#i simply huff the junk like an inhaler

[bigcatbulges]

Source - nekogaki0324

(Artist's Patreon Fanbox and Gumroad)

[rowansparrow]

By Any Other Name: Chapter Three

Summary: Rex follows you to the back room of the bar to check on you, and you trade stories about what used to be.

Chapter Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: mild drinking and cursing, a bit of gambling? 

Ships: Rex x Female!Reader, Fives x Female!Reader, Clone OC x Female!Reader, other ships tbd.

Tags: #ByAnyOtherName, #BAON

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: It’s going to get much spicier after this chapter. Once again, bless @fat-zygerrian for being my beta reader!

Comment if you want to be tagged! Reblogs are SO appreciated!

Chapter One Chapter Two

You had not expected to see him again.

Of course, a part of you had been hoping you would run into him at 79’s again. But what were the chances he would be there? Stars, what were the odds he’d have even remembered your name?

You entered the bar with measured caution knowing you didn’t have your girlfriends with you this time around. Although they didn’t really offer you much in the way of moral support the last time you’d been here for a night out, it still felt so strange to come alone. You hesitated, looking around for Rose, wrapping your arms around yourself and suddenly feeling incredibly anxious when he didn’t immediately appear. 

This had been a stupid idea. 

You shook your head. If you were already second guessing yourself maybe it was best to just leave and save yourself the embarrassment. You turned back towards the exit quickly, ready to get out. Whatever little gods out there must have been watching over you that night, because just before you stepped through the doors, somebody crashed into you.

“Ah, kriff, sorry ma’am!” The clone chirped, careful to steady the multiple glasses in his hands as he shifted quickly around you. You recognized the handprint on the trooper’s armor. He had been one of the two men who pulled Rose away from you the night you had met.

You stood on your tiptoes, eyes trailing him to a round table pushed into the back corner of the cantina. The trooper hurried over and slid into his seat, distributing drinks and then passing one of the amber drinks to the man on his right. You recognized him too. Even from a distance, the goatee and numeric tattoo on his temple were hard to miss.

The troopers appeared to have been waiting for the replenished drinks, because as soon as the soldier with the handprint on his armor took his seat, the tattooed one immediately began dealing out cards. 

You inched closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the other players while not being too obvious about it. Maybe coming here was a good idea after all...

“No, no, you dealt last hand, di’kut.” A trooper with a Republic cog tattooed on his face swatted at the other man’s hands. “It’s my turn.”

“Did not!” He protested. “Echo had the last one. Then he got drinks so now it’s my turn!”

“The entire point of me getting drinks was so you could deal while I was gone.” The one named Echo drawled.

“Quit bickering and just deal the damn cards.” Another clone griped. “Force knows I’ve already lost enough hands to Rose. Let’s get this over with!”

Your heart skipped a beat. Rose. You tried to look inconspicuous as you shifted even closer to see the rest of the table.

“Ah, don’t be such a sore loser, ‘Case. You’d have better luck with your cards if you’d stop flashing them at me half the time.”

“That’s cheating!”

“Then hold your kriffin’ cards up, vod.”

Rose’s laugh was what finally made you turn fully to face the table. He was not in full armor this time. Instead he wore armor below the belt, but the upper half of his body was just the black bodysuit the clones wore beneath the plates. The top of the suit had been unzipped slightly, showing off a triangle of Rose’s chest and what appeared to be tattoos adorning the bronze skin. Something about the tease of flesh was enough to make your mouth go dry, a more tantalizing intimacy than if he had been naked to the waist.

You suspected Rose must have sensed your staring. As the trooper's gaze shifted from his cards, those beautiful eyes of his darted directly to you. Then for a moment you froze, jaw opening and closing in a panic as you tried to think of something to say, an explanation for why you had been lurking in the shadows, just watching them.

But Rose beamed at you.

“Hey! I know you!”

The men at the table turned and you felt heat creep up into your cheeks.

“I was just – I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to intrude -.”

“Nah, come here! We’ve got room.” He reached over his shoulder, grabbing an empty chair from a nearby table and swinging it over effortlessly. He placed it right at his side. “Y/N, right?”

You nodded in response; your voice gone for now. He remembered your name?

“Boys, this is Y/N,” Rose waved at the men around the table. “Over there, that’s Fives and Echo.”

Echo gave you a little wave and Fives smiled, offering a small, two fingered salute.

“This is Jesse, Kix, and -.”

“Hardcase,” The trooper immediately to your right introduced himself then offered you his hand. You took it and he shook it with vigor. “You know how to play Sabacc?”

“Er.. no.”

“You’ll pick it up fast. Rose can coach you! He’s a natural.”

“That’s because he’s a strategist and cheats at cards.” Jesse mumbled, taking a long swig of his drink. Rose scrunched up his nose and flashed Jesse a little smirk. Fives then dealt the cards out to everyone and when each man had a full desk, Rose handed his cards to you. 

“This here is the hand pot,” Rose explained, gesturing to a little pile of what looked like junk in front of him. “And that bigger one is the Sabacc pot. Hand winners get the hand pot and whoever wins the game overall gets the Sabacc pot. Make sense?”

You nodded, trying to follow along. “What’re you betting?” You asked, picking up a small canvas bag off the pile closest to you. You risked a glance inside and were surprised to find two hard candies.

“Contraband.” Hardcase replied conspiratorially. “Or whatever else we’ve got. Not like we’ve got credits to bet.”

“Cards up, darlin’.” Rose told you, reaching around to the back of your hand to tilt your cards back up towards your chest. Even through his glove, you could feel the heat of his palm against your knuckles. You glanced up at him and he gave you a charming little smile.

“Alright, Fives dealt.. so Jesse should lead, yeah?” Kix nodded towards the table. Rose shifted so that he was sitting slightly behind you. His arm settled around the back of your chair and he looked at the cards over your shoulder. He moved his head low, his lips just barely brushing against your ear as he spoke.

“Your goal..” Rose murmured in a voice meant only for you. “Is to not break twenty-three. Each card has a different value.”

You felt a shiver run up your spine and tried to focus on the game as Rose coached you quietly from behind. Hardcase was the first to bomb out, theatrically tossing his cards on the table in a huff. Jesse, Kix, and Echo were eliminated when none of them broke twenty. Then it came down between you and Fives.

Fives studied you from across the table, cocking one eyebrow up. He drew a card and smirked, holding his deck close to his chest.

“You’re at twenty.” Rose whispered in your ear. “If you draw anything higher than a three, you’ll bomb out. You can choose to stand and hope your hand is higher than Fives’...or you can draw.”

“What do you think?” Fives grinned while tilting his head at you. “Do you feel lucky?”

You glanced up at Rose again for guidance but he just shrugged his shoulders. You smiled, turning back to Fives.

You drew a card.

~

You pushed your way into the back storage room, bracing your palms against the shelves while trying to steady your breathing. You simply couldn't catch your breath; your chest squeezing tighter with every raspy inhale you attempted.

You sank down to your knees, hands steepled behind your head and curled in on yourself as you fought for air.

You briefly registered the door opening and closing again behind you. The sound of rustling of armor properly caught your attention as Captain Rex knelt down in front of you. He gently guided your hands off the back of your head.

“Breathe.” He murmured. “C’mon. In with me, out with me.”

You tried to match his breathing, tears streaking your cheeks and ruining your makeup.

“In… out.” Rex repeated, reaching up with one hand to brush your tears away.

“Don’t!” You snapped, jerking away from his hands. Rex held them up in surrender, sitting back on his heels.

“Y/N, I need you to breathe or I’m going to have to find Kix.”

You closed your eyes, trying to ground yourself. Blood pounded in your ears, and you sucked in another sharp breath.

“In… out… in… out… that’s it.”

Slowly, your breathing relaxed and you leaned back against the wall, head thunking against the durasteel.

Rex sighed and sat cross-legged opposite you. “I’m sorry. I… I shouldn’t have come.” He said softly. “I never wanted to upset you.”

“It’s not your fault.” You said finally while rubbing your hands down your face in exhaustion. “It’s just…” You took a deep breath. “Hard.”

You sat in silence together for a long time. The distant thrum of the music and shouting from the cantina was the only sound around you until Rex finally spoke.

“He was one of the few I could stand.”

You let your head loll over towards him and raised an eyebrow.

“Rose, I mean.” Rex said, looking at his hands. “I love all my brothers. But the boys in Torrent… they can be insufferable.”

You chuckled. “I can’t imagine. Fives is bad enough when he’s planet side and comes to bother me. You’re stuck with him all the time.”

“You have no idea.” Rex cracked a small smile and picked at the fabric of his glove. “Rose… he’d act like the others, sometimes. Get into mischief with Fives and Echo. Do something stupid on the field and wind up with Kix, sure. The usual stuff. But Rose…” Rex shook his head fondly, as if he was recalling some far-away memory. “Rose was kind.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest and closed your eyes. A wave of relaxation calming you as you listened to the clone Captain.

“He was the kind of soldier who the shinies would always flock to.” Rex’s voice carried through the little room and you hummed softly, picturing Rose talking to the younger bright-eyed vode fresh off Kamino.

“He’d take ‘em under his wing. Show ‘em the open bunks.. tell ‘em where to stash their gear. After their first battles, he’d be the one to sit up and talk until they fell asleep.”

You cracked an eye open upon hearing a dull thunk. Rex had shifted to lean against the wall beside you, his eyes closed too, his face relaxed as he spoke.

“He was a good kid.” Rex mumbled. “And stars... did he love you.”

“Don’t.” You whispered while shaking your head, giving him a small, sad smile. “Not… not right now.”

Rex understood and put his hand over yours in an affectionate gesture. He gave it a small, reassuring squeeze. Then he seemed to suddenly remember who he was talking to and quickly pulled his hand back. Rex cleared his throat and rose to his feet.

“So,” He grabbed his helmet off the floor then began awkwardly inching towards the door. “I’ll ah – I’ll leave you alone. Congratulations on the opening. You did good.”

He quickly left after that and you lingered in the back, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of the past.  

TAG LIST: @fat-zygerrian @ladydiomede @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life @threevie @cheesemachine44 @bubblyace @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @loverofclones @starwarsgarbage @crazygirlwithasword

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-valves]

Assistant and Bill sykes nsfw headcanons righr now bitch, youve opend request and ive come

You fucking bitch, you've brought back my man. Let's go-

You said headcanons, buuut fuck you im writing a whole thing, go to hell.

“I don’t think you quite grasp the severity of this situation.”

She knew that tone in his voice. As if his words weren’t enough, she knew he was NOT in a good mood today. Always someone skimping out on payments. Always someone under performing, always someone not paying what they owed. She sighed, taking his coat as he threw it haphazardly, clearly not happy. As long as it wasn’t at her, honestly. Roscoe and Desoto hesitated as they followed him, not liking how he was yelling and throwing his arms around. She, while still focusing on her paperwork, dug into her jar of dog treats, and offered some to the poor pups.

“No. No, I’m NOT accepting that. Imma give you three days. You don’t have what you owe me, well. We’re just gonna see what you have, and take it.”

He hung up before the other person could talk. She kicked the chair next to her, just in time for him to sit down on it. He rubbed his forehead, and turned to her. She handed him a wet cloth, just how he liked it. Cool, slightly damp, for his ever steaming headaches. All without tearing her eyes away from her papers. 

“Thanks, Doll, much appreciated. Dunno what I’d do without you.”

“Probably kill anyone in the vicinity.”

He chuckled, dabbing his head for just a moment more, before sighing.

“You know me damn well. Now, you almost done with those files I asked for?”

She waited just a second, finishing up the sentence, before nodding.

“Yes, just finished today’s, and tomorrow’s numbers. You might wanna sit up for this one."

"I never like it when you say it like that…"

He rubbed his temples, clearly in frustration. She watched as his hands slowly rubbed at his skin in small, slow circles, before sighing, and opening his hand in order to accept the report. Suffice to say, he wasn’t happy. He swore, nearly tossing the papers to the floor. Yikes, he was angry. She wasn't filthy rich like him, but they did have something in common; both were opportunistic. She knew that helping him when his mood was sour, only made her his favorite. 

And his favorites always made more money. She got up from her seat, and let her fingers glide across shoulders, digging into his white, freshly ironed shirt.

"Don't worry Mr.Sykes. We all know you get what you want in the end. They're not worth the stress."

She dug into his shoulders, before meeting behind his back, and digging his thumbs into him. He sighed in relief, finally feeling something in terms of relaxation.

"Ugh...maybe you got a point."

"I like to think so. Now, relax. Breathe. Relax. Let me get all of that stress out of your poor body. So tense!"

"Work is stressful, Doll. You have no i-oh, right there, that's the ticket…"

She chuckled, watching him lean his head back for her. She massaged at his collarbone, making him close his eyes. His head tossed back, really letting her get at that big, thick neck.

"See? All you need was someone to help you, Mr.Sykes. Someone to take that stress away."

Sykes was silent as she continued, occasionally dipping her fingers past his shirt collar. She felt little bits of hair poke through, and she was so tempted to just peel off this pesky shirt for him. So much hair under there, he HAD to be steaming up something fierce. 

"I always liked how ya said my name, Doll. That alone is helpin'"

"Oh really now? Am I making you comfortable...Mr.Sykes?~"

She watched as his lips curled into a smirk. He was getting a kick out of just a simple coo of his name.

"Yeah, not bad. Though I could use-ah. You always know what I need before I do."

She dug into his coat, pulling out one of his cigars from his coat pockets, and lighting it for him. She let him take a huff, before continuing to massage his neck and shoulders. She never minded the smell of his cigars, strong as they were.

"Always do, Mr.Sykes. I can do anything you need of me."

She practically heard him purr when her hand slid past his shirt. So much to play and toy with. She played it discreetly as she un did the buttons on his shirt, occasionally toying with all that gray hair. So much of it, she could tell she'd be thinking of it later.

"Anything, eh?"

"ANYTHING, Mr.Sykes."

He took an inhale of his cigar, opening her mouth in order to blow smoke right into her lips. 

"Think you’re smart enough to know just what I need. Unless you want me to-"

She held onto his face, slowly sliding her tongue across his lips. He still tasted like his afternoon coffee.

"I know, Mr Sykes. But...you can tell me. Just so we're on the same page, of course."

Sykes found it hilarious, a light chuckle at his lips. He took another inhale of the smoke, before he held onto her chin, kissing her. Her lungs filled up with smoke, and the taste was delicious. So rich, so smooth. He pulled away after a second, putting her hand right in between his legs. Sykes was a big man, but she was STILL surprised by the size of his bulge.

"I want ya to take care of me. Stroke my cock till all that stress goes away."

"So we WERE on the same page, Mr. Sykes~"

She un clipped his belt, and pulled him out of his pants. She tried not to whistle at the sight. A nice, thick cock, with not only a nice set of balls (now she got why they called him 'Bull Sykes'), but plenty of gray, bushy pubic hair. A nice, big cock that seemed oh so responsive to her touch. She watched as he seemed to just lounge on the spot, not a care in the world as his secretary, so much smaller compared to his massive body, handled his cock. 

"You just finish whenever you'd like to, Mr.Sykes. You've had such a long, exhausting day."

He nodded with her words, stiffening up a bit as she massaged his balls. It was nice, not only having such a small, soft hand massaging and playing with his junk, but having her other hand stroke his chest and belly, occasionally running her nails against his skin (she recalled him saying he loved girls with long nails). All this, while she kissed at his neck and muttered sweet things into his ears.

"You're throbbing, Mr.Sykes. You simply must take better care of yourself. You're lucky I'm here to help you. Every office does need a bit of a 'woman's touch', wouldn't you agree?"

Sykes grunted as she pinched at his head.

"Yeah, woman's touch. Get what they mean by that now."

He chuckled. Oh he looked so smug, sitting around with not a care in the world, smoke in mouth and cock in someone's hands. She couldn't resist stealing another kiss, tasting more of his mouth. Rich, black coffee, smooth, flavorful cigars. It was a flavor that she greedily licked right off his tongue. Then, he came, right into her hand. She was careful, stroking him the whole orgasm, and making sure to not let the cum get on his pants (as dry cleaning was a bill he HATED paying for). He finished right when their lips parted, sighing in clear content. She pulled away from him, sat back at her desk, and after wiping her hands, proceeded to keep working.

"You look much more relaxed, Mr.Sykes."

"...yeah. You could say that."

He snickered. He took another inhale of smoke, before slowly blowing it back into the air. Only thing Sykes liked more than sex? A smoke immediately after. Indulgent man, he was.

"Doll? Do me a favor?"

"Yes Mr.Sykes?"

"Remind me to give you the tip later."

"Don't you mean 'A' tip?"

"Play ya cards right, maybe both."

Crass old man, her boss.

[thebiscuiteternal]

“A Safe Place To Die” Madwoman In The Attic, Forced Seclusion, Slow Death By Misplaced Kindness, Nie Huaisang tried to tell Lan Xichen his suspicions about his brother’s death and it Did Not Go Well, Not-Quite-Sangcheng.

__________

Three times, Jiang Cheng has informed the servants that he only wants a pot and some cups, and yet when he arrives at the door of the tiny house at the edge of the Cloud Recesses, there is a maid waiting with a fully-made tea tray. Well aware that he is already treading on thin ice with having demanded this visit, he bites back the acrid comment that threatens to bubble up behind his teeth and focuses his ire on the wards of the door instead.

