#i don’t normally write sam/darlin’ but this is an exception | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ariverrunsviolet · 4 years ago

Text

Hostage Situation (Bucky Barnes imagine)

Summary: A surprise attack has left you captured and under interrogation by an unknown enemy. Only one thing brings you comfort; a certain soldier is out there looking for you.

Gif @ gifbuckybarnes

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Timeline: Post The Falcon and The Winter Soldier Reader is a fellow Avenger that has teamed up with Sam and Bucky. Warnings: Violence, sexual assault, language Words: 2158

Songs I listed to while writing this: Opus by Hoity-Toity, Next Contestant by Nickelback, Protecting Me by Aly & AJ Let me know what you guys think! I have ideas for a part two *Please don't repost this anywhere! Especially without my permission!*

“You’re a stubborn one, ain’t ya?”

You managed to pool a mouthful of spit and blood and hocked it in the direction of your captor. Your breathing was heavier than normal after their relentless interrogation efforts. Time was lost to you; it could have been 12 hours or a whole week since you had been separated from the group and captured.

It had been a surprise attack; Torres’ intel didn’t account for the blitz that struck and took you away from Sam and Bucky. It had all happened so fast—the smoke bombs, a harsh tase to your back, and you woke up here. In this hellhole.

The greasy interrogator lit a freshly drawn cigarette between his fingers and took a deep inhale, blowing the smoke out in your face. “How much longer do you think you can hold out love?”

You refused to look him in the eye as he took another puff. With a screech of his chair and a few steps forward, he yanked the back of your hair and made you face him. As you gasped in surprise, he plunged his mouth into yours and exhaled again. He planted himself firmly against your mouth and nose; you couldn’t release his breath at all. The smoke burned your nose, throat, and lungs as you choked on it.

He finally, finally, pulled away and you struggled to breathe as tears streamed out of your good eye—the other was swollen shut—and down your bruised face.

“I can hold out as long as you, darlin’. Trust me, I’m enjoyin’ myself.” He said, eyeing your uniform. He unsheathed a dagger from his belt and did a quick and clean slice up the center of the clothing, leaving you exposed in just your bra. With your hands chained to the seat behind you, there was nothing you could do to cover yourself.

You kept up your stone-faced resolve. It was an intimidation tactic, and you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of watching you squirm.

“Yeah…Yeah, I think I’ve found some more to enjoy.” The dozen lackeys spread throughout the big, empty room either snickered or stayed eerily quiet.

Before you could manage to spit at him in disgust a second time, you heard a clutter of noises down the hall. They were stifled through the thick walls, but consistent and growing closer.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a warmth of relief spread through your stomach and you managed a small smirk.

“The hell is going on out there?” One of his henchmen by the door grunted as he pulled out his gun.

“Don’t ask me you moron, go check on it!” The lead interrogator barked. The one by the door nodded to the man next to him and they entered a code into the keypad. With a hiss, the door slid open, and the two rounded the corner to search.

As the door slid back to a close, the leader of the group finally seemed to register the look on your face. “And what the fuck has you looking so giddy?”

“The last mistake you’ll ever make.” You rasped out, giving a full bloody smile, counting down in your head.

By the time you reached down to one, there was a slam against the door to the room, a large, rounded dent showing in the thick metal. The pounding continued, each time adding a newer, thicker bulge to the door. It only took a few more punches until the door flew into room, knocking down one of the men.

And there he was in the doorway, with his shining arm and clear blue eyes. There was just a moment as he locked his gaze with yours and you saw wave after wave of relief, rage, and an assessment of the room all come through his face in that brief second.

The lead interrogator started screaming for his men to attack, but they were already at a critical disadvantage. Bucky was on a warpath, and everyone else in the room was just fodder when it came to his end goal: you.

One of the men dangerously close to the avenging soldier stuck his assault weapon right in Bucky’s face. Gripping the front of the gun, the ringing of bullets stopped at his vibranium palm and jammed the front of the weapon. Yanking it out of the henchmen’s grip, Bucky swung out with it and clocked the aggravator clean across the face, knocking him out cold. These weren’t super soldiers they were dealing with; just sneaky men with big guns and smoke bombs trying to play in the big leagues.

And Bucky was tearing through them like tissue paper. You couldn’t help but feel growing satisfaction; the only thing that would’ve made it better was being free to do it all yourself.

As you watched him move through the room, calculating, quick, and aggressive, the average eye could assume The Winter Soldier was active again. He was snapping guns in half like they were twigs, flipping through the air, and throwing men into each other so hard that they crashed into the wall and laid dazed on the ground. All of this while deathly silent and his eyes glazed over in a look of duty and fury.

Except when he sparingly glanced back at you. Quick looks, making sure you were still there. In those quick, apologetic glances, you could see what he was saying. ‘I’ll be there in a second, hold on.’

He was taking care of the last of the lackies when you felt a hand grip your chin and cold metal shove into your temple. You could feel the slight shaking coming off the leader, as he whistled loudly to get Bucky’s attention.

After an effective punch to the solar plexus of the last of the henchmen, Bucky spun around and set his sights on the handgun rammed into your face. His muscles tensed and for a second, you saw terror flit through his blue orbs before rounding back to steely resolve and rising to meet the gaze of the man that held you captive.

“Drop your weapon.” A demand, with a wall of threatening anger standing tall behind his words.

“Not a chance, Barnes.” The man squeezed your face, making you hiss in response. Bucky’s fists tightened. “If you come any closer, her brain turns into confetti.”

“You do that, and nothing will stop me from breaking every one of your bones into splinters with my bare hands.” Even though you were currently held at gunpoint, Bucky’s threat made you go cold, and a shiver ran up your spine. You didn’t have to be close to the super soldier to know he sincerely meant every word coming out of his mouth.

“You won’t risk it. Not on her life.” His finger hovered over the trigger. “I know that arm comes off your body. Remove it.” Bucky didn’t move a muscle until the man jammed the gun hard into your face, making you wince and causing a quiet cry to escape your throat. “Now!”

Bucky’s resolve broke for an instant, his face panicked until he locked eyes with you. You tried to make it as apparent as you could with just your facial expressions; you had a last-ditch effort ready. Your pupils flicked down to the man’s hand holding your jaw, and you gave a slight and quick head tilt back and looked to Bucky’s face to see if he knew what you were plotting. He understood you like no one else, and with a hesitant, affirmative nod from him, you moved with haste.

Your teeth gnashed down into the man’s hand as you shoved your feet into the floor and launched your chair backwards into the goon behind you. Natasha had taught you this move way back when. The man yelped in surprise and started shooting wildly. You fell to the floor as you watched Bucky cover himself with his arm as a shield, the bullets showering off his vibranium buffer as he surged forward.

You couldn’t see what happened after Bucky had rushed past your line of sight, but the noises you heard told you that he was giving a thorough, yet justified, beating to the man that had haggled with your life.

Even though you were sure Bucky could go at it all day, it wasn’t long until you felt his arms around you, gently pulling your form and the chair upright. He twisted his metal fingers into your shackles, attempting to safely free you, all the while saying “It’s alright. I’m here, you’re safe.” You guessed he was reassuring himself as much as he was reassuring you.

You wanted to jokingly ask “What took you so long?” But you knew he was probably internally beating himself up, asking the same question. Instead, you settled on a quiet but sincere “my hero.”

Your bindings fell to the floor in a flurry of metal clangs and even after singlehandedly dismantling an entire room of kidnappers, Bucky was unprepared for the way your arms whipped up and around his neck, pulling him down to you. His arms instinctively enveloped you, and you knew, you were certain, that you could never feel safer than you did in that moment.

He breathed in all of you, and briefly closed his eyes, relaxing into your hold like warm putty. Both of you needed this more than the other realized.

You pulled away briefly, feeling tears run down your face in warm streaks again, this time in relief. His thumb gently padded them away, careful to avoid your bruised eye, and then rested on your lips. You had no idea how long your eyes were locked into each other until you heard a groaning behind Bucky.

Your stomach, currently swirling with relief and pulsing with adrenaline, felt a hot stab of anger strike through you as you made your way to the man angrily grunting on the floor; Bucky hovered protectively behind you as you moved.

The man’s left arm had been dislocated, and you saw some of his teeth sprinkled on the floor around his face. Your arms stiffened with growing fury as you remembered all of the hell he had gleefully put you through—all of the pain, and embarrassment. You started to reflexively pull your torn clothes around your torso until you felt the warmth of Bucky’s leather jacket cover you. It smelled of pine, and fire, and gunpowder, and just—him. It made you tingle from head to toe as your arms found their way into the sleeves—well, one of the sleeves. Your left harm hung out the gaping hole that was normally meant for Bucky’s vibranium extremity as you zipped up the front.

“We gotta get moving. There are probably more coming that’ll be here any second.” He looked back over his shoulder to the open doorway as he debriefed you, his hand lightly tugging at yours.

“Just give me a second.” You squeezed his hand in response and knelt to fully tower over the shell of a man that had once joyfully taken part in torturing you.

It looked like he was about to say something, probably snarky and condescending, but you beat him to the punch with a swift uppercut into his solar plexus, like Bucky taught you. All of the air left his lungs in a pained shout and he curled into a fetal position, wrapping his one good arm around himself and groaning.

You stood quickly and turned to Bucky, who nodded approvingly and looked impressed, but not surprised, at your aim and the power of your strike. “Okay, I’m good to go now…” your voice faded; the adrenaline flushed out of your system like water running from a faucet. The strong wall that you had put up to survive the interrogation began to dissolve, and it suddenly took everything you had to stay standing, or even keep your eyes open. Your knees gave way and Bucky’s arms were around you in an instant, breaking your fall.

“Hey, (Y/N).” He carefully tapped your cheek a few times trying to rouse you. “Hey, c’mon, stay with me. Please. (Y/N)!”

“Mmmm so sleepy…” you mumbled. “Quick nap, then I’ll be…” you trailed off unwillingly from the dizziness and heard him curse as he hastily called into his earpiece for Sam, demanding he fly his ass and shield down to our location, pronto. His arms swiftly and surely lifted you up into his chest.

‘Thank you for finding me…Bucky’ You would have sworn on your life, in that moment, that you had only thought those words. You had no strength remaining at this point, and darkness was closing in around you. But you must have either said it out loud, or you and Bucky truly had an impenetrable connection. Because he gave your form a light squeeze and the last thing you heard was him mumble assuredly.

“Always.”

#Bucky x Reader #Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky x You #Bucky Barnes x You #Protective #Angst #Hostage #Hurt and comfort #Defensive #Romantic #Protector #Hero #Savior #Hostage Situation

243 notes · View notes

goldenraeofsun · 4 years ago

Text

There is Only Try, Part I

“Love spell,” Rowena proclaims as she glides down the stairs to the Bunker floor like it’s her personal ballroom. Her midnight blue floor-length gown and elaborately curled hair look especially out of place - Dean’s pretty sure his shirt has pizza stains from at least three different pizzas. The shirt is red, so at least two of them don’t count.

Behind her on the stairs, Sam chokes.

Rowena turns around to face him. “And I thought this was going to be a challenge,” she chides. “Really, Samuel?”

“What do you mean, ‘love spell’?” Dean demands with a fleeting glance at Cas, who’s gone red in the face. Dean doesn’t blame him - between the hooker with the daddy problems and the stabby reaper, he’d be leery of anything vaguely love-shaped too.

“We called you because we need to translate the runes on a cursed box,” Sam says slowly. “We think it’s in some sort of cipher, since even Cas can’t get a read on it.”

“Well, did Tweety Pie touch the box?”

“No,” Cas says, offended.

Dean nudges him with his elbow, saying in an undertone, “C’mon, like it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Dean.”

Dean takes in Cas’s unamused face and scowls at Rowena's tinkling laugh. “Okay, Sabrina, what the fuck do you mean by ‘love spell’?”

“I mean the angel’s been cursed with a love spell,” Rowena says with deliberate slowness, like she’s giving a command to a particularly stupid lap dog. “Was it not obvious?”

Dean glances at Cas, horror trickling down his spine. “No.”

“Hmph,” Rowena sniffs. “Men really are oblivious to matters of the heart.” She waves her hand again, eyes glimmering violet. “Like I thought,” she continues, placing both hands on her hips, “A jardin d’amour.”

“A garden of,” Sam pauses, clearly trying not to laugh, “love?”

“A very basic love spell,” Rowena says disdainfully. “The lass didn’t seem to have any imagination.”

“The witch we ganked two weeks ago was a dude,” Dean says. A beat. “A man witch.”

Sam snorts.

“There you go,” Rowena says, lifting her nose into the air. “Most men don’t have that innate knack for the magical arts.” She turns to Sam, giving him the most obvious come-hither look Dean has ever seen. “There are some obvious exceptions, of course.”

Okay, Dean needs Rowena and her heebs with a large dosing of the jeebs out of the Bunker, stat.

“It starts as a tiny seed, a wee obsession,” Rowena explains, “and grows and grows until it consumes you.” She squints, wiggling her fingers, and Dean just barely stops himself from jumping in front of Cas on instinct. “I’d say the spell’s gone about halfway through its course.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. He throws another calculating glance at Cas. “He’s not writing love songs or grabbing a boombox, so he’s obviously not cursed.”

Cas, still suspiciously silent, shoves both his hands in his pockets and stares hard at a spot of the floor between his feet.

“Oh, but he is, darlin’,” Rowena exclaims delightedly. “I can see it clear as day. Look!”

Cas sneezes as the magic washes over him for a third time, and now they all can see the purple sparkles - really, Rowena? - hovering in the air around him.

“Okay,” Dean makes a face, “Now I’m confused.”

“Not for the first time, isn’t that right?” Rowena says with faux-sympathy.

Dean glowers. He turns to Cas. “Come on, she’s making this all up. You’d know if you got dosed with Love Potion No. 9.”

“I-” Cas says, his gaze skittering from Dean to Rowena and back again. He looks… caught.

“Wait,” Dean thunders, taking a step forward, “You knew?”

“I,” Cas starts haltingly, “had suspected.”

“And you didn’t think you’d tell us you’d been whammied?”

Cas shrugs. “It doesn’t seem to be affecting me at all. My vessel is functioning normally.”

“Sure, because you’re such an expert on normal-”

Cas’s eyes flash. “It didn’t seem relevant considering everything else-”

“What d’you mean every-?”

“Kelly Kline - Lucifer, again - the British Men of Letters - take your pick,” Castiel retorts heatedly.

“We’ve got that under control-”

“Killing a child is not ‘under control’-”

“It is if the kid’s the literal spawn of Satan-”

“I never thought I’d hear Dean Winchester defending the murder of an inno-”

Dean throws up his hands. “Did you miss my ‘spawn of Satan’ comment?”

“No,” Cas says, his expression as stony as the Bunker’s foundations, “my hearing is excellent.”

Off to the side, Rowena mutters in a carrying stage-whisper, “I can see how a wee curse like this is the least of your problems.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sam says, running a weary hand down his face.

Dean rounds on them. “What?”

“Do you want me to remove the love spell or not?” Rowena asks, eyebrows raised. “My time is precious, you know. I don’t live to be at the Winchesters’ beck and call.”

“For the last fucking time, it’s not a goddamn spell!” Dean explodes. “Whatever it is, he is not in love. He hasn’t been acting any different.”

Rowena beams. “Well now, if he were already in love, it would have no outward effects. He’d…” Her expression becomes stomach-turningly sly, “...function normally, so to speak.”

Cas’s mouth sets in a firm line. As Dean goggles at him, Cas demands, “Remove the spell, now.”

Dean swallows. Cas can’t be - she can’t be implying - that’s impossible. He’s an angel. They don’t feel things like that.

Do they?

“I’m going to need some ingredients,” Rowena says, looking up to Sam. “Where might they be?”

Sam gestures her forward. “Back in the store room, I’ll show you.”

Rowena pats him lightly on the arm. “What a gentleman,” she simpers as Dean pretends to hurl behind her back.

Dean can’t bring himself to speak until they’re both out of earshot, their footsteps fading off into the distance. He turns to Cas, trying to keep his voice detached and failing miserably. “So, you think it got you after all?”

Cas looks away. “I know it has.”

“Oh.” Dean picks up his empty whiskey glass. He runs a hand down his face, trying to scrub away whatever he’s feeling. It doesn't work. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Fucking witches.”

“I - I could use one as well,” Cas says to Dean’s surprise.

* * *

“So, uh, who’s the lucky chick?” Dean asks as he makes a beeline for the liquor cart in the library off the war room. He grabs an additional glass for Cas and the bottle of Jack, tips the bottle down his own throat to get them started, and pours them out a few fingers.

Cas takes his drink, jaw clenching. He doesn’t look like a dude head over heels. He looks like his normal sleep-deprived, tax accountant self. He stays silent.

Dean thumps heavily down into a chair. “Have we met her?” he prompts because he’s nothing if not a masochist at heart.

“You could say so, in a sense.” Cas raises his eyes to meet Dean’s, face softening, and Dean’s going to hurl for real this time. Cas continues, “There’s not much in my life I keep from you.”

Dean swallows against the ball of self-loathing and disgust clogging his throat. “Some lady angel, then? Been dreaming about plucking her harp strings?”

Cas scowls into his drink. “No.”

“Not an angel?”

“Not a lady,” Cas says, his voice almost unbearably stiff. “And not an angel, either. A human - a beautifully flawed human.”

Dean has no words to say to that, so he drinks. Cas has probably met thousands of people - nice, normal people who aren’t fucked up in the head from ganking monsters their whole lives - since he’s been on Earth. God knows, he hasn’t been plastered to Dean’s side the entire time. Lately, Dean can’t even come up with a good excuse to get him to stay for more than a day or two at most.

“A guy, then,” Dean says to make sure they’re on the same page - because last time he checked, waves of celestial intent cared less about acing a Gender and Sexuality 101 class and more about whether a meatsuit could withstand a holy oil molotov cocktail.

Cas nods, his eyes narrowing. “Your opinion on homosexual relationships is part of the reason I’ve never brought it up before.”

“Hey, I don’t judge,” Dean says, not entirely truthfully. He holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Homo it up, man. Love is love.”

Cas’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t comment on Dean’s hamfisted attempt at proving his acceptance of ‘alternative lifestyles’ as Dad might’ve put it charitably one time. “It’s complicated,” Cas adds, like any part of this fucked-up situation could fit under a goddamn Facebook status.

Dean hitches a grin on his face that probably wouldn’t fool a blind person. “So, apart from that, how come you’ve never come to me for help? I don’t wanna brag, but I’m kind of an expert in hookups. Sam’s kind of hopeless. He can’t get a chick into bed without her dying on him.”

Cas knocks back his glass. “I didn’t want to bother you with my feelings.”

Dean automatically grimaces at the mention of feelings. But, hell, he’s not a teenage girl. He can man up and be there for his best friend.

He has to - Cas hardly asks him for anything anymore.

Sure, Cas didn’t exactly ask Dean for anything this time around, but Dean can read between the lines. Now that he’s copped to what’s going on beneath Cas’s still waters, he can see how deep those feelings run. Especially if what Rowena’s saying is true and a love spell is barely a drop in the bucket.

“And, regardless, your ‘hookup’ skills wouldn’t be relevant, anyway,” Cas says quietly, lowering his hands. “I’m not interested in… coupling.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “That reaper really screwed you over, didn’t she? Look, just because you got shanked, doesn’t mean all sex winds up with an angel blade-”

“I misspoke,” Cas says over him. ��What I mean is, I would rather have no sexual relations at all if I cannot have all of him: mind, body, and soul.”

Trust Cas to spout the most profound cheese Dean has ever heard.

And also, what the fuck? Dean can’t get behind that idea at all. Dean’s always been a take what you can get kind of dude. He had to be, with what he has to work with - a pretty face, a killer's instinct, and an inability to have a normal relationship if his goddamn life depended on it.

Like, if Dean had gotten the slightest whiff that Cas was down with gettin’ down and dirty with Dean as his last hurrah (which of course he didn’t), Dean would never have bothered with that stupid den of inequity. As hilarious as the outcome was, he would have gone for a little something-something for himself before the end of the world.

Of course, Dean wasn’t in love with Cas yet then. Whenever it came to mind, it was just a fun thought experiment, an idle what if for him to think about during a dry spell. Like his fantasies about fucking Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. Or hatesex with Bela Talbot.

But none of that mattered because every step of the way from Castiel, mighty Angel of the Lord, to Cas, their friendly neighborhood angel-man, he never hinted he’d be down for a quick roll in the hay... or something more serious.

Dean remembers very clearly: Anna fell to experience emotions, even the bad ones.

And Dean’s not an idiot - Cas obviously experiences emotions now. Dude’s been through too much not to feel something. But Dean’s never deluded himself that they could ever include all the romantic lovey-dovey, chick-flick moments crap.

Family love, sure. Cas might love all his haloed siblings. Cas has been around for all the Top 10 worst decisions that are the Winchesters’ version of brotherly devotion. Cas even said the big L-word out loud himself, when he was bleeding out in that barn a month ago.

But romantic love? The big kahuna L-O-V-E?

Dean always thought scaling Mount Everest with a plastic beach shovel would be easier than convincing an angel to feel that way about anyone. Cas is a wave of celestial intent; waves of celestial intent don’t do anything as human, as stupid, as fall in love.

But apparently they do.

So maybe that’s why Cas has always been so hard to pin down, so eager to leave Dean all the time. He’s been off pining after this mystery guy.

Awesome.

Cas heaves a weighty sigh and finishes off his own glass of whiskey. Without another word, he half raises from his chair, reaching around the table lamp, to pour them both a second round. “I suppose there is a bit of a relief in finally saying it,” he says in a low voice. “I can’t be with him, but there is a certain amount of happiness in it being known, just being seen.”

Dean wastes no time in downing half his new drink. Throat burning in warning, he forces out, “Why - why can’t you? You’re a freaking angel - thought you could have anyone.” Dean frowns. “He’s not a civilian, is he?”

Talk about a recipe for disaster: Cas plus normal person equals uncomfortable questions and fucked up babysitting gigs.

Cas’s eyes widen. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. “Ah, no, not really.”

“So he knows about angels.”

Cas gives a slow nod. “He doesn’t have a very high opinion of them, though,” he says ruefully, staring down into his glass. “They’ve made his life very difficult over the past few years.”

Dean scoffs, “He can join the club.”

Cas flinches.

“Hey, no,” Deans says quickly, “Not you.”

Cas raises head, his eyes unbearably bleak. “Why not me? I was the one who set the Leviathans and angels loose on humanity to wage their wars, among a dozen other transgressions.” He adds morosely, “Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if a different angel rescued you from Hell after all.”

Dean blinks at Cas, his stomach turning over with dread at the very idea. He tries to picture some nameless angel yanking him out of the Pit or marching into that barn with all the righteousness of Heaven on his heels. Dean can’t do it.

Or worse, not a nameless angel. Uriel, who was ready to kill thousands without a second thought. Zachariah, that dickwad with the mind games. Even Hannah, who Dean reluctantly liked - he still can’t see her sticking by their side, falling, sacrificing everything for them.

Cas is their third wheel, the stabilizer that keeps Team Free Will upright and moving forward. Without him, they’re a tandem bicycle, and nobody wants a repeat of that opening scene from Gabriel’s sitcom from Hell.

“Yeah, but at least you always tried to do the right thing.”

“There is no try, only what I did or did not do,” Cas answers with a strange, defeated expression.

“Okay, but,” Dean starts, rolling his eyes at Cas’s butchered Star Wars reference, “Yoda’s a lot of things, but applicable to the real world without space lasers, he is not. Sometimes the only thing you can do is try, dude.”

God knows, Dean could never have forgiven Cas for any of the shit he pulled if he hadn’t been 100% positive Cas had the best of intentions. Cas did all those things to save the world, and, sometimes, to save Dean personally. Which gives him the girliest, fuzzy feelings and also makes him want to punch a wall.

Cas throws him a pitying look. “Every time I ‘try’ to make things better, I fail.” He shakes his head. “When you were taken, I searched for months to find you. Kelly escaped on my watch, and I couldn't find her. I’m a… dumbass.”

“I thought you preferred ‘trusting,’” Dean jokes, and it only sounds a little forced.

Cas throws him an exasperated look. “Perhaps a few years ago. But now? I’ve made too many mistakes, and people have suffered - you and Sam have suffered - as a result. You don’t need to spare my feelings, Dean. It’s hardly what I deserve.”

Dean frowns, tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes in Cas's defeated air. “Hey, what’s with the pity party?”

“It’s not a ‘pity party’,” Cas counters. “These are basic facts.”

Dean leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “You aren’t serious.”

Cas stares back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dean rakes his gaze up and down Cas’s face, looking for a break, for a tell - even though he knows he won’t find any. “You saved the world. A couple of times by now.”

“I also personally put it in jeopardy more than once,” Cas mutters. “I trusted Crowley to steal Purgatory. I trusted Metatron to bring peace to Heaven. I trusted Lucifer to take out the Darkness.”

Dean’s heart sinks with every reminder of Cas’s greatest hits. “Come on…”

Cas’s mouth thins, lips pressing together as he raises his glass to his mouth. “You don’t need to stay to keep me company, either,” he says in a low voice. “I’m the one under the spell. If you have anything more pressing, I can wait here for Rowena.”

“Shut up,” Dean says automatically. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Cas exhales a weighty sigh, his shoulders losing some of their tension.

“Hey, what you need - hell, what we both need - is a win,” Dean says reassuringly. “Everything’s been such shit, you need a reminder to keep going.” He gets up from his seat, his legs itching to move. “Why don’t you tell me more about that man of yours?” he asks quickly, his words nearly tripping over themselves to get out before the regret sets in. “Maybe that’s the key to getting your head back in the game.”

Cas doesn’t say anything as Dean moves to peruse a row of books he has no intention of ever reading. Eventually, Cas protests without much conviction, “My head is in the game. I am still useful.”

Dean’s head jerks around so fast it nearly gives him whiplash. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It isn’t?” Cas asks, head tilting in confusion.

Dean makes a face. “I mean, if you’re feeling down, you… shouldn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dean paces to the other end of the bookshelf, unbelievably annoyed at Cas for making him spell it out for him. “Forget it,” Dean says instead. “I still owe you for ganking Billie-”

“But the cosmic consequences-”

“Will suck, but in the meantime you saved our lives. I owe you.” Dean turns so he’s back to fully facing Cas. “So, tell me what this mystery guy is into.”

Cas’s eyes narrow at him. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Seriously?”

Cas straightens and nods.

“But,” Dean says, words failing as he wars with himself. He could push Cas for more info or keep on living in blissful ignorance. But if he has to choose between his own personal peace of mind or Cas experiencing the one pinnacle of human happiness (or so Dean’s been told in countless chick flicks he’ll take to the grave), it’s no choice at all. He starts again, “If you tell me about him, it’ll make this a lot easier.”

“I don’t want it to be easier,” Cas says, baffled. “I don’t want this to be anything.”

Dean gapes. “Why the hell not?”

Cas taps his empty glass on the table, irritated. “Please, leave it alone.”

“No,” Dean says mulishly. “I wanna help you, man.”

“I don’t want any help.”

“Well, tough shit because you’re getting it anyway. You’re family-”

Cas’s face does a weird spasm.

“-And that’s what you do for family,” Dean continues, a little confused and insulted. They are family; Cas said so, back when he thought he was dying in Ramiel’s barn.

“Drop it.”

“No,” Dean argues, shoving down everything else as his temper rises. “You’re hurtin’, and I can help. Why don’t you trust me? You trusted Crowley, Metatron, fucking Lucifer-”

Too far. Shit.

Cas whirls around, his face a mask of frustration and an emotion Dean has never seen before. “I did, and you know what? They screwed me. And, please forgive me, Dean, but I am tired of being used and used up, over and over.”

Dean blinks, his anger falling away to a raw hurt only Cas can dredge up. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Cas runs a weary hand down his face. He just shakes his head.

“C’mon, Cas, it’s me,” Dean says - pleads, really. “You know me better than anyone else, ’cept Sammy. I won’t do something like that.”

Cas glares. “I do know you, so I know that is exactly what will happen.”

Dean reels back, and he can’t save himself in time before an undoubtedly pained look spreads across his face.

Cas’s hostility cracks, but Dean’s already gotten the message.

So Cas’s one big happy loving family message was only a deathbed thing. That’s… fine. Dean’s done it himself, a time or two. Told Sam to live his life and not go looking for revenge or a way to fix it - all a crock of horse shit, of course. He should’ve figured Cas was more human than angelic with that poison pumping through his veins, making him all weak and sweaty. ’Course he wasn’t above feeling human sentimentality in his death throes.

Face hardening, Dean turns on his heel. “You were right about one thing. I guess I do have more important things to do than staying here with you.”

“Dean,” he hears behind him, but Dean doesn’t look back.

* * *

Dean always hides a spare bottle of booze in the bottom drawer of the desk in his bedroom. It's mostly empty, but, hopefully, by the time Dean's polished it off, Cas’ll be cured, Rowena will be gone, and they all can pretend this never happened - Dean can pretend that Cas stopped keeping secrets because he’s learned they always blow up in his face in the past six years.

Anyway.

First, the booze.

Dean’s barely wrestled the top off with shaking fingers of leftover anger when a knock sounds against his door.

