#i was like oh hmm i actually don’t think i know what being bowlegged is

[someforeignband]

guys i found out im bowlegged because of a destiel fic can i sue jensen for damages

[thecaptainhelm]

Aw, this comes to around an even 2080 words, isn’t that sweet? This is officially it, no more, no more I say! I’ll be working on something for Halloween, so look forward to that.

 Blooper 1:

 Sometime after he was left alone by Ladybug... 

 Robin blinked, shaking himself back to awareness, bewildered.

 Just how much time had passed since...

 He blushed scarlet. (Just like her suit.)

 Robin grit his teeth and made his way downstairs on unsteady legs. His internal clock felt that close to an hour had passed and he tsked, sitting in one of the leather seats of the breakroom.

 Reclining back, his thoughts tried in vain to remember what he had been doing, and when he did the rage came back. 

 “I still can’t believe that happened,” he grumbled to himself as he remembered his father’s disappointment. Because it was Everything is Damian’s fault This Week, except he didn’t get the memo.

  Like always, he groused.

 He sighed, tilted his head back, and caught sight of the stairwell. Warmth settled in his chest replacing the cold anger. He surreptitiously glanced around finding no one, he allowed his mind to go back in time.

 Ladybug’s kiss had been tender and sweet, filling his entire body with a foreign sense of care that echoed through him even now. And when she pressed against him for insistently it took everything in him to try to kiss back, though that failed.

 She had taken the lead completely, practically had him pinned with her tongue down his throat.

  What if she did have him pinned with her tongue down his throat?

 His face heated up in full force as he thought deeply, fantasizing.

  Ladybug pulled back with a quiet noise, her gaze was unyielding and unapologetic. 

  “That’s...not why I offered, but I got lost in the moment,” Blue eyes like steel. His legs went weak.

  “But it seems like you’re into this sort of thing.” She grabbed him by the scruff of his hood and slowly maneuvered him against the wall. She was gentle as her eyes pierced into his with dark promise.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. Ladybug smiled, calm.

  “I think I’m about to wreck an egoistic vigilante, what do you think  you’re  doing is what you want to ask, hm? Birdy,” Robin gulped as he tried to respond.

  “Oh, do you not want to?” She leaned close in a mockery of concern.

  “I...I, uh,” 

  “It’s okay,” her gloved hand carded through his hair. “Take your time, I’m not gonna rush you.”

  “I…” His heart was going crazy. He wanted her to do something, but he didn’t have the guts to say it.

  A sigh. “Aw, Birdy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you, I’ll leave and we can forget this ever happened.”

 No!

  “I want!” he rasped in a hurry. “Want it so bad, Ladybug, I--” Lips slammed into his own as deft hands pressed his shoulders into the wall.

  She briefly pulled away, leaving him gasping for air. “Don’t worry, Robin. I’m going to give you exactly what you want and more,”

  He whimpered, hot and pulsing with blood.

  “Robin,” she pushed closer. “I need you to do something for me, can you be a good boy and do it real quick, please?”

  “Yes, anything,” he panted. “I’ll be so good, so, so good,”

  Ladybug giggled. “Then,” she yanked his head back by his hair with a vicious smirk.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Robin let his jaw go slack, shivering in anticipation--

 A shrill chime reached his ears. It was his communicator. He flicked it open, and there was a message from Agent A, relaying a request to return home for a briefing of a drug bust tomorrow, all hands on deck. Great, just what he needed. He sent his ETA and stood to leave, but froze, halfway out the chair.

  No  , he thought, panicking.  No, no, no. Absolutely not!

A glance down swiftly confirmed his denial.

 He had an erection. From thinking about being pushed around. By Ladybug, of all people.

 He flopped back into his seat with a groan, head in his hands. His blush had spread all the way to his ears and chest while the gentle warmth from earlier had formed into something that was mildly uncomfortable in his layers of clothes.

 “Fuck it,” he rose up to storm towards the exit, refusing to walk bowlegged as his dick rubbed against the jockstrap of his suit.

 “Fuck this entire day to hell!”

Blooper 2:

Two weeks after Damian’s freeloading begins...

 Marinette hummed a jaunty tune as she closed the door to her art studio, kicking off her shoes.

 “I’m back and I brought those madeleines you like!” She called brightly as she made her way to the kitchenette.

 “Coming!” Damian gingerly walked in and immediately began to fiddle one-handed with the box.

 “I’m going to have mine with black tea, what do you want?” she asked, pulling out the tea boxes. 

 He grimaced. “You’re disgusting, you clearly have no taste. Get me my usual.”

 She pinned him with a hard stare. He sighed.

 “If you could make me some lavender tea, I would appreciate it, thank you,” he said politely..

