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society1989 · 5 months ago

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a love like blood - marcus sedgwick | BOOK REVIEW

🗓️ DATE RELEASED;

JULY 2014

📚 GENRE;

HORROR/HISTORICAL FICTION/THRILLER

⭐️ PERSONAL RATING;

HEAVILY ENJOYED, ABSOLUTELY NEEDS A REREAD. CAN BE HARD FOR THOSE WITH SENSITIVE STOMACHS. EXTRA THOUGHTS (SPOILER & NON-SPOILER) BELOW THE CUT.

💭 thoughts (non-spoiler edition);

for the october season, i really wanted to read a mystery/supernatural book and (though i had initially been looking for interview with a vampire) i found a love like blood in my college’s library.

the book follows a young charles jackson, starting with his time in the army during WW2, and his life after the war. during the war, he sees a man feed on a woman, drinking her blood. he’s horrified. he can no longer find the man once he calls for help, so he moves on with his life.. until he once again sees the man who now is sitting with a young woman. in fear of repeating the cycle, charles follows the young woman in hope for answers.

wow what a read! with amazing moral analysis and themes of obsession and revenge, this was such a hard book to put down. the dizzying descriptions of europe add to the hazy, somber atmosphere the story leads you on. charles jackson is a fundamentally flawed and often unlikable protagonist, but sedgwick manages to keep you intrigued and - sometimes - rooting for him! though without much plot twists, the story still manages to surprise with new revelations, letting you learn along with the protagonist. can easily go from a 1 to a 50, but the looming presence of danger kept it from being jarring and kept me pretty tense. absolutely recommend reading blind, i even think im spoiling too much here!!! around 300 pages, this book is quite shorter but not at all sweet lol!

💬 thoughts (spoiler edition, be warned!);

okay let’s get into the fun stuff now :]

i love the unreliable narrator of it all when charles talks to.. other people (marian, hunter, etc). you can very well tell how much of A Creep he can come across as, especially with marian. love how you never really know her side of the story, and its mainly left up to interpretation how she really felt about charles (psst i know the letter marian’s mom sent and what verovkin said kinda confirms she trusted him in some way but i still think it’s left a bit open ended.. i don’t know!)

charles’ slow spiral into obsession was by far the most unnerving part of the book. it’s just so gradual yet you see him fall deeper and deeper seemingly by the minute! he’s unrecognizable by the end, appearance and personality wise - it’s less like a man losing his sanity, and more so an animal who’s contracted a rabid disease and slowly lost its identity, merely staggering through life but hostile when you approach too close. my favorite section that shows this is when he’s approached by the couple in the train. they’re so aggressively friendly and seemingly brush off all the social cues charles fails at, and all charles sees is danger and can barely even respond to them. the book also drags you into his paranoia; everyone seems to be in on something while you and charles are left in the dark. this is especially apparent in avignon, in which verovkin’s ideals seemed to have infected everyone in the city. no one is a friendly face and everyone has an ulterior motive.

jesus christ the two last sections had me by the THROAT. this entire book is about charles’ psyche in a way (more on that later…), but i feel like he finally “took the mask off” for lack of a better word. in earlier chapters he had put on a character/persona to excuse his actions, but near the end we get the rawest form of him: he openly questions his motives, if he truly cared for those closest to him, and his desires. i especially love the implication that the real reason verovkin didn’t care about charles escaping is because he didn’t need to keep him chained - verovkin knew that charles was already influenced, the blood being fed was just a placebo. and the last few pages OUGH! literature!!

🖋️analysis;

war is an unspoken main theme. we meet charles when he is actively in the army, and follow him and all of europe after the war. we learn verovkin is a veteran who served on both sides, and we then begin to understand his desire for blood. he’s seen men die, more than anyone else has in the story, and once soldiers are told to put their weapons down and live their quiet life, what happens to those who can’t? the frenzy and bloodshed of war will forever clash with the restlessness and false hope of a peace period, and some will not wait that long to start once again looking for that moment of chaos. verovkin didn’t, and as evident by the book, it’s charles’ turn to revel in that glimpse of disorder only obtained through blood. war is unpredictable: as is love, as is lust, and as is violence. as sedgwick writes, “How ill we were! How sick our lives were, how empty, how grey. Without the war to tell us that life was precious, what were we? Threaten to take something from us and we grasp on it with desperate desire; give it back to us, and how soon we grow tired of it!” (32). there’s a deep sickness that has spread throughout europe in a love like blood, and it yearns for a life of over-indulgence and desiring what you can’t have.

one strange reoccurring theme i just couldn’t ignore is charles’ assumed homosexuality by others. a total of three times charles is accused to be gay and, of course, vehemently denies the claim. interestingly the first time this happens is after he sees verovkin. hm. maybe it’s just a me-thing, but i couldn’t help but read his interactions with major greaves as a little romantic! i would also argue that this line is a good example of what i'm talking about: "...and althought there were people dancing, and the large clubs had reopened, I found myself longing for Major Greaves to pour me a glass of house wine and tell me to call him Edward" (32). however, i feel like the earlier lines in the excerpt contradict this, and this line seems to be mostly about the book's war theme and the loneliness of post-war france. but, it is true he is never able to replicate this kind of closeness with any of the women he pursues, and that strikes me as intentional. the closest people to him throughout the book are hunter (his best friend and is later outed as a homosexual) and verovkin (the man charles has spent decades trying to track down). this line from verovkin especially made me question this theory a little further: "First of all, I am going to find out what it is about you. What is inside you. I believe you have a connection to blood, just as I do, and I am going to make you find it. I don't know what it is, but I know it's there. You are fascinated by blood just as you are scared by it" (276). let me clarify: one could definitely speculate on if this interaction with verovkin was real or not, no matter how you interpret the novel. of course in the actual text it appears to be him, but you could definitely interpret this brief interaction as a hallucination from charles. apart from this monologue verovkin delivers, the two never interact face to face before NOR after this! if we're going with a queer reading, the blood is the analogy; it's something charles is vehemently afraid of but yet is endlessly fascinated by. verovkin is this ultimate evil he blames all his issues on, blames him for making charles the way he ends up - yet it's always been charles' own doing! much like how closeted/repressed queer people blame their queerness on the fault of others/ "you made me like this".

i feel like i would be doing this novel an injustice by ignoring the non-con elements of the vampiric/hemophiliac deaths. by default, the nature of vampires is non-consensual, but the usage of words like “forced” and “attacked” make marcus sedgwick’s stance clear. even worse is that charles had seen the first attack and did nothing to stop it. paralyzed by his own fear he does not stop the assault and can absolutely be faulted for her death. using the fact that charles is a bit of creep (a bit being an understatement), we see him get rejected over and over again - he is even cheated on in the loveless marriage he was in. then, by the end of the book, he kills verovkin and repeats the cycle of assault. he has an endless amount of money and time on his hands to escape from his crimes now.

📝favorite quotes (spoilers yet again);

#book of the month: review #first time actually write a proper book review be nice… please ^^#marcus sedgwick #this is a bit of a jumbled mess of a review but hopefully i am coherent enough? lol? anyways good book can’t wait to pick out a nov read

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windvexer · 2 years ago

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This wants to be from my main and I can't change that for some reason. My witch blog is stormy-witch86 (I think? It might not have a hyphen but it's been reblogging a lot of your stuff this week since i just found your masterpost.)

I'm a new witch, in deeper explanation I have only performed a few jar spells and done some spell sachets. I've done quite a bit of reading to get started. So brand new, "baby witch". I was wondering about banishment, but in a very different sense. I love someone who is a very toxic person. And I want to banish them from my heart and my mind. Is this something you've ever done or heard about being done? Do you think Aphrodite would be a good Goddess to help me? If not any idea who or how?

I kinda thought so long as I write my intentions down and focus properly then they would understand and help me. I don't pray to Aphrodite regularly and understand she'll need an offering for her help. Or any deity/spirit would truly.

I know I'm about to get my heart broken, but my self control is nill. Any suggestions or information would be so appreciated. If you don't answer, I'll understand. And Thank you for putting all yours wonderful information here. It's been really helpful already.

Stormy-witch86 💜

Hello :) Yes, Tumblr will only let you send off-anon asks from your Main. Which is sad. But here we are.

I'm sorry you're having to deal with this. It sounds like a very difficult and stressful situation, but I applaud you for wanting to take proactive steps to elevate yourself into a better situation.

I'd like to say something which I've just now realized I may have been misrepresenting:

Not all gods or spirits actually require payment for their help. All the time I say that they do (I hope I don't say it like that, though, I hope I say stuff like it's good and helpful and polite and respectful to give payments and offerings and stuff).

But it depends. I mean, you don't have to give an offering to Jesus Christ before asking him for help. IIRC you're supposed to ask him for help all the time, actually, and doing so is a good thing and a sign of faith.

The reason I emphasize payment and gift-giving so much in my writing is because I've seen a lot of practitioners just be takers. Like, they genuinely believe there doesn't need to be any level of reciprocity in their spiritual relationships.

And due to the specific path I work, physical offerings are an important part of cultivating power. Which is why I tend to emphasize them.

But that might not be what you need.

So I think it's super important to underline the fact that if you happened to get the "Aphrodite needs an offering in exchange for help" thing from me, that my beliefs absolutely must be understood in the context that I'm literally just one person sharing what's important to me, but what's important to me might not be valid or true for anyone else.

I just don't want you to feel like you're in a position where nobody will help you unless you pay them - because this isn't true. Gods often help out of love and compassion.

I have never interacted with Aphrodite but I hear she's lovely. I think that if you want to pray to her and ask her for help, you should feel comfortable doing so.

Spellwork to stop ourselves from thinking about someone or wanting to be with them can be very tricky. I'd recommend a freezer spell to cool down their influence over you, or mirror spell to stop yourself from "seeing them."

Without going into too much detail, I think this type of magic can work, but pulling it off can be difficult and probably needs to be paired with active self-therapy in order to be very effective.

#answered

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singtotheskiies · 4 years ago

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dried blood on smooth skin // five hargreeves x reader

summary: five hargreeves really needs patching up—in more ways than one.

words: 1655

warnings: brief language, descriptions of blood, otherwise just that sweet touch-starved fluff we all crave

a/n: i’m a klaus kinda girl, but this is me working through why i find five so goddamn attractive

✖️✖️✖️

Normally, when Five Hargreeves blinks into your room, it’s because he wants to escape from the stifling presence of his father or because you’ve begged for his help with your math homework (the man has no right being so smart). He always manages to sneak out on your birthday and bring you a donut from Griddy’s and something you value even more—his companionship, even if only for a few minutes. Sometimes, you tell him he should be more careful—his father has eyes all over the house; he must suspect that something’s going on. Five always dismisses your protests, telling you not to worry about it—he’s got it under control.

He comes to you because you’re a constant for him, a sense of normalcy. Whenever he needs an escape from the constant hierarchy and trauma of his house (which is often), he can come to you and relish in your laughter and friendship and caring aura. Of course, he’s never said all of this to you outright, but you understand anyway. You know Five well enough to know that underneath all his bluster and know-it-all attitude, he appreciates you—the only person he can really call his friend.

Today is different, though. When the blue flash of light materializes in your bedroom, you jump, dropping your book to the ground. “Christ, Five, didn’t we talk about—“ You trail off as you see the state he’s in. His clothes are torn and disheveled, something he would normally never allow. The parts of his face not covered in blood are stark white, matching his knuckles as they clench up at his sides. God, there’s blood everywhere. Is it his? There’s so much—there’s no way his body could produce that much, right?—and it’s thick and clotted onto his normally pristine skin and suit, concentrated especially on a spot on his right side. You notice he’s barely moved in the several seconds you’ve been gaping at him, merely swaying side to side weakly.

“What the fuck happened?” you begin, but are cut off by his knees buckling. You catch him just in time, guiding him to your desk chair before he can ruin your carpet.

“Mission—gone wr-wrong,” he pants, barely able to get the words out.

“Why didn’t you stay with your siblings? They know how to handle this st—“

“I don’t want their help.” He cuts you off, managing to instill an incredible amount of venom in his words as they stutter past his gritted teeth. “Their fault.”

“Okay, well, why didn’t you jump to a hospital, or your mom, or someone who could actually help!? Jesus, Five, you could—“

“I—I did come to someone who can help. It would be really—nice—if you started,” he breathes, brow drawn tight in pain. Sweat and dried blood mix together in the furrows of his dusky skin, and something about that sight kicks you into action.

“Okay, I need to get this jacket off you. Can you lift your arms?” He grunts in what you take to be an affirmative response, and you manage to wrestle the piece of clothing off him without jarring him too much. You’re left with the sight of blood pouring out of him, staining the weave of his bright white dress shirt, and you tighten your jaw as realization sets in. “Uh, Five? I need to—um—take your shirt off,” you almost whisper, trying to ignore the rising flush in your cheeks. He barely summons a weak nod, and you take that as your go-ahead.

Hands shaking, you start at his neck, working your way down. With each button unfastened, more and more tanned, smooth skin becomes visible. After what seems like an eternity, you reach the last button, sliding your hands back up to his shoulders to ease his sleeves off. You take in the expanse of freckled, smooth skin now exposed to the air. You wonder how he hasn’t got more scars on missions—every inch and plane of skin you can see is soft-looking and somehow catches the light as he breathes in and out laboriously. But then your eyes land on the bullet wound spilling blood onto his side and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “Shit,” you curse. “I’ll be right back.”

You run into your bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit you have for emergencies. Your breath is coming quickly—you know that every second is crucial to Five’s wellbeing. Coming back into the room, you grab gauze and disinfectant. “This is gonna sting,” you warn, and he merely rests his head back onto your desk, clenching his jaw.

There’s far too much blood to wipe off completely, so you focus on cleaning the area around the wound quickly. You can’t see the bullet, and a quick question to Five confirms that it’s not lodged inside—just scraped up against some things and went on its way. You grab a few gauze pads, placing them securely against his torso with medical tape. The softness of his skin makes your heart soar and drop simultaneously, but you push the thought out of your head. You need to get him feeling better.

Once the gauze is on, you focus on cleaning up the rest of his bloodied torso. After a few minutes, Five feels the strength to sit up and take ginger sips of the water bottle you’ve offered him. The water seems to do him some good, and you sit back from cleaning his skin for a moment, relieved at the sight of some light returning to his eyes.

“Better?” you ask, sliding his shirt back on gently. He merely nods in response, lips pursed in a half-smile. His dimple is covered in sticky dried blood, and that sets you on your next mission.

“I’m gonna clean up your face, okay? You don’t want anything getting in your eyes or mouth,” you say. Five tries to protest, but you cut him off. “If you came to me for help, then you’re going to sit there and get it,” you say sternly.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Guess I brought it upon myself.” You shoot him a look and get busy.

There’s quite a bit of blood at his hairline, and you clean up the series of cuts there. His normally perfect, shiny hair is sweaty and slightly matted in spots. Before you can stop yourself, you bring a cool hand to his forehead and sweep some of the dark strands off his forehead. He makes a soft noise in response, green eyes fluttering halfway closed in relief. Your heart clenches at the sound. You take in the weary and touch-starved boy before you, all dusky skin and stirring limbs. Bending closer, you press a feather-soft, lingering kiss to his hairline before you can think better of it. His eyes shoot back open and he regards you with a look so intense you can barely decipher what’s going on.

“Okay?” you ask in a whisper.

“Please—“ he mumbles hoarsely. “Don’t—don’t stop.” Your brows draw together in both pity and overwhelming affection, and you begin to softly clean up another cut on his cheek. After the blood is soaked up by the disinfectant, you place your lips on the small wound. You give the same treatment to a spot on his chin, then to a bruise under his eye, and then to his dimple—the dimple that’s tugged at your heart every single time he’s smiled at you in the past. As your lips leave the freckled spot, you meet his eyes again.

His lids are hooded, tired. They barely close when he blinks, his eyelashes dipping down to brush the freckled apples of his cheeks. His eyes, though, are less drowsy and more intense. They regard you with something akin to both sorrow and want. You blush under their gaze, wanting to look away from their intensity but finding yourself unable to. Your hand reaches up, your middle three fingers tracing an impossibly soft line from the shell of his ear to the corner of his lips. Your fingertips pause, hovering just over where the tip of his mouth is curving into the smallest of smiles. Five’s hand comes slowly up to meet yours, his fingers enveloping yours splayed over his cheek. He breathes in, once, and the look in his eyes breathes with him. Then, the space between you is filled and your mind is narrowed down to two things: the overlapping of your fingers and lips.

He’s soft, and so so warm—almost feverish, but it just adds to the potency of every tiny movement. His mouth is both quiet and everywhere, filling up the backs of your closed eyes. You change the angle slightly, nosing his cheek as you reconnect your mouths with gentle hunger. He smiles softly, and you pull away a fraction to kiss at his dimple as it imprints itself on his cheek. His hands come up on either side of your head, softly combing through your hair before stilling at your jaw. He rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel his eyelashes brush against your cheeks as he kisses the bridge of your nose. His lips are lingering and filled with so much love it makes you want to cry.

“Thanks for patching me up,” he whispers, voice husky due to the quiet volume.

“If that’s what’s waiting for me every time you get hurt, I’d almost tell you to get in trouble more often,” you manage.

“We’ll see about that,” he says, and you straighten his unbuttoned collar before going in again. He moans this time, soft and low, and you smirk at his exhalation.

“That good, huh?” you quip. He grimaces, indicating where you’ve accidentally pressed on the bloody gauze. Giggling an apology, you reposition yourself so that your hands are around his strong, wiry arms.

“Guess I’ll have to take another look at that,” you say.

“If you must.”

And his eyes regain their roguish light.

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queenshelby · 4 years ago

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The Necklace

31 Days of Kink: Day 24

Pairing: Chris (Free Fire) x Reader

Warning: Smut

Words: 1788

Your husband Chris was perfect. Caring and loving, always needing and wanting to spoil you with gifts.

Quite often, during his deals, he would get some extra for you as part of the transaction and it was just yesterday that he gifted you a beautiful necklace for which you hadn’t even thanked him yet.

Your surprises and gifts for him were different, physical and erotic.

When he came home after a long day, you would often wait for him in some nice lingerie and then let him have his way with you.

But it was hardly his way alone. He always made sure to please you. Yet, you enjoyed the thought of being taken by him and he sure didn’t mind to play along.

It was just like that tonight, when he walked through the door of your condo and you didn’t even bother wearing anything at all this time around. Anything but the necklace he had given you.

‘Jesus Fucking Christ’ Chris huffed out as he walked into the door and saw you sitting there, completely nude, on one of the bar chairs.

‘Well hello there husband’ you winked and he immediately dropped his bag which contained cash and several guns, before taking off his jacket, shoes, shirt and jeans in a haste.

‘What do you want Love?’ he then asked, smirking at you through his moustache, while wearing nothing but his sexy black briefs.

‘What I want is for you to throw me down onto the couch and do what you want with me’ you said eagerly and, just like that, a sense of heat spread across Chris’s body, making it difficult for him to think of any retort.

When he finally walked over towards you, instead of kissing him, you grabbed his hand, pushed it against your already wet mound to collect some of your wetness and then brought that hand to your mouth and sucked at a finger.

‘Have me the way you want Chris’ you said with your finger in his mouth.

His cock strained at his boxers, screaming out for deliverance. You moved on to the other fingers, sucking at each one to taste the wetness that dappled them. The sight floored him, the desire rising higher, the heat burning hotter.

When you finished cleaning his fingers of your own wetness, you stared straight at him.

‘Please, Chris, take me, take me right fucking now...’ you said and you knew that he loved it when you begged for him.

Chris grabbed you by the hips, carried you across the room and tossed your down onto the couch.

‘Is that what you want Love?’ Chris smirked as pushed down his briefs, letting his hard cock spring free.

‘Oh yes’ you cried excitedly and, just as you did, his hands went to slide down your thighs before he positioned himself on top of you.

He was ready and eager and, without losing any time, he quickly pushed inside you, the warmth and wetness of your channel eagerly welcoming him. That sensation made him buck his hips, sending more of his length through that slit. As you moaned, he took a firm hold of your thighs, and drove forward, fitting every inch inside you.

Your moan turned into a squeal, your back arching sharply, your legs trembling in his grasp.

Chris took his time indulging in the moment. The silky heat of your pussy was an exquisite present. Quivers ran over him as he let his eyes drink in the expression currently plastered across your face, the raw desire etched there, your eyes lit up with lust, your lips gasping open as you took shallow breaths, your cheeks flushing darker.

Oh god yes’ you moaned, reciprocating with your own intent gaze.

His hips drew back, and he glanced down to watch your slit letting him leave, the inches of his shaft now gleaming with juices. A whine came from you, but fortunately for you, his retreat was only halfway, as he shoved forward, driving back inside you, making your squeal happily.

He growled at how desperately your pussy clutched at him. His grip on your thighs was unforgiving, his fingers digging into the flesh there. Your squeal calmed into purrs, and you wriggled restlessly, your hands clenched on the arm of the couch just above your head.

Again, his hips drew back, and again that retreat was met with a whine. Once again, your misery was short-lived, his cock only slipping out halfway before he sent it back all the way into that welcoming channel, the slightly harder thrust jarring you.

‘Ooh fuck yes, Chris, fuck’ you moaned and your coo of praise drew another growl from him, and he slid back again, watching your delight morph into misery, watching the misery revert to delight thanks to another thrust.

The misery disappeared altogether as he began to fuck you, holding tightly to your thighs, using that grip to keep your legs raised and spread, making sure there was nothing that could get in between your bodies. His hips pumped smoothly, the rhythm insistent but not too harsh, keeping some strength in reserve.

Full-throated cries erupted from you. They were mostly wordless expressions of pleasure, but every so often, there would come a wail of ‘Chris’. Hearing you call out to him made him fuck you harder, his cock screwing through your channel, his balls whacking loudly against your taint.

Those cries calmed then, and he felt your pussy spasming around him. Your orgasm was strong, shudders breaking over your figure, juices streaming from your sex. You were staring up towards him, but your eyes were unfocused.

He thrust to the base inside you, and held himself there, wanting to luxuriate in the moment once again, thrilled that he had so easily brought about ecstasy for you.