“’S the witch gone yet?” Dean asks without lifting his head.

The door opens. “Dean, it’s me.”

Dean takes a long pull of whiskey.

Cas sighs, audible in the stuffy, tension-filled space between them. He doesn’t approach, instead hovering in the doorway, and isn’t that how it always goes? Always poised for flight, that’s Cas. “Dean,” he repeats, which only makes Dean's blood boil that much hotter.

“What?” he demands. “What do you want now? ’Cause I can’t think of a single thing you need from me, Cas.”

Cas presses his lips together. “You’re making this very difficult.”

“Me?” Dean barks incredulously. “You’re the one hiding things and not letting me help you.”

“You won’t accept this is one area in which you can’t help?” Cas asks quietly.

Dean makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat.

Cas shakes his head, his gaze focusing on Dean’s face with his patented laser intensity. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Yeah, I’m just a jackass who can’t get a lady to stick around for more than a few hours. I get it.” He glances up to see Cas’s stricken expression. Frowning, Dean looks away.

Cas steps tentatively into Dean’s room, his face weirdly apprehensive. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Sure,” Dean says, tipping the bottle back like it’s water because he needs to be so much drunker to deal with Cas and his love spell bombshells right now.

Cas hovers awkwardly by Dean’s desk, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “You’re so capable of love.”

“Cas-” Dean starts, but he has no idea where he’s going with this.

Cas keeps talking, thank God. “You don’t acknowledge that side of you very often, but I feel it every time we see each other, every time you’re with your brother. You care, you love, so wholly and completely.” Cas chuckles ruefully. “I didn’t realize it for a few years. I didn’t see how unique it was, how special you are, but you are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.”

Dean’s tongue finally unsticks from the roof of his mouth. Face flaming hotter than the inferno where he first met Cas eight years ago, he rasps out, “Cas - what the hell are you saying?”

Cas swallows, dragging his gaze back up to meet Dean’s wide eyes. “The reason I didn’t tell you about the love spell was because it couldn’t make me love you any more than I already do.”

Dean blinks, dumbfounded, at Cas, the words love you bouncing around his skull like a blocked radio signal. Cas said them; Dean heard them with his own two ears; but the meaning behind the words is getting lost in transmission.

As Dean’s brain struggles to make sense of just about everything, Cas nods once. “Well, now you know. I’ll go wait for Rowena’s cure in the kitchen.”

And then he leaves.

Dean slams the whiskey bottle down on his desk, cursing as it nearly topples over in his haste. He sets it right, swearing more as precious seconds pass by. He hurtles down the hall, half-convinced Cas lied to him to get a head start and is really halfway to Timbuktu.

But Dean finds Cas in the library, sitting more or less where he left him before Dean had his little wallowing session in his bedroom.

“Cas!” Dean blurts, skidding to a halt and grabbing onto the edge of the table for support.

Cas looks up, frowning. “I - “ he gives himself a little shake and starts again, “Is Rowena having trouble with the spell?”

“What?” Dean strides forward on shaky legs. “No - I mean, I don’t know. They could be fucking in a supply closet for all I care.”

Cas’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. For the first time today, he looks almost afraid. “Then why are you here?” he asks, his gaze darting towards the stairs to the exit. “I’m only going to stay in the Bunker until Rowena can finish. Then I will go.”

“Go?” Dean repeats, a spike of panic shooting up his spine. “You can’t.”

Cas inhales a sharp breath. “You want me to stay?”

“You want to bail?” Dean demands, his voice rising.

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “You’re upset. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“I’m not fucking upset!”

Cas throws him an unimpressed look. “You clearly are. Your pulse is rising. Your pupils are dilated. I can smell your elevated levels of adrenaline.”

Dean makes a face. “Dude - lines - crossed.”

“Fine,” Cas says, his face set. He gets up. “I can coordinate with Rowena at a later date. She should focus on the cursed box, anyway. It’s clearly a more pressing concern and the reason we called her in the first place.”

“Hey.” Dean takes a step forward. “Wait.”

Cas’s mouth sets in a thin line. “What do you want, Dean? I did as you asked. I told you the spell could only latch onto my feelings for you.”

Dean falters, his words failing him.

Cas’s shoulders slump. “I did warn you, you know,” he murmurs, trying to pass Dean on his way towards the door.

Dean grabs onto Cas’s bicep before he can disappear. “Gimme a moment. What you said - it’s a lot.”

Miracle of miracles, Cas stops.

Dean can practically feel the power thrumming underneath the trench coat sleeve in his grip, but Cas wordlessly lets Dean guide him back to the library table.

“Okay,” Dean starts, his head still mercilessly void of the right thing to say, “So that guy, the one you’re - well, it’s - he’s me?” he asks, stumbling over his words like he hasn’t since that one time Rhonda Hurley opened her underwear drawer.

Cas nods once, his face impossibly solemn.

“Right,” Dean grunts. He rubs at his chin, Cas watching the whole while. “That’s - wow.”

“Quite,” Cas says wryly.

“Hey, don’t be a dick,” Dean shoots back. “I had no idea.”

“That was the point,” Cas sighs. “But now you do.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, feeling like a tongue-tied idiot. If only he could be more like Cas with the grand declarations.

Cas opens his mouth, pausing for a beat before saying, “I was never intending to leave permanently. I will still help you figure out how to deal with Kelly Kline. I will still assist with research, translations, anything you need.” His blue eyes bore into Dean’s face. “I can still be useful.”

Dean’s chest aches. “Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t about that?” he asks gruffly.

Cas’s earnest expression falters. “Of course,” he says, subdued. “Regardless, know that I am always willing to help the Winchesters.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, “This isn’t - it’s never been - about you being goddamn useful.” He huffs an exasperated breath, frowning harder as Cas doesn’t immediately get it and launch himself at Dean.

God, that would make this so much easier.

“What you want?” Dean says, glaring daggers at the tabletop between them, “That whole, mind, body, soul crap? You got it.”

Cas blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You already have it,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

Cas cocks his head like a perplexed chicken, still as clueless as ever.

It’s clearly time to bring out the big guns. If Cas is going to spout pretty speeches that steal Dean’s breath away and leave him weak-kneed but not actually, you know, make a move, Dean will just have to do everything himself.

Fine. That’s how he’s always operated, anyway.

Face determined, he leans over and grasps the lapels of Cas’s trench coat.

Cas leans back a fraction, his eyes widening in alarm or shock. But before he can utter another word, Dean brings their mouths together.

Cas takes a moment to get with the program. There’s a split-second (that lasts several years) when Cas almost seems to push Dean off him, but he kisses back before Dean can yank himself away first. Cas’s mouth is tentative against Dean’s, like he’s waiting for Dean to end it all and yell, “Got ya!”, but he unseals his lips with a light sigh as Dean gently parts them with his tongue.

Dean unclenches one hand from Cas’s lapel. He reaches up to cup Cas’s jaw, the raspy stubble a physical reminder of the goddamn win he’s finally getting. His knees twinge from awkwardly leaning over, but rampaging Leviathans could burst into the kitchen and Dean wouldn’t give any less of a fuck.

He has Cas right where he wants him, and he’s going to fucking savor it for as long as he can.

When Cas pulls away, his face shows nothing but pure confusion. “Why?” he breathes, raising a finger to touch his lips.

Dean, still half-standing, half-leaning over him, frowns. He falls back to his seat with a thump. “Because you weren’t going to do it first?”

Cas blinks. “I didn’t think you wanted anything like that,” he pauses, “with me.”

Like there’s anyone else around who wants to get real up close and personal with the most dumbass angel in the garrison.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, the faintest inklings of embarrassment creeping in now they’re not kissing anymore and Cas’s first reaction isn’t to look like he got free tickets to Disneyland. “I did. Do.”

“Oh.”

Dean swallows past the lump in his throat.

Cas looks away from Dean for the first time, and Dean dies a little inside. Stiffy, Cas says, “If this is some misguided attempt to show your sympathy for my situation. I don’t appreciate the gesture.”

“Gesture?” Dean echoes, “What the hell are you on, man? I don’t kiss random dudes because I feel bad for them, Christ.”

“Then why?”

Dean grimaces. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Yes,” Cas says quickly, his gaze raking up and down Dean’s face. “I have misunderstood your actions in the past, and I have no desire to do it again.”

Dean groans. “Look, I didn’t think angels could have feelings like that.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Or I would’ve… done something about it sooner,” he says, and that’s mostly true. Probably would’ve tried to seduce Cas, failed, and then jumped off a cliff, but Cas doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, normal angels can’t,” Cas says, “but there’s something broken in me.”

“You’re not broken,” Dean swears loudly, his anger flaring. “You’re… better. A new and improved God Squad, far as I can tell.” He narrows his eyes, daring Cas to talk shit about himself one more time.

Cas bites his lip. “You truly mean it.”

Dean tries for a mocking leer, but it comes out more like a dopey, hopeful smile. “You wanna get it engraved? Put up in neon in the Dean cave?” he asks, eyebrows raised as excitement courses through his veins. Cas loves him. Dean can make good on all those what ifs that have been plaguing him for years. “Tattooed on my ass?”

Cas chuckles lightly. “That would be a start.”

Dean lets out a bark of laughter. He can already feel the insecurities looming on the horizon. There’s always a catch: Cas never stays; Cas might want Dean now, but he’ll fly away the moment Dean fucks up because he has no idea what he’s doing.

But none of that matters right now.

He kissed Cas.

And Cas didn’t smite him. Didn't tell him to fuck off. Didn't flutter off to the moon for shits and giggles.

Cas knows him, knows him better than anyone except Sam. And despite all the fucked up shit in Dean's head, Cas is staying anyway, with his eyes wide open like nobody else Dean has ever been with.

Cas smiles in return. “If I had known a love spell would result in this outcome, I would have sought out that witch ages ago.”

And just like that, all Dean’s happy-ending fantasies come to a screeching halt.

Read Part II here!

#destiel fanfic #profoundnet #fanfic #destiel #rae writes fic #canon divergence #season 12 #love spell au #minor samwitch #there is only try

56 notes · View notes

440mxs-wife · 4 years ago

Text

The Hunter’s Princess - Chapter 9: Matters of the Heart

Pairing: Dean x OFC Kira, Prince!Dean x OFC Lady Kira. Other Characters: Sam Winchester, Prince!Sam Winchester, Castiel, Rowena, Gabriel, King!John, Queen!Mary, Lucifer and assorted minor characters.

Chapter 9 Word Count: 3020+

Warnings: This is going to be a bit angsty still. Show-level violence, Prince!Dean being kind of a jerk

A/N: This is from some material that’s been rattling around in my head from another project that changed direction. Couldn’t let all this content go to waste, though, so here it is. It’s a work-in-progress, and I will try and update as regularly as I can. If you want to be tagged in this series, send me a message!

A/N2: I would like to thank everyone for your support and your comments so far. I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am having fun writing it.

Thank you and happy reading!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean wandered through the bunker to the library. He sat down at the table and opened one of the lore books belonging to Kira's parents, absently flipping through it. It's all in Gabriel's hands now, he thought. Hopefully he got through and delivered his message. I need a sign, though, something to tell me this is going to work and that I'll get to see my Kira again, Dean pleaded.

With a yawn, he relaxed in the chair, leaning forward onto the table. Dean folded his arms and rested his head in the crook of his right elbow then closed his eyes. It wasn't long before his breathing evened out and he was asleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In her room at the castle, Kira assembled the ingredients in the bowl as instructed by Gabriel. She took one of her knives and slashed across her palm, letting a few drops of her blood mix with the contents of the bowl. Kira then threw a match into the bowl, igniting the ingredients and as they burned, she invoked the spell. "Somnium Lucem, Somnium Noctis. Nuntius Mea Cor Tuum," she chanted. ("Dream Light, Dream Night, Message from My Heart to Yours")

"Dean? Dean, please wake up, it's me, Kira," she pleaded.

"Kira? Where are you, sweetheart?" Dean mumbled, eyes still closed.

"I'm coming to you through your dream, but I don't have much time. Gabriel got through to us over here, and we're getting everything ready to come home," Kira remarked.

Dean sat upright, fully awake now. "Baby? Where are you? Why can't I see you? Please, I'm so lost without you," he said, frantically looking around the library, desperate to see his sweet love.

"I know my love, let me try something," she replied. Kira closed her eyes and concentrated on Dean.

Suddenly, a glowing figure appeared behind Dean's chair in the library. It slowly came into focus to reveal his Kira, the one his heart longed for. "Oh, sweetheart," he whispered, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He reached out his hand, as did Kira, but they passed through one another.

"Hello, Dean," Kira whispered back, smiling, but with her own tears threatening to fall. "I'm so sorry to be so far away from you, my love, but we'll be together again soon," she promised.

"I know, sweetheart, I know. I miss you so much," he murmured. His voice was thick with emotion and tears were silently tracking down his face.

Kira reached out to try and wipe them away, but her hand still passed right through. "I wish I could be there to dry your tears. Just remember, no matter what happens, you are always in my heart and I love you," she said as she gave him a watery smile.

"I love you too. Please be careful where you are, darlin'. We need you back here," Dean reminded her.

"I know, Dean, I will. You be careful too. Lucifer's here, and he said he has demons watching you and Sam," she explained as her image started to fluctuate. "I'm sorry, I have to go, now, my love. Be home soon," Kira's voice faded along with her glowing figure until there was nothing left but the silence.

"Oh, my Kira......" Dean whispered, finally breaking down.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Rowena wandered through the courtyard, where she saw Lady Serena surrounded by the other competitors and some of her admirers. As tempting as it was to cast a harmless but embarrassing spell on her, Rowena resisted and instead listened to their conversation.

Lady Serena mentioned that the princes and Castiel had ridden on horseback out to a nearby Eastern province. They were sent to investigate an animal attack. Rowena had been with the Winchesters long enough to know that 'animal attack' is code for 'werewolf'.

As she walked past the stables on her way back to Kira's room, Rowena overheard a stable hand speaking to Collins. The man had heard about the animal attack in the Eastern province. He said it may be worse than originally thought, and he was worried for his family in that area. Collins assured the man that help was on its way, not to worry and to please tend to his duties.

Collins noticed Rowena as she walked by and hurried over to her. "Begging your pardon, Lady Rowena, but have you seen Lady Kira?" he asked.

"Last I saw, she was in her room, not feeling well. She and Prince Dean had a bit of a....falling out, you might say," Rowena explained.

Collins looked away, shook his head and mumbled something under his breath about Prince Dean being a damned fool, then he returned his attention to Rowena. "If you see her, please tell her that Prince Dean is in trouble, and that her weapons skills could be very useful," he pleaded.

Rowena laid a hand on his arm to reassure him that she would take care of everything and not to worry. He promised that Kira's horse, Midnight, would be saddled and waiting for her when she was ready.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Rowena hurried up to Kira's room to explain the situation, meeting Sarah on the way. When they opened the door, Rowena noticed the altar and smelled the burnt remnants of the spell cast by Kira. They also saw Kira laying on the floor, nearly passed out from exhaustion. "And just what have you been up to, young lady?" Rowena demanded.

Kira lazily turned her head as best as she could to look Rowena in the eye. "Gabriel told me how to communicate with Dean through his dreams," she replied. A faraway smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "And I saw him, Rowena, I did it. I told Dean we got the message, and that we'd be home soon. I told him I loved him, and he said he loved me too," she finished, then seemed to lose consciousness.

"Och, darlin' this is the absolute worst time for you to be out of commission! The princes and Castiel have caught word of an 'animal attack' in the Eastern province. It's a few hours' ride from here, but the problem is bigger than was originally reported. You know what they're up against, dearie, and they're going to need your help, so please wake up," Rowena pleaded.

Kira's energy had not quite returned from the effects of the dream communication spell, so Rowena's words had no effect. Rowena knew how critical the situation was with the princes and Castiel, so she had no choice but to use her magic. Her eyes glowed purple as she channeled her energy and her words into returning Kira to her normal, rested state.

A wave of energy seemed to wash through Kira and she was instantly awake and sitting upright. "Whoa, whoa, I'm up! No more zapping required. Gabriel said that the spell would take a lot out of me. I guess I wasn't prepared for just how much it would take out of me. Thank you, though," Kira said to Rowena.

"You're welcome my dear, but perhaps in future, you may want to leave the spellwork to the experts? No more dabbling," Rowena gently chided.

"Yes, ma'am. Absolutely. No more dabbling," she promised then stood up. "I have to get dressed more appropriately if I'm going after the princes and Castiel," Kira replied. She wasted no time in changing out of her day dress. She pulled on her tunic, a pair of leggings and her boots, similar to what she wore for the weapons competition.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Miss? It sounds rather dangerous, and you have your audience with the king and queen in 20 minutes!" Sarah exclaimed.

Kira put her hands on Sarah's arms and looked her straight in the eye. "Sarah, yes, I know that this will be dangerous, but it's nothing I haven't faced before. And regardless of what happened between Prince Dean and me, I can't turn my back on him or anyone else in trouble.

"The audience with the king and queen can wait. Or not, I don't really care about anything except getting the princes and Castiel back, safe and sound. What happens to me afterwards is irrelevant," she muttered as she tied her bag closed and headed for the stables.

"Don't forget this," Rowena handed Kira the locket. "Collins assured me that Midnight would be saddled and waiting for you," she explained.

"Thank you, Rowena," Kira replied. She fastened the clasp on her necklace and tucked it into her tunic. "I'll be back as soon as I can. If the king and queen somehow get wind of what's going on, please let them know that the situation is well in hand," Kira asked.

Rowena nodded and said she would explain the situation, should the opportunity arise. She mumbled a protection spell, then kissed Kira's forehead to complete the process. Then Kira and Midnight rode off into the waning hours before nightfall to assist the princes and Castiel.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Collins told the princes about a werewolf attack in one of the Eastern provinces, one not far from the castle. The report said only two or three werewolves, which they had tracked to an abandoned barn. The men decided to hide in the bushes and keep watch to see what they were up against.

While they waited, Samuel decided now was as good a time as any to try and fix things between his brother and Lady Kira. "Hey, Dean? What happened between you and Lady Kira?" he asked.

Dean looked at Sam. "Seriously? You want to do this now?!?" he said incredulously.

"I just want to know. I mean, one minute, you're spending every waking moment together. The next thing I see you arm-in-arm with Lady Serena. Who is a bit arrogant, in my opinion," Samuel added.

"I'm afraid I'm with Prince Samuel, Your Highness. You and Lady Kira seem so well-suited for each other, and I've never seen you so happy as when you're with her," Castiel added.

"Yeah?? Well, tell that to the man that was in her room last night. I asked Lady Kira to go for a stroll through the gardens, but she begs off, saying she was tired. I went into the garden, cut down a yellow rose and was going to give it to her as a token of my friendship. Only I heard her with someone else and their conversation was more than friendly," he retorted.

"But maybe it's not what you think, Dean. Think about it before you--" Samuel was cut off by his brother.

"Drop it, Sam," Dean demanded. "Look, over there. Two werewolves, no wait--now there's three more," he remarked.

"This is too many, we can't take this many on, Dean," Samuel said.

"Yeah we can, we have to. There's nobody else to do it except us. Here's what we do," he started.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Kira rode Midnight as fast as she could to get to where the princes and Castiel were battling the werewolves. Part of her was asking, why am I doing this? Prince Dean rejected my friendship and moved on with my fiercest rival. The other part, the bigger part....still cares about him. With that thought, she spurred Midnight on to ride just a little faster.

An hour later, Kira had found the abandoned barn where the werewolves were last reported. She saw where the royal horses were tethered and secured Midnight with them. She could hear shouting from the princes and Castiel, along with growling and snarling from the werewolves.

Kira dug in her bag for her silver throwing knives, then re-tied the bag closed. She sheathed the knives in leather pouches tied around her thigh and waist. A silver dagger was tucked into one of her boots. With her weapons secured, she crept up to the barn and into the battle.

She carefully opened the door and saw that Prince Samuel was the one most immediately in front of her. Two of the werewolves were already dead, leaving three more. Prince Samuel was on his back on the floor, a werewolf hovered over him with long, sharp claws ready to strike. She pulled out two knives and threw them in quick succession, embedding themselves in the heart of Prince Samuel's assailant.

Prince Samuel rolled out from under the werewolf just in time to keep it from crashing on top of him. He got to his feet and looked around to see who had thrown the knives. When his eyes landed on Kira, his face registered genuine shock. She gave him a quick smile and a salute, then the two of them went to help his companions.

A werewolf had Castiel pinned up against a wall, snarling and snapping its jaws at his captive. Castiel was managing to keep it at arms' length, but Kira knew his strength wouldn't hold out forever.

Kira threw a knife at its back to pull his attention away from Castiel. The werewolf howled in pain, arching its back and releasing its hold, allowing Castiel to drive his silver dagger into its heart. Castiel managed to give Kira a weak but grateful smile, followed by a weary salute, after which they all went to find Prince Dean.

The three of them found him in the next room, hunched over in pain and being stalked by the last werewolf. Kira could see blood on his ripped shirt and knew they didn't have much time. Prince Samuel, Castiel and Kira fanned out, trying to draw their attention away from Prince Dean.

The werewolf noticed the three newcomers and shifted its focus, deciding that Kira was its next target. She withdrew her knife, took aim and threw it at the creature. However, at the last second, it moved, causing the knife to only strike it in the left thigh instead of its heart.

Missing her target only angered the beast even more, as it continued to stalk her. She drew her silver dagger out from her boot. When it lunged, she tried to dodge its blow, but its claws managed to graze her upper arm and she dropped the dagger.

Kira cried out in pain, holding the injured arm and kept moving away from the creature. This gave Prince Samuel an opportunity to retrieve the dagger, which he drove into the last werewolf's heart, thus ending the battle.

With the battle over, Prince Dean collapsed to his knees in pain. Prince Samuel and Castiel rushed to his side and each took an arm to support him so he could walk. Kira's tunic was torn at the bottom, so she ripped off a strip to use as a makeshift bandage for her arm. She brought a first aid kit, but it was back in her bag with Midnight. She had just finished tying off her bandage when the men reached her position.

"Lady Kira, that was amazing. I was unaware of your hunting skills, and I am suitably impressed. Thank you for coming to our aid," Castiel remarked with a slight bow.

"It was truly fortunate that you were able to find us and take out these werewolves, Lady Kira. Your assistance was invaluable," Prince Samuel said.

Kira waited for Prince Dean to say something, anything, or to even acknowledge her presence. She decided to speak up first. "Your Highness," she said as she gave a slight curtsy. "I can see that you are injured. I have a first aid kit out--"

"What are you doing here? How did you find us? We had the situation well in hand before you showed up. What were you thinking?" Prince Dean ranted.

"If that's your way of saying 'thank you', save it. You could learn a few things from your brother and Castiel about showing gratitude," Kira retorted.

"'Showing gratitude'? Saying 'thank you'?" he responded sarcastically. "You could've been injured much worse or even killed!" he thundered.

Kira's anger had reached its boiling point and there was no going back now. She was going to let him have it and to hell with the consequences. "Oh yeah? Fat lot you care! One minute we're holding hands in the garden, talking about moonlight strolls. The next minute, I see you running around with Lady Serena on your arm.

"You barely speak to me, so I can't find out whatever I may have done wrong to even try and fix it. You broke my heart by taking away our friendship. But you know what? Despite all that's happened between us, I came out here to help. I cannot and will not turn my back on you or anyone else in trouble. Now, if you'll excuse me, Your Highness, it's time I got back to the castle," Kira finished, turning on her heel and heading towards the horses.

"Okay, you want to talk? Fine. Let's talk," he shouted as they walked. "Why don't we talk about there being a man in your room that night after dinner? I asked you to go for a walk but you said you were tired, so you went up to your room.

"I cut down a rose from the garden and was bringing it to you as a token of my friendship with you. But I stopped in front of your door because I heard you flirting with another man. You lied to me, Lady Kira. Lied about why you didn't want to spend time with me that night, and who knows what else. You probably even lied about your feelings for me," he accused.

By this time, they had reached the horses and Kira opened her bag for the first aid kit. She threw it to Prince Samuel. "Your Highness," she said as she looked straight at Prince Dean. "I could tell you that I never lied about anything with you, which I did not, but you won't accept that. I told you some things that would have me locked away for being crazy, but you somehow believed them," she pointed out. Castiel assisted her up into the saddle. "Why won't you believe in me now?" Kira choked out as she and Midnight rode off towards the castle.

Part 10 here!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tags: @janicho88 @akshi8278 @magssteenkamp @swiftlymoniquesblog @lyarr24 @miss-nerd95 @distefano123 @hobby27 @deanwanddamons @jessica-noel94 @wayward-mikaelson @jawritter @gabrielslittleangel @jensengirl83 @deangirl93 @ellewritesfix05 @supernatural-jackles @babygurltt @flamencodiva @ejlovespie @deandreamernp

The Hunter’s Princess Series Tags: @supernatural-love14

#dean x ofc #dean winchester x ofc #au dean winchester x ofc #au dean winchester #au supernatural #spn #The Hunter's Princess Series

11 notes · View notes

issa-me-addy · 4 years ago

Text

I want to stay up with you (BF! Bucky Barnes Oneshot)

hello! here is my lil participation piece for @aesthetical-bucky and her 1k writing challenge! the prompt is the phrase “I want to stay up with you” :)

Warnings: language? angst, fluff

Word Count: 1955

You and Bucky sat on your couch in your tiny little studio apartment, which was a 15 minute subway ride away from the Avengers tower. His flesh arm was wrapped around you and your thigh was draped over his knee as you lounged on the couch, the TV creating a nice luminance in the space as the sun began to go down.

“I should be going home soon, baby doll,” he said softly before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You immediately pouted and pulled away from his kiss, staring up at him with your eyebrows furrowed, piecing together an altogether borderline embarrassing facial expression. “No,” you said sternly, your eyebrows creasing so far down a shallow shadow formed above them.

He chuckled in response, bringing his metal hand across your cheek, swiping the cold thumb back and forth on your cheek, “Darlin, we’ve talked about this. If you want to come back with me that’s fine! I’m always more than happy to share my bed with you.”

You sighed, upset that you had to debate this again with him, but you were frustrated at this point. “What’s wrong with my place! You’ve *never* spent the night here. I just would like to sleep in with you, make you breakfast, not have to concern myself with Sam or Steve dragging you out of bed and leaving me to spend half of my sleep without you anyways.”

“Well, what about Shadow?”

You cocked your eyebrow at the annoyingly handsome man before you. “I can literally call Peter or Nat right now to get Shadow. They both love that cat. You literally have no excuse.”

His hand had already fallen from your cheek, made a soft trail down your arm before resting with his palm up on your knee. “What about clothes? A toothbrush?”

You began to smile, unable to hide your excitement even at the sheer possibility that he’d give in. “You really think I haven’t stolen enough clothes for you to have a change of clothes here? I even have an unopened toothbrush here because of this moment! I knew I’d get you to crack one day.”

He grinned back at you, unable to leave a microbreak in your heart again over this silly little fight. “Come here,” he said huskily, using his metal arm to scoop your other leg and place you directly in his lap, “I will stay the night. I was going to lose this fight sooner or later.”

You giggled, bringing your arms around his neck and routinely tangling your fingers with the longer locks at the bottom of his head. “You know, I’m really glad you’ve come to your senses about it.” You press a soft kiss on his nose and smile brightly at him.

The rest of the evening was fairly normal. Bucky helped you with the dishes and cleaned the kitchen after dinner-- he even took out the trash and your stomach filled with flutters, enjoying your domestic boyfriend fantasy.

You got ready for bed first, feeling your cheeks warm while you changed with your back to Bucky. You’ve stripped in front of him countless times but something about the newness of the circumstance made you move sheepishly. You tried to compose yourself as you tossed your day clothes into the hamper and rummaged through your wardrobe, searching for Bucky’s sweats and a white t-shirt.

You tossed them onto the couch cushion beside him and stared wide eyed as he simply stood up and peeled his clothes off. His eyes caught yours as he kicked off his boots and unbuckled his belt simultaneously.

“Do you need something, doll?” He chuckled, proceeding to remove his pants, leaving him in his dark boxers and black socks.

“You,” you responded without even thinking about it.

His smile spread wide as he finished changing, “You’re so goddamn cute,” he responded.

Your cheeks blushed red again. You fumbled as you folded the blanket back and slid into bed, pressing yourself all the way against the wall.

Bucky followed closely behind you, fluffing his pillow and placing it nicely between his ear and shoulder. He laughed at you, pressed up so close to the wall that there was at least a foot of space between the two of you. “Why are you so far away?”

You brought your shoulders up to your ears, shrugging.

He made quick work of dragging you back towards the middle of the bed and up against his chest. “Go to sleep,” he said, kissing the space where your hair began.

You pressed your palm on his chest, pushing yourself off of him enough to look into his eyes. “Do you ever sleep, Buck?”

His head cocked ever so slightly to the side. “Of course I sleep, darlin. Everyone sleeps, except maybe Vision.”

You rolled your eyes at his remark, “Shut up, I know that. I just mean, do you sleep well? I don’t know that you’ve ever fallen asleep first.”

He sighs and takes a moment to wrap both of his arms around your waist, the metal one underneath you, causing your spine to curve ever so slightly.

