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seasonofthegeek · 5 years

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The Sacrifice of Three, Part 2

Dedicated to @miraculouspaon

Parts 1, 2:

Nathalie paced the dark hallway, careful not to slip on the hardwood floor in her fuzzy socks. She should’ve worn her slippers but she’d been too caught up in her thoughts to pay attention to logic.

She wondered if Jagged could sense her outside his door or if he was too far gone. He’d stopped leaving his room all together, and while Gabriel insisted it was what was safest for them all, it made her uneasy. She’d used the long days in the cabin to study what she could about other supernatural creatures, though the lore on vampires was vague at best. It was smart, she’d decided, after reading yet another contradictory passage on the species. By keeping the details of their existence a mystery, it made it more difficult to figure them out.

She smiled to herself as she paused in her pacing outside Jagged’s room. It made sense he was a vampire; she couldn’t imagine someone as dramatic and showy as him as anything.

Taking a steadying breath, she pushed open the door and peered into the dark room. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness since they’d been without artificial lights for a month or so now but it still took a moment of adjustment with each new space.

“Jagged? Are you awake?”

There was the faint sound of rustling sheets and Jagged cleared his throat. It was a painful sound. “That you, pet?”

“You’re not doing well,” Nathalie said, venturing further into the room. “How long can you go without blood?”

“Indefinitely, really. Not a pretty picture though. Keep wasting away til–” His words were cut off by a rasping cough. He grimaced and wiped his mouth with a thin hand. “Another week or so and I’ll be little more than bones and skin.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” She sat on the edge of his bed. Her mouth was set in a thin line of determination. “Can I trust you?”

“Trust me?” he mused. “With what, love?”

She swallowed thickly. “If I let you drink, you won’t take too much, right? Just enough to be okay, to function.”

“Might be too far gone for that,” he warned, grunting in mild pain as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. “You want to give me blood?”

“No.” Nathalie forced herself to stand her ground while her every instinct cried out to run for the door. “But after what you said the other day about the sacrifice, I started studying some of the books and I think you’re right. I think someone means for us to die here during the Solstice.” She swallowed against the bitterness that had filled her mouth. “We were chosen to die and I can’t understand why it was us.”

His eyes sharpened on her. “And you don’t want to let that happen.”

“No.”

“What’s Gabe say about all this? Does he know you’re in here offering your pretty neck?”

“He…he doesn’t know about this.” Her eyes flicked downwards. “But he agrees about the sacrifice. We need to make a plan, the three of us. We’re practically out of food, and the full moon is coming. I can feel it. The two of you won’t survive in here with me. I can’t control myself.”

“I think you should give yourself more credit than that.”

“It’s not about credit; it’s about the facts.”

“I doubt Gabe has reservations about letting me wither away,” Jagged pointed out. “Why not just save yourselves?”

“Gabriel doesn’t want you to die. Not really. He would want you to think that, but…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Do you want this or not?” She held out her hand, wrist up.

“Is that where you want me to drink from, dearest?” Jagged’s voice was low as he shifted closer to her, still on the bed. “Come sit beside me.” His eyes followed her hungrily as she sat on the edge of the bed, back stiff. He brushed her hair behind her ear and relished her shiver. “You trust me this much, love? Don’t know each other very well.”

“We’ve been trapped in here for a while now. I think I might know you better than you think.” Her voice was breathy and she hated herself for it, but she couldn’t deny the nervous excitement surging through her. He could kill her so easily, but she didn’t think he would. He could though.

She’d never realized this was something that did it for her but as Jagged leaned in and brushed his nose against the sensitive skin just below her ear, Nathalie felt like she might explode from anticipation.

“I can drink from your wrist, love,” he replied, voice muffled against her skin, “but might damage the tendons. Your neck would be better.”

“I…wherever you think is best.”

He kissed the soft skin he found there. “I have ideas of what is best, pet, but we’ll save those for another time.”

She shook slightly as he wrapped himself around her like a snake getting ready to strangle its prey. “Is it going to hurt?” she whispered, tilting her head to allow him more access to her neck.

“In the best way,” he promised before he pressed his lips to her throat.

___

Gabriel’s stomach rumbled as he made his way through the dimly lit cabin, the first signs of morning trickling through the windows. He stopped in the kitchen and took in the three cans of unidentifiable mush they had left and sighed heavily as he kept moving past. His instincts were crying out to eat whatever was in the cans, contents be damned, but he needed to be smart. It was all the food he and Nathalie had left and while it was possible he could live off her life energy if he was willing to use that part of himself, she had no other outlet. He wasn’t going to let her starve. He could last a while longer.

He frowned when he found her bedroom door open and the bed empty. He’d already made his way through all the common rooms and she’d been nowhere to be found. Jagged’s closed door stood like a monolith at the end of the hall. If she was in there, things had possibly gone from bad to worse.

He went back to his room and shifted the mattress to retrieve the wooden stake he’d carved late one night. He slid it into the deep pocket of his robe and returned to Jagged’s door. He took in a steadying breath and pushed it open without a greeting.

“Took you long enough to work up the courage, mate.” Jagged grabbed a shirt from the edge of the bed and pulled it on in a languid manner. He glanced back at his bed where Nathalie was curled on her side, the blankets up over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. She’s just sleeping. Our little wolf is fine.”

Gabriel felt a prickling irritation at Jagged’s possessive words and his hand dipped into his pocket, fingers closing around the stake. “Why is she in here?”

Jagged flashed him a fanged grin. “That not obvious to you, Gabe?”

“Ah, I...I didn’t realize you two were having relations.”

“Relations.” The vampire laughed. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days? She was giving me a bit of blood, that’s all. Not to say I’m not hoping for more later.” He curled his tongue behind his teeth. “And I don’t mean blood.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. “If you hurt her--”

Jagged’s expression became serious and he shook his head. “I wouldn’t, pet. Can promise you that.” He eyed the other man. “You planning on killing me?”

He blinked and followed the vampire’s gaze down to the stake in his hand. He hadn’t realized he’d lifted it from his pocket. He cleared his throat and returned it to its hiding place. “Not at the moment, I suppose.”

“Good to know you’re prepared and all.”

“Some of us don’t come with our weapons in our mouths.”

Jagged studied him. “But you do, if you’re willing.”

Gabriel turned and walked out of the room without another word.

___

“Gabriel’s angry with me,” Nathalie whispered, curling against Jagged’s side. “He hardly speaks to me, and if he does, it’s in that clipped tone he uses on people he doesn’t like.”

“He’s just adjusting, love. He doesn’t have to be the odd man out, but he’s full of all that pride. Enough to choke a man like him.” Jagged tightened his arm around her. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. I’m always so tired now.” She closed her eyes and snuggled closer to him. “I’ve been losing track of days.”

“Not much to lose track up, pet. Same beginning and end.”

She hummed low in her throat but the sound extended into a painful whimper.

Jagged shifted enough to look down at her. “Nathalie, love? You okay?”

“Fuck,” she swore in an agonized tone. “Run. Please run.” She screamed as her body bowed away from him. Sickening cracking sounds filled the room and she convulsed, ripping at the sheets.

The vampire fell out of the bed as he pushed himself away and the bedroom door flew open.

“Get out of here before she kills you, you idiot,” Gabriel yelled, yanking on Jagged’s arm as soon as the other man was in reach. He slammed the door closed and guided Jagged down the hall at a half-run, pulling him into his bedroom.

“Help me move the wardrobe in front of the door,” Gabriel yelled, shoving his shoulder against the piece of heavy wooden furniture. Jagged joined him and they barricaded the door just as it shook on its hinges and a low rumbling growl sounded on the other side. “The bed too, hurry.”

They grunted as they moved the furniture in the room to the door and all the walls shook with the anger of the werewolf on the other side.

“Bloody hell, that happened fast.” Jagged yanked the other man’s arm hard, pulling him into the connected bathroom and slamming the door behind them. He turned the lock for all the good it would do and sank down to the floor to brace his feet against the wood. “She was just talking and then…” He shook his head. “I’ve seen weres change before but never like that. Has it always been that way for her?”

Gabriel sank down to the floor as well and dropped his head to his hands. “It’s never been that fast for her before. She usually can feel it coming and locks herself away in the basement at home. I suppose with the storm and the days melting together, it caught her off guard. I was trying to keep track of the moon though, to be safe.”

“You’re a smarter man than I am then.”

“That was never in question.”

Jagged nodded thoughtfully. “What’s she do at home? Surely she doesn’t just rampage.”

“I built her an isolation chamber and made it as comfortable as I could for her. It’s so painful to hear but she insists we stay away. It took months to convince her to stay at my home during her changes instead of letting her useless pack look after her.”

“They let her kill?” Jagged asked.

“A couple walking home,” he nodded. “Her sponsor ran off and Nathalie’s wolf murdered them right outside their house.”

“Fuck.”

“She was inconsolable for weeks. Tried to turn herself in to the police.”

“Guessing you’re the only reason she didn’t.”

Gabriel pursed his lips. “I used what leverage I could. She’s fond of my son and I told her she was the only one I trusted to help keep him safe. She didn’t want his blood on her hands as well.”

“Dirty. Didn’t know you had it in you,” Jagged smirked. The wolf howled from the hallway and he shuddered. “She’s really gone like this, huh?”

“I know some keep their consciousness when they shift but she becomes a beast.” Gabriel shook his head. “She hates that part of herself. I’d like to kill the animal who did this to her.”

“Perhaps that’s why you two get along so well. Know what it’s like to deny a part of what you are.”

��Didn’t stop her from running to your open arms, did it?” The other man closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “She deserves better than either of us.”

“Probably.”

The wolf howled again and there was a painful splintering sound.

“But maybe we’re all exactly what we deserve,” Jagged argued. He turned his head to look at Gabriel, his hair catching on the knob of the cabinet at his back. “You think whoever has been causing this storm somehow caused her to transform so violently?”

“I suppose it’s possible.” He clenched his jaw. “She’s been terrified of this happening while we were trapped here. I’m going to kill whoever’s done this.”

“If they don’t kill us first,” Jagged sighed. He looked over the angst-ridden man across from him. “You love her, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gabriel snapped.

“I can see how you would. She’s easy to fall for. Smart, sexy, incredibly badass. I think I’m in love with her.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Course I am.” Jagged eyed him. “You got a problem with that?”

“Wouldn’t matter if I did, I suppose.”

“I think she loves you. She worries about you constantly.”

Gabriel’s expression smoothed into blankness. “She’s my assistant. I suppose it’s her job to worry after me.”

“That’s a load of shit and you know it.”

“I had my chance at love and it was amazing and wonderful and I’ll never have that again. You and Nathalie suit each other. Perhaps you’d even be good for her.”

“It must be the starvation causing you to admit something so ludicrous,” Jagged replied in amusement. “And as someone who has the potential to exist forever, I don’t believe in only one love per life, mate. Don’t think you should either.”

Neither one of them spoke again as the night wore on and the rampaging wreckage of the cabin around them finally quieted as the sun rose once more.

Buy me a cherry coke?

#agrestonath #gabriel agreste #nathalie sancoeur #jagged stone #supernatural creatures au #miraculous ladybug

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gabezfm · 4 years

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hey! april here, i’ve been in this group before with a different character but now i’m here to bring you my bby boi gabe. i suck at intros so please lower your standards before you read this garbage. also feel free to hit me up or like to plot!

chicago’s very own gabriel imani has been spotted on madison avenue driving a lamborghini aventador , welcome ! your resemblance to abel tesfaye is unreal . according to tmz , you just had your twenty-sixth birthday bash. your chance of surviving new york is uncertain because you’re jealous, but being easy-going might help you . i think being an aries explains that . 3 things that would paint a better picture of you would be silver chains, new york city nightlife, fast exotic cars . ( recently suffered an overdose that no one knows about )& ( cismale + he/him )

he was born and raised in chicago to a single mother. never knew his father but if he ever meets him it’s on sight! he loves his mother to death and would do anything for her and to protect her. she’s probably his biggest weakness.

he’s an only child and his mother worked almost 24/7 to make ends meet and give him the best life she possibly could. but due to her not being around much he began to roam around the city and hang out with people who were no good and much older than him. the streets raised him and because of this he fell into trouble. dealing drugs and doing them.

he doesn’t think he has a problem. he thinks it’s just recreational, every one does drugs at parties and in his circle so it’s just what he’s always known. this all plays into his secret which is that he suffered and recovered from an overdose late last year. spent some months in rehab before he checked himself out. he’s definitely using again.

he’s always been into music even at an early age. learning how to play everything he could get his hands on, making beats, and singing on them. he would put out little mixtapes and hand them out to his friends.

when he was 16 he ran away from home. left a note for his mother saying that he loved her but he needed to pursue his dream. he was good at school but it just wasn’t for him so he took off with his best friend to live out their dreams. they were homeless and junkies for a while but he managed to put out a series of mixtapes that started off his career and got him in touch with his manager.

personality wise he’s very easy going but sometimes can have his guard up as he’s been fucked over a lot in his life. it’s just cemented into him at this point. but he tends to be friendly on first meeting unless you mess with him or someone that he loves. he’s very humble when it comes to praises of his music. he truly enjoys what he does and will die doing it.

when it comes to relationships he’s not really one to be monogamous. there’s always been too much temptation out there and with this addiction and abandonment issues he’s never felt like enough for anyone. but he has had a few actual relationships and more than a few flings and one night stands.

when it comes to connections give me all the exes, flings, and a first love. i’d love to enemies, people that annoy him and vice versa, also some bros. people that are in his clique would be cool. people he gets high with. fwb of course, maybe even a pr relationship! also muses for his music.

#wealthy:intro #intro

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foxymuses · 4 years

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how does your muse feel about not being cis or straight? are they content with it, proud, ashamed? would the situation be the same if the culture or surrounding support systems were different? (Dean)

it was very hard for dean to admit to himself that he may be bisexual. like, impossibly difficult. he was young, think like fourteen, when he first found himself attracted to a guy, and it’s not that he was afraid of john’s response (but he was) because of john being phobic or anything (which, you know, is up for debate). it was more that like... as much as one can within the hunting life, john was very traditional minded? like he often dismissed sam’s more emotional personality, and it’s canon that he fashioned dean essentially into an obedient solider, so dean kind of had this idea that like... being not-straight was Bad. which isn’t to say he thought of other sexual identities as bad in general, because even if he’s a little awkward around it, he accepts it. in fact, the awkwardness stems from his own refusal of his identity. but like, for instance when he’s trying to help charlie flirt with a guy to get into dick’s computer, and she admits that guys aren’t her thing, dean just rolls with it and continues to try to walk her through it. AND CAN WE FUCKING TALK ABOUT THE SIREN EPISODE PLEASE, like i know the siren was trying to give dean the ‘brother he wanted’ but come on. the fact that he chose to be a guy over the usual chick he’d been playing?

i digress. my point is that like, the only time dean was ever caught off guard or strange about someone’s sexual orientation is when it was in some way directed at him, even indirectly. for instance during fan episode where the musical literally included destiel and dean was like ‘what the fuck’, or when there was the spn convention at the hotel with chuck and dean was thrown off by the two guys who were pretending to be hunters being in a relationship. these things were not about dean, but they connected to him in a way, and that felt really weird to him, but otherwise, generally sexual orientation doesn’t matter as long as it’s about other people

so you know, he didn’t tell anyone about these feelings, aside from maybe a passing comment to bobby about his thoughts on the matter, which bobby casually was like ‘it don’t matter’, because you know bobby probably knew immediately what dean was getting at. but then he didn’t bring it up to anyone again, and that’s a large part of why he desperately slept around, had so many hookups, because he thought, you know, if he could sleep with a ton of girls, he could convince himself he was straight. i wouldn’t say he was necessarily ashamed of his feelings towards men, but more that he was scared of what it meant, worried it would ‘ruin’ his tough-guy act, make him seem weaker for some reason, because his whole life was about being strong and “manly” or whatever.

in fact, my personal headcanon is partly in line with the ship that i have with @gavrele but it’s that dean doesn’t even begin to acknowledge that he’s bisexual until like... however old he is in s13. at that point, you know, he’s getting older, he’s tired, he’s been through so much shit, he’s stopped having random hookups and one night stands, and if he weren’t a hunter, this is when he’d be ready to settle down with someone special and take it easy. so he’s got that mindset in that he’s mature enough, surrounded by people he mostly trusts, that maybe he can... start to be okay with it. but like 30+ years of denial don’t just go away over night, and, still referencing his relationship with gabe since that’s really the only solid ship dean has atm, things start off very small and secretive and behind closed doors or in the shadows, evolving slowly into being affectionate in front of other people, letting it be more obvious.

and some of this also explains why dean is bad at being vulnerable, why he doesn’t open up to emotions easily and has a hard time admitting he loves people, too. as he learns to accept his interest in men, he’s also slowly recovering that part of him that craves affection, that wants to be openly in love and happy and emotional. but as ever, it’s a slow process and i don’t know if he’ll ever be completely comfortable with labeling himself bisexual.

now, i do have a verse where dean was not raised to be a hunter, and he spent most of his childhood with bobby and ellen instead of john, and therefore he grows up openly bisexual, having had several boyfriends and girlfriends. i firmly believe that it’s the mindset of having to be a hunter, having to be strong and tough and hardhearted that affected his comfortability with the identity, and so having bobby as a firmer support, having more freedom in what to do with his life and what’s okay, it allows dean to be more open and vulnerable and accepting of his interest in men. so yeah, a different support system would totally change his views on the matter.

that got long sorry, but by god thank you for asking

#;;deancanon #chamberofmuses #delivered

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notribs · 5 years

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hello hello ! it is may again and i... am still 20, using she/her, and in the eastern standard timezone. i can’t say that’s changed in the amount of time between intros. anyway, i do want to say that i like this gif because i feel like it.............. is an accurate representation of ribs at........... almost all times.