‘Chris’ you purred as your tongue peeked out to run over your lips, drawing his attention to them.

He stared into your eyes and then kissed you passionately, his moustache tingling your skin above your lips as he did. You moaned into his mouth with your legs wrapped around him. He let his tongue sneak past your lips to wriggle against you.

Your squirming was restless, your legs tightening around him, your hands grabbing at his shoulders. The slick warmth surrounding his cock was a wondrous delight, those tender muscles clutching desperately, hoping to keep him entrenched there.

Besides the squirming, you were content to be underneath him, to let him have his way with you, to let his tongue roam around in your mouth. There was no attempt to make him start thrusting again.

Chris drew back, breaking the kiss before he caught your hands by the wrists. There was a squeak of surprise from you as he pulled you up and pinned those hands to the armrest. You were face to face and Chris had immobilised you, causing you to moan in almost fearful lust and hunger for him.

He kissed you again. There was no fight in you, no resistance, no struggling. You only moaned into his mouth as you made out.

Moments later, he drew his hips back, and began to fuck you again, slowly working his way up to the previous pace.

Another orgasm soon ran over you, as evidenced by your muffled cry and the wild spasming of your channel.

Again, he broke the kiss, partly to better hear that cry. It rang out loud in the living room, the ecstatic notes provoking him to fuck you even harder. His hips snapped back and forth, pinning you to the couch along with his hands, that combination making sure you was completely helpless.

‘Fuck yes’ he groaned and you squealed giddily, delighted that Chris was fucking you so ruthlessly.

More ecstasy washed over your already wracked frame and the thrusts still carried on, sending Chris’s cock deep inside you again and again. The repeating whack of his balls slapping against your taint was loud in the room. As he fucked you, he groaned and grunted, sucking at your neck. His hands were tight around your wrists, almost to the point of pain, but whatever discomfort there was only accentuated your helplessness.

There was no doubt now in him, no restraint, no hesitation. The couch creaked from his efforts, his grunts and groans loud in your ears, the smell of his sweat tickling her nose. You complemented his grunts and groans with your moans and mewls.

His hands squeezed harder at your wrists, a delicious pain sparking there. And then he thrust deep and stopped, his cock throbbing dangerously.

‘Fill me up Chris, please’ you cooed, anticipating the gift he was about to give you.

He came inside you, the first burst sending you straight into another orgasm, the following ones increasing your ecstasy. As much as you had wanted to say something when you had felt that heated flood roiling through you, all that you had managed was a soft mewl, a meek and pitiful sound. Your pussy met the deluge with a gush of its own and you shuddered amidst the euphoria, feeling the rest of the spurts fire off inside you.

Your legs relaxed from around his waist as your ecstasy dwindled, and by the time it had transitioned into afterglow, were slumped on the couch. The last spurt joined the rest, and Chris sighed in satisfaction, burying his face into the crook of your neck, not claiming another mouthful of flesh but rather just resting there.

After a few moments, he slid his hips back, letting that softening shaft slip from you.

By now, he had let go of your wrists, and was sitting back, his eyes fixed intently on your slit. Understanding what he wanted to see, and all too eager to give it to him, you spread your legs wider, showing off your slit and the river of semen starting to ooze forth. A blush bloomed on your skin at how entranced he was by the sight of you leaking his cum.

You purred happily, sinking back into the couch, your body unwinding. The afterglow was glorious, suffusing you with a luxurious calm. Your eyes closed, all the better to savor it.

‘I love coming home to my beautiful wife’ Chris then barely managed to say as his breathing returned to normal, taking you into his arms as he did.

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#cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian murphy imagine #Cillian Murphy x Reader #free fire #chris free fire

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shattersstar · 5 years ago

Text

i love you and we’re inventing a new way to hold hands

pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

excerpt: You smiled, you always smiled at him when no one else did. You let your hand fall over his, slowly pushing him off, knees tucking underneath your body as you leaned forward, a hand falling on his chest, nose nudging his and you were so close Jason almost had to go cross eyed to look at you. You let out a breathy laugh, fingers curling into his shirt before you kissed him.

warnings: canon typical violence, fluff, good communication™️

a/n: teehee a little break from requests because @dukethmas commented “i love you and we’re inventing a new way to hold hands” on this fic and i thought it was very pretty and resonated something deep in me so i thought i’d write something for zohra. It’s mostly a thank u for all ur wonderful comments i could be having the worst day or be tired of writing then u sweep in and just say the sweetest and point out such great things and it makes me love writing so thank u ily

—

He knew he loved you, it was one of the only things he was sure of. It wasn’t as jarring as he expected it to be, everyone in books and movies were jolted by love—shot by arrows or struck with realization or the words shouted so clearly in their direction—it was meant to catch you off guard. But for him, it crept through his apartment door, nestled on his couch and hung around during movie nights or study sessions, danced through the air when you’d sing purposely loud in the shower and sat on the counter in the kitchen when you bickered over breakfast about coffee or almonds or sleeping in socks of whatever.

So when you kissed him, hard—daring even—the love that had moved into his life was still there and it only smiled. Just like you, smiling wide when he kissed you back, fingers curling into his shirt, wrinkling it even more as he grasped your waist. He never wanted to stop kissing you—that thought was a bit more jarring, but he also hadn’t expected to kiss you, ever. Jason hadn’t really expected to kiss anyone in truth, he wasn’t good at romance, he didn’t even try to be. Sure he could flirt until his tongue fell off, and often shot far more than kind smiles to strangers when out, but romance, love, dating? That was a pipe dream, something he’d ignore in the early mornings when he’d return from patrol battered and bruised and still so fucking broken.

Then you showed up and maybe it was more than a dream. It was a goal. You treated love like that, something to be worked at, achieved, and worked at until your fingers bled and tears stained your cheeks. “Everything is a work in progress.” You’d mutter, half asleep and oddly philosophical at four in the morning. He laughed when you first said in, cheek pressed against his broad chest, the vibrations were warm and made you smile as you blinked up at him, half dazed and eyes glassy. He smiled down at you, nose nudging your forehead, eyes unable to stop themselves from dropping to your sleepy grin before you pressed yourself back against him. You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked underneath you while he sat next to you, Jeopardy muted as you dozed. He watched the show in silence, listening to the shift in your breathing, although it only lasted a few minutes as you head lulled forward unexpectedly, startling you both and waking you up out of your nap.

“Jesus Christ—“ You huffed, as you came to, once again making Jason laugh. You both didn’t comment on the way his hands jumped, ready to catch or hold or whatever, you before falling against his thighs.

“Enjoy your nap?” He teased as you shifted away, palm digging into your eye.

“Shut up. How long did I—“

“Few minutes.”

“I’m probably gonna go home then, I think if I fall asleep here again I won’t like—get up.” You shrugged, swinging your feet to the ground when a hand shot out, resting on your knee.

Jason hadn’t thought before doing, and he was acutely aware of the way his fingers flexed when your eyes dropped to his hand, gripping the fabric of your jeans, fingers long and cold.

He was always cold, even if you never asked you knew why, why he tensed when your shoulders bumped and you’d shudder, or how holding your hand was never an option because of how you’d shiver—arm prickling in goosebumps. You didn’t blame him, why would you, but you knew he didn’t like this odd quirk of his, didn’t like to address, notice it, have it happen. So you ignored it with him.

Until now, until you shuddered for different reasons.

“As comfy as your couch is—“

“No.” He breathed, your eyes moving from his hand to his face, uncertainty hung in your expression.

“No?”

“You can sleep in my bed. With me.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

You smiled, you always smiled at him when no one else did. You let your hand fall over his, slowly pushing him off, knees tucking underneath your body as you leaned forward, a hand falling on his chest, nose nudging his and you were so close Jason almost had to go cross eyed to look at you. You let out a breathy laugh, fingers curling into his shirt before you kissed him. He often revisited this moment, when he’d be out of the city, even when it was just a long night and he missed you. Missed you looking at him with so much adoration, letting your lips meet and not flinching away when his hands found your sides, pressing into the soft curves when you let his tongue explore your mouth, both of you pulling away, chests rising and falling visibly. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

And you did, you slept in his bedroom almost every night, even when he moved, the safe house you were used too suddenly a little less safe. You didn’t really move in though, he knew that was never really an option. You couldn’t not have a place to go when you argued or be responsible for it all if he died on patrol, and you needed your apartment so you could put photos of him. He didn’t like them, he never liked looking at himself—he always looked so off.

He was too thin as a kid, even as Robin he was all skin and bone, arms a little too long and hair an unruly mess of curls. Then he came back, tall and broad, but now his hair was streaked in white and his eyes weren’t brown anymore. They were a vivid green, another effect from the pit and he hated them. You had seen photos of him as a kid, the difference was quite stark, the deep auburn they once were now replaced with a gemstone sort of green, sharp and intense. Sometimes you wondered if his eyes were still brown, if they’d bore into your soul the way they do now. You once suggested contacts, the most you ever dared to touch upon the subject, you earned a half scoff, half laugh and shrugged it off.

Although, it was hard to hate his eyes when he got to look at you like this, sleeping in a chair beside his bed as the morning rolled over. It was still blue—everything; the sky, the clouds, the light streaming in, the rain hitting the pavement, the sadness in the air. He had come home half dead and your tears were blue too. Your arms were folded on his mattress, head turned and resting on them. He shifted, recognizing the space as Leslie’s clinic, your blood stained jacket tossed on the small table, his gear next to it. He let his head fall into the pillows, a long breath pushing past his lips. You weren’t ever supposed to see him like this, weren’t supposed to deal with these parts of his life, the parts he kept hidden and stored away, stacking atop of shoulders.

“Jay?” He hadn’t realized he closed his eyes, until they blinked open to find you staring back at him, expectant and so fucking scared.

Suddenly, it was hard to appreciate his sight, appreciate your face.

And still, because you’re you and you’re so good compared to him, you smile. Bright and warm—too warm for this blue morning.

“Are you okay?” You both asked, a moment of silence falling afterwards as you let out a sharp exhale.

“Of course I’m fine.” You dismissed, and he couldn’t help, but knit his brows, jaw clenching because there is nothing of course about this. The words slipped from his mouth, still too drugged out and exhausted to stop himself.

“This isn’t—you’re not supposed to have to deal with this. Its ‘posed to be hidden.”

“Jason, everything with you is hidden.” You sighed, carefully climbing onto the bed, head resting on his good shoulder. You kept your arms tucked close, willing yourself to not reach out and pull him into your embrace—scared to hurt him and scared to let your words die in the air. “And it’s fine, we aren’t exactly living normal lives, and you’re still allowed normal things. You’re allowed to be closed off or secretive or touchy about subjects, that’s all fine. It’s when they start getting too much is when its not and I think they’ve been too much for a while.” You explained, voice wavering and quieter than you planned. He closed his eyes again, love sitting at the edge of the bed and waiting with you. He wanted to kick it out—you out, wanted to push you away and let himself be cold and avoid his reflection because you’re not smiling over his shoulder as he stood in front of the sink anymore, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t bring himself to hurt you, or himself anymore because maybe deep down he knew he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve to live a life where he pushed your kindness and patience away.

“You don’t have to say anything, now or ever, but you also aren’t alone Jay. I love you and I’m not going anywhere.” You confessed, lips meeting his bare shoulder, noting the way he tensed. Now love was in your throat and on your tongue and he didn’t know how to say it back, how to love you like you wanted—needed, but god, he’d try until his lungs heaved and blood poured from his body. So he looked down at you, a crooked grin tugging at his lips as he carefully shifted, turning into you and bringing a hand to your face, ignoring the way his hurt shoulder hissed in pain.

And he knew the words would get choked up in his throat, so he found the love you stored in your mouth, in your hands, in your eyes, in yours voice, in your care, in everything about you and filled it up with his kisses. Lips meeting slow and heavy, breathing you in and tasting you. Jason knew this wouldn’t be easy, his life wasn’t meant to be, but he did know he was meant to be with you.

And it wasn’t jarring.

It settled into his bones and stayed with him—always.

#i hope you like it ahh #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #dc x reader #dc imagine #writing #dont disturb the ghost of queue

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visceraah · 4 years ago

Text

The sound of music

(aka i’m so sorry for naming it after a musical it has nothing to do with dkjsdjksdjk names are hard)

My gift for @anianthe for @sanderssidesgiftxchange

Rating- Teen cause i’m incapable of not writing wayyy more swears then are necessary-

WC- 2947

Ship- Just Virgil interacting w the other sides,, feel free to interpret romantically if you want!

Warnings- not really any! Remus shows up briefly so.. beware of that. and ig Virgil is also kinda mean bUT he does it affectionately.

AO3

“We’re having a movie night!”

Virgil blinked. Took off his his headphones which, unfortunately, hadn’t been playing anything- he wore them out of habit, sometimes- meaning he heard everything his stupid best friend just said.

“No, we aren’t.”

Roman flopped down on his bed without waiting for any indication it was okay, something Virgil was all too used to. “We are now.”

Virgil sighed heavily and pushed Roman with his foot, trying to roll him off the bed. He didn’t budge. “And if I don’t want to?”

“Pleaseeee?” Roman employed the puppy dog eyes and Virgil knew already this was a losing battle. Ugh.

“I get to pick the movie.”

Roman perked up immediately, coming to sit next to him. “Yes! Okay! Just- Disney?”

Virgil rolled his eyes, wondering if Roman was capable of consuming content made by anyone else. He was beginning to doubt it. “Nightmare Before Christmas, then.”

“Predictable.” Roman murmured smugly, and he elbowed him.

“You want this movie night or not?”

“Okay, okay! I yield!” Roman cried, clutching his ribs. Virgil was pretty sure he was more upset at the prospect of a cancelled movie night then the ‘pain’ he was overplaying right now.

“Okay.” Virgil agreed, smugly, and set the movie on.

He’d seen it a million times already, which for most people would only make it boring by now- but Virgil found comfort in familiar things. Plus, that animation! He could happily watch it a million more times- and, honestly, probably would.

That meant he had it memorised, though, and soon enough he was singing along to the introduction under his breath. He listened along contently, until an unfamiliar third voice joined the chorus, and he startled, looking to the side. “Roman?”

Roman stared back, raising an eyebrow at him. “... Hi.”

“Were you singing along?”

Romans eyes flicked between Virgil and the screen, where the movie was still playing, in confusion. “Yes, Dr Gloom? Look, I know what a downer you love to be, but these pipes can’t stay closed all the time! They need exercise- and, the world deserves- neigh, needs to hear them!”

Virgil huffed at the dramatics, although it was fond. “I never said it was a problem, Sir Sing-a-lot, I’m just surprised.”

“One, that’s not an insult and I’m absolutely using that,” Roman retorted, “And two… It’s Disney! One of their best! Do you really expect me to not know the words?”

Virgil snorted, but he had to admit, he couldn’t disagree with that. “Whatever, nerd.”

Roman gasped, somehow seeming more upset than when Virgil had elbowed him. Of course that’d be what got to him. “I am not! I’m a prince- a very princely prince! Not-”

“Whatever you say, prince of the nerds.” Virgil hummed out, smirking to himself. Maybe Roman bursting in out of nowhere wasn’t so bad… This time. He still hated surprises and would not be convinced to do this again. He said that every time

Being Romans best friend, unfortunately, had its side effects. One was unplanned, unannounced Disney marathons he had no choice but to roll with. Another was actually listening to his musicals so often he learned to like them, too.

For all he said about Hamilton being overrated (and Romans reaction was priceless every time), he had to admit it was good. A little fast for him to keep with, but he rarely sang along to his songs anyway, preferring to hum quietly unless he was really in the mood.

He liked keeping his music to himself, too- he didn’t want to annoy anyone, so he always wore headphones- but sometimes he just wanted to drown the world out, and they went to full volume. Worked a treat to drown everyone out, but plenty audible to everyone else in the room. Sometimes, though, they’d just have to live with it.

Today was one of those days, where Virgil didn’t want to speak to anybody and had the volume to show it. He was playing one of Princeys musicals, too, humming along to ‘my shot’ no matter how different it was to his normal taste. He nodded in acknowledgement as he passed Logan on his beeline for the fridge, planning on grabbing the easiest and least healthy snack possible.

Retreating with his bag of marshmallows in hand- he was pretty sure they weren’t meant to be in the fridge, but they were imaginary, so maybe nothing needed to go in the fridge. Holy shit.

He pulled the headphones back, opening his mouth to ask Logan's opinion, when he heard a sound that made him freeze in his tracks.

Logan was rapping along to himself. And well. Jesus, how had he forgotten about that? He stared, still in disbelief, and Logan awkwardly trailed off when he noticed his gaze. “Ah, you could hear me.”

“Yeah, I just wanted to ask… Doesn’t matter. Holy shit, Lo, you’re amazing.”

Logan flushed slightly, looking down at the table. “I simply have an appreciation of the genre, and Hamilton has some particular, uhm- how would you say? ‘Bangers’.”

Virgil laughed, slipping into the seat opposite him and taking the headphones off completely. “Dude, I’ve spent enough time with Roman to know having an ‘appreciation’ doesn’t mean you can pull something off.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, clearly fighting back a smile. “I am not sure he’d appreciate you saying that.”

“Eh, I’ve said it to his face before- and will again.” Virgil dismissed, feeling his lips turn up as well. “Why don’t you do it more?”

Logan shrugged, adjusting his glasses awkwardly. “It is hardly a logical skill for me to have, so it simply… Hasn’t come up.”

“Ro doesn’t need an excuse for songs to ‘come up’ before he starts singing them.” Virgil pointed out, and Logan chuffed.

“No, he certainly doesn’t. But we are different people.”

Virgil laughed, nodding. “You could say that again.”

“Oh. Alright, we are differen-”

“It’s an expression, dude. Come on.” Virgil interrupted, sounding nothing but fond as Logan widened his eyes in realisation.

“A highly illogical one, but alright. I can add it to my flashcards to avoid further confusion.” He decided, pulling out his deck there and then to add to. He paused when he heard the crackling of a plastic bag pulled open, looking up as Virgil helped himself to a marshmallow. “Please do not tell me you intend on consuming that entire bag.”

“Maybe.” Virgil held it out, grinning now. “Want one?”

“A key ingredient is gelatin, created by boiling down a pig or cows bones, skin, ligaments or tendons.” Logan deadpanned, and Virgil almost threw the whole bag away in disgust before he remembered,

“But they’re imaginary!”

Logan titled his head. “I suppose so.”

“Actually, I was thinking…” Virgil began, curious about how the fridge actually worked. Soon enough Logan was in a full-fledged rant about mindscape food, and half of it went over his head, but he didn’t mind listening. It was interesting, after all.

Whatever concerns Virgil had about not bothering anyone with his music, the other sides didn’t share them. Roman didn’t hesitate to sing whatever came to mind as it came to mind, offering full renditions of his favourite musical tracks daily, Logan could be heard humming to himself as he worked, Remus had no restraint about… Anything, really, and this was no different, Janus wasn’t exactly considerate, and Patton- Patton was the worst at all.

He wandered the mindscape belting out whatever was in his head at the moment which, as a father figure, was always old, tacky, and bad. They’d learned to ignore it for the most part, but some of the songs he played… Some of them were just unforgivable. And, sitting on the couch as Patton tidied up a little, Virgil had left himself completely at their mercy.

“JOLENE-”

Virgil pulled his hoodie over his ears, wishing he’d brought his headphones. Or just not left his room. “Please, no.”

“Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeeeene, I’m begging of you please don’t take my man-”

“Pain, Padre. This is causing me physical pain.” Virgil groaned, slamming his head back in an attempt to make it all stop. Unfortunately, the sofa was soft, and he just bounced back. Eurgh.

“Awh, cmon kiddo! I’m just singing. You could always join me.” Patton chirped, rearranging the same jar for the fourth time in three minutes.

“I might die.” Virgil deadpanned, staring Patton dead in the eyes, and he giggled.

“Don’t be silly… Come on, my music isn’t that bad!”

Virgil couldn’t quite believe his ears. Maybe they were still bleeding from being subjected to Dolly Parton. “You listen to dad music.”

“Well, yeah, but what else did you expect from your pops-”

Virgil groaned louder, shaking his head. “I- whatever. When’d you even start listening to country music?”

“Nico likes it!” Patton replied, brightly, and Virgil bristled.

“That’s it, Thomas has to break it off.”

It took Patton a second to recognize Virgil was joking, and he started laughing. “Don’t be so judgy! I listen to your music- in fact, I quite like being cautious in the disco.”

“Oh my god.” Virgil pulled his hood down further over his eyes, the secondhand embarrassment hitting him full force. “You’re so old.”

“Now, I know I’m no spring chicken, but that’s hardly a nice thing to say-”

“We are all the same age.” Logan interjected as he walked through the room, gone before Virgil could try and drag the only other sane one around him to his aid.

“Look, Patt- I love you, but Dolly is too far.” Jesus, Virgil was spending too much time with Roman. Dramatic ultimatums weren’t his style at all.

“... How about Country Roads?”

“Jesus Christ.” Virgil sunk further back into the sofa, hoping it’d just swallow him and his smile.

“I wanna play a song.”

“Get your own headphones.”

“But yours are so loud, they’re basically speakers! You ever turn them up to full volume while they’re on? How loud are they? Oooh, reckon they could rupture your eardrums so blood would bubble out your ears and trail down your face-”

“Stop.” Virgil interrupted with a grimace, before Remus’ imagination could go anywhere gorier. They’d been at this for ten minutes and his answer hadn’t wavered once. “It’s a no, alright? Just… Go away.”

Remus huffed loudly and dropped onto the sofa next to Virgil. Great. “What do you want?”

“Hmmm… Oh, I can do a list!” Remus declared, and before Virgil could tell him please, god, don’t, he was off. “A pony- to disembowel so I can use its guts for ritual purposes, that one dick in a Russian erotica museum they claim is Rasputins and has magical fertility powers, for Barry Bee Benson to be real so I can fu-”

“Alright!” Virgil shuddered and disconnected his headphones. He didn’t know what Remus wanted to do with a literal bee, and he liked it that way. “There.”

