit.

They met Betty after they turned around the first corner. She stood in front of a pinboard and was currently hanging up new posters.

Her hair was different from the picture, slightly longer now ending halfway down her back, and copper colored with only a few blonde highlights.

The brothers made their way over to her and flashed their fake FBI-badges when she let off her work and shifted her attention to them.

“Hello, my name is David Shields, my partner’s name is Jarvis Stark,” introduced Dean. “Are you Betty Langston?”

The young woman gaped at them, slightly caught off guard. “Uhm yes, that’s me,” she eventually got out and lowered her arms. “What can I do for you?”

Dean caught a glimpse of the writing on the poster. It was a few phone numbers, and in dark blue, a text above read: ‘DON’T HESITATE TO ASK FOR HELP!’

“We’re here to ask you about Roy Kendall,” Sam carefully approached, “We understand that you are the one who found him.”

Dean couldn’t help but notice how Betty Langston’s eyes shifted to the floor and she nervously trailed her fingers up and down the paper in her hand.

“Um yes, I … I found him.” Her voice got small and she swallowed hard.

“But what does the FBI want with that? I thought it was a wild animal.”

“Given the unusual occurrence of Roy’s death, we thought it necessary to at least have a look at this case and find out what we can,” Sam said.

“That doesn’t have to mean anything, though,” Dean quickly tried to soothe her when he noticed the tears springing in the woman’s eyes. “Exactly,” Sam hastily agreed. “Only a few questions, just in case.”

Betty nodded and blinked away her tears. “Okay,” she quietly said. Sam reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his notebook and a pen.

“Did Roy mention something … I don’t know, unusual before he died?” Sam asked, clicking the pen and bringing his notepad in position. The young woman hesitated.

“Well, not that I know of,” she eventually said, “But, you see, kids at that age … they don’t talk to us adults much anymore. If you want to know something about Roy, you better ask his friends.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. “His friends?” He repeated. She nodded. “Mhm.”

“And, uh - who are his friends, if I may ask?” Sam tuned in again. Betty thought for a second and then clicked her tongue. “Well, there’s Cassandra, Cassandra Claire,” she said and started counting the listed names on her fingers. “And, uhm, Finnegan Beckett.” Sam repeated the children’s names under his breath as he quickly wrote them down.

“And Y/N Winchester,” Betty finished.

Sam abruptly stopped writing at the ‘n’ and looked up. He felt Dean visibly tense and shift next to him.

The younger brother just put on a smile and folded the small notepad back into the inner pocket of his jacket. But not before completely writing out the last name on the list.

“Thank you so much, Miss Langston, you helped us a lot. We will let you know if there are any more questions. And, our condolences,” he added.

She shyly smiled back at him and slowly continued gathering thumbtacks to hang up her posters, and the brothers left.

Sam waited until they were out of hearing range, then turned to Dean. “So…that was something,” he carefully started.

“What do you mean?”

Sam threw him a look. “You know what I mean. The witness list. Roy’s friends. That last name…”

Dean sighed heavily. Sam waited for him to say something. And when he didn’t, Sam just shook his head but decided to not stress it any further.

“So, where to now?” He asked instead.

Dean took a look at his watch. “The morgue, I’d say. As far as I know they’re closing soon, and a dead body is not exactly the first thing I need to see in the morning, so-”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Yeah, alright. Sounds good.”

They made their way out of the castle.

“You want to take Castiel?” Sam questioned when he rounded the car.

“No,” Dean decided firmly and opened the driver’s door. “Remember what happened last time? Exactly. I don’t need Cas smelling some dead guy again.”

Sam grinned at the memory. With a creak, the Impala gave in to their weight as they sat down, and the gravel gnashed under her tires when they drove off.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Central Nebraska 2006

Roughly, the dark minivan tuckered over the bumpy earth of the pathetic excuse of a road, and Dean’s insides flinched with every squeak the old car made.

When they finally came to a stop, he tossed the keys somewhere and maybe slammed the door with a bit more force than necessary. A lot more.

“This is humiliating,” he grumbled, as he took in the atrocious excuse of a vehicle they just stepped out of. He missed his Baby.

Sam ignored him, and stepped forward, towards the old wooden – house? Shack? – the mysterious phone number on their dad’s cell had led them to.

The huge letters ROADHOUSE flaunted above them, and Dean thought that these were probably made to light up when the sun disappeared.

The rest of the house looked abandoned, frankly, from the outside, and that, in combination with the four-month-old voicemail, made Dean not like his odds very much. The chances that this Ellen chick was still alive, knowing what his father had needed her for, were slim in his mind.

Or hell, maybe she just called from here, got the phone from some rando, and got on her merry way when she realized John wasn’t calling back. It’s probably what he would’ve done.

Safe to say, Dean didn’t like their odds. Even less so when they entered the eerie quiet of the bar, and spotted a man lying unconscious, probably dead, on the pool table.

Dean felt his shoulders stiffen. He didn’t like this one bit, and every second he spent here made the alarm in his head shrill even louder than before.

Dean only just turned to take a closer look at one of the shelves, when he felt something hard dig into his lower back, and heard an all too familiar clicking sound.

Dean closed his eyes. “Please tell me that is a gun.”

“No, I’m just very happy to see you,” came the fast answer from a very snarking - and female? - voice.

In one swift motion, Dean whirled around, grabbed the barrel, ripped it out of his attacker’s hand, and uncocked it. The bullet fell to the ground with an echoing clatter.

Dean almost smirked triumphantly at the blonde girl in front of him, when he felt a sudden, blinding pain in his face.

And if Dean had thought pulling up in a 30-year-old, barely functional van, of all things was humiliating, he didn’t calculate how it would feel to be absolutely sucker punched by a girl, not even as old as him.

Aside from the obvious nosebleed, his ego took a severe bruise.

“Sam! Little help here!” He called, hand still holding his hurting face.

The door swung open, and Sam walked out, hands raised to his head, a sheepish look on his face. “Sorry Dean,” he said, “I’m a little tied up right now.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, as he watched another woman with dark brown hair follow his brother close behind, a revolver held to his head in fair warning.

He would be impressed, if his vision wasn’t swimming right now.

The older woman behind Sam furrowed her brows. “Wait, Sam? Dean?” She asked, exchanging looks with kick-ass Blondie in front of him. “Winchester?”

There was a beat, before the brothers pressed out a unison “Yeah?”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Mom, you know these guys?” Dean’s head hurt with how much he was swinging it around to keep up.

“Yeah, I think these are John Winchester’s boys.” And that made Dean perk up.

The woman let out a laugh as she lowered her weapon.

—

A few minutes later, Dean was served with an iced cloth for his nose, and he and Sam seated themselves on a few of the bystanding bar chairs.

The brunette woman, who had threatened Sam, turned out to be the mysterious Ellen, whose voicemail on their dad’s phone they followed here. Jo, her daughter, and also the kick-ass blonde that had held the rifle to Dean’s back, looked about as unknowing about the whole situation as the brothers did.

Turns out Ellen had contacted John about the demon he was hunting. Said she could help him with it. Why John had never mentioned her, or her daughter, she didn’t say. Told them to ask him themselves. Dean didn’t say anything to that.

“So why exactly do we need your help?”, Dean asked, repositioning the cloth on his face.

Ellen scoffed. “Hey, don’t do me any favors. If you don’t want my help, fine.” There was a snarking edge to her voice, and Dean started to realize why his father would associate with her.

“Don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out,” she continued. “But John wouldn’t have sent you, if–“

There it was.

Ellen stood straighter. A haunted look crossed her eyes. “He didn’t send you.” It wasn’t a question.

Dean looked away.

“He’s alright, isn’t he?” Dean hadn’t known Ellen Harvelle for very long, but even he could sense the way her voice wavered. And know that she was a smart enough woman to not truly believe what she was asking.

“No.” Sam cleared his throat, and the simple word echoed through the deafening silence. “No, he’s not. We think the demon did it. Got to him before he got to it.” The thankful feeling of not being the one to have to tell her what happened felt like a sin in Dean’s gut. Then again, what’s one more on his plate.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen said. It’s what everyone said.

“It’s alright. We’re good.”

Ellen didn’t believe him, he saw it in her eyes. But she didn’t bother him more about it, either.

“So, look, if you can help us,” Sam said, and Dean threw him a look that showed just how much he wanted to smack his little brother across the face, “we’d be real happy about all the help we can get.”

Ellen’s lips twisted. “We can’t help you.”

Is this lady for real-

“But he can.”

And then the dead man stood up from the pool table.

—

Ash was a tech freak, with a haircut like Billy Ray Cyrus and the mouth of a southern cowboy. Jo called him a genius. Dean didn’t know what to think of that.

Still, he had passed him their dad’s journal, told him to go nuts, and Ash had drooled over John Winchester’s handiwork like a child over a lollipop.

Ash had left with the journal and the promise of new information in the time of fifty-one hours.

Dean thought that was long enough time to take a drink.

Jo Harvelle was a pretty woman. When she wasn’t threatening him with a rifle or punching him in the face, that was. Her soft, blonde curls fell long over her shoulders, and those jeans did wonders to her curves.

Dean started conversing with her. While he had moved to one of the tables, Sam had stayed with Ellen at the bar. He found out that her father died, a long time ago. In the back of his mind, a mean voice cackled at the irony. He paid his sympathies.

Then, suddenly, one of the doors to the backrooms flew open, and a small whirlwind of colorful fabric and y/h/c hair came dashing into the room.

“Aunty Ellen, Aunty Ellen! Look what I made!”

Dean’s head whipped around at the sound of the high-pitched voice and he spotted a small girl, not older than five years probably, squeezing herself behind the bar table. When he noticed Ellen bowing her head, he figured that the little girl had probably reached her destined spot next to her.

Dean, though he would never admit it, was an easily curious person, so he followed Jo on her way to the bar and leaned slightly over the tablewood to catch a glimpse at the small intruder.

