#it’s a rare occurrence but one that fills him with dread

[xmintpiex]

which bluelock manager has your number on speed dial for when your boyfriend gets…difficult?

[r0seb100d]

hi!! Could you do a Dallas winston x reader fic where Dallas had a bad day and/ or just isn't doing the best mentally and the reader has to comfort him?

Hii! Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy <3 🤍

Warnings: fem!reader, slightly ooc Dallas.

You don't ever have to be stronger than you really are When you're lying in my arms

Glancing down at her watch, y/n noted that Dallas was now forty minutes late for the date he had promised her just the night before. She stood at her bedroom window, peeking through the blinds, hoping to see him pull up in Buck’s car with a damn good reason for making her sit around for him all dressed up with her hair and makeup done perfectly, which happened to be a rare occurrence, and she’d be pissed if it all went to waste. 

Dallas was supposed to have picked her up at twelve and driven her down to the dingo to get lunch and then head to the cinema to see the movie they had bought tickets for.

It was now far too late to go get food, so even if he deigned to show up now, they would have to rush to make it on time for the movie. The whole situation irritated her deeply. Not even a call to say he was late or that something unexpected had come up. Nothing. Y/n felt pathetic as she stared blankly at her walls, deciding enough was enough. 

Perhaps Dallas had gotten it mixed up and was waiting to meet her there? No, that was ridiculous; he knew she didn’t drive, and it would be a good thirty-minute walk from her house. He had never once stooped that low; in fact, he always insisted on driving her everywhere. Buck’s cursing meant nothing to him; Dallas enjoyed driving her around, and he hoped to one day save up enough to buy his own car so they could drive wherever and whenever together.

Slipping on her red kitten heels, y/n stormed down the stairs, anger fueling each determined step.

She twisted the keys harshly in the lock and marched her way over to the roadhouse, not caring how she looked to others. Suddenly, a twisted thought burrowed its way into her mind, infecting her with a deep feeling of dread. What if he was simply sick of her? Maybe he was cheating. After all, what else could he be so preoccupied with at the moment? Y/n tried to calm herself down; she was working herself up over nothing. Dallas had never once given her any reason to believe those thoughts; they were simply insecurities taking over. 

She held her breath as she stepped into the bar, heading straight upstairs. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Despite knowing better, those horrible thoughts still lingered, leaving a burning, hollow pit in her stomach. 

Knocking once at his door, she stood helplessly in front of his room, clutching the straps of her purse for dear life. When there was no response, she knocked again. Still nothing. 

She was about to give up when she heard shuffling sounds coming from inside, so she knocked once more.

“Fuck off man. I already told ya I’m not in the mood for cards right now.”

So he was there after all. Talking about playing cards with some randos when he had left her to wait like that

“Dallas?” 

Her voice was stone cold, not giving away any of her emotions; she refused to let him have that control. 

He remained silent, and this infuriated her.

“I’m coming in whether you like it or not.”

Turning the handle, y/n pushed the door open and stepped inside only to be met with a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke filling her lungs.

She waved her arms around and covered her mouth, coughing as the smoke filled her lungs.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Most of the smoke had diffused into the corridor, and y/n was able to get a better look at the room.

Countless beer cans and whiskey bottles were scattered all over the floor, a danger hazard for anyone trying to safely walk in there, and the room was messier than it ever had been.

Then there was Dallas, sitting shirtless on his bed with a cigarette hanging limply between his lips, with a faraway drunken look on his face.

He glanced over at her, taking in her doll-like appearance, and mentally punched himself for being such an asshole.

“Shit, doll, I’m so sorry; I completely forgot. I lost track of time, and I—”

His words were slurred, and her nose was scrunched up, not from disgust but from unease. This was the last thing she had expected, to walk in here and find him looking so… defeated.

“What? So you’ve just been drinking in here all day? I’ve been waiting for you, but clearly you’re busy, so call me when you actually make an effort to remember our plans.” 

Y/n had already begun to turn and leave, but she heard Dallas release an unsteady breath.

She immediately spun around and looked at him properly for the first time today and felt all her anger dissipate as she noticed something. He was crying. He had been crying.

She took slow, cautious steps, like approaching a feral animal, and sat carefully at the foot of his bed.

“Dal? What’s wrong?”

She had never seen him like this. Furious? Sure. But never this sad.

“The fuck is wrong with me?” 

He rubbed his face with agitation and avoided making eye contact with her. He felt so vulnerable and weak; it was embarrassing.

“Hey.” Her voice was soft. “Nothing is wrong with you. What happened? 

She dropped her bag on the floor and crawled over to him, still keeping a slight distance in case he wanted some space. When he didn’t back away, she pulled his head onto her chest and stroked his hair with one hand, wiping his tears with the other.

Dallas wrapped his big arms around her middle, silent tears staining her shirt.

“I don’t know; I’ve just been feeling like shit, think the alcohol made it worse.” 

