#fully expecting to return to heaven never to be come back on earth the second the sword slices through

[delicrieux]

☆ﾐ 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 “𝚘𝚑”

PART 13: ...O-OH?

it’s the night of the big stream. y/n uncovers a strange, albeit deep, bond with charlie. corpse interrupts her garden date with sykkuno quite unceremoniously. tensions are high as ever; proximity chat reveals internal monologues and stray thoughts. y/n’s “batshit insane” energy affects everyone. this is, quite literally, the best game of among us bretman has ever played.

─── corpse husband x reader, sykkuno x reader (if you squint, it’s very one sided)  ─── soc. media + written fiction! ─── word count: 6.1k oops ─── ❥ reqs: sum people requested some interaction w bretman + jealous corpse + flirty sykkuno

author’s note: guys....GUYS WE’RE ON THE 3RD “OH” hope ur excited cus i am!!! this was rly fun to write, but then again, everything is better than writing an essay lmao! this is extremely chaotic and a bit seggsy but like a minuscule bit u wont even notice it i swear xx there’s not much social media in this one, mostly written lol. as always lmk wat u think n thank u for all ur kind words n sooo manyyyy ideassss!!! love u lots

ultimate masterlist.  ҉  myso masterlist   ҉   previous. ҉   next.

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It’s happening, you think, picking the discreet, angelic white color for your astronaut - with a halo and all, truly, you are a seraph that stepped through the gates of heaven and descended onto earth to grace these morals with your presence...quite literally, you’re not only donning white in game, but also in real life, cute as a button or more like as a bunny. Cat girls are overrated - cat boys, on the other hand, you’ll ardently defend till your last breath - but bunny girls...Safe to say, your chat had been going feral. Your endless ego is fed well. You even swore on your heart that no devilish trickery would follow in this game - you had left your snake ways behind you.

No one believed you. The Roaches know you too fucking well.

The influx of new subs, however, do not. Look at this cute girl! She wouldn’t hurt a fly! You chuckle at the compliments. At the exact same moment, Rae pipes up on the discord call, “Y/n is leering and cackling evilly. No one trust her.”

Demon woman herself must be watching your stream before starting her own. You pout, all adorable and innocent, but your eyes gleam slyly. Truly, a mastermind of manipulation! Look at you go! The chat is swooning. The viewer number steadily climbs past 16K and you hum happily, welcoming all that decided to join your little clan, “Don’t listen to Rae. Wifey is mad because I said I’m not bringing her back a souvenir. Well guess what, bitch, I’m the gift.”

Your perfect image does not quite align with your tone, nor the affectionate nickname you call your roommate (bitch, not wifey). The new viewers are none the wiser though, just like your new stream mates.

There is laughter from people you don’t quite know. The lobby is almost full, but not everyone has trickled in yet.

“Filing divorce papers right now.” Rae mumbles, but you hear the smile in her voice. It makes you crack a grin, too. 

More hello’s and shy introductions to the people in the lobby. Sykkuno’s green astronaut pops in with a upbeat, “Hey, everyone! Hi, Y/n!” as his character circles around yours. A collective awww echoes in your stream chat as you, quite breathless at the wholesomeness, reply with a “Hi! Hi hi!” as well.

Corpse is next to join, mysteriously ominous. The discord call is pure chaos, everyone screaming over the other variations of his name while stressing different syllables. Silent as a grave, he just stands there, his black astronaut seemingly eyeing everyone in the lobby. 

Alas, when the noise dies down, he utters, “Whaddup, baby.” and it’s pandemonium all over again. You are screeching/laughing along with the rest. His astronaut swiftly glides to Sykkuno, still circling around you, “Hey, Sykkuno.” He says. The latter abruptly stops. The game hasn’t even started, and already - betrayal! Sykkuno starts circling around Corpse now, leaving you in the dust.

“Hey, dude!”

“Yo,” You interrupt, “I’m like here too, yeah?”

“Fight, fight, fight!” Pokimane jeers. You can’t see her, but you’re certain she’s pumping her fists in the air. 

“Let’s leave the bloodshed for the game, yeah?” Dream offers past her laugh ridden urging.

“No, fuck that, let’s start this shit right now,” Charlie declares - his monotone is strangely pleasant to the ear, and you lean back in your chair with a thoughtful hum. Something about his energy just clicks with yours instantly, but perhaps you’re judging too quickly- “Got my fucking knife ready to slit some throats. You can all pretend you aren’t ready to kill on sight, but that’s not me. I’ll teabag your dead fucking body.”

-yeah, no, your initial estimate had been correct! What a pleasant surprise, you feel like you and he will get along beautifully. 

“Way to be subtle, Charles.” Rae snorts.

“Subtle doesn’t make an interesting game, Rae,” He’s quick to bite back, “and if I’m Impostor, you bet your fucking ass I’m going after you first.”

“Noooooo!” She shrieks, rushing to your astronaut, which is still just standing there, abandoned, like the equivalent of that one emoji, “Y/n, protect me.”

“Of course, baby.” You purr. 

There’s mumbling in the discord call, though it’s barely audible. Corpse seems to be repeating the word to himself: Baby...Baby?...Baby...

“You’re gonna stab me in the back the first chance you get, won’t you?” She questions, already painfully aware of the answer.

“You know it!”

“Finally, someone that’s not fucking cowering in their boots and flaunting their real nature.” Charlie says, “Y/n, form a Big Dick Alliance with me.”

“Oh for sure, man.” You agree immediately, trailing to his in game figure, “Let’s show these virgins how it’s done.”

“This is going to be a mess, isn’t it?” Sean’s voice rings with a cheerful laugh, making you flustered. Yes, you’re actually playing with THE JacksepticeyeTM. You still haven’t fully wrapped your head around that part, “I’m very excited to see where this will go.”

“Nowhere good.” You say with unparalleled sincerity - every word you speak to him, the icon, the legend, the one of the few youtubers you actually actively follow, must be genuine. You doubt you can lie to him. He’s too good of a person. You admire him too much. Stuck between wanting to be a shady bitch and an absolute saint, you refrain from addressing him more - you are simply not worthy.

its the y/n trying to act like a normal person in front of jack for me

ikr she looks ready to join the monastery

each day we stray closer to gods light???

Your viewers are snide as always. Gosh, you love them.

The last player pops in, fashionably late, “Hey, y’all.”

“Hey, Bretman!” The call choruses somewhat harmoniously.

“Hi, daddy.” He’s speaking to Corpse now, a smile in his voice - you can hear it even past the static of his atrocious mic. Your eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up. Your friends are cackling, but confusion refrains you from doing the same - were you not the only one Corpse offered, seemingly so long ago!, to be his sugar baby? 

One betrayal after the other. You’re glad for the Big Dick Alliance. The name has a nice right to it, too. 

Corpse laughs, “...Hey, Bretman. How are you today?”

Damn, two sentences for him, but not even a word spoken to you!? You’re already scripting a very melodramatic paragraph you will text him after the stream. With poorly masked discontent, you mutter, “Wow, thanks for such a warm welcome, Corpse, my day’s going great, yeah, loving the company.”

“Now now miss girl,” Bretman chimes, “we can’t be all daddy’s favorite.”

“Careful,” Charlie drones, “I think you just got yourself onto Y/n’s shit list.”

“Right next to Corpse Husband and Valkyrae.” You agree, “Sykkuno!” You suddenly call him.

“Uhm-Uh-Yes?” Is his nervous reply.

“You’re safe.” You state coldly, “For now.”

“You are not going after Sykkuno on my watch.” It must be a belated holiday miracle because Corpse finally decides to address you. His words seem to awake something in him, “Hey-Hey-Hey-” He swiftly glides to you, standing right next to your minute virtuous angel, “When are you coming back to Cali?”

corpse stop acting weird challenge

literally omg lmao

he does bring up a good point y/n y u not in cali yet?!

^pack it up corpse simp he disrespected the queen when he didnt say hi

“Back off, buddy,” Charlie interjects, “this spot is for Big Dick Alliance members only.”

“I’m never returning.” You inform him, your voice cold like the Arctic snow, and the look in your eyes is no kinder. You feel like you’re having a stare down through screen. 

Silence stretches. Is this an intimidation tactic? Because if it is, it’s a paltry one. Your conviction to be petty is stronger than any vulnerability you might feel.

“Then I have nothing to say to you.” He admits and fucks right off with that. Fine, go join Sykkuno and Rae in their little corner of betrayal! Friendship ended with Corpse, now Charlie is your best friend.

“Okay, guys, guys, guys-” Toast, noting this is going to spiral any minute now, tries to catch their attention, “Let’s start?!”

You look into your camera, and the roaches know what you’re thinking. You’re twins like that, communicating telepathically. You are taking back your tender promise of not being a conniving bastard. It’s fucking on. You will destroy everyone in your path, starting with the guy you have a stupid crush on - maybe?! Feelings are confusing, you’d rather just not think point blank period.

With no objections from the cast, the counter ticks away seconds and, for the first round, you’re stuck as CREW MATE.

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Charlie is a gift. Truly, you had not expected such a sudden, wonderful relationship to bloom. How have you not known of him sooner?! It’s a crime that you hadn’t spoken to him earlier. You are a 100% certain if you had found him before you started streaming, he would’ve been a big inspiration. 

The two of you do your silly little tasks and curse like sailors, commenting about this and that thanks to proximity chat. You wouldn’t have been able to stand the claustrophobic silence if it was just a normal Among Us game - to think, missing out on all his foully worded quips! It almost springs a tear into your eye. He’s just as unhinged as you.

worried about this dynamic 

its a trainwreck lol i love it plz collab more plz

Caught in a headed discussion in Electrical - TikTok trends, or audios specifically - you defend the app the best you can. Charlie thinks it’s super cringe, and you insist it’s part of the charm as you connect wires.

“I mean, have...-do you know that one audio, the one that goes, like,” You’re spilling your words, heated, frustrated that he’s so dismissive of the app that literally saved 2020, “it goes like, uhm,” You clear your throat, prep your voice - even take a sip of your favorite drink. Drawing the syllables, you try your best to make it drop an octave - it must sound like you’re doing an atrociously bad and nauseatingly scratchy Corpse impression with an extra dramatic flair, “My assssssss, your cockkk, you do the mathhh.”

“Did-Did I just-” You freeze hearing Corpse’s voice, finally done with your task. Charlie is muffling his laughter behind his palm; Corpse’s astronaut stands in the doorway, “What the fuck did I just walk into?” He seems genuinely confused, though a strangely winded. You’re mortified. Your shoulders are shaking. You look at the stream chat but it’s going too fast for you to follow. Manic laughter bubbles in your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, mouth split into a toothy grin, lowering your head and trying to hide the blush dusting your cheeks.

“Hey? Guys? What the fuck are you talking about?” He questions again.

“Honestly?” Charlie chimes, “No fucking clue. TikTok, I think. Ask Y/n.”

You can’t reply. You’re crying. You cover your face with your palms, muttering a soft oh my god before bursting into a full blow laugh, throwing your head back, the motion accidentally knocking your headphones off.

“Y/n.” Corpse calls you, “Fuck was that?”

You’re howling. Your stomach hurts. There are literal tears in your eyes. You think Charlie might be laughing too, but you can’t really tell over your loud screeching. Hastily fixing your headphones, you wipe away the tears stuck to your lower lashes, heaving, “S-Sorry, I-” You stutter, breaking into another fit of giggles. Corpse patiently waits you to calm down. Catching your breath, you start again with a sniffle, “TikTok, yeah.” You idly fix your hair, trying to bite down a smile, “It’s an audio.”

“What- What kind of videos are you watching?”

“The good kind.” Your reply is instant, merciless, “Also, why are you here? We’re having a BDA meeting, you know.”

“I-I...” He trails off, “I...I heard people talking and...I just came here to check it out, but...I’m regretting it.” There’s a lilt in his voice, and you know he doesn’t regret jack shit. You bet he’s smiling. You wish you could see it.

“Bitch, then leave!” You huff. You aren’t sure what is with him today, and you don’t want to stick around and find out - his playfulness makes your stomach flip at the most inappropriate times! Like when you’re trying to sound threatening. You must retreat posthaste, “No, wait, I’ll do it for you.” You say, brushing past his character. Charlie follows after you.

“Dude, you’re so fucking lucky neither of us are the Impostor because you’d be deader than I’ve been feeling since I was 10.” Your favorite companion comments. Charlie is truly a modern wordsmith. You’re pretty sure you adore him, because you’re nodding your head, so quick to agree with him that even you’re surprised. 

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A meeting is called. You spare a glance at your fallen crew mates. They will be missed. Sean most of all, God, why does heaven always take the good ones?! The game feels emptier without him, even if you really only passed him once on your trek to Cafeteria with Charlie.

You may or may not have been avoiding him, afraid you’d accidentally say something horrible and he would hate you. It’s a silly fear, though a deep one. And with Charlie keeping you company, you had not uttered a single objectively  good, or even coherent, sentence. Your parents can’t watch this stream once it’s uploaded onto your Youtube channel. They know you’re barely keeping it together in most of your videos, but here, now? Yeah, no. Charlie is already hard to listen to on his own for sensitive viewers, and hearing you agree with literally everything he says with your own chaotic ideas? Your dad would stumble into an early grave.

Mom probably wouldn’t mind too much, but you’d have to explain your relationship status again. She is under the assumption that everyone you collab with is your significant other. You’d say it began with Sykkuno, though the exclamation of “Finally! My daughter isn’t pathetically single! We need to celebrate.” had started with Rae. Truly, a scandal.

Speaking of which, Sykkuno is gone, too, but you had time to mourn him already. You found his body roughly ten minutes ago; so torn with the fresh agony of heartbreak, you could not do anything else but cry. It was Charlie, bless his heart, that reported it.

“Someone killed Jack,” You say, voice dripping with venom, “court is now in session. I’m ready to vote the fucker out.”

People speak all at once. Toast roars over them, “ORDER! ODER IN COURT!” as he slams his hand onto his desk repeatedly. That seems to work, though briefly.

“I think it’s Y/n.” Corpse says. You stare at him, hand gripping your heart, mouth falling open in surprise.

flame him

corpse boutta be a corpse fr

beat his ass queen!!!!!

“Pardon my french,” You grumble, “but nani the fuck?!”

“It’s definitely Y/n, I found her and Charlie conspiring in Electrical. Surrealist experience of my fucking life, but it’s definitely her.”

“Dude, we’ve been over this,” Charlie sighs, shushing Rae who was about to comment something - knowing your luck, it was probably in favor of the man throwing you under the bus, “we would’ve snapped your fucking neck the moment you walked in. But we didn’t.”

“Yeah, we didn’t.” Corpse notes, “I said nothing about you, I’m just saying it’s definitely her. She probably didn’t kill in front of you because of your stupid alliance-”

“Someone sounds salty because he wasn’t invited.” Pokimane snickers.

“-or possibly she did tell you and you won’t betray her for the exact same reason.”

“That’s some big brain logic you pulled there, genius,” Charlie says, absolutely unimpressed, “sure you didn’t have an aneurysm trying to connect all of that together?”

“Well,” Rae pipes up, “Y/n and Charlie did say they will kill right before the game started. If you ask me, it’s not unbelievable. And Sykkuno was sorta on the shit list.”

“I’m writing down your name twice, Rachell.” You spit.

“Not helping your case at all, Y/n...” Dream worries, “And Rae makes a good point. Charlie and you have professed desire for murder. I’m just saying! It’s a bit suspicious, you know?”

The next words to leave Corpse’s lips sound incredibly smug, “See?” He drawls.  The pressure is getting to you - you don’t understand where this beguiling talent of his to convince literally everyone comes from, but it doesn’t inspire any confidence. Your fist suddenly feels incredibly lonely, so useless - oh, how you long to swing at him, “It’s definitely Y/n.”

“I dunno...” Toast mumbles.

“It’s Y/n.”

“Corpse-” You try, but he's ignoring you - shocker, as if he hadn’t been doing that from the very start of this stupid game - and chanting your name like it’s a fucking mantra or something, a smile in his voice, knowing, relishing in the fact that he’s grating on your nerves, “FIRST OF ALL,” You scream into the mic, successfully cutting him off; catching your breath, you exhale, and continue, calmly, lowly,  “get my pretty name out of your mouth.” 

There’s a pause full of tense silence. 

Then, there’s a sound, seemingly stuck in the back of his throat, “...O-Oh...?”

“Second of all,” You continue, words like honey dipped in arsenic, “This is the clearest smear campaign I have ever witnessed. By how hard you’re trying to frame me for fuck knows what reason, I’m led to believe it’s you that killed them. You’re the Impostor.”

“Corpse wouldn’t kill Sykkuno, though.” Rae comments, skeptical.

“Then the other Impostor did it.” You counter.

“Maybe you’re both Impostors.” Pokimane chirps.

“Y/n would never betray the Big Dick Alliance like that.” Charlie states.

You grin, “Charlie, I literally love you.” 

“Wait hold up now,” Corpse seems to get his bearings together, “what’s this about love I’m hearing?”

“I have none for you, dick.” You snap, flipping him off. Your chat cheers. While he can’t see it, you hope he senses it through the screen, “I officially hate you.”

“No, wait-”

“Boo, Corpse, you suck.” Toast laughs.

“Y/n, please-”

“Let’s all vote for Corpse Husband, okay?” You say it like it’s his full official name with an encouraging smile and multiple soft nods. Sykkuno can’t be here to nod, so you’ll do it for him. You eye the rapidly decreasing timer before clicking on Corpse’s figure and voting for him. The VOTED icon instantly pops up beside your adorable astronaut.

“Baby, I-” It slips past his lips so easily, as if he’s not even thinking about it, like it’s only natural to call you that and a spike of anxiety shoots up, making you glare. It’s only halfhearted. You try your best to ignore the rapid and uncoordinated pulses of your heart. Replace unwanted feelings with anger and hate - works like a charm, every time.

“You are not allowed to call me that.” You hiss. The chat spams snake emojis. 

“Wait-” Bretman chimes, “Hold up, y’all, slow down a minute. Why does Corpse never call me baby?”

“Yeah!” Pokimane agrees, “I want to be baby, too!”

Pokimane may not have been called baby, but you just single-handedly decided her nickname for her - Target 4. Welcome to the shit list, she is officially your public enemy number 1. You aren’t sure why the thought of Corpse ever referring to anyone else as baby makes you sick to your stomach (you actually do know why, but brain no think at the moment), but you wish this whole conversation never happened. You don’t like it.

20 seconds left. More VOTED icons appear by your friends. Corpse is the last one to cast his ballot at, you assume, you, as the rest wait for his quick explanation before everyone (or not) returns to the game, “...Because she’s my baby.”

Goodbye. Life had been sweet, and there was sorrow, though the amount of embarrassment you feel now is worse than when the internet found your cringe worthy high school pictures on your mom’s Facebook. It’s a mixture of dread and excitement - the pleasure of being noticed, cherished even, though anxious from vulnerability. Someone is screaming a very prolonged “WHAAAAT?!”, or maybe multiple people are, you aren’t sure, your ears start to hurt from the loud, conflicting cacophony of voices as you stare blankly at the screen. You received two votes, just like Corpse, Charlie got one, the rest skipped. With no one flung out, you all find yourself back in Cafeteria again.

Baby. My baby? My baby. My baby. The sentence is playing ping-pong in your mind, reverberating louder each time. You’re actually speechless for the first time in your life; your chest hurts, your heart beating so fast your hands start shaking. Had he meant it? Or was this a some joke? Was he trying to get a rise out of you again? You might just go insane from so many questions. My baby. Holy shit, this is a heart attack, this is what a heart attack feels like, dear God, you figured you at least had ten years before you get one!

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First round ends with IMPOSTORS raining victorious. Your sixth sense had been working wonders since, true to you previous estimate, it had been Corpse. His companion was Pokimane. For absolutely no reason what’s so ever, you change her name once more from Target 4 to Target 1. Normally, you’re all for girls supporting girls. Men don’t deserve anything, really, but now you’re so flustered and still reeling from what you are 80% sure was cardiac arrest that you genuinely don’t care about your established morals.

Round two starts without much deliberation. You get CREW MATE again; the game must sense your growing bloodlust, making sure that once you do get IMPOSTOR, you will not hold back. True power is granted to those who are ready and strong enough to wield it. You wait for your moment with bated breath.

Charlie is taken from you too early. The two of you were once again caught in a discussion - God knows about what, Minecraft, hentai, oh! your server! - as you tried to card swipe for the umpteenth time. The lights blew out and you just knew one of you was getting murdered there and then. Charlie’s voice abruptly cut off, and you think a part of you died with him.

It’s a cold meeting; with your new best friend being the first to go, everyone decides to skip. You proclaim you seek vengeance. When the meeting comes to an end, Sykkuno is the first to offer his condolences.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” He says, and while he’s not in Brooklyn, you somehow feel him patting your back. You feign a sniffle.

“There’s nothing to apologize for...” You murmur sadly, “Unless...” Your voice turns sharp as the knife that was surely twisted into Charlie’s back, “It was you?”

“NO!” He exclaims, “I would never-you gotta believe me! I would never kill him. I know he’s important to you. I wouldn’t do that, I swear.”

“He was like a brother to me.” You admit, solemn, “Charlie, if you’re haunting me right now, know I will avenge you. I will not let this go.”

Sykkuno hums, circling around you, “Hey, I have a task in Greenhouse. Would you, uh--Would like to, uhm, join me?” Despite the shaky start, he finishes on a firm, pleasant note. He’s trying to cheer you up. Having lost your closest friend, he’s offering you his company. You accept with a soft smile and a cute “Yes, please!” and he releases an airy little laugh. The two of you make your way to your favorite place in map MIRA.

It’s difficult to stay sad for long when Sykkuno’s so sweet; the atmosphere of the Greenhouse is strangely calming; your problems seem to be left behind the shut doors. If you tried hard enough, you could imagine being in an actual Greenhouse - the warm, damp air clinging to your skin, the unmistakable smell of earth and vegetation, the pleasant silence broken only by yours and his hushed voices and clumsy footsteps.

The two of you are talking. Mainly about your choice of attire. Cat first, Sykkuno ponders aloud, doing his task as you watch the plants grow, now bunny, what’s next? You affirm that you will most likely dress up in cow-print next, or as an adorable sheep. He laughs, admitting you’ll look good in anything before he trails off. His awkwardness is really endearing. 

“Or!” You chirp happily, content with being locked away with him for the whole game. The idea must be playing in his mind, too, because he seems in no rush to leave, “I could, like, dress as someone from My Hero Academia. I watched the stream you did with Stella, the one where she made you look like Todoroki. It was really cute. You were really cute.”

“Oh, uhm-well, uh, thank you, thanks, I, uhm-” He clears his throat, and despite his stutter, you hear the smile in his voice, “I-I think you’d look better, though. Not as Todoroki. Or, probably as Todoroki, too. But, uhm, what character are you thinking about?”

“Maybe Momo?”

“Momo!” He yeps, “Momo is good. Yeah, she’s great. You’ll-uhm-you’ll look amazing. Really. Momo is awesome. Very pretty. Just like you.”

You are blushing. A stupid, toothy grin makes your cheeks hurt. Your eyes flicker to the chat, but again, it’s going wild. Giggling, you thank him for his sweet words, so giddy it’s honestly embarrassing. Why can’t you stop smiling? This is incriminating. You hide your lips behind your palm.

“...What’s this?” Corpse question. You had failed to note his sudden appearance, too busy gushing. “Am I interrupting?”

“Hey, Corpse!” Sykkuno greets. For someone so awkward and shy, he sure is good at hiding it when he wants to. Perhaps it’s all an act and you had been deviously tricked! Probably not, but you can’t help but narrow your eyes suspiciously, finally able to calm down. You definitely underestimated him, you just haven’t figured out how yet, “Not really! Y/n was sad Charlie died so I took her here.”

“You interrupted our date, dipshit.” You deadpan. 

“...Fuck you say?” Corpse dares, his voice low and somewhat menacing - for someone who exclusively portrays his emotions through only his voice, he’s incredibly hard to read. This is payback. Your love for wreaking havoc resurfaces suddenly. Serves him right for pulling all this ignoring shit at the start. Maybe you’ll make him say oh again.

Your sly smirk is promptly wiped. Fuck. He said oh, he literally said oh out loud. The Teruhashi fangirl in you is screaming. You had been so caught up in defending yourself you didn’t even register it at first. Alarmed, you look at the camera, then at the chat. First oh, then my baby. There’s no way he had been teasing you, and this proves it. Holy shit. You mouth the words “HE SAID OH!” for your audience only.

now she notices

snail pace baby we’ve been loosing our shit for the past hour 

corpse x y/n saikik au enemies to lovers 500k words slow burn im here for it

opening wattpad rn^

Your heart races in your chest - it might be considered an Olympic medalist at this point; flustered yet again, you wish you could cave into yourself. You should’ve brought your bright blue wig with you to Brooklyn. Turns out it would have been perfect for this stream. Yes, yes thinking about unnecessary details always works in distracting you from the butterflies throwing a fucking rave in your stomach. 

“I guess it is a date!” Sykkuno admits, “Kinda after a funeral, but still.”

Corpse hums. You’re still too stunned to say anything. The black astronaut with adorable cat ears approaches Sykkuno. 

“It’s not.” He states. Your mouth falls open in shock as your date, your companion, the Shoto to your Momo is murdered in cold blood right in front of you. His lifeless body, cut in half, lays on the tiles by the growing flowers, right beside you, “You didn’t see shit.”

“...I didn’t see shit.” Is all you can utter, breathless and terrified.

“Thaaaat’s fucking right, baby.” Corpse coos, “Now I’m gonna report it, and I’ll say we found Sykkuno together. Better stick close to me after the meeting, got it?”

If Sykkuno is Shoto, then Corpse is definitely Dabi. 

why is that kinda hot tho omg

didn’t know i needed dom corpse since now but i do

y/n looks like shes boutta throw up lmao 

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You follow him around like a lost puppy - because what else is left for you to do!? You’re helpless in this situation. He’s got you in the palm of his hand, successfully eliminating everyone you had previously interacted with. First it was Charlie, then Sykkuno, even Sean, who said hello in passing, was shot instantly. Real Sangwoo behavior. You almost want to scream warnings at everyone to not approach you. You cannot mourn another lost crew mate, you don’t think your conscience can take it. But words fail to form. You’re too weak. You fake cry to your audience. They’re quick to remind you to stop acting like a little bitch.

“Mean.” Is all you say, eyeing the comments.

“Hm?”

“Was talking to the roaches.”

“What are they saying?”

“That I should betray you.”

“...Better not.”

A shiver shoots up your spine and you half believe he will bust down your door and drag you into his basement for real. A nervous laugh slips past your lips, “I won’t, I won’t.” You reassure him, “Don’t worry, I’m sticking with you. I haven’t seen shit.”

“I like that you listen to me. You always this agreeable?”

“You’re kinda not giving me a choice right now.” You grumble, vending yourself a drink while he looms behind you, protecting you. From who?! Himself?!

“Oh my fucking God, finally,” Bretman exclaims, “girl, I’ve been running around the whole map trynna find someone, is everyone like, dead?”

You’re scared to reply. Corpse does it for you, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, maybe? Not sure. Where have you been?”

“Oh you know,” Bretman grins, “doing tasks, talking shit, the usual. You two are not, like, Impostors right?”

You shoot a look at Corpse, but he obviously can’t see it. Biting your lip, you murmur, “Nope.”

“Just your regular crew mates doing regular crew mate things.” Corpse says, no, purrs. Because that’s not suspicious at all. You’d recommend Bretman to run, and not only because that sounded shady as fuck. But he seems to enjoy danger, or he just doesn’t care.

“Hmmmm, crew mates, sure. Miss girl Y/n,” He’s addressing you now; you smile anxiously, “How come every time I see you, you’re with a different man?! Like damn, leave some for the rest of us, for real!”

You like Bretman. You like his high-pitched whine and drawl. You would like him even more if not for the complex situation at hand. You fear for his life. Chewing at your bottom lip, you snicker, “Sorry, Bret. I can leave you Corpse if you want?”

He laughs, “Girl, I’d say yes so fucking quick, but I know he wouldn’t want that. Normally I wouldn’t care, but y’all are such a cute couple it’s making me not want to be a shady motherfucking bitch. Changing my ways, embracing the lord. Love it.”

 Corpse doesn’t correct him that you are, in fact, not dating. His lack of reaction unnerves you slightly. Does he...? No! No think! Only exist! You catch that train of thought and steer it away from forbidden territory. Looks like it’s up to you to clear the air, and that is exactly what you do after trying to swallow down the lump in your throat, “Uh, we’re not together, actually. We’re just really good friends.”

“Bitch, then move over,” Bretman says snappily,”go like, back to your other boyfriends. Or find another one. I think I saw Dream near Navigation.”

“Near Navigation, huh?” Corpse hums thoughtfully. It’s a subtle warning, but you catch it. Yeah, even if you try running, Dream’s going to join your other ‘boyfriends’ in the afterlife. Granted, killing someone by just talking with them is kind of cool. Or maybe Stockholm Syndrome is finally kicking in, “Bret, the thing is, Y/n’s scared of dying, so she asked me to stay with her.”

It’s disturbing how good at lying he is. It is also really really attractive, as bizarre as that is.

y/n stop being in a toxic relationship with corpse challenge

making fanart of this omg her face

its the blushing for me girl get your head outta the gutter!

^she cant, it lives there

“Baby, you’re gonna fucking die if you stick with her,” Bretman points out, “have you noticed the mortality rate of her partners? Rest in peace, daddy.”

“He’s right, you know.” You mutter, dramatically looking to the side, “I’m no good, Corpse.”

“Not leaving you, end of discussion. Bretman, join us?” Corpse offers, catching you by surprise. He might still be lying, though. Creating a false sense of security before eliminating Bretman. Probably would laugh while doing it, too. Wow, he truly is evil.

Turns out he doesn’t have to do any of that, because when Dream strolls into Cafeteria, he kills Bretman instead. The two Impostors are finally revealed. You promised not to snitch on Corpse, but you didn’t say shit about not exposing Dream. You press the REPORT button and say just that: “Dream just murdered Bret right in front of me and Corpse.”

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The last meeting is called. Dream had been voted out with the help of Corpse, and now only you, he, and Rae remain.

“Baby, you know what to do.”

The VOTED icon pops up beside Corpse’s astronaut. Rae wheezes, “No! Y/n, it’s not me, you gotta believe me, I swear it’s not me!”

“...I really don’t know,” You murmur, “I’ve been with Corpse a lot, and...Rae, I’m not sure...”

“Please! I swear it on my Kagayama cardboard cut out, I’m not the Impostor, please! You know me, I’d never lie to you like this.”

“She’s definitely lying.” Corpse says, sounding pleased.

“Don’t listen to him! Remember, during the first round, when he tried to convince us that you were the Impostor? He’s doing the same shit to me!”

“I also remember you agreeing with him.” You remind her.

“I was stupid! Small dumb brain moment! He was using us to win! He’s using you right now!” She votes, “Please, Y/n, make the right choice.”

You’re silent for a moment.

“I’m gonna...I’m gonna vote for who I think it is.” You lastly say.

A slow, lazy grin makes it’s way onto your lips, eyes gleaming mischievously. You had not forgotten your promise to your brother from another mother, you had not forgotten the pride of the BDA, you had not forgotten your beautiful friendship. Two miniature astronauts pop up by Corpse’s at the exact moment Rae screeches “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!”