Remus grinned a grin with far too many teeth, just a little too sharp, and Virgil rolled his eyes, waiting for whatever monstrosity he was about to hear.

There’s some whores in this house, there’s some-

“You did not just play WAP!” Virgil punched Remus in the arm, pulling his headphones off “You- I swear to God, don’t do the dance.”

Remus was already halfway stood up and Virgil quickly pulled him back down. He’d never wanted Remus to stay sat next to him more in his life. (To be fair, it wasn’t something he felt often.)

“But I already know it!”

“Of course you do.” Virgil grumbled, glancing over at Remus. “Why do you have to play… This, up here?”

“Jannie’s kicked me out, you know how he is.”

Virgil blinked at him, regretting what he was about to say before the words even left his mouth. “If I get him to back off, will you keep your music to the dark side?”

“That’s not fun, though! Ooh, wait, Logan likes rap, doesn’t he? Reckon he’d like to see the dance?”

Virgil stared at Remus blankly. “Please, say that was a joke.”

“It wasn’t! If you wanna hear one, though… Ooh, ok. Two kids walk into a hospice- ”

“No.” Virgil interrupted again, although even he had to snort a little at how ridiculous it was. Even if it was also deeply, deeply twisted. “I- look, I’m gonna do it.”

Remus tilted his head further then looked natural. Virgil was pretty sure he heard a crack. “Thought you hated me and Double Dee.”

“I- I’m just doing this for my sanity, alright? And Logans.” Virgil snapped back, avoiding meeting his eyes.

Avoiding things didn’t work with Remus, though, and soon enough he was uncomfortably close, peering right at Virgil with that unsettling grin. “Awww, Purps is being nice to us.”

“Shut up.” Virgil hissed, sinking out before Remus could pry any further. Creativity was so pushy, Jesus.

Virgil shuddered. He hadn’t been in the dark side of the mindscape in years and, after so long of the bright upstairs, the dark walls felt a little claustrophobic. He just needed to make this quick.

He strode down the hallway, trying to squash the growing nervousness in his stomach. What was the worst that could happen?

… Literally the worst thing he could’ve asked himself, he realised, speeding up subconsciously. So much could go wrong, while he was down here, and he didn’t even know where Deceit was, what if he tripped and fell and broke something and nobody would-

Piano, faint, made him stop in his tracks.

He wasn’t really an expert in classical music, but this had to be one of the more famous pieces, because he’d definitely heard it before. It was good, though, Mozart or something. Pretty difficult, too.

Exactly the kind of pretentious shit Deceit would play, and kick Remus out to enjoy. (Although Virgil couldn’t really blame him for that second part). Emboldened now he knew he wasn’t alone, and could make some jokes about what a snob he was, Virgil entered the room the sound was coming from.

He paled, because in front of him sat Deceit. At a piano. Playing the song.

“Since when do you play.”

Deceit only glanced up at Virgil, the melody smooth even with the interruption. He hated to admit it, but it was impressive. “Things have been quiet. I had time.”

“Quiet? With Remus?”

“I made things quiet.” Deceit amended, shrugging nonchalantly. Knowing him, it had probably been meant to sound as murder-y as it did. Didn’t stop Virgil from shuddering, anyway, serving as the perfect reminder of just how desperately he wanted to leave.

“Alright, look- whatever plan or plot this is, or is covering up, I don’t care.”

Deceit sighed, looking up at Virgil without faltering the music once. Jesus, he actually was good. “You’re right, I’m incapable of having any interests whatsoever without there being some deep, sinister plot behind it. You’ve spotted my evil plan.”

“I- alright, sarcasm’s meant to be for something obviously not true! That could be true!” Virgil protested, already feeling like he was losing this.

Deceit just raised an eyebrow at him in response, and Virgil instinctively hissed back, feeling more and more like he was backed into a corner.

Deceit had the nerve to laugh at him. “It’s been a while since you’ve done that.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had to talk to anyone so- so-” Virgil groaned, glaring at Deceit. “Stop playing that stupid thing, would you?”

“Alright.” Deceit agreed, and Virgil waited. He kept waiting. The piano continued and after an excruciating minute of listening for an end, he cursed. Why had Virgil assumed he’d be honest?

“Dick.”

“That is my legal name.” Deceit agreed dryly, and Virgil rolled his eyes. He was impossible to talk to.

“Look, just let Remus back down. He’s probably scarring Logan as we speak.”

Deceit smiled at the thought, looking back down at the keys as he played them. “I never said he couldn’t be down here. Oh, and I’m sure there’s /nothing/ about ‘scarring’ Logan that could’ve appealed to him.”

“What, so Remus lied?” Virgil crossed his arms. Remus was plenty of things, but one of them was painfully, brutally, upfront and honest. “That’s your thing.”

“Not lied.” Deceit tutted, like scolding a child for not knowing something they should have. Virgil clenched his fists. “Just… Was dramatic.”

Virgil tried to figure out what he meant before realising it meant literally nothing, and he glared at Deceit. “Stop being so cryptic for five seconds and tell me, Jesus.”

“I wasn’t aware you cared about him so much.” Deceit smirked, and Virgil threw his arms up in exasperation.

“I’m trying to get rid of him!”

Deceit snickered but finally, mercifully, seemed to have already had his fun. “I didn’t tell him to get out if he couldn’t just be quiet and not…” His smile faltered… “Dance on the piano.”

Yeah, that expression was priceless. Virgil laughed as Janus furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”

“Just… Nevermind.” Virgil was pretty sure imagining that scene playing out was enough entertainment to last him weeks. And a reminder that honestly… Remus didn’t cause as much chaos as he gave him credit for. He was all bark… And plenty of bite, too, but nothing too permanent. “Keep playing, or whatever.”

“You aren’t going to demand I fetch the Duke?”

“He’s not a dog.” Virgil dismissed, resisting a smile at Deceit’s murmured ‘ehhhhh’. “He’ll come back when he wants to. And Logan can look after himself.”

“Amazing.” Deceit sighed heavily. “You wasted my time for nothing, then.”

Virgil could be proud of that, at the very least. He grinned in way of response, sending Deceit a nod before he sunk out.

#virgil sanders #anxiety virgil #uh #wow i've forgotten how to tag #ts gift exchange 2020 #ts virgil #everyone shows up but i don't wanna tag them all cause they aren't like. the MAIN ones #mads' writing

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sentfromwolves · 5 years ago

Photo

oc prompt game . ( queen of the meadows. uselessness / mars & laurel )

< hoes b4 bros >

hwa: mom

starmom: son wuat the fuck its 4am

hwa: o fuck i forgot timezones again

hwa: wait

hwa: why r u up ! !!

hwa: MOM

hwa: go 2 SLEEP

starmom: no now im here and awake and alive enough whats up son

hwa: mom we need an intervention (go 2 sleep)

starmom: jesus christ

starmom: for who

hwa: mars said he wants 2 marry the dude from his plant class (seriously!! GO. TO. BED)

starmom: that class started literally 2 days ago

hwa: I KNO!!!!! (pls, mom, for the love of everyone around u and also me, get some sleep)

aspen groans and rolls over in his bed, peeling himself away from his sheets and staring groggily at his phone. it’s not unlike mars to get fleeting, would-be crushes on other green witches in his classes. usually he’ll ogle them for a day or two, wax poetic about their ass, and then move on. he’s a tall kid with a heart of goddamn gold, and wears every single emotion he ever owns on his sleeve. it’s caused trouble more than once, but generally he’s pretty good about loving, and realistic expectations, and knowing that you can’t marry a guy you met two days ago. frozen proved that much, if nothing else.

still, he cracks open the door to his room and sidles down the hall and peeks up the stairs. there’s no movement, but something clinks in the kitchen that connects to the living room, and he ambles in that direction, wondering what he’ll find. maybe yonghwa had also been texting cobalt, who is a habitual night owl. maybe cobalt is also in on this intervention thing too. after all, their witch bonds are stronger than most. when one of them feels something too strongly and doesn’t clamp down on it, often times the others will feel it too. and aspen knows that most of them have been feeling pretty ecstatic over the last few days, the stress mitigated by the unbridled adrenaline and raw energy of diving back into classes, into a sea of new faces and old as the new semester cracks open like an eggshell suspended above all of their heads.

what he finds isn’t cobalt hunched over the fridge with three popsicles sticking out of his mouth (a regular occurrence during summer). what he finds is mars draped over the living room couch holding his hand over his forehead dramatically, a spoon hanging from his fingers and a half-empty jar of gelato (his gelato, aspen realizes with a little bit of exasperation), looking like he’s ready to be painted by a young leonardo dicaprio.

“um,” aspen says, “you okay in there, buddy?”

“aspen,” mars says. “can you marry a guy you just met?”

goddamn it. they really do need an intervention.

“no, mars,” aspen says with all the patience of a man who just woke up at 4am because his witch family are being dumbasses. “you can’t marry someone you just met.”

“fuck,” mars says, and sits up. “okay, plan b.”

“plan b?”

“i’m gonna ask him on a date.” mars looks fiercely determined. so determined, in fact, that aspen breaks out into a laugh that threatens to wake cobalt up from his dead slumber upstairs.

“what?!” mars demands, his voice pitching high. “what’s so funny?”

“it’s just,” aspen says. “no, you know what? i’m not even going to say it. okay, so you’re gonna ask - “

“hot greenhouse man,” mars says dreamily.

“you’re gonna ask hot greenhouse man on a date,” aspen says. “cool. and how are you gonna do that?”

mars face drains of all color. because for all of his open-hearted adoration for people, his poetic compliments, his easily obtained sincerity, mars has never asked a person out before in his life. in the realm of dating, he’s as good as useless, and aspen’s gonna let him flounder a bit in the blind, desperate hope that he learns how to swim.

“i’m,” mars says, sputters, and says again, “i’m gonna figure that out. right. now.”

“cool,” aspen says, planning for the inevitability of mars chickening out by the time the sun has risen in the sky. “i’m going back to bed while you do that. wake me up when there’s breakfast being made.”

mars, in fact, wakes him up later on when breakfast is (rather poorly) made.

he also tells him that he knows hot greenhouse mans name courtesy of one of his rather nosy, gossipy friends.

his name is laurel. and aspen is worried he’s going to break mars heart.

***

aspen doesn’t have to worry for long.

the moment he meets laurel, he knows that this is as good as fate crashing into his living room floor and starting a forest fire. laurel has the fucking heart eyes of the century every time mars back is turned, and for all of their early floundering, he’s a good soul with a cute smile and (currently) light blue hair that fluffs up to minty green whenever he gets excited or happy.

however, there is one big problem. the biggest fucking problem in aspens world. something that keeps him up late at night, staring at his ceiling, asking the universe how two people can be so stupid that it’s almost funny for everyone involved except it really isn’t because how is he, the good samaritan stuck between a rock and two love-struck people so dumb about the feelings of the other that they don’t even know how to act, supposed to sleep soundly when he can’t knock the minute amount of sense into his best friends head to do the right thing?

the right thing, of course, being to ask one another on a date.

“three months,” yonghwa says on the phone with him one night. “aspie, it’s been three months and neither of them have asked each other out?”

“i know,” aspen moans, hitting his head against his desk, hands in the air. “i know! they’re both like, oh wow, look at this beautiful friend i made. and then mars waves him out of the house, turns around, and starts screaming because he’s so fucking in love! how can he not just - just ask him out? how is this hard?”

“listen,” yonghwa says, “i’ve seen one whole picture of them together and i don’t think i’ve ever seen someone look at mars the way laurel looks at mars. that guys whipped. and he’s not even gonna ask him out?”

“they’re dense, hwa,” aspen bemoans, lifting his head. “dense as bricks. denser than bricks. it’s like the cauldron gave them all the good looks in the world and then was like, hey you know what? good looks? well then i guess you can’t have any braincells around each other!”

“could you,” yonghwa asks, “could you like, give them a nudge? a push? a kick in the ass? throw them off a cliff.”

“i’ve tried everything,” aspen says, and looks up at his computer screen. yonghwa is bent over, painting his toenails as he speaks, the glittery polish he’s using apparently magically scented with blackberries and vanilla. “i straight up said, now is your chance mars, go ask him out! and he just looked at me like this deer in headlights. what if he says no, he said. what kind of bullshit!”

“useless,” yonghwa says, blowing on his big toe. the enchanted blow dryer aspen had sent him for christmas dances around his head, drying out his recently dyed silver-purple hair. “i wish i was there. i would just do it for them.”

“i wish you were here too,” aspen says, breaking from his complaints to let his words flow with genuine fondness. “i’m excited for when i can finally have you back here for real. i miss you.”

“i miss you too, aspie,” yonghwa says, and smiles up at him through the camera. “it’s only a while longer. and then the whole family will be together.”

“not quite,” aspen grumbles. “laurel should be part of this family. hell, he spends enough time over here that he should be on my chore wheel.”

“ah yes, the chore wheel,” yonghwa says sagely. “you should just add him. maybe they’ll finally get the hint.”

“no,” aspen says. “they’re both fools in love. i really don’t know what to do.”

yonghwa tilts his head thoughtfully.

“maybe,” he says, “they just need to suffer a bit more, and then they’ll figure it all out.”

“maybe,” aspen replies, but he really doesn’t think so, but he pulls all of his blind hope and shoves it into that one, tiny word.

***

one month later, aspen snaps.

it starts on a friday afternoon, when he hears the door bang open and closed, and a wail reaches his room where he’s trying desperately to finish a lit essay while talking with emerson about latin translations and books that he wants to set on fire.

“i gotta go,” aspen says, glancing behind him at his door.

“gotcha,” emerson, “wanna come over and dramatically recite shakespeare with me while i pretend to care about grading these papers?”

“please,” aspen says, “i think i’ll need it.”

“cocoa or tequila?” emerson asks knowingly. “or do you want some sort of bliss tonic? I think we have some leftover from the party.”

“cocoa,” aspen says, “i love you. talk to you later.”

“doors unlocked!” emerson calls after him before he ends the call.

in another life, aspen thinks, he’d ask emerson out on a date. but harper is madly in love with him, and aspen is madly in love with harper, and so he stays out of both of their paths, knowing better than to get in the way of something that could be wonderful for the two of them.

sighing, aspen closes his laptop, stands up, and prepares for the worst.

mars is on the kitchen floor.

aspen fights two spontaneously grown thorn bushes, a snapper plant that descended from the ceiling to eat his hair, and three rows of angry, bushy cactuses that have since surrounded the open dishwasher and its surroundings with all the grace he can muster.

mars doesn’t so much as move or bat an eyelash at him when he comes to stand at his head. he’s face down on the granite, arms splayed out in front of him, and he looks, quite frankly, like he’s just keeled over and died in the middle of the day.

aspen does the nice thing.

he kicks him (gently) in the head.

mars lets out a pathetic cry.

“what happened,” aspen says, and it’s not a question.

the only other time mars poisoned the whole kitchen with toxic plants, it had been because someone had called him a giraffe and he’d cried all the way home. he’d been seventeen at the time.

mars rolls over onto his back and stars up at aspen. he’s on the verge of tears.

“oh my god,” aspen says, crouching down. “baby.”

“aspen,” mars croaks. “i’m a dumb person.”

“oh my god,” aspen says. “no you’re not, mars. tell me what’s wrong.”

he sits down gingerly, ignoring the cactuses around them, and mars scoots up a little so he’s laying with his head in aspens lap as aspen brushes his fingers through the boys hair.

“i really like laurel,” mars says, like it hasn’t been painfully obvious for four months now. “like, really, really like him.”

“yes,” aspen says. “i know.”

“cool,” mars replies, staring glassy eyed at the ceiling. “so today, i go into the greenhouse early because like, i’m planning to give him this cactus i found down at the gardens to laurel, because the needles don’t hurt at all and make little bubbles when you tickle the head.”

“okay,” aspen says.

“and there he is,” mars says, lifting his hands to the ceiling like he’s looking at heaven and laurel is up there somewhere too. “beautiful. haloed in light. perfect. the most amazing guy i’ve ever been blessed with. and he’s getting kissed by some other dude.”

okay, that’s a hold up. laurel? kissing another man?

“are you sure?” aspen asks.

laurel has been madly in love with mars for months. this story doesn’t make any sense.

“yes!” mars exclaims. “like, the cutest fucking gesture and he’s just sitting there, laughing as it happens! and i’m sitting there with this stupid cactus like, oh! that’s why he never asked me out. he must’ve been like, dating this hot dude this entire time and was just taking - what, i don’t know - pity on me or something! i look stupid.”

mars actually wails at this.

“i’m a dumbass!”

aspen frowns.

“no,” he says, leaning down to kiss mars forward. “you’re absolutely not a stupid person, mars. you’re the best, sweetest, greatest person i know. and if that’s really true - which i’m not saying it is - then laurel is missing out on something incredible.”

“but i don’t want him to miss out,” mars says, and sobs.

“i know,” aspen says, immediately planning either murder or the biggest fucking Mom Talk he’s ever going to have in his life. “i know, baby. you’re the best thing i’ve ever had in my life. and you deserve the stars.”

***

the stars hiss at aspen the moment laurel makes it into their front garden, telling him hurriedly that the boy he’s been waiting on to arrive is finally here.

aspen checks his watch.

cool, three hours since mars breakdown.

enough time for aspen to school all of his emotions into neat little lines and prepare for whatever the fuck is about to happen downstairs. as requested, cobalt is diligently distracting mars upstairs with video games and an ongoing call with yonghwa, who’s hollering memes at them while dancing to the ponytail song aggressively.

aspen goes downstairs and opens the door.

laurel is standing on his porch looking wildly out of breath.

“is mars here?” he asks, all of his words blending together into one massive slur.

“amazing,” aspen replies. “you’re both useless.”

laurel freezes.

“um,” he says, very eloquently. which is great, because aspen doesn’t have time for him to go on any sort of ramble that dodges the point. aspen’s nonexistent love life might be a hot garbage fire that he’s given up controlling, but he’s not about to let mars go down in flames over what he hopes and prays is a misunderstanding of cosmic proportions.

“no,” aspen says, shutting laurel’s mouth with an audible click. “nope. don’t talk, laurel. it’s my turn. i get to talk now. mars is upstairs, by the way. my kitchen is a nightmare. and if this conversation doesn’t go right, i’m going to make you clean every single cactus out of my dishwasher before you leave.”

“what?” laurel asks, dumbly.

“listen to me very carefully,” aspen says. “mars likes you a lot. he might even love you, and for mars, that’s a monumental thing. he’s wanted to ask you out since he met you. he’s so far down the rabbit hole of affection for you that i don’t think his heart has room for literally anything else.”

laurel sits there gaping like a fish out of water. jesus christ - had he really been so dumb?

aspen tries to boil down every strand of exasperation in him.

“today,” he says, “even after months of friendship, you kissed someone else in front of him.”

“i - what?”

“don’t ‘i - what’ me, mars was crying on my kitchen floor for two hours because of this,” aspen says. “if you really didn’t notice that he was madly interested in you and you were just wanting to be friends, then i might be able to forgive that when mars recovers. and that’s a big if. but if you were leading him on, thinking it was cute to have him fawn over you while stringing him along, i will personally - “

“waitwaitwait,” laurel says, loudly, holding out his hands. “wait, aspen! please!”

aspen frowns at him, in what he hopes is his best scolding mom stare.

“you have five seconds,” he says, “go.”

“this is a whole, big, wild misunderstanding!” laurel says, so loudly his voice has to carry out through the whole house. “the guy that kissed me was one of my old frat brothers! he was just coming by to say hi! he’s got a girlfriend and a boyfriend for godsake! it was just - just platonic. i don’t feel that way about anyone but mars! i’ve wanted to marry that guy for months now. literally marry him! i’ll even get down on one knee - “

laurel is jumping down onto the ground before aspen can stop him, even as he rushes forward, trying to stop this mess of a man from also destroying his house with blooms of crazy fucking plants. he can already see the dirt around his front yard sifting, little tendrils of greenery poking on through.

“laurel!” aspen says, loudly. “laurel, please - “

“i love him!” laurel shouts. “please, aspen. i really love him! can i see him? i can explain it all, really, i just want to see - “

“laurel?”

aspen turns around.

mars is standing in the hallway, illuminated in the soft gold of the fairy lights floating around the ceiling, swimming like snakes above their heads.

he looks stunned and a little bit awkward, his massive cardigan slouching off of his shoulders, hair a mess, eyes tear-streaked and nose rudolf-red.

“mars,” laurel says, from his kneeling position in front of aspen. “mars.”

he stands up and aspen moves out of the way. laurel crosses the hall to mars and without hesitation, takes mars face in his hands and kisses him hard on the mouth.

aspen feels like he’s part of a korean drama. he thinks he must be at the season finale, because how could anything in his life get more dramatic than this?

“oh my god,” cobalt says from the stairway, holding his phone up and videotaping the entire thing. “they really are useless in love.”

aspen knows he should say something, because the whole hallway is filling with cherry blossoms and red roses, massive lilies and blooming sunflowers. but for a moment, he just sits down hard, and agrees with cobalt’s assessment. mars and laurel are useless in love.

but their love is more gorgeous and brilliant than anything aspen has ever seen before.

and how could something so beautiful be useless at all?

come ask my flower prompt questions here!

#long post #my writing #writeblr #wip: saturday sang your name #oc: mars #oc: laurel #oc prompt game #please validate me i loved writing this #i love my boys #come ask me things!

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missmarquin · 6 years ago

Photo

Twenty Flowers, and the Memories of Them

I saw this graphic floating around and bam, Drabbles happened.

Read on A03 for better Quality!

Otabek is a sap when it comes to things, but Yuri loves it.

He’s tired and aching, and his students are fucking stupid. But when he walks into their small apartment, to find a bundle of flowers in a jar, he smiles. He doesn’t need a note. Beka has explained more than enough times his stupid obsession with flowers and the questions they can ask.

His fingers touch a leaf lightly, and he leans over to smell them.

“Yura,” Otabek says from behind him. Yuri turns to find him in a towel, dripping wet. Otabek pulls him close, kissing his lips lightly.

“What are these for?” Yuri asks.

“No reason,” Otabek says. “Just memories.”

Memories indeed.

….

Rose

“Hey Beka.”

