#full on blasts you and kills you and your ear drums

[cheesy-clown]

Considering the Horrorboros has the same hair style /similar hair style to the Stinger (and fish sticks but those are just baby stringers ) we are very lucky it has a booyah bomb instead of this alternative

A bigger sting ray

[lotte-s-web]

Hobie who fucks you to his own songs, and sex isn’t all soft and lovely when kick-ass British-hardcore punk music plays in the background.

— SAMO 🎸🥀⁉️

samo babe youre trying to kill me this is the first thing i saw when i got home😭😭 youre so right tho i HAD to write a thing

💿✩ ❝record ❞ hobie brown x gn!reader ✩💿

₊˚⭑ warnings: penetrative sex, teasing, hobie records reader's voice, overstimulation (i think?)

God knows how long it’s been since his record started playing, but all you know is that he’s been wrecking you for more than 3 orgasms. You’re shaking, hands uselessly gripping at the sheets as if it’d tether your mind to your body, as if you could do anything against the unrelenting pace of his hips. Your cheeks are damp with overstimulated tears, your voice raspy from all the noise you’ve been making.

But noise doesn’t matter when his music is so loud, blasting from all angles of the room and drowning out even the loudest of your moans. It drowns out the loud clapping noise your bodies make as his hips meet your ass, over, and over and over again, following the ever-changing rhythm of each of his band’s songs. The combination of the aggressive music blasting in your ears and his length making space within your body making you dizzy with pleasure.

Hobie groans from behind you, his lean frame fucking into you from the back as he keeps his hand on your hips to pull you back against him with each thrust. His other hand is pushing down on your back, forcing you to arch for him, holding you down despite the way you writhe under him and making you take each thrust into you. 

His skin is covered in a light sheen of sweat, making his dark skin glisten in the dim lighting as if he was some god of the night. And with the way he was keeping you on the boundary between pain and pleasure tonight, it certainly felt like he was. 

He’s panting, groaning, and moaning above you, the rough and guttural sounds blending in with his song in a symphony that makes you clamp around him, your lust-addled mind soaking in his pleasure. His hips follow the aggressive beat of the drums, grating and angry guitar riffs pumping his veins with adrenaline and the energy to keep driving into you. His eyes zero on the way your greedy hole swallows in his cock as if it wasn’t enough, as if you hadn’t been complaining just a few minutes ago about it being too much. 

A new song plays, something even faster, even angrier. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts above you, stilling his pace to listen to the first few beats of this new song. The sudden stop gives you air to breathe, giving you time to gasp for air and thank whatever higher power there was for the much-needed break. Your face falls into his pillow, your body exhausted.

It’s just as sudden when he starts to move again, his hips pulling back and pushing back in, full force in one swift motion that makes you jolt, making you choke on your breath. The motion is repeated again, and again, and again in another swift rhythm that has you falling apart on his cock. It makes you whine into his pillow, trying to retreat from him in any way you could.

He clicks his tongue at that, disapproving, making his thrusts harder, making you moan louder. He removes his hand from your back to hold your cheeks in a firm grip, pulling your weakened body up flush against his chest. His mouth is right up in your ear as he continues his brutal pace, his fingers digging into the flesh on your hip and leaving purpling marks where they lay as he runs filth into your ear about how good he knows you sound. You can barely hear your own moans but his words ring loud and clear within the foggy state of pleasure he’s got you in.

“Wanna hear ya sing dove,” he groans into your ear, emphasizing each word with a thrust that hits right up against that gummy ridge that makes your eyes roll back and your mouth fall slack. He rests chin resting on the junction of your neck and shoulder, moaning into your skin as he starts to ramble in your ear. “Gonna— F–Fuck— gonna use i’ as yer audition tape, yeah? Mmmph— wanna show the band how fuckin’ pretty ya sound when y’re all fucked ou’ f’me.” 

You keen at the idea, getting his blood pumping hot through his body downwards to where he’s sheathed inside you, his grip on you tightening with every little noise that blends with his song. That’s when it hits him: an idea, a brilliant one. 

The hand on your hip moves away to scramble for something on the nightstand, your body trembling against his as he finds his tape recorder amidst the mess on the small table. He sets the device down underneath you and clicks a button, the cassette starting to roll just as he starts to move again, your whines and cries of pleasure all caught by his tape. You barely notice in your haze, too cockdrunk to even consider any resignations to the idea of you being recorded.

He hears your breath hitch at the idea of being recorded, your voice softly crying out his name in complaint. He chuckles, kisses your cheek then continues pumping up into you, murmuring into your ear, “who knows, hm? Migh’ even get ya on the next track li’ thi’.”

a/n: ik his accent here is shit guys MY BAD IM SORRY aghh its so hard to write it shfbdsh

๋࣭ ⭑ tag/s: @eyesxxyou, @s4mo-is-dead

[magnoliahwrites]

Lean On Me (Don’t Knock Me Over)

or: harry is a touring musician and you're here to interview him

feat: childhood friendship, flashbacks, friends to enemies to lovers,mention of panic attack/anxiety/puking

note: this is part one of a three-shot. Side note: I made up names for harry’s band, it’s an up and coming pop punk band so there’s that

Much like most things in life, when the paper slid through your desk, you immediately shoved it under the outgoing mail box.

anything that causes you stress immediately went there, a future problem for yourself.

It wasn't until the night before the show, when your manager turned best friend, Cindy sat in front of you tapping her new manicure on the desk in front of you that you even remembered it.

"I just don't see the big deal," she huffs, stopping the tapping of her nails long enough to push her blonde hair out of her eyes, "like, you two were kids. He probably doesn't even remember you. And besides, I have three people lined up who would literally kill you for this chance."

You groan, resisting the urge to fling your body on the floor and ahve a full body temper tantrum.

Instead, you act like an adult and throw a mini fit, throwing your head back and shoving the papers away from you.

"he'll remember me." you groan, rubbing your temples, "It was a small town."

"Good," Cindy shrugs, "Make him regret it, or whatever."

she pauses, and her voice drops, some of the hard that radiates off of her melts away for a second.

"I don't see what the big deal is still," she says quietly, "What happened?"

You remember the first time you heard him on the radio.

Driving down a crowded street in Cindy's car (the kind you could never even think of affording) the sun roof down, your hand out the window as the radio blasts, the sun beating down on your hand.

"This is 93.9 playing the hottest hits of the summer! To begin, we have a new single from Kennedy Curse, sure to get stuck in your head. They're new to the scene, but singer-"

Cindy all but squeals, leans forward to turn the dial on the radio up louder, "I love this band. l've been trying to get an interview with them for weeks.”

You snort as you drum your thumbs on the steering wheel, "Can't imagine it would be hard to get an interview with them-"

"Shh!" She hushes you, leans forward and turns the volume up until the car shakes under you.

"Chipped paint, Carol's gonna turn into dust-"

it was a reflex, a knee jerk reaction, something you couldn't stop. before you even knew what you were doing, you were leaning forward in your seat, slamming your hand against the volume button, immediately a silence falls over the two of you.

Cindy knows you've mentioned in passing an ex boyfriend, a singer, but haven't really elaborated on it. Now, it seems like you don't need to.

"So you'll do it?"

Cindy is all but squirming in her seat as she brings you back to the current.

The sigh is all the confirmation Cindy knows, letting out an ear piercing squeal again, "You won't regret it, i promise!"

She gets up to make her an escape, mentions something about transportation-

"I'll do it, but there has to be rules in place-" You're rubbing your temples, a headache already on the horizon, but Cindy isn't listening, long gone as she stops everyone in the hallway to mention the interview with the Kennedy Curse.

Backstage, harry fixes his hair in a broken mirror.

Something about ten years of bad luck, but he rations that's the problem for the person who broke it, not him-

A stage hand, over worked and underpaid, sticks his head backstage: "harry, Ten minutes.

Someone's here to see you-"

And the show is on.

The smirk finds his way to the corner of his lips, and it's game on. the harry who had a panic attack in the back room five minutes ago is long gone, definitely didn't puke into the garbage can earlier because of the nerves. Instead, it's now replaced by the harry he wants everyone to see; confident, cocky, bold-

"Fans already-"

And he rounds the corner and almost hits you with the door.

he speaks first. A reflex, like he's been searching for the name for months or years, waiitng for it to fall onto his lips again-

he speaks before he can stop himself, before he can hate himself for it he speaks before he can stop himself, before he can hate himself for it.

"Birdie."

The low whistle follows, some bird card be always associated with the nickname, for you always singing with him-even if you insisted you were bad.

it falls flat, feels wrong.

Not the cute nickname it was before, when you two would lie in the shared two sized mattress, harry’s feet falling off the edge of the bed, the sheets thrown over both of your heads for security;

“Birdie," he'd say, his voice low, eyelids heavy. even half asleep, the whistle followed, "I promise, to keep your side of the bed warm, always."

Under the sheets was vows between the two of you, the sillier the better, most of the time, but the hushed voices always told the truth.

Instead, you spoke back, his fingers over your lips, calloused from the non stop practicing, the yanking the garage door open at all hours of the night to practice: "I could find you in a crowd."

He laughs; it's lazy and low, like you both have all the time in the world, and he opens his mouth to say something about his height, but it lays heavy in the air as he kisses the crown of your head:

"And i'll always find you, Birdie."

Seeing him is jarring, to say the least.

The last visit was less than good, yelling and tears (from both of you) things said in the heat of the moment that keeps you both up and tossing and turning-

"It's just my normal name now, thanks." You say quickly, hoping it's dark enough backstage that he can't see the red spread across your face.

"Right," he nods, smirks as he leans against the wall, crosses his arms over his chest, "Well, birdie, I gotta say, you got a lot of nerve to wanna hear me sing after you tossed us into the gutter."

You snort, "Still the victim. i see nothings changed."

"Hilarious," he laughs without humor, takes a step toward you, eyes narrowed, that stupid fucking smirk still pulls at the side of his lips, "I see you're still following me around, hm?"

"God, I can't say I missed this. You're still an insufferable asshole-"

"An asshole you paid to see. So tell me, birdie, which of my songs do you like, hm? Still-"

You want to smack the smirk off his face. You dig your fingernails into your palm into you're sure they're going to bleed, leaving little half crescent moons in the middle of your palms, the same ones he use to study, trace over and commit to memory, kiss them better.

In some sick way, you were hoping you'd see each other and he'd apologize, come home-

"I'm just here for the interview," You shake the VIP lanyard around your neck in his face, "And then you never have to see me again."

His eyes dart to the lanyard and back to you, and for a second, he looks almost lost, like something hangs in the air that he wants to say-

"You have five minutes."

You snort, take the pencil from behind your ear,

"I'll make it two. We won't act like these are some deep songs of yours or anything-"

A local nobody band is opening, the drums are heavy and loud backstage, and the ponding begins the second you open your mouth, like it's planned.

harry leans in closer, grabs you by your elbow,

"Let's make a deal, birdie."

You act like you don't hear the low whistle fall out after the nickname.

"Listen-"

he cuts you off, "You listen to us and i'll do the interview, no bitching, after the show. we can go to the bus-"

the look you throw him is irritated and he huffs, holds his hands in the air, "Fine. I'll take you to a fuckin' restraaunt. I'll be on my best behavior, i'll have your manager eating out of your hand after this interview. Scouts honor."

He makes a show of crossing over his heart, holds his hand open in the air.

The smirk never leaves his face, even when your eyes narrow as he sets his hand between you two.

"Deal, birdie?"

You don't speak, eyes narrowed, but your hand slides into his like it never left.

It feels like you're making a deal with the devil.

[ladyofrosefire]

Hello! I want to know more about Iris' post game with Shadowheart and Halsin! Do they settle? Do they travel together?

Bit of both!

I... am still picking my way through the end of the game so that I finish this fic I'm writing instead of leaving it in the WIP drawer forever and ever, BUT.

Iris did not, despite being easily able to do it, try to talk Shadowheart into saving her parents. When you have the ability to talk anyone into pretty much anything (and have used that ability to kill several people), you do start keeping your mouth shut around people you like making difficult decisions. So in the aftermath, the two of them go adventuring and exploring and, when they get tired, they go to Reithwin.

Rebuilding is going to take a lot of time and a lot of effort. Sure, there are buildings still mostly there, and with a real community effort, 6 months could do a lot, especially with magic (there's a druid spell called Move Earth that could be very helpful for digging foundations). So Halsin mostly stays, although they would tempt him away for shorter excursions. And, I imagine, they occasionally bring people in need of safe places to the town.

Between adventures, they rest. Resting does include Shadowheart helping the healers (...turning the House of Healing into something OTHER than a horror show full of Sharran iconography would be rough, but it does have a good base to be functional again) and Iris stepping in mostly to help with whatever school is set up.

Maybe they stay for a week, at first. Iris brings out her violin at the Last Light and gets people dancing. Shadowheart takes them both down to the beach for a swim. Iris and Halsin find out Shadowheart has no memory of ever trying to roll down a hill, which has to be addressed. They set off on another adventure. They come back. They stay a little longer. Iris starts collecting beginner music books. Shadowheart finds a wolf pup. Halsin sets a small house aside for them. Winter arrives, and they settle in by the fire. They retrieve Halsin from the room at the Last Light where he set up and find out they're going to need to build a bigger bed. Iris smacks herself in the thumb with a hammer, which is mostly just annoying since she has two healers in the room with her.

And, eventually, they stop leaving. Not entirely— they still go out looking for people who need to find somewhere to land, and Iris goes to get more books or more music, or they go visit their friends. Someone sets eyes on Waterdeep, and they have to blast them out of the sky. But the house gets a garden and chickens and cats and a cow, and Iris starts teaching music lessons (much to everyone else's horror. Early days of violin. Small children with drums.) and people stop teasing Halsin about when he's going to build a house for himself.

I also like to think that Shadowheart picks up maybe two levels of druid at some point. She'd share Circle of the Moon with Halsin, and yes she would be able to turn into a wolf, but mostly she rides around on people's shoulders as a little white cat. Occasionally, Iris will use the charge from the Corvid Amulet to join them. It becomes a fairly common experience to watch a bear trundle by with a cat on his back and a raven perched between his ears.

[asahicore]

moonlight - psh (teaser)

pairing. dancer!sunghoon x fem!reader synopsis. In August 1963, your monotonous summer vacation becomes a lot more exciting when you meet a group of dancers that work as the entertainment staff of the resort you and your family are staying at. Your fascination with them, and particularly dancers and close friends Sunghoon and Chaewon, pushes you to help them out by taking Chaewon's place at another hotel's show when she's unable to dance. The week you spend with Sunghoon as he teaches you to dance and the events thereafter give you a lot more than the ability to mambo. genre. dirty dancing au, rom-com type beat, summer au (yes in the dead of winter shut up), poor boy x rich girl trope, full fic will contain the Big 3 (fluff angst n smut) word count. teaser is at 2502 words, expected full fic 30-40k? release date. lmao a/n. i'm back. did y'all miss me.... i hope you guys will like this! i plan on editing and reposting my old stuff but i wanted to post a brand new fic first !! if u enjoy lmk, if u hate it lmk, just lmk it'll make me a very happy girl :)

You were on your way to the bungalow, you really were - but just as you reach it, light from a tall lodge about three hundred meters away catches your attention, and you’re too curious about that building you barely noticed before not to investigate. And so, you continue walking up the small hill where all the guest lodgings rest, until you find yourself before a sign that reads “STAFF QUARTERS - GUESTS KEEP OUT,” which you promptly decide to ignore.

In just a minute, a wooden bridge reveals itself, enabling you to cross over the current that separates you from the other bank, where the lodge stands. If you looked to your right, you could’ve made out some more, smaller and dingier-looking bungalows than the guests’ that hosted the staff behind all those trees, but you run into a familiar face before you notice them.

In just a minute, a wooden bridge reveals itself, enabling you to cross over the current that separates you from the other bank, where the lodge stands. If you looked to your right, you could’ve made out some more, smaller and dingier-looking bungalows than the guests’ that hosted the staff behind all those trees, but you run into a familiar face before you notice them.

“Hey! I recognize you. Baby, right?”

“Yeah, and you’re Jake!” you beam, surprised not only at seeing him again here, but at the three huge watermelons he carries in his arms like oversized triplets. 

“Yeah…” he trails, squinting his eyes at you, his enthusiasm turning into suspicion. “You can’t be here. Max would kill me. Go back to the dance, Baby.” He can only take a few steps forward before you grab a watermelon from his unsteady hold, putting your most convincing smile on.

“I’ll help you carry these!” you state more than offer, and march forwards across the bridge. Behind you, Jake sighs and shakes his head, then rushes to stop you in your tracks.

“Didn’t you read the sign? This area is staff only, you can’t be here,” he repeats, punctuating his words. He stays unwavering even at the receiving end of your very menacing glare, so you simply huff and stack the watermelon back on top of the other two and turn away. It takes him approximately two seconds to change his mind. “Can you keep a secret?”

Jake doesn’t prepare you for what you’re about to see when you enter the staff common lodge, but you don’t think anything could. The smell of a room full of people sweating and moving about hits you instantly, the heat it creates hanging heavy in the air. The breeze coming in through the open windows is practically useless in bringing the temperature down, but you aren’t curious to find out what it’d be like with the windows closed.

The music, a genre your father always bristles at when he hears it on the radio, is now blasting in your ears rather than whistling through the wind, and it takes you a few moments to adjust to the volume and intensity of the bass and drums bouncing off the walls of the room. The guitar sound is sensual and almost yearning, the singer longs for his lover, and the tempo is just fast enough for the dancers to find a swaying rhythm.

As if the lyrics themselves aren’t enough to make you blush, the way the staff dances makes you feel like you’re intruding on something. You try to look away as a couple thrusts their hips into each other’s, only to find another lowering themselves to the group until they’re crouching then slowly rising again, using each other as support the whole time. Skirts bunched up around hips, shirts almost fully unbuttoned or even discarded, hands grabbing onto the partner’s clothes or bare skin - you’ve never seen anyone dance that way. Far from the choreographed performances you’re used to, here, they’re simply letting their bodies move to the music without any second thoughts or a care in the world. You hadn’t even known this could be considered dancing, but surely, when your body molds itself this perfectly to the melody and to your partner’s hands, then you can only be dancing. 

Watermelon in arms, you follow Jake as he snakes his way to the back of the room through sweaty bodies holding each other close. You recognise a few people here and there as the entertainment staff who host activities, teach dance classes or help guests find their way around. They peer back at you, expressions either confused or disdainful - you aren’t sure whether that’s because they don’t know who you are, or because they do and don’t like seeing you there. Even if they don’t know that you’re Baby, your dress at least is a dead giveaway of your being a guest. Your mom had picked it out for you - a white sleeveless summer dress that reaches almost to your knees and cinches in at the waist before flowing out over your hips. And no cleavage, of course. Along with your impeccably curled and styled hair, your prim and proper attire is a far cry from the short skirts, tight t-shirts and denim that the staff wears, revealing sunkissed skin and toned muscles. And if all of that still wasn’t enough to tell you apart as someone who isn’t used to this kind of setting, then your wide eyes like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time should do it.

You finally reach the back of the room and set your watermelon on a bar counter. Jake rests his hands on his hips and watches the dancers, a smile on his face, the kind of smile you wear when you can never get enough of a sight even though you witness it everyday. You watch them too, but you look a mix of fascinated and terrified - sure, they all look terrific, but if your dad caught you here, you’d be dead.

“Where’d they learn to do that?” you lean in to ask Jake as the next song starts playing, your gaze not leaving the dancers who switch easily to the more upbeat tempo, not even needing a second.

He looks at you, stunned. “Don’t you know? This is how the kids dance these days. This is what American basements look like on Friday nights.” His surprise turns into amusement and he steps in front of you, facing you with one hand extended for you to take and a mischievous look on his face. “Wanna try?”

Your eyes immediately double in size and you shake your hands in front of you, but he grabs one of them anyway and starts leading you back into the middle of the room. As if saved by the bell, the doors suddenly burst open, catching everyone’s attention, and in run Sunghoon and Chaewon, wearing the same clothes from earlier, although Sunghoon has ditched the suit jacket and popped the top buttons of his shirt open. Your stomach flips at the sight of his flushed cheeks, hair slick with sweat and expression like he’s on top of the world.

Jake chuckles when he sees how transfixed you are by the two of them, dancing so differently from earlier, their moves far more sexual, hands not so polite anymore, completely free to do whatever they wish. Rather than a smile, Sunghoon bears a small frown and bites his bottom lip, deepening his dimples, and it all seems to make each of his moves that much harsher. The sheer sex appeal that exudes from him is absolutely undeniable, and it makes you feel things you’ve never felt before - things you’re not quite unsure how to name. You let out a small gasp as Chaewon jumps and hooks her legs around his hips effortlessly, then as she leans her upper body back until her head almost touches the ground, Sunghoon’s hands tight around her waist and his biceps apparent under the thin fabric of his dress shirt. You realize how strong Sunghoon must be when he carries her all the way to his shoulders, letting her rest her knees there as she plays with her skirt and swings her head from side to side. You’ve never seen anyone look so good while seemingly having so much fun.

“They look great together,” you blurt out without thinking.

“Don’t they?” Jake says, looking out at them with a fond smile. “You’d think they were a couple.”

This piques your interest. “Well, aren’t they?” you ask, head pivoting towards Jake.

“Not since we were kids, no. They’ve just been dancing together for so long that they’ve developed this chemistry and understanding of each other.” 

“Do you know them well?”

“Sunghoon’s my best friend from home. He met Chaewon when he started working here when we were 16, and then he got me this job when we were 17. The three of us are 22 now.” He meets your gaze and his smile grows wider. “Why, you interested?”

The sudden question (and the very obvious, very embarrassing answer) takes you aback and you stammer out a few nonsensical syllables before frowning at him. Your reaction just seems to amuse him. “No, I’m not. Just asking,” you manage to say.

He looks back at them, and you follow his gaze. “Well, good, cause we’re not allowed to get involved with the guests anyway. Which is why you shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

Just then, the song ends and Sunghoon and Chaewon laugh before they separate, finding another partner to dance with. As Chaewon heads towards someone else, Sunghoon catches your stare and walks to where you and Jake stand, eyes fixed on your face. You feel small under his gaze, but you will your knees not to buckle underneath you, although that’s hard to do when his eyes sweep your figure, giving you a once-over.

“What’s she doing here?” he questions Jake without looking away from you.

“That’s Baby, she came with me,” Jake says, not really answering the question.

“I carried a watermelon,” you blurt, not really answering the question either, but that seems to satisfy Sunghoon. His eyebrows raise slightly before he heads back to the dancefloor and starts dancing again. You release a breath you hadn’t known you were holding, but another one catches right in your throat when, after barely thirty seconds, he pivots back around as if there was still something he was curious about. His eyes stay focused on you, unreadable.

And then, he bows his head slightly, looks up at you through his eyebrows, raises his hand, and beckons you to him with his index finger. As if spellbound, your feet move on their own until you find yourself in front of him, his hands reaching immediately for your hips and holding on tight there. All the nerves in your body are on edge and your heartbeat speeds up, almost matching the fast tempo of the song resonating throughout the room. Simply remembering to breathe becomes an arduous task. Jake’s voice is a faint sound as he says, “So you go dance with him, but not me?”

This kind of dancing is completely unfamiliar to you, so you have no idea what to do. Thankfully, Sunghoon doesn’t seem to expect anything else, and he knows how to guide you so that you get the gist of it. “Keep your eyes on me,” he commands softly, gesturing with two fingers for your gaze to stay on his. “And move your hips in a circle, just like that,” he adds, executing the move for you to mirror. “Just relax, you’re too stiff. Relax your arms. Put them around my shoulders.” His hands brush down from your shoulders to your wrists, sending a trail of fire all along your arms, grabbing them and resting them on his shoulders himself before settling back on your waist. His arm snakes its way around it, bringing you closer to him. You aren’t sure what’s more electrifying, his gaze or his touch.

You start to focus on the music and on getting your body to move along to it, and it feels like a miracle when your hips, firmly pressed against his own, sway side-to-side in rhythm. Remembering what you saw earlier, you lean back slightly, hips still moving in small circles, trusting him to keep you from falling. You lean back as far as you can, and something about it is so liberating, you feel the adrenaline rushing through your body as if it’s the only thing keeping you alive. When you come back up, your palms are flat against his chest and he looks at you with a proud but surprised smirk that lits your insides up. “Just like that,” he whispers, but his face is close enough for you to hear him over the music.