“Fuck.” Is all Corpse says with a laugh.

The screen changes, informing of the first CREW MATE victory.

Your ears are assaulted with different voices as you appear in the lobby.

“Now that’s what I’m fucking talking about.” Charlie raves, “I swear to fucking God, Y/n, you even got me going for a second. Pulled some 1000 IQ shit right there. It was fucking amazing. Best back stabbing I’ve seen in a while, and I’ve seen a lot.”

“That was absolutely fantastic, Y/n.” Sean applauds, “I really thought you joined Corpse like some crew mate accomplice or something. Can’t believe you switched on him at the last second.”

“That’s my wifey!” Rae cheers, strolling to you, “Love you, mwah.”

“Hey, Corpse,” Charlie calls him, “How does it feel to be a fucking loser?”

“I’m surprisingly fine with it.”

yeah he would be lmao

mom is the best snake ever i love you sm y/n

rae and y/n’s friendship....the feeeeeels

As the rest sing your praises for another solid minute or two, the third round begins. CREW MATE again. Though, just because you’re stuck as an underpaid worker in a dying spaceship, it doesn’t mean you’re innocent. Your last round proved that quite well. You can’t help but silently snicker.

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TAGLIST IS CLOSED!

tags (in italics is those i couldn’t tag! make sure all’s ok w your settings!) : @littlebabysandboxburritos - @fairywriter-oracle - @tsukishimawh0re - @ofstarsanddreams - @bbecc-a - @annshit - @leahh19 - @letsloveimagines - @bellomi-clarke - @wineandionysus - @guiltydols - @onephootinfrontoftheother - @liamakorn - @thirstyfangirl - @lilysdaydreams - @pan-ini - @mxqicshxp - @tanchosanke - @yoshinorecommends - @flightsandfantasy - @liljennyx3 - @bingusmode - @unknown-and-invisible - @sinister-sleep - @fivedicksinatrenchcoat - @mercury--moon - @peterparkerspjsuit - @unstableye - @simonsbluee - @shinyshimaagain - @ppopty - @siriuslystupid - @crapimahuman - @ofthedewthesunlight - @mythicalamphitrite - @artsyally - @corpsesimpp - @corpsewhitetee - @corpse-husbandsimp - @hyp-oh-critical - @roses-and-grasses - @rhyrhy462 - @sparklylandflaplawyer - @charbkgo - @airwaveee - @creativedogs - @kaitlyn2907 - @loxbbg - @afuckingunicornn - @fleurmoon - @yeolliedokai

more tags are in the comments bcs tumblr only allows me to tag 50 people max 💙

[littlefreya]

The Way To Hell - Final Chapter

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man on earth. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped while a trained assassin is sent to bring him down. 

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k (including epilogue) 

Warnings: 18+, smut, boomer Walker, some fluff, sexual intercourse, cock-warming, mentions of torture, implied insanity, slight mentions of gore, violence, murder, mass-shooting and death. Please proceed with caution  

A/N: The ending is here and I hope I did it justice, I hope I did right by you. I will reblog my kudos, but first I must thank @agniavateira for being my beta and a source of inspiration and @raspberrydreamclouds for the cover art. 

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Now allow me to die out of stress and anxiety.

Title: See You in Hell

Down by the valley, there is a serenity that exists only in fairy tales. Damp grass caresses her naked back, the pointy little tips ticking the base of her spine, leaving a fresh trail of dew. Pure mountain mist breathes life through blue hills caked with ice; white fog vales over the forest’s lush greenery and looms above the lake’s water like a lost-love phantom.

Lying with her eyes shut, she listens to the harmony of life surrounding her: the little fish bouncing in the river, the butterflies procreating mid-air and the hummingbird chirping with bliss. Yet the most beautiful sound is the low, melodic baritone humming and reverberating against her inner thighs. 

”Angel, With those angel eyes Come and take this earth boy Up to paradise.”

”Boomer Walker…” she teases, “Is that a song from your time?” 

Ascending a trail of kisses up her pelvis, he scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m starting to suspect that you have a kink for older men,” he answers with a throaty growl, shifting his weight further over her abdomen. The soft fur of his torso grazes between her thighs, and she sighs with pleasure. 

”Do you want daddy to fuck you?” 

”That’s gross!” she curls her nose and tries to hit his head playfully, but August snaps at her wrists with perfect instinct, pinning her hands against the wet meadow. His tongue flicks over the slant of her neck while he aligns his cock at the little piece of heaven between her legs.

Sensual yet rough, his massive girth splits her walls while his lips shower her with honeyed kisses. Ingvild throws her head back, lacing her fingers with his and coils herself beneath his large body. 

“August...” she pants, feeling the air gradually diminishing from her lungs with every thrust, “I think I’m dying...”

Never halting or slowing his rhythm, August lowers his head to peer into her eyes. Fingers drenched with blood snap at her jaw.

“Stay with me, Ingvild.” He demands, letting out a husky groan, though his voice is but an echo.

A grey, thick mist wafts around the darkening forest, covering her with a bone-chilling breeze; his calling carries on the distance.  

“Stay, princess...”

“Don’t leave...”

“Stay. We’ve only just begun.”

Ice bites its sharp fangs into the little creases between her cracked bones as another bucket filled with frosty water showers her trembling body. The stabbing pain lasts for a lingering moment, reminding her that she’s still very much alive.

It must be the 10th bucket, or maybe 12th? She lost count at some point. Day and night melt into one another in this place, and the hours don’t make much sense.

Muffled complaints vibrate in her ears. Vaguely her sight picks on two silhouettes arguing when the world abruptly flashes white, and her jaw soaks a terrible blow. Fully crashing onto the hard marble, she tries to recover, but a sudden kick rips through her abdomen.

“Your methods are too slow, Issac!” A grey-haired agent chides, standing over the girl with his foot still drawn, “Walker could be setting his bomb somewhere across the globe any minute now, and you’re taking your sweet time with her as if she’s an art project.”

The scrawny torturer frowns and turns his back at him. Walking toward the metal desk, he browses through different equipment. “My methods always work, the pretty little girl was taught to endure pain,” he grunts in exasperation and gestures at the bloodstained bandage around her hand, “she did this to herself.”

Sighing with a mixture of frustration and disgust, the CIA agent takes another swing at Ingvild’s torso, the pointy edge of his shoe colliding with the scar at her gut.

Bloodshot eyes rise with wrath, violent tides of aftershock course at her viscera. She peers at the men through the haze of pain when a third figure appears in the room, standing calmly whilst Issac and the agent argue among them. 

Tall, broad, and charismatic, the handsome man strides toward her. His tailored steel-coloured suit envelops his statuesque body as if he is made of iron.  

“You’re taking it so well, princess,” he praises in his deep, melodic baritone while crouching down to take a closer look. Ingvild lifts her head, slowly breaking into a weak grin. Onyx orbs replace the storm-touched eyes, but that chiselled face still belongs to her beautiful monster.

“Did you tell them anything about where I am headed?” he asks and gives her a pout, reaching his index finger and thumb to squeeze her bruised cheek affectionately. 

Swallowing the aching dryness in her throat, she manages to shake her head meekly. “No… I said nothing,” her voice cracking as she whispers. Her chapped lips stretch into a pale, awkward grin. 

Tiny lines form at the corner of his void-like eyes as he smiles back, radiating with dangerous delight.

“That’s my good girl.”

The grey-haired agent throws a glance over his shoulder, scrutinising Ingvild while he stands next to Issac, who is twirling a scalpel back and forth between his boney fingers.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Not very sane this one,” Issac explains as he examines the silver blade against the light, “multiple mental disorders, dissociative personality, psychotic.”

Pushing the agent aside with his free hand, Issac steps forward. He leers at Ingvild, who stares at nothing for a long second before averting her eyes back at them. 

“We just need to dig a little deeper and the little bird will sing,” he exclaims and moves closer before dropping to his knees. One of his icy hands lands on her shoulder, forcing her flat on her back. Shuddering at his frozen touch, she closes her eyes; in the bleak nothingness, she recalls the night in the lake where August let her die.

“Pretty little Ingvild, have you heard of vivisection?” Her torturer asks as he lines his twig-like finger over the spine of the scalpel. Sensing his digits sneaking beneath the hem of her shirt, she shoots her eyes open yet remains still and intrepid. 

The tiny black marbles beneath Issac’s brows glint with twisted joy, appeased at the sight of the scar as he exposes her torso. Ingvild expects the pain of the blade when something tepid and unpleasantly wet slithers across her gut like a little pink slug. 

“Umm… Issac…?” The agent interrupts, furrowing his brow with confusion and disgust as he stares at his colleague licking the girl’s torso.

“What?!” Issac snaps at him, his eyes narrowing with spite, “you wanted me to go harder on her!”

“Yes, but…”

“But shut up and let me do my job!” He yells and returns his glare to Ingvild who blinks at the ceiling silently. Disrupted by his touch, she bites her tongue, fighting to hold back the acrid substance that threatens to emerge from her gut.

“You fight very hard to protect a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you, little bird,” his snake-like voice hisses as he leans down to half-whisper in her ear, “just tell me where he is and I won’t cut you open.”

Ingvild sucks the air in through gritted teeth and turns her head to look away from the obnoxious little man. She seeks for her beautiful monster, finding him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. August’s empty glance wears a calm grin.

“He is in this room,” Ingvild jests faintly, her sardonic laughter stretching thin, her chest heaving, exhausting whatever strength is left in her muscles. August’s smirk widens with hers, large dimples are slicing into his cheeks.

Ticking his tongue, Issac allows the sharp edge of the scalpel cut a skin-deep line into her flesh. Ingvild stares at him stoically, not moving a muscle as shy drops of blood begin trickling down her navel. 

“Are you sure about your response?” he asks, ghosting the scalpel over her abdomen while crooking an eyebrow.

Ingvild bites her lip, pretending to think about her answer for a few seconds. Lifting her head up, she inches her lips toward Issac’s ear. The scrawny man listens intently. 

“August Walker is the devil, and the devil is everywhere.”

A peal of sinister chuckles spills from her lips as she throws her head back onto the ground, staring at Issac’s disapproving glare. 

But her laughter soon dies. 

Taut pressure pierces into her flesh, the blade penetrating deep, cutting through tissue and muscle as if it was soft cheese. Ingvild clenches her jaw, her mind flooded by charring white light that dismantles every thought while the blade continues to swerve.

For a brief moment, she finds herself in Bergen, hands covered with thick blood, holding the gushing wound in her stomach with shock. August stands above her, toying with his favourite knife and staring at the red taint. 

“Time to fall, angel.” 

Scattered musings run behind her eyes: Liam, the nuns at the orphanage, August, and even Erica. She’s reminded of every hit she was forced to take, every country she visited, all blending into a bizarre parade of death. 

“C’mon girl, just tell us where he is!” She hears the other man shout as he steps closer with an urgent expression. “Just give us something, a country, a region, anything to make this stop, you can still do the right thing.” 

The heavy stench of iron fills her nose; the warm, thick liquid trickles down her bare skin, spilling in a cross on the map of her torso. The pain now is undeniable, making her lips heavier as she makes an attempt to answer.

“I don’t…. know… any August.”

The CIA agent scoffs violently and balls his fists. “Deeper!” He orders Issac, who like a composer, trails the blade further through her gut, cutting into sinew and brittle tendons. Ingvild trembles, feeling her body grow weaker. 

In her mind, she can hear caged screams.

“You will die for a man who doesn’t even care if you bleed!” The agent rasps, spit coming out of his mouth as he rages above her.

‘Stop!’

“He won’t even remember you once you die!”

‘Resist, don’t show pain. You’ve been through this before, you already died.’ 

“No one will.”

Swallowing every ounce of pain, she fights to remember her training, her past. Her mind scrambles for Fjellstrekninger forest, for the green pines and their stringy needles, for the scent of beech and the damp ground. She tries to imagine the silver-blue mountains of Bergen, that last time she hiked there before going to meet Liam at the gas station. 

How strange that at the very same day she encountered the most wanted man on earth, not knowing she was destined to be his. 

But none of these images appear before her.

‘You can’t escape this.’

Her screams shudder through the entire floor. 

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” 

August flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, glowering at the driver who gawks at him with disbelief and shakes his head. Pushing the phone against his chin, he stares forward at the rainy road, reciting in his mind the words of the MI6 and CIA apostles.

‘Erica captured a woman in her late 20s, having her tortured for information for a couple of days now. Can’t promise you she’s alive. No one goes in there.’

“I wasn’t asking,” August answers, throwing him an icy glare, “we’re taking the chopper to the Mi6 fortress in London. I don’t need to tell you what happens if you question my decisions.” 

The driver tenses his fingers around the steering wheel and shakes his head once again. He means to say something, but the scowl on August’s face shuts him up right away.

“Who is she? What is she to you?”

August huffs and lowers his gaze, eyes dropping to the plutonium case and then forward through the windshield, watching the heavy rain clouds that stretch before the sky. As he blinks his eyes shut, his mind plays a vision of an inferno; cracked ground and scorched skies. He sits on a throne made of bones and drinks wine from a chalice made of human skull. 

His angel sits on his knee, naked and pure, her iridescent wings tucked against her back. She stares at him with a smile full of admiration, her fingers brushing over his moustache. 

‘Your angel of destruction.’

“She’s just an asset.”

‘Hell lives inside you August, it always has. Rotting you from the inside as it begs to be let out. And you will unleash it, won’t you? Your suffering must be shared.’

Vast shadows gather outside the double-pane windows of the main hall. The thick storm clouds paint the sky pitch black, swallowing the stars alive one by one. Light wanes just in time for the harbinger of chaos to march into the well-secured lobby of the sizable Mi6 fortress.

If fairytales were to be true, the devil would arrive riding a monstrous mare with hooves made of flames. But if anything, he is but a man in a tailored suit and a long trench-coat. The leather soles of his midnight-black shoes squeak as he marches on, leaving a trail of mud on the cream-coloured marble.

“Evening sir,” the security guard greets and gestures August to pass through the large weapon detector with nothing but a quick exchange of knowing looks. 

The corners of August’s lips curl into a small smile beneath his moustache while he scrutinises the surroundings. Gold and pearly pillars spread across the vast hall, a false facade hiding a decaying world and the self-indulgent ghosts that harbour it. So lost in their own little lie, it takes them more than a few minutes to notice the hellhound who stepped into their haven.

It begins as a small rumble, like a seismic wave. The first tremor vibrates through the ground and the walls follow with a convulsing shudder. Gasps, chatter, and widened eyes stab at him with shock, yet they all seem to suffer from the same affliction. 

Standing paralysed, they ogle at the most wanted man on earth as he combs his fingers through his hair and walks toward the elevators located at the end of a narrow, red corridor. Unapologetically confident and ever so relaxed and condescending, he ignores them. 

A true king among peasants.  

“Is that?...”

“What the fuck?!”

“How the fuck did he pass security???”

His confidence is nothing but theatrics, as his blue eyes carry toward the large elevators with a glossy sparkle breaking on his corneas. He tries so hard to envision her beautiful face yet all he sees is a pile of dry bones.

“Stop! Hands in the fucking air, Walker!”

‘Ah, took them long enough.’

Standing between the carpeted walls of the narrow corridor, only mere inches from the silver doors, August slowly spreads his long fingers and lifts his hands in the air. His keen ear catches at least three firearms as the guards cock their guns at his direction, panting with fright. 

“Turn around so we can see you, piece of shit!!!” A presumingly young hero barks behind him. 

“Someone call Director Sloane down here right now, she’s not going to believe it!!!”

The soft rumbling in the lobby grows into impending thunder. A flash of pale purple lightning floods the lit vicinity for a split second, echoing the small grin that spreads across August’s beaming face.  

“Oh, I don’t think so, son,” he speaks serenely, almost like a tender fatherly coo. Not bothering to turn, he tilts his head up and inhales sharply.

“Go.”

Sharp gasps of shock and terror reverberate between the walls of the fortress as sudden darkness veils the main hall. The smell of their fear is almost as delightful as the strong smoky scent of gunpowder. Like shooting stars, the rapid gunfire pierces through the night. Cries, incoherent screams, and panicked gasps make for a beautiful concert, so much that he wishes he could stay, but he has a girl to rescue.  

‘If she’s still alive…’

Swallowing the bitter bile, he enters an elevator and presses the button for the basement level. He watches the flickering beams of light as his men continue to execute the remaining agents before the doors shut in. 

Drawing out his handgun and relieving the safety, he leans against the shuddering metal and stares at the neon red number while reminiscing on the day he met a pretty girl with an unpleasant smile.

“Too bad, I would have loved to see you again.”

“Well then, if our destinies were meant to be entwined, you will.”

The basement level seems completely abandoned and eerily silent. No wails nor cries carry on the chilly air. 

His Ingvild is forbearing, she would never show her suffering. Would she? 

Inching toward the interrogation cell, his hand runs across the naked concrete walls, sensing the coarse texture against the pads of his fingers. Opaline droplets of sweat bead his forehead and his lungs sink with the effort.

Muffled voices perk his ears the closer he gets: two men, no woman. No sounds of violence, no signs of her in there whatsoever. 

‘Angel, are you being brave for me?’

Arriving at the door, he takes a deep breath and gingerly pushes the handle. The pungent scent of salt and iron pervades his nostrils as he steps a foot into the shower of blinding white light. The brightness hurts and for a moment it feels as everything before him fades. 

Until his sight sharpens and he notices the two shadowy figures standing with their backs facing him. They look like vultures preying upon a corpse.

Her corpse.

‘No! Change this! Make this right!’

Wings of cherry-dark blood spread from her snow-pale body. Motionless, his girl lies with her top huddled around her chest to expose her bleeding gut. 

‘You are too late…’

Pure, undistilled rage burns within August’s throat, so ferocious it stings in his eyes, making his entire body tremble. He lifts his hand and fires the gun hastily, shooting both men in the back of their heads before they even get the chance to turn and look at the man who executed them. 

“Ingvild!” August pants, rushing and falling to his knees before her. 

“Angel?” He presses one hand to her gut, trying to pressure her gushing wounds while his fingers etch around her nape to pull her closer to his face. Blood, still sticky and warm, tarnishes his clean outfit while he cradles her in his arms.

“Please don’t do this to me…” He whispers, shifting his hand to caress her bruised face, recalling the last time she was dead in his arms. 

The world kept spinning on its axis when she died back at the lake. So why does it feel like right now it stopped in its place?

Pressing her to his chest, August shuts his eyes and shudders with fury. All emotions come to life, and every one of them hurt.

“You are not here…” 

A deep quivering sigh of relief soars from his throat, mouth cracking into a smile at the sounds of her hoarse whisper and delicate moans. Blinking faintly, Ingvild half-opens her eyes and stares at him through heavy lids. 

“I am here,” he whispers, brushing away the sticky strands of hair from her face and squeezes her cheek beneath his thumb, “I came to take you, we have to go.”

Shifting his arms, he tries to lift her up, but his petite woman is suddenly made of the heaviest rocks; her stiff muscles protest in his grip, making it impossible for him to manoeuvre her out of fear she will bleed to death. 

“We were both at the garden,” she mumbles drowsily, licking her bloodied teeth before breaking into a maddened smile that quickly dies as she depletes her remaining strength. “I’m tired, I want to stay here and dream.” 

“Ingvild, we don’t have time for this,” August warns with concern, noticing how her eyes roll back and her lashes flutter shut, “there’s a helicopter waiting for us on the roof. You have to get up, you have to survive this, you have to come with me! Please!”

Fat, oily tears roll down her temples, mingling with the blood and tangy sweat on her face. Opening her eyes again, she peers at her beautiful monster, recognising the familiar ocean and its eternal unrest. 

Did he come here for her, or is it just a dream?

“Why?” 

‘Tell her.’

Brow lifting and face softening, his hands clutch her tightly. He rocks her from side to side, holding her protectively. Ingvild senses the wrath that pours from his heart, the thundering beat throwing its fists against his ribcage as their bodies collide.

“You know why,” August suggests huskily, nearly begging, bargaining not to admit, not to say the words he was always so afraid of. But naively, her gaze pleas in return, the child-like innocence piercing a hole through his chest. 

“Tell me,” she begs him.

‘She needs you to say it.’

“Because I need you.”

The words nearly crack on his tongue, his throat suddenly so dry it sears. He glances down at the fallen angel, sensing the most excruciating thirst, where the only way to stop it is by stealing several deep kisses from her lips. 

“I need you by my side,” he murmurs above her lips between desperate, helpless kisses, hoping to breathe life into his weakened valkyrie, “stay with me, angel.”  

An awkward stretch tugs at her cheeks, hurting as if someone slices them with a blade from side to side. For the first time in her life, true laughter crisps her face, followed by crystal-like tears that run down her sullen eyes.

“I love you, August.” 

Every nerve in his body tingles with tendrils of light, reaching out deep within his gut and spreading throughout his tendons. For a moment, he feels divine, sanctified by the words of his angel, his woman, his by free will. 

Offering her a brief smile, he captured her lips for one last stolen kiss. His thick moustache scratches at her tender flesh while a little hum plays on his tongue. 

She tastes like blood and honey - the tarty flavour of victory.

“We have to go now, princess, I have to finish this.” 

Gingerly rising to his feet, he hooks a hand below her knees and places the other against her bruised spine. Bloody footprints trail behind him as he carries her outside the white room, trying to make for their freedom.

Locked down in her office, Director Erica Sloane inhales and exhales by practice, brushing a hand through her sweat-slick hair while trying to call every backup unit. Bullets still rip through the air in every story; the sirens howl while red lights flicker from outside. She puts her hands around her ears, trying to shut the noises out, uncertain if the screams she is hearing are her people still being slaughtered, or her mind playing tricks.

Walker is many things: an idealist, a manipulative snake, a monster. But this is a side of him she never anticipated. There is no need to question his motives this time. She is smart enough to figure it out. 

To risk so much, a man must feel deeply for a woman.

Her anxiety spikes as guilt seeps in when her phone suddenly rings.

“Director Sloane,” she pants against the receiver. Somehow, as she hears the deep, measured breath, she knows.

‘Walker.’

“Hello, Erica, did you miss me?”

Erica clenches her jaw and stares spitefully into nothing, “Hardly.”

She hears him scoff from the other line, her mind piecing together that horrible, pretentious grin of his. The bile climbs up her throat just from the vision. 

“We don’t have much time, but I just wanted to thank you.” August pauses, sighing with the bliss of a madman at her ear, “You see, if not for Lacey, if not for you kicking me to the curb the way you did - I would have never become what I was meant to be. And you sent me an angel to light my way…”

“You’ve manipulated her.”

“No, you did,” August interrupts calmly, “I set her free. I will set them all free and unite them.”

The anger simmers in her gut to the point of nausea. She holds her breath, counts to ten and tries to gather her thoughts. ‘August wants a bargain,’ she thinks, but for a reason, it feels like he already won.

“Can you come and look out of the window for me, please?” He asks politely. 

Turning her head at the window, she narrows her eyes and bites her plump lips with hesitation.

“If I had a sniper on you, you’d be dead 5 minutes ago,” he assures her. 

She gets up from her office chair slowly, her fingers reaching to uncover the blinds. The storm weakened, yet heavy clouds still loom from above like a noxious mist. She seeks for August on the horizon, listening carefully to the sounds on the line. She realises they are coming from above. Her sharp eyes detect the helicopter: far, yet close enough to see his shit-eating grin and that hand that waves at her. 

He has the girl with him. Who knew a monster could care.

“You know, you are the only woman in the CIA I haven’t fucked.” He provokes and then hangs up suddenly.

Erica watches as the helicopter takes off, her eyes widening with fear as the notion of her own demise resonates like a stinging slap.

The blast takes her along with the entire building within a split second.

Standing on the cliff by the edge of the valley, August stares down at the tranquil scar that swerves amidst lush, fertile mountains. The crystalline Indus river lies before his eyes, its sweet water so clear that the sky mirrors upon the brim.   

It’s not every day when a simple man becomes a god. 

The melancholic beauty of nature makes his fingers tighten around the detonator, thumb ghosting over the button as he allows himself a couple of last seconds to inhale the air of the old world. 

Oh, how many will die for this god to receive his halo.

‘I wish you were here, my Ingvild…’ August muses with anguish, feeling an awkward jab at the spot where his heart should have been.  

A sudden rumbling noise of a helicopter makes his gut weave. 

‘That better not be Ethan fucking Hunt! I should have thrown him off the cliff in Norway!’ 

Alarmed yet stoic as ever, he draws his gun, aiming it at the aircraft inching its way to land on the other side of the flat terrain. The last thing he needs right now is someone meddling with his affairs, but it quickly becomes clear to him that if someone wanted a monster like him dead, they would have sniped him from the air before he could even see them coming. 

‘Did you forget the woman is nothing but a valkyrie?’

“What are you doing here?” He calls out at Ingvild and frowns at the pilot, abruptly struck with anger. “I specifically asked to make sure she stays rested!”

The pilot shrugs while Ingvild makes her way toward August with mild effort. Dark circles rest beneath her eyes, yet she is still so very beautiful to him, especially when she frowns. 

“She was very persuasive and horrendously stubborn,” the pilot retorts. 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” August mutters to himself and watches the little battered woman making every attempt to remain stoic as she steps closer. A shadow of a malicious grin creeps on her frosty eyes. 

Once upon a time, she promised him she will always find him. She has no intention of breaking that promise.

“Did you think I’ll let you do this without me, August Walker?” She sulks at him as she finally moves to stand in front of him. Every nerve in her body is inflamed with pain, yet the thought of not being here at the birth of the new world brings greater agony than imagined. 

Something she compares to missing out on the birth of a child.

“We are in this together now, this is our cause, our better world. You don’t get to leave me behind.”

Her hand reaches for his wrist, thumb pressing to feel his quickening pulse. Wonder paints his eyes and his lips gape softly. He promised himself Lacey will never cross his thoughts again; yet he can’t help but think about that night in his study and the pain of betrayal.  

‘How is she even real?’   

Gently peeling her fingers off his wrist, he looks at the detonator. He then takes her hand in his, placing the device in her slender grasp. 

“Forgive me, my darling. You’re right,” he apologises and turns her over to view the horizon. A shiver surges through her as she senses the weight in her palm when August moves to stand behind her, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“We do this together.”

Pesky little honeysuckles flutter within her chest as his arms wrap around her carefully. One of his hands holds hers, raising it up slightly to position the device in front of her chest.

“Do it angel, set them free.”

Taking a deep breath, Ingvild slides her fingertip over the red button. Scattered images of her life briefly flash through her mind, ending with the single moment where their gazes first met that day in Bergen.

Bright heavenly light cleanses the sky and loud thunder rips through the earth. Standing on the trembling ground, August and Ingvild stare into the distance while slowly turning to face each other. They hold their hands together, both gaping with awe as rich golden hues pour into the sky. 

Enamoured, and lost within one another’s beauty, they share a long, lingering kiss. 

Epilogue. 

Sharp and heavy, the blade split the wood in half as if it was made out of soft butter. Resting the blunt side of the leaden axe over his shoulder, he pauses and observes the pile of firewood on the ground. His lips move in silence as he counts before crouching down to pick up another log and place it on the stump. 

Strong shades of pink and orange spread between the clouds, kissed by the drowsy sun as it makes its way to slumber beneath the earth. It’s been 8 months since the coming of their new world. Even though there is still work to be done, August decided a hideout was necessary to let her mend her wings. 

“Loki!” 

Ingvild rushes into the green field with a wide, toothy smile. Feral rivers of chestnut-brown reach the small of her back, floating behind her as she runs around giggling.

‘That smile, like honey. So pure, so real.’

Playful barks answer her call, and a German Shepherd puppy appears from across the green hill, jumping over one of the logs ecstatically and wags its tail.

“Careful or I’ll cook him for dinner,” August mutters and points the axe at Loki’s direction. The pup tilts its head at him and barks with playful rage, growling and baring its needle-like teeth.

Ingvild pauses and gives August an icy stare before grabbing the large puppy and holding him to her chest, “You’re a shitty liar August Walker, you love him. Always sneaking him bacon when you think I'm not looking and snuggling him in your sleep.”

August shrugs, brushing away her comment before sticking the axe into the tree stump. “Get inside, time for dinner.” A small grin stretches on his lips as he sees her walking away, kissing the puppy on his wet little nose. 

The scent of cedarwood burning at the mantle and brewed coffee welcomes her home as she enters the cabin, immediately filling her chest with mellowness. She allows Loki down on the ground before walking into their cosy bedroom where she removes her trousers and remains in an oversized sweater and black thigh-high stockings that August gifted her after they left Kashmir. 

When she returns to the living room, August is sitting at the study with his laptop open. A small wrinkle lines his forehead while he runs two fingers over his moustache. A map and coordinates are visible on the screen, along with a messaging platform which she only assumes is a conversation with one of the apostles. 

Loki lies guarding at his feet.

“Come here, princess,” August calls, reaching out his arm toward her. “I have something to show you.”

Sneaking toward him like a large feline, Ingvild takes his hand and lets him guide her to his lap. Her legs fall to each side of his thighs, and August rests his chin at the small crook of her neck where it always belonged.

“What are you looking for?” She asks, casually pulling the sleeve over her wrist to scratch at a peeling hammer tattoo gracing her skin.

“Don’t touch it, let it heal.” August answers and takes her hand in his, entwining their fingers together tightly. An illustration of an angel wing decorates the same spot on his arm. As she glances at the way the black ink is embedded into his flesh, she can’t help but smile and ever so slightly grind herself on the semi-rigid bulge beneath her ass.

August growls against her neck, grazing his stubbles over her supple skin before reaching a hand to unzip his tracking trousers and pull out his swelling manhood. After a soft scuffle of her panties, he lifts her hips and slides himself fully within her wet, angelic cove. 

“August…” She sighs, fluttering her eyes shut for a split second, embracing both pain and pleasure. When August fills her, she is ethereal, as if a piece that was missing all her life has finally made it back home.

“You always look so beautiful with me inside you,” he murmurs against her neck, planting bristly kisses down her jawline before returning his glare forward. Ingvild only moves slightly above him, swaying slow and smooth on his thick, throbbing girth and squeezing him tight between her walls to relish in their bond.  

“I have a present for you.” He opens a tab on his browser while his fingers toy with her clit with surprising tenderness.

“What is it?” She moans as he presses down on her sensitive pearl.

“I found Liam,” he explains, a twinge of pride and a spit of revenge hanging on his baritone. He growls slightly as her cunt clenches around him by his words. “He’s hiding out in Sao Paulo. I plan to bring you his head.”

Sucking on her bottom lip, she grinds a little harder, feeling August deep in her gut. The temptation to ride him hard and rough is too great, but this sweet slow torture always brings her to a higher ground of ecstasy when they finally fuck. 

“Can it wait, my beautiful monster?” She asks sweetly, reaching her talons to clutch his thigh as he pushes further in and bottoms out inside her with a grunt. “I’d like to stay here for a while and be your angel for a little bit longer.”

August lifts his cerulean gaze back to Ingvild, the clear sky in his deep irises slightly darken as he observes the serene look on her face. His hand rises to cup her chin and turn her head to the side to meet his possessive lips. He cages her mouth with his, devouring her with the lust of a hungry man.