Little Lady was tugging at Ellen’s pantleg, and expectantly holding up a colored paper for her to look at.

“Look at what I drew, Auntie Ellen!” she repeated, in that same excited tone as before, when she had stormed into the room.

Dean watched as Ellen abandoned her washcloth somewhere behind her and crouched down to meet with the little girl eye-to-eye, as she inspected her drawing.

“That’s so amazing, baby, is that us?” The girl nodded, her pigtails wiggling up and down as she bopped her head enthusiastically.

“Yes, that is you, and that is Jo, and that is me. And look, I made my own fingerprint!” She dashed her finger into a spot on the paper, and then proudly held up the red-colored tip to shove it in Ellen’s face.

The woman had a wide, genuine smile on her face. “I can see that, baby, well done, it looks so nice!” She praised. “How about we hang it up there next to the menu?”

The girl nodded her head again, and let Ellen scoop her up gently. Only then, when Little Lady was at height with them, she seemed to notice the strangers standing in the room.

In the matter of a second, Dean saw her whole demeanor shift from bubbly and open, to a more closed off version, sinking further into Ellen’s embrace and clutching the fabrics of her shirt. Something about it made Dean’s heart sting.

“Auntie Ellen?” The girl tried to whisper, but Dean had learned soon that children were terrible whisperers, “Who is that?”

Ellen looked first to Sam, then Dean, and back at the little girl in her arms. “Those are friends of Jo and me, sweetheart. Their names are Sam-“ Dean’s little brother gave a wave and a smile when Ellen introduced him. “-and Dean.”

Dean grinned and carefully stretched his hand out. “Very nice to meet you, Little Lady. Who am I speaking to, may I ask?” He laid a formal accent on his voice, one that he knew had always made Sam laugh when he was a child. It was an olive branch, but something in him hoped she would grab it.

The small giggle that Little Lady let out made Dean’s heart bloom with a warmth he didn’t know he was able to feel.

“My name’s Y/N,” she said. With a pointed look at Dean’s still outstretched hand, Ellen murmured in her ear, “And what do we do when someone gives us their hand to shake?”

Y/N nuzzled her face into the crook of Ellen’s neck, and Dean almost drew his hand back again, when a small warmth settled into his palm and closed around it.

He smiled at the girl and shook her hand. As they both pulled back, Dean twisted his hand around and huffed. “Ouff, someone has got a firm grip! Your Auntie Ellen teach you that?” Y/N grinned proudly at him and nodded her head. Then she held up her hand and showed him four fingers. “I’m already this old!”

Dean gasped. “Really? Well, that is a great age, no wonder you are so strong!”

Y/N was beaming now.

She didn’t hide in Ellen’s neck again.

“So, what about that picture now?” Ellen bounced the girl on her hip once, and it seemed like she was snapped out of a trance. Determinedly, she pointed at a space next to a hung-up blackboard. Dean figured Ellen usually wrote her daily specials on that.

The woman made a few steps over where Y/N had led her and gestured toward an already hung drawing of blue water and grey – fish? – above it, that was already taped to the wall.

“But we already put a picture there. We would have to remove that one if you want your new drawing to hang here.” The girl shrugged, and already reached for a roll of clean tape on the shelf.

“That’s okay, I don’t like dolphins all that much anymore anyway,” she explained nonchalantly. “I will just put it in my drawing box.”

Dean watched as Ellen carefully picked the old drawing from the wall to make space for the new one. He was so caught up in the scenery, he almost didn’t notice how Sam was scooting closer to him.

“You know who she is?” Sam asked. Dean turned his attention to his brother.

“Well, her name’s Y/N,” Dean answered simply. Sam didn’t roll his eyes at him, but it was a close call.

Dean just shrugged. “Guess she isn’t Ellen’s. Otherwise, she wouldn’t call her Auntie.” He pitched the last word high, to mimic the child’s voice.

Sam furrowed his brows as they watched Ellen and the small girl.

“Makes you wonder,” he said, “What she’s doing here.”

Dean just hummed. He made brief eye contact with Y/N, as she stole a look in his direction, but she averted her eyes quickly, as if she had been caught.

Dean found himself slightly smiling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sam looking at him. His brother was grinning.

“You love that kid.” It was a statement.

Dean scoffed. “Oh, shut up, I don’t even know her. Also, I love kids, plural.” He added.

Sam nodded, that smile still on his lips. Dean ignored him.

“Come on, ask him. Don’t be shy.” Ellen and Y/N had finished putting up her drawing and were now standing closer to them again. Ellen was still carrying the girl on her hip and had bent down to whisper to her.

Y/N had buried her face in Ellen’s shirt again, clearly shy to say something.

“He ain’t gonna bite you,” Ellen said, nudging her. “Go on.”

Y/N lifted her head, and shyly looked at Dean. Her eyes were flickering all over him, but never exactly to his face.

“Doyouwantodrawwithme?” She spluttered. Dean’s eyebrows shot up.

“Don’t think he understood that. Try a bit slower. You can do this, come on,” Ellen encouraged her.

Y/N clutched her shirt.

“Do you want to draw with me?” She asked, head lowered and looking at her fingers. Her voice was quiet, but to Dean it felt as if she had shouted that sentence.

He felt warm inside. “Of course I want to.”

Y/N’s head shot up, and Dean Winchester had seen many beautiful things in his lifetime, but the gleaming eyes of that small child before him had to be at the top of the list. He never wanted to look at anything else.

Ellen set her down and pointed at a table in the corner of the room.

“Her colors and paper are already set up. Every day, before we officially open,” she explained with a look at Dean, and he nodded. While Sam got comfortable on one of the bar chairs, he made his way over to where Y/N had already set up her coloring tools and begun drawing on a piece of yellow paper.

Her tongue was sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. Dean pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.

“What are you drawing?” He asked, stretching his neck to take a closer look. Y/N leaned back and showed him her creation. Lines of red and yellow. Maybe a tomato? An apple? He turned his head. From that perspective maybe?

“It’s Lighting McQueen!” Y/N told him triumphantly. “I saw cars with Jo.”

Dean nodded. So no apple. He also wasn’t going to point out the girl’s grammar. She was only four after all. And who was he to talk.

“How did you get that?” Y/N suddenly asked, and pointed her small finger at Dean’s forehead, right where a big scar stretched over his skin, consequences of the fatal car accident.

Dean tried his best not to wince. He didn’t need to expose his lingering trauma to this pure soul.

“I was … in an accident,” he said instead. “But I’m okay and it’s almost healed now.”

The girl nodded. Dean was almost astounded at how easy it was with her.

“Whenever I hurt myself, my Auntie Ellen takes me to the Doctor. Or Jo. Or Ash.” Her face scrunches up as she thinks hard. Dean thinks it’s adorable. He finds himself smiling again.

“They always give me colorful plasters! I always get the dinos.” She leans in closer to him when she says the last bit, almost like it’s a secret she only wants him to hear. Dean’s heart warms at the thought, and he doesn’t even know why.

“Really? I’m jealous. I think dinosaurs are amazing.” He used the same hushed tone she had before. Y/N’s eyes widened. “You don’t get dino plasters?” She asked. If Dean hadn’t known better, he would’ve said she was outraged at his confession.

He shook his head. “Nope,” he said, “only boring beige ones.”

Y/N’s eyes widened even more, and her mouth fell open. Then, her lips curved into a beaming smile. “I can give you some of mine! Jo bought me so many the last time she went shopping!”

Before he could even give it a thought, Dean felt her small hand take his, and he was yanked from his seat. Geez, how did a four-year-old kid have so much strength?

His enthusiasm was short-lived, as Sam shouted from the other side of the room.

“Dean, Ellen got us a case!” His little brother was waving around a beige folder, a few newspaper pages hanging out at the sides.

He looked at his brother, then at the girl still clinging her small hand around his fingers.

“Does that mean you have to leave?” Dean’s heart clenched at the quiet, disappointed voice. He crouched down and looked Y/N in the eye.

“Yes,” he said, honestly. “ I have to go to work.”

She tilted her head. “To save people?” She asked. Dean nodded. He didn’t know how she knew, but maybe Ellen told her.

“Yes, exactly. But I will be back soon, and then you can show me your plasters, alright?”

Y/N seemed to think about it, and then nodded her head. Her pigtails were still wiggling up and down. “You promise?” She asked.

Dean nodded. “In fact,” he said, shifted his weight, and held out his pinky finger in front of her. “I pinky promise.”

Y/N grinned up at him. Dean grinned back. She linked her small finger with his.

“Can’t break a pinky promise,” Dean said as he stood up.

She shook her head violently. “Never!”

Dean laughed and waved her Goodbye.

“Let’s go,” he said to Sam as he passed him, and grabbed his jacket.

“Bye, Ellen, Jo.” Sam lowered his voice seriously. “Y/N.”

“Bye, Sam! Bye, Dean!” Y/N waved her hand after them.

“Good luck,” Ellen said. Then they closed the door behind them. The light of the sun was a heavy contrast to the dusky air inside the Roadhouse, and Dean’s eyes needed a while to adjust to the change.

He made his way over to the abomination car, Sam close next to him. His brother bumped his shoulder.

“Plural, huh?” Sam asked, smirking.

And if Dean sped the van up a bit faster, just to give his little brother a good scare now and then, well, that was between him and the Lord above.

[foundtherightwords]

The Dark that You Lit

Pairing: Hellcheer (College AU), Blind!Eddie

Summary: After months of dating, Chrissy is finally comfortable enough around Eddie to take the next step in their relationship, but can she let go of her fears to become truly intimate with him?

Warnings: non-explicit sex, loss of virginity

Word count: 7.5k

A/N: This was written for Day 5 of 2024 Hellcheer Halloween Week, with the prompts "first time" and "run". The title is taken from Snow Patrol's "Talking About Hope", and I took some inspiration from the poem, "First Poem for You", by Kim Addonizio as well. I gave Eddie's tattoos new meanings to fit this version of his character better. We never got an explanation for them in canon anyway, so I figured it would be OK.