‹ TREVANTE RHODES, HE/HIM, CIS MAN, BISEXUAL. › DAVID “RIBS” SHAFFER is the TWENTY-EIGHT year old from EMERYVILLE, CA. when a friend asked them what they thought of the manor they said, ❝ IT LOOKS LIKE SOMEWHERE JAMIE LEE WOULD BE LURED INTO. ❞ they claim ANY HORROR MOVIE WITH JAMIE LEE CURTIS IN IT is their favorite scary movie, and if they were to die in a horror film they would EXPLAIN TO THE KILLER THAT THERE WAS NO WAY HE MET THE CRITERIA FOR THE ‘FINAL GIRL’… JUST TO BE KILLED IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS SPEECH. their fears include HALLUCINATING, PARALYZATION and FIREWORKS, and they don’t know we know, but… HE MADE MONEY AS A DEALER WHILE HE WAS STILL WAITING FOR THE BAND TO TAKE OFF. hope they enjoy their stay. ‹ MUSE B from STRESSED OUT. ›

QUICK FACTS:

full name: david “ribs” isaiah shaffer

date of birth: december 1, 1992

*does not perfectly reflect the below Big Three zodiac chart because that’s so much math

zodiac big three: sagittarius sun, capricorn moon, pisces rising

gender & pronouns: cis man & he/him

sexual orientation: bisexual

occupation: drummer + backup songwriter + history of drug dealing

the song i listen to on repeat while i write the intro: “make or break” - bugzy malone

BACKGROUND INFO:

triggers: violence, mentions of drug dealing, very very very brief mention of self-harm (not the product of a mental illness which is why i forgot to include this until i looked at it again this morning - the product of wanting to keep a lie), very very brief mention of guns and fire in the ‘fears’ section

born to a very loving family bc i need a sunnier background hasfkljwas

david was never EVER academically inclined. he’ll tell you it’s because he just wasn’t interested and was too involved in music and boxing, both of which will be gone over soon, but that wasn’t entirely true. he was also very busy working odd jobs days and nights as a kid and days and nights at successful businesses when he was 16+ (see: papa john’s)

his parents did own a music shop! they were clearly doing their part! but, in the digital era and the era of guitar center, they were only getting so much traction. they were also much too calm about it, at least outwardly, so david felt as though he needed to help.

but it is true that he spent a lot of time practicing music and boxing! as just mentioned, his parents owned a music store and were both very musically inclined. they taught him how to be, at the very least, INTERMEDIATE at as many instruments as possible. he can now confidently say that, if the band ever needed it, he could play the guitar, piano, bass, or saxophone.

that being said, his instrument of choice was the drums. he began using jazz drummers, as well as various hip-hop beats, as his inspiration. his original inspirations were buddy rich, gene krupa, chico hamilton, art blakey, and the beats of grime and 90s rap.

it shows.

when he ventured into other genres, however, he began taking inspiration from nick mason, john bonham, neil peart, keith moon, ginger baker, karen carpenter, and ringo starr

(i have a music theory + history lesson for you if you think ringo is a bad drummer ok - he was a “songwriter’s drummer,” which is much more important to being a drummer in a band than being technically skilled or being able to show off with complex patterns and, thus, overshadowing the song. that’s why the beatles continued asking ringo to play the drums on their songs, even after they broke up. john lennon never said “he’s not even the best drummer in the beatles” - a radio dj made that joke and people started taking it literally. love that.)

(also the same goes for nick mason but his drumming is rly only brought up when he’s brought up since pink floyd isn’t as talked about as the beatles)

ALSO!!! i have decided to be passionate about karen carpenter because girl won a 1975 poll that pit her against john bonham for best drummer and he got so mad and said she couldn’t last ten minutes with led zeppelin. the following is just alleged, but oh my god i hope it’s true: then she proceeded to compliment his drumming, say that she thinks it’s all very subjective, then got behind her set and played “babe i’m gonna leave you” while singing and not missing a single note. we have decided to stan forever.

he also took up boxing. as a kid, he was just practicing and taking any excess frustration out. when he turned 14, however, he found an opportunity in an underground circuit. he started fighting against other people, for real, and would be paid if he won the fight.

so: school from 8a-3p, drum practice from 3:30p-7:30p (i know), family from 8p-10p, boxing from 11p-2a.

his parents knew he boxed, but didn’t know it was as dangerous as it was. they assumed there were more safeguards in place..... but boy was bringing in a LOT of money for there to be a lot of safeguards in place. because of this, david NEVER let them see his matches.

when he was 16, he’d broken his ribs during one of the fights and refused to see a doctor over it. what did he say happened when his parents could TELL something was wrong? he said that he’d been mugged and beaten up. to support this theory, before he ‘showed’ it to them, he dug into himself with a knife to make it look like the muggers had a switchblade.

from there on out, he made everyone call him “ribs”

did his parents ever wonder where his excess income was coming from? DEFINITELY. he told them that, yes, his MINIATURE matches did bring in some money, but the rest of the money came from tips!! because people are clearly that generous!!

he also never showed them the full amount. he’d only give what was necessary, not out of selfishness, rather to keep his secret and save them from worrying about him. he put it in a savings account.

it should also be addressed that, during this time, he became friends with who would become the guitarist in his future band, joakim. he witnessed joakim fight a homophobic teenager and desperately wanted to join in... but his ribs were broken ahflskd

he continued boxing, even after being introduced to joakim’s college friend, gabe - the future singer of their band. that being said, they began jamming with each other and played in a few local circuits.

his parents were very encouraging of this and told him that he should go for this as a career opportunity.

can you tell they were idealists?

he wanted to... but it was very impractical. by now, however, he was out of school (and he never went to college). his parents let him continue living with them since they were under the belief they were short on cash and it’d be difficult for him to find an affordable apartment under the papa john’s salary.

he decided to take his parents up on this... but, while he was waiting for his band to find success, their music store was closed down. as they both began looking desperately for new jobs, he realized that papa john’s and the fighting payment wasn’t quite enough anymore... so he started selling drugs.

he doesn’t keep his fighting a secret anymore, but he does keep his drug dealing a secret. he fears that it’ll perpetuate stereotypes.

during one of his band’s gigs, he and the others met their future bassist - the missing piece - rory. she was marginally younger than they were, but she was an extremely talented bassist and songwriter, so the lineup was finally complete and devil’s wine was formed.

when they began skyrocketing, he quit drug dealing. he also stopped the dangerous boxing, although he continues to... box safely. he began sending money back home after they really started succeeding. his mother got a teacher licensure in music and his father got the opportunity to own..... a guitar center.

if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

VERY IMPORTANT: uses a pearl custom kit, istanbul cymbals, aquarian heads, and vic firth sticks.

that was very important.

PERSONALITY INFO:

literally obsessed with jamie lee curtis. watching her movies has also made him very genre-savvy.

would genuinely die for her.

is the epitome of bob belcher’s “oh my god.” in his band. they get off topic during practice/recording just ONCE?? queue “oh my god.” and the gif above.

isn’t necessarily ashamed of his past dealings (literally) - like, joakim knows - but is genuinely afraid of perpetuating the stereotype of the dirty black boy. he’s open about the rest of his life, but he’s convinced that if people learn he used to sell drugs, he would be setting people back. having a black drummer in a rock band that’s on the radio? he needs to keep up appearances!!

never wears shirts during concerts. has to show off his ribs and also drumming, with a bunch of lights directly on him, is an extreme exercise and guaranteed sweat machine. dresses like bugzy malone otherwise.

ahflskjd again,,, like adrian,,, look @ his chart ig alhkfjd

FEARS:

hallucinating: he hates not only the idea of losing his mind, but also the idea of having a skewed view of reality after he really... saw reality, you know? his uncle had schizophrenia and, while he rarely saw him, the thought of going through what his uncle had/has to go through terrifies him.

paralyzation: this was a constant worry of his during his boxing matches - he was terrified someone would wind up taking out a firearm and would shoot him into a state of paralysis. not to mention, all limbs are required for both drumming and boxing.... so.

fireworks: less deep than the others. the house next door to his was set on fire due to a firework display being too close. while no one died and most of the house was salvaged, the idea of losing anything he has is terrifying to him. also the sounds they make remind him of guns so?

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

ok,,, so unlike adrian,,, he lived in california,,, a state many other characters lived in. while some cities in california can be like,,,, seven hours away,,, IT’S STILL AN IMPROVEMENT, so i’ll list a few past connection ideas too!

fans

people who hate his music

people who’ve seen one of his matches

old friends

someone who was constantly in his parents’ music store

exes

fwb

ons

???? im bad at connections!!!!!! but im down for brainstorming and/or working off of urs!!!!!!

#manor:talk #will be updated when more is figured out w his subplot ofc!!

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thegreenfairy13 · 5 years

Text

Dog Sitter Part 11 - Time To Visit A Friend

A Gobblepot fanfic. When Oswald loses his dog Ed, Jim Gordon finds it and does an excellent job when it comes to taking care of the mobster’s furry friend. Read it on Ao3 here.

Days pass, then weeks, and then even months. Oswald has everything he could have ever hoped for: a family, wealth, power. He should have been happy. And he is. For the first time in his life, he has achieved some sense of stability. Everything is going so well it should have been boring. It is.

Jim has stayed true to his word, keeps as far away from the mobster as possible. He resists waltzing into the Iceberg Lounge at any given moment as if he owned the place and refrains from calling the criminal at ungodly hours to obtain some intel on the workings of the inner mind of some lowlife Oswald might or might not be acquainted with.

Instead, when the situation calls for it, cops show up at his doormat who know how to keep their heads low and their manners in place. Oswald isn’t forced to keep his wits about him whenever the police arrive. Not when he only has to deal with quivering fools nowadays who are too afraid to ask the right questions, intimidated solely by his reputation. There’s no challenge in his interactions with the GCPD any longer, no game of push and pull.

Even Zsasz’s mouth escapes a mournful sigh the next time Jim doesn’t show up for interrogation but one of their most loyal associates at the GCPD.

One could think the Penguin misses the old days. He doesn’t, he tells himself firmly. Now, that he finally realizes how toxic his fascination with the cop always had been, he’s able to focus on what’s truly important: the family he had been given.

As more and more time goes by, Cobblepot’s interests begin to shift towards his more legal businesses. He starts a restaurant chain, and a perfectly legal casino, both turning out to be a steady influx of gorgeous dollar notes and makes plans for another lucrative arms trade with the state of New York.

And yes, it is true. There had been a time when the Penguin had envisioned his son following him on the throne. But now, with his kid being close all the time, he isn’t quite sure about that anymore.

His love for Martin keeps growing steadily, increasing day by day until he can’t remember what had possessed him in the first place to wish for his child to become a criminal. The thought alone of his kid being hunted down by other mobsters or being chased by the police is enough to make his stomach churn. Now, he has more to live for than an empire. He has a legacy. A legacy he keeps building steadily for Martin and Martin alone.

One day, his son will be a powerful and respected man, he vows. There won’t be any hideous rumors, exchanged only in the dark, about his alleged criminal connections. He’ll be as much loved as Bruce Wayne - Oswald will make sure of that.

That doesn’t mean the Penguin has entirely given up on crime. Gotham is still his city, his kingdom. And despite the crime-licenses being history, nobody in their right mind would dare to make their businesses without the monarch’s blessing. He doesn’t control petty crime any longer, but who cares anyway? The GCPD listens to his command, the other Dons too, and the Penguin still makes his cut in exchange for protection under his notorious umbrella. He just isn’t personally involved anymore. He lays low for the sake of his boy.

And maybe for Jim’s sake, a traitorous voice in the back of his mind keeps whispering. He shushes the voice whenever it speaks up. Claims not provoking the last honest man at the GCPD is just another measure to keep his boy from having to visit him in prison.

Oswald Cobblepot has turned into a criminal who doesn’t make his hands dirty. Just like Falcone before him, he pulls the strings in the background while in public maintaining the facade of a proper businessman.

On some days, he’s sure Jim sees right through the charade. Or would, if he could be bothered to care. Or maybe he does care but decides not to act on his instincts. His promise not to turn Martin into an orphan seemed to be a genuine one. And with Oswald residing in Arkham or Blackgate, Martin would be just that.

With Jim being gone from his life for good, the Penguin starts to wonder. He reminisces their conversations during dull meetings, tries seeing his actions through the eyes of the cop who came here so many years ago to rid the city of the corruption that is the very blood and soul of Gotham. If he understands at last?

It doesn’t seem like it. Not if the Gotham Gazette and the City Herald are anything to go by. Almost on a daily basis, the man’s face stares accusingly at him from the covers. Jim is judging him, scowling at him. That surely wasn’t what he had envisioned when he let him off the hook.

But what was he expecting anyway? He remembers their first conversation in Jim’s flat. When the man stunned him into silence, admitting he had indeed let the mobster walk away freely despite being able to arrest him. Back then, he didn’t believe him. But now, he starts to reconsider.

In Jim’s eyes, he had been too powerful before his third fall from grace. He had controlled the city like no other man before him and he had tried putting an end to it by bringing Sofia to Gotham. But maybe that had been Jim’s kind of mercy. The cop had always been smart, clever. Yet, instead of arresting him, he brought home another criminal to take the throne from him, or at least someone he would have had to share his power with.

His actions had almost torn Gotham apart. And now, despite him meddling and expanding his control again, Jim stays true to his word. He must know about Oswald’s actions, though. He’s still Jim Gordon, isn’t he?

And while the weeks pass, Oswald reads the newspapers. Learns about the hero-cop who’s never afraid be the first in the line of fire whenever someone robs a bank or takes another hostage.

Ed is wreaking havoc again when Lee finally leaves him. He blows anyone up too stupid to solve his ridiculous riddles, desperately trying to strike fear in anyone’s hearts and to make himself known. It’s laughable, really. He’s putting so much effort into his games and still achieving nothing: no wealth, no power. Fear without reputation has never been to Oswald’s liking. Sometimes he wonders how he fell for Ed in the first place. The man has become a mess, a loose cannon ready to go off at any given moment. They had been a good team though, he muses. Before everything went to hell.

Jim is chasing Ed desperately, almost getting himself killed before finally catching him and hauling his sorry ass to Arkham. Oswald wonders if Jim survived thanks to his wits or because Ed couldn’t bring himself to murder him. After all, there had been a time when the two men had been friends.

How deep is he under Ed’s skin, too? Is he? And no, he isn’t jealous. Not of that friendship. Not of Lee, who is now free to return to Jim. He isn’t. For he can’t be friends with Jim. Not when his proximity alone is a danger to his child and everything he built.

His heart isn’t filled with dread either when Jeremiah Valeska hatches a plan to cut off Gotham from the mainland. He definitely isn’t worried half out of his mind when Jim does what he does best and marches right into the heart of darkness. Isn’t staring into the flames of his fireplace when the news declare Jeremiah dead and the Captain missing, buried beneath the ruins of the single bridge the redhead managed to destroy. He doesn’t drink too much or bites his nails frantically until drawing blood when ordering his men to team-up with the Wayne boy to get the appropriate machinery over to dig up the cop as soon as possible.