“You will always be mine and mine alone Ingvild,” he promises as he ends the kiss with a nibble on her chin. Ingvild licks his saliva off her mouth and stares back at him with the oxymoronic union of innocence and sinister urge before she leans back and continues to look at his plans.

‘Who is she to you?’

‘She is my queen, and I am the king of hell.’

_______________________________

Additional Notes: Song lyrics by Elvis Presely - Angel. Additional Inspiration by Nine Inchs Nails - We’re in this together. 

Disclaimer: I own no rights to Mission Impossible’s franchise or August Walker.

[calciopics]

Kylian Mbappé is Born to Run

The France forward grew up in the suburbs of Paris, steeped in the culture of football. At 22, the World Cup-winner is already a global superstar, and only now entering his prime. Will Euro 2020 be the moment when he overtakes Messi and Ronaldo to become recognised as the best player on the planet?

Kylian Mbappé was 18 when he walked into the changing room of the French national team. “It’s very difficult,” he recalls, “because great players don’t want to give you their place. That’s what makes them great players. They especially don’t want to give you their place if you arrive with the label of ‘Future Great Player’.” Within a year, Mbappé and France had won the World Cup in Moscow.

Three years on, we are talking in a room of his mansion in the leafy, old-money streets of Neuilly, just outside Paris. It isn’t even his home; he bought it to house his foundation, which offers after-school activities to rich and poor children alike. In conversation, Mbappé resembles a veteran TV presenter more than a young footballer. He makes short speeches in complete sentences, as precise in his footing as he is on the field. He sits as straight-backed as he runs. His expressive face keeps breaking into smiles: he likes talking, and is almost unburdened by the usual footballer’s fear of saying the wrong thing.

His burly father Wilfried sits beside us, but only once during the interview will he feel impelled to intervene. Meeting Mbappé, you come to understand how he hit football seemingly already fully formed. At 22, he has achieved more than most great players ever do. Can he take one more step and become the world’s best footballer?

His story starts 10 miles and a universe away from where we’re sitting today. His hometown, Bondy, is a multicultural suburb just northeast of Paris that looks as if someone plonked a Soviet town on top of an ancient French village. The old church is surrounded by fast-food joints and fading 1960s’ apartment blocks, one of them now adorned with a giant mural of Mbappé.

His parents grew up in Bondy: Wilfried, of Cameroonian origin, and Mbappé’s mother Fayza, of Algerian descent. Mixed marriages are common in the Parisian suburbs, the banlieues, but the couple did have to defy some local disapproval.

If a wannabe footballer had to choose the ideal place on earth to grow up, it might have been the Mbappé home in Bondy. Mbappé’s father and uncle were both football coaches, and Fayza, who ran after-school activities, played handball in the French first division. His parents had adopted an older boy, Jirès Kembo Ekoko, who went on to make a long career as a journeyman professional footballer. “I didn’t bring a new passion into the family,” Mbappé says with understatement.

He grew up practically inside the local football club, AS Bondy. “In the Parisian suburbs there are football fields everywhere,” he enthuses. “People here live for football. I was born with the sports ground facing my window.” It’s no wonder, he adds, that Paris’s suburbs are perhaps the deepest talent pool in global football, producing players such as Paul Pogba, Blaise Matuidi, N’Golo Kanté and Riyad Mahrez.

As a non-white kid from the suburbs, did Mbappé always feel accepted as French before he became a French icon? “I’ve always felt French. I don’t renounce my origins, because they are part of who I am, but I’ve made my whole life in France, and never at any moment was I made to feel I wasn’t at home here.” In the banlieues, he says, “We have a love of France because France has given to us and we try to give back to it.”

Mbappé’s parents made him take school seriously, and he was also a not-very-talented flautist at Bondy’s conservatory, but football came first. At AS Bondy, he says, “My father was my coach for 10 years. He helped construct the style of player I wanted to become. But I never felt the pressure of, ‘You have to become a footballer.’ Above all, it was a passion.”

Tagging along with his dad and uncle on their coaching jobs, the child acquired an unusual gift: he became a footballer who thinks like a coach. “Very young, I was always in the changing rooms, listening to the tactical talks and the different points of view, because football is made up of different viewpoints. I learned to have this tolerance, and I think it helped me, because being a coach is putting yourself in somebody else’s place. I think I have the gift of doing that. It helps in football, because if you’re a player, generally you think about yourself, about your own career. I can see, for instance, when something in a game is frustrating a team-mate. I can put him at ease.”

When you’re in the World Cup final, you’re convinced you’re going to win. You walk onto the field, the trophy is there, and you tell yourself it is impossible the other team will take it

Mbappé turned out to be that perfect sporting combination: a natural who is coachable. “He assimilates advice quickly. You ask him something once, and the second time he does it,” Antonio Riccardi, his former youth coach at AS Bondy, told me. Even as a child, Mbappé was an efficient footballer: decisive, never just decorative.

By adolescence, he was being courted by the big European clubs, which all keep close tabs on the Paris region. He visited Chelsea, and celebrated his 14th birthday at Real Madrid, which cannily found him the perfect babysitter: the club’s then assistant coach Zinedine Zidane, the greatest French footballer. When Zidane offered Mbappé a lift in his fabulous car, the overawed child offered to take his shoes off first.

The Mbappés sifted the countless offers and chose Monaco, where the route to the first team looked shortest. Mbappé arrived there, he says, “with my [footballing] baggage well filled.”

Kids in performance-sports families learn that they never arrive. Each step up is just another learning opportunity. In Monaco’s first team, the teenaged Mbappé encountered the veteran Colombian striker Radamel Falcao, freshly returned from unhappy loan spells with Manchester United and Chelsea.

“He was a star,” says Mbappé, “but he had a desire to transmit. He was like a teacher to me. He’s someone who always wants to score, but he left me the space to express myself. He’s very cool in front of goal, calm in his game, and he transmitted this serenity that I didn’t have, because I was young, excited and wanted to go at 2,000 kilometres an hour.”

The kid who didn’t yet have a driving licence scored 15 league goals in his first professional season to help Monaco win the French title in 2017. He added six more in the Champions League knockout rounds. He also passed his baccalauréat, France’s equivalent of A-levels.

Mbappé marvelled at the tension on the faces of other professionals, because he didn’t feel it himself. Everything came easily to him, without great sacrifice, he has said. When I ask about stress in a profession of hypercompetitive men, he shrugs: “Daily life is easy.”

His vertical ascent didn’t surprise him; it just happened a bit quicker than he’d expected. But others were stunned. Here was something new: an 18-year-old complete forward. Built like an Olympic sprinter, Mbappé ran upright, looking around him. He could dribble, cross and shoot. He was more advanced than Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo had been at 18.

How does he describe his style? “The modern attacker who can play anywhere,” he replies. He explains that forwards used to be specialists: “There’d be a number nine, or number 11, or number seven.” Mbappé, though, is the all-in-one. “I think my CV can speak for me. I’ve played alone up front, I’ve played on the left and the right. In all humility, I don’t think it’s given to everyone to change position like that every year and keep a certain standard of performance at the highest level. That didn’t fall from heaven. If I speak of the baggage given me in my teens, it’s all there.”

In one regard he has always been unequalled: the counterattack at speed. He says, “I’ve managed to work on my weak points but above all to perfect my strong points, because I was always told that it’s through your strong points that you’ll exist.”

In March 2017, Mbappé became the youngest player in 62 years to debut for France. Five months later, his hometown club Paris Saint-Germain agreed to sign him for a fee of £166m. He drew on his childhood experiences to navigate two alpha-male changing-rooms. At PSG, his good English and Spanish helped him deal with foreign team-mates. With Les Bleus, France’s assistant coach Guy Stéphan told Mbappé’s biographer Arnaud Hermant: “He knows the codes of the changing room. At table or in the bus, he doesn’t just sit somewhere randomly. For a youngster, he isn’t timid or introverted. He expresses himself.”

By summer 2018, picked for the World Cup in Russia, Mbappé was comfortable enough to claim the blue number 10 shirt — previously worn by Zidane and Michel Platini — and to say in public that he was gunning for the trophy.

“I went to play the matches calmly like I always have. I didn’t want to change just because it was the World Cup,” he says. “We were lucky to have a young squad. We were totally carefree, just a band of mates.”

Hang on, surely a football team isn’t really a band of mates? “No,” he acknowledges. “Just like the baker doesn’t get on with all bakers. You don’t have to eat with your team-mates every evening to win.”

In the World Cup round of 16, his two goals and a 37kmph gallop through Argentina’s defence made his global name. The night before the final against Croatia, he admits, “I was a bit stressed. I didn’t manage to sleep much. But the nearer the match came, the less stressed I was.” Before kick-off he was joking in the changing room. Stéphan recalls: “He experienced the final as if it were a PSG-Dijon game.”

Mbappé says, “When you’re in the World Cup final, you’re convinced that you’re going to win. Even the Croats were convinced they were going to win. You walk onto the field and the trophy is there, between the two teams, and you tell yourself it’s impossible that the other team will take it. That’s why there’s such disappointment afterwards if you don’t win.”

Half of Bondy gathered in front of a giant screen to cheer on the commune’s own “Kylian national”. Scoring in France’s 4–2 victory, he seemed to have reached his career apogee aged 19. He didn’t see it like that. Interviewed the night of the final, he described winning the World Cup as “already good” but only a start.

The next day, as the Bleus’ bus edged along a packed, ecstatic Champs-Élysées, writes Hermant, the ice-cold kid mused to the French Football Federation’s president Noël Le Graët: “Was all this really necessary?”

Mbappé explains now: “For me, it wasn’t an outcome, a finality. I don’t think of that trophy now at all. I don’t look at pictures of the World Cup before going to sleep. Honestly, it’s people on the street who come up and say, ‘You’re world champion, merci, merci.’”

He understood that his early triumph had upset football’s all-important hierarchies. Returning to PSG, he immediately reassured Paris’s Brazilian star Neymar: “I’m not going to walk on your flowerbeds. I’ll be a candidate for the Ballon d’Or [the award for world’s best footballer] this year because you won’t be, but I promise I don’t want to take your place.”

Soon after, he took the World Cup trophy to Bondy, where thousands came out to greet him. “It was a way to say, ‘Thank you.’ I’ve never forgotten which soup I have eaten. So it was important for me to return there after my first World Cup and first international title.” (Note that word, “first”.)

France’s coach, Didier Deschamps, recalls falling into “physical and moral apathy” the season after he lifted the World Cup as a player in 1998. Did Mbappé experience a hangover? He grins: “I finished as best player in the league, highest scorer, best young player, I was chosen in the team of the season, and we won the league.”

Winning the World Cup made Mbappé a national hero. Does he consider himself a star? “I think so. If your face is everywhere in the city, everywhere in the world, that’s for sure. Being a star is a status, but it doesn’t make me a better person than others.”

He lives like a luxury prisoner, who cannot leave home without being mobbed. “It takes an organisation just to go out,” he says. He has joked that when his future children ask him about his youthful adventures, he won’t have any.

“A fan gives you enormous love,” says Mbappé carefully, “but sometimes maybe an excess of love, and he might not respect your intimacy. We give our lives to the people, because we give them pleasure every three days, and we give them our time. It’s impossible to hope for a normal life, but just a little respect for one’s private life isn’t too much to ask for, I think.”

As a young man of non-white origins, he has a particular vulnerability with the French public, one-third of whom voted for the far-right candidate Marine Le Pen in the run-off of the presidential elections in 2017. Even so, he has begun to speak out against police violence.

“I took time to start talking about it, because I wasn’t ready,” he admits. “I had a lot of things to digest: my change of status, my new life. But I have always opposed all types of violence.”

When I note that French police violence is disproportionately directed against people of non-white origins from suburbs like Bondy, his father stirs from his silence: “We’re not answering that. You’re orienting it as if the violence were only against people from the banlieues, which is false.”

In high-level football, nobody will make a place for you. Ego, self-love, isn’t just the caprice of stars. It’s also the will to give the best of yourself

French fans like their stars humble. Mbappé has explained “the French mentality” to Neymar, who favours a bling-bling, poker-playing party lifestyle. Mbappé says, “In Brazil, they are more festive, in France more serious. Here it’s not considered good to display your passions. People will think he’s neglecting PSG because he plays poker. I think he has begun to understand that. At first it was hard for him because he experienced it as an affront. When he arrived, they put his face on the Eiffel Tower, and six months later they’re asking him why he’s playing poker. In France, people know what you have but they don’t want to see it. They just want to see you playing football, smiling.”

But Mbappé believes humility isn’t enough. He thinks great footballers need big egos. “In high-level football, nobody will make a place for you or tell you that you’re capable of things. It’s up to you to persuade yourself that you are. Ego, self-love, isn’t just a caprice of stars. It’s also the will to surpass yourself, to give the best of yourself.” Every time he walks onto the field, he says, he tells himself, “I’m the best.”

In truth, he knows he isn’t the best — Messi and Ronaldo are better. “It’s not only me who knows that,” he laughs. “Everyone knows it. If you tell yourself that you’ll do better than them, it’s beyond ego or determination — it’s lack of awareness. Those players are incomparable. They have broken all laws of statistics. They have had 10 extraordinary years, 15.”

Still, he admits: “You do always compare yourself with the best in your sport, just as the baker compares himself with the best bakers around him. Who makes the best croissant, the best pain au chocolat? I watch matches of other great players to see what they’re doing. ‘I know how to do this, but can the other guy do it too?’ I think other players watch me, too. I think that pushes players to raise their game, just as Messi was good for Ronaldo and Ronaldo was good for Messi.”

Does Mbappé compare himself with the other great forward of his generation, Borussia Dortmund’s Norwegian Erling Braut Haaland? Mbappé’s reply sounds a touch patronising: “It’s his second year, we’re getting to know him. It’s the start for him. I’m happy for him, for what he’s doing.”

The more you become an important person, the more duties you have. I’m no longer the little kid. I’m Kylian Mbappé

In this elite individual competition, the top spot may be coming free. Messi (34 this month) and Ronaldo (36) are “nearer the end than the beginning”, acknowledges Mbappé. In February, his hat-trick helped PSG thrash Messi’s Barcelona 1–4 at the Camp Nou. “The best match of my career,” Mbappé says, “because it was complete. I helped my team both offensively and defensively, and I succeeded in the creation and finishing of my moves, in one-against-ones. I won 90 per cent of my duels, if that stat is correct. All match, I never had a moment when I felt extinguished.” He then scored two at Bayern Munich, before PSG fell to Manchester City.

Some opposing teams now rearrange their entire tactical systems to combat the Mbappé counterattack. “There are quite a few anti-Kylian plans every match,” he says. “It means I’ve been recognised as a great player. It requires you to have multiple strings to your bow. I like that, because I adore challenges.”

Surely he’s now too big a player for the French league? He umms and aws: “France isn’t the best championship in the world, but it’s my responsibility, as a flagship player, to help the league grow.” Yet he may well leave this summer, to Real Madrid or England. The decision, perhaps the biggest he’ll face in his career, will be made inside his family. Almost uniquely for a star footballer, Mbappé doesn’t have an agent, just lawyers.

At 22, he considers himself an experienced footballer. He says he and Neymar “are now the two natural leaders” of PSG. When he kicks off the delayed Euro 2020 with France in June, it will be with more responsibility than at the World Cup. “The more you become an important personality, the more duties you have. I’m no longer the little kid. I’m Kylian Mbappé.”

Kylian Mbappé’s prime may have already arrived. Fast strikers usually peak between 20 and 24. A Euro and a World Cup within 18 months, while France’s generation of 2018 remains almost intact, may be his best chance to make football history. What are his career ambitions? That smile again: “To win everything.” (Esquire Magazine)

[ckneal]

Sometimes I need to remind myself that not everyone watched Supernatural with an ongoing gen fic happening in their head, all about the family life of the angels before Chuck’s disappearance and the rise of humanity. And as such, not everyone was constantly compiling stray details thrown out about the angel characters, clustering them together into this rubber band ball of ideas that was just so fun to play with.

I mean, for instance, not everyone took in the way the other angel characters seemed to look down their noses at the cupid characters (who, it’s worth noting, are never once referred to by their individual names, but instead by the human pet name for their category of cherub [which in Lucifer’s case, was certainly framed as an unflattering term], despite Castiel once boasting that he knew everyone in Heaven), and reason to themselves that it was surely because the other angels were jealous. Because obviously, the cupids are given classified information from God himself about what bloodlines he wants to see continued and merged for the sake of his Plan, putting these silly, non-combatant angels on par with the archangels in terms of secret knowledge about what was to come. For the first couple billions of years of existence, while the other classes of angels were sitting around with nothing to do, they all had to watch the cupids happily zipping around the earth, cooing over blue-green algae and gradually coaxing different species into existence with their magic love arrows. And every time a significant milestone was reached, they also had to watch as the insipid little harbingers of love scooped the newborn creature up and raced over to the nearest archangel to excitedly show them their progress, like a little kid with their first art project. And the archangel in question, regardless of which one, would nod encouragingly and smile as the cupid in question babbled about the tiny, tiny lungs this fish had, or the beginnings of feet at the ends of its fins. Even Lucifer, who would also add the additional suggestion to try and give the next one more teeth.

Additionally, not everyone looked at the way that Lucifer was able to just insert himself into Sam’s head from inside the cage, and considered how Azazel needed to visit a specific geographic location to communicate with Lucifer, and even then was only just barely able to do so, and thus came to the conclusion that clearly Michael and Lucifer must have come to an agreement to pool their powers to project Luci’s image into Sam’s head. Which explains why Sam’s special link disappears right after leaving the cage, and also why Michael didn’t interfere when Lucifer was freed, even though season 15 makes it clear that Luci did not sneak quietly out the backdoor. Michael was fully aware who was responsible for the jailbreak, thus leading us to consider that perhaps Lucifer was supposed to turn around and free Michael and Adam in turn, but did not. Thus leading us to imagine Michael spending roughly a year (Earth time) tapping his foot in the cage, until . . .

“He’s not coming back for us, is he?”

And Adam, cracking open a molecule-flavored soda (manifested courtesy of Michael), snickers. “Nope. Told you not to trust him.”

“Right. . .” Michael exhales, looks around for a moment, settles on side-eyeing Adam. Then, with an air of ‘fuck it’ says, “Want to make out?”

And Adam promptly chokes on his soda.

And not everyone heard Metatron specifically say that he personally tattooed the names of every prophet of the Lord ever on the inner eyelids of every angel, and immediately had the thought, “Poor Michael” spring to mind. Because of course Michael was the first one on the proverbial chopping block, trying his best not to flinch as his little brother gradually figured out how to handle the needle. (To this day, Michael is still not sure if the prophet after Chuck Shurley is named Kevin Tran or Rovim Frun). And all the while, Michael was probably also trying his best not to worry about how things were going on Earth while he was busy getting his eyes stabbed.

After all, Lucifer was God’s second eldest son, barely younger than Michael in the grand scheme of things. He could handle watching over their younger siblings for a little while. And Raphael and Gabriel were there to help. Everything would be fine.

However, Michael isn’t aware that about five minutes after being left in charge, Lucifer yelled, “HEY EVERYONE, CHECK THIS OUT!” And then promptly threw his grace into the body of a nearby pterodactyl. Possession being a new ability that Chuck had recently invented, the surrounding angels were mystified as Lucifer piloted the prehistoric reptile through a series of dizzying loop-de-loops that saw the poor creature—not suited to containing angel grace—explode midway through, leaving Lucifer gleefully giggling in the sky.

About half of the angels looking on gaped in horror.

Gabriel whispered to Raphael, “We’re still beta testing that, right?”

The other half of the gathered angels, however, like the impressionable young followers that they are, start grinning, because Lucifer is grinning, and he’s their cool older brother, and as Lucifer—relishing the attention—makes a beeline toward the earth’s one continent, Pangea, and an unsuspecting herd of ornithopods, these younger angels eagerly follow.

Soon, Earth is full of the anguished cries of cupids, watching their hard work blown to bits again and again. Swept up in the crowd, are Castiel and Balthazar. They watch Uriel and Zachariah excitedly throw their armored dinosaur bodies against one another in the moments before both vessels combust, after which Uriel and Zachariah excitedly dart off to take on new ones.

“Are we sure this is. . .okay?”

“Well, Lucifer is in charge. We’re supposed to follow his lead. . .aren’t we?”

Meanwhile, Raphael is frantically trying to stem the carnage. Several dinosaurs are levitating in mid-air, as Raphael tries to simultaneously keep them from exploding while also ordering the angels possessing them to vacate the vessels immediately. But none of them have ever taken a vessel before, and do not know how to get out of them without tearing them apart. Raphael keeps expanding their powers to more and more creatures as their young siblings continue to follow Lucifer’s example.

“GABRIEL, DO SOMETHING!”

“RIGHT!” Gabriel looks around, locates Lucifer running amuck in an apatosaurus that he’s forcing to walk on its hind legs, and fires off a lightning bolt to startle him out.

The lightning bolt misses its target in spectacular fashion, and several trees catch on fire.

Gabriel throws another lightning bolt.

“GABRIEL, THAT IS NOT HELPING!”

“RIGHT!”

Gabriel then grabs a giant meteor from outer space and begins trying to smother the flames by whacking it against the continent, to Raphael’s horror. More cupids begin to cry. Thick clouds of dust fly up, choking out natural light on the planet’s surface—now only illuminated by flames, as well as the magma that rises up out of the cracks that form in Pangea, as Gabe unintentionally creates the first tectonic plates from the sheer force of his assault on the planet.

Trees fall over. Fire continues to spread.

Lucifer is still in the apatosaurus, but he’s fallen onto his side, laughing hysterically.

“WATER, GABRIEL! USE WATER!”

“OH! RIGHT!”

Gabriel throws the meteor into a nearby sea, creating a tsunami.

It is at this point that Raphael abandons the dinosaurs to their sad fate, forgetting their solemn oath to not reveal any secrets regarding evolution and God’s plan, to broadly yell out to any and all of their angelic siblings who are listening, “QUICKLY, SAVE THE MAMMALS!”

And it is at this point, that Michael returns. Samandriel, clutching a dozen or so rodents in his wings, is the first one to spot him. All of Michael’s eyes are red and puffy from abuse. The cupids are sobbing, the Earth is battered, flooded, and scorched. Angels are getting into fist fights with reapers as they dart back and forth, trying to ferry as many warm-blooded creatures as they can find from the site of the catastrophe to the relative safety on the other side of the mountain range Gabriel accidently made when he bashed a crater into the planet—relative, as it turns out some of those new mountains are in fact volcanoes, and it took some trial and error to figure out how far away from an active volcano could be considered “safe.”

Nearby, Castiel and Balthazar are somehow both stuck inside the same mosasaur, beached from the tsunami, and loudly panicking as they struggle to de-possess it before it explodes. There’s a snapping sound, and then suddenly all of the angels still trapped (or willfully frolicking) inside vessels are ejected, at the same time that the fire goes out and the volcanoes cease erupting.

Consequently, everyone goes very still as Michael scans the damage and his bedraggled siblings. With humans not yet existing, the art of facepalming is not yet a thing. But looking at Michael, one might just expect him to invent the practice right then and there.

When Michael gets to Lucifer, he’s greeted with, “What? Pop’s 86-ing the lizard kingdom anyway!”

Michael promptly drags Lucifer off to Heaven.               

The next day, it was made an official rule, written into the very fabric of angelkind: vessels could only be taken after obtaining explicit consent.

Additionally, everyone agreed to never, ever mention the existence of the dinosaurs or how they ended ever again. And, rather than fixing the damage to the Earth’s surface, the tectonic plate situation was just sort of left to do as it would.

Many, many years later, Adam was shocked by Michael’s reaction when the cage door suddenly swung open in Hell. Adam had immediately surged to his feet in excitement, ready to leave and never come back.

Michael, however, remained stationary on the floor, squinting at the doorway, wondering what dystopian nightmare must be waiting on Earth after leaving his siblings unsupervised for a solid decade.

“Michael? You okay?”

“Adam, before we go back to Earth, I think I need to tell you a story. . .”

[auroracalisto]

perfect slice of heaven

summary: in an attempt to save you, dean made you leave.  he never realized that it would cost you both everything.  

pairing: dean x reader

word count: 1.7k words

warnings:  MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, angst with a happy ending, uhhh i don’t want to spoil anything but mentions of Heaven, Hell, and resurrection, mentions of attacks, depiction of life-threatening wounds, breakups, uh, blood, wounds, more blood

a/n: i started writing this and i couldn’t stop.  supernatural is legit the perfect show for angst.  sorry, i don’t make the rules

It was never supposed to have been this way.  

The blood that pooled around you, the coolness that overtook your body.  

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.  

You were supposed to have lived.  To have had a life, just like Dean wanted you to.  You were supposed to have gone out and had a child, a family, a proper job where you could have some apple pie life.  

But here you were, lying in a pool of your own blood, wishing that Death would take you sooner.  

While you waited for the release you so craved, you began to think.  Is this what Dean wanted for you?  A life away from him?  No sort of protection, other than yourself?  He couldn’t have possibly expected you to move on.  He was your everything.  You remembered leaving him like it was yesterday.  

“Dean, what do—Dean, stop.  Look at me.  What the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying you need to leave.  Just go, [Your name].  Stop wasting your time on a damn relationship that’s going to Hell.”

You slowly blinked at him, turning fully to face him.  “Where is all this coming from?”

“You just need to leave, [Your name].  I don’t want to have to argue about this.  I don’t want to be in a relationship with you anymore.  Just go.”

You wondered if it was his way of protecting you from hurting anymore than you already did.  But now, you just knew that his futile attempt at protecting you backfired, just like many other things in your life.  Being a hunter was dangerous.  You knew that before you became one.  But Dean made your life better.  Happier.  Fuller.  

Sam was asleep in the back of the Impala, every now and then snoring and alerting the two of you that he wasn’t about to wake up.  

As Dean drove along, you moved to where you could rest your head on his shoulder.  “You know,” you smiled, glancing up at him through your lashes.  “It would be fun to take a break.”

“A break?” he quickly looked down at you before returning his gaze to the black stretch of highway before him.  “Like a vacation.”

“Exactly.”

“Where would we go?” he chuckled softly.  

Hell, the two of you never went on a vacation.  But creating plans.  Knowing he wanted to go just as badly as you did.  It made your heart swell.  

As you laid there, you could feel your heart pounding.  You wondered why you had the same feeling as you so often did talking to Dean, but then you realized it was your heart working overtime as you bled out in your living room.  

It was never supposed to be this way.  

It was never supposed to have ended so suddenly.  Dean was supposed to have eventually come back around and asked you to take him back.  Hell, it wasn’t the first time this had happened, to begin with.  But you knew that it wouldn’t ever happen again.  This would be the last time that you could even think of something like that.  

With a shaky hand, you tried to force yourself to sit up.  Pain rippled through your body, but you pulled yourself over to your phone that sat near the shattered coffee table.  You were grateful your phone hadn’t been destroyed, and with what little of your adrenaline rush you had left, you called Dean’s number.  

He never picked up.  

You let out a soft sob as the voicemail began to record.  “Dean,” you started, a shuddering breath coming soon after.  “Dean, I love you.  And I want you to know that no matter what, I don’t blame you for anything.  You telling me to leave… this… this happening.  Nothing… is your fault.  I love you, more… more than you know it, you know?”  You took in a labored breath, pressing your back up against the wall.  You looked at the pool of blood that trailed underneath you from the spot you had been lying in. 

“Dean, there’s so much blood,” you whispered.  “I… I’m surprised I haven’t passed out yet,” you closed your eyes.  “Maybe… maybe it’s because I needed to talk to you.  To hear your voice.  But… you can hear me.  That—that’s enough.  Yeah, that’s enough.  Dean,” you coughed, tears forming in your eyes.  “I don’t… don’t know who or what attacked me.  But—but don’t, don’t you dare, don’t go looking for them.  It’s okay, Dean,” you said, your hand growing weak and your eyes growing heavy.  “I love you, Dean.”

The voicemail beeped one last time, alerting you that your time limit for the message was up.  You let your phone drop to your side and you slowly rested your head back on the wall.  In a moment of weakness, you thought out a short prayer to Castiel, hoping that somehow, he would hear you.  

And for once in your life, you let the darkness overtake you.  

It was an hour later that Dean had managed to charge his phone and get a signal back onto it.  Sam had forced him out to hunt a nest of vampires, claiming that it would “help get his mind off of you.”  Whatever the hell that meant.  

Dean only froze when his phone came on and he saw the voicemail.  You never called him.  

Dean quickly played it, putting it up to his ear.  His heart broke when he heard your voice.  And his entire world felt like it was crashing as he heard you talk about blood and how you hadn’t passed out yet.  When the voicemail ended, he quickly called you back—multiple times over.  But your phone just buzzed beside you, and your body made no move to answer it.  

You were gone.  

You were gone, and it wasn’t due to something of Dean’s irrational mind.  You were gone because he wasn’t there.  You had been living in a nice neighborhood, trying to live that apple pie life, and you were gone.  You were gone doing something that Dean had practically forced onto you, and there was nothing that he could do about it now.  

It was only seconds after you had passed that Castiel heard your prayer.  And it was only minutes later that he found where you were in Heaven.  

It shocked you when you saw him.  “Cas?”

The angel began to smile.  “[Your name].  I heard you and I came.  I’m afraid I came a moment too late.”

“Why am I in Heaven?” you asked, a confused look on your face.  

He chuckled softly.  “Sam and Dean are both meant to go to Heaven due to the acts of other angels.  I made sure that you would come as well, especially when your pure heart should have ended up in Heaven to begin with, [Your name].”

You took in a deep breath.  Heaven was definitely something.  No pain, no heartache, and the faint memories of what you had while you were hurting on Earth.  Everything else just exemplified what you loved on Earth.  Dean was in your Heaven.  But you knew it wasn’t right.  As soon as you arrived, you knew it wasn’t your Dean.  And you knew you weren’t alive.  

Castiel placed a hand on your shoulder and he gave you another smile.  “I’ll give you a choice.  You can stay here and prevent yourself from any harm.  Or…”

“Or?”

“I can take you back to your body.”

“Can you heal me?”

Cas smiled.  “Of course I can.”

You thought for a moment, taking another look at your little Heaven before you nodded.  Dean would be lost without me, you thought.  You didn’t know if that was true—but a part of you wanted to believe that. 

Just moments after Dean had busted down the door to your home, he saw Castiel kneeling over your body and a soft glow emanating from your wounded abdomen.  Dean rushed over, practically scrambling to your side as soon as he was down on his knees.  He quickly cupped your cheeks, looking you over as your eyes peeled open.  

He pressed a rough, yet passionate kiss to your lips, tears forming in his eyes.  

“I thought—I thought you were dead—”

“I was.”

Dean’s eyes widened as he looked back at Castiel.

He had taken a seat on the couch and he most definitely looked like he was a hot mess.  He rested his head back and without a warning, he passed out.  He exerted much of his energy bringing you back.  

Dean looked back down at you and he couldn’t help his tears from falling.  “I am so sorry… I never should have made you leave.”

You gave him a weak smile.  “You didn’t know something like this would have happened.”

“No.  No, but I should have seen it coming.  I should have.  I—”

You reached up, pressing a gentle hand to his cheek.  “But I’m here.  Cas brought me back… It’s alright.  I’m alright.”