The man in question hums lightly, but doesn’t look up from the bike that he sits before. He’s sprawled out on the ground before it, surveying it with a critical eye. Yuri watches from the workbench. Otabek takes a socket wrench, muscles bulging slightly with effort as he works at the screw. Yuri keeps watching, swallowing thickly. He blames the hot garage air.

“What’s your crush like?” He finally asks.

Otabek drops the tool, hissing slightly in surprise. Yuri blinks at that, but his friend recovers immediately, the wrench twirling about deftly between his fingers. “They’re a little hot-head,” Otabek says, as he moves to pull at another part of the bike. Yuri is about forty-percent sure that it was the engine, but what the fuck does he know about motorcycles? “More bark than bite though, ad I’ve learned over the years. And beautiful.”

“And let me guess,” Yuri intones, bored, “They don’t know it, right?” Isn’t that how romance always works?

Otabek snorts at that, the closest thing to a genuine laugh Yuri would ever get. “No. Trust me, they absolutely know.”

Yuri thinks on that for a long moment, and then says, “Sounds like someone I’d get along with.”

By the time Otabek looks up from his work, Yuri’s already lost interest in the idea, and he misses how the mechanic regards him with the utmost fondness.

Cherry Blossom

It isn’t the first rom-com that Otabek and Yuri have ever watched, and it certainly isn’t the last. This night is like any other. Beka leans against one arm of the couch, and Yuri across the entire thing, his long legs stretched across the other man’s lap. Otabek holds Yuri’s ankles in a loose grip unconsciously. Yuri eats popcorn noisily, but Otabek doesn’t. He only watches him. He watches Yuri, more than the movie itself.

Yuri never notices.

“That’s so stupid, Yuri says around a mouthful of food. He gestures wildly at the screen. “Who the fuck believes in love at first sight?”

Otabek does. Otabek does, because he’s a living example, not that he’ll ever let Yuri know. Instead, he grunts his customary grunt, squeezing the soft skin of Yuri’s leg gently.

“Yeah, who would ever?”

Daisy

Yuri tries not to think of his younger days, because those days fucking suck. He remembers Otabek though, and those memories aren’t so terrible.

He remembers a stocky boy stumbling around like a blundering fool. Unable to hold basic forms, little-to-no flexibility to speak of. Yuri favors this memory because it’s funny-- it’s funny to remember the determined look on Otabek’s face, and how it belied the strain on his ill-suited-for-dance of a body.

As an adult though, he’s grown fond of it. It’s when Otabek first saw him, first noticed him. The whole Eyes of a Soldier thing was pretty endearing.

And of course, Yuri is fucking smug about it.

Daffodil

Yuri doesn’t often dress up, because it’s extra work. Otabek relishes the rare moments when he does though, because Yuri goes to the fucking nines.

“Beka, will you help me with this tie?” Yuri asks, storming out of the hotel bathroom in a whirlwind. Otabek turns, only to freeze to the spot. Looking, just looking, taking in the sight of Yuri in a deep burgundy button down. Yuri’s lips pull into a tight frown as he fumbles with the white bow tie.

“Fucking ties,” He murmurs, and then he repeats, “Beka.” Yuri looks up. “I asked-- why are you staring?”

Otabek snaps his mouth shut and steps closer, trying to play it cool. He pulls Yuri’s hands from the tie, fixing it easily. “It’s a good color on your,” he says simply. His fingers ghost over the skin of his neck, pulling here and sliding the fabric through there. “Caught me off guard.”

When he’s down, Yuri fingers the shirt nervously, but smiles back.

Peony

“Telling the truth is fucking boring,” Yuri groans, leaning long the couch.

Otabek is sprawled across the floor, trying to hook up a gaming system. Even as a DJ extraordinaire, was was clueless when it came to most other electronics. He stares at the pile of wires and controllers and plugs with a severe frown.

“Don’t be silly, Yura,” he says, moving to untangle a pile. “It’s basic manners.”

“You know better than anyone that I don’t have fucking manners.” Yuri pauses. “Except with you. I’m nice to you.” Another pause. “If it’s your story, fucking embelish it. Honor and glory, and all that shit. Don’t you want to seem impressive to others?”

“Do you lie to me?” Yuri knows that Otabek is only teasing him, but his heart jerks slightly. Because there are things that Yuri feels and Otabek doesn’t know.

“No,” Yuri finally says. “But I’ve made a habit of lying to myself, I guess.”

Iris

“I asked what your favorite song from the nineties is.”

“And I answered.”

“I’m In Love With My Car, by Queen isn’t the fucking nineties, Beka.”

Otabek smiles. “The nineties was a terrible era of music, so I prefer to ignore it.”

Yuri rolls his eyes in response.

Sunflower

“Why the moon?”

Otabek considers Yuri’s question for a moment, and then says, “It reminds me of someone.”

“That mysterious crush of yours?” Yuri teases. “All beautiful and that shit?” They’re laying in the grass of some park, on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, and Yuri doesn’t see Otabek smile wryly.

“That’s not really why, Yura.”

“Eh?”

Otabek thinks again for a moment. “You know how the moon pulls at the tides?”

“Yeah, gravity and shit.”

“Well, this person pulls at me, and no matter what, I find myself always going back to them.”

Yuri gives him a sideways glance. “Beka, I’m literally the only person you hang out with. I feel bad for whoever’s heart your breaking.”

Otabek hums in response, looking back to the night sky. Yuri doesn’t quite get his silence.

Narcissus

“Yakov wants me to cut my hair.”

Otabek isn’t surprised, but Yakov was a bit traditional in the end all of things. Yuri hasn’t cut it in years, and it falls limply around his mid back. He reaches out, grasping the ends in his fingertips. “Will you?”

“Fuck that shit,” Yuri spits. “It’s my favorite part of me.”

“Same,” Otabek says, reaching to brush his bangs back.

Yuri’s expression softens.

Freesia

It’s been a long day of competition, and they’ve forgone the partying afterwards. Yuri hisses as he pulls his foot out of an ice bath. Otabek takes it gently, pulling it into his lap. Wordlessly, he massages the skin and applies ointment to any scrapes and cuts. He avoids bruises and moisturizes the cracked skin.

“Hey Beka,” Yuri says, and Otabek hums in response, like he often does. “You’ll always be my best friend, right? Like this’ll never end will it?”

Otabek fucking hopes not, but the future is never certain. Still, he replies with, “Of course it won’t. I’m yours forever, Yura.”

Yuri tries not to look pleased by the words.

Orchid

“Jesus fucking christ,” Yuri mutters, and Otabek looks up at him. He’s struggling with a peach, his fingers covered in the slick juice as he peels it carefully. When he takes a bite, it dribbles down his chin. Yuri’s tongue snakes out, licking it up and--

Otabek looks away quickly. He can feel his face burning red. He’s mortified.

He also comes to the conclusion that peaches are now his favorite fruit.

Violet

“Kissing is overrated.”

Otabek blinks at Yuri. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

Yuri scoffs. “Of course I have. Never impressed by it.”

Before Otabek can respond, Victor butts his unwanted nose into the conversation. “Probably because you’re kissing the wrong person,” he says, leaning over Yuri’s shoulder.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Yuri snaps, pushing Victor away.

But Victor only laughs, winking at Otabek.

Alstroemeria

“Let’s go back to Barcelona,” Otabek says one night.

Yuri grunts softly, snuggling into his side, muttering about how sore he is from skating that day. Friends don’t do this, Otabek thinks. Not even best friends-- but best friends who love each other?

More likely. And so-- “You heard me,” Otabek says, nudging him gently. “Let’s take a vacation.”

“Why Barcelona?”

“Because Barcelona always brings us good things.”

Yuri hums at that and doesn’t discredit his observation. “Barcelona it is, then. Let’s set a course.”

Otabek then looks down, confused-- only to realize that Yuri is talking in his sleep.

Cymbidium

Yuri is looking at him weird, and finally it gets to Otabek.

“Yura, is there something wrong?” he asks.

Yuri cocks his head to the side, a cute little wrinkle settling across his brow. “I’m trying to figure it out,” he finally says.”

“Figure what out?”

“Why girls don’t date you. I mean, you’re good looking and shit. Rocking muscles, sexy haircut-- aren’t you like made of the stuff they look for?”

Oh. Oh. It wasn’t that Otabek never expected to have this conversation, but he never thought Yuri would bring it up so casually. “Women ask me out plenty,” Otabek replies finally, rubbing at his neck nervously. “I just-- they aren’t my type.”

Yuri blinks at that. “Wait, are you gay?” A pause, and then, “I mean, that’s super not a problem and all that.” Otabek releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Seriously, it’s all good. Also, that dude that you like? Go fucking tell him, or something. I’m tired of carrying along your lonely ass.”

Otabek mutters something about it not being that easy.

Rhododendron

Yuri hates the question that Otabek asks him.

Yura, are you afraid of anything?

How does Yuri explain his biggest fear, is Otabek himself? Any and everything about him-- losing him, telling him that he likes him, what his reaction might be...

“Hey, you know how you’re like the only person that I remotely tolerate?”

“Hm?” Otabek looks at him over the bike he sits next to. And then, “Yura, is this about what I asked you the other day? Don’t worry about it; it was only a question.”

“Most people would say being alone, right?” Yuri replies, ignoring what Otabek says. “But I guess my fear is more specific. It’s losing you. That idea fucking sucks, because you’re the only person that means shit to me.”

He risks a glance at Otabek, afraid that his words would seem weird but-- His heart beats wildly instead, because of the soft look on Otabek’s face.

Tulip

“Lucky number fifteen,” Yuri says with a smile.

“Fifteen? That’s a weird number.”

Yuri winks at him. “It’s how old I was when I met you.”

Otabek’s heart flutters, and he ignores it. “Yura, you were ten when we met.”

“Fucking semantics.”

Gerbera

Otabek knew the moment Aidana retired from making costumes, he would struggle finding someone else he could trust. And when Yuri tells him that he has a great person that would be perfect for Otabek’s style, he knew he should have ignored him.

“Beka, let me see,” Yuri pleads, throwing back the fitting room drape with little care. He stops. He looks, his gaze dragging the entire length of his body. “That’s uh… different,” he finally manages.

“The first version was lavender. I told him to make it brighter. This wasn’t what I had in mind.”

And then Yuri wasn’t able to hold it any longer. He burst out laughing, nearly falling over. Otabek slaps his hand against his face, pulling at his skin in frustration. He spares a glance in the mirror, wincing at the neon pink and yellow ensemble.

Yeah, next time he shoves Yuri’s head in the toilet instead.

Snapdragon

“I’m a fucking unicorn, Beka, and you know it.”

Otabek smiles, because Yuri was right.

Hydrangea

It’s probably Yuri’s last Olympics.

It’s not something that Otabek wants to think about. It was okay when he retired, he expected to retire early into his career. But Yuri? Yuri seems like he’d be able to skate until he’s fifty-- even if Otabek knows that’s not possible.

But it’s 2026, and Yuri is twenty-eight. He’ll be lucky to eke out another few years in his competitive career, let alone another Olympics. Yuri doesn’t mention it, but they both know. Otabek has to know, he’s his coach. The moment he hung his skates up, Yuri demanded it.

Yuri skates flawlessly, like always. Otabek knows he’s in pain. He sees the slight strain in Yuri’s muscles, the little twitches of discomfort. He’s knows because he watches, he’s always watching Yuri. As his coach, as his friend, as well as wishing.

They sit in the Kiss-and-Cry. They wait for the final scores, the ones that determine medals. Yuri sits in second, but he delivers one hell of a final performance.

The announcement comes on, and the score is heard. And it’s like the stadium is quiet, it’s like there’s no one there, except for them. He turns to Yuri, who turns to him, and Yuri whoops. He jumps out of his seat, screeching, pulling Otabek with him.

Otabek is proud, this is the proudest moment in his life. Because Yuri smashes a record and will bring home the gold.

Yuri must be proud too, because he dips down and kisses him. It’s a surprise. They’ve danced around this for years, but Yuri finally make his fucking choice.

Fuck the Gold, Otabek thinks, slipping his arms around his neck, pulling Yuri closer.

Ginger

“I fucking hate Katsudon,” Yuri says.

Otabek regards him with amusement. “Color me surprised,” he intones sarcastically. “You seem to have no problem with it anytime you come to Japan.” He points to the bowl sitting before him.

“I wasn’t talking about the fucking food,” Yuri snaps, and Otabek laughs.

Carnation

“Hey Beka,” Yuri starts. He always starts things like that, with a simple Hey Beka. “What do you think about true love?”

He’s asked about this before, though they were pretty fucking young. Years ago, but Otabek remembers it. He remembers most of the things that Yuri asks.

“What, do I think it exists?” Yuri shrugs. Otabek reaches out and grasps his hand, slipping his fingers between Yuri’s. “Obviously.”

Yuri isn’t the kind of guy to make mad declarations of love-- aside from his newsworthy smooch at the Olympics. But he says, “Yeah, obviously.”

Otabek smiles, squeezing his hand.

Yuri squeezes back.

#otayuri #otabek and yuri #Otabek Altin #yuri plisetsky #yuri on ice fanfiction #Yuri on ice #yurionice

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gets-romantic · 6 years ago

Text

I Dream of You So Often It’s Like You Never Leave

Loving you is so easy, I can do it in my sleep I dream of you so often it’s like you never leave

Mac's been having dreams about Dennis since he left.

Mac wasn’t really sure how often most people had sex dreams, but he assumed that only one in a good week was a little excessive. Waking up at four in the morning every few days and having to more or less wake up so he can jerk off and finally fall back asleep seems like a little much and he was way fucking over it.

For the third time in a week he bolted up in bed, sweating, with his heart trying to hammer its way out of his ribcage. Jerking awake to the feeling of hands creeping their way down his chest and a mouth doing a number on his neck wasn’t as awful as he wished it was. In a way, he thought that it would be easier if he hated it. Maybe that way his subconscious could get the message and stop pumping it all into his psyche. It was Freudian, really, which Mac did not care for, Freud was just a little science bitch who spent his whole career trying to justify why it was totally chill that he wanted to fuck his mom.

He woke up hard, painfully so, and angry about having to get up to take care of it. He splashed cold water on his face and shaking his head when all was said and done to try to clear his thoughts, to try to not remember that to get off he mentally continued what he saw in his dream.

Sometimes his dreams were about Dennis. Okay, most of the time they were about Dennis, probably about nine times out of ten. Once Mac had dream-fucked this cute new barista at the Starbucks down the street, but he considered that more like a fluke than anything else.

The dreams weren’t even always about sex, or at least it didn’t always start that way. Last week he dreamt that he and Dennis had been out for their monthly dinner, and it was all so painfully normal , he could have sworn it was real. Then they’d gotten back to the apartment and had what felt like absolutely mind blowing sex. If Mac was being honest, some similar things had happened after getting back from the dinners, but his subconscious amplified it all.

A few had no sex at all, surprisingly, once he dreamt that he was walking home late at night, tired and cold, and when he unlocked and opened the front door Dennis was sitting at the table. He looks up when Mac enters, pushing an old chipped coffee mug away from him. Mac is stunned, unsure of what to say, whether it was Dennis or some weird ghost or hallucination thing. “You,” he starts, taken aback and confused. “You’re back.”

“Of course I am, dumb ass,” Dennis smiles, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He gets up, walking towards where Mac was standing in the doorway, door still wide open to the hallway. Dennis grips the door, easing it close, pushing Mac further backwards until his back is up against it, and Mac lets him. Dennis settles his hand on the door to the left of Mac’s head, the other on the door knob, boxing him in.

“Why?” The only word Mac’s shocked voice manages to force out.

“You didn’t really think I’d just leave like that, did you? Of course I came back, I’ll always come back, Mac.”

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, it was entirely hollow, until it fills again with something that feels like hope. Like yeah, there’s no way Dennis would run away and forget about him , he thought, and he wants so bad to believe him that he almost did.

Dennis’s hand finds its way from the doorknob to his shoulder, sliding over to flatten down the collar of his peacoat (God, it looked good , maybe he should look to buy one in real life). “I missed you,” he says, his voice is soft and with no edge.

“I missed you, too,” Mac answers, gripping onto Dennis’s waist, like he knew exactly what to do, and pulled him closer.

Dennis grins wide, it’s near contagious, and Mac can’t help but smile back. Dennis reaches up and lifts Mac’s chin with a gentle nudge. His eyes scanned over Mac’s face before leaning in to kiss him, soft and sweetly.

Mac hated that one the most, it was recurring, too, and if he sees it for a third time this month he might scream. The sex ones were easier, it was easier to remove Dennis from the equation and just assume it was because he missed him (in a totally platonic bro way), and also wanted to have sex, and the two were in no way related. He could go on a hookup app or to a bar and pick up some guy and have a stand in for Dennis for the night, but the emotional bullshit made the water a little more murky.

He tried that once, he downloaded Tinder after Dee told him he just need to fuck to feel better. Mac had hoped to God that she was right. He had planned to meet up at a bar on a Wednesday night with the first guy he hit it off with on the app, who Mac is pretty sure was named Ethan. Ethan was nice, tallish with a twink body, wearing tortoise shell glasses, a button up, and a cardigan. He was sweet, and had an apartment really close to the bar, which was convenient and probably planned on his part. The sex was pretty good, too, but hook ups didn’t seem like the answer to his problems. When everything was said and done, and they were lying down on Ethan’s bed still tipsy from the bar, covered in sweat and chests heaving, Mac didn’t feel any better. There was a few minutes of silence, when neither of them were sure what to say to break the heavy stillness.

Ethan sighed “So, uh, that was good,” he said, tentatively.

Mac didn’t reply, and when Ethan turned to him, he was crying. It was embarrassing as all hell. He didn’t know what to do, and just froze. This had never happened before, during hookups with men or women or whoever, or really sex in general, he was too much of a badass. Ethan seemed equally off guard, but held Mac as he sobbed, neither entirely sure why or even what was even happening. On the inside Mac wanted so badly for the floor to open up and swallow him whole, but despite the embarrassment it was nice. The feeling of strong arms around him made him feel safe, and when he closed his eyes he imagined it was Dennis holding him. He left before Ethan woke up the next morning, and tried hard not to cry on a 7:00am subway surrounded by everyone on their way to work.

Sex was something where he could find a stand-in for, but all the lame emotions were more complicated. No matter how hot a guy he meets at a bar is and no matter how good the sex is, it can’t replace the feeling he gets in his dreams when Dennis says he would never be gone for good, never leave him like he did.

If the dreams could just fucking stop maybe then Mac could move on. It was obvious that Dennis had, they hadn’t spoken on the phone yet this month, longer than that since Dennis had been the one to call first, and he hadn’t even replied to Mac’s last text message from three days ago. The hard part was that his subconscious was keeping the memory of Dennis alive and well, every night in his head it was like he had never left. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had dreams (regular or sex related) about Dennis before, when you spend so much time with one person it’s not surprising, but nearly every goddamn night? Really? It was a bit excessive, he had to admit. He was stopping himself from accepting that Dennis was gone and if his brain could just give it a fucking rest maybe he could really get the message.

Dennis wasn’t coming back, he made that painfully clear, but it wasn’t easy to just turn off twenty years of feelings in an instant. Mac deep down had always known that Dennis would never return anything he’d ever felt, and that he could never seem to will that into existence. He needed to find a way to get over Dennis and feel something for someone else for once in his life because this just wasn’t cutting it. He’d never managed in the past few months to get over the thought of just walking into the apartment one day and Dennis sitting at the table on his phone, or watching TV on the couch just like he’d never left. The recurring dream of that exact thing didn’t help, but he couldn’t stop holding his breath whenever he swung open the front door, wanting so fucking bad for things to be like they were before. The apartment felt too big for just one person, it was empty and lonely.

The next night, Mac fell asleep early, probably sometime around midnight after drinking too much too early in the night he had just decided to call it quits. Not being able to drink for as long throughout the day made him feel 100 years old but his tired bones were craving sleep like it’s oxygen and who was he to deprive them any longer, it doesn’t take long until he’s under.

After hours of a peaceful, dreamless sleep (thank you, alcohol), a weight sinks into the other side of the bed. It’s jarring, feeling someone else’s beside you when you live alone. Mac scrambles around the bedside table trying to turn on the light, and knocking his phone and an old coffee mug to the floor in his wake. In the glow of his bedside lamp he makes out the shape of someone else beside him, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He thinks that maybe this is the end, maybe someone broke in and he’s about to be stabbed to death or have his throat slit or something way more gruesome than that.

“Dennis?” He blurts out in shock. “What the fuck?” The volume and pitch of his voice raising. He was 90% sure this was real.

“Shut up, Jesus Christ, I just got off a redeye,” Dennis groans burying his head into the pillow to hide from the light.

“No way, dude! What are you doing here?” Mac nearly yells.

“Come on, man, I’m so tired, just go to sleep.”

“You sneak into my room in the middle of the night, get into my bed, I thought you were going to kill me! I’ve got the right to ask a few fucking questions!”

“Fine! You want answers? Fine!” Dennis groans, rolling onto his back and propping himself up on his elbows.

Mac’s taken aback by how easily Dennis gave into his request and finds himself stumbling over his words. “What are youーwhat? Why?”

“Why am I here?” Dennis clarifies. Mac nods, still dumbfounded and unable to make his words make sense. “I just had to leave, at least for a bit.”

“So, what? You just up and left in the middle of the night?”

“I told her my mom was sick and I had to go back to Philly right away, and I just guessed you wouldn’t have changed the locks.” Dennis leans back down, turning onto his side towards Mac and closing his eyes, assuming the conversation was over.

Mac pauses for a moment, trying to process everything that’s happening in his foggy, tired brain. “But, your mom is dead,” Mac says, like that’s the part of this he didn’t understand.

“I know,” Dennis answers, not bothering to open his eyes. “But Brian’s isn’t. Or maybe she will be in a week, I’m not sure yet. Are you done yet? Can I just fucking sleep now?”

“No! Dude, come on! What are you doing in my bed?”

“The other room doesn’t have one, dumb ass.” He sits up more this time, glaring at Mac for continually interrupting his rest.