 “You would also appreciate me kissing the daylights out of you,” she said, putting the kettle on the stove.

 “...what?”

 “Hmm?” she turned from the sink, seeing Damian looking at her with shock.

 “What did you just say?”

 Marinette placed two mugs down on the table, striding towards him. She plucked the box of madeleines out of his hands and set it back on the table.

 “I said,” she stared.  “You want to make out with me.”

 Damian blinked owlishly at her, then scoffed. “Great, you’re an actual pervert, like I suspected. And here I was hoping that it was a spontaneous happenstance.”

 “Aw, you know it’s just that I like you. “ She caressed his jaw, pulling a blush to his skin. 

 “You’re a human being, not an animal,” he put his hands around her waist. “Last I checked, evolution ensured that we don’t have an estrus period.”

 Marinette wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling close. “Fair enough,”

 “But do you really want me to stop?”

 Damian tilted his head down. “The answer should be obvious,  Marinette .”

 They gravitate to one another, an irresistible pull. Lips a breath away from contact, she stops.

 “Well, in that case, it’s a real shame,” she whispered before abruptly pulling away with a gusty sigh.

 “Since you never said how you feel about me, I won’t pressure you. I’m a human being after all.”

 Damian stands arms outstretched while she walks back toward the stove as the kettle begins to whistle.

 She pours him his mug and hands it to him, along with the bakery box. “Here you go!”

 She cheekily grins at him before going to make her own tea. She vaguely hears him grumble and retreat to the parlor, no doubt to sulkily have his afternoon tea.

  He’s so much fun to tease , she thinks, before gasping.

 “Hey, all those madeleines aren’t just for you, save me some!” Silence.

 “Damian!”

Blooper 3:

The second night of Damian’s freeloading…

 Damian sat completely still as Ladybug checked his head for any lumps and fractures, a logical idea, but a terrible one in hindsight. 

 Why? Because it required her to run her bare, naked hands through his hair, light and fleeting touches moving all around his head.

 He knew that it was merely a necessary medical procedure, but he still couldn’t help rolling his head away. It was nothing but him being stupid and childish. Yet no matter how many times he told himself this, no matter how many times he could see Ladybug quickly reigning in her frustration, he rolled out of her reach with grit teeth.

 Ladybug sighed, exasperated. “Damian, what is your problem? I’m trying to check you for head trauma.”

 He stubbornly glanced away.

 “Oh come on, stop being such a brat,” he bristled at that. “And look over here, please.”

 He remained unmoving.

 “Oh for--” An exasperated sigh. Small, thin hands grasping his shoulders. He grunts and shakes them off.

 “Stop being so whiny, and look at me --!” He’s grabbed again and what happens next is something that will make him want to wither away in embarrassment until the day he dies and some years after that.

 Marinette pulls him to look at her and he abruptly spins around, tilts his head and--

 “ Argh!  Merde!  Merde , que se passe-t’il!” Marinette grabs her jaw as she cringes away from him, pained cries warbling from between her fingers.

 He cursed. “Shit, I didn’t mean to!”

 “Marinette wasn’t having it. “A simple ‘stop it’ or ‘cut it out’ would have worked just fine! Ah…”

 “Are you trying to say I should have spoken up or something?!”

 “Um, yes? I’ve been telling you this entire time to let me know if something's wrong, but you keep your mouth shut as though you’ve suddenly forgotten how to speak! Oh, except when you’re insulting me. Can’t forget about that, now can we? Tell me, does your selective mutism only break whenever you feel like being an asshole?”

 “Oh, well excuse me, I’ve been saying that I’ve been fine only to be met with skepticism--”

 “And rightfully so, because for the past several hours--”

 “--so far be it from me that I can actually--”

 “--been constantly out of it--”

“--to the point that I can see that my opinion isn’t--”

 “--like you’re Insisting that you’re Superman or something!”

 “You take that back!”

 Marinette fiercely raised both hands and gave him the finger.

 “What even is your problem,” he snarled. “Stop smothering me!”

 “Smothering?” She scoffed. “You are literally still injured from being  exploded . Forgive me for being a little more hands-on. It’s clearly something else, otherwise, you wouldn’t be so obtuse about this.”

 Damian spluttered. “Obtuse?! How dare you! You’re the only thing I have a problem with here!” A lie. He had a lot of issues, but she was the most present one at the time.

 That’s right. This was borne from a crisis of proximity. Damian is, indeed, precocious a precious child.

 “Problem? I’ve been helping you, tending your wounds nonstop for the past twenty-eight hours! I’m supposed to be getting drunk off my ass with the rest of Paris, because, and this is important, I’ve been busy catching a super terrorist who is being tried as an actual war criminal. I haven’t seen you for nearly a year and suddenly I’m the problem?!”