Inside, Nie Huaisang sits on a cushion on an otherwise empty floor and doesn't so much as turn his head away from the window at the intrusion.

Jiang Cheng waves the maid over to put the tray down, then scowls thunderously when she putters at it for too long.

Point taken, she flees.

Once he's well and sure she's gone, he picks up the teapot, walks over to the window, and unceremoniously dumps the contents onto the bushes outside. Nie Huaisang hasn't moved, but Jiang Cheng is well aware that he's being watched as he takes a cloth from what he assumes is the bathing area and thoroughly wipes out the pot. He refills it with new water and presses a heating talisman to the ceramic, then sets it down and fetches another cloth. Settling himself onto the floor across from the other man, he begins wiping down the cups as well.

"I brought some of that spice tea from the southwest that you like," he says a little too roughly to be purely conversational. The cups now clean and clearly safe, he pulls a pouch from his sleeve and begins producing small, tightly wrapped packages to lay between them. "Nie Hengbai insisted I bring you these as well."

That finally makes Nie Huaisang turn his head a little, rather than observing him from the corner of his eye or through his eyelashes.

Good.

That's good.

He takes out the box of loose tea and opens the lid so that the other man can observe it for himself, setting it close enough that he won't have to lean too far to peer in.

"I actually had to explain all this to Sect Leader Lan, you know." Nie Huaisang blinks up at him, expression still unreadable. "Apparently the concept that you would fear being poisoned by the same people who locked you up for insisting your brother had been murdered never once occurred to him."

That earns him a snort, followed by a weak and rasping huff of not-quite-laughter that is both encouraging and a little unnerving. Apparently satisfied by his efforts, Nie Huaisang reaches out of the blanket he has cocooned himself in and gently pushes the box back.

Jiang Cheng focuses on the prep work of measuring and brewing the tea and adding the honey he has also brought. Focusing on that keeps his mind from dwelling on the thought that he could count the bones in his friend's wrist, or that the hollows of the other man's cheeks remind him uncomfortably of-

"How are they?"

The faded crackle of the other man's voice brings him out of his focus. "Who... the disciples?" he asks hesitantly. At the small nod he gets in return, some of the tension in his back eases. "They're... pretty pissed about all this. Nie Hengbai only took the leadership position three days ago after literally no one else would accept, and he's insisting he's only an interim leader."

Nie Huaisang blinks at him, confusion written all over his face. "Why?"

"Well, they're not happy with the elders rolling over for Lanling Jin and Gusu Lan, that's for sure, but mostly they want you back."

"Why?"

Jiang Cheng offers a teacup, keeping his hands around Nie Huaisang's when the other man's fingers tremble trying to hold it. "Is it so hard to believe?" he asks as he carefully helps his friend drink. "They know you. They know you'd watch over them no matter how much you complained about it."

Nie Huaisang swallows the last mouthful, then hesitates for a moment before letting him have the cup back. "And you?" he asks, so very softly and cautiously. "What do you know?"

"That you lie about things like hiding junk food from Grandmaster Lan, not about another sect scheming for your brother's life." He takes a deep breath, then picks up the pot and refills the cup. "I voted against the seclusion," he says quietly. "Even if you were losing your mind the way the others believed, and I don't think you were, being locked up alone wasn't going to do a damn thing to help."

"Oh, I have regular visitors," Nie Huaisang murmurs, and gods above, Jiang Cheng is glad to hear the sarcasm in it. He bites back the briefest smile before he picks up the cup and holds it to the other man's mouth again.

"When the vote passed, I offered..." He swallows hard. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not angry. Not at you, at any rate."

"You should be," he argues, but Nie Huaisang gently pushes back the cup so he can shake his head.

"It's not your fault. Not when you have to share Ling-er."

They fall into silence then, not quite companionable but not uncomfortable either, until the second cup is empty. Then Jiang Cheng opens the first of the little bundles sent from Qinghe. The sight of several rice flour balls, clearly made by an expert and caring hand, draws a broken little sob from his friend that makes his own chest tighten. Partially to give Nie Huaisang what laughably little privacy is available and partially to keep from breaking down himself, he turns away to examine their surroundings with a more critical eye.

The first thing he notices is that there is no bed frame. Several extra pallet mattresses have been added to make up for some of the lost height, but that's all the bed is. Pallets and a few pillows.

In fact, there isn't anything sturdy in the room. He'd picked up on the lack of a table, but now he sees that there are no shelves or a wardrobe; he sees a few boxes made of layered paper that might contain books and robes, but that's all. There's no tub, nor a privacy screen to go with it. The cloths are cut so small that they'd be useless for tying together. There is nothing remotely sharp to be seen anywhere.

This is, he realizes, a room entirely designed to keep the occupant from having anything they could use for a suicide attempt.

He inhales, keeping his breathing deep and slow, in order to swallow back the sudden and intense urge to vomit. He's not entirely surprised; Nie Huaisang has been painted as having gone mad and Sect Leader Lan genuinely seems to believe it. Of course he would want to keep his dearest friend's little brother safe after losing said friend to a violent madness of his own.

But this place is a nightmare cloaked in kindness.

Hell, if they'd locked him in here by himself, he probably would have been trying to tear down the walls after the first few days.

"Jiang-xiong?"

Another deep breath, then he turns back to find that Huaisang has finished the first of his gifts, his eyes red but the tears dried.

"I'm sorry, but I can't get the knots open," he says, looking somewhere between dejected and deeply embarrassed as he indicates another of the bundles. Trembling fingertips are red from his attempts to do just that.  Just a few months ago, Jiang Cheng would have rolled his eyes and called him lazy. Here and now, he simply nods and picks it up, and the irony is thick enough to choke on.

"I'm going to meet with Nie Hengbai as soon as I leave," he mutters as he pulls apart the strings. At the questioning head tilt, he continues. "We're going to get you a cook from Qinghe or Yunmeng. Someone we'll both vet. They'll handle all your meals and the delivery of them. And the Lans are going to accept them whether they like it or not."

"Are you sure that's-"

"I'm going to visit more often. I should have been visiting already."

"I told you, I don't blame-"

He takes a piece out of the pile of spiced and dried lamb in the package and pops it into Nie Huaisang's mouth, then grins when the other man sulks at him while chewing. "There you are. I was worried you wouldn't come back."

Nie Huaisang rolls his eyes and swallows, then sinks in to rest his head against Jiang Cheng's shoulder. "You're going to be stubborn about this, aren't you?"

"I am."

"You might get in trouble, too."

"Might not be so bad if they throw us in together."

It's a joke of incredibly poor taste, considering their situations, but at least it gets Nie Huaisang to actually laugh.

[castielscarma]

The Bet

@helianthus21 @pray4jensen @bend-me-shape-me My 4th submission for SPNStayathome. You can read this as a stand-alone or a continuation from Part 2 “Gentleman.” (It’s 4.5 k so kinda long). Dean and Cas have been up later than usual, watching another movie after Tuesday movie night was officially over but as Dean pulls the covers over himself back in their room, he feels the late hour in his bones.

“God, next time I suggest we watch another movie, please kill me.”

Cas chuckles softly and reaches out to turn off the night lamp. “I'll remember that.”

“I don't have sand in my eyes, I have rocks. Boulders, Cas.” He nestles close to Cas and sighs contentedly as Cas wraps an arm around him and pulls him in close.

Dean grabs Cas' hand, pulling it towards his mouth for a swift kiss. He feels Cas stiffen, but it's not the nice, hot kind of stiff but something born from anticipation. The anticipation of imminent victory. Dean stops just in time, Cas' knuckles hovering just shy of a soft kiss from his lips.

“Goddammit.” He drops Cas' hand and pushes himself against Cas until he feels his body heat envelop him.

“I told you, your defeat is preordained. You can't resist me.” He tries to tone it down but his confidence drips from every word. “I recall the battle of Kendara. That victory will have much in common with my imminent victory over you.”

Dean huffs in annoyance. “Uh-huh. I've killed countless demons, monsters, and witches. I killed Hitler, remember? We even kicked God to the curb but my defeat is preordained. I thought you didn't believe in fate?”

“No. But I believe in myself. It's that pivotal moment, impossible and you kissing me, that kiss, will be unstoppable.”

Dean stills and pulls down his brows as he tries to recall an ancient memory. “Did you just quote Faith Hill's 'This Kiss' to me?”

Cas exhales and cards his fingers through Dean's hair. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He digs his fingers in, and Dean moans with pleasure. He recognizes it for what it is, a distraction but it's a welcome one. If he can't have fucking kisses, he'll take everything else. “You totally quoted 'This Kiss' to me. Won't help you. I have an iron will, Cas. You just wait and see.”

Cas squeezes his hand gently. “Good night, Dean.”

“I'm telling you, Cas.”

Silence greets him. He'll show Cas. Sam too. Dean is not a lovesick puppy. He'll show both of them... but mostly Cas. “Good night, Cas.”

  ֍

Dean glares at Cas before pulling his attention back to Sam again.

“Dean, are you even listening to me?” Sam has that scrunchy wrinkle on his forehead, which means he's frustrated that no one's been listening to his speech.

Dean nods, raises a finger, and takes a most welcome sip of coffee. Really, coffee almost surpasses beer and pie, he thinks absentmindedly, at least the morning coffee does. But of late, Dean has found himself enjoying coffee practically any time of day. He ignores the inner voice that scoffs at his 'but of late'.

He doesn't want to acknowledge the reason why his coffee consumption has increased dramatically.

“Yeah, yeah, we need to reorganize the spellbooks in the library. Can't you ask Rowena to do that? She gave you those books. You're the flying broom boy, just whisper some Latin and Leviosa those books in order. Or ask Eileen... pretend it's a civilian library and you're on a date.” Dean winks but turns his back when Sam frowns a second time. He tunes out Sam's indignant reply.

Finally, he looks at Cas.

Cas had insisted on a bowl of ice cream after lunch. Usually, Dean isn't one to say no to sweet things – he'd finished his bowl in a matter of minutes – but the way Cas is eating the icecream, he almost wishes he had turned the offer down altogether.

Cas is slowly pushing the spoon inside his mouth and Dean can't help but zero in on how his tongue flicks out and how it swipes over lips he's been dying to claim.

Once again, Cas takes a spoonful and makes a face as he closes his eyes. Slowly, he licks his lips at some stray ice cream that has escaped. Finishing up, he turns and looks straight at Dean.

A burst of desire floods Dean's body and he clenches his teeth. He's doing it on purpose, the fucker. It's not that he isn't enjoying Cas being all flirty but this is something else. Entrapment is what it is. An attempt at least.

When Cas takes the spoon and starts licking at the top, swirling seductively, Dean gets up. “Oh, come on, Cas! No one eats ice cream like that.”

Cas drops his spoon and Dean feels Sam's inquisitive eyes on him. “Um, you alright, Dean? He's just eating ice cream.”

“I know he's eating ice cream. The whole freaking world knows he's eating ice cream. It's just the way he's eating it. With his tongue... and, and lips!”

Sam shots Cas a questioning look and Cas just shrugs, making a dismissive motion.

“Oh, really, Cas? You're just gonna do the shoulder shrug now? Sam, he – “ Dean stops mid-sentence. He does not want to explain what this is all about to Sam, well, not in great detail at least. “Never mind, it's complicated. I need to... um, take a shower.”

Cas quirks an eyebrow. “Didn't you shower earlier today?”

“I need another one!” Dean almost runs out of the kitchen.

Later in the afternoon, Dean has decided that the best strategy is to simply ignore Cas and by ignoring Cas, Dean is totally hiding from him. Since Dean knows from hard-learned experience that he has difficulties ignoring Cas – he figures over a decade of shoving romantic feelings aside won't be easily hidden now when they're finally together – he coops up in their room watching old Friends reruns and eating popcorn.

If he needs to go all Shining due to this bet and isolate himself, he'll do it. Cas is not gonna win over him with all his ancient angel knowledge and hidden seduction secrets. The only problem with Dean's plan is that he misses Cas.

Speak of the devil, Cas enters their room, with a couple of bags in hand.

Dean's eyes narrow suspiciously but his heart skips a beat nonetheless. Just being in the same room as Cas is enough to bring a smile to his face and a shine to his soul.

He takes off his headphones. “Been shopping I see. With Jack?”

“Yes. He needed some new T-shirts. Monster blood is hard to get rid of.”

“Mm, we should get Sam to craft a spell for that. Anyways, I think I'll head to the gym. Been slouching enough.”

Cas nods, drops the bags on the floor, and takes off his trench coat.

Dean stops in his tracks. Cas has been doing some shopping too. The navy blue shirt he's wearing hugs his body just right and not for the first time Dean curses the trench coat for the sexiness it had been hiding all those years.

He clears his throat. “Haven't seen that shirt before. A new one?”

Cas smiles. “Yes, do you like it?”

“It's alright. For being a shirt. Kind of auspicious for hunting but it's alright.”

Cas walks up to Dean, his stride purposeful. He grabs Dean's belt loops and pulls Dean to him until they're slotted against each other. “Just alright?”

Cas' soft exhales are fuel on his already burning body. If he would have known in advance how much not kissing Cas would turn him on, he would've never have done it. If he knew how much Cas would be a tease and frankly cheat, he would have just shut up about the bet. His betting days hadn't prepared him for a persistent angel. Or cheating. Dean was usually the one that got creative.

Dean glances at the fabric, how each movement simultaneously reveals a thick strong bicep and hides a chiseled chest. “It's nice. Maybe too nice for killing zombies and vamps, but if you wanna dress up, I won't judge. I mean, Sammy uses so much junk in his hair that he's broadcasting our presence to monsters within a two-mile radius.”

“I was thinking I'd wear it for our anniversary.” There was an amused sparkle in Cas' eyes. “You haven't forgotten about that, have you?”

A sudden weight falls on Dean's heart and his chest feels heavy with emotions. It's all a tangle, longing, guilt, and love mixed up until he can't separate one feeling from another. He shakes his head softly. “No, how could I, Cas?”

Cas' mischievous grin turns serious and he splays his fingers on Dean's chest while he pulls his chin up.

“Dean. What's happened, what's in the past is nothing we can change. Don't cloud this moment we have, every moment, our future, with these thoughts. You have me. And I have you, finally. I'm not going anywhere.”

Dean plays with Cas' shirt buttons. “Fine. You had me at anniversary gift.”

Cas' voice is smooth with a playful edge to it. “I never promised an anniversary gift.”

Dean grins. “Then what's the point? I'll be the anniversary gift. If you say pretty please, I'll even come with a bow. How about that, Cas? You can unwrap me with your teeth.”

Cas' smiles but his words are serious. “You'll come, cause I'll want you to come. The bow is just the cherry on top as you so eloquently put it.”

Dean's hands trail down as Cas nuzzles close. He hears the slow inhale of Cas' breath as he starts stroking Cas' sides and the soft exhale leaves him wanting more. “How about we start with the celebrations early? Mm, Cas?”

“Do you have anything special in mind?” Cas' voice turns deeper and Dean knows he's got him.

Clearing his throat, he tries not to sound too excited. “I suggest you take this off.“

“I can do that.” Cas' words roam over his skin and Dean tries not to do a freaking jig. His plan is working. Cas is totally lost in the lustful haze of wanting Dean – not that Dean blames him – and soon, he'll feel Cas' lips on him. Bam, done deal. Cas loses, Dean wins.

With measured movements, Cas unbuttons his shirt and slides out of the soft material.

Dean licks his lips. That skin is delectable and any other day, he'd be all over Cas but today he's playing a different game. His hands find Cas' chest nonetheless and his heart skips a beat as he touches his skin.

Even after all this time, touching Cas feels surreal, like a gift that will unpredictably be taken away at any moment. So Dean tries to treasure it, slowly stroking and coaxing Cas' desire higher and higher. He casually sweeps a thumb over Cas' nipple and judging by Cas' inhale, he's nailing it.

Now he is going to nail Cas.

Cas moans softly and arches his neck to the side, away from Dean.

Dean groans internally. It's the wrong side, he's supposed to lean into Dean and kiss him, dammit. He gently cards his fingers around the nape of Cas' neck, pulling lightly and bringing Cas in again. He knew that those fishing skills would come in handy.

“I've missed you”, Dean mumbles as he pulls gently on Cas' hair.

Cas' eyes are closed, his fulls lips so tempting but Dean focuses on getting those lips on his skin. Maybe if he just presses Cas' mouth on himself, Cas loses. Sure, Cas wouldn't have been the one instigating the kiss but if lips touch skin, technically that should count.

Cas turns towards Dean again, suddenly opening his eyes. “I've missed you too.” He continues nonchalantly, “Have you been avoiding me, Dean?”

Dean scoffs at the sudden change in dialogue. “Pff, no?”

Cas takes a step back and grabs the shirt from the floor. “Thanks for helping me remove my shirt.” His smile is smug. “I must say, it was a creative try. Seduction, deception, evasion, a sound strategy.” He turns and heads for the door. “Just a few more days. You can't win, Dean. I'm millions of years old. I saw the seed of what was to become you when you were tadpoles with legs crawling out of the ocean.”

“Where you going?”

“To change. And bake some dried apple snacks for tonight. Jack's time to pick the game. He's going to pick Scrabble. Hope to see you then, if you dare.”