“You look like a disaster,” Dean mumbled, leaning against your hand.  

You scoffed.  “I feel like it.”

Dean hesitantly smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.  “Never again.  I will never allow something like this to happen again.  I am so sorry, [Your name].”

You just smiled, taking in a deep breath.  Perhaps your life would have been better cut short.  You might have had it better off in your picture perfect Heaven.  But right now, looking at Dean, you knew that he needed you more than you needed that apple pie life.  You knew that he wouldn’t make it without you being around, even if he would never admit it.  

Carefully, Dean brought you into a hug and he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.  “I promise you, I’ll take care of whoever did this in the first place.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his words.  “I’m sure you will.  But uh… maybe… maybe for now, help me take a bath.  I… feel disgusting.”

He let out a soft laugh.  “You come back from the dead and the first thing you want is to take a bath?” he smiled down at you.  “I hate to say that I can understand.”

You felt your cheeks grow warm, but you didn’t argue.  This would definitely be traumatic, but now, you knew that everything would be okay.  At least, you hoped it would be.  

[elysianslove]

Hi! ☺️ could I request some demon slayer angst?? Maybe like Kyojuro x reader where his s/o is fighting along side him and something happens to them. Thank you ❤️

hi anon! idk if you read the manga or not, so i avoided spoilers. this doesn’t follow a specific timeline, it’s just random. also i love this man so much y’all i simp properly fml. anyways i hope this meets your expectations and you enjoy!!!

he admires you, so much, in every possible way. being with you, fighting alongside you, it means more to him than you could ever imagine. he admires the way in which you’re ruthless but forgiving, gentle yet rough on the edges. you balance everything out so perfectly, like you were made to be in the exact position you are right now, custom, handcrafted sword in your hand, demon blood splattered on your skin, hair disarray, and an unrelenting demon before the two of you.

he thinks it’s an upper moon, but he can’t decide, not when everything is moving so fast. kyojuro trusts you. he trusts you in the sense that he can rely on you to keep both yourself and him safe. he trusts in you, and in your ability and skill. never once has he doubted you, not even when the odds are awfully unbalanced to the opposing side, not even when either of you two are barely managing to stand on two feet, your muscles screaming for ease and comfort.

it’s not often he finds himself in your company for a mission too. he thinks that maybe it’s for the better. you’re one another’s liabilities, you’re leverage for him, he’s leverage for you, and he hates the thought of anyone or anything using you against him for any reason, because there is no higher priority than you. nothing that stands above you. when you both receive the message, crows belting out introductions just as the light begins to dim from the world around you, you glance uneasily at each other. it’s no easy feat becoming a hashira, so you’re both confident in your abilities. meaning having requested two hashira, the situation must’ve been worse than imagined or expected.

and it is. the demon relents, refusing to die despite both you and kyojuro repeatedly slashing his head off. as you try to think of various, different ways of defeating this demon, you hurt it in different ways, cutting off its limbs, stabbing it over and over again, slowing down its regeneration process as much as you can. before long, you find yourself on the floor, muscles aching beyond comprehension, mine numbing and spirit waning. kyojuro continues to fight, waiting for you to pick yourself back up again. and you can’t let him down, never.

so you stand, picking up your sword, suddenly a million times heavier than when the fight first began, and advance towards where your lover continues to battle with the creature. it’s unbelievably ugly, and incredibly vicious, never once holding back on either of you. your breath is heavy in your lungs, weighing you down, but you steady yourself. you’re a hashira. you’ve killed a million demons, and you’ll kill a million more, until you rid the earth of its uncleanliness and blasphemy. you’ll kill all the demons you can just to return home with your lover, to your lover, and lay in his arms. never having to worry for a moment more if it would be the last time you’d feel his embrace.

“kyo!” you call out, just barely ducking at the swing of the demon’s arm, raising your sword in reflex and slashing away at the limb. “the source— the sour—“

it happens suddenly. too quickly. or maybe, because of the strain of the fight, you’re just reacting slowly.

your words bubble at the back of your throat, collecting but never spilling. your limbs freeze up, your heart’s rate speeding up at an alarming rate to match with the panic suddenly overtaking you. your head is spinning, too much, too fast, and you have half a mind to look down, and notice the fist protruding from your lower abdomen. it’s the shock that keeps you on your feet for this long, even as the demon snarls cruelly and pulls away his arm from you, shoving you forward with unexpected strength, even as blood begins to pool in your mouth, painting your lips red. the pain gradually spreads, your adrenaline slowly dying out, your body lighting ablaze with flames on every inch of skin. the pain is so strong, so overwhelming and dizzying and nauseating, that it almost — doesn’t exist.

you’re not sure when it is your knees finally meet the ground beneath you, dirtying your uniform with a mixture of your blood, the demon’s, and dirt from the earth. as if underwater, you hear the dying sounds of a demon nearby, wallowing out in misery and in pain, crying out for its superior, begging for another chance to prove itself.

another chance.

will you have that?

your fall is cushioned by a pair of strong arms, familiar warmth and a familiar scent. he’s cloudy and fuzzy, his image and aroma and sense of being. you can’t see him, you can’t hear him and you can barely feel him. you think to yourself if this had happened a little earlier, you might’ve expected it, anticipated it, avoided it. you might’ve been able to slow down the bleeding using the breaths you’ve mastered after years of training. but you’re so far gone, and your entire body is already under so much strain, you doubt you would’ve survived a single, additional cut.

kyojuro admires you so much. he thinks you’re so beautiful, in every possible way. as you’re asleep, in the safety and protection of your home, in his arms. as you cook, for him and for you, and as you share that food. as you train, the sword fitting so perfectly in your hand, like it was meant for you. it is meant for you. he thinks you’re so beautiful as your eyes shine alight while you speak of your passion, or a new discovery as you share it with him. as you kiss him, so wholeheartedly, so fully, giving your all to him, always. always, always his. forever his and forever yours.

he thinks it’s so ironic he’d find you beautiful, even now, even as your spirit slips away from his very grasp.

when you come to, you genuinely believe you’re dead. the first face you see is kyojuro’s, and when you notice the never ending injuries adorning his face and hands, you realize this isn’t heaven. in heaven, your lover wouldn’t be hurt. never.

it hurts to move. or, honestly, to even think. you don’t attempt to speak. and you slow your breathing to limit your pain. you don’t do anything. you just revel in the simple fact that you’re alive, and while it doesn’t really feel like it, you really are still living and breathing. you’d been given a second chance. another chance.

“you’re so beautiful,” he says, when his eyes meet yours, and you consider how much truth is in that statement. you’ve never seen him look so relieved, so full of light and happiness. which says a lot in its own, because kyojuro has always been sunshine in human form. so, you decide, you believe him.

your lips open in a weak and feeble attempt to speak, but his fingers, wrapped in gauze, ghost over them, shushing you gently. “save your energy, darling,” he tells you, and settles in by your side. he glances down at you, his hand wordlessly finding yours and grasping it tightly, probably more than you could handle. but you feel the slight tremor to them, noticing, just barely, how his breathing stutters when he continues to stare at you — like if he were to blink, you’d disappear in milliseconds.

his free hand finds its way to your face, caressing your skin softly, fingers trudging up to your hair, where he moves it out of your face. “so beautiful,” he repeats, but it’s to himself. slowly, he bends forwards, leaning towards you, and kisses your forehead gently. his lips litter soft, featherlight kisses on your temple, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your cheeks, and your chin. “no more demons?” it’s a question, even if unintended.

with a quiver to your lower lip, you imagine the life you’d lead, no constant ache in your bones, no more scars to add to your growing collection, not another burden, not another life lost before your eyes, not one more death-inducing worry over your lover. just you. and him. and the way he looks at you. forever.

when you nod, tears spring to your eyes, and you finally find your voice for a moment. “i love you,” you promise, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to worry it might’ve been the last time you’d uttered those words.

end note; i’m so used to killing off characters but i didn’t want you guys to hate me just yet hehe. anyways i hope the requester and everyone else enjoyed this!! as always, requests are open, and i luv u all!!

[mushroom-cartel--writing]

begrudging (love-)blindness

Summary: You are, to him, unquestionably, terrifyingly lovely.

Relationship(s): Gojo Satoru & Reader, Gojo Satoru/Reader

Note(s):

Here’s the link to read this on AO3! (You know the drill, extra tags, different notes, the format I intended, etc.)

Personally, I think this is hot garbage in terms of structure and pacing (it’s loosely all strung together is what I’m saying, but I just needed to get it off my chest before I wrote anything else. Yet... I guess I had fun? Yeah. I did!

There's spoilers from the manga mixed with headcanon.

I still hate spacing and formatting on Tumblr, it sucks. Please, please, please, this is for your own good, click the AO3 link, this fic is such an eyesore on this platform.

|||

There’s a tug at your chest, sending you hurtling backwards and into something hard. A wall. Tiles. Smooth.

The heavens and the earth view one another through a layer of haze of light at night.

There are thousands of people gathering, their footsteps thundering echoes in your ears. Their chatter is a constant hum in the air. It stinks of sweat.

(“The train will be arriving soon. Please stand behind the yellow line—”)

You sigh.

“Dammit, Satoru! A little warning would be nice,” you hiss to the man. You hear him whisper something back but his voice is swallowed up by the crowds and then he, too, is consumed.

You feel him wander farther away from you; not left with much choice, you follow him. And down, down, down you go.

You pause when there’s an invisible wall blocking your path of his own making. “Hey!!” you shout, starting to scream expletives at him from the top of his lungs and he doesn’t look back.

A few seconds pass. The people, these poor, clueless civilians who just want to go home for the night are like sardines in a can, their bodies pushing and shoving. For space. For air. Requiring neither, you phase through the wall and the remaining levels to catch up to him, the thoughts going through your head solely focused on figuring out why he has let you out. He wouldn’t do something like this without warning you beforehand.

Why now? What now?

You pull out from the shadowed cracks of the feeble curtain set up along the fifth floor underground, suddenly feeling a heaviness you hardly ever experience. You run a cursory swipe over his teeth; the blood in the air is fresh, there are more civilians down here than up above, more sardine-ing (their presence is fading away, the above platforms’ panicked din becomes extinguished, it’s ghastly quiet, a moment frozen in time), but no Satoru. Not physically.

He loves you, you know. (You don’t understand though… Why?)

It’s a burden, draining you of what vigour is left in your soul, barely just clinging on to this plane itself.

His love is a curse in itself, really.

"I don't want you to see me hurt," he had said often, back when you were children, oblivious to the power of those words until you got older.

What they meant.

What they did—to him and you.

Still as the wind, you stand together, hands brushing up against each other's, your fingers infected with poison where his is not; the calloused skin and scars shared between you weaving a tale for the ages that will never be told.

You’re both nineteen at heart but certainly not in spirit.

You lean against him, completely unseen, waiting for him to flick his finger back.

Waiting for him to obliterate the first person he thought he could trust outside.

He doesn’t. You disappear for another time, expectant.

His love is a burden and you're not sure where you would be without it.

If he hadn't looked your way, would you be the same person you are today?

It's frightening, these thoughts of yours, but he usually chases them off when he senses them bubbling to the surface. (You want him to be annoyed.) A casual grin and stance, a flick of his wrist, a rush of wind by your side, then the phantom pressure is gone, yes, gone, however—it's never banished completely. It never can be.

You don't remember the colour of his eyes but there's a memory of you claiming they looked like marbles, buried somewhere (somehow), in the back of your mind. Like the marbles you'd smash glass bottles to obtain, their fizzy contents only drained seconds beforehand; stubby, sticky, small fingers sorting through the shards, squashing ants in the process.

Those very same fingers, now, haven't changed a bit, save for the chipped nails and whatnot duress they’ve sustained throughout his life.

You use them to push the blindfold up to his forehead, taking in the surrounding sights.

Why now? The fact that you can feel them, his fingers and everything else—that’s a bad sign. A very bad sign.

You breathe, inflating the faux lungs.

Finally, you see it. The reason why you’re walking and talking and fully corporeal.

You gulp at the living corpse, its stitches wonky and fresh. Cerebrospinal fluid spills from its face in fat droplets and lands upon the clothes of a dead man. Disgusting.

“So I was right in the end,” you say, more for yourself than anyone else. “You’re not Suguru.”

(Satoru owes you a thousand yen. You told him to burn the body immediately. Or, you know, the usual. But what’d he do instead? He went and passed it off to a third party! Man, why’d that old hag have to kick the bucket so soon… If she was still around she’d probably kick Satoru’s dumb ass for trying to be decent.)

“How are you free?” Not-Suguru asks.

The real Suguru wouldn’t ask about your appearance. He would make a comment about how the temperature has dropped and burrow into his collar. He wouldn’t question things.

The real Suguru never acknowledged you, but he knew there was something in the corner of his eye that took the image of his friend and laughed alongside them when they pulled their antics during missions.

The real Suguru is gone.

Who the hell knows where Shouko is.

Yeah. A little warning would have been nice. Real fucking nice.

There’s a cube with a dozen eyes between the two of you, the crater on the ground betrays its unassuming weight. Satoru’s muted presence, a shrunken pearl of light, emanates from the cube.

Not-Suguru follows your line of sight to it.

Giving him an answer would be a waste of your time.

You can’t, they say.

Young master, please, don’t go there, implores the servants and guards.

The elders, his grandmother especially, tell him not to enter the storehouse tucked away in the garden behind an avenue of camellia trees because that’s something they’ll discuss when he’s older.

He doesn’t listen to them, the curiosity of a three-year-old child cannot be satisfied by mere words. (“Let this be known,” the gardener says in his defense, one cold summer’s day. It is raining outside. His grandmother shoots the only person in the compound that doesn’t treat him like a blind fool with a withering glare. He does not see them again until—)

What’s in the storehouse?

A library of cursed objects? Spiritual remnants, artefacts, texts, poisons, weapons?

Maybe the mummified corpse of an ancestor whom they keep around to ward off evil?

Perhaps a curse, frozen in time forevermore?

Maybe it’s nothing and the adults are all in on some kind of elaborate hoax, he figures. Mm, yeah. Sounds about right. No one else knows about the storehouse.

It’s old and earthen. Wild plants curl the walls to one side and splotches of moss grow on the tiled roof. Where the sun hits least is pristine. Clean. He wonders if that’s where the wards are placed, out of sight, out of mind.

Oh.

Standing in the entrance of the open door with bare feet, at the threshold of the aged structure, fulfilling his desire, he learns why they wanted him to remain ignorant.

It’s a child. (A human…? This whole situation is off.) A kid his age. He can’t tell whether or not they’re older or younger. They might be a bit taller, though.

No, he wants to shout, this can’t be it! He stomps his foot. That’s cliché! Boring, boring, boring! Again, he strikes the ground. Ugh, whatever—

A sigh escapes the emaciated figure sitting in the darkness, hunched over themself against the wall of the bare storehouse.

“Ah, my f̶̥̍r̵̝͐̏i̷̳end,” they start, softly. “M̶̹̦͒y̸͍̮̋̚ f̸͉̓̋r̴͇̦̕i��̦͇̌e̵̫͠n̷̢͉̅̓ḍ̸̅, my very dear, old friend. You have returned.

“My e̷̳̭̿y̶͈͂e̷͔̭̎͘s̴̭̄̊, have you come to give them back? Ask for several others?

“I have waited for you, as promised. Come. Closer. Please. I do not know how long has passed since I last gazed upon your visage. Do not be afraid.

“I no longer lust for flesh as fervently as before, I will not ask of y̸͖͔̒o̵̳̍u̵͍̘̓ ą̴͕̈́n̵̫̓d̸̛̳͛ y̵̻͑̎o̵̖̥͒͌ų̴͋̐r̵̦̩̓s a sacrifice to please me.”

Their voice is garbled, the resemblance to a broken radio off-pitch jarring his reaction time, a music box opened underwater gurgling, ghosts beat to the rhythm of the blood in his ears and titter buried mysteries.

In the corner of his eyes distant stars burn, galaxies explode to life and die repeatedly, the vast cosmos is shredded apart. Universes are swallowed whole. The plane he stands upon bends to the will of the one whose gifts he uses carelessly to play the role of a deity and dictate the balance of the world.

People have said [they] reflect the very heavens.

His faith wanes.

.

a trio of ragtag orphans,

escapees, survivors and starved,

on the verge of being

no better than beasts,

happen upon a traveller taking respite from the winding roads.

a foreigner no doubt

they guess from the strange hued garb;

rest, everyone around these parts,

they know comes not

easy to scum, scoundrels, sinners and

deceivers alike.

.

.

.

mad ones, rushing to death

—without protection i must add—

oh my darling children, you are!

consume my flesh,

defend those unseeing,

purge the blight

and you shall witness

my return before long, indeed?!

.

They do not move and neither does he.

What he assumes to be their head tilts ever so to the side, gauging him, this fool of a boy trespassing on their domain. This part of the garden, the little boy realises too late, is theirs.

This, the storehouse and now him.

(—the gardener finds him sprawled out on his back come dusk. They help him to his feet and dust him off, the sparkle in his eyes an unusual occurrence; they ask their precious young master what happened and he points them in the direction of the doors sealed shut.

“I took a peek inside,” he lies. Children are supposed to do that, right?

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing.” The gardener knows he’s a bad liar.

“Good. Now come.” They lead him away from the path of the camellias. “Lady Mitsue has been beside herself over you, mister.”

His grandmother hasn’t. She probably knows what he has done and will instruct him to feed the council what they want to hear. My son was too soft, she asserts before and after every meeting with those windbags.

You have to do better.

And his father is dead, so only time will tell who’s right.)

He starts having weird dreams (memories?) several days later.

Trying to ignore them doesn’t work.

Every waking moment is subject to gore.

He has to resist the urge to scratch his own eyes out while he trains.

In the world beneath his eyelids, there are shadowy figures claiming it best he is blinded and locked away and fed what no other soul could hope to consume without issue. And just as they force open his jaw—every night, every time—he wakes up.

Satoru doesn’t know what to make of it. Doesn’t know what to make of you.

One day, he dreams of years of living without sunlight causing you to screw your not-eyes shut and look away upon the opening of a door into your domain. When you recover, you turn to the door, the emotion of curiosity tugging for your attention out of the myriad of beings you’ve eaten.

Standing at the threshold, ethereal, desperate and short of breath, is a young man. In his arms is a woman, his wife, you presume. They’re stark shades of white, binary stars of a celestial system long dead.

You smile, recognising them in an instant. “Ah, my old friends, children of my children’s children a dozen times over, tell me, what is it you wish for?”

“My wife and our child,” says the man, “please, I beg of you, save them!”

Oh? A healing? It’s been quite some time since that was last requested of you.

You skitter to the pair’s side and shut the door gently behind them, ushering them further in.

You click your not-tongue at the woman’s state, wondering why no one thought to come to you earlier. If they did, the price they’d have to pay would be much less than what you’re about to tell the man. Humans are such prideful creatures, Satoru knows this, but he can’t help but feel tense as you instruct the man to lay the woman down and state your cost.

First, he opens his mouth. Then it shuts. Opens. Shuts. The man regards his dear wife with something Satoru has never seen before in the eyes of those around him.

His reply?

“I accept—”

A harsh smack to the head disrupts the memory; he looks up, unsurprised to meet his grandmother’s gaze, wrinkled eyes so very much like his own piercing his soul.

“Being distracted in the middle of a fight is unbecoming of you, boy,” she says. “What seems to be the matter?”

He can’t tell her.

He stays silent.

“Satoru.” She raises her hand, fingers crossed, indicating the void’s opening. “We Gojou pride ourselves on our ability to adapt. That is why, in fact, I say my son was too soft. He could not accept that he would lose my daughter-in-law and the child she carried in her womb to common illness. He could not accept that it was impossible to cheat death. He could not accept the position he was placed in. And for that, he died and of the aforementioned two, only you lived. Do you understand?”

No. He doesn’t want to understand.

What is adaptation if they’ve yet to rid themselves of and bow down to your constant presence? Is that not their most fatal flaw?

You eat them.

One life in exchange for another; you told his father it was the only way.

You were given the corpse of his mother a hundred days after his birth by the elders.

Every Gojou after death, you grind their bones between your teeth and their flesh rots at the bottom of your belly. Their soulful essence fights for dominance against the forces of the innumerable curses the clans feeds you—the hate, the sentiment, the sheer bursts of techniques and mighty powers clashing, click, click, click—you embody and absorb the aftermath of each childish scuffle, playing the bored jailer adjudicator. Corpses, tools, objects, energy and flesh. It’s how you’ve lived for so long without light or human thought to taint you: the jujutsu world’s dirty little secret, waste disposal.

You are, to him, unquestionably, terrifyingly lovely.

He loves you for that one reason.

A means to an end, forever.

(The boy, a few days shy of his fourth birthday and inauguration, does not know what love is. He thinks he does, having read the definition in a dictionary in order to familiarise you with modern speech, but love is not a word to be thrown around lightly the way he does.)

“I do,” he lies again, this time, to himself. “I understand everything.”

His sight is black.

He pushes back against the current, against instinct telling him to relinquish control and reaches forward for the dream that he was ripped from.

Your true form towers over his mother’s prone form, dripping ichor and the fluid of loose entrails all over. His father stays seated even when you lift an arm to draw blood, the man facing you without a trace of fear.

“I accept—but on the condition that my child receives your protection.”

“My p̶̹̽r̴̽ͅo̵̠͐ť̷̬e̶̺̊c̶̻̒t̷̙͑i̵̮̓o̶̱n̷̖͂?” Do they not teach the younger generations what that entails?

“Yes. My ancestors wrote that you were a benevolent being in a past life. That you were a kind-hearted human who accidentally drank poison before being found and buried alive, condemned and reviled, forcing you to become what you are now. Does that still not hold true?” His father’s face is hopeful.

It doesn’t. But who are you to tell him that? That ‘benevolent being’ never existed in the first place. You’ve always been this.

The vivisepulture part was true, but the beginning? Debatable. Your memories of ‘being human’ are foggy; you’re not sure if they’re real or someone else’s. Satoru’s is the clearest thus far because you abide within him. And he’s young, there’s little to garner.

What other nonsense has been made truth in the time you have withdrawn from the world?

He wants to go down that rabbit hole.

You grab the cube and run, warping reality in your wake.

You are many things.

Alive, you are first; secondly a parent, a teacher and a friend; cursed thrice times over; quarter something-something or rather by this point; and last, your hollowness complements the damned hallowed.

You are Gojou Satoru but not.

His skin peels off in delicate scales from the speed you’re going.

The first and last time you puppeteer his body, Satoru invokes his father’s contract with you for the second time in his life.

Like the first occurrence, it happens by accident.

(The first occurrence is a stain on your memory.

Mitsue looked her grandson in the eye and tasked him with a futile quest, one that would decide the future headship of their clan. You personally thought such practices outdated but you held his tongue and grit his teeth, faking laughter for the audience they had.

She reminded you too much of your youngest, both in the way she cobbled herself together and how she suspended time long enough to catch a glimpse of you hunched beside him, flickering in and out of her void domain with the ease of a toddler climbing free of their crib.

Beautiful and deadly.

He nearly died.)

He is unaware of the finer details, but where his consciousness ends at getting a scalpel to head, it rouses again with him standing before the man who has the blood of Satoru’s friends on his hands and left him to bleed out undecapitated.

On a high from escaping Izanami’s clutches, he sprouts math and whatever nonsense off the top of his head and ragdolls up, down, across and through the air.

He feels like a being higher than the gods. Doesn’t mean he is, though.

He’s barely in control.

Violent swashes of red and blue fill the sky. He sees beyond his opponent rising from the earth the heavens condemning his breaching unto their space.

“Hey, stranger, did you know purple was her favourite colour?”

“Whose?”

|

“Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“You are Satoru, right?”

“Yessssss?”

“You… you’ve got a bit of…” Suguru gestures vaguely around the lower half of his face.

“Oh.” You rub the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb and see it come back tinged pink. The drying drool on his sleeves is used to rub the rest of the blood away. “Thanks.”

“Have you found her?”

“Amanai? Her body?” Suguru flinches. Your gaze is drawn to the cultists clapping. “Yeah, I did. Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?”

“I don’t know,” Satoru says. “I feel like killing these people. Should we?”

“Why?”

“I’m still h̸͓̟͐u̴̦͗n̴͇͈̅͛g̵͔̒̕ŗ̴͕͂͘y̸͚͍͘͘.” Two wasn’t even a snack.

“I’m angry that we failed too. But we can’t do anything now, it’s out of our hands.”

|

Several days later finds him back at the entrance of the storehouse, none the worse for wear.

In the shadow of the building grows a lone weed.

“It’s changed.”

“Of course it has.”

“Will I end up like them?”

“Yes.”

[thefolioarchives]

Reading of 2021, Part V

26. City of Saints and Madmen by Jeff Vandermeer

Vandermeer is one of my favourite authors and his Southern Reach trilogy was my main reason for going back to uni to do my master's. This short story collection was published long before SR, so it's daft that I didn’t read it for my dissertation and throughout reading it I felt like I was being smacked in the face with that realisation, again and again. Kind of torturous for a person who still has panic attacks about small stuff she said on the phone to a stranger, let alone big life stuff like your master's degree. Hahahahaha. *Goes and cries for a bit*

Moving on, this collection brings into focus the fictional, terrifying and crazy city that is Ambergris. From the perspective of returning missionaries, a historical pamphlet for tourists and nightmarish narratives of the lives of lowly artists. I'm a big fan of this as a concept and I feel like Vandermeer has managed to make Ambergris come alive through the various accounts of the characters we meet and its old and creepy history. It didn't GRIP me, however, not like Annihilation did all those years ago and it did not make me immediately want to read Shriek and Finch: an Afterword (novels that are included in this edition as well). The writing style is quite different from his other works that I've read, a bit old-timey as we like to say in the business, which made it hard for me to thoroughly immerse myself in it.

27. Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Macado

Another short story collection! This one was marketed to me as some brilliant reinvention of SFF. I hate when they try to do that as it sets the bar so incredibly high and I can't help but be swept away in the assumptions and reviews. What kind of expectations can a person who loves genre literature expect after reading something like that? Well, I was expecting the high heavens and sadly it didn't live up to its marketing. To be honest, there isn't a lot of science fiction or fantasy in these stories and if I was to describe it I'd maybe call it contemporary fiction with a dash of magical realism and the uncanny. I'm not saying all genre literature has smack me in the face with dragons and photon torpedoes, but sure, I was expecting more. That being said, I loved some of the stories a lot and I appreciate Macado's creativity in presenting her stories and characters. I especially liked "Inventory" (a woman recounts her sexual history while awaiting the end of the world), "Mothers" (a jump in time story about a woman and her ex, their life and journey towards motherhood), "Especially Heinous" (this one was probably my favourite: each little snippet is a take on a Law and Order: SVU episode (I have never seen the show), as Benson and Stabler struggle with mental issues, doppelgangers, criminals and relationships) and the "Resident" (an author arrives at an artistic retreat and weird things start to happen).

28. The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham

I have a lot of feelings about this book. It tells the story of 4 men who grew up on a reservation in the American Midwest and how one stupid mistake, can lead to… bad things, basically. The narrative is tense with the potential of violence throughout, no one is safe as reckonings must be made. What I really loved about this story is how the Native American culture is represented. The cultural references felt completely unique and for someone who's never read a book where the majority of the characters ( here mostly all) are Native American, it's powerful to read how much of that original culture has been retained throughout years of blood, slaughter and violent oppression. And yet there's this friction between the old and the new that I enjoy as well. How one of the main characters is in school and they're told to create a mural. She wants to create one that's dedicated to basketball because basketball is her passion but her teacher is all "but what about your heritage?". Is that what all native American identities boil down to? Heritage? Either way, it brought up a lot of interesting questions and themes that I'm keen to explore in more literature like this.

29. A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine.

I think I bought this book on sale a long time ago after reading how it had been nominated or won a lot of SFF awards, but I didn't pick it up until going on holiday in late June. This is essentially political fantasy intrigue dressed up as science fiction. A space station needs a new ambassador in the capital of a massive galactic empire because the other one died under mysterious circumstances and drama ensues! The "science" part of this book is so vague and it kind of bothers me. Here are some of my questions:

How has the empire managed to expand so much? How does space travel aka the jump gates work? Did the empire create them? What's the difference between humans and whatever the galactic empire's main "race" is? Did the humans come from earth, originally? How does it work that an entire planet is a city? WHAT THE HELL DOES EVERYONE DO FOR WORK?

I like the main characters (and the relationship that develop between "newbie in town" and "established authority trying to teach newbie the ways" is well done) but the city gave me a distinct Hunger Games Capitol vibe (without the excessive decadence) which in turn took me out of the story a little bit. Maybe it's an issue when creating a supposedly sprawling metropolis. Some of the finer details get glossed over, its history is never fully established and you only really get to see a small portion of it. I'm a big fan of fictional cities and I like to be able to almost smell them off the page, if that makes sense. However, this book never stops going and it's, overall, a very exciting read. The ending sets up a nice story for the second book which, to be fair, sounds like it might answer some of my space-related questions so I might be picking that one up at some point.

[madhyanas]

the sweetest and most important sound

Part [TBD] of the Hospitality series

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x fem!Reader

Rating: T/PG-13 (Mainly due to verbal teasing and extremely mild language)

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: None, really. Some non-sexual intimacy, if you’d like to avoid that.

A/N: this is my first fic that’s staying posted, so feedback is welcome. i do have a series in mind with paz and this specific reader. check it out on ao3, too, if you want to see more detailed tags. title comes from a quote by dale carnegie. 

big inspirations for this were @no-droids​, @vercopaanir​ and @its-alltheway​​. also, i’m very new to tumblr, and @jangofctts​ has been lovely :)

Golden.

That’s what you see, what you feel. Stopped on some backwater, Outer Rim planet, your little travelling party finally has some time to relax. To tread on soft, grassy earth, and breathe in the sweet scent of flowers in the breeze. It’s a welcome change from recycled air and solid, mechanical floors.

The fresh, crisp forest atmosphere. You can taste it on your tongue, feel the chill of it as you inhale. You can detect the fragrance of berries, somewhere far off in the trees, and the earthy, waterlogged scent of silt closer by. A stream, perhaps.

You don’t know the name of the planet; you didn’t bother to ask Mando, excited as you were. You suspect it doesn’t have one; so untouched by war and Imperial rule that it just… remained. Literally, a land that time forgot. Someplace so out of the way that it soothes even Mando’s constant vigilance.

Two suns set over the horizon, and the sky is a dreamy blaze of orange and violet. Insects buzz faintly in the background, and you sigh.

The Hawk IV stands behind you, hatch down, as you rearrange some logs around Mando, who’s preparing firewood. Vosca’s giggles fill the air as she scampers through patches of tall grass. Keeping a close eye on her, you catch flashes of a crimson forehead as she stalks some kind of creature. A frog, you think.

The mild, familiar scent of her is comforting. You rub the white, geometric markings on your cheeks absent-mindedly, and will yourself to relax. She’s close, she’s safe, she’s happy.

It’s a nice thought to have.

“Give me a moment. I’ll be back,” Mando says suddenly, and you blink. The fireplace is lit, you notice, flames crackling. Your sturdy canvas satchel has been moved to sit upon one of the logs, noticeably dusted off. He stands, patiently waiting for you to respond before he goes. Helmet inclined towards you with a respect that manages to warm your cheeks every time.