Sequel to This Is the Sound of Your Voice, but can be read as a standalone.

It's my first time (ha!) writing such a detailed sex scene (not graphic, but more detailed than my usual), so please let me know what you think!

The rain started the moment they stepped out of the train station. Spring came early that year, and this was a warm, friendly rain, big, fat drops that fell on pavements and rooftops with a cheerful sound. Still, Chrissy was annoyed.

"Shit," she mumbled under her breath. "I know we should've brought an umbrella."

Behind her, Eddie gasped in mock consternation. "Is that a swear word I just heard from you, Miss Cunningham?!"

She grinned. "That's your bad influence rubbing off on me, I guess."

They had just been to Jackson Park to see the cherry blossoms—well, to see them in Chrissy's case, and in Eddie's case, to enjoy the sunshine and the petals drifting over his face whenever there was a breeze. In the five months since they started dating, it had never ceased to amaze Chrissy that Eddie always found his own way to experience things, things she'd thought one would need to see to fully appreciate. Eddie never let his blindness stop him from reveling in beauty. It was what she liked most about him. 

"How about this?" she said. "You wait here, and I'll run to the dorm and get an umbrella, and come back for you."

"You don't have to go through such trouble for me." Eddie shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over her head, before motioning to her with his cane. "Come on."

"But you'll get soaked," she protested.

"A little rain never hurts anyone," Eddie said and started walking down the street, seemingly unaware of the rain splattering over his hair and shoulders.

Shaking her head, Chrissy lifted the bag containing the remnants of their picnic lunch to her shoulder and ran after him. She may admire Eddie's love for life, but sometimes he had no survival instinct.

"Fold up your cane," she told him, holding the leather jacket over her head with one hand and grabbing his elbow with the other, "and let's try to outrun this, or you'll catch a cold. I don't want to spend the entire spring break nursing you."

"I wouldn't mind that." A teasing smile lifted the corner Eddie's mouth, but he did as she said.

And so, hand in hand, they ran down the street, keeping to the awnings when they could, dodging between umbrellas and people with newspapers and briefcases over their heads, giggling when they splashed across a puddle. Chrissy had to admit it was rather liberating, almost exciting, to feel rain falling on your skin, especially when you know that there is a warm and dry room waiting for you at the end of it.

Still, for all their hurry, they were dripping wet by the time they arrived at the dorm. The woman at the front desk peered at them disapprovingly over her glasses, as Chrissy signed Eddie in.

"You know that an overnight guest may stay no more than three nights," she told Chrissy.

"Yes, I know. Thank you!" Chrissy pushed the sign-in sheet back and quickly led Eddie away, hoping he hadn't heard. They hadn't discussed the possibility of him staying overnight. The plan was that they were going to hang out for the rest of the afternoon and maybe get some dinner before Eddie went back to his apartment. As they had done plenty of times before.

Some people would say that five months of dating was definitely long enough to spend a night together, but somehow Chrissy and Eddie never managed to find the time. Between their studies—Chrissy was applying for nursing school, and Eddie was getting his teacher certificate—and their jobs, they were lucky if they saw each other a couple of times a week. Chrissy had taken to walking from her lecture halls in the West Campus of UIC all the way to the English department in the East Campus, so she could see Eddie between classes and have lunch with him. And there were always people around as well—her roommate, Nancy, and his roommates. Eddie lived with his bandmates, and although they were perfectly lovely, Chrissy couldn't think of anything more dampening to romance than having three guys hang around like three enthusiastic puppies.

Admittedly, some of their failure to spend a night together was of Chrissy's own making. She always had some excuses ready—she had an early class the next morning, she had to work the late shift, she couldn't sleep unless it was in her own bed. She and Eddie had never talked about sex, and Eddie never pressured her into anything, never questioned her hesitation, but a barb of shame always pricked at Chrissy's insides whenever she thought about it. The truth was that she was afraid. Not of the sex itself, but rather of what it would mean for her and Eddie. She was afraid of taking the plunge, of committing to such permanence. And afraid of disappointing and being disappointed as well. She had only had one boyfriend before and no experience further than some kissing and cuddling, while Eddie had mentioned a few ex-girlfriends. Besides, he was in a band. Not a hugely popular band, but they played in local bars, and Chrissy had seen the way some of the women in the crowd looked at Eddie. Rather than making her jealous, such looks only made her more insecure. No doubt he was used to casual hook-ups.

But during Christmas break, she had missed him so much that some of those fears had faded considerably. Three long weeks without seeing Eddie, and if she wanted to talk to him, she had to drive into town to call him from a payphone, because she didn't trust her mother to not listen in. Her mother would throw a fit if she knew Chrissy was seeing someone like Eddie. The fact that he was attending UIC on a scholarship wouldn't mean anything to her mother. She would only see that he was blind, that his childhood home was in a trailer park in a small, inconsequential town, and that his mom was dead and his dad was out of the picture. None of those things bothered Chrissy, but she wanted to protect Eddie and herself, and if that meant keeping their relationship a secret for now, then so be it.

And when they came back from Christmas break, when she jumped into Eddie's arms and he dropped his cane to lift her into the air, Chrissy had decided it was time to take the plunge.

Of course, deciding to take the plunge and actually doing it are two different things. Even though she no longer made excuses for herself, the usual problems still stood. It wasn't until now, during spring break, that they had some time for themselves. Nancy had gone home, and Chrissy told her parents she was staying to study, which wasn't entirely a lie—she had to get her grades up if she wanted to get into nursing school that fall. Her other plan she told no one, not even Eddie.

To be fair, calling it a "plan" would be an overstatement, because her plan didn't extend further than inviting him back to her dorm room and asking him to teach her how to play D&D. This was no ruse either—she had wanted to learn for a while, since Eddie was so passionate about it. In preparation, she had bought a set of dice and borrowed a player's handbook. Eddie also brought his special set of tactile dice, with raised dots—Chrissy's Valentine's Day present for him, for which she had had to scour several hobby stores—and his Braille notes of past campaigns. Now he stood at the doorway to her room with his binder in his arms, looking a little lost, almost in awe even.

"So this is your room," he said.

"Yes."

"What does it look like?"

"Oh, just a standard dorm room." She took his hand and guided him through the room, keeping her pace slow and steady so he could count his steps, which Eddie told her was how he familiarized himself with new surroundings. "Here's the closet, here's the door to the bathroom, there's Nancy's desk and bed, and here's mine." She didn't mention that Nancy's side of the room was straight out of a Sears catalog, not a piece of paper or a pencil out of place, while her side of the room always looked like it had just been hit by a hurricane. She quickly straightened up the textbooks on her desk, cleared away the dirty plates to make space for Eddie to put his things down, and bustled about turning on the radiator and looking for towels.

"We need to get you out of those wet clothes," she said and winced as soon as those words came out of her mouth. They were so corny, so obvious an innuendo, which she didn't mean at all. "I'll find you something to wear while they dry," she added and winced again at how awkward she sounded.

She had nothing Eddie could wear except for her bathrobe. As she handed it to him, Eddie suddenly looked shy. "No peeking, OK?"

"I'll be in the bathroom," Chrissy said, trying to bite back a grin.

Despite that promise, she couldn't help a backward glance. Eddie was peeling off his wet T-shirt, and she caught a glimpse of his back, slim and wiry, lean muscles rippling under the skin that hinted at a lissome strength. Then he started to unbutton his jeans, and Chrissy turned away, cheeks burning up with a heat to rival that of the radiator. She beat a quick retreat into the bathroom, afraid that her blush was so vivid that even Eddie could sense it.

When she emerged a minute later, clad in a baggy UIC sweatshirt and an old pair of shorts, Eddie had wrapped himself in her bathrobe. His discarded T-shirt and jeans would have flustered Chrissy and sent her scurrying back to the bathroom, had it not been for the sight of his gangly limbs poking out from the pink, fluffy robe, which made her burst out laughing.

Unfazed by her laughter, Eddie struck a pose, like he was a supermodel on the latest haute couture runway. "How do I look?" he asked.

"Quite cute, actually," said Chrissy, picking up his clothes and putting them on the radiator to dry.

Eddie pouted. "Just cute?"

"OK, you look ravishing," she said. There were still some cherry blossom petals stuck in his hair. She plucked them away. "These pink petals go very well with the robe." And because he was still pouting, and because she could never look at his lips long enough without wanting to kiss him, she did just that.

When they first started dating, Chrissy had often had to tell Eddie she was about to kiss him, so he wouldn't be caught off-guard. Now, they were comfortable enough with each other and he could sense her well enough that she no longer had to, but she still liked to touch his face first, to let him know.   

The moment she put a finger to his lips, Eddie smiled in anticipation. As their lips touched, he embraced her in the way she liked, with one hand on the small of her back and the other caressing her face, as if it wasn't enough to just kiss her with his mouth, he must feel her with his entire being as well. The kiss went from sweet to hungry, and Chrissy could feel her body rising to his touch, straining against the fabric of her sweatshirt, seeking relief, while heat pooled between her legs. It scared her. It wasn't the first time she felt this way when Eddie kissed her—in fact, she always felt that way whenever he kissed her—but this was the first time that she planned to do something about it, and it scared her. They were moving too fast. She wasn't ready yet.

Gathering all her willpower, she broke off the kiss and took a step back. "Sit down," she told Eddie. "I'll dry your hair." She thought he looked slightly deflated, but he sat down on the floor and crossed his long, boyish legs without protest. He'd kept his boxers on, she saw to her relief.

Sitting above him on the bed, she toweled his hair before blow-drying it, gently running her fingers through the long strands to loosen them. Eddie closed his eyes and arched his neck under her hand like a cat, and Chrissy had to fight the urge to kiss him again.

"Do you want to get started on the D&D now?" she asked, putting the dryer away.