Cas walks out the door.

Dean huffs out a breath and follows Cas out into the hall. “You know, Jack is supposed to pick the game. You're cheating, influencing him!” Cas was a living breathing dictionary, and Sam read dictionaries as bedtime stories. They were insufferable to play with.

Cas' voice echoes in the corridor. “Bye, Dean.”

“Dried apples are not a real snack!” Alright, maybe that was a low blow but what was he gonna do?

Cas throws his head back and laughs.

֍

Sam's eyes twinkle in amusement. “Ready to throw in the towel, Dean?”

Dean digs his hand in the Skittles bowl, expertly avoiding the green and yellow ones. He chews and ignores Jack smiling. He's at least beating the kid.

Finally, he dares a look at Cas. He's still beautiful, despite that smile on his face. But it's not the smile that's bothering him, no, it's the next few words out of Cas' mouth. “Are you ready to yield now?” He even has the audacity to take one peanut – who only eats one peanut? – and smile as he chews it.

“Are you guys serious?” Dean asks. “That's like what... over 40 points and you just happen to have a blank tile?” He turns to Sam, who is still grinning like a fool. “You're just gonna accept this?”

Sam raises his hands. “Hey, rules are rules. What are you saying, that Cas is cheating? Just take your defeat like a man, Dean.”

Dean narrows his eyes and turns to Jack. “Cheating's not cool. Got it?”

Jack nods solemnly but Dean notices the smile pulling at his lips. “Got it. Cheating's not cool.”

“It is a proper word, Dean,” Cas states matter-of-factly.

“Alright, fine. How do you pronounce 'syzygy'?” Ha, he'd like to see Cas explain himself now.

“Siz-i-jee.”

“Shhee-shhh-chee?” Dean turns to Sam and Jack. “Are we really gonna fall for this?”

Jack looks at his phone. “Google says – “

“'Google says'. Gimme that!” Dean reaches over and grabs Jack's phone, pocketing it. “No use of phones, that's cheating.” He turns his attention back to Cas; he's crossed his arms, and if Dean didn't know better he'd guess Cas is offended. Or irritated. It could be both. It probably is both.

“I have a vast wealth of knowledge in many areas. I have no need to cheat.”

“Hey, it's over forty points. I'm not backing down. What does it mean?” Dean smiles as if he's really putting Cas on the spot.

Cas sighs. “It's an alignment of three celestial bodies. With how things are going you won't see the alignment of one celestial body in a while.”

Sam starts laughing before turning it into a cough as Dean glares at him. “Fine, the word is yours and the points too.”

Reaching across the gaming table, Cas pushes a bowl over towards Dean. “Dried apple snacks?”

Sam just continues to laugh.

֍

It's quiet for a few days on the kissing front. Dean is suspicious, but also grateful. He's come up with the perfect seduction plan.

Evening has settled over the Bunker and if Dean's memory serves him right he still has a few hours left.  He's chased Sam and Jack away from the Bunker, encouraged them to take a trip to Eileen. Well, it had been more an order but Sam had just laughed and whispered something to Jack. The kid had lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, and waved goodbye, wishing Dean good luck. Luck?! He didn't need any damn luck!

Dean was a man with a plan and no luck would be involved in this, just pure skills.

He goes over the last preparations in the kitchen. The temperature of the steak is just right, the Hasselback potatoes are in the oven, golden and crispy and the beer is chilled. He lights the last couple of candles – he found them in a box in storage L4 – and nods.

Fucking perfect. His new, green shirt fits him like a charm and he's brushed his teeth twice. There's going to be a kiss tonight, and it won't come from Dean. Now for the finishing touches. He smiles quietly for himself. He's glad Sam and Jack are gone for the next part, otherwise, he wouldn't hear the end of it.

He turns down the lights in the kitchen, sits down by the kitchen table – covered by a linen cloth, thank you very much – and waits.

He can hear the shuffle of Cas' feet on the floor and Cas calling out. “Dean?” A moment of silence, then Cas calls out again. “Sam, Jack?”

As Cas finally enters the kitchen, he stops in his tracks.

“Hi, Cas.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Welcome home. You ready for your surprise?” He notices that Cas is wearing that new, blue shirt. Perfect.

Cas looks around the kitchen, noticing all the candles and dim lighting, a note of awe in his voice. “Dean. What is all this?”

Dean adjusts his pants slightly, before getting up from the chair dramatically, almost knocking it over. “Time to unwrap your gift.”

Cas lets out an incredulous laugh but Dean knows he has him hooked. He can see it in how Cas doesn't even move. He just watches Dean with huge eyes, those crinkles at the corner making him even more beautiful.

Moving purposefully, Dean walks up to Cas slowly, giving him plenty of time to showcase the gift he brought him. “I figured I'd give you the best gift for our anniversary.” He puts his hands on his waist, just to emphasize what he's talking about.

Cas laughs, his eyes lingering on Dean's crotch.

Shaking his head, Dean puts a finger under his chin and raises it slightly. “Nice try, Cas. Up here.” He hesitates for a moment. “Do you like it?”

Cas takes a small step towards Dean, nodding. “Did you make the bow yourself?”

“I picked the color. You wouldn't believe the things Hobby Lobby has.” Dean thrusts his hips forward slightly and the big, yellow bow tied around his waist bops Cas in the stomach. “Now I know this amazing package is stunning, rightfully so, but I've heard the gift inside is to die for.”

Cas exhales heavily as he wraps his arms around Dean's neck. He puts his forehead against Dean's cheek.

Dean feels his desire stirring to life.

Cas leans back and his eyes have darkened. Something burns there and it must be contagious because one look from Cas and Dean feels his body flush warm. The fire spreads throughout his body and settles in his throat burning through his next words. He swallows instead, but saliva is not near enough to extinguish the fire. If he jumped into the ocean right now to cool down, the waters would evaporate before his very eyes.

It must be the heat from all the candles.

Cas' voice is deeper than usual, coated with a heat that makes Dean's skin flush. Definitely the candles. “Thank you, Dean. Can I open you up now?”

Dean licks his lips, swaying in place. “You want to... open me up? Here?” His last word comes out, a mere whisper.

Leaning in, a smile pulls at Cas' lips as he whispers darkly at Dean's ear. “The bow, Dean. I'm talking about the bow.”

Clearing his throat, Dean nods. “Of course, yeah. The bow. Go ahead.”

Cas pulls at the ends until the bow is untied. Still holding onto the ends, he yanks them toward himself, so Dean's body is flush against his own. “You were right. The wrapping is beautiful but I do find the gift inside to be exquisite.” He enunciates the last word with his hips, thrusting them against Dean's groin.

Dean's breath leaves him fast and he presses his hands against Cas' chest to keep himself steady. “I've made dinner,” he says as he fights the urge to roam his hands all over Cas' body.

“Smells delicious. Meat and – “

“Potatoes. I forgot about dessert but we have some – “

Cas spears his hand through Dean's hair, pulling it back gently, but not too gently as he can still feel those pinpricks of pain. “I have a better idea. How about we forget about the potatoes and skip straight to dessert, Dean?”

Dean blinks. He has a vague memory of him setting up a trap for Cas, but all his attention is focused on Cas and how his finger sweeps over his neck, how they move to trail up over his jawline.

“I can still make a quick pie – .”

Cas deftly unbuttons the top button on Dean's shirt as his thigh presses in between  his legs. “Too bad about the pie. But I have desert right in front of me.”

Dean sucks in a breath, his mind momentarily going to the dinner. “Potatoes are gonna get burned. Shame about that steak too.”

He can feel Cas' hands still and Dean momentarily regrets bringing up the food. Cas is fucking starter, main course, and dessert all wrapped up in one, and Dean is starving.

Cas' breath ghosts over Dean's jaw, only to be followed by soft fingers on his cheek. His voice by Dean's ear lights him on fire. “That's a shame. You know what else is a shame?”

Breathing through the buzz of pleasure that shots through him as Cas' grabs his nipple, Dean shakes his head. “That the steak is gonna taste like dried old tires?”

“I'll be done in a minute.” Cas sounds amused.

Dean is not sure what's so funny. His body is practically throbbing in unison with his rapidly increasing heartbeat and Cas just stands there, cool as a cucumber.

A burst of pain quickly turns to sweet pleasure as Cas releases the hold on his nipple. “I just want to say thank you.”

Dean's voice is husky with need. “F-for what?”

“This. The surprise, the food, you.” He strokes Dean's cheek like he's a freaking cat and it should be ridiculous but Dean feels himself closing his eyes and leaning into Cas' hand.

Cas casually rests a finger over his lips. “Open up.” Even that small amount of near contact is enough, almost too much. If Dean is dried up grass, that finger is fire, ready to consume him whole and turn him into a blazing inferno.

Suddenly he realizes what he's doing. Cas... Of all the stealthy, sneaky little bastards. He backs away – knowing full well he was about to get sucked into something he wouldn't be able to stop –  but really loathes the space it creates between them. “Huh, I see what you're doing, Cas.”

Cas follows him and pushes him back gently. “What am I doing, Dean?” His eyes twinkle but there is something predatory there.

A chill runs through Dean, the good, excited kind. The hard edge of the countertop digs into his back. “Uh, this, the whole sexy seduction thing...” He waves with his hand in front of Cas. “It won't work. I know every trick in the book.” He just wishes his voice didn't falter on the last word.

Cas chuckles softly. He leans in close, invades Dean's space with his presence.

His lips are so close to Dean's that he can practically taste Cas on his tongue.

Cas just stands there, but the heat is too much. He licks his lips softly and Dean's gaze follows the movement of his tongue. He touches Dean gently, his hand resting softly around Dean's throat. He cocks his head to the side, a small smile playing on his lips. “Am I seducing you right now?”

The air suddenly turns thick and heavy and Dean's pulse is jackhammering away. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.  He clears his throat. “No...?” His voice sounds weak and even he hears that faltering conviction of that protest.

Cas hums but doesn't ease up. “Say that again, please?” His other hand trails behind Dean's ear, scratching hard.

Dean sighs softly, turning away.

Cas doesn't relent. He lets go of Dean's throat and places a hand under Dean's chin, forcing him to look at him again. “Don't you want this, Dean? My hands on you, stroking all over. It's good, isn't it?”

Dean only nods, fearing his voice will fail him if he opens his mouth.

Cas almost whispers now. “Now imagine more than my hands. My mouth on your body, sucking that spot near your clavicle, ravaging your skin. You lauding that sensation, heart beating rapidly, your body writhing beneath mine trying to move away. How I slowly work my way up, sucking hard, leaving a bruising gift. You're soft sighs and moans as you silently demand more...“

Dean shuts his eyes and imagines it. Every single syllable fires up inside his mind, conjuring up images that he needs to expel from his body. Cas' words are tangible brushes and the picture they paint is one of pure, unadulterated want and passion. Dean wants to say something that fully expresses what Cas is doing to him.

“... until you've lost all coherent thought. My lips finally connecting with yours, kissing you deeply. Tasting the bitterness of beer on your tongue, coaxing out all that desire you kept under lock for so long, just imagine– “

Dean's eyes flash open and he grabs Cas by the nape of his neck, pulling his face close to his own.

Finally, fucking finally, he takes Cas. His lips are slightly chapped and tastes of home. It's electrifying and his body sings in appreciation. Salt that reminds him of the ocean mingles with Cas' own taste.

Cas drops all pretense of taking it slowly and kisses him with an abandon that leaves them both breathless.

His hands are all over him but Dean's awareness is solely on Cas, and on how he manages to light Dean on fire with his mouth.  They kiss until Dean's lips are raw and a light shove of hands on his chest tells him to stop.  

Reluctantly, he pulls back but he can't hide the grin that's plastered all over his face. “Now that was fucking sweet, Cas.”

“Not sweeter than the taste of victory.” Cas grins and adjusts Dean's rumpled shirt.

“Yeah, yeah. You won. But I was close, mm? This whole surprise dinner thing worked pretty – Fuck, dinner.” Dean groans as he heads over to the oven.

“I don't think two minutes will make much difference.”

Dean turns at Cas' smug tone. “Two minutes. You telling me that all this took just two minutes?”

“In all honestly, I could have done this days ago. But I've been kind.” Cas comes up behind him, pleased satisfaction dripping from every word.

“I don't know about kind,” Dean grumbles. “Do you know how hard it's been not to kiss you?”

“Seven days passed over ten hours ago, Dean.”

Dean puts the warm Hasselback potatoes on the top counter. “What?”

As he prepares the steak to rest for a few minutes, Cas pulls out his phone. The numbers are all down to zero.

“You're telling me that...that I could have kissed you hours ago?”

Cas wraps his arms around Dean. “You were free to kiss me any time you wanted to. You can't blame me for not keeping track of the days.”

Dean kisses Cas –  more measured this time – as he mutters. “You cheater. Not just one episode Cas, there'll be a freaking Bake Off marathon!”

“ I can live with that. Happy Anniversary, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head and smiles. “Happy Anniversary, Cas. And later, you and me are gonna do much more than kissing.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873503  Feel free to leave a comment or kudos =) Hope you enjoyed this!

[reckoningss]

Bloody Valentine ❤

Summary: All you wanted was one calm, non-violent night out. As fate--or habit--would have it, Frank has other plans.

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader

Warnings: Violence, Language, Sexual harassment, Descriptions of blood, Sensuality, Angst and Fluff.

Wordcount: 4.4k

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day, lovers

How you’ve managed to secure a table for two at one of the city’s finest dining establishments on Valentine’s day is nothing short of a miracle. In fact, if you’d held out until you were sure that the date would actually happen, it would have been far too late. You’d just had to make the reservation and hold out hope that Frank would come around sometime before the big night. Fortunately, he had. 

He picks you up at 7:15 -- more than enough time to make it to Slash for an 8:00pm reservation, even factoring in parking. Impressive. You have to admit, the man looks good in a suit. Navy blue with an expertly pressed button-down beneath -- No tie. Brushing away phantom lint from his shoulders, you briefly wonder if he bought a whole new getup for your date. Bespoke? The sports coat sits perfectly about his wide shoulders. 

“Hey.” Frank leans in to press a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

You grin, reveling in the chesty rumble of his voice in your ear, and remind yourself not to bite your lip. It had taken ages to perfect your application of the cherry red liquid lipstick. 

“Hi. You look...great.” 

Frank gives you a once over, nodding. “You too. Oh.” From behind his back, he produces a bouquet of flowers. “These are for you.”

Roses. Blood red. You cradle them to your chest. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.” 

Frank checks his watch - a heavy-duty timepiece, obviously military - which he quickly hides away beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

“We should get a move on.” 

He’s careful - mindful really - making sure to open the door for you and offering his hand as you lower yourself into the car. He closes the door after you, makes sure to wait until you’re buckled in to pull away from the curb. You take note of all this silently, filing it away to parse and analyze later. It’s not that Frank isn’t attentive, but it might be a stretch to call him romantic. You gaze out of the window to hide a girlish smile, snuggling further into the heated leather seat, you won’t mind turning the tables for one day a year. 

Frank parks a block away from the restaurant, pulling the parking brake as he turns toward you. The pad of his thumb ghosts, paper soft, across your cheek; you feel the warmth more so than the touch. 

“Happy Valentine’s day,” half-whispered against your lips as he kisses you.

The maitre d’s dress, though conservative, is absolutely stunning you note as you wind your way between the tables. Frank fiddles with the lapel of his jacket, barely noticeable in the low light, but there’s a tense stiffness to his movements. You squeeze his bicep gently. 

“Stop fidgeting, handsome.” 

He throws you a half-hearted grin, more like the corner of his mouth twitching upward than a smile. More for your benefit than anything else. 

Your table is toward the rear of the restaurant, a bit more secluded and hugging the wall. Secretly, you’re glad. Seclusion suits you and you know for a fact that it suits Frank. Frank pulls out your chair for you The maitre d smiles serenely as she leaves you to peruse the menu. 

You’re considering the merits of ordering the Paella appetizer that feeds four simply for yourself when you feel eyes on you. Overtop the black leather of the menu cover Frank watches you, brown eyes nearly black in the dim environment. The same delicious thrill races up your spine that you feel every time he looks at you --that feeling of falling, of breathlessness when you’ve come to the end of the chase and your pursuer is upon you. That tingle as they breathe down your neck and you know you’re just as good as caught. 

You bite your lip and cross your legs beneath the table, liquid lipstick be damned. You’re more than hungry now; you’re ravenous. You crave Frank like a dying man’s last meal. Like freshwater to a man adrift at sea. You want the sweet press of his lips for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The whispering glide of his skin beneath your hands. The scrape of his teeth against your satin skin. You turn your eyes back to the menu and ignore his gaze on you like the sight of a rifle. Your head practically swims with gluttonous thoughts.

“I was thinking about the paella,” you hedge, voice taught with anticipation. “We could split it and have whatever you want too, maybe the sirloin?” 

“Hmm.” His deep rumble curls your cherry red pedicured toes and you swallow. Without looking, you know he hasn’t taken his eyes off you and it’s simultaneously incapacitating and empowering. You know that you could order ostrich right now and he wouldn’t bat an eye. Because he wants you and tonight, he wants nothing more than to please. 