He let out a dry chuckle.

“It’s okay, just relax; when you want to talk, I’ll be right here.”

She continued grazing her nails soothingly over his scalp, hoping to relieve some of his tension.

“Just, call me next time, okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry bout that; I know we paid for those, and you were lookin’ forward to goin’ out.”

She immediately sat up, turning his face to meet hers.

“Dal, that’s not what I meant at all. I don’t give a damn about tickets or money. I care about you. If you’re sitting up here feeling like shit, I want to know, even if you just call to tell me you need the afternoon to get better, okay? I don’t want to be getting all annoyed for nothing, especially when you don’t deserve it. You’ve been so good to me, and being upset doesn’t make you weak; don’t hide. 

He gazed up at her with a look so soft it was almost unreal.

“I love you doll.”

“I love you too.”

When he didn’t rest his head back against her chest and lay somewhat awkwardly, she let out a playful huff, laughing.

“Oh come here and quit being a stubborn ass.”

Dallas could only laugh back, feeling happy for the first time this afternoon.

♱ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♱ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♱ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♱ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♱ . ݁₊ ⊹ .

౨ৎ1.2k words౨ৎ

[mya-valentine]

Frozen Flames

Synopsis: As the Ice Hashira, you’ve always trusted your instincts, a gift that has never been wrong. But when Kyojuro Rengoku, your beloved, is sent on a dangerous mission aboard the Mugen Train, a foreboding sense of loss weighs heavy on your heart. Despite your pleas and an intuition you can't ignore, Rengoku remains resolute in his duty. Now, with a bitter farewell and a heart full of unspoken fears, you must face the chilling reality that even love and intuition may not be enough to alter fate.

The air was crisp, the sun just beginning its descent beyond the horizon. The quiet breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of autumn as you sat with Kyojuro Rengoku by the edge of the training grounds. His ever-optimistic smile lit up his face as he gazed at the sky. You, the Ice Hashira, sat beside him, your expression as stoic as ever, but your heart was weighed down with a sense of unease that had been creeping in for days.

Kyojuro broke the comfortable silence, his voice filled with excitement, "I've been assigned a mission, a rather important one involving a strange occurrence on the Mugen Train. I leave in a few days."

You turned to him, your icy eyes narrowing slightly as a familiar feeling settled into the pit of your stomach—a feeling you had come to dread. It was that intuition of yours, the one that had never been wrong before. The one that had saved your life, and the lives of others, countless times. And now, it was telling you something you didn’t want to hear.

"Kyojuro," you began, your voice as calm and measured as always, "I have a bad feeling about this mission. You shouldn’t go."

He chuckled softly, brushing off your concern with his usual enthusiasm. "Don’t worry! I’ve faced many dangerous missions before, and this one is no different! I’ll come back in one piece, I promise." His tone was filled with that unshakable confidence you had come to love.

But as much as he tried to reassure you, you could see something flicker in his amber eyes—something fleeting but undeniable. He knew. Deep down, he knew your intuition had never been wrong. And that scared him, even if he didn’t show it.

"Kyojuro," you repeated, your hand instinctively reaching for his. It was rare for you to initiate such contact, but the gravity of the situation compelled you. "Please… I can’t shake this feeling."

He squeezed your hand, his touch warm against your cool skin. "I’ll be careful, my love. But I have to go. It’s my duty." His voice was softer now, the bravado giving way to something more serious, more intimate. He knew how much this worried you, but duty was something neither of you could turn your backs on.

You could say nothing more. He had made up his mind, and you respected that about him, even if it broke your heart.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. The weight of your premonition hung over you like a cloud, and you found yourself standing outside under the pale moonlight, lost in thought. The next morning, you sought out Kagaya Ubuyashiki. You entered his quiet chambers, your usual calm exterior hiding the turmoil within.

"Master Ubuyashiki," you greeted, bowing slightly.

He smiled warmly at you, as he always did. "Ah, Ice Hashira. What brings you here today?"

You hesitated, carefully choosing your words. "I… wish to accompany Rengoku on his mission. I feel that my skills may be of use." It was a half-truth, and you knew that Ubuyashiki, with his unparalleled insight, could see right through you.

Ubuyashiki’s smile softened, his pale eyes gazing at you with understanding. "You have never asked to join a mission like this before. Why now?"

You felt your chest tighten. You couldn’t tell him the full extent of your feelings without sounding irrational, but you also knew you couldn’t lie to him. "I just… I want to be out in the field again," you said, your words evasive.

His smile remained gentle, though it was tinged with something akin to sympathy. "You care deeply for Rengoku, don’t you?"

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze as you felt the truth of his words sink into you. "Yes," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

"It’s a beautiful thing," Ubuyashiki said, "to care for someone so deeply. You have come so far from the cold, distant person you once were. I am proud of you for opening your heart. But, as much as I understand your desire to protect him, this is Rengoku’s path. His fate is his own, and it is not for us to change."