“I just have trouble sleeping sometimes, but I do sleep,” he said softly, his nose momentarily brushing against yours.

You took a moment to contemplate. You had no work the following day-- you actually had nothing to do the following day except play house with Bucky which simply made your stomach churn in such an exciting way. So in just a moment you decided!

“I want to stay up with you.”

His breath hitched for just a moment. If you weren’t pressed up against him you wouldn’t have even noticed.

Before he responded you had already opened your mouth again. “I want you to be the one to fall asleep in my arms for once.”

He smiled widely and u felt his arms curl you in that much closer, “I don’t know that I’ve ever been the one to fall asleep first.”

“Then I will stay up with you all night,” you whisper against his lips, pressing a soft peck shortly after.

A chuckle bubbled from deep in his stomach, “I love you, darlin, but that’s really not necessary.”

You pulled away, allowing your hand to cup his cheek, smoothing over the skin as your eyes darted between his blue eyes, “You’re not going to be able to change my mind this time, James.”

He grinned, “I would love to stay up with you then.”

Your determination to stay up with him resulted in the best conversations the two of you have ever had, which was saying a lot considering you were already right up there with Steve in terms of being close to Bucky.

You talked to one another, pressed up with your fingers fumbling with one another and your legs tangled until the sun came up.

You talked about how you want kids but sometimes you’re afraid because hearing people say shit like “nobody is ever really ready” does anything but ease your anxieties. He tells you about how he loved being an older sibling and how he would forget to breathe sometimes when he held the youngest in his hands-- he thought she was the most beautiful thing to grace the earth. You squeezed his hand a little harder when he said he wishes he got to be there to see her walk down the aisle at her wedding.

You both agreed that you would love to adopt a little girl one day, even if you do end up having your own kids. You both agreed that you couldn’t fathom loving a kid any less simply because they don’t share your DNA. He got to gush about how much he loved being a big brother to Steve but how really having someone who was truly there and would never leave was something indescribably worth living for.

You knew bits and pieces about how family before but it made your stomach fill with butterflies when he talked about his siblings only for your chest to ache when you remembered that you and Steve were all he truly had left. It was nice nonetheless for you to hear him talk about them by name, telling you the biggest thing he remembered about each of them, sharing memories of Coney Island in the summers and getting them ready for school early in the morning.

You talked about childhood best friends and how you had to learn to cope with the fact that conflict isn’t the only thing that ends friendships. Sometimes distance can take its toll and you know it’s nothing compared to what he’s been through. He kisses your forehead and tells you that you can tell him anything and that none of your feelings are miniscule because they’re yours and everything about you means everything to him.

The sun starts to shine through your window when he tells you about the time that he got himself and Steve stranded because he spent all his money insisting that he could win this girl a prize at the fair. You tell him that he’s a simp.

He pulls you closer and leaves a lazy kiss on your collarbone groaning, “Yeah, but only for you,” before really dozing off.

You whisper his name a few times and get no response and you let the calming wave of sleep crash over you shortly after, a small smile spread across your lips as you do.

3 Years Later--

And you and Bucky live in a little place in Brooklyn, only a few blocks from where he grew up. He’s technically been retired for over a year but sometimes they need him. The past 4 months he’s had an excuse though, seeing as you now have a bun in the oven.

Since entering your second trimester your sleeping schedule has gone to shit. This seemingly wouldn’t be a problem but through the duration of the past few years Bucky has gotten much better at falling asleep and now he’s almost completely ready to be a father seeing as he falls asleep wherever, whenever he wants.

You’ve been hiding it for a little over a week or two that you don’t sleep until well after midnight, but one Sunday night he catches you munching on the floor in the kitchen.

He turns the corner of the hall, rubbing his eye with his metal arm, “Doll? What are you doing awake?”

“Eating?” You say, with your mouth still kind of full.

“Hm, let me join you,” he says soft, sitting across from you, his knee softly brushing yours. “How long have you been up?”

“I never went to sleep,” you admit, shyly.

He takes the bag of chips from you and lazily shoves a few in his mouth, his eyes still blinking because of the bright kitchen lights. “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t sleep?”

You shrug, “I already make you deal with a lot-- and you’re going to be the one staying up in about 5 months time, so I thought it fine to let you sleep.”

He shook his head softly, handing the chips back to you and taking your soda into his hands, tipping some of it into his mouth. “I want to stay up with you. You think I would ever willingly give up a single moment with you and babydoll?” He questioned.

You couldn’t help but smile, your heart fluttering every time he referred to your baby as babydoll after years and years of him calling you doll. “Thank you, Buck.”

“Until the end of the line, baby.”

“Isn’t that what you say to Steve?” you questioned, your brow cocked.

“I’ve been awake for 3 minutes, give me a break.”

#aesthetical-bucky1kchallenge #addy writes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes oneshot #bf!bucky barnes #i apologize that this is late #also i don't think its wonderful but i hope yall enjoy ANYWAYS!#:D

10 notes · View notes

thedreamsmith · 5 years ago

Text

In Heat

@atc74 @alleiradayne @arrowsandmixtapes @captain-s-rogers

Warnings: Explicit smut, swearing, canon typical violence

Word count: 2706

Pairing: Dean x OFC

Summary: Rhea has lived and hunted with the Winchesters for over a year, secretly pining after the elder brother, until she gets hit with a spiteful witch’s spell. It’s not subtle, either.

Dean’s POV

‘If you’re going to be a bitch,’ The sorceress snarled at Rhea as she raised her knife before her. ‘Then you can be a bitch in heat.’

Faster than any of them could anticipate, she hurled a bolt of golden light at the huntress, catching her directly in the chest.

‘That should keep you busy enough.’ The witch’s parting laugh was accompanied by a rustle of feathers and a raven rose from where she had just been standing.

Sam got off a couple of shots, but the bird escaped unharmed through an open skylight in the abandoned warehouse’s ceiling.

‘Rhea?’ The brothers rushed to her side, her gaze was unfocused as she got to her feet.

‘Where’d she go?’ Dean snapped at Sam. ‘Son of a bitch, we’ve been tracking her for a week.’

‘Uh, Dean?’ His brother’s voice held a hesitant note that drew his attention from the skylight. He followed his gaze to the third hunter with them. ‘I think we have a bigger problem.’

***

It had taken the combined effort of himself and Sam to get Rhea back to the bunker. Sam had had to drive, seeing as in her current condition, the huntress was making it very difficult for Dean to concentrate on anything.

‘What’s up with little Magpie?’ Crowley appeared beside Rowena without warning, head tipped to one side as he regarded Rhea mouthing at Dean’s collarbone. The sounds she was emitting were doing nothing to help the situation in his jeans.

‘Why do you care?’ Sam snapped at the demon, glowering at him from the opposite side of the table.

Crowley just shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Unlike the rest of you, she’s not a pain in my ass. She’s worked a few jobs for me in the past, mostly writing up contracts – she’s excellent with words. Must be all the research she’s done on the fae.’

Sam seemed to be gearing up for an argument when Rowena interrupted their bickering.

‘She got hit wi’ a spell. A powerful one.’ She was lent against a pillar, barely raising her eyes from the tome she was flipping through. ‘I don’t think I can undo this one, lads. Looks like you’re going to have to wait until it runs its course…or find another way to break it.’

The red-haired witch cast a meaningful look at him that he dutifully ignored. If it hadn’t been for the fraying grip on his self-control, he would’ve already hauled Rhea onto the table and fucked the magic out of her.

‘Cas, can’t you do something about this?’ Because Rhea was attempting to slip her hand beneath his shirt and her touch was everywhere…

‘I can try, but short of rendering her unconscious, I am not sure what else I can do.’ The angel laid a gentle hand on Rhea’s arm, trying to prise her from Dean’s person. ‘I need you to focus-‘

But he was cut off as Rhea whirled, pulling a knife and slamming him against the nearest pillar with the blade pressed to his jugular.

‘He’s mine.’ She snarled, eyes wild and teeth bared. ‘Don’t fucking touch him.’

For a moment no one moved, too taken aback at the normally easy-going hunter suddenly turning feral. Then everyone was in action, Sam moving into her line of sight, hands up and expression placating.

‘Rhea…’

‘Alright, that’s enough.’ Cas moved before she could react – touching two fingers two her brow and with a flash of white light she crumpled into his arms. ‘I will take her to her room and seal the door until we can figure out what to do.’

In a blink, both angel and hunter were gone, the only sign of their departure the fading echo of wingbeats.

‘Looks like things around here are finally getting a bit more interesting.’

Sam only spared the demon a sideways glance before turning on his brother.

‘Look, Dean, I don’t see why you won’t just-‘

‘I said no!’ He clenched his jaw so hard it felt his teeth would crack. ‘It’s not the same and you know it. What happens when the spell breaks and she wakes up having done something she didn’t want to? Why can’t you or Cas help her?’

‘Cause she hasn’t spent the last hour trying to get into our pants.’ Sam signed through his nose and glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Rhea wanting you isn’t a new thing – this spell just seems to have amplified her feelings.’

‘Sam is right.’ Dean started and whipped around as Cas’s gravelly voice sounded directly behind him. ‘Rhea has been radiating desire for months, all directed at you.’

‘It’s been nauseating, really.’ Crowley chipped in, grinning over the rim of a glass he’d somehow acquired.

‘Oh great. So everyone knew about this except me?’ He threw his hands up, nearly taking out a lamp in the process.

‘Pretty much.’ Rowena smirked, one side of her red-painted mouth drawn up.

‘If the feeling isn’t mutual, why don’t you love her and leave her, squirrel? And after you’ve broken her heart, maybe she’ll sell it to me; I’ve been trying to make her my right hand for years.’

The King of Hell only chuckled as Dean fisted his hand in his suit jacket and slammed him against the wall, one forearm pressed to his neck.

‘Shut your mouth, you son of a bitch.’ His voice was pitched low, but the promise of violence rippled like an undercurrent, dark and dangerous and just below the surface.

‘I’m right hear y’know!’ Rowena protested as Crowley spoke.

‘Oh look, the feeling is mutual. Looks like my work here is done. Bye, boys.’ With a final smirk, the demon vanished from his grip, leaving him clutching thin air.

‘Sonofabitch.’ Dean slapped his palm against the wall where Crowley’s head had just been.

‘Again, right here.’ The witch speared him with a glare that by all laws of physics should’ve set him on fire, no hoodoo required. ‘Now, you listen to me. You might be that lassie’s only chance for breaking this spell, so stop pretending like you haven’t been staring at her ass for the last year, get in there, and get busy.’

Momentarily lost for words, Dean gaped at the petite woman, then at his brother who was trying and failing to stifle his laughter. Asshat.

‘Fine. Fine.’ He rubbed a palm over his eyes. ‘Sammy, shut the hell up.’

With a final glare at the three of them, Dean stomped down the corridor with Sam’s laughter ringing in his ears.

****

He could hear her moans from outside her door - it seemed that Cas’s mojo hadn’t worked for very long. Letting out a long breath, Dean turned the handle and slipped into her room.

Soft lamplight illuminated the space, gleaming on the trinkets and blades that lined the shelves and walls. His heart almost stopped as his gaze found her. Holy fuck.

Her wine-red hair spilled around her head like a halo, her normally ivory skin flushed and turned to palest gold in the lamplight.

Her eyes were closed as she continued her ministrations – one slender hand worked at the apex of her thighs, back arching as her legs trembled.

His mouth went dry, and he was acutely, painfully aware of the aching press of his cock against the seam of his jeans. Rhea gasped as she buried a third finger inside herself, her thumb never ceasing in the pressure it applied to her clit. She was panting now, her cries coming at irregular intervals as she pushed herself closer and closer to the edge.

Dean could pinpoint the exact moment that she shattered, head thrown back and hand stilling momentarily as she chased her pleasure. His own hips jerked involuntarily and his grabbed onto a side table for balance, knocking over a picture frame in the process.

The noise alerted Rhea to his presence and she took him in with those crushing blue eyes as she rose from the bed on surprisingly steady legs. She stalked towards him like a predator, all lithe muscle beneath an hourglass figure like sweet sin.

Dean had seen plenty of naked women in his time – too many, probably – and this shouldn’t have been any different, but it was. This was Rhea, and she was looking at him in a way that had only happened in his dirtiest fantasies and he felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall by that cornflower gaze.

And then she was on him, pulling him down to cover his mouth with hers. The kiss was hot and hungry; the nip of her teeth on his bottom lip had him groaning into her mouth and fisting his hands at his sides.

‘Don’t you think we should talk about this, ah fuck, first, sweetheart?’ His head slammed back into the door as he tried to control his breathing. ‘You’re making this pretty damn, god, hard.’

‘That’s the plan, Winchester.’ She purred, smirking up at him from under her lashes and that snapped the final thread of his tattered self-control. ‘Please, Dean, I need this.’

One heartbeat, he had her in his arms, her long legs wrapped around his waist, vice-like.

Two heartbeats, he flipped their positions, pressing her against the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Three heartbeats, Rhea’s hands were under his Henley again, this time pushing it up and off to bare the lean muscles of his torso.

Four heartbeats, her lips were back on him; his mouth, his neck, his jaw, everywhere.

Five heartbeats, he ground against her, the wetness between her legs already soaking the front of his jeans. He needed to be inside her. Yesterday.

He carried her back to the bed, setting her down and making quick work of the rest of his clothes. He hissed in a breath as the cool air brushed against his swollen cock, already leaking.

‘Turn over.’ He barely recognised his own voice, the rough way it caught in the back of his throat. ‘Just how much do you need me, darlin’?’

There was no hesitation as Rhea rolled onto her hands and knees, spreading her legs as she glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dark with unconcealed lust.

‘Please…’ He’d never heard her like this, never thought he would. On cases, around the bunker, she was teasing and kind, with a spine like stainless steel. But now she was melting in his hands as he grasped her waist, lining his cock up with her entrance. The spell had made her desperate, made her beg for him. ‘Dean, please. I need you.’

Rhea cried out as he pushed into her in one smooth thrust, seating himself fully in the warm, wet heat of her. She was already stretched from her solo-session earlier but she was still exquisitely tight around him as he filled her. Her whimpers became moans as he began to move, setting a rough pace from the beginning.

There would be time enough in the future to go slow, to map each other’s bodies and strengthen the bond that he already felt shimmering between them – but right now he settled for what they both wanted, what they both needed.

The slap of skin on skin filled the room, mixing with their shared moans. Dean kept his voice low, still holding on to some inhibitions in an occupied bunker with thin walls but Rhea had no such reservations. She didn’t bother to muffle her screams as he reached around to find the bundle of nerves between her legs, clawing at the sheets as she trembled around him.

She tensed and he saw stars, his thrusts becoming erratic as he barrelled towards the edge.

‘Fuck, Rhea you feel so good…’ Dean hauled the whimpering hunter up against him so that her back was flush to his chest. ‘I’m close… come for me, sweetheart.’

His arm was a vice around her midriff as his other hand continued it’s work at the apex of her thighs. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair spilling down his back, baring her throat to him.

‘Dean…’ His name was almost a sob on her lips as he pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the column of her neck. ‘I’m gonna…I need to…’

‘That’s it, come for me.’ His stubble was rough against her skin as he slammed into her over and over, her full breasts bouncing with the motion. ‘Now.’

As if following his growled command and not the cresting tide of pleasure within her, she came hard around him, pulling him over the edge. Her whole body trembled in his arms as he spilled into her.

With a trembling gasp, the strength left her body and he tightened his grip as she slumped to the mattress. Gold light danced along her skin, rising from her form in shimmering whorls.

It worked.

Dean’s heartbeat was still racing hell-for-leather as he set Rhea down on the bed, too intoxicated by the aftershocks of his own orgasm and the rising panic over the what now? to worry about the mess.

‘Rhea? You still with me?’ He brushed his fingers over the sharp line of her cheekbone and the sprinkling of freckles beneath her dark lashes.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the dark lust replaced by bewilderment.

‘Dean?’ She pushed herself upright, hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Her jaw dropped as she took in his naked form, then her own state of post-sex disarray. ‘Oh my god… Did I…?’

‘Try to climb me like a tree?’ Dean offered her a lopsided grin. ‘Yeah, you did. It was pretty damn fun.’

Rhea groaned and buried her face in her palms and his stomach dropped.

‘Look, I’m sorry, really sorry. Just, we couldn’t find another way to break the spell and you seemed uh… interested in me so I lent a hand. I told Sammy that this was a bad idea. And why would you want me without a fucking hoodoo spell? You can do a hell of a lot better than my fucked-up ass.’

He pushed himself off the bed, scrambling for his discarded clothes. He wanted to be out of there as fast as possible, to find somewhere to hide with a bottle of whiskey and no one to bother him.

He’d just found his jeans when he felt a warm hand grab his wrist.

‘Dean.’ From her tone, it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get his attention. ‘I don’t regret it. Any of it.’ Her voice was soft as she looked up at him.

He swallowed thickly, trying to keep the hope from showing on his face because god damn it he’d been through too much, let down far too many times, so why should this be any different?

‘I’ve wanted this, wanted you for months. Sam and Cas were right. I’m in love with you, you idiot. I’m only embarrassed that I tried to get in your pants in front of everyone.’

Dean was pretty sure he was doing a fantastic impression of a landed fish as he blinked at her. It took him a second to process her words. I’ve wanted you for months. I’m in love with you.

‘Come here.’ Her smile was gentle, but her eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘I reckon we have a good while before anyone comes looking for us.’

And there she was, back to her old self again as Dean let her pull him back down onto the memory foam mattress. Her movements were languid, yet just as compelling as before as she tucked herself against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her waist, still not sure whether this was just some angel-induced fever dream.

‘This is real.’ His voice caught in his throat as he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

‘It is.’ Rhea reached up to cup his jaw in her palm and kissed him softly.

‘I love you too, darlin’.’ Dean let his own eyes shut as he breathed in her gunmetal and moonlight scent. He’d never admitted to anyone his fear of dying, not even Sam. To everyone he was the fearless hunter – facing death and danger every day. But knowing that this was waiting for him in heaven? He could live with that.

#oc appreciation day 2020 #oc's are people too #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #crowley #rowena

3 notes · View notes

saxxxology · 6 years ago

Text

THE CURSED - Ch.9

Being an English Princess in 1739 is everything for Y/N, a Princess from a prosperous, powerful kingdom, to be happy about… until her parents arrange for her to marry a Prince from a nearby kingdom against her wishes. Unable to join her on her journey, the Royal family hires the Winchesters, two experienced Rangers, to guide her. However, the Princess and the younger brother begin to display affection for each other, and when her heat threatens her life, Sam makes a possibly deadly decision to save it.

PAIRING: Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

WORD COUNT: ~2600

OVERALL WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics (heat/rut, claiming, knotting), age gap, smut of varying levels, descriptions of injury and gore, a tad of dub-con and 18th-century sexism from time to time, occasional bits of angst, fighting, and violence, eventual minor character death

NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy and @quiddy-writes - please heed all warnings! Please keep in mind that this series is set in the 18th century - society is not what it is today. I do not control where your eyes go; if you feel disturbed or think something may trigger you, it is your responsibility to either stop reading or scroll past.

Buy Sam’s scent from my Etsy shop

Access the entire series early on Patreon for just $3

Series Masterlist

THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.

Winter came and went. Sam and his Omega dealt with the frigid nights and mornings with several layers of thick, heavy blankets. They hardly left the bed, save to wash up and eat twice a day.

By the time spring arrived, the snow was beginning to melt, making the now-icy lake rise by several feet. Sam and Y/N had survived their first winter as a couple, but one question remained on both of their minds.

They’d had gone through another heat and rut together, and Sam kept a watchful eye on her for weeks after, watching for any sign of a growing pup. However, her belly stayed flat, leaving both of them to wonder if there was a possibility that one of them, at least, might be unable to procreate.

On a crisp morning in January, they walked the two hours to town, leaving Shadow to run about in her paddock, whinnying after them. Patches of snow crunched under their boots, and Sam kept Y/N closely by his side, under the warm refuge of Yellow Eyes’ coat.

They reached town just as the bells of the local church tolled for twelve o’clock and ambled down one of the crowded lanes when Sam stiffened, and Y/N looked up. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s here.” Sam looked as if he was torn between smiling and snarling in anger.

“Who?” She asked.

“Rowena, the witch,” Sam muttered. “Come.”

He took her hand and led her over to a small tent, where several red symbols were painted over the flaps. Y/N noticed that the villagers steered clear of her door, except for a few young ladies who stood across the road, looking as if they were debating going in.

Sam pushed one of the tent flaps aside, and Y/N was immediately swarmed by a comforting warmth and the scent of cloves. A small redheaded woman sat behind a table, arranging a stack of cards in long rows. She looked up as they entered, and when she saw Sam, her red-painted lips pulled back to reveal a row of straight, white teeth.

“Samuel,” she stood and walked around the table to greet them. She spoke with a thick Scottish accent. “It’s good to see ya, m’boy.”

“Rowena,” Sam bent to kiss her hand. “How has England been treating you?”

She shrugged. “I’m a Scot, I’ve been treated as the English believe I deserve. My little Fergus is runnin’ amok somewhere, stirring trouble where he can find it. He said he’d be here, but I never could trust the li’l rat.” Her eyes landed on Y/N. “He’s just a bairn, doesn’t know right from wrong no ma’er how much I show him.”

Sam put an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “Rowena, this is Y/N. My Omega.”

“Ahh, I see,” Rowan cast her eyes over Y/N’s face, and she felt like the witch could see right through her, into the darkest depths of her soul. “She’s a beautiful girl, Sam, I’ll give ya that. How old are ya, m’ wee darlin’?”

“Eighteen.” Y/N replied.

“Oof, and young too.” Rowena shot her a knowing look, “Samuel here always did like ‘em young.” She paced back around her table and motioned them to sit. “Well, what brings you here today?”

Sam pulled out both chairs on the opposite side of the table and watched as Rowena poured them both tea. “We’ve been mated for some time, and… and we were thinking about a child. Not now at least, but in the future…”

The witch glanced back and forth between them. “And no luck so far, I take it.”

“None.” Sam replied.

“So, it’s fertility you’re troubled with,” Rowena raised her eyebrows and smiled. “One of my specialties. And what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Can you…” Y/N spoke up, and her voice wavered slightly, “can you tell me if I’m incapable of bearing a child?”

Rowena nodded. “Of course. Right over here, darlin’.”

Y/N looked at Sam, who nodded and stood with her. Rowena brought them to a table hidden behind a large curtain. A black strip of cloth covered it, painted with white markings and symbols Y/N didn’t recognize. She began preparing herbs and objects (some of which Y/N believed to be bones) in a small metal bowl. When she seemed done, she set the bowl in the center of the black cloth and reached for Y/N’s hand.

“I need a li’l contribution from you, m’dear,” she said.

Y/N obediently held out her hand and yelped in pain as Rowena immediately jabbed her finger with a needle, holding it over the bowl. Two drops of crimson landed on the ingredients, and Rowena began speaking in a foreign language. She cradled her sore finger in her hand and stood back as the witch’s eyes rolled back into her head, the orbs white. The bowl on the table exploded into a ball of purple fire, and Y/N stumbled back in fear.

“Sam, what is she—”

“I never said her methods were orthodox by any means,” Sam replied quietly. He took her hand and kissed her finger. “But she is good. Let her work.”

Y/N nodded and stood by his side, shivering. She couldn’t tell if it was due to the cold or fear over what she was seeing. After another minute, Rowena’s eyes normalized, and she rose steadily to her feet.

“What is it?” Sam stepped forward. “What do you know? Is it me or her? Or both of us?”

“It…” Rowena swallowed and put a hand over her heart. “She was capable of having a child.”

“Was? What do you mean?”

“She was perfectly fertile until you bit… until you claimed her.” Rowena replied firmly. “Your curse spread through the bite, but not to the full extent.”

Sam stood there, frozen in shock. “I… I don’t understand.”

“Well, the curse you bear, it wasn't supposed to allow you to take another mate,” Rowena explained softly, “but your love for her, your need, overcame it. You took her as your own, but the curse… it took something from her in retribution, just as it was supposed to take all chance of happiness away from you.”

Y/N felt her heart drop. “So… so I cannot conceive because of…?”

Rowena sighed and pursed her lips. “I can give you some herbs to try and help, but… as far as I know, Samuel, this is a permanent situation. It might be remedied if she was to take the curse in full, but…”

She brushed her hand over his and spoke something to him in another language Y/N didn’t know. Then the witch’s eyes flickered to hers. “I’ll get some things together, wait here.”

She disappeared behind the curtain, leaving them alone. Sam sat back heavily on a spare chair in the corner of the tent and buried his face in his hands. Y/N stood across from him, her uninjured hand against her stomach. She felt the tears well over and drop down her cheeks.

“Sam?”

No answer.

“Sam, please answer me.”

He looked up, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “How am I supposed to answer you? I’ve failed you. I could have given you a child if only I hadn't been so impulsive and—”

Y/N walked closer. “Sam, this doesn’t mean that we can’t be happy. I love you, no matter what, you know that.”

His upper lip curved into an angry snarl. “I destroyed the very thing you should want most, I ruined all hope of having a family—!”

He went to push past her, but Y/N refused to let him pass. “Sam, keep your voice down,” she shushed him. “Please, let’s just take the herbs and go home.”

Sam glared at the ground as tears slid down his cheeks. “Y/N, you need to let me by.”

“No, Sam, I won’t allow you to leave!” She raised her voice. “I know it hurts you. Believe me, it hurts me too, but I will not allow you to go storming off!”

Sam gathered her into his arms as she fell against him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, Omega, I am so sorry…”

Rowena appeared in the doorway, clutching a burlap pouch in one hand. She observed their embrace with her cold green eyes and waited for them to part before stepping forward. Sam murmured something to her in the same foreign tongue and disappeared through the curtain, and Y/N heard the tent flap open and shut.

“Where did he go?” She asked.

“He said he was goin’ to the church,” Rowena replied. “He won’t leave ye, I swear it. He’s just being a man, needin’ some time to cool down.” She slid the pouch into Y/N’s shaking palm. “Now, these may help. Your chances were not altogether quenched, but t’ be honest, dear, I don’t see much hope.” She saw the look of helplessness on Y/N’s face and reached over to brush the tears away. “I’m not leaving Dolgellau until the weather is warm. If you should need anything, you know where to find me.”

She escorted Y/N into the main room and pulled a handkerchief from her top pocket. “Here,” she began to wipe at Y/N’s cheeks and eyes, “no more cryin’, it’s no good. Go find Sam, he’ll want to speak with you.”

***

Sam knelt in the front pew, hands clasped against his forehead. He was praying for forgiveness harder than he ever had before, harder than when his father had been killed and he blamed himself for his mother’s grief, harder than when Jess had been killed because he’d left her alone… and now, he was praying for God to forgive him for destroying his Omega’s life.

What he’d done to her was worse than death.

What is this? He asked silently. Why must everything I do hurt the ones I love? I don’t understand.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, the lump in his throat growing tighter every second. He stood up, glaring angrily at the wooden carving of Christ crucified above the altar. He was going to leave when he nearly bumped into one of the priests. He was smaller than Sam but then again, nearly everybody was.

He had short, black hair that was mussed around his fair skin, and almond-shaped eyes that were the clearest blue Sam had ever seen.

“Why leave so soon?” The priest’s low, gravelly voice was quiet, but simultaneously echoed around the otherwise empty church.

“My business with God is, uh,” Sam sniffed, “well, I refuse to pray to someone who refuses to answer.”

The priest nodded, then held out his hand. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Castiel. I’ve seen you in town, spoken with your brother every Sunday.”

Sam hesitantly shook his hand, out of politeness rather than because he wanted to. “And?”

“I know who you are, Samuel,” Castiel replied, “rather, what you are.”

Sam stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw you and your wife go to the witch Rowena,” Castiel replied. “I’m surprised; I’ve never seen a couple go to a witch before consulting God.”

“She’s not my wife,” Sam replied. “We’ve not… married yet.”

“Oh,” Castiel lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. “May I ask why?”

Sam’s next words were brutally honest, and he hated himself for saying them. “I’ve barely thought about making her my wife. If you know what I am, then you’ll understand my hesitation to wed. And I doubt anyone here in town would be kind enough to marry us; even the other priests here are afraid of me. I’ve not set foot in here for nigh on two years.”

“I am aware of what ails you,” Castiel’s eyes locked with Sam’s, “but you bear it with strength. I might call it a blessing.”

Sam tightened his lips and look at the ground. “It is not a blessing. I was not supposed to take another mate after… after my first Omega, Jessica…” he swallowed, “and when I claimed Y/N as mine, the curse took something from her.”

“Which would be…?”

Sam sighed and looked up at the ornate ceiling, “She can never bear a child. In saving her life, I destroyed the possibility of her ever producing it.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry.” Sam spat the words as if they tasted foul. “My Omega—the woman I love more than anything in my life—can’t bear our children. And it’s my fault. I was reckless and stupid and I never thought that my curse could pass to her—”

“You did nothing wrong,” Castiel said. “I am not one to trust witches that deal in black magic, but Rowena is a very smart woman.”

“I know,” Sam folded his arms, “she’s the one who first told me I was cursed.”

Castiel nodded again. “Immortality.”

“Excuse me?”