“Oh, yeah, right. But, like, you made that whole show of leaving, that everything was over, and now, what? You want to just march back in here like nothing happened? You can’t do that, you can just decide what life you want depending on the day!”

“It’s not like that!” They were both nearly yelling now, Dennis sat cross legged across the bed from Mac, he sighed and put his head down in his hands for a moment. It had been months since he’s been this close but it still feels like he’s a million miles away. “I thoughtーI thought I was doing the right thing, being responsible and going to go be a dad, but I just don’t think I can fucking do it. I thought that it would make me happy, all that nuclear family bullshit, just like it’s supposed to, but it doesn’t! I look at her and I feel nothing, and I look at that kid and I justーI feel nothing . That’s not what it was supposed to be like, man, and I don’t know. I don’t know,” his voice softened, he sounded so small, staring straight past Mac into the darkness, the small IKEA bedside table lamp barely giving off life. He took a deep breath, recollecting himself and looking back to Mac. “How did you know?”

“Know what?” Mac asks, everything Dennis was saying was all over the place and it left his head spinning.

“How did you know you were gay?” Dennis’s voice is soft and unsure, like if he spoke to loudly he’d disrupt the still air that made its home in the two feet between them.

Put on the spot, Mac isn’t really sure how to put what he feels into words but decides to give it a shot anyways. “It’s complicated, I guess. I don’t know, every relationship I’d had with a woman felt kind of empty, but I had no idea what I was missing and just thought that it was like that for everyone. Eventually I kind of just realized that that just doesn’t make that much sense, like, why would everyone put so much effort into faking happiness all the time, you know? And I guess I just picked up on how much more attention I paid to dudes, like thinking about what they’d feel like and shit. You can’t make a life out of what you think you’re supposed to do.” He decides to gloss over how much he wrestled with religion and morality over that time, it wasn’t something he felt like he needed to get into now, and it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about yet. At all.

Dennis nods absentmindedly, deep in thought and weighing what Mac had said. The longer the silence stretches out, the heavier it feels. The tension is palpable and Mac feels like if he reached out he could grab it in his hands.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and Iー” He takes a deep breath. “I think that I should try… doing stuff with a man.” His words are careful and painfully deliberate, almost like he was proposing some type of clinical study. Like it was a hypothesis he needed tested, the scientific method was tried and true and he needed empirical evidence.

“That’s okay, man. We can make you a Tinder profile or go to a bar tomorrow, or something, there’s one I’ve been going to in the east end recently, it’s not technically a gay bar but it’s one, like, unofficially.” Mac is trying so hard to look and sound like he didn’t just get the wind knocked out of his lungs, life was throwing him a curveball tonight. His head was spinning and he was trying so hard to keep his cool, no matter how badly he wanted to reach out and grab Dennis by the throat and kiss him like he’s wanted to since he was 16.

“No, not with a stranger. I think I need to kiss you.” Dennis’s eye drilled holes into Mac’s skin.

“Oh, uh, okay.” He might be legally brain dead. Unsure of what to do or say, he just stares back absolutely stunned.

“Okay? Then, can I?” This is probably the most Dennis has asked for permission before making a move, not in a dubious way, more that everything is often just more nuanced. Probably the most Mac had ever been asked. Now? Right fucking now?

“Yeah,” he manages to force out.

Dennis leans in, painfully slow, reaching up to place a hand lightly on his shoulder. Mac places a hand on his jaw, gliding his thumb over Dennis’s cheekbone. He takes in the look on Dennis’s face, his eyes are wide and uncharacteristically innocent. He’s so beautiful it hurts to look at him head on sometimes, like he’s staring straight into the sun. Mac leans forward to meet Dennis somewhere in the middle, covering his mouth in a kiss so soft it should be illegal. It’s gentle and unsure, neither knowing how far they should take it. Dennis tasted like every feeling he’d had for him in high school, everything that he’d pushed so far down inside himself hoping that they’d disappear. But that’s the thing about feelings, isn’t it? They’re messy and don’t like to be contained in tiny tupperware containers shoved to the back of your brain. Like all the times he’d gotten off to Dennis’s videotapes and lied to himself that it was about the women in it and not because it was Dennis, but lying to yourself is tiring and Mac could only have kept it up for so long. Eventually everything started to boil over and he realized that maybe he’d get off to those because it was a dude in the videos, more specifically it was Dennis.

Mac pulls back, wanting to gauge Dennis’s reaction. Suddenly feeling very naked when the cold air sweeps across his bare chest, wearing only a pair of plaid boxer shorts. He doesn’t get far before slides an arm around his shoulders, pulling him firmly forward until they crash into each other again, Dennis runs a hand through Mac’s hair, pulling gently. Like Dennis can’t seem to pull away, like he knew what it was like to breathe now and Mac was the only source of oxygen in the room. Mac moves his hands conservatively, unsure if there’s an invisible line in place, and trying very hard not to cross it. He settles his free hand on Dennis’s waist, rubbing small circles into the worn fabric of his pullover sweater; it was an old one, the colours were faded and the sewn on appliques of Dennis’s university logo had frayed in its twenty year lifespan.

“Here, you canー” Dennis breathes out, cutting himself off by lifting the hem of his pullover, encouraging Mac to touch his skin. His skin is incredibly soft, Mac’s hands run up his waist and over his ribcage, loving the feeling of Dennis shivering under his touch. One hand strays from Dennis’s waist, grabbing his ass through his sweatpants and pulling his hips forward making Dennis’s breath hitch.

Reluctantly, Dennis pulls back far enough to take off his sweater. Mac runs his hand over Dennis’s flushed and heaving chest, his lips are wet and open, breathing hard. Dennis leans forward, shifting so he’d straddling Mac’s lap, forcing him back against the wooden backboard. They’re way closer now than before, chests pressed firmly together. When they kiss again it’s different than before, the new angle and position allowing it to be deeper and dirtier than ever. Mac slides his tongue into Dennis’s mouth, gliding it across the back of his bottom teeth before biting into his bottom lip, pulling it towards himself. The sounds Dennis makes are things he would never let others know about outside of this one moment, it made them powerful, Mac would do anything to keep him making such beautiful noises. He wasn’t loud or anything, but would softly gasp or sigh or moan in such a way that Mac could feel himself growing harder with every one.

Dennis rolled his hips, grinding down on Mac’s partially hard cock. Mac groans at the new contact, muffled by Dennis’s mouth on his, he grabs at Dennis’s ass with both hands, pulling him impossibly closer as he chases that contact again. After a second letting his hands dip below the waistline of Dennis’s sweatpants, feeling his warm bare skin.

“Can I?” Dennis breathes out, still unsure of what’s okay, if either of them needed to tap out. He slips a finger or two into Mac’s boxer shorts to hint to what he wants. “I want to get you off.” He leans closer to Mac’s ear, his voice dropping half an octave and slowing, groping at Mac’s cock through the thin layer of cotton.

“ Fuck , yeah, God, yeah, go head.” The words fall out jumbled as Mac loses more and more brain functions to the sensations. He would let Dennis do anything to him right now.

They shift around slightly, allowing Mac to lift his hips enough for Dennis pull down his boxers, before kicking them to the floor somewhere. Dennis resettles himself on Mac’s thighs, his weight holding him firmly in place. He places a hand on Mac’s throat, pausing for a moment to scan his face and Mac would kill to know what he was thinking.

In that moment, Dennis was absolutely breathtaking, his pupils were blown and his lips were slightly parted and shiny with spit. Mac doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful, every sunset, constellation, and forest fire there’s ever been rolled into one. He didn’t want it to end, he never wanted to have to move his eyes from Dennis’s face.

Dennis drags his hand from Mac’s throat down his chest painfully slowly. The anticipation is agonizing when his hand grazes down his abs. Mac’s breath hitches when Dennis’s hand wraps a hand around his steadily hardening cock. Mac swears to God he saw a slight smile creep its way onto Dennis’s lips for a split second when he sees Mac start breathing heavier in reaction to his slow, steady pumps. He spent so much of his life thinking about Dennis’s lips, mesmerized, he raises a hand to Dennis’s jaw. Dragging his thumb over his cheekbone, Mac gently tugs at his bottom lip, opening Dennis’s mouth slightly, Dennis presses a gentle kiss to the pad of Mac’s thumb. So soft it should be illegal, he shouldn’t be allowed to do that while straddling his friend’s thighs and jerking him off. Mac’s other hand holds firmly in Dennis’s hair, pulling him forward into a nose-breakingly hard kiss, pulling his hair harder than strictly necessary in a way that has Dennis moaning softly and breathing harder.

“Fucking, God, Jesus,” Mac breathed in the small gaps between their kisses.

“That good?” Dennis grins smugly, he already knew the answer.

“Yeah.”

Dennis pulls away, sitting back on his heels for a moment, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair.

“Heyーc’mon man,” Mac complains at the loss of touch. Catching his breath, he leans back towards the headboard.

“Oh, shut up.” He hadn’t resuming the previous speed of before, his hand was just ghosting over Mac, teasingly gentile. Dennis brought his lips to the side of Mac’s neck leaving marks he knows will be there tomorrow, sucking hard on the sensitive skin there like he was a vampire. The thought makes Mac laugh. “What? What are you laughing at?” Dennis’s voice is concerned, he stops stroking Mac completely, leaning back to scan his face.

“Nothing, it’s justーyou’re like a fucking vampire, dude,” Mac’s still giggling a little, rubbing a hand on the side of his neck, the skin’s sore and tender in the best way possible and still wet from Dennis’s spit.

Dennis glares at him, trying hard to keep that serious look before a grin breaks out on his face. “What? No, I’m not.” His smile was vibrant even in the dark. “And don’t call me dude when my hand’s on your dick.” His laugh broke the heavy tension in the room, like whatever was happening now was normal, just the next logical progression of whatever their relationship was before. And maybe it was. Maybe the way they’d been before made this inevitable.

“Whatever, man,” Mac says, knowing saying that would probably annoy Dennis as much as ‘dude’. Dennis pinches his thigh. “Hey!” He protests.

“Shut up, Jesus Christ, do you ever stop talking?” Dennis never gives him a chance to respond, kissing him hard before Mac even had a chance to think of something snarky or sarcastic to say. Usually he knew just what to say to push Dennis’s buttons but the feeling of his tongue in Mac’s mouth made him lose most brain function. And when Dennis starts pumping his cock again, occasionally sliding him thumb over the head, there goes any brain function he had left. Familiar feelings well up inside him deep inside, the edge drawing near.

“Dennis, shit, Jesus, fuck,” Mac groans all in quick succession, trying to get Dennis’s attention and convey the message. “I’m gonnaー” he says, cut off by a moan.

“That’s it, baby boy,” Dennis near whispers, their foreheads pressed together. It was all so painfully happening. “That’s it, come for me.” That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

“God, Dennis,” Mac groans as he comes, spilling onto his stomach and Dennis’s hands. He says both words in the same breath like they’re the same thing. Mac tries to catch his breath, reorient himself, their foreheads still pressed together, breathing in each other’s air. Dennis stroked him for a moment or two longer, stopping before it really starts to hurt, and wiping his hand onto a towel strewn onto a chair near Mac’s bed.

He brings the towel to Mac’s abdomen, looking up to his face, seemingly for permission. All Mac’s limited brain function can think to do is nod. Dennis wipes off his come softly and more carefully than Mac thought he was capable off. For some reason this felt more intimate than when Dennis was jerking him off, or when his tongue was halfway down Dennis’s throat.

When the ash seems to have settled, Mac takes note of how hard Dennis still is, and what kind of best friend would he be to leave him like that? Really, it was only fair to do something to take care of it.

He settles himself on the floor, directly between Dennis’s thighs, pulling off his sweatpants. Dennis’s eyes were dark, carding a hand through Mac’s hair, gently encouraging him forward. Tentatively stroking Dennis’s cock a few, trying to refrain himself from licking his lips. His mouth was fucking watering thinking about putting Dennis’s dick in his mouth, about how long he’s thought of this, how long he’s wanted this.

Mac takes it in his mouth, slowly inching his way down to meet his fist at the base, trying hard not to choke. Dennis’s hand in his hair pulls tighter, pulling Mac further onto his cock until he chokes.

“Shit, shit, sorry,” Dennis says when Mac pulls off, coughing a little.

“Hey, it’s fine, bro,” Mac tries to reassure him, wiping spit off his chin and stroking Dennis’s thigh.

“Don’t callー”

“Don’t call you bro with your dick in my mouth?” Mac cuts him off, taking Dennis back in his mouth before he can reply. It was satisfying to have the final word for once.

It wasn’t long before Dennis’s hands were tight in his hair again, and he was moaning his name like it was some kind of prayer. Probably the first time Dennis had prayed in his life. Mac puts all his effort into doing it right, trying to make it the best blow job he’d given in his fucking life. It wasn’t the longest one he’d given, Dennis seemed to be close already. His jaw was starting to ache but he could never stop, everything he’d wanted since high school seemed to be coming to fruition, he probably would keep going if he got stabbed.

Dennis came with a groan, covering the bottom half of Mac’s face. Dennis takes a few deep breaths before starting to laugh almost, a smile wide on his lips.

“What?” Mac questions.

Dennis grabs Mac by his sore jaw, harder than necessary probably. “You look good like that.” He swipes his thumb across Mac’s cheek.

“Shut up.” Mac’s faces goes red, wiping it off with the towel used previously before letting it fall to the floor somewhere.

His knees click when he stands up, feeling ten years older instantly. Dennis is laying half on his bed, legs still splayed over the side. Mac sits on the edge beside him, falling back to mirror his position.

“So, did you get the answer you were looking for?” His voice sounded raw.

“Yeah,” Dennis answers after a beat. Mac feels like that’s an answer enough and knows that it’s not his place to pry and doesn’t expect Dennis to say anything else. “I’m gay.”

Mac nods, they stare at the ceiling in silence before slowly migrating into bed, pulling back on boxers and sweatpants like it’s no different from other times they’d shared a bed. It was just like the other times, really, except Dennis kissed him again before settling his head on Mac’s chest and an arm around his waist.

The morning came quickly, or more like 10:30am came quickly. When Mac woke up, one of his arms was around Dennis’s waist and they were impossibly close.

The gravity of what happened really set in, last night he knew in the back of his brain there was always the slight possibility that it was some insanely detailed sex dream no matter how much more real it had felt in the moment.

Dennis stirred, taking a deep breath, and opening his eyes. “Hey,” he says, voice rough and sleepy.

“Hey,” Mac answers pulling him closer.

The morning seems to follow the routine of their lives before Dennis had left. When they finally get out of bed an eternity later, Dennis goes to shower and Mac makes a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.

It’s also so painfully regular, like nothing had changed at all in the past few months. Like Dennis had never left.

When he gets out of the shower, Dennis walks into the kitchen in his old university sweater from the night before and boxers. Mac pours him a cup of coffee, leaving it black like he likes it, that goddamn sociopath.

Everything was normal, except when Dennis took the cup of coffee, he gave him a quick kiss as a thank you. That wasn’t normal yet, per se, but Mac could definitely get used to it.

Read on AO3

#oh shit ive done it again #my writing #mac x dennis #iasip #it's always sunny in philadelphia #so this is a thing now i guess

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caseybanning · 5 years ago

Text

on love

((some slight spoilers for Ambition: Nemesis 100))

"It's not your usual fare," Casey's editor remarks, flipping through the article. It's several pages in length, word-dense, and cites everything from the Bible to the latest gossip in the honey dens of Veilgarden. His cigarette trails a line of smoke in the air, burning away almost untouched in the ashtray on his desk as he reads. He gives pause, Casey watching him as he reads, and finally his eyebrows go upwards on his face. He glances over the papers to Casey, his expression one of slight shock.

"Pointing out precisely what love is not is going to make a few people unhappy," He says. "And especially on such a personal level."

"I couldn't not write on the subject of romance without drawing from past experience," Casey explains. "Love is simultaneously the greatest pleasure and also the most harrowing pain. If I'm unable to explore both sides, this isn't going to work."

The editor exhales and sets the article aside. He taps the cigarette against the tray, loosening the ash and takes a drag. He contemplates quietly, and finally...

"It's not ready yet," He says. "You can do more with it, and you will have to publish this elsewhere."

"Carlisle--"

"You'll be unable to attract the audience you want with this publication," He explains. "I have some potentials that this could be sent to, but it's competitive. Work on it more, wait until the Feast is over. It'll stand out more."

On love

On the subject of love, my thoughts are numerous and scattered; it is my only hope that I may compile them here for you in one document and contribute my own into the conversation.

The subject of love is often introduced at a young age in your usual Christian household with popular verses. "Let all you do be done in love" is what we are told from 1 Corinthians 16:14, to the classic John 3:16 chiming in that God's act of love was to give his only Son for us to be forgiven of our sins. On this matter of love I've contemplated at great length in contrast of this being described as an act of love when it was instead such an act of violence and grief--Surely for Christ, who had been tortured and speared, and for his loving Mother to lose the son that she had brought into the world for this very purpose...

"Love?" Amos asks with a smile. "In what sense?"

Casey shrugs. "What's the first thing that comes to your mind?"

"Christ, of course." He says. "I don't think there would have been any greater act of love than his."

Casey leans forward in their chair. Surrounding the two of them in Amos's office were shelves and shelves of books--Bibles, different types, books on general theology, some novels. The candlelight here was warm and inviting, and gave a much better sense of ease than being in the church proper. "If a regular everyday man were to sacrifice himself for the love of his life, would that not be the same as what Christ did?" They ask.

Amos regards this question with a soft laugh. "You have to remember, Jesus was also as much of an everyday man as any of us. He was a carpenter. Also, his was for all of humanity and not just the love of a single individual."

"A single person's act of love for another single person could single-handedly change the course of history," Casey says with a smile. "Why else is London hidden away here?"

"I have little to say on the matters of the Empress," Amos says carefully, reaching for the tea on his desk.

"Here's a different question for you then," Casey sits up straighter now as Amos takes a sip of his tea. "Since London was taken underground and so much emphasis has started on the cultivation and actual sale of love stories, the matter of love is one that is expressed more openly. Theology and the church certainly had to make some changes once it was discovered that Hell is just a train ride away." Casey splays their hands out, motioning to all the books around them. "Why is it that, at best, the Church is still so silent on people like me and at worst an enabler for the likes of Jeremiah Lakewood?"

Amos blanches at the question, setting aside his tea with an abrupt clink into it's saucer. "I can't speak on behalf of the entire Church," He says. "At least as far as this parish goes, the attendees here do tend to hold similar opinions to you. I will tell you something though." He sits up, and his gaze is sharply fixed on Casey's as he starts to speak. "When the Veilgarden arsons were occurring, I was giving a sermon one morning when an attendee stood up express how they had been feeling. They'd said much of the same things that you did, just now, and back then I didn't have the answers. I still don't."

He folds his hands together atop his desk and continues. "What I believe, and additionally what I know to be true is this: People like Jeremiah Lakewood are not representative of the message of Christ. There are always disagreements between churches and congregations, but..." He stops to contemplate his words, almost long enough for Casey to press him to continue. "After the attacks in Veilgarden, what I was able to witness was an outpouring of love. It was the love of community. People opening their homes to the displaced, a few crossing class and belief lines to make sure the injured were cared for and safe, a single person interrupting a sermon to question everything right in the house of God. These are not insignificant moments. This is more what Christ meant to represent: the gathering of few to benefit the most, and working using love as a tool."

What types of love can we explore? We always hear so much on romantic love, and of course I can spend our time in this article together poetically exploring this subject, but I implore you also to consider beyond: the love between friends, the love between siblings, the love between yourself and your mother and father, the love you may feel during your favorite meal. Gestures, little gifts, sheltering someone from the rain, are all pieces that make up the puzzle of love. Love is a connection, and love is often a choice; a playing card that comes up in our hand that we can play or discard.

At the townhouse, Casey occupies a moment of time alone to go prepare a fresh pot of tea. Out in the parlor, they can hear Rashida's laughter as their aunt Mary regales another tale from her latest night out on the town. Behind her laughter were the intermingling voices of Blanche and Astrid, comparing notes on the latest play they were working on. The clinking of the china in the tray provides a gentle rhythm to the thrum of the chatter, and as they return Mary reaches out to touch Casey's arm.

"Oh, my dear--" She starts, gesturing them to sit. "Earlier you mentioned that my sister was in town."

"Yes," Casey clasps their hands together. Rashida's jovial expression softens, her gaze only breaking as she reaches for her teacup.

"About as well as one could expect?" She asks. Casey lifts up the teapot and pours into her cup, shrugging.

"It was worse before it got marginally better," They replied. "I don't quite think any supper with my family is complete without at least one person being called a disgrace, so in that regard my father did not disappoint. Roland was about to throw him out onto the street."

Mary sips her own tea quietly, and Rashida reaches out to hold Casey's hand. "That's terrible." She says. Cynthia, who had been quietly sketching in her journal his whole time next to Rashida, looks up.

"It's..." Casey pauses, staring down into their cup. "at least better than me thinking they would never speak to me again. We have written letters since then--more often than in the past. Mother has tried at least in calling me by my name, but father had a more difficult time coming around to that. The subject of my life here and who I am now is tread not at all."

"Which isn't better," Mary says darkly.

Rashida looks between the two of them, and Mary sighs. "When we reconnected here in London years ago, I felt... not really shocked by how Casey appeared to me, but there is always a surprise when someone you remember as one way presents differently daily." Mary says. Casey leans back and takes a sip of tea. "As a child, they used to try to get into their brother's old wardrobe and play dress-up. That's what we all thought, anyway. Children and their imaginations... Casey was not satisfied expecting to be a princess in stories, or to play mother with their dolls, not at first."

"Oh, I liked dolls plenty as a kid," They say. "I wouldn't pretend they were my children, but I did enjoy trying to make clothes for them."

"Sure," Mary says. "And then you got older. The young men in our church and community took notice."

Rashida nods, gently picking up a jar of honey to spoon in her tea. Casey's expression darkened. "It only took one of them though... just the one," They say, their voice quiet. "That was enough for me to learn what love isn't."

"You have Roland now," Cynthia says quietly, her eyes bright. "Not that it erases what has already happened, but it's a far stretch better than what you had."