He spins you around a few times, and as quickly as he appeared, he’s already gone, having weaved his way through the crowd back towards Jake. It takes you a few seconds to register his absence, but when it does, it’s like all the warmth he filled you with is gone; you’re left only with the heavy heat weighing the room down and you with it, when you’d felt light like air not a moment ago.

Before you can decide on what to do next, someone taps your shoulder, and you turn around to find Heeseung frowning down at you. In the fraction of a second, you can tell this is the snarky Heeseung that you’d seen when you were snooping around the day before rather than the polite Heeseung that had waited your table that night.

“Baby, right? I don’t know what you’re doing here, but your sister and parents are looking all over for you. If I were you, I’d go now, and quick.”

Alarm shoots through you as you realize you’d been here for twenty minutes at least, the sort of absence that wouldn’t go unnoticed by your family this late at night. You thank him rapidly and practically run towards the door before risking a look back at Jake and Sunghoon, still standing in the corner of the room. Jake looks worried, so you send him a thumbs up, but Sunghoon simply peers at you, sipping on a beer as his back rests against the wall, that same unreadable look from before back on his face. You don’t linger to figure it out and rush to your bungalow, coming up with an excuse that you got lost on your way back for your parents to believe. Because their Baby would never do anything she isn’t supposed to, right?

That night, as you toss and turn in bed, trying to fall asleep, your mind wanders off to those warm, big hands firmly planted on your waist, and how they had guided your body until it moved on its own accord, until it let itself go and only followed the rhythm. How far can you go until your body no longer belongs to you but rather to the music, or to the person holding you close, you wonder? And if that happened, would you, for a moment at least, no matter how fleeting, be freed of all your worries for your future and of all the pressure on your shoulders?

Your feet already ache - from dancing or from wanting to dance some more, you can’t quite tell.

perm taglist: @drunkjaked (ask to be added!)

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[notnctu]

backseat chronicles - n.jm | ridin’ club

━ welcome to the ridin’ club smut series

genre ➠ slow burn, smut, fluff, lil angst  wordcount ➠ 8.5k details ➠ fem!reader, streetracer!jaemin, badboy!jaemin, college!au ━ where Jaemin brings you to his club races as his arm candy. warnings ➠ explicit language, overstimulation, flirty banter, pet names, softdom!jaemin, car sex, praise kink, hittin it raw (y/n on the pill), oral, daddy kink, slight corruption kink, fingering synopsis ➠ There is no reasonable explanation as to why or how you always end up in the backseat of Na Jaemin’s beloved car. Almost routinely, he picks you up around ten in the evening with the stereo blasting the raunchiest lyrics for your entire suburban neighborhood to hear. The entire night remains purely friendly, a dabble of flirtatious comments because well, it’s Jaemin for fuck sakes. But all it takes is one suggestive gaze from his dark, lustful eyes and a drop in his voice that rumbles your core to have you climbing over the seats to get to the back. taglist ➠ @rabbit-doyochi​​​ ; @darkneogotmyback​​​ ; @im-lame-irl​​​ ; @p-mini​​​ ; @niniluvsmarkhyuck​​​ ; @saniahmichael​​ ; @jaehy9ngs​​​ ; @danyxthirstae01​​​ ; @jaehyunoos​​​ ; @pikijaemin​​​ ; @suhweo​​​ ; @yunoyeol​​​ ; @lanadreamie​​​ ; @ta3ilmoon​​​ ; 

a/n ➠ hi yall its author doie❀!! thank you for over 1k notes on this series, im beyond impressed by the amount of attention this got! it really blew up and its so crazy!! i wrote this one with more of a romantic plotline i realized its too hard to keep it pwp with all the story building and characterization i have :)) it’s almost over yall! pls pls leave me feedback im sorry it took so long to write ):

While college lecture rooms are too big to interact with other students, discussion classes are there to ease the difficulty. A classroom for about twenty students from a three hundred person lecture. It’s administered by a clueless TA, who barely began his second term in graduate school.

Unlike lecture, attendance is mandatory for participation points. You show up every time without a fail, so it came as a shock to you when a certain blue haired student finally appeared from the list of absent students.

Na Jaemin. The notorious playboy with looks that kill and partakes in some illegal racing club. It’s as if every person in the room fawns over his aura, Jaemin drips with an inexplicable alluring confidence. You didn’t know anything about him besides the fact that he never shows up for class and rumors about how he’s slept with the entire cheer squad.

But he’s drawn to you like a magnet: always sitting in the available spot next to you, asking about your day before the TA arrives, developing an odd staring problem. You don’t feed much into his attention, minding your own business when he starts with his notably flirtatious greeting.

“You just take my breath away, (Y/N).” Jaemin cocks back in his seat with legs stretched wide in an overly comfortable manner. The smug smirk on his face cannot be ignored, he’s doing the absolute most to get you to pay the smallest attention to him.

“I didn’t do anything in particular to do that, Jaemin.” You respond bitterly, pulling out your notes for today’s discussion class. The TA enjoys wasting the first twenty minutes going over the past lecture slides and running through the most obvious topics.

You pay no mind to Jaemin peering over at you with the single handedly most dreamy eyes and smile --- stars shining in his dark orbs and a dazzling twinkle in his wide toothy grin.

“That’s why you’re so amazing. You do nothing and it still leaves me breathless.” His sneaky eyes examine your clothing choice for the long day. On this warm afternoon, the short tank top does nothing to hide much of your skin and the denim shorts that ride up a little too well drive Jaemin insane. And when you cross your legs together, he swallows the spit that pools in the back of his throat.

Your ears catch onto the murmurs of the rest of the class, the midterm is next week. The wretched midterm that is half of your grade dooms you, it is going to take an endless amount of completely undistracted dedicated hours of study--- “On a more serious note, can you help me with this class?”

His voice shatters your inner panic, if anything, adds to the stress that already beats down on your shoulders. You look up to glare at him, but you’re entirely taken aback by the new styling of his hair and the exposure of his tattoos.

The sweet blue cotton candied strands are ruffled lazily above his brows, messy from him constantly running his hand through them. Jaemin sits relaxed in gray sweatpants that are extremely baggy on his slender figure, hands are shoved casually into the pockets.

But what has you staring for longer is the long sleeve of tattoos that wrap around his left arm. Not that you’re surprised that Jaemin has tattoos, let alone a whole sleeve, but this is your first time seeing it as this is the first time he’s come to class without his leather jacket on. Something about the intricate lines and shadowing make Jaemin seem much cooler, almost more attractive.

When you meet his eyes, his lips curl slowly into a sly side smile and he’s practically eating you up under his gaze. He definitely knew that you were staring and what comes next out of his mouth will haunt you for it. “Like what you see, beautiful?”

“I don’t have the time to help you.” The best way out of this situation is to simply ignore it. Jaemin is overly adored and admired by many, he’ll find someone else to help him.

“Jaemin, do you want to study together?” There you go, folks. The random girl snickers with her small huddle of friends in the upper corner of the room, like a crowd of crows, they’re all waiting around for Jaemin to accept her offer so he can be easily integrated into their little group.

However, you watch how his glances bounce between you and her. The most sickly sweet, kind smile is almost too fake to consider it to be genuine. His final choice surprises you, “thank you for offering, but I only want (Y/N)...”

Your breath hitches and gets caught in your throat as you hope for him to finish his sentence, the drumming of your heart distracting you even more. Jaemin wants you? While the thought is flattering, it puzzles you greatly.

“... to help me with my studies.” Jaemin finishes his sentence after a rather long pause, his eyes finally resting upon your figure shying away and finding any way to seem uninterested in the conversation. “Is that going to be okay, (Y/N)?”

“What do I get out of it?” You can’t believe that you are actually considering it. But this is a man that only wants you to help him. Jaemin is an impossible, yet charming man and whatever comfortable attire he is wearing today is really aiding in his request.

He lights up, ears perked up and eyes attentive. His hands fold together on the empty desk, leaning forward towards you. “Dates with me.”

Rolling your eyes, you groan slightly at the arrogant answer. “I don’t care about that. I want something that benefits me.”

“I’ll make sure you’re well fed.” There is a tiny plea in his tone, a remarkable shift from his cool aura. “What do you want? I’ll give it to you.”

“I guess I can’t turn down free food…” there is a hang in your sentence as you contemplate what chaos you’re about to dive into and what life changes are about to be explored with Jaemin.

“Before you agree,” Jaemin chuckles, “there’s one more thing I’d like you to do for me.”

You’re quick to shoot a daggering glare at the overly enthusiastic boy, “why do I suddenly owe you favors?”

“Because I say so.” He deadpans, a chill running down your spine at the deep dip in his octave. The playfulness that was present all this time suddenly vanished, a serious look that intimidates you, but sexy enough to where it erupts something in your core. He blinks at you with dark clouded eyes and you nervously anticipate what he is going to ask next of you.

“Accompany me to my races.” He speaks lowly as if he’s afraid of someone else eavesdropping in the conversation.

Here’s your issue with that request: you’ve never really been part of that scene. You’ve lived pretty mundanely, even in college. It’s simple, you like to stay within the boundaries of what you enjoy to do and what you have to do. But you’re always open minded and willing to try something to determine whether or not you’re fond of it.

Partying and drinking copious amounts of alcohol weren’t your favorite things to do, especially to the point of forgetting your nights. You wanted to remember your nights as much as you do your days. The youth isn’t here for long, why waste them by blacking out in the middle of a large party? Also, whoever said that alcohol goes down smooth is a blatant liar.

Illegal racing could possibly be an extension of people who participate in those things, which is fine, but does place a crippling fear of coming off too boring or unrelatable inside your nervous system. But just because you don’t do those things doesn’t mean that you’re not as cool, right?

Since when was your status based nonsensically on how often you spend your nights in socializing crowds full of sweaty bodies and how much cheap booze you can drink? It had to be all in your head --- you’re just dreading any awkward socializing with people who race cars when it’s absolutely illegal.

“Why me?” It’s a genuine answer, possibly stemming from your insecurities of not being on the same level of charm as Jaemin exudes. You’re not a fool, you’re well aware of the many different people he comes across on campus so, why you?

Jaemin doesn’t hesitate to answer, “why not you? You’re just my type. Hot and smart. Cute and a little shy. The greatest duality, if you ask me.” His words seem so genuine that it has you believing these things about yourself as well.

Nonetheless, you’re taken aback by his observations and his choice of descriptions. “We’ve barely ever talked. How can you say these things so confidently about me?”

Jaemin slightly pulls your chair closer to his own and you yelp in response to the sudden movement and lack of space that separates the two of you. He leans into you, breath hot on your skin and obvious eyes darting between your shocked ones and pretty lips.

“So let’s get to know each other. I can already tell that it’ll just make me fall for you even more.” His finger lightly traces your jaw, stopping at your chin to give it a small lift to meet his focus. Jaemin loves how you squirm underneath his intensity, you’re too cute to let go. “Plus, my boys will love you. I’m sure of it.”

The TA rushes in quickly and is utterly distressed from the traffic that had pushed back his schedule. “Sorry, I’m late everyone.” He rummages through his things to find his notes, but groans to see that the monitor of the computer is off. It’s going to take him another ten minutes to input all his credentials.

But your attention doesn’t stray from Jaemin, especially with his delicate touch at the bottom of your chin. His gentle smile enacts nothing but a soft love, and a peak of interest. Na Jaemin, the one and only. He’s like an adventure waiting to be explored, an open bottle of fun for you to take a sip.

“What would I have to do?” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just be there as your pretty self.” Jaemin comes off as the type to always have women around him, “you’ll be my lucky charm. For some reason, I always feel better around you.”

The escalation of this conversation is possibly more action you’ve had to handle in the last two years. Jaemin drops your chin and falls back into his own seat with his arms crossed. He is about to turn your life upside down and whether that be a good or bad thing, you don’t mind. You’re excited for the new thrills that come with being by Na Jaemin’s side.

Jaemin’s hot hands lift your shirt quickly, throwing it towards the front seat of his car. His lips return to your soft neck, nibbling at your skin tenderly and with love bites that will remind you of his gentle touches. The streetlamps outside flicker impatiently as you feel the eagerness soaking your panties and he lifts you up to take them off.

“My sweet girl,” his voice is light and airy that it becomes almost lost in the heat of the car. “You’re excited tonight. Did you miss me?” The devilish smirk can be felt upon your collarbones.

“Yes, I haven’t seen you for almost five days.” A peculiar whine settles in your pout and Jaemin’s low growl sends shivers down your spine. The only barrier are his own tight jeans and your hands are fast at unbuckling his belt. Jaemin relaxes back, forearms resting on your soft thighs and watching the neediness in your expression and the speed of your hands. He smiles to himself seeing you this way, wanting him so badly that you can’t wait to get him out of his jeans.

Throughout the two months that you and Jaemin finally became well acquainted, he’s fallen inexplicably into your trance. His friends made it very clear to you that he doesn’t keep the same girl around for more than a few weeks. But he’s brought you to almost every race so far and despite the initial shock of your appearance after the third time, you didn’t let the passing comments phase you.

Why he hasn’t replaced you is unknown and truthfully, there is no reasonable explanation how you always wind up in the backseat of his car by the end of the night. It’s become part of your routine. Jaemin picks you up around ten in the evening with raunchy lyrics blasting out of his personalized car for your entire suburban neighborhood to hear. More often than not, Jaemin has food ready for you to devour and a cozy blanket for your exposed legs.

You’ve learned a bit more about him through your backseat chronicles. Jaemin is possibly one of the only people in your life with a heart bigger than his own body, while also being as carefree as he can. Oddly enough, he cares about you as his friend and as his companion. Not to mention the ridiculous, yet endearing nickname, “Lucky Charm”, that he has coined upon you.

Jaemin has been the best adventure you’ve had in ages. While he takes you on intoxicating thrill rides on the leather of his back seats, every street race has been more than unforgettable. He shares one of the same values as you --- wanting to remember the present. You both know that you’ll remember each other enough for it to transcend into your next lives.

You have him to thank for your youthful experiences, to learn and dive into this new found world of mischief under his care. Jaemin treats you extraordinarily well, he’d never hurt a soul. He showers you in appraisal and carefulness, he’s attentive to your behavior and remembers your favorite things. And he reminds you almost every time you see him that he’s so grateful to have you in his life.

“Have you been touching yourself?” Jaemin’s bold question catches you off guard as it causes your hands to shyly hover over his unzipped jeans. When you glance up at him with soft innocent eyes, as if you’re guilty of a crime and wish to beg for forgiveness, his facial expression is serious and intimidating. 

“Continue, baby. You can be honest with me. Daddy isn’t going to punish you if you did.” His tone is sweet and light, but his eyes are dark and piercing. His lips are drawn tightly into a thin line, no curve in sight.

His finger grazes down your cheek gently as he admires your slightly parted lips and the way your eyelashes dance every time you blink. However, his other hand urges you to continue your previous action of getting him out of his restrictive jeans.

You nod, while rubbing his erection through his gray briefs that hug him so tightly. There’s a sharp intake of breath when you pull the waistband of his underwear down and his cock stands against his lower abdomen. “Do you think of me when you do?” His voice gets caught in his throat when you take him in your warm hand.

“Always.” You kiss his jawline and fix your position above his dick. Your slick pussy presses down against his shaft, coating it in your juices and rubbing his tip to your clit for a delicious sensation. Jaemin groans, his gaze dipping between your lower bodies and back to your face.

“My sweet (Y/N) thinks about her daddy fucking her senseless while she touches herself.” Jaemin chuckles darkly, grinding his hips harder against you. There is a shift in the atmosphere as he grips your hips and slowly enters your dripping hole. “That’s cute, baby.”

You hold onto his shoulders as his raw dick fills you to the brim, stretching you out like past nights. Gasps leave your body when he starts pulling all the way out to only have you sink back down. “Daddy, please just fuck me.”

Jaemin picks up his speed, knowing that you have a quiz due at midnight that you scolded him for forgetting earlier. The grip on his shoulders tighten as this man navigates your body all too well. He knows you like the back of his hand, fucking the spot that causes your body to lose control.

One of his favorite sights in the world is the view of your lips parted open with loud whimpers falling effortlessly. Your eyes roll back into your skull as his hips roll deeper into your walls, the tip hitting your sweet spot repeatedly.

“You’re always the best girl for me, aren’t you?” His hand wraps around your neck when you throw your head back, choking you lightly and your walls grip around his shaft. “I know you’re close. Cum on my dick, baby. Be a good girl.”

Jaemin’s tattoos shine under the moonlight when you peer down at him. His hooded eyes are intoxicated by the pure image of your fucked out body and he’s truly in love. “My good girl, come on baby.” He continues to encourage, his other hand giving you a smack on your ass when he drills mercilessly into you.

The familiar bubbling occupy your lower half and the feeling of release unravels all so suddenly. You fall forward, Jaemin lets go of your neck to hold your limp body close to him, your head on his shoulder as your orgasm overtakes you. He grinds his hips into you to prolong your shaking climax, cooing sweet nothings in your ear as his other hand takes a whole handful of ass to squeeze.

He bottoms out, filling you up to the rim to cum deep inside of you. Jaemin moans loudly, his cum spilling all over your walls. You two sit like that until he grows soft, pampering your temples with gentle kisses. Jaemin remembers to take care of you, no matter what.

While you’re in his arms, he reaches for sanitary wipes in the side compartments. He lifts your hips slowly to pull out and you sigh at the emptiness. Gently, he swipes at the dripping cum from your pussy and makes sure that you’re all cleaned up before getting dressed.

“So, you want to tell me why you’ve been MIA for the past five days?” Rolling your eyes, you pull up your panties and fix the last decency of your hair.

“Car meets that are too far for me to take you.” His thumb rubs your chin lovingly and Jaemin’s eyes are so bright and mesmerizing, you find that it’s hard to look him in the eye at times.

“Not because you’ve been hooking up with other girls?” There is a tinge of sarcasm that laces your rhetorical question and though you don’t expect him to give you an actual answer, you take note of his reaction. Jaemin raises an eyebrow, clearing his throat and looking out the window away from you.

“And if I was?” Truthfully, that question hurt you more than your’s hurt him. His hand rests underneath his chin as he patiently waits for your answer. He admires the clear night sky and the rundown abandoned liquor store that stands all by itself.

“What do you want me to say?” Question after question, a stiff tension replaces the sex of the car.

“I’ll take you back now.” Jaemin crawls back to the driver’s seat, completely ignoring your confused figure. He has always been quite like this: going aloof whenever he wants to dodge something. However, it’s been happening more frequently the past times you two have been seeing each other.

The truth is simple, yet entirely complex at the same time. You and Jaemin aren’t dating, despite always going out together and him posessively introducing you to other men. You and Jaemin aren’t dating.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop you from growing feelings for him and you can tell that this happens too often for the attractive boy. He can’t have a fuckbuddy that won’t fall head over heels for him. But who could really blame you? Even if all this time Jaemin was pretending that he cared about you, he still pampers you like a princess; he still tells you he does.

But when it comes to discussion about advancing into something more, he hides and grows silent. This has you wondering, maybe this entire thing to him is all sex? And he can’t love you back the way you do.

No one knows his heart, not even himself. He’s never wanted to complicate his life, it’s always been about two things: racing and having fun. There is no easy way to explain it all, the thoughts that flood his mind and heart, so he chooses every way to ignore it. Overall, he’s genuinely lost. You are one source of stability in his life that he isn’t willing to let go, ever. But just because he won’t let you go, doesn’t mean that you won’t take the chance to leave when you’re fed up with him.

This has him wondering, how far can he push before he pushes you too far?

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just walk.” Tonight is unsettling, it usually doesn’t end like this. Jaemin locks the car doors and turns around to reach for your hand. “Jaemin, open the door.”

“I want you to say that you hate when I sleep with other people.” Jaemin confesses all too wildly as his hand lightly squeezes around your wrist. “And I want you to mean it.” He’s only speaking words of truth that haven’t had the time to process in his own thoughts.

“I hate when you sleep with other people.” And you do mean it. You mean it more than anything you’ve ever said to this man. Jaemin just sighs, bringing your wrist to his lips for a lasting kiss.

“Can I drive you home?” Jaemin asks softly, eyes dipping down to the leather seats and avoiding all need for eye contact.

“Yes, Jaemin.” He pulls you back into the passenger seat and drapes the soft blanket over your exposed legs. “Hopefully, I still have time to take my quiz.”

“Can I come inside?” Jaemin coolly turns his marble wheel to reverse out of the parking space, a hand resting on the shoulder of your seat as he does a double take behind him for any pedestrians, even if you two are far out in the middle of nowhere and there isn’t anyone around; Jaemin knows you have the hots for him when he does that specific move.

“What do you mean? You’ve already cum inside.”

It’s the sound of disappointment as his tongue tsks at you and he flicks lightly at your forehead. He steps on the acceleration, revving the annoying engine that roars throughout the peaceful night. The multicolored lights illuminate around his stereo and at your feet, creating the Rainbow Road right out of Mario Kart. 

Jaemin isn’t like the others who pay close attention to the details of his car. His motto goes, “if I like it, I’m going to have it.” Whether or not anything matches goes beyond his worries.

In some ways, his car is a mirror of his own personality --- wild and free, colorful and welcoming. And his skills as a driver? Safe, no matter how far the speedometer goes, Jaemin always makes you feel safe.

“I mean come inside your room for aftercare. You know how much I hate leaving you without a proper cuddle.” He pouts and almost immediately his cute baby tone comes out with his beg. Almost subconsciously, Jaemin lays his right palm open facing up to invite yours in. Almost routinely, you lace your hands to complete his hold. Getting Jaemin to smile has never been easier as his hold grows tighter.

“You can’t stay over tonight though. My housemates are doing some Single Girls Only house event tomorrow and it starts immediately when we wake up.” You laugh as the ridiculous words fill the air.

“And you’re participating in that?” Jaemin mindlessly asks and you’re unable to differentiate his implications from the question. Is he asking because the idea is horrendously nothing you’d like to do or he’s implying that you’re not single?

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sounding rather harsher than intended, Jaemin finally realizes how poorly he had worded his previous question. Yet, a part of him feels disappointment whirling in his chest and a desire to feel wanted by you.

“Doesn’t seem like something you’d like: wallowing in your singleness.” He chuckles, remaining lighthearted and playful.

“I really don’t.” Jaemin brings your knuckles up to his lips for a lingering kiss, his eyes darting quickly on the road ahead now that you’ve entered the metropolitan areas and his speed drops significantly to avoid getting ticketed.

“I’ll come pick you up. Instead of being single tomorrow, you’ll be on a date.” When you turn to examine his facial expression, the serious tension in his jawline and focused eyes alarm you. Your stomach twists into knots and if he couldn't already tell, your palms grow sweaty at his offer.

“That’s such a slap in the face to them.” Pulling your hand away from his, you cross your arms and lean your head against the cold window. “I don’t think I can do that to them.”

“I have a race tomorrow.” He starts, his head tilting over at you with his round gorgeous begging eyes, “at least, come to that with me.”

“Okay, but only because I want to see Haechan.” As if it wasn’t moments ago, Jaemin was the one balls deep in you and now you’re spewing enthusiasm for another man. It’s all a joke, a way for you to conceal your undying attraction for Jaemin.

You still remember the first time you met the sunshine that is Haechan and the jealousy that seeped from Jaemin’s words when he noticed the exchange of flirtation. Haechan is someone you’d knowingly gravitate towards: a man with a loud personality that just knows how to conduct every personality in the room. And at that moment, Jaemin couldn’t tell if being more observant was a good or bad thing.

Jaemin never saw himself as outgoing as his other friends, staying more kept in his own circle, but he had the confidence to fake it. He’s bold, rather impulsive and slightly narcissistic, Jaemin knows how to use his strengths very well. 

However, when he saw the soft smirk on Haechan’s face and your shy mannerisms, a small tinge in his chest ignited a died out flame. He didn’t realize it before, but that was the very start of his long tumble of feelings for you.

“Do you say those things to purposefully get me jealous?” Jaemin rests his hand on your thigh, giving it a harsh squeeze. His eyes never leave the road and his tone reverts back to his dominant tone.

“Well, are you jealous?” It’s like you two dance in circles, answer questions with a question does not stop.

And as bratty as your tone is, you don’t expect the quick “yes” that answers back and the smoldering look he gives you briefly before focusing back on the drive.