“Immortality,” Castiel clarified. “Many would sell their souls to the darkest demon to roam the surface of the Earth to live forever. It isn’t a curse, Sam. Not when you’re with Y/N.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” the priest passed him to stand at the altar, “that you have an opportunity to live with her by your side forever. I can see the fear in your eyes, you’re terrified of her leaving you.”

“And how do I make her stay?” Sam felt tears brim in his eyes. “She must hate me, I’ve cursed her.”

Castiel shook his head. “No. No, she won’t hate you. It is a shock, I’ll admit, but you must keep your thoughts up. Something good may come out of this. You cannot keep thinking in the negative.” He handed Sam a small slate tablet covered in foreign writing. “My wife, Meg, she makes these for our parishioners. She’s a healer, and she gives these to those patients with little hope of happiness.”

Sam glanced at the tablet. He was a skilled studier of Latin, English, and Scottish Gaelic, but the letters carved into the slate seemed scrambled and disorganized. “I can't read this.”

“There are very few who can,” Castiel replied. “She is one of them. To loosely transcribe, it’s for luck, propsperity.”

Sam clutched the slate in his hand and held it up, a stiff smile playing on his lips. “Thank you.”

Castiel crossed himself, and Sam did the same before he turned to go. At the door, he stopped and turned around. “Father.”

The priest turned. “Yes?”

“I thought priests couldn’t marry.”

Castiel smiled. “My wife and I were married long before I joined the church. God has not given us any punishment yet; I can only believe that he has given us freedom to continue about our lives.” He touched the cross around his neck. “If you and your… Omega seek a child in the future, we do shelter many orphaned children, many of them infants. If you felt you could take one into your home in the future…”

Sam smiled and nodded. “We’ll consider it.” He held up the tablet again, “thank you, Father.”

Y/N was just walking up the steps to the church when Sam exited. Her face was dry and clear, but Sam could see anxiety heavy in her eyes. “Sam, what have you been doing?”

“Speaking with a priest,” Sam cupped her hands in his and raised them to his lips. “I’m sorry for leaving you behind.”

She shook her head and sighed. “I just want to go home.”

Sam pulled her back against his side and tugged his cloak over her shoulder. “I think we should get you a cloak of your own while we’re here.”

“I have one at home.”

“You deserve another.” Sam gripped her hand tightly in his and walked with her towards the shopping stalls. “You took the herbs from Rowena?”

Y/N nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Sam kissed the top of her head and felt her slide an arm around his waist. “What we heard today means nothing. We’ll keep trying. And whatever happens…”

“I know.” She glanced up at him. “You know I’m not angry with you, right? I don’t blame you, we had no way of knowing.”

Sam’s heart ached at her words. “I… I still feel horrible. The curse has even passed to you, love.”

“Not all the way.” Y/N protested. “Sam I’m… if I’m already halfway there, then I want to go all the way.”

He turned to her. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” She returned. “I refuse to just… pass into oblivion while you live to the end of time. I want to be by your side for the rest of my life, no matter how long it is. I belong to you.”

Sam slung an arm over her shoulders. “May we finish this conversation at home?”

Y/N nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Sam shook his head and kissed her, not minding the people that started as they passed by. “You needn’t be. Now, let’s go get you a coat.”

If you want to see chapter 10, reblog and leave a comment! Feedback is my fuel!

TAGS FOR THIS SERIES ARE CLOSED

Forever tags: @atc74 @becaamm @bamby0304 @crispychrissy @crashdevlin @curly-haired-disaster @cameronbraswell @emoryhemsworth @ellen-reincarnated1967 @kittenofdoomage @kayteonline @kdfrqqg @littlegreenplasticsoldier @lunarsaturn88 @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @manawhaat @mereka18 @mrswhozeewhatsis @meganwinchester1999 @oneshoeshort @percussiongirl2017 @serpentbaby @spnwoman @smallgirlbigpersonality @shaelyn102 @thelittleredwhocould @winchesterprincessbride @winecatsandpizza @zombiewerewolfqueen @85natalie @81mysteriouslyme

#the cursed series #alpha!sam x omega!reader

170 notes · View notes

witchfall · 6 years ago

Text

to melt the gilded seams: ch. 1

direct sequel to ‘the silver lining still remains’

In the aftermath of the Abel disaster and the revelations about her childhood, Emma Ibori has kept busy preparing to end the secrecy surrounding her life and the true origin of androids. Connor, meanwhile, continues to pester Markus about the feasibility of human-android marriage laws.

But Emma’s life no longer feels like her own…a vagary made from Connor’s increasingly busy schedule, the strange looks her best friend Ryker gives her when they think she isn’t looking, and an exhaustion born of a dread that sinks into her bones from simply leaving the house.

When she finally acts, the axis tilts – but not as she expects. To keep Emma and Connor safe from a growing terrorist threat (and a Cyberlife executive sniffing where he shouldn’t be), Jericho is going to make a spectacle of the one thing she wants to keep to herself: her singular relationships with the RK800 and WR600.

But as the world turns its glaring eyes their way, how long can their silent fault lines hold?

[Rating: T (except some swears)]

{Ryker is owned by @popsicletheduck, Sam is owned by @vaniccio, Chase is owned by @caitlynmellark and Messi is owned by @thenervousmedic. Thank you for letting me borrow your children!}

Read it on ao3 here.

---

April 2040

Even with Connor in D.C., it takes Emma, Chase, Messi and Ryker little more than an afternoon to pack up the entirety of Emma’s physical life into boxes. That’s how she finds herself alone in an empty bedroom -- once hers, but barely ever that -- riding the sharp waves of a sudden whim.

She pulls the memory box out of the dusty top shelf of her closet and settles it on the carpet with a thick clank. She feels a little high from the remnant dust as she digs into the sea of school photos, report cards, flimsy movie tickets and plastic vacation baubles for the sake of...what?

She searches until she finds the photo some part of her remembered. Her father and mother -- Ji-hun and Shara -- smiling together at the head of a long table. The lighting is poor; someone was taking photos with the flash on. But Mom has flowers woven into her curls. Her dress is a simple cream color with a boatline neck and her laughing grin is radiant. Dad is laughing, too, teeth perfect white, navy suit wrinkled but fitted, purple bowtie slightly askew. His arm is around her mother’s shoulders. Their cheeks nearly touch.

She can almost hear her mother’s voice, honeyed and happy for once. “Oh, we had no money. Both of us in post-grad. We just hurried and married. That’s what we wanted to do.”

She turns the photo around to read the writing on the back. “Shara and Ji-hun wedding, June 1, 2013.” She does the math in her head and realizes: she is older than they are in this photo. The dissonance makes her chest feel numb.

But their love could reignite the sun.

She covets a memory like this for herself so viciously that she has to close her eyes and go somewhere else in her head. Because that’s what she’s looking for, for reasons hard to fathom -- proof that even lives that end in tragedy could still see bright spots of joy.

---

June 2040

[REPLAY MEMORY?]

[ACCEPT]

“Hey darlin’.”

Emma sighs heavily, pulling her fingers through her thick auburn curls to throw them over her head. She looks down into the phone camera from an angle that suggests she is leaning up against her new headboard, pillows tucked in against her back.

“I’m glad I caught you before you fell asleep,” Connor hears himself say, and the relief settles like warm gauze both within the memory and without. He studies the video call closely. Her olive skin is pale. Her freckles stand out like dirt against glass and heavy, dark circles weigh down her cognac brown eyes. He watches her until he catches the orange flash of light behind her pupils.

A pulse of life. A flash of difference.

“You almost didn’t,” she says. “Feel like I’ve been fighting off a nap all day.”

“Your new medicine?”

“Maybe.” She closes her eyes.

“Have you been experiencing any strange side effects?”

“It’s hard to tell anymore.”

“I remember the doctor saying something about experiencing a strange electric feeling--”

She rolls her head back.

“Can we not? Can we talk about something else? Please?”

It normally goes like this. Her patience for talking about her health has only declined as his worry has skyrocketed. Anxiety is such a worthless emotion; it perpetuates itself in a cascade pattern and lingers in his biocomponents. But he has not been with her for the past three weeks, and that fact rankles him so much that he has to rejigger his breathing protocol to fire correctly, just as he did in the memory.

[END MEMORY PLAYBACK]

His programming demands action regarding the most important of his mission parameters (the constant [PROTECT EMMA] that buzzes in the corner of his eye), and yet to do that, he has to be away in Washington, D.C., doing his job. Talking to politicians and lobbyists in gold dining rooms with dark wood lining and crystal chandeliers to convince what feels like the entire world to sign Markus’ comprehensive Android Rights legislation into law.

To convince them that they really are people, willing to assimilate.

Connor glances down at his work phone -- something he obtained out of preference by his largely human team for “security reasons” -- and scrolls to his photo gallery with practiced precision. He lands on a photo of Emma leaning over his shoulder in a Detroit park, grinning down at the camera. The sky shines cobalt blue behind her wild hair, and her laughing smile reveals her bright white teeth.

He misses her so fiercely he routinely runs diagnostics to ensure a part of him isn’t actually, literally missing -- but then, a part of him is, in a way. He can hear Hank scoffing from here. But Hank, Connor thinks, would agree.

Only a two-hour flight remained of the fog of this three-week work trip. The constant typing in front of bright screens. The painful mediation of hope.

“Grip it any tighter and it might shatter.”

He flicks his gaze up toward his aide, in the seat across from him.

[NAME: HALE, SAMANTHA // LEGISLATIVE AIDE BORN: 10/13/2013 CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE]

“I thought you might actually relax for once.” Her words are clipped and efficient and teasing. She watches him over a thin, swiftly scrolling tablet, unreadable as amber.

He smiles slightly. “There is a saying about what happens when you assume.”

She smiles back. Like a mirror. “You’ve been looking at that picture for a while.”

Some switch jolts inside of him and he opts for silence.

Her smile inches closer to genuine. She glances down at his phone. “Sorry. You still hold it like a toddler learning how to play cards.”

He looks out the airplane window, over clouds and distant flatlands, where the people are small as mites. “I’m...glad to be going home.”

“She’s cute.”

Connor turns back immediately. Sam’s dark gaze pierces him through.

“An android?” she asks.

He stares at her until he realizes she is genuinely asking.

“No,” he says quietly.

Sam's eyebrows shoot up a single centimeter. She places the tablet on the thin table between them and leans back in her leather chair, watching him. He’s seen this look before. Part of him steels in preparation.

“This explains a lot,” she says.

“Not for most people.”

“You’ve been in a terrible mood for the past week.”

“Have I?”

She smirks, but it fades immediately. “You don't talk about her much.”

“I don't want--”

The words die in his vocoder. I don't want her to get hurt. From attention. From my enemies.

Even thinking the words feels like setting the last slab of stone on an already creaking cart. Emma has considerable mechanical alteration (“a cyborg,” she explains plainly), but she's also a bright, mouthy, endlessly kind human being, and he wishes there was a way for everyone to see her as he saw her. She is determined to press on for the sake of truth -- tell the whole world how she became what she is so that no one suffers from the secrets anymore. So that humans have a new understanding of their connection to androids.

He had recently begun to understand the intoxicating calm of lies.

“You're worried about her,” Sam notes quietly.

“Always.”

Sam purses her lips against a number of unspoken things. “What does she do?”

“Carpentry,” he says.

She’s good at deduction and that’s why she is on this plane and not back in D.C. with the rest of his team. He knows what she is really asking, but he's not willing to give her this yet. She reaches for her cup of ginger ale, long drained, and taps her fingernails against the glass. “Are you worried it will become an issue?”

“In what way?” he asks.

“You tell me.”

“It’s been fine so far,” Markus says from across the cabin. Connor slides his gaze toward Markus, who watches them both with the reserved warmth of a curious patron. Simon, sitting across from him, pointedly keeps his eyes on his tablet -- but the PL600 is always listening.

Sam finally turns away, toward the airplane window, brows furrowed in thought. She slides a blonde hair back behind her ear and breathes out through her nose for five seconds straight.

“You can ask, Ms. Hale,” Connor says softly. “I don’t mind.”

He really doesn’t. It feels like a pressure release, speaking of Emma openly like this.

She doesn’t look at him, but her mouth relaxes slightly. “How long have you…?”

“Since November 2039.”

She sits up immediately. “Since--”

Her mouth snaps shut again. Her eyes search his face. How had he kept this hidden from her, his blood hound? What else could he hide from her?

What did he intend?

He leans back in his chair. Tension releases in a soft tick from his back that he catalogues away for future upkeep. “And hopefully for as long as we both are alive.”

Her mouth turns downwards. He thinks for a moment that she is going to say something angry. Accuse him of hiding key intel that prevents her from doing her job — she can’t protect his image if she doesn’t know everything. She can’t handle his affairs if he keeps half the workload to himself. But the tightness around her eyes loosens and he realizes she isn’t angry.

She’s thinking of the other side of the coin of “how long.” The collision of immovable object and unstoppable force; “how long” for an android has a different definition. He knows this because he is thinking of it, too, like he has been since he first saw Emma bleed. He knows because he can smell sadness and pity from a mile away after living in its stink in D.C. for so long.

But as soon as he notices this, she raises her hands as if giving up. A smirk erases all hint of emotionality.

“Well, now I’m definitely glad I am coming along,” she says.

He squints at her. He can feel Markus watching them.

“I’m really curious to meet the type of woman that puts up with you and isn’t even paid for it.”

---

It’s happening again.

Emma counts the flowers. Tastes their colors, pink like fizz and yellow like lemons and -- no. Not right. Start over.

Cement yourself to this moment, here in Ryker’s garden. Feel the too-hot summer sun on skin and the licking breeze out of the northwest, bringing a promise of cooler air from Canada. Settle your knees deep into the grass. Do not think of the snapdragons and how they smell like citrus.

One of the handlers in that hellhole house of her youth always smelled like tangy flowers and bleach.

Do not think of listening to that handler’s Monday afternoon soaps. Of the cold hallway floors sticking to the back of a smaller Emma’s legs. Of Noah leaning his head into her shoulder “to listen better” but really because being apart felt like staring down a big hole into nothing and--

Suddenly she’s a little girl again. She feels the world slip between her fingers, replaced by a sizzling anger that cleanses every thought. Something beeps in her head. Noah’s small face, innocent and pale, hovers superimposed on the face of Abel, the man who tried to kill her and Connor. The two repel like the same side of a magnet.

Her ears ring, high-pitched and trilling like mad bells. Her vision fuzzes out like an old TV. Her lungs seize. {PROCESSING --MEMORY!!ERROR. VARIABLES76857. ERROR UNKNOWN.}

“Ryker! She’s doing it again!”

Emma blinks a few times. Chase’s voice. Grass. Garden. Sun. Wind. Come out of it. Breathe.

For fuck’s sake! Breathe!

{ERROR. ERROR. ERROR------8978792*&^*^&^----ONLINE}

“I can’t look away for five minutes to get tools anymore,” she hears Ryker grumble, but in the way they do when things are truly going to shit. She hears the telltale pitter-stomp through the grass of Messi following not far behind. Emma rises to her feet, as if to make a point, and the world spins. She can’t catch her breath.

“Ibori. What happened?” Chase instantly reaches his arms out to stabilize her. “Look at my face.”

“Nothing,” she lies through her teeth. Chase merely stares at her as if she just announced that the sky is green. “Another fucking memory resurfaced.”

“Everything is alright, remember?” Ryker reminds her, though they grasp tightly to her wrist, turning it over to check her pulse. A gardener should not be so good at doing that, some distant part of her thinks. “The rate’s been slowing.”

She resists the primal urge to pull her wrist back, but not before Ryker notices her hand flex into a fist. They release her immediately.

“I’m going to call the editors,” Ryker says. “You can’t do this yet.”

She covers her guilt by smashing her palms into her eyes and dragging her hands down her face. “If we put it off, the journalists start doubting,” Emma says, as she has explained for what feels like the 500th time this week.

Ryker looms over her, standing with their crutches. For once, the full impact of their height difference -- their 6’2” to her 5’5” -- makes itself apparent. “You don’t think they’d believe you after sitting with you for interviews for hours at a time? That maybe you’re a little mentally unready for this?” “I’m not having this argument with you again.” She digs a toothpick out of her pocket, unable to look them in the eye. Normally, this is the point of the conversation where Ryker freezes as if to recollect themselves and Emma sorts through the weird signals coming from her cyborg brain, and then they both apologize and completely skip over whatever it is they were talking about. Peace is a balm best applied thickly. This time, Ryker fishes a set of familiar flash cards out of their shirt pocket and shoves them at Chase, who watches the exchange with a brittle expression. "Then I'm not having any part of this. I'm going inside." Her heart gives a lurch. "Come on." "No. I'm not talking about this anymore," they snap. "Don't stay out too long or you'll sunburn." The creaking of Ryker's crutches fades until she hears the backdoor to their house slam behind them. She jams the toothpick between her teeth and bites down until she is certain she can look at Chase or Messi and not burst into tears. "It okay, Miss Emma," Messi says softly, pulling on Emma's wrist. "Ryker just tired." "I know," she says, and she knows because it’s her fault. Emma sits down back in the grass. Messi presses her hands deeply into Emma’s thigh as a form of pressure therapy and hums a little child’s song, from somewhere deep in her calming medical programming. Emma absently untangles strands of Messi’s thick, long hair. Chase settles into a wicker chair set up close to Ryker's latest flower beds. He closely examines the flash cards. "Where were you born?" he reads off one. God. Maybe she isn't ready for this. “I’m tired of pop quizzes about myself," she says. "Can’t we just have some nice garden time? In quiet?” Chase holds the card primly in both hands, eyeing her suspiciously over its edge. She closes her eyes against another wave of vertigo. She can nearly hear Natalie, her therapist, speaking in her head. Think of things to be thankful for. Connor is finally coming home. She won’t have to pretend that she can get through the night by herself while curled up in painful knots on Ryker’s couch. She won’t lie awake, afraid of the dark and what she might remember of it. She won’t feel like a pathetic loser pining after someone who has only been gone three weeks. Three long-ass, terrible weeks. “It’s publishing tomorrow morning, Ibori," Chase says, as if explaining this to a child. "People are going to ask. They are going to try and find holes." "I'm gonna remember. My body won't let me do anything damn else." Both of them fall silent at that. For a moment, the only sound between them is Messi's soft humming. "Hmm," Chase says after a long moment, which is Chase for Yeah, I don't believe you.

---

Emma used to make a sport out of fading into crowds. I am among you, but not a part of you, she'd think, and she would disappear before anyone could ask her why she was drinking alone.

Hank pushes a black coffee across the small table. {IDENTIFIED: COFFEA ARABICA, 172 DEGREES F. } “Sorry. Decaf only for you.”

{ACCESSING LOGS…} “Goddamn meds,” she manages. She wraps both of her hands around the cup, like Connor would do if he was here. He could never drink it.

{STARBUCKS COPYRIGHTED BLEND. DO YOU LIKE COFFEE….*&*^*&????}

“Em?”

Her muscles twitch and lock up in strange places. She takes deep breaths. Cut it off at the stem. It doesn’t have to be like this.

{EMMIE I DON’T KNOW ABOUT THIS…}

Quit it.

“Emma!”

She blinks hard and watches as Hank yanks the coffee cup out of her tight grasp. Only now does she realize she has squeezed the cup until its boiling hot contents spilled over onto her skin.

“Burning yourself won’t do the trick,” Hank gruffs. He tugs at the napkin dispenser and dabs at her knuckles lightly.

“Sorry,” she says automatically. She grounds her feet to the floor. The hand still tingles. She gets the feeling it should hurt more than it does, but the busy airport atrium has flooded her with so much stimuli that she is shocked when she sees that the spill has left a red welt on her skin.

(Noah -- Abel -- he said he didn’t feel pain anymore, didn’t feel anything--)

“Connor won’t like that,” she mutters.

Hank scoffs. He finishes cleaning the table and tosses the napkins into the nearby trash-can. “Yeah, he’s gonna be out of his mind now, thanks for that. Lucky I’ve dealt with worse attitude problems than you...”

Hank refers to it as an attitude problem because he knows she laughs when he does. An attitude problem would be laughably, wonderfully normal. “Great,” she mutters.

His eyes soften. “North'll be back with our clearance soon.”

She huffs and lays her forehead (and burned hand) on the cool metal table.

Current security policy is that no one may be in the private plane receiving area who is not a passenger until within 20 minutes of the landing time. In a fit of anxious energy, Hank and Emma arrived at least an hour early, but they’d been waiting for close to 40 minutes already.

Meaning…

“There she is.” Hank sips his coffee. “Just like I promised. Our boys almost here?” he says to North.

“We’re in luck. They’re ahead of schedule. They’re already taxi-ing in.”

Emma looks up to see North with a rare, true smile on her beautifully carved face. Her hair is in its usual side plait, though she is experimenting with blonder highlights that stand out like ice against her dark clothes. She brandishes the thin pass tablets like three playing cards.

Emma is up and moving out of the chair before North can say another word.

She raps her knuckles against her thigh as she speed walks to the private jet gates, past a dancing water fountain and quiet museum displays of old world cars that feel like pockets of a different time and place. She half-runs down a windowless, wide hallway lit with shades of purple and green like some petrified nightmare vision of the future, all cornerless architecture and the constant feeling that you have to be going somewhere.

Her phone is vibrating, but her hands are shaking too much to pull it out of her pocket. She shoves her credentials at the TSA agents who give her strange looks, but they let her pass once North catches up to wave them off.

“I swear it was decaf,” she hears Hank mutter to North.

Emma reaches the gate, eyes fixated on the gleaming jet rolling down the tarmac. The creamy, nondescript white of an undecorated fuselage, dark windows and an extended walkway remain her only obstacles. All that is left is waiting, which is nearly impossible for her to do. She turns around to speak to Hank and North only to find they are still somewhat far behind.

She runs through a mental checklist. Connor is on that airplane. Ryker is at home watching one of their favorite late afternoon nature programs and keeping an eye on Messi, who is likely experimenting on the dirt in their garden. Chase is on the late shift at the department store. Hank is coming up behind her. Her aunt and uncle are...doing whatever it is they do.

{eeeEEEmmmmiEEEEEE}

You do not own me, you are not real. You are just one aspect of my thoughts.

But then, Natalie was not programmed to deal with the fussy, indeterminable nature of a wetware-enhanced human brain. So. There’s that. Emma falls into one of those black beam seats one always finds in airports and bounces her knee until the pressure against her heel thrums through her whole body.

“Emma.”

For a moment, she is so absorbed in sorting out her thoughts that she looks up and expects Hank.

But she knows that voice.

She rises to her feet at once. “Hey,” she says. It comes out a breathless whisper, weighed down by everything beneath it. Connor strides down the walkway at unnatural android speed. His polished dress shoes click against the hard floor.

His face is stolen from an angel in Venice. Dark eyes, warm as homemade cake, a smile, a--

She hears the luggage -- his little chrome luggage, the pieces she helped him pick out at the mall -- click to a stop just as an arm crushes around her middle. A hand snakes behind her neck. She’s pulled into an embrace so tight that feeling finally fully returns to her senses, rushing in like water through a cavern. Her eyes burn.

“I missed you so much,” he says, straightforward and breaking and quiet. “I was certain something was wrong with me.”

He pulls back to look at her, and his smile flickers. His hand around her neck moves to touch just beneath her eyes.

“Sorry.” She sniffles and apologizes, like she does too often anymore. “I know it was only three weeks.”

“It was terrible. I was very bored,” Connor says, in that deadpan way of his, and it makes her laugh. She throws her arms around his neck and plants the kiss she’d been dreaming of for three weeks right on his mouth, all stupid bravery. He takes a deep, sudden breath through his nose and pulls her tighter against him, sighing softly, like he finally could accept that she was really here, really wanted him back, more than anything. He only breaks away to speak so quietly against her mouth that she wonders if she imagined it. “...my love...”

“God, you’d think you hadn't seen each other in 5 years.”

Emma doesn’t even turn around to flip Hank off. He laughs. She laughs. She looks back, carefully ensconced in Connor’s arms, and puts her hands up as if to say, ‘Guilty.’

Hank walks toward them. “What am I, chopped liver?”

A cool hand touches her burned one almost in an instant.

“...Emma.” Connor’s voice tightens. “What happened?”

“Oh, here we go,” she mutters. And Hank, that asshole, laughs more.

---

As soon as Connor settles into the back seat of Hank's old Ford, a strange weight lifts from his thirium pump. He takes a long, unnecessary drag of the scent of old leather, dusty blankets and the sickly sweet tinge of alcohol from a bottle that once broke open on the carpets years ago. A human wouldn't notice it, he thinks, or they would comment. But then, he doesn’t want to think about the differences between himself and humanity.

He wants to watch Emma curl herself into the backseat -- all human sighing and complaint, beautiful and alive.

Emma clicks her seat belt and contours herself to his shoulder, leaning so that her forehead lays against his neck. He wraps an arm around her, pulling her against him so tightly that he has to triple-check to ensure he isn’t crushing her. She doesn't complain.

"Comfy," she mutters, as if angry about it. He presses his nose into her wild red hair.

Lavender. Chipped plywood. The summer wind. Coming home.

(How long would this go? How long could he do the stretches without her? He's adaptable. He is built to be the perfect teammate. Adapting to human ingenuity, fine, he is quite capable. They did not prepare him for human desires. Of any kind. The very notion of wanting something is supposed to be foreign to him and he has never wanted anything more in his life than this feeling, like he’s finally climbed through the earth to see the sun.)

He’s startled out of his reverie because she starts snoring softly. Hank's eyes flick to the rearview, as if finally granted permission to speak.

"You really doin' alright out there?" Hank asks. His voice is quieter than usual. He clears his throat and looks pointedly to Emma for a moment. "Pretty long work trip for you."

Connor casts his gaze out the car window to the rolling cityscape of Detroit. He catalogs the strange pinging in his heart as another type of homecoming -- a realization of what was missed. "It's what it is," he says flatly, because he is not sure what else to say. "People act like they want to hear what we have to say. But...I see the way they look at us."

"Oh?"

He meets Hank's eyes in the mirror. "Sometimes it's fear. Sometimes it's pity. Sometimes it's...an anger I don't understand."

Hank makes a sound of disgust. "Fuckin' politicians..."

"They don't know how to talk to us, I think."

"But you're okay?" Hank asks, more intently than before. "You feel safe?"

"We're safe, Hank," Connor says softly. He holds Hank's watery gaze until Hank is the first to turn away, eyes back on the road. "It would take a very determined terrorist to strike the Congressional halls in D.C."

"Who's the blonde? The aide you were tellin' me about? She looks very...serious."

"Sam. Yes. She's helping me gather intel before our next big excursion. She is...as you say."

"Heh. Coming from you..."

"I know," Connor says. “She has her work cut out for her.”

Hank finally smiles into the mirror.

"Man, lemme tell you, when I last visited D.C...."

Connor lets Hank tell some anecdote about a previous trip, in which people "weren't even allowed on the damn sidewalk on Pennsylvania Ave. to take pictures of the damn White House," because it seems to help Hank steady his vitals. But once Hank runs out of asides, Connor decides to finally address the flashing warning in his vision. [PROTECT EMMA.]

“Was she okay?”

Hank sighs. Connor squints, considering all the reasons why Hank may lie to him about this.

“She'll give you some bullshit," Hank says after a long moment. "It's a mixed fucking bag. But she's...holding on better than I would. I'd say.”

The turn signal blinks. Connor syncs his breathing with it as he re-orders his sudden splatter of thoughts. "She's...the article..." "Tomorrow morning." He freezes. He hadn't forgotten -- he rarely forgets anything -- but this particular insight had been shoved far back enough in his processes that he hadn't realized the date of publication on the story about her horrific youth was so soon. He's nearly seized by a protocol that would have prompted him to yank her entirely into his lap.

"I should have been here," he whispers, horrified. "No," Hank says, firmly. "You know that isn't how this works. Not anymore."

Connor closes his mouth. He knows. How this works is that he lives and works separately from the love of his life even as she’s withering half a country away. He knows that’s how it is supposed to work.

But he’s running out of context. All the pains are new and strong and he is running out of assurance that all of them are survivable.

---

As soon as they reach Hank's, the trio decides to keep a quiet night in. Hank insists on cooking because Connor just got back from a long trip, which prompts Connor to protest he isn't tired like that, which prompts Hank to tell him to shut up and sit down like the thankful asshole he should be, which makes Connor remind everyone he doesn’t actually eat any food...and so it goes. Emma loves every second of it.

She drinks chamomile tea with honey (Connor's version is a close second only to Ryker's) and sits on the couch between Connor and Hank in a warm haze watching baseball. Eventually, Hank excuses himself to bed. Emma and Connor quickly leave to Connor's room. Everyone's tired of pretending to be anything but exhausted.

That doesn't stop Connor from kissing her as soon as the door is closed. Soft and gentle, he presses in on her jaw, the corner of her lips, her mouth. He holds her tightly against his chest as if he could keep all the world away, and she leans into him, believing it. But it's all a trick, she realizes too late, to pick her up and deposit her in the soft down comforter he bought just for her.

He sits on the mattress and unbuttons his shirt sleeve.“You have a lot of sleep to catch up on, my love.”

“Hrmph,” she says from within a down cocoon. She sits up, blanket still wrapped around her body and head, and leans forward as if to issue a challenge. “Maybe I want to kiss you all night. What about that?”