His words, though spoken with kindness, felt like daggers to your heart. You wanted to argue, to demand that you be allowed to go, but you knew it would be in vain. Ubuyashiki was right, even if you didn’t want to accept it.

With a heavy heart, you left his chambers. As you made your way back home, the overwhelming sorrow you had been trying to keep at bay finally broke through. Tears fell silently down your cheeks, and as they did, the air around you grew colder, the moisture in the air crystallizing into delicate snowflakes that began to fall gently from the sky.

You stood in the middle of the snow, letting the coldness wash over you, but even that couldn’t numb the pain you felt.

It wasn’t long before you sensed Kyojuro’s presence approaching. He came running, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced with concern. He knew what the snowfall meant—it always snowed when you were in deep sorrow.

"My love," he called softly, reaching you as the snow continued to fall around both of you. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as you stood there, shaking.

You buried your face into his chest, your tears soaking into his uniform. "Don’t go," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Please… don’t go on this mission."

Kyojuro held you tighter, his hands trembling slightly, a rare display of his own vulnerability. He rested his chin on top of your head, his breath warm against your cold skin. "I can’t," he murmured. "I have to go."

You clung to him, knowing deep down that no matter how much you pleaded, it wouldn’t change anything. You hated that part of him, the part that was so bound to duty. But you also loved it because it was who he was—a man of honor, of unshakable resolve.

"I can’t lose you," you whispered, your voice breaking again.

Kyojuro pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs brushed away your tears, though new ones quickly replaced them. "You won’t lose me," he said, his voice full of that familiar confidence. "No matter what happens, I will always be with you. My flame will burn bright, even in the darkest of times."

You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, as the lump in your throat grew. All you could do was hold onto him, trying to memorize the feel of his warmth, the sound of his heartbeat, the scent of his hair, everything about him that you loved.

The next few days were a blur of emotions. You and Kyojuro spent every waking moment together, both of you knowing that time was slipping away too quickly. You trained together, ate together, talked late into the night, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to truly be vulnerable with him. It was bittersweet—these moments of closeness you had always craved, now tainted with the knowledge of the impending separation.

The morning of his departure came all too soon. The sun had barely risen, casting a pale golden glow over the land as you stood at the entrance of your home, watching as Kyojuro gathered his things.

He turned to you, smiling that same bright smile that made your heart ache. "I’ll be back before you know it," he said, his voice full of that familiar optimism.

You couldn’t smile back. Instead, you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him one last time, holding him as if your life depended on it. He hugged you back just as tightly, his own tears finally spilling over.

"I love you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too," he replied, his voice cracking. He pulled back just enough to press his lips to yours, the kiss slow, lingering, filled with all the unspoken fears and emotions you both held inside. It was a kiss you never wanted to end, but eventually, you had to let go.

As Kyojuro stepped back, he gave you one last look—one filled with love, sorrow, and a glimmer of hope. Then, with one final smile, he turned and walked away.

You watched him until he disappeared into the distance, the weight of your premonition settling in your chest like ice.

And as the first few snowflakes began to fall again, you stood there alone, silently praying that, for once, your intuition would be wrong.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[say-al0e]

Night Changes

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18! Minors, DNI!

Summary: Jake’s set on skinny dipping. You’re afraid of what that means for your friendship. But he’s always got a plan. | Ft. “How many times have you jerked off to me?” + “Shut up and take your pants off.” requested by Anon.

Warnings: Slight exhibitionism (they’re in a pool but it’s private?), feelings, anxiety, one mention of a guy being creepy (not Jake), unprotected PinV, unrealistic understandings of the Navy and definitely unrealistic expectations of pool sex.

Pairing: Hangman x fem!Reader

Word Count: 6.2k (whoops, welcome back I guess)

Top Gun Taglist | Top Gun Masterlist

“Jake, nothing you can say will convince me to go skinny dipping.”

Quiet laughter, amused and unbothered by your reluctance to yield - yet, as Jake had you wrapped around his finger and knew you would give in sooner rather than later - filled the small backyard as he grinned. From the corner of your eye, you could see him; bathed in the warm glow of lights, strung up around the back porch for moments like this. Soft shadows were cast across his face, highlighting the curve of his jaw and slope of his neck as he reached for his rapidly warming beer and you were struck, if only briefly, by the thought that he looked like a leading man from some cheesy film.

Just as quickly as the thought crossed your mind, however, Jake brought you back to the conversation at hand. “And why not?”

With a sigh, you tipped your head to the side to take him in, eyes narrowed as you allowed the question to linger. It was rare to see him dressed down - you’d gotten so used to seeing him in khaki that anything else almost seemed wrong - but he looked effortless in the soft button-down he’d left mostly unbuttoned. Leave had given him the opportunity to destress, to relax on the beach and enjoy a few deep breaths, and you were still surprised he’d chosen to spend most of it with you.