He simply does what any decent, wealthy citizen would do. And he definitely doesn’t sob hot, relieved tears in the privacy of his own bedroom when Jim survives yet again. He should have prayed for his death instead, he chastises himself. With the cop gone, his life would be easier.

Oswald never took the easy way. But he stays strong even afterward. Doesn’t consider catching a glimpse of the Detective lying in his hospital bed despite wishing so much for visible, tangible proof he’s still breathing.

Instead, he stares at yet another photograph of the good Captain gracing the cover of the Gazette. His frown has deepened and the circles beneath his eyes seem darker than ever. Else, he seems fine. Not even three days after the incident he’s back at the precinct, ordering his men around. Oswald is relieved - and a tad bit worried. It’s awfully soon, isn’t it?

It’s no use denying: he misses Jim Gordon. Yet Oswald isn’t going to waste his chance for his personal happy ending. That is until Harvey Bullock pays him a visit.

The Penguin frowns. None of his machinations should have provoked the GCPD’s interest lately.

The Detective is still a stranger to decent haircuts or flatirons, the mobster notes, slightly displeased. Bullock is unusually subdued today, but then he’s mostly rather civil when not tagging along with Gordon. Must have something to do with him regularly paying the cop’s gambling debts, Oswald ponders. Only last week Bullock brought himself into rather serious trouble once more.

If Jim knows Harvey can’t quit visiting illegal gambling dens? Probably not. Why the Detective doesn’t visit his own clubs is anyway beyond him. He wouldn’t have to fear for the safety of his kneecaps in the Penguin’s establishments, that’s for certain. And no, that’s because the man is useful, not another favor for Gordon. Well, maybe a small one.

Heaving a sigh, he gestures for Bullock to sit down and waits patiently while he crams himself into the deliberately too narrow chair before him. A polite smile firmly in place, he orders Gabe to bring them some refreshments. After all, he still has manners.

Folding his long, elegant fingers beneath his chin he asks, “what can I do for you, Detective?”

For a second, Bullock squirms under his gaze before ceremoniously dropping a folder unto the table. Cobblepot’s mouth twitches. He never liked rude gestures.

Slowly, he picks it up and opens it. The first page isn’t spectacular at all. A simple police-report he can’t be bothered to read. Yet when turning to the second page he has a hard time concealing the surprised gasp about to escape his throat.

He has seen pictures of corpses before, has seen dead bodies with his own eyes and even been the cause of death but this, this is different.

Thankfully, this is also the exact moment Martin decides to barge in. Scowling venomously at the Detective, Oswald quickly snaps the folder shut.

Bullock’s eyes grow wide like saucers when taking in the little Penguin, but Oswald pays him no mind. He’s too grateful for the distraction allowing him to collect his jumbled thoughts. That man on the cop’s photograph, he knows him. Knew him, if only briefly. And now he’s dead. It can’t be, mustn’t be. Not now, not when everything is going so well.

Pushing his inner turmoil aside, he focuses on Martin instead. His little one looks so much like him, dressed in his gray dress pants, even if currently decorated with grass-stains, and sporting a white shirt. Except one item is missing to complete the picture.He’s holding a small, rumpled frock in his hands and looking entirely crestfallen at his father.

“I’d rather you wouldn’t bring such horrifying pictures to my home where my child could be exposed to them,” he chastises Bullock haughtily.

“And Martin, what did I teach you about knocking?” Oswald inquires sternly.

“That I should do it?” the kid asks back.

The mobster rolls his eyes. “Just tell me what happened,” he urges, tapping his fingers impatiently on the shiny surface of his desk.

“See, Ed…” he starts, cheeks already heating up.

“No,” Oswald interrupts his kid. “What did I teach you about lying?” He doesn’t miss the snort that escapes Bullock at the question.

“Only ever lie to the police, the judge, business partners, and…” Martin starts to list by using his tiny fingers. This time, the cop outright chokes.

“And never to your dad,” Oswald cuts him off determinedly. “So try again.”

“I was playing in the garden with Ed,” the kid finally admits. “I slipped and tore the lining,” he elaborates, holding up the piece of garment for his dad to see.

Oswald bristles. “This kind of attire isn’t really suited for playing in the garden, Martin.”

“I know, dad,” the kid whines and his father has to hide a smirk behind his hand. “But can you fix it?” he asks, already stepping closer to the desk.

He’s staring at Bullock with unhidden curiosity when approaching. “I know you,” he states. “You’re the cop who accompanied the one who watched over Ed. The one who…”

Before Martin can finish his sentence, Oswald takes the frock from him and makes a show of inspecting the garment. “Just take it to Olga,” he judges, giving his son a pointed look. “Ask her nicely to take it to the tailor. And while you’re at it, see what she can do about the grass-stains. I’d be more worried about those,” he finishes.

“But Olga is terrifying,” the little one protests.

“Maybe she’d be less terrifying if you’d be nicer to her?” he suggests.

“I am nice,” he objects.

“Good then, at least someone in this house can be severe,” Oswald mutters more to himself than to his child. “Martin, darling, please let dad have a chat with this man here. We can discuss this later, alright?”

Nodding, the kid finally makes to leave the room, still openly staring at the Detective. “You aren’t in danger, right?” he can’t help asking, glancing warily at the elderly man. Bullock is still too flabbergasted to respond.

“No,” Oswald soothes him. “I’m just having a chat with an old friend.”

Once the door closes behind Martin, the mobster turns his attention back to the task at hand. His initial shock at seeing a photograph of the recently deceased Brian Gold has thankfully worn off enough for him to think properly again.

“Cat caught your tongue?” he smirks when Bullock still stares at the door.

Turning in his narrow seat, he stammers out, “no, I just thought…”

“What?” Oswald snaps more for dramatic reasons than out of real anger. “That I killed my own son? Or sent him away for good?”

“Son?” he echoes incredulously.

“Son,” the Penguin confirms proudly.

Collecting himself slowly, Bullock taps the folder. “The reason for my visit,” he clears his throat awkwardly.

“And I already thought you’d be here to show your gratitude,” he interrupts him, directing a sweet, innocent smile at the cop. Thanks to Martin, it’s almost ridiculously easy to throw the Detective off guard.

“Yeah,” he brushes off the last statement seemingly unheard but the folder suddenly vanishes from his table. Silence stretches between the two men while Oswald waits for Bullock to speak up again. The cop is meanwhile looking at anything but at him. He twirls the hat in his hands, studies his dirty fingernails before sucking in a deep breath.

“Penguin,” he starts. “I need to talk openly with you.”

“Please, we are old friends after all,” he encourages, his smile growing wider.

Leaning back, the Detective studies him thoroughly. “I never liked you,” Bullock admits. “Thought you’d wind up dead sooner than later. Instead, you’re on top of the food chain again.”

The Penguin dismisses this rather rude statement. The man is obviously trying to manipulate him into losing his temper. Oswald isn’t going to rise to the bait. Not when the stakes are so high. Not when there’s still hope.

It’s only Bullock he’s dealing with. Jim Gordon still respects their agreement, and while he must be absolutely certain Cobblepot had Brian Gold killed, he still didn’t come. He sent his partner instead. It seems like Jim is truly sticking to his word, going even against his moral code in order to keep Martin from becoming an orphan.

It only hits him now, that he clearly didn’t tell his partner about the return of his son. While he isn’t keeping Martin a secret per se, he didn’t shout it from the rooftops either. The less know, the safer his kid is.

Oddly enough, the mobster wishes Jim had come himself. Oswald had had nothing to do with the man’s untimely decease and he yearns for the Captain to believe him. Hopes to look into his eyes and be given the chance of convincing him he isn’t the monster he clearly thinks him to be. He values agreements too. He had always been honest with Jim. Can’t he see that? Not even once? Must he send his partner?

And Bullock, really? Oswald wants to scoff. He trusts his partner so much while the man is still another crooked cop, ready to sacrifice the oh so precious law for his own interests.

“Jim sent me personally,” Bullock carries on. “Which is odd in itself,” he states with what passes as his most intimidating stare. It does nothing for Cobblepot though. “Said you might know something about the man we found with a bullet in his head this morning. Gently placed for his final rest on a trash dump.”

“And your point is?” the Penguin inquires politely.

“I could ask you if you knew him and listen to your lies,” the cop growls lowly.

Leaning over the table, he brings his face uncomfortably close to Oswald’s. He can smell the cheap burgers he consumed, the onions and the garlic in his breath. He wants to lean back, evade this gross, stomach-turning scent but dutifully stays in place. Bullock needs to see his expressions, has to be certain he isn’t lying to him.

“But I did know him,” he concedes, surprising the cop entirely. “If only briefly,” he continues. “But this,” he gestures at the folder. “I’m not responsible for this.”

Leaning back against his throne, Oswald studies the cop intently. He isn’t sure he believes him. It isn’t Bullock’s validation he seeks anyway but Gordon’s. But he’s the next best thing, a step to take in order to get into the Captain’s good graces.

To his utter surprise, Bullock nearly explodes out of his chair. “I couldn’t care less who’s responsible for some minor drug dealers death!” he shouts. “Maybe it was you, maybe it wasn’t. What I really want to know is what have you done to Jim Gordon?”

“Pardon?” the Penguin blinks.

“What,” Bullock commences. Slowly leaning over the table he grabs his lapels again. “What have you done to Jim?” he asks again, lowly, threateningly. “Before the whole dog incident, he would have never shied away from going to you himself if he thought you were up to no good. So, what is it you are threatening him with?”

Releasing him, Bullock pushes the Penguin deeper into his chair. Oswald gapes, too stunned to reply. He should have assumed their agreement would raise some suspicions.

“I, I, I did no such thing,” he stammers, intimidated, as shy as the umbrella-boy he used to be so many years ago.

Bullock merely scoffs in response. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working incredibly well.”

“What do you mean?” Oswald asks back, having a hard time following the cop’s train of thought.

“What I mean, is that I don’t care who and what you are,” he declares dramatically. “I’ll be coming after you if Jim should get killed or kill himself.”

At the notion, Oswald feels as if someone had pulled the rug right underneath his feet. He has to draw his breath before being able to speak again.

“Whyever would he do that?” he sputters. It’s not his most eloquent moment but he must have done something right for Bullock’s expression turns less thunderous.

“Have you been reading the news lately?” he demands to know. Too anxious to answer Oswald just tilts his head.

“Our good Captain of the GCPD is on a suicide mission ever since he stopped caring for your pet. You don’t want me to think that’s merely a coincidence?”

Surging forward, Bullock reaches again for the Penguin. Yet the mobster stops him.

“As opposed to you, I truly considered Jim Gordon a friend. Always. I’d never…” He’s struggling for words, unsure how to continue. It’s unlike the King of Gotham to beg for something. But right now, he needs Harvey to trust him. “What you are implying… I could never do that. Not when it comes to Jim. So tell me, what’s wrong with him?”

Laughing humourlessly, Harvey considers his words. “I never know with you if you’re lying or being sincere. Jim lost his will to live. That’s what happened. And should I ever find out it’s something you’re threatening him with, I’ll personally come after you.”

“Sounds fair,” the kingpin mutters. Collecting himself, he indicates for Bullock to leave. Being clearly outnumbered should the kingpin choose to call for his employees, he turns on his heel but not without shooting the Penguin a last, nasty glance.

Once the cop is gone, Oswald collapses back in his seat. Rubbing his temples wearily he picks up the latest edition of the Gotham Gazette. He browses through the newspaper until he finds the picture he had been looking for.

Jim Gordon is frowning at him from the paper, appearance haggard. The Captain has clearly lost some weight since they last saw each other. The worn down suit he’s sporting seems to be the only thing gluing him together. Oswald doesn’t know if he’s imagining things but Gordon seems to look, for the lack of a better word, sad.

He wonders how he didn’t notice that before. Could Harvey be right? Jim had only been doing what he had always been doing: trying to save this wicked city from itself. True, he had been reckless, careless for his own safety but that is just ultimately Jim, right?

And Jim Gordon committing suicide? The thought alone is laughable. The man is a soldier, a hero, the last honest cop in the entire city. Whyever would he even think about ending his life?

He doesn’t dare thinking the man’s losses might have finally caught up with him. After all, what does he have? Two failed relationships and his job. He remembers the state of his flat shortly after giving Ed into his care. How shabby and messy the place had been. The dog had been an anchor back then, a reason for him to tidy up the apartment and to reconsider his life.

Could it be that with the dog gone he had gone back to his old ways?

Once he has made up his mind, he orders Gabe to come over. The bulky man stumbles through the door and Oswald sighs. There are not many jobs the slow-witted hulk can be trusted with. But this one should be easy enough.

“I need you to get me a dog from the animal shelter,” the kingpin commands, tone decisive. “A Pomeranian. The one in 34th street has one. Fetch it and take it to me. I already informed them about your arrival.”

To his utter surprise, the whole man lights up at him mentioning the Pomeranian. “You mean that kind of dog they had on this sitcom called “The Nanny”?” he inquires.

Oswald stares at him, entirely lost. “I suppose,” he offers.

“Oh, it was a lovely show,” Gabe continues. “See, boss, there was this couple. She was a nanny and he was some rich dude. They were pining for each other for years and never got properly together. They had love interests but always broke off with them cause they knew they were meant for each other but in the end…”

The Penguin cuts him off. “The dog, please,” he presses out through gritted. “And once you have it, get my car ready. I have to visit an old friend.”

#gobblepot #fanfiction

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rambling-at-midnight · 6 years

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False Image: Part 2

At this point, you’re pretty sure the universe hates you.

You don’t know what you did to piss off fate, but it seems like everywhere you turn, there’s one of the Winchesters, or some appendage of them—Bobby, Jo, Gabe, and Cas don’t have the last name ‘Winchester’ but they’re all connected in some way.

At least none of your coworkers know Sam and Dean. From what you’ve seen of the boys’ fans, if someone does know them, they’d never stop talking about them. You’re surprised you haven’t fallen to what you’ve started to call the Winchester virus—yet.

You’ve never seen such a close-knit group of people and it’s really sweet, how much they seem to care for each other, but they’re always talking about Sam and Dean. Sam and Dean this, Sam and Dean that, Sam and Dean saved kittens from a house fire yesterday, this morning they saved one of their colleague’s lives.

Not that they aren’t great, because they are. And you’re glad they’re saving kittens’ lives, because you love kittens, and you’re glad nobody’s dying in local fires, but you’ve got a problem.

You blush.

A lot.

At a lot of things, like having to speak in front of small and large groups of people, you saying something dumb to someone you don’t really know, someone asking you a question you don’t know the answer to, someone teasing you, someone questioning you in general, lying, and so much more.

Basically, if no one looked at you, everything would be peachy.

And for some reason you don’t really want to know, the mere mention of Sam freakin’ Winchester makes you red-hot like the firetrucks he rides in.

Oh, and did you forget to mention, you blushing so much makes you embarrassed, but the more embarrassed you are, the more you blush?

So, it’s either you start wearing an unholy amount of makeup to stop from looking like a tomato every time someone mentions Sam’s name—and jeez, are the boys, like, local celebrities or something? Everyone knows them—or you, like, get over this weird crush thing. You’ve not spent an hour in his presence, so how could you be so flustered over even his name ?

At least he’s not one of your patients. You’d probably catch fire if he came around and you had to sit in a closed-off room with him for a half hour.

Good thing he’s a firefighter, you think and chuckle aloud.

“What?” Your secretary and first friend in this town, Charlie Bradbury, asks without taking her eyes off her computer screen. You don’t know what she’s looking at; it’s all a bunch of black and white gibberish on the display.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and stow your phone in your coat pocket. “Just… thinking of a funny scene from a TV show I watched last night.” You can feel the heat rising up your cheeks and pray she isn’t looking at you. Charlie rarely takes her eyes off her computer screen, especially because she works another job while being your secretary. It’s not a lot of work, so she also works for the government in hacking into people’s electronic stuff. You’re not very good at all that stuff. Thank God she is.

“Hey, remind me who’s coming today?”

Charlie rapidly clicks the mouse, minimizing the gibberish screen and pulling up multiple files before finding the right one. She recites, “Brutus Crowley—” You smile at that. “Missy Walker, Dagger Chambers, Lola Banes, and Bailey Hanscum. Garth is taking care of all the other patients. Speaking of—” Charlie checks her watch. “He’s cutting it close again.”

“Cut him some slack, he’s an excited newlywed.” You sigh. “I think it’s sweet.”