He put his head back, his curls, now dry and fluffy, spreading over her lap. "No," he said languidly. "I'm too comfortable to move. I've melted into the floor. You're going to have to scoop me up."

Seeing his face turned up at her like that, Chrissy's willpower cracked. But she didn't succumb to temptation just yet. Leaning down, she only gave his nose a little peck. It would have to be enough for now. But clearly that wasn't enough for Eddie, because he grabbed her and pulled her, amidst protesting squeals and giggles, off the bed and to the floor with him, where he sought her lips again and again, until Chrissy was out of breath from kisses and laughter.

Their tussle had pulled the robe open across Eddie's chest, showing a couple of tattoos. Chrissy knew he had tattoos, but she had only seen two of them—the flock of bats, "because they're blind", as Eddie had once told her, hovering around his elbow, and the demonic puppet on the inside of his forearm, for "Master of Puppets", the first song he and his band had played together. These she had never seen before.  

"What are these on your chest?" she asked, extending a hand toward the tattoos, only to pull back at the last second. She realized this was the first time she'd ever seen Eddie with his shirt off, and blushed again.

"My tats?" He pulled the robe down a bit to show her more clearly and pointed to one of the tattoos, the one lower down, a decaying skull or a demon with a blood-speckled mouth, Chrissy couldn't tell. "This is Eddie," he explained. "He's the Iron Maiden mascot. The guys convinced me to get it, so I thought, why not? My favorite band, and my namesake too. It's fitting."

"What about this one?" she asked, pointing to the one closer to his collarbone, a spider with spindly legs.

"It's a Kaua'i cave wolf spider. They live inside volcanic caves in Hawaii, so they're born without eyes."

Chrissy was quiet, thinking about how much Eddie was shaped by his blindness, and yet how much he refused to let it define him. She reached out, lightly brushed the tattoos with her fingertips. Eddie's breath caught the moment her fingers touched his chest, and she could feel his pulse hammering just beneath his skin. Somehow, it calmed her, knowing that he was also nervous. She was sure that if she kissed him now, he would welcome it.

Which was precisely why she didn't kiss him. Instead, she asked, "Do you have any other tattoos?"

"Just this one." He pulled his right arm out of the robe and showed her his bicep, where a half-dragon, half-bird creature writhed and brandished its claws. "It's a wyvern. A D&D monster."

"Let me guess," said Chrissy, tracing the undulations of the creature's body. "Looking at it can turn you blind?"

Eddie laughed. "No. I just like it."

He lifted her hand from his arm and started dropping little kisses on her fingers, one by one. Trying to ignore the fluttering in the pit of her stomach and lower down, Chrissy asked, "Who did all these for you?"

"Friends, anyone who can draw and wield a tattoo needle, really. I described what I wanted, and they did it."

"But how would you know that they would tattoo the right thing?"

Eddie shrugged, pulling the robe back up. "You gotta trust the person whose hands you're putting yourself into, and let go."

Those words seemed to speak to Chrissy's heart. Can I trust your hands? she wondered. Can I let go?

"Why did you get them?" she asked.

Eddie gave her a gentle smile. "Even though I can't see them, is that what you mean?"

She had been meaning to ask him that for a while, ever since she first saw his tattoos, but she was afraid that it would come off rude and nosy. Now that Eddie had put it so bluntly, she admitted, "... Well, yes."

"I know they're there. I think they're cool. And, not to sound like a dick, but I think tattoos are mostly for other people to look at anyway."

"How so?"

"Think about the person with wings tattooed on their back, for example, or a girl with a rose on her ankle. How often do they see those?"

"But why mark your skin in such a permanent way? Aren't you afraid you're going to change your mind?"

"Not really." Eddie shook his head. "This"—he tapped his temple—"is much more permanent."

She wondered what he meant. But before she could ask, something else he'd said caught her attention.

"How would you even know that a girl has a rose on her ankle?" she asked suspiciously. "That sounds oddly specific."

Eddie's dimples made a sudden appearance on his cheeks, then vanished again. "Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, Miss Cunningham?"

When he teased her like that, Chrissy could never stay annoyed for long. "Maybe," she said, a corner of her mouth quirking up.

"I'm not a total dork, you know," Eddie said. "I may be blind, but I still play guitar in a band. Some girls think it's cool."

His tone was jokey, but his words went through Chrissy like a shard of ice, turning her insides numb. It was exactly what she was afraid of, and to hear Eddie joke about it only worsened her fear.

Eddie must have noticed that she had gone silent, because his cocky grin disappeared and he squeezed her hand. "Chrissy?" he said, concern in his voice. "What's wrong? I was just kidding. It's not like girls are throwing themselves at me or anything."

Chrissy tried to pull herself together. Her insecurities were her problem, not Eddie's. "No, I know, it's fine," she managed to say. "It doesn't matter. It's just—"

"What?"

She might as well come clean now. "Well, when I was dating Jason, he insisted that we waited until marriage," she said.

It took a moment for this to sink in for Eddie. When it did, he only let out a soft "Oh", almost inaudible, like a breath.

"At least you have some experience," Chrissy said, her voice muted. "I have none." She turned away from him and put her forehead on her drawn-up knees.

Eddie was quiet for a long time. Then his hand felt about her back, her shoulder, and her head, until he found her chin and lifted it. "Chrissy," he said. There was no longer any trace of jokiness in his voice. "I don't mind any of that. We can wait until marriage too. If that's what you want."

Relief and affection flooded Chrissy's heart. How could she have ever doubted him? She put his hand to her cheek, so he could feel her smiling. "Is that a proposal?" she asked.

A faint blush colored Eddie's face. "Oh—I don't—I mean..."

"Relax, Eddie. I'm teasing you."

She kept his hand on her cheek, feeling the warmth against her skin, looking at his large brown eyes that saw nothing yet still took in everything, at his lips so ready to smile and to kiss, watching his face that bore no judgment, no irritation, only tender with affection for her. And she made up her mind.

The only question was how to tell Eddie what she wanted. They were touching each other, he was practically naked, and she didn't know what to do. For a confused moment, Chrissy tried to remember girls' nights in high school, when she and her friends used to giggle together about boys, but she had always blushed and laughed nervously when the talk turned dirty. She just didn't have it in her to be a seductress. 

"I meant what I said though," Eddie was saying. "I'm not asking you to do anything—"

She nodded. "I know you're not—"

"—we don't have to do anything—"

"—I know, it's just—"

"—not until you're ready—"

"—but I am ready!" she blurted out.

Eddie's mouth went slack.

"... What?" he asked blankly.

Chrissy took a deep breath. "That's what I've been trying to tell you," she said. "I don't want to wait."

Turning her face, she trailed her lips across his hand, kissing his palm and knuckles, before pulling him close and sealing her mouth over his. Eddie's hand moved from her cheek to behind her ear, fingers winding through her hair, pressing her to him, while his lips moved between hers, soft and delicious. She could feel her body relax under that kiss, tension draining out of her like snow melting in the spring rain. Why hadn't she done this? Why waste her time worrying, when she could have simply kissed him and let things run their natural courses?

When she slipped a hand under the bathrobe and touched him, her palm scorching against his cool skin, it was Eddie who pulled away this time. "Are we doing this now?" he whispered.

Oh no. Had she completely misread him? Was he not interested—now or—or—ever?

"What's wrong?" she asked, without letting go of his hand. It suddenly occurred to her as to why Eddie was hesitating. "I have condoms here if you don't," she said.

"I'm not worried about—" Eddie stopped, an eyebrow raised quizzically. "Why do you have condoms anyway?"

"I bought some after we started going out. Just in case." She didn't tell him that it had actually been Nancy who advised her to do so. "Why, do you have some too?"

Eddie's impish grin flashed across his face. "Yeah. I bought them after we started going out too. You know, just in case."

Laughing, Chrissy leaned over to pick up from where they left off, but Eddie gently took her wrists to hold her back. "Wait," he said. "There's something I have to tell you."

Something in the way he said it made her grow cold again. "What is it?"

Holding her hands in his lap, Eddie bent down until his face was buried in her palms. "I lied," he said. Chrissy's heart dropped, and she clutched at Eddie, silently screaming at him to continue. "When I said I'm not that experienced," he explained, "I meant I'm not experienced at all."

In her confusion, she didn't understand what he was saying at first. Then it dawned on her. "What, you haven't—" With his head still in her hands and his hair tickling the inside of her wrists, he shook his head. "I thought you dated before?"

"I've gone out with a couple of girls, yes," Eddie said, his voice muffled. "I just went out with them. That's all."

"But—you know what to do, right?" she asked.

He lifted his head. Under his hair, she could see his face, all crimson, sheepish, miserable, a schoolboy having to confess his crimes. "In theory, yes," he said. "In practice? Only with myself."

"Eddie!" She swatted at his arm, but the tension was broken, thanks to his bad joke.

His dimples dipped and rose again. "Sorry. TMI."

"Those girls don't know what they're missing, do they?" she said, matching his playful tone.

"Oh, there have been opportunities. But I couldn't. I don't know why—it feels wrong, doing it with someone who's only interested because she thinks I'm this bad boy rocker or whatever, as opposed to..." He trailed off.

"As opposed to what?"

"I don't know. Maybe I was saving myself too."

"For marriage?"

"For you."

A part of Chrissy melted at that, but her insecurities were rearing their ugly Hydra-like heads again. This meant she would be his first too. She hadn't thought about that. What if she was no good? What if they were no good together?

Eddie squeezed her hand again. "Look, I'm really sorry, OK? I'm sorry for not coming clean with you sooner. If it made you feel any better, I'm pretty sure the cashier at Walgreens thought I was buying the condoms on a dare, so..."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"When we first started going out, I was kind of—terrified of you, a little."

"Me?" Chrissy asked, incredulous. If only he knew how nervous she'd been on their first date...