Yet, here you were, for the eighth night in a row.

For the eighth night in a row, you found yourself at Jake’s side. Rather than sitting on a beach, you found yourself surrounded by the warm night air - still and sticky and lingering in the verge of stifling - lounging on a soft deck chair in his backyard.

California summer had yet to arrive but you were already dreading it as a spring heatwave, accompanied by sunny skies and too-high electric bills, nearly made you miss the chill of the east coast. But, try as you might, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret taking the opportunity as your gaze drifted to Jake’s face once more.

That teasing grin of his made your heart beat just a touch too fast, an occurrence you were slowly growing used to, and your breath feel that much harder to catch. But it was pointless. Though you hadn’t known Jake for that long, you knew him well enough to know that for all the pretty smiles and flirty remarks, none of it meant what you so desperately hoped it would.

Falling for Jake Seresin would only end in disappointment so you hid your lovesick sigh behind a roll of your eyes as you reached for your own drink.

“For one,” you began, sparing a glance around the backyard he’d finally gotten to make use of, “this fence is ridiculously low and I can’t say I have any intentions of flashing your neighbors.” While you had no doubt they were already asleep - they were an elderly couple, in bed with the sun every evening and capable of tuning out every noise you made - you were enjoying Jake’s attempts to convince you.

“Two, Coyote’s just going to dinner. He’ll be back eventually,” you reminded him, raising a brow as he laughed. His lips parted to interject but you waved him off with a dismissive hand. “And three,” you directed your full attention to him, then, “who says I want to see you naked?”

Jake shook his head in exaggerated disbelief as he laughed. His knee nudged your own as he shifted in his chair, ensuring your full attention was on him as he met your eyes. “One, I’m well aware of where we are and how low the fence is. You know my neighbors are asleep and won’t wake up until the sun rises. Two, he’s out on a date. He’s not coming back tonight.” His grin morphed into something a little more mischievous then - flirty and honeyed, exactly what he used to get his way with beautiful women at the Hard Deck - and made you want to roll your eyes as he eyed the skin exposed by your shorts. “Three,” he continued after a moment’s pause, “I’ve seen the way you look at me. When we’re at the beach, or the pool, or the bar… You definitely want to see me naked.”

Every word was true, brazenly honest in a way only Jake could get away with, and he knew it. Still, you refused to give him the satisfaction of openly admitting just how badly you wanted that - how badly you wanted him. “Your ego does not need my validation, Jake.”

As he always seemed to be, Jake remained unbothered by your rolling eyes and refusal to admit what you both knew to be true. Instead, he simply took a moment to soak in the sight of you.

Those green eyes blazed a path across your skin, gaze sharp and warm with every sweep across exposed thighs and a sliver of stomach. Jake was never shy about checking you out, always appreciative of the view you allowed him, and this moment was no different. Even as every fiber of your being begged for him to look elsewhere, to give you a moment to catch your breath, he simply swiped his tongue across his bottom lip and returned his gaze to yours.

“I’m not too proud to admit that I want your validation, sweetheart.”

There was little you could do to stop the shaking breath that escaped your lips - one you knew Jake heard clearly, if the amused twitch of his mouth was any indicator. That drawl grew a little thicker with every beer he drank, accent stronger and voice a little rougher; when combined with the weight of his gaze, the honey of his voice, the way it all dipped a little lower any time he had a specific request for it, reduced your thoughts to few and far between. Forming a coherent sentence was difficult, but you managed to retain enough self-preservation to know that this was a bad idea.

“Still no.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed playfully then. He’d always been able to read you, to tell what you were thinking with startling ease, and you could see that he was searching for discomfort. The moment you seriously told him to drop it, to let this fantasy of romping around in the moonlight go, he would without a second of hesitation. But this was the game you both loved to play.

Toeing the line between friendship and something more, between playful banter and a simmering desire that left you certain you could fall in love with Jake Seresin - if he’d only fall with you - had become your normal. From the moment you met, there’d been something simmering beneath the surface but, as of late, it seemed to be bubbling higher than usual. Every conversation had grown heavier, weighed down by the potential future you were certain only you saw, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

Neither could Jake, it seemed, as he offered, “What if I promise to change your oil?”

Jake never seemed the handyman type - he never seemed the type to get dirty, full stop - but he’d proven himself capable. And where you were concerned, it seemed he had no qualms about maintaining his perfect appearance. “You promised to do that anyway,” you reminded him, pausing to take a sip of your drink. “After that skeevy guy wouldn’t leave me alone at the mechanic’s last time.”

A flash of annoyance crossed his face - not at you, you knew, but at the memory of your call when things had gotten more uncomfortable than you were willing to handle alone - before he nodded. “Yeah, you’re not goin’ back there. Alright, what if I promise to change the air filter in your apartment?”

“Even though the hall closet is creepy and I hate it?”