You slouch behind the menu, hiding a blush he can’t see beneath your deep brown skin. Desire and giddiness swirl tightly in your chest and force the air from your lungs. You almost laugh; you feel so lightheaded. This is what it feels like -- love. Affection. Devotion. Who could’ve guessed that you would find, in “the punisher” no less, the man who would make you feel like a lovesick schoolgirl every day? With every touch and every glance. Your heart pounds just to think of it. 

“You look beautiful.” That same deep rasp invades your flimsy seclusion and sends a buzzing warmth creeping up your neck. 

You peer up at him from beneath a curtain of lashes, practically glowing with pleasure. “Thank you.” 

It’s not as if Frank never compliments you, but he’s a man of few words, even fewer words of outright affection. Tonight, it would seem, he’s all praise. His dark eyes skim your bare shoulders, a smile ticking up the corner of his usually severe mouth. He knows what he does to you and he’s enjoying the show. 

You’ve opted for a white dress for the occasion -- a drop-shoulder number that flows into a mermaid hem below the knees and hugs all the right places. You picked it for just this reason, the crisp white satin makes your brown skin glow. A dress that makes you feel sexy, one that makes Frank look at you like the only woman in the world. Your skin heats with the attention; you’re practically radiating. 

“I think I’ll get some wine.” You rise suddenly from your chair, needing air and distance from his drugging gaze more than alcohol. Either will do. “Beer for you?”

“Let the waiter come by.” Frank leans back in his seat and snags your hand, smugly spread legs only half hidden by the tablecloth. He may clean up nicely, but he’s no gentleman. Never that. 

You shake your head, already heading toward the bar. It’s backlit fire red in the dark interior. Black-clad silhouettes move behind it with practiced ease. “I need to stretch my legs. And...” Frank’s gaze is trailing the welcoming line of your body when you cut a devilish look over your shoulder. “I thought you’d enjoy the view.” 

He huffs a hollow laugh at that, one that says he’s just as awestruck at this feeling as you are. Your skin burns with the knowledge of his eyes on you all the way to the bar. 

You lean against the black marble of the bar and order a glass of sauvignon blanc and an ale from a bartender who gives you more than one appreciative look. The counter top cools your forearms while you watch the bar staff work. They’re efficient, moving like a finely oiled machine with tiny intricate pieces. Pulling, passing, sidestepping with a poise you almost envy. 

The bartender is sliding Frank’s beer into your ready palm when you feel it. A hand cups the ample curve of your ass and squeezes; a discomfiting weight presses into your back and pushes you up against the bar. You grip the wine glass so tightly you almost expect it to shatter in your hand. The bartender’s eyes go wide. You’re half of the mind to shatter the sweating beer bottle over this person’s head, but you clutch it too and shudder so deep it vibrates your bones. 

You’ve dealt with this before in a myriad of public spaces -- all women have -- some asshole sidles up to you and cops a feel, grinds his junk into your ass, feigns ignorance or blames close quarters for the invasion. You grit your teeth and crane your neck to see some business-suited 30-something offer you a nasty grin and a, “sorry my bad,” as his clammy fingers slip from your waste. 

Bile rises in the back of your throat. Normally you’d just shake it off, but the sheer audacity of the move has floored you. His hands were hard and greedy -- nothing like Frank’s. You’d know Frank’s touch in the dark, and to have someone else’s forced onto you so brazenly makes your skin want to crawl off your body. 

Your assailant saunters off  without so much as a backward glance and  both you and the bartender stare after him. “What an asshole.” 

You inhale a shaky breath and nod. “Yeah.” 

You’ve only taken a few steps back toward your table when you see Frank. He’s up and out of his seat, the finely upholstered chair turned away from the table. His black eyes are on you, heavy brows drawn down in barely contained fury. He has his punisher face on -- mouth tight and expression drawn in a way that spells hell to pay. More than one of the nearby tables have turned their attention in your direction. 

A hot breath washes over you when you reach him. “Did that piece of shit just touch you?” You feel the warmth of his hands hovering somewhere near your waist but not touching you. He’s caging you, but not in a possessive way, in a protective way. It’s how he shows you that you’re safe and that no one can touch you when he’s around. 

He says your name low with dangerous intent, concern and more than a little agony beneath the anger. “He put his hands on you? I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

His hands go the lapels of his jacket and he starts to peel it off. If you don’t intervene, he’ll have his sleeves rolled up and a fist through the assholes face in record time. 

“No. You’re not,” you hiss with a clenched jaw. “Sit down.” You press the neck of the beer bottle into the center of his chest and some of the amber liquid splashes onto and darkens the fabric of his button down. 

“Don’t tell me to sit down. That fuckin-”

“I know what he did!” You look up at Frank and something in his expression fractures when he sees your face, the corners of his eyes tighten almost imperceptibly. His eyes are the black of the night sky just above a roaring campfire. So much burning underneath. You wish he’d put his hands on you. You wish his reassuring touch could erase the feel of someone else’s hands treating your body as if it isn’t your own. But it doesn’t work that way. 

Your lips tremble into the weak forgery of a smile. “I just want to sit down and have a nice dinner.” Press deeper into the unyielding firmness of his chest with the bottle. “Please. Just this one night. For me.” 

Anger still sparks in the darkness of his hard gaze, but he gives. Thick fingers wrap around the perspiry neck of the bottle. His little finger brushes your thumb. 

Frank can’t stop fidgeting back at the table. He’s not used to letting assholes off the hook and he can’t stomach not defending you, but he calms himself -- for you. He’d do almost anything for you. He downs his ale while you order for the both of you and another before the waiter has returned with a basket of flatbread. All the while an uneasy silence hangs over the table. 

When he pushes back from the table and stands you jolt. “Where are you going?” 

“Bathroom.” He looks down into your uncertain face and softens. A feather-light caress to the stretch of skin before your ear. “I’ll be right back.”

Sometimes you wonder how such gentle hands can wreak such destruction. 

You know something’s wrong almost immediately, but it’s not until diners at adjacent tables have been shooting you unsure looks for several minutes that you act. The paella has already arrived, the cast iron pan steaming in the middle of the table, but you leave it and make your way toward the back. The hall to the restrooms is lit a florid fuchsia-purple that feels other worldly. Your stomach drops lower and lower with every step you take down it. 

The bartender from before exits and nearly bumps into you as you waver impotently outside the men’s room. 

“Hey.” Your smile is apologetic. “Can you check and see if there’s anyone in there? My date got kind of lost.” 

“Sure.” He smiles too as he ducks back inside. 

You don’t wait for him to come back out. Further down the hallway you hear something clatter. Someone moans like wounded animal. You pick your way along the wall and around the corner to the end of the hall where the back exit door is propped open. A tangle of limbs flails just beyond it in the dark alley and your heart squeezes. 

You push the door open and find just what you’d feared but secretly expected. Frank kneels on the grimy concrete beside a dumpster, the business-suited asshole’s collar clutched in his fist. Said asshole lies bloody on the ground, his upper half suspended by Frank’s shaking fist. His expensive patent leather shoes scrabble ineffectually in the muck. 

“No man, please,” is all he manages to dribble out before Frank punches him hard across the face. You flinch at the telltale sound of flesh on bruising flesh on muscle on bone. His head snaps to the side. A spray of blood on dirty concrete like a Jackson Pollock painting. A pitiful whimper. 

The asshole gasps around a mouthful of blood and tries again, red strings of it running from each corner of his mouth. “Please man I’m sor-” A belabored  choke. One blue iris twinkles at you from an eye nearly swollen shut. Frank rears back for another blow.

“Frank!” You wrap your hands around his strong wrist and pull.  “Jesus Christ, Frank, stop! You’ll kill him!”

His head snaps to you, dark eyes wide and wild. He’s breathing so hard he’s practically growling. Frank spares another glance at the quivering heap at his feet and scoffs. “He’s getting less than what he deserves.” 

Blood glistens atop the sierra of Frank’s knuckles and drips down his forearm. He even has a misting of droplets along his jaw and chin like horrible, red freckles. You tug at his wrist again. “I mean it, Frank, get off him!” 

Frank reluctantly unwinds his fingers from the wrinkled cotton of the asshole’s button down and lets him crumple to the ground like a ragdoll. If his chest weren’t heaving so heavily you’d think he was dead. 

You don’t realize until Frank’s hands are on you that you’re crying. He clasps your waist in a way that normally makes you feel safe then pulls back with a hiss. “Shit.”

You look down and see it--fitted perfectly above the curve of your left hip-- a bloody hand print seared into the whiteness of your dress. Your eyes take in Frank. His shoes are scuffed, the knees of his tailored dress pants stained and worn. Blood spatters the cuffs of his shirt and the sleeves of his jacket. A bruise is starting to fade to life on the crest of his left check. He’s a mess, and now, so are you. 

You feel just as surprised as he looks when you plant both hands on his chest and push him. “Get the car.” 

He stumbles back a step and raises his hands in the universal sign for surrender, regains that step and reaches for you. “Baby...”

“Don’t!” You’re not sure if you’ve ever heard your voice this stony, but it stops him cold. “Get. The car.” 

You don’t wait to see him nod in acquiescence, slamming the door in his face and stalking back down the hallway. You school your face into one of anxious confusion when you find the bartender standing outside the men’s room door. 

“There’s someone hurt back there.” You gesture to the blood on your dress and shake your head before he can begin to ask you any questions. “I don’t know how, he’s just hurt.” 

It’s convincing enough with tears still fresh on your cheeks; the bartender takes off down the hallway and you retrace your steps into the dining room, swallowing against the bitter taste in your mouth. You lied. It’s something you do with increasing frequency in your life with Frank. 

That’s what hurts the most, you realize as you return to your table, throw your coat on and toss five twenties down beside your uneaten food-- this day that started off so promising, this one night of the year where the tables were supposed to have turned, ended just like any other. 

When you get home, you don’t bother taking the dress off to clean Frank up; it’s already past the point of no return. And you don’t bother not cleaning Frank up either. It’s what you do. It’s what you always do. 

You sit him on your slate grey couch and kneel between his knees even though what you want to do is lay a beating on him the likes of which he’s never dealt or received. Your well-loved first aid kit lies open on the coffee table, its meager contents spilling out. Your inventory is dwindling; you have Frank to thank for that. 

You wipe the blood from his face not very gently and disinfect a cut near his eye with a solution you know will sting. You’re angry, and a little bit of pain won’t kill him. When you cup his cheek to apply a butterfly bandage, placing the heel of your hand directly on his bruise, he snatches your wrist away from his face. 

“What’s your problem?”

“What do you mean,” you respond with more calm than you feel.

He scowls at you. “This whole tough love act, just say what you want to say.”

“Say what I want to say?”

“Yeah.”

“I wanna say fuck you, Frank!” You rise to your feet. “How could you?” 

“What? The dress?”

“No! Not the fucking dress!” You throw your arm back in the general direction of the restaurant. “That guy! What were you thinking?!”

Frank peers up at you with a flat expression that makes you want to punch him. “What, you just expected me to sit there and eat my steak knowing that he put his hands on you?”

“YES!” You’re crying and shouting now. Your neighbors will be thrilled. “That’s exactly what I asked you to do, and you couldn’t even do that for me.”

“I don’t tolerate shit stains like that touching anyone, much less you. I did that for you.”

“Just this once, Frank! I didn’t need you to tolerate it! Just not..act on it!” Your head pounds, and tears drip your chin onto the bodice of your already ruined dress. You’re coming apart at the seams. “I just wanted one special night, Frank! Just ONE!”

Frank scoffs and leans back onto the couch, crossing his arms. “Why’s tonight have to be so special. We can have dinner any night, you can dress up any  night.”

“But it’s not just any night!” Your voice has crescendoed to a volume that will, no doubt, make your neighbors contemplate calling the police. Frank stills, eyeing you like a venomous snake. “You can beat some asshole bloody any night, Frank. Why can’t I have this one?”

Your voice breaks with your anger and you bury your face in your hands, sobbing openly. Most people who’ve seen Frank in action think of him like a blunt object, but he’s all precision with you. Taking you apart piece by bloody piece. 

You hear him pull himself off of the couch and shuffle toward you cautiously. You know he wants to touch you. To hold you and put back together the thing that he broke. If he really wanted you whole, he wouldn’t have broken you in the first place. From behind your hands you mumble, “please just go.” 

Frank says your name low like an apology, but you choke on another sob. “Please, Frank, just go.” 

And he does.

When he’s been gone for several minutes and you feel like you can breathe again, peel the dress from your body and climb in the shower, sitting beneath the hot spray. Not minding as it deconstructs the ringlets you’d carefully twisted your hair into the night before. When that’s done, you sit on your knees outside the tub and soak your dress in cool water. Peroxide and baking soda only fade the stained reminder of Frank’s fist shattering tonight’s plans. 

You scrub for the better part of a half hour, clutching the dress and crying into the pink water. 

You’d never considered that your body was capable of creating so many tears. Then again, you’d never really had reason to find out. You’re lying on the couch in front of the TV with a throw pillow tucked beneath your chin. Joe Wright’s Pride & Prejudice, despite being your comfort film, isn’t doing a very good job of mending your broken heart. On the screen, Mr. Darcy declares his passionate (if intolerant) love for Elizabeth at a mausoleum while it rains. Another tear slips down your cheek. 

The bolt on your door throws loudly and you should be alarmed, but you only sink deeper into the merciful plushness of the couch. You feel Frank moving around your house more than you see him, slipping into your open plan kitchen and flipping the lights on. He’s brings new smells-- his normal scent, clean leather and cold metal, no longer the coppery tang of sweat and blood. 

But his smell is accompanied by the spicy aroma of food. It’s a smell you know well, fare from a favorite hole in the wall. Starchy rice and fresh tortillas. Avocado and the tart acid of lime. You hear the crumple of paper bags as all these smells unfurl around you.

Franks presence approaches the back of the couch, his singular heat recognizable to you anywhere. He crouches, folding his arms across the sofa’s back. A beat while he registers what’s unfolding onscreen. 

He groans. “This guy’s an asshole.”  A breath. “But this is probably my favorite part of the movie.”

You resist the urge to cut an incredulous eye at him and snuggle the pillow closer instead. You’ve watched this movie countless times, on good and bad days, but you’ve never enticed Frank to watch with you. He fidgets too much for movies, his hands always snaking onto your skin and into your hair.

“Hell of an apology letter though, right?” He chuckles quietly. “They should teach a class on that.”

A calloused fingertip skims across the skin of your arm and your hair stands on end. Happy or sad, rain or shine, there’s no hiding the way your body responds to him.

“You watched this?” 

Frank grunts his affirmation, his touch still igniting trails of fire up and down your arm. 

“When?” 

He pauses to think. “A few months ago. You seem to like it a lot.” Drawing a tight spiral against your tricep. “Thought I’d see what the fuss was about.” 

Something inside your chest loosens and warms. With each pass of his finger along your skin, the anger you’ve been feeling doesn’t leave completely, but it gets lighter. Sometimes you lie for Frank. Sometimes you pull him back from the edge of something terrible. And sometimes, even when you don’t see it, this implacable statue of a man softens to fill the basins of your open hands.

You reach back with trembling fingers and catch his. 

The air stretches languidly between the two of you for a warm, slow second then breaks like a cascade of water. Frank climbs over the back of the couch and slides down behind you. You shift to accommodate him, letting him notch his legs with yours. You didn’t bother with pajamas after your shower, opting only for boy shorts and a thin bralette, but you’re not shy. Frank knows every inch of you and you him. You lift your waist so he can wrap his arms around you and cage you to his chest. 

His stubble scrapes your skin and something deep in your belly flames back to life. 

“I’m sorry.” He presses a kiss to the ball of your shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Another to the curve of your neck. “I’m sorry.” To the hinge of your jaw. 

That goes on for a while, apologies and kisses to soothe the heart he’s very nearly fractured. When you’re sufficiently placated and loved on he nestles his chin into the curve of neck and breathes deeply, his chesty rumble of contentment suffusing you with warmth. 

“I’m sorry for ruining your perfect night.” 

You maneuver with as much grace as the couch’s width will allow, wriggling until you’re turned to face Frank. His arms still wrapped securely around you. Knees slotted. You ghost a gentle fingertip along the purpling edge of his bruise and wonder again how this stony face can make your heart flutter the way it does. 

The kiss you share is unhurried and luxurious, like a rich chocolate dessert at the tail end of a five course meal. You indulge like he’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted and, in more ways than one, he is. When you pull apart, he looks at you like he’s never seen anyone else. Like he’ll never care to. 

You almost don’t say the words because you’ve only just realized them. They didn’t occur to you a handful of hours ago on a doorstep or in a crowded restaurant or a darkened alley. But you lay yourself bare anyway. 

“You’re my perfect night. I just want you.” 

And you mean it. 

[heartlesslywhumping]

Tossed Aside, Part 2

“Freya?”

“Hey, Z.” Freya sticks a hand out, her head buried in the underbelly of a bulbous washing machine. “Pass me that monkey wrench, would ya?”

Zero does.

“Thanks Z, you’re a babe.”

“Freya?”

Freya squeaks, leaning too far over the upside down machine. Her legs lift off the ground as her waist sticks. “Little help?” She laughs

Zero obliges, grabbing her waist and lifting her out.

“Thanks.” She rubs the back of her wrist across her forehead, leaving a streak of grease behind.