 Marinette stood up and towered over him, glaring.

 “Bullshit! What’s up with you for real, Damian? And I want the truth if I’m going to be taking care of you like this for the next few months.”

 He gaped. “Months?!”

 She crossed her arms. “Well?”

 Damian gritted his teeth and felt the tell-tale blush spread up his neck and find its way all the way up to the tips of his ears.

 “Every time, you grab me, no, damn near manhandle me and you expect me to not have a problem with you? Not to mention you don’t know how to keep your lips to yourself!” He huffed, but Marinette was unrepentant.

 “Seriously? Is that all?”

 “Is that all…? That’s all you have to say for yourself?!”

 “I’ve kissed you once.  Once  ! Is my grabbing you supposed to imply some sort of trend, buddy? No. I have had to grab you so you can sit still and get treatment, because, according to you,  no hospitals . What do you take me for, a lecher?!”

 “No, but would it kill you to tell me what you’re doing before you put your hands on me?!” He gestured towards his face.

 “I can’t exactly see what’s going on if you hadn’t noticed,” he said fiercely.

 “...yeah, that’s on me,” she sighed, losing tension. She sat next to him again, this time on his left side where he could still see her.

 “Better?” He grunted, resigning himself since he didn’t really have an excuse to distance himself anymore. It was logical to just let her get it over with as soon as possible, but the humiliating shiver that would dance up his spine was too much an act to bear.

 She went back to checking his head for injuries, with less fuss this time.

 “...so,” she dragged the word out, her accent turning it into something completely different.

 “Why did you bring up the kiss?”

 “No comment.”

 “I thought you would forget about it after such a long time, and it has to do with me so I was wondering if--”

 He growled.

 “Was that your first kiss by any chance?”