That smile returned, softer but more assured - he’d chosen the best bargaining chip and he knew it. “Especially because the hall closet is creepy and you hate it. Any other demands, sweetheart?”

“I kind of like hearing you beg.” Jake’s brows winged up at your teasing comment, unable to hide his surprise as you tipped your head to hide your smile. The innuendos were his forte, tossed out any time you gave him a half a chance, but you see his grin growing just a touch larger as you shrugged. “Throw in on-demand spider killing when you’re home and I’m in.”

“I don’t beg, darlin’, but for you? I’d consider it.” Jake struck a nerve and he could tell. When you flustered, choking down a sip of your drink to swallow the warmth creeping up your chest at the mental image of Jake begging - for you, no less - he grinned. It was triumphant, easy in the knowledge that he’d won, as he declared, “All you gotta do is give me a call and I’m there. No begging necessary.”

Though the comment dripped innuendo, was teasing and designed to see you fluster, Jake meant it wholeheartedly. He’d proven himself loyal, eager to answer your call even when he probably shouldn’t, and softened just for you.

Moments like that - when Jake seemed a little softer around the edges, so willing to give you whatever you asked for without expectation -  answered the question your friends seemed most stuck on. What had you seen in Jake, the flirty jerk at the bar, that they couldn’t?

They saw the pretty smiles and the subtle flexing at the bar. They heard the flirty remarks and thinly veiled innuendos. They witnessed the flattery he heaped on the women before you - and then you, when he’d given you his full attention - and the way he softened, just a little, in your presence. But they had yet to see the Jake you found yourself falling for hard and fast.

This Jake, the one who laughed and teased and could still be a pain in the ass, all while keeping a sharp eye on your feelings - ready to redirect in an effort to make you comfortable the moment he took a step too far - was one only you got the privilege to see. This Jake, the one who would still change your oil and the air filter in your apartment and kill all the spiders, regardless of whether you let him see you naked, was one you were glad to keep to yourself. And even though you feared losing him the moment you fell into bed with him, you still found yourself relenting.

“Fine.” Despite your best attempt at nonchalance, you knew Jake could hear the waver in your agreement. While you were eager, excited to see him, you found yourself suddenly afraid. There was no guarantee he’d like what he saw, no one guarantee he’d be able to look you in the eye after, so you demanded, “You have to close your eyes when I take off my clothes.”

Triumphant, Jake rolled his eyes at your demand and eyed your exposed thighs once more. “Sure,” he agreed easily, shrugging off the doubt he realized you carried. “But it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he reminded you, lifting his beer.

Jake swore up and down that it was an accident and that he hadn’t seen much. He had a bad habit of entering rooms without knocking and you were inclined to believe him. He’d still been able to look you in the eye, hadn’t treated you any differently, but that did little to stop you from teasing him as it kept you from thinking too hard. “That’s only because you have no sense of decorum and just burst into rooms like you own the place.”

With a roll of his eyes, Jake stood from his chair. He paused for a moment to down the rest of his beer before offering you a hand. “Shut up and take off your pants.”

As you stood, skin growing warmer with every passing second - hopeful that Jake couldn’t feel the searing heat of your palm as he clasped it in his own - you kicked off your sandals. “You first, cowboy.”

Instead of teasingly insisting you lead the way, Jake grinned. He was shameless, reveled in the attention he was given at the beach - truly enjoyed the feeling of being seen - so without a moment of hesitation, he flew through the remaining buttons of his shirt and tossed it onto the lounge chair. With every inch of skin exposed, you could feel your heart rate climbing higher. He was right, you’d savored the sight of him shirtless on a beach or in the pool any chance you were given and this was certainly no exception. 

Knowing that you would see all of him - whether you intended to or not - had your breath catching in your throat as his hands fell to the waistband of his shorts. “You can look.” Jake laughed, entirely unbothered at the idea of standing before you bare, when you shifted your gaze from the exposed dip of his hip to the fence to your left. “I’m sure you’ll like what you see.”

As tempted as you were, you shook your head. “Damn ego.” It wasn’t quite as sharp as you intended, nowhere near as strong, but it made Jake laugh a little harder as you caught sight of his shorts - sans briefs, because of course - joining his shirt on the chair. “Get in the water and turn away so I can get undressed.”

“You’re really takin’ all the fun outta this, you know?” Despite his complaint - teasing and entirely a joke, ready to be walked back the moment you took offense - he complied. You heard the splash of water as he jumped in, followed by a sharp sound of surprise at the temperature, before he continued. “You’re just delayin’ the inevitable, sweetheart. We’ll both see somethin’ when you get in.”

Again, Jake was right. You knew that - didn’t need that honeyed drawl that made you weak in the knees to spell it out for you - but delaying the inevitable made it easier to toss your own shirt into the pile he’d created. It helped you swallow the potentiality of destroying your friendship with Jake for one night of fun, helped you swallow that there was very likely no future in which this turned into something more, and you held onto that delay like a lifeline as you shook your head.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, cowboy.”