“Freya?” Zero catches her wrist as she turns

“Yeah-whoa, you okay?” Freya’s face furrows in concern as she looks at Zero full in the face. “I know that look, what’s wrong?”

Zero likes holding her. Likes the warmth of her skin that his sensors tell him is uniquely her. Likes the scents his filters categorize as Freya. Likes the friendly nudges she gives him and the way she tosses a hand over his shoulders.

He’s going to miss her.

“Freya….” His voice feels small, his sensors telling him the quality is quiet and thin. “What….what’s in the back room?” He’s still holding her wrist. He wants to hold her as much as he can.

Freya’s eyebrows pull together. “Um.” She chews on her lip. “Extra tools, miscellaneous wires, scrap metal…..junk like that. Stuff I haven’t been able to organize yet. Why?”

Scrap metal.

Zero’s sensors warn him that he’s distressed.

Junk.

But [Master] was correct

[Master] is always correct

Correct like Zero should be. Corect like machines ought to be.

“Is that all?” His volume states that his voice is too high.

“Um. God, I don’t know. It’s a mess back there. Did you find a mouse or something?”

Zero’s grip tightens on her wrist. A mouse. A pest. “Not exactly.”

Freya huffs in frustration. “Zero, I love you but I don’t have time for this right now. I’m not good with puzzles, you know this. Just tell me what’s bothering you.”

She’s tired of him. Frustrated with him. Soon, she’ll toss him aside too.

“What about those old projects?”

It takes Freya a second. “Oh.” She makes a face. “That’s what this is about? What’s got your wires all tangled? I’d forgotten about those.”

Zero hates that [Master] is correct.

“Why are they there?”

Freya shrugs, her skin sliding in his metal grip. “I was done with them.” She said simply.

The words tear Zero’s “emotions” out of him.

“I got bored or frustrated.” Freya continues, as though he doesn’t know what she means. “They weren’t interesting me anymore so they’re off to the side for a while so I can work on new things.” She finishes brightly. She moves to go but Zero still has her wrist.

“You okay, Z?” She asks

She can’t even say his full name. Can’t bring herself to struggle through it. Even two syllables is more than he’s worth to her. The nickname never burned before now. Before [Master] cleared the fog from his eyes.

“When….” Zero forces his volume to rise, to normalize. “When will I…..’go to the side’?”

Freya tilts her head curiously. “What do you mean?”

“When you are done with me. When I get boring or frustrating. When I’m not interesting anymore will…...when will that happen?” His stress levels are rising. His engine running faster. “When it happens can, can, can I go in the back room? Please? I don’t, when you’re done with me, can you put me back there? Can I go back there? I don’t, I don’t want to go back to [Master]. I don’t want another master or mistress or-or owner. Can you just-? Just go b-back th-thth33eeeRe? ***?””

“Hey, hey, shh.” Freya twists around so she can grab his wrist. Her other hand comes up to the back of his head, pulling him down towards her. His chin thuds against her shoulder as she leans up to rest her chin against his.

“Hey.” She says softly. “That’s not….” She laughs weakly

Zero inhales, letting his sensors sort out the scent of Freya. Quietly, he saves the assortment to look back on later. To remember. If his new owner lets him.

SCENT 01

[ SAVED ]

NAME?

….

……

………

NAME?

{ Agape }

SCENT “AGAPE” SAVING

[ SAVED ]

Freya’s still talking. “ -different, they’re different. That’s all different. You’re not….you’re not some inanimate pile of scrap that I fiddled with for a little bit. You’re-I’m never going to lose interest in you. I love you, okay? You’re permanent, you’re not…..you’re not going to be discarded. None of those things were ever robots or anything. They’re…..um, I don’t even remember what they are but they’re mostly old machinery or scrap metal or something. Nothing sentient, nothing important, nothing like you. I promise you that you’re not going to the side. Ever.”

Zero wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “But….you’re flighty. You care about something for three or four months. You say that now but in two more months will you-”

Freya doesn't push him away. She only laughs. “Flighty isn’t exactly a term of endearment, Zero.”

His full name is back.

“But yeah,” She adds quietly. “I am flighty. I do get interested for a few months. I never really thought about it like that…..but yeah, you’re right. It’s about that long. But I’m telling you, Zero. That’s different. I’m not going to cast you aside. Nothing I’ve ever worked on and gotten bored with has been a robot or sentient or anything. I promise you that in three or four months, I will still care about you.”

“You can’t promise that. You can’t control your emotions. I know. I’ve read the books.”

It wasn’t supposed to be funny, it was supposed to be convincing. But Freya laughs again.

“But,” Zero continues. “You can promise me something else, if you want to.”

“Okay?”

“When you lose interest, don’t give me back to my old m-Master. I can handle a new owner, just don’t give me ba-ack. I, I can, I would rather just, just, just sit deactivated in the back….room.”

Freya’s hold on him tightens. “You’re never going back to him.” She says vehemently. “Never. And I’m never giving you to a new owner. Not unless you want to go.” She suddenly sighs and pulls back to look him in the eye. “He told you all that, didn’t he? About my projects?”

Zero nods.

Freya sighs again. “Zero….nothing he has ever said or will ever say to you is going to be true. Yes, I guess I do get hooked on a project for a while and then lose interest. But….well,” She pulls away but keeps one hand on his wrist. She gestures to the machine he had found her in. “It’s stuff like that! That washing machine isn’t sentient! It doesn’t have a mind like you or your people. And yes,” She glances back at him. “You do have a mind and it’s not just programming or whatever other crap that man told you. But….I’m trying to make that thing fly. To be able to sense when the washing is done and either put it in a dryer or float over to hang the clothes up. If it works then great! I’ll produce them and sell them. If it doesn’t, well, then I’ll get frustrated or bored and put it aside for a little bit.” She turns back. “Not you. I mean, yeah, I get frustrated with you sometimes but not like that! You’re not some project. I promise.” She squeezes his wrist.

“You can’t promise emotions.”

Freya snorts. “Try me.”

Zero nods.

She smiles guiltily. “Although, now I feel bad about all that stuff in the back room. I probably should get it back out.”

“But none of them have emotions?”

Freya shrugs. “I know, but I feel bad now.”

“I did not mean that.”

Freya punches him lightly on the shoulder. “I know.”

Zero peeks over her shoulder, glancing down at the wires. “Can I try?”

Freya steps aside, “Be my guest.”

Moments later, the machine is floating.

“Look at you.” Freya grins. “You’re so smart.”

Somehow, that doesn't burn like [Master]’s comments did.

Two months later, Zero watches the floating washing machine hanging up Freya’s clothes. He watches as she sells the product to various, harried customers.

He barely remembers his worry of losing her.

[rcris123]

“Good morning.” Arthur tipped his hat off his head.

It’s been a couple of weeks; the wounds got better. And he hasn’t seen Sebastian since he left the next day after their meeting; fever or not, he felt like an intruder. They sold the pelts, returned to camp and Miss Grimshaw scolded him harshly for the entire thing – that let alone that Dutch ain’t really spoke kindly to him after that. Hosea tried, but that ain’t the point.

He got the kid in danger. And he apologized to Isaac. Boy was real forgiving, but he cried. With sobs, into his arms, just a bit away from the camp.

They gave him chores with that kid Kieran around camp to keep him busy while his idiot father convalesced, down with high fever.

Even now it’s still sore, but the pain drowned enough that he’s functional again. He should be seeing Hosea and Sean out at the Braithwaite manor, but instead he decided to take a lil’ detour to St. Denis. It ain’t far. Isaac ain’t with him.

 And he found Sebastian.

“Mornin’...” Sebastian replies, just a tad confused. He was smoking a cigarette by the saloon he’s been dragged inside for healing. “What you doing here?”

“Said I be taking you huntin’ sometime. You got the time?”

Lips open in an odd smirk, head cocked slightly to the side; a long draw from the cigarette after which it’s thrown onto the pavement: “Not right now. How about tonight?”

“Whatever suits you.”

“Good...” Sebastian eyes the man from across the street; Arthur can’t help take a peek at it: an older gentleman, long, greying sideburns. Christ... Without warning the man walks past him to meet what must have been a client. And what comes out of his mouth is low, raspy, stinking of alcohol, and just for Arthur’s ears: “Thought I wasn’t gonna see you no more.” Then a bit louder: “I did buy whiskey off those money, you know. A whole heap o’it.”

Another crooked smile on thin lips and he was off. Arthur scratches the back of his neck, places his hat right back on again. Yeah, he left Sebastian 50$ worth of money and wrote simply on a paper: ‘for whiskey.’

Guess they’ll see each other tonight.

After he’s done burning the Gray’s tobacco fields as that Braithwaite woman requested of them.

And what a pain that was, ‘cause the whole goddamn plantation teaming with guards woke up and started shooting at them. He’s thinkin’ he burned the horse he rode out of there. Sean was all a giggle at the end; asked him if he comes back.

No. He’s gotta see someone, and he told Isaac to meet him by the train station in Rhodes.

 Boy was half asleep on Big Sir, a brute of a horse, a Shire, whose full name was Sir Lancelot ‘cause the kid read Knights of the Round Table over and over. King Arthur seemed to be his favorite character of the lot: talked to Abigail and Mary-Beth about it with; told him too, but Arthur ain’t knowin’ how to feel about it all. He tried though; listened to him thorough, nodded along, asked questions when he could. And that was still long ago; back when they first started going hunting together.

And Arthur didn’t really have the heart to wake him up.

He tries to urge Big Sir to follow with a whistle, but Isaac jerks right awake.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Arthur tries.

“What are we doin’, Pa?”

“Ah... Meeting up with a friend. Remember Sebastian?”

“The man who saved you?”

“Yeah. I owe him for that. So I thought I’d take’im huntin’. And I thought you might want to come along.”

“I guess...”

Arthur never really stopped to ask what he was dragging the kid into.

“You can head back to camp whenever you feel like it, kid...” Arthur turned his head to give a smile.

“That’s... not it.”

“You wanna tell me what’s it about then?” not accusing.

“I don’t know. I... I- I couldn’t help it. There was moaning in that house. Was it-”

“Yeah it was.”

“... Is that why you-”

“No...” Well he ain’t thought of it like that. He ain’t thought clearly at all back then and now... “Well I- I don’t know, son.”

“Is that why you’re taking me with you?”

Maybe it really was... reassurance. He ain’t a kid no more but he’s needin’ some too from time to time. He still shouldn’t burden the boy with it, but...

“Yeah... You’re always with me.” Another smile.

Isaac is a treasure; all the remaining way to St. Denis they muttered songs. It kept the animals and strangers away in a sense, and it ain’t all feeling as heavy.

 “Look who decided to finally show up.” Under a lamp post, alone, with a black horse and a riffle on his back, fancy clothes gone, hair unmade, missing the pomade, Sebastian stood, smoking a cigarette with long drags.

“You really did wait for me.” It was well past midnight and in truth who was to go hunting in the dead of night with a man you met only once.

“You said you were takin’ me hunting.” Sebastian mounts up.

“I am. Any huntin’ spots you wanna try out on this particularly fine evening.” Arthur turns his horse around.

“There’s an old battlefield not far from here. There’s always deer there.”

“You like hunting?” Isaac asked.

“A little bit.”

“We go hunting a lot.” The boy continued. “We use the pelts. To make clothes and saddles and bags. Maybe you can make something for yourself, mister.”

Arthur stood quiet. Sebastian did so for quite some time as well.

“Well I had my eyes on a sturdy deer vest for a while now.”

“I’m really good at skinning animals, you know.” Isaac continues; the lights of the city dim behind them as they near the bridges heading towards the bayou.

Sebastian throws him a look.

“He really is.” Arthur encourages. “And better with a bow than I am.”

“You’re hunting with the bow tonight, Pa.”

“Don’t put me through that Isaac...” a defeated huff. “Of course.”

“Just my luck then. I’d say I’m decent with a bow.” Sebastian cut into the conversation.

Another look back at the man; was it just him or is the man standing too stiff in the saddle; not that Arthur’s any good a horseman, but- Maybe that’s just how he rode.

It really ain’t been long till they reach what looks like the remnants of a battlefield. The clouds pushed away, making room for the moon, almost full, to shine through. Place is deserted and looks filled with junk just waitin’ to impale them.

Huh... Impale...

“This the place?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah-”

“Then let’s see if we can pick up some tracks.” Isaac interrupts.

But there was little need for actual tracking. Just a bit further ahead, by an abandoned, collapsed in church a few does were grazing. They should try taking them down from a distance, but they were still too far away for that.

Isaac really did hand Sebastian the bow and Arthur was to hunt with his own; they let the boy man the horses, while they’d be sneaking just a bit closer in. The dark made it difficult to get a clean shot from here. Grass rustled under their feet, their step was light, even if with each of Sebastian’s came a huff. He ain’t noticed it at first, then wondered if it was ‘cause he was getting old, but man couldn’t of been much older than himself. Or maybe they were already elders at the ripe age of 35.

A smile flashes on his lips and Sebastian almost asks him what that was about, but Arthur just places a finger to his own mouth: sh. The deer.

They steadily get up, drawing their bows as they went; thou in all fairness Arthur’s more mimicking Sebastian at this point. Seems this man’s got a few secrets by him.

“On three.” Sebastian whispers.

“I get the one on the right.” Arthur replied and the man nodded.

“One.”

They take aim. The head. The neck. A deep inhale drawn in.

“Two.”

The cord is tensed, breath released. Muscles tremble under the pressure of the draw.

“Three-” Arthur mutters on the exhale; the arrow flies out of the bow.

The deer look up, briefly hearing the whiz of the arrow just before it pierces their necks. Almost perfect unison.

“Nice shooting.”

“Thanks for taking the lead-” Is that mockery.

“I mean it with the shooting.” Arthur tried to defend.

“You did good too.” They started making their way over the crumbled fences and other debris. “For someone who claims they can’t shoot a bow.” He saw that smile.

“Now, I ain’t sure if you’re insulting me or...”

“I’ll let you decide on that.”

A scoff from Arthur; a snort from Sebastian, as if he’d want to laugh. Their steps got loud. Wind rustled through the trees lining the field. A bell rang like a rumble from the tower of that collapsed church not too far away. There was some boars squealing somewhere near – probably ran off.

Now to skin the deer. Arthur gets down to collect the arrows.

“You hear that?” Sebastian lowered his voice. “Shit!-”

Arthur ain’t got time to respond. Tusks first a boar found its way towards them. Or maybe it was the whole gang of them. But Arthur feels just one. A tusk in his side. He grabs on to the head. Not a smart move. The animal drags him along. He lets go. Hooves press harshly into his torso before jumping off of him.

A glance: Sebastian was some way ahead, leaning on one of the destroyed fences.

And the boar wants to come for seconds.

He ain’t ever thought he’d die gored by a boar of all things.

A gunshot.

It still charges, but falls down a few steps in, snout in the soft ground. A muffled squeal.

“Pa?...” Isaac gets down from Big Sir with a riffle in his arms. “You a’right?”

Sebastian came to help him up: “C’mon up!”

“Yeah...” A cough. The boars took even the goddamn breath from him.

A wheeze as he’s strung up-

Only to stumbled backwards as Sebastian jerks away, grimacing, in pain.

Both Isaac and Arthur are at his side at once:

“You a’right there?”

“Ah. It’s nothing. Pulled a muscle today.” Sebastian responds, but it sounds almost like a growl. “You ain’t replied to the kid. You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” Arthur croaks, looks away, a rushed scratch of the chin, then a hand goes to check his side. He ain’t bleeding thankfully; still hurts thou.

“We should camp here tonight.” Isaac proposed, though with that grimace on his face it was more of a demand. “Inside the church.”

Arthur’s down for anything, as long as Sebastian is too.

“Sure. Why not.” He says.

Arthur hears a sigh roll out of Isaac as he pulls down to skin the boar he killed. So, he gets the second deer. Even in this dark it’s almost an entirely clean job, the pelt’s got no previous nicks in it; should make for a fine vest.

He puts that on the back of Sebastian’s horse:

“You should take it.” Man comes closer. “And don’t you dare say no. It’s a gift.”

One defeated sigh from Sebastian: “I guess I will have to start refusing such gifts if you keep getting injured and I have to pull your ass out of dying.”

“That was one time.”

“Oh? So, what do you call almost getting skewered by a wild boar-”

“Being an idiot.” Isaac interrupts, unloading the sleeping bag off Big Sir after stowing the boar pelt on him.

Arthur raises his arms and lets them fall to the side: “I thought you had my back.”

“I do, Pa.”

A snort: “Agh, sometimes I wonder why I bother.” It’s playful, not meant as an insult as a hand goes to ruffle the mop of hair on the boy’s head. “C’mon.” He loves the boy to the heavens and back.

They set up camp: a fire just outside the church walls, their bed rolls inside. Isaac on one side of him, nearer the wall, Sebastian on the other towards what remained of the isle; it just felt right that way as if he could protect the kid like this. But before sleep came some dinner – well a 3 AM dinner...

They ended up roasting some of the venison they just caught, with some thyme and grilled mushrooms on the side.

And he saw that; the way Sebastian grabbed his right shoulder, massaging it between thumbs.

“You sure you a’right?”

“Yeah... Not a thing to worry about.”