“Ah, yeah. Of course.” You pause, and joke, “Just don’t run away with the ship, huh?”

There’s a burst of static through the vocoder, and you think it could be a snort, before he steps forward. His gloved hand falls on your shoulder, and you swallow thickly at the closeness. A scant few inches lie between the tip of your nose and his cuirass. “I would never.”

There’s a depth to his low voice that resonates within you. As if he’s taking an oath, kneeling at your altar. It’s… a lot more sincerity than you expect.

“Oh. Well, of course. I think Vosca would throw a fit.” You grin, attempting levity, but he shakes his head firmly. Leaving no room for debate.

“Even then, even if she were with me. I would— I would not leave you. I could not.”

The hand on your shoulder squeezes gently, and his helmet inclines down to your face, like he’s imploring you to understand. Staring up at him, your lips part as his meaning finally reaches you. His broad figure is backlit by the dusky glow around you, casting his silhouette over your smaller frame, and you like to think that behind the helm, those eyes are staring back with just as much wonder.

Your mouth is dry, as if you’ve crossed a desert for years. Only now finding the water to quench your thirst. His hand on your shoulder, as heavy and muscled as you know it to be, does not feel like a weight. It’s pulling you up, rising, and there are no words to describe the lightness in your heart.

He ducks his head then — the movement registers as shy, impossibly — and the palm slides off your shoulder, lingering down your arm, before ultimately leaving you at the hand. The cool kiss of leather on your skin makes your breathing hitch. A modulated sigh, before he repeats softly, “I’ll be back. Faster than you know.” He turns and begins the short walk to the ship.

There’s a bubbling urge to say something. “No need for dramatics,” you call after him, wiggling your toes in your boots. “But best hurry back, Mandalorian.”

He hesitates, a split-second pause that you would have missed, had you known him any less. You almost think you’ve imagined it, because when have you ever known Mando to hesitate? But then he continues without looking back, disappearing into the hull of the ship.

You slump down on a log bonelessly, feeling lightheaded all of a sudden. Your cheeks ache, and you realise you’re smiling.

“Ruusaan, Ruusaan!” A whirlwind of scarlet limbs tumbles in front of you. Startled, you blink at the little Zeltron girl. It’s rare that anyone manages to get the jump on you, but by now you know that Mando and his ward are exceptions to almost every rule in your book.

There are leaves and twigs stuck in the two brown braids running down the back of her head. She grins toothily at you, a smear of dirt on one cheek. Really, it’s more a bearing of teeth than anything else, feral thing that Vosca is. Her eyes are bright, shining with the thrill of a successful hunt, and she thrusts her little arms towards you. “Look what I caught!”

In Vosca’s grimy grasp, there’s a blue, particularly fat creature, rather like a toad. Held at the middle, its six limbs dangle loosely at the sides. Your nostrils flare minutely, but can’t pick up any scents of poisons or toxins, and you relax a fraction. It casts an unimpressed gaze over you once, and attempts a croak, but the child’s clutching grip digs in too deep to allow for the swell of its belly. Those lazy, golden eyes widen in panic, and you balk.

“Hey, bug, let’s just put it down for now, yeah?” Hastily, you extract the toad from Vosca’s hands, and she pouts at you. You still, and cradle your palms around the creature’s stomach, fingers resting gently on the front, in a caress rather than a pincer-grip.

“See here,” you explain, leaning in, as if you’re trading secrets. She ducks her head towards you in curiosity, and there’s a burst of tenderness in your chest. “We’ve got sharp, pointy fingers for animals like these. Gotta be careful. Be soft with it.”

Vosca’s eyes widen and she nods her head vigorously. A few dried leaves fall to the ground. A beat, then she asks shyly, “Can I try, please?”

Always so polite. While you don’t know for sure, you suspect it’s Mando’s influence. In any case, you don’t think you could deny her even if she’d demanded it. “Sure, bug.” Gently, you pass the toad back into her dusty, red palms. With a watchful eye, you see how quickly she takes to correction. Now holding the scared little thing with more care, less force. Precariously tilting it onto her chest, she frees one hand to stroke it tenderly across the back. The corner of your mouth ticks up fondly.

Then, carefully, she kneels down, and releases it. The toad immediately hops away into the tall grass with a vengeful ribbit, and your brows raise. Sensing the question on your face, she turns her face up to yours, doe eyes blinking up at you.

“It wasn’t prey,” Vosca says simply. “S’just for fun. Wouldn’t be fair to hurt it.” She shoots you another toothy smile, filling her whole face with innocent joy.

Huh. Always keeping you on your toes, this one. You return her grin as she sits next to you on the log. “Ah, that’s right, bug. Good girl.”

You lift your arm and she snuggles into your side, her scrawny body fitting into yours neatly. Lovingly, you press a kiss into her hair, eyes falling shut. You keep your head resting on hers, and she heaves a sigh as you idly stroke through the loose strands at the nape of her neck.

This is how Mando finds you, later. Half-asleep, curled around each other. Your eyes open at the fuzzy, tingling feeling on the back of your neck, and lo and behold: he’s watching you as he makes his way towards the makeshift campsite. His gait is familiar to you; the broad saunter of a man confident in his abilities, yet not foolish enough to be cocky. As if he couldn’t fill up a room already, his walk only amplifies his presence.

You blink lethargically, trying to focus. The sky is now a deep indigo, the bare beginnings of twinkling stars appearing across the heavens. It’ll be fully dark, soon.

The Mandalorian comes to stand over you. Once, you would have found his constant presence menacing. But now you smile at him, grateful for his company. It’s sweet, you think, how awkward he is. If you know what to look for. Most don’t have the chance to look beyond the beskar, and the assortment of weapons he lugs around.

He seems… duller, somehow. You shake your head lightly, dusting off the lingering fatigue, and you realise it’s true in the most literal sense. He’s not reflecting light as much as you would expect.

Aside from the helmet, he wears no beskar at all. Dressed in a dark, high-necked, shirt and canvas trousers, Mando seems comfortable. Relaxed. It’s a good look for him, you think.

“Did she fall asleep?” he asks you, nodding at Vosca, nuzzled in your arms. Her head emerges from where she’d buried it in your side, yawning blearily.

“I’m not… M’not sleepy,” she whines, squishing a chubby cheek against you. You and Mando both chuckle.

“Of course not, ad’ika.” You think he’ll hold his arms out to hold her, pick her up, but you’re pleasantly surprised when he just takes a seat next to you. The log creaks under his bulk, even without the added steel.

Vosca grumbles something under her breath, and you snort as she wriggles further into your warmth. She slumps bit by bit, falling asleep once more. You glance down at her, and the love you feel is all-encompassing.

Because you do love her. Your girl, just as much as she is Mando’s. You don’t know if she thinks of you as a mother, and the thought stings a little. An aunt, perhaps?

But without a doubt, you know she’s your child.

You’re startled out of your thoughts as a weight settles over your shoulders, and you look at the man next to you. Mando’s draping a cloak over you, tucking it around your frame and over the little girl in your arms. Out of the corner of your eye, you recognise the sturdy, brass-coloured clasp as his own.

“O-oh. You don’t have to…”

“You’ll get cold.”

He shuffles closer to fasten the clasp. As he raises his gloved hands and leans in, you wet your lips nervously.

His helmet shifts, ever so slightly, to follow the motion.

“But what about you?” you ask quietly, heart hammering in your chest. His long fingers meddle with the clasp at your clavicle; the weight of them on your person seems astronomical, for such a small, small thing. In the shining surface of the helmet, you can see the outline of your face, small and vaguely illuminated in the firelight, framed by those bold white strokes. But when you see them in Mando’s helmet, for once, you don’t think of your father’s matching stripes, of what you inherited from him. You think of how close you two are, in this moment.

He’s so close you can hear him breathe, too faint to be picked up by the modulator. There’s a small puff of air, escaping under the lip of his helm. Raw, unfiltered. You cling to it with all your heart.

“I will be fine, Ruusaan,” he rumbles. He’s leaning over Vosca’s snoozing body between you, arching carefully so he doesn’t disturb her. He’s… really quite close now.

Inhaling as subtly as you can, you catch the scent of him. Lingering on the thick wool, a clean blend of soap, blaster residue and freshly cut grass. Something smoky, too. It’s more soothing than you expect. Involuntarily, your nose twitches in delight, and his helmet tilts a fraction in response. You rush to distract him.

“But— But the armour.” Mando stares. “You’re not wearing any. Isn’t it cold? With— Without it, I mean.”

He dodges the question entirely. “Would you like me to put it on?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, sweetening his low baritone, and he quietens to a murmur as he sticks his head forward condescendingly. “I understand if this is too… scandalous."

You stifle an outraged squawk, and remove an arm from holding Vosca to swat his bicep. Your hand bounces harmlessly off corded muscle and you look away from him, cheeks burning. He just laughs at you, muffled for fear of waking the girl at your side.

You huff, resolutely averting your gaze, but it’s for naught. A large palm comes to cradle the side of your face, and your face feels tiny in its hold. He directs your eyes back to the visor with more care you’d ever expect, had you not known him so well. The smooth leather against your cheek is grounding, an anchor amongst the dizzying, overwhelming ocean of his presence. Surely, he can feel your flaming blush through the glove. In your embarrassment, a peculiar strike of courage grabs you by the throat.

With your free hand, you hold the glove cradling your face. Without taking your eyes off him, you lean into the touch, exhaling gently.

Mando stills. You can’t tell who’s predator or prey, here. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Deliberately, you squeeze your fingers around his own and an unfamiliar, choked noise comes out through the modulator.

You stare at him, and realise there’s hardly any distance between you. It’s nothing obscene, never could be with Vosca dozing in your arms, and yet you feel so giddy. There’s a type of intimacy here that you’ve never experienced before, never imagined before.You’re close enough that your breath fogs on the beskar.

“Mando…” you breathe.

Suddenly, the figure between you stretches awake with a yawn. You jump away from Mando as Vosca awakens with a long, languid yawn. The man beside her, a little subtler, leans back with the fluid, practiced grace of a warrior.

“Are you okay, Ruusaan?” she asks sleepily, oblivious to the moment now broken.  She pulls the cloak away from her to face you properly.

“W-what? Of course I am, hun, why…”

“S’just,” she starts, rubbing one eye. “I got woken up. Your heart’s beating really fast.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. You try to backtrack, “How about you go back to sleep, bug? It’s late.” You can feel Mando’s stare on you. Piercing, even through the steel.

Vosca frowns at you, scrunching her nose up endearingly. “But then you and alor’ad will be without me.”

After a moment of floundering, struggling to come up with an answer, Mando beats you to it. Planting a gentle, reassuring hand on her head from behind, he says simply, “We’ll never be without you, adi’ka. You know this.”

She leans her head completely backwards, and her braids dangle in the air. Arching her neck to look at him upside down, the vibrant red of her skin reflects in his helmet. There’s a flash of hesitation as she considers, and you jump at the opportunity.

“Bedtime, bug,” you say, standing. Mando’s nearly your height, you notice, even as he sits. You stuff the thought down. Later. “Got a big day tomorrow.”

Vosca mutters something under her breath moodily — something about how everyday’s the same — but her eyelids are drooping, and you figure you can let it slide. Just this once.

Maker, you’re impatient.

You sigh. Again. You hate to undo Mando’s work, but… “C’mon, hun. Floor’s more comfortable.” You undo the clasp deftly, and some subconscious level, it occurs to you that Mando is dextrous. More so than anyone you’ve ever met, probably. Fastening the clasp would take seconds.

No reason for him to linger as long as he did.

You smile faintly to yourself, and the ever-present heat burning in your cheeks this evening unfurls through your face.

You bundle the girl in Mando’s cloak as she lays down in the shallow grass. Tugging your canvas bag towards you, and place it beneath her head.

Kneeling down next to her, you stroke her hair once, twice. “G’night, alor’ad, g’night, Ruusaan,” Vosca mumbles, eyes falling shut once more.

“Goodnight, bug.” You lean down to peck her forehead tenderly, and she snuggles into her covering.

“Goodnight,” Mando returns kindly. At last, when you’re convinced she’s really out for the count, you steel your courage and look back to him.

From this angle, he’s glowing. Your lips part in wonder as you marvel at the rolling flames reflecting in the helmet. The flickering bronze and gold and scarlet washing over his bulky frame, defining the hard lines of his arms and chest beneath the shirt like something out of a painting. A relic of another time. Beautiful in its detail. Regal, even when most relaxed.

Silently, he holds a gloved hand out to you. You blink at it for a moment, too overwhelmed by this man you know so little about but oh, would you like to learn.

You take his hand, and suddenly he’s pulling you up with him to stand. Stumbling a little, your other palm comes to steady yourself on his chest. The movement feels so natural, so instinctual, and you worry you’re being presumptuous.

But then Mando’s free hand comes to rest on your waist — “Oh.” — and all other thoughts leave your mind.

“She’s asleep,” he notes, and you can feel his deep voice rumbling. Through the shirt, vulnerable and unprotected, his chest lies beneath your fingers. Solid muscle, yes, but there’s the soft give of flesh just like anyone else. It’s… nice. Pleasant, in the way it reminds you how human he is. How he lets himself be, in these fleeting moments of peace.

You hum. “Finally.” The hand on his chest gradually makes its way up his pectoral, tracing the ridge of his clavicle, before coming to rest on his shoulder. Without the pauldron, you can feel just how taut he holds himself. “Relax, Mando,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb back and forth in an attempt to soothe whatever’s running through his mind.

“Could tell you the same,” he replies smoothly, but you feel the strain in his shoulders lessen slightly under your gentle ministrations. The helmet tilts forward to hover next to your ear; it’s somewhat awkward, with how much he needs to bend down to do it, but that’s alright, you think. “Careful, Ruusaan. Does your heart still beat so quickly?”

Your jaw clenches momentarily, if only out of sheer embarrassment, because you know he’s right. “That’s— that’s not— Come on, Mando.”

The man chuckles, and at this meagre distance, you can feel it in your soul. Straightening just a little, he rests the side of his helm against your head. Not leaning, per se, or applying weight. Just touching. Keeping contact. The cool surface of beskar feels chilling against your molten cheeks.

With the hand joined with his, you curl your fingers, embracing the gaps between his. You both linger like that, for a while. Basking in the haze of firelight and safety; frozen in a half-dance, holding each other contently.

Then you realise. In another, strange instance of boldness, you murmur, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed yours either, smooth talker.” The reassuring thud thud thud beneath your fingertips is steady, as always. But you feel it’s more insistent, more urgent than you’d expect.

He doesn’t stutter or fumble like you do, but there’s a bashful sort of groan through the vocoder. It really shouldn’t be endearing as it is. “Ah, well. Seems I’ve been caught.” He plays along in a plaintive, mournful tone, and you stifle a snort. “Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

You nudge the helmet with your cheek playfully. “Oh? What’s that?”

He breathes a particularly wounded sigh, and you feel rather than hear him sober as he murmurs, “This is what you do to me, Ruusaan.”

Your jaw falls slack. Oh.

Your head is reeling with the implications of it. Him affecting you was one thing, because how could he not? With the way he fills a room and laughs at your stupid jokes and tells Vosca bedtime stories and holds you so carefully it feels like a lover caressing glass, about to shatter any moment—

Kinda how he’s holding you now, actually.

Your hand on his shoulder brings his head up from where it rests to look at you properly, and holds the blue steel in the indent where his cheek would be. You’ve been struggling for words, wondering how to respond to the affections of someone you admire so much. How to do him justice.

“You are so much to me, Mando.”

Timidly, your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and once more, his helmet tilts to follow the movement. You feel a kind of longing in that little shift, an age-old yearning borne of dedication to the Creed, from a man who feels everything so strongly.

The knowledge that you two will always be separated by a layer of beskar is always floating over your head. To say that you’ve made your peace with it would be a bold-faced lie, but—

Well, it’s who he is. To disrespect his Creed would be to disrespect him, and that you cannot allow.

But for the first time, you wonder how he feels about it. If that perennial ache in your chest whenever you glance at the helm resides in his, too.

Mando’s hand, previously resting on the slope of your waist, comes to hold your cheek. As if there’s a mirror between you, paralleling your stance to each other like clockwork. Two halves of a whole, reflecting each other.

Gradually, he tilts your face up to his. Leaning in, he touches the forehead of the helmet to yours, and your eyelids flutter shut, lashes barely grazing the metal. This time, the cold metal against your skin feels like a reprieve, freeing you from the burning sensation.

Like a kiss, you think absently. Is that what this is?

You’ve seen him do this before, with Vosca. Never truly knowing what it meant, what it signified to him, you’d left it alone.

You try to ask him, to make sense of the maelstrom of affection and yearning and want. “Mando—”

But his shoulders tense suddenly. “No.”

You blink. “N-no?”

He draws away, then. His hand is still cradling your face, but the helmet retreats, and you panic. What happened? What did you do? What boundary did you overstep to ruin something so torturously good—

He says your name. The name your mother gave you, not the nickname he and your girl call you in their language. “May I give you something?”

You’re confused, to say the least. The emotional range he’s currently choosing to display could give you whiplash. He’s not a very materialistic man, you know, and what could he possibly be giving you now, in this moment?

“I— I don’t think you could give me anything greater than this.”

He deflates. “Oh, ner kar’ta,” he croaks, stroking his thumb over your flushed cheek. Even through the modulator, the foreign syllables drip from his mouth like liquid gold, tongue rolling over the consonants in a way that makes you shiver. “I would be honoured to try.”

Wordlessly, you nod, still not fully comprehending what he means.

He must sense your bemusement. The grip on your side tightens nervously, and you dig your heels in to swallow a squeak. “My name is not ‘Mando’, cyare.”

And the world collapses beneath your feet.

This is new territory, dangerous territory. This is uncharted land, and you feel like you’re trespassing on the tricky, treacherous land of his very being.

You must look ridiculous. Like a fish, mouth bobbing open and shut. He chuckles, a small, subdued thing, and you immediately think it doesn’t suit him. The urge to fix it, to help him, crawls up your spine and settles in your gut.

You bite down the nerves scrambling up your throat to accept what he’s giving you. To reassure this man in your arms, who you have come to care for so deeply, and for yourself. To satiate the niggling curiosity in that corner of your mind left forcefully ignored for so long.

“If you’re sure.” You pause, and add, “Only if you’re sure. This isn’t… an obligation.” It’s somewhere between a question and a statement. You can both hear the moniker you’re avoiding, the cavernous gap opened up by what he’s offering you.

“I know. This is what I wish to give.” And there’s the Mandalorian you know, steadfast and confident, unwavering in the face of adversity. Willing to cross the gap into the unknown with you.

You remain silent, and step closer to press yourself to him. Feeling his pounding heartbeat against yours. Allowing the words to come from him, at his own pace, the warmth of your combined body heat hopefully calming his nerves.

Just as your eyes drift shut, content to wait as long as he needs, you hear it. Quiet, rasped through the helmet.

“Paz. Paz Vizsla.”

You inhale sharply, and look up. Oh, stars. It feels surreal, having a name to the face. Or lack thereof. To think he’d really trust you with such a core part of his being. You’re not sure if this breaks his Creed, or if there are loopholes, but as of now, you don’t care.

It… suits him. Short, robust. Yet somewhat lyrical on the tongue.

“Can I say it?” you ask meekly. The last thing you need right now to is to overstep, not when you’ve come so far.

“Please,” he breathes.

And the floodgates open. A smile breaks over your face, soft and eager, and you swell with affection. “Paz.”

A beat passes, in which everything you love hangs in the balance, and then he laughs. A true, full-bodied, bark of laughter that would ring in your ears long after it stops, but it doesn’t — it spills out of him like water spluttering through the fissure of a dam, bursting forth with all the weight of its years of confinement. He keeps laughing and laughing and then he’s holding you tightly with both arms, swinging you around. With anyone else, the action would’ve scared you. Would’ve been interpreted as a wild, uncontrolled invasion of space.

But with Mando— No. With Paz, you feel like you’re flying. You’re reminded of your days piloting through hyperspace, and the pride of swimming amongst the stars.

You shriek as your feet leave the ground, but it soon dissolves into giggles as he holds you above him.

(The ease with which he can manhandle you, can wrap both of those large, large hands around your comparatively diminutive hips, brings a blush to your face. But that’s a thought for another time.)

Eventually, he places you back on solid ground, and you beam up at him. He’s panting lightly, though you know lifting you was an easy task for someone of his strength. It’s okay. You feel breathless, too.

“Only with me,” he says. “And Vosca.”

You nod gravely. Maker, you’d never use it with anyone, just for the pleasure of knowing he trusts you. “I give you my word.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see the girl in question snoring lightly, still bundled up in Paz’s cloak. Somehow still asleep; you’re immensely grateful.

He returns the nod, and it’s funny how formal it seems compared to the little display you just put on. Paz stares for a moment longer, then huffs. “You sound like a Mandalorian.”

“Is that… good?”

He’s quiet, like he’s trying to find the words. “We may rubbing off on you— I may be rubbing off on you.”

You take a moment to look at him. Beskar gleaming in the moonlight, softly reflecting the fire behind you. He’s bared before you in a way that makes you feel safe. Maybe even loved.

“That might not be too bad.”

And so it goes. You and Paz stand under the stars, flames crackling at your feet, bending towards each other like flowers to the sun.

———

[oveliagirlhaditright]

The Amulet

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33828238

Neku and Shiki as Spike and Buffy from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. AU. Oneshot. I tried to write this so you don't have to know Buffy to like or understand this story (like, I try to explain and summarize stuff). But if you do know Buffy, you might get more understanding and enjoyment out of this, of course.

Slight attempted rape TW. It’s there because it happened in Buffy, unfortunately.

“Stalker,” said Neku, as the two of them locked eyes in her laundry room. “…We don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to prove anything to me because I got pissy about Josh being here earlier. I meant what I said before, about me loving you having nothing to do with me—because I can’t have you; I know I can’t; so my loving you has nothing to do with that—… like I said before, I love who you are. I love how you try-”

And Shiki shut Neku up with a kiss to his lips.

And to be fair… the two of them had kissed plenty of times by this point. They’d also had sex a ton now. But their lips had never danced together like this before.

It was even almost enough to make Neku believe that Shiki might have actually loved him, as she pushed him against the wall. “Shiki,” Neku gasped, his eyes rolling back into his head some.

And this probably wasn’t manly in the slightest—but then again, when had he ever cared about that, with the sort of reversed gender roles of vampire and Slayer?—but Neku found himself wrapping his legs around Shiki to bring her closer. And she did bring herself over to him, with a delighted little squeak leaving her lips as she did so, that Neku thought that he could have gleefully remembered for the rest of his days… even though those were seeming to be pretty numbered right now.

They both went to remove each other’s shirts at the same moment. And then laughed, and let one move first. Neku took Shiki’s off, and she did away with his; though Shiki’s top got caught on the little short ponytail that she was wearing for a minute, but Neku swiftly found a way to maneuver it over it. But damnit, if that somehow didn’t just make Neku love her all the more. She was just too cute. And then they were back at again, with lips, tongue, and teeth.

Shiki was suckling Neku’s collarbone now, and he found his head falling back to hit the wall… and even the side of the dryer beside it making a loud bang, that then halted both of their actions.

Neku and Shiki looked at each other blankly, and with slight fear in their eyes, for a moment before they both chuckled.

“That sound is probably going to get your little sister, Rhyme—or as you know I like to call her, ‘Nimnew’”—to wake up… We should probably stop.” And the fact that Neku was able to say this now, was definitely testament to the fact he had a soul. Because past him, without a soul—even though he had loved Rhyme even then—would have selfishly wanted to continue ravishing her sister, not caring if she saw or not.

“…Yeah, you’re probably right…” Shiki agreed, pulling away from Neku. And fuck, if he didn’t feel cold without her body heat right up against him now. Though it hadn’t escaped his notice that the two of them were still holdings hands. “We should at least stop here… Let’s go back up to my room.” And the smirk Shiki gave Neku then was decidedly naughty. But Neku knew that Shiki could certainly be that, thank you very much. He’d done things with her that he wasn’t even sure he could spell, after all.

They both gracefully sped towards Shiki’s room then—so that they wouldn’t make more noise, and hopefully none of their friends, Shiki’s sister, or the potential Slayers would come looking for them—but they did still use a lot of their vampire and Slayer speed to get there, yeah.

And were then mercifully uninterrupted, and blissful.

…

Their story had certainly been an interesting one, Neku found himself thinking now, as he kissed the strands of Shiki’s hair in the morning, and tried to live in this moment before it was maybe lost to them.

Shiki, bless her—while maybe not even being in love with him—was basking, too, as she leaned against Neku’s chest and absentmindedly doodled things onto his arms. She was always drawing, this one, since she wanted to be a fashion designer.

And Neku sincerely hoped that she would survive this gruesome final battle, awaken all the other Slayers—so she wouldn’t be the only one in the world anymore—and then finally get to accomplish her dream. She more than deserved it, after all she’d suffered.

But, back to their story… Neku and Shiki had been enemies at first. Of course they had. Neku hadn’t had a soul back then, and Shiki had gotten in the way of all the killing he’d wanted to do.

…Though then they had found themselves becoming unwitting allies for one second, when Josh—Shiki’s first love, who she maybe loved over him; and who had gotten a soul back before Neku had—had become soulless and wanted to destroy the world (and it was hard to find humans to drink from, if the Earth was destroyed) and steal Beat from Neku, and Neku hadn’t liked that.

So, Neku had worked with Shiki and they’d gotten all of that sorted out—though Neku was going to leave an evil Joshua to kill Shiki when she seemed at her limit, to be honest—and she miraculously survived.

Then they met up a few times after that and fought some… But what really forced their fates together, was when some government agency had caught Neku and implanted a microchip in his head, that kept him from attacking anyone who was innocent. He’d had to go to Shiki and her crew for help then, despite his better judgement, because she’d been looking into info about the Commandos, too, and Neku had thought that they could come to some sort of deal there. Plus, since he couldn’t hunt—and a lot of the vampire bars wouldn’t even serve him anymore—she and hers could get him some blood packets.

And this was really when Neku had started to fall for Shiki, deep-down, and as he saw all that she did, and how hard she always tried to save the world, even when the odds were insanely stacked against her.

But Shiki hadn’t liked him at all. She’d thought he was a monster: a soulless demon who couldn’t change—and to be fair, he really had been that—and she had wanted him to get out of her face more than once.

It wasn’t until Neku had helped to protect Shiki’s little sister Rhyme from a Big Bad who wanted to kill her—and eventually, Shiki even sacrificed herself to save Rhyme, and the world—that her feelings for him started to change.

And then… and then Neku continued to take care of Rhyme even after Shiki was… dead—and her dumb doll, Mr. Mew, too. Neku made sure he was in pristine condition on her bookshelf—because what else could he do?

And it was at that point that Neku was really thinking about killing himself, if he should keep his promise, and wondering about the point of existence all around, that Eri brought Shiki back to life… which was the happiest moment of Neku’s life, yeah. Who was he to lie, after all?

…But Shiki was fucked after Eri brought her back. She’d been in heaven, and Eri had unknowingly ripped her out of there. For some reason, Neku had been the only reason she could connect to about it then. Probably because she couldn’t bear to tell the rest of her friends (like Eri, Ai, and Mina) what they had done to her.

…And through that… the two of them had started to sleep together. A lot.

And, of course, looking back on it now… Neku realized it had been a real dick move on his part, since Shiki hadn’t been in her right mind at all. But of course he had been like that, because he still had been soulless and didn’t fully care. He’d just known the girl he’d wanted for so long was finally throwing herself at him, and he couldn’t easily say no.

But eventually, Shiki had tried to take that away from him. She’d found her strength again, and she had told Neku that she couldn’t love him without him having soul… that she was using him, and being selfish and weak and that it was killing her, and that she truly was sorry.

Neku had really started to think that maybe she loved him before that—that, perhaps, she felt it when he was inside of her—…and so then, he tried to do something unspeakable to her.

Thankfully, Shiki had stopped him and he had immediately been horrified by what he had tried to do. Neku had left Shiki then and hadn’t looked back. He’d found a way to get a soul—going through rigorous tests and torture—and had done it.

And he had come back to Shiki, still loving her… Neku reckoned he’d always love her until the end of his days, unfortunately—perhaps it was written in his soul to, like it was for him to love art and music—and he returned to Shiki to help her with this new threat, but while not expecting anything from her. He didn’t want anything from her, because Neku knew he didn’t deserve her. If he couldn’t forgive himself for what he’d done to her, how could she do so?

…But in some ways, Neku thought that maybe she had. Because she understood that what he did soulless, wasn’t really him?

It hadn’t been easy.

And it had been painstaking.

But they’d mended their bridge to each other this past year… And their relationship was healthier than it ever had been.

There may have even been some kind of love here, Neku thought—in the rare moments he would let his mind go there, before he swiftly denied it—but he figured she would always prefer Josh over him.

…How Neku hated Josh. He had actually known him before Shiki had—and had somewhat been sired by him, so to speak—and let him tell you-

But none of that mattered now.

What mattered was that, in a few hours… they were all going to be fighting the First Evil to ever exist, and there was a good chance none of them were going to survive it.

Putting on the amulet that Shiki had given him around his neck, Neku prayed that if anyone had to go out in this war… it would be him. Especially over Shiki.

“You don’t have to be so melancholy, y’know!” Shiki chirped now, sitting up and then turning around so she could give Neku a chaste kiss on the lips, while she helped him to button up his shirt.

And this one was so nice, too. Even better than the ones they had when they made love. And Neku thought that he could wake up with Shiki like this every day, he could certainly live out the rest of his days in peace…. and just rest. Wouldn’t that be nice, after all the horror and calamity of his life?

“It’s not the first war we’ve fought, and it’s certainly not going to be the last! Let’s treat this like any other day. Oooh! I know! Let’s try and make a cute felt bow for Mr. Mew to wear. You said you would help me do that someday, Neku! Let’s do that today!”

“…And I will, Shiki,” Neku replied, blushing. And he straightened out his shirt some, unable to meet her eyes. Good God, why did the thought of doing art with the girl he loved make him so shy, when all their sexcapades somehow didn’t? “But I still think having some time to reflect right now might be wise. And if everything goes well today, at least you won’t be fighting alone anymore, right?”

“…That’s a nice reminder, Neku. Thanks!”

And Shiki took away the amulet that Neku was wearing and put it on Mr. Mew instead.

And because of that… Mr. Mew did have to go up in flames to save the day, unfortunately, as did Shiki’s whole house, but it and the whole town of Sunnydale was already going bye-bye for the greater good, anyway.

And some potential Slayers were murdered in the battle, before Eri’s spell to activate them weaved through…

But Shiki didn’t die and Neku didn’t, either (and neither did Josh in L.A., Neku would hear later, curse him).

And as the dawn broke on Shiki and Neku’s new life together, they got to kiss like lovers in some sort of cheesy movie… and realize that they had found love together, after all.

Of course they had.

Author’s Note: So, this story actually has a slight alternate ending to Buffy:)

Also... in some ways, I feel like Neku would fit Angel better (but also not. And also Neku has some of the Spike humor. So IDK). I also feel like Josh doesn't fit Angel at all, really, but oh well. LOL.