"I mean, you were the most popular girl at your school, you were a cheerleader—"

Chrissy shook her head, impatient. "'Were' is the key word here, Eddie. I'm not that person anymore. And even if I was, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"I know. I just thought I'd be no good for you. I didn't want you to know that I am a total dork after all."

Chrissy supposed she should be angry with him for lying—or at least for exaggerating and omitting the truth—but any annoyance she had with him faded away at that. For all his bluster and confidence, he was just like her, full of fear and self-doubt. Perhaps that was why they were drawn to each other, why she felt so safe around him.

"You are a dork," she said. "But I forgive you."

A smile broke across Eddie's face, small and unsure, like the spring sun coming out after heavy rain. "So you don't mind?" he asked.

"Of course not." She put a hand on Eddie's cheek, cradling and caressing his jaw. "We can show each other. I mean... if you want to."

"I always want to."

Those words opened the floodgate that Chrissy had been keeping locked inside her. Lunging at Eddie, she kissed him with abandon, her mouth and body and heart open, hungry for him. She pulled him stumbling to his feet, so they could get into bed. Eddie yanked impatiently at the hem of her sweatshirt, and she broke off the kiss just long enough to pull it over her head and toss it aside.

The moment the sweatshirt hit the floor and cold air hit her bare skin, Chrissy paused. She looked at Eddie, his face clouded with desire, his chest heaving with anticipation, his lips, plump and red from kissing—those lips, always those lips, they were going to be the death of her—and she had to fight a wild urge to laugh, because he was still wearing her pink fluffy bathrobe.

But this was too important, too meaningful a moment for laughter.

Gently tugging at the belt of the robe, she undid it and let it fall from his shoulders. They stood facing each other, the air between them humming with desire. Eddie extended a tentative hand toward her, and Chrissy met him halfway, catching his wrist and placing his hand on her. They had been frantic a minute ago; now they moved slowly, with great care, as if afraid that any sudden move may cause the other to dissolve into the air like soap bubbles.

Eddie had once told her about something in D&D called the Theater of the Mind, which he used a lot in his campaigns because it didn't rely on visuals. Now, he was touching her, gentle fingers skimming over her skin like he was building a version of herself in his own Theater of the Mind. Chrissy wondered what she looked like to him. Her face he had known well, but this would be the first time he touched her body.

Chrissy had always hated her body. As Eddie's hands moved, she could only think of what was wrong with it. His hands lightly stroked her shoulders, which were never elegant enough for the dresses her mother wanted her to wear. They brushed along her arms, which were never strong enough or graceful enough to lift the pompoms into the air. They circled her waist, which was never slim enough, and glided over her stomach, which was never flat enough, before coming to rest on the underside of her breasts, which were never big enough.

"Can I—?" Eddie asked, fingers fluttering over her chest.

"Yes." She took a step forward, pressing herself into his palms. His hand closed over her breast, one side and then the other, before letting go again.

"You have nice breasts." He sounded almost reverent.

"They're kind of small."

"No. They're perfect."

He took her breasts in his palms again, and the way his thumbs and fingers grazed them sent such liquid fire through her that she thought she would burst into tears or into flames, just from his touch alone. This was enough. She was enough.

He continued to touch her until the fire was too much for her to bear. The dreamy, almost wary touches forgotten, she put one of his hands on the waistband of her shorts, and together, they pulled until both the shorts and her underwear slid down her legs, and she could kick them away. His boxers followed. The back of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She fell backward into it, drawing Eddie down with her. He slipped a hand between her legs, almost by accident, yet even that brief touch was enough to fan the fire inside her higher.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

And he did. But this was no lingering kiss like the ones they'd had before. Eddie pulled at her mouth in gasping, grasping little kisses, as if he couldn't trust himself—or her—to stay long enough. She didn't know where to put her hands and where to direct his hand, wanting to feel him everywhere, on her, in her, all at once.

"The condom?" he reminded her.

Chrissy reached into a drawer in her bedside table, drew out the package, and handed one to Eddie with a nervous giggle. He fumbled with it, before settling himself between her thighs again. "You ready?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm." She didn't trust herself to say anything else.

His first thrust brought reality crashing back, as sharp and glaring as the pain that shot up inside her. She gasped, from shock as much as from pain, and Eddie immediately stopped.

"What is it?" he asked, voice tinged with panic. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she managed to say, through gritted teeth. "Just give me a sec."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No." She shifted her hips, trying to find a more comfortable position, to get used to the alien feeling inside her.

Eddie lifted himself up on his elbows to ease the pressure on her. With one hand, he caressed her face, trying to find evidence of her discomfort.

"I'm all right," she said, without feeling it. "I think I'm ready now."

Eddie started moving inside her, each thrust accompanied by a quivering breath. The pain dulled to soreness, and Chrissy lay still, afraid any movement would bring it back. Some vague pleasantness started to form at the edge of the pain, but before she could grab it, Eddie gave a shudder and collapsed on top of her, where he lay gasping quietly, and it was gone.

So that was their first time. Was this how it was always going to be? Where had they gone wrong? Chrissy wanted to push Eddie away so she could draw a deep breath, so she could curl up within herself and die, but she couldn't move. The pain in her body turned into the pain in her heart, and a void opened up inside her, where Eddie had just been a minute ago, and widened until she was nothing but a hollowed-out husk. She couldn't even cry.

Eddie edged away and moved to lie next to her. "I'm sorry," he said. "It was no good for you, wasn't it?" When she didn't answer, he said, in a small voice, "Is this a bad time to tell you that I love you?"

Chrissy turned to look at him in the dimming light. His hands were drifting toward her but not quite touching, as if he was afraid his touch would offend her. Although she had fallen for Eddie since their first date—and she was sure he felt the same—they had never said "I love you" to each other. With Jason, who had been free with his words and said so often, she had always replied, "I love you too", because that's what you're supposed to say when someone says "I love you". She had said those words so much that they had lost all meaning. With Eddie, it was a different matter.

"You've just been inside me, so I guess there's no better time," she said with a small laugh.

Eddie didn't laugh. He cupped her face, his way of focusing on her when he couldn't do it with his eyes, and said, simply, honestly, "I love you."

Like magic, her pain disappeared, replaced by a joy so fierce it was almost like another pain, only this one she didn't want to ever go away. The void inside her began to fill up. This wasn't the end of the world. They were young and ignorant. They still had time. And he loved her. That was the most important thing.

He loved her. She wished she could say it back to him. She wished she could say it with such ease and sincerity and passion as he had. But when she opened her mouth, it was only to say, "Perhaps we can try again."

"I don't know why you would ever want to try again after—after that."

But Chrissy found, to her surprise, that she did want to try again.

"I said we could show each other," she said. "But we didn't show each other anything that time. So yes, I'd like to try again."

He sat up, giving her his full attention. "Show me then."

Chrissy looked around, thinking. Her eyes fell on the opened drawer of her bedside table, and an idea occurred. Reaching into the drawer, she pulled out her sleep mask and slipped it over her eyes.

"What are you doing?" asked Eddie.

"Putting on my sleep mask."

"Why?"

"I want to feel you as you feel me."

As the mask plunged her into darkness, she heard Eddie take in a sharp, eager breath. His hand brushed down her side. A soft gasp escaped her when she felt the smooth undersides of his steel rings on her skin.

"What is it?" Eddie sounded frightened. "Are you still in pain?"

"No. I just—I wasn't expecting it, that's all."

"Do you want me to take the rings off? Do they bother you?"

"No!" She grabbed his hand and put it back where she wanted it. "Not at all."

The rings were warm from his skin, so she'd barely noticed them before, but now, with her eyes covered, the sensation seemed to increase tenfold, the smooth, firm touch of them, so different from the quivering softness of his palms and fingertips, yet still pleasurable in its own way, pleasurable because it was unquestioning Eddie's touch. No other hand would feel the same. Oh, she should have thought of this earlier! There was vulnerability in not being able to see, yes, but there was liberation in it as well, not having to worry about what she saw, and a certain exhilaration in not knowing what to expect while still trusting him with her entire body, her entire being. Let go, Eddie's words from earlier echoed in her mind. Let go.

Reaching out, she found his face and drew him down to her for a long, slow kiss. Just as he'd done with her before, now she ran her hands over him, building a map of him from her remaining senses. The smoothness of his skin, the scent of his 2-in-1 shampoo and body wash—such a boy, she would have to get him to switch to something else that wouldn't damage his lovely hair—mixed with the tanginess of his sweat, and the faint trace of mint in his mouth—she didn't like his smoking, so he'd been trying to quit. She traced her fingers over his tattoos, committing them to her own Theater of the Mind.

"You want to know something funny?" Eddie said, lips grazing her jaw, her throat.

"What?"

"Before we met, when I—touched myself, I never imagined anyone specific."

"And after?"

"I imagine you."

She didn't tell him that had been precisely the same for her as well. She only asked, a little hoarsely, "How do you imagine me?"

"When we kiss, you always make this cute little noise in your throat." He imitated it, like a pleased, breathless "hmm". Chrissy wasn't even aware that she had been making such a sound. It would've mortified her, but she heard the smile in Eddie's voice and knew he delighted in it, just as he delighted in everything about her. "So I would imagine that. And I'd imagine your soft skin, your sweet mouth, your hands on me..." He gave her a little kiss with each thing he listed off. "But I never imagine this."

"What, this?"

She slid a hand below his waist, and he made that noise again—that small, excited inhale. But she was determined to take it slow this time. Grabbing his other hand, she pressed it between her thighs, showing him how to touch her as she'd touched herself, as she'd only been able to do furtively, in her old bedroom at home or in the bathroom here, with the door tightly locked and without making a sound, for fear of discovery. But here, now, there was no fear. There was only the feel of his hand on her, the soft sound in his throat, and her own quickening breath. The fire was rekindling, sparkling embers spreading from low in her belly all the way down her thighs, concentrating where their hands met, at her core.

"Like this?" he whispered, his fingers supple and obedient under her hand, touching and stroking where she wanted, how she wanted.

"Yes," she panted. "Please."