  “No. Comment.”

~~~

taglist:

@frieddonutsweets @iamablinkmarvelarmy @mochegato @mochinek0 @jeminiikrystal @silvergold-swirl @kris-pines04 @eliza-bich @alysrose-starchild @theymakeupfairies

[lifblogs]

Livin In You: Chapter 10

Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Explicit Pairing: Destiel Summary: Castiel is a mental health worker who is just fine with the way his life is. The only thing that really bugs him is how much his co-worker, and friend, Meg, mentions Dean Winchester, the most famous rock star in the modern age. Meg drags him to a concert, and he ends up getting tied into the wild and angsty life of Dean Winchester. Suddenly his old life seems boring, but so much calmer. Suddenly, it matters to him that he’s still a virgin. Suddenly, this rock star that he despised the mention of now matters to him. Dean Winchester is a rock star who’s on top of the world when it comes to music. Yet there’s more that he wants. He misses Lisa and Ben, he craves connection, craves being himself. Any hope for that amidst his alcoholic life all changes when Zachariah, the head exec of Heaven’s Records, pairs with a new exec, Michael Edlund -- the Archangel of Music. Under Michael’s dominance, he’s no longer in control of his own life. There are rules. No more sex with fans. No more alcohol. And in Dean’s view, no more god damn free will. Yet he stumbles into Castiel. Chapter Word Count: 2725

READ ON AO3 | READ ON FF.NET

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2 | CHAPTER 3 | CHAPTER 4 | CHAPTER 5 | CHAPTER 6 | CHAPTER 7 | CHAPTER 8 | CHAPTER 9

Dean had to get up to throw up once or twice in the night, and between all that, he forgot Castiel existed. Sure, he passed his sleeping form with a head of hair that was black in the darkness on his way to the bathroom. But the other man wasn’t nearly as important as his shaking body, and reeling stomach.

Eventually, some time before five A.M., he managed to fall into sleep that wasn’t restless or broken by the after effects of his drunkenness. By the time he fully woke up, the room was dark, the curtains pulled closed so daylight wouldn’t filter through. Dean knew this kind of dark. It was the dark of waking up late. He supposed he didn’t really care. His head hurt, an incessant ache that wouldn’t leave, and his stomach just felt wrong.

He groaned as he rolled over and cracked an eye open.

A bottle of gatorade was on his nightstand, along with two pills of aspirin lying on a tissue.

Garth. His incredibly friendly and chipper assistant must’ve done this.

Dean sat up, took the medicine and started drinking the gatorade. It wasn’t till he felt well enough to walk out into the main living quarters of the hotel suite that he remembered another person was there.

Really, it was the back of Castiel’s head that gave it away.

Was the dude seriously still sleeping?

Dean shrugged after some consideration. Maybe he’s a third shifter. But what to do with him?

That thought hit him hard, and Dean sat down in a chair across from the part of the couch Castiel was sleeping on, open bottle of half-finished gatorade in his hand.

“Shit.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, or so vehemently. He must have because Castiel started from sleep, and then turned his head this way and that, eyes wild. He backed away from Dean. But then there was recognition, and he relaxed, but didn’t seem at all pleased.

Well, Dean could take people not liking him… he hoped.

Why didn’t Cas like him? He knew he’d asked him, but it just didn’t make any fucking sense.

He was Dean Winchester!

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Dean quipped. “Want me to call Garth and get us some coffee?”

Castiel started righting himself properly, pulling the blanket up into his lap. He ran a hand through his hair, but it was still a mess, and to Dean it looked a lot like sex-hair. God, it looked good on him.

He nodded.

“Yes, I think that will suffice.”

“You got a fancy way of talking.”

Castiel just gave him a look that said… Actually, Dean didn’t really know what it said. In the daylight, Castiel seemed difficult to read. It made Dean uncomfortable. Who was this man?

And what am I going to do with him?

This wasn’t like the other times Dean had brought people back to his room, not just because he hadn’t slept with him — which was super weird in this instance — but because he wasn’t allowed to be here. His presence would surely get sniffed out. Crowley could’ve talked to Clif already. Though Dean figured Clif wasn’t working with his manager behind his back. He was Dean’s bodyguard. So maybe even if Clif had gotten a call, he wouldn’t run to tell mommy about Dean and his new friend.

But how to keep his new friend hidden?

It also meant there was the issue of the car as well. Dean would have some money missing, and there were witnesses.

Hell, witnesses?

What was he even thinking like?

It wasn’t like it was a crime scene. Okay, aside from crashing his car into Castiel’s, it wasn’t a crime scene.

But Zachariah could smell the original sin on an otherwise innocent baby fifteen miles off. Dean was screwed, especially with Michael as the head honcho now.

God damn it!

Dean’s face must have gone through a lot of transformations because Castiel asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh? Uh, nothing.” He walked back over to his bedroom to go grab his phone, and before he closed the doors behind him said, “Just uh… just gonna call Garth.”

With the doors closed, he took a deep breath, and then ran a hand through his hair.

This was crazy. Not his usual brand of crazy. Hell, maybe it wasn’t even that bad.

But then Dean remembered a beer bottle getting taken out of his hand, remembered Zach’s stern — maybe even angry — face. He remembered what he’d told him. He owned Dean now.