“Then good.” You huff, ready to hop out of the car after the odd, yet sensual tension. Jaemin pulls up to your house and double parks the car to lean in for a nightly goodbye kiss.

“You’re not coming in?” You try to read his facial expressions, but he hides his emotions too perfectly.

His lips curl into a smile before saying, “I think it’s better I cool off tonight.” And you mindlessly give him a peck, but he holds your face to deepen it. Through the kiss, you can feel the neediness by the way Jaemin shoves his tongue into your mouth. The taste of lust against your palette is difficult to ignore, but your academically responsible mind screams at you about your forgotten quiz.

Your hand lightly taps at his chest and he pulls away, his eyes drinking up your swollen lips. “I have a quiz, Jaemin.”

“I know, sorry. It’s just so easy to get lost in you.” Jaemin kisses your cheek once more before you exit. You smile back at him as his words have grown a strong effect on you lately. Bidding him goodbye, he wishes you sweet dreams as he patiently makes sure you’re fully inside your house.

“Is the music too loud?” Jaemin checks over at your hunched figure in the passenger seat. You’re diligently flipping through your thick textbook, a yellow highlighter in one hand and the other comfortably holding Jaemin’s.

The worst part of college is the never ending midterms that are given at any time. Studying in his car isn’t a rare sight, if anything it is more expected than you not doing anything related to your academics. But Jaemin genuinely doesn’t mind, even being mindful about his own actions to ensure an optimal studying space for you.

He really is an ideal guy. Like his first promise, he keeps you well fed and never once asks you for any monetary pay back. Jaemin adjusts the car temperature before you even step into the vehicle, knowing that you prefer wearing less clothes rather than more. Though he isn’t academically responsible, he still makes the effort to try and understand enough information to pass his classes.

The sole flaw would be the lack of open communication. It’s genuinely difficult for you to read his emotions or intentions. Jaemin always has a dazed look in his eyes whenever he looks at you, and it’s an internal fight about whether or not you’re being delusional.

“Music is fine, honey.” The mindless use of a pet name slips from your lips, but your concentration on neoliberalism and globalization doesn’t allow for you to notice.

Nevertheless, Jaemin catches on immediately to the usage. While he showers you in ridiculous nicknames, you’re not one to do so. “Honey?”

“Yes?” You answer back carelessly, not entirely actively listening to him as you highlight an important concept in your book.

“No, you called me honey.”

Looking up from your page, you blink at him with wide eyes and mouth slightly agape. “I did?”

Jaemin chuckles and finally pulls into the overly crowded parking lot, a whole mass of fanboys cheering at the arrival of his flashy vehicle. Everyone just loves Jaemin.

This familiar scene plays like a reel --- several high beams cast light under the dark sky due to the lack of functioning street lamps, dizzy multicolored cars that blaze the tracks, and the all too distinct smell of musky cologne in the chilly air. Oh, and the wide eye admirable stares when you get out of the car.

“Hi, you’re stunning.” A bold new recruit blinks at you in complete awe and awkwardly clears his throat once he realizes his rash comment.

Jaemin raises an eyebrow at him, then at how you plan on handling the situation. You’re flattered, nonetheless, but know that Jaemin didn’t bring you here to flirt with other men. “Thank you. I hope you enjoy your membership in the Ridin’ Club.”

The gracefulness in your delicate voice has the youthful recruit swooning and subtly giddy as he runs off to join a group of others that have been eying you across the parking lot. Jaemin casually drapes his leather jacket over your exposed shoulders, knowing the temperature change is going to result in you most likely catching a cold and because you never bring a jacket despite his plea.

“The power you hold.” Jaemin winks at you before pulling you into a larger crowd to socialize with more impressionable recruits.

“Ah, so you’re (Y/N)!” The stranger is unrecognizable, but you giggle to acknowledge his confident statement. “We haven’t met before, but Jaemin was talking about you the other night at our motorcycle meet.”

Your eyes light up, as if you’ve unlocked a new fun fact of Na Jaemin. “You drive a motorcycle too?” You’re truly shocked at the talent of this man.

Jaemin snakes his arm around your lower waist to draw you closer to his side. “Yeah, but I can’t fuck you in a motorcycle, can I?”

Before the other men can comment on the obvious sexual tension that Jaemin created, he leans in to whisper into your ear. “Actually, I can, but we’ll save our decency from unwanted exposure.” His hot breath grazes against the shell of your ear and you just know where you two are going to end up tonight.

“Bro, you guys probably fuck in the backseat of his car.” One of them chimes recklessly, punching at each others’ chest playfully as if he made a decent joke.

“Why don’t you stay to find out?” Jaemin retorts and the grip on your hip becomes tighter. You’re too flustered to add much into this odd form of competitive banter, distracted by none other than the way Jaemin keeps glancing over at you with a delicious gleam in his eyes.

“So what? You don’t care about us now?” You’d know that bratty tone from anywhere as Lee Haechan pushes past everyone else to rush over to the both of you.

“Aw, are your feelings hurt?” Jaemin sticks his tongue out at his friend before cordially sharing a handshake with him.

“Just slightly.” Haechan looks over at you with a wide grin and playful eyes, “hello, my pretty girl.”

“Drop the possessives, Haechan.” Jaemin rolls his eyes with an irritable twitch on his lips.

He hates how obviously jealous he gets. It’s something too difficult for himself to control, he’s exhausted his efforts to bite his tongue whenever it comes to other people’s flirtations. The thought of someone else calling you theirs doesn’t sit well with him.

“I understand your jealousy, Jaem. If someone was flirting with (Y/N), I wouldn’t be able to stand it either.” Haechan fixes the falling jacket on your shoulders. “But she can handle herself, I know those pretty lips have a mind of their own.” His gaze drops momentarily, yet obvious enough for you to grow shy at how strong Haechan is coming off tonight.

“Stop trying to corrupt her, that’s my job.” Jaemin playfully pushes at Haechan’s chest and they both break out laughing.

“I haven’t said one thing and you’re both talking about me as if I’m not here.” Your small pout is literally the cutest thing to Jaemin. He physically has to stop himself from planting the sweetest kiss on it.

It’s blatantly clear that you’re hot stuff. You’re the perfect example of a head turner, your captivating aura has its ability to suffocate those around you. However, Jaemin has seen all sides of you, but overall finding you so entirely cute. And oddly enough, Jaemin has a knack for cute things.

“Is that (Y/N) I hear?” Huang Renjun engulfs you in a hug, showing clear affection and doesn’t mind doing so. “How did your project go?”

“It went well. You accomplish a lot when you don’t procrastinate.” Renjun gleams at your statement and if Jaemin is delusional enough, he’d probably mistaken the twinkle in his eyes for infatuation instead of admiration.

“You’re so responsible, why are you messing with Jaemin?” Renjun sighs and though his question is more of a joke, there is some truth behind his words.

Your friendship with his friends differ immensely compared to other girls who have come around. Like Jaemin had said before, his boys were going to like you and they do, a lot. Sometimes making it obvious that you’re too good for him.

Jeno comes up from the side, an unidentifiable bruise on his neck and a new cut on his brow. Lee Jeno being such a rough character, his appearance speaks well about how his day has been.

But when he lays his eyes on you, it’s as if all his pain is replaced with joy and security. “(Y/N)! I haven’t seen you in so long!” The enthusiastic boy rushes over to greet you with a warm smile.

“I’m pretty sure I was here a week ago.” You laugh, but welcome him in your arms for a tender friendly hug and pat his head out of habit.

“It’s been a week?! That’s so long.” Jeno narrows his eyes at Jaemin and flicks his forehead.

“Ow!” Jaemin exclaims while rubbing the pain away. “You act like she doesn’t go to the same school as us and therefore, can see her any time you want to.” The tone in Jaemin’s voice raises some eyebrows as they all exchange glances to each other before bursting into laughter.

“Like your jealous ass would allow for that?” Haechan remarks and Jaemin doesn’t outwardly react. However, Jaemin’s hand is squeezing you so tight that you’re more than certain he’s bothered by the comment.

“Oh, stop it. You all know I’m Team Jaemin. He does have the most wins this past month.” You only know that through Jaemin’s proud boasting, anything else in the racing world is unknown to you.

Jaemin situates you in between his legs as he slightly sits on the hood of his car. His arms wrap around your middle and chin rests on your shoulder. Public display of affection isn’t a problem for him, and you learned much earlier that Jaemin can’t keep his hands off of you.

Renjun scoffs at your whimsical fact, in absolute disbelief. “It hurts more hearing you say it. I’m getting my car upgraded, but once it’s done, I’m going to blaze his ass on the tracks.”

“Are you racing today?” Jeno asks the blue haired fellow that clings onto you like a koala.

“Yeah, against a newbie. Apparently he’s really good, so I’m not too sure I’ll win.” Jaemin mumbles into your hair.

“You say that every time, yet you win!” Renjun crosses his arms, weight shifting to his left leg as he pops his hip out. There is always a sense of competition between anyone with Renjun.

Jaemin perks up behind you and when you turn around in his arms, you’re face to face with a beaming smile. “That’s because I have you.” Eyes lock with yours, he isn’t saying that directed to Renjun. Na Jaemin has you wrapped around his pinky, the butterflies fluttering in your stomach are too hard to ignore.

“Alright, lovebirds. Get in your car and let’s start this shit.” Haechan groans and claps his hands to draw the crowd’s attention. Cupping them around his mouth, he roars into the starry night, “let’s roll!”

During the race, Jaemin’s number one priority is to keep you safe. While you’ve sat in his car for a number of times now, it’s different once the loud bang goes off and he’s hitting 100 mph. Tonight’s track is much more dangerous, with twists and turns that can have the vehicle flying weightlessly if he’s not careful.

“You trust me, right?” Jaemin has both hands on the wheel and the engine rumbling as you both anticipate the start of the race.

Spectators watch on the sidelines as if it’s the ultimate battle, but Jaemin doesn’t pay them much mind. He’s more concerned about you instead. “Of course. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. You’ve proven yourself that you’re an excellent driver, so let’s win this.”

Jaemin smirks at your encouraging words, feeling a warmth spread across his chest. “I’ll tap out any time you want me to, okay?”

You nod and the initial whip of the car is so intense that you didn’t even register the sound off. It’s not your first race, but it’s been awhile since the last one. When you adjust to the pressure, the lanes in front of you cause a slight queasiness in your stomach.

It’s a two lane windy road that wraps around the mountain side and Jaemin happens to be in the outer lane. All it takes is a second of lost control and you two will hit the metal railings that guard the cliff below. Despite your inner panic, Jaemin guides you through the pooling anxiety that leaves you restless.

“(Y/N), look up and out the window. We’re coming up on the cliff side view, I’ve always wanted to bring you here.” Your eyes land on the dazzling glitter that dances on the ripples of the lake. It’s so vast, the moon high up in the sky is reflected on the water below. It’s a romantic scene of melancholy and bliss. Suddenly, you feel at peace in the middle of this high speed race.

“It’s beautiful, Jaem.” You whisper calmly and he’d reach for your hand to hold, but races take too much wheel control. And he’d turn to look at you, but races take too much concentration on the road ahead.

But throughout every obstacle, he hears the gentleness and the solidarity in your cadence in the midst of all the high stress. He, too, feels peace. He feels calm knowing that you’re simply by his side, even in the face of danger. So, he can finally admit to himself… he genuinely developed feelings for you.

Before you know it, you’re thrusted side to side from the sharp turns and the adrenaline kicks in when the other racer catches up right next to Jaemin. “Fuck,” Jaemin curses underneath his breath and steps harshly on the acceleration. “Baby, I’m going to go a bit faster so hold onto something.” He warns and your hand finds the grab handle. It’s neck and neck at this point.

Usually, you squeeze your eyes shut to avoid becoming too overwhelmed by the sights in front of you. Tonight is different, not entirely knowing why, you’re observing every element that circles around the perimeter.

The finish line is up ahead, but there is no sign that the other racer is slowing down. Then, you see it: the fatal mistake that can cost you both of your lives if you didn’t catch it. “Jaemin, watch out!” You yelp when the other car inches dangerously close, your warning allows Jaemin to make a controlled swerve away from a possible hit.

Jaemin shakes his head and tsks at the recklessness. “Now I know why he’s good. It’s foul play.” He blows his bang out of his eyes and casually says, “thank you for warning me. This is why I need you by my side.”

He makes it to the finish line barely before the other, winning the race by half a second. Jaemin brakes smoothly, tire marks scrapping the concrete below, and you both exit the car to celebrate with everyone else.

But before the mass of eager shouting men make their way over to you two, Jaemin hurries to your side to pull you into a steamy, rewarding kiss. The scene is just like the movies; his hand on your lower back and yours on his chest lightly. His lips taste like triumph, like he had won more than just a simple race against a random stranger. He’s won the best person he could ever have.

You two fled the scene after cussing out the other racer. It was a rare sight to see: Jaemin being all bothered and angry, practically fuming after scrambling back into the driver’s seat. However, your mind had mischievous plans of its own and all it took was one look from his hooded eyes for you to announce that you wanted him --- badly.

Back in your usual abandoned parking lot, Jaemin pauses before following you to the back seats. With the engine off and the dead of the night being absolute silent, the tension remains thick around you two. “(Y/N),” Jaemin is about to confess something he never thought he’d admit. He turns to you sitting in the middle seat with just your panties on and a curious look on your face.

His heart burns and despite being so incredibly aroused, he controls his urges enough to be able to say, “I’m into you.”

“I know you’re into me, that’s how we ended up like this in the first place.” You giggle cluelessly to his words, still not understanding the odd shift in mood and intentions. It’s always his unclear, messy intentions.

Though he can’t entirely figure out his puzzle pieces, he has plenty to connect the dots. “I like you. I want to be in a relationship with you and call you my girlfriend.”

You’re stunned. Did Jaemin just confess to you as you sit in your panties ready to fuck? This softness is different from the sides you’ve seen of him. It’s similar to a lost bunny, wandering grasslands to find a purpose. He looks so fragile, one intense stare and he’d crumble. This softness is vulnerability.

“So do it.” The boldness catches him off guard, but switches on the dominance in him. “If you want me, come show it.”

He climbs over the middle console to push you into the leather seats. “Not acting shy anymore, are you?” Practically ripping your shirt off of you, he cups your breast lightly and flicks at your nipples. Your immediate reaction results in a rush of wetness down your core.

“Before I forget,” sitting up, you share a passionate kiss that you’ve held back long enough. You give it every ounce of feeling you have for him. “If it isn’t obvious enough, I like you too.”

“It’s obvious, baby.” Kissing your nose, he wraps a hand around your throat to lightly push you back down. “But hearing you say it out loud makes me happy.” Jaemin smirks, hand still choking you gently and pampering your jawline with soft kisses.

His free hand reaches down into your dripping panties, circling your clit with your wetness. The sensation causes you to whimper for more. “Daddy, give it to me.” You wiggle in his palm, knowing that the nickname is more than effective.

“My sweet (Y/N) wants to get fucked?” Jaemin rolls your underwear off and rids himself of his own bottoms.

“Yes, please.” Through the darkness, his hard dick stands proudly. Jaemin lines himself up as he thrusts into you without another second of hesitation. He waits for you to adjust to his size, his tip barely grazing your sweet spot. “Fuck…”

“You take me so well, my pretty baby.” Jaemin starts moving his hips, slowly at first to build a rhythm. Taking your legs, he presses them into your chest to fuck you at a deeper angle. And you feel him practically in your guts, his cock pumping against your walls deliciously and bumping into your g-spot. “Do you want more of me?”

Your train of thought is in utter shambles and whatever Jaemin is saying to you barely processes. You’re overwhelmed by a pleasure that fills every system, every part of your body. To answer him, you let out an incoherent noise of approval.

Jaemin pulls your hips down while thrusting forward into you, maximizing every inch of his strokes. This single action causes you to scream and grip onto the headrest. “Who knew my sweet girl could be so fucking dirty?” Jaemin chuckles darkly, his cadence dropping several decibels. “When I first met you, I wanted to ruin you.”

All of his filthy words edge you closer to your release as he continues to repeat his previous motion. He holds your hips in place to grind into you, the feeling of his tip rubbing your walls has your eyes rolling back. “Do you want to cum, (Y/N)?”

“Yes!” You yell, the tight ball in your lower abdomen is bound to break any minute. “I want to cum so badly, please.” You beg and moan, the arch in your back lifts you from the seat of the car. Jaemin snaps his hips into you, drilling you quickly to reach your high. And you break. An euphoric cry fills the air as your walls clench around his length. You hear the extra wetness create a slick noise, but Jaemin isn’t done with you yet.

“You wanted to cum so fucking badly. I’ll reward you with one more for being such a good girl for me.” His thumb flicks at your clit and you convulse into spasms from the sensitivity. Your violently shaking legs can’t hold themselves up anymore and Jaemin rests them on his shoulders. He lines kisses along your ankle as the pleasure overtakes you.

“I don’t think I can do it.” You whine, your fingers twisting and toes curling.

“You are going to try, okay baby?” He coos, but it’s most definitely a demand. He sits back on his knees to pick up more speed, fucking endlessly into your swollen pussy and thumb rubbing fast strips against your bud.

“I’m going to snap, Jaem.” You cry, tears rimming your eyes and before you know it, a second wave hits you. Your second orgasm is ruinous and has you squirming around to regain some sense of control.

“Oh fuck, you’re so beautiful.” Jaemin slows down as your walls grip around him again, tighter this time. “I’m going to fill you up with cum,--- watch it drip out of you.” He grunts while releasing into you, his dick twitching and spraying your insides with white.

He pulls out as hot, white cum spills from your pussy. You take this moment to catch your breath and relax your legs. However, Jaemin coats his two fingers and shoves the cum back into you. “Jaemin!” You exclaim at the sudden intrusion.

He curls them into your plushy walls and finger fucks you into another oblivion. “Wait, again?” Your hands wrap around his wrist, but Jaemin moves too fast for you to catch it.

You’re a moaning mess again, louder than before. Jaemin leans down and flicks his tongue against your overstimulated bundle of nerves. Your back arches automatically and a low animalistic scream rises from your throat.

He observes your body lines underneath the moonlight and the last remaining light the broken street lamps have to offer. Your face contours and you’re so far out into ecstasy that you don’t notice how intensely Jaemin watches you lose yourself.

“It feels too good!” With one last thrilling orgasm, you almost pass out and you see small stars of dizziness. He soaks up every last bit of your cathartic reaction and festers a small sense of pride that he can make you feel all this pleasure.

“Such a good girl. You’re beyond impressive, baby.” Jaemin pulls his fingers out to lick them clean and finds some wipes to help you out of your sticky situation.  

“Now that you’re my girlfriend, can we cuddle at any time now? Not just as after care.” He peers up at you and the one word enacts a burning warmth to spread across your chest. That is the best nickname he can call you by.

“I think the Singles Girls Only house event is still going on, but after that, yes a million times.” You laugh and wrap your arms around him into a big loving hug.

Jaemin feels right at home. All the long years of living carelessly and wild, he’s finally found someone worth the extra mile. While Jaemin was a thriving adventure to be explored, you were his comfort to run back to.

It is through the intimacy of your backseat chronicles that Jaemin was able to fall deeper for you. You’re his lucky charm, for some reason, he always feels better around you. 

[fandomwriterstuff]

Getaway Car

Another plot-filled Rick Flag fic from me! I might add another chapter if this goes over well so let me know your thoughts!

~2.2k words

Rated T

You're the Suicide Squad's getaway driver and you're got a serious crush on their commanding officer, Rick Flag.

You were what one might call a liability in the operation. You weren’t a soldier under Amanda Waller’s thumb, and you weren’t a prisoner that she could threaten. You were purely there for the thrill at first. But you kept coming back for him. Rick Flag. The commanding officer of your dreams, a real hero. You weren’t sure if you idolized him or wanted to fuck him. Maybe it was a bit of both.

But as you sat in the car and eyed up the team sprinting out of the building, you skipped to your getaway song - Brianstorm by Arctic Monkeys - and revved the engine.

“Punch it, Baby!” Harley cackled as the three prisoners (plus Rick) slammed themselves into your vehicle.

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You thought it over as you narrowly evaded enemy trucks and sped down a dirt road. You were technically working for the law, so they shouldn’t need a getaway car, but they always were getting themselves into tight spots so you supposed it made sense.

It was a few minutes of beating drums, wild guitar solos, and Harley’s cackles as the playlist continued (House of the Rising Sun by the Animals came on just as you dared to slow down). You finally looked over to your right, and raised an eyebrow.

“You doing alright, Colonel?” You took stock of the dark, wet blood covering the left side of his face and the way he was cradling his right fist.

“Never better, darlin,” he offered you a signature smirk and you gave a nod before turning back to the road. You were on a main stretch now, paved and full of other vehicles. You’d likely lost your pursuers but it was your job to get away from them, so you kept an eye on the horizon behind you.

“How you always seem to be in the right place at the right time blows my mind, kid,” Boomer huffed a relieved laugh from the backseat.

“That’s sort of my job,” you replied in kind, smirking into the rearview mirror as you pulled onto the highway that would take you straight back to Belle Reve.

“You don’t talk about your job much though, I noticed,” he pushed and you rolled your eyes. You didn’t talk about yourself, and you didn’t talk about how you got into the getaway business.

“I like to have an air of mystery,” you caught the amused smile Rick tried to hide and brushed your hair back out of your eyes.

“What I’m wonderin,” he continued as if you hadn’t spoken, his accent coming through as he leaned forward through the gap between you and Rick. “Is how a pretty young thing like you got involved with a cold hearted bitch like Amanda Waller.”

You tightened your grip on the wheel (hopefully imperceptibly), and offered a light smile over to him.

“We’ve all got a past, Boomerang Man. Mine didn’t land me in prison, but I’m still here working for you weirdos,” you laughed and signaled your exit towards the Louisiana based metahuman prison.

“I’ll get your story some day, sweet cheeks, you’ll see,” he leaned back as you showed your identification to the guard and pulled into the penitentiary.

After you let the three prisoners off at their dropoff location (like a bunch of kindergarteners going to school), you pulled up to the employee parking area.

“You sure you’re alright?” You were quieter this time, worriedly glancing over at Rick again now that you were alone.

“Don’t you go worrying about me, pretty girl,” he pulled out all the stops with the cute pet name and the thousand megawatt smile, eyes warm and inviting. You were a goner, and you immediately dropped the subject. “I’ll see you in the debrief room,” you sighed after he’d closed the door and pulled the vehicle into your spot.

Another day, another debrief with that fucking psychopath Waller.

You smoothed down your jeans and t-shirt, you might work for the (wo)man, but you weren’t about to dress like a stuck up business person, or like a prison guard. You were too young for that bullshit.

“Baby,” Amanda Waller greeted you as you passed her into the meeting room. You hid your smirk, as you always did, when you took your seat. You’d forged all of your documentation upon taking this job, knowing that you didn’t want this woman knowing anything about your personal life. She didn’t know your real name, hell, she might not even know that Baby was your pseudonym. You sort of felt bad that you hadn’t ever told Rick your name, but you couldn’t risk it.

The debrief was a mess. You’d gotten out with the information the team went in for, but two out of the four of them were injured. Including the Colonel.

“Seems like the only person doing their job here is the fucking chauffer,” Waller spat before turning her eyes on a still-bloodied Rick Flag. “You can do better than this,” she spoke quietly before walking out. The others emptied out, leaving you leaning back in your chair, cotton candy pink Barbie™ t-shirt nearly glowing in the fluorescent lighting.

“I think you’re going to give her an aneurysm. She doesn’t know your identity and you don’t follow the dress code,” Rick had his eyes closed at the end of the long table, but he somehow knew you were alone in there together. You bit your lip. So she knew ‘Baby’ was a pseudonym. Good to know.

“She can’t get rid of me, she needs me,” you shrugged, nonchalant, but this was the wrong answer and you knew it immediately. You’d been working with Rick long enough to see the telltale signs of stress. Tightened shoulders, biceps bulging in his uniform, that vein struggling at his throat.

“You should be out there living your life, Baby,” his eyes shot open, darker than you’d ever seen them. “You shouldn’t be working yourself to death for Amanda Waller. Not like me and these guys. You don’t have a reason to be here,” you looked down, picking at the skull ring on your middle finger. You did have a reason. You were addicted to the feeling of being near Rick. You were obsessed with the way he spoke to you, the way he leaned in close when he was joking around with you, the way his eyes lit up when you made him laugh.