Without pulling his hand away, he trailed his mouth down her throat and her chest, before closing his lips around her nipple. His tongue flicked against the sensitive bud, making her whimper, and when he nibbled at her, it was like a bolt of electricity that went through her, connecting his mouth to his hand, fusing him to her. She cried out as her body arched toward him, asking for more.

This time, there was no need to ask if she was ready. They both groped for the condom on the table, and before she knew it, their bodies were melded together. There was a twinge of half-remembered pain, but it went away the moment Eddie started to move against her. With each thrust, the fire inside her flared into life, scorching, demanding. She clung to him, her arms across his back, her legs around his waist, and her face buried in his shoulder, as her hips lifted to meet him, to move along with him, to urge him on. More. Harder. Faster. More. More.

She yanked the sleep mask down. Through blurry eyes, she could see Eddie looking down at her, his hair framed by the light coming through the window like a halo, and she thought he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

"Tell me you love me," she begged, fingers digging into his back as if she was trying to make a new tattoo there. "Please, Eddie."

He leaned down until their foreheads were touching. "I love you," he whispered. His breath blew hot and sweet across her skin, and as those words settled in her heart, the fire finally burst, sending flames of pure ecstasy over her. She thought it would drown out all sensations, but, like a lightning strike that threw the storm cloud into sharp relief against the dark sky, her climax only allowed her to feel him more closely, clearly, and strongly than anything she had ever felt before. When his own release came, a moment later, she triumphed in it, in the pleasure they had given each other.

Afterward, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her softly.

"Was that better?" he asked.

She smiled into his kiss. "Oh, totally."

He chuckled, a rumbling sound deep in his throat. "You don't really want to learn how to play D&D, do you?" he said. "This is what you had in mind all along, bringing me back to your room so you could seduce me."

"Seduce you?!" she said, laughing.

"Not that I'm complaining."

"How dare you imply that I may have ulterior motives?" she said, in mock outrage. "I do want to learn how to play D&D!"

He smiled and kissed her again. "I guess we can do that later then."

But they never did, not that day. The dice and the rule book lay forgotten on her desk, while they spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, exploring each other's body, mapping every dip and curve like two intrepid travelers discovering the hills and valleys of some unknown, magical country. She learned his tattoos, tracing the strings of the puppet, the claws of the wyvern, counting each and every bat. He learned that her front teeth were crooked, that her nose was slightly upturned, and that one of her calves was bigger than the other, something Chrissy hated because her mother pointed it out constantly, but now, under Eddie's touch, felt like an adorable quirk. She learned that he had a scar on his forehead, curving like a half-moon under his fringe, the result of an accident in the early days of his blindness. They both learned how to touch each other in other, different ways, finding out what they liked and what the other liked, becoming so perfectly in tune with each other that, when their bodies were joined, it was impossible to know where one ended and the other began.

When they got hungry, they finished the picnic leftover, sharing the food as they'd shared the pleasure. Then they continued their journey until exhaustion set in, and they fell asleep in each other's arms.

At some point during the night, Chrissy woke up. The radiator, set on a timer, had turned itself off, and the room was chilled. She gently got out of bed, wrapped herself in her bathrobe—which still smelled faintly of Eddie—and went to the radiator, where Eddie's clothes had dried. These she folded and put on a chair, before turning the radiator back on. Then she crossed to the window, lifted the blinds, and looked out.

It was raining again, a fine drizzling mist that turned the asphalt into specks of gold under the streetlights. It must be quite late, yet some lonely souls were still trudging on the pavement, hunched under umbrellas or with their collars turned up against the cold and damp. Chrissy wondered where they were going, whether they had somewhere or someone warm waiting for them, like she did.

Behind her, Eddie stirred in his sleep and made a noise that was half-whimper, half-whine, when he reached out and found her not there. Chrissy let the blinds fall, so the room was shrouded in darkness again, and made her way back to bed.

But she didn't go back to sleep right away. In the dark, she leaned over Eddie and traced his tattoos with her fingertips, seeing him as he saw himself, pleased that she was beginning to memorize them, just as she was beginning to memorize his body, his scent, the feel of his skin against hers. And that was when she finally understood what Eddie had meant earlier—this was the true permanent thing. Even when the ink had faded, this memory, this feeling would remain, lighting her up like a glow in the dark.

"I love you," she whispered. It didn't matter that he was asleep. She said it to fix the memory of this night in her mind, like Eddie fixing his memories with pictures on his skin. And now that she'd said it, she would be able to say it again, when he could hear her.

But he'd heard her. "Love you too," he mumbled into her hair, sleepily, easily, as if they'd said it to each other hundreds of times. With a smile, Chrissy slipped under the warm blankets and fell into Eddie's warmer embrace, where she slept again.

THE END

[morbus-mlm]

Gravity Falls Headcanons/Things I Think About Often (1,2)

⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋

- Blubs & Durland got married on the 2nd anniversary of Weirdmageddon. They picked that day specifically so instead of tragedy, it's their love that's focused on.

- the Manotaurs find the Several Timez boys and raise them, make sure they get proper care (look i really don't want them to do some weird genetic freak shit)

- after being on the Stan O' War II, Stan starts drawing again. He & Ford try to learn from each other and draw in each other’s styles.

- Stan is a canonical erotic fiction writer. He has self published work and sold it on amazon. He also uses Ao3,

- Mabel and Dipper would try & help Ford catch up on new music like they try to do with Stan, it goes about as well as you would expect

- Fiddleford & Tate have father-son bonding, Fidd finally teaches his son the banjo like he said he would when he was younger

- You know how McGucket reads at the library to kids. I feel like he works there, doing something like archival while working on his inventions on the side

- When the grunkles get back home from their adventuring on the Stan O’ War II, Ford asks about the Axolotl. Stan says that it just appears sometimes, & has been doing so since he's lived in the house.

- Ford thinks that it's Frilliam (he's right).

- in Lost Legends Dipper recives a new journal with his pine tree hat mark on it. it functions like his own diary rather than a super scientific, documentation thing like the journals did

- the twins do a lot of research & work to make sure Waddles gets properly taken care of in suburban California, he lives the good life

- Mabel learns boxing with Stan, Dipper learns forensics from Ford

- Giffany develops romantic feelings for Hatsune Miku

— Bill is an unreliable narrator. I feel like some aspects of his story are either made up or half-truths. He isn't exactly a master manipulator for example. Bill's just a being that utilized Ford's pride and insecurity to get what he wanted.

— Tambry feels like a creepypasta girlie. She wrote her own in the 2010s & she's actually pretty good with horror writing.

— Manly Dan and Mayor Tyler are at the very least besties. these guys hang out, watch wrestling, drink at bars together, they are each other's hypeman.

— Soos got McGucket into anime, Ford hears what anime is like through him and is honestly a bit confused

— the Pines family during one summer went to disneyland for a week. within 2 days they have killed walt disney's disembodied cryogenically frozen head, stolen some of the pyrotechnics, pet all of the stray cats, and ate the strange pickledog

— Mabel would introduce her family to it, Dipper would be confused and curious but not want it. Stan would buy it for Mabel but not eat any himself, and Ford would be just as curious Mabel and eat one.

— Robbie starts working hospitality at his parent's mortuary. He still has his attitude but overall, hes more mellowed out than before.

— in their elder teens Mabel, Candy, and Grenda become kpop fans. I say this because oh my god would they all love doing the dances, toploader decor, the lightsticks

— Stan's exes will sometimes visit the shack. In Eda's case it's to catch up, in Rick's case it's to either do karaoke or to get something from him. In the case of his biker ex Stan will just run him off the property because that man sucks.

— Mabel learns how to paint on leather to create a new design on stans old biker jacket. She does it because she notices that it makes him sad when he looks at it

— Once Mabel shows him what she did Stan just starts bawling in joy and pride. He wears it whenever he and Ford go on adventures.

— When Fidd visits the Mystery Shack, he will always gravitate towards Frilliam. Fidd and Ford can usually be found feeding him, changing the water in Frilliam's tank together, talking in front of him.

— Gideon has a twitter

— Soos is pretty business savy. He's really good at appealing to people online, he knows the trends but doesn't stick to them religiously, he maintains that work-life balance. He is the perfect man.

— Toby Determined x Tad Strange ???

— Multibear and Dipper do karaoke in front of the family, it doesn't matter how, I need them to do this

— Mabel, though she doesn't get visibly like, buff, does get super strong due to her practicing boxing and carrying waddles as he grows

— McGucket doesn’t really live in the mansion. He just really isn’t comfortable in there, + he prefers smaller spaces regardless. He has like, a trailer he lives in that actually serves as his home.

— all the windows of the shack get changed to circular ones or normal, square windows.