Dean went to the far wall and groaned, hanging his head against it. Really, he wanted to use it to bang his head, but most doctors wouldn’t advise that as a way to relieve his headache.

Dean straightened, closing his eyes.

Was it worth a shot?

No, definitely not.

So Dean got out his phone, and called Garth. He could do the shouting thing he’d done the night before, but in hindsight that had seemed rude. His drunk self obviously hadn’t cared.

“Morning, Dean Bean! Well, hmm… oh no, it’s not noon yet, but cutting it pretty close there. What’s up?”

“Wondering if you could get me and my friend some coffee. And uh, you were in here earlier, right?”

“Was I?”

“Gatorade, aspirin,” Dean added.

“Oh no, silly, that was your friend there. He was up earlier and asked me to pick those things up for you. He grabbed them at the door, brought them to your room himself.”

That had Dean pause in what he was about to say.

Cas had done that? He’d thought about him?

That started to make Dean feel guilty for practically kidnapping the guy. Or had it been the other way around? He’d been the drunk one after all. Huh, how did that work? There was another emotion there too, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. It was pretty foreign to him, or had been in the couple of years since he’d left Ben. Was it… affection?

No, that would be bullshit. He’d just met the guy last night, and part of him still wanted to sleep with him. This was just a messed up situation.

“Dean-o? De-ean!”

“Hmm, what? Yeah.”

“You all good?”

“Yeah, um… Coffee. You know the regular I like, and for him, just make sure to bring packets of sugar and cream and stuff, I don’t really know what he likes.”

“Okie dokie. See you in ten.”

“Five?”

“Dean, I don’t control the pace at which the world runs.”

“Okay, ten,” he relented. “And, oh, is Sam up?”

“I’m not his assistant too, Dean. 

“Okay, but he’s famous by association. I know you and Clif keep tabs on him when he’s not staying underground.”

“Yes, he’s up.”

“Cool, thanks.”

Despite feeling like shit, Dean took the opportunity of some private time to get dressed. Nothing fancy. For him nothing fancy stil came out to a thousand dollars or more per outfit, but it was just jeans, a black undershirt, a white and blue flannel, and a leather jacket. The boots were nice too. Custom-made combat boots with gold inlays.

“Great, now I feel underdressed,” Castiel said as Dean walked back into the room.

“Uh… I have some jeans,” he told him, plopping down on the couch beside his… whatever he was.

Cas made a face. “Not sure they’d fit.”

Dean smiled, glancing at Cas’ hips and legs. He whacked him playfully on the thigh. “Come on, you should be able to squeeze those into a pair. Not like you’re fat. You’re just…” Dean couldn’t think of the word, and trailed off. Thick, muscular, large, beautiful. Yeah, all of that. Fuck. “Yeah, body’s shaped differently. But come on, I can get my bowlegs into these, you should be fine.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and sighed, brushing Dean’s hand off of his leg.

“Fine.”

“Bottom drawer,” Dean said helpfully as Castiel went into his room.

Part of Dean wanted to follow him, wanted to watch him take off those sweatpants, or maybe even take them off for him. The jeans he was wearing were ripped at the knees, but he figured the skin of his knees would be fine with a bit of friction on the floor. Rugburn didn’t hurt too badly, not as bad as his hand still did. At least he’d somehow managed to get that taped and bandaged up. There was an ace wrap around it as well. So he was still able to function, use it for some things, just not all the sexy things going through his head at the moment.

Dean was drawn from his sensual reverie as there was a knock on the door. He went and answered it, apprehensive, gut twisting.

This was it.

Crowley knew. Zach knew. He was going to lose his dream, everything.

Dean sighed in relief, leaning against the open door when he saw it was just Sam. He was dressed in dress pants, a white button-up shirt, and a tie. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. In one hand was a yellow legal pad, a pen pressed between that and the crook of his thumb.

“What, you lawyering today or something?” Dean asked.

“Yes. The contract’s going to be sent over, and we have business to discuss apparently.”

Dean just stared at him, contemplating slamming the door in his face. Reality was not fun right now. He glanced back at his gatorade he’d left on the coffee table. Was there anyone around who could pull a Jesus and turn it into alcohol? Huh, maybe Sam. He had the look, what with the scruff and the hair and all.

Eventually Sam said, “Morning. Or…” He held up his wrist, looking at his watch. “Actually, no. Good afternoon.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and then let Sam in.

“Thanks for coming,” he eventually said, relenting, knowing it wasn’t his brother’s fault that any of this was happening.

But shit, he’d forgotten about the contract.

“You want anything to drink?” Dean asked, playing the gracious host.

“Nah, I’m good.”

Dean settled back down on the couch with his gatorade, and Sam eyed the blanket, taking a seat away from it.

Dean ignored the look, though he surely wanted answers. “So who’s dropping off the contract?”

“Don’t know.”

“When’ll they be here?”

“One.”

Dean sighed at that. Okay, he had some time to get Cas out of his hair.

A drawer slammed shut, and there was some cursing. Sam straightened, looking at the doors to Dean’s bedroom.

“Who else is here?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “A friend.”

Sam looked at Dean, then back at the doors, then Dean again.

“Is it that guy from last night? Dean, tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