And Neku calling Shiki "Stalker", as opposed to Spike calling Buffy "Slayer.";)

I should also probably explain the soul canon in the Buffyverse. Basically, when a human becomes a vampire, they lose their soul: the thing that makes them them and a demon takes over their body. So the horrible things they do without a soul really aren’t the former human’s doing/can’t be attributed to them.

[twisted-tales-of-all]

What the Angels Can’t See

Half-Angel!Reader x Demon!Yuto ;; Kinktober Masterlist sub!female!reader

Anon Request

Summary: After a mutual friend introduces you and Yuto, you learn a lot more about the world from him than the angels ever taught you. You debunk their lies and start your new life with a new mentor.

Word Count: 1623

Contains: Bondage, first time, corruption kink, Dom/sub theme, use of lube, unprotected sex, orgasm denial

There's a lot of reasons to dislike being half-human, but you enjoy not forcefully living in the clouds and following assignments given without any explanation. As a half-blooded angel, you have very vague ongoing tasks that don't need to be rushed: spread kindness to someone, keep someone company, bring energy to a room, and so on. You enjoy the freedom of acting like a human.

Today, you're hanging around the small coffee shop in your neighborhood. The barista ate lunch with you today, and she introduced you to her friend, Yuto, so you two have been talking since she returned to work. He seems fairly athletic and kind but also gives you strange vibes, almost as if he's a playboy.

"Y/N, are you doing anything today? There's somewhere I want to go, but I don't want to go alone. If you don't have time or don't want to, it's fine. I can just wait until Jackie finishes work."

The angel inside can't lie about being busy, so you agree to accompany him, which makes him really happy. He immediately stands up with a giant smile. You can't help but giggle at his actions as you also stand, without even knowing where he wants to go.

He leads you deeper into the residential area of the neighborhood, so you start to worry a bit, but you still trust him since you always look on the brighter side. Naively, you only say something when he starts unlocking a door. You also naively believe him when he claims that he needs to grab his camera before you go.

"You can make yourself comfy while I make sure I have the proper lenses. I'll try to be quick."

Shortly after settling on his couch, you hear the front door lock despite Yuto still being in his room. You try calling him to ask about it, but he doesn't reply, so you get up and head to his room. You don't see him until fully in the room, and you hide your eyes and apologize instantly when you catch him as he removes his pants. Already almost fully naked, standing in just underwear, he's surprisingly calm about the situation.

"Y/N, you act like you've never seen a boy's body before. I'm not even naked, yet you're freaking out."

"I-I haven't seen anyone undress, but isn't this just common courtesy?"

You hear the floor creak as he steps towards you, so you cautiously step back. After a few steps, however, you trip over something on the floor. Your hands leave your eyes to try catching your fall, but Yuto catches you before you're anywhere near the floor. In his arms, you lock eyes with him and see worry but confidence radiating through the chocolate orbs.

"You've never seen someone undress? Y/N, you're so pure. It makes me desperately want to ruin you."

It's only for a split second, but you catch his eyes glow red as he growls through the word 'ruin,' so you immediately push away.

"You're a demon! I shouldn't have come with you. If my mentors knew I was with a demon, I'd be stripped of my angel status. Oh no... do they know?" As you begin freaking out, Yuto's eyes widen as he stands there, speechless.

Finally noticing his uncharacteristic silence, you question his shock. Before responding, he looks over his hands, scanning them for a reaction.

"You're an angel? How could I touch you without the burn? How did I not notice to begin with?"

"I'm half. Half-angel, half-human. My mom is human, so the angels kept me on earth but mentored me about my tasks beforehand."

His eyes darken as he smirks at your admission, "I want to ruin you so much more now that you're an angel that I can touch."

Despite his words, he doesn't move towards you. Instead, he moves to the bed and takes a seat, still hyper-focused on his hands.

"They can't see you here, y'know. This is a demon's domain. Just as I can't touch angels, they can't see through a demon's force field. You shouldn't have even been allowed to walk into the neighborhood, yet you live in it. They can't see you, so if you'd like to learn what sex is like - you must've been curious, at least - this is the best place to try it." He looks up to gauge your reaction, finding you shocked, but also clearly curious, as you stare at his hands for a very different reason.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. They never come down to check on you, right? That's because they can't."

Realizing that his statement reigns true, you approach the bed and sit innocently next to him.

"Yuto, teach me. Show me."

"Strip for me, sweetheart." He doesn't miss a beat.

You immediately comply, lifting your shirt over your head and letting it fall to the floor into the pile of his clothes. You try to stand to take off your bottoms, but Yuto stops you and lightly pushes you to lay on the bed. He removes your pants himself, leaving you both in your underwear. For someone who wants to "ruin" you, he starts very softly by leaving kisses across your body. He starts from your hands, moving up your arms and down your body to your stomach.

"Will you trust me to take control of your body?" His tone soft but still dominant, you can't help but get flustered.

You nod, "C-Can I request something?" When he tilts his head in response, you clear your throat and try to continue with confidence, but your nervousness makes you ramble, "Can you tie me up or something? I feel sinful, but if it feels like you kidnapped me - even though I agreed - I feel like, just maybe, I can clean my conscience of failing the angels." You look away, hearing how idiotic you sound.

"Oh? Of course, I can, but only if you're okay with the roughness that comes with it. If it becomes too much, you can say the word 'cleanse' and I'll stop, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Yuto."

"No, thank you." With the scene established, Yuto's eyes glow again as he conjures wide, red ribbons into his hands. He uses them to tie your wrists together at the headboard. The darkness in his eyes leads you to believe the mood will change drastically, and, after only a few seconds, he proves your theory by ripping your underwear off, jokingly apologizing, then placing his hand on your heat. Your breath catches in your throat, and you can't help but squirm from his touch.

He makes eye contact with you briefly before focusing on your core again. His thumb rubs agonizingly slow circles on your clit, and he watches you twitch in response. As he gradually increases speed, you begin to whine. He knows how much you're enjoying yourself, so he stops.

"Yuto, why'd you stop? Please, keep going~!"

He scoffs, "Now, why should I listen to you? I'm in control, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Something about his voice makes you scared yet exhilarated at the same time. He's right, after all; you can't escape whatever fancy knots he tied, so you have no choice but to lay in place while he dominates the scene.

Suddenly, you feel his hand return. However, rather than continue, he inserts a finger inside you. He brags about having an angel so wet for him with such simple tactics, then adds another finger and begins moving them, hitting a spot inside you that makes you groan.

All of these sensations are so new to you, and your sin-filled reactions excite Yuto. With his free hand, he finally lowers his underwear, letting his penis spring free, fully erect. You didn't know what to expect, but it definitely looked bigger than his two fingers, and those already fill you well.

"It won't fit" You whine.

"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart. Your body can do magical things."

With that, he takes his fingers out of you and snaps, summoning a bottle of clear liquid.

"And this will help. It might hurt a bit at first, but your body will quickly adjust."

He spreads some of the liquid on his member and your entrance, then aligns himself. He looks at your face while he slowly pushes inside. Despite seeing the quick scrunching of your face, he watches you relax the further in he gets. Once fully inside, he waits for you to look him in the eye, then pulls almost fully out and slamming back into you.

He keeps a fair pace with rough thrusts, caring more about his own pleasure than yours. After a few minutes, the speed picks up, and his thrusts get sloppier. Without warning, he pulls out, quickly pumping himself to finish on your stomach and chest with a throaty moan.

He admires his work as you stay there, hoping for more. The corner of his lips curls up slightly as he sees you waiting.

"I'm done with you for tonight. Let's sleep. I'll help you reach heaven - or hell, if this is sinning - when we wake up."

He lies down beside you, not bothering to untie you. As he gets comfortable, you remind him of your restraints.

"I know, baby girl, but I can't risk you running away while I sleep. I think I'll keep you for myself. From now on, I'm your master, not those bloody angels. You'll do as I say."

You don't know how to respond. All you know is that you badly yearn for more of whatever it is that he was doing to you. So, you obediently sleep with the restraints on, hoping for more in the morning.

[misskittyspuffy]

To a better future (15x20, alternative ending)

[Takes place in 15x20, alternative ending]. When Dean and Sam find out that Chuck has manipulated them once more, they decide to take control of their lives again. (Dean/Cas, Sam/Eileen, Dean & Sam)

Note: Like many of us, I was truly hurt, angry and devastated after the finale, that was a huge slap in the face. I decided to wrote my own ending, the one I was sure we were getting (if the show had followed its narrative). Feedbacks are more than welcome ♥︎

Please note that English isn't my mother tongue, if you have any remark or spot mistakes, feel free to let me know! :) This is a translation of my fanfiction "À un meilleur avenir".

Ao3 link

  Their saturday nights were usually made of binge-watching sessions in the Dean-cave. Beers and pop-corn were their driving force for the evening. They usually were sitting on the couch Dean had especially set up in front of the big screen. Some other nights, they were going to the movies —which they rarely did in the past.

  But that evening, duty was going to prevail.

  An empty warehouse, deserted thirty years ago, had some strange —their kind of strange— activity in the past few weeks and the eldest Winchester had decided that it was worth to take a look at what seemed to be a ghost case. Three rash people had died at the place and some survivors had reported violent attacks.

A year ago, they had regained their free will. As it turned out, Chuck hadn’t played his last card that day, near the lake. After turning him into a human —at least, that’s what they had thought— the Winchester brothers hadn’t realized that they just had been trapped in his last scenario.

To remove a threat, you need to make believe to your enemy that he has successfully beaten you. And that’s exactly what Chuck had done. He had made them believe they had won. And had largely benefited from it.

The trap had taken the form of an illusion that had led Dean to his death and Sam to the perfect family life he had once hoped for. There had been a shift in the way Sam was feeling though —when he had gotten married, when his son was born, he had felt that something was off, but he had never succeeded to put his finger on what.

Seven years had passed after Dean’s death when one morning, while Sam was off to his daily jog, he had found Jack on his porch, waiting for him. He was looking unusually worried, which had led the Winchester to believe that something very serious had happened. Little did he know, by this time, how much his life had been about to change. The Nephilim had then explained to him that he was about to break the divergent timeline Chuck had created and in which he had locked them in. The trick was ingenious, but Jack had been more clever. He had perceived a breach while moving from one world to another —he and Amara were rebuilding the parallel dimensions Chuck had meticulously destroyed, in order to preserve the Balance of the Universe.

It had taken a while for Sam to fully accept the idea that what had been his life for so long was a lie. The illusion created by the former God had become his new reality. Getting out of it was scary and had seemed impossible at first. He had spent hours contemplating the life he had built, watching the son that was born from his marriage —born from an illusion. But looking at him playing in their living room, he had felt very real. When he had called him “dad’’, handing him over a drawing he had just made of their perfect little family, his throat had tighten. In the next few days though, he had come to terms with the fact that Jack was right, and a deep feeling of gravity was now taking over. What was about to happen was probably one of the most painful things he ever had to experience. Losing what he thought was real did feel real, but intellectually, he knew something wasn’t right. It wasn’t who he was, it wasn’t his life.

  As soon as Jack had told him about Chuck, about the fact that he still had his powers —to some extent— and had only conceded a part of them to him, including Amara, Sam had known he was telling the truth. Seven years ago in that barn, it wasn’t the ending Dean had deserved. 

  It wasn’t them back then, it wasn’t him right now. Their lives had been taken away from them.

  He had finally put his finger on what felt wrong. Jack had then mentioned a certain Eileen, and at this moment, that name hadn’t even ring a bell. Donna, Jody, Charlie, Claire… So many people that Chuck had erased from their lives. People that were once family had become strangers. Sam had finally accepted Jack’s plan to restore his life and Dean’s life the way they were before everything went wrong. The bonds the youngest Winchester had formed in that illusion were left behind, and he knew it was a wound that wasn’t going to be easy to move on from. But he knew his brother didn’t deserve to die the way he did. It had been enough for him to find the courage to move forwards with Jack’s scheme to fix their lives.

  The natural order of things was back in the space of a few minutes, thanks to Jack. He had brought Dean back on Earth, had given them back their memories and —in the process— had restored their real personalities. Sam was again the same age he was before they fought against Chuck. The fallout had been truly hard to accept, for both of the Winchesters. They had been screwed, big time. Dean had fallen on his knees, right in the middle of the Bunker, feeling more numb and devastated than ever. Only a few hours had passed for him when he was in the fake version of Heaven Chuck had created, but it had been too much already. He had received a call from Donna and Jody, who had felt the need to talk to him, after feeling like they had gone through a fever dream.

  What a f*cking asshole, the eldest Winchester had yelled, while throwing his phone away.

  He wasn’t as expressive as his brother, but Sam shared the same state of mind. He was still processing, especially considering what he had left behind, but now that everything was back the way it used to be, the seven years he had spent in that illusion of life felt like a blurry dream. They were now in control of their lives again.

  Jack and Amara had been enough to overpower Chuck —for real this time. Using his idea of a lie, they had turned him into a real human being. He had quickly gotten a chance to learn that the Universe had a really strange sense of humor, and had died a few weeks later from an unknown disease.

  One year later, on a saturday night, Dean was getting ready for his hunt. Standing in front of the Bunker’s table, he was putting away weapons in his bag, making sure that they hadn’t forgotten something that could be useful : the EMF meter, pouches of salt, guns… At some point, he frowned and rummaged at the bottom of the bag, and finally found a nunchaku.

  “What the hell?!’’ he grumbled. “Damn it, Sam!’’

  A man’s hand appeared next to his, adding a blade in the bag, which the Winchester opened a little more to give his partner a better access to it.

  “You really like this one, don’t you?’’ he said with a smile.

  Cas shrugged. “You’re the one who told me that I was going to have my favorites.’’ 

  “Right,’’ he nodded.

  The former angel was standing next to him, dressed in a leather jacket, wearing jeans and a red shirt, that completely detonated with his previous usual wardrobe. Dean was partly responsible for this new looks, he had dragged him to a few shops after Cas had came back human. 

  “You think it’ll be enough?’’ the blue eyed man asked.

  The Winchester looked up and leaned on Cas, kissing him briefly on the lips. “Looks good to me.’’ 

  A disapproving look appeared on the former angel’s face. “Dean.’’ 

  Dean raised an eyebrow. “What?’’ 

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the grenade-launcher?’’ he sighed.

  While he was speaking, Cas opened the bag again, pointing out the weapon in question.

  “So what?’’ the Winchester said with an innocent look.

  “Ghosts, Dean. We’re going to fight ghosts. The grenade-launcher’s usefulness will probably be close to nada.’’ 

  “Oh yeah, because your blade is going to have so much effect on them,’’ Dean said in return in a teasing tone.

  Looking a little bit offended, Cas squinted. If a look could kill… 

  “You being so cute when you’re mad really should be a crime,’’ Dean said with an affectionate expression on his face.

  The former angel was standing still and Dean kissed him again on the lips before grabbing his hand and leading them to the Bunker’s stairs, making him follow his steps. “Let’s go, you can still sulk in the car,’’ he said in an amused tone.

  Sam appeared in the hall, coming from the corridor. “Hey,’’ he said to the couple. An intrigued look appeared on his face. “What are you up to?’’ 

  Dean and Cas exchanged a look. 

  “Nothing big, a haunted place. You know, the usual stuff,’’ the eldest Winchester shrugged.

  Sam frowned. “You got a serious lead on that?’’ 

  “Yeah, three deaths. We’re going to take a look.’’

  “If you give me a minute, I could—’’

  “No,’’ Dean interrupted him firmly. “You and Eileen got plans for tonight. Go. Watch your dancers in tights, or whatever, we’ll take care of the dead.’’ 

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Really, Dean? That’s all you’re taking away from ballets? Dancers in tights?’’ 

  “Never saw one, but I’m fine with it,’’ he answered with a half smile.

  Cas grabbed his boyfriend’s arm, pushing them in the direction of the stairs. “Don’t pay attention to him Sam,’’ he said midly-amused, midly-exasperated. “Dean is right, we’re taking care of it. Enjoy your night,’’ he ended with a smile.

  While they were leaving, Sam realized his nunchaku was in the trash. “DEAN!!!’’ 

***

  What was supposed to be a classic hunt turned out to be more challenging that what they were expecting. A demon also occupied the Warehouse, and a second one had appeared during the fight. Cas’ blade ended up being useful. After killing one of them, he was projected on a bunch of cardboards. Dean killed the other one, and once it was over, he ran in the direction of the former angel, worried.

  “Cas, you’re okay?’’ 

  “I’m fine,’’ he answered while breathing heavily. He grabbed the hand Dean was giving him. “I didn’t expect this turn of events.’’ 

  “Yeah, two little surprises that weren’t on the program,’’ Dean said, looking down at the corpses. “You’re sure you’re okay?’’ he asked again, sliding his hand along Cas’ arm.

  Cas nodded and kissed him on the cheek, near the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry that much for me. I can handle myself. You’re human too… and you’re still here.’’ 

  “I’ve been human a lil’ bit longer than you have,’’ Dean said. “I got my fair amount of injuries before properly kicking ass, you know. Takes time.’’ 

  “Our training helped me to improve.’’

  “Good, that’s what it was meant for,’’ he said firmly.

  Dean started remembering their first trainings and what had led them to this situation. Which reminded him how things went the year before, after they had gotten back on their reality.

  Flashback - A year ago

  After learning that Chuck had manipulated them once more, Dean had locked himself into his bedroom, on the edge of breaking everything that was in it. The person he used to be probably would have done it at this point. But Cas’ words still resonated with him. Love was the force driving his actions, he wasn’t made of hate or violence, and he wanted it to be the thing that would prevail from now on. He had every intention to honor that. 

  Once he had hugged his brother and catched up with him about the recent events, Sam had left the Bunker to meet Eileen, who he had been talking to for the past hour. They both had felt the need to see each other, considering how things had gone since the last time they had interacted, the day she disappeared. With Sam away, Dean had taken the opportunity to do what he knew his little brother would probably have dissuade him to try. He had went to see Jack, who hadn’t left the Bunker yet. The young man was quietly sitting in the library when the eldest Winchester approached him, a determined look on his face. 

  “Can you open a breach to the Empty? Do you have that power?’’ 

  “I know what you’re thinking,’’ Jack said, slowly closing the book he had in his hands. “I was expecting you to ask me that. Can I do it? Sure. But… the actual state of things with the Empty is not stable enough yet. I’m… negotiating with her.’’ 

  “I have to do it, you know I can’t let him over there,’’ he ended with a trembling voice despite himself. “I’m not asking you to bring him back for me, I know it might not be possible right now, this is something I have to do by myself. I’m just asking for a little boost.’’ 

  Jack quietly nodded. “You think you can win this? That you’ll have something to offer that the Empty will be interested in?’’ 

  “Let me handle this part,’’ the Winchester replied.

  A beat.

  “So? The breach?’’ he asked again, looking impatient. He had tried to cover it, but his voice had came out as a little supplication. 

  “Of course. It’s Cas.’’ 

  Dean’s throat tightened and he had a sudden difficulty to swallow. “Yeah… exactly. It’s Cas.’’ 

  “But if things go wrong… I don’t know if I’ll be able to step in. There is a new balance, I’m not the only one ruling on the Universe, and I have no power over the Empty. That’s why I didn’t have a chance to bring Cas back myself.’’ 

  The Winchester nodded, nothing would make him change his mind. 

  A few minutes later, the breach was open. A dark circle had taken place on the Bunker’s wall, undulating and growing second after second, the same way it had the day it came to collect Cas. Dean took an inspiration and with no hesitation, threw himself into it. 

  “Good luck,’’ Jack said once the Winchester had disappeared. 

  A smile took place at the corner of his mouth. 

  He knew everything was going to unfold the way Dean had planned it.

***

The Empty was a vast place, it really was doing justice to its name. The darkness was the only thing Dean could contemplate, with no beginning nor end in sight. He wasn’t even sure that he could actually see anything beyond fifteen or twenty feet. He was destabilized at first, didn’t know where to start, turning around and contemplating the void, trying to find any form of activity, a sign of Cas’ presence. Unsure of the direction he was supposed to take, he blindly started to walk around, and did the only logical thing he could do at this moment. He called Cas’ name. Once, twice, ten times, twenty times, fifty times —but for a moment, silence was the only answer he had gotten. He shout out his name until the Empty finally appeared right before him as Meg.

  “Cas! Cas!’’ she said in a mocking voice. “WILL YOU SHUT UP??!!!’’ 

  Dean took a few seconds to adjust to his new interlocutor, on his guards. 

  His jaw clenched. “Where is he?’’ he asked firmly. He wasn’t there to negotiate.

  “You’re here to get your sweet little angel back, that’s cute… but not enough. Your weapon will have no effect on me,’’ she said while pointing out the blade he held in his left hand.

  The Winchester looked briefly in the same direction and tighten his grip on the blade even harder. “It’s not for you.’’ 

  The Empty looked intrigued. “Really?’’ 

  “Where is he?!’’ he asked again.

  She sighed while crossing her legs, sitting on her throne. “Somewhere… between here and there… I saved him a seat at my best spot.’’ 

  A creepy smile distorted her face and she raised a knowing eyebrow in Dean’s direction. Cas’ treatment was probably one of the most painful she could inflict to someone. At this mere thought, the Winchester started to feel sick in his stomach. How long Cas had been here? How many days, months, years maybe had he been stuck in this place while him and Sam were living the scenario Chuck had planned for them? 

  The Empty hadn’t seen it coming —to be honest, Dean hadn’t either— but in the second that had followed, he had thrown himself to her and gave her a powerful punch in the face, that destabilized her for a second. She sent him away from a movement of her hand, he landed harshly on the ground. Dean got up pretty quickly, but the rage hadn’t left his face, his eyes were still dark and fixated on the Empty.

  “WHERE THE HELL IS HE??!’’ 

  “You and your angelic boyfriend are really insufferable,’’ she said furious, matching his own tone. “You wanna know where he is? He’s reliving his worst torments on loop. In which you’ve done many cameos, actually,’’ she added amused. “I’m not gonna pretend I’m not enjoying watching him suffer. Because I do.’’ 

  Dean clenched his jaw. “One last time, tell me where he is or I swear I’m g-’’ 

  “You’re gonna what? Yell at me to death?’’ she said mockingly. “You can do nothing against me.’’ 

  “Maybe. But I can get quite inventive, I’ll be the biggest pain in your ass. You like quietness? I can promise you you’ll never find peace again. I’m human, you have no power over me.’’ 

  The Empty’s face suddenly fell.

  “Tell me where he is,’’ Dean said, once more.

  She looked contemplative for a few seconds and a sigh escaped her lips. “Good luck, Dean. But remember… no matter what you do, Castiel is mine.’’ 

  With a snap of her fingers, she teleported him to Cas. Dean landed harshly on the floor of a cold room, only to find himself surrounded by four walls. There was no door, no way to escape. The place was dark and he had a hard time seeing where he was, but after adjusting his vision to the place, he discerned the presence of Cas, who was lying down, facing the floor, unconscious. He wasn’t physically hurt, but the pain on his face was very telling about the hell he was emotionally experiencing in whatever the Empty was putting him through in his nightmares. His face looked worried and scared.

  Dean kneeled next to him, hanging the blade at his belt. He turned him on his back and tried to wake him up, putting a hand on his face.

  “Cas! Hey, Cas! Wake up. I need you to wake up.’’ 

  It took a little while, but after insistance, Dean finally succeeded to bring him back to conscientiousness. Cas had a hard time keeping his eyes open.

  “Dean?’’ the angel finally said in a husky voice. He wasn’t sure if he was truly awake or if dream and reality had just got mixed up again. 

  “It’s me,’’ he said. “Hey, hey, stay with me, okay?’’ he added when he saw that Cas was falling out again. He tried to keep him in a sitting position.

  “You’re not real.’’ 

  “I am. I promise you. I’m sorry it took me so long…’’ His voice broke. He kept the angel’s face between his hands, looking deep into his eyes, trying to convince him it was really him. “I’m gonna get you out, okay?’’ 

  Cas seemed lost. “Where are we?’’ 

  “The Empty. You sacrificed your life to save me, remember?’’ 

  A beat. Cas’ eyes seemed to focus and find a semblance of consistency. “I remember.’’ His face fell. “Dean… what are you doing here?’’ he said in a worried voice.

  The Winchester was baffled. “You really thought I was going to leave you rot here?’’ His throat tightened. “You saved me, Cas. More than once. You really thought I wasn’t going to look for you?’’ 

  Cas frowned. “You might not be able to leave this place.’’ 

  “Oh believe me, I will. We will. You’re coming with me.’’ 

  The angel shaked his head. “I can’t, Dean, the deal…’’ 

  Dean stopped him. “The deal doesn’t matter anymore. I have a solution.’’ 

  He took the blade at his belt and showed it to the angel, who seemed lost in return. He didn’t understand.

  “But… you have to agree with my plan,’’ he added, nervous.

  “What do you mean?’’ 

  “The Empty can only hold angels and demons. If you’re human, she won’t have any hold on you.’’ He pointed out the flask that was attached to his necklace. “If we extract your grace, if you become human… you’ll be able to come home with me.’’ 

  Dean was anxious, he didn’t know how Cas was going to react to his proposal.

  “Do you agree with this plan?’’ Dean asked hesitant.

  The angel nodded, still feeling groggy. “Of course.’’ 

  “Awesome,’’ Dean said, relieved. “Look, I don’t know what the Empty is up to, we should hurry up, okay? You’re ready?’’ 

  As a sign of agreement, Cas extended his neck, giving free access to Dean. After a short hesitation, the Winchester cut him a little with the blade, placing the flask near the incision. The process started and only took a few seconds. The blue light, glittering, started its transfer to the container, making the angel feel suddenly weaker.

  “YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO DO THAT!!’’ 

  The Empty, still wearing Meg’s traits, had just appeared next to them. Furious.

  “Castiel is mine, you had no right!’’ 

  “We did actually, and we took it,’’ Dean answered in a defiant voice, while helping Cas to get up. “He’s human now, he doesn’t belong to you anymore.’’ 

  She was about to throw herself at them but the portal leading to their world appeared again on the wall of the room they were in. Dean put Cas’ arm around his neck and led them to the breach, which they quickly got aspired by. In the next second, they were on the Bunker’s floor, catching their breath. 

  “Excellent timing, kiddo,’’ Dean said to Jack while getting on his feet.

  He promptly ran to Cas’ side, helping him to stand. He was noticeably weakened, but seemed to be okay.

  “How are you holding up?’’ he asked to the former angel, his full attention on him.

  Cas leaned a little on him. “I think I’ll be fine,’’ he assured. Cas then realized who was standing next to the table. Jack. He fixated his look on him with a questioning look and the young man finally ran to his father and took him into his arms. “I missed you, Cas.’’ 

  “How long… how long was I gone?’’ he asked while they were breaking the hug.

  Dean and Jack looked at each other, uncertain. The timeline had been changed, distorted, rebuilt. What had represented a few days for Dean had been seven years for Sam. And they didn’t even know how it was for Cas. It was a difficult question to answer. 

  “We should save this for later…’’ Dean said, with a tap on his shoulder. “Let’s take care of you first.’’ 

***

  Ten days had passed and things were back to the way they used to be. Not everything was the same, of course, but their life had now found a semblance of normalcy again. Dean had rearranged everything in Cas’ bedroom, to adjust and adapt the place to his new needs. He had given him some of his clothes and they had gone shopping to complete his wardrobe. 

  Cas was feeling way better and, like he once had to do, was now adjusting to his new life as a human, rediscovering the pleasure of eating food that didn’t taste like molecules. 

  Things with Dean had slowly changed during the course of the last few days. At first, they had been all focused on his new condition, helping him to find a new balance, but now that things were pretty much coming back to what they were, the dynamic between the hunter and the former angel had slowly became awkward and a strange tension had taken place between them. Not that they were avoiding each other, far from it, but they were walking on eggshells —even Sam had noticed it. Cas was particularly cautious about the way he was acting around Dean. After his confession, which they had never talked about since he had came back, he was very attentive to not causing any discomfort.

  Little did he know about the inner battle that was currently raging in the eldest Winchester’s mind —battle he had lost many times in the past few days, actually. Hesitation, fear of doing everything wrong, of the unknown, of giving his life a new turn, of experiencing his feelings in a way he never had before… all of this was holding him back. The love thing wasn’t something Dean was comfortable with. Not because he didn’t felt it —he felt it too much actually— but he had never been good at expressing it. He was good at pretending things didn’t affect him, his nonchalance was preserving him. But Cas’ confession had changed everything, had made every single wall he had built around his heart shiver. He had been aware of his feelings for the angel for quite a while now, years even. He had slowly realized that there was nothing brotherly about the way he was feeling about him. Their relationship had always been quite unique.

  Every time he had lost him, Dean had known. The deepness of the hurt had been beyond reparable. When he had offered him that mixtape, shortly after he had almost died a few years ago, it had been his way of expressing it, even if he knew the angel wasn’t going to understand the true meaning of such a gift. He knew it was the love language that had made his parents fall in love, and in some kind of way, it had been the language he had chosen to use. 

  But he was tired of being silent. Tired of not being who he was. Of not following his heart.

  He had no reason to hide anymore. He couldn’t pretend Cas didn’t feel the same way. All his life, he had been solely focused on Sam’s happiness, because that was all what mattered. He wished for him to have the perfect life he had always wanted. Who would have guessed that one day, Dean Winchester would start thinking about his own happiness, would believe that he might actually deserve it too. Better days were coming. They were now free, a world of new possibilities was opening to them. Maybe, just maybe, he actually deserved something different than the life made of sacrifices he had always imagined for himself.

  It hadn’t taken that long for things to take a new turn. Cas had decided to come to his first hunt as a human, which had immediately activated in Dean his protective mode. The Winchester had tried to stay as chill as he could, but he had stay right beside him, not letting him out of his sight. Once they had been back from their mission, the former angel had complained about it, telling him that he did not want to be a burden for him, which had led to a grumpy answer from the hunter.

  When Dean had come to his door that night, to make sure Cas’ wound after their hunt didn’t need more care, their conversation had derailed incredibly fast.

  Cas had been shaking his head, not breaking eye contact with the Winchester. “You should stop worrying that much about me, Dean.’’ 

  A beat.

  He had then given him an earnest answer. “Can’t. Won’t.’’ 

  They had stayed silent for a moment, staring at each other from opposite sides of the room. Dean had felt his hands become sweaty, his breath racing. He had taken a new step inside the room, had closed the door behind him. He was now standing near the entrance, his eyes fixated on Cas, who was next to his bed. The silence of the room was only troubled by the sound of their respective breath, which added some kind of weight to the moment.

  “I’ll never stop worrying about you…’’ Dean said with a new intensity, tilting his head on the side.

  He had taken a new step towards the former angel, hesitant. His eyes had been fixated on the floor for a moment, before he had brought them back on him.

  “Cas…’’ 

  He had shaken his head, opened his mouth like if he was about to say something, about to speak his own truth, but no words had come. So he had decided to do the only thing he knew how to do: let his actions speak for him.

  Once he had reduced the distance between them, Cas’ heartbeat had incredibly increased. He hadn’t dare to hope. Never. But… what if? In the spare of a few seconds, he had gotten his answer. Dean’s face had come really close to his own, his green eyes never breaking the contact with his blue ones. There was so much left unsaid, but right now, he needed to show him how he felt. He had leaned closer to him, closed his eyes and their lips had finally met. Shyly at first, but when they had realized how good it felt, how it was everything they had needed, they had reinforced their embrace. There was no hesitation left. The Winchester’s hands had cupped Cas’ face, while the former angel had wrapped his arms around him. When they had first broke the kiss, their faces remaining close, a silent tear was running through Cas’ cheek.