Behind you, a splash sounded and told you that Jake was giving you the space you needed. He often attempted to push you out of your comfort zone, to encourage you to try new things, but this was one moment he knew you needed. So instead of watching, eyeing you in a way you only dreamed of, he took to splashing around the water as you reached for the waistband of your shorts with shaking fingers.

Though you were eager to keep your friendship with Jake as it was, you knew that there would eventually be a tipping point. Everything you’d built was tenuous, lingering on that fine line between platonic and romantic, and would come to a head sooner rather than later. The line you’d been toeing would be crossed and, as much as it pained you to come to that realization, you knew that it would be easier to handle whatever came now rather than later on when you’d fallen too far to pull yourself free.

Jake wasn’t a relationship kind of guy, you knew that and attempted to brace yourself as you fully committed to giving yourself one moment with him - an unforgettable night in which you felt the full measure of his desire - but you still held tight to an ounce of hope as you shucked off your bra and panties.

Following Jake’s lead, you jumped straight into the water.

When you emerged, nearly freezing as your overheated body adjusted to the water, Jake cheered. It was quiet enough to avoid waking the neighbors but still managed to make you fluster as you felt anxious laughter bubbling in your throat. This was new and you knew Jake could tell as he swam to the shallow end.

“Sometimes, you just gotta live a little, sweetheart.”

Jake stood in the shallow end, ran a hand through his dripping hair, and made no effort to hide his laughter as you turned your attention to the stars. “You know, I always saw people do this in movies and thought it’d be fun.” When you spared him a quick glance, pointedly meeting his eyes rather than allowing yourself to peek, Jake raised a brow in question. “It’s not bad."

True to his word, Jake kept his eyes above the water - though it would’ve been almost too easy for him to steal a glance at your bare body. Even as he began to swim once more, floating closer slowly, he was careful not to let his gaze wander. “We used to do this all the time,” he admitted, drifting deeper into the pool. “Spent our summers in the water. Didn’t matter if we had suits or not. Summer after I graduated, I spent most every night at the creek.”

The soft combination of lights - moonlight, lights strung up around the yard - cast soft shadows across Jake’s body as he swam. Though you tried your hardest not to look, it was impossible not to notice the muscles of his back and shoulders as he pushed through the water. Every inch of him was beautiful, almost annoyingly so, but you swallowed your creeping lust with a playful scoff.

“You’re telling me you went swimming in wild Texas water, naked?” When Jake shrugged, unfazed, you shook your head and allowed yourself to float a little closer. “I’m amazed you made it out with all your appendages still attached.”

“Appendages?” His nose wrinkled at your choice of words before he lifted his hand to flick water in your direction. “You’re such a fucking nerd, sweetheart.”

Very little space remained between you, with the pair of you having closed it almost entirely, but the closer you drew, the deeper into your own head you fell. While time with Jake had been as easy as breathing, natural and without thought most days, you suddenly felt paralyzed by the possibilities.

As he always seemed to, however, Jake noticed. He noticed your inability to really look at him, the way you glanced up at the sky or around the backyard instead of at him, and your hesitance to truly move. Jake noticed more than most people tended to give him credit for and you realized that as he urged, “Stop thinking. Just let go. Have fun.”

A part of you wanted to argue that it wasn’t as easy as it sounded, that letting go seemed impossible in that moment, but you bit your tongue. You allowed the part of yourself that had already given into the inevitable to take hold, to allow your shoulders to relax and your body to sink into the water, as you hummed.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s just swim.”

Jake lingered nearby, close enough that you could reach out and brush his arm if you turned just so, but kept enough space between you as you tried to calm your racing heart and even your breathing. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing to think that hard about. It was Jake and, at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

“You were right,” you finally relented, after a few peaceful minutes of silence. “This is nice.”

The water was warm enough to be pleasant but cool enough to ease the burning of your skin. And as time wore on, you forgot about your lack of a suit and focused on the feeling of drifting in the moonlight. Jake, on the other hand, had spent the few moments of quiet studying your face. And when you turned to meet his gaze, you found him already looking at you.

“I’m usually right,” he teased, grin a little softer than you were expecting. “It’s a gift.”

“Don’t push it, cowboy.”

Despite his earlier chivalry, Jake’s eyes roved your skin. You wondered how much was visible in the low light, if he could really see anything, but his face gave nothing away as he swam just a little closer. Green eyes grew darker, clouding with a heady combination of lust and something so tender it nearly made your heart beat out of your chest, as his gaze returned to yours.

“You never said I couldn’t look when you were in the water.” The reminder was soft, teasing, but it made you laugh and you knew that was his goal. In a moment of anxiety, you lifted an arm to cover your chest, and diverted your eyes as you shook your head. Jake, however, gave you no room to wallow in your hesitance. “No need to hide, sweetheart. You’re gorgeous.”