Sam’s eyebrows, which had been furrowed with concern, now rose in a disbelieving look.

“He’s getting dressed. You can ask him yourself when he comes out. But” — Dean broke up his speech with a long swallow of gatorade — “I need to get rid of him somehow. Or, I don’t know, hide him. I kinda like having him around.”

“Dean, you’re not supposed to—”

“Like I said, I didn’t.”

“And okay, then what about the issue from last night? What exactly am I risking my license for today?”

“Car accident.”

“Are you serious?!”

That was when Castiel slid open the doors and walked back into the room. Dean noticed that the knuckles of his right hand were red, like they’d gotten slammed in a drawer. That must’ve been what had happened.

“Uh…”

That was Castiel, and Sam was already being business-like, getting up and going over to shake his hand.

“Sam Winchester,” he said. “And you are? I didn’t get your name from Dean yet.”

“Castiel,” he said, and then added, “uh… Novak.”

“So what’s the situation?” Sam asked.

The poor guy looked like a deer caught in headlights, so Dean went over and grabbed him, having him sit beside him. He couldn’t tell if Castiel liked that or not; he seemed neutral about it more than anything. Dean was far from neutral. He’d gotten a good look at Castiel in his jeans, and god, had it been a mistake to tell him he’d fit? He didn’t exactly, but wow, he looked damn good. The material hugged his body, and somewhere in Dean started pulsing as he eyed the unmistakable bulge of his denim-wrapped groin. Dean figured if Cas turned around he’d see the clothing hug his ass too, just like it did in the front and to his thighs.

Dean eyed him even as they sat together. He hadn’t noticed he’d drifted off and started biting on his bottom lip, till he heard Castiel talking about what had happened.

Thank god he was taking the lead. Dean still had a headache.

He zoned out till Garth arrived with the coffee, and as he started back over, Sam reprimanded, “You were supposed to come right back to the hotel.”

“What are you, my babysitter?” he snapped. 

He passed Castiel his coffee and packets of cream and sugar and sat back down. Dean had a sip of his own coffee, and saw Cas start preparing his the way he liked it.

Sam just breathed deeply and gave Dean a sympathetic look. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Dean, or-or… control you like what everyone else wants to do. I just want you to be careful. I know how much your music means to you.”

Dean argued, “Think having my own life is pretty important too.”

“That’s not what—”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Castiel asked. “What’s happening?”

Sam and Dean immediately shut up, and Dean turned to Cas with big eyes. Shit, he hadn’t meant for any of this to come up around him. They were just supposed to talk about Castiel’s car and the insurance company.

“Not important,” he eventually said.

Castiel didn’t just shrug it off as he expected. Instead, the strange man gave him a look that seemed to say a million things at once: I understand. I’m here if you need to talk. You’re not alone.

Dean’s breath caught in his throat as he looked at that handsome face and into those startlingly blue eyes.

How the hell could he do that?

Sam cleared his throat, and both turned back to him.

“We can discuss it later,” Sam said. “And uh… Castiel, I’m not sure how good of a friend of my brother’s you are. I—”

Cas: “Oh, we just met last night. When he crashed his car into mine.”

Sam gave a tight smile, “Lovely.”

Dean wanted to roll his eyes at the tension he saw in Sam, but he didn’t. His brother was doing a big thing for him. Dean could at least repay him by not being an asshole for a couple of minutes.

The discussion was exhausting, but they eventually got it all sorted out, Sam taking notes on his yellow legal pad, and after a few Sam-dominated phone calls with various people and insurance agents, it was all settled.

And according to his watch it was one P.M.

Fuck.

There was a knock on the door.

Dean’s eyes went wide, and he grabbed Cas in a panic, while another hand reached out for his brother, as if he wanted to grab him to hide behind.

“Shit, shit. Cas, you gotta go.”

“Go where? I can’t leave, unless you have any ideas as to how I could survive the drop from the window.”

Dean got him up, pushing him over to the bedroom. “Bedroom,” he urged. “Stay quiet.”

Sam was going to get the door.

Dean tried sliding the bedroom doors closed, but Castiel held on just before they were about to obscure his face.

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing. Let you out soon, and uh… maybe get in the closet?”

“The closet? Dean!”

Footsteps sounded. Dean closed the doors, and then turned. He fixed his outfit, making it look like he’d just come out of his room from getting dressed and was straightening his clothes.

The man who had arrived was wearing white dress shoes. It was the first thing Dean noticed, and as his gaze traveled upwards, he stopped dead.

“Mr. Edlund.”

The dark-haired man with glimmering blue eyes who held a thick packet of papers smiled. “Please, call me Michael.”

[thesouthernpansy]

sacred geometry (5/?)

stanford pines/bill cipher

ford arrived at backupsmore university ready to put his head down and get lost in his classwork. his new roommate seemed to have come prepared to haul him back out, again.

that, and eat uncooked blocks of ramen.

somehow, that isn’t even the weirdest thing happening on campus, and the prospect of strange new mysteries and stranger new friends has ford feeling almost glad to be here.

it’s a college au, let’s crack some books

(here on ao3)

Observable time seems to contract around Ford through the course of his cursory morning routine, the necessary human inanities stretching out dim and red and slow like light on the lip of a black hole. Ford's thoughts spaghettify desperately around it, spinning away into stringy, unrecognizable particulate. He scratches shampoo into his scalp and tries to let that speak louder than the event horizon of the buzzing in his ears.