“Have you taken your medicine?”

“Yes…”

“Then you'll be falling asleep in about an hour.”

“Try me.”

He scans her face for a long moment before he leans over to kiss her on the nose. “Somehow I missed you acting like this, too.”

She smiles. He rises to begin unpacking his luggage, placing perfectly folded clothes into his drawers.

His room is no longer a place of spartan order, at least. She framed a few of his pencil drawings to hang on the wall; at least one of them is of her alone, looking over the Detroit River (he insisted on that one). Some drawings are of Hank and Sumo, of Markus laughing in a garden next to North and Simon, of Josh reading quietly against a window. He also hung a drawing from Messi that is mostly abstract color splotches. She glances to the dresser and the collection of objects there: his DPD badge and official portrait, a snow globe with a beach santa inside it (“I like the dissonance,” he said as explanation once), an old quarter collection, and a rubik’s cube.

But all his work clothes are still the same uniform he prefers, she notes with some humor. It's like out of a TV show where the main character has a closet full of exactly one outfit. He folds pants and hangs shirts and she relishes the quiet domesticity of it all like inoculation against the loneliness of other nights.

“How is Ryker?” Connor asks, breaking the comfortable silence.

She pulls in the comforter tighter around her. “Fine.”

He looks at her back over his shoulder, expectant.

She sighs. “I made them mad.”

“But you're always so agreeable.”

She snorts an involuntary laugh. “Yeah, real picture of function over here.”

He hangs the last shirt and turns back fully to her. She takes in a sudden breath at the weight in his expression -- at the way his frown could break glass.

“They don't think I should publish tomorrow, but it's too late,” she blurts as if being interrogated. Anything to stop his face from looking like that. “It’s gonna happen sooner or later and I’m so damn tired of sitting on it like it’s a bomb ready to go. I’m good, you know? I just want it done.”

He sits on the mattress close enough that her knee slips over his lap and she sinks in toward him. He wraps one of her many loose, coily hairs around his finger quietly. “Something is bothering you, though.”

Her eyes feel misty. “I’m just tired.” And then, against her better judgement, she adds: “I had another memory relapse today.”

He freezes, like he tends to do when she talks about this, and it makes her feel worse but she can’t tell him that.

“It was fine,” she says quickly. “They aren’t happening as often.”

“This isn’t the one that prompted you to burn you hand.”

“No, that wasn’t---that was just me...zoning out…”

She thinks of Noah’s voice, booming in her thoughts, because hiding from it gives him -- it -- power, and thoughts are not reality. She thinks his name so intently she nearly says it. Luckily, she bites her tongue.

Because already she has said too much.

Connor leans in toward her until their foreheads touch. She expects him to kiss her, but he places his hands firmly around the small of her back as he pulls her into his lap, lips not quite touching. Her legs straddle him and her arms circle his neck, prompting the comforter to fall to the floor. She feels a strange heat from the vulnerability. But he holds her tightly against him and she welcomes the pressure.

His mouth is beside her ear. "I can't keep spending time away from you like this.”

“You have to.”

“You're more important.”

She pulls back to look at him. “More important than all of android life?”

His shoulders loosen. He buries his face in her neck and she cradles his head with one hand. He can't keep talking like this because she is tempted to agree. But he has to build a life outside her own. That is what she swore she would never let him give up.

There is so much he hasn't seen…

“It's okay, darling,” she says softly. “I'm not dying yet. I still got shit to do.”

“Like drive me insane,” he mutters.

She laughs. His grip tightens and her stomach flutters. “In a good way?”

He leans back just enough so that their foreheads meet again. She settles her gaze on his cheekbones as his eyes seek hers. “On occasion.”

Finally, finally, he sighs, like giving in to her orbit, and he kisses her until she can’t think about anything but him.

---

21:37 Lil.lion.lady74: we'll be over by 7

21:37 Lil.lion.lady74: love u

21:38 Lil.lion.lady74: im sorry. i hope one day you can forgive me.

It is 5:47 a.m. Ryker sits on the edge of the couch. They reread Emma's last texts. They reread and reread and reread, like they’re looking for some hidden meaning they keep missing. Maybe the words will summon her here to answer all the questions they can't seem to ask. Or maybe the words will fall inert to the ground.

They eye the small laptop on the coffee table for a long moment, afraid to open it. But then, they need to take their own advice: there is no use hiding from something that is true. Her story is out there. Everyone's eyes will turn her way. The gaze of the world will eat her up like a pest, leaving the plant dying and brown in its wake, and she thinks she'll be able to come out of this whole. But Ryker knows better than anyone what it means to believe that right up until it’s not true anymore.

So they grab the laptop and go out into their garden to sit in quiet as the first hints of a coming dawn paint the world in soft hues. It's a carefully planned operation, with the crutches and the laptop and managing both, but Ryker is a master of the front-pack, as Emma christened it. Moving from living room to kitchen only takes five more steps of organization than the usual android, rather than the....more....that it used to be. Before they learned how to maneuver on one leg.

They settle on their patio chair, the favored one with the daisy-patterned pillows that have somehow survived the Detroit elements. Emma got it for them, and they will take it with them wherever it is they end up going. Ryker. Alone.

No time to think about that now. They take a deep breath and smell the roses and the snapdragons, soon to wilt in the summer sun. They open the computer to see what damage has been done. Emma got them this laptop so they could watch their shows while sitting in the garden. She moved the WiFi router so they could stream things without issue.

She…

You're just a project to her. Something she can fix in a falling-down house. Except Ryker won't let any human fix them, not even Emma. Maybe life would be easier if they let her. They should do the correct android thing and repair their leg, but something still stops them, a fear like ice against their spine. But also an indignation; they shouldn't have to be anything except what they are. Isn’t that what freedom is about?

Do humans know what it is like, to have freedom dropped in your lap? Some must. Some must still wonder, somewhere, but they’re probably all here already, helping the Volunteer Corps. And one of them, Emma, their Emma, no longer their Emma, uses her freedom to throw herself on the pyre.

They open the Detroit Free Press site to the doe eyes of a three-year-old Emma -- curly auburn hair cropped to her ears, skin yellowy and wan, freckles constant. She stares at the camera utterly flabbergasted, like it had caught her doing something she shouldn't be. Her eyes almost glow.

A LIFE HAYWIRE:

Cyberlife inspired a decade of innovation. But that innovation was built on the back of a survivor of dangerous cybernetic experiments. Her name is Emma Ibori. She was age 3.

Their biocomponents click and squeeze. They've seen this picture before now, but only in momentary snippets. That was all that they could afford, unless they wanted to spend an afternoon in inexplicable tears. But now, as they confront the picture in its final print, the tears become extraordinarily explicable. Ryker will never know what it is like to be that small. Ryker will only understand what it is like to be that tiny and helpless from reading this story about it happening to this person that they love -- this person who somehow grew from that, like an oak from an acorn. They reach out to touch the screen and the picture zooms in slightly, making Ryker's vision blur.

They're too different. It's too much. How could they ever have thought that it could work, them being best of friends for as long as they both would live? Emma grows on and on and on and Ryker is just here, waiting in the garden for dawn.

Ryker loses track of time reading the story. Suddenly they hear the telltale creaking of their backdoor opening. 7:00 a.m. on the dot. Emma, harried and true, and Connor, frustratingly impeccable. They are followed by Chase in his duck pajamas and Messi in her long nightgown, both of them coming from Ryker's bedroom. The sight is jarring and lovely; a splash of unexpected color in a flower bed. And everyone is on time. Connor is good for something.

Emma stares at Ryker, with a fear not dissimilar from the picture on the tablet. "What's the damage?"

"It's..."

The words die on their tongue. Her face is pale except where it’s flushed red, her fingers subconsciously twining in anxious knots.

How are they going to do this right? Where do you go, once you leave an anchor behind in a world that won't stop changing?

"There’s no damage,” they lie. “Not yet.”

#detroit become human #connor x reader #dbh connor x reader #dbh connor x oc #dbh fic #connor rk800 #Dbh connor #dbh #a garden in detroit #to melt the gilded seams #established relationship #queerplatonic relationship

17 notes · View notes

lexiecarver · 6 years ago

Text

Bloodlust Pt.1- Vampire!Crowley

Pairing: Crowley x Reader :)

Word Count: 3,819

A/N: Sorry this part is so long. My muse just kept going. I did this for a ton of challenges. This was written for @spnfanficpond’s writing challenge with the prompt, “Not everybody is out to kill you.” “Says the guy who kidnapped me!” This was also written for Miami’s Gods and Monsters challenge, @moonlitskinwalker. Happy b-day hun, hope you like the story. The prompt was Vampire Crowley and “Here I was thinking you were just a pretty face.” This was also written for @supernaturalpromptchallenge with the prompt, curse. This was also written for @whispersandwhiskerburn’s Angels' 750 Follower Celebration Challenge with the prompt, “I’m all about the service darlin’.”- Sons of Anarchy. I bolded the prompts used. Angst and fluff with smut in part 2. Enjoy.:) Also on AO3 Part 2

Crowley closed his eyes against the screams. His previous victims haunted his mind. Their faces, their screams, their pleas for mercy. It was too much. Some days it’s harder than others. He really didn’t want to be a monster anymore but the bloodlust was so strong. He was craving blood every second of the day. His hands shook as he grabbed his coffee mug. He was weak without the blood but he refused to be a monster. One week sober from blood, he should get a medal. He could get by with just a taste here and there but the memories never left him. It would be so easy to just drain any of the women in the club, sink his teeth in and close his eyes as the memories, the pain, the knowledge of the evil he is all go away with the high. In those moments, nothing mattered as pleasure and power just coursed through his body. But he was tired of that life. Tired of hiding behind the blood. He wanted to be better, to show his mother that he didn’t deserve this curse. That he could be a man worthy of love for a woman. The only question was whether he fully believed it himself. He had spent hundreds of years of solitude never thinking he had anything to offer except death.

Your friends nearly pulled you through the doors of “Hell”. You’d never been to a strip club before and with a name like Hell you understandably felt a little hesitant. Not to mention that you were wearing a gorgeous black lace and silk dress. A bit too fashionable for a strip club. But you preferred to look your best no matter what. Clubwear wasn’t your cup of tea. Your friends figured since you were all single, you’d have some fun with hot guys as you watched them take their clothes off. You were more of a relationship kinda gal so it was awkward for you to objectify men like that. But you didn’t feel like having a philosophical discussion about men and relationship with your friends. What you wouldn’t do for friendship. All eyes were on you naturally. You stuck out like a sore thumb, your innocence obvious due to the blush on your face. You looked down at the floor as your friends picked a seat close to the stage. You ignored everyone’s eyes. Had you looked up, you would have seen a club full of hungry black eyes staring at you, warning you of the kinds of employees here. You groaned internally at being this close to the stage but put on a smile on for your friends.

The second that you entered the club Crowley’s eyes glowing red, the vampire curse flowing through him. Crowley was the first vampire ever in existence, turned by a curse, hence the red eyes. His employees, all whom he sired, had black eyes. Crowley sniffed the air and smelled you even from all the way over there. You smelled like freesia and beach. It was such a comforting, beautiful smell. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. He knew right then and there that you were meant for him. He had heard that vampire had mates but he was sure after all the things he’d done, he would never get one. Screams of his victims echoed in his head, the blood pumping through him. He could feel the hunger growing.

“Drink her like you did all of us. Let her make you feel better. It’s been a week but you can’t stay away. Feed on her. Kill her.”

The voices were merciless today. He growled loudly as he fought to gain control over himself. He hoped that you would be the one to save him from this hell.

His bestie Dean knocked on his office door. Crowley ushered him in. Dean looked at his master. He looked wrecked and tired and his eyes were still glowing red.

“Are you okay, boss? I heard you growl from backstage and wanted to check.”

“Such a good friend Dean. I- I’m having a bad day.”

Dean knew exactly what Crowley meant. He offered his arm to him but Crowley waved him off. Smiling back at him fondly. Crowley grabbed his hand.

“I’ll be fine, Dean. I’m several hundred years old. One bad day is not going to get me down. I just think I found my mate in this club. She brought on the bloodlust. I’ll be fine, trust me.”

Dean looked unsure but nodded and left the boss to his thoughts.

The second Dean left, Crowley’s attention turned to you. His eyes looked you up and down groaning when he saw how the dress hugged all your curves deliciously. His tongue darted out as he licked his lips. He inched out of his office not wanting to be too obvious. He moved off to the side of the stage across from you with two tables between you. A waitress immediately came over to him, curtseying. He ordered Craig and within a minute the waitress gave him his drink. His eyes never left yours. He took in your blush, your discomfort at being here, the warm smile that lit your face and your sparkling eyes. He closed his eyes and replaced the haunting memories with those of you smiling. He imagined it was because of him. Slowly he opened his eyes looking at the stage.

“Welcome to Hell, ladies. My name is Brady, I do hope you stay awhile. We have the finest examples of men you have ever seen but careful, they do bite though not hard. For your viewing pleasure, I’d like to introduce you to the famous Winchester brothers, Dean and Sam. Enjoy.”

Your mouth hung open when you saw them come out. They were beyond gorgeous and their eyes were black, black as sin itself. That had to be an effect of the lights right? Dean was eye fucking you as he rode up and down the pole. He tore off his shirt and you sighed. Sam did the same thing and you gripped the chair. Both brothers had six packs and deliciously prominent muscles. Imagine the power in their arms. The power their thrusts would deliver. Fuck. OK, so you started to see the appeal of strip clubs. Their smiles got hungrier as they stared at you and your friends. Dean winked at you and Sam gave you such an intense look, you thought he’d throw you against the wall and fuck you right then and there. You were like a deer in the headlights. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away. You gulped loudly still clutching the table in front of you. It was all too much. Weren’t they just supposed to dance? And not eye fuck you? Your friends encouraged them and started screaming and asking them to come over. You had a bad feeling with the looks you were getting.

Crowley was not happy with the way his boys were looking at you. He saw Dean smell the air. He was smelling you. You were Crowley’s, not Dean’s. He should have told Dean you were his when he showed up in his office but Crowley never thought he’d like you, too. Dean was dangerous, he had no self-control even in all the years Crowley had tried to teach him it. Dean was all impulse. He might very well kill you trying to turn you and Sam was no better. He could smell your fear. You were a smart girl to be afraid. He also smelled your arousal, which he was none too happy about. He would have to protect you from them and this world. But you were normal, human. You knew nothing about monsters. You blushed coming in here. He had to tread carefully with you. He wasn’t losing his only chance at a normal life, at love because he went too fast. He would prove his mother wrong with how much he could love you and maybe she would turn him back and he could love you properly and if not, then he would cherish eternity with you. A part of him knew that everything he touched, everything he did, turned into something horrible and it would be better to erase your memory and send you off … but he couldn’t do that. He needed you even if it damned you both.

The second Dean and Sam were finished with their number they leapt off the stage to your table. Dean’s eyes bored down on you with Sam at his side smirking.

“Look at the scared little mouse. Don’t worry honey I won’t harm you. Come in the back and I’ll give you a private dance. I’m all about the service, darlin’.”

His warm breath ghosted on your chest as he lowered his face to yours, his arms on the back of the chair. Crowley came up to you both flashing red eyes and instantly Dean backed off choosing your friend instead.

“That woman is my mate!”

Dean and Sam’s eyes went wide. Dean looked down and gulped. Sam stared at you.

“Forgive me sir. I didn’t know,” Dean said telepathically.

“Now you do,” Crowley growled.

Dean and Sam bowed their heads respectfully to Crowley. Your friends were all too happy to go in the back with Sam and Dean. Everyone loved the Winchesters except you. There was something off about them, about this whole place. Your friends were beyond excited, willingly accompanying the boys through the velvet ropes. You tried to tell them you were concerned but they were hearing none of it. Dean was disappointed he wouldn’t get to taste you but he knew better than to get in bad with the boss. Mates were rare, He was happy his boss finally found his even if he really wished you could be his. Dean walked off holding your bestie’s hand.

“Don’t you dare kill them, Dean. Drink them a little, tease them, sure, but don’t kill them like last night. Make sure you bring them home none the wiser. I’m serious, Dean!”

Dean was planning to have a little more fun than just a quick bite and a tease.

“I’m your sire. You will obey me, boy.”

Dean’s eyes flashed black with anger at being spoken to in this way.

“Fine,” he grumbled

Now that he knew your friends would be safe, his attention turned back to you. Surprisingly he saw you bolt out of the chair and glare at him. You kept a fighting stance unsure of what was going on here but ready for a fight.

“I have no idea what kind of club this is but I’m done. I’m waiting for my friends in the coffee shop across the street. And I didn’t need saving. I wasn’t going anywhere with that man. I could have taken him.”

Crowley’s eyebrows went up. The scared dove was actually a firecracker. He smiled at you sizing you up.

“I see. Well, as the owner of Hell. I do humbly apologize for anything my boys did. They can be quite intense but I assure you, you are quite safe to wait here. I will personally make sure that no one bothers you, honey.”

“Y/N.”

“Excuse me, dear?”

“My name. You can call me that as opposed to honey. You have to earn that term.”

Crowley smirked back at you.

“Crowley.”

“Well, Crowley, thank you for the apology but I don’t know you and I have no idea whether I’m safer with you or outside in a café. What do you think? Well, lit-café or seedy club?”

“My club is not seedy.”

“Aren’t all strip clubs seedy?”

“It’s late, dear, and it’s dark. Let me walk you over to the -.”

“I like you, Crowley. I really do. If we’d met somewhere else aside from here I’d be all over you. Older, suave, sassy, protective. You’re catnip to me. Totally my type but if you’ll excuse me, I really do need caffeine, so -.”

Crowley froze. You admitted liking him but didn’t like his occupation. He was a vampire, not really a club owner. This was all just a cover. Would that change anything? He didn’t really want to let you go. He had a lot of enemies and it was late. To get across the street, you’d have to walk in the alleyway. A lot of things happened in that alleyway but if he said no now, he would seem like a major creep. And you would be afraid of him or fight him. He would lose you for sure. But you may get attacked if he let you go. Swallowing he looked into your eyes seeing the same steely determination he usually had. He stepped back reluctantly and let you leave.

“Watch her. Stay by her, that’s an order”, he telepathically told his vampire bouncers. They nodded.

“I could walk with you,” he pleaded from behind you.

You smiled before turning around. “Insistent, aren’t you? I’ll see you soon enough when I pick up my friends. And I think an establishment needs the owner present during business hours. Don’t cha think?”

He smiled at your sassiness. He loved your fierceness and your ability to sass him every minute. You were catnip to him. You pulled up the collar on your coat, the wind whipping your hair. You walked fast not liking the alleyway, not liking the whole night really except for Crowley. You were brought here by your friends and they ditched you for men. “Great girls’ night out, “ you muttered under your breath. You felt eyes on you but ignored it, nearly running to the crosswalk but you didn’t make it. A figure emerged from the shadows waving his hand and pinning you to the wall.

“Well. Well, what do we have here?”

Lucifer smelled your neck before licking it and then cautiously biting you. You screamed trying desperately to move. One of the bouncers was held back by Lucifer, the other exploded with a snap of his fingers. This was exactly what Crowley was afraid of. Lucifer’s eyes turned red with bloodlust as he started back at you.

“And here I was thinking it would be a boring night. No wonder Crowley nearly begged you to let him escort you. You smell delicious and look fantastic. I can’t wait to feel you. You will make a gorgeous little trophy wife.”

In a blink of an eye, he cut his wrist and forced it against your lips. His eyes glowed as his influence took over forcing you to drink. You tried harder to move. Crowley dove down from the rooftops falling on Lucifer. The hold he had on you faltered.

“Ouch. That hurt. You’ve come to save your mate. How cute but your weak, old man. You haven’t feed in a week. You really think you can defeat me? With what steely determination? How chilling!”

Crowley growled fiercely. His eyes glowing red and his fangs descended. Your breathing was slower, you felt dizzy and slowly lifted your hand to your neck noticing blood on it. You wiped your lips and saw more blood, his blood. You tried to throw it all up but nothing came out. You started to panic. Crowley knew he needed to get you to safety and now. Lucifer pushed him off.

“You’re always taking all the good things for yourself. You have the club and such a clever little way to get blood and what do I have? I have to survive on scraps? No, I don’t think so. This one’s mine. Oh, spoiler alert, she already drank my blood. Whoops.”

Lucifer laughed maniacally as he looked at Crowley’s tortured face. Your vision was getting spotty but you saw them both with red eyes. You looked back at your hand; your head was bobbing from side to side. Your eyes suddenly becoming very heavy. Crowley mind-melded with Dean who instantly saw what was happening. He lifted his head from your friend’s neck putting everyone to sleep and locking the door. He grabbed Sam and they ran out of the club. Crowley was out of practice fighting or rather he didn’t wish to access that part of himself. That darkness was difficult to shut down if he opened it. He tried his best but Lucifer was gaining the upper-hand until Dean came up behind him and jammed a wooden stake in his heart.

“You should really pay attention to your surroundings, Lucifer, and less on winning,” Dean said as he twisted the stake in Lucifer’s heart.

Lucifer whirled around in a fury ready to kill Dean when he suddenly crumbled bit by bit screaming, leaving only ashes in his place. You were finding it hard to breathe, not really sure what you were seeing. Sam ran over to you holding your head up and looked into your eyes. His eyes held only concern for you and no malice or lust as before. He gently placed you against the wall looking down at your neck. He looked back at Crowley who ran over. Sam held your neck up while Crowley licked the wound sucking out some of Lucifer’s claim on you. The wound closed and you collapsed in their arms. Sam carefully placed you in Crowley’s arms.

“Thank you both.”

“Anytime, Crowley.” Sam offered.

“You care for her, don’t you.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything. He just looks down at you smiling.

“It’s about time, Crowley, “ Dean says smirking as he and Sam go back into the club.

“We’ll take her friends back. Have a good night, boss,“ Sam added.

Crowley kisses your forehead as he teleports back to his mansion, carefully placing you on the bed. He didn’t want any of this. This was why he should have just left you alone but he couldn’t. You were hurt because of him. What was he going to say when you woke up? And would you see the man behind the monster?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

You groaned feeling very soft sheets under you. Your arms shot out and you stretched, arching your back. Slowly you opened your eyes and were met with the worried eyes of Crowley. You were confused about how you got here and then you remembered the attack. He wasn’t human and now you were in his lair. Crowley felt your fear and sighed deeply.

“Not everybody is out to kill you.”

“Says the guy who kidnapped me!”

“You would have preferred that I left you there in the alleyway?”

“You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

“Here I was thinking you were just a pretty face.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Let’s cut the bs here. You, Dean and Sam, are all vampires and you saved me from another one.”

“Yes, actually I told you not to go but you had to have your cup of coffee.”

“How male of you. Blaming the woman for getting attacked. How about you for making such messed up enemies. What kind of person knows someone like that? And why didn’t you say -.”

“I’m a vampire who is completely in love with you at first sight and I want to keep you safe, so stop being stubborn. My enemy is outside so stay here and be my mate.”

You blinked back at him.

“Yeah, I don’t think that would have worked.”

“You’re in love with me?”

“You’re my mate. I am positive about that. You smell like heaven to me. I know it’s a lot to take in. Vampires exist and we have mates. Want me to prove it to you?”

“Can you?”

“Yes, I can.

You moved closer to the headboard groaning a bit. Crowley was at your side in a second holding you down.

“Lucifer is very powerful and I’m afraid he bonded with you before I could stop him. I couldn’t fully sever the bond. Your body needs rest. Don’t move one bit. I will take care of you. May I touch you?”

You were taken back by his question. He had saved your life after all and now he was asking if it was okay to touch you? You were still frightened by what vampires were capable of. You saw Lucifer blow someone up before your very eyes. And to think you were bonded to him now. You wanted more than anything to be at home and for all of this to be just a bad dream. But it wasn’t and Crowley saved you. You felt safe with him even if he was a vampire. He smiled down at you as he gingerly took your hand in his. His touch was so gentle, you sighed at the feeling of his flesh on yours. Crowley closed his eyes and spoke to you in his mind.

“You are my true mate, you will be able to see the things I’ve done but I caution you, I’ve done bad things. I have been a monster but I hope maybe I don’t have to be anymore. I want to change and become a better man. I want you to know who I am.”

You gulped when you looked into his eyes seeing such love there. You closed your eyes as you suddenly saw everything that he had done. You saw his victims and his own mother cursing him. He wasn’t lying when he said he was a monster. You felt his loneliness and pain. You felt his struggle with his bloodlust. Then you saw today from his eyes, felt his feeling for you, felt his connection to you and you knew you were really safe. You squeezed his hand and gestured to the bed. Crowley walked around the bed, careful to not come too close. You moved over a tad to give him more room, groaning again. His eyes flashed red before turning to you.

“The only real way to sever the bond is -.”

“To mate with me?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Crowley smiled back at you and shook his head.

“There is nothing I want more than to claim you and keep you safe but you need to be sure. There is no going back after this. I don’t think you can make a decision that will affect the rest of your life in two hours. Rest here. I will come back in the morning and if you still want to mate with me then, I will do so.”

You smiled back at him.

“How gentlemanly of you.”

He kissed the back of your head and teleported to the vampire council meeting. He felt you fall asleep and knew that you were safe there. His bodyguards and the warding wouldn’t let anyone in to cause you any harm. He sat on his throne as the vampires told him the issues of the day.

#crowley #vampire!crowley #crowley au #crowley fanfic #crowley fanfiction #crowley x reader

1 note · View note

authoressskr · 7 years ago

Text

Engaged in Frivolity

Written for: @mamaredd123 Mama’s 100 Quotes of Supernatural Challenge

Pairing: Gabriel x Reader

Characters: Reader (Hey, that’s you!), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Gabriel, Balthazar, Mary Winchester (mentioned), Memphis (OFC), Holly (OFC), Mera (OFC)

Quote: “You look like you got attacked by some PCP crazed strippers.” (Bolded below in text)

Warnings: Language, Drinking, Idk…maybe subpar writing and no beta.

Summary: When you get some down time, Gabriel and Balthazar know just how to fill it.

Tagging: @mamaredd123 @lyndsay88 @sdavid09 @thewhiterabbit42

*No posting on other platforms without my permission*

“Come on! Dancing, drinking, mischief - what more could a human want for the autumn equinox? All on a Friday, which will surely lead well into Saturday and/or Sunday. It’s very hard to keep track of time when one is -”

“Hammered?” You supply, putting the book on mass hauntings back on the shelf as you shoot Balthazar a look.

“Engaged in frivolity.”

“Oooh. Frivolity.” Dean mocks as he pushes away from the library table. “I don’t think you should be taking her to a giant party where everyone will mistake her for an entrée.” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up at his brother’s words, but then he gives a little half shrug and nod combo that strengthens your resolve not to go.

On the other hand…

“Oh pluu-ease! Like me and Balthy would let anything happen to our favorite human.” Gabriel held up his forefinger. “Also, Balthazar invited you goons simply to be nice. We don’t want to see you dancing or carousing around with beautiful nymphs, goddesses, demi-gods, spirits - let alone embarrassing me.”

“Us embarrass you?” You snicker at Dean’s words before the thought of super-drunk Dean attempting to shuffle out a dance is suddenly filling your head. You had only seen him do dramatic hand gestures while driving Baby so you weren’t too clear on his actual abilities, but seeing how adamant he was about not dancing - dude was practically the preacher from Footloose - the image just got funnier until you had to clamp a hand over your mouth to stop the unruly giggles. Gabriel just quirks an eyebrow at you before looking at Balthazar with a smirk. They’d promised long ago not to snoop on your thoughts.

You quickly project the image to the angels, watching carefully as Cas’s forehead wrinkled at the awkward dance number you’d conjured up. Dean glares at you and you turn quickly back towards the bookcase, shelving another book on necromancy.

“All I’m saying is it seems like I know how this is gonna pan out. Kinda like Indiana?” Dean brings up the last time they were surrounded by pagan gods, gesturing wide with both his hands and his own raised eyebrows.

“One, Lucifer isn’t hunting you two down. Two, none of the gods - except Kali - survived that night. So no one knows I’m me. And Kali isn’t a party person.”

“Unless it’s in an underground cave over a fiery pit with some glowing stones.” You offer, moving to stand beside Dean who raises his hand for a high five.

“A plus Indy reference.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Gabriel rolls his eyes at the exchange between you two as Balthazar rises from the wingback chair by the liquor cart to stand beside the archangel.

“As I was saying… three, equinoxes and other pagan celebratory dates are usually no-kill instances. The gods eat beforehand and then we party for a few days then, ya know, everything goes back to normal.”

“And we’d be there to watch over her.” Balthazar assures the room, flashing you a big smile.

“Think of it as an autumn weekend in Las Vegas. Except no gambling. Just music, booze, all you can eat desserts, dancing and an occasional wild animal running through the festivities.” Dean’s mouth downturns and he nods, like this has happened to him before and you stare at him bewildered and curious.

“What the hell do you do in Vegas?” Dean chuckles and is about to answer when Sam shakes his shaggy head and assures you that you do not want to know. You turn to Gabriel, who is giving you his version of puppy eyes, goldenrod orbs wide and beckoning. Shit.