Charlie pushes away from her computer and wheels over to you. “What’s that sigh for?”

“What sigh?” You look away and pick up your file for the day just to have something to do.

Charlie exaggerates a sigh and repeats, “‘I think it’s sweet.’ What’s that about?” She gasps. “Is there someone? A boy?” She wiggles her eyebrows at you.

“No!” You crinkle your nose as if disgusted, but really you’re trying not to smile at the mental image of Sam that pops up in your head.

“A girl! I like girls, too, I’m not judging.”

“Speaking of, you need to bring Kara around sometime! You guys are still together, right?”

“Yes, we are, you would know if we weren’t, and you’re changing the subject.” Charlie puts her hands together prayer-style and regards you with squinted eyes.

You start to get red and look away, pretending to shuffle through the case files. It’s just a checkup for Brutus, but Missy’s been refusing food. And Dagger—

“You like someone.” Charlie gasps. “You don’t like Dean, do you? You’ve been talking about him a lot. You know he’s with Cas, right?” She grimaces. As if you’d ever be a homewrecker like that.

You pull a face. “No! Ew! I don’t like Dean—wait, you know Dean? And I haven’t been talking about him, like, at all!”

Charlie laughs. “Hey, look, as your closest friend, whenever you mention a potential love interest, I notice. It’s taken you long enough to get over Brady. You were talking about the Winchesters, especially more recently, and well… even I can admit they are smoking . And the tone of voice you used when you were talking about them… Besides, who doesn’t know Dean? Everyone knows Dean and—” Charlie’s mouth drops open. “Sam! Oh my God, you like Sam !”

“You do?”

You and Charlie turn at the sound of Garth’s voice. He shuts the back door and hangs up his coat and briefcase without taking his eyes off you.

“Hey, Garth!” you say loudly, trying to convey that you’re going to kill Charlie with your eyes. “How’s the wife?”

“She’s great. You like Sam?” he asks again, like you hadn’t heard him ask the first time. “Wow! I love Sam! I bet you guys will be great together!”

“No, I really—I really don’t ,” you insist. “You probably don’t even know the Sam we’re talking about—”

“Well, Winchester, duh.” Garth smiles and chuckles. “Are there any other Sams in the town?”

“Um, yes, three others, and Charlie’s just being stupid and projecting her happy lovey-dovey feels onto me. I’m focused on my work now. I don’t have time for distractions.”

“Y/N, you’re getting red,” Garth points out in a sing-song voice and picks up a sheet of paper from Charlie’s desk. Of course, that only makes you redder. “Oh, hey! Mrs. MacLeod is visiting with Leo today! I love Leo. He’s my favorite snake.”

“I think he’s our only snake,” Charlie muses, finally distracted, and you breathe a sigh of relief and check your watch.

“Oh! We’re opening in one minute! Is everything set up?”

“Y/N, relax. Even if things aren’t ready, the only person scheduled exactly for 9 is Crowley, and he literally could not care less.”

“Speak of the devil,” you say while poking your head out of the employee’s room. Crowley stands in front of the glass doors with Brutus at his side. The enormous Neapolitan Mastiff sits at his feet, perfectly obedient as always.

You mouth ‘one moment’ to Crowley, who rolls his eyes (you blush) and duck back into the room. “He’s here. Where are the keys?”

Charlie tosses them to you. “Did you know, Asa always puts them on the coat rack when he’s finished with the night shift? It took me forever to find them the first time and we were fifteen minutes late to open…” She continues to speak to Garth, who listens intently while preparing himself some coffee, and you welcome Crowley and his dog in with a large, genuine smile. Crowley is definitely an acquired taste and so is Brutus, but they’re both sweethearts once you get to know them.

“How are you today, Crowley?”

“I’m perfectly well, Y/N,” he responds in his dry British accent. “How are you?”

“I’m all right,” you reply. “A little stressed because of the move, but I’m excited too. And how is Brutus doing?” You crouch down to the dog’s level and scratch his head. “Just the checkup, huh?”

“That is correct. You are satisfied with the help you received through my company, though, aren’t you?”

“Oh, Mr. Asmodeus was lovely,” you assure him. “Packing up is just a hassle. You never know how much you own until you have to box it all up, right?”

Crowley laughs, probably only out of courtesy, but that’s one of the reasons why you like him. He’s always perfectly polite and courteous. You would think he’s only being nice to you because he’s nice to everyone (and that doubt does still cross your mind at times) but he’s taken to calling you Bird, and Charlie tells you he only calls people animals when he’s especially fond of them.

“You know, I almost wish Brutus would get sick more often,” you remark off-handedly. “I hardly ever see him, do I, boy?” You pat his head and lead him by his collar to the scale. “Not that I’d like to see him sick, though,” you add hastily.

“No offense taken, Bird,” Crowley assures you. “I did hear something about a training center for dogs…”

“I guess word has gotten around,” you say while writing down Brutus’ weight. “I mean, it is a training center and Brutus is, obviously, an angel. The sentiment is kind, though.”

“Wouldn’t it help to have another dog along to set an example?” Crowley asks.

You frown and tap your pen against your chin. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Perfect.” Crowley straightens his already-straight suit. “Then you’ll send me the schedule?”

“Y-yes.” Feeling yourself get redder, you change the topic. “Brutus has only gained a tenth of a pound since we’ve last seen him, so that aspect is fine.” You give the dog a treat, one of the many stowed in the pockets in your coat, and wink at Crowley. “Off to a private room, then.”

“Heel, boy,” Crowley commands and they follow after you.

“Now, I don’t suppose any of the answers from last year have changed?” you ask while listening to Brutus’ chest with your stethoscope.

Crowley settles himself into a chair with a regal dignity you didn’t think possible for a mere human. “Well, as the town grows, I become busier and busier, but I have hired a dog walker to take Brutus on his regular walks, and then I obviously exercise him in the park while I eat my lunch. Apart from that, nothing has changed.”

You mark that down on your clipboard. “Oh, I forgot to ask—did you bring in the feces we asked for?”

Crowley flourishes a Tupperware container full of Brutus’ poop that he’d pulled seemingly out of nowhere.

“Perfect, I’ll have Garth go over that immediately.” You stick your head out of the room and call, “Garth! We got poop !”

“That is a lot of poop,” Garth comments as he takes the container from you.

“Brutus is a big dog,” you reply. “Make sure you wash it out well, all right?”

Brutus seems perfectly healthy, so you send the two men off a few treats lighter and with Crowley’s number in your pocket. You have no idea where Crowley put the Tupperware container after you gave it back to him, but that’s just Crowley for you.

The rest of the day is a breeze. Gordon Walker was probably more worried than he needed to be, since his cat only has a small cold, but you sent them away with medication. Krissy Chambers’ bunny, Dagger, had a UTI.

You had a small break after that and got to hold Leo during his wellness examination and talk with Crowley’s mother, Rowena. You don’t know how she looks so young, considering her son is at least 45.

After that you got to meet Lola Banes, Alicia Banes’ new white rat. It was just a wellness examination for him as well, but he wasn’t exactly friendly. And Donna Hanscum’s energetic cocker spaniel, Bailey, has fleas.

At the end of the day, you sit slumped in the employee’s room, sipping out of a coffee. It’ll keep you up tonight, but at this point you’re too tired to make it back to your apartment. You need the caffeine.

“Long day, huh?” Charlie spins around in her chair once, a blur too fast for you to make eye contact with, before she gets back to typing.

You nod and heave a sigh. “I just need to get on a good sleeping schedule again, that’s all.”

“You’ll be back to yourself once the move is over.”

“God, I hope so.”

“Hey, you wanna head home now?” Charlie stands up from her computer and cracks her neck. “Garth and I can handle cleanup, or even Asa and whoever he works the ER with. You’ve earned a good night’s sleep.” Charlie takes the coffee cup out of your hands. “You won’t be able to sleep if you drink this.”

“I won’t be able to drive back if I don’t drink it,” you correct and grab for the coffee cup. All that happens is burning-hot coffee slops over the edge and you both snatch your hands away at the same time. The cup smashes on the floor and you hiss, shaking your hand.

“Fuck,” you both say at the same time, staring at the smashed cup on the ground.

“This is why we can’t have nice things, Charlie,” you immediately joke. “Hey, at least I’m a medical professional. I know how to bandage burns.”

“You know how to do everything,” Charlie grumbles as you wrap up her hand. “You should work the ER too, sometimes. Asa had to call Garth in because some cat was having troubles that he didn’t recognize. You’re the boss. The boss should be doing the hard work.”

“Yeah, Charlie, I’d sure love to work 24/7,” you say sarcastically. “I work the ER on Saturdays. Sundays are my off days.”

“I’ll clean up the mess,” she says, ignoring your sarcasm. “You go home.”

You start to walk away but stop in the doorway. “Hey, Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you—forget it.”

“No, what?”

“I’ll get back to you after I ask Garth about it,” you evade, turning red again. You don’t want Charlie to know anything about it. At least Garth is moderately subtle. Charlie would probably punch Gordon in the face, and he hasn’t even done anything.

Garth is just finishing up with someone’s dog when you knock on his door.

“Bye, Mrs. O’Connor!” he calls cheerily. “Have a nice day!”

“You too, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she responds.

“Hey, Y/N,” Garth greets, turning around to grab a Clorox wipe. “Buddy really sheds a lot. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you could take Missy Walker from now on?” You hold your breath as your face turns red.

“Why?”

“I don’t really like her.”

“What?” Garth laughs. His back is still turned and you’re grateful. You’re blushing hard right now. “Missy’s super sweet and you love cats. What’s really up, Y/N?”

“Nothing!” Your shoulder slips off the doorframe and you stumble. “Nothing, really, Garth. I just—she only comes in once in a while and most of the time I’m really busy and Krissy and Lee had to wait a long time while I was with Missy.” You take Missy’s file out from behind your back and shove it at him. “If it’s not any trouble…”

Bemused, Garth takes the papers and skims over them. “If you really don’t want to, Y/N, then sure, but—”

“Perfect! I’ll tell Charlie. Thanks, Garth!” You call, already out the door and down the hall so he can’t change his mind.

Charlie’s just finished cleaning up the spill when you hurl yourself into the room. “Garth’s going to be taking care of Missy from now on, all right?”

“Huh?”

“Garth agreed to take on Missy Walker from now on because I’ve got so many other patients,” you say slower and avoid where she’s crouching as you walk across the floor to grab a few coffee K cups for your one at home.

“Any reason why?”

“I felt super rushed today,” you fib and hang up your coat in the closet. “Oh, can you hand me a ‘Clean’ sticker? I didn’t get peed on or anything today.”

Charlie hands you the sticker you’d asked for so Asa won’t put it in the wash unnecessarily. You stick it carefully onto the shoulder of your coat and shut the closet door.

“What time is it?” you wonder while checking your watch. It’s 5:34. You’re running a full hour ahead of schedule.

“Bye, Y/N,” Charlie calls after you as you shrug on your real coat and exit the clinic through the back door.

Since you’re turned back to yell “Bye!” you don’t notice the large form in the doorway and hit it full-speed.

“Sorry!” you squeak, taking a step back to look at the person’s face.

Asa grins at you. “Where’s the fire?”

“I drank some coffee,” you admit. “Just now.” You grin and bounce on the balls of your feet. “Good luck tonight, A!”

“See you, Y/N!” he calls after you as you hurry past him. Hopefully no dogs get hit by cars tonight. He’d love a nice, quiet night.

During work, you’d forgotten about your annoying crush and terrible luck, but the second you get into your car it all comes rushing back. You’re running a full hour early—will you see Sam when he’s coming home tonight?

You can’t help the rush of adrenaline that floods through you at the thought.

God, you really do like Sam, don’t you? That’s embarrassing. How do you make it stop?

You turn on your car and a blast of cold air slaps you in the face. It doesn’t warm up until you pull into the parking lot of the apartment building, and you roll your eyes. The car’s moderately old. You’ll have to get a new one, but not for a while.

You’d called it—Sam is in the elevator when the doors open, and you both step back with surprise.

“Sorry,” he immediately says. “Normally no one else is on the elevator at this time. You get off early?”

“Yeah,” you reply. Surprising yourself and Sam, you keep the conversation going by asking, “Were there any fires today?”

Sam shakes his head. “We cleaned up the trucks, mostly. Dean and Cas both got in trouble for making a mess in the vending machine room, but—” He stops talking and you look at him with surprise, but he’s looking down.

You’d reached for the elevator button with your bandaged hand. Sam’s eyes don’t lift from it as he asks, “What happened to your hand?” Is it just you, or does he sound… angry? Why would he be angry?

“I burnt it, actually,” you respond, torn between hiding the point of conversation so Sam will get back to talking about Cas and Dean and whatever they did because the more Sam looks at you the more you blush, and acting nonchalant about the whole thing so Sam doesn’t think you’re a wimp. “Charlie tried to take my coffee mug when it was still hot. Really, really hot. I didn’t think coffee could get hot enough to burn people, but Garth likes his drinks especially hot so I think he adjusted the machine somehow.” You stop your rambling and suck in a breath. “It’s really not a big deal,” you add as if that’ll make you seem tougher when in reality you’d just admitted you’d bandaged up your hand after spilling hot coffee on it.

“Oh. I actually heard something about that a while ago. Some woman sued McDonald’s for serving her coffee that gave her serious burns and she got compensation because McDonald’s apparently knew their coffee was dangerous and was serving it at a dangerous temperature on purpose,” Sam rambles and you frown. For some reason you’re having a serious case of deja vu, and you instinctively flinch, imagining that something just lunged for you. Why would something lunge for you?

You clear your throat after a moment of silence and prompt, “What did Cas and Dean do in the vending machine?”

Sam looks away from your hand and then at you. Dimples appear in his cheeks (you want to swoon; he has dimples?! ) as he chuckles. “They were having an indoor picnic for a date since Dean’s hours are all screwy at the moment.”

“That’s sweet,” you say softly, imagining you and Sam having a picnic inside because one of you is too busy working to have seen each other properly. When you realize what you’d been imagining, you blush and look away.

How is Sam Winchester so goddamn beautiful?

“I thought it was corny,” Sam admits. “Probably because he’s my brother.”

You duck your head. To spare you from an awkward silence, the elevator doors finally open and the two of you practically sprint to your rooms.

You heave out a sigh as you lean against your closed apartment door. You’re a mess.

Crookshanks trills at you from his spot on the counter, delighted that he’s getting treats earlier than he normally does.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you mutter, pushing yourself off the door to him. Unfortunately, you hadn’t been looking at the ground so you hadn’t noticed the liquid on the floor as well as the glass.

Your foot slips out from underneath you and you cry out as you fall back. Your hands brace your fall, but your bandaged hand smarts. You curse loudly as you roll over, shaking out your sore hand. A drop of liquid hits your face. Your fingers come away red when you touch it. There are broken glass shards sticking out of the heel of your hand and blood wells up from them quickly and stains the bandages on your hand red.

You get up carefully, minding the liquid and glass and cradle your hurt hand so as not to get blood everywhere as you pad to the sink. A steady stream of curses fall from your mouth. Crookshanks swipes at you when you walk past him without giving him treats, but you don’t even bother to humor him.

Loud knocking at the door makes you jump. “Y/N? Are you all right?” It’s Sam. Oh, so he’s conscientious as well as beautiful? There’s got to be something wrong with him. No one can be that perfect.

“I’m fine!” You call back. “My damn cat—”

“Do you need help?”

You survey the scene: you, with a bleeding and burnt hand, water and glass on the floor, Crookshanks sniffing at the crime scene—

You yelp. “Crookshanks! Get away from that! Just a second, Sam! Sorry!”

You want to wrap a towel around your hand so you don’t get blood everywhere but that would push the glass shards deeper into your skin so you just lunge for your cat and scoop him up with your good hand. You toss him into your bedroom and slam the door shut so he doesn’t hurt himself before opening up the door.

Sam takes in the drops of blood on your cheek, collarbone, and shirt, and finds the source immediately. “What happened?” he asks, carefully taking your hand by the wrist and leading you to the kitchen sink, being mindful of the mess in the hallway. You almost slip again on a drop of your own blood but he holds you up. The only thing you can think about is how embarrassed you are, and how impressed you are that he can literally hold you up with one hand without any struggle.

“My dumbass cat knocked over the cup I left out and I slipped on the water and cut my hand,” you grumble, embarrassment making your cheeks flaming. “This is just not my day, I guess.”

“That’s why you should get a dog,” Sam jokes.