— Manly Dan is willing to do the work because he's wanted to punch that triangle ever since he saw it in Weirdmageddon

— Soos suggests full on question mark windows, the next best thing they would do is create question mark designs within rectangular/circular windows

— Ford and Stan sometimes donate what they find to museums. It's usually stuff neither would want in the house anyways

— like old ass art that isn't cursed, anything related to taxadermied heads (they can make their own, thanks), all false gold/money, wax figures

— neither Stan or Ford use hard labels for their sexualities, i feel like labels dont really connect with them specifically,

— Stan would go with unlabeled (he’s fine living life not knowing exactly what he is, he cares more about how he feels)

— Ford would use the word queer (reclaiming how he’s been labeled as odd as a good thing)

— aromantic Mabel, i feel like she would experiment a lot with labels before settling on it (girl likes the idea of love, just like me)

— trans Dipper. doesn't matter, they could be transmasc, transfem, genderqueer, agender, dipper is trans

— lumberjack lesbian Wendy, self explanatory

[superscourge]

Can you tell us more about the Childhood Friends AU?

yeas

i guess i'll give some lil details abt it. this is gonna be long so under the cut it goes

sonic and scourge (also sonic at the time) meet each other when a portal opens up between their dimensions when theyre both about 10 years old. they both are pretty attuned to changes in their world, so they find it at the same time and are like "What The Heck You're Me!" but they hit it off pretty quickly bc they figure out the other one is just as fast as them and they race and a bond is formed.. they decide to call each other nicknames (buckles for prime sonic, shades for alt sonic bc at the time he's wearing the leather jacket + boots + shades) just to make things easier

for a little more context, in this au moebius is more like just. mobius but a little to the left. its not an opposite world like it is in canon, its just kinda...Different? if that makes sense? so shades isnt Nice, hes kind of a dick and he's rude, but he's not evil or malicious

buckles finds out after a while that shades has...not the best home life. his dad fuckin sucks. so shades stays with him and his nonna a lot (buckles' parents are gone already and he ends up staying with this sweet old cat lady he calls his nonna). this eventually culiminates into an awful thing when theyre about 14--shades ends up being pushed to the point of where he actually kills his dad. he doesnt show up for weeks, and buckles is worried, but he eventually shows up again, but hes different. hes not okay. and suddenly hes talking about how they cant be friends, how hes going to leave and never come back. and they have their first fight, which ends with shades leaving and buckles being left alone and devastated

they dont meet again until a couple years later when theyre both 16. shades had eventually returned to mobius and had been crashing there for a while, but he was stirring up trouble under the name of sonic. prime sonic finds him on angel island--apparently he had caused so much trouble that even sonic's enemies were targeting him now, so he wanted to use the master emerald to gain power so they'd stop messing with him. of course this goes south when he powers up with the emerald and knuckles defends it by slashing him across the chest during the transformation, interrupting it and putting him in a permanent half-super state (the green). he proclaims his new name is scourge, and they fight again, but scourge ends up using the master emerald to chaos control away, and once again they dont see each other for a while after that, bc then sonic is dealing with the Worst fucking year of his life (shadow, unleashed, forces). they basically dont talk again until theyre 19.

when they do talk again, sonic's really messed up from forces--the torture from infinite on the death egg really fucked him up and was making him question his reality even after everything. but scourge runs into him and knocks some sense into him (literally punches him in the face LOL) and sonic realizes this Is real, the war Is over, and everything fucking sucks. his nonna died while he was away. scourge doesnt take this well at all, and neither does sonic when he realizes its real, and they both kinda have a mutual breakdown moment because Neither of them were there when she passed and they both majorly regret it. but scourge still doesnt end up staying; he takes sonic to a nearby village when he falls asleep and then he leaves again. but that lets sonic know that scourge still does care about him, despite pushing him away for all these years. so hes going to figure out why, and bring back his friend.

they finally meet again post-frontiers, when sonic has a clearer head and has healed a lot. they fight again Of Course, but it ends up with scourge finally confessing why he'd run away so long ago, why he'd been trying so hard to push sonic away and drive a wedge between them to make sure sonic would Stay away--it was all because of the thing with his dad. he was ashamed of himself and didnt want his only best friend to see him as a murderer. but yknow what? sonic isnt fazed. he doesnt give a Shit. in fact he literally tells scourge that if scourge hadnt done it? sonic would have. jules was awful and beyond saving and the world was better off without him. scourge is shocked by all this, not really understanding...but they end up making up and finally, Finally becoming friends again

so thats the whole story LOL. ive been developing it w jester behind the scenes and while it isnt a Long au story its a fun and angsty one hehe. might be a little sonourge eventually. you know how it is

[what-if-i-just-did]

Season 16 wishlist because I'm a clown and I can dream:

-The finale was fake

-Saving Cas from the Empty

-DESTIEL, CANON, PROPERLY. KISSES ON THE LIPS AND ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP.

-Body swap episode between Sam & Dean

-Human!impala episode with John Barrowman as Baby

-Genderswap episode, sam and dean incredibly off-put, Cas going about as usual

-Reverse!FrenchMistake!!!! Misha, Jared and Jensen in the spnverse!

-Beach episode. no case, just them chillin'

-Jack as God dropping in on the bunker every once in a while

-Sam being the new Bobby, running things from the Bunker like he was during the Micheal!Dean period

-Sam and Eileen get married, Dean jokes about the time Sam married Becky

-Cas being treated like the main character he is aka being in every single episode

-The Mixtape. Where tf is the Mixtape.

- Time travel to season 1/2, maybe even pre-series?

-Cas's winggggs show us the wings!!!

-SuperWhoLock crossover ep? Pretty please? (Never gonna happen)

-Some type of crossover. Maybe even Scoobynatural reunion?

-I would say "fake dating episode" but idk how the heck they'd fit that into the narrative

-No overarching plotline. They fix the Chuck problem within the first 3 episodes and the rest is just individual cases/things

-Domestic destiel. Breakfast and movie nights and snuggles

-Dean Winchester officially coming out as bisexual to Sam

-What ended up happening to Dean's leather jacket? I want some symbolism of finally letting go of that as finally letting go of J*hn W*nchester and Dean allowing himself to live a happy life

-John Winchester acknowledged as an abusive parent and general shithead!!!

-Flashbacks to and stories about Stanford-era Sam & Dean!!! We learn how lonely Dean really was, and Jessica actually becomes a slightly fleshed out character; we learn her major, how she & Sam met, etc

-Everyone ends up happy

-DOES NOT END ON A CLIFFHANGER

[sixhours]

happy birthday, baby girl - pretend

Ellie has never had a birthday. Joel can fix that.

Series masterlist | Read on AO3 | In progress

Rating: Teen Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel and Ellie, Ellie Williams, Joel Miller, birthdays, swearing, fluffy fluff, canon-compliant Words: 2.5k

“May 15th.”

Joel looks up from his place at the kitchen table, his latest project spread across the work surface. It looks like a lamp. “What?”

“You said I could pick a birthday, so I did. It’s May 15th.”

He considers this, then nods. “Alright then.”

Later, she walks into the kitchen and sees the date circled in red pen on the calendar, already two weeks gone by, Joel’s printing in block letters.

ELLIE B-DAY

And that was that.

She turned 15 on May 15th, the day she and Joel walked back into Jackson and started a new life. A clean slate, Joel said at the time, although that’s proving easier said than done. Ellie’s slate seems to be written in permanent ink.

Jackson is weird. They’re assigned to the same house as before and given a few weeks to settle in and “acclimate”, which just means a lot of sitting around. Or in Joel’s case, fixing things. He stomps around the house frowning at squeaky hinges and tinkering with pipes and she rasps The Contractor under her breath whenever he’s in earshot.

Jackson Joel is different from regular Joel. Jackson Joel says things like “mind your manners” and “eat your vegetables first” and glares daggers when she swears in front of people. Jackson Joel walks around the house in socks and sweatpants and a t-shirt. Jackson Joel doesn’t carry a rifle or even his hunting knife.

Jackson Joel is a stranger, but he’s the only stranger Ellie knows, so she guesses she’s stuck with him.

Their new life feels like pretend, like when she was a little and the kids in FEDRA school played Soldiers and Fireflies in the rec yard. She’d get so into it, her imagination so carried away with whatever part she was playing that when she inevitably got captured or shot, her heart would be pounding in her throat.

Now she pretends she belongs in Jackson. She pretends she lives in this strange house with Joel and pretends they’re a family. She pretends Joel actually cares about her (not my daughter sure as hell ain’t your dad) and that she’s not just some freak kid (cargo) he’s been saddled with. She pretends it’s fine that the Fireflies couldn’t make a cure. She pretends Joel isn’t lying to her about whatever happened at the hospital when she was asleep. 

She pretends it’s normal for a 14-year-old (no it’s 15 now, even your stupid birthday is just a random day you made up, it’s all pretend) 15-year-old to crawl into bed with her pretend dad when the bad dreams won’t stop. She pretends it’s normal to wake up screaming every night.

But the thing about pretend is that none of it is real, and she’s still waiting for the game to be called off.

Like everything else in her life, it can’t possibly last.

That first night, she’d stood in the middle of her pretend room smelling of lavender soap and wearing new pajamas that were not hers. I’m right across the hall if you need me, he’d said, but the ten-foot gap between their closed doors might as well have been a thousand miles.

She went to bed, tucked her knife under her pillow, stared at the ceiling of her pretend bedroom in her pretend house, and listened to…nothing. There was no Joel breathing at her side, no crackling campfire, no crickets chirping or spring frogs croaking–nothing but her too-loud thoughts and a racing pulse in her ears.

Finally, when her heart threatened to beat out of her ribs and her palms were sweaty and her skin practically burned with the quiet, she’d padded into the hallway with her blanket and pillow clutched to her chest. Joel was already standing outside his room in his T-shirt and sweats (it’s so weird, where was his leather jacket and jeans and flannel and boots, how was he supposed to protect them wearing fucking socks) looking as lost and tired as she felt.

“I can’t–“ she began.

“Are you–“ he began.

They’d stared at each other in the dim light, neither knowing what the next step should be.

Finally, she’d huffed a sigh and stomped past him into his bedroom. She tossed her pillow on the unrumpled side of his bed and climbed in, pointedly facing away from him. She stayed like that for a minute or two, waiting for him to grumble at her, to send her back to her room. Eventually, she’d heard the creak of the hardwood behind her and felt the bed shift and jostle slightly as he got in.

“Wake me up if I snore,” is all he’d said.

She didn’t sleep for shit that night, and she’s pretty sure he didn’t, either…but at least it wasn’t so fucking quiet.

And the days pass, and it’s all so fucking weird, and still, they pretend.

Two weeks later, she wakes gasping for breath, clawing her way back from a cold, burning shack in Colorado, shivering and sweating through her nightshirt. Joel is there. She sleeps curled up against his back, so all he has to do is roll over and wrap one strong arm around her, the movement so natural and practiced that most of the time he barely wakes up.

“S’alright. You’re safe now. You’re in Jackson. You’re with me.”