In the end, somehow, Ford still makes it to his first class of the day with seconds to spare. Fiddleford has a seat saved for him, but there isn't time to give him more than a grateful nod before the professor arrives.

“Late night?” Fiddleford asks under his breath, brows raised. There's a very specific innocence to his tone that gets Ford's hackles up immediately.

“I overslept,” he snaps in response, neither confirming nor denying Fiddleford's insinuations, which goes unnoticed by neither of them.

Fiddleford makes a little noise of assent, like he understands, and lets the matter drop.

Thankfully, even afterwards he has no opportunity to grill Ford on his assumptions. His next class is one clear across campus that he always rather literally needs to run to, some elective he's been cagey about since the beginning of the semester, and it isn't that Ford doesn't want to know what it is, but every time it comes up he gets the impression that Fiddleford wouldn't actually tell him even if he did ask, which puts a cold unexpected damper on his curiosity. The weight of the mutual unspoken hangs over their parting like guilt.

Ford doesn't have time for that; he has Intermediate Newtonian Mechanics in twenty minutes. It's Obscure Linear Algebra after that, then a meeting with Professor Neilson, then a sprint back to his dorm room to retrieve supplies for the tutoring session he'd forgotten about promising to one of last semester's TAs. All the while Ford feels out-of-focus, like he's watching himself through a pair of cloudy poorly-cut lenses. Professor Neilson suggests he cut back a little on his independent studies and get some more sleep; the TA asks if he's “hungover or something”. Ford tries and fails and tries again not to think about the circumstances of his morning, his patience and concentration hapless casualties in the fruitless mental crossfire that ensues.

By the time he makes it to Warbleheim, Ford is nursing an oppressive headache and half a dozen very credible reasons why he has to bow out of the evening's plans. Bill is already out front, mid-conversation with two figures that Ford doesn't recognize. He looks over as Ford approaches, the flat line of his mouth deepening for just a flash before it breaks open into a grin.

“Well, well, well, speak of what the cat dragged in! That punctuality of yours is no joke, huh, Fordsy?”

“Did I come at a bad time?” Ford notes now the tension he's walked into, the hunched, scolded postures of Bill's friends.

“You came exactly when you were supposed to,” says Bill tightly. “We're the ones running long here, right, guys?”

Bill's friends nod sheepishly, glancing between themselves and back to Bill again.

“Sorry,” says one of them finally, knuckling the side of what sounds like a very congested nose. He's bowlegged and stocky and somehow gives off the impression of having an underbite and overbite at the same time. The other stoops over him anxiously with his hands pressed together, broad boney face marred by a grimace and a large port-wine birthmark on an even larger forehead.

“Sorry doesn't help us, does it, Teeth?” asks Bill pleasantly. Not waiting for an answer, he turns to take Ford's arm and pull him closer. “Fordsy, these party animals are Teeth and Keyhole; boys, say hi to my good friend Stanford Pines.”

The two muster a meek “Hi” in obedient response.

“It's, uh, a pleasure to meet you,” says Ford, feeling awkward.

“We've heard a lot about you,” says Teeth gamely.

“Oh? I, uh,” says Ford lamely, because what comes immediately to mind is “I haven't heard anything about you,” and even he can tell that sounds hostile, gloating and jealous and by all accounts wholly uncalled for. The urge is still there, though, worsening as Keyhole looks him up and down like he's a toddler on the verge of a tantrum.

“I still think you should take one of us with you.” Keyhole jabs his chin in Bill's direction, stuffs his fists down into the front pockets of his hooded sweatshirt.

Bill leans forward to pat Keyhole firmly on the cheek, teeth bared. “Buck up, there, buddy! Jealousy's ugly, and you don't need any help on that front.”

From this angle all Ford can see of Bill's face is the taut set of his jaw. Keyhole looks up at him miserably, for all their being at a relative height with one another. Bill cocks his head to one side, holds out his hand, and waits.

Reluctantly, Keyhole pulls one fist out of his pocket and opens it. A soft clink, and a cluttered ring of keys plunks into Bill's waiting palm.

“Ha! That wasn't so hard, now, was it? You'd think I was asking for your bones or something, jeez.” Bill gives the keys an enthusiastic jingle in his friends' direction. “All right, boys, you scamper on home, now, Fordsy and I will take it from here.”

Teeth sticks an elbow in Keyhole's side, and the two exchange a glance. After a beat, Keyhole shrugs and shakes his head.

“Sure, see you later, Bill.”

“Good luck,” Teeth adds.

“Luck is for suckers!” replies Bill brightly.

“It was nice to meet you,” says Ford.

Before either of them can respond, Bill leans into the space between them, tugs at Ford's tie. “You'll meet again, IQ, time's a ticking!”

Ford gives a final wave and follows where Bill leads.