“Not the eyes, Gabe.” You sigh out, a small smile worming itself onto your face.

“YES!” He shouts triumphantly. “Don’t worry, sweetness. This is going to be fantastic!”

“No. No. Noooo. No. NO.” Dean turns, taking your shoulders in his grip, meeting your gaze. “Come on, you don’t gotta do this. Don’t succumb to peer pressure.” When you just keep smiling at him he drops his hands, huffing out an irritated breath. “Fine. But we aren’t going to have fun. Me and Sam and Cas are going to watch out for Y/N.”

“Okay.” Gabriel replies brightly.

“Dress to move.” Balthazar orders before gently pushing you towards the archway, his eyes dancing with excitement already.

Ten minutes later, you’re dressed in your best skinny jeans, a loose fitting silky black tank and your trusty old vans, maroon hoodie in hand.

“Is this okay?”

“Isn’t that what you were just wearing?” Cas asks as Dean looks you up and down.

“No.” You look at Gabriel. “Does it look like what I just had on?” Gabe shrugs.

“Looks like you just changed your top, cupcake.”

“Well how am I supposed to know how to dress for an equinox celebration?” Balthazar chuckles at your tone.

“We’ll just let the nymphs, naiads and such dress her once we get there.”

“I still want clothes, Balthazar.”

“And you shall have them, darling.”

“Alrighty!” Gabriel rubs his hands together once Sam returns, his whole face alight. “Does everyone have their exit buddies?!” Balthazar appears beside you, wrapping an arm tightly around your waist. “No fair! She was my exit buddy.”

“Guess you are stuck with Samantha.”

“Boys.” You warn. “Are we going or not?”

When the tug by your belly button and a sharp sense of momentary motion sickness passed, you were on the edge of a huge clearing with towering evergreen trees acting as sentinel guards for the celebration.

“Loki!” A handful of women and men shouted merrily, rushing forward.

“Hiya! Now, sugar cube, this is Memphis. She’ll help dress you more appropriately.” He motions a beautiful woman forward with the most gorgeous black tight black curls, so black it was blue in the starlight.

“Bitchin’ name. Is that because you are the naiad of the river Memphis?”

“Ooh, our dear Trickster has found a smart one. Come on.” Her bright white smile was so welcoming and when she held her hand out, you took it with little hesitation. “See you in a few!”

Memphis led you across the clearing, her mahogany skin - you swear to whatever gods are in the clearing - is giving off this soft glow that you can’t help but be draw to. You fully understood the lure of naiads, nymphs and others now. You would gladly camp out by her river to hope to catch a glimpse again. She stopped abruptly in front of a white and blue fabric tent, pulling a white panel back.

“Go ahead.” She encourages you with a nod, letting you ease into the tent. “Loki didn’t mention your name.” She utters as she heads to the far side of the brightly lit tent, shooting you a reassuring smile.

“It’s Y/N.” You answer, looking at the scraps - emphasis on scraps - of fabric she was picking up and examining on a long table. A loud bout of giggles erupted from behind an opaque blue panel before a tiny woman stepped into the main room, her bright peridot eyes taking you in as if you were the most interesting thing she’d encountered in the last century or so.

“Y/N, this is Holly. She’s a Gaelic pixie. Y/N is Loki’s wife.”

“Oh, no - uh, Loki and I - uh, we aren’t married.” Memphis looks from the tiny yellow band of fabric to you.

“She just assumed cause you smell like him and you are wearing his favors.” The petite brunette points to the bracelet and then to the necklace you wore. “So, the dark haired one in the coat? He single?” Her accent is soft and alluring as she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes. And awkward.”

“Just how I like ‘em! Ooh, darlin’ I like you. So, Memp, what are we doin’ to her?”

“Dressing her more for the festivities.”

“I love me a sexy makeover! I’ll help.” Memphis rolls her sand colored eyes good-naturedly before holding up a soft pink halter top that looked like something from a pirate film. “Look at her face! Dontcha wear pink out there, with the other humans?” You shake your head no before shuffling from one foot to the other nervously.

“And I’d like it to cover my stomach.” Both women stop to stare at you, perplexed.

“All women’s shapes and sizes, colors and creeds are beautiful.” Memphis’s words feel like a soft spoken battle cry.

“I know. I know! And I totally am all for that. But, uh…”

“She’s self-conscious, not lookin’ fer a lecture.”

“No, no! It’s fine! Just wanted to give you a basis, ya know?”

“We will cover where you have asked but other areas must now compensate for that.” Memphis’s smooth voice is full of promise and you realize it’s like bargaining with Gabe. Damnit. A look at Holly tells you how much trouble you’re in when she holds up a dark green tank top with a pair of black stretchy shorts with golden thread. So screwed. So very, very screwed.

—

Dean is watching the tent like a hawk, nodding at Sam’s ramblings but not paying attention. Which they both know.

“We’re so boned. Uber-boned.” Gabriel mutters to Balthazar as a gaggle of women approach. Dean’s head snaps to the group, Sam stopping mid-sentence to watch.

They part, revealing Memphis and Holly, who step forward with giant, knowing smiles plastered on their gorgeous faces. The paused a second, relishing the wait before stepping to the side to reveal Y/N.

All five men’s jaws dropped.

The dark green tank scooped low to reveal a healthy amount of décolletage, while the black short shorts revealed her smooth, long legs. Her hair is decorated with purple myrtle flowers and baby’s breath woven throughout and she is smiling nervously at the ground. When her eyes did flicker up, darting from Dean to Sam to Cas, finally pausing on Balthazar before meeting Gabriel’s gaze.

“So, uh, what do we do now?” Y/N asks brightly, before Memphis leans forward to whisper something then glides away towards a small group of dancers.

“Drink!” Holly shout triumphantly, dragging her towards a few giant wine barrels while the men all still stared.

“You can keep repeating ‘She’s a little sister to me’ all you want, Sam. Isn’t going to change much.” Balthazar teases, taking a healthy sip from his whiskey.

“Don’t read my mind.” Sam hisses, his cheeks a faint pink.

“You’re projecting.” Cas replies easily, moving from their group to join Y/N, Balthazar right behind him.

“What’re we drinking ladies?” Balthazar questions, a bright mischievous smile spread out on his face.

—

Four hours, two cups of mead and half a dozen jello shots later, you are feeling awesome. Whoever organized this knew their music, weaving lilting tunes that fireflies bobbed in time with to Journey to EDM then back to those intoxicating songs of old.

Memphis, Holly, and an apsaras (A Cambodian dance nymph) named Mera all guided you around the open space, dancing as you all saw fit, following whichever beat called to you. You knew the boys were still around, they stopped you ever so often to make sure you nibbled at something or drank some water - okay that was mostly Sam and Cas - but you didn’t want to stop dancing. So, you would worm your way out of wherever they happened to be sat - table, mound of cushions, giant plush couch - and rejoin the dancing group, relishing in the feeling of letting go.

The world of hunting was draining. Find monster, stop it from killing more people, kill monster, repeat. Very little down time, long days and nights of research, travel, crap motel rooms, and crap food.

But tonight, oh tonight, you could be free. At least for a little while. To dance and drink and eat, watching the tree tops sway along gently when a softer song echoed out and then blur as a faster song came on, letting the nymphs and deities twirl you around.

No matter where you went though, you could always feel them.

Those honey colored eyes that chased you around also provided you with the safety you only felt in his presence.

You shook your head to clear any of those thought away. Gabriel was Gabriel. And you were human; small, temporary, boring. But now wasn’t the time to think about that! Now was the time to shake, roll, shimmy, sway, twirl and leap away all the burdens you had been carrying around since you were 19 years old.

Holly cupped your face in her hands, almost sensing your overthinking, rubbing her nose against your own before releasing you with a loud drunken giggle and flitting off towards a tall blonde man who was wearing a blue sparkly speedo.

It was nearly an hour later before your legs were screaming for a break that you stumbled over to where Gabriel was lounging in the middle of an array of dark red plush cushions, Cas sat beside him at a little table lining up shots to outdo Balthazar.

“She returns!” Balthazar calls out merrily before you ease yourself down onto a pillow between the three angels. Your grin is wide before you look over your shoulder to Gabriel.

“What do you have?” Gabriel moves the cup from your reach.

“No, no, no, no, no, little cumquat. This isn’t for you. You’re proving to be a lightweight.” Gabriel tuts at you before taking a sip and moving it once again from your reach.

“You said I could have a good time. That should mean you share. And I’m not a lightweight, I am pacing myself!” Balthazar snickers behind you as he finishes his line of shots.

“Y/N does not have the alcohol tolerance that Dean does. Do not give her -” But you had launched yourself at Gabriel, straddling his chest in order to reach the cup he held aloft.

“Sugar.” Gabriel growled, the feeling reverberating through your thighs and core as the sweet liquid passed over your lips. The world shifted inhumanly fast, you blinked and suddenly you were sitting where Gabriel had just been with him kneeling beside you, his fingertips digging slightly into your left thigh. His touch lightened, just resting there against your skin. His free hand snapped fingers before your eyes, yanking you from the nice floaty place you were descending into.

“Huh?”

“I said, that was made to waste gods. Your pretty little mortal self isn’t made for it, cupcake.”

“Humm. But I feel reaaaally nice now.” You move to rise, but your limbs aren’t quite cooperating now. Balthazar snorts into his drink, trying to hide his laughter as Cas leans over to place two fingers against your forehead to heal you. The foggy, floating feeling disappears and you’re both relieved and upset. Dean is suddenly in your bubble, his handsome face so close to your own.

“Are you alright? Is she alright?” His hand is on the back of your neck, tilting it back so he can look in your eyes.

“She’s fine. She was warned not to drink from my cup, but she did it anyways. Toasted her in a handful of milliseconds.” Gabriel knocks Dean’s hands away, helping you up before swatting your ass playfully. “Get back out there!” You stick your tongue out but turn and run into Memphis’s arms, letting her draw you back into the ever-growing dance group.

—

By the early morning hours, the rising sun filtering through the dense trees surrounding the clearing, Gabriel’s favorite human was so beyond drunk it wasn’t funny. Well that wasn’t exactly true, he thought it was hilarious. Dean and Sam were sitting slumped slightly at the table Cas and Balthazar had occupied earlier when Y/N came bouncing up, looking good enough to eat. Her eyes were glassy and her smile was easy, with something just behind it he couldn’t place immediately. She tossed her sexy, scantily clad body down face-first onto the pile of cushions, before propping herself up on her elbows, looking up at the Winchesters.

“Tired?” She sighed the question, before rolling onto her back and letting her eyes flutter closed, one hand flung up by her head, fingertips brushing against his knee.

“Yes, I need my four hours.” Dean muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. Sam nodded his agreement, before smiling down at your relaxed form.

“Mmmhmm. I’m sure that Cas or Balthazar would drop you back at the bunker.”

“We aren’t leaving you.”

“Loki and Balthazar, maybe Cas if Holly has her way, will be here to watch after me.”

“Breakfast!” Mera calls, appearing beside you to drag you up from the cushy resting place and over to a massive dark wood table laden with every sort of breakfast food anyone could imagine. Gabriel looked from where Mera dragged you to Dean and Sam, Cas appearing beside him.

“Your mother has found a pair of poltergeists a few towns over. She asked if you would help.” Dean reluctantly nods, rising in tandem with his brother. “Ga-Loki and Balthazar are more than capable of watching over Y/N.” Dean pulls a face before pointing at Gabe.

“If anything happens to her -”

“She’s my favorite human. I’m not going to let anything happen to her, you asshat.” He sassed, rolling his eyes as Cas clapped a hand onto each brother’s shoulder and disappeared.

“Thank whoever that they’re gone. They were really killing the mood.”

“That seems to be a Winchester superpower.” He watches as you sit cross-legged on the pillow, popping a grape into your mouth as one of the Sumerian demi-goddesses add a few small braids to your hair, entwining more purple myrtle flowers into the strands.

“I’m more than a little surprised you didn’t smite Sam or Dean with all those projected thoughts.”

If they would have made a move, I would have. Balthazar nods at his brother’s words.

You should just tell her.

Tell her what?

Really, Gabriel? That you want to screw her over any available surface. Give her more expensive gifts. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear. Preferably while thrusting into her as hard as her little human body can handle. Gabriel didn’t answer, but shot his little brother a scathing look before Y/N joined them.

“Nap?” She asked with a sleepy smile, her eyes clearer but tired.

“Come to my parlor.” Balthazar quoted, gesturing at the small dark green tent a few dozen feet away. Y/N padded after Balthazar, Gabriel’s hand a whispered touch at her back. She stretched tall and let out a heavy sigh, seeing the plush mattress on the floor with silky gray sheets, missing the deep breath that Gabriel sucked in.

“Go ahead, sweet pea.” Gabriel watched as she dragged herself to the left side of the bed, pulling the covers back before slipping under. A little contented moan left her lips before she closed her eyes and smiled wide at the two of them.

“You know,” She yawned and shuffled down more in the bed, “They all think I’m your girlfriend. Or wife. Some things get lost in translation. One of the sprites told me these,” She waves her left arm, the gold bracelet he’d given her nearly seven months ago sliding up and down her wrist as she yawns again. “Are like a declaration. Is that -” Another yawn. “Is that why you said I should wear them often? So you could keep track and no one would hurt me?” She hasn’t opened her eyes this entire time, sleep tugging harder at her subconscious.

“Yeah, sweetness, it’s to keep you as safe as possible.”

“Mmmm. So pretty.” Neither angel knows what she’s saying is so pretty, but it’s the last words she gets out before sleep consumes her.

—

By the time Sam, Dean, Mary and Cas finish with the poltergiests - Jesus, that took forever - and return to the Bunker, Dean is sleepy, bruised and on-edge. Y/N had texted nearly seven hours before, saying she’d woken up and she hoped the hunt was going well and a “No need to worry, Mom. I’m having fun at camp.” All three hunters showered and ate, Mary heading off to bed while Sam sat with his laptop in front of him while Dean nursed his second beer and waited like the overprotective dad of a teenager. Cas joined them a few hours later, informing the brothers that they should be prepared to wait. Gabriel and Balthazar were in no hurry now that Y/N was enjoying herself.

Sunday passed with a few texts from Y/N, none of which mentioned what time she’d be coming home, which just frustrated Dean further, sending the elder Winchester brother to the gun range a couple times that day.

Monday, three am.

That’s when Balthazar and Gabriel appeared, each with an arm around Y/N.

”You look like you got attacked by some PCP crazed strippers.” Dean snorted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips minutely. Y/N pulled her arm from around Balthazar’s shoulder, a big, bright, drunken smile plastered on her face.

“Dean! Dean! Sam! Cassiiiiie! Happy Autumn!” She leaned more into Gabriel as she wobbles slightly. “I celebrated the equinox! Hard. Like, real hard. We switched from the pretty flowers to leaves!” She gestured to her hair, the red and orange leaves mixed into the yellow-green ivy tangled in her hair. “You missed - Gabriel, he got me some apple mead - it was delirious.”

“Delicious.” Sam corrected, chuckling at the carefree air around her.

“That’s what I said, Sam. And then they body painted me in red and gold, but Holly said I needed more colors. So then we were,” She starts giggling uncontrollably. “We were - uhh, we were throwing the paint powder stuff at each other like it was Holi!”

“Like what was holy?” Dean asks, looking at the grinning angels for help.

“Not holy!” She waved her free hand at Balthazar first then Gabriel. “Holi, with an I. The Hindu spring festival of colors and love?” She looked at Gabriel, her little eye roll at Dean forgotten, pulling her arm away from him, reaching for something just behind his shoulder. “They’re so pretty. Always want to tell you. Almost match my bracelet and gold body dust - uh powder. Paint. Stuff.” Gabriel had time to tilt his head before her fingers slipped into his feathers, before she mumbled “So pretty” once more before slumping forward into his arms, her hand sliding down the rest of his plumage.

“Holy shit.” Balthazar breaths out, looking at the passed out girl wrapped tightly in Gabriel’s arms. “Your fake wife is your mate.” Gabriel just grins, adjusting Y/N so he held her bridal style, before heading for her bedroom at a leisurely pace, whistling lightly.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Dean hollers after the archangel before exchanging a look with Sam.

“That’s a pretty short list, Dean.”

“Shut up.”

—

Gabriel settled you into bed, snapping to clean you up and change you into pajamas before tucking the blankets in.

“Don’t go.” Y/N whispered, freeing her arm from the covers to grasp his forearm.

“Oh ho. You aren’t getting rid of me now, sweet cheeks.” He shrugged off his jacket, toed off his shoes and slipped into bed. She slid closer, moving her head to rest on his chest while his arm wrapped around her tightly. Gabriel sighed contentedly before dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

“Good. I am, after all, your fake wife and mate.”

“We’ll talk about it when your sober.” Gabriel chuckles.

“Gabe?”

“Yeah?”

“When’s the next equinox?”

The four men in the Bunker could hear Gabriel’s laughter echoing down the hallway.

#mamaredd123 #mama's 100 quotes challenge #Gabriel x reader #Gabriel x you #archangel x reader #the archangel gabriel #reader insert #Supernatural #spn #spn fanfiction #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #castiel #balthazar #mary winchester #authoressskr writes

218 notes · View notes

a-colourful-stranger · 7 years ago

Text

day 7: merry christmas, darling

> summary: steve looks back on the best christmas he has ever had, and wishes more than anything to relive it. > ship: stucky > words: 3257 > song: merry christmas, darling by lea michele

Christmas music fades quietly as he steps into a room far away from the party still bustling. He shuts the door with a click and lets out a sigh before he finds a small loveseat to sit on. He’s nursing a bottle of beer that Sam handed to him a couple hours ago. He took a swig of the now warm alcohol and set it down on the table beside him.

The room he found is an office, he thinks, and it must be Pepper’s. There isn’t enough technology to be Tony’s. He hopes Pepper doesn’t mind him seeking refuge from the activity. Beside the loveseat and table, is a medium sized Christmas tree with white lights. He can smell the hint of cedar and knows that he must be a real tree. He didn’t know people still used those.

Steve sighs and leaned his head back against the plush cushion of the couch. Just as he closes his eyes, the door opens and the music filters into the room. “What are you doing in here?”

“Sitting,” he says. “It was too loud out there.”

“You’re telling me,” the door shuts and then Steve feels the loveseat shift beside him. “Tony is wearing a Santa costume and he is pointing to people telling them they’re his reindeer.”

“Which one are you?” Steve cracks open an eye and looks at Natasha. She looks tired, just like him, but an amused smile is playing on her lips. “Comet or Cupid?”

“Blitzen, actually,” she smirks. “You’re lucky you aren’t out there. Tony would call you Rudolph.”

“Why?”

“Little scrawny guy that turns out to be everyone’s hero,” says Natasha and she rests her head on his shoulder. They fell into a comfortable silence. Steve reaches and put his arm around her shoulders. Her presence is a comfortable one. She shifts, “Why are you in here, Steve?”

He swallows heavily, “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said. Why are you in here?” she lifts her head up and forces him to look at her. “I thought you loved Christmas.”

“I did. I do,” Steve wets his lips. “It’s a-a good holiday.”

“Steve,” Natasha sounds like a mother scolding her child. “What is going on? Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Liar,” Natasha punches his chest lightly but then she freezes and her eyes widen. “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

He sighs, “Nat, it’s fine.”

“You’re missing him,” her words are dripping with pity. “It’s normal, Steve, to miss him. You thought he was dead. And now… He isn’t. I get it. But I think it would help if you distracted yourself. Distractions help.”

“I couldn’t be around everyone right now,” he tells her and it’s true. He couldn’t stand around while eggnog flowed throughout the crowd and the Christmas cheer was heady in the air. “I-I keep thinking about him and I had to get away. I didn’t want to be a downer on everyone’s happiness.”

“You could never be a downer,” Natasha tells him. “Everyone would understand. We all have our pasts and our ghosts.”

“Except my ghost is still alive,” Steve says and emotion builds up inside of him and he clears his throat.

“We help each other get through the rough days, that’s what we do because we’re a family,” Natasha pets his hair. “Whether or not our ghosts are still alive.”

Steve looks over to the Christmas tree. The smell fills his nostrils and he pictures mud beneath his feet and cold imbedding itself into his bones. He can hear the crackling of a fire nearby and the taste of baked beans on his tongue. The memory of a gentle pressure on his lips startles him and he realises that Natasha has been talking to him.

“—Christmas?” her voice cuts in.

“What?”

She smirks, “How did you and Bucky spend Christmas?”

He shrugs, “We didn’t really do anything back then. Neither of us had that much money. Sometimes Bucky would find a bottle of cheap liquor and we’d share it. The Great Depression was not kind.”

“What about during the war?” Natasha asks and Steve realises what she’s doing. She’s trying to get him to talk about it—to think about the good times when Bucky was alive and when Bucky was Bucky.

“We, uh, we didn’t really celebrate, what with the threat of being shot by the Germans.” Steve grabs his beer and drinks from it. “Some of the guys would get letters from home and if they were lucky, they’d get a package with some home-made goods or a picture of their sweetheart. I never did. I had no one to write to me and I had no sweetheart.”

“You had Peggy, didn’t you?” Nat asks him.

He scoffs, “Peggy was sweet but she wasn’t my sweetheart. Far from it, really. I loved her though. She was amazing.” He drank again. “Bucky got a letter once, but there was no address on it so we never knew who it was from. He thought maybe it was Becca, his sister, but there wasn’t any proof. I don’t even think Becca knew that Bucky was in the war so…”

Loud cheers erupt outside the door and Steve flinches. He forgot there was a party going on. Natasha should be out there mingling, networking like she always does. Someone has no doubt been looking for her. Clint, probably, or Sam—Sam is probably looking for him too. They should go back out there.

“How did you and Bucky celebrate?” Natasha asks, somehow oblivious to the party growing rowdier by the second. “What did you do?”

“Like I said, we didn’t do anything special… There wasn’t anything to do but stay quiet and try to not get shot,” he is lying. God, he is lying to Natasha. He can’t tell her about it. He can’t even think about it.

His eyes drift to the cedar tree and he sucks in a breath. He can remember the crunch of snow beneath his back and the hot breath against his neck.

“God, Darlin’, look at you.”

“Steve?”

He sucks in a breath, “Yeah?”

“Where’d you go?” Natasha asks, “You looked like you were a world away.”

“Sorry, I was just… thinking,” he shakes his head and smiles at her.

“Tell me about it,” she keeps her voice low, “tell me about the Christmas with Bucky.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies again. Natasha pinches his bicep and he yelps before smacking her hand away, “What are you doing?”

“I can’t promise you that I won’t do worse if you keep lying to my face. I had my nails done for this party,” she holds up her right hand and her long-painted nails shine in the dim light. “Are you going to take or do you want to find out how sharp I had them done?”

Steve laughs despite himself, “How Clint fell in love with you, I’ll never know.”

Natasha grins, “So?”

His jaw tightens and he looks to the tree one more time, “Bucky and I were all each other had. My Ma was dead, and Bucky hadn’t spoken to his family in years. It was just us. It was always just us a-and Christmas in the trenches was no different. Buck, he nabbed a mickey of whiskey and we drank it around the fire. We were in this forest of cedar trees, you-you could really smell it. It was a nice change from the dirt, and the mud, and the blood.” He remembers breathing in the sweet air of the forest and feeling tension drain from his body. “I remember it was so cold, you couldn’t take your hands out of your gloves for more than a few minutes because they would freeze otherwise. A-And the fire wasn’t helping either, to stop the cold I mean. It was that cold. Bucky,” Steve chuckles, “he kept saying, ‘Jesus Steve, I’m going to freeze my balls off here’ and he’d hold the whiskey bottle a bit tighter like it was going to warm him up.”

“Why were you up if it was so cold?” Natasha asks.

Steve purses his lips, “I don’t even know. I just… wanted to be awake.” He wanted to stay up and drink like they were dumb kids again. Only now, he was a few feet taller and wasn’t a bundle of shaking bones. He looks back to the twinkling tree beside him and sighs, “I wanted to be with Bucky.”

Sparks flew in the air as Bucky poked at the small fire with a stick, “Fuck, it’s cold. I’m going to freeze my—”

“Balls off, I know,” Steve laughs as he takes a swig from the cheap whiskey, “How many balls do you have left now? They must’ve fallen off about ten times now.”

Bucky shoots him a smirk, “Wouldn’t you like to know? Thinking about my balls, Stevie?”

“Fuck off,” Steve takes another swig of whiskey for good measure before he hands it back to the prick sitting next to him.

Bucky takes it and gulps down a mouthful, “That’s some good shit,” he smacks his lips. “Well, it’s not good, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Mhm,” Steve looks off in the distance towards the forest. He can hear the indistinct chatter of the others just a few yards away. He and Bucky had made their away from camp under the guise of keeping watch. They didn’t need to do that, there were others assigned to that, but Steve didn’t correct Bucky when the brunet told Dum Dum of their plans.

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky asks softly.

“Why did you tell Dum Dum we were keeping watch?” he meets Bucky’s eyes and he sees Bucky blush—though it might be the blood rushing to his cheeks in the frigid air.

Bucky frowns and shrugs, “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” he folds his arms across his chest. “Just wondering.”

Bucky sighs heavily, “What if I wanted to spend some time alone with you without the others sticking their noses in?”

“Christ, Buck, I was just wondering,” Steve huffs.

Bucky drinks again. “Is it a crime that I wanted to spend time with m-my—” he clears his throat, “Steve. My Steve.”

“Your Steve?” he smiles, “I’m your Steve?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky’s cheeks are redder than the German sky in the morning. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” Bucky stands up and Steve is quick to catch him. Bucky is swaying slightly from the alcohol coursing through his veins. Steve grabs onto Bucky’s forearms, gripping onto him through the thick coat he’s wearing steadying him. Bucky is staring at him, his mouth is open slightly, creating a cloud of mist with each breath. “Steve?”

“I want to spend time with you, too,” Steve whispers.

Bucky nods and then lifts up the mickey of whiskey. It’s nearly empty. “Do you want the last little bit?” Steve takes the bottle from him without a word and downs the contents of the bottle. It burns as it slides down his throat and he coughs a little by the end of it. “Easy there, Darlin’, don’t hurt yourself,” Bucky places his hands on Steve’s hips. “Can’t have you choking to death on some shitty whiskey.”

“Since when am I your Darlin’?” Steve wonders and that only makes Bucky blush yet another shade darker.

“Since always,” Bucky mumbles. “Always been my Darlin’. Since you were this tiny little spitfire trying to fight everyone in the streets. Now you’re this big hero with a shield that can’t break, and you’re still my Darlin’.”

Steve gulps, “Buck…”

“Is that okay, Steve?’ Bucky wets his lips and Steve subconsciously follows the movement. “Is this okay?”

“Y-Yeah, Buck,” Steve’s eyes flit back up to Bucky’s and finds them darker than he’s ever seen, “it’s okay.”

The fire is slowly dying when Bucky’s lips find his. He tastes whiskey and the baked beans they shared for dinner. His lips are cold and yet, warm at the same time. Bucky moans and presses himself against Steve. He pulls away, “God, Buck, you’re driving me crazy.”

The shorter man smirks devilishly, “Yeah?”

Steve watches him for a moment, “Remind me to never compliment you again. Your head is big enough as it is.”

Bucky throws his head back and laughs, “You are such a punk.”

A gunshot rings through the forest and the next thing Steve knows, he’s on his back in the snow with Bucky over top of him. The only noise they hear is the sound of their own heavy breathing and the pounding of both of their hearts.

“You good?” Bucky keeps his voice barely above a whisper. Steve blinks up at him, Bucky’s demeanor has changed. He’s no longer Bucky, he’s Sergeant Barnes. “Steve, are you good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Steve finally answers.

Bucky sits up, unintentionally straddling Steve’s lap and he shouts, “Who fired?”

“Sorry!” a voice shouts back. It’s Dum Dum, “Thought it was unloaded!”

“Jesus, Dum Dum,” Bucky places the palm of his hands over Steve’s pecs and rolls his hips. Steve chokes on a moan and Bucky smirks from above him. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No,” the man laughs, “my pride, however. Have a good night, Barnes.”

“You, too,” he rolls his hips again and this time Steve can’t hold back his moan.

“Rogers there with you?” Dum Dum asks, and Steve hears the crunching of snow.

“Yeah, he’s here,” Bucky looks back down at Steve, “Steve?”

“I’m here,” Steve pants, “Good night, Dum Dum.”

Steve thinks he hears Dum Dum laughing, “Good night, Captain.”

The footsteps fade and Steve smacks Bucky’s stomach, “What is wrong with you?”

“What?” Bucky hovers over him now, “You seem to like it,” and he does that again.

Steve grits his teeth, “Bucky.”

“God, Darlin’, look at you,” Bucky mouths at his neck, “beautiful. The best Christmas present I’ve been given. Always so nicely wrapped for me,” Bucky pulled down the zipper of Steve’s coat. “God, Stevie, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Y-Yeah?”

“Yeah. Since that summer it got real hot and you practically lived in your underpants. Thought I was going to pounce on you the first time I saw those legs,” Bucky bites at Steve’s exposed collarbone. “Every Christmas I’ve tried to gain the courage to say something to you—tell you how I feel but I could never get it out.”