“Yeah, I will, once I move,” you say, immediately brightening at the thought. “I hope Crookshanks gets along with it.”

“What kind of dog are you going to get?” Sam asks. He puts your hand over the sink and hunches down. His broad shoulders keep you from seeing what he’s doing.

Your hand is immediately the most sensitive part of your body. You feel every twitch of his fingers as they touch yours.

You wince as your hand stings and instinctively try to bring it closer to your body. Sam’s hands don’t let your hand twitch. He’s so strong.

You hate that you sound like a teenage girl with a celebrity crush.

“What are you—”

“I’m trying to get the glass out of your hand and distract you at the same time.”

“How do you know how to do that?” You’re genuinely interested; you’d thought that you would have to patch yourself up.

“Well…” Sam pauses and you wince as he gets another piece of glass from your skin. How his large fingers can be so gentle and precise, you don’t know. “My dad liked to leave beer bottles all around the house in precarious positions. Me and my brother got good at getting glass out of skin. We were pretty clumsy kids.”

It sounds like a lie, but you let it slide. It’s not like you two are close enough to be sharing family secrets.

“But back to the dog you want,” Sam says. “Describe your ideal dog.”

“Um…” You bite your lip as you stare at his muscular back and broad shoulders. “I really like—” Your voice turns into a squeak as he pulls what feels to be a particularly large shard out of your hand. “I really like big dogs, you know? So maybe a Briard—they’re really obedient, or a Neapolitan Mastiff like Brutus, Mr. Crowley’s dog. I would really like a Portugese Water dog, though. When I was younger I had a Labradoodle but she never liked the water and I really want a dog that likes to swim. My family has a lake that I own now—”

“Done.” Sam lets you go and the first thing you feel is disappointment, and then surprise. You hadn’t expected to get so distracted you wouldn’t feel the pain. You’d been so distracted you’d started to babble.

“Thanks.” You grin at him. “Can you grab the first-aid kit? It’s in that cabinet.” You point with your good hand. It’s in the only cabinet you can reach without getting on your tiptoes.

Sam hands it to you. You stick your bad hand under cool water from the faucet and pick out everything you’ll need to bandage yourself up with your other hand.

Once you’re all bandaged up, you turn around to see that Sam had cleaned up the mess on the floor.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you say, staring at the ground. You’re not quite sure what to say to Sam, the perfect gentleman.

“It really wasn’t any trouble,” he says gently, smiling down at you. The dimples hit you full-blast again.

You don’t have a response for that, so you just stare at him, and the smile slowly drops off Sam’s face as he takes a step closer to you. “Y/N—”

Your cat interrupts with a howl behind the door as he scratches it. You both look away with heated faces and you almost trip as you skirt around Sam to open the door and let him out. Crookshanks, ever an oblivious fuck, just beeps at you indignantly for locking him up and jumps onto the counter for treats.

“Thanks again, Sam,” you say with your back turned, an obvious dismissal. “If you ever need anything, let me know.”

He sighs. You don’t know why (you think you do, but there’s no way). “You too, Y/N.”

You don’t turn around until you hear the door open and close. Then you turn and slump against the counter. You shouldn’t feel this way about Sam, he’s your brother…

You frown and raise your hand to your temple. Where did that come from? Sam’s not your brother; you barely know him. You’ve been his neighbor for two years after you moved to town and only noticed him a few months ago.

You feel a headache coming on.

Crookshanks rubs his head against your arm. “I know,” you say absently to him and scratch the base of his tail. “I know. Weird.” You pick him up.

He meows, only the sound comes from behind you and not from in your arms.

You whirl, your hand flying to where you keep your gun, only there’s no gun in your waistband. You’ve never even held a gun. Why would you keep a gun in your waistband? You are crashing hard from that cup of coffee. You need to sleep.

After setting an alarm on your phone for 8 o’clock and making sure it’s plugged in and charging, you fall onto the bed. It only takes you a few minutes to fall asleep, which is a new record for you—it’s hard to relax sometimes.

For some reason you dream that Sam and Dean Winchester are standing over your sleeping form and shaking you. You wake up halfway multiple times, positive that someone actually touched you, but it was either only Crookshanks or your imagination.

You scowl in your sleep as Dream-Dean and Sam beg you to do something. You would do it if you could make out what they want you to do.

Sam can’t seem to take his eyes off your lifeless form, face paler than he’s ever seen.

“I don’t understand,” Dean says. “Y/N knows what a djinn world looks like. Why won’t she wake up?”

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfic #reader x sam winchester #spn #supernatural #reader insert

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agcnt029-blog · 6 years

Text

hello... runner here again bringing my swedish child. after some very long fc searching, i settled for herman tommeraas!!! he really only fits the aesthetic i had in mind in one ( 1 ) interview, but that’s totally chill bc i fell in love with his look in five gifs bc it was so perfect. so yeah... know that i imagine him w blonde and long-ish floofy hair as below. history and many facts below the cut as well as a few connections!!

[ HERMAN TØMMERAAS ] — GABRIEL ALTELIUS is a TWENTY-ONE year-old cadet from SWEDEN and the NORTH AMERICAN unit, also known as agent 029. Intel tells me that HE is ADAPTABLE & CHARMING, if not a little BOYISH & FRIVOLOUS. HE shows promising progress in UNDERCOVER OPS, LYING & MANIPULATION, AND HAND TO HAND COMBAT. better watch your back. [ runner | 20 | est | she/her ]

HISTORY

His full name is Gabriel Andrew Michael Näessén Altelius ( first name, two middle names, two last names; as sweden does not hyphenate ). Known as Gabriel or Gabe Altelius. Responds first to 029 or 29.

The Altelius family is a name that bears weight in the Agency. Michael Altelius is the patriarch, a high ranking official in the Eurasian faction, and is heralded to have been and to be one of the best — and Gabriel is his eldest son.

Gabe was raised to be an agent from the moment he was born. He’s been training his whole life how to fight, how to observe, how to lie, how to think on ones feet, and everything in between. Michael Altelius made the family name into something and made sure his two sons would not be the ones who would soil it.

Michael raised his family in his sons’ formative years in the states, helping to build bridges between the American and Eurasian factions, returning to Sweden every summer. His final stroke of genius was to enroll his eldest son into the North American faction.

Gabe took especially well to undercover ops; slipping on different people and personas came naturally to him, and it gave him a thrill. It also makes him feel safe in a way, as ludicrous as it might sound.

NOTES

About his personal life, Gabe is very careful not to let anything show. He has an almost childish and devil-may-care attitude, mixed with easy flirtatiousness and boyish charm. He’s good at making people think they know him without revealing anything at all. People have said they’ve seen him put on every person except Gabriel Altelius.

Andy has one younger brother Maximilian Linus Alexander Näessén Altelius (Max Altelius) who is also in the Agency but was in the Eurasian faction. Both of them are very close and it broke Gabe to be separated from him in different factions and he’s extremely excited that they will be in the same faction now.

Gabe fights extremely well, but he also fights like he’s been trained. The very best eyes are able to pick out patterns eventually, though he will prove to be an extremely difficult partner (and sometimes wins in spite of that).

Protocol is Gabe’s moral conscious, for better or worse. He was practically raised in the Agency and has been brainwashed taught that everything about it is law. We expect great things from you, Gabriel.

Gabe is extremely loyal to his family and would only ever break protocol if it was his brother on the line ( on the flipside, his brother is his weakest point ). This also circles back as he feels that any step out of line he takes has repercussions on his father and his little brother and the family name.

Gabe believes he has a good relationship with his father, but he also aims to do nothing but please. The Agency has been shot through every facet of his life, even that of his familial relationships. That being said, Max is one of two people who know him for who he is.

The other is his very close friend and crush and training partner ( wanted connection! ). Basically they entered the academy at different times but he is a prodigy fighter; absolutely excels at hand to hand, sees physical weakness like no one else, super built, like a year-ish younger than Gabe. He’s the first person Gabe’s ever wanted to show his true self to. There’s like…. a fwb element too (for maximum messiness) but if ur not comfy with that, it can be scratched or implied lol.

Altelius tradition is to pick numbers as agent names. Gabe’s is 029 and Max’s is 092.

CONNECTIONS

ooof so like…. part of his character is he makes really superficial connections but he’s super friendly….so here we go.

THE TRAINING PARTNER: different from the other one above, this is someone who started training with gabe. maybe they were roommates, but they hit it off. im thinking a more bookish/computer/nerdy muse for this —someone who would be the brains of an operation– but i’m open lol.

THE MENTOR: maybe an instructor or someone who just… gives andy his space to be a normal cadet for once, without the altelius name. literally just give me an adultier figure that’s gunna show this boy some love instead of heaping on expectations like his father.

THE PRYER: someone who wants to “figure him out” bc they believe there’s something more under that carefree boyish attitude. they’d be right, but will they ever figure that out?

LITTLE BROTHER: Max (Logan Shroyer fc, yeah???). As described above.

CLOSE FRIEND/CRUSH: As described above. preferred male. utp if it’s requited or unrequited.

idk. Gabe probably kicks back with the other undercover ops people, sparring partners… the possibilities are ENDLESS yeet

i’ll be in and out all day but hmu on discord ( bwenden guwuhwe#5730 ) or on im if you want to talk plots!!!

#covertintro

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clarenecessities · 6 years

Text

spooky languages

Word Count: 1087 Summary: father who art thou Chapter Warnings: gabe mention (ugh, am i right) [First] [Previous] [Next]

“I’m off to finish my dinner,” said Duchess. “Mind the explosions, please.”

“So?” asked Marinette as the doe slunk back into the woods. “What is his name? Or was? Or—whatever?”

“Gabriel Agreste,” said Plagg through gritted teeth, as if it were the worst swear he could imagine. Adrien jolted.

“But—I—” he stammered, staring wide-eyed between Plagg and Tikki. “I had a dream just now where you—you went to go find him for someone.”

Plagg’s hackles began to rise indignantly. “I knew you were scrying on me, you little gremlin!” he hissed. “Stay out of my thoughts! You can’t handle them!”

“Plagg,” chided Tikki. “It’s hardly Adrien’s fault you didn’t properly ward yourself.”

“He’s never been able to scry before,” muttered Plagg, glaring at Adrien, though his hackles started to lie flat again. “How was I supposed to know?”

“He’s bound to uncover new abilities as he and Marinette come to better understand their connection,” soothed Tikki. “Now, Adrien, what did you see?”

“Uh,” said Adrien, trying to remember. “Well, um, Plagg was human? And we were in a sídhe, and you were there with a woman with… long, blonde… hair…” He trailed off, words suddenly sticking in his throat. If his father’s name was Gabriel… “Was—was that my mother?”

Plagg sighed. “Of course it was your mother,” he said, uncharacteristically gentle. “Who else would I have been thinking about at a time like that?”

“So hang on,” said Marinette, “I’m—I don’t mean to interrupt, but—Adrien can read minds now?”

“Well, he can scry,” said Tikki. “You have to enter into a trancelike state to do it, but unconsciousness works in much the same way. Ordinarily it takes a lot more focus and precision, but given how close he and Plagg are and the fact that they were touching, it’s hardly surprising.”

“Oh,” said Marinette, looking relieved. “Okay, cool.”

“Why was she crying?” asked Adrien quietly, staring at Plagg. Seeing her wracked with sobs had already twisted his gut in empathy, but knowing now that she was his mother—he felt even worse. It felt like he should have done something, even though there was nothing to be done.

Plagg looked away. “She was sad.”

“She’d just lost someone very dear to her,” explained Tikki gently. “I’m sorry, Adrien.”

Adrien was quiet as he struggled with his feelings. He knew what he was supposed to feel, but it was… it seemed impossible to connect the reaction he should be having with the woman he’d never known. He wanted to understand but he just couldn’t force himself to reconcile the crying figure with any conception he’d had of ‘Mother’.

“What kind of fairy was she?” Marinette asked softly, when it became clear Adrien wasn’t going to respond.

“A leannán sídhe,” said Tikki, smiling. “They’re a font of inspiration, a muse. You’d have adored her. Everyone did.”

“Gabriel was an artist,” said Plagg, making a sour face again. “The way a leannán sídhe becomes more powerful is through real, sincere love and devotion. Usually to the fairy themselves, but the work will suffice if they prefer to remain anonymous.”

“I take it she didn’t remain anonymous,” said Adrien, pulling himself slowly from his reverie.

Plagg chuckled. “She would never. She wanted the credit even more than she wanted the power. She was raised by a cuélebre, and while she tended to be more down-to-earth, he did succeed in installing some measure of vanity.”

“Pride may be more appropriate,” said Tikki, stooping to swat playfully at his ear. “She was beautiful and talented and vivacious. I was certainly proud of her, and I know you were too.”

“You know nothing of the sort,” Plagg retorted. “I’ve never been proud of anyone, ever.”

“Mhm.”

“What, um… what’s a cuélebre?” asked Marinette uncertainly. Adrien grinned at her. He should make her up a glossary or something; this was a lot of new words to be learning.

“It’s like a giant snake with wings, kind of,” said Adrien, shrugging in an imitation of flapping. “A lot of them are weird, though. They like treasure and pretty people!”

“Like dragons?” asked Marinette.

“Uh,” said Adrien, frowning. None of that sounded like dragons to him.

“Not like any dragons you’ve met, Adrien,” said Tikki, smiling at him when he looked back at her. “Marinette is talking about European dragons. Cuélebres are remarkably similar to the human conception of them, but no, they aren’t like dragons. They’re fairies.”

“Do the dragons have their own court?” asked Marinette.

“Of course,” said Tikki. “They’re based rather far from here, but the king’s son is a member of my court and serves as a sort of diplomat. You may meet him soon—he’s somewhat fond of humans, and he dotes on Adrien. He’ll want to introduce himself.”

“He gives me cool candy!” Adrien told Marinette, beaming. “He’ll love you. Do you speak any Mandarin?”

“Wh—no?” said Marinette, blinking. “Does—should I?”

“Sabine didn’t teach you?” asked Plagg, though he didn’t sound surprised. “I suppose it stands to reason. She speaks even more languages than Adrien, and he’s had very little to do.”

“She does?” asked Adrien. “How many? I can catch up!”

“Um, French, Wenzhounese, Mandarin, English…” Marinette listed, making a face as she tried to remember. “Like seven or eight? How many do you know?”

“Five!” said Adrien. “French, English, Mandarin, Irish, and sign. I only know LSF, but a lot of other sign languages are descended from it or related to it, so I can understand some. They’re um, cog-hates.”

“Cognates,” Plagg corrected flatly.

“Cognates!”

“Oh,” said Marinette, blinking. “I only really speak French and like, a little bit of English. I’ve got some words in Mandarin, but I couldn’t put them into a sentence to save my life.”

“Maybe you’ll get better now that we have a contract!” said Adrien brightly. “Plagg can speak Japanese even though he never learned it, on account of Tikki did. Sometimes stuff like that can transfer over.”

“Fairies are kind of wild, huh?” asked Marinette, grinning back at him. “Contracts don’t usually work like this, you know.”

“Contracts are usually between two souls, not one and a half souls and living magic,” said Plagg. “You’ve no idea what you’re in for, kid. This is only the beginning. Now can we please get back to practicing?”

They settled back into a comfortable rhythm, and Adrien almost felt like he was getting the hang of it. Maybe this contract stuff wasn’t so hard after all.

#spooky ml au #miraculous ladybug #clare's writing

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crimsoncityhq · 3 years

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happy friday tags! We are a group that has been around since Oct 2019. We would love for you to join us. If you’re into familial connections, below the cut are some that are currently wanted!

( anya chalotra, cis female, 24 ) I hear that ROSALIE HALLIDAY is looking for their BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like AVAN JOGIA and that the last time they saw them was ROSIE AND THIS BROTHER HAVE A SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT RELATIONSHIP TO THE REST OF THEM. HE’S THE GAP BETWEEN HER AND THE OTHER SIBLINGS, THE OLDER FOUR MORE THAN FIVE YEARS OLDER THAN HIM. THEY UNINTENTIONALLY DRIFTED APART WHEN ROSIE MOVED AWAY FROM HOME BUT THEY TEXT OCCASSIONALLY, EVEN IF IT MEANS ROSIE HAS TO HEAR ABOUT HIM NOT APPROVING OF HER CAREER CHOICE You SHOULD NOT (but can if you want to flesh out more) reach out to ROSESJUSTDIE.