Another step closer, the warmth of his body warming the water around you even as you took a step back. With every inch, you drew closer to the wall and he lifted his hand to cover the concrete edge. “Jake.”

Those eyes, nearly blown black in the dim light of the backyard, shifted. The playful amusement you’d grown used to softened as he searched your face. Jake was never what you would call hesitant, always so steadfast and certain in his actions, but you appreciated the care he took to keep you comfortable as he waited just a beat for your breathing to even.

“Nothing has to happen here.” His voice was low, soft but serious as he reached out to cup your cheek. “If you want to get out, forget all about this and go watch a movie, we can,” he offered, thumb carefully brushing across your heated skin. “I only want this if you do.”

There was never a doubt in your mind that the moment you said the word, Jake would back off and forget any of this ever happened. The moment you said no, he’d climb out of the pool and search for towels, maybe even order takeout as you both lounged on his couch and placed bets on when Coyote would return home. He never pushed, never crossed your boundaries,  and you were grateful for his patience. While it often seemed to be in short supply for everyone else, Jake seemed to have an endless amount reserved for you.

Regardless of how the night ended, this was something you wanted. You’d longed for Jake’s touch since the moment you met, longed to feel his skin pressed to yours, but you couldn’t help yourself. You had to know. “I… is this a one time thing?”

The answer wouldn’t change much as even if it was, you didn’t think you could pretend. There was no turning back, no forgetting the warmth radiating from Jake’s body even as he kept a few inches of space between you, but you needed an answer. 

And if Jake was surprised by the question, he didn’t let on. Instead, he shook his head. The amusement you expected was absent as he regarded the question with a brevity you didn’t expect. “No.” It was certain, so confident that it nearly caught you off guard, but he carried on. “I can’t promise forever, but I want to see where this goes,” he admitted. “I’m here until you get tired of me.”

Occasional self-doubt bled through Jake’s certainty. There were moments he seemed to wonder if he was worth anything more than one night, if he had more to offer than sex and bravado, but you knew he did. You’d spent more time with Jake than with anyone else in recent months and there was no future in which you saw yourself growing tired of him.

“I don’t think that’ll happen.”

Little else seemed appropriate to say, little else seemed to matter in that moment. With Jake so close, green eyes focused entirely on you as he admitted that he wanted to explore a future that saw you falling together, all you could think about was giving in to the urge to kiss him.

So, you did.

As your hands lifted, one to the back of his neck - fingers tangling in the damp strands of hair - and the other to his bicep, Jake’s shoulders relaxed. He melted into your touch, heartbeat racing beneath the tips of your fingers, as you sank into one another. His body was impossibly warm, skin searing beneath your palms as you pressed yourself forward, and you reveled in it as your mouth sought his.

Jake’s lips, soft and warm, curved into a soft smile as his free hand found your waist. The beat of your heart felt too fast, too heavy, even as you attempted to focus on the feeling of his thrumming away beneath the tips of your fingers. To know that you had an effect on him, to know that you flustered him in the same way he flustered you, did wonders for your confidence as you pressed yourself even closer.

When his tongue pressed to the seam of your lips, eager to deep the kiss and sink entirely into you, the reprieve of the water was lost. There was only heat; the wall of muscle that was Jake’s body, the soft press of his hands as they gripped your hip, his mouth as he swallowed your noises of pleasure eagerly, his heavy groan as you forgot yourself and pressed even closer.

The press of Jake’s body against yours was distracting, silenced every thought that raced through your brain. You’d imagined this a thousand times before, dreamt about it more often than you cared to admit, but as his hands began to wander, you realized that nothing could live up to the reality. 

With every swipe of his fingers, touch teasing as he brushed along the expanse of your stomach - up your sides, just beneath the swell of your breast, right above your hip - your body grew warmer. It was all dizzying, more than you could’ve ever asked for and better than you dared to hope. 

Any thought of the future, the past, the moments in between, all ceased to exist as Jake nipped at your bottom lip. And when you broke the kiss to catch your breath, he simply redirected. His lips brushed along the curve of your jaw, down your throat, sending shivers down your spine as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to the damp skin.

Warm hands trailed lower, fingers wrapping around your thigh and lifting to hitch it over his hip as his teeth nipped at the pulse point just beneath your ear. “Thought about this,” he admitted, voice a deep rasp against your skin as he nosed at the hinge of your jaw. “Think about touching you every time I touch myself lately.”

The image of Jake touching himself, getting off to the thought of you, with his body pressed so close to yours was enough to make your body feel as if it’d been submerged in static. The tips of your fingers and toes tingled as the white hot ball in the pit of your stomach grew impossibly hotter. Every inch of him was painfully present - the taut muscles of his shoulders and back, the flex of his stomach with every move he made, the hard and heavy press of his cock against your hip - and made you desperate to feel him as you attempted to formulate a question.

“You’ve… how…?”