It’s the same words whispered in the same way to her temple every time, like a mantra or a prayer. It may be pretend, but it works. She settles back to sleep with her head tucked under his chin, nose pressed to his chest.

Later she wakes again, not from a dream this time, but because the other side of the bed is cold.

Joel is gone.

Her heart clogs her throat and she throws the quilt off her body and scrambles out of bed.

Faint light from the stairwell. She creeps down the stairs, knife clutched in her hand. What if someone broke in? What if they got Joel? Jackson was supposed to be safe, but what if–

But it’s just Joel, standing in the kitchen holding a spatula. He looks up when she wanders over.

“Hey, kiddo–what’re you doin’ up?”

She squints and rubs at her eyes, a flash of anger nipping at the heels of relief.

Why did you leave me?

“Why is it so dark?” is all she can think to say, throat tight.

“It’s three-thirty,” he says, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe I’d work on the house, but I didn’t want to wake you, so I uh…”

He looks down at the counter in front of him. A big mixing bowl surrounded by boxes and tins and cracked eggshells, all of it covered with a dusting of flour.

Playing pretend, she thinks blearily.

“So…you thought you’d cook?”

“It’s baking, actually, but…yeah.”

“What are you making?”

“Cake…I hope,” he says, gesturing to an open cookbook off to the side.

“Have you done that before?”

“Nah…but can’t be that hard. Just eggs, flour, sugar–we don’t have sugar, but we have honey and syrup, and then the flour is, uh…oat somethin’, I think…”

He looks at the book again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You can just swap things around like that?”

“Uh…think we’re gonna find out.”

She comes over to peer into the bowl, wrinkling her nose.

“Looks like diarrhea.”

“Yeah, well, hopefully it don’t taste like it,” he mutters, kneeling to open the corner cabinet, peering inside, looking for something.

Feeling brave, Ellie sticks her finger in the gooey mixture and gives it a sniff; it might look like shit, but it smells good. She takes a tentative lick.

“Not bad,” she says. 

Joel looks up from his perch on the floor. “Hey, don’t–don’t eat that–s’got raw egg in it. It’ll make you sick.”

“Dude, we’ve been eating twenty-year-old canned stew for, like, weeks.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then thinks better of it, shaking his head and going back to the cupboard.

“Was tryin’ to find a pan in here,” he says. He has to reach deep into the back corner until the upper half of his body practically disappears into its depths, grumbling something about shoddy kitchen cabinetry over the clang of pots and pans that haven’t seen daylight in two decades. Eventually, he emerges holding a dusty silver pan in the shape of a donut.

“Think this is a bundt pan,” he says, taking it to the sink and washing it out. “But it’ll have to do.”

“Now what?” she asks, feeling more awake. 

“We…pour the batter into the pan,” he says, reading directly from the book.

“Can I?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, wiping his hands on a towel. “Have at it.”

She tips the mixing bowl into the pan, spilling a little in the process. It oozes onto the counter.

“Now what? We put it in the oven?”

“Uh…yep.”

She slides the pan into the hot oven, carefully pushing it to the middle of the rack, then closes the door. Joel turns the little kitchen timer and it starts clicking away the seconds. It reminds her of a tiny, tomato-shaped bomb.

“Did you do stuff like this before?” she says, sliding onto one of the stools at the counter, watching as Joel grabs a towel and begins wiping up the spilled batter and flour. She tries to picture him in his shoddy apartment kitchen in the QZ wearing one of those stupid aprons that says “Kiss the cook”, tries to imagine him and Tess in that dark, sad little corner of Boston whipping up a batch of muffins or cookies, the two of them acting all domestic and shit. The image is so weird, so out of place and wrong and not-Joel, she blushes.

“Uh…no. Not really. Used to buy cakes, usually. The grocery stores sold ‘em, all pre-frosted and decorated and the like. Fancy…flowers n’ shit.”

“So…no diarrhea cakes?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “No.”

“What about Sarah? Did she like to bake?”

“Mmm, yeah, I guess she did. She’d make cookies with the neighbors sometimes. But she liked the grocery store cakes fine, too,” he says. “Always insisted we get a cake for my birthday. Don’t care much for sweets, but…was more about the tradition, I s’pose.”

His eyes have gone soft the way they always do when he talks about her, his voice rough around the edges. He sighs, clearing his throat.

“It’s gonna be a while. Why don’t you go on back to bed, kiddo?”

“Don’t want to,” she yawns. “I’m invested now. Gotta know how this weird cake thing ends.”

He gives her a tired smirk. “How ‘bout a movie, then?”

Soon she’s curled up on the couch with Armageddon in the VCR. Joel tucks an afghan around her, leaves her with a pat on the head. From anyone else, the gesture would be patronizing, but from Joel, it’s nice. Comforting.

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She drifts in that half-space between wakefulness and sleep while the movie plays, something Joel picked out about asteroids and meteors and oil drilling. She pretends she lives in a house where she watches movies and bakes cakes with her pretend dad at 3 a.m.

When the timer’s mechanical ding sounds, she scrubs at her eyes and pauses the movie. She follows the scents of warm vanilla and honey to find Joel dozing at the kitchen table, arms folded with his chin tucked to his chest.

“Hey dude, your diarrhea cake’s gonna burn.”

He rouses and blinks at her, eyes widening as he fumbles for the hot pads on the counter and moves to open the oven. A fragrant heat wafts out as he takes out the pan. Ellie isn’t sure what the cake is supposed to look like, but it smells amazing.

“Now we gotta make the icin’.”

“The icin’,” Ellie says, mimicking his drawl. “Gotta make the icin’.”

He side-eyes her, then goes back to frowning at his cookbook. 

“I reckon we don’t have any ‘icin’ sugar’, whatever the hell that is…but…we got syrup.”

Joel puts a generous dollop of syrup into a clean bowl and Ellie pours in some cream and a splash of vanilla extract at his instruction. She sticks her finger in and tastes it, pronounces it good enough. Joel doesn’t scold her this time, even hands her the spoon to lick clean when he’s done.

“Moment of truth,” he mutters to himself as he turns the pan over on a plate and pulls it up to release the cake. No luck. Grimacing, he smacks the thing a few times, runs a knife around the edges and upturns it again. The cake finally comes out, but the top half stays firmly stuck inside the pan.

“Guess I was s’posed to flour that,” he sighs.

The result is a raggedy donut-shaped ring. It looks like a mess, but Ellie digs out a chunk of the cake’s stuck top and pops it into her mouth. It’s sweet and fluffy and warm, way better than a twenty-year-old chocolate bar.

“Dude…that’s fucking awesome.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Not bad for diarrhea cake.”

With that, she digs out another crumbly-soft piece from the pan and stuffs it into her mouth.

“Hold on now, still gotta add the icin’.”

They drizzle the sticky-sweet icing over the ragged bottom half of the cake. Ellie sneaks another fingerful or two from the bowl and Joel pretends not to notice. Then they stand back to examine their work.

“Well, it ain’t gonna win any prizes, but…”

“Can we eat it already?”

“Sure, kid.”

He opens a drawer and finds two forks, giving one to her. But just as she’s about to dig in, he puts up a hand.

“Hold up. We should do this proper.”

He goes to the mantle in the living room and returns with a candlestick. The base fits neatly in the center hole of the cake like it was meant to be there. Joel lights a match and sets it to the wick, and the faint smell of the burning candle makes Ellie think of a campfire under the stars, sheep ranches on the moon.

“Make a wish,” he murmurs, shaking out the match.

She arches an eyebrow in a silent question.

“It’s, uh, a birthday thing,” he says. He’s getting better at hiding that “sad little orphan girl doesn’t know what a birthday is” look, at least. “You make a wish before you blow out the candle.”

“Then…I wish for infinite wishes,” she grins.

Joel chuckles. “It don’t work like that. Gotta keep it to yourself or it won’t come true.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, it does, come to think of it. But that’s how it’s done, anyway.”

She watches the candle flicker, the white wax dripping down.

“You wish, too,” she says, suddenly self-conscious.

“Alright. On three?”

“On three,” she agrees. “One…two…three!”

He doesn’t even try to blow out the candle. He’s too busy watching her, that same soft look in his eyes. The flame flickers out with one strong breath, and she wishes to keep pretending for a little longer.

[lakesbian]

i would actually like to write canon-compliant brian suffering to fill in the brian gap wildbow left at the end like a dumbass but i don't think i can get in the head of someone with his specific brand of issues well. i love him though. personally i think he did actually have time to get off the oil rig he just looked up and saw the light and couldn't bring himself to care enough to run this time. personally i think hes friends with taylor and alec in the undersiders who killed themselves for emotional development reasons club. except w/ him there wasn't even a catharsis element to it he was just tired. 0 emotional development involved actually he was just so so tired. and then he ends up getting dug out of the grave later anyway (permanent skeleton rebirthmarks on brian my best friend permanent skeleton rebirthmarks on brian) and feels like a dead man walking and everyone can Literally see it on his face. and he finds out he didn't fuck aisha up as bad as he thought he did. and he finds out taylor pulled a final taylor moment and feels like they were always sort of similar people (i.e horribly insecure and sad and desperately control-freaking + carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders to feel even slightly okay about being alive) and sort of dedicates his second chance to healing in the way they both deserved to. and rachel continues taking taylor's advice and gives him a puppy 2 take care of. which is actually very helpful i think puppy cuddles could help him a little bit. anyway i'm way off topic but that's what ward is about to me. i think brian should get to have his aisha reunion and meet the heartbroken and be like Oh God. You Turned Into Me. which aisha VEHEMENTLY denies despite standing there with her cornrows and blatantly brian-style leather jacket. i think it would be good for him to be around children so awful he can't compulsively manage them even if he wants to and he just has to watch his little sister (who turned out okay and actually says things like 'i missed you' and 'love you' now) Be An Okayishly Adjusted Adult abt said children. do you understand my vision thisis what ward is about in the good world to me. worlds saddest ever guy brian having nice things. please