Arthur insists: “Does it hurt?”

Sebastian throws him a glare: “How about you? Your side? The bulletwounds?”

“Black and blue all over, but I’ll live.” He takes a mouthful of that meat. A moment of reflection: “What? Was you worried I won’t, friend?” Arthur don’t you get smug.

“Friend?” Sebastian chows on his steak as well. “Ain’t thought we was friends.”

“Well whatchu wanting me to call you? Ol’ sport?”

A loud snort, followed by a cough, as the man chokes on the bite he had. Arthur flinched forward. Sebastian waves him away as if he’s fine.

A drowned out, dry cough: “I don’t think that’s even a saying.”

“Well ain’t everything just made up anyway?”

A bob of the head: “I ain’t knowing.”

A moment’s silence: Isaac found something that looked like a silver coin on the ground, flipped it on all sides, running his hand over the inscription, looked at Sebastian then pocketed the thing. The adults were busy chewing the meat in silence, or well as much of a silence as that bell still dangling gave them. Yet, somehow that sound grew familiar and pleasant. A thunder cracked in the sky above; downpour came soon after. The water didn’t really get inside the arch they camped under.

The fire smoked out soon enough.

“Thank you” Arthur whispers as they were getting inside their bedrolls. “For this.”

Sebastian doesn’t say anything else, just flashes a smile, then turns around and, Arthur presumes, falls fast asleep.

 Next day he was gone before they woke up.

[anywaffle]

More Than Things

  More than Things

Fandom: Bright

Pairing: Kandomere x Reader

Word Count: 3,627

Warnings: Very lightly implied nudity, otherwise it’s all fluff. 

Summary: A week of affection shown in the gifts Kandomere gives. Often times they’re far more than things.

    Monday is surprisingly grey and dreary for L.A. and your mood decides to match the weather. Work hits a lull and you find yourself bored and disinterested in whatever tasks you pick up. By the time your break rolls around you’re wishing it was actually the end of shift but you’re fine enough with settling into the break room with a snack and your cell phone.

    Two bites into granola bar your coworker calls you and you groan, anticipating an early call back to the front. You’re just standing when they trott in, grinning over a bouquet of beautifully arrange flowers in a lovely vase.

    “Somebody’s got an admirer!”

    They set the flowers on the table and point out the little card kept among the blooms with your name typed on it. You feel your heart flutter and pluck it up with gentle fingers, flipping it open to read the message inside.

    To brighten your day. - K

     It would be hard to argue that the smile on your face isn’t a little goofy, cheeks warm with the giddy joy suddenly filling you up. You plunk back onto the couch, letter clutch to your chest, and sigh happily.

    The rest of your day is a cheerful breeze, bright as the flowers you take home to lighten your living room.

    Tuesday you wake up late and scramble into work frazzled. When Kandomere texts you good morning and asks how you are you relay this to him, tone light despite your mild frustration. Work ticks on normally enough, the two of you texting back and forth when you have time.

   What time is your break? He texts you a little before noon.

   About 1:30 if everything goes right. Only a 15 though. You shoot back.

   He goes quiet after that but you figure work just picked up, wish him safety, and hope for the possibility of a phone call later. You saw him on Saturday but that already seems so far off. Time goes on and you daydream about him.

    At 1:28 your coworker calls you over. You’ve got a visitor apparently and you feel your heart racing in anticipation. You can’t help the smile that comes when you see him.

   “Afternoon,” you grin, walking up to the blue haired elf.

    “Afternoon,” he replies, a slight smile on his face. “Do you have time for coffee?”

    It’s now that you notice the drink tray and pastry bag he has in hand, bag and cups decorated with the logo of your favorite cafe several blocks down.

   “Definitely!” You chime, “you’re a sweetheart you know.”

   He simply shrugs, following you out to find a patio table nearby. “I was in the area, thought you could perhaps use the caffeine,” he teases lightly.

  The coffee certainly helps keep you up but the 15 minutes you get together are what truly carry you through the rest of the day.

   Wednesday your laptop quits. It goes from working to blue screen to black and refuses to turn on again. It’s a long time coming honestly, you’ve been putting off upgrading for years in a bid to save money but it’s finally come back to bite you.

   You’re glad to hear the files are recoverable when you go to see someone at Best Buy but they let you know you won’t be getting any more use out of the CPU or frame. Small victories, you guess. Still laptops are expensive.

    Your looking at the cheapest possible replacements when Kandomere calls, a lul in work giving him time to talk to you, to let you know he’s being made to take Friday off and ask if you would possibly want to go out for dinner then, have a proper date?

   The thought makes you feel a fuzzy, warm sort of happy and you answer in the affirmative before asking after his day.

   “The usual,” he says, as if there’s anything usual about working to regulate and contain magic and magical items “yours?”

  “Eh,” you sigh, “laptop finally died. I’m sitting in a Best Buy parking lot right now.”

  “They’re selling laptops in the parking lot?” His joke catches you so off-guard you snort a little when you laugh.

  “No silly, price checking. Laptops are expensive.”

   “What make would you like? I’ll buy it.”

    “What no! Laptops are expensive!”

    “And?”

    “You fixed my car 2 months ago.”

    “And?”

    “I can’t just… let you keep buying me things, can I? You’ll start thinking I only keep you around for your money.” You keep your tone light but it’s a legitimate worry.

    “I promise I won’t,” he reassures you. “Does it really make you that uncomfortable?”

    “I mean no… Yeah…? I don’t know, kinda?” you settle on.

    “Half then?”

     “What?”

    “Would half be acceptable? That way at least you won’t be getting a cheap piece of junk.”

    “You think on it a moment. That would still be a few hundred dollars but…

     “Okay, half. I think I saw a nice one on sale for $600.”

     “Whatever you like, darling.” The note of amused affection in his voice and the pet name make you smile. You have a new laptop before 8 and a promise of date night for Friday.

    Thursday a package arrives at your house. It’s wrapped plainly, an Amazon box stamped with Fragile on the side, and you rack your brain trying to think of what it might be or when you last placed an order. It definitely has your name and address on it. A present? It’s not your birthday though, not even near it, and there’s no major holidays coming up either.

Cautious but also curious you grab a pair of scissors and cut into the tape with your face away from the box, peeking into it when it doesn’t explode or start screaming.

    Whatever it is has been wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap and surrounded by those air packing things. The fragile stamp was there for a reason then. What is this?

   You reach in and start to pull away the various layers of packaging until your prize emerges, your shoulders shaking with muffled laughter at what you find.

    My puns are koala-tea! is printed around a cute cartoon koala and a teacup on a coffee mug bigger than your fist. You’d seen the stupid thing online last weekend and laughed when Kandomere rolled his eyes at the pun and your declaration of, “You’re pretty quality yourself!” You’d thought it was hilarious at least.

   “I can’t believe…” you mutter to yourself, going to retrieve your phone.

    Kandomere is fully expecting another inconvenience when his text tone breaks the relative silence of the room. Today has been mess after mess and he’s anticipating more at this point. So, when he flips it face up and spies your name on the screen he lets himself feel a little more optimistic, and when he opens your message and is greeted by a snapshot of your smiling face he feels his spirits lift. And then he scrolls down, sees the mug in your hand, sees your photo’s caption,

    looks like I got a gift from quite the koala tea fellow~

He lets himself huff a little laugh and text back

    You’re welcome, hermosa.

    Friday is a pleasant surprise. You love going out with Kandomere but sometimes the places he takes you have you feeling a little out of your depth. People are always kind of course, or at least cordial, but the sheer amount of affluence present can make your head spin. With that in mind you’ve really enjoyed the night so far. Dinner was somewhere more low-key, a place of with a cozy atmosphere where you didn’t feel compelled to dress like you were red carpet-ready and could pronounce most of the menu. It was nice to sit together and eat and talk about things that got missed in your Cliff Notes conversations on the phone and by the time you left you both felt light and warm and satisfied.

   Now you’re riding along in the car, jamming to a playlist the two of you have been slowly building together, wondering where exactly it is you’re going. You never would have taken Kandomere for someone who likes surprises but his smirking silence now makes that clear.

    Wherever it is he says you like it and you don’t doubt that. You trust him after all.

    You don’t recognize the building you pull up to or the parking lot, but you note several other cars, other people parking and walking up. From the signs posted here and there you can guess that you’re on a school campus, though you’re not sure which one. Kandomere helps you out of the car, keeps his hand in yours while you approach the building. You see a lot of couples but some singles and small families too.

    “Okay but seriously, where-”

    His smile is frankly self-satisfied when you trail off, eyes catching the sign by the door you’re approaching.

Planetarium Shows Friday 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. $6 or $11 couples

    The happy noise you let out turn his smile fond.

    The kind young woman at the counter inside scans the qr code on his phone and directs you down the hall and up a set of stairs. The room you settle into is spacious and warm and you take your seats just a few minutes before the show starts. Watching the stars bloom beautifully around the room you feel your heart flutter when Kandomere reaches over and grabs your hand again. You lean into him smiling. It’s a lovely night.

   Saturday you sleep in. His bed is soft and warm even without him in it and you’re happy enough being able to hear him padding around his home. You press your face into his pillow, pulled close to your chest sometime after he’d gotten up, and inhale the scent of him. The butterflies in your stomach make you smile.

   You hear the bedroom door open, the soft approach of footfalls and perk up the slightest bit, turning over lazily to look up at Kandomere when he stops at your side.

   “Good morning, mi alma,” he says fondly, sitting by your side. “Breakfast?”

    “Sounds great” you hum sleepily, reaching up towards him to pat his cheek. “C’mere though.”

    He leans down at your urging, lips meeting yours in a soft, sweet kiss. His hair falls over his shoulders and tickles your cheeks enough that you find yourself giggling against his lips. Slowly he pulls away and your taken by his starlight gaze. His eyes are soft when he looks at you, adoring and gentle.

   He presses another parting kiss to your forehead and stands, calling over his shoulder “come on, before it gets cold.”

   You take a moment longer to enjoy your warm cocoon, stretching arms and legs languidly between the duvet. When you finally emerge you have to take a moment to locate your clothing, no longer scattered on the floor as you’d left them but now folded neatly on the loveseat situated across the room. You pull your underwear on but pause a moment after, eyes catching on the blue button-up Kandomere had been wearing last night, settled beside your clothes. He wouldn’t mind, right?

    He’s already sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone with one hand, a fork full of eggs in the other. His back is to you and you take the opportunity to drape your arms over his shoulders and hug him, face pressed into his soft hair.

   He chuckles quietly when you press a solid smooch to the back of his head and then back off, walking around to the other side of the table. You hear him hum when you enter his line of sight.

    “Nice shirt.”

    “Thanks, just got it” you joke, twirling quickly before striking a silly pose.

    There’s that fond smile again, setting your heart all aflutter.

    “The color suits you.”

    You feel your cheeks warm at the compliment, ducking your face into a glass of water you find next to your plate. He always gets you, doesn’t he?

   The two of you eat in companionable silence, discussing plans for the day over a shared load of dishes after. Mostly it boils down to cuddling on the couch, your body draped over his while you watch the movie one of your co-workers suggested. He’s free today, or at least he’s supposed to be.  

    His phone rings a little passed four, the noise distant to your half asleep mind. You come back slowly with the sound of his voice rumbling in your ears, it’s usual measured timbre underlined with slight annoyance at being disturbed.

    “I’ll be in shortly then,” he says, hanging up a moment later.

    “You gotta go?” you ask, voice husky with sleep.

    “It seems so. Come, get dressed. I’ll take you home first.”

   You think to protest for a moment and then realize he wouldn’t offer if he didn’t have the time to. You raise yourself up off of him and the couch and follow him to get dressed propper. It’s a little hard not to get distracted watching him put his ensemble together, go from your lazy day boyfriend all soft at the edges to the striking MTF agent most know him as. He raises an eyebrow when he catches you staring a little too long and you decide it’ll be better if you’re facing the other direction while you pull the rest of your clothes on.

    “Where do you want this?” you ask finally, holding up the shirt you’d borrowed.

     “Keep it, if you’d like. It looks good on you.” He says this as he finishes buttoning his suit and you can’t help but think that he looks much better by far in anything and everything he wears. You’re happy to keep the shirt though.

    You kiss him before you slip out of his car, longer and harder than the usual goodbyes you give each other. Something about his sudden calls into work make you nervous, make you worry. Sometimes you forget a bit how dangerous his job is, for all his talk of paperwork and procedure. His hand is gentle on your cheek, thumb stroking softly against your skin.

    “Be safe,” you mutter against his lips.

    “I will,” he promises.

    You watch his car disappear down the block before you head inside, missing him already. When you dress down again, up in your appartment, you slip on his shirt and manage a small smile. It smells like him, obviously, and you can almost pretend your lazy day didn’t have to end. He’s holding you in your dreams.

    Sunday you worry. Evening rolls around without a peep from him, no good morning, no good night as the time creeps closer to 11 p.m. You realize that this isn’t the first time this has happened, sometimes he gets far too busy, has a case far too important, to use his phone for anything nonessential. You’re sure some days he probably doesn’t even think of you, and while that thought stings a little you reason that it’s not out of a lack of fondness. He’s a busy man with an important job. Still, tonight has you worried, has your stomach twisting in knots at the sound of every police siren that zooms by. Perhaps it’s because there’s been quite a few.

    The judge show you’ve been watching in an attempt to avoid looking at your phone or email cuts out suddenly to a special news report. There’s a hostage situation happening just a few miles away, a man threatening some dozen people if his demands aren’t met. Possible magic artifact on the scene, two officers already injured.

    With every word from the newscaster, ever extra bit of information, you feel your anxiety grow. Is this what Kandomere is dealing with right now? Is he safe? Is he one of the officers injured? Or would they have said agent?  Did it matter? Is he okay?

     You’re torn for a moment between changing the channel and continuing to watch but decide leaving it on will only add more fuel to the fire that is your racing mind. It’s not as if you could do anything about it right?  You’d only be in the way, likely wouldn’t even be able to get near what was happening. And anyway, Kandomere was trained for these kinds of things, he knew what he was doing. He’d be fine…

    You change the channel back and forth a few more times before leaving it on the news once more. You feel nauseous either way.

    The volume is most of the way down because you can feel a headache coming on, likely stress induced, a growing pain at the front of your skull. You’re wearing his shirt again, fingers of worrying at the hem while you try to sit still and calm yourself down. At some point you fetched your phone and now it sits in your lap, seemingly defiant in its refusal to give you news of the man you’re coming to love so dearly.

    It’s cool in your hands when you pick it up but warms slightly with every up and down pass as you fidget, try to decide what to do. Is there even anything to do?

    Please be safe you finally type out with shaking hands.

    …

    …

    …

    Nothing in five minutes. You change the channel in favor of cooking shows. Ten minutes, you curl up on the couch. Thirty and you can’t count how many times you’ve looked at your phone. In an hour you’re fitfully dozing, jolting up at the slightest sound, the smallest of phantom sensation against your palm. Your heart is pounding unpleasantly, pulse an uncomfortable thrum, but you feel exhausted all the same. You’ve been worried about him before but for some reason this feels different, worse. You think you might cry but instead you tow the line, fists wrinkling the blue fabric where you clutch at it, bring the collar up to breathe in the soothing scent of him. It helps a little but you still feel a pang.

    The soft vibration wakes you around 1:30 and you drop your phone in your disoriented surprise. It takes a second to fish it out from underneath your coffee table but once you do you feel your body slowly start to wind down from the fear you’d been feeling.

    I am is the simple reply on the screen, an answer to your earlier plea. It’s amazing how much easier it is to breath with that piece of mind and you slump back into the couch, tension draining from your body. You’re so tired.

    Your phone buzzes again and you check the message, the first smile you’ve had in hours making its way onto your face.

    May I stay with you tonight? I’m closer to your home than mine.

    As much as you’d like to fall right asleep you’re sure you can stay up a bit longer to let him in. Of course, you shoot back, and decide to start a pot of tea to keep yourself up, it’s ready by the time you hear a knock at your door.

     He looks exhausted when you finally see him, bags under his eyes more pronounced, hair slightly disheveled, suit wrinkled. You notice the slight pinch in his brow and think he’s probably making the same assessment of you, a certified hot mess after an entire day of worrying. You can’t help the look on your face, smile tired and worried but still there and full of adoration.

    “Hey,” you say, taking his face in your hands gently.

     “Darling,” he sighs, lips pressing against yours.

     You offer him tea but he declines, asking after your shower instead. You listen to the sound of running water and the chug of your washing machine from the couch. He gets out just after you toss the laundry, you can’t wash his suits but his underwear are cotton at least, into the dryer. You set it to time dry and follow him into your room.

    “Candy?” you ask, surprised at the sight of Kandomere perched at the edge of your bed unwrapping a chocolate bar.   

    “It’s been a long day,” he shrugs and motions to the pillow on your prefered side of the bed. “For you too, it seems.” You certainly hadn’t expected to be brought your favorite candy tonight but there it was.

    You pick it up and get into bed, turning to thank him when you see the large bruise starting to darken on his back. It makes your heart ache, seeing him hurt, remembering that despite his strength and resilience he’s still mortal, still breakable. You put the candy on your bedside table and scoot up behind him, careful of the bruise when you wrap gentle arms around him.