To save the absolute best for last, my closing statements cannot go unsaid without mentioning my beloved husband. Without him, this would not have been possible and I would appear to you all a very different and much less pleasant individual...

Casey, though on the outside appearing to be relaxing into their chair, feels a stab of nervousness as Roland reads the article quietly to himself. As he reaches the last page, he glance up to Casey with a warm expression. "It's a complete work." He finally says.

"You think so?"

"Risky enough to where there will some inevitable push-back of course... not so much that you'll be exiled immediately. It's a good balance." He straightens out the pages and sets them aside on the table, standing up from his seat. He offers his hand to Casey and they stand up, retrieving their periodical from the table. "My editor is going to go over it with me tomorrow," They say, flipping through it as if to look for any last minute changes that could be made. "It's not going to be published in our usual periodical, but he's got a list of names lined up that I could try instead. Now that the Feast of the Rose has died down, it's not going to get lost in a sea of poetry or other works..."

Casey's voice trails off as they stare down at the papers. They crinkle lightly in their fingers, and Roland tries to catch their gaze. "What's wrong?" He asks.

"It's possible this isn't going to work," They reply. "The only time anyone ever really sees her or talks about her is during the Feast and that's all passed now. Who knows what other activities she's up to the rest of the year?"

"If this doesn't work, then this will still be considered your published work and it adds to your career as a writer," Roland says and smiles. "And if it does work, well... you're a step closer."

"Either option would be great," Casey says with a tired sigh and rubs their eye. "Nothing more happening tonight though--it's as completed as it can be until Carlise gets his hands on it."

Roland hums, pursing his lips in an exaggerated expression of thought. "Nothing more tonight?" He asks. Casey gives him a wry smile.

"Is there an idea you think maybe I can add?"

"Oh, always," He says, reaching to brush a bit of Casey's hair away from their face. "Nothing you could publish without getting exiled though."

"Do tell me more." Casey smiles, leaning up toward him for a kiss.

Actors are seen reading it between practices, giggling amongst themselves as they thumb through the periodical and swap their favorite quotes. The subject of love comes up in Amos's sermon the first Sunday after it's published. The Ministry of Public Decency doesn't waste much time in snatching up as many copies as they could over some of the more choice passages, citing security concerns and non-taxed stories. The few remaining copies are hidden away in reading rooms and personal libraries.

Casey lies in wait the whole time, keeping their eyes peeled as they traverse London--not a hint of that distinct, irrigo-soaked silhouette to be seen yet.

The night came in quietly, almost unseen just as the clock was chiming nine. Casey, distantly thinking of a steaming cup of tea and a book to close out their evening, pulls out a small ring of keys to the front of their residence and inserts one. The small pattering of footsteps coming closer could be heard just over their shoulder and they pause, their key still stuck in the lock, and they turn to face the source of the noise.

A cloaked figure is approaching them, a copy of Casey's periodical clutched in her hands. As she walks closer, the scent of her perfume sweeps over the porch and Casey staggers back, trying to reach blindly behind them to push the door open. They blink once, twice, rapidly--irrigo starts swirling in their vision--

#fallen london #ambition: nemesis spoillers #words words words

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ajaegerpilot · 6 years ago

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It wasn’t that Dean wasn’t happy to have his dad back, he was; he was over the moon about it. His mom was alive, his dad was alive, hell – Sam, Jack, and Cas were all alive. Dad had made up with his sons, was working on things with Mary, and he liked Jack. So Dean of course was . . . again, beyond thrilled to have his entire family back, pieced together. Things were great. That just left Cas.

It wasn’t that Dean wasn’t happy to have his dad back, he was; he was over the moon about it. His mom was alive, his dad was alive, hell – Sam, Jack, and Cas were all alive. In the evenings, they’d get together around the dining room table where Dean would serve proper meals for his family who would alternate pitching in.

Somehow, John being there grounded them into some sort of a structure; instead of everyone grabbing what they wanted from the fridge whenever they wanted it, they’d all get together for dinner. Being surrounded by his family like that was the closest Dean had ever gotten to a happy ending, or the happiest he’d been before the other shoe dropped. He woke up some mornings not believing it was real.

First thing, John had gotten himself acquainted with the Bunker, finding out what he could about his heritage, the Men of Letters, and what else he’d missed in the years he’d been gone. New monsters bumped in the night – angels and archangels, the Darkness and the Nothing. It’d be a push to say that John was jumping back in the saddle to hunt, even Dean was getting close to being too old for that, but it wasn’t like the man was ready to retire either.

Also, it was weird, seeing his mom and dad together again. Mary’d had difficulties enough fitting back together with this new version of her life, and the twenty-odd years that had passed without her, John included in them. They’d pumped the brakes a bit, which Dean could respect, but Dean kind of didn’t want to pay too much attention to it. He didn’t need to see them feeling things out again; they were his parents for Christ’s sake.

Sam and John had managed to make some sort of amends. Sam had been able to admit that he’d probably never be able to fully leave the hunter’s life, and John had managed to admit that he should’ve never dragged his kids into that life to begin with, that he should’ve found some alternative. And maybe those were just hollow words, but Dean could see it helped for Sam. The two of them weren’t suddenly buddy-buddy, but things were easier, a little lighter maybe.

It was an odd fit overall, Dean could admit, to suddenly be alive again and find the kids you’d raised had grown a family of their own. John liked Jack well enough, didn’t fully trust him which Dean could get – they still hadn’t told him about the whole spawn of Satan thing, thought better against that. But, given the kid was polite and curious and loyal as hell, he and John got along just fine.

And Dean of course was . . . again, beyond thrilled to have his entire family back, pieced together. John didn’t treat Dean like a kid anymore, which, granted, was a hard thing to do when they were roughly the same age. But yeah, there was a bit of respect there. Still a little weird, but that was ironing itself out. Things were great. So . . . that left Cas.

Initially, John seemed to like Cas. He was interested in the angels, and Cas had kind of shut him down. Told him that a lot of what Cas had been able to do had kind of – worn and torn over the years. Actually, overall Cas had been pretty cold to John. He didn’t like him for whatever reason. Dean didn’t take it personally. His dad could be pretty prickly, and Cas wouldn’t be the first person not to like him. In fact, Bobby still pretty much hated his guts.

The weird thing was, though, that John kind of dug the fact that Cas was withholding. In retrospect it was possible that it’d gone straight over John’s head that Cas didn’t like him, and that he’d interpreted Cas’s dislike as some sort of macho stoicism. Cas not liking you led to pretty brisk conversations, and John loved efficiency so. On the surface, John seemed to like Castiel so Dean’d hardly been pressed to convince Cas to change his behaviour.

But eventually something else gave. It’d been maybe the third hunt John had tagged along for – Jack and Cas in the backseat, John riding passenger-side (because as much as Dean loved his dad, and he did, he hadn’t even let his mom drive Baby, and fuck if he’d risk relinquishing her now). Once inside the place, Jack and John had split off, with Cas sticking around with Dean – one angel for each broken old man – and Dean had gotten his ass soundly kicked.

With the ghosts all salted and burned, Dean aching and bruised, Cas had reached out to help Dean back to his feet, to heal him the way he usually did. “You should be more careful,” Cas had lectured as Dean got upright again.

“Okay, yeah, says my backup,” Dean had grouched back, and Cas had actually smiled a little at that, carefully smoothing his hand across Dean’s arm with a gentle touch. It was always a little jarring, being healed, but it was pleasant too. Like getting knots out of your back through a massage that sat just on that edge of pain.

Getting healed had usually been accompanied by some sort of baggage for Dean, mostly because it meant that Dean had made some dumb mistake to get his ass in a state that needed healing, so he rarely felt he deserved it. But over the years Cas had worn Dean down to a point where healing was something – not routine, because Dean’d be damned if he’d say that he needed it often – but normal enough. And nice enough to enjoy.

That day, in addition to the warm buzz of Cas fixing him up, Dean felt good about the success of the hunt, so he’d let himself grin a little at Cas who’d looked away, smiling at himself. He’d been teasing Cas, of course, about being his backup. He and Cas worked well together; it wasn’t Cas’s fault that Dean’d gotten himself thrown ten feet into a brick wall. But the credit of putting Dean back together? That was all Cas’s.

And then John had rounded the corner and caught sight of Cas’s hand on Dean’s arm. There wasn’t anything weird about it, beyond the fact that Dean had been leaning into it and grinning sappily while Cas smiled right back. But still, Dean remembered himself, pulled back. But John had registered it. Every last inch of it. Round about that time, John started treating Cas differently.

“Cas gonna be joining us for dinner?” Mary asked, smiling over at Dean. There were two empty seats that evening, belonging to the two resident angels, leaving a gap at the head of the table and a gap to Dean’s right.

“Uh, him and Jack are off doing some angelic breathing exercises in the basement,” Dean explained, feeling awkward because John’s eyes had flickered up from his plate to watch Dean’s response. “They’ll uh . . . be done at seven and there’s plenty left over for Jack. Plus, Cas doesn’t need to eat, he just . . . likes to.” God, Dean felt weird, like he’d just listed out some intimate detail about Cas in front of his father.

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Mary laughed to herself. “You’ve gotten yourself a pretty weird angel, Dean.” Dean couldn’t help but crack a grin at that, his mother’s warmth distracting him from all else. He wanted to tell her about the time Cas had eaten hundreds of hamburgers one Valentine’s day; how Famine had been fucking with him and how Cas’d insisted he could quit anytime because he was an angel. That had been one of the worst days of Dean’s life up till that point, but Cas had been pretty funny in retrospect.

Then John spoke up, moody, “Sure we should leave him alone with Jack?”

“What?” Sam laughed. “It’s not like Cas’s gonna accidentally drown him in the tub.” Out of the three of them Dean probably had the most practice being a father, but Cas was no slouch himself. Dean didn’t know the details of what he and Jack were up to, but it wasn’t like Cas would let Jack do anything dangerous.

“They bathe together?” John asked, eyes widening.

“What?” Sam repeated, laughter fading from his face, quickly drawing into discomfort. His eyes darted between Dean and Mary, then back to John, because there were no answers. All of John’s strange looks at Cas, how his attitude towards him had so swiftly changed, all clicked into place for Dean then.

“Listen, all due respect, but what the hell’s your problem with Cas?” he suddenly bit out, sick and tired of John’s bullshit.

“Nothing,” John said curtly. It was an obvious lie, and one that was undercut with some irritation, probably due to the fact that his opinions on Cas were even being challenged. “I’m sure he’s a fine man but he’s. Well.” John wasn’t denying it, and the way he spoke was so . . . disgusted. “He’s a little – off.” Off.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asked.

“Language, Dean,” John said, voice harsh with warning.

“I’m friggin’ forty,” Dean said, getting to his feet. “And this is my house. Answer my question.” Jesus, if he’d ever talked to his dad like that when he was young – God help him. Sam shifted in his seat in a way Dean immediately recognized, obviously ready to stand with him in a fight if he needed it. He didn’t need it.

“Now I’m not saying anything,” John said coldly. “But there is something strange about him that – I’ll come out and say it – I don’t trust around my family.” Dean got so angry so fast he almost felt woozy.

“Cas is part of this family, and you might not like him, Dad, but that’s nothing new!” he said, almost yelling. “I mean – hell, half the time, this family hated each other! And you not liking Cas ain’t gonna change the fact that he’s one of us, so Dad –” Dean took a breath, “You’re just gonna have to get used to him.”

He felt flushed, jumpy, and pissed off. But John was not one to back down. “Oh, he’s family?” he asked, playing with his scotch glass, voice ugly with something Dean didn’t want to name. “How’s he family? You two get hitched when I was gone?” What the fuck?

“Jesus Christ, Dad,” Sam complained loudly, pushing his plate aside.

“John, that’s enough,” Mary snapped.

“I’m just saying,” John went on, holding up his hands. “If Dean’s sweet on him, at least that makes sense.” Dean’s mouth dried up.

“Enough!” Mary yelled. She looked beyond pissed. “John, get your coat. We’re going for a walk.”

Dean was cleaning up after dinner. John was weird about that too sometimes. Shooting Dean looks, just because Dean was washing the fucking dishes. They couldn’t exactly get a dishwasher installed in a secret bunker, so everything had to be done manually. Dean didn’t mind doing the work, but his dad’s judgement got under his skin. Especially after the argument.

His hands were still shaking a little. Which was weird enough, Dean didn’t usually get the shakes anymore. Sure, he was older, and yeah that had gotten heated, maybe too heated, but. Dean hadn’t thought it’d affect him like this. What Dad had said . . . clearly he thought Cas was gay. And when Dean defended him . . . he’d implied Dean was gay, too.

Dean could take a lot of shit from his old man, and always had, but he’d be fucked if he’d let John talk down about the people he cared about. Dean’s prime directive as a kid had been to take care of Sam, so when Sam and John had fought and Dean had had to pick a side it’d been pretty much impossible. Now Dean was older, he’d had a life without his dad. His dad would have to fit into it, not the other way around. Dean scrubbed the dish in his hand particularly hard.

Dean had heard Cas approach, his steps soft on the floor. Dean could appreciate him not sneaking up anymore, he was getting too old for the jump scares. “I heard you and your father had an argument,” Cas spoke up softly, regretful. “I’m sorry I was the cause.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a dick,” Dean sighed. Dean had thought it’d been different now, because . . . it sort of had been. Dean didn’t feel the need to look over his shoulder constantly regarding stupid shit like whether or not he was eyeing a guy for a second too long. There was a chance that this was, to an extent, because it had become second nature to him over the years, something Dean carried without even noticing. It just went out the window around Cas, apparently. “I just . . . forgot.”

Cas picked up a dish and dishcloth from the sink, scratching harshly at some food that had crusted up because Mom was apparently an inconsiderate roommate. “He is a dick,” Cas agreed, voice barely above a growl. Dean couldn’t help but laugh. He’d been right about Cas not liking John.

“Anyway, he’s just . . .” Dean went on, not sure how to phrase it. “Old-fashioned. Stars and stripes, that kind of thing.” For Christ’s sake, John didn’t even like the fact that Dean cooked – it was beyond bizarre the hang-ups he had, especially considering that Dean’d been cooking for Sam and himself since before he hit puberty. “It’s not like you’re actually into dudes he’s just . . . you get it.” Because Cas usually did.

“Right,” was all Cas said in response, apparently not too happy with Dean’s explanation. Dean glanced over at him, finding him frowning. Dean didn’t know what else to say. Cas squinted ahead. “Why do you suppose your father cares about my sexuality?” he asked. “Or yours?”

Dean couldn’t blame Cas for asking, but it was a difficult question. How could he explain to an angel, one that was apparently fine with gay people, that plenty of humans thought gay sex was weird, wrong, or gross? John’s view on the subject had never been something Dean had questioned he was younger.

Dean hadn’t believed in God, much less a God that gave a shit about what he did in the bedroom, but he hadn’t had to – he’d had his own family to worry about. Dean had just accepted John’s distaste and kept that part to himself. And it wasn’t that John had necessarily been a loudmouthed asshole about it, the way he’d been at dinner. When Dean was young his father’s views had been so self-evident that John hadn’t even had to say it out loud the way he had to now.

In his life, Dean’d had what he’d consider a healthy level of curiosity, especially when he was younger, especially when he was alone for the first time in his life after Sam had gone to college and Dad had been off on his own Odyssey. It’d just been some fun, some bullshit for Dean to forget about by the time the sun rose. He honestly hadn’t thought about it in years. He’d been doing a . . . he’d been doing a good job with that.

“Well, it’s not exactly standard practice, two guys,” Dean said, clearing his throat. At the end of the day, Dean had to believe that everything about John, even the sharp, fucked up parts, were about protecting the ones he cared about. And Dean could remember firsthand that . . . being with a guy was a ticket to misery and danger, especially when you could be with a woman instead. “He’s just looking out for his family, in his own way.”

Cas still wasn’t satisfied with this answer, though he’d gotten Dean to dig pretty deep. “But, why do you suppose he cares about me?” Dean felt himself start to get flustered because it seemed like Cas was trying to drive towards some type of point and Dean couldn’t see the end of the road.

He didn’t know how to put this nicely. Cas was a badass, but he was also really . . . gentle sometimes. Not feminine per say, but it wasn’t like Cas was ripping apart mountain lions with his bare hands 24/7. Softness hadn’t exactly been a valued trait in the Winchester household, as far as Dean recalled. It translated to weakness, and liking men was to willingly paint a target on your back.

“Dude, I don’t know. He just got back, maybe his brain’s cooked,” he said, trying to laugh it off. “Seriously, Cas, don’t pay attention to him.” Winchesters weren’t the most rational bunch when it came to family, and Cas didn’t need to worry himself over anything John said, he’d earned his keep. But Cas shook his head, effectively rejecting Dean’s suggestions.

“He cares,” he said, firmly. “Because I care, Dean.” He caught Dean’s eye, leaning in closer, like he hadn’t done in years, like he really wanted Dean to pay attention. “Because it’s so easy to care about you that I can’t hide it, as hard as I’ve tried.” Dean couldn’t hold Cas’s gaze. He looked down at the water in the sink, at the soap clinging to his arms. What the hell?

“Dude, saying shit like this is exactly why everyone thinks you’re gay,” he muttered. Why everyone thought him and Dean were together. He’d tried to tell it like a joke, but it was the truth.

“If your father ever makes you feel lesser,” Cas said, solemn as a soldier. “Just remember that I care for you so obviously that he noticed. You’re worth treating well. As long as I don’t make you uncomfortable, I don’t plan to stop.” Dean didn’t know what to say that. So, he didn’t say anything. Together, they finished doing the dishes in silence.

Mom and Sam had probably managed to chisel John down into something presentable. Dean had been too pissed for it, and the stony silence around the house the past while had been pretty harsh. But, eventually, John grated out over dinner one night, “Listen, Castiel, I want to apologize. I said some unfair things about you a few nights back.”

“Oh?” Cas asked, tone polite even though Dean could recognize he was pissed. “Like what?”

“It’s embarrassing,” John allowed, shifting in his seat with some shame. “I thought you were gay.” Castiel nodded, expression not betraying anything.

“You want to apologize to me for thinking that I’m attracted to men,” he observed.

“Yes,” John gritted out. “And I’m hoping that you can accept my apology.”

“Should I have found it insulting?” Cas asked, and he had a dangerous sort of stillness about him. He looked up at John and stared him dead in the eye. “You were right.” Sam choked on his water.

John was determined to apologize. “Sorry,” he said again, raising his voice and rising to his feet. Dean moved aside his chair, ready to spring into action. “Listen. You’re an angel and you possess vessels like a demon would. I shoulda figured there could be some sort of mismatch. It’s not your fault.” If anything, that pissed Cas off more.

“I can assure you, there’s no problem,” Cas started in.

“I’d have to disagree with that,” John said coldly, and this argument and chance to show up Cas in front of everybody was obviously what he’d been waiting for. Dean got to his feet, putting himself between the two of them in the conversation.

“Alright, Dad,” Dean called out, voice hard. “That’s enough. If Cas is gay, we –” but he couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked over to his side at Cas and blinked. He was gay? Cas’s expression of anger melted into something else under Dean’s eyes, to something horrified and pale. Sam let out a harsh laugh, cutting through the air.

“It’s okay to be gay, Dad, it’s 2019,” he said, a little snootily, standing up to walk over to Cas and Dean’s side of the table. He put his hand on Cas’s shoulder. “It’s not any of our business.” Dean’s mouth dried.

“Right,” he said, voice splintering in his throat. He swallowed. But the way Cas looked over at Dean, eyes wide, panicked like he was begging Dean to not change his mind about him based on this revelation. So, Dean put a pin in it. “He’s still Cas and he’s still part of this family and if you need to – if you need to take some time to accept that, then Dad – you better get started now.” He took in a shaky breath.

John looked at Dean like . . . like he was a goddamn stranger. Looked at him like he had that time Dean had nearly gotten Sammy killed as a kid. But now, with this underlying trace of disgust. Dean got hit with something like nostalgia, because he realized it wasn’t the first time he’d seen that look in his dad’s eyes.

Dean gritted his teeth and steeled himself. John could look at Dean anyway he liked, but he had to respect Cas. Seeming to realize this, John nodded and left the table, nearly knocking over his chair. Dean sank back into his seat. Mary apologized to Cas many times, but Dean hardly heard her.

Baby needed her tires changed for the winter, and Dean was getting comfortable working on that and other things on her that needed primping. It was easier than hanging out in the house where Mom was reconsidering her marriage, Jack was pacing around like a puppy left alone for the first time, with Cas and John avoiding each other, and Sam preening like he’d just announced himself president of the GSA.

It was easy to shut off and ignore all that was happening out here, easy to mute the thoughts Dean might’ve had on the subject. Well, not easy, but easier to deal with when those thoughts inevitably crept back in. This was a safe place to think about them when he did. And, Dean did.

So, Cas was gay. Dean didn’t know why he was surprised. The guy had never exactly been crazy about the ladies. Dean had chalked it up to him being an angel but, in retrospect, some of the horniest devils Dean’d ever had the misfortune of dealing with, Gabriel, Balthazar, had been batting for Heaven’s team so. That theory didn’t exactly hold water up to any sort of scrutiny.

Dean had just . . . never thought about it. Shrugged off all the comments. People didn’t get it, him and Cas. Hell, when he was younger, people had thought Dean and his brother were together sometimes. As if Dean was gonna start taking their opinions seriously now. Cas and Dean had a pretty unique relationship, given their history, and if people looked at it and thought it was some weird sex thing, that was their own problem. Dean liked women and so did Cas . . . or so Dean had thought.

Cas had some experience with women, not as much as Dean or even Sam but still, some. He could list them off on his fingers, and he only needed the one hand. First, Cas’d had that thing with Meg, which had never really gone anywhere, despite the number of opportunities they’d had to take it somewhere. He’d also been married at one point, to some religious nut that they’d never seen again and honestly, could probably still claim her promise ring if she needed to.

Then, more recently there had been Hannah . . . but she’d kind of been Cas’s relative, technically, so . . . Dean didn’t really know how far he could press all that. Cas’d at least had sex with women before. Or at least, with that one reaper – who’d shoved an angel blade through his ribcage immediately afterwards. If Cas walked away from that feeling like he was gay, Dean couldn’t really blame him.