( scott eastwood, male, thirty ) I hear that LAVRENTII “LAV” VASILE is looking for their MATERNAL BIOLOGICAL BROTHER.. Word on the street is they look like ANY FC 21- 25 or 30+ (TOM HOLLAND, WILLIAM MOSELEY, MAX THIERIOT, OLIVER JACKSON-COHEN, CHARLIE HUNNAM, NIKOLAJ COSTER-WALDAU) and that the last time they saw them was NEVER, THEY COULD BE LOOKING FOR LAV OR SIMPLY ARE IN CHICAGO BY THEIR OWN ACCORD AND WILL CONNECT THE DOTS SOON. THEY SHOULD HAVE NO BIOLOGICAL TIES OR GANG AFFILIATED TIES TO THE VASILE FAMILY. IF HE IS OLDER THAN LAV, THEIR MOTHER SHOULD HAVE LEFT HIM WHEN HE WAS YOUNG TO GO TO RUSSIA AND SHE LIVED WITH LAV’S FATHER FOR A COUPLE OF YEARS BEFORE RETURNING. IF HE IS YOUNGER, THEIR MOTHER LEFT RUSSIA WHEN LAV WAS NO MORE THAN TWO YEARS OLD AND STARTED A NEW LIFE WHERE SHE HAD HIM. THE COUNTRY OF ORIGIN IS UTP AS WELL AS ANY OTHER GANG AFFILIATIONS. You SHOULD reach out to LAVENTII.

(Caroline Dhavernas, Female, 39) I hear that ARMANDE IVASHKOV is looking for their YOUNGER SISTER. Word on the street is they look like ANY BLONDE FEMALE FC BETWEEN THE AGE OF 28-34, and that the last time they saw them was The 4 Ivashkov sisters were raised by Orthodox Russian parents in Long Island. They were full of love but were not always the greatest parents. Their mother came from wealth, meanwhile their father not so much. Together, they risked everything to make their marriage work, and come to America when their mother was pregnant with the eldest (Armande). Next born was Ivy, who faced difficulties with empathy, and was the first member of the family to join a gang. This muse, the third daughter, remained in America when the girl’s parents were deported back to Russia (Alongside the 4th and youngest daughter). This muse is also the last Ivashkov daughter to remain in Long Island. Ivy had left, and so had Armande. It is your choice why they are in Chicago, and if they are gang-affiliated. You SHOULD reach out to REVELAARE.

( Caroline Dhavernas, Female, 39) I hear that ARMANDE IVASHKOV is looking for their YOUNGEST SISTER. Word on the street is they look like ANY BLONDE FEMALE BETWEEN THE AGE OF 21-26, and that the last time they saw them was The 4 Ivashkov sisters were raised by Orthodox Russian parents in Long Island. They were full of love but were not always the greatest parents. Their mother came from wealth, meanwhile their father not so much. Together, they risked everything to make their marriage work, and come to America when their mother was pregnant with the eldest (Armande). Next born was Ivy, who faced difficulties with empathy, and was the first member of the family to join a gang. This muse is the last to be born, she as deported with the parents back to Russia as she was under 18, and their parents said no to Ivy requesting custody of this muse due, to being labelled a “sociopath” by their parents. It is up to you why the youngest daughter is in Chicago, and if they are gang-affiliated. You SHOULD reach out to REVELAARE.

( charlie gillespie, cis male, character 22 ) I hear that ELLIOT EVERTON is looking for their OLDER BROTHERS. Word on the street is they look like ANY MALES WHO LOOK RELATED TO CHARLIE, 23+,, and that the last time they saw them was IT’S BEEN A FEW MONTHS. THE BOYS WERE RAISED IN A MILITARY FAMILY AND SO MOVED AROUND ALL THE TIME UNTIL EACH ONE TURNED 18 AND THEY STAYED IN THE CITY THEY WERE LIVING IN AT THE TIME. THERE’S FOUR BROTHERS OLDER THAN ELLIOT AND ALL OF THEM SHOULD HAVE NAMES THAT START WITH E. You SHOULD NOT reach out to ROSESJUSTDIE.

( emma watson, cis female, 26) I hear that KATERINA VASILE is looking for their TWIN BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like THOMAS DOHERTY/CONTACT IF YOU HAVE ANOTHER FC IN MIND PLEASE and that the last time they saw them was YESTERDAY. KATERINA AND HER BROTHER CAME INTO THE WORLD THREE MINUTES APART AND HAVE BEEN INSEPARABLE EVER SINCE. KAT HAS SPENT MOST OF HER LIFE WANTING TO PROTECT HER TWIN AND SO IT WAS HARD FOR HER WHEN HE INITIATED WHEN THE TWINS WERE NINETEEN BECAUSE IT WASN’T SOMETHING SHE COULD CONTROL. NOW SHE IS PAKHAN AND TECHNICALLY HIS BOSS BUT SHE WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR HIM. You SHOULD reach out to Rosesjustdie.

( megan fox, cis-female, thirty-three ) I hear that MAGGIE BIRCH & GABRIEL CAINE is looking for their FATHER. Word on the street is they look like JASON ISAACS, and that the last time they saw them was WAS WHEN HE LEFT MAGGIE’S MOTHER WHEN SHE WAS TWO AND THEN FOR GABE, 3 MONTHS AGO. MAGGIE WILL BE TAKING A DNA TEST (LIKE 23ANDME) AND WILL FIND OUT GABE IS HER HALF BROTHER. THEY HAVE THE SAME DAD BUT DIFFERENT MOMS. You SHOULD reach out to XMAGGIE-BIRCHX OR XOFADDICTION

( shannon leto, he/ him, 45 ) I hear that JAMESON ROBERTS is looking for their BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like JEFFREY DEAN MORGAN, and that the last time they saw them was BACK IN NEW YORK WORKING FOR THE NYC CHAPTER OF THE WALSHES AS THEIR DRUG RUNNER. GROWING UP WITH TIES TO THE IRISH MOB, FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE O'SHEAS, AND HAVING A FATHER WHO WAS ALSO A DRUG RUNNER, HE HAS COME TO CHICAGO TO HELP HIS BROTHER EXPAND WITH THE WALSH DRUG TRADE AS ANOTHER RADALA.. You SHOULD reach out to XJAMESON-ROBERTSX.

( anya chalotra, cis female, 24 ) I hear that ROSALIE HALLIDAY is looking for their OLDER BROTHERS. Word on the street is they look like DANNY PUDI, RAZA JAFFREY and that the last time they saw them was HONESTLY IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE THEY HAVE SEEN ROSIE. ROSIE IS THE YOUNGEST SIBLING BY MORE THAN A DECADE AND THE FAMILY DIDN’T GROW UP WITH A LOT, THEIR PARENTS SACRIFICING THINGS SO THAT THEY COULD SEND THEIR SIX CHILDREN TO GOOD COLLEGES WHEN THEY WERE OLDER. THEIR FATHER ALWAYS ENFORCED THE IDEAS OF HIGHLY EDUCATED JOBS SO THESE BROTHERS WOULD MOST LIKELY BE DOCTORS/LAWYERS/SOME JOB TO THE SAME EXTENT TO HAVE A RELATIONSHIP WITH HIM. THE WHOLE FAMILY HAS TAKEN THE MOTHER’S MAIDEN NAME. ROSIE DOES NOT HAVE A LOT OF CONTACT WITH HER FAMILY DUE TO DROPPING OUT OF COLLEGE AND BECOMING A TATTOO ARTIST. You SHOULD NOT (but can if you want to flesh out more) reach out to ROSESJUSTDIE.

( sandra oh, cisfemale, 53 ) I hear that DEIJI "DAISY" RAU-BYRNE is looking for their ELDEST CHILD Word on the street is they look like STEVEN YEUN,JAMIE CHUNG,ARDEN CHO, BAEK SUNG HYUN, HAN HYO-JOO, KIM SOOHYUN, KIM WOO BIN, YOON PARK, UTP (30-36, MUST BE KOREAN IF BLOOD)and that the last time they saw them wasYESTERDAY. DEIJI HAS HIGH EXPECTATIONS WHEN IT COMES TO HER CHILDREN. THEY LIKELY ALL BELONG TO THE WALSH MAFIA. MSG ME AND WE CAN HASH OUT THE DEETS OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP. IT'S UTP IF THE CHILD NOTICES THE TENSION BETWEEN THE PARENTS. You SHOULD reach out to CRIMSONFAUX.

( sandra oh, cisfemale, 53 ) I hear that DEIJI "DAISY" RAU-BYRNE is looking for their MIDDLE CHILD Word on the street is they look like AHN HEE-YEON, BAE SUZY, BANG MINAH, KRYSTAL JUNG, PARK SHIN-HYE, SYDNEY PARK, JANG SEUNGYEON, TIANA TOLSTOI, ADELINE RUDOLPH,LEE SUNMI, CHOI-RI, KIM HYE YOON, KIM SEULGI, FIVEL STEWART, UTP (25-30, MUST BE KOREAN IF BLOOD)and that the last time they saw them wasYESTERDAY. DEIJI HAS HIGH EXPECTATIONS WHEN IT COMES TO HER CHILDREN. THE MIDDLE CHILD IS LIKELY THE ONE SHE WOULD HAVE GONE HARDER ON TO SUCCEED. THE KIDS LIKELY ALL BELONG TO THE WALSH MAFIA. MSG ME AND WE CAN HASH OUT THE DEETS OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP. IT'S UTP IF THE CHILD NOTICES THE TENSION BETWEEN THE PARENTS. You SHOULD reach out to CRIMSONFAUX.

( robert sheehan, cismale, 30) I hear that DARREN MURPHY is looking for their HALF-BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like ANY FC THAT CAN PASS AS ROBERT SHEEHAN'S HALF BROTHER and that the last time they saw them was BACK IN MACROOM, CORK, IRELAND. THE TWO ARE FIVE YEARS APART AND HE SHOULD BE FINISHING UP SCHOOL. You SHOULD reach out to darren-crimsoncity.

( ANYA TAYLOR JOY, CIS FEMALE, 24 )I hear that NOVA DEVEREAUX is looking for their ADOPTIVE BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like ANY MALE/NB FC BETWEEN AGES 26-30, and that the last time they saw them was THE OTHER DAY. NOVA HAS A GOOD CONNECTION WITH HER ADOPTED FAMILY. HIS PERSONALITY CAN BE HOWEVER YOU LIKE IT / HE CAN BE AFFILIATED WITH WHOMEVER BUT THIS WOULD BE A NICE, PROTECTIVE RELATIONSHIP. SHE REGULARLY GOES TO HIM FOR ADVICE AND THEY HANG OUT QUITE A LOT.You SHOULD NOT reach out to EFFIEFAUST.

( madelaine petsch, cis female, 23 ) I hear that VIOLET MADDEN is looking for their TWIN BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like KJ AP, CAMERON MONAGHAN, or UTP and that the last time they saw them was YESTERDAY. VIOLET’S TWIN BROTHER IS INVOLVED WITH ONE OF THE MAIN FAMILIES, HE’S VERY PROTECTIVE OVER HER AND TRIES TO KEEP HER OUT OF AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE. You SHOULD reach out to VIMADDEN.

( sydney sweeney, cis female, 23 ) I hear that AUDREY ROUSSEAU is looking for their OLDER BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like BRENTON THWAITES, CODY CHRISTIAN, NICK ROBINSON, DYLAN SPRAYBERRY, LIAM HEMSWORTH and that the last time they saw them was 2 months ago. AGED 24-26 their father was an o'shea general who was sent out on a mission and still to this day is MIA, their mother abandoned them at a young age. he received a tip about their father, was able to get the time off and set out to investigate it. he’d now be coming back with another dead end and face the new rule of the walsh’s. You SHOULD reach out to audreyrousx.

( timothee chalamet, cismale, twenty-three ) I hear that BLYTHE SWEETWINE is looking for their OLDER SIBLINGS. Word on the street is they look like SAMARA WEAVING (33), BRANT DAUGHERTY (35-40), JAMES MCAVOY (41-46), EION BAILEY (44-49), MARTIN HENDERSON (45-50), OR ANY OLDER FCS WITH DARK HAIR AND GREEN EYES and that the last time they saw them was AT THEIR MIDDLE BROTHER’S FUNERAL IN 2006, OR AT HIS BAR MITZVAH. THERE ARE TWELVE OLDER SWEETWINE SIBLINGS, THE ELDEST IS IN THEIR LATE FORTIES AND THE YOUNGEST SHOULD BE AROUND THIRTY-FIVE. THEY ARE VERY DISTANT WITH THEIR TWO YOUNGEST SIBLINGS. . You SHOULD reach out to GCCDMOURNING.

( chance perdomo, cismale, 25 ) I hear that AUDRIC NOIRE is looking for their ELDER SIBLING. Word on the street is they look like LAKEITH STANFIELD, REGÉ JEAN PAGE, JEFF PIERRE, BJ BRITT, WUNMI MOSAKU, ALEX NEWELL, ALEXANDRA GREY, LUPITA NYONG'O, NATHAN STEWART-JARRETT, BRIAN MICHAEL SMITH, GUGU MBATHA-RAW, YAHYA ABDUL-MATEEN II, JAZZY JONES, ASHLEIGH MURRAY, ANY BLACK FC , and that the last time they saw them was IN A PHOTO WITH HIS FATHER. AUDRIC IS UNAWARE OF HIS FATHER'S SIDE OF THE FAMILY, ANY SIBLINGS ETC, AND HIS FATHER HAS SINCE PASSED. You SHOULD reach out to CRIMSONFAUX.

( kristine froseth, cisfemale, 23 ) I hear that GWEN ARNOLDS is looking for their OLDER BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like CASEY DEIDRICK, JAKE WEARY, BEN ROBSON, UTP and that the last time they saw them was A DAY AGO, WHEN GWEN DROPPED OFF SOME OF HER GARDEN VEGGIES AT HIS PLACE. HER BROTHER SHOULD BE BETWEEN 28-35, PREFERABLY ON THE OLDER SIDE, SINCE I SEE THEM HAVING A RATHER LARGE AGE GAP. THE TWO OF THEM GREW UP IN SAN JOAQUIN, CALIFORNIA, IN A HIPPIE COMMUNE SITUATED ON A 30 ACRE FARMLAND, WHERE THEY WERE HOME-SCHOOLED BY THEIR MOTHER, AND WHERE THEY HELPED OUT WITH THE FARM - TENDING CROPS AND ANIMALS ALIKE. THEIR UPBRINGING WAS VERY SHELTERED, AS THEY RARELY INTERACTED WITH ANYONE OUTSIDE THE OTHERS OF THE COMMUNE, SO THE TWO OF THEM ARE VERY CLOSE BECAUSE OF THAT. THAT SAID, THE COMMUNE LIFE WAS NOT FOR HER BROTHER AND SO HE LEFT WHEN HE WAS IN HIS EARLY TWENTIES, WHICH DEVASTATED GWEN, BUT SHE UNDERSTOOD, SINCE SHE HERSELF HAD A LOVE FOR EXPLORING AND DIDN’T WANT TO BE TIED TO THE COMMUNE HER WHOLE LIFE EITHER. WHEN SHE TURNED SIXTEEN, SHE LEFT AS WELL - MOSTLY TO TRAVEL, BUT EVENTUALLY SHE MET UP WITH HER BROTHER IN CHICAGO, WHERE HE LIVED, AND SHE DECIDED TO SETTLE THERE, TOO.. You SHOULD reach out to GWENARNOLDS.

( luke pasqualino, cismale, 36 ) I hear that OLIVER FAUST is looking for their PSEUDO CHILD.. Word on the street is they look like TOM HOLLAND, YARA SHAHIDI, SOPHIE TURNER, ALEX WOLFF,TAYLOR HICKSON, JEREMY SHADA, JOEL COURTNEY, KATHRYN NEWTON, ALISHA BOE, BENJAMIN WADSWORTH,NICK ROBINSON, JACK MULHERN, FROY GUTIERREZ, ELLIOT FLETCHER, DYLAN SPRAYBERRY,GIORGIA WHIGHAM, JOACOB ELORDI,LIANA LIBERTO, DIANA SILVERS,SAMANTHA LOGAN, LULU ANTARIKSA, DYLAN MINNETE, MADISON PETTIS, HUNTER SCHAFER, JAZ SINCLAIR, FC UTP, GENDER & ETHNICITY UTP. CHARACTER AGE PREF TO BE 21-25, and that the last time they saw them was UTP GOOD WITH EITHER YESTERDAY OR END OF 2020.OLIVER TOOK YOUR CHARACTER UNDER HIS WING WHEN HE WAS TEENAGER AND YOUR CHARACTER WAS AROUND 5-7. YOUR CHARACTER SEES HIM AS A PARENTAL FIGURE AFTER YOUR CHARACTER WAS ORPHANED. THEY WOULD BE A PART OF THE FAUST CRIME FAMILY. PLS REACH OUT TO BRAINSTORM! . You SHOULD reach out toCRIMSONFAUX.