    “Thanks hon,” you say softly. “I think I’ve got all the Kandy I could ever want right here though.”

    You can’t see his face but you’re sure he’s smiling, breath coming out in an amused little huff. He takes one of your hands in his and kisses it, thumb stroking your skin gently. It’s a nice moment, quiet and calm after a day of anxiety. You pull back first, slipping under the covers, and he follows suit, pulling you close.

    You curl into his chest, forehead pressed near his heart so that you can feel its steady beat. He’s here, alive and breathing and safe, real under your fingertips. His hands slide slowly up and down your back, gentle and soothing, lulling you to sleep.

    “Night, Kandomere,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to his chest before you drift away.

    “Good night, mi amor,” is his whispered answer. �� 

The second love language story~ Still not a drabble but whatever. Proof reading happened at 1am so forgive me for mistakes. I’ll probs come back to edit soon. Tags for @starscreamerrr @theawfuledges @kandomereappreciationblog @kandomerx @kandomeresbitch @anise495 Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in my future works =D there should be at least 8 more of these.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Hi Lovely :) So if you are so inclined and because i am predictable and adore how you write them: Bughead 58. “I’ve been in love with you my entire life. Ever since the day I first met you.” OR 69. “We finish it the same way we started—together.”

Oh friend, I am always inclined towards Bughead. Thank you for your request and your kind words! I went with the second prompt. You know, the Harry Potter-sounding one.

69. “We finish it the same way westarted―together.”

It was all fun and games at the grocery store―heaping the basket with boxesof waffle cones, Oreos, and graham crackers, then bags of marshmallows,chocolate-covered pretzels, and gummy bears―but now, Betty and Jughead weresitting side by side at the trailer’s little kitchen table, dragging theirlong, garishly-bright sundae spoons languidly through the remains of their icecream feast, and feeling kind of disgusting.

“What were we thinking?” Betty groaned, watching a green gummy bear sink helplesslybeneath the surface of a melting scoop of double chocolate.

Next to her, Jughead folded his arms on the table and let his foreheadcollapse onto them.

“We were so preoccupied with whether or not we could that we didn’t stop tothink if we should.”

Betty snorted, then laid a hand on her stomach, wary of creating any impetusat all for the sugary contents to begin rising back up.

“Thank you for that, Dr. Malcolm,” she sighed, bending forward besideJughead and letting her head loll sideways onto his arm.

Together, they stared at their dog’s breakfast of a dessert. They’d tossedon so many fixing in their earlier enthusiasm that it was hard to see any icecream beneath them. What Betty knew to be scoop upon scoop of double chocolate,butter pecan, and even―her personal greatest regret of the entire edibleproject―cotton candy ice cream was splattered, nay, bedazzled, with glistening gummy bears and a heap of other junkthat had lost all of its visual appeal with the turning of the tide in theroiling sea of Betty’s stomach. She groaned again.

“What do we do, Jug? If we leave this out any longer, it’s going to startattracting ants.”

She heard him huff a breath from his mouth and wondered if he was trying notto inhale the scent of their concoction through his nose.

“We finish it the same way we started―together,” he told her, reaching witha limp arm for his spoon. “We brought this monster into being and we can sendit right back into oblivion.”

Betty allowed herself a careful laugh, palm over her stomach, as she sat up.There was her abandoned spoon. She sneered at it.

“You make it sound like we’re trying to kill Frankenstein’s monster.”

“Well, look at it,” he implored, giving a clump of marshmallows a poke withhis spoon.

“I am.”

They sighed in unison.

“Alright,” Betty said, struggling towards a peppier tone. “Together.”

She dug her spoon into the mess and watched as Jughead did the same. Therewas a piece of sad, soggy waffle cone hanging off the edge of hers like itwanted to jump and end its misery. The two of them glanced sideways at eachother. Jughead gave her a heartening nod. They jammed the spoons into theirmouths.

Immediately, Betty squeezed her eyes shut, not sure if it was the astronomicalsugar content or the fact that her mouth had warmed just enough that was makingher teeth ache when she reintroduced ice cream.

“Nope,” she said thickly, laying down her spoon and grabbing a napkin as the excess ice cream her bodywas simply refusing to swallow dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

Jughead hurled his spoon into the gooey heap like he was throwing a javelinwith Olympic gold on the line.

“Absolutely not,” he concurred, scraping his chair back from the table and grabbingthe sundae.

Betty turned, feeling too weak to stand, and watched her boyfriend race forthe door of the trailer. Through the window, she saw him bound down the stepsand chuck the ice cream―bowl and all―into the trash.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Betty shuffled out the door and ploppedonto the top step, scooting sideways when Jughead clomped up to join her.

“Next time…” he began, sliding an arm around her shoulders.

“No next time,” Betty firmly ruled, giving Jughead’s knee a squeeze.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

They sat and watched the long shadows of late afternoon stretch lazily across thetrailer park. Betty straightened her legs out in front of her, kicking herheels against a cracked step.

“So,” Jughead murmured, rubbing his lips against her temple, “Pop’s for dinner?”

[thirteenphoenixes-blog]

get lost | part 2

dinner is a hurried affair in the booth of some sit down restaurant no one pays attention to the name of. the boys inhale more than they actually chew and suck it down with soda as okeana watches in mild disgust, but also eats and asks questions. indy (if that’s even his real name) is halting, but she can’t sense that he’s lying so she resigns to keep a sharp eye out to ditch him when he starts trouble.

then it’s time to refill the snack cupboards because who’d’ve thunk it? three teenage boys eat fucking everything and anything. plus, apparently movies are a thing that indy would not mind, by which they all know means it’s something he wants so they pull into the parking lot of a walmart as the sun descends on the rainy day, finn tucking the camera into the pocket of his hoodie (because hijinks) as they grab shopping carts in the light drizzle.

before they can race off though, okeana grabs both of her boys by their ears (literally by their fucking ears, finn complains later), glares at indy sharply enough that he doesn’t move anyway, and says, “we’re not here to play games. mash, you and i are getting food. finn, you and the brat are gonna go get movies or whatever. we meet in this spot in approximately fifteen minutes or i’m going to murder you both and then drive that damn thing back to the house.”

“wow rude.” finn grumbles when she lets go, “but fine. let’s go, indy. climb in. since we apparently only have fifteen minutes, we gotta be quick.”

“cl-climb in?”

“yes. unless you feel privy to pushing me around in a shopping cart.” indy seems to get the point then and hops in, finn gliding around toward the electronics section. “so what kind of movies do you like, kid?”

“not a kid,” indy grumps, “also i don’t know, never really had the time to watch ‘em.”

finn grinned and leaned forward, “have you ever heard of a little series called Pirates of the Caribbean?”

they’re at the register, the mix of junk food and healthy food and movies and whatever else being rung up by the teen standing behind there, indy practically vibrating with excitement and watching with particular interest as each movie gets scanned. “INDY!” a voice shouts his name and the three of them turn to said boy in question as he pales and makes to scramble away behind the brothers to hide. okeana grabs his shoulder, grip so tight that indy wheezes.

“INDIANA HENRY JONES!” the girl storming towards them can’t be older than mase and finn’s age, short stature nothing in comparison to the anger that she’s radiating.

indy wrests his shoulder free with a squeak, ducks behind mase who’s half-doubled over into finn with laughter of disbelief.

“don’t think i didn’t see you duck behind those two.” she says sternly, “what were you thinking, you idiot? i haven’t seen you in almost two weeks. think maybe you should’ve called, or something? i thought--” she bites her lip worriedly, face scrunching up like she might cry, and mase tugs indy out from behind him.

the boy huffs, fidgets until finn nudged him pointedly, “i’m sorry,” he apologises as she threw her arms tightly around his waist. “i was gonna call as soon as i got a chance.” he quickly explains, “but i--i’m sorry i worried you.”

“you always worry me because you do stupid things like taking off and never calling.” she scolds, green stare shooting from indy to the three standing beside him.  “who are you guys?” 

“friends of indy’s.” finn says in the easygoing way that finn says everything, as mason still snickers in the background,

“i still can’t fucking believe that his real name is indiana jones, like what the hell?” 

“who’re you?” okeana pipes up, her expression flat as usual, bored almost. “here to take the brat home, i expect?”

“um, no.” ash falters there, looking a bit awkward herself as she blinks in surprise, straightens up. “my name is ash. i’m, uh--”

“she’s my best friend.” indy says to them. to ash, he explains with a crooked grin, “they’re headed round the country and i thought that since my uncle’s pretty much kicked me out, i’d tag along.” ash’s hands ball into fists as she steps closer, and her cheeks redden with anger.

“so, you were just gonna leave.” her green eyes search his face intently and her voice softens, “i--you weren’t even gonna tell me.”

“you have that interview with the councillior’s place about interning once you start school and i didn’t wanna ruin it for you.”

“i don’t care about some interview,” ash snaps. “i care about you, you absolute dork. i thought--i thought you were dead, indy.”

“well i’m not.” he says flippantly, “and these guys are pretty damn cool so don’t worry, i’m in good hands.”

“or you know,” okeana says from where she’s paying the man. “you could take him home if you want.” indy visibly wilts, looking more than a little deflated, and damn if he doesn’t remind finn of mase.

the freckled teen decides to throw his neck on the chopping block for the little idiot and his girl. “you could join us,” the redhead says, “bus has room for you.”

“really?” indy turns back with what finn is sure are literal stars in his eyes and finn can hardly hold back a snort, ducking his head as mason speaks again.

“really.” the raven-haired male agrees. “more the merrier. plus, we do have the space, so why not?” okeana seethes quietly. well, not that quietly since finn can damn near feel the murderous intent coming off her but oh well.

“hey,” finn says with a shrug, “extra hands to put the groceries away.”

“you call all this junk food ‘groceries’?” she grumbles, but doesn’t protest and that’s that.

the screen flickers to life, video focusing fuzzily on where indy is snoozing against ash’s side. he snores softly, wrapped in blankets, while ash reads something by the light of her phone. the camera tilts and then turns back around to zoom in and then out on finn’s face. he’s sitting against the couch, knees pulled up to his chest. the lighting is dark and so’s the world beyond the camper-bus. it’s night time. passing streetlights drown him occasionally in orange and shadows.

“hiya, future us! it’s finn here, obviously.” the camera turns around to shoot ash again. “that’s ash, she’s new! and the sleepin’ nerd beside her is indy. he’s also new. can you fuckin’ believe his name is honestly indiana jones?”

“i can hear you, finn.”

“good, then tell me why your parents named you indiana when they knew your last name was jones.”

“probably because they thought it’d be cute.”

“it is pretty adorable,” ash says, though it’s clear she’s talking to herself more than to them or the camera. the shot zooms apparently right as she realises because her eyes widen comically and her hand slaps over her mouth, then turns to indy whose face finn swears is glowing, even if it’s dark in the bus. the brown skinned teenager stares up at ash with wide eyes and finn chants quietly,

“kiss. kiss. kiss.” like a true brother, mason takes up the chant, glancing back at them through the rearview mirror. “kiss. kiss. kiss.” the camera bobs with each chant. indy scoots close to ash, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on her cheek, enough to shut up both mase and finn. ash turns her head at the same moment, green eyes wide in surprise as their lips meet.

the kiss is short. a quick, barely there press of lips if anything and when they separate indy backpedals quickly, flipping off finn as he says, “aw, first couple kiss on the camera.”

“we aren’t, uh,” indy glances shyly at ash, “i mean we could-- she’s not, uh...” tries to amend his words, just sounds more and more like a dork. ash tugs him close and then kisses him again.

“shut up, you dork.” she mumbles afterward, returning to her phone screen with burning cheeks as finn snickers in delight.

“wow, can’t believe we just witnessed history.” finn tells the camera. “the birth of--wait guys, andy or ish?”

“ish.” they all agree after a moment.

the decision for a hotel is a unanimous one. though the camper is nice, the bunks are not suitable for long-term rest and the gang would much rather the luxury and comfort of an actual bed before they really hit the road tomorrow.

everyone has pretty much settled down by the time they pull into the parking lot of a cute little place near the los guerreros city limits, which thank fuck, why the hell did it take them an entire day to make it through this damn city?

in the quiet hours after all the unpacking and settling in, when the girls are snoozing peacefully, the boys start up a quiet round of cards and twenty questions, sleepy and slow going. where are you from? what’s the whole deal with your uncle? parents? siblings?

indy avoids long answers, keeping his mostly to one word or yes/no, as he replies. “cloud gate...” then softer, “venezuela.” a shrug to the question about his uncle, to the question about his parents. a sharp “no” to the question about siblings then a pained, “...yes, but not anymore.” 

the round turns back to them as he asks his own questions. “so are you really brothers?”

“we are. closer than blood, in fact, cus we chose each other.” mason says with a grin at finn that his brother can only return with a thousand-watt grin himself. indy’s eyes get that starstruck gleam to them again as he simply stares between them.

“...you can do that?”

“of course you can,” finn says. “we did, didn’t we?” his phone buzzes and he folds the round, letting mason win it as he digs out the device to check it, wondering who in the world it could be because he’s currently sitting next to the only person who actually texts him.

outside. the text reads, now. finn recognises the number and feels his heart speed up in his chest. he hadn’t thought charlie was going to come after him, hadn’t really thought charlie cared enough to come after him, after their fight. “go ahead, finn,” mase says without looking at him, “talk to your boy. i’ll let you back in.”

“finn’s got a boy?” indy says with wide eyes.

“he’s not--” finn tries to defend himself, but mason continues over him.

“yeah, they met in detention when we were like sixteen. finn caught feelings after he got sassed and charlie told him he had a nice ass.”

“the nice ass part did not make me catch feelings. apparently, fucking everyone thinks i have a nice ass.” 

“well it’s true so.”

“okay well, none of that matters because charlie probably hates me now. we got into a big fight right before graduation.”

“you know the best way to fix something like that? talking.” 

“yeah, you should talk to him!” indy pipes up. “plus he came all the way out here after you.”

“we’re not that far from shadow grove.”

“and? the point is, he’s out there.” mason says, now shuffling the cards. “now go, or i’m gonna toss you out there myself. i’m not about to go on this road trip with okeana’s annoyance and your moody ass.” he levels a blue stare at finn that has the other sighing and getting to his feet.

the door shuts behind him and mase grabs the camera, indy simply staring at him in surprise. “we’re gonna wanna film this.” mase says with a grin. pauses, thinks, amends, “maybe not all of it.”

the camera flickers to life in the darkness of a hotel room, a familiar voice coming from off-screen, “yo, mason here. mainly because finn’s a little occupied at the moment.”

the shot shivers and shakes before steadying on the grimy window. outside, two people stand half in shadow half in moonlight, kissing like the world might end any moment.

“down there? that’s finn and his boyfriend, charlie. charlie came to yell at finn about leaving without telling him and now they’re making out.” the camera tracks them as they back out of sight and into shadow, vanishing altogether.

“guess they’re not fighting anymore.” the camera turns to indy, shakes as mase passes it off to him, then turns back to mase, catching the back of his head as he wrestles the window up. “hold this. how much you wanna bet that we have an extra passenger on the bus tomorrow?”

“uh...”

mason sighs, leans out the window a little, “they’re totally gonna fuck, aren’t they?” loudly, he yells, “FINN DON’T BOTHER COMING BACK UP, I’M UNLOCKING THE BUS FOR YOU.”

there’s a pause, then a bright, “THANKS BRO.”

“DO NOT DEFILE THE SEATS OR THE COUCHES. YOU ALSO BETTER BE DRESSED WHEN WE COME DOWN IN THE MORNING.” mason sighs again and shuts the window, “they’re definitely gonna fuck. i hope he actually listens to me for once because i swear to god if they leave any trace of anything anywhere it’s not supposed to be, i’m going to murder him.”

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

hunger - chapter 11

Hunger master post. 

 Stiles is surprised at how easily he fits in with Scott and Melissa. He doesn’t have that same feeling he did at the foster homes they put him in. Like he had to ask to use the bathroom, and was afraid to help himself to food out of the refrigerator, and he always felt like he was a guest in someone else’s house, always careful of what he said and did, and itching under his skin because he couldn’t just be him. He doesn’t get any of that here. The McCalls’ house is comfortable. It feels like it could be a home. He’s not treated like a guest here. He’s treated like he fits.

He misses his dad.

He misses the dog.

He cries himself to sleep more than once, but it’s okay. It’s grief. It’s not helplessness. His tears are cathartic, not desperate.

He has a pile of clothes that Scott has given him. It’s mostly stuff that Scott is growing out of. Stiles is skinny enough thanks to living on the streets that he fits them. He’s a little taller than Scott so the jeans aren’t quite the right length, but Stiles doesn’t care. Who’s he got to impress anyway?

He does a few chores around the house while Melissa is working and Scott is at school. He wonders how long it will be until it feels like the walls are closing in on him. A while yet, probably. The house is warm and safe. During the day he researches his dad’s case, and wonders if it will raise any red flags anywhere if he tries to order a copy of the transcripts online. Then he figures they’re not really what he needs anyway. He needs the notes from the initial investigation, not the prosecutor’s polished presentation. For that, he needs Rafa McCall. And for Rafa McCall to even think of giving them to him, he needs evidence.

He takes one of Scott’s unused school notebooks and makes a list of what he already knows. Which isn’t much apart from Kate Argent’s name, her brother’s address, G. Argent’s address—are they even related?—and how she shot his dog.