  “I love you too, Cas,’’ Dean finally succeeded to say, like if he was reprising their conversation from weeks before. Tears were flooding his eyes and he was shaking. “We… never talked about it, since you came back. I never got a chance to thank you for… everything. Absolutely everything, Cas. Things went so fast back then. But I want you to know how much I love you. I have for years, actually. Everything you are… and I always miss you, so much. But I never thought… I never thought we could have this. And I’m sorry, so sorry, that it took me so long to say it.’’ 

  Cas’ throat had tightened. He had been physically incapable of saying anything in return. It was all he had ever wanted, but had convinced himself he would never get. He didn’t think he would deserve it. He had taken the initiative of the second kiss, which had started as tenderly as the previous one and led them to explore a physical and emotional intimacy neither of them had known before.

  From this day, every piece of the puzzle had started to fall in place. Their life had taken a new turn —but this time, it was one they had chosen.

Present day

  Dean had just parked the Impala at a gas station. Once he had turned off the motor, he had rotated his body to face Cas’, who was sitting next to him and was consulting his phone.

  “Claire and Kaia are coming by on friday,’’ he said, meeting the Winchester’s eyes.

  “It’s her birthday, isn’t it?’’ 

  Cas nodded.

  “We should get her something,’’ Dean suggested.

  “I’m gonna need your help,’’ the former angel said, a hint of panic on his face. 

  The Winchester winked at him. “Don’t worry, I got an idea of something she might like. She loves music, right?’’ 

  Cas sighed. “Yes, she… tried to make me listen to some of it, actually. It was… quite an experience.’’ 

  Dean bursted into laugher when he remembered the day he had found Cas listening to The Pretty Reckless. 

  Since the day he had become human, Cas and Claire had been more in contact than ever. They had talked on the phone and had met each other a couple of times. Claire was still living with Jody and Donna, but along with Kaia, they were now doing things their way. The young blonde was pretty invested into the hunting life, a choice Jody and Cas weren’t sure they were approving. But she wasn’t taking no for an answer and the only thing they could do was let her make her own experience. Everyone could see that Kaia had a good influence on her, though.

  “At least, we don’t have that kind of issue with Jack,’’ the Winchester said. “Well, when he comes by,’’ he then muttered to himself. 

  The former angel agreed. “I understand his questionings way better.’’ 

  “A Nephilim who became our new God and now juggles with multi-dimensions and handles existential kind of stakes… Yeah, makes sense for you,’’ Dean said with tenderness in his voice. 

  A half smile appeared on the former angel’s lips and he shrugged. “I’m a few millions years old, Dean. I mean, I was.’’ 

  “And you’re really not doing bad,’’ he added, taking his hand in his. “You’re doing a lot of good, actually.’’ Cas tightened his squeeze, intertwined their fingers.

  Adjusting to life as a human being had been a whole new challenge, Cas was still processing and learning, even though he wasn’t a stranger to this. But with the help of Dean, Sam and Eileen, he was getting more and more comfortable and used to it. A month and a half after he had returned from the Empty, he had decided to seek for a way to help and be active in this new stage of the world. He had joined social workers in a shelter and had offered his help for the place five times a week for the past months. He had gotten very invested, and Dean had joined him more than once, especially when some supernatural events had collide with the work they were doing there.

  “Offering guidance and protection to these kids seemed more appropriate than spending days in bed watching Netflix with you… even though I really enjoy Netflix,’’ he ended with humor in his voice.

  Dean raised an eyebrow, midly-offended. “What about being in bed with me?’’ 

  The former angel rolled his eyes, accentuating his grasp on the Winchester’s hand. “Like if you didn’t already know that I enjoy that part.’’ 

  An amused smile appeared on Dean’s lips, before he became serious again, looking at Cas lovingly. “We did a lot of good lately, you and I…’’ 

  They stared silently at each other for a few seconds, lost in each other’s eyes. Cas got closer and leaned into Dean to kiss him slowly. “We did.’’ 

***

  When they arrived at the Bunker, they saw that Eileen and Sam had returned from their night out. They were now comfortably sitting on one of the couches that were in the main room and were both looking at the youngest Winchester’s screen, laughing at what they were watching.

  Dean and Cas came down the stairs and walked in their direction.

  “So, how was it?’’ the eldest Winchester asked in a skeptical voice, while putting his bag on the table.

  “Amazing,’’ Sam said with an emphasis. “I know what to get you for your next birthday.’’ 

  Dean’s face fell. “Sam, if you drag me to one of your ballet things, I’ll never talk to you again, capiche?’’ 

  The youngest Winchester shrugged, side-eyeing the former angel. “Maybe Cas wants to see one.’’ 

  “Ha! Doubt it,’’ Dean said in a pretty confident voice.

  “Well…’’ Cas seemed to seriously consider the option. “Why not.’’ 

  “What?’’ Dean said incredulous, looking at his boyfriend with a look of betrayal. “Really?’’ 

  “Life is short,’’ Cas said with a shrug. “There is a lot of different forms of art, I don’t want to limit myself to only a few of them.’’ He smiled and teasingly nudged Dean, who looked disappointed.

  “You should consider it,’’ Eileen added, laughing a little. “We made pop-corn, do you want some?’’ she then signed, pointing them the bowl that was on the table. The moment she said it, she realized it had gone empty. “I’m gonna get us some more,’’ she added.

  “I’m coming with you,’’ Cas signed.

  He put his jacket on one of the chairs and while talking about his and Dean’s last hunt to the young woman, they left the room together. The eldest Winchester and the former angel had taken some sign language classes online, adding that learning to their almost daily practice, allowing the efforts to be split in two during conversations. 

  Dean watched them leave, looking contemplative for a few seconds, and then came to sit next to his brother, after grabbing one of the beers that was on the table. 

  “No bad surprises? During your hunt?’’ 

  The eldest Winchester was lost in his thoughts and he took a moment before answering. “Two demons, who came out of nowhere. But we got rid of them pretty easily. They were the ones responsible for the attacks and murders. The ghosts were harmless…’’ 

  “They’re gone too?’’ 

  “Yup, we did what we had to do.’’ 

  “Awesome, I’m gonna put the informations on the app.’’

  “Don’t worry about it, Cas did it on our way home,’’ he said while patting his brother’s leg.

  “Good. Hey, did you know that the app had now spread in Europe and Australia?’’ Sam said while showing him the screen of his computer. “Charlie took care of everything.’’ 

  Dean smiled proudly. “They would have been stupid not to do it. It’s a genius idea that you had.’’ 

  As soon as they had found their free will again, Sam had spent months thinking about what was going to be his next step. With the exception of his relationship with Eileen, which was the only thing he was pretty much confident about, the possibilities about his future, especially in terms of career, were very uncertain. The life he had in Chuck’s ending was now a fuzzy memory, but it had led him to question his ambition.

  After hesitating, he had decided to follow his gut and pursue his will to become a teacher. Law school was his past self’s dream and after years of fighting, he had realized that he wanted to pass on his knowledge and connect with other people. At the same time, he had developed an app with the help of Charlie, that was reuniting hunters in the same virtual place and allowing them to share precious informations about their hunts, the supernatural spots, informations and datas about the creatures they had fought, the places and dates of their hunts. Every case that was solved was signaled as such on the app. 

  It was a worldwide and virtual version of John Winchester’s journal, that had allowed him to unite thousands of hunters through the world and had facilitated the fight against ghosts, demons and other creatures. Sam had invested a lot of time in the making of the app, which was now the biggest database that ever existed on the subject. Rowena, as the Queen of Hell, had a better control over the demons than it was the case by the past, but many of them were still off her authority.

  Watching his little brother be so invested in his new missions had made Dean very proud.

  “You’re doing great, Sammy,’’ he said while looking at his brother. “The way you handled this whole thing… you made a difference.’’ 

  He raised his beer in Sam’s direction.

 “I don’t know if you realize it, but you’re not doing so bad either,’’ Sam said after a few seconds of silence.

  Dean shrugged. “Doing my best.’’

  “The bar is practically yours, Dean. There’s only some paperwork left, it’s a done deal.’’ 

  For the past month, the eldest Winchester had started to see his dream of possessing his own bar slowing become a reality. They had found it during one of their hunts in Lebanon, with Cas, Sam and Eileen. It was well located but the place had been haunted for years and the previous owners had much trouble selling it. In exchange for the Team Free Will’s services, they had offered to sell it to Dean at a very interesting price.

  “I guess,’’ Dean said with a proud little smile 

  “And Cas…’’ Sam added gently. “You seem to be doing great together. After all these years… you deserve it.’’ He tried not to push too much, knowing how bashful his big brother could get on this kind of topics.

  Dean was looking at his hands, but his face had clearly brightened up. He nodded. “From day one, he changed everything for me.’’ 

  Sam smiled. “Who would have believed it.’’ 

  “All those years ago, I wouldn’t have seen us coming this far.’’ 

  “Clearly, me neither…’’ 

  The youngest Winchester was hesitant for a second, looking nervously in the direction of the framing of the door Eileen and Cas had went through.

  “You know… I’m gonna propose to her,’’ he finally said.

  Dean’s eyes went wide open, even though he wasn’t exactly surprised, knowing his brother.

  “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now… I’m confident that what we have is what I’ve been looking for my whole life. Everything just… clicks, when I’m with her. I didn’t think it would happen again, after Jess.’’ 

  Dean bowed his head for a second, smiling. 

  “You’re… you’re not going to cry, right?’’ 

  “What?! Me? NO!’’ Dean replied in a defensive voice. He took a new sip on his beer, trying to hold it together. “I’m just very happy for you, Sammy.’’ 

  He took his little brother in his arms, gently patting him on the back.

  “Are you scared?’’ he asked once they ended the hug.

  The youngest Winchester sighed. “A little… I mean, I’m not really afraid that she would say no, even if this is a possibility, of course. But, I trust what we have and I know she’s sharing my dream of building our own family.’’ 

  Dean looked confused. “What scares you then?’’

  “Well… the last time I thought about marriage, it was with Jessica… and I lost her. In the worst possible way.’’ 

  “Our lives went pretty well since the day we defeated Chuck.’’ 

  “I know, but… a part of me is still afraid that everything is going to be taken away from me, you know? We lost so much since our childhood, I’m just… not yet used to things being so simple. I don’t know if that makes sense?’’ he said, looking at his brother.

  Dean slowly nodded, with an understanding look. “It does. I woke up more than once in the middle of the night just to make sure Cas was still lying down next to me…’’ 

  “We had our share of traumas and losses…’’ Sam sighed, taking the beer he had left on the floor. “To a better future,’’ he finally said, raising his bottle for a toast.

  “To a better future.’’ 

THE END

[blossom-hwa]

@wingkkun​ I told you I'd do this :) thanks for letting me use your ideas for a certain crush you have <3

read the actual whispers of nature series with stray kids here or take a peek at an alternate shoreside community whispers of nature au with stray kids right here!

~ ~ ~

if I wrote something within the whispers of nature universe for tbz, it would take place somewhere hot. dry, maybe, thought that doesn’t necessarily need to be the case. maybe a desert of hot sands and blustery winds during the day, and cold, cold nights with stars sparkling in the sky. 

sand dunes are abundant in the desert. some shift with the winds, some are rooted with vegetation, and some are a bit more stable in that the sand grains have begun to stick together over time. sangyeon is a sand spirit, but perhaps not in the same way as flighty, soft jacob, who goes where the wind blows. sangyeon is proud of where he stands, sand grains locked together from decades and centuries of existence, of being together for the sole purpose of providing a spot of familiar comfort to the few, far-flung nomadic humans who respect the earth, who respect the desert. you’re the spirit of the flowers that grow on sangyeon’s dune, helping to hold the shifty grains at the top together. you meet when the winds fling the seeds of your existence onto sangyeon’s forming consciousness, and you end up growing with the sand spirit, roots crawling through sangyeon’s dune, providing a spot of bright beauty in the endless expanse of the desert. it’s strange - you’ve known each other for so long that sangyeon would expect to know every part of you, yet he always finds himself in awe of your natural eye for beauty and the wisdom that spans beyond your years of existence. every day, you rise with him to meet the dawn, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth with lips that feel like golden cheer and sunlight, and every day, he finds himself thanking mother nature for sending you to hold him down, to keep him stable, and to make him feel loved. 

jacob lives among the sand, too, but he enjoys the free life more than sangyeon does. that isn’t to say he doesn’t appreciate stability - he prefers holding his sand grains together in a dune, rather than letting every grain fly where it chooses - but he likes to shift with the wind, his dune molding over centuries, an ever-changing relic of the hot desert winds. you’re a member of a small tribe of humans who wander the desert from oasis to oasis. by yourself, you might not attract attention, but the sound of your flute does. jacob hears the whistling, hollow sound of your instrument by chance one night, carried to his ears by the cold evening breezes, and that night, he follows the sound of your flute, follows the eerie, beautiful melodies of your music to the oasis where you rest. slight embarrassment reddens jacob’s cheeks when he shifts to his human form, startling the flute out of your hand, but the smile you give him after you recover, serene under the pale light of the moon, makes his heart pound. shyly, he apologizes for his arrival and explains his purpose, complimenting your music and asking if he might hear more. he only plans to listen to your flute, but by daybreak, jacob thinks he’s fallen in love with your sparkling eyes and silvery voice. for once, he finds his own purpose. when your tribe eventually moves on,  he doesn’t just go where the winds blow. instead, he follows your brilliant smile and the sound of your flute on the wind.

there are several oases in the desert, and younghoon is the water nymph who lives in one of them. though he enjoys his existence, enjoys the presence of the other nymphs and spirits who surround him, he sometimes yearns for something more, something beyond the confines of his lake. while his friends can leave for periods of time, younghoon can’t stay away from the water for too long or he dries out in the desert heat. sometimes, he feels a bit lonely, a bit trapped, unable to see anything beyond the fertile vegetation of his oasis, until you come around. you’re a moon child, daughter of the moon goddess and a sand spirit, so on nights when the moon’s light is strong, you like to explore the desert that is your father’s home. you find younghoon’s oasis on accident one day, and when he sees you, he’s struck speechless. younghoon’s shy around new people, even more shy around beautiful new people, so the moment you see him he hides in the depths of his lake. you coax him out, though, with your sweet voice and gentle smile that’s visible even from beneath the water. and over the days, then months, then years that you visit, younghoon doesn’t find himself feeling so lonely anymore. he doesn’t feel too trapped. because when you sit and talk with him, almost glowing under the pale light of the moon, he finds himself learning something new with every passing day - how much he’s fallen for you.

when hyunjae wakes, the whole world knows it. this is because he’s a spirit of lightning - brilliant, flashy, and altogether stunning. if you listen closely, you can hear his laughter echoing the claps of thunder during a storm. he’s a free spirit, even freer than jacob. he’s traveled the world through his domain in the sky, seen shoresides, cities, jungles, forests. you name it, he’s been there. he loves his freedom to roam, never staying in one place for too long. but no matter what, no matter where he goes or how long he stays, he always comes back to the desert for one person and one person only. you’re a desert willow, lovely and bright even in the hot mornings when no one truly wants to be awake. hyunjae meets you when he strikes a little too close to your tree during a storm, prompting you to come out and give him a loud shout-down that he can hear even through the raging winds. for some reason, even though he moves on the next day, he can’t help but think of you every second, every minute, every day. you barely give him a glance when he returns the first time, even though he gives you a genuine apology, but slowly, every time he comes back, you tolerate his presence a little more. scowls turn to frowns, frowns turn to neutral faces, neutral faces turn to grudging smiles that turn to laughter, then finally kisses (the first time hyunjae kisses you, he feels like the sand when he strikes to the ground - he melts against your lips). so though hyunjae values his freedom and loves to travel the world, you know he’ll always come back to the desert to find you. 

juyeon is a human, a member of one of the desert’s wandering tribes. by day, he walks the sands, traveling from oasis to oasis, but by night, he transforms into a dancer, arms gracefully moving in the cold air, performing the ceremonial dances of his people in the oases. he’s strong, kind, and many of his tribe would love to marry one of their children to him. however, they all know his heart has been stolen by one of the wind spirits - and yours, in turn, has been stolen by him. you first see him when you pass by on the breeze one night, and juyeon will later tell you that he felt the wind halt when you stopped to watch him dance. he moves like water, body fluid as the ceremonial clothing trails around him, floating like gossamer in the air. several times, you almost reveal yourself, an outline of your human form wavering briefly against the night, but you never show yourself fully that night, leaving juyeon wondering just what apparition was watching him dance. after several months of this, juyeon waits one night after his tribe has dispersed to bed and calls for the watching spirit to show themselves. face pale with embarrassment, you reveal yourself on the wind. his quiet manner captivates you that night, even more so than his dance, and as the nights pass on, you find yourself falling for his gentleness, the way his large hands cup your face when he leans down to kiss your lips. in turn, juyeon finds himself mesmerized with not just your beauty but your voice, the way you tell him stories of civilizations long gone, the way just the sound of his name from your lips can make his heart pound. yes, the tribe’s elders would love to marry strong, capable, graceful juyeon to one of their own, but they would be fools to break the bond between him and his wind spirit, the one who holds his heart.

kevin is a moon child, son of the moon goddess and one of the desert’s cacti (his mother likes to joke that he got his sense of humor from his father, which kevin wholeheartedly agrees with). he mostly spends his time in the heavens, the moon city of his mother’s home, but on one lucky full moon night, he ascends the moonlit staircase to the desert and witnesses you, a star, sending dreams to some of the nomad children. he’ll tell anyone who will listen that he was captivated by you in that instant, with the way you shone in the bright moonlight, starshine rolling off of your body in smooth waves. he doesn’t mean to get caught watching, but you notice him anyway. the way you start makes kevin think he’s unwelcome so he starts turning away, but you call after him, asking him to wait. it’s sweet, the way he falls in love with you day by day, taking walks among the heavens and sometimes on the sand dunes at night. one evening, kevin serenades you under the stars, arms wrapped around your waist as you rest yours around his shoulders. though he’s on earth at the moment, feet bare against the cooling sand, he feels as though he’s in the heavens, starlight and moonshine washing down upon his face. you rest your head against his shoulder as he sings softly into your ear, a gentle breeze blowing sand around your feet. in that moment, he feels the heavens shining down on your love.

oh, chanhee loves living in the same oasis as younghoon. he’s such an easy spirit to tease, especially when it comes to the moon child he’s fallen in love with. but privately, chanhee sometimes wishes for his own love, for his own happily ever after as one of the shrubs surrounding younghoon’s oasis. you’re the nymph who resides in one of the shrubs next to chanhee’s, and you’ve been in love with chanhee, one of your best friends, for a long time. it breaks your heart a little more every time chanhee talks of finding love because you know he’ll never accept your heart, but you love him so much that you keep suggesting other nymphs, other spirits for him to possibly take an interest in. at first, chanhee isn’t sure why he isn’t interested in any of them - that wind spirit was actually really cute, and so was the flower spirit you introduced him to - but as the years slowly go on, chanhee realizes that the love he was seeking... it was in front of him all along. it was there in the way you always lie with him in the early morning sunshine, playing with the strands of his hair and weaving little flower crowns from the flowers that grow on your bush. it was there in the way he always looked down from the skies to your face and saw you already smiling back at him. the day he finally kisses you, he feels like he’s falling into a pool of moonshine. the care with which you press your lips to his makes him feels so warm and so cool at the same time, something between the sun when it’s morning and it isn’t blisteringly hot yet and the pleasant coolness of the evening breezes. he realizes that night he could never get tired of your presence, never grow weary of your voice or your lips. so though he might keep teasing younghoon for his fairy tale love with his moon child, chanhee knows that he’s just as in love, if not more, with you.

if ever you catch a glimpse of a wind spirit dancing along the breeze, it’s probably changmin. he’s the most brazen of them all, moving the air, shifting the sand as he pleases, and he doesn’t care as much as the others whether a human sees him or not. the thing is, no one can stop him from having his way, because he always has a purpose. his shifts might appear arbitrary at first glance, random at the second, but changmin knows how to manipulate the air the way he wants, the way he needs. sometimes his movements are sharp, the cutting wind cold, but there’s always an elegance to his shifts, buoyed by the moving air. you’re a sand spirit of the shifting dunes, freer than sangyeon, freer even than jacob. your grains move with the air, blowing hot and free with the scorching winds of the daytime, swirling cool and elegant with the pleasant breezes of the night. neither of you honestly knows when you first truly met - it feels like you’ve known each other since the dawn of time - but it doesn’t matter. the way you and changmin complete each other is something smooth, something so completely natural that no one, not even mother nature, could deny your harmony. wherever you go, changmin follows. wherever he goes, you follow. it’s an eternal dance, the love between you and your wind spirit, a mesh of melodies in your floating grains of sand on changmin’s currents. he loves you fiercely, gracefully, with the unyielding strength of the storm gales he sends in the rain. you love him freely, wildly, with the fluttering elegance of your sand swirling around bare feet in the night breeze. on the occasions you’re twined together in your human forms, changmin thinks your lips taste of sweet freedom, cool and warm all at once, fluttering and soft against his forceful gales. but though your lips send him to the sky, your touch, your gentle touch, slightly rough with grains of sand sticking to your skin, grounds him just enough to know that should he so choose to stop his wind, you’ll be there to guide him back to the earth. your love is a never-ending dance of sand on wind, something beyond comprehension, beyond words, beyond even the definition of a soulmate. you complete changmin in a way that only the universe will ever understand.

haknyeon would be a cactus (and I really mean this in the least funny way possible, because I think the plant really does fit him). his spines look so soft that you can’t help touching them sometimes, but then you get a finger full of needles and blood because he’s not as soft as he looks. haknyeon survives the dry, hot seasons well enough, but when the rain comes, he revels in the water pouring onto the sand, soaking into his plant. he loves storms not just because of the nourishment the water gives him, but because he’s waiting for someone: you, a cloud spirit, one with the fallen rain. haknyeon met you by chance, really - he woke up in the middle of a storm and saw your form in a sudden flash of lightning. the image is burned in his mind, even to this day - hair streaming in the whipping wind, water pouring down your face, standing tall and elegant and so, so beautiful. he’ll tell you later on that he was smitten at first glance, reveling in the shy smile that spreads across your face. with every storm that passes, haknyeon stirs his consciousness as well as he can to leave the confines of his cactus, waiting as the water washes over his body for mc to return to the ground in the form of the swirling rain. your smile always makes haknyeon feel warm inside, as warm as though the sun was shining through the night. though your lips are cool from the storm water, your kisses feel like fire - haknyeon thinks he’s burning up when you press your mouth to his. you taste of the wildness of the winds and the rain, and he feels electricity against your lips. he always pouts when you break away, but he understands it’s a necessary evil - not just for air, but also so he can see your face, wet with rain, lit up by lightning, wild in its beauty.

he may be on the younger side of the spirits in this desert, but sunwoo was chosen for a reason by the last guardian to replace them. though he still has that unmistakable touch of youth in the way he carries himself, his eyes hold a wisdom beyond his years of existence. sunwoo understands the way the desert works, understands the purpose every spirit has in carrying out the intricacies of the ecosystem. you’re a fae, rather unlike the rest of your kind - you don’t delight as much in mischief, and you prefer solitude over the rabble of the fae realm. the desert, though rather inhospitable most of the time, provides a place to get away from the chaos that your fellow fae enjoy wreaking on the world and on each other. sunwoo comes across you one day, taking a nap under the shade of a tree. he’s immediately suspicious - what sort of fae would come to the desert, of all places, and why would they be doing something as innocuous as taking a nap? you wake up to him staring at you and, barely blinking an eye, ask him if he’s been mesmerized by your beauty. he chokes and immediately flares red. you just sit up and shrug, raising an eyebrow, asking him why he would be staring so intently at you if he wasn’t interested. sunwoo’s about to snap at you, but then he catches the slight teasing quirk of your lip and almost against his will, he relaxes. over the years, he grows to not just tolerate and enjoy your biting wit and sharp tongue, but to love it. you’re sharp, interesting, and fun to be around - you give him a little respite from his desert guardian duties, teasing him when he’s up for it, hugging him when he needs it. the day you throw caution to the wind and kiss him is one of the happiest days of his life - your lips, warm against his, taste of golden nectar and magic. some guardians, sunwoo knows, will take millennia to find the one they want to retire to, the one they want to live their rest of the days with. but when that time comes, well, sunwoo already knows who he wants to grow old with.

eric comes from a long line of witches. by all intents and purposes, he’s supposed to follow the occupation of his mother and father - learn spells and potions, eventually take over the small magic shop his family has owned for generations. but even after mastering the magic his family has left behind in spellbooks and grimoires, eric wants something more. he leaves his home for the nearby desert, trekking through sand dunes that change by the day, sometimes joining nomad groups for a time and helping them with his magic (they, he finds, are far more accepting of witches than are the supposed “civilized” people of the land he comes from), but mostly traveling alone. he only really expects to glean new knowledge - finding strange plants, formulating new spells, the like - but he finds something even better when he gets caught up in a storm one night, rain soaking him through his clothes as he tries to reach the next oasis. you’re the nymph of a mountain laurel, and, taking pity on the poor traveler you see trudging through the rain, you step into your human form and beckon him under your tree. it’s storming too loud to speak that night, but in the morning, as you help him salvage his wet things, eric tells you about himself at your request. he was planning to move on to the oasis first thing after the storm, but there’s something about you that just... pulls him in. eric can’t tell if it’s your sweet smile or your innate kindness or your stunning beauty or a mix of all three, but he finds himself staying with you with every day that passes. you eventually have to tell him to go, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek just next to his lips. eric whines that you can’t tell him to leave after giving him a kiss but you just laugh, promising that you’ll still be here should he ever want to return. and return he does only a few months later, lips chapped from the dry sun but oh, so sweet, so gentle, so soft against yours. 

[sylvanfreckles]

If You Love Me (FebuWhump 28)

Fandom: Supernatural Summary: Jack brings Dean some good news: Castiel has been resurrected and wants to return to earth. To do so he has to voluntarily give up his grace, through one thousand selfless acts that will eventually earn him a place in heaven. But selflessness isn’t easy...sometimes it’s downright selfish.

Prompt: “You Have to Let Me Go”

(It’s Destiel, it’s fluffy, it’s angsty, it’s everything I wish the finale had been. Canon divergent from before the boys head to the pie festival.)

(I don’t understand formatting on here too well, this is a little cleaner over on AO3)

* * *

This is gospel for the fallen ones

* * *

Dean's dreams were dark places lately. After losing so much...after Cas and Jack and the way the world just seemed to slip apart at the seams around them, there just wasn't much to smile about. So it was unusual that he fell asleep and found himself in a quiet meadow. It was just the kind of thing he used to dream about when Cas needed to dream-talk to him (he can't be gone he can't be gone).

It was...nice. The sun was warm on his face, reminding him that he hadn't really left the bunker in a while except to walk Miracle. Maybe...maybe this could be a message. There was still warmth and brightness in the world if he knew where to look for it. Maybe he should drag Sam to that pie festival in Akron, get some fresh air and a change of scenery.

“Hello.”

He spun around and was wrapping his arms around Jack before his mind really caught up what he was doing. Jack hugged him back, a little awkwardly (like Cas had...not Cas please, god, not Cas). “Damn, Kid, it's good to see you,” Dean huffed out, pulling away enough to get a good look at Jack's face. “Apotheosis looks good on you.”

At Jack's puzzled look Dean slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, I can look stuff up, too.”

“Right. Um, anyway, this is a dream.”

“Yeah, I got that.” He wrapped one arm around Jack's shoulders. “So, any reason you're popping in here and not visiting us in the bunker? Not that it's not great to see you, but Sammy's missing you, too.”

“I had something important to ask you,” Jack explained. “Just you...I don't think Sam needs to know until you wake up.”

Dean's eyebrows shot up. “Well, I'm all ears.”

Jack's mouth opened for a second, like he was going to contradict Dean (“I was never in...your...” why won't it stop). “Castiel is back.”

For a second, Dean was sure this wasn't a dream. He must have died in his sleep and gone to heaven, or been taken by a Djinn in a hunt. Or...or this was hell. Or a nightmare. There was no way the real Jack was actually here saying this.

“It's true,” Jack continued. He'd slipped out from under Dean's arm and stood facing him. “There's just...a problem.”

A problem. Of course. That made more sense. “What, uh, what's up?” Dean asked. His voice was cracking but he ignored it, focusing all of his attention on Jack.

“I had to close heaven,” the young entity explained. “It was better this way...between the remodeling and the new fledglings, it would only endanger earth if angels were still allowed to pass back and forth unhindered.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Dean held one hand up. “You...remodeled heaven?”

Jack nodded. “Everyone's together now. As it should be.”

Well, hell, that sounded a lot better than before. He hadn't really been looking forward to an eternity in his own private holo-deck anyway...a big, giant party sounded like a good deal. “So what's the problem?”

“Well...Cas wants to come back to you.”

Suddenly, the field around him was far too bright. Dean swallowed and looked away, fighting back the tears that prickled at the edges of his eyes. There it was...this was the nightmare again. Things like this didn't happen to Dean Winchester. He didn't get a happy ending.

“Dean,” Jack's hand on his arm pulled him back. “He can only return to earth if he gives up his grace.”

Oh. Dean swallowed and nodded. Of course. If Cas gave up his grace he'd be human again. That hadn't exactly gone well in the past. “So, what, you want me to tell him to stay up there?”

“It's not that simple.” With a sigh, Jack turned away from Dean and there was suddenly a park bench in the middle of the field. A simple, black iron thing that hadn't been there until Jack wanted it.

He sat down and awkwardly patted the bench for Dean to join him. “You see...if he stays in heaven he'll remain an angel. But if he returns to earth and loses his grace, he still wouldn't have a soul.”

Right. Angels weren't given souls. “So you're saying...”

“If he doesn't have a soul he'll go back to the Empty at the end of his life,” Jack explained.

Dean felt his heart sink. For one brief, shining moment he'd had the vision of growing old with Cas. Retiring together, maybe running the phones and lore the way Bobby used to, training up younger hunters to follow after them. But he couldn't ask for that, not at the cost of Cas's eternal peace.

“There's one thing, Dean,” the young entity interrupted before Dean fully lost it. “We don't have an Occultum, and he never had a soul to begin with, but there is a way for him to earn one.”

He met Jack's gaze, staring into the light blue eyes that still seemed so young. “How?”

“If Cas can perform one thousand selfless acts before he dies, he'll have earned an eternal rest in heaven. He'll lose his grace gradually, until he's nothing more than a mortal, but he would gain a soul in return. The question is...do you want him back under those conditions?”

He wanted Cas back under any condition. Angel or human, pissed-off demigod or nerd in a trench coat. Any version of Cas, any fraction of him...but this couldn't be about Dean. “What does he want?”

Jack's face relaxed in a smile and Dean could have sworn the kid winked at him. “I think you know.”

Dean felt his cheeks grow hot and cleared his throat, trying to cover his embarrassment. “Well, y'know, if this is what Cas wants.”

“Dean,” Jack's hand on his shoulder left a tingle like static electricity racing through his body. “What do you want.”