Still. Dean felt like it was something he should’ve . . . he should’ve noticed. His best friend was gay. Dean felt like he’d cheated him somehow by not paying close enough attention, or too close attention to the wrong things. Memories of their night at the brothel all those years ago – and Cas’s shit flirting with Chastity, brought heat to his neck. God he was stupid.

Dean heard a knock at the doorway. He glanced up from his work at the tire, spotting his dad. “Son,” John said. And then softer, “Dean . . . I want to talk. If . . . that’s alright.” Dean felt a wave of dread card through him – Christ, what was this going to be about? Dean braced himself, turned away from the car.

“Yeah, Dad?” he asked, keeping his tone light and even, even while he folded his arms.

“I . . . wanted to . . . apologize,” his dad said. “About what I said about your friend. You and your brother are right . . . it’s none of my business. And if you guys trust him – well – I trust you. I’m fine with it now.”

“Maybe you should talk to Cas about that,” Dean said, letting himself be a little cold about it. Fortunately, John laughed a little, rubbing his hand across his forehead.

“Yeah, maybe I should,” he agreed. He amended, “I will. He’ll probably be thinking about killing me the whole time but . . . I will. I don’t . . . I don’t want us to fight. The way we used to.” Dean nodded, throat clenched.

“We never used to,” he managed to choke out. “You and me.” And not because Dean had never disagreed with him. But because he’d trusted his dad. Hell, he’d sided with him over Sam. Sam had left Dean, but Dean had left Sam too, in his own way.

“Yeah, I know, son,” John said, putting his hand on the Impala. His lips stretched into a small smile as he ran his hand along her. “You’ve taken good care of her,” he noted.

“Yeah,” Dean said, letting the pride burn in his chest, a low flame.

“You know, I’m just not used to this world,” John had to say. “A whole lot can change in twelve years apparently. And now, with – with the multiple genders, not to mention the marriage thing, I can’t keep up with all that. And, I’m sorry, but it’s just . . . not normal.”

And Dean couldn’t keep it in. “Damn it, Dad, what the hell even is normal?” he asked bitterly. “For this family, for us?” The way John had raised Dean and Sam, and he had the audacity to talk about what being normal was? “Cas is a good guy. If you bothered to find out, you’d know he’s given more to this family than even you or mom have.”

“And is it . . . is it that fucking bad? Really?” Dean couldn’t stop because it was rapidly become apparent to him how shitty the whole situation was. “I mean, Christ dad – things have changed since Ellen came out. Trump is president, weirder things are happening than two guys – or girls – getting it on.”

“And . . . you and mom were . . .” Dean’s voice was suddenly incredibly tight. But fuck if he was going to get teary-eyed in front of his father. He took a deep breath, and got himself under control enough to say, “You love her so much and . . . Cas deserves a shot at something like that and if he can only get that with a dude then fuck it. I’ll wave that rainbow flag because Cas deserves that much.”

John seemed to take just one thing from all that. “Listen, Dean . . . are you gay?”

Dean straightened himself out and said, “No, what the hell – we’re talking about Cas and your problem with him!”

John didn’t budge. “Dean. I don’t get it and I won’t,” he said. “But fine. You’re right. It’s a new world and my opinion doesn’t count for much anymore.” And then he said something Dean hadn’t expected. “Just want you to know that if you are . . . that’s fine by me, too.”

Dean wanted to defend himself but John just kept pushing on, saying, “I don’t want to think about it but, if you are . . .”

Dean could feel his throat constricting. “Dad, I still like women,” he said, because that’s all his brain kept looping around to. His father thought he was gay.

“Dad,” he said, knowing how desperate he sounded, “You don’t even know how many women I’ve been with!” The countless one-night stands in seedy motel rooms, Cassie, Rhonda, Robin – names he couldn’t even remember, guilty as he felt about it, and John had never even met Lisa. Just because Dean wasn’t with anyone right now, didn’t mean that he liked men. It didn’t.

The next look John gave him was sad. But at least he didn’t look so goddamn repulsed anymore. “It’s okay, son,” he said. “You’re a good friend. And I’m proud of you. I just . . . want you to know that.” Dean settled, some of the fight draining out of him. He nodded.

This wasn’t a hug and make up moment. Hell, John would probably call Dean gay if he tried to make it into one. Which was fine, because Dean didn’t want it to be. He let it hang between them, ugly and painful, until John, after what felt like hours, nodded and left, quietly closing the door behind him. Dean kept standing there for awhile. He thought about what his dad had said. He thought about it a lot.

Dean was in his room, lying on his bed with his laptop warm on his chest, just about ready to doze off. He’d had a big lunch earlier and he was feeling lethargic, eyes drooping shut by the time he heard Cas walk into the room. Cas hadn’t even bothered to knock. “Hey Cas,” Dean greeted, a little surprised by Cas’s sudden visit but not mad by a long shot. “What’s up?”

Cas hovered at the foot of Dean’s bed for a moment, looking conflicted but also relaxed somehow. Like he fit there alright. “Dean . . .” Cas said, in that gravelly voice of his. “Can we watch Netflix?” Castiel asked. Dean raised an eyebrow, but he made room for Cas on his bed.

“Sure, what’s your fancy?” he asked, moving his laptop off his chest and onto his lap, booting it up and drumming his hands across the keys like he was a hacker. Cas had never really spent that much time in Dean’s room but . . . they hadn’t talked one-on-one for awhile and Dean was missing it.

“Anything,” Cas said. “I’ll trust your judgement.” Well, that was a sore mistake. Dean put on Riverdale, just to gauge Cas’s reaction. Cas didn’t have any. He curled up next to Dean, leaning against the headboard of Dean’s bed, folding his arms to keep himself from falling off the side. He took care to maintain the few inches of space between him and Dean.

Cas had never cozied up on Dean’s bed like this, but Dean was too comfortable to insist they go to the living room to watch TV. Not to mention that his dad was probably there, and that’d be awkward. But now, even Sam or Jack, or Mary, being around, was not something Dean wanted to deal with. He was sleepy and Cas’s presence was warm and relaxing. Dean didn’t feel the need to involve others.

They watched quietly for awhile, as teenagers in their mid-twenties got themselves into hot shit, and Dean had started to doze off again when Cas stirred. “Your father apologized to me,” he spoke up. “Properly, this time. For the most part.”

“Hey, that’s good,” Dean said, cracking a lazy grin.

“I still don’t like him,” Cas said, frowning at Dean’s laptop. Dean chuckled, glancing up at Cas.

“Yeah, he’s a tough pill to swallow, but he’s my dad so,” he said. “I want you two to get along. Or at least . . . deal with each other.” He’d lived too long trying to mediate between the people he cared about, and really didn’t want to go through that again if he didn’t have to.

“I can try to do that,” Cas vowed, pulling at the blankets and pillows on Dean’s bed, shifting himself further down on the bed to make himself more comfortable next to Dean.

“You know,” Dean said, before his brain could catch up to his mouth. “Cas, I – that you’re gay . . . I’m cool with it.” They hadn’t had a chance to talk about it yet. Cas had withdrawn himself, Dean had been avoiding the house, not to mention how awkward the whole topic was. But Dean’d seen the look on Cas’s face, he’d been terrified. Dean had to tell Cas that it was okay and there was no time like the present.

“I know, Dean,” Cas murmured. “Or . . . I’d hoped.” He closed his eyes, settling next to Dean. He added, “I know gay men make you uncomfortable.” Jesus.

“Do I really come off like that?” Dean asked, shifting uncomfortably on his bed. Cas didn’t say anything. Because of course, Dean probably did. “I’ve been a real asshole,” Dean muttered and Cas, again, didn’t say anything. “It’s not like it has anything to do with me, right?” He looked over at the laptop screen, where Betty was being a weirdo once again. “None of my business,” he muttered to himself.

This time, when Cas didn’t say anything, Dean looked over at him. Cas’s eyes were open, but he wasn’t looking at the laptop, wasn’t looking at Dean. Dean’s mouth dried up. He didn’t know what to say. Eventually, he said, “Right, Cas?” And Cas started picking himself off the bed.

“Thanks for indulging me, Dean,” Cas said, already halfway out the door. “But I just remembered that Jack and I were going to spend some time together before dinner and I should go find him.” Cas was a shit liar.

“Hey, hey, Cas,” Dean said, suddenly wide awake, slamming his laptop shut and getting off the bed to follow Cas. “Hold on, can we . . . are you . . .”

“Dean,” Castiel said firmly, at the doorway. “I care for and respect you deeply. That will never change. Let’s leave it at that.” There was that same look on his face again. Terrified. Begging.

“Cas,” Dean said. Cas looked like a deer trapped in headlights. What the hell was Dean doing . . . “C’mere,” he said, soft like he was afraid Cas’d bolt. And Cas stayed and Dean, carefully, reached out to get his hands on either side of Cas’s face, just holding him there. God, Dean was too old for this. He bit the bullet.

Cas’s lips were surprisingly soft for how chapped they were. Dean had spent a lot of time wondering when he was younger what a trenchcoat-wearing salesman from Illinois was doing with a mouth like that but Cas suddenly moved, and put his mouth to good use. He wrapped his hands in Dean’s t-shirt and pulled him closer so they were right on top of each other.

“Dean,” Cas murmured when he broke away, looking up at Dean. Fuck, Dean felt a flush of panic chase through him.

“Cas,” Dean broke out, taking a step back and Cas let go of his shirt. “I can’t promise you – I can’t –” But Cas was looking at him with those wide blue eyes, looking so old and tired and – and scared but understanding that Dean cut himself off. “God,” he muttered to himself. “Screw it.” He grabbed Cas by his lapels and dragged him back to the bed.

Dean got Cas on his back and moved on top of him, nearly knocking his laptop to the floor in his haste. “Dean,” Cas gasped as Dean moved down from his mouth to his jaw, to his neck. Cas’s hands moved to the backs of Dean’s arms, gripping tight. “Dean, I don’t –”

“What, Cas?” Dean asked, moving up so that he could undo Cas’s tie. Cas was flustered, hair sticking up all over the place, eyes dark on Dean and lit with awe. It was a good look, Cas on Dean’s bed, trenchcoat bunched around his waist, his tongue wetting his lips as he worked to remember what to say.

“Shouldn’t we –” Cas got caught off with Dean’s mouth as Dean started working on his buttons, making room for himself there, a small moan hitching in Cas’s throat. Fuck Dean should’ve been doing this since always. Cas grappled with Dean’s arm with one hand and his other hand got control of Dean’s head, opening his mouth up. Dean could’ve melted against him.

Cas was actually a fantastic kisser, Dean had thought about it before, tons of times if Dean was going to start being honest with himself, and it was kind of blowing Dean’s mind. Just as Dean started to settle himself down onto Cas, anchoring him to the bed, Cas’s hands pushed him away. “Dean, we should talk about this,” Cas grunted out against Dean’s lips, sounding just as fucked up as Dean felt. “This is – you’re – what this means.”

“I’m a fucking dumbass is what this means,” Dean said, pressing a kiss to Cas’s jaw, then his neck, his collarbone. “And I’m a dumbass that’s going to make it up to you.” Cas’s hands on Dean’s face kept him from moving further. Dean looked back up at Cas, stilled, just enjoying the touch.

“I already knew that first part,” Cas told him dryly, but he was basically glowing beneath Dean. There was something else underlying it all, as he ran the pad of his thumb across Dean’s cheek, soft. “You don’t have to do this, Dean.” In response, Dean went for his zipper.

“Good thing I want to, then,” he said.

If John knew, which he almost certainly did, he didn’t talk about it. Likewise, Dean and Cas didn’t mention it. But Dean could bet that it was probably pretty obvious. The way Cas hung around after Dean, the way Dean tailed him in turn. There was an attempt to keep business and pleasure separated, but it was hard to manage with Cas so eventually they got figured out.

After a few days of acting supremely weird, Sam finally decided it was hilarious, and Jack had actually cried happy tears when he’d found out Cas and Dean were . . . kind of seeing each other, what that meant. And they’d still have dinner together most nights so, as it was, Dean really was living as best a life as he could hope for.

Tonight, Jack had been helping prep dinner but he’d run off with Sam to do research for a hunt out in Utah, so Dean was working alone. Or at least had been. “Hey, Dean,” Mary spoke up, smiling over at Dean, finding her way into the kitchen. “Mind if I give you a hand?”

“Of course, Mom,” Dean said, beaming at her. Mary rarely helped in the kitchen, mostly due to the fact that she was more of a liability than help, but it meant a lot that she was willing to give it a try.

“What are we making?” Mary asked, looking over the kitchen with a light in her eyes.

“Uh, pretty simple,” Dean said. “Just some soup, and I’m going to freeze some stock for later.”

“Oh wow, from scratch?” Mary asked, sounding really impressed. Dean couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah, usually we just buy stock but since we had leftover chicken I figured I’d use it,” he said. “Wanna give it a shot?”

“Absolutely,” she said warmly.

“There’s some celery in the fridge, you can wash and chop them up,” Dean suggested. Mary nodded and obeyed.

Dean had no idea how Mary had ever put Dean under the impression that she’d known how to cook. It wasn’t like Dean was an amazing chef or anything, but he liked things to taste good and living here, really getting comfortable and building a home, had helped him build his repertoire of skills. She chopped up the celery in mismatched chunks and tossed them in the pot. When she was done, he handed her some carrots to work on.

They worked diligently, in silence, just the gentle chop-chop of knife on wood. He let her cut them up finer than she needed to. “I just wanted to let you know,” Mary spoke up after awhile. “That your father is alright with you and Castiel. But, if it ever comes to it, I’m always going to choose you, Dean. I’m always going to choose Cas.”

“You’d choose Cas?” Dean asked, surprised.

“Definitely,” Mary said firmly. She smiled. “You know . . . I’ve made some mistakes in my life. I have regrets. And one of them is that . . . I never got to raise you. And I don’t know who you would’ve been if I’d been around to help you grow. I know you still would’ve been a good man. But I think . . . I think if I’d been around, you would’ve been at peace . . . long before now.”

Jesus, at peace. “I mean, I . . .” Dean cleared his throat. “I’ve seen guys in the past. I knew on some level. It’s just. It’s never been serious.” He never took it seriously.

“I know,” Mary said.

“What do you mean, you know?” Dean asked, feeling grouchy. Mary grinned.

“A mother knows,” she said teasingly. “I just . . . know how hard your childhood was, what it’s like to grow up a hunter’s kid.” Dean nodded. “But . . . you’ve just been so happy lately. So free. And I think that’s Cas’s influence.”

Dean was choked. “Maybe a little,” he agreed, embarrassed. Maybe a lot. Mary smiled.

“When I met your father,” she said frankly. “I really saw a way out of my life as a hunter. That was half the reason I was so desperate to pursue him. And I love him, of course, and he loved me. And we tore each other apart over it. And now I . . . now I don’t even know if I’m going to stay with him. Life’s a crazy thing.” Dean nodded.

“It’s just good to have someone that . . . makes you less crazy,” she murmured. “Or at least someone you can be crazy with.” She carried on chopping her vegetables, smiling thoughtfully to herself. “I’m happy for you Dean, and so proud. I love you.” Dean’s eyes were stinging and she noticed. “Oh, Dean,” she said.

“It’s the onions,” Dean blurted defensively, wiping at his eyes with his free hand.

“Honey, put down your knife,” she ordered politely, and pushing away her own cutting board, she pulled him down into a hug.

“I love you, too, Mom,” he mumbled into her neck, clutching her back.

It was an odd fit, Cas and Sam and Jack and Mom and Dad and all the trauma they were carrying on their backs. But when they tried, they came together easy. And the end of the world could come, Dean was ready for it. That night they ate dinner, talked shop, made plans, and Cas kept his hand in Dean’s all the way through to the end.

#destiel #deancas #castiel #dean winchester #misha speaks #-_- sometimes u have to write 7k abt a plotpoint u kno spn isnt gonna do justice #food m #tbd

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schmergo · 6 years ago

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Scarlet Pimpernel at Lincoln Center (informal review)

I just saw the most amazing show at Lincoln Center last night. I said to someone the other day that I don’t usually write informal “reviews” of limited-run productions because nobody else would probably be able to get tickets to them, but this was something special. It was a one-night only semi-staged version of The Scarlet Pimpernel, which originally ran on Broadway from 1997-2000 and has never yet been revived. A rarely-performed musical, my friend Wren and I discovered it in 10th grade and quickly fell in love with the catchy score but never thought we’d see a professional production.

When I first heard about the Lincoln Center concert, I burst into tears with excitement and thought, “Oh MAN, I wish I could go!” and moped around for a few days. Then I realized, “Hang on, I have some money saved. I have lots of unused vacation days. It’s only a four-hour bus ride away. What’s stopping me from going?” And I am so glad I did. Was it a flawless production? No. Was it painstakingly and meticulously designed and rehearsed? Definitely not. But was it one of the liveliest, most entertaining shows I’ve seen with top-notch vocals, hilarious gags, and tremendous audience response (actors sometimes having to cut off the excessive cheers and applause after certain numbers) that culminated in a 100% standing ovation? All that and a bag of pommes frites.

If you’re unfamiliar with the story, The Scarlet Pimpernel is based on a classic adventure-romance novel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy. Set during the French Revolution, it’s often called the original superhero story, in which a disguised vigilante hides behind a mild-mannered secret identity. When fashionable English gentleman Sir Percy Blakeney suspects his new bride, Marguerite, may be a spy for the French Revolution, he sets off on a mission to rescue innocent people from the guillotine- without his wife finding out. But he and his band of merry men don’t fight terror with terror. No, they employ witty disguises, tricks, and antics, leaving behind the mark of a flower called the Scarlet Pimpernel (Percy’s family crest). Back home, the men escape suspicion by exaggerating their mannerisms into ridiculous caricatures of fancy fops who care more about French lace and silk than French Revolutions.

But when Marguerite’s ex-lover Chauvelin (now a high-ranking French agent) blackmails her into discovering the true identity of the Pimpernel lest her brother die, she little knows how close to home her mission will hit.

It sounds like it could either be an overwrought melodrama or a Looney Toons short- and indeed, it is a bit of both. The musical itself endured many extensive rewrites during its short run, never quite finding the right balance. This concert seems to be a mish-mash of about three different past versions with at least one new song. But despite the jarring shifts between heart-wrenching ballads and silly slapstick in which tap shoes become a valuable component in a duel and executioners are distracted by 123 rampant geese, this performance was so rich in heart, joy, and spirit that the whole audience beamed along.

Of the leading roles, the only one I’d never seen or heard before was Tony Yazbeck, inhabiting the many hats (literally) of the Pimpernel himself. I can confidently say that he gave one of the most brilliant performances I’ve ever seen, period. Although he’s already an accomplished performer, I suspect this one-night show might catapult him to being a massive star. He’s, like, a quadruple threat, with so much stage presence that he shimmers. Yazbeck’s Percy can be ludicrously silly or achingly sincere, powerful or vulnerable, with a powerhouse voice and untiring energy and grace. I was sitting close enough to see all of his facial expressions, however over-the-top or subtle, and he was totally immersed in the character the entire time, sometimes hurling his script to the ground with emotion. (Remember, it was a staged concert with about a week of rehearsal.) He frequently breaks the fourth wall, trying to steal a violinist’s bow, dropping ad-libbed comments, sitting in the audience or dancing down the aisle, without dropping his polished English accent. I can’t wait to see what he’ll do next.

My personal favorite singer, Norm Lewis, co-starred as sinister French operative Chauvelin, who I can best describe as a more seductive Javert who is constantly humiliated by those around him. Having recently seen him in the Music Man, in which he gave a jovial performance but struggled with some lyrics, I was relieved to see that he held his script in hand most of the time here. He still flubbed the occasional word and seemed overly reliant on his script at times, but oh my good golly, I have NEVER heard his voice sound better. He has one of the richest, most powerful voices on Broadway, not to mention a huge vocal range, and this score puts all of it to use. This is the 6th time I’ve seen him live (plus his filmed performances in the 25th anniversary Les Mis concert and NBC’s Jesus Christ Superstar), and every song he sang here sent huge chills up my spine and fireworks off in my brain. Gosh, I love him. I do think Mr Lewis bit off a little more than he could chew doing these two semi-staged concerts only a week apart— he did seem less confident than the other performers— but I still feel so lucky to have seen him in both.

Laura Osnes sparkles as the sensitive and vivacious Marguerite. Her voice is higher and lighter than how I’d heard the role performed before, but she can certainly belt out a tune when required. She gives nuance and genuine feeling to Marguerite’s inner conflict, even joining in a sword fight to defend her husband! Osnes shows remarkable poise, rarely consulting her script. She has especially great onstage chemistry with Corey Cott, who plays her little brother with earnest puppy dog eyes and a strong pop vocal.

Though I didn’t like all of the changes in the song listing, lyrics, and script, I was completely invested the entire time. The able and versatile ensemble took on a variety of roles, from Percy’s merry men to French guards. Drew Gehling gave a particularly scene-stealing turn in the dual roles of Robespierre (stern and sardonic) and the Prince of Wales (utterly zany and wearing a magnificent feathered hat). Backed by a chorus of over 200 people and a full orchestra, the music was nothing short of sublime.

The pared-down nature of the show mostly came across in costumes and props, or lack thereof- Percy’s elaborate 18th century suits were clearly necessary to the plot, but stood out against most characters’ contemporary clothing. Supporting characters merely threw on a cheap-looking accessory or two to connote a different character or disguise, and Marguerite wore modern ball gowns. Sometimes, the script referred to characters changing clothes without the actors actually doing so. Still, the movement and staging was more complex than I had expected, and I was particularly taken by the effective guillotine prop.

All in all, I left the theatre electrified and touched that this huge audience- David Geffen Hall holds 2,738 and this show was pretty much sold out- had all seen and evidently loved this musical that means so much to me, that over 200 people put in so much effort and enthusiasm to bring it to life, and that I got to be there.