They end up at the back entrance by the concert hall's loading dock. Humming, Bill flips through his newly acquired keys to one that's been marked with a piece of gaffer's tape; the lock clicks in compliance, and the door opens into the dark maze of Warbleheim's backstage. Stacked risers and scrap plywood rest along the far wall by the stage manager's desk, itself cluttered with the nubs of old pencils and playbills weighted down by a bulky black plastic headset. Around them loom the ceiling-high cages protecting the valuable AV and recording equipment the hall lends out across campus, microphones and reel-to-reels and plastic-wrapped wheels of tape, video cameras and thick snakes of cable and the treacherous, loose-wheeled carts meant to transport the lot, somehow, safe and whole to its destination.

For how alien it seems in the quiet dark, Ford isn't unfamiliar with the space; Fiddleford puts a little extra in his pockets every now and then on the back of Backupsmore's collection of outdated tech, and Warbleheim's lighting systems in particular are reliable only in their schedulistic breakdowns. Ford has tagged along on a few of Fiddleford's trips to repair the deteriorating rigs, and even come out here in his friend's stead, once or twice. Last time it had been during a piano major's midterm presentation, which had been cut short by an implosion in the balcony speaker system. No one had bothered questioning his identity when he showed up, and Ford had spent the afternoon crouched overhead while the performance resumed. Even if the music hadn't been terribly memorable, Ford had found himself impressed by the instrument itself, an unexpectedly beautiful black baby grand that Warbleheim's bored-looking techs had swaddled in a padded covering and wheeled away immediately afterwards.

Is that why they're here? Why Bill had wanted to make sure they came alone? Maybe if you're good I'll play for you sometime, he remembers with a rush of heat. Ford thinks of the two of them out on the stage or tucked into a cramped storage room, shoulder to shoulder on a single piano bench, Bill's fingers on the keys, on Ford's wrist, under the sleeve—

“I know what you're thinking,” Bill says, and Ford's throat clamps shut.

“You do?”

“Mm-hmm!” Bill stoops to rustle though a battered cardboard box, pulling out a single light-bulb, which he waves in Ford's direction. It tinkles lightly, clearly blown out. “And you're right, Fordsy, why would I bring you all this way just for a game of chess?”

“Atmosphere?” suggests Ford, trying not to think about it.

Bill smirks, glancing sideways at Ford in a way that...doesn't help.

“'Atmosphere', he says. Joke away, you're gonna need that sense of humor in a second cos oh boy, do I have some devastating news for you. You ready?”

“What are you talking about?” Dread and curiosity rise in equal measure at the back of Ford's throat.

By now their route has brought them to another locked door, heavy-looking metal with a faded plaque bolted to it.

No Admittance Beyond This Point – Authorized Employees Only

Bill grins. “We,” he says, swiftly unlocking the door and pushing it open to an unlit stairwell. “aren't here to play chess.”

Ford hesitates. “What are we here to do?”

Bill tugs his jacket sleeve, reeling him onward. “C'mon, trust me!”

The stairs go down into a series of dim concrete tunnels below the concert hall. Thin rusted pipes run the length of the walls, hissing steam at their joints. Every now and then they pass rooms that appear to be intended for maintenance or long-term storage; the massive grey cylinders and copper pipes of Warbleheim's boiler system, thick stonelike slabs of block insulation, tangled heaps of music stands, the gutted carcass of an old spotlight. Eventually the rooms become rarer, their contents stranger; huge panes of leaded stained glass, shelves lined with jars of murky yellowish liquid, torn slips of paper that upon closer inspection turn out to be playing cards, just the joker, taken from hundreds of different decks of various shapes, colors, and languages. Before them the tunnels stretch on, but Ford is convinced he and Bill must be well past the footprint of the building they'd started in by now.

“What is all this?” he asks finally. “How far do these tunnels go?”

“Farther than you'd think,” replies Bill.

“Do they go across campus? Is this, do they connect to other buildings?”

“Two other buildings,” confirms Bill meaningfully, jangling the light-bulb he's still carrying for emphasis.

Understanding hits Ford square in the chest. “Beta Delta Theta and the financial aid office.”

“And that's a bingo for the man in the front row!”

“You found, I, this is incredible, do the tunnels follow the exact trajectory of the ley lines?” The confirmation sings through his veins, he has to—he needs his journal, where's his map? “Does this mean the founders of Backupsmore knew about them when this place was built? Or, the walls changed from concrete to stone three turns back, did you see that? Were parts of the tunnels were already here? Were the founders somehow influenced by the energy in the area to build here?” He shakes out the map, scrawls several quick notes in his journal's key.

Bill laughs. “Slow down, IQ, you're gonna pull something in that big brain of yours.”

The momentum of Ford's joyful excitement all but deafens him to the statement. “How many times have you been down here? How much have you explored? Would you describe anything you've seen as 'illustratively unusual'?”

“You really are a force of nature, huh, Fordsy. Let's see!” Bill ticks off on his fingers, “Twice, not including today, as much as I could get into, and I'm trying to show you.”

“As much as you could get to, are there parts of the tunnels that are inaccessible? Are they blocked off, or collapsed? Have you, wait.” Bill's words finally sink in, and Ford pauses. “Trying to show me what?”

“What we're here to do.” The duh is unspoken. “And we're close, now.”

Ford stands slowly, gathering his papers, unable to take his eyes off Bill. He thinks, with an abrupt, exhilarated sort of acceptance, that he wants nothing more right now than to hold Bill's hand and run.

“Okay,” he says.

They go.