“I’m not about to tell you my life story in an audio and visually recorded meeting room,” you finally spoke, tone harsher than you intended. You stood, turned away from him and towards the door, your voice carrying as you exited. “You’re gonna have to buy me a drink if you want to get anything out of me.”

You didn’t look back to see the slack-jawed look on his face as you sauntered out of the debrief room.

You were in the deep swamp lands of Central Florida this time. Not your favorite place to be. You were blasting the air conditioning in the car as Stick Up by grandson blasted through the car stereo, your favorite angry song to listen to. This wasn’t a job you wanted to be on, but you had a contract and you were making money, and you got to work with Rick again, so it was alright. But it was a new team. Harley was out of jail and Boomer was injured from a prison fight. They were the two people you normally worked with other than Rick.

You had a gut feeling that something was going to go down, but you didn’t know what.

“Start the car!” one of the new members shouted and you frowned. The car was on already. But whatever, you shifted into Drive and waited for Rick and Co. to make it to the car. Only it was just the one guy. He hopped into the backseat and stared at you with wide eyes.

“What are you doing, get us out of here!” He was shouting but you aggressively put the car into Park.

“Where’s Rick? Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Dude, get us out of here!” The man was clearly panicking, and you glanced over at the building the team were supposed to infiltrate, biting your lip.

“Baby, why aren’t you moving?” Waller asked in your ear.

“It’s just the circus freak dude, no Rick, and no team members,” you replied calmly. “What are my orders?”

“Get us out!” The circus freak dude in question (you didn’t bother to ask his name), was bemoaning your existence from the backseat and you snapped. You jerked the center console open and pulled out your gun, pointing it back at him.

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut you up myself,” you put all of your fear, rage, and contempt into your glare, staring down the psycho prisoner just enough to put the fear of a woman into him, and he backed down.

“Colonel Flag is alive in there, but he’s the last one. Get in there, pick him up, and get out,” you grinned, shark-like at Waller’s voice. You could do that. You revved the engine, put the car into Drive, and hauled ass towards the building. You tuned out the moaning and wailing from the backseat and flicked the switch that activated your enhanced shields. With that in place, you drove straight towards the brick building at full speed. You could do this. You could do this. You hyped yourself up and didn’t flinch when the car made impact with the wall, immediately breaking through and skidding into a large open room. You looked around, assessing the group of men with guns pointing towards a closed door. Rick must be in there. You flipped another switch, this one with a gun sticker above it, and pulled at the steering wheel to aim the guns that came out of the front of the car. When all of the men finally turned towards you, you opened fire on them.

You’d killed for Waller before, usually by hitting people with the car, and while this was thrilling, you’d never had to actually use a gun on someone before. When they were all down, you pulled the car up, trying to ignore the crunching of bodies under the tires and opened the passenger side window.

“Get in the fucking car, Flag,” you screeched, and the door creaked the tiniest bit open. Rick peeked his head out, looked around for a hot second before locking eyes with you, and walked over before putting his ass in the passenger seat.

“I didn’t know the car had a gun in it,” he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Oh she has several,” the circus dude piped up from the back, and Rick side eyed you before promptly yelling at the other for leaving him behind. You took that as your cue to get the fuck out of there.

“You haven’t said anything in two hours,” Rick finally said as you entered Louisiana. He’d been on the phone with Waller for a while and then writing his debrief up on his phone.

“I’ve never shot anyone before. It’s a tad stressful,” you didn’t let on how nerve-wracking it had been to think you’d lost him, but you especially didn’t let on how freaked out you were about opening fire on a group of over a dozen men. You shrugged and kept your eyes on the road. He nodded in understanding. You didn’t want to talk about it. You appreciated his silence. When you finally dropped the circus dude off you had about six minutes before making it back to Rick’s dropoff.

“Baby?” He asked as you slowed down for a stop sign. You hummed in question, but he put his hand over yours, and you kept your foot on the brake as he shifted the car into park. You looked over at him, a frown on your face until he reached out and cupped your jaw with one calloused palm. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip and it felt like time wasn’t passing anymore.

“Thank you for coming back for me,” he murmured, and damn you thought he might kiss you. He didn’t, though. He tucked a stray piece of hand behind your ear, the feel of his fingertips caressing your neck made you shiver, and he smirked at the sight. It suddenly dawned on you.

He knew exactly what he did to you. He knew exactly how he was making you feel. That turned you the fuck on. He was teasing you.

“I think I’d like to take you out for that drink tonight, darlin. Maybe you’ll give me a good story. Maybe I’ll finally get your name,” he was so close to you, and god but you wanted to kiss him. But as you leaned in, he leaned back with a growing grin.

“Who knows, maybe you’ll get what you want, too,” he whispered before sitting back in his seat. “I’ll grab you after the debrief,” and that was him dismissing your advances until a later time. So, you put the car into Drive and pulled up to his drop off location. Luckily it had taken all day to get back to Belle Reve, so you’d only have to wait for the debrief to be over and it would be around eight at night. You’d finally get a drink with Rick tonight. You smiled to yourself as you pulled the car into your spot. Things would be changing.

[sylverstorms]

Miranda x Mia---- Eternal

A Ko-Fi commission I wrote for the wonderful @saltwatereulogies. Thank you so very much for the support and I hope you enjoy the fic!

Drip. Splatter.

The first sound you’re aware of is that of the occasional waterdrop crashing onto the same humid, uneven floor you’re lying on.

The second is the sound of her voice.

“Rise and shine.” she says, somewhere off to the side. You are still too disoriented to pinpoint exactly where.

You’re not dizzy enough, though, to not immediately realize you’re trapped. The way the light behind your captor shines makes it all the more obvious, casting large shadows in the shape of your prison bars across your small, moldy cell.

“Y-you…” you struggle to talk. Your throat is too dry and your temples pound like a war drum. It feels like you’ve collided with a truck. And yet her voice commanding you to sleep is the last thing you remember.

“I haven’t formally introduced myself. Though I’m sure your friend has told you about me.”

You blink to make your vision focus yet it’s hopeless. She is but a dark blur to you –am I hallucinating or are those wings?

“My name is Miranda.”

Suddenly, that name snaps everything into focus so sharply you could get whiplash. You’re on your knees the next second, just about ready to leap at her. She’s the one. The one Chris warned you about. She may look like an angel but she is a devil.

“I don’t care who the hell you are! What do you want from me?!” you demand.

“Your cooperation in my experiments, for starters.” she says it calmly, but she is no fool to believe you’ll just agree to that, you can see it in her crystal-blue eyes.

“Ha! As if!” you retort.

“Well. That answer will change when I have Rose.” The name of your daughter makes every nerve ending in your body kick at once.

“What. Like Ethan will just hand her over to the likes of you?”

“Actually.”

A slow smirk crosses her full lips. Then their shape changes to match yours. All of her does, until you are left looking at a perfect mirror of yourself. Only, there’s no way you look quite that good inside of this shitty cell.

“He’ll hand her over to you.”

When she laughs, it is your own voice haunting your ears.

-

-

She has your daughter. She has your everything in her hands. So, she has your cooperation, as well.

Miranda doesn’t really talk when she comes to collect blood samples for whatever experiments she needs them. Your initial cries and questions were muted the second she told you the more helpful and less annoying you are, the more inclined she’ll feel to bring Rose to you for a while.

In the end, you do let yourself be her docile little lab rat.

Until you literally can’t take the silence anymore.

“Was it really… that easy?” ‘To enter my home and take my daughter’ you want to add but you can’t even get the words past your throat.

She seems to understand, though. “Effortless.” she isn’t being cocky as she says it. In fact, she seems almost surprised herself. At least, from the angle you get of her face, while she’s studying a strange rock-like substance under a microscope.

“How the hell did Ethan not figure out you aren’t me?!” That moron. He just gave your daughter to her. That clueless moron!

For a split second, you see her lip twitch in what could, perhaps, be a withheld smile. “I was there for a day, so. Seems like your husband doesn’t know you quite that well.”

Is it really fair to blame him for not knowing you, though? With the secrets you’ve kept from him? The distance? The trauma from the shared nightmare you experienced coming back to you every time you even looked at him?

God, Rose really is the only thing that kept you together, isn’t she…

It’s easy to hate the accursedly beautiful bitch outside your cell. It’s easy to blame Ethan for not even suspecting something was amiss with you for a whole damn day.

It is not so easy to blame yourself as much as you do them.

-

-

Miranda replies when you ask her things, so you ask her about herself. To your surprise, she does not shroud her motives from you.

She has lost her daughter, she tells you, and the only way to get her back is through yours. For the first time since you met her, you see emotion clearly expressed in her eyes and voice. You recognize how she longs to be with her child again.

You can understand the never-ending grief of a mother losing her offspring. You know if anything happened to Rose you would rather fling yourself off a cliff than live a life without her.

And apparently, that is what she tried to do, too. She tried to die –and discovered life instead. That is what she calls it, anyway. All you can hear as she explains is that she found –and founded— the Mold. The same one that ruined your husband and you.

One more reason to hate the psycho witch.

And yet.

When you try to reach for the rage you previously held for her, you find that it’s gone. You’re bitter, you’re exhausted, you want to cry and above everything you want to see Rose again. But you don’t loathe her as you should.

“What do you mean… the only way to get Eva back is through Rose?” you dare ask after several minutes of silence.

She turns to look at you, eyes as piercing as they are blue. “Technically, the trade is simple.” Maybe you’re losing it from the stress and lack of sleep, but you think she almost hesitates for a second. “…a life for a life.”

As soon as she speaks and the meaning of her words registers in your mind, you’re gripping at the rusty iron bars with all your might, rattling them, shouting profanities at her. You are back to hating her all over again. It’s much simpler this way.

Until… she walks over and grabs your hand over the metal. Her touch is oddly warm for such a glacial heart. You cannot tell what she does to you, but it feels like an aura flowing through your system that silences you. Calms you. You do not want to be calm.

“I wasn’t finished.” she speaks. “That is where the experiments with you come in. By running tests on your blood and Rose’s and using my DNA as a medium, during the ritual I can trick the Megamycete into giving me what I want through a form of mitosis. Essentially, cell duplication that will not override the existing vessel.”

To be honest… you lost her midway through the very first sentence. You were quite good with biology back in the day but right now, in the state you’re in, science is going right over your head.

“...Is there an English version of that.” you ask.

Her mouth curves into that almost-smile again. It would be quite gorgeous, actually, if she hadn’t kidnapped you, infiltrated your home as you and abducted your daughter.

“If the tests succeed, you get your daughter back, I get mine from cloned DNA and Mold cells.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice as she says it.

And now, assuming she’s telling the truth, you want those tests to succeed more than you want to get out of here. Her hand leaves yours and the weird calm she blasted into you dissipates with it.

“Wait. So…” Realization strikes you like a thunderclap. “So these tests are for me?”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you, you crazy b—blonde.” You rattle the iron bars again, a tad weaker than before. She does smirk over the microscope, this time. “How likely are the tests to succeed?” you ask impatiently.

“Quite.” she replies, flat once again.

“…And if they don’t?” you hate how your voice shakes there, at the end.

She looks at you, dead in the eyes, as she answers: “I am getting my daughter back either way, Mia.”

You can’t believe it. You cannot believe you’re thinking this, but you hope the crazy bitch knows what she’s doing.

-

-

Miranda is… despicable, but she is a woman of her word.

She brings you Rose for hours at a time and in exchange you help her outside of your cell. You thought your daughter would be in a worse condition, considering who keeps her, yet she’s healthy as ever, well-fed and clean. The worst part is, she laughs every time Miranda comes close and she even reaches out for her.

“No, my darling, don’t do that.” you tell her, tucking her tighter in your arms, before the woman behind you notices what’s happening.

Except it’s too late. “Ah, I see.” Miranda speaks, coming up to you from behind. She’s tall enough to lean over your shoulder and wave at Rose, who moves both hands towards her. “A lady of taste.” the woman praises and the lightness to her voice almost makes her sound like someone else. Someone normal.

“Stop it.” You turn your child away from her. “She’s just confused because you’re lit up like a Christmas tree.” You motion with your chin at her getup.

Miranda chuckles. “What. She senses our bond. Rose feels safe with me.”

Safe with the monster who wants to sacrifice her to get her own child back. You cannot swallow that thought down. “But she’s not, is she?!” you snap.

“She is.” Miranda reverts to her cool facade, glancing down at your daughter. “I will never let anything hurt her. And when she gives me Eva back, I will make sure she grows up bathed in luxury.”

It’s the Mold, you’re sure of it.

It’s the Mold’s fault that you believe her.

-

-

You were supposed to see Rose today. Instead, Miranda comes into the cave alone, looking irritated. You start to worry. Nothing phases her without a good reason. What if—

“Where’s my daughter?!” you demand, eyes wide.

“We have a problem.” she tells you. Your blood goes cold in your veins. “A problem named Ethan Winters.”

“Ethan?” you gasp.

“He is trying to get Rose back and according to reports from the Lords under me, he cannot be killed. His hand got cut off and he just reattached it. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” she’s certain that you know. You can see it in her steely eyes.

“I— why would I—”

“Before you think to lie to me, hear something else. I bear good news, as well.” Miranda says. “I have succeeded in my experiments. During the ritual, I can guarantee Rose will remain unharmed and unchanged.” the edge of her lip curls up as she delivers the news. You almost cry from the sheer relief.

You almost leap forward and hug her, yet you remember who she is and that she caused this mess in the first place.

“But my conditions have changed.” her voice is a sword that cuts off your happiness just like that. You knew it was too good to be true. “For me to save Rose, you will tell me how to permanently get rid of Ethan Winters.”

…What?

She wants you to… trade your daughter for your husband? How the hell can I do that?!

“He has ruined too much for me to let him walk away happily now.” Her jaw is tight enough to sprout new lines on her flawless face. She wants him dead and she always gets what she wants. “He has killed colleagues of mine. Spat in the face of a damn-near god. I will have his head.”

The corners of your eyes sting with welling tears. Your body is far more honest than you in making a decision. Nobody is too important to sacrifice when it comes to your daughter. Not yourself. Not Ethan. And Miranda knows this better than anybody else. You loathe how she knows.

“Give him to me, Mia. And in a few days this whole thing will be over.” she continues in a significantly softer tone, getting closer to you. Her wings shift, the very edge of black feathers brushing your arms.

“You want me to aid in killing the father of my child?!” you sob, grabbing at her clothes. You’d expect her to shove you away, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink.

“You have been so cooperative and so brave.” she soothes, gold-taloned fingers coming underneath your chin. “Make one last sacrifice for me. Help me murder Ethan so Rose can live. Help me and I vow to be her eternal guardian angel. Hers and yours.”

She could just force the answer out of you. She’s touching you and you know she has that power. But she doesn’t do it and it’s far worse this way. She wants it to be your choice.

You look away from Miranda’s icy eyes and her promises of everything.

And you tell her.

-

-

You do not ask about Ethan. All that’s in your mind is the ceremony.

For the entire morning, you cannot breathe. You trace notes in her lab and pace around until you literally feel like you’ll explode—

And then Miranda comes in. She is radiant, smiling from ear to ear, glowing with pure joy. She looks every part the goddess she pretends to be. The golden circle usually adorning her back is gone, her long blonde hair is left free to flow like fine strands of silk past her square shoulders.

“It is done!” she tells you, a hand extended for you to take. “Come. I’ll take you to Rose and you will be the first to meet Eva.”

Her hand is warm when it closes around yours. Black wings shroud you both. There is a gravitational pull around you that’s so intense you shut your eyes and grab onto her biceps for dear life.

“You can look, now.” she speaks once the world is stable again. Your gut is churning, yet every bit of exhaustion and discomfort vanish the second you see Rose. She is safe within the first of the two golden cribs in front of you, bathed by the soft sunlight that disperses across the luxurious, dark-tiled chamber you’re in.

You run towards her, lifting your daughter in your arms and kissing her forehead over and over. She laughs at you, blue eyes crinkled. My love. My everything, you think. Everything was worth it for this moment. And you would do it all again, to ensure her safety.

Miranda’s steps, regal and authoritative, come to a stop near the other crib. You lean closer, take a look… to see another little angel there, sleeping peacefully. She resembles Rose, yet she resembles Miranda, too.

“Oh my God.” you breathe. “You really did it.”

“I did it and you and Rose made it possible, Mia.” she says. Your child extends a tiny hand towards her. She removes one of her claws and lets her finger be taken in your baby’s grip. “You don’t have to leave. She loves me already.” A proud smile curves her lips.

You hate how it looks like a sunrise.

You hate it even more that you understand why Rose is so charmed.

“Her mom can grow to love me, too.” Crystal eyes look into your own. “There is no place safer than by my side. Stay and we will raise them together. You won’t have to fear disease or death with me. You and Rose will have every little thing you could ever want. Forever.”

You don’t want your child to be co-patented by this selfish megalomaniac, who is the killer of her father. But. Then you stop to consider what you have been through until now. Nightmare after nightmare; this vicious cycle does not look like it will be broken. One thing or another will haunt you and hunt you wherever you go. You don’t want that life for Rose.

You won’t accept that life for Rose.

“…we will stay. But you can forget that part about me growing any fonder of you than I am now.”

Miranda nods, but something in her expression is so damn cocky you want to smack her. “Oh, what’s that, Rose? You can tell your mother is lying, too? My genius girl.”

Your jaw drops. She is my genius girl!

Miranda then touches your chin and tilts it up. You don’t want to be any closer to the gorgeous fucking witch, but when she stops there, hovering just over your mouth for a skipped heartbeat, looking down at you with those crystalline eyes of hers, you’re paralyzed.

Her lips slide over your own for just one slick, hot second. When she pulls back, she caresses Rose’s cheek and winks at you.

“I hate you.” you say, yet it holds no real bite. God, you’re exhausted.

“That’s alright. We have all the time in the world to change that.”

[bluejayblueskies]

can i be gentle?

Words: 7.1k

Relationships: Jon & Tim, Tim & Martin

Tags: Canon Divergence, Tim Lives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Post-Unknowing, Injury Recovery

Warnings: suicidal thoughts/ideations, blood, injury, hospitals and hospitalization, survivor's guilt, body horror, minor gore, gun and knife violence, mentions of death, mentions of canon-typical worms, implied child abuse, meat, alcohol, swearing, crying, smoking

Ao3 link in source

.

Tim aches. It’s full-body, radiating through his arms and back and legs, and he wishes more than anything that he could go to sleep, to chase away the pain for at least a little while. It feels like he’s been hit by a bus.

 Or been on the receiving end of several kilos of C4 igniting all at once. But that metaphor’s a bit too on-the-nose, in his opinion.

 He should be dead. He should be dead. 

 (Does he wish he were dead? He hadn’t cared, in those few moments of clarity before he pushed the button on the detonator and the colors solidified into black nothingness, whether or not he would wake up when the smoke cleared. It’s hard to tell. He’d attached so much of himself to revenge, before, when it was easier than feeling everything else bubbling up underneath, and now that it’s been ripped away from him, he doesn’t know what emotion should be filling the gap. Probably relief.

 He doesn’t feel relieved.)

 The nurse is speaking to him. Her lips are moving, but he can’t hear her. His ears ring and ring and ring, and it sounds like spirling, mocking laughter.

 They do some tests. Blast-induced hearing loss, the pamphlet they give him proclaims. Prognosis is good. Most patients recover in 6 weeks. Hearing aids can help with high frequencies.

 His ears ring and ring and ring, and he’s alive.

 He’s alive.

 Jon is not.

 .

.

.

 “It’s because of him, you know.”

 Martin startles badly at Tim’s voice. Tim wonders if it had been too loud; the ringing in his ears is incessant, and every word spoken sounds as if it’s coming from a very, very far distance. He moves a bit further into the room that they’ve placed Jon in, his hands shaking where they grip the wheels of the wheelchair they’d given him. Hard to walk when your leg is shattered. And some ribs as well. 

 Martin says something, Tim thinks, as he’s turning. His eyes are wide and rimmed with red, and he’s looking at Tim expectantly. Tim sighs, then winces as the motion sends tendrils of pain through his ribcage. “I can’t hear you, Martin. Either speak up—way, way up—or just… move your lips more or something. I don’t care.”

 “What?” Martin enunciates, and it’s so ridiculous, Tim wants to cry.

 He answers anyway.

 “Me. Being here. I’m alive because… because of him.”

 It was stupid, thinking he could protect Tim from an entire building collapsing on top of them. But his hand had gripped Tim’s wrist and he’d pulled him to the floor and he’d covered Tim’s body with his own, so when the shock wave had hit, Jon had gotten the worst of it.

 Tim refuses to feel guilty about it. He does anyway. Because they’d argued, and Jon had stalked him, and Tim had cultivated his anger and fear into a simmering ember deep in his chest, but at the end of the day, Tim wasn’t supposed to survive.

 Jon was.

 Tim swallows, hating the bitter taste in his mouth, and says, “Do you… do you think he’s going to wake up?”

 Martin says something, too softly for Tim to hear. His mouth twists into something small and pained, and he looks at the floor.

 It’s answer enough.

 Tim doesn’t ask again. 

 .

.

.

 They arrest Elias a few hours later, after Martin’s collected himself enough to bring his plan to completion. Tim’s only regret is that he isn’t able to see the look on Elias’s face as he’s dragged away.

 Knowing Tim’s luck, he’d probably have just looked smug.

 The name Peter Lukas crosses Martin’s lips, spelled out in exaggerated motions when he visits Tim again. Tim thinks, absurdly, of the hydra. Cut off one head, two grow back.

 Lukas probably won’t be better. Knowing their luck, he’ll be much worse. But Tim thinks of the way Melanie had shaken after she’d come out of Elias’s office, of the haunted look in Martin’s eyes when Tim had asked how his plan went, and can’t find it within himself to care.

 .

.

.

 They release him from the hospital with a hefty prescription of pain meds, small plastic hearing aids tucked in each ear, and a thick folder of discharge papers. Martin’s there when they do; the bags under his eyes are dark and smudged, and he nods mechanically as the nurses talk to him, outlining Tim’s care regime for the next few weeks. His eyes keep flicking to the side, to the corridor that leads to the long-term care section of the hospital. Wordlessly, Tim reaches over and takes Martin’s hand in his, giving it a single squeeze before holding it tightly.

 Martin lets out a breath through his nose and squeezes back.

 “Do you want me to, er. To take you back to yours?” Martin asks once they’re out, his voice on the softer side of muffled and overlaid with that constant ringing but audible enough now that he doesn’t have to shout. 

 Tim feels something almost like embarrassment curling in his stomach. “I, uh. I don’t have a place anymore.” Tim drums his fingers on his thighs, looks at the ground, and says, “I canceled my lease. About a week before we left for Great Yarmouth.”

 There’s silence between them—or at least, as close to silence as Tim can get right now. Tim thinks Martin says something, a word or two brushing up against the edges of what the hearing aids allow him to hear, but he can’t grasp any of it. So, Tim looks up at Martin, at the pinched, pained expression on his face, and says, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know.”

 “Know what?” Martin says bitterly. “That you never expected to come back? Yeah, I got that part. I even got why, you know? Doesn’t make it better, though. I didn’t want to lose you, Tim.” Martin pauses, then says, so quietly Tim can barely hear it, “I didn’t want to lose anybody.”

 “Yeah,” Tim says. But that’s not how this works. We were never going to all survive. Everything is fucked, and it still is, and it always will be.

 “I’m sorry,” he says and finds he means it. Then, to clarify: “For hurting you. And… and for Jon.” He doesn’t elaborate on that point. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he tried. “But I’m not sorry for going, and I’m not sorry for pressing that button. If I would have died, I wouldn’t have been sorry for that either.”

 “Right,” Martin says slowly. “But you didn’t. And the Circus is gone now, so do you…?”

 “Do I still want to kill myself?”

 Martin winces.

 “Hey, your question, not mine,” Tim says, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. After a moment, his hands drop back to his lap, and he gives a small shrug. “Don’t know. I knew I would do what I needed to in order to destroy the Circus, and I did. Thought I would die in the process, but I didn’t. I’m still trapped in the world’s shittiest job, and I don’t really…”

 Tim shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he repeats. Then, because it feels true: “It was never… it was never the dying bit I was chasing, you know. I didn’t do this because I thought it would be a good way to get killed. I did it for Danny, and that’s it. Plain and simple. So if you’re asking if I want to die, the answer is no. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t make the same decision again if I have to.”

 Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, calmer than Tim expects, he says, “Okay.”

 “Okay,” Tim echoes. Then, with a levity that only feels slightly forced: “I suppose it’s back to your place, then. Just be sure to buy me dinner first.”

 Martin doesn’t smile at that like he used to, but his face does soften a bit. His voice is lighter when he says, “Oh, I will. Within your dietary restrictions, that is. Which means no alcohol.”

 Tim groans. “You’re no fun.”

 “Uh huh.”

 They begin the commute back to Martin’s flat, and the atmosphere between them grows more lighthearted than it’s been in months. Tim feels something warm and familiar curl in his chest, and he realizes just how much he’s missed this. It’s not quite easy conversation, not like it used to be, but it’s nice all the same.

 Tim’s ears ring, and his entire body aches, and he still feels a numbness in his core in the shape of suspicious glances and calliope music and a face he can’t remember, but for the first time in a long, long time, he allows himself to smile.

 .

.

.

 Tim doesn’t visit Jon often. At first, it’s the guilt, acute and cloying and weighing him down. Then, it’s old hurt and stale anger, resurfacing and driving away any passing thought of Jon that isn’t tinged with bad memories and broken trust. After that, it’s just habit.

 It also hurts, if he lets himself admit it. To see Jon lying there, motionless and clad entirely in white, the heart monitor attached to him reading out a constant horizontal line even as his eyes move in small, jerky motions behind his eyelids. 

 See? a part of him whispers. He’s not human. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was always a monster, and you just never noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 A newer part of him, one that gets more prominent by the day, recognizes that even if Jon isn’t human anymore, he never would have chosen this. This stasis, this half-death. Not what came before, either. That part of him remembers the way Jon’s hand had gripped his tightly as they’d opened that trapdoor, and how it had continued to do so even as the worms had begun to bite into their skin. He’d tried to protect Tim then, too, putting himself between Tim and Jane Prentiss. For all the good it did, when the worms began to come from all directions. But Tim remembers the way the terror and pain in Jon’s eyes had been tinged with sadness, with a silent apology as he gripped Tim’s hand hard enough to bruise and they both accepted that this was it.

 It hadn’t been, in the end. And now it is, with Jon all-but-dead and Tim still here, wheeling his way into Jon’s hospital room for the first time in weeks. 

 He’s halfway in before he realizes he’s not alone.

 “Oh,” he says. “I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”

 Martin lets out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Where else would I be?” he says, and it’s tinged with something bitter and broken that takes Tim a bit off-guard. It’s become almost routine now, for Martin to visit Jon, and usually, he comes back looking drained but otherwise fine. Sometimes, when Tim asks him for status updates on our resident medical mystery, Martin even manages a small smile and responds, still dreaming.

 Martin scrubs a hand across his face, and Tim realizes belatedly that he’s crying.

 “Martin?” Tim says carefully, moving a bit closer to where Martin’s sitting. “Are you… did something happen?”

 “No,” Martin says, his voice catching in a way that indicates that something very much did happen. “It’s fine.”

 “Is it…?” Tim pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Is it about Jon?”

 Martin’s laugh this time is more like a whimper. “Nope, he’s- he’s the same as always. Still asleep.”

 Tim moves closer but doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically in the background, and he waits. Patience has never been his strong suit, but it’s been something that’s been required of him as of late, and he’s getting better at it.

 He likes to think he’s getting better at a lot of things.

 Martin doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. He stares at his hands where they rest just shy of one of Jon’s, his fingers restless against the sheets, coming up occasionally to fiddle with the thin black ring that rests on the middle finger of his right hand. Then, so quiet Tim almost can’t hear it, he says, “My mother died today.”

 Oh.

 “I’m sorry,” Tim says. They’re empty words, but they’re better than the good riddance and about time and you’re better off without her sitting on the back of his tongue, begging to be released. He doesn’t think they would be appreciated right now, no matter how true they might be.

 “Yeah,” Martin says. He’s still staring at his hands. “They called me a few hours ago. She… she passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. From- from her illness.” He falls silent for a few moments, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Then: “I… I think I should be sad?”

 Tim studies Martin’s face—the tear tracks down his cheeks, the unhappy set to his mouth, the way he’s shaking ever so slightly where he sits. His face is one of grief, but Tim doesn’t ask. He waits for Martin to continue, and after a moment, Martin says, “She was the only family I had left. She- she was my mother. I took care of her, I- I did my best to be a- a good son.” He takes in a shaky breath, curls his hands into fists, and says, “I haven’t seen her in months, you know. I- I visited at first, but she… she never wanted to see me. So I just stopped going. I’d call, every Saturday, but it was the same every time. She’s resting. She doesn’t feel up to talking right now. Call later, and we’ll see what we can do.” 

 Finally, Martin looks at Tim, and the guilt in his eyes is so acute Tim can feel it cut through him to his core. “I should be sad that she’s dead, but… but all I can feel is relief. And that hurts. I- I don’t know… why am I relieved? God, she was right, I- I’m horrible, no wonder she- she never wanted to see me, I- why can’t I- I can’t—”

 Martin cuts off with a wet sob, and all at once, Tim understands.

 “It’s okay,” he says, and he collects Martin’s hands from the sheets, holds them tightly in his own. “You can feel however you like, it’s- it’s okay.”

 He squeezes Martin’s hands, just once, and repeats, “It’s okay.”

 He knows Martin won’t believe him. But still, he sits, and Martin cries, and he says, It’s okay.

 It’s okay.

 .

.

.

 The hearing aids are a permanent fixture in his ears now, as most people have full hearing restoration after six weeks apparently doesn’t include him. The tinnitus is still particularly bad some days, but they help with everything else. It’s not perfect, but it’s a small price to pay for living, he supposes.

 He’s not sure when, exactly, he decides that he’s glad he’s alive. But he does. 

 He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear at all, when the Flesh attacks. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the wet, sticky sounds of things that shouldn’t be able to move without bones slipping through the vents, shattering the relative peace they’d begun to cultivate. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the pops of Basira’s gun, bullets burying themselves in things that barely flinched at the contact. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear Melanie’s screams of anger, the responding screams of pain from things with too many eyes and teeth and limbs as her knife carved a violent path through them.

 There are yellow doors and hands slick with blood and a sudden quiet as the last of the twisted, mangled creatures falls, sliced neatly in two in a way that’s just a bit too clean. 

 Melanie is breathing heavily, but her hands are steady and her eyes are hard with something raging and violent. When Basira reaches tentatively for her knife, saying, “It’s over now, Melanie. We’re- we’re safe,” Melanie stiffens but doesn’t resist.

 “This isn’t right,” Tim says after Melanie comes back to herself in bits and pieces, enough to shudder at the blood coating her arms up to the elbows and mutter something he can’t quite catch before disappearing into the toilet. “None of this is. God, can we ever catch a fucking break?”

 “We can deal with it later,” Basira says. She’s calm, but she can’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. Her Al-Amira is splattered with viscera. “Right now, we need to make a call. Get this cleaned up.”

 “What,” Tim says bitterly, “so we can continue hiding away in the Archives? You’re the one who said we should start sleeping here. Should have known it wouldn’t be safe. It’s not like it was before.” 

 He rubs at one of the small circular scars on the back of his left hand, his skin crawling with a phantom itch that makes him vaguely nauseous. 

 “We stay here,” Basira says, leaving no room for debate. “We make the call, and we stay here.”

 Tim makes a low, frustrated noise, and bites out, “Fine. Because Basira always knows best. Whatever.” He unlocks his wheelchair and says shortly, “I’m going outside for some fresh air. The smell of rotting meat is making me sick.”

 Basira doesn’t follow him.

 Martin does.

 They situate themselves just outside the glass doors, and they don’t say anything for a long time. Martin still looks vaguely ill. His face is pale, and his hands are fidgeting at his sides. His fingers are resting on his ring, twisting it back and forth, agitated. His shoes are stained a glistening red.

 Finally, Martin tilts his head back so it hits the wall behind him and says to the air above him, “Is it horrible that I wish Jon were here?”

 Tim snorts, anger still bubbling under the surface of his skin. “Because we’d have done so much better with our own flavor of spooky bullshit?” He bites out a bitter laugh. “Maybe he could have compelled them to explain exactly why every single monster out there has a personal vendetta against us. Working for an eldritch horror of voyeurism doesn’t give you much in terms of an offense.”

 “Stop,” Martin says sharply. “You know what I mean.”

 Tim does. He’s just not particularly inclined to wax nostalgic about the power of friendship and comradery when he’s got bits of meat stuck in his hair. 

 Still, he finds that he means it when he says, “I wish he was too. For what it’s worth. Which isn’t a fucking lot, but it’s what we’ve got.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says. His hand brushes against Tim’s, and they fall back into silence.

 The police arrive, followed closely by the ECDC. It’s a messy affair, even messier than the last time Tim had been in this situation, and Tim wants nothing more than to get away. Forever.

 He doesn’t make any jokes this time. He just nods in the right places, and when they’re finally released and he and Martin return to a flat they haven’t seen in weeks, he can feel weariness cutting through him to the bone.

 When he wakes the next day, Martin’s gone. His note, stuck to the door of the fridge, says, At the hospital. Be back around noon.

 It’s ten in the morning, and the sunlight is bright as it streams in through the kitchen window.

 Tim digs out the bottle of rum that Martin keeps tucked in the back of his cabinet and pours himself a drink.

 .

.

.

 “Peter Lukas wants me to be his assistant.”

 Tim looks up from what’s turning out to be quite an impressive doodle of the little figurine of a frog in a top hat he’d purchased back in research from a charity shop and says, “Absolutely not.”

 Martin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there for a moment, and then says, “I don’t know if I have a choice in the matter, really. It’s… it’s not safe here anymore.” Quieter: “He said he can help. Off- offer protection.”

 Tim audibly scoffs at that. He sets down his pencil and notepad and crosses his arms across his chest. He can already feel a headache coming on. (More than the usual, that is. He’s almost able to tune out the constant ringing in his ears now.

 Almost.)

 “What’s he going to do, isolate them to death? It’s not like the Lonely’s any better of an offensive force than the Eye. We’re doing just fine without involving him.”

 “Are we?” Martin’s voice is hard and a bit choked when he continues, “We’re living down here because it’s not safe to stay outside for too long. We’re still finding bits of- of flesh in- eugh.” Martin shudders and folds inward on himself. Quieter, enough so that Tim has to watch the motion of his lips to make out the words, he says, “Jon’s not waking up.”

 Tim feels something inside of him twist. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what’s happening with him.” A touch bitterly—old habits die hard, he supposes—he says, “Maybe he’s just not done going through his monster metamorphosis yet.”

 “Tim.”

 Tim sighs. It’s a profoundly weary sound. “Yeah, yeah. I… I miss him too, you know.”

 He’s surprised to find that it’s not a lie.

 “Right.” A small, shaky smile crosses Martin’s face, and he says, “I- I suppose they’re right, then. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.”

 “Somehow,” Tim says, “I don’t think whoever coined that phrase had this situation in mind.”

 Martin’s smile fades as quickly as it had come, and Tim feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” he says, pushing away from the desk and wheeling across the room to where Martin sits. He hesitates, just a moment, before placing his hand on Martin’s where it rests on his knee. “I… I suppose I’ve forgotten how to be lighthearted about all of this.”

 Martin nods. It’s a small motion. He’s silent for a long moment; Tim squeezes his hand and says nothing. Finally, Martin looks down at his hands and says, “It’s been four months, Tim. Nothing’s changed.” He pauses again, his mouth pinching around the edges. “I… I visited him today. I begged him to wake up, to- to do anything to indicate that he’s even still there. I don’t know why I expected him to answer. It’s not like anything’s different now. He- he’s never going to wake up, Tim.”

 Martin’s voice cracks, and he repeats, wetly, “He’s never going to wake up.”

 Then, Martin’s crying, heaving sobs that overtake him completely and have him hunched over, dripping salty tears onto the back of Tim’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says, leaning forward as far as he’s comfortably able to and wrapping Martin in as hard of a hug as he can manage. He rubs his hands in circles across Martin’s shoulderblades, feeling Martin’s shaky breaths against the side of his neck, and says, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

 He repeats it, again and again, as Martin cries into his shoulder and says, over and over, words thick with grief, “He’s dead, Tim. He’s dead.”

 “It’s okay,” Tim says. Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.

 Eventually, Martin’s body stops shaking and he pulls back, the tear tracks on his cheeks already beginning to dry. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening, and he looks tired, grief apparent in every line of him.

 “I said I’d think about it,” Martin says, in a voice rubbed raw and hoarse. “When Peter called me. I- I said I’d think about it. I- I don’t know why…” He cuts off, makes a small, distressed noise, and says, “What do I even have left? If- if this can help, what- what do I have to lose?”

 Tim feels a pang of hurt flash through him, but he suppresses it. He squeezes Martin’s hands, gives him as wide a smile as he can without breaking, and says, “You have me. And I’m not leaving—you’re stuck with me. So don’t think for a second that if you take Peter’s deal, I won’t be there still. I’m like a bad penny, or, I don’t know, a- a fungus or whatever. The point is, you’re not going to get rid of me. Whether or not you decide to work for Lukas—which you shouldn’t, by the way, in case I haven’t made that abundantly clear—you’re not going to be lonely, okay? Not on my watch. I can be very persistent when I put my mind to it.”

 Martin looks at Tim, eyes wide, and another small, hiccuping sob escapes him. “You really mean that?”

 “Yes, Martin,” Tim says, exasperation and fondness filling him in equal measure. “Christ, just because things got… rough for a bit, it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Honestly, don’t know if I could. You’re a very lovable person, you know. It’s not like being your friend is a hardship.”

 Martin laughs a little at that, his voice still thick with tears. “Well, when you put it like that…”

 Tim gives him another smile, and this one feels easier. Like it would be harder not to smile. Still, he’s careful with his words when he says, “So, then. What are you going to do? I’ve made my opinion more than known, but…” Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and continues, “It’s your decision.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

 Peter calls again. And when Martin hesitates for a long moment before giving a quiet yet firm no, the relief that sweeps over Tim is enough to make him feel weightless.

 .

.

.

 Two months later, as a man who smells of death shuts the door behind him, Jon takes a rattling breath and finally opens his eyes.

 .

.

.

 “Tim?”

 Tim raises the hand that’s not holding a rather large bouquet of white daisies and baby’s breath in a half-wave. “Hi, boss. Been a while.”

 The look Jon gives him is half-shocked, half-nervous. “I… I suppose it has. Six months, apparently.”

 Tim makes a sound of affirmation before wheeling himself fully into Jon’s hospital room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “You know,” he says, allowing a blanket of levity to fall over him, “when we said you should get more sleep, this isn’t exactly what we meant.”

 Jon just stares at him for a moment, face blank and eyes wide. Then, a laugh escapes him, a small hiccup of amusement. “Yes, well. I can’t say that I feel particularly well-rested.”

 Tim imagines what it must have been like, to be locked in a dreamscape stasis for six months. He can’t say that the idea sounds particularly relaxing. “Yep, sounds about right. Guess we can cross ‘spooky coma’ off our list of possible cures for sleep deprivation.”

 Jon folds inward on himself a bit, hugging one arm to his chest and gripping the other tightly. “Right,” he says, his voice small. He looks away from Tim, focusing on the small window in the corner of the room, and says, “I… I’m sorry, Tim.”

 Right. Jon still thinks Tim hates him.

 Tim lets out a long, weary sigh and makes his way to Jon’s bed. He practically shoves the flowers into Jon’s hands; Jon takes them, more out of surprise than anything, white petals tickling the bottom of his chin. “It’s been six months, Jon. You’ve been… honestly, a bit dead? No offense. And I’ve been alive. And we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”

 Jon opens his mouth, and Tim holds up a hand. “Don’t. I know. I already hear enough about it from my therapist, I don’t need to hear about it from you too. The point is that I’ve… I’ve had time to think. And some of the things you did, I can’t forgive you for. But some of it…”

 Tim shrugs. “Martin would always go on about how it wasn’t your fault. About how you were suffering just as much as us. And maybe I didn’t believe it because I was already angry, or maybe I didn’t believe it because all I could think about was finally getting a chance at the revenge I’d chased after for years. But then you were gone, and the Circus was gone, and I just… didn’t have anything left for the anger to hold on to.”

 Jon clutches the flowers tightly in his hands, looks down at the petals. “But you were right,” he says quietly. “A- about me.”

 Tim casts himself back six months and sifts through a metric ton of bitter remarks and angry assumptions. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

 Jon lets out a slow, shaky breath. “About me not being human.”

 Oh.

 “Jon—”

 “Do you know what I was dreaming about?” Jon cuts in before Tim can say anything else. “I- I don’t remember, not really, but… but I can guess. I… I Know, somehow, that- that they were the same dreams, over and over and over again.” Jon takes one of the flower petals between his fingers and rubs it back and forth, a nervous gesture. “I started having them soon after I took this job, you know. Naomi Herne was the first one, and I- I didn’t understand why. Every night, she was trapped in the fog, forced into her own grave, and I would try to move, because it- it felt like I should have been able to, but it- it never worked. So I… I stopped trying after a while. I would stand and watch as she relived one of the worst experiences of her life, every night, and I- I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

 Jon crushes the petal between his fingers. “She was the first one, but- but there are so many more now. Lionel Elliott and Jordan Kennedy and- and, Christ, Georgie—”

 Jon makes a small, unhappy noise. “I don’t know when I realized that they could see me in their dreams too. That in trying to help, I- I’d just made myself another source of terror.”

 Jon falls silent for a few moments; the quiet is filled by the familiar tick tick tick of the clock in the corner. Then, so quietly Tim has to focus on his lips to catch the words, he says, “I… I think I made a choice. Before I woke up. I don’t… I don’t know what it means for me, not really, but I know it means that I’m worse than I was before.” He lets out a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “So, you were right. I’m just- just even less human now.”

 Jon falls silent again, and for a few moments, there’s just tick, tick, tick. Tim rolls the words over in his mind, looks at Jon’s pinched, unhappy expression, and says, “Okay.”

 Jon looks at him then, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay?”

 Tim shrugs and repeats, “Okay. You’re not human. I’m not going to pretend like that thrills me or whatever, but it’s… honestly, it’s a lot less of an issue for me now than it was back then.”

 “I- I don’t…” Jon trails off with a frustrated noise. “What?”

 Tim sighs. “A lot’s changed, Jon. Things have… well, things have kind of gone to hell. Honestly, we could use a few monsters who are on our side for a change.”

 Jon blinks at him in stunned silence for a few moments more before saying, bewildered, “... Right. Uh, I- I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you’ve been, then.”

 A wry smile cracks across Tim’s face. “I’ve been just peachy, thanks for asking. Blow up one Circus and suddenly every spooky monster out there wants to kill you. It’s been one big, long, horrible sleepover in the Archives. But hey, at least Elias isn’t there! Now we’ve just got Lukas, and if one or two staff members disappear every once and a while, well—that’s just how it is at the Magnus Institute. Nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes, we still go out for drinks.”

 “Tim,” Jon says flatly. The exasperated expression on his face is so familiar—so Jon—that Tim feels a tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding slip away. 

 “Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, waving a hand absently in Jon’s direction. “Point is, I’m not disappointed or angry or whatever that you’re back in the land of the living.” He pauses, and then, more sincerely: “Martin’s not the only one who’s missed you, okay?”

 Jon’s lips part into an O. Then, his mouth twitches up into a smirk, and he says, “Mm, you’re right. Basira did stop by earlier, and then of course Georgie, and I bet even Melanie—”

 “Unbelievable. And here I was nice enough to come all the way over here, to bring you flowers.”

 “Mm, they are very nice flowers.”

 “Damn right they are.”

 Jon smiles then, a fragile thing, and says, “Thank you, Tim. I… I’ve missed you too.”

 Tim could point out that Jon had been asleep for the majority of the time in question. But he knows that’s not what Jon means. So instead, he offers Jon a smile in return and says, “Be honest: more or less than the Admiral?”

 Jon shoots Tim a flat, unimpressed look. “Tim, don’t be ridiculous. Of course less than the Admiral.”

 .

.

.

 Tim’s been out of the wheelchair for a week when he finally manages to make his way to the roof of the Institute, still learning how to maneuver the crutches he’s moved on to. He swears he can feel every motion of the pins and the rods in his leg—skin covered with even more scars for the collection—as he finally heaves himself through the door and into the cool night air. 

 The view is just as good as he remembers.

 There’s the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, and Tim’s entirely unsurprised to see Jon silhouetted against the glow of London, leaning against the wall that rings the roof with his back facing Tim. The cigarette glows a dull red as he raises it to his lips and breathes in.

 Jon doesn’t say anything, even as Tim painstakingly makes his way over to where he’s stood. Tim props his crutches against the wall before leaning his weight heavily against it, arms crossed atop the wall in a mirror image of Jon as they both look out onto the city below, humming with life and light.

 Finally, after a particularly long drag of his cigarette, Jon says, “I’m going to get Daisy.”

 There’s no room for argument in his voice. But that’s never stopped Tim from trying anyways. 

 “I thought you were done doing stupid shit that’ll get you killed,” Tim says, turning his head to look at Jon. Jon’s staring forward, but Tim gets the distinct impression that Jon isn’t looking out at the city at all.

 “It won’t kill me,” Jon says quietly. He moves his hands as he talks, surprisingly competent sign language that he’s begun using tentatively in his conversations with Tim. When Tim had asked him where he’d learned it, Jon had been quiet for a long moment before telling him that he hadn’t.

 Well. At least the Eye was being useful for once.

 “Yeah, whatever,” Tim says. “Dead or not, you’ll still be gone. You know people who crawl into that coffin don’t come back.”

 “I don’t—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. After a moment, he continues, “I have a plan. I- I read a statement, and it said that I would need an anchor. A- a piece of myself to keep here. I can find it when I’m down there, and- and use it to guide me back.”

 “Right,” Tim says dryly. “Because our plans have always gone so well.”

 “What would you have me do, Tim? I- I can’t just do nothing.”

 “Why not?”

 Jon affixes him with an expression that’s half-affronted, half-stunned. “Tim.”

 “What? Jon, we barely know Daisy. She tried to kill you. No, don’t give me that look.” Tim jabs a finger in Jon’s direction. “You know I’m right.”

 “I…” Jon trails off. After a moment, he hugs his arms to himself, his snubbed-out cigarette still smoldering slightly on top of the wall. “I know. But I… I still have to go. I… I’m still going to go.”

 Tim exhales slowly and says, “Right. Suppose I should have expected that.”

 There’s silence between them for a moment. Then, Jon removes his hands from his arms and signs as he says, quietly, “Why don’t you hate me?”

 Tim stares at Jon for a long moment before saying, “What?”

 Jon sighs and repeats, the motions of his hands larger and more emphatic, “Why don’t you hate me? Basira and Melanie, they- they keep looking at me like I’m some… thing, and- and maybe I am. No, not… not maybe. I’m not… I’m not human anymore, and I- I know what you said, but what happens when I—?”

 Jon cuts off with a small, choked noise, like the air’s been sucked out of him all at once. Weakly, he signs, “I’m so hungry, all the time. What happens when I… when I can’t take it anymore? When I- I become dangerous, a- a monster, will you—?”

 Jon’s fingers curl into fists, and he drops his hands to his sides, angling himself away from Tim and staring at an arbitrary point in the distance. “It’s better this way,” he says, loudly enough that Tim can make out the words above the hum of London at night and the ever-present ringing in his ears. “I… I don’t want to go. I don’t want to lose this, to- to lose you and- and Martin. But maybe it’s better than becoming something that will hurt you.”

 Jon won’t meet Tim’s eyes. Carefully, Tim reaches across the space between them and takes Jon’s hand in his, uncurling Jon’s fingers gently in an attempt to release some of the tension. Slowly, he says, “You know, I… I shouldn’t be alive right now. Back after the Unknowing, when I woke up in the hospital, I… I didn’t want to be. It was supposed to be whatever it takes, and to me, that was always going to mean my death. Revenge and poetic justice and all of that. I should have died, but I didn’t. And… and you did. And it’s not something I feel guilty about, because we both made the same choice in the end, but that… that doesn’t stop me from feeling, sometimes, like it was my fault somehow.” He lets out a sharp laugh and says, “Well, I was the one to actually blow the place up in the end, but, you know.”