Steve threaded his fingers through Bucky’s hair, “Why now?”

“We’re in a war, Darlin’, I could die tomorrow. Don’t want to die with you not knowing,”

The air shifts and Steve pulls on Bucky’s hair until they’re looking in each other’s eyes, “You aren’t going to die, Bucky.”

“You can’t know that,” Bucky says. “But it doesn’t matter, all that matters is that you know now.”

“Know what?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “That I love you, Stevie.”

He grins, “I love you too, Buck.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.”

Bucky pets the side of his face, “Merry Christmas, Darlin’.”

“Merry Christmas, Buck.”

“And then we went back to camp. Dum Dum had this smirk on his face like he knew what we were getting up to. A month or so later, Bucky fell from the train and I thought he was dead,” Steve finishes with a sigh.

Natasha hums, “So why refuse to celebrate this year? When you know he’s alive and out there?”

Steve toys with the label on his empty beer bottle, “Because I’d already accepted that he was gone and we’d never have another Christmas together again. Now, I-I keep thinking that he’ll come back and everything will be—will be back to normal.”

“Steve…”

“I know that he’s not Bucky anymore.”

“Okay.”

The door swings open and Tony comes sauntering in, “What are you two doing in here? The party is out here, if you weren’t aware.”

“Leave us alone, Tony,” Natasha glares at the drunken man.

Tony stares at them and then says, “Are you two having a secret tryst, because while I would be endlessly entertained by that, I can’t have Clint getting all moody and disappearing on us. It’d be like when Pepper got mad that I was spending more time with Bruce than her,” Steve and Natasha stare at the multi-millionaire before he clears his throat. “Are you two together?”

“Of course not,” Steve says while Natasha simultaneously says, “Yes.”

Tony nods before he calls for Clint.

Now there are four people in Pepper’s office, and none of them are Pepper.

“Widow’s cheating on you,” Tony announces to Clint.

Clint frowns and says, “I didn’t know we were dating…”

Tony’s mouth falls open, “But you two are—”

“Captain Rogers, there is a delivery here for you,” JARVIS interrupts whatever Tony was about to say.

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“I do not know. The man who delivered it did not say,” JARVIS says.

“What man?” Steve questions, “Show me.”

“Just a moment,” JARVIS says and one of the tablets on Pepper’s desk lights up. Steve goes to it and sees a picture of a hooded man. He feels Tony peering over his shoulder and he shoots a look to Natasha.

“Come on, Tony, I’ll make you a drink,” she drags both him and Clint – who was still confused as to why he was there in the first place, leaving Steve alone in the office.

“Do you know this man, Captain Rogers?” JARVIS asks him.

Steve stares down at the screen. It’s too hard to tell who it is but his heart is pounding. “No, I don’t.”

JARVIS then asks, “Shall I have the package removed, then?”

“No. I’ll come see what it is. Thanks JARVIS.”

“It is my pleasure.”

Ten minutes later, after weaving his way through the crowded party and keeping his greetings short, he stands in the foyer of his apartment in Stark Tower. The package sits in the center of his welcome mat, brought up by the concierge in the lobby. It’s not that big. Maybe about six inches in length and four inches in width.

Carefully, Steve picks it up and looks at it. The tape holding it closed seems like it was placed on haphazardly and the cardboard looks like was held out in the rain.

He rips it open.

Inside is a whiskey bottle.

It’s empty.

“JARVIS?” he calls out.

“Yes, Captain Rogers?”

“What did the man say when he delivered it?” Steve pulls the bottle out of the box while he asks.

“I have recorded audio; would you like to hear it?”

“Please.”

There’s a crackling over head before Steve hears the voice of the concierge, “Hello, Sir, how can I help you?” There is a pause. “Who is this for, Sir?” Another pause. “This is for Captain Rogers? Okay… Who should I tell him it’s from?” Yet another pause. “Sir? Uh, is there any message you want me to pause onto Captain Rogers?”

Another voice cuts in, it belongs to a man, “Tell him Merry Christmas.”

Steve’s hand shakes around the empty whiskey bottle.

“Captain Rogers, are you all right? Your heart rate has increased. Shall I tell Mr. Stark?”

“No!” Steve says a bit too loud, “No. Don’t tell Tony. Please.”

JARVIS sounds hesitant, “Alright, Sir. If you have any other questions, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Steve says nothing else and his knees buckle. He stumbles until he sits on the chair beside front door and the shoe rack. He stares down at the whiskey bottle.

…

“Merry Christmas, Buck.”

day 1 | day 2 | day 3 | day 4 | day 5 | day 6 | day 7 | day 8 | day 9 | day 10 | day 11 | day 12

7 notes · View notes

marvelousaddiction · 7 years ago

Text

The Dating Game- Part 1

“Thank you sweetheart, that was some good pie....” The man who was visiting your diner gave you a smile. You happily returned it. “Thank you, anything else I can help you with?” “Actually yes....could you tell me which way I head from here to get to Lebanon.....and I might need your phone number, in case I get lost again, or hungry” he smirks just a little bit from his dark scruffy beard. You chuckle, you could tell he was much older than you. “Lebanon is east of here, if you make good time you may make it there by supper time, my number? Mr, I am flattered, really, but I don’t even know your name” You return a cheeky little smirk and he smiles to his lap before glancing back up to you. “I’m sorry sweetheart, where are my manners? My name is John.....” “Nice to meet ya John,I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt anyone if you had my number.” You say taking your pen from your waist apron and writing your number on a napkin and sliding it to him,with your name and a little heart. “Thank you again Y/N” “You’re welcome, so what’s out in Kansas?” You ask just as your door swings open and two tall men come in, they are bickering loudly as they come in and take seats in one of the booths.

They were filthy, covered in what you really hoped was mud.

“Nothing now.....excuse me” John says, he stares at the other two for a minute.

You look at them all, confused but decide to shrug it off and go on with working, of-course after sensing something was up you keep your ears open to listen in.

“Sammy! Don’t talk to me right now! I’m going to go try to wash some of this ACTUAL CRAP off of me....good they have pie....I want apple” you watch as the shorter of the two men marches to the restroom,despite being so dirty and angry you can’t help but notice his beautiful green eyes when he passes his by you. A girl/guy has to have to have something to do while she works busting and waiting tables to keep from getting too bored. Your attention goes back to the other one. “Dean! Dean...I’m sorry!” “Sorry!?” “You are still wanted it was either I pushed you in, or-” Dean raises his hand to stop Sammy there as if to say he were done then goes in the bathroom. Sammy takes a seat.

You go over to take his order. “Hi, what can I get ya hon?” “Oh, I’m sorry about my brother and I.....” he has a awkward smile and looks embarrassed. “Please don’t be” you can’t stifle a laugh. “It is good to finally have anything happen around here, it’s like I am stuck in some kind of rut, the same thing happens every day, same people and faces, same orders,the only thing that is different is what is what I am getting yelled at by the owner, who I have the privilege of calling mom,y’know?-oh, I am sorry. What did you want, I have a apple pie for the green eyed devil in the men’s room, Dean?”

Sam and you share a smile. “Actually I do...know....you have no idea. Yeah, Dean wanted a apple pie and he may want sausage too. I’ll have uh....actually no, he may want a burger, I’ll have just a coffee and some hot cakes?” “Sure thing, no problem. Is there a reason that man John over there has been staring at you guys? I mean...everyone is, but, he is looking at you I don’t know weird...” you point to John with your pen. Sammy, at least you think that is his name turns to look.

He looks shocked, like he sees a dead person as John walks over smiling.

“Sam.....it is really good to see you again...really son...”

“......” Sam is silent, for quite a while. “D-Dad” he slowly steps to John and hugs him. They wrap their arms around each other.

“Dad......” You all turn, Dean had stepped out, slightly cleaner now.

“....hey son....hey Dean” and Dean does the same, the three share a group hug and John looks at you. “This is what was in Kansas, boys this Y/N.....”

“Yeah, we kinda already met, Dean, John, Sammy-” “Sam” “Right~ well, I will go get your food. Dean, Sam said you would want apple pie and a burger?”

“Only if it comes with cheese and your number sweetheart” Dean answers, his face can only be described as cheeky.

“Cute son John” you roll your eyes as you spin and go towards the kitchen.

“Sure is good to see you boys” “Dad....how-” “Cut the crap,I am tired of all the beating around the bush with all that has happened lately. How the hell are you back from Hell? How long have you been back?”

You see John shrug. “I have been back about a year.....honestly, I don’t know how I’m back or how I am still....me”

“Y/N!” Your attention to your mother yelling at you as you were helping her get the order. “Yes ma’am?” “The hell are you doing?” “What? I never said I wouldn’t listen in” you shrug. “Stop. They are obviously having a family moment” “Well, the eldest one, and the short one asked for my number” you respond, taking the food out to them.

“How the fuck do you not know?” You hear Dean ask. “Dean, I wish I had a answer, but I don’t. I was in Hell, then I was out....”

These people are insane you thought, but if John were to ever call you, you wouldn’t mind. You may even give Dean your number. “Okay, your coffee, sausage, apple pie, and pancakes.....want some syrup?”

You broke into their awkward conversation as you sat the food at the table they had sat at, finally.

“Yes, thank you” Sam and Dean speak together, you roll your eyes and go get them a bottle of syrup. “Here ya go oh, how can I help you baby?” you look up seeing another customer come in a news boy hat, he had a golden-ish red beard and blue eyes.

Sam and Dean looked up with you.

“Benny!” Dean’s face lit up and he got up, walking over to the other man, not hesitating to hug him tightly, they looked like two bears.

You raise your brow, placing your hand on your hip and pretend to not notice John checking you out. “Let me guess, your brother?”

“No!” Sam says angrily and glares at you and the Benny guy; at the same time Dean gave a proud “hells yeah”. “Chill dude~” you say to Sam, raising your hands “calm your dick”. Sam flashes you a bitch face and you flash one back, rolling your neck. “What, wanna say som’p’um?”

John and Dean seemed very amused by this. John mostly, “Sweetheart, I may fall in love with you” he teases.

“Okay I’m confused” you admit, looking to John for a answer.

“Don’t look at me sweetheart, I don’t know him” he answers, raising his hands in defense.

“How are you back?” the brothers ask the other man, using completely different tones.

“Same way as before, hitched a ride....” Benny answers. Sam looks pissed and sits back with his dad.

“Hitch a ride back.....” he mummers. Dean points to Sam. “Damn it! Shut the hell up Sammy, I don’t want to hear shit about it. If I have to deal with Jack then-Jack!” Dean’s eyes widen. “Where is Jack?” he asks his brother in a panic before storming outside. Benny comes over to the table. “May I?”

“sure, have a seat, John, I take it you know my boys” they shake hands.

“Okay~ soooo~.....back to my original question, what will it be baby?” You look at Benny with a smile. He smiles back, it was so warm and sweet. “a coffee and some grits, thank you darlin’“

“Aww~ you have the sweetest little accent~” you fangirl for a second. “The grits will be a few minutes because we got the real shit and not that instant crap, that okay?”

Benny once again has that bright warm smile with a little giggle. “That will be fine....we have time right?” he asks Sam and John.

“I was wanting to catch up...” John answers but Sam doesn’t.

Just then Dean comes in with a guy who looks about your age.

“Hey, Jack, want anything honey?” you ask him.

His brows furrow in confusion. “Yes, a burger.....how do you know my name?” he asks you.

“Don’t ask” you, Benny, Sam and John all answer together.

Poor confused little Jack joins the three in sitting at the table and Dean just stands there.

“So.....what the hell do we do now?” he asks

Sam looks at the food, then everyone at the table, then Dean. “We eat I guess......”

“And what, pretend nothing is going on? Like he wasn’t in Hell, he isn’t a nephilim, and`”

Sam looks unsure.

“.......Dean, I don’t know.....yeah, just sit and eat.....catch up with dad, you catch up with Benny.....”

“So...so we have a normal.....’family outing”?” Dean asks.

“Anyone got any better ideas?” Sam asks the others at the table. They all say nothing. Except Jack, who you find adorable. “Who are they?” he asks about John and Benny. “John, Sam and Dean’s old man” he shakes Jack’s hand. “Benny.....me and Dean have history” He shakes Jack’s hand as well. Jack smiles “Nice to meet you”

Dean seems at a loss of words. so he sits, and you watch them eat their meal. They had moments of tension and laughter and watching it, you really did see a family dinner. Your mom was yelling at you but you ignored her until you saw them all leaving, you ran out behind them.

“Y/N! Get back here!!” She called but you weren’t going back.

“Wait!” All the men stop getting into three different cars. “Y’all are all kinds of weird,seriously. I don’t care.....I want to go with you, I don’t care where you take me, Kansas, anywhere but here. Please? Because, I just met you guys but....even though you said it wasn’t a “family dinner” back there, that ain’t what I saw. So, what do ya say?”

“Alright, Y/N, you know too much now anyway.....” Dean answers getting in the drivers seat of a 67 Impala. “Nice car~” you give him a nod. “I know~” he and John say together as Sam and Jack get in.

“Who you wanna ride with?” Dean asks.

“She’s riding with me” John escorts you to his truck and he and Benny follow behind Dean to where ever you all were going.

#supernatural #benny x reader #john x reader #dean x reader #samwinterchester #jack kline

19 notes · View notes

mazurah · 7 years ago

Text

Lost in Time Ch. 16: Coping - An Elder Scrolls Fanfic

Chapter Summary: Ma’zurah and Fayrl are disturbed by the things they have discovered about the state of the world in the fourth era. They make some questionable decisions in an attempt to cope.

Cross posted from Ao3. Chapter Rating: T for alcohol abuse.

First Chapter - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Lost in Time Chapter 16: Coping

It was almost dark by the time the two of them made it back to the Bannered Mare, arms laden with purchases. They made their way through the crowded common room and up the stairs to their rented room, where Ma’zurah dropped her burden on the bed. She tugged off her new boots, and began organizing their supplies into manageable packs.

They’d had a busy day. They had returned most of Farengar’s books, sent Ma’zurah’s dirty traveling clothes to be washed, gotten Fayrl’s armor adjusted, picked up his newly sharpened daggers, sold most of Ma’zurah’s harvest of ingredients from the Shivering Isles--though she did hold back two pieces of amber she had found and four pieces of the dangerous, narcotic greenmote mushrooms--and procured all the necessities for life on the road, and then some. Ma’zurah had been amused to discover that Fayrl apparently intended to dazzle all the country folk of Skyrim with purchases of fancy clothing, but she still wasn’t sure how she felt about Fayrl’s apparent intention to cultivate a drinking habit--he’d gotten far more alcohol than was strictly necessary, and it put her in mind of Julan during the early parts of their relationship. Not necessarily the best of memories.

Thoughts of Julan inevitably led to thoughts of Vvardenfell and its troubles, and Ma’zurah suddenly felt like drinking, herself. She was not in the habit of using drinking as a coping device, but she had been through a lot in the past two days. Ma’zurah finished tying her newly purchased bedroll to her pack in preparation for the morrow, and stood with a sigh. “Ma’zurah could use a drink.” she told Fayrl tiredly.

Fayrl, who had been busying himself with restocking and meticulously tending to his stock of poisons and toiletries, perked up immediately at the prospect of drinking. There was so much about the activity he enjoyed. The silence had allowed his mind to drift to thoughts what he had left behind as well.

He had happened across a doll’s shoe in his bag that must have belonged to his son, Sildras; it had somehow wormed its way in amongst his belongings. His journal also sat beside him, chronicling the past six years of his life. He would normally have taken the opportunity to write in it, yet it seemed like, as a result of being thrown through time, perhaps it was best to have a separate book in which to put his thoughts to paper. His regular journal should remain for his own time. And when he returned, he could resume right where he had left off, as he planned to do.

He would return back to centuries before Ma’zurah had even been born. He hoped that he would still be able to remember her once he had returned. Would any of the things he procured in this time return with him? Surely not. Mephala had said herself, he was only her Champion in this time. The Ebony Blade was likely in the hands of another, more worthy Champion, in his time.

“I would be happy to accompany you if you would like to drink downstairs. If not, I am happy to simply order a couple of bottles from the innkeeper. There’s not much left in the bottle from earlier, I’m afraid.”

Mazurah nodded. “Ma’zurah thinks perhaps she would like to go downstairs. At least for a while. Nords are not the best company, but better than Ma’zurah’s thoughts right now.”

“Nords are lovely company for drinking. As long as they don’t feel in the mood for a fight they will just be loud and cheerful. I find it rather endearing.” Long were the nights Fayrl had spent in the company of Nords of all sorts. They were often put off by Dunmer, expecting the sort of pretentious snobbery his kind was so famous for. Yet a false attempt at trying to keep up with them and failing always succeeded at endearing himself to them. He never usually allowed himself let loose completely around those Nords, not until he knew he could trust them at least, but there were always exceptions. Some of those exceptions turned out to be his better lovers in Skyrim.

“If you want a Nord to like you, buy a few rounds of drinks and offer to match them, drink for drink, or even propose a drinking contest. It always puts them at ease. You don’t even have to keep up with them entirely--they do so love to prove they can handle their alcohol better than any other race. They like feeling that way; it makes them trusting, pliable.”

Ma'zurah held the door open for Fayrl and walked down the stairs. They pushed through the crowd and sidled up to the bar. Out of the corner of her eye Ma’zurah saw the bard, Mikael, duck into the kitchen with a panicked look on his face. She rolled her eyes.

“Ma’zurah could use a drink, please! Something sweet if you have it!” She told the barwoman. The woman nodded distractedly, and continued mixing a drink for another customer. She passed the drink over the counter to its owner, then ducked under the counter to retrieve a bottle labeled honeysuckle mead, which she passed to Ma’zurah. Ma’zurah tasted it, and perked up immediately. The barwoman chuckled and turned to Fayrl. “And what would you like, lovey? Fraid we don’t have anything from Morrowind, but we do have a few things imported from Cyrodiil.”

Fayrl smiled sweetly at the barwoman. “Do you have any brandy by chance?” A nice chilled brandy would be the perfect treat to end the day with. Perhaps he didn’t deserve it since he had not yet managed to secure a sacrifice for the Ebony Blade, but he had an Imperial that he was just waiting for the right opportunity to use for that purpose. And if not, there were always a few wretched souls on the streets late at night that got harassed by inconsiderate drunks who did not know how to accept denial. He had only to befriend one of said drunks and lead them away under false pretenses. He needed to shed blood soon.

“Oh I think we can find you something.” The barwoman wiped her hands on her apron and crouched to check under the counter again. After a moment, she stood. “Saadia!” A Redguard woman poked her head out of the kitchen. “Be a dear and check the cellar for some Colovian brandy for this darlin’ gentleman!” the barwoman instructed cheerfully. The Redguard, Saadia, bobbed her head and moved out of sight.

Fayrl smiled to himself. Colovian brandy would do just perfect. It was one of his favorites. Something about the way Imperials made their brandy always seemed to comfort him best. He could hardly explain why. It was sweeter than his palate normally had a taste for, and yet it did not bother him.

A dark haired man in a black robe stumbled up to the bar, bumping into Fayrl. “Oh excuse me--” the man cut himself off upon catching sight of Fayrl. “Oh! Well hello there!” the man drawled. He gave Fayrl an appreciative up and down look and grinned. “Aren't you somethin’! You don't look nearly drunk enough though. How would you feel about joining me for a drinking contest to win a staff? The name’s Sam!” The man steadied himself against the bar.

Ma'zurah gave the man an evaluative look. He was short--shorter than Fayrl or Ma'zurah, and his face was flushed slightly across his cheeks and nose. He was obviously already drunk. If the man’s slurred accent was anything to go by, the man was most likely Breton rather than Imperial. If they had been in Morrowind, Ma'zurah would have thought that the man’s simple black robe was an indication that he was a pilgrim, or possibly an independent mage of limited means, but in Skyrim, she had no idea what kind of people wore such attire.

Fayrl subtly checked to ensure his purse was still there, he did not suffer thieves lightly. When he found it to remain full and present, he donned a smile. “A drinking contest, eh?” Fayrl was sure this was a setup. A win that looked too good to be true often was precisely that. And yet, being away from his own mind for a bit seemed rather appealing at the moment. “I don't know that I need a staff. Ma’zurah,” he asked turning to her, “my love, do you want to play a game to win a staff? Sera Sam wants me to join him in a drinking competition.”

“Go for it.” Ma'zurah finished her mead and gestured for another.

“Oh-ho! I see you have the seal of approval!” Sam threw an arm around Fayrl and Ma'zurah’s shoulders. “I'll tell you what! You can be the judge! Or join in if you like! It’s all fine with me!” The man grinned at Ma'zurah. “And if it’s the staff that’s the problem,” he said turning to Fayrl, “we can just skip that part and do it for the hell of it! I find that raising the stakes makes it all that much more exciting though.” He giggled. “Get it? Stakes? Eh, eh?” He nudged Fayrl.

Ma'zurah snorted and accepted her mead from the barwoman. The Redguard cook came up from the cellar carrying a large bottle. “Sorry ma’am! The only bottles we have left are the large ones!”

“That’s fine Saadia, leave it here.” The barwoman said, and took out a glass to pour Fayrl some.

Fayrl was tempted to try touching Sam to learn his true intentions. And yet, if a guy like this was a real con artist, who knew how strange or awful those memories might be. He decided to avoid it.

The Breton seemed to remember something suddenly. “Say, what’s your names?”

“My name is Fayrl,” Fayrl replied with a grin. “And my beautiful wife here is Ma’zurah.” Fayrl turned to the barwoman. “Another brandy for my friend Sam here! It is only right if I pay for the first drink, after all.” The woman poured another glass and Fayrl took his brandy and handed the other to Sam.

“Oh nonono, that won't do at all! If you’re drinking with me, I'm paying!” Sam passed a sizable coinpurse to the barwoman with a flirtatious wink. “We’ll take the bottle!” The woman smiled and passed the bottle over.

Ma'zurah raised her eyebrows. The man was apparently not a mage of little means then.

“Lovely to meet you both!” The Breton turned to the pair brandishing the brandy bottle. “What say we get a table and do this all proper-like?”

Fayrl gave the man a clap on the back. That was the spirit he enjoyed about the drinking culture here in Skyrim, though he had not had such a quality of alcohol in such quantity since before he had been pretending to be a bard in Skyrim for six years. “A man after my own tastes! Let us do as you suggest. Though I wonder what it is you would ask for if by some slim chance you succeed?” His voice was lowered and suggestive as he spoke the question.

Sam held the bottle aloft and led the small party in a procession through the evening crowd to the last free table in the room. He settled into a seat. “Cheers!” he exclaimed, and knocked back his cup of brandy. He refilled it from the bottle with a flourish.

“Cheers!” called Fayrl and followed suit of downing the brandy in one. It burned, but that was what he wanted most right now. He didn't want to think about where he was or when he was. He just wanted to enjoy being.

Ma'zurah took her seat as well, grinning and nursing her bottle of mead. She was already starting to relax a bit, and the Breton seemed like interesting company.

“Now… what to do if you lose? How about a forfeit! Those are always fun! Honestly, I really am just in the mood for a contest, and you’re probably the only ones in the room I'd have any kind of chance against.” The man made an encompassing gesture to the rest of the room full of Nords, all probably a third again the body mass of the short Breton. He had a point, Ma'zurah realized with a smirk.

Fayrl gazed at the bulking collection of Nords. Certainly they did seem a rowdy bunch, and all looked as though they could drink half the keg each as easily as breathe. “I appreciate the sentiment, my friend, I do.” He leaned forward, hand on Sam's shoulder as he drew his face close. “So, what is the condition of defeat? Are we playing Skyrim rules, if you cannot hold any more liquor or you pass out you lose? That might make for a difficult time paying a forfeit.” Catching sight of Sam’s refilled glass, Fayrl held his out as well. “If you would be so kind.”

“Nah! That wouldn't be very fun now would it? We play until someone withdraws.” Sam refilled Fayrl’s cup. “Sound good? Wouldn't want to pass out before we get to the fun parts, right?”

Fayrl smiled. He hooked an arm around each of his companions. “Well, shall we begin then?”

Ma’zurah stood abruptly and downed her bottle of mead. “You know what! Why in the four hells not! Ma’zurah will join too!” She shouldered her way back to the bar and retrieved a glass amidst delighted laughter from the Breton. She returned and held her cup out to be filled.

“Now that is the kind of attitude I like to see!” Sam crowed, and filled the proffered mug. “Bottoms up!” he called and tipped the contents of his own mug into his mouth. Ma’zurah followed suit and finished off her drink with a noisy smack of her lips.

“Whoa!” she slurred tipsily, “That is stronger than Ma’zurah esspected!” She licked her whiskers and peered into her mug with one eye as though she expected to discover what made her drink so strong. “Sweeter too. Not bad!”

Fayrl cheered at Ma’zurah’s announcement to join. “Here, here!” He knocked back his brandy. Then grabbed the brandy to refill everyone’s glass.

“So, I take it you like it then?” Fayrl asked Ma’zurah, leaning his cheek on her shoulder while pulling Sam closer to him as well. “You can see why I prefer it to mead or wine or ale.” He nuzzled her shoulder. “You’re so soft.”

He leaned his head on Sam’s shoulder. “You’re less soft, my friend. You must need another drink.”

“Again!” called the Breton, and he drained his cup.

Ma’zurah finished her second mug of brandy and blinked at her companions through the fuzzy haze that had started to descend on her mind. She giggled. “Now why would you take brandy over those other shweet drinks you sayed? Ma’zurah steel pr’fers th’mead she had, but she is c’mpeting!” She shoved at Fayrl’s shoulder playfully.

Fayrl looked at Ma’zurah. “Can you not taste the more complex flavor profile? The notes of fruit and sweetness are more subtle, but smooth and crisp, with just a hint of citrus and spices. And the perfume of the spices, how could one resist?”

Sam grinned at Ma’zurah. “Y’know, I think I might have a drink that’s more to yer taste if ya wanna try it. Brewed it m’shelf! Strong and shweet, but not so shweet that even a great Dunmer like Fayrl here wouldn’t like it. Care ta try?” The Breton produced a large flask and removed the stopper, glancing between the two.

Fayrl turned with interest to Sam. “What sort of drink is this? You’re not trying to slip us something to take all our gold, are you, friend?” Fayrl’d had quite about enough of having someone slip things into his drinks. He was not eager to wake up naked in a mine again. Nor have to run through the snow and lose his favorite tunic along the way.

“What, no!” Sam’s expression appeared genuinely horrified. “I’ll take a shot too! I jusht thought y’might like to try it! Here, see?” He hastily filled his mug and drank the whole thing down, slopping a small amount of the liquid onto the table in the process.

Fayrl figured the worst that could be in there was a poison the Breton was immune to. Likely anything in that sort of poison Fayrl would have at least a minimal immunity to as well. He also had several cure poison potions in his bag. He had a couple on him now, just in case.

“Well, since you were so kind as to demonstrate the safety of your homebrew, it would be rude of us not to at least give it a sample, think you not, my dear?” He leaned against Ma’zurah and held out his glass. There was a hint of mischief in his voice. “Sam, you would do me an honor by allowing me to sample your brew.”

Sam filled their mugs and sat back and beamed as they accepted the liquor. “It’sa ver’ old shecret recipe. Y’can’t even get most’ve tha ingredientsh in Shkyrim!”

Ma’zurah sniffed her mug, and withdrew hastily with eyes watering. “Dear gods, that smells shtrong!”

“Probably th’shtrongest shtuff you’ll ever taste! But wait’ll ya taste it!” the man chortled.

Ma’zurah took a hesitant sip. “Oh! Iss shweet!”

“Yeah, but it’s tha aftertaste that’s th’besht. You gotta drink it in one go to get the full effect, shee?”

This whole thing seemed like a trap to Fayrl. A trick. A lie. This Sam fellow was entirely too giving.

And yet, Fayrl was inextricably drawn to it--the sense of danger, even knowing they would likely be unable to win, was thrilling. He had several weapons easy to reach if the man tried anything. Between him and Ma’zurah, they were likely in little danger. Maybe Sam was even as lonely and trying to forget as they were.

Fayrl took a sniff and then brightened. It smelled about as strong as he needed it to be. He knocked back the entire thing in one go. It burned like shalk fire, but as promised, it was sweet, then the aftertaste had something to it that he was not familiar with. He had tried many varieties of alcohol made from different materials, but this was the first time he had come across some of these flavors. And yet, something in the scent was familiar. He just couldn’t quite place it.

“This is delicious. Sweeter than I would normally go for, but such an expert blending that I have nothing but compliments for the flavor. I shall list them if you’d like. If not, just be content in the knowledge that I look forward to putting this masterpiece of yours in my mouth the rest of the evening.”

“You would do me the mosht honor by accepting another drink!” The man clumsily topped off their glasses, and then his own, quaffing his own drink with gusto. “Whoooa!” Sam shook his head as though to shake off the effects of the sudden rush of alcohol. “I think perhapsh I… I may have to consh… concsheede this contesht....” He stared at his flask longingly. “After thish nexsht round!”

Ma’zurah swayed slightly in her seat. “Ooh Shheggorath! Ma’zurah shhould sstop b’fore she throwss up…”

Sam drunkenly waved the flask in Fayrl’s direction. “That shettles it! You shuccesshf’ly take thish shot n’ you win th’shtaff!”