He thinks back to that, trying to divorce himself from the impending panic.

“Hello again, Derek. You don’t look so good.”

Except Stiles’s name isn’t Derek, and as far as he remembers he’s never met Kate Argent before in his life.

Derek.

The name snags in the threads of his memory like a hook, but Stiles can’t quite tug the memory free. He pushes it aside for now.

Stiles makes himself a cup of coffee—the caffeine helps settle the more annoying symptoms of his ADD—and takes it into the living room. He sits down on the couch and reaches for his notebook.

Scott’s laptop is open. Stiles was searching the Herald earlier. The elusive mountain lion still hasn’t been caught.

Stiles taps his pen against his chin, and thinks of Kate Argent again, and the exchange she had with Allison’s dad outside his house a few nights ago.

“I told Dad I’d check and see if you’d had any luck bringing down the alpha. Clearly you haven’t.”

Alpha. What is the alpha? First letter of the Greek alphabet. Term co-opted by asshole meninist PUAs. An episode from season six of The X-Files. And, in hunting terms, the foremost animal in a pack, right? Except that mountain lions aren’t pack animals. So what exactly is Chris Argent hunting?

Stiles sips his coffee.

What the hell is going on out there in the Preserve? Chris Argent is hunting something, and Scott got bitten by something, and all of it, every fucking thing, comes right back to those blackened ruins in the clearing, doesn’t it? Everything comes back to the Hale fire.

Maybe Stiles has been coming at this the wrong way.

Maybe he doesn’t need to prove Kate Argent framed his dad.

Maybe he needs to prove she had something to do with the Hale fire.

***

  Stiles likes helping Scott with his homework. He’s missed school. Not the other students or the teachers or whatever, but he’s missing learning. Stiles has always been wired a little differently than a lot of kids. Scott is basically failing Biology, and even though it’s been months since Stiles cracked open a textbook he falls easily back into the rhythm of studying.

“All I know is the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell!” Scott says. “And I learned that from a meme!”

He looks so miserable that Stiles can’t help laughing at him. “It’s okay, Scotty. We’ll make sure you pass!”

“Thanks, dude. I need all the help I can get.”

Stiles chews his bottom lip for a moment. “Are you still hanging with Allison?”

“Yeah.” Scott flushes. “It really sucks that I can’t tell her about you, you know? She said that she keeps driving around town hoping she’ll spot you somewhere.”

Stiles’s breath catches. He tries to smile. “Hopefully not to hand me over to her aunt the cop, right?”

“No.” Scott holds his gaze. “Stiles, she says she hasn’t said anything to her aunt about even knowing you. I believe her.”

“Kate Argent set my dad up,” Stiles says. “Or at least helped whoever did.”

“What?” Scott’s jaw drops. “Seriously?”

“I don’t have any proof,” Stiles says. “But I heard her on the phone to my dad, warning him to drop the investigation into the Hale fire. So I’m guessing that she had something to do with the fire as well.”

“But that was an accident…” Scott trails off. “Wasn’t it?”

“My dad didn’t think so.” Stiles twists his hands together. The knot of anxiety in his gut is growing larger.

“Holy shit.” Scott’s gaze grows distant. “Cora Hale was the year above me in elementary school.”

“I didn’t know them,” Stiles says. “I went to Stuart, not Beacon Hills.”

“Ooh,” Scott teases. “A private school kid! Very swanky!”

“My mom taught there.” He looks down at the open Biology textbook. “We paid reduced fees. It was a Montessori school, which turned out to be a good fit for a kid with ADD plus zero social skills.” 

When he looks up again, Scott shows him an encouraging smile.

“Anyway.” Stiles closes the textbook. “I never met the Hales.”

“Cora was kind of scary,” Scott says. “I heard they never found her body.”

Just another thing that never added up about the Hale fire. Why would the Hales hide in the basement after a gas line explosion? And the fire investigator had said that the fire burned at such a high temperature that there was simply nothing to find of some of the bodies. Cora had never been found. Neither had one of the adults. And another one of the kids too. The teenage boy. The brother.

Derek.

Derek.

Stiles scrambles for Scott’s laptop.

Derek Hale. Sixteen years old.

Holy shit.

Stiles finds a picture online of a guy in a Beacon Hills High basketball uniform. A guy who looks absolutely nothing like Stiles.

“Hello again, Derek. You don’t look so good.”

Kate Argent must be crazy, or that’s her guilty conscience speaking.

He wonders, when she has people over, if she can hear a telltale heart beating from under the floorboards.

If she does, it serves her right.

 ***

 They order pizza because it helps with homework. That’s a scientific fact. They eat the pizza in front of the TV, which doesn’t help at all with homework.

“So you think Allison’s aunt had something to do with the Hales?” Scott asks.

“Yeah.” Stiles picks off a piece of pepperoni and eats it. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“We should really tell my mom,” Scott says. “And my dad.”

“Not without proof! If we tell your dad, then he’s obligated to do something about me being a missing person. And, you know, wanted by the police.”

Scott sumps back against the couch. “I can’t believe she shot your dog.”

Stiles feels the customary low burn of anger in his gut flare for a moment.

“Sucks, dude.”

Yeah. It really, really does. 

 ***

 They talk for a while about whether or not to tell Allison what’s going on. If her aunt has links to the Hale fire, than surely Allison is in the best place to try and discover some proof of that? Scott is sure that she can be trusted. Stiles isn’t willing to risk his freedom on that. Scott agrees that it’s Stiles’s call.

Stiles goes to bed just before midnight. He curls up under his comforter and thinks of all the times he sat in the alley with the dog.

Entropy.

Decay.

He has to act.

At the same time, he’s afraid. Everything is already so precarious that he’s terrified to make any move at all.

He tosses and turns for a while. He maybe dozes.

The basement has windows set high in the walls, at ground-level outside. The moon is a half-moon tonight, but bright enough that faint light filters through the windows. It fills the basement with a gentle glow.

Melissa says that if Stiles is allowed to stay, he can have the room next to Scott’s. But for now he shares the basement with the washing machine and dryer, and a shelf full of old board games, Christmas decorations, and assorted junk. He doesn’t mind that everything smells like fabric softener.

Stiles doesn’t think he’s asleep when the basement door opens, but he seems to jerk awake all the same.

“Stiles?” Scott whispers in the darkness. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers back.

Scott’s footsteps creak down the steps.

Stiles sits up. Scott stands in front of the sofa bed. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, and even in the dim light he looks pale and wide-eyed.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks.

“Can you hear that?” Scott shakes his head like a dog after a bath under the hose.

Stiles listens in the silence for a moment. “Hear what?”

Scott wrinkles his nose, and tilts his head. “Howling?”

Stiles listens again. “Dude, I can’t hear anything.”

“It woke me up.” Scott’s breath is coming in short panicked gasps.

Stiles remembers Melissa checking with him before she went to work that he knew where his inhaler was. “Do you need your inhaler?”

“N-no.” The question seems to distract him from his rising anxiety. He sucks in a deep, uninhibited breath. “No, I think I’m okay.” Then his forehead wrinkles. “How am I okay?”

“Lets…let’s go up stairs and get your inhaler, okay?”

Scott nods. “I think there’s something wrong with me. Really wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Stiles tells him.

Scott’s huffs out a laugh that sounds as though it’s bordering hysteria. “I can hear you lying!”

Stiles puts his hand over his fast-thumping heart. “That sounds really impossible, Scott.”

“I know.” Scott drags his fingers through his hair. “I know it does.” He freezes suddenly, and turns to stare up at one of the windows.

Stiles follows his gaze.

A shadow passes in front of the window.

“Did you—” he whispers.

Did you see that?

But the words don’t come.

Because when Stiles turns his head to look at Scott again, Scott’s eyes are glowing gold.

Sleep paralysis.

Imagination.

Frontotemporal dementia.

A nightmare.

Except Stiles knows in the pit of his stomach that whatever is happening now is a hundred times more terrifying than any nightmare, because he knows it’s real.

From outside, a howl tears through the night. It’s loud enough and close enough that Stiles feels the echo of it reverberating through his bones. The sound is big enough to swallow the world, and Stiles knows instinctively that he’s powerless in the face of this, whatever this is.

And then it’s gone again.

The shadow passes in front of the window.

Scott’s eyes are no longer glowing.

“It’s gone,” Scott whispers. “Holy shit. What was that?”

And Stiles stares back at him and thinks: What are you, Scotty?

[sebbytrash]

желание - Part Eight

Longing: A yielding desire

Pairing - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings - Possible swear words. I’m scottish, I can’t help it. Some kissing, some fluff

A/N: REPOSTING BECAUSE OF BLOG MOVE

желание Masterlist

“Y/N.” Bucky cups your face, running his thumb over your lips, “Y/N, I have to go.”

You peer up at him from your position in bed, sleep making the image of him a little fuzzy.

“Mmmm, why? It’s so early.” You whine, snuggling further into the covers.

“Steve will come get me for our morning run soon. I kinda have to be there, or he’ll get suspicious.”

“Urgh, I guess. Well, have fun?”

He laughs before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead and disappearing out the door. You can’t help the smile the works its way onto your face, your forehead tingling from where his lips touched you. The intimacy of the gesture took you by surprise but it wasn't unwelcome.

Bucky had crept into your room late last night, long after your conversation with Nat in the kitchen. You both agreed that you weren't ready to share it with anyone else yet, wanting to have some time getting to know each other without the extra eyes on you at all times. It had been such an amazing feeling to lie beside him and simply allow yourself to touch him. Slipping an arm around his waist, or threading your fingers with his, the last 24 hours had been a dream.

Feeling lighter than you had in days, and just a little achy, you burrow into your blankets and opt at have a few more hours of blissful sleep.

A loud knocking wakes you several hours later, you pull the covers tight over your head, determined to ignore it. As if in protest, you stomach gives a loud gurgle and you feel the emptiness of it. Knowing there isn't much point in resisting - your appetite is legendary in the compound - you throw the covers off and trudge over to the door muttering to yourself as you go.

Swinging it open, you find yourself face to face with Steve, who’s holding out a breakfast burrito like its a White Flag.

“I brought you breakfast, don’t punch me.” He fake winces, before pushing past you into the room, “Now, can you put some clothes on?”

You glance down at yourself, realizing that you had opted to sleep in a tank and boxers because of Bucky, “Hey, you're the one who busted in here at-” you check your alarm clock, “12.30, jeez, is that really the time?”

“Yup.” Steve replies, popping the P whilst giving you his signature Judgement Eyebrow.

“Well, whatever. You don’t wanna see my ass, don’t come to my room uninvited.” You flop down onto your bed, tucking in to the burrito with a moan as the first bite hits your tastebuds. Your long past being modest with Steve, dude’s practically your brother. Besides, junk food really was your weakness.

“You ready to get back your training?” He eyes you warily as you inhale the burrito at lightening speed.

“Mmmrfffpphh, mmmay-ve.”

“God, you’re disgusting.” He wrinkles his nose at you before laughter erupts from him as the wrapper smacks off his head, followed by a rude gesture, “I’m kidding...sort of?”

“I said, maybe.” You resist the urge to stick out your tongue.

He stands, waltzing passed you on his way out the door, “You have an hour. See you downstairs, Kid.” He ruffles your hair on the way past. Maybe he’s more like a Dad?

Once you're finished, you shower and get dressed, choosing some workout gear since there’s no way Steve is gonna let you out of any more training days. He already gave you a week off since the attack. You catch your reflection in the mirror as you attempt to tame your hair, and it's the most rested you’ve looked in a while. You skin has color again, your eyes are bright and there's a perma-smile on your face that's threatening to make even you barf.

God, you were ridiculously in love. It was sickening. You take that knowledge and you stuff it down deep, way down deep.

When you enter the gym you flicker between the present and the attack, the sharp bite of the gun a phantom pain across your jaw. You blink slowly, once, twice, and your vision clears and your back in the present. You huff out a breath through your nose. Fucking Hydra.

“Glad you could finally join us, Y/N.” Steve says from behind the punchbag. There’s a few of the more broken ones stacked against the back wall. Two hanging a few feet apart, like weird stocky dance partners swaying to unheard music,

“Sorry, Captain Hard-Ass. Some of us mere mortals actually enjoy sleep.”

You hear a snort from behind the other bag, peering round you see Bucky standing, water bottle in hand and looking very post-workout. He’s wearing a tight grey t-shirt, the arms stretching to accommodate the sheer size of his biceps. Does the metal one count as a bicep? Huh. The shirt is damp with sweat, a clear indication of how hard he’s been working since he rarely sweats, and damn, even that is fucking hot. His sweatpants hang low and loose, and now that you know what's underneath you couldn't control your eyes if you wanted to. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s smirking, cat-got-the-cream smirking and you catch yourself mirroring it before casting your eyes back to Steve who’s finding the whole thing just a little too interesting.

“So, what's next in 100-ways-to-kill-Y/N?” You ask Steve, directing his attention away from the silent exchange between you and Bucky

“Very funny.” cue eyeroll, “Just some hand to hand combat, maybe a little knife throwing if you manage to knock Bucky on his ass at least once.”

Oh this was going to be interesting.

And it was. Or tortuous, or maybe both. Hand to hand with Bucky wasn't anything new, but the way Bucky lingered on your skin was. Every time he pinned you he'd hold it just a few seconds longer than polite, or his fingers would skim your ass as he circled you, teasing till your vision was blurry with it. He's using the way you react to him like a weapon and you find it immensely unfair. He's pinned you again, and this time you find yourself millimetres from the muscles and tendons of his neck, his turned his head to listen to Steve's instructions and you seize your moment. You place your lips on his neck, sliding your tongue over his pulse point, tasting the faint hint of sweat. His throat moves as he swallow loudly, his voice falters slightly and now you have the upper hand. You use the vantage point, knowing Steve can only see Bucky's body blocking you against the wall, you arch yourself against him, pressing so that your torso is flush with his, feeling his breath rush out of him in response. His grip on you falters allowing you to slip from his grasp, you slip a leg behind his and use his body weight to unbalance him sending him to the floor with a resounding thud.

Bucky blinks up at you, eyes wide, the whites threatening to overtake. Steve stops mid-sentence,  his mouth hanging open before splitting into a very Proud Dad smile.

“Nice job, Y/N!”

“She got lucky.” Bucky murmurs as he stands, but you see the secret half-smile he’s hiding under all that hair.

“We’re done for today. I have a few things I wanna go over with you tomorrow, but for today you did good. A little distracted, but good. Try to focus more tomorrow, huh Kid?” Steve gives you a weird look, but passes it off as a nod and then he’s turning to Bucky. Guess you’ve been dismissed?

Your eyes automatically slide over Bucky before you leave, he’s watching you over Steve’s shoulder sending you a look that sends bolts up your spine.

You wander through the corridors, a lazy pace, mind lost in thoughts of Bucky’s fingers slipping along your skin. You make it half way back to your room before you round a corner and straight into him. He hauls you by the waist until your back is against the wall, a running theme with him, and his face is inches from yours. He dips and runs his nose up your jaw, breathing deeply like he's grounding himself.

“Fuck, Y/N.” He mouths along your jaw, slowly but thoroughly, “Do you know how hard it was to keep my hands to myself today?”

“Hmmm…” Your mouth trips a little, distracted by the way his mouth and tongue are tasting your skin, “From where I was standing, you didn't keep your hands to yourself at all.”

“Trust me, I did.” His hands wander down to your ass, a thick thigh edging between your legs effectively pinning you to the wall, “Shit, I really did. The things-”

He cuts off as his eyes cloud over a little with shades of lust and edge. The look he gets has you wondering what those things were, hoping he’ll tell you, or better yet show you; the look of clear intent. His lips find yours, mouth sliding against yours as you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. The soft push and pull of him is making your skin hum and pulse with need.

“The things I wanted to do, want to do…” He continues, lips brushing with yours as his mouth makes the shapes of each word, his voice low and gravely, pouring over you.

“Mmmm, what sorta things?” You pull his bottom lip into you mouth, not really sucking, just a gentle pressure to hold it there and revel in the feel of it.

A loud buzzing pierces the bubble you were floating in, Bucky’s phone rudely interrupting your conversation and reminding you that you were currently grinding down on Bucky's thigh in the middle of an open corridor. With a heavy sigh, Bucky pushes back a little, edges his hand down to pull his phone from his pocket.

“It’s Steve.”

“You should go.” You brush your lips along his cheek, “I’ll see you later?”

“Hmm, yeah. Uh- do you...meet me in my room?”

“Sure, Buck. I’ll be there.”

You shower and change, spending a little longer on your hair than normal, attempting to tame it into some sort of style. You quietly make your way to Bucky’s room, avoiding the kitchen incase like the plague, knowing Nat is probably lurking again. Once at his door, you slip inside, relieved to have got here without bumping into anyone for a change.

Door shut behind you, you suddenly feel very aware that you were in Bucky’s room...alone. Doing a slow circle, you once-over everything, noting the absence of personal touches. Your eyes fall on the window, the now covered window. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

He’d hung curtains for you.

[bigcatbulges]

Source - Zero_087

[bigcatbulges]

Source - chen0for

[bigcatbulges]

Source - Jephhh

(Artist's NSFW Twitter)