( finn cole, cismale, twenty four ) I hear that TARON LYNCH is looking for their IDENTICAL TWIN BROTHER. Word on the street is they look like FINN COLE and that the last time they saw them was they saw them was HIS FUNERAL AFTER A DRUG DEALER RIVALRY GONE WRONG. TAYLOR’S DEATH WAS FAKED BY THE WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM, BUT HE’S ABANDONED HIS NEW IDENTITY. TAYLOR AND TARON HAVE ALWAYS BEEN INSEPARABLE, TAYLOR BEING THE THORN IN TARON’S SIDE THAT HE’D NEVER TAKE OUT. TAYLOR HAS ALWAYS BEEN THE MORE OUTSPOKEN OF THE TWO AND LOOKING FOR ATTENTION, GOOD OR BAD, AND TARON LIVED IN HIS SHADOW SOLELY TO PROTECT HIM FROM THE ENEMIES HE’D MAKE AND EVEN HIMSELF. IT’S ONLY FATE THAT TAYLOR MANAGED TO END UP IN CHICAGO (REASON UTP) AND THE BROTHERS WILL REUNITE. You SHOULD reach out to GCLDENGRIMEE.

#appless rp #crime rp #oc rp #mature rp #town rp

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thewhiterabbit42 · 7 years

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On The Edge

Summary: While Sam and Dean try to beat Lucifer to Cas and Kelly, you’re left behind with Crowley who isn’t acting like himself.

Pairing: Crowley x Reader

Word count: 6975

Warnings/Tags: smut, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks), foreplay, ummm, filth? (Jesus, how did Crowley come out with tamer tags than Gabe?) a little bit of everything as far as feels go.

Written for my 100/200 follower celebration

Requested by: @devilsnevercry1388 Quote: “This must be what going mad feels like.” Kink: Surprise Sex

Author’s Note: The poetry Crowley uses is from Part II of Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. They are my absolute favorite lines from that entire piece and just jumped into my head as I was writing this.

Special thanks to: To my wonderfully amazing beta @sumara62, aka my Jedi Master wise in ways of the force and the comma. You don’t just catch my mistakes, you help me bring to life what I’m trying to convey and I am grateful you know what my wordy ass is trying to say ;) I also want to thank the lovely @blondecoffeecake for keeping my muse fed and helping me take a direction in this story when I got stuck. Oh, and extra thanks for the future crack fic. Probably coming around Christmas.

***Please do not repost or copy my work to any other site without my permission. Giving credit does NOT count.***

The world sits on the edge of a precipice, the Winchesters scrambling to keep it from toppling over. You, on the other hand, sit back at the bunker, arguing with a rather pissed off Crowley who does not like having his hand attached to the furniture. Not that you blame him. You’d be a little miffed if your friends got a little stabby as well.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell Dean not to leave you with the king of Hell. You might as well be telling him that one day Sam will die. It skitters across his radar before he deftly bats it far out into the stratosphere where reminders of his own mortality have taken up residence. For the most part, you’ve been able to avoid any close, direct contact, but everyone’s luck has to run out sometime.

You just hope yours is the only one that does today.

The problem isn’t that you don’t like Crowley or you think he’s a danger. It’s that you don’t know how you feel about him. The last few years have been especially confusing, the boundaries blurring between ally and enemy, and he’s taken to walking that fine line of cooperation until it benefits him to step off again. The uncertainty puts you in dangerous territory, walking something equally as thin and fragile and you don’t know anyone in their right mind who would want to star in a tightrope act without having a safety net in place.

Yet, out the door your friends run, though you can’t be mad at them. Not only are they trying to stop the devil and save the world, but leaving you behind is their way of protecting you. Leaving Crowley, however, is the one thing they are doing to cover their own hides, and you can’t blame them after the secrets the demon has kept.

Though it does leave you with a royal pain in the ass.

“Crowley, we’ve been over this…”

Over. And over. And over… to the point where you’re one nerve away from finding a spell that will seal his mouth, temporarily or otherwise. He cocks a brow as if he’s heard that and you wonder how privy he really is to your thoughts and how much he just plays dumb.

“You’re not their lap dog, you know,” he tells you. You expect for there to be a hint of disdain accompanying the phrase, but there’s nothing, save that familiar rasp and something that pushes just beyond the fringe of neutrality.

“You’re right,” you agree, though what you’re conveying is far different than the portrait of the undervalued sidekick he’s trying to paint. “I’m not.”

“You’re so much more than they give you credit for,” he continues as if you haven’t even spoken. Then again, that’s Crowley. When all the doors he’s tried are locked, he’s persistent enough to circle back around again to see if there’s any he’s missed.

He’s never tried to pit you against the Winchesters before. Then again, you’ve never been in his sights. Just as you’ve always preferred to stay on the periphery during any dealings, he’s always seemed more than content to overlook your presence.

There’s a heady moment as your eyes connect and there’s no doubt about where his attention is focused now.

“Always tucked away in their shadow, kept on the sidelines, and told to stay behind,” that touch of something in his tone grows louder, and you feel your stomach flutter beneath his unwavering stare. “The truth is, they can hide you all they want and you’re still going to steal the show. Every. Single. Time.”

Your heart picks up a few extra beats and it’s a reminder of why you avoid him in the first place. Your stomach also rumbles and the hunter in you reminds you there’s plenty of space between Crowley and the kitchen. The woman, however, is starving in ways that go beyond not having eaten since that morning, and she is what makes you linger longer than you know is wise.

You expect a smug smile. A little mocking amusement to round out the look. Instead, he simply looks tired, worn in a way that’s beyond your understanding. You wonder if it’s connected to the fact that you only have a single lifetime to endure when he’s had so many.

You also wonder at what point timeless beings lose track of what number they’re on.

Whatever the look is, it’s not one he wears well, and he is most certainly wearing on you as he scrapes the bottom of the barrel trying to get beneath your skin.

“Let me up, kitten,” his tone is lined with silk that caresses over you, ensnaring more than just your hearing. The sudden nickname has you so distracted you almost step straight off the safety of that wire. Despite the weariness that clings to his features, there’s an energy simmering beneath the surface. Your instincts flare, warning you that something is off, and it’s enough to keep your feet firmly planted where they belong.

“I can’t let you up,” your voice comes out a little more breathy than you intend, something that does not go unnoticed. His gaze fixes more intently on you, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and you unconsciously shift your weight.

Whatever he’s selling, you don’t want any of it.

You don’t even know how you feel about the fact he lied about Lucifer. Is it betrayal churning in the pit of your stomach when you look at him? Is it resistance to the hope that descends now that your anger has abated, insisting that he must have had his reasons? Or is it possible you’re unnerved at how close you came to never seeing him again?

If you’re being honest with yourself, you know which one it is. Most days, however, you don’t like to be. Today is no exception.

You rise from your seat next to him, intention clear in the way your eyes drift to the door.

“Wait,” he insists, his good hand shooting out to grab you by the wrist. Electricity sparks beneath his touch and you almost gasp at the way it shoots up your arm. It ricochets back down the length of you, sending smaller shockwaves off within your chest and stomach. You’re not the only one that feels it and you watch as the darks of his eyes suddenly swallow the cinnamon flecks sprinkled around the centers. It leaves only uncharted and vast green seas staring back at you.

“I can’t do this, Crowley.”

You’re not sure what this even is, only that you don’t intend to stick around to see what he has to say. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you. You slip through his grasp with ease, a final jolt sliding through you as his fingers trail lightly over your pulse before dropping away entirely. You can’t even look at him as you leave the room, as you focus on simply getting away.

***

You try to eat something, but find yourself checking your phone more often than bringing food to your mouth, which only results in cold chicken and an even colder appetite. You push your plate away, letting out a long, drawn out breath.

You don’t like that you’re stuck here while your friends are off trying to outsmart the devil. You don’t like how they feel more like family than your actual one does anymore and you’ve let them leave to defuse the most unstable nuke in existence without you. You most certainly do not like the restless energy that thrums until you can’t sit still and your hands itch to do something other than press a button and tap a screen.

Your options, however, remain limited.

You decide clearing the table and doing dishes is as good of one as any. It won’t occupy your mind, but it will help keep your hands busy. You let the water run as hot as it will go, using the scalding temperature to keep you grounded. It’s not enough to drown out the buzzing on the edge of your senses that rises steadily, culminating in an electrifying crescendo.

It’s strange. You can’t remember ever being this keyed up. Not during the apocalypse. Not even when Amara was on the brink of destroying existence. Your friends have come back heroes from worse odds and yet you’re coming apart, stitch by unraveling stitch. It’s more than that, though. You feel as if you’re slowly stepping onto the wrong side of sane until even the simple task of washing silverware requires far more concentration than necessary.

By the time you realize you’re not actually going crazy, it’s too late.

He’s already there by the way the hair on the back of your neck stands on end and his presence crackles on the air. It makes it harder to breathe, or maybe it’s just the sudden realization of how much trouble you’re in depending what side of the line Crowley decides he’s on.

“I’ve tried so hard to stop this from happening,” his smooth voice reaches out from across the room. You have no idea what he’s talking about and with everything that’s happened, you’re not sure if you should be reaching for a weapon, running, or offering him a glass of scotch as a peace offering.

“Day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion…” His voice starts as a murmur, words taking on a smooth, seductive cadence that speaks of something long-endured which rises palpably in the air around him.

“As idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean…”

You’ve considered the possibility he went insane the moment he decided to alter the plan to put Lucifer back in the cage. The fact that he’s speaking English but still not making a lick of sense is certainly not helping his case. Then again, at least he’s saying something, since the only way you can track him is through his words.

The way he moves, however, has instincts whispering with warning. You recognize the feeling. It echoes of cases that have slipped beyond your control and you immediately still.

“Water, water, everywhere,” he continues, his presence a slow stalk that inches closer and closer. If you had to guess where he was, it would be just passing the kitchen table.

“And all the boards did shrink…” His voice reappears much nearer than that and he’s closing in faster than you anticipate. “Water, water, everywhere…”

The silence that lapses is deafening. You’re on edge, ears straining, but the only sound you can make out is the rapid beating of your heart. There’s a heady rush as the air around you becomes charged, thick, overwhelming to the point it’s almost suffocating.

This time when he speaks, he’s close enough for his breath to ghost over the shell of your ear.

“Nor any drop to drink.”

His hands move to the counter on both sides of you, and you can only hope this is all just some elaborate plan to unnerve you and not actual insanity.

“I have tried so hard to be good,” he murmurs, his nose pressing lightly against the back of your ear just before he inhales. Deeply.

The fact the king of Hell is smelling you right now suggests his eggs are, indeed, a little more scrambled than usual.

Your body is just as confused as your mind, adrenaline rushing out to combat the threat even as your stomach flutters with excitement. Your hand, however, instinctively closes over a steak knife, the action hidden beneath the foamy layer of bubbles that sway across the water’s surface.

You wonder how much of a head start you could get if you catch him someplace good with it.

“Put the knife down.” This is neither a suggestion nor a threat as if he, too, can hear that song of dissonance that often hums when he’s around.

You do as you’re told, the weapon slipping through your grasp before you pull your hands out and place them on the rim of the sink in plain sight. You know you’re caught. The question is, what is he going to do with you?

“Turn around,” he instructs and, as with the knife, you have no choice but to obey. He steps back, allowing you room to move and as soon as you do, you find yourself face to face with something unexpected.

“Crowley?” This isn’t just a question of what he’s doing. You’re also wondering just who it is you’re looking at because the Crowley you know is many things. Calm. Collected. Clever. At least three steps ahead of everyone. The man in front of you? Looks like whatever thread of logic tying his plan together has become significantly frayed.

The only time you’d seen him this out of sorts was when he’d been hit with a spell that melded his mind with his vessel’s until each personality was wrestling for dominance. You can’t help but wonder if Lucifer had done more than just try to put him in the ground.

“So this is what going mad feels like,” he remarks, and it’s the last thing you want to hear. There’s an odd glow in his eyes, one that echoes with the same manic buzzing skittering between the small gap between your bodies. You don’t know what it is, only that it leaves goosebumps racing across your skin in not an entirely unpleasant way.

“I’m worried about you.” You pause, watching as the darks of his eyes swallow more color in response to your words. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

“Or perhaps I am myself more than I’ve ever been,” he counters, his fingers caressing your cheek. There’s an intimacy beneath his touch that has your eyes going wide, and once again your instincts are telling you to freeze. He pushes your hair back from your face, tucking it behind your ear before fingertips dip down along the curve of your jaw. That same electricity sparks again, this time jolting straight into your pulse until it’s forking through your system to the point your nerve endings are positively tingling.

You do your best to ignore the rush of blood that accompanies it, though you’re aware most is rising to the the surface in a heated flush that is not just limited to your cheeks.

“What do you want?” How you manage to ask is beyond you. Coherent thought is a concept swiftly abandoning you, as is your ability to take in any air.

He smiles, and you have a feeling whatever he’s about to say is not going to bring you any relief.

“Just a taste,” he insists, and there’s no doubt about what he’s after as his gaze drops to your lips. He doesn’t wait for a response, his hand taking you by the chin to guide you toward him. He does move slowly enough, however, to let you know he is asking.

The question, though, appears time limited.

Your mind is present enough to understand this is a terrible, terrible idea, and it transfers that memo to your hands which fly up to his chest as he starts to lean in. Pushing him away, however, is just as decisive as pulling him to you, and once again you cannot move, too scared to leave the safe confines of that careful line in either direction.

It doesn’t stop his lips from meeting yours. It doesn’t prevent the searing heat that unexpectedly blossoms beneath the contact. It most certainly is not stopping it from unfurling across your cheeks, creeping down the length of you or melding with that previous warmth that still has color singing across skin. Once together, it sinks lower, slipping beneath the surface, and sending tendrils through your system as if in search of something.

You have a feeling whatever it’s looking for is a lot more than just a taste.

You feel your legs grow shaky, his tongue sweeping languidly along your lower lip before he draws it into his mouth. The way he suckles it, though, is what has your balance faltering. You almost lose it completely with the gentle nibble that follows and as before, the only thing keeping you from plummeting over the side is that sustained, cautious, lack of response.

He doesn’t try to push for more, but the pressure of his mouth is increasing, that persistent edge within his gaze beginning to enter his movements. With every subsequent kiss, he seems less satisfied, as if the taste he seeks only parches him instead of bringing relief.

You’re proud of yourself for keeping it together, for not letting your senses become ensnared by the scent of his cologne or the lingering taste of scotch that transfers indirectly to your tongue. You do not succumb to the warmth of his body that hovers so close to yours, and you convince yourself if you can just hold on to something, you can keep keep from getting swept away.

Unfortunately, your fingers decide that something happens to be Crowley.

They slip beneath the lapel of his suit, clutching the smooth fabric. You’re not sure if you’re the one that’s dragging him closer, or if he’s taken it as a sign of encouragement and is now moving toward you. Either way, the small gap between your bodies disappears and the world shifts a little sideways as his hips meet yours. The moment he backs you into the sink, your stomach abandons ship, dropping somewhere beneath the floor, and you’re not certain if the noise that catches in the back of your throat is one of alarm or anticipation.

Whatever it is, it spurs him to action, and the fingers beneath your chin break away to thread through the back of your hair. The way he handles you is tender, bordering on the familiarity of a lover’s touch, and the unexpected gentleness has your heart fluttering in ways of which you don’t approve.

Gently he guides your head back, mouth breaking away from yours, but instead of ending the madness, he takes it one step further. Lips and tongue dance over your jaw before dipping down the side of your neck where teeth take hold of your pulse and tug.

“Crowley,” you gasp, his name just another shade of gray on this spectrum of ambiguity you’re caught in.

Part of you knows you shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a demon, the king of Hell, and everything about those two things, and the fact you’re practically a Winchester, should have you ending this. Yet, it’s also not that simple.

He has stood with you against greater evils. He has saved your life on more than one occasion. He has even gone out of his way to protect you. You. Someone who really is just a sidekick to the more important characters in this ongoing cluster for which Chuck has set the stage

“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop,” he rasps, soothing over where he’s just nipped. “Tell me to stop and I’ll leave.”