 Tim holds Jon’s hand carefully in his like it might break otherwise, the mottled texture of the scar tissue firm against his fingertips. His eyes find the thin white line slashed across Jon’s throat, the stark white bandage poking out from the collar of Jon’s shirt where it covers a fresh scalpel wound in his shoulder, the pale pink spots that pepper Jon’s skin in a mirror image of his own. He can’t see the splash of jagged scars across Jon’s back, a memory of shrapnel and white-hot explosions, but he knows they’re there. “You asked why I don’t hate you?”

 When Jon nods mutely, Tim says, “I just… ran out of reasons why I should. I still wanted to, but…” He shrugs and gives Jon a wry, humorless smile. “We’re all just stuck in the same shitty situation. And I guess at some point, I just decided that you hadn’t chosen to be here any more than I did.”

 “Oh,” Jon says, barely audible. 

 Tim takes Jon’s other hand in his, squeezes them firmly, and says, “And I’m sorry. Not for- for how we used to be, because I think the blame for that falls pretty evenly onto both of our shoulders, but… but for everything else. For what’s happened to you. Figured I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself, I might as well extend you the same courtesy.”

 Jon’s fingers tighten around Tim’s, and he mumbles something Tim can’t quite catch. Then, he extracts his hands from Tim’s and signs, shakily, “I’m sorry too. For everything. But for what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you’re here. That you’re not dead. I- I know it’s been bad and- and I wish I could fix that, but I… I don’t know if I can.” Jon’s eyes when they meet Tim’s are sad but determined. “But I can fix this. I- I can get Daisy back. I can find my way out.”

 Tim looks at the firm set to Jon’s mouth, the furrow of his brow, and says, “Okay. But I’m going to hold you to that. Otherwise, I might have to go in after you.”

 Jon looks horrified. “Tim.”

 Tim holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, come back in one piece and we won’t have to worry about it.”

 Jon opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a long pause before he finally says, decidedly, “I will. I- I promise.”

 Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tim wants to say. Instead, he shuffles closer to Jon and leans against the wall again, crossing his arms on top of it and looking out over the city. “Good,” he says softly. 

 After a moment, Jon shifts to face the city as well. His arm brushes against Tim’s, and Tim lets that point of contact ground him as he looks up and up and up at the stars above, pinpricks of light on a satin black sky. 

 “Thank you,” Jon says, just loud enough for Tim to hear. 

 Tim moves his hand to cover Jon’s where it sits on the wall and squeezes once. “Yeah.”

 They stand there until sunlight begins to tickle the edges of the horizon. And when Jon gives Tim’s hand one last squeeze, the other holding the lid of the coffin open, and says, “Be back soon,” Tim believes him.

 .

.

.

 Three days later, Jon climbs out of the coffin with dirt caked underneath his fingernails and a thin, sharp hand clutched in his. “Tim,” he says, and Tim ignores the pain in his leg as he lets his crutches drop to the floor and hugs Jon tightly.

 “Looks like I’m staying above ground after all,” Tim jokes, his voice light even as his words come out wet and choked.

 Jon’s laugh vibrates against Tim’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, burying his face in the fabric of Tim’s shoulder to hide his smile. “Yeah.”

[ewwhothefuckiski]

I Love You- Luke Patterson

Guardian angel!luke × fem!reader

Requested by: @spiderwars101 (requests are open)

"Okay hun, I got a request for you! Guardian Angel!Luke Patterson x Alive!Reader where he is her guardian angel and they are in love, and one day Y/n almost gets herself killed/hurt walking home from H.S/College, and Luke to make her feel better sings her Now or Never (because it's her favorite!) And they make love for the first time after???? "

Word Count: 2k+

TW: mentions of suicide, abuse, angst with a fluffy ending, smut

A/N: Ok so I had SO much fun writing this!!! So thank you. I spent a long time on this so reblogs are appreciated!!!

×××

When Luke died, he didn't expect to become a ghost, He didn't expected to sit in a room for 25 years comforting Alex as he cried, but he sure as hell didn't expect to be ripped away from that room and become a guardian angel to a 17 year old girl with a rough life.

But it happened.

Y/N had a really terrible childhood. Her dad left her mom once he found out she was pregnant, never to be heard from again, leaving a hole in her heart where a fathers love was supposed to be. She missed him, a man she had never met. She had tried reaching out to him multiple times, just wanting to have some type of relationship with her father, but he never answered, never even sent a card on her birthday.

Her mom eventually found love again, except, the guy she fell in love with was abusive, physically and emotionally. He had a way with words, a way to make you feel worthless and unwanted. He made you feel like you had no place there, and it broke Y/N's soul even more. She'd never forget when he slapped her across the face, screaming how pathetic she was, saying how she was good for nothing and everyone would be better off if she was gone.

After years and years of built up torment, Y/N finally felt herself snap, she finally fell down the rabbit hole of spiraling depression. She didn't know why she was going through it all, why it had to be her. Why should she even be here, if all she was doing was living in constant agony and resentment.

It wasn't until she met Luke, her guardian angel, that she knew why she needed to keep pushing, keep moving forwards. It was her love for the boy who died too young.

She had been sitting on the bathroom floor, razor blade pressed into her skin, crying as she attempted to take her own life. She just couldn't take the emotional pain she was being put through any longer. Luke had suddenly flashed into the room, causing her to stop her movements.

He looked around confused, wondering why he was no longer in a dark room with a sobbing Alex, until his eyes landed on the very scared looking girl, razor blade hovering over her wrist.

"Hey wait- don't do that!" He gasped, grabbing the razor from her shaking hands. She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

"What's wrong?" Luke asked, setting the blade down and sitting down in front of the girl, concern etched into his face.

"Who-Who are you?" She whispered, staring at the boy in wonder.

Luke knew the answer as soon as she asked, almost like the answer was whispered to him.

"I'm your guardian angel."

×××

Luke doesn't know quite how it happened, or even when, but he had found himself in love with Y/N.

Alex and Reggie had quickly caught on to the boy's love sick behavior, sharing knowing glances every time Luke would go on about how amazing she is.

"-and I still have to wait two hours!" Luke groaned, throwing himself onto the couch in the Molina's garage. They had just recently been poofed into there after Julie Molina had played their demo, and have stayed ever since.

Alex glanced at Reggie, smirking as Reggie shook his head at Luke.

"You'll be fine man, Julie is with her anyways, she can look after her."

"I'm not worried about that-" Luke said, rolling his eyes at Alex. "-I just can't wait to see her again."

When both Reggie and Alex smirked, Luke's cheeks flushed red. "What?"

"You are totally in love with her." Reggie chuckled, lazily strumming at his bass. "We can all see it."

Luke scoffed and stood up, walking over and grabbing his guitar, avoiding eye contact.

"You guys are crazy." He mumbled, picking at the strings randomly.

"Dude, you've got it bad." Alex laughed, chucking a drum stick at Luke's head, who quickly dodged it. "Just admit it to yourself already."

Luke sent a glare in Alex's direction, before plopping back onto the couch, still strumming his guitar.

"I'm not in love with her, I'm supposed to protect her, watch over her. That's why we're so close, not because I'm in love with her."

"Ok." Alex sighed, rolling his eyes and standing up. "Well, while you sit around and pout for the next two hours, I'll be with Willie."

Alex snapped his fingers and poofed out, leaving a very bored Luke and Reggie to play random things on their instruments.

×××

"Hey Jules, could you let Luke know I'm staying behind today?" Y/N asked, her nose still in her history book. "I need to finish this assignment."

"No problem. I'm sure he'll just wait outside like a golden retriever anyways."

Y/N laughed and waved goodbye, turning back to her book and looking for the last few answers.

It took her about a hour, but after reading the chapter 5 times, she was finally able to wrap up her homework.

Y/N sighed contently as she shut the book, stretching her sore limbs before packing up her belongings, excited to be going home and into Luke's comforting arms.

She slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed outside to start her journey home.

When she walked towards the parking lot, it was completely deserted. She looked at the time and gasped, she had been there longer than she thought.

She saw a flash of light across the street, and grinned when she seen Luke appear. She quickly rushed out to cross the street, not looking before she did. Luke smiled and opened his arms, until he noticed a car speeding in Y/N's direction.

His eyes went wide and he was quick to run to Y/N, quickly pulling her out of the road, the car just barely missing her.

Y/N gripped Luke's arms, her eyes wide and heart racing. Her breathing was quick to pick up, a panic attack soon to form. Luke took notice and quickly wrapped his arms around her, poofing them into her bedroom, whispering soft nothing's into her ear.

"Hey, focus on me." Luke muttered, tilting her head up to look at him. When her wide eyes met his, and her breaths didn't slow, he starting softly singing her favorite song.

"Take off, last stop-" He started, laughing when she manage to smile through her ragged breathing. "-sing it with me!"

"C-Count down till we blast open the top." She started, suddenly feeling her panic attack start to die down.

Luke grinned as he continued the song, pausing every so often to let her finish the lyrics. By the time the song was over, her breathing had returned to normal, and she was laughing with him.

"See? You're ok!" He said, placing a kiss on her forehead. When he pulled away, he placed a hand on her cheek, his thumb tracing it softly.

Y/N placed her hand atop of his, holding it gently.

Their eyes connected, and suddenly Luke felt a swarm of butterflies attack his stomach. They had been a lot closer than he realized, their faces mere inches away from each other.

Y/N's eyes flicked from Luke's to his lips, wanting nothing more to experience his soft lips on hers. It had been something she had dreamed of for a while now, ever since she realized she had fallen in love with her guardian angel.

Luke took notice in her flickering gaze, and swallowed the lump in his throat. He slowly leaned forward, his lips barely grazing hers, before she closed the gap and connected her lips with his.

Luke felt a spark ignite within him as their lips met, a heat spread through him, causing him to sigh and pull her closer, his lips molding into hers.

Their lips moved in sync, the kiss slow, but full of fire, full of passion that had their heads fuzzy and stomach in knots. It was the type of kiss that left you breathless, left you wanting more.

"Ready to head home?"

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

Silly Little Symphony - Bakugou Katsuki

Track 1: Paralyzer- Finger Eleven

—/—

Bakugou is not a fan of half-assing things.

He hates it, despises it actually. Bakugou feels like anything worth doing deserves 100% effort, and if you give it any less than that you might as well not even attempt it in the first place. That’s his motto and that’s what he sticks with and that’s what he’s doing right now, too. Obviously.

Except- why does it feel like he has to convince himself?

It’s like there’s this lingering feeling in his mind that he’s taking the easy way out. That he’s taking the cheater’s way out, but it’s- there’s just no other choice, alright?

Bakugou knows he’s a brave guy, knows that he could shred anything he set his sights on, but by that very same logic, he’s knows even more that he’s not a very soft guy. His feelings for you are his feelings, and yes he might acknowledge them, but that doesn’t mean he could ever communicate them delicately. Even when he runs fantasy scenarios in his head, the words still come out all wrong. They’re too loud and too brash and too forceful and you always end up offended.

Bakugou doesn’t want you to end up offended- at leasy more than you already have. So, he quickly decided on a different method of communication.

A playlist.

A playlist full of songs that convey what he’s been wanting to, but also sound angry and scary and tough- because he’s a tough guy who listens to nothing but rock and punk and metal, and has definitely has not searched up songs with your name in the title before, and has definitely not then added those songs to his library. Because that’s ridiculous and soft, and like determined before, Bakugou Katsuki is not soft.

What he actually is, is a guy with a playlist full of specially-curated songs. And a guy with absolutely no idea how to give them to you.

The thing is, he’s read manga and watched movies and read all sorts of articles about these types of confessions (not that he’d ever admit that), but none of those felt like him. He was not a smooth talker or a brazen flirt or even just a kind guy- no, Bakugou was mean and loud, and he knew full well that he’d much sooner be cast as the antagonist than the romantic lead.

So all of that was a problem, and then you also currently didn’t even like him. You made it very clear, though every sneer and comment and biting comeback, that only feeling you held for him was begrudging respect- and even that was only on the battlefield. Once he stepped out of the hero uniform than you were back to hating him, and he only made it worse with every childish insult he threw your way. Bakugou knew it was a stupid way to get your attention, but it was also the most efficient one; and he was a man of efficiency.

So that left him here- pining the same way he had been for weeks, staring down into a playlist full of songs he couldn’t figure out how to play for you.

He sneaks a look at you, red eyes just barely skimming over top of the bus seats. You’re sitting a few rows ahead, sharing a snack with Tsuyu.

Bakugou thinks you’re stupid. He thinks you’re stupid for eating junk food right before a day of training, and he thinks you’re stupid for choosing to sit all the way in front like a nerd, and most of all he thinks you’re stupid for sharing your snack with that damn frog face when he’s right there. And obviously much better in every comparable, concievable way. Obviously.

Bakugou presses his headphones more securely into ears, and slouches down deep into his seat. All he can see now is the back of the seat, and he thinks that’s a better alternative. At least it won’t piss him off- not like the sight of you, sitting up front and laughing where he can’t hear, will.

With a grunt, he hits shuffle on his playlist, turning the volume to max. He closes his eyes dropping his head against the window. Drum fills and a guitar riff flood his ears, and he’s relaxing a bit, sinking into the sound, and all is well and good until-

Well just look at that girl with the lights coming up in her eyes. She's got to be somebody's baby.

God dammit.

Fuck Phantom Planet. Bakugou thinks. Fuck them.

Then he’s growling as he hits the skip button, throwing his phone onto the seat next to him.

—/—

As it turns out, all Bakugou needed was to beat the ever-loving shit out of something.

Cracking his palms and shaking his limbs, Bakugou launches at another robot. He thinks the machines feel weak under his explosions, almost offensively feeble in their construction. Like all of U.A’s staff went braindead that morning- like they couldn’t even bother to cook him up a worthy opponent.

When Bakugou looks around, that’s clearly not a shared statement. There’s the usual standouts of course, stupid deku and stupid icyhot and even stupid dunce face is doing well for once, but the rest of them are average. Mediocre. Completely and utterly inferior to him- and then you enter.

Your quirk, blink, is a bit useless in this scenario, but you’re not letting that stop you. There’s purpose in your movements, quick and controlled actions as you strap your home-made bombs around the base of each robot’s leg. Machines don’t blink, so you’re shit out of luck for your main speed ability, but your training makes up the difference. With practiced ease you’ve darted out from beneath the robot’s feet, and then you’re hitting the detonate on your remote.

Bakugou thinks you look unreasonably fucking cool as you sprint away from the blast. So cool in fact, that he might even consider your tech explosions as cool as his quirk ones. Maybe.

Bakugou wipes his palms, muffling a yawn. He’d blown up all his assigned robots ages ago, and now was left kicking rocks and generally doing nothing.

This training was supposed to act as a benchmark test- the idea was to drop a similar opponent into the ring, one that emulated the entrance exam, to test how far everyone had come since the beginning of the semester. It could’ve been good in theory, but Bakugou thought it was just a waste of time. Robot’s were easy for him then and they sure as hell were easy for him now.

Still though, he was the first one to kill all his robots, so not all was lost. Bakugou still walked away a winner and that meant he was feeling much better than earlier.

Smirking with shameless pride, Bakugou saunted to the exit area. More students began to file in after him, and he kept mostly quiet, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut when you walked past him.

“Fuckin’ fifth? With your overpowered-ass quirk?” He sneers, voice loud. “Waste of talent.”

Bakugou watches spin on your heels, watches your face melt into something deadly. You’re storming towards him, and he can’t even think past hoping you’d get a little closer.

“Robot’s don’t fucking blink, you jackass.” You’re red in the face and glaring, hands curling into fists at your sides. “You try getting. anything done without your quirk. Asshole.”

Then you’re stomping away, hardly giving him a second look as you cheer on your friends.

Bakugou can’t even begin to decipher what possessed him, to say those words, but he’s also not surprised. His words always come out wrong and he can’t say anything nice without wanting to scratch away his skin.

What he really wanted to say was that you were impressive even without your quirk. That you were admirably smart and tactical and well-prepared with your own bombs, and he thought that you looked really hot sprinting away from the wreckage- but that’s not what he said. Of course that’s not what he said.

Well, there goes his good mood. No amount of previous wins could ever distract him from how much of a loss that interaction was.

Eventually the rest of the class finishes, and then they’re all gathering breathless and tired back to the bus. Unfortunately, Kaminari fried himself completely and Mineta managed to break an ankle and that meant that they needed their own seats. That also meant that two people who had their own seats on the ride there, would now be sharing on the way back.

As shitty luck would have it, the class chose drawing straws as the deciding factor, and even worse than that, Bakugou got the shortest straw. The day was already shaping up to be pretty frustrating, but when you pulled the second-shortest straw it got even worse.

“We can always share instead, L/n!” Tsuyu’s says, hand on your shoulder and voice mediating. “Really. I don’t mind.”

Bakugou watched you sigh for a moment, and then you’re turning your head towards him. Your eyes meet his and Bakugou can’t help the smirk that rolls across his face- you’re looking at him and paying attention to him and even if it’s just you making a point he still likes that attention. He watches you squint your eyes at him in response, voice hard and steely as you speak to Tsuyu.

“No. It’s alright. We picked staws, and fair is fair.” Your squint morphs into a glare. “And besides, I’m not gonna let that smug bastard throw a fit into getting out of this.”

The statement should piss him off, and if anyone else said it it would’ve, but Bakugou finds it does the opposite. It just reaffirms how brave you are and how you’re not scared of him like everyone else is and how much he likes you for it- not that he’d ever tell you any of those things.

To save face, Bakugou instead pretends to be pissed about your words, his palms popping and crackling as he glares right back. He hopes it looks like a genuine threat and not a panic reaction, because really he just thinks you look so cool talking back to him directly like that and he definitely doesn’t know what to do with that. So instead he does what always works; what always makes him feel better when he gets a feeling too big to handle- he preps to blow shit up.

“Calm down, man. It’s just a seat.” Kirishima comes up behind him, pressing a water bottle into Bakugou’s crackling palms. “Here, take this and please don’t blow up the bus. Or L/n. That’d be so totally not heroic of you.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“No I’m serious, dude. Chill out, okay? L/n’s actually pretty nice once you get to know her.”

“I said, shut the hell up, Shitty Hair!” Bakugou barks, gritting his teeth.

Then he’s shoving his palms into his pockets, leaving Kirishima and the water behind, and stalking towards the bus before anyone else does. Bakugou figures that if he’s got to share a seat, then at least he’s going to be the one sat next to the window. He’ll make sure of it.

Still, there’s something sitting heavy in his stomach though- how does Kirishima know you’re nice?

The comment made his blood boil. Bakugou thinks it’s strange because usually he’s pretty tolerant of his friend, and even finds himself enjoying his company sometimes, but those words pissed Bakugou off. Pissed him off a lot.

”Wow, don’t look so goddamn thrilled.” You say sardonically, and Bakugou watches you drop into the seat next to him. “Might accidentally think you tolerate me, blasty.”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that. Useless extra.”

Bakugou wants to smash his head into a wall- because why the fuck did he just say that?

Oh yeah, because apparently his jealousy was plastered all over his face, clear enough for you to comment on it. And even if you didn’t know that’s what the expression was, he’d still rather bite your head clean off than admit it was there in the first place.

“Yeah, whatever. I don’t want to fight.” You say, clenching your jaw as you settle back into the seat. “Look, it’ll be easier for both of us if we don’t talk, so I’ll just sit here and not bother you, alright?”

“Fine. Shut the hell up then.”

Once again, Bakugou wants to obliterate himself.

He doesn’t know why he can’t just tell you- why he can’t just say that he wants you to keep talking to him and that he wants you to keep snarking back at him. Why he can’t just say that he thinks your voice is one of the least grating ones in the whole class.

He thinks all of those things, but says none. Instead he keeps a fist clenched as his sides, scowling as he pulls out his headphones. He makes an intentional effort not to play your playlist and instead hits shuffle on all his music. He’d hoped that the loud drums and guitars would settle his emotions, but they didn’t. Nearly 10 minutes have passed and Bakugou’s as riled up as ever, but he’s also now completely convinced you’re trying to kill him.

You’re shifting in your seat, your arms extending out as you slip on your jacket. There’s little room, and every time you shuffle the sleeves to adjust them, you’re knocking your shoulders into his.

Then you stop.

You just stop and you go still and his skin isn’t tingling anymore and Bakugou is all kinds of pissed all over again. Because of you he’s nervous and flustered and you have the audacity to just sit there, unaffected. He has to snarl just to keep himself from blushing when he speaks.

“Why the fuck were you touching me?”

“It’s a small seat and I was putting on a jacket.” You reply, short and clipped. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

“Tch. Just don’t do it again. And shut up the fuck up already.”

“You- you talked to me first!”

“And? Who the fuck cares?” Bakugou grunts, turning the volume of his music up. “Now shut up.”

Jesus christ. Bakugou thinks to himself. Maybe I should just blow myself up for once.

Another few minutes pass, and Bakugou swears he’s really is dying. You’re still so close to him and he’s feeling very, very flustered, and while he doesn’t love the idea that you’re mad at him, he can’t say he hates the look on your face right now either. You’ve got your jaw clenched and your eyebrows set low and your hands are balled into fists as you steadfastly ignore him. Bakugou thinks you look scary- fucking terrifying.

He likes terrifying.

“Hey.” You suddenly nudge him with your shoulder, pointing to his earbuds. “I can hear it- your music. Turn it down.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because that’s basic courtesy.”

“What the fuck makes you think I have that, hah?”

“Oh my god, you’re fucking impossible.” You rolls your eyes, heaving a frustrated sigh. “Listen, if you’re gonna keep it up that loud then at least skip that song. It’s shit.”

Bakugou glances down at his screen.

Fucking Nickleback.

Jesus, could his day get any worse?

“Shut the hell up.” He snaps, squinting his eyes. “What the fuck do you know about good music? You don’t know shit.”

“I know that song sucks, so skip it. If you’re gonna accost me with loud music at least make it good.” You bite back, and then Bakugou watches as your face melts into an easy smirk. “Unless... all your music is that terrible?”

“Sounds like you’re pickin’ a fuckin’ fight!”

“I am, you asshole!”

Bakugou doesn’t know when the two of you got so close, but now you’re only inches away. He’s got his palms up and you’ve got your lips pulled back into a snarl and suddenly the bus seat seems so much smaller. It’s so much smaller and all Bakugou can think about is the red in your cheeks and the fire in your eyes and how much he likes the sight of both.

“Just skip the song or turn it down.” You finally huff, falling back in your seat, and all Bakugou can think about is how that breathe would’ve been on his cheek if it was two seconds ago.

Bakugou is mad. He’s mad at you and your stupid witch powers that leave the air feeling cold and your stupid breaths that he can’t stop focusing on and your stupid comment. Your stupid comment that had his blood burning in his veins and irritation settling in his temple.

Bakugou listened to cool music, okay? Cool, loud music for cool, loud guys. You just insulted that, insulted him so this wasn’t just a means of confessing feelings anymore, it was a pride thing and that’s why he says what he said next. It’s definitely not because this was the golden chance he’d been waiting for.

“My music is fuckin’ good.” He growls, and then he’s yanking an earbud out and shoving it towards you. “I’ll fucking show you. Now shut up and listen.”

“So goddamn pushy, jesus.”

“You gonna fuckin’ take it or not?”

“Oh my god. Fine.”

Bakugou watches you fit the earbud into your ear, his mouth set into a determined line. He knew he’d fucked up every other part of this conversation, monumentally fucked them up even, but he wouldn’t mess this up. He was prepared and this was the chance he was waiting for. Only an absolute idiot could mess this up and Bakugou Katsuki was not an idiot.

So he plays the first song he’d added to your playlist. Paralyzer.

To his surprise, you start nodding your head almost immeadiately. You know this song. The drum fill starts and then you’re looking over at him, giving him the tiniest little smirk of approval.

“Not bad, blasty.”

“Fucking told ya.” He can’t help the pride that swells in him at your validation. It’s warm and heavy in his chest, nearly drawing a smile out of him- and then he remembers he’s supposed to be mad. “And I told you, don’t fucking call me that.”

“I’ll call you by your name when you call me by mine.”

“Wipe the smirk off your stupid fucking face,” Bakugou growls. “Or I’ll blast it off.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes! Fuckin’ try me, extra!”

“Okay.” You huff a laugh at him. “Don’t blink then. Champ.”