He had to look away. The shining earnestness in the kid's face, so much like Cas's. The horrible, bright, unbearable hope that was suddenly burrowing up in his chest. This couldn't—good things don't happen. Not like this.

But Jack was waiting for an answer, and Dean realized he couldn't edge his way around this question anymore.

“Yes,” the word rushed out in a sigh. “I wish I could...I never...and then he was gone and I couldn't...and I've give him my soul if that meant he could just come back. Just...even just for a second.”

Jack's face split in a beaming smile, revealing the gap in his teeth that made this almighty ruler of the universe look like a twelve-year-old kid. “Then let it be so.”

* * *

This is the beat of my heart

* * *

“Okay,” Dean shuffled the papers into a loose stack and tucked them under one arm. “So, me and Sammy'll go check out the woods, and Cas can head back to the hotel and do some more research, sound good?”

“Dean.”

“No arguments,” Dean held a finger up in front of Cas's face. “You've only been back for a few months. Still need to get your sea legs.”

A flicker of confusion crossed his...his Cas's face. Sam interrupted before another episode of 'The Dean and Castiel Show' started (as he called it). “We don't even know if there's anything out there,” he countered. “The hikers who disappeared were all traveling alone, we'll be fine if we stick together.”

Dean kicked at his brother to shut him up, but Sam knew it was coming and side-stepped it. “Still, I'd feel a lot better if someone stayed back to keep looking into this. Might find something we missed.”

“Then it would be best if Sam stays behind,” Cas suggested, with a nod toward the younger Winchester. “He's the most experienced with computer research.”

The way Cas said computer like it was a dirty word brought a smile to Dean's face. Even after all this time, his...his Cas didn't quite have a handle on technology.

But no. That was a terrible idea. “No, I need Sammy with me to help me track,” Dean replied.

“Dean.” Cas was shooting him his I used to be an angel-of-the-lord and I dragged your soul out of hell, I can handle this measly human task look. Except this wasn't doing the laundry or buying road trip snacks. This was a real, dangerous hunt.

“Why don't we all go together,” Sam broke in, apparently realizing that the other two were more than willing to stare at each other until someone broke down. “This thing has only attacked people who are alone anyway, we'll be safe as a group.”

Well, he clearly wasn't winning this one. Dean let out a long-suffering sigh and dug in his pocket for his car keys. “You're staying in the middle,” he warned, pointing at Cas.

* * *

But they haven't seen the best of us yet

* * *

“Morning, Sunshine,” Dean smirked over the rim of his coffee cup. As an almost-human, Cas had the most magnificent bedhead first thing in the morning. It reminded him a little of when they'd first met, when Cas had that crazy, windblown look like an angel who'd never heard of a comb. “How'd you sleep?”

Cas slid into the chair across from Dean and rested his elbow on the table to prop his chin in his hand. “I'm afraid sleeping is still an adjustment.”

“Yeah, well, you'll get used to it,” Dean said with a smile and shoved the coffeepot over. “And there's always caffeine.”

“Or I could sleep in your bed.”

Dean had been in the middle of swallowing when Cas made that statement, and he spluttered the coffee right back up into his mug and all over his hands. “Cas, that...I thought we were....” They were taking it slow. There were a crap-ton of issues to deal with, between Cas's less than fond memories of the last two times he'd been human and Dean's own dump truck load of shame. While Dean never had any doubt that Cas had meant everything he said before the Empty took him away, there was the very real issue that Cas hadn't expected to survive that confession.

Where did that leave them now?

In the midst of his panic Dean finally noticed the mischievous smile Cas was trying to hide behind his own coffee cup. “You little sneak!” Dean dipped his fingers into his cup and flicked lukewarm coffee at the other man.

Cas laughed and held a hand out to block the droplets of Dean's coffee. “My apologies,” he said, though he didn't sound the least bit sorry. “I didn't expect you to be up so early.”

“Had to get into town to grab the morning post,” Dean announced. He proudly slapped his hand on top of a stack of newspapers, pulling the topmost one off to unfold in front of Cas. “The society pages are a great place to find all kinds of charity events and stuff. Hey, did you know Lebanon has a soup kitchen once a month? They take donations all the time, then provide a hot meal and bags of groceries for people in need.”

“That's...wonderful, Dean,” Cas, face screwed up in confusion, craned his neck to see the print Dean was gesturing to.

“Wichita has a bunch of stuff coming up, too,” Dean added as he piled another paper on top of the first. “There's a fundraiser for an animal shelter—I know you don't really have money, but they're also asking for help running the phones and stuff. There's, like, three nursing homes, and I know they never get enough visitors. Oh,and they're always asking for help at the adult education center. You'd be great at that, most of those guys are just looking for some encouragement.”

“Dean,” Cas lunged across the table to rest his hand on top of Dean's, stopping him. “What are you talking about?”

“Selfless acts.” Really, it should have been obvious. “Jack said a thousand selfless acts, right? What's more selfless than charity?”

Cas smiled, affection softening his eyes. “I don't think it counts if I do it like this.”

Dean twisted his hand just enough to brush his thumb over Cas's. “You don't know that for sure.”

Sighing, Cas pulled his hand away and took one of the papers off of Dean's stack. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try.”

* * *

The fear of falling apart

* * *

They'd gotten maybe a dozen yards into the woods at the edge of town when they found fresh tracks. Then a dark shape darted across their path, and they were after it.

“Werewolf?” Dean called over his shoulder. He and Sam were desperately trying to keep Cas between them, to protect the former angel from harm, but they hadn't counted on Cas having better stamina than either of them.

“The tracks are too canine,” Sam replied. “Skinwalker?”

“It ran on all fours,” Cas added. “Look,” he added, crouching next to a track on the path. It was definitely a canine track, about as large as a man's hand.

Dean let out a whistle. “Big dog.”

“Some skinwalkers get that big,” Sam suggested. “Did you bring silver?”

Dean patted the stock of his rifle. “Always come prepared, Sammy. Cas?”

Cas held up his angel blade.

“Dude, come on,” Dean groaned. “I gave you a gun.”

“I left it behind. This is all I need,” Cas insisted. When Dean groaned again his face hardened and he set his jaw. “I haven't lost all of my grace yet, Dean. This is sufficient for me.”

“Yeah, well, we're setting you up with a nine millimeter and some practice targets when we get back,” Dean countered. “Come on, let's move.”

The prints were becoming more frequent now. Dean desperately wanted to send Cas back to the car, especially knowing he was only armed with his blade. But that meant either sending Cas back by himself (and this thing was taking out solitary hikers), separating the brothers so one of them could take Cas back (again...solitary hikers), or all heading back together (leaving this thing to keep picking off hikers). The only option at the moment was to keep Cas with them and just watch his back.

Dean held his fist up to halt the others and backed off the path toward the undergrowth. He could barely see the shadow of something ahead of them...something big and dark moving around in the bushes.

He peeked over his shoulder at Sammy and jerked his head toward the shadow. He braced the rifle to his chest with one hand, and with the other gestured for Sam to move to the other side of the path to get a different view of it.

Sam, who'd been furthest back, crouched low to hurry across the path to the faint shelter of the trees on the other side. He eased forward, shotgun braced against his hip, while Dean tracked his progress, ready to aim and fire if this thing charged at them.

There was a bellowing roar from the path ahead of them. Sam scrambled backward, firing his shotgun from the hip in the direction of the creature charging. Dean heard the thing yelp as Sam's shot hit, and he was rolling into the path, coming up to one knee, sighting down his rifle for the dark shape moving through the bushes.

It charged him, fast, and Dean was barely able to get a shot off before he was bowled off his feet. The bullet thudded into the creature's shoulder and it let out another shriek of pain before a massive, clawed paw was swiping at Dean's face and chest.

Then Cas was there, still preternaturally fast despite how mortal his blood was these days. He caught the beast's swipe on his angel blade and easily parried, his strength still so much greater than a normal human. Dean scooted away to bring the rifle around again, but the creature knocked Cas aside and took off down the path.

“Don't!” Dean started, but Cas was already taking off after it. Dean shoved himself to his feet to follow, Sam on his heels, and they burst through the shadowed depths of the forest path just in time to see Cas tackle the creature on an old suspension bridge.

“Oh my god...” Sam's voice sounded numb with horror, and Dean had to agree. Cas was fighting a thing that looked like a wolf, but only if a wolf was bear-sized.

And Cas was...winning. He scored a few harsh slashes up the creature's chest and carved a furrow across its face. The wolf-thing snarled and leaped for him, but Cas ducked under and caught the thing in the stomach with his shoulder, heaving it up and over the side of the bridge.

“Cas!” Dean pelted forward, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. Cas glanced over at him...just as a paw shifted into a large, meaty hand to seize him by the wrist and drag him over the side of the bridge.

Dean could vaguely hear himself yelling as he ran onto the bridge, ignoring the way it shook beneath him. He could just see Cas's fingers twisted in the rope that ran across the bottom of the bridge, and he slid onto his belly to stick his hand through and grab Cas around the wrist. “Hold on!”

The skinwalker still had a hold of him. It had fully shifted now, to a large, muscular man with a feral gleam in his eyes. He had both hands wrapped around Cas's wrist and was swinging back and forth under him, as though to use the former angel to get the momentum to swing back onto the bridge.

Cas met Dean's eyes, face set in a determined line. “Don't you dare,” Dean snarled. He dug his fingers in and squeezed as much of himself through the gap between the bridge's railings as he could. “Don't do this to me again.”

“Dean. You have to let me go.” Cas's voice was calm, too damn calm for this. “It's all right.”

“No,” Dean shook his head. “No, I—I need you.” I love you.

Cas smiled. “I know.”

Then he was pulling out of Dean's grasp and falling down, down, down to the river below.

* * *

Don't try and sleep through the end of the world

* * *

“Come on, man,” Dean coaxed. “This one's really good, I promise.”

Cas let out a tired sigh and twisted to stare at Dean. They were huddled up on the library couches, Cas with an ancient illuminated text open on his lap and Dean poking through Sam's laptop for some kind of extra-selfless deeds they could do. Maybe if it was good enough it would count for three or four.

“I appreciate the assistance, Dean, but I believe your plan is flawed.”

“Yeah, well, how do you know?”

In reply, Cas held his hand out. Just a few days ago they'd taken a simple salt-and-burn near Kansas City (after handing out water at the mini-marathon to support the children's hospital), and the ghost had been powerful enough to send a shard of glass straight through Cas's hand. Any normal human would have needed medical intervention and weeks of recovery, but the wound had slowly closed up until there wasn't even a scar left.

“Jack said I would lost a fraction of my power for every selfless act,” Cas explained gently. “I'm still very much an angel, Dean.”

Dean stared at Cas over the top of Sam's laptop, before gently closing it and setting it aside. He chewed his lip for a moment while he considered what to say. “A thousand is a lot, man. Maybe...maybe you just haven't noticed.”

“It's just going to take time,” Cas replied, resting his hand on top of Dean's. “We have plenty of that now.”

“So, what, you gonna hear a bell or something? When you're all done, I mean.”

Cas shook his head. “I'll know when I haven't heard the voices of my brothers and sisters in over a year.” Catching Dean's puzzled glance, he went on. “The last thing I'll lose is Angel Radio. Some of the other angels have agreed to contact me periodically, and when I can't hear their voices anymore is when we'll know I'm fully human.”

Dean stared down at their hands, watching Cas's thumb move back and forth over his knuckles. “I still think we should keep trying. I mean, all this charity stuff is pretty selfless anyway, right?”

To his surprise, Cas threw his head back and laughed. “Selfless deeds for a selfish reason? Is that what you're saying?”

Dean had to grin, too. “So we're selfishly being selfless?”

Cas's smile grew more affectionate. “How selfish of us.”

* * *

‘Cause I won't give up without a fight

* * *

“Sammy! Take that side!” Dean waved his brother back and stumbled the rest of the way across the bridge. The river wasn't too far down...the water was deep...the current wasn't too strong. Cas was still partially an angel. He could survive this...right?

“Cas!” Rifle bouncing along his back, Dean shoved his way through the undergrowth, trying to reach the river. The suspension bridge had only been twelve or fifteen feet in the air, mostly just a shortcut for people who didn't want to take the longer path down to the footbridge.

He ran along the riverbank, stumbling through the mud, eyes open for any sign of Cas or the skinwalker that had dragged him over. Sam had reached the riverbank on the other side and was moving parallel to Dean, calling Cas's name as he went.

The back of his mind was racing through scenarios. How cold would it get at night this time of year? What kind of wounds could Cas get from falling into the river? Could the skinwalker have survived, too?

“Dean!” Sam's voice broke through his thoughts.

“I see it!” Dean called back. There was something on the riverbank ahead...something big and dark. Slinging his rifle around into his hands, Dean slowly approached, ready to take a shot if it was the skinwalker.

It was big and hairy and naked. And not moving. Dean risked a glance across the river at Sam, who shook his head. No ideas. He slid forward carefully and nudged it with his foot. It didn't move. He pushed harder and the thing rolled over onto its back, sightless eyes staring up at the sky, a diamond-shaped hole in its chest.

Cas had gotten the skinwalker. Dean let out a sigh of mingled frustration and relief. At least they knew this thing wouldn't be hunting down any more hikers, but it didn't answer the question of how far their missing angel had gotten. Or what kind of shape he was in.

Sam was already moving down the river and Dean picked up his pace. If the skinwalker had been washed ashore here, maybe Cas wouldn't be too far away.

Dean saw him first. Around the next bend of the river the bank on his side smoothed out into a kind of beach area, where sand and silt had been washed down the river and collected in the curve. There was a figure sprawled on the gritty sand, half out of the water, still recognizable even in the second-hand hunter's threads they'd been giving him.

“Cas!” Dean ran through the mud, dropping his rifle when his shaking hands wouldn't loop the strap over his shoulder. He crouched down and grabbed the former angel under the arms and hauled him out of the water, then collapsed on the beach to cradle Cas's head and shoulders against his chest.

“Come on, Sunshine,” Dean murmured. He wiped at the mud smearing Cas's face, rested his hand against his neck to feel his pulse. “Please...”

Cas's pulse beat strong against his fingers, and Dean let out a sigh of relief and lowered his head until his forehead was pressed against Cas's. “You said you wouldn't leave again, man,” he whispered. “You promised.”

Cas stirred, his eyelids fluttered. Dean pulled back just enough to watch those bright blue eyes squint open. Dean let out a sigh of relief. “Never thought I'd be glad you're still mostly angel,” he muttered.

His...his Cas...managed a weak smile, his voice breaking in a whisper. “I must be too selfish.”

* * *

If you love me

* * *

And thus ends this year’s FebuWhump! I hope you all enjoyed, and I’ll be compiling the master list shortly.

(And if you have the song stuck in your head now, imagine how the last two months have been for me)

[soulful--siren]

A Little Party Never Killed Nobody [Fem Reader x Nicky Valentino]

After being invited as Nicky’s plus one, you find yourself lost in the glitz and glamor of a drunken Halloween party. You’re just hoping that you don’t find yourself hopping into hot water with your gangster boyfriend.

[fem reader x nicky valentino]

Words: 1567

A/N: hello hello there!! first Nicky fic here because like the rest of you I am DESPERATE for any type of Nicky content on this site. I have no idea how long this will be!!! Thanks for reading! :’D

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It’s been a month since your stepping into your biggest role yet: the leading lady of a 1920’s gangster film. To say things were grossly different than the imminent future would be an understatement. New York seemed like a different place entirely thanks to your little wish come true. In some ways, it was odd, foreign and just downright weird. The slang was totally different and the buildings seemed to come straight out of a history textbook. However, in some ways, it was absolutely charming; namely in one way in particular: Nicky Valentino.

If he hadn’t come straight out of a movie you would have been convinced that he came straight from heaven instead. He was charming, romantic, stern yet soft and you were falling hopelessly head over heels for him with every day that passed. You were sure that he would do absolutely anything for you to ensure your happiness, and if you were being truly honest with yourself, you were starting to feel the same for him.

It was a cool day in October when the leaves had finally shed their last traces of life and started displaying their wondrous blends of harvest colors. You found yourself linked in arm with Nicky strolling through the Central Park of New York’s past leaning your head sweetly on one of his broad shoulders.

“I’ll tell ya, there ain’t any fall like a Central Park fall,” Nicky looked down at your figure the edges of his lips lifting in a smile.

“Oh, I believe you,” you replied looking back up at him nuzzling his coat closer for warmth. “Just wish it wasn’t so cold out, you’d think winter was right around the corner.” You laughed.

“Oh, it isn’t. Soon enough the leaves will be gone, and kaput it’ll be winter for the next half of the year.” He took a moment to watch the ground beneath the two of you and your gaze followed his. The ground below was littered in red, orange and gold keeping your steps quiet against the black pavement.

“Fall dies off too fast but that's what makes it gorgeous… it’s fleeting.” his voice became strangely somber for a moment and you instinctively squeezed his arm. The physical affection seemed to bring him back to earth.

“Ah! That’s right I’d almost forgotten!” He stopped mid-step and turned around to face you fully taking both of your hands in his. You felt your heart do a summersault as he gave you his signature million-dollar smile.

“My darling, my sweetheart, my absolute angel, I have a proposal for you.”

“Proposal..?! Did… did you just… did you just say proposal??” You yelped holding tight onto his hands now. You were fairly smaller than him, but Lord help you if he tried to drop down to one knee you would summon whatever powers that be to keep him from falling to the floor.

He saw your frightened expression and laughed. “Oh!! You thought I meant!! Darling, I didn’t mean that typa proposal!!” he sheepishly ran a hand through his slicked hair. “At least… not yet.” You were pretty sure your heart had been stopped and restarted at least three times since he started this conversation but you were somehow still conscious.

“Okay then…dually noted... What proposal did you mean exactly?”

“I’ve been invited to some party right on the sound for Halloween and I am allowed one gorgeous guest of my choosing,” he took one of your hands and pressed his lips against your knuckles sending electricity up your arm. “You wouldn’t perchance have anything to do then would you?”

You smirked humming in response taking your free hand to cup the side of your cheek. “Gosh, Nicky I just don’t know! I’ll have to ask my boyfriend and get back to you,” You snickered your eyes trailing back to him. He returned your smirk pulling you in fast towards his chest snaking an arm around your waist as he loomed over you, his chocolate eyes glittering mischievously. 

“Something tells me he’s gonna say yes.” He touched his forehead to yours leaning near you to close to distance till he stopped suddenly at the call of his name. You both craned your necks from one another to see an out of breath Ralph bending over to catch his breath his hands holding him up by bearing down on his knees.

“Nick we’ve got the fuzz swarming the club downtown. Looks pretty serious…!” You saw his jaw clench as he pinched the bridge of his nose sighing. “I swear those pigs will herd if I’m a second late on their pay off…” He grumbled. He threw a hand up. “I’ll be down there with ya in a minute let me just say goodbye.” He muttered. Ralphie nodded only to turn straight back around this time taking his sweet time in walking to get his breath back. 

Nicky drew his hand into his coat pocket drawing out a few bills licking the tip of his thumb as he counted. 

“I’ll meet you at the hotel at around four. Go pick something nice out for yourself for the party. On me,” he gave the bills to you in one hand and in the other parted your hair gently laying a kiss on the space of your forehead beneath it. “I’ll see you soon okay sugar?”

You were starting to feel lightheaded from all the puppy love. “See you soon.” 

Shopping didn’t take you long, after all, everyone could be considered modest in comparison to Nicky. Halloween costumes while available weren’t nearly as extensive as present-day costumes so you had to throw something together. With a sleek silver sequined dress, a faux fur to wrap around your shoulders and silver eyeshadow, you had convinced yourself it was the perfect look for an ice queen. Getting yourself together took almost no time in comparison to the time it usually took you to get ready(probably because of the lack of supply). You were reaching for your back buttons when you heard a knock at the door. You lifted your dress just inches above your ankles so that you wouldn’t collect any dirt on the way to the door. “Coming!” you called before swinging it open to find Nicky standing in the doorway costume and all.

He looked slick. He always looked unnaturally handsome but today took the cake. His suit was a creamy white with a cotton shirt and tie to match, but at his shoulders hung a long crimson velvet cape that draped to the floor. His hair was slicked back as it usually was but upon it held a crown of olive leaves. It was bad enough Nicky already looked like a roman emperor, now he looked ready to conquer the entirety of Europe.

“Well well well what do we have here?” You leaned in the frame eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. “I’m sorry Caesar but I’m expecting someone right about now,” You joked while walking back into your room.

“You look gorgeous toots,” Nicky smiled coming up alongside you. 

“Mind fastening my back Nicky?” You asked pulling a bit of your hair away from your neck.

“Why I’d be happy to,” he placed one hand on your hip while the other fastened each button on your dress.

“You look handsome Nicky,” You turned to face him after he finished and got close to him standing on your toes to reach around the back of his neck. 

“With a face like that, I’m sure you could rival a queen,” You blushed leaning your head against his chest. “Softie.” You murmured against his suit. 

“Guilty as charged,” He purred sitting his chin atop your head. “Shall we, my dear?” You looked up at him humming thoughtfully. In all honesty, you would have loved nothing more than to stay in the hotel room all day to hold Nicky close and talk but this was an obvious call to adventure, and who knew? It could be more fun than you thought.

“We shall.”

The drive was drastically shorter than your trips from Manhattan to the Hamptons but it was still lengthy nonetheless. Ralph pulled the car into a long roundabout driveway until pulling to a stop to park. The back car door opened and Nicky stepped out only to offer you his hand to join him.

Looking at the three-storied house you tried to suppress a whistle. They didn’t make mansions like these anymore that was for sure. The whole estate screamed Gatsby with its white marble walls and pillared entrance. The house was surrounded by high hedges which were only just beginning to turn brown. It seemed as if the entire place was barely touched by time.

“Which pal of yours owns this place?” You asked awestruck. The two of your walked arm in arm as you came near the front doors. You could already hear the bustling music and conversation from beyond the ten-foot wooden entrance.

“I don’t know… he’s sort of an acquaintance of an acquaintance that wanted to get in contact with me…” He explained. In a moment you felt Nicky lean in closer to your ear his breath tickling your neck.

“I don’t exactly know what to expect from this goon, but you say the word sweetheart and we’re out of here understand?” You nodded, leaning on his shoulder.

“I think we’ll be fine Nicky,” you smiled. “After all a little party never killed nobody right?”

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

Your Kind of Heaven

The prompt from @that-one-weird-fangirl2020​ was this:

Can I get #27, the angsty/fluffy list, with a Cayde-6 x Female!Gunslinger!Reader? Maybe throw in a passionate, romantic, first kiss?

Cayde-6 x (Gunslinger) Female!Reader

Warnings: non descriptive fight scene, internal demons, past trauma

1,991 words

Song Inspiration: To Hell & Back by Maren Morris

“Smoke was comin’ off my jacket and you didn’t seem to mind, I left a long trail of ashes and you said, ‘I like your style’.”

There were skeletons in your closet, demons in your mind, and there was only one way you knew of to deal with them. It involved your light, your gun, and a trail of ashes where your enemies used to be. If you kept moving, kept shooting, then you didn’t have to think. 

That’s when the trouble always came, when you were still.

You were reborn a guardian 3 days before the start of the Red War.

You had been introduced into a world of community and Light only to watch it crumble beneath the Red Legion. Somehow, by some miracle, you had escaped. You had managed to get off the Tower, get out of the City, and slipped out into the wilderness. There had been other guardians with you. Older guardians who tried to help, to show you the way while being lost themselves, had perished before your very eyes. It felt like you had been born into a world only to be useless. No matter what you did someone would die. Sometimes it was guardians, sometimes it was civilians, and many times you had wished it had been you rather than them.

When the Light finally returned, it was too late. The damage had been done. Your Ghost tried to reassure you that things would be different now, and as much as you wanted to believe him it was still difficult. It was why you avoided the other guardians now. You had lost so many people back to back to back. The idea of getting to know someone now was terrifying. What if war came again? What if you lost them? What if you weren’t strong enough to save them?

It was safer to keep to yourself.

To focus on missions.

To focus on bettering yourself.

To focus on your only working distraction.

Three shots, three dead Cabal. You stared at their motionless forms briefly before glancing around. The EDZ was quiet today, and now it was even quieter. You heaved a sigh in disappointment. The hope had been that Cabal in the EDZ would keep you busy for the whole morning, not just a couple hours.

“The area is clear.” Your Ghost confirmed.

You dismissed your helmet and rubbed the back of your neck. The area around you looked like the remains of an old city, abandoned and empty. Overgrown with vegetation all around, like nature had reclaimed what once belonged to it.

It was too quiet. The itch was back, and that dreadful voice whispered in the back of your mind. Before you could ask your Ghost to transmat you to the nearest world with a pest problem the sound of someone else transmatting distracted you.

“Hey there, partner.”

“Cayde.” You gave him a tight grin. Your Vanguard was the closest thing you had to a friend. He was the only person you really spoke to on a regular basis, other than your Ghost, and it was oddly because you actually enjoyed talking to him. Granted, it had started as just mission reports and training exercises, but somehow it had turned into drinks and ramyun and laughter.

He glanced at the empty buildings then looked back to you, “You really cleared this place out, huh? Busy morning?”

“Not busy enough.” You replied. “You need anything done? Anything at all?”

Cayde took a step toward you. It was closer than you were used to, but you didn’t move back. He had this look on his face, but it wasn’t concern. It wasn’t pity or worry or disapproval. Those were always the facial expressions you expected, but he never showed them to you. He always looked at you like this. With curiosity, with care, with amusement.

“Ever think about taking a vacation? I hear the pools of Io are nice this time of year.” Cayde suggested. He had his hands on his hips, his head tilted slightly.

You shrugged, “Sounds a little too…quiet.”

“And you don’t like quiet.” Cayde nodded. You had mentioned this to him before. That you needed action or movement at all times. The only exception being when you went to bed for a night of restless sleep. “Guess we just need to keep working on finding you a new hobby.”

“A new hobby?”

“Yeah, something that calms that brain of yours”, He lifted his hand to tap your temple with his gloved hand, “Without having to throw yourself into the fray again and again.”

You chuckled at the thought. That’d be nice. You weren’t sure anything could really quiet your mind. You were kind of positive this was just the curse of your existence.

“I’m not sure I’m capable of that kind of change, Cayde.”

Cayde shook his head, “No, no, no. Not change. I don’t want you to change ever, partner. I like you just the way you are. I just think a break every now and again will do you some good.”

He liked you the way you were. Skeletons, demons, cracks, and all. Cayde was staring at you again with that same look on his face. Amusement and adoration. His blue eyes glowed with a warmth that always seemed to reach the core of who you were. He wasn’t scared of you and didn’t bat an eye at your flaws.

And it was then that you realized that things were quiet. With Cayde looking at you the way he was, the softness of his Exo features focused only on you, it was quiet. Your mind wasn’t racing with regrets of the past or fears of the future. You felt at ease.

“I can’t think when you keep looking at me like that.” The words fell from your lips before you were fully aware of them. They were nearly a whisper. Cayde was closer now, he was the only thing in your vision, and you were ok with that. Your eyes darted down to his mouth unintentionally.

The urge to close the small gap between you was strong, and it scared you. Things would be different if you did that and that voice in the back of your mind nagged and nagged. The decision was taken away from you when the sound of whistling filled the air. The two of you recognized it around the same time, you could see it on his face, and both of you whipped around just as three Cabal containment pods hit the Earth a few yards away kicking up dirt and dust. Honestly, you were just lucky they hadn’t landed on top of you. You had the bad luck of being a containment pod magnet. And maybe you were also lucky that your usual distraction had showed up just in time to prevent a potential life altering mistake.

“They didn’t even give me time to stretch.” Cayde said as the Cabal began to open fire.

You called back your helmet and dove out of the way of a tossed grenade. What was supposed to be a quick battle, turned into a rather large mess. More Cabal had come after you and Cayde dealt with the first wave, but their presence had attracted a nearby squad of Fallen. So now the two of you were sandwiched between two enemies who were both shooting at you and behind you. Some wandering Guardians had happened upon the scene though, and the enemies were quickly dealt with. While Cayde had his back turned to you, greeting one of the Hunters that had stumbled onto the scene, you had your Ghost transmat you back to your ship.

The entire flight back to the Tower you were kicking yourself. You had been so close to doing something so stupid. Letting your professional relationship with Cayde turn into a friendship had been stupid. Opening up to him about your fears and worries one drunken night had been stupid. Wanting to kiss your Vanguard in enemy territory just because you liked the way he looked at you? That was downright crazy.

Once at the Tower, you made a beeline to your living space. The plan was to grab some supplies and then book it out to Nessus or Io. You could scoop up a long surveillance mission from someone who didn’t want to spend a month out in the wild and do so yourself. That’d keep you busy and distracted.

“Someone is here.” Your Ghost hummed before disappearing from your sight. Before you could question him a heavy knock came from your door. Your apartment was tiny. It consisted of one room with a second small room branched off it that worked as the bathroom. This meant there was only one door in and out unless you were going to try and escape through the window, but you weren’t that desperate. Yet.

“I know you’re in there, partner.”

Your eyes glanced at the window in temptation.

‘If you climb out the window, I won’t revive you when you fall.’ Ghost joked internally.

You knew that was his nice way of saying you needed to answer the door, and more so you knew he was right. After steeling yourself, trying to push all non-professional thoughts of Cayde out your head, you walked to the door and pulled it open.

He was leaning against the frame, his armor still messy and dirty from the last fight. The moment your eyes caught his all the steeling of your mind had fizzled out in a hot mess of fireworks in your brain. You were back in that same position you found yourself in earlier. Except now the chances of the Cabal interrupting you were slim to none.

“You left before we could finish our conversation.” Cayde said firmly.

You swallowed the lump that seemed to have formed in your throat, “I think we both know that we were done talking.”

This time is was his gaze that dropped down to your lips before slowly dragging back up to your eyes. Cayde nodded once, “You’re probably right.”

You didn’t know if you moved first or if he did, but the two of you collided. Your lips were on his mouth and his hands were cupping your face then tangling in your hair. Thoughts weren’t needed when you were kissing him. It was all action and instinct, like your body was moving on its own accord and you were just there for the ride. Your gloves traced his firm armored chest while he pulled back on your hair slightly to expose your neck enough for him to pepper kisses down in until he reached the edge of your armor.

You sucked in a sharp breath of air when his mouth caught a sensitive spot on your neck and that was like throwing gas on a flame. You pulled his face back up to yours to kiss him. In one swift movement, Cayde’s hands went to the back of your thighs to scoop you up while his foot kicked the door shut behind you. He turned and pushed your back against the door deepening the kiss. He tasted like his favorite drink and you wondered if he had stopped to take a shot before coming here.

After another moment he pulled his mouth away leaving you breathless. His face lingered close though as you took in air. You had your arms wrapped around his shoulders, but now you brought your hands in to cup his face. Your thumb traced the edge of his cheek as his warm eyes didn’t leave yours. It was quiet in the room and you were ok with that because it was also quiet in your mind.

“I think this could be a good hobby for you.” Cayde spoke up suddenly, his tone sounded breathless despite Exos not technically needing to breath. “Thoughts?”

“Yeah.” You chuckled out an agreement, “Yeah, this could work.”

Cayde shot you an amused look before pulling you into another kiss. You wrapped your arms around him and melted against his chest. 

Yeah, this could definitely work.