Desire roughens the smooth edges of his words, but as he draws back for a fraction of second, you notice his voice and gaze are at odds with each other. A fleeting glimpse is all you catch, but you almost swear his eyes hold a plea for you to end this. Yet, his lips are descending down the other side of your neck, his tongue teasing its way to your ear where it grazes along the outer edge.

The moment you feel his teeth upon your earlobe, your resolve to remain neutral vanishes.

You grab the sides of his face, fingers splaying over coarse stubble as you pull his head back. His breath grows as still as yours does, or perhaps it’s just the entire world stopping in that brief moment before you give your response. Even you’re not certain what it will be until the words are tumbling from your lips.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you warn, stepping straight off that line into the unknown as your lips rush forward to meet his. Your permission strips away the barriers of his control, his tongue hastily pushing into your mouth, eager to explore.

Your fingers card through his hair, holding his head to yours as if afraid he may pull away at any second. His hands, however, are everywhere, rising up your back, sliding around your side, ghosting over the sides of your breasts before smoothing down the length of you. They land briefly at your waist, fingers taking possession in the form of a light squeeze before slipping down around the back of you. He grabs you right where your thighs meet the curve of your ass, and he takes a moment to appreciate this part of you before deftly hoisting you into the air.

You fold against him, your arms resting on his shoulders and legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, trapping his increasingly hardening length between your bodies. You’re vaguely aware he’s taking you somewhere, but that tongue of his is doing things to yours that makes it hard to think of anything else. It’s not until he sets you down on something solid that you realize he’s brought you to the kitchen table.

You take some time to get a taste of him, but it’s clear neither of you are satisfied with just this. You need to feel his hands on your skin, his body pressed to yours, and neither of those is happening with how much clothing you both still have on. Your fingers begin to pluck at the buttons on your shirt when his hands come up and cover yours.

“Allow me,” he offers, and a sudden chill washes over you as your entire top layer disappears in the blink of an eye.

He hardly gives your bare skin a glance, foregoing sight to take in this new aspect of you through touch. His mouth comes down on your shoulder and he places hot, open mouthed kisses along it before making his way lower. Teeth and tongue come out to add taste to his exploration, and they expertly tease along the ridge of your collarbone, drawing from you an appreciative hum.

His hands slide up to the band of your bra, though only one of them takes hold of the fabric before deftly undoing the hooks. A smile tugs at your lips. It’s such a subtle and very Crowley-esque move.

“Show off,” you tease, and for a moment, he looks like himself again, a cocky smirk stretching across his features as his head hovers just over the swell of your breasts.

“If you think that’s impressive, I’m just getting started.”

His gaze never leaves yours as his hands resume their course, moving up behind your shoulders with that same, feather-light touch. He hooks his fingers beneath the straps, drawing them down your arms before he removes the article altogether. The sudden coolness has your nipples hardening, and even as he tosses the garment over his shoulder, his eyes are still on yours and that confident grin remains in place

The promise that gleams within hazel breathes vitality back into his features, and that heat burning its way through your blood pools straight between your legs

The king has returned and the way his stare slides down the length of you, his entire kingdom now sits before him.

His eyes linger, as if committing every curve to memory, before his hands reach up to cup your breasts. You exhale, a soft sigh passing your lips from the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Tension releases though there’s a different one slowly growing in its place as his thumbs tease over hardened nubs. A band of pleasure begins to stretch beneath your stomach, growing tauter as his mouth dips down, tongue teasing languid circles around sensitive peaks.

Your hands splay out along his lower back, and luxury resonates in the smoothness of the garment that whispers through your touch. You grab a fistful of fabric, hastily untucking it from his pants before delving within to grab his ass. It’s firmer than you expect, and your fingers take ownership before pulling him tight against you.

The table begins to sway as you roll your hips against him, a soft creaking underlying your gasps and sighs that punctuate the silence. You feel him twitch against you, a low moan rumbling in the back of his throat.

“Easy, kitten, or I’m liable to just bend you over and take you right here,” he warns. He’s only partially joking. The energy beneath his skin suddenly spills over onto yours, and the frantic cadence to which it beats leaves you wondering just how he hasn’t just taken you already.

“Then why don’t you?” You question, enjoying the way his eyes flutter as you rub yourself against him again.

“This isn’t exactly how I imagined this.” Everything gives a sudden shift, apology lacing his words and vying for a spot within his gaze. As he drinks in the sight of you – your lips swollen from his attention, your skin ablaze with your own heightened desire, the way your sex is so wet the dampness is spreading to his pants – there’s an undeniable thirst that overtakes everything other than the driving need to quench it.

“I’m not complaining,” you breathe, and his stare turns wholly unapologetic as you take hold of him through his trousers, thumb smoothing over the tip straining through the dark material.

“Eager, are we?” He chuckles. “So am I. Though perhaps we should move someplace a little more comfortable?”

You expect him to magic you into your bed. Any bed, really. What you don’t expect is to find yourself in his lap in the middle of the library. There’s just enough room for you both in the giant, antique leather armchair you’ve dubbed the throne by how he never fails to commandeer it when around.

“I may have imagined this however…” You blink and your last remaining article of clothing disappears along with all of his. “On a number of occasions.”

You’ve always wondered what lay beneath that suit of his. It takes you a moment to wrap your head around the fact that for a moment, it’s all yours.

Your hands take in the lean planes of his chest, smoothing over the tops of his shoulders before dipping down along the corded muscle of his biceps. They come to rest at the crook of his elbows, and you look up at him through lashes with a combination of coyness and shyness.

The latter is something you’re not used to feeling, though you suppose you’re also unaccustomed to sitting astride an actual king’s lap.

“Touch yourself, darling. Show me how you like it.”

A thrill sings straight down the center of you, and you’re not sure what turns you on more: the sensual lilt his voice takes on or the wickedness that burns within his stare. You want to obey him, but you are all too familiar with what your touch is like, and you have waited far too long to feel his.

“I have a better idea,” you tell him, lips curling carnally as you raise off the chair. He tilts his head curiously as you turn around before lowering yourself again. You settle your legs on either side of him and his breath hitches as you sit back down, intentionally rubbing yourself against him in the process.

“Well, you certainly have my attention,” he murmurs, his hands gliding along your inner thighs before coming up to rest on your hips. The sensation fuels your excitement, and it’s a concentrated effort to keep your movements slow and steady. Your hand overlays his, index finger lining up tip to tip, before you pluck his grip from your side and place it over your mound.

“You want to know what I like?” You purr, dragging his finger along your folds, wetting it with your slick. “I like the thought of you touching me.”

“As do I,” he drawls, his free hand sliding up over your stomach, brushing along your rib cage before finally closing over your breast. You let out a whimper and guide the finger in your possession to your clit. You start him with slow, sensual circles, teasingly light in pressure. His other hand takes a sensitive bud between fingertips, alternating between rolling and gentle tugs.

The combined sensations has you mewling and the embers of your desire catching fire. You allow him to take the reins, rewarding his efforts by rocking back against him. You relish the way his breathing begins to pick up, matching yours as an increasing tempo of ragged gasps interspersed with moans.

“Is this really the way you like it?” He rasps, his tongue flicking out around the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps skittering across skin. “Or are you someone who likes things a little rougher?”

He pinches your nipple harder, your pleasure soaring as he simultaneously increases the pressure with the finger between your legs.

“I like anything, so long as you’re the one doing it.”

You’re not sure where the confession comes from, only that it’s stumbling past your lips faster than you can catch it. His cock twitches against you and the moment you realize what buttons you’ve pushed, you can’t resist hitting hitting them again

“I’ve always wanted you to touch me,” you continue, “To know what it was like to have your hand down my pants.”

Deep down, you always wanted it to be him fucking you into those cheap motel mattresses, instead of all the random drunks from the bar.

The snarl that rises in the back of his throat suggests he does, indeed, hear far more than he lets on, and his teeth flash out across your neck, his nip wholly ungentle. His finger picks up speed and you let out a whine, your legs beginning to shudder as those flames lick more insistently at your core.

You’re so close, teetering on the brink of release, when you feel his breath fall heavily against your ear.

“I’m going to show you exactly what you’ve been missing,” he promises, and it’s the decadent silk within his tone that ignites your senses, sending those flames into a crescendo of heated bliss that sings across your system.

As your walls shudder around nothing, however, you feel more than a little incomplete.

You barely finish coming when the world shifts around you in a blur. You don’t even have time to blink when you find yourself face to face with him once more. The odd glow remains in his eyes but it’s grown so much brighter, pushing the fringe of feral as he grabs you by the back of head and drags your lips back to his.

His tongue slides over yours and as he’s in the process of reclaiming your mouth his hands shift. The fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips are as demanding as his kiss. His cock is positively throbbing, and you reach between the two of you to give him some relief. There’s a half-growl, half-moan that hums against your lips as you work your hand over the shaft, sliding up around his tip which is dripping with pre-cum.

His grip over you tightens as he jerks you up to your knees. You know what he wants, and the fact he wants it now has your legs trembling with anticipation.

The manic energy buzzing beneath his skin hits a fever pitch as he lines himself up with your entrance. His fingers become possessive, tips pushing to the point it’s almost painful as he pulls you down upon him. The movement is faster than you expect, and he swallows the sharp cry you give with his mouth. You’re so wet, the only resistance he encounters is from the fact it’s been awhile since you’ve slept with anyone.

After a few, short thrusts he’s fully sheathed and there’s a satisfied rumble that spreads through his chest. He holds you there a moment, allowing you to adjust, or perhaps he, like you, is simply taking the time to savor how he feels inside you. You can’t remember the last time you felt this good, your walls stretched to the max, but not uncomfortably so. It brings with it a feeling of completeness you’ve always been missing with other men.

You have a feeling it has nothing to with Crowley’s size, though it certainly is kingly.

His hands slip down the curve of your ass, resuming their insistent grip as he urges you to start. You begin to move slowly, enjoying the feel of him languidly dragging across your walls and the way he perfectly hits that sensitive spot inside from this angle. The moment his grip passes the threshold of pain, however, you decide you’ve both waited long enough.

The next time you raise up, you take a moment to tease his tip along your entrance, in and out, in then out, before abruptly slamming down onto him. You catch him by surprise and are rewarded with a guttural half-grunt, half-groan. You repeat the movement, and this time he moans, deep and loud, and before you can do it again he’s taking control, thrusting up into you with slow but hard strokes.

The sudden roughness awakens something in you, and you realize just how much you need this – him. Your nails rake over his back, leaving raised paths of pink in their wake. Your teeth take hold of his bottom lip and you don’t just tug, you bite. The next breath he takes hisses in through his teeth and for a moment you’re afraid it’s too hard.

“The kitten has claws,” he murmurs in approval, picking up the pace.

The chair begins to rock beneath you, wood groaning in protest, and every now and then there’s a high pitched squeak as the entire seat jerks across the floor. His hand flashes up to the back of your head, pulling your hair and drawing you back, exposing your throat to him. His teeth leave a trail of stings in their wake and the sensations he’s creating has heat lapping at your core once more.

Your eyes slip closed, and you’re amazed at how fast he already has you ascending back up that blissful summit. Everything suddenly stills, from the noises unconsciously slipping through your lips to your very breath as you focus entirely on him. The way he’s pistoning in and out of you. How it feels as he hits that inner wall whenever he gives a particularly deep thrust, burying himself as far as he can go. From how surprisingly warm his body is to the feel of his skin against yours, you have an inexplicable urge to remember every detail you can about this encounter.

“Look at me,” his voice breaks through the riptide of sensation you’re all but lost in, drawing you back.

You do as he asks and something shifts. That driving need he’s been battling slides a little further beneath the surface, his thrusts slowing as his hand comes up and cups your cheek. The thumb that grazes along your lower lip is tender, his penetrating stare speaking with an emotion far less casual than you’d ever expect from him.

He doesn’t just want you, he wants all of you, and that does more for you than seeing him wild with desire ever could.

“You are perfection,” he marvels, and the way he looks at you it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. In many ways you feel the same, this man before you almost a stranger in comparison to the one you thought you knew. The weariness still clinging to the lining of green has a different word whispering across your mind: human.

You don’t have time to dwell on the revelation. His thumb brushes across your clit, causing you to shudder as sparks shoot from beneath his touch. You clench around him, wanting this to feel as good as he’s making it feel for you, and you realize just how little you’ve given in return.

It’s time to fix that.

“Enjoy the ride, sire,” you tell him, loving the way desire darkens in his gaze at the term. You give a few slow roll of your hips before you begin to raise up off him, bouncing on his cock at a steadily increasing pace.

He allows you to take over, eyes riveted to your features. He’s drinking in every detail, watching every nuance and expression as if enraptured. Perhaps, like you, he feels the need to commit you to memory. Whatever his reason, he pays more attention to you now than he has the entire time he’s known you, and that bundle of nerves is receiving the majority of it, his finger swirling around and around as he continuously adjusts the pressure.

It isn’t long before both your sensitive spots are singing, from one of his tips or from another. The symphony he creates is carnal, filled with decadence and heat, much of which flows from his stare alone. He’s proud of the song he’s creating, the notes striking chords within him as well that have him humming right along side you. He holds back, however, waiting for your blissful tune to finish before he writes the rest of his.

The chorus is rapidly approaching, a crescendo building until you’re standing at that edge once again. You’re so close you can peer right over it, but as your eyes slip shut in preparation for the fall, his voice draws you back.

“Look at me,” he rasps and you realize he wants to watch more than just your features when you tumble over the brink. You open your eyes again and you’re surprised at the depth in which green has become illuminated, a stark contrast to the darkness in his pupils that are so vast and wide. Impulse takes you by the hand, drawing your palm against his cheek. As an unexpected tenderness settles within your chest, you realize just how deep you are in this.

The way the sentiment echoes within his gaze, you also realize you’re not alone. It takes you a few moments to work your way back to that peak. You’re still wrapping your mind around the fact this is, by far, the most intimate thing you’ve ever done with anyone. You manage to maintain the eye contact, daunting as it is, as you line yourself back up with that ledge. The sweet symphony sends its final wave of notes singing through you and you take that final leap, your movements stuttering as you drop straight into the heated verdant waters that continue to stare at you.

This time, when you come you feel so full and whole, it almost aches.

You have yet to hit the ground again when his hands slip down your waist and you can tell he’s grappling to remain in control. His grip is bruising, and suddenly he’s slamming into you at such a breakneck pace you can’t even make a sound. The impassioned gleam within his gaze carries with it that touch of madness, releasing it in a final, bright burst as soon as his rhythm grows unsteady.

He gives a few final thrusts, his hips rising off the chair as he pushes into you as far as he can go. His cock pulsates before spilling his seed inside of you, something you don’t normally allow anyone else to do.

Perhaps Crowley’s crazy is catching.

Your body melts against him. You know you should move, but you can’t seem to extricate yourself from him, You don’t want to let him go. You don’t want this moment to end. You know beyond a doubt there’s no going back from here, but you’re not sure what going forward means either, and hiding a few more moments while you’re both in limbo seems far less intimidating.

“It’s always been you.” He breathes his ragged confession against your neck and this time the entire universe grinds to a halt. It’s probably as close as he’ll ever be able to come to saying the three words that hold more power to create or destroy than any spell or ritual ever could. For the king of Hell, this is immense, and brings with it a startling burst of clarity, that has all but a few pieces of today’s puzzle sliding into place.

You swallow, head slowly drawing back so you can look him in the eye.

“Crowley…” Your tongue almost fumbles at the rising emotion that threatens to cut off your words. “What’s going on?”

The smile he gives is open, full of adoration and a sadness that squeezes around more than just your throat. It feeds the fear rising in your chest, and you can’t help but feel like something awful is going to happen. It makes your grip over him grow tighter, more possessive, and now you have no intentions of letting him go.

“For once, I’m going to do the right thing,” he says, an unmistakable apology resonating beneath his tone. A heavy sense of foreboding washes over you. Logic becomes bypassed and you no longer care what it is he’s talking about. All you can think about is the sudden, visceral need to tell him no one else has ever meant anything to you, either. It’s always been him.

A sudden weight dampens his features, one that has weariness returning ten fold while something suspiciously looking like guilt and regret mutes his stare. You have a feeling you don’t need to say a word to him, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. The moment you open your mouth, however, he vanishes, leaving you with nothing but the fading warmth of his heat on leather and the chilly bunker air.

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