Then you’re raising your hand, shoving it in his face and snapping before he can stop you. Bakugou flinches out of reflex and by the time he’s opened his eyes, you’ve already used your super-speed ability.

You’re sitting back against the seat, calm and collected and smirking, with both of Bakugou’s earbuds in your ears. You’ve got his phone in your hand and he watches you twist the cord around your finger, cross your legs casually and he’s stunned. He’s pissed that you got the better of him, but he also just really thinks you’re hot when you’ve won. He watches in dazed silence as you turn up the volume on his phone to max.

Well I'm not paralyzed, but I seem to be struck by you. I want to make you move because you're standing still.

Bakugou decides two things in that moment: One, he fucking hates Finger Eleven. And two, he wants to blow the entire fucking bus to smithereens.

—/—

eee i hope u all enjoy, but especially u @bakugouswh0r3 and @definitelynottrin :))

[b0r3dwr1t3r]

The cold autumn breeze made Michael shiver as he wondered how the hell he got roped into this. He never enjoyed going to the lake, the water was freezing cold, the cabin was infested with roaches- the only reason he really tagged along was so his teammates wouldn’t give him shit about it. So, instead, he stayed cuddled up by the fire and watch his friends try to drown each other “We need Mitch alive for the game!” he shouted, earing a few distant laughs.

After a few minutes though, Michael grew bored, so he got up and started to walk off into the nearby woods. It’s not like he would be missed. Every time they dragged him along he’d always wander off and do his own thing they didn’t seem to mind. The forest was quiet save for a few crickets here and there. It was pleasant, despite the cold air around him which made his breath fog up and his arm tighten ever so slightly around himself, pulling his jacket closer as if to preserve some heat. It made him somewhat regret having walked away from the cozy fire by the lake.

But moments later his thoughts were interrupted as the faint sound of an electric guitar in the distance along with some vocals, lyrics incomprehensible due to the distance. Michael found himself following the sound, the music getting louder until he could finally put together what song it was. It was from that band, Queen, the rhythm upbeat and followed with guitars and drums.

Michael peeked his head out from the thick shrubs and bushes and into a clearing where a red pickup truck was parked. In the back of the truck there was a small radio blasting rock music, beer bottles surrounding a tall, skinny figure with its head hung and hand wrapped around the neck of a half empty bottle.

For a moment, Michael contemplated if he should wake up the guy, but as he took a step forward, a branch snapped under the weight of his foot, jolting the figure awake. And so, Michael found himself at the barrel’s end of a gun, crazed amber eyes focused on him with the clear intent to kill. Trevor... The realization hit him the moment their eyes met, which only spiked his anxiety. 

“WOAH- Woah man chill, fucking chill!” Michael raised his hands defensively, stepping out into the clearing, amber eyes following his every move “You think it’s funny to sneak up on people? Huh?” the guy jumped from the back of the truck at an alarming speed, stepping closer to Michael until his face came into light “Listen man I was just going for a walk-”

“Mm... You’re that sports guy, Townley” Michael blinked “You uh... know me?” Trevor scoffed “Your face’s plastered around every damn corner of the school... So what, you decided to pick on the new kid? Stroke your ego enough to get you going for the big fat game, that it?!” his voice range and the fact that  he was so carelessly waving a gun around made Michael swallow dryly “No, you psycho I was-” but he was cut off again “Then then you’re here to take my shit? Y’know fuckers like you make me sick, walking around thinking you’re soooo important. Arrogant little-” “A WALK- Christ man, I was just going for a walk; now would you put that down before you hurt someone?!” Michael shouted back, somewhat making Trevor sputter and pause. The silence was deafening, the two just staring at each other.

“...Well why didn’t you say so?” was all Trevor said before tossing the gun in the back of his truck “Christ...” Michael muttered as he hesitantly lowered his hands “Why the woods though. I’m sure a gifted sportsman such as yourself has better places to be than butt fuck nowhere” smartass “Fuck man, some guys invited me to hang out by the lake. Didn’t wanna stick around so I left” Trevor scoffed “Some friend you are” “Hey fuck you man, I’m not going deep sea diving in freezing ass water”

“Then have a drink with me.” Michael’s brows shot up in surprise. The guy who pointed a gun at him not too long ago was now... offering him a drink “Why would I do that?” Trevor grinned, almost amused such a question was even asked “Turning down free drinks? You are depressing. Stay, don’t stay, whatever, I don’t care” “Look man-” “Don’t ‘look man’ me, do you want the fucking drink or not?!” Trevor barked in annoyance, making Michael bite his tongue. 

After a few moments of silence, Michael sighed “Sure, why the fuck not...” Trevor grinned. It was an interesting smile... no, no interesting, unsettling is more like it “That’s more like it!” Michael climbed in the back of the old pickup truck and grabbed himself a drink, the two talking about old movies and school while the song on the radio faded into the night.

___

♫ “...I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things We can do the tango just for two I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings Be your Valentino just for you...” ♫

___

Part 1/ Part 4

[kaimelia]

Omggg I loved your fic “Overjoyed” I was wondering if you could do a part 2 where Amelia is really hormonal and it’s kinda funny? I love your writing so much!! Stay safe

overjoyed (pt 2)

a/n: hi! i also combined this with the like 4 other requests and ideas for a part 2, so if you sent one, it’s somewhere in here😅

--------------------------

"Hey, is everything okay?" Link had walked into the kitchen to see Amelia sitting on the floor, her hands cradling her bump as she cried softly. He kneeled down in front of her. "Amelia, what happened?"

"We're out of ice cream," she sniffled, wiping her eyes. Link stifled a laugh and bit the inside of his cheek.

"Do you want me to go out and get some?" She nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. "Alright. I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Okay." He kissed her forehead quickly, running his hand down her head before grabbing the car keys and rushing out of the apartment. Amelia slowly stood, cursing her shifted centre of gravity as she steadied herself on the kitchen island. She walked into the bathroom to see her eyes puffy, taking a moment to laugh at her crying over ice cream. "God, you two are already making Mommy's life difficult," she muttered, glancing down at her stomach.

Before finding out she was pregnant with twins, she had wanted to keep her pregnancy secret for as long as possible. But, with two babies occupying her womb, it wasn't quite possible to keep it hidden for very long. Every symptom she experienced was on full blast, bursting into tears at the slightest inconvenience, constant nausea, every inch of her body always aching and sore. Now, 17 weeks along, she was already forced to start wearing maternity clothes to fit around her stomach.

The front door opened again soon later, Link rushing through with a bag of different ice cream flavors. He pouted his lip out at the sight of her, opening her arms to embrace her. "Hormones are hitting me really bad," she muttered into his chest, sighing. "I'm sorry for being super dramatic about everything."

"Hey, you're allowed to be. I'm just glad that nothing bad was actually happening."

"It was a full-blown crisis. We didn't have ice cream." She stepped away, opening the bag and pulling out a carton of peanut butter flavored ice cream. "Thank you." He grinned as she pulled a spoon out from the drawer, settling on the couch and adjusting the pillow behind her.

"Better?"

"Much better."

--------------------------

"Who would've thought that being pregnant with twins would make me so much more exhausted," Amelia muttered, settling herself between Link's legs, leaning her weight against his chest. He locked his hands under her bump, his thumb caressing the bottom of her swollen stomach. "My back hurts so much." He moved his hands to her shoulders, massaging the tension she was holding. "Mm, thank you."

"You know, if you spent less time on your feet," he muttered, kissing her neck.

"I need to work. The odds are that I'll be bedridden before they're born, and it'll take me even longer to recover. If I stop working now, I'll go insane."

"I know, but this is different than your last pregnancy. Carina said we wanna get the twins to at least 32 weeks." Amelia sighed, leaning her head back on his shoulder.

"That's another month," she groaned, rolling her head to the side. "I can't not work for the next month, Link."

"I just think you should cut back a bit. I will too in solidarity if you want."

--------------------------

"Amelia, go to sleep," Link groaned into his pillow, having been woken up by his girlfriend's shifting around.

"I can't get comfortable. My stupid bump keeps getting in the way." He reached his hand out in the dark, searching for her. His hand rested on her knee.

"What're you worried about?" Her face softened at his ability to sense her nerves, and Link sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.

"I don't know how I'm going to handle two newborns," she confessed, her fingers drumming on top of her bump. "Whenever Scout would get super upset, it was just so overwhelming. And having two newborns? There are going to be so many meltdowns, all of the time." He moved his hand up to wrap around the side of her head, his fingers playing with strands of her hair as he pushed her head down to rest against his shoulder.

"Well, this time, we don't have three other kids to look at. And, we're not in a global pandemic where no one can come to help or visit us, so I think it will be easier in some ways." Amelia exhaled heavily, scooching closer to his body. "Plus, I kinda know what I'm doing this time, so I won't be as useless."

"You weren't useless," she laughed, finally cracking a smile. "You did your best, and once you found what worked, you stuck with it. And now you're a kick-ass dad." Link hummed and pulled the comforter up.

"This kick-ass dad thinks that this kick-ass mom," he poked her shoulder, "needs to get some sleep. Because otherwise, those two babies are gonna kick your ass tomorrow." He grinned at his joke, reaching over to turn the lamp off.

"I'm not tired," she groaned, laying down with him.

"At least close your eyes and try to sleep." Link placed his arm over her body, his hand settling on top of her stomach. "Goodnight, Amelia. I love you," he whispered, kissing the back of her head.

"Night," Amelia muttered sleepily, intertwining her hand with Link's before quickly falling asleep.

"And someone said they weren't tired."

--------------------------

"I don't think I can stand up," Amelia groaned, rocking back and forth in the fancy rocking chair she and Link had purchased. He looked up at her and smiled, looking back down at the pile of wood and screws below him. "You're sure you don't want help?"

"You just said you can't get up; I don't think you would be much help here."

"I meant calling Winston or something. You've been at this for an hour, and you have a whole other crib to put together." Link shrugged, flipping the instruction page. Amelia locked her hands under her baby bump, leaning into the soft cushion of the chair. "We're gonna have to move to a bigger house someday. They can't share a room forever."

"We've got a few years, at least," he muttered, standing up the frame he finished. "Okay, give me a list of everything we need to do before the babies get here." Amelia sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and thinking.

"Finish the cribs, wash all of their clothes, put everything away, and get the hospital bag ready."

"Cribs will be done in an hour; I've got the hang of this now." She grinned, digging her feet into the fuzzy carpet on the floor. "And, we can do the laundry tomorrow as well as the bag."

"What did I do to deserve you?" Link laughed, shaking his head in amusement.

"Made me the happiest man alive," he answered honestly, setting down the screwdriver beside his legs. "Now, can you kick that piece of wood towards me?"

--------------------------

"And, after twenty-seven hours of labor," Link brushed his hand through his hair, "we have two healthy, perfect little babies." Maggie stood up and clapped her hands, wrapping her arms around Link.

"Oh, I'm so happy!" She squealed, stepping back to let Meredith hug him. "When can we see them?"

"In a little bit. Amelia's completely passed out, for a good reason," he laughed, rubbing under his eye. "And Hayes took them to do all of their newborn tests. But, I have plenty of pictures." He pulled out his phone and handed it to the women in front of him, watching as they cooed over the baby pictures.

"A boy and a girl," Meredith grinned, passing the phone to Maggie. "They're adorable."

"Do they have names?" He shook his head.

"We talked a little before they were born, but just as I was about to bring it up, Amelia fell asleep, so it'll have to wait a few hours."

--------------------------

"Look who's awake," Link whispered, running his hand over his girlfriend's hair. "How're you feeling?"

"I feel fine, just the general pain of pushing two babies out of my vagina." She grinned. "Where are my babies?"

"Meredith and Maggie are with them on the peds floor so that you could sleep a little longer. Twenty-seven hours of labor is no joke," he took her hand, watching her eyelids struggle to remain open. "I'm exhausted. And, I wasn't the one pushing out babies."

"I'm just glad you were here this time," she mumbled, shifting to lay on her side. "It was much better having you here."

"I'm glad I was too," he kissed her hand before dropping it and pulling out his phone. "I'll get them to bring the babies back down." He sent a quick text, looking back to see her eyes closing. "Amelia?"

"I'm awake," she groaned, sitting up in the hospital bed. The door was pushed open a minute later, and Meredith and Maggie walked through with the twins in their arms.

"Hey, mommy," Meredith whispered, placing her niece into Amelia's arms. "You made some pretty adorable babies." The neurosurgeon grinned, brushing her finger over her daughter's cheek as Link took their son, lightly bouncing up and down. "Are they worth the twenty-seven hours of labor? That sounds like torture." Amelia shrugged, not taking her eyes off the baby in her arms.

"Absolutely worth it. Although, I don't know if I've got more in me for another baby," she joked, removing the pink cap to reveal a head full of thin blonde hair on their daughter's head.

"They're not even three hours old, and you're already thinking about the next one?" Link questioned in disbelief, moving to stand next to the bed. "I think these two and Scout will have us in over our heads."

"I'll come over and cuddle them whenever you want," Maggie smiled, watching Link sit next to Amelia on the bed. "But, I'm sure that you guys will kill it."

"Maybe that's not the phrase we should use when talking about taking care of babies," Meredith muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. "But, Maggie's right. You two are the most competent parents I know. Managed to not screw my kids up too badly, so obviously, you're doing something right." Amelia looked up and beamed widely.

"We'll still take all of the help you offer. Even kick-ass parents need a break," she whispered, bringing her daughter up to kiss her forehead. "How did our lives get so perfect?"

"I have no idea," Link muttered. "Absolutely no idea."

[heyheyloki]

Desperate

Summary: The reader gets shot and argues with Reid.

Spencer Reid x M!Reader

Word Count: 2508

requested by @fivecoffe​

It was supposed to be like any other case. Catch the killer, everyone makes it out, go home. That’s how it was supposed to go. You only wanted to help. You only wanted to make sure he didn’t get hurt. 

It was a normal day. A normal case. A normal killer that needed to be caught. While nothing about a killing is normal in itself, it was normal to you, it was normal to your team. After working for the BAU, at some point, you just become used to these people. Sure, you don’t get used to the murder scene pictures, that you’ll never get used to. The people that commit these crimes? They rarely spook you as much as they did in the beginning, when you started this profession. 

This guy was no different. He was just another killer, another guy that you had the opportunity to put behind bars were he belonged. But for the first time in a while, he actually got the jump on you. He scared you. Not so much during the entire case, just more at the end. You swear. you were only trying to help, to protect what you hold dear. Isn’t that what anyone in your position would do?

Your team and you stood outside of the house the unsub broke into, his body standing only feet in front of everyone with a woman against his body, an arm wrapped around her neck to keep her in place with a gun to her head. She wept, tears staining her cheeks as she prayed for the FBI to do something. Anything.

You stood between Hotchner and Reid, all of your with your guns drawn and pointed at the man before you. He was like you all predicted in your profiles. White, mid-30s, of average height and build. A normal looking guy you wouldn’t even think twice about on the street, and yet not one that would make your eyes want a second look at him with attraction.

“Put the gun down and let the woman go!” Derek screamed as he used the car door as a shield. His eyes narrowed with fury.

“If I do that you’ll all just kill me anyway!” He cried out as he pulled back the safety on the gun, everyone tensing up at the small click that made way through their ears louder than any gunshot.

“Hey, hey!” Reid suddenly began to yell, his voice quickly making your eyes start to flicker between the two men. Only started to flash with concern as Reid started to put his gun back in his holster as he said, “You don’t have to do that, okay? We aren’t going to kill you, I promise.” 

“Reid,” you called out lowly, your voice stern and demanding. 

He glanced over at you, nodding as a way to tell you that it’ll be okay. In your mind though, something was wrong. It was like all this heavy disgust from over the years, all the repressed fear came swelling up. It was suffocating, almost killing you when he started to move around the car doors. No cover. His hands up in the air as he started to approach the man.

You didn’t know what to do, sure, Reid was great at his job. You admired that about him. But this was a paranoid, frantic killer who had a gun aimed at the woman’s head, and Reid had nothing. He could shoot her and him within seconds and it would be too late. That ‘what if’ ran in your mind what felt like a million times in mere seconds, your body moving on its own as it went against your minds screaming to stop. This was wrong. It’ll get him hurt. It’ll get her killed. 

You didn’t listen. Instead you did what any emotion driven person did and started to approach the man slowly with Reid as your cover from his line of sight. You were only trying to help. Help. That’s it. That’s all you wanted to do. 

One. Two. Three. Three steps was all it took. Three simple steps and his eyes locked with yours. A certain type of fear coursed through your veins at the look on his face. It was distorted, crude. It was vulgar and something that felt like it only existed within a horror movie. But the main thing, besides anger, was this type of betrayal that didn’t quite make sense to you. The only thing running through your mind was Reid when you saw the gun the killer held moved from the woman’s head and point right between your friend’s eyes. It was quick, but yet it was almost the most long lasting moment in your life. It felt like some higher being was laughing at you, mocking you with having this video so engrained in your mind to the point where you could hear every breath that was taken. Count every blink the killer made.

You believed that, but you also believed another being was being kind to you. Forgiving you for whatever sins you may have committed in your past and allowing you to hold onto the only thing that actually matters in your life. Him.

A simple twitch of the fingers, the mute sound of footsteps, and gunshots began to invade your sense of hearing. It was like a strike of lightning in a way. Quick, loud, and yet deadly if aimed right. 

There was a moment of silence, silence as everyone started to recollect their thoughts. Understand what just happened. Understand surroundings. Understand the actions of the others around them. If one didn’t shoot, they wonder who did. If one did shoot, they wondered if the target was dead. 

Personally, neither of those descriptions fit you quite right. Yes, you did look to see if the killer was taken out, but you didn’t shoot a thing. Yes, you watched as something started to register in the killer’s eyes. It wasn’t pain, that hadn’t come yet, but it was shock. His chest leapt backwards, his hands almost shaking as he looked down with wide eyes and an open mouth at the four bullet wounds in his chest. It was only mere seconds later that his knees gave out on him before his body hit the ground with an unpleasant thud. The woman quickly running over to the federal agents and cops on the other side.

A deep sigh of relief left your lips. It felt like you had accessed some sort of euphoric moment, especially when you noticed Reid on the ground besides you, like he had been pushed. Though, that look on his face confused you greatly. It was like everything he feared was just threw in his face, like he was experiencing his worst nightmare. As your eyes furrowed, everything started to flood right back. Your hearing came back full circle, the sirens blasted loud in your ear drums, calls from your teammates louder than ever, and the cries of a woman still present like before. In the moment, everything seemed more than normal. That was until something jolted up your nerves again, like a jump start to the battery of a car. It was quick and made a low hissing noise come from deep within your throat. Quickly, you gazed down towards your arm only to noticed the bullet wound that leaked out blood from your upper arm.

You knew it wasn’t going to kill you, but damn did it hurt like hell. You didn’t have much time to think. As soon as you knew it a hand was placed against your back gently. When you turned you noticed Rossi besides you with a look of worry yet care. 

“Let’s get you patched up, son.” He said calmly, his voice smooth against the rest of the loud, blaring noises that entered your ears.

You only nodded in response before heading over to the ambulance, the medics quick to patch you up the best they could before heading the hospital to fully take care of the wound. Your stay wasn’t long since the bullet had an exit wound, but it sucked when they kept poking and prying at you. 

When you got home you felt relieved, thankful that you had a quite heaven to return to. The first thing you did was grab a bottle of hard liquor to held with the pain as the meds started to leave your system. You thought maybe you’d have a night to yourself since Hotchner wasn’t allowing you back to work for the next few days. Just until you had no pain when moving your arm. 

You started to prepare some food for yourself. The usual junk food anyone would eat at a movie marathon. Popcorn, chips, pretzels. They all were neatly laid out on the counter next to your couch. You were at some sort of level of peace, only sinking more into a relaxing state of mind before several patterned, rhythmic knocks came at your door. You paused, making sure you didn’t just imagine it before letting out a sigh, wondering who it could be as you approached the door. When you opened it though, you felt your breathing stop. Your heart skip a small beat before going back to its normal behavior as you stared at Spencer who stood outside your door.

“Hey,” he said as he pressed both his lips together. His body rocking on his heels for a moment before asking, “may I come in?”

You leaned your body against your door, your arms completely exposed thanks to the black tank-top your wore with a simple pair of black sweatpants. Your bandaged arm limp at your side. 

“Why? Shouldn’t you be home?” You asked in a stern tone, your mind racing to why you were so aggressive. You swear you didn’t mean to be. You never wanted to be like this towards him, ever.

“I should.” Spence agreed. “But, we need to talk.”

You stared at him for a moment before opening the door wider and slipping to the side. You watched Spencer carefully as he moved from the outside into your home before shutting the door behind him. When done, you rested your back against the front door, your observing eyes keeping on Spence. 

“How’s your arm?” He asked softly, and yet as gentle as it was something was boiling under it that made your stomach begin to twist.

“It’s fine, hurts a bit, but I did get shot.” You said nonchalantly. You truly didn’t think your words would make him explode, but you just guessed he planned to do it anyway as soon as he knocked on your door.

In a sudden and swift moment, he turned, his lean body nearly cutting the air in two as a small hiss was heard. When he looked you in the eyes, you cautiously began to straighten your back against the door frame. You held your head up, your nose rising hiring then before. Something distorted in those chestnut orbs of his, something that didn’t quite sit with you right. You knew you were in for it, you just thought it would be Hotch instead of him.

“Do you know how stupid that was?” He asked as he leaded in his head to the side, his brows beginning to furrow in pure rage. “I had it under control. I had it. Why couldn’t you just trust me on that?”

“Trust you?” You questioned in a sour tone. You leaned your body off the door, your chest puffing up for a moment as you took a step forward. “Every time you get the chance you end up in the middle of cross-fire. How was I supposed to know for sure that you would be okay? Huh? For I know if I didn’t do what I did you could have been hurt, at worst, killed right there in the street like a dog!”

Spence’s teeth began to grind against one another. “And what? Get yourself killed in the process? You were lucky, that’s it. Any further and you could be dead because of me!”

“So what? You want me to tell you that I’m sorry?” You questioned taking another step forward. Close enough now to pull him into a hug. “Cause I’m not. I’m not sorry.”

“You’re so infuriating!” Spence yelled.

“You just figured that out?” You asked, cocking a brow up as you watched Spencer’s brows narrow on you. When he didn’t respond to your smug comment, you sighed. Lowering your head as you started to move past him. “If you wanna stay you can, but I’m not talking about this anymore. It’s over and done with, so leave it alone.”

Just when you started to pass Reid, thinking this was over and done with, a tight grip was at your wrist. It stopped you dead in your tracks, turning your head to him with a deadly look that would normally cut him down. Today though, it didn’t work and instead the look that mirrored your own made you feel weak at the knees. He was dead serious.

“Do you even trust me?” He asked lowly. His tone laced with something that made your trigger happy fingers twitch, especially when you felt his hand grip even tighter, almost like he was using your wrist as a stress ball. 

“I do.” You said. It was plain, without a tease nor a substance of sarcasm. You didn’t have to even think twice about the question.

“Than why did you do that?” Reid asked gently, his voice glimmering with great confusion as he tried to read you. Profile you.

Without a second though you said, “Because I’m selfish when it comes to you.”

“What?” He asked, eyes moving all over the place. “I don’t understand.”

You gave a dry chuckle. “For a genius, you’re pretty stupid at times.”

Spencer didn’t speak. His mouth hung open a bit, but no words came out. Instead he gave you this look that made you justify every action you made earlier even more. You had no guilt anymore. You had no second thoughts. In the end, nothing else mattered but making sure he was alive and well, but perhaps just the distorted view of him kicking into your brain. The irregular and slamming pattern of your heart aiding in the distortion.

And maybe in that moment he saw through you for once, maybe you let the persona you always put on slip. Maybe he managed to slip through the small crack in your mask and saw the infatuation you held for genius in front of you. Either way, before you even had time to register his movements you felt his breath graze over your cooler lips. The next thing you knew he was kissing you. It unlocked something in your that you repressed for a while now, and while it slipped to the surface at times, now you couldn’t help but let it free from its cage. You had no right to like him, you thought, but when he kissed you, you knew it sighed some kind of contract between the two of you that would make you the happiest man alive. Especially with him alive and well at your side.