Fayrl snatched up his mug and downed it, slamming it onto the table afterwards, in the Nord fashion. He already had a tingling sensation in his fingertips and his lips. It made him feel good, really good. The stuff was strong, alright, normally he wouldn’t be this far gone for another few rounds. “There,” he proclaimed, listing a bit towards Ma’zurah in his seat. “I done it all.”

His eyelids were very heavy, he couldn’t seem to keep them open all the way. He hoped it made him look alluring more than sleepy. “M’ready for my prize, Sam.” He had to speak very deliberately and a bit slow in order to get the words to come out right. He did not want to appear as though he was as likely to fall over as he was.

And yet, a part of him wanted to stand up on the table and sing a song. He didn’t have his lute, but if he could convince some of the Nords to clap along, he could probably do a popular drinking song. Some of the old favorites from his time would surely still be around. A song like “She hides her tail” or “The cabbage farmer’s daughter” would be perfect for this crowd.

“C’ngratulashionsh m’friend!” Sam babbled, slapping Fayrl on the back. “Ya shhure earned it! What shhould we do now? I got a grate idea! I know thish lil’ plashe we could go, where tha wine flowsh like water!”

Ma’zurah squinted at Sam, suddenly feeling significantly more drunk than she had expected based on the amount of alcohol she had imbibed.

“Shaay, you don’t look sho grate. Are you feelin’ arright?” the Breton asked Ma’zurah.

Ma’zurah slumped against Fayrl, knocking him off balance. The last thing she remembered was waving a hand toward the Breton and drunkenly mumbling something about luggage in their room and feeling sleepy before the world went dark.

End Notes:

Fayrl’s tumblr: @talldarkandroguesome

Screenshot of Fayrl Screenshot of Ma’zurah Check out my art tag for more pictures of Fayrl and Ma’zurah.

Constructive criticism is welcome. We also really like it if you leave comments on Ao3.

#TES #Elder Scrolls Lore #Skyrim #ESO #Morrowind #My Writing #Fanfic #Lost In Time TES Fanfic #Fayrl Indoril #Ma'zurah the Khajiit #alcohol abuse #Rated T

5 notes · View notes

authoressskr · 7 years ago

Text

I’m Gonna Shoot You Down, Jesse James

Written for: @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid and @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian’s Divas of Storytelling Challenge

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Song: Just Like Jesse James by Cher

Characters: Reader (Hey, that’s you!), Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester

Warnings: Language, ugh, can’t think of anything else now except maybe subpar writing…

Summary: A brokenhearted witch decides to kill those who have dumped their significant other. You need to find her and gank her before anyone else dies. Too bad Dean is being an overprotective bitch.

Tagging: @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian @lyndsay88 @thewhiterabbit42 @sdavid09 @lucis-unicorn

** Do Not Post/Copy/Share Anywhere, On Any Other Platforms, Without My Permission**

“So, I think I found a case.” Sam begins, joining Dean and yourself at the library’s first table, easing himself down into a vacant chair beside you. “Four men and one woman have had their hearts ripped out of their chests.”

“Werewolf?” Dean asks, looking up from his own laptop.

“Sounds like it.” You lean over, scanning through the article he has up.

“Uh, Sam?”

“Humm?” You tap at the bottom of the article.

“You read all this article?”

“No, just saw the headline and first paragraph.”

“You should have read it all. You’re really losing your touch, Sam. And you didn’t start with ‘So, get this’.” Sam gave you patented Sam Winchester bitch face while Dean chuckled. “One death was outside the club in full view of three witnesses, the other in her locked apartment - alone. This guy died in his car. Dude number three left the club to pick up his brother at work and his brother watched as he fell to the ground, leaning against his car, cigarette still in hand. And the last guy, one Kent Chandler, dropped dead at a liquor store. So, not sure that a werewolf could do that.”

“Witch?” Sam offers, pulling the laptop back in front of him, scanning through the full article. “Well shit. It’s got to be magic related.”

“We know how I feel about witches.” Dean murmurs, taking a long drink from his coffee before closing his laptop. “Well, get the witch killing bullets and the box of gloves and meet in the garage in thirty.”

“Gloves?” Sam asks, looking sideways at you, brow furrowed.

“Witches are nasty, man. Just grab the gloves.” You chuckle at Dean’s words then rise, heading for your room, hearing Sam faintly say “Shit, how’d I miss that?”

—

Luckily, the case was just a short four hour and some change drive from the Bunker, and you all got into town a little before one pm. After a quick stop at a motel to change - you refused to change in a truck stop bathroom, just outright refused - it was straight into Fed mode, which revealed that the hearts had exploded out of their chests. You may or may not have smirked at Sam after that fact was revealed.

And after thanking the very rude coroner, who smelled of tobacco and too much Axe body spray, you all exited the hospital, Sam and Dean exchanging those damn mind-melding looks they always shared.

“What?” You huffed, pausing at the Impala with your fingers brushing the chrome handle, looking from Dean beside you to Sam across the hood.

“Seems familiar.” Sam answered, bracing his elbows on the hood.

“That was Famine. When the couple ate each other.”

“The couple what?”

“Famine made them hungry for love.” Dean explained. “It was all-consuming, thus, ya know, they consumed.” A look of revulsion crossed your face.

“That’s disgusting and very disturbing.”

“Oh yeah.” Dean agreed, clicking his tongue afterward. “What about a borrower witch?”

“None of the corpses have been reanimated. And if it was a borrower witch, why destroy the hearts?”

“Were-pire?”

“Again, why destroy the hearts?” Dear Lord, this could go on forever.

“Let’s just start at the club. That’s the common link they all shared, well the only one I could find.” You suddenly have both their attention, Dean pursing his lips as he gave you an appreciative nod.

“Good job, darlin’.”

“Darlin’.”& You tease, watching Dean’s mouth open and close before you open the door and slip into the backseat. Sam’s soft chuckle fills the car for a split second before the Impala’s loud rumble drowns it out.

—

The manager, Trixie, informs Dean that yes, all the victims did visit the club before their untimely deaths. But that she’s been cooperative with the local police and she’d be more than happy to help with whatever he may need. Of course, she would. If it involved being on her back.

You roll your eyes and wander over to the bartender who is prepping for tonight’s opening behind the bar, leaving Sam with his brother.

“Hello. I’m Agent Tyler. Just wanted to see if you’d seen anything suspicious leading up to any or all the deaths? Maybe you noticed something about the gentleman who died just outside?”

“Well, Agent, sexy first name, by the way, it’s like I told the -”

“Are you really going to make me go back and read every single statement instead of just telling me?” His chuckle is deep, amused.

“Naw, I’ll tell you. Wouldn’t want you to spend all night reading those statements instead of talkin’ to little old me. I’d like to know your first name though, get a bit friendly.”

“Uh-huh. You tell me yours first.”

“Gregor.”

“If your last name is Clegane, then I’m obliged to tell your brother where you are.” His laughter gets the attention of Dean, Sam, and Trixie, all of whom frown at you two.

“Oh, we’re in trouble now.”

“Pretty par for the course for me. I’m Y/N.”

“Pretty. Real pretty.”

“Thank you. Now, Gregor, anything you can remember? Nothing is too small.”

“Well the guy who died outside, he had - I don’t know - a half dozen shots of tequila before he did the open mic slash karaoke thing we have Wednesday through Saturday. Sunday through Tuesday nights we have a house band. He was celebrating being single again, he did mention that before he sang. A couple women approached him, and he got their numbers before he went outside to take a phone call. One of the waitresses, Darcy, was outside having a smoke. Didn’t see anything, since she was by the side door of the bar, but said she heard something squelch loud then screaming. Might wanna talk to her. She comes in about seven.” You nod, making bulletins about each fact Gregor had given. “And you should give me your card,” He flashes an easy, flirty smile. “In case I remember anything else.”

“Did all the victims do karaoke?” You ask, pulling out one of the fake FBI cards from your inner jacket pocket, holding it out to Gregor.

“Not that I can remember - just him.” He takes the card, flashing another smile before winking and tucking your card into his breast pocket.

Turning to head back to the boys, you nearly run smack into Dean.

“Whoa. Personal bubble.”

“We don’t have personal bubbles.” But he isn’t looking at you, and shooting a look over your shoulder you don’t see anything. Sam is sporting an amused look when you look to him for clarification. Whatever.

“When I’m all covered in goo and various substances you suddenly have a personal bubble. And I think I got a new lead. Or at least a way to draw whoever it is out.”

“Y/N.” You turn to find Gregor’s returned and is leaning on the bar top. “Trixie keeps the sign-up sheets for a couple weeks. Might be helpful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mountain.”

“Anytime, Agent.”

“If you’re done.” Dean growls, his hand on the small of your back pushing you forward quickly.

“Who knew the reason those pretty eyes of yours were green was ‘cause they’re filled with jealousy.”

“I. Am. Not. Jealous.”

“Sure.” Sam agrees, sarcasm evident in his tone.

“And I’m Aphrodite.” You reply snidely, sidestepping his pushy self and heading back over to where Trixie stood.

“Hi. Dean here wanted to know if we could have copies of the sign-up sheets for the past couple weeks? He’s very thorough.”

“Oh, I bet he is. Give me two shakes and I’ll be right out with them.” Of course, she doesn’t respond to you, but to Dean, flashing overly white teeth as she saunters out of the main bar area.

“Now who’s jealous?” Dean breathes against your ear, sending shivers down your spine and an errant giggle from your lips.

“Stop that!” You hiss. “Now isn’t the time for your flirting. Or breathing on my ear when you know that makes me laugh!” You elbow him gently. “And I’m not jealous, Dean. Just shocked at your lack of standards.” He’s got that smug smile plastered on when Trixie returns and you don’t bother to stay, turning on your heel with Sam close behind.

—

As luck would have it, just the man, Eric Root, sang that night.

But the local police were on it. They’d investigated their personal lives pretty damn well and each one of the victims had just broken up with their significant other.

And said significant others all sang the night before or the night of each respective death.

“Ha!” You shout triumphantly, pushing your notepad over to Sam who sat across from you. “It’s a witch. The witch is offing the people who hurt the singers.” Dean rises from where he was sitting against the headboard, looking over Sam’s shoulder at your notes. He makes a noncommittal noise as Sam begins typing away. “What? It makes sense! Each of the hurt parties sang a sad or powerful song and then the person that broke up with them suddenly has their heart expelled from their chest. We need to go tonight and sing. It’ll draw the witch out and we gank it.”

“Uh, we don’t sing.” You roll your eyes, standing as you smile down at Sam.

“I can.”

“No.” Dean’s voice is firm, like a father telling a child they can’t have more ice cream.

“Fuck you.”

“If you insist.” He smirks and reaches forward to wrap an arm around your waist.

“Dean Fucking Winchester, if you don’t remove your damn hands I will kick your ass into next week. Being your normal, flirty asshole self is difficult enough to handle without you telling me what I can and can’t-do!” You shove his arms off you, then shove him backward with a glare before grabbing your purse and phone from the table and storming out the door.

—

She’d returned nearly an hour later, refusing to look at Dean as she grabbed a change of clothes from her duffle and locking herself in the bathroom.

“Dude, you should apologize.”

“What for?”

“Come on, Dean. You know why. You love her.” Dean scoffs, finishing his beer. “You’ve been flirting with her since we met her. And she has yet to succumb to anything you’ve thrown at her. She’s not like the other girls you pick up at the bar or diner or wherever, Dean. Y/N flirts with you to deflect. She likes you, you idiot. But you gotta stop handling her with kid gloves. The last couple cases you’ve been more overbearing than usual. Especially with her. She’s been hunting since she was 22. Y/N is more than capable. I know you don’t want her to get hurt - neither do I - but you can’t…”

“I know!” Dean snaps, tossing the empty bottle across the room into the trash can. He runs his hands through his hair, giving it a few sharp tugs. “The last couple cases - man, I don’t want to be like Dad was with you, but I can’t fucking help it. When we were hunting those ghouls in Boise and they sliced her arm, so close to her artery, I panicked. What if she’d died, Sam? Who is going to hang their underwear all over the bathroom? Who’s gonna be up at 2 in the morning, a cold cup of tea on the table because she fell asleep before finishing it again? Who else is going to out-lore you? All those thoughts just rushed forward - and they haven’t left, Sam.”

“Dean, we have all had close calls. You and I have died more than our fair share. We’ll keep her safe, just like we always do. But, you gotta tell her, Dean. And we have to let her do this for this case.”

The door swung open, revealing Y/N - her hair was tousled, lips painted a dark pink and jeans hugging every curve while a dark gray top clung to her breasts, scooped down to give a good view.

“I’ll see you at the club.” She muttered, walking to her purse beside her duffle, searching through it for her ID and a couple twenties. When she turned around, Sam was standing in front of the door. “Come on Sam, not you too.”

“No, princess, we’re all going together.” Dean answered, shrugging on his jacket before heading towards the door, handing Sam his before shooting you that cocky smile, but his eyes weren’t the same. “If you play your cards right, I’ll bring you home with me.” Y/N took the olive branch, reaching out to give Dean’s upper arm a firm squeeze.

“I think you mean if you play your cards right, Winchester.” Sam rolled his eyes but flashed a tight smile as you brushed past them and settled into the Impala. But the tense atmosphere was still there, lingering on the edges.

—

“So, I’ve narrowed it down to these two women.” You hand the pictures to Sam, leaning on the back of the seat. “They both were there, doing karaoke, every night that someone died. I double checked the lists. These two, Marcia and Ashley, are consistently there.” You take a deep breath before huffing it out. “You know, I kinda wish there was a witch-detector spell. Make the job a whole lot easier.”

Sam huffs out his agreement before handling the pictures to Dean. Dean looks them over then nods, pushing them across the seat back to Sam.

“You say the word, Y/N, and we corner the witch and gank her. Got it? Don’t -”

“Put myself in unnecessary danger. I know Dean. You’ve been playing that particular record for the last month and a half. I’m always careful.” You reach out, squeezing his left shoulder, feeling him relax minutely under your fingertips. You withdraw your hand, easing back against the seat and smirking. “Maybe you’ve just gotten sweet on me, Dean Winchester.”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

Those five words shoved the knife in deep. And that stupid, patronizing nickname he called waitresses and a few snippy monsters. The name he had never called you before.

This… This ache now flared up inside you.

It was worse, so much worse than all the flirty banter, all the touching, fuck - everything else.

Sweetheart.

You were happy when the car pulled up outside the club, throwing open the door and escaping from the Winchesters and those five stupid words that were rattling around in your head.

—

You made your way to the bar, desperately needing a shot of anything to slow down the whirling of thoughts in your head. You should have known better than to have feelings for Dean “I Don’t Know How to Keep it in My Pants” Winchester. Maybe you should leave once you returned to the Bunker…

You’d figure that out after the case. No one else would die on your watch.

A quick call to Trixie while you’d been out cooling down had placed you in the middle of tonight’s roster so you’d have time to locate the potential witch, sing to draw her out, and then hopefully seclude and gank her murdering ass.

“Another Lady Mormont? Or would it be Lady Brienne?” You chuckle as Gregor pours you another, winking.

“I would like to think I’m a nice mix of both, but more of a Brienne.”

“Well, I shall be back shortly. My lady.” He nods, grinning widely before heading off to your left to help some other customers.

You phone dings and you tug it from your back pocket.

+ Sam: We have eyes on both the women. +

You throw back the shot, fighting the cough that manifests as it burns down your throat.

Trixie chooses to appear before you can type out a response to Sam, so damn cheerful and perky as she clutched her clipboard. Jesus.

“So, we have a couple people who need a later slot, so you’ll be up next.” She peers at the clipboard, missing the wide-eyed stare you give. “Well, not next-next. After this lady finishes, there is a gentleman who is singing and then it’ll be you!” You nod at her, giving her your most convincing smile - hopefully - then turn back to the bar and order a plain water as you hear the last chords of Faith Hill’s ‘The Way You Love Me’ ring out. Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit!

You hadn’t sung publicly since you were in your high school choir and the nerves (and alcohol) were making your stomach flutter, twirl, and knot. You left what was left of your water at the bar, edging closer to the stage since the gentleman was already half-way through his odd rendition of Styx’s ‘Come Sail Away’.

The song you’d chosen, it’d been playing in your head for the last few weeks. You’d hit shuffle on your iPod right after Dean had snapped at you after the ghoul case. And really, no other song had seemed so perfect a fit.

“Give a warm welcome to a karaoke virgin, Y/N Tyler!” You swallowed hard, taking the offered microphone and standing mid-stage, chose a spot just above the crowd to focus and worked on channeling your inner-Cher. With a nod to the woman manning the soundboard, you inhale deeply, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet as the song began.

You’re struttin’ into town like you’re slingin’ a gun

Just a small-town dude with a big city attitude

Honey are you lookin’ for some trouble tonight

Well alright

You think you’re so bad, drive the women folk wild

Shoot ‘em all down with the flash of your pearly smile

Honey but you met your match tonight

Oh, that’s right

You think you’ll knock me off my feet

'Til I’m flat on the floor

'Til my heart is cryin’ Indian and I’m begin’ for more

So, come on baby

Come on baby

Come on baby show me what that loaded gun is for

If you can give it

I can take it

'Cause if this heart is gone break it’s going to take a lot to break it

I know tonight

Somebody’s gone win the fight

So, if you’re so tough

Come on and prove it

Your heart is down for the count and you know you’re gonna lose it

Tonight, you’re gonna go down in flames

Just like Jesse James

Dean moved away from his place leaning against the back wall, keeping an eye on Ashley temporarily forgotten as he stared at you like he’d never seen you before. He’s spellbound as you run your hands through your messy hair, this fire suddenly lighting up your eyes before they close momentarily as you sing, opening them as you shoot the crowd one of those sexy innocent smiles he was always hoping you’d direct at him.

You’re an outlaw lover and I’m after your hide

Well you ain’t so strong, won’t be long 'til your hands are tied

Tonight, I’m gonna take you in

Dead or Alive

That’s right

You break the laws of love in the name of desire

Take ten steps back

'Cause I’m ready baby

Aim and fire

Baby, there’s nowhere you going to run tonight

Ooh That’s right

Well you’ve had your way with love but it’s the end of the day

Now a team of wild horses couldn’t drag your heart away

So, come on baby

Come on baby

Come on baby you know there ain’t nothing left to say

If you can give it

I can take it

'Cause if this heart is gonna break it’s gonna take a lot to break it

I know tonight

Somebody’s gonna win the fight

So, if you’re so tough

Come on and prove it

Your heart is down for the count and you know you’re gonna lose it

Tonight, you’re gonna go down in flames

Just like Jesse James

+ Sam to Dean: Holy shit. Did you know she could sing like that?! +

+ Sam to Dean: You are so beyond screwed. I kinda hope she eats you alive after this. +

You think you’ll knock me off my feet

'til I’m flat on the floor

'Til my heart is cry in’ Indian and I’m begin’ for more

So, come on baby

Come on baby

Come on

If you can give it

I can take it

'Cause if this heart is gonna break it’s gonna take a lot to break it

I know tonight

Somebody’s gonna win the fight

So, if you’re so tough

Come on and prove it

Your heart is down for the count and you know you’re gonna lose it

Tonight, you’re gonna go down in flames

Just like Jesse James

Tonight, you’re gonna go down in flames

Just like Jesse James

Tonight, you’re gonna go down in flames

Just like Jesse James

I’m gonna shoot ya down Jesse James

The bar loses its collective shit.

There are hoot and hollers, shouts of “You OWNED that!” and a couple “Cher would be proud, honey!” along with lots of loud applause ringing out around you. You fight the heat rising in your cheeks, raising a hand in recognition and scurrying off the stage as fast as you can manage without looking too desperate.

All the nerves make you beeline for the restroom, stopped every couple feet from the stage by people who are congratulating you on an amazing, heartfelt performance. You nod and thank them for their kind words, hurrying to relieve your bladder.

When you exit the stall, Marcia is leaning against the sink closest to the door. A quick glance confirms the fact that she’s locked the door. Well so much for sneaking up on the witch…

You wash your hands calmly, taking the paper towel she offers as her mouth stretched into a wide, Cheshire grin.

“You were pretty damn good up there, Agent.” She taps a sunflower yellow nail against her chin thoughtfully. “Or should I say, Hunter?” You clench your jaw but say nothing, waiting and trying to formulate a plan. Other than one of the Winchesters were gonna get their ass handed to them for this little slip-up. “The others, they sang with the same emotion and depth you did. They were underappreciated. Not unlike myself. My coven didn’t appreciate the power I brought to the table. My mother didn’t think I was smart enough to run the family business. And my dear husband, well he didn’t love me how I should be loved. How you should be loved. The one with green eyes, the one who was flirting with the female bartender, oh, and the waitress when you all went to lunch. And let’s not forget the second guy’s ex - he doesn’t love you. Not how you want - or deserve. I simply want to remedy that.” She chuckles, pushing away from the sink and moving to block the exit.

“Y/N, you know I’m not the bad guy. He fucks every woman who will let him - and let’s face it - with those good looks, not many women are saying no. And every hookup, every smirk, smile and flirty line, they just end up as tiny wounds in your heart. I want him to feel that. To understand the ache you feel. That’s why I already left him a little present.”

“You can’t make people love you. You can’t make someone pay for something that happens a million times a day all over the world. Heartache happens. It’s what makes us human - that vulnerability, that need to be loved - and I will not let you hurt another person simply because you believe yourself to be in the right!” You’re moving forward before the last word tumbles from your lips, quickly chanting out a basic protection spell as you pull the gun and silencer from your back and put a single witch-killing bullet into her heart.

+ Y/N to Sam: Witch ganked. Paging Cas to get rid of the body. Meet me by Baby. +

Cas answers your prayer quicker than usual, disappearing with her body less than a handful of seconds after you’d explained the situation. You exit the bathroom in a damn near sprint, rushing out into the chilly night air. Thank God, you’d shoved a pair of gloves into your front pocket!

Sam and Dean are leaning against the Impala as you yank the too-big gloves on, planting yourself firmly before Dean, hands sliding into his right inner jacket pocket.

“Y/N - what are you…” You don’t bother to answer Dean, moving to the outside pockets before sweeping your hands over his ass, your brow furrowed as he clears his throat. “What couldn’t wait to get your hands on me, Y/N??”

“Oh yes, Dean. Hexed dudes are so hot. Take me now.” Each word is dripping with sarcasm, rolling your eyes as your hands slip into the front pockets of his jeans.

“Really, Y/N? Like the hex bag is gonna be in there?” Sam gives a sharp whistle and you stop, looking up at the hex bag he’s dangling from the edge of his pocket knife.

“You ass! I thought you were in danger!”

“That why you gave my ass a firm squeeze when you were sifting through my empty pockets?” You want to punch him, you really do; a) because you didn’t think to squeeze that fine ass when you were rummaging through his pockets and b) you thought he was in danger and they both knew he wasn’t. You take a calming breath, tugging off the gloves and tossing them at Sam’s face.

“Well, I suppose you were right, Dean. Your jeans are pretty tight, but ya know, better safe than sorry.” You move around Sam and Dean, both standing there gaping at you. They knew your temper, how to rile you up. And normally you tended to take the bait. But after the whirlwind of emotion you’d been through today, in particular, you didn’t have it in you to play. Sliding into the back seat you wait for a few seconds before rolling the back window down. “We headed out to burn that thing or are you gonna stand there?”

—

The ride to the motel is quiet.

Sam makes quick work of burning the hex bag in the metal ice bucket, Cas popping in about twenty minutes later to hear the full details of the case. You excuse yourself to the bathroom, rinsing off the makeup and grittiness in the shower, and you let yourself cry a little too.

While the witch had been a crazed romance hating bitch, she’d been right. He’d never love you how you wanted. But you were also right - you couldn’t make Dean love you. And really, you wouldn’t want that. Dean had mentioned (once you had come to his room one night with your laptop open to a Supernatural fan site you had stumbled on) that Becky had given Sam a love spell, convinced him to marry her. That wasn’t what you wanted at all.

You blow dry your hair just to buy more time in case your eyes are still puffy. Exiting the bathroom, you’re more than a little surprised to see your packed duffle and purse on the bed closest to the door. Sam and Cas are missing, Dean leaning against the little partition wall by the door.

“I wasn’t sure if you needed anything for the drive home.”

“Just my headphones.” You reply, pulling them from your purse’s side pocket and tucking them into your sweatpants pocket before reaching for your bags.

“I got it.” Dean moves forward, hand out to take them from you.

“I already have them, Dean. Just please open the door. Is the trunk open?”

“Yeah, it’s open.” He leaves enough room for you to pass by, enough to be polite at least and slams the door shut behind him. You set your bags into the trunk, ignoring his little outburst. Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow as you settle into the back seat with Cas, giving him a cheery hello and thank you before shrugging at Sam. You pop in your headphones and stare out the window, about to let Josh Groban lull your too tired mind to sleep when the door is suddenly wrenched open, Dean’s big hands reaching inside to grab you. Letting out a startled squeak, you instinctively push his hands away, but he’s got a hell of a grip on your forearm. He pushes you a lot more gently that you thought he would up against the car, his lips brushing gently against your own.

You jerk away like you’ve been burned.

“What the fuck?!” You shout, Sam and Cas shooting out of the car. “Huh? First, you’ve been pissy flirty with me since that ghoul attack now you haul me out of the car and kiss me?!” Shoving at his chest, you search his face. Those candy apple green eyes bore into your own, the rest of his face melting from worried to contemplative to relaxed.

“I- I can’t lose you. I care about you. Maybe a little too much. That ghoul attack, it - it fucked me up. I just kept thinking, what if you died? There isn’t going to be any more damn underwear hanging all over the bathroom. No more getting up 2 in the morning to find you passed out in the library with a cold cup of tea on the table. No more never-ending movie quotes - half of them from movies I’ve never even seen.” His fingers brush through your hair, tucking it behind your ear like you usually tend to. “Who else was gonna shed everywhere? I mean, you shed worse than Sam. Who else is gonna make me those tiny pies and snap at me when I eat most of them? Which, I stand by this, they are equal to one whole pie.”

“You shouldn’t be eating a whole pie either, Dean!” The fingers that just tucked the hair behind your ear move to brush over your cheek, a smile stretched across his face.

“You were right. I am sweet on you. Have been since day one. Didn’t succumb to any of my lines, any of my dazzling smiles or nicknames. Hell, the first couple times we hunted, you wouldn’t give me the time of day. And, well, I like a challenge.” Dean flashed an easy but knowing smile, leaning down to kiss you again.

“Whoa there.” You hear Sam chuckle behind you. “So, you think you get to be a dick to me for the last month but now I’m just going to fall into your arms? This isn’t a chick flick, even though I know you love them.”

“I don’t -”

“I’m not finished.” Dean straightened up at your sharp tone. You fisted your hands around the edges of his jacket, keeping him from pulling too far away. “I care about you too. And Sam. And Cas. I’ve been hunting since I was 22 and I’m pretty good at it.”

“I didn’t say -” You give him a pointed look, watching him close his mouth and huff.

“I don’t need you to protect me, but I do appreciate it when you guys have my back. We’ve all had close calls. I nearly bled out six years ago hunting a murderous Shedu. We’re hunters, Dean. My life isn’t guaranteed. But if you pull your head out of your ass, I will continue to leave my underwear hanging out to dry in the bathroom. And shed all over the clothes and you won’t complain because I’m the one doing the damn laundry.” You raise up a little on your feet, using your grip on Dean for balance. “I’ll consider making you pie once you’ve apologized to me properly. And you will never call me sweetheart ever again. Oh, and dial the overprotectiveness down a couple notches. If you let Claire hunt, you should -” Dean cut off the rest of your sentence with his lips. His arm moved as you two pulled away, those nice, big hands gripping the back of your thighs, encouraging you to wrap your legs around him as he lifted you up. “You think I’m just going to sleep with you now?!”

“We’ll see you in the morning!” Dean calls out happily, shifting so his arm was firmly under your ass so he could use his right hand to open the motel door. Dean is about to kick the door shut when you hear Sam holler for you, catching the door before it closed. He holds up your purse, dropping it onto the table before rushing from the room with the Impala keys clutched firmly in his hand. Dean drops you onto the bed, watching you bounce with a grin then moving to lock the door.

“Now that we’re all alone, I believe I need to apologize.” Dean begins, shrugging out of his jacket and flannel. You swallow, nodding as you watch him. He reaches behind him, grabbing hold of the dark gray material and pulling it over his head, revealing a wealth of freckled and scarred skin. His hands move down to his belt, smirking as he watches your eyes take him in. “Or maybe I’ll just do like you sang. Just go down in flames, since you already have me crying Indian and begging for more.”

“So, a team of wild horses couldn’t drag your heart away, Jesse James?”

“Nope, I met my match.”

“Does that mean I won the fight?” You ask as he crawls over you, cupping his stupidly handsome face.

“Yeah, princess, you won.”

“Good. Then get ready for a long night of apologetic cuddling, Winchester.”

#spndivas #divas of storytelling challenge #leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid #kitchenwitchsuperwhovian #just like jesse james #dean Winchester x reader #dean x reader #supernatural reader insert #supernatural fanfiction #spn #sam winchester #castiel #tiny bit of angst

79 notes · View notes