Another thing that unexpectedly moved me was Percy’s character arc. I’ve always strangely related to Percy despite not being heroic, rich, or fashionable, but I AM known for being kinda silly and flamboyant. And like Percy, I like to think there’s more to me than that. Although Percy becomes the Pimpernel out of anguish and desperation, he seems to genuinely relish getting to act so weird and over-the-top. He seems so comfortable in his own skin. Even when his identity is unmasked, he continues to be outlandish, even forcing Chauvelin into a tap dance battle. He and his wife desperately love one another, his friends care about him and always have his back, and he’s able to be his true and complete self— strong, smart, and brave, yes, but also in touch with his feminine side, compassionate, theatrical, romantic, and generally outrageous. As someone who feels equally accepted by my loved ones despite my outsized personality, I love this non-conformist romantic hero who proves you don’t have to be macho and grimly stoic to save the day.

“And that is why the lord created men!” Percy sings after springing a trap on Chauvelin. Marguerite and Madame Tussaud, who both helped, cough. “And women!” he sings to cheers from the audience.

I loved this show. I wish you could have been there. I’m heading home on the bus right now and this piece reminded me more then anything how much I value and appreciate all of the people in my life. Onward, ho!

#scarlet pimpernel #musical theatre #musicals #tony yazbeck #norm lewis #laura osnes

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cagedbirdsong · 7 years ago

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hello everyone! happy new year! i hope you all had a safe, happy holiday season and (if applicable) you are currently staying warm with family and friends!

so, we haven’t seen to build a home since this past summer, but lately i’ve received a lot of asks regarding if i am still working on it and when it will return. the short answer is yes, i am still working on it, i just have to iron out some issues and develop the plot a bit more. but this was my first official fic and will always hold a special place in my heart. and, since so many of you seemed to enjoy it, i wanted to give it back to you all as well.

so, finally, here is part five of to build a home. i love you all dearly, and thank each and every one of you for the continued support. you make this all worthwhile.

find part four here, and if you need to catch up, find part one here.

ps / for my dear @marlosbooknook because she is sick, and for @internallydeceased because she’s also been on my tail about this. i love you both! and thank you @kaitrionabalfe - couponers can go to hell.

Part Five

Castle Leoch, Summer 1744

“Jamie?”

He blinked hard, coming back to reality, and cleared his throat in an interrogative gesture of acknowledgment. “Mm?”

“Be a dear and pass me that jar, would you?” Claire murmured, extending one delicate hand, palm up, without taking her eyes off the item she was examining. She had a small dish set up beneath a rather large magnifying glass; a makeshift microscope, she had called it. Good for viewing big things, but none of the wee germs she often talked about.

Obediently, he reached to pick up the jar she had gestured towards and made a disgusted noise of revulsion as he came face to face with its contents. “Jesus Christ, Sassenach, what in seven hells is that?” He wrinkled his nose and passed her the jar hastily, wanting it out of his hands.

“Worms!” She chirped cheerfully, with, GOD, was that pride? “I found some parasitic maggots on a squirrel carcass the other day, which is what you have in that jar there, and I’ve found just the sort here now-” she inclined her head to the microscope as she unscrewed the jar and neatly deposited her new additions “-so they’re going to need a place to stay.”

He gagged. “Ye dinna- what I mean is- well, Claire, ye canna be meaning ta keep the filthy buggers?” He shuddered again, casting a dirty look towards the jar, where a series of long, stringy worms and fat little maggots writhed around on a chunk of browning meat.

“Why, of course I do.” Claire sat back, wiped her hands on her apron, and blew out the candle she had lit beneath the platform of the small microscope she had made. “The worms themselves are rather useless, medicinally, but their larvae can be used to treat necrotic wounds. They’re excellent at removing the dead flesh.” She lifted her face with a smile in time to see Jamie pull one of horror, and she grimaced. “Right, sorry,” she offered, though he caught her hiding a chuckle as he turned and gagged into his fist, and vaguely thought he heard her whisper ‘drama queen.’

After a moment, he steeled himself and sat back down on the table he had been perched on, feeling a little green, but thoroughly restored as she moved the container of insects onto a dark shelf in the corner. He watched her as she went, a small smile on his lips. Her hair was perched in a pile of messy curls and flyaway hairs on the top of her head, and her smock had been dirtied with whatever she had been working with all day; smears of juice from different plants, dirt, the odd small spatter of blood here and there. He leaned back on his hands and sighed.

She no longer bore the gentle curves of motherhood, but her hips sat differently now, and her breasts were a new kind of full. It made his heart ache momentarily, still not accustomed to the loss of their child. It hit him sometimes, swift and hard and merciless, and his throat momentarily closed up.

Their stay at Castle Leoch had been good for them. They had been welcomed with open arms and open hearts and had settled nicely into their respective tasks around the castle, but the wounds that Brigid had left in their souls were still gaping and empty, with the distraction of the Mackenzie Clan as little more than a superficial bandage. They generally avoided talk of their daughter when at all possible, but sometimes the reminders were inevitable.

Like the day a young woman had come seeking Claire’s help with late-term bleeding, or the constant patter of children’s feet in the yard. But the worst, by far, had been the day that one of the older women had narrowly eyed Claire’s waistline, nodded her approval, and asked in an oh so charming voice when they planned on continuing the next branch of the Fraser family tree.

“Oh, ye’ve been marrit nigh on a year now, have ye no?” She had asked, heedless of Jamie’s cold warning look or the frantic shake of his head. “Have ye been trying? Surely a woman such as you would have something to, umph, aid with the process, no?” She had leaned conspiratorially forward and then arched her eyebrows. “Or is one of ye, mmph, incapable?”

Claire had broken into sobs, hurled the small pestle she had been grinding willow bark with against the wall, and crumpled in a mess on the floor of her own surgery. Jamie had promptly, aggressively, sent the naive old woman on her way and tended to his wife, who took days to recover from the incident, like a bandage ripped off too fast once the wound’s begun to heal around it, fibers stuck in the newly formed scab.

After that, everyone around the castle had keenly avoided the topic of children and motherhood when around the pair.

“What are you thinking about?” Claire’s voice broke into his train of thought, and he looked up at her, blinking to clear his mind. “And don’t try to say nothing, because I can see the look on your face and I can practically smell the smoke.” She smiled a bit, but then frowned at what must have been the expression on his face. “Are you feeling alright, love?” She asked softly, stepping across the room to step between his legs and press her lips to his forehead. “You don’t look very well.”

He sighed, reaching out one hand to wrap his fingers lightly around her wrist, and forcing a smile. “Aye, just tired is all, my Sassenach. Are ye almost done here?”

Claire pursed her lips and nodded slightly, brushing her hands idly on her apron as she turned to tinker with some things in her cabinet. “Yes,” she breathed, and the room lapsed into silence. Then, after a moment, she turned to look at him, leaning against her exam bench. “It’s her you’re thinking about, isn’t it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and her honey eyes wavered.

Jamie let his breath out in a rush and hung his head. “Aye,” he breathed. “It’s always her.” He looked down at his hands, calloused and cracked and lying limp in his lap, and curled them into fists, wiping a spot of dried blood with a corner of his plaid. When he looked up next, Claire was standing with her back to him, holding something in front of her. She sighed and he thought he saw the tension go out of her. Gently, she set the small jar she had been holding down on the counter and turned to look at him. Her eyes were shining, but for the first time, she hadn’t broken down crying at the mere mention of their stillborn daughter.

Slowly, she crossed the room to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, drawing his head down into the crook of her neck. Neither one said a word, and his arms came up to wrap loosely around her waist, both of them just breathing. One of Claire’s hands came up to smooth over Jamie’s hair after a moment, and he half nodded against her shoulder, a sigh running through him.

That night, they lay quietly in bed watching the moonlight dance across the floorboards. A small fire had been smoored in the hearth and the room was pleasantly warm and smokey, one of the shutters cracked to let in a little cool air, which Jamie always liked. He tended to always burn up like a furnace, and Claire would wake some nights to find him having flung all the covers off, or standing by the window letting the cool air prickle across his heated skin. After their marriage, sleeping next to another warm body had always made his temperature spike, and so they had settled on an arrangement: as long as the room was warm when they went to bed he could crack the window, that way, he wouldn’t swelter and Claire wouldn’t be cold.

As it was, Jamie had been drifting in and out of sleep for somewhere around an hour, one arm draped lazily over Claire’s waist as he held her, his hand tucked up under her shift and against the warm skin of her belly. She covered his hand with her own, threading their fingers together and listening to the quiet changes in his breathing.

After a bit, when she could feel he was awake again, she turned in his arms, surprised to find his eyes open and shiny in the dark of the night, so dark a blue as to nearly be black. She reached out one hand to touch her fingertips to his cheek and sighed softly, tucking herself more comfortably against his chest. The hand that had been resting on her stomach slid down to grasp her ass familiarly, anchoring the two of them.

“Jamie?” she asked softly, tucking her face against his collarbone, breathing in the smell of him. She could never quite place her finger on what he smelled like. Some days it was obvious, of course, horses or the woods or even blood, but beneath what his day was like, there was an underlying smell that was always just Jamie. It was, if she had to try and describe it, like wet heather and musk and sunshine, and just a touch of steel. It was intimately comforting, and she took a deep breath now, one hand splayed on his chest, feeling his pectoralis major ripple as he adjusted his arm around her.

“Mmph? Are ye alright?” His voice was rough with sleep and he peered at her out of the corner of lidded eyes, his long lashes brushing his cheeks.

She nodded a bit and drew back to look up at him, one hand cupping his cheek, thumb rasping over the day’s stubble. “Yes, yes I’m fine,” she said softly, biting her lip for a moment as she thought. “I want to ask you something, or - I don’t know if it’s a question, really, it’s just that I want you to be honest with me-” she pressed her hand harder against his chest, feeling his heart speed up against her palm “-and with yourself.” She looked up at him and he wore the most peculiar expression, face calm and eyes wild with thought. “Could you do that?”

“Aye.”

Claire took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and moved away from him ever so slightly, her legs still twined with his but her head resting on her own pillow so she could see his face. A moment of silence stretched between them, impossibly long, and she reached out to grasp his hand. “After, when Brigid-” her voice cracked and she saw his pulse throb in his throat, but steeled herself and continued, clearing her throat softly, “-when Brigid died, you spent so long looking after me, Jamie, and you were so, so good,” she moved her hand once more to lovingly cup his cheek, his eyes dry and locked on hers, “but I never saw you mourn her.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she swallowed, licking her suddenly dry lips. “I just, it’s only I wonder sometimes if you feel like you were so busy taking care of me you never got to say goodbye to her.” Her voice cracked and she took a moment, screwing her eyes shut to hold back tears and placing her fingertips against Jamie’s lips to stop him from speaking. His breath came warm against her fingers, and steady, and when her eyes were finally dry and she opened them, his were wet. “Do you need to cry for her?” She whispered.

It took him what seemed like a very long time to answer, the column of his throat moving slowly. “I do,” he rasped, “cry for her, I mean. Nearly every day since.” And the conviction in his voice was strong enough to break Claire’s heart. She nodded, tight-lipped, and sniffled.

“It’s only, Jamie, do you need to cry here, with me? Do you need me to take care of you? She’s your daughter too.”

The change happened slowly, barely noticeable in the dark of the bedroom, but Claire saw his full lower lip tremble and caught the glistening of moonlight off tears on his cheek. He didn’t make any move to be closer to her, and his chest began to rise and fall more rapidly as his breathing picked up, becoming shallow. “Oh, my darling,” Claire whispered, and drew him to her. His arms came shaking up around her back and he pressed his face into her shoulder.

And for the second time in his life, James Fraser went thoroughly and completely to pieces.

#to build a home #to build a home part five #outlander #outlander fanfic #cagedbirdsong #i am honestly sorry this took so long #this will be posted on ao3 tonight in its entirety! i just realized it's not over there #much love

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sheeriouslysheerio · 7 years ago

Text

Christmas Cuddles// (An Ed Sheeran X reader one shot)

Here’s a little Christmas fic for all your fluffy needs(Christmas is over BUT UH WELL SHHHH); had quite a blast writing this AND I HOPE Y’ALL LIKE IT, I’M PRETTY NEW TO THE WHOLE WRITING THING SO ANY FEEDBACK IS GREATLY APPRECIATED AND UH ENJOY

Blinking, you adjusted to your surroundings; nuzzling into your pillow as you stirred in the cold Christmas morning; the chilly air bit at your exposed skin as you huddled into a ball and snuggled into a warm embrace. Wait, warm? Warm? Embrace? Since when? You knew for a fact that darn heater you own sucked at its job and breaks more often than its even capable of. And you also knew that you went to bed alone, as the cats, who happens to be both smarter than you, had decided to take refuge under the tree within a mound of blankets, the Christmas lights were probably serving as a better heater than that bloody darned machine could ever be. And well, Ed wasn't home, he couldn't make it, as always, all the Christmas promo had filled his entire schedule, he didn't like it, but it was work, and a necessity; you didn't blame him, obviously not, but you would've liked to at least have some company, after all, it was Christmas day.

Curious, you wiggled closer to the warmth source, getting comfortable the closer you went near it. You were still partially asleep, eyes half-closed, brain on autopilot, lazy to generally get up. Your arms reached behind you to poke at the mysterious warmth giver, could it have been the cats? Maybe. Your fingertips came in contact with a soft texture, dragging your finger along the surface you simmered in the sensation, threading a path, seeing how far you can go, eventually reaching up in a rather awkward angle you froze as your fingertips came in contact with a feeling you only recognised too well: Ed's hair. With the realisation your body flipped in an impossibly fast manner as you turned and faced the love of your life. And, like literal magic, he was right there, eyes closed, sleeping peacefully like some kind of magical wizard teddy bear.

You couldn't quite contain your excitement, all sense of tiredness was thrown out of the window as you looked at him, he was your powerhouse, and it's overall just been a while since you last saw him. Unable to just resort to looking at him anymore, your fingers gently poked his cheek, no response. Slightly impatient and feeling generally naughty at the moment, you gently gripped his soft cheeks with two fingers on each side, and slowly pulled it, and it definitely got a reaction out of him. He groaned, making some really weird sounds as his head turned to the other side, arms reaching out he encapsulated you in his trademark bear hug, pulling you right into him as you let out a soft 'oomph'. He muttered some complete gibberish before shutting up and going back to sleep again. You sure did miss this, just you and him, wrapped around each other, that tenderness of the skin contact was oh so fucking enjoyable.

Rolling your eyes playfully you struggled to move, the only thing free from his grasp were your fingers; they gripped at whatever was in range, and you came in contact with his little belly, stroking it with one hand while the other poked it. He didn't even budge one bit, and if anything, he seemed to like it, sinking deeper into the bed, sleep overtaking him. Groaning internally you started calling him, mainly because you're practically trapped within him and have no other choice, not that you're complaining, but it's Christmas day after all, and the child in you just wanted to open every single present there was. "Ed...Teddy...C'mon wakey wakey Edward," you called, causing him to move just the slightest, "Edddddddddd...its Christmas...there'll be food and presents...c'mon just wake up." Nothing. Ok yea he did move just the slightest but it only seemed like he was getting comfier in bed more than anything. Defeated, you had one last resort: tickle the shit out of him. Well, why not. Holding back your laughter your fingers expertly traced a path to his sensitive ticklish bits, and as soon as you started the tickling, boy did he woke. He began squirming around as he laughed a very raspy, sleepy laugh, then well in an almost accidental manner you got to his most ticklish spot, which caused this one hell of a human to roll off the bed in one swift roll, along with you, who was quite unfortunately trapped within him, and well, he wasn’t gonna suffer alone.

“Ouch…” you groaned, turning slightly you rolled off of him, eventually laying down next to him, who was currently as awake as ever, but generally stunned and was trying to process what the fuck he just went through to wake up. “D-did that just happen?” he exhaled, doing his classic hair ruffle he turned to face you, looking as gorgeous as ever even in the morning like you just didn't understand how it was humanely possible for someone to look THIS good 24/7 all year round. Well, as proven by him, it just was possible. “Mmhmm it seem like that DID just happen…BUT Merry Christmas Teddy!” you spoke with general excitement washing over you, finishing the sentence with a little boop on his nose. “Merry Christmas Love,” he smiled giddily staring into your eyes, looking like an angel as always, even though he was simply dressed in his green hoodie and pyjama pants. “Let’s go open the presents now Ed come onnnnnnnnn…and yes, also remember to explain to me how you fucking magicked your way back here,” you laughed as you dragged his colourful arm, eager to get moving, but he wasn’t budging one bit. “(Y/N), I think you’ve forgotten something,” Ed spoke softly, yawning as he did so, then he pointed upwards, and there it was, a fucking mistletoe, hung miraculously on your ceiling; as a matter of fact you knew you only hung up like three of those things, and you definitely didn’t remember hanging one there. “When the fuck did that get the-,” he didn't let you finish, instead he just slammed his lips into yours, gentle as always but with that fiery passion that seemed to always be there, always leaving you wanting more. Your lips moved in sync with one another, and as gentle as it had started it was actually getting pretty heated as he moved over on top of your body, pushing you down with one arm with considerable force, the other playing with your hair as he did so. You broke it before shit gets way too heated and the both of you gasped for air. “Jesus christ that’s the only christmas present I’ll ever need,” you subconsciously said, him agreeing with a nod and a ‘me too’.

Pecking his forehead, you pulled him up from the floor, finally getting to the tree with the presents that you were way too bloody excited for. Sitting down cross-legged pretty much plastered to each other, the both of you marvelled at the little pile of presents that have built up under the tree like young kids would've done. You motioned for Ed to open one first, then watched gleefully as he began targeting for a worthy present to be his first, picking one with a wrapping full of cats wearing christmas sweaters going ‘meow meow meow’, of course he’d pick that one. As he started ripping it apart the cats woke, approaching the both of you with interest, Dorito settled on your lap while Calippo planted its face into Ed affectionately then stayed put next to him, watching him. The present eventually revealed itself to be none other than from Ed’s parents themselves, a really adorable Star Wars sweater from his dad along with some cookies from his mom. Without hesitation he opened the cookie jar and immediately started stuffing one after another cookie into his mouth, munching in absolute delight. “You ‘ave to try these,” he mumbled as he munched, smiling as he watched Dorito playing with the discarded wrapper.

Grabbing a cookie from Ed you grabbed a little present that was closest to you, “Ah sweet, its from Taylor,” you said as you ripped it open, revealing a snow globe engraved with the word ‘purrfect’, encased within the globe were two cats holding hands? In this case, paws. They sat in the centre of the snow globe nuzzling into each other, it was so fucking cute. “Holy shit where’d she get this?” Ed moved slightly closer to you, taking the globe in his hands he turned it upside down and watched in awe as the little snowflakes moved around over the top of the cats, heck, one of them was a ginger cat. “This is brilliant,” you smiled, nuzzling into his neck, mirroring the scene the both of you couldn’t stop complimenting Taylor’s gift.

Eventually morning turned to afternoon as the both of you sat under the tree working from present to present, by the time the both of you moved to the final two presents, which were from each other, you were both wearing matching Star Wars sweaters from Ed’s dad, with half a cookie jar in hand, surrounded by numerous opened presents and a little mountain of wrapping, which the cats were playing with. “You first,” you motioned, excited but slightly nervous for him to open what you had for him. “No, you first,” he took his present with his little fingers then placed it on your lap, biting his lip, slight nerve hitting him but generally eager. You nodded, slowly ripping the little present apart, laughing as you got a glimpse of what he had given you: A scrapbook of your relationship together so far. The cover art was what had made you laugh, one of your fondest memories together, surprising Ed with little baby Dorito. Dorito was perched on his head as he laughed heartily hugging(ok more like a very intense tackling bear hug)you kissing your forehead happily while Calippo watched by the side. Matt had taken the picture as the both of you had celebrated Christmas at his parent’s that faithful year. You teared up flipping the scrapbook, it was just SO perfect. Ed smiled while he watched and cooed as he saw tears running down your face, “Hey, I didn’t got you a present for you to cry love,” he brushed the little droplets away, cupping your face he kissed you softly, pulling away he met his forehead with yours, glancing into your glistening eyes while your noses touched. “You’re amazing,” you whispered, ruffling his soft hair. He moved away as he picked up your rather sizeable gift, shooting you a cheeky grin(that needs to be made illegal) before he began to open yours, god you really hope he’s gonna like it. His eyes widened as he saw your present, “Holy SHIT you did not-”, he teared the remaining bits off extremely quickly as he looked at it, awestruck. You’ve gotten him a freaking family portrait that was drawn in The Simpsons art style. “Th-this is the best fucking thing ever!” he exclaimed before pretty much jumping on you and squeezing the very life out of you, mumbling a bunch of ‘thank you’s’ and ‘I love you’s:’. “E-Ed I-I-I kabretdhv,” you mumbled. “Wot?” he let go just the slightest as he grinned at you. “I said I can’t breathe,” you laughed as Dorito and Calippo joined the scene, staring at the portrait in a rather humorous way.

After Ed had finished hanging the portrait up in the living room proudly he snapped a picture of it before posting it on Instagram, with the caption ‘Merry Christmas everyone, hope you’re all having a blast with your family, here’s my family as Simpsons xx’. You may or may not have rushed out of the house excitedly as he did so, to the second best thing Christmas had to offer: snow. You were already laying in the snow joyously as Ed came out to join you, wearing a little beanie that capped his head while some of his wild ginger strands stood out by the side, the falling snow decorating him like sprinkles on a cake.

Feeling mischievous, you threw a snowball right into his face, laughing at his reaction. “You started it,” he said as he threw a rather big one to you, hitting your shoulders. After about 30 minutes of hectic running and tackling-each-other-in-the-face-with-snowballs the both of you were extremely out of breath, laying on top of him on the snow coated ground he had his arms wrapped instinctively round you; it sure was a weird setting to cuddle, but it worked pretty darn well, as cliche as it was, on this cold little Christmas Day, it was perfect.

I HOPE THIS WASN’T TOO BAD AHHH FEEDBACK IS DEFINITELY WELCOMED AND THANK YOU FOR READING

#ed sheeran #code ginger #ed sheeran fanfiction #fanfiction #one shot #fluff #writing attempt

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