[doomedandstoned]

Prog-Doom Trio APE VERMIN Blast New EP, 'Arctic Noise’

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Album Art by Steven Yoyada

One of the most impressive release years on record was 2018, when all the big dogs of doom dropped new albums. It was a tough year for a fledgling band to make its big splash, but somehow APE VERMIN made us all turn around and take notice, birthing a massive full-length debut 'Sonic Monolith' (2018) -- still a favorite among doomers. Now, we herald the return of the North Carolina heavyweights with an extended play record, 'Arctic Noise' (2021).

Having already crossed the 2-3 year threshold that seems to either make or break many a promising band, Ape Vermin seem here to stay as they near a half-decade together. Originating in 2017, Brett Lee (guitar, vox), William Deal (bass), and Charlie Burleson (drums) dub their style progressive doom. Through firmly grounded to the storied tradition of deep, reverberating doom, these guys are explorers who like ancient man simply are searching for new horizons.

“Our records are stepping stones for us,” frontman Brett Lee states. “We put our heart and soul into them and where Sonic Monolith had a very drone-type feel with an avalanche of groove, this new EP is a little more over the edge, and more melodic at times. We wanted this EP to represent the celebration of echo, death, and rebirth.”

Based in the small town of Valdese with barely 5,000 souls to speak of and nestled near the Catawba River 'neath the looming mountains, Ape Vermin have developed a club weilding style that's also surprisingly spiritual. Their bio depicts their artful style as comp[ose of "juddering riffs, thundering drums and otherworldly concepts that underpin the sheer mania of their music, along with hypnotic riffs and nimble fretwork" which gives"genuine virtuosity to the sonic vistas they create." That, my beloved Doomers & Stoners, I can firmly endorse.

And now to the record before us. We first encounter on Arctic Noise a song called "Megaliths Of Echo." Warping pedal effects and feedback are interrupted by a declamatory guitar lead accented by bass and drums, establishing our main theme. If you listen carefully, a story is being told in the music alone. Chugging riffage erupts with a stampede of rhythm bringing us caveman-like grunting, "Arctic Drone! Asteroid Explode! Shadow! Behold! Echo! Unfold! Astral Fate, Colossus Awake!"

Something momentus has happened, and suddenly the mood shifts down to a Cathedralesque riff that reminds me of that chilling moment on "Tower of Silence" when Lee Dorian announced, "The circle of time has stopped...sun no longer shines." And we're but five minutes into this gigantic near 17 minute slab of ice core.

Fire in the arctic! To celebrate this guilt. We've been surrounded, By the ice! We've killed the martyr, to set free this realm. We've been surrounded, By the ice!

Fire in the arctic! We've been surrounded! We've killed the martyr! The stone has fallen!

It's clear that someone's doom has come. For a moment, you can see it in your mind's eye, perhaps a churning in the gut, as the Neanderthal DNA still abiding inside has a sudden flashback to this momentous day in prehistory. What is happening? No one knows. Confusion abounds. All one can do is stand, watch in awe, and contemplate their fate.

We fade in the end, You've been holding the earth, We've been mining the sun, You will fade in the end.

I talked last night to frontman Brett Lee, who shared: "These songs were written during an intense emotional period." You can see the lyrics both describing some long ago fantastic calamity and also doubling as a metaphor for the bewilderment that comes with change and uncertainty, which all of us know far too well in recent days due to pandemic pandemonium.

Open the door, To find reason to kill, Locked up inside, For 10,000 years.

Something is encased in ice, and thawing. An ancient spirit lies within with the raw instinct for survival. It grabs us in our weakest moments and shouts, "Live, god damn, you, live!" The emotion laden writhing of the axeman seems to stir up such sentiment as I listen. Then a reminder of my own mortality.

We fade in the end, We echo.

We have such a short time to live. Our time is now. Let's attack it with the same uncouth gusto of our forebears, who struggled to survive in the ice and snow. The words of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song" comes to mind in these closing minutes:

We come from the land of the ice and snow From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow The hammer of the gods Will drive our ships to new lands To fight the horde, sing and cry Valhalla, I am coming

Ancient Ruin takes the stage next, with a Near Eastern sounding motif with an attractive hook accompanied by tribal beat and voices singing in Forming The Void like harmony, "Orion." Following this is a vicious drum dominant slog and once again, we hear from our gruff caveman, who exclaims:

Fading out, Cosmic temple Riding out of this hell fear thy brother, meet thy maker Feel the darkness in my soul.

It's clear a religious ritual of some sort is underway, perhaps in response to the inexplicable disaster of the opening number.

We finish our adventure with the namesake track, Arctic Noise, which could very well serve as a Part B to the previous song. The riffage here seems more curious and wandering. A tale is told 'round a cave sheltered camp fire as cold, vicious winds blow about.

Arctic samurai, Astral vision May the arc of life BURN! Ancient avalanche echo All hail noise

I am the wretch I am the fiend Out of the void and in the machine I am the failure I am the one Out of the rapture and into the sun.

A searing solo breaks through that reminded me of one we'd hear on the first High on Fire record, only it begins feeling kind of wobbly and wounded, as if in pain. It quickly becomes seized by adrenaline and expresses itself in a confident, warm-blooded tone. I haven't said enough good things about the drumming so far, but it really shines in the second half of this song, and of course William Deal's basswork is as hearty as ever. The song ends on a cliffhanger, as if to say: "To be continued."

"I leave a lot of imagination in the lyrics," Brett told me, but dispels any notion that this is thematically linked to their debut LP, 'Sonic Monolith' (2021). He ended our conversation with an intriguing footnote: "Although deep in the lyrics in the debut album and also this E.P may you unlock what is to come next!"

Next did you say? That's something to look forward to, for damn sure! What better time than now to become a fan of Ape Vermin and revel in their dirty, gritty doom and fuzz-loaded stoner vibe!

I would be remiss were I to compliment the extraordinary album art by Steven Yoyada (who also penned the remarkable cover for our recent Doomed & Stoned in Denver compilation). Gaze upon this moment frozen in fantasy and you'll discover that it, too, has captured something of the record's soul.

Arctic Noise by Ape Vermin will be officially see the light of day on May 7th via Koloss Records (pre-order here). Fans of Conan, High on Fire, and Mastodon are you listening? Good, because Doomed & Stoned is rocking this mother in its entirety today.

Give ear...

Arctic Noise by APE VERMIN

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[castielific]

The list

AO3 Link

Tags: Supernatural, Destiel, Alternate Ending, Canon Compliant (up to 15x10), Human!Castiel, First kiss Summary: 

Once there are no more monsters, the only thing left to fight for is happiness.

Here is my take on our boys’ happy ending. I hope you’ll enjoy it. 

**************************

"I hate you", Dean grumbles into his elbows. His arms are on the table, his head buried into it as he squeezes his hands over his ears. 

"I think he’s getting better," Sam lies, hiding his grimace just in time so that Dean doesn’t see it when he raises his head to glare at him. 

Dean opens his mouth, but is cut off by a particularly shrill note that makes him feel like someone is drilling right into his tympans. Even Sam can't help but squeeze his fists in pain, crumbling the edge of the book he's trying to read. 

"'This would be good for you, Castiel'," Dean says, imitating Sam. "What about us, Sam? This doesn't feel good for us!"

"It's not so bad," Sam offers miserably. 

Yes it is. It's even worse than bad. Dean flinches in pain at every horrible noise that resounds all around the bunker as Cas continues to play - or more like, tries to play - what Dean thinks is supposed to be 'Twinkle twinkle little star' on his newly acquired violin. 

Truth is, it is all Sam's fault. Dean can't ressent him that much though, because the look on Castiel's face when they went to the music store was worth the torture they've been enduring for the last two days. 

Since God has been defeated, they've all been having a serious case of cabin fever. Heaven and Hell have closed up their doors, angels and demons alike running home with their tails between their legs. Even the common monsters have gone into hiding. Apparently the Winchesters killing God has impressed them enough that they've all decided that they better keep quiet. Of course, they're still there, but smart enough not to do anything that might attract the wrath of the hunters. Apparently, they are exceptionally good at hiding when they want to because the only case the brothers have had in the last six months had been a rogue vampire that went on a rampage. He was still young and out of control. It took three hours to take him down, the whole deal was done in less than a day, even counting the drive. 

In short, hunting has become boring. All they've had to keep them busy have been some random salt and burn, nothing exciting. The rest of the time, they've stayed cooped up in the Bunker and it didn't take long for them to go crazy. Each in their own personal way. 

For his part, Sam has gone a little too far on his healthy lifestyle penchant, to the point that it became borderline unhealthy: Running up to three hours a day and eating nothing but vegetable smoothies. It lasted two months before he realized that all it was doing was giving him diarrhea and making his shins look like basketball. So now he's taken to digitizing and translating every book in their library….which sounds as exciting as getting all your teeth pulled out, if you were to ask Dean, but at least it passes the time. 

Dean's way of coping was on the polar opposite as his brother's: he decided it was as good a time as any to learn to cook better. Dean has always loved cooking and has been having a blast since they found the bunker. For the first time of his life, he has a home and a kitchen of his own. Until now, between the Amara, the Men of Letters, and all that crap with God, he never had time to really enjoy it, limiting himself to the few recipes he already knew: burgers, steak, and breakfast food. With the hunting gig slowing down though, he had all the time in the world to try his hand at more ambitious things like roast, chili, lasagna and way too many pies. 

His personal wake up call  came when he tried to put on clothes one morning and couldn't find any pants that fitted him anymore.They hadn't had a case for three weeks, and he had to admit that he became a little too familiar with sweatpants. When confronted with the terrible truth of his every single one of his jeans being suddenly too small, he had no other choice: he spent the whole day dismantling the dryer to find out why it was shrinking all his clothes. Sam had a blast mocking him and Castiel, with his usual discretion, was quite pointedly avoiding looking at Dean's stomach during that conversation. Dean spent a long time in front of the mirror after that. He regrettably had to admit that his stomach resembled more Father Christmas's belly than David Beckham's abs at this point. He started to follow Sam's health routine the very next day. Or, tried to, at least. It didn't last long before he couldn't take the smoothie torture anymore, and decided that limiting his pie intake to two per week and doing some exercise should be enough. 

Sam and him actually came to an agreement on food after that, and while Dean would never ever drink a kale smoothie again, it actually wasn't so bad to add a little more salad to his plate. 

All in all, it was a difficult time for everyone, but especially for Castiel. 

Castiel used to be an angel with a Godly purpose, a mission grander than anything people could even imagine. Then suddenly Chuck was gone, and the angels were gone too, and he just became a puny human with no real purpose, a soldier of God with no God to serve and no war to fight. Easy to say that he quickly joined Dean in his sweatpants' aficionados club. Except where Dean was happy to indulge in a laziness that he never really had a chance to try out before, Cas soon fell into depression. Even the best pies Dean made seemed tasteless to him after a time. He was lost in a human routine that he could find no pleasure in. It came to a point where he didn't even sleep in his own bed anymore, never leaving the couch except to satisfy the most basic needs. Sadly, on most days, showers didn't seem to be considered as one of those needs. 

Once they had their breakthrough about their own miserable situations, the Winchesters decided to tackle their new mission: helping Cas. 

It was Sam who proposed that they should all write a list of things they always wanted to do, but never had time for. 

They took a trip to the Grand Canyon on the very next day, dragging a reticent Castiel along. Their road trip lasted nearly a month, because they kept getting distracted by new destinations. Sam wanted to see the Harold Washington Library, Dean wanted to go to Baltimore to go to the Dangerously Delicious Pies shop he heard about while searching for new pies recipes, and so on. 

Castiel never asked to see anything, pretending gloomily that he used to be able to go anywhere in a flap of his wings, and therefore had seen everything he ever wanted too. Dean dragged him to an amusement park anyway, because he was pretty sure the angel had never been on a rollercoaster before. Dean regretted that pretty fast when Cas became strangely fond of them, saying that it reminded him of flying. They took so many rides that Dean threw up and Sam's nose bled for nearly one hour after. 

Still, it seemed like a wake up call for Cas. He spent the rest of the drive home lost in his thoughts or scribbling a list on the back of a gas station's receipt. He even asked them to stop in Utah on the way back to see the largest bee hives in the US. They ended up buying so many types of honey that they now have a cupboard full of it in the kitchen. 

They had been back to the bunker for two days when Cas declared he wanted to learn how to play an instrument. They went to a music store, where Castiel tried on every instrument from a harmonica to a full drum set. After the obligatory harps jokes, Dean tries to entice him to buy a guitar, and learn all the best Zep songs. Cas was too polite and knew better than to criticize Dean's taste in music, so he chose the guitar. Dean wasn't oblivious to the way his friend kept lingering in front of a black violin though, so he relented and bought that instead.

He's sorely regretting it now. 

It's still totally Sam's fault though, he was the one to come up with the idea of this stupid list in the first place. 

**********************

"I've decided what I want," Castiel declares as soon as the movie's credit starts rolling about a month later. 

Sam snorts, waking up from the doze he'd fallen into. He blinks at them, wiping his eyes tiredly. 

"I said no cat, Cas," Dean reminds. Apparently, one of Cas' item on his stupid list is to get a pet.

"I don't want a cat."

"I'm allergic to animal's hair," Dean reminds him, suspicious. Last night Cas declared he wanted a Camel. A freaking camel. 

"Of course, Dean, your health comes first," Cas concedes amicably. "Although, I do wonder if you're not using this as an excuse, and would not have been amenable to adopt a pet anyway, were it not the case."

Dean scratches under his ear. "What? No. Of course, I'd want one. I love animals. Just, no snakes or anything that eats living food. I know you, and you would just end up saving all the mice or something."

"You know, they do make hairless cats and dogs," Sam pipes up, smirking when Dean sends him a side glare. 

"Those are majestic creatures, indeed, Sam, but I much prefer the softness of fur. Don't you Dean?"

"What." What kind of question is that?

"Wouldn't you like it if you could have a pet with a soft fur that didn't make you sneeze and suffer so much?"

"Huh. I guess?"

"Good," Cas concludes with a jut of his chin. "His name is Honey," Cas announces, raising the kilt that was on his lap to reveal a…

"What the hell is that thing?" Dean shouts, jumping to his feet. 

"Honey is a texel guinea pig," Cas says, cuddling the little beast to his chest. The pet starts emitting a little noise in pleasure as Castiel caresses his fur. It has long curly hair. Its head is black with a white spot on the top while the rest of its body is a mismatch of large black, white and orange spots. 

"It looks like a freaking sheep!" Dean exclaims, sending a betrayed look to his brother that is already kneeling next to Cas and petting at the small animal. 

"See, Sam, we do have a guinea pig now," Cas says proudly, making Sam chuckle at what is obviously a private joke between them. 

"We don't have anything! I'm allergic, Cas, remember? My health…," Dean finishes, faking a cough. Sam rolls his eyes while Cas squints at him. 

"I don't think you are, Dean. Honey has been on my lap all night and you haven't shown any signs of allergy. I've looked at you closely to make sure."

"Do you think he likes kale?" Sam asks, taking the little beast on his own lap as he sits on the ground. 

"I think he might, Sam. The internet says guinea pigs need to eat a lot of vegetables. Do you want us to go and try to feed him some?"

"Yes!" Sam declares, squeezing delicately the pet against his chest as he gets up. 

"But-," Dean tries to protest. 

"I bought him a little hammock that he really likes," Cas tells Sam as he gets up too. 

"But I haven't-"

"That's cute! I want to see it!" Sam says eagerly.

"My allergies…," Dean finishes lamely as he watches the two other men leave the room without a look in his direction. He scowls, staring at the beer he's still holding. He sulks for all of thirty seconds before he grumbles. "Dammit, I want to see the tiny hammock too. Guys, wait for me!"

**********************

"Oh, that's...that's a nice...tree."

"It's supposed to be Sam," Cas says with a pout, looking at his very first painting.

"Yeah no, I mean, behind him? The big woody thing?"

"That's you," Castiel pouts, looking dejected. 

Dean grimaces, inclining his head to try, and identify himself in the glob of paint on the canvas. 

"So you're not Van Gogh," Dean finally declares. "Or Mozart. The important thing is that you wanted to give it a try and you did. If you liked doing it, then that's what matters, no matter the end result," Dean tries to reassure, squeezing his friend's shoulder reassuringly. He learned his lesson when his words about Cas' lack of music skill were not so delicate, and the ex-angel ended up giving him the cold shoulder for a whole week. 

When he looks back at him, Cas has a small smile on his lips and a look so full of...of something, that Dean can feel his cheeks warming a little. Seconds pass and Cas keeps staring until Dean clears his throat, forcing himself to look back at the ugly painting.

"What's next on your list?" 

A hand pulling on his arm makes him turn back toward Castiel. Dean barely has time to react before his friend's lips brush with his. It's so fast and soft that he's left blinking in confusion, wondering if that really happened. 

"This was."

Cas is still smiling, even though Dean recognizes the worried line creased between his brows. The hunter opens his mouth, but doesn't know what to say. To say that he wasn't expecting it would be an understatement. To say that he never thought about it, a lie. To say that he regrets it…

"I liked doing it," Cas declares, nodding his head in satisfaction. "Now I want to ride a horse."

"A- a horse?"

"Unless we can still get a camel?" Cas teases, acting hopeful. He sends Dean a wink - a goddamn wink - before he grabs his painting under one arm and leaves the room. 

"Ride a...Wait. Cas! We're not getting a horse either! Cas!!" 

*************************

When Dean finds him, Castiel is sitting on the bench Dean made from the trunk of one of the trees they had to cut down to make this space into their garden. The sun hasn't set yet, but the end of september's evenings are already colder. The last flowers of the season are blooming, and the vegetables they planted in the spring are starting to wilt, only a few tomatoes popping red among the green and yellowing stems. 

Cas is bending forward, forearms resting on his legs. His eyes are closed and for a minute, Dean is worried that something happened, that he's sad or sick. He's reassured when he hears the low murmur of Cas' words, see the slight smile at the corner of his lips, the one Cas always gets when he's trying to be funny. 

His friend hasn't heard him approaching yet, so Dean waits, trying not to eavesdrop on a conversation he's not supposed to be a part of. 

Dean takes the time to check on the apple trees he planted instead. They're too young yet, too small to give any fruit, but by next year, maybe...He can't wait to bake a pie with his own apples. He rolls his eyes at the thought, that's so domestic. Yet here he is, planning on planting strawberries and raspberries, checking on the squash that is starting to grow and wondering if it'll be ready by Thanksgiving. 

Vegetables are Sam's thing. Flowers and the small hive they've built are Cas'. Dean is in charge of the fruits. 

They planted their garden over the underground garage, hidden by such a large ply of trees that there is no risk of anyone stumbling upon it by accident. They had to cut down trees, dig out every root, and plow the whole area to prepare the soil. They've spent nearly all spring and a good part of summer working to create that little bit of garden on the Bunker's roof. They've bought so many gardening tools that they're already making plans to build a shed here in the spring. 

It's nice. The bunker is feeling more and more like a home, like a place Dean could feel himself growing old in, maybe. 

They've talked about buying a house, especially Sam, but somehow they can't see themselves leaving anywhere else than in the bunker. It's their legacy, the place they were always meant to be, and they've come to love it despite all the horrors that happened there in the past. 

Maybe it will change someday. Maybe Sam will want to marry someone, to buy a more traditional place with a white picket fence where he can raise kids without fearing that they'll choose a cursed object or weapon laying around as their next toy. Dean has noticed more and more of Eileen's clothes in the laundry, more of her things left behind every time she comes to visit. He hopes it's only a matter of time before he's not surprised to see her at breakfast anymore. 

By the time he's checked on the fruit part of the garden, Cas has stopped praying and is observing him. The sun is setting, painting an orange glow behind him, and for a second it nearly looks like Cas has a hallo. 

"You told Jack about the horse riding lesson?" Dean asks as he straddles the bench to sit next to his friend. He rubs his hands against the cold, blowing into them to try and warm them up a little. 

"Maybe," Cas says with a mocking smile that makes Dean balks. 

"Oh, come on, you promise you wouldn't tell anyone about me falling on my ass!"

Cas chuckles at the memory of Dean's horse throwing him into a giant mud puddle. Dean had cursed for a whole ten minutes as he struggled to stand up but kept falling right back on his ass. It made Cas laugh so much that he'd started crying. That's a thing Cas does now, he laughs. He does it more and more, and Dean is amazed by it, every single time. 

"Technically, I didn't tell anyone anything," Cas argues with a smirk. He's not wrong. They have no idea if Jack can even hear their prayers now that he's taken charge of and close up Heaven. That doesn't stop them from regularly praying to him, especially Cas. 

"You tell Sam and I'll bury your damn guinea pig next to the tomatoes," Dean threatens. 

"No you won't," Cas says with a fond smile. 

"No, I won't," Dean admits, pouting half-heartedly. He's actually come to like the damn beast. Which no one would actually know if Honey didn't start screeching every time Dean comes near it, calling for the treat that he knows Dean will give him. It was supposed to be their little secret but Honey blew their cover more than once. Dean is still pretending he hates the little ball of fluff, on principle, even though no one is fooled anymore. 

"You were right about the horse, I hadn't realized the amount of dejection it actually produces," Cas concedes. "Also, my bottom is sore from the ride," he adds, squirming a little in his seat. 

Dean chokes a little on his saliva at the image that brings to mind. Honestly, even without the innuendo, watching Cas ride a horse, hips rising and bending over the saddle, has done quite a number on Dean's libido. If he hadn't been questioning his sexuality before, he would definitely be now. Good thing he already was. Cas kissing him has been the only thing on his mind for days now. They haven't talked about it, and Cas is acting like it didn't even happen, but Dean has barely slept since then, spending his nights thinking about Cas' lips on his, and how he might possibly maybe want to do that again. 

"Did you kiss Sam too?" he blurts out. It's not the most subtle or delicate way to bring up the subject, but apparently that's what his brain has chosen to say. Damn you, brain! 

"Why would I kiss Sam?" Cas asks, looking genuinely astounded by the question. 

"Wasn't that on your list?" Dean asks, scratching the back of his neck. 

Cas squints at him like he's the most idiotic thing he's ever seen and, well, Dean probably is. 

Dean squirms under the stare, rubbing his hands again, as much against the cold as in nervousness. The ex angel gives a long suffering sigh before he grabs Dean's wrists. He pulls on his hands until they're under his own sweater. Dean is so startled that he just looks at the bulge his hands are making over Cas' stomach with wide eyes, not daring to move his fingers. They're nestled between Cas' tee-shirt and his abdominal muscles. It's so warm under there that his skin is tingling from the temperature difference. 

"You're an idiot, Dean Winchester," Cas declares. Dean looks up, and Cas is looking at him so fondly that it makes him blush a little. 

"Yeah," he sighs. "I know."

"I must be one too, because I would very much like you to be my idiot for as long as you would have me," Cas confesses, a little shy as he draws patterns on the shape of Dean's fingers over the tissue of his sweater. 

"I'm not sure, Cas," Dean says, making the other man tense up. "Are you sure you want to be stuck with me forever?"

It takes a minute for Cas to get his meaning, brow furrows intensely before they relax in realization. 

"That was my plan all along," Cas says, his smile so wide it's showing his gums. 

And yeah, knowing Cas, it probably was. Cas would have stayed by Dean's side forever whether he was an angel or a human or even a God. Hell, Cas was ready to stay by his side when Dean was turning into a monster bearing the mark of Cain, and when he was a demon. He wanted to stay by Dean's side even when Dean was cruel and screaming at him to go. It was the irony of it all, wasn't it? It always felt like Cas was leaving him, running away for angel business or whatever, but Dean never ever doubted that he would come back. He always knew Cas would come back somehow. After all, even death could never keep Cas away for long. 

Dean slides his hands a little higher, making Cas shiver as they travel over his torso under his shirt. Dean's fingers tightens around the cloth, and pulls Cas closer, close enough that their noses are nearly touching. 

"And now it's mine too," Dean sworns,resting his forehead against the other man's. He cradles Cas' jaw, passing a thumb under one of his eyes. The stubborn angel refuses to close them, even though they're so close that he's going cross eyed. Still, he keeps looking right into Dean's green orbits and hell, that must mean Dean can't keep his eyes off Cas either

When they kiss, it's sappy and tender and sweet and everything Dean always thought he could never have. The relief he feels makes Dean wonders if it isn't everything he's been waiting for all along, without even realizing it. 

Cas is right by his side, as always, and Dean is damn well going to keep him as close as he can for as long as he possibly can. And hey, he knows the guy ruling Heaven now, so that might just be forever. 

The End.