Luckily, Jake managed to follow your train of thought where you failed. “How many times have I jerked off to you?” A hum, this one of contemplation as his mouth dipped lower, lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “I’ve lost track, sweetheart,” he admitted, pausing only to mouth at the valley of your breasts. “I haven’t taken anyone home in months,” he reminded you. “Just wanted you. Thinkin’ about you was the next best thing.”

As difficult as it was to formulate a coherent sentence, you blinked through the static. “Thought about you.” It was breathless, a confession floating in the wind as Jake’s hands lifted to your breasts, touch certain as he kneaded the soft skin. “Wanted this, you.”

“I know.” You half-expected him to make a joke, to question who wouldn’t want him, but it never came. Instead, he lifted his head to meet your eyes. “You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”

Jake laughed, grin wide as you rolled your eyes, but offered no resistance as you used the hand on the back of his neck to recapture his mouth in a searing kiss. After a moment of allowing you to lead, he took charge and caged you against the wall. His hands fell lower, trailed down the expanse of your stomach to the plush of your thighs, as his tongue explored the warmth of your mouth.

Warm desire, syrupy and all-consuming, filled the pit of your stomach. Lust clouded your every thought and made it difficult for you to do much more than tug at the damp strands of hair as you felt the twitch of his cock against your hip. He made it difficult for you to do more than groan against his mouth, desperate for his touch, as the anxiety you’d felt dissipated with each swipe of his fingers.

With every swipe of his tongue, his fingers, his warm skin pressed to yours, you suddenly couldn’t remember a time where being this close to him made you feel anything other than wanted. Jake had a way of making you feel as if you were the only person in the world, the only one worthy of his time and attention, and you reveled in it as his hands smoothed over your thighs.

“Jake.”

The plea was muffled, breathed against his mouth, but Jake understood. His hum of acknowledgement was accompanied by a nip to your bottom lip. “I know, sweetheart.” His hand dipped between your thighs then, fingers ghosting along the sensitive inner skin as he met your eyes. “Gonna give you what you want.”

Soft hands ghosted along your thighs, pressing closer and closer to your aching center as Jake leaned in to nose at the hinge of your jaw. A plea for more was on the tip of your tongue, a request for him to just touch you, but before you could ask, his fingers swiped through your folds. His thumb caught on the sensitive bundle of nerves and sent a jolt down your spine.

At your sharp exhale, Jake’s mouth curved into a grin. There was little question that he was eager to hear just how good he made you feel and you had no qualms about giving him what he wanted. While you imagined he would tease, take his time to work you into a frenzy, the moment called for something more and you knew that. His touch wasn’t frenzied, there was no rush to get you off before seeking his own pleasure, but he didn’t hesitate to dive in headfirst.

There was a deliberateness to the swipe of his fingers through your folds, a sharp precision that had your vision whiting at the edges as he finally sank a finger into your heat, and you felt your body arch into his as he shifted even closer.  The grip of his fingers pressed to your thigh, holding you upright as those green eyes searched your face, would likely leave a bruise but you couldn’t wait to feel the evidence of his touch in the morning.

As he focused on your pleasure, the press of his cock against your hip grew more noticeable with every swipe of his fingers. The hard, heavy appendage twitched with each moan that escaped your mouth, with every gasp as his fingers brushed against a spot that had you seeing stars, and you couldn’t help but reach out for him.

Though the water and low light made it difficult to see much, you could clearly see the size of him as your fingers swiped at the sensitive head. The thought of feeling him, of taking all that he had to give, made you clench around his fingers as Jake groaned. 

“Don’t remember what our plans were for tomorrow,” he drawled, accent thicker than you’d ever heard it, “but if you think I’m lettin’ you leave my bed, you’re crazy.”

The press of his fingers grew more insistent with every swipe of your hand, with every brush of your thumb over the sensitive head of his cock, and with every gasp that left your lips. He mouthed at your damp skin, breath fanning over the column of your throat and leaving you with goosebumps, as his thumb circled your aching clit.

“Jake.” He hummed, nosing at the hinge of your jaw, as your fingers tugged at his hair. “Want to come with you,” you pleaded, eager to finally feel him after spending so long imagining this moment. “Please.”

Some small part of you expected a taunt, a tease that called him a gentleman who wanted to get you off first, but he seemed just as desperate as you. “Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he acquiesced, hand leaving your center after a final swipe to your bundle of nerves. Even as you whined at the loss, he shushed you. “Gimme a second.”

Jake shifted, tapped your leg to encourage you to wrap it around his waist, before dragging his cock through your folds. He smirked at the shaking of your limbs, body strung tight as you waited to finally feel him, and kept his eyes trained on your face as he took a brief moment to tease.

The head of his cock caught at your entrance, pulling a soft gasp from your mouth as your hand fell to his bicep. You tipped your head to return your mouth to his, desperate to kiss him once more, as he began to press forward.

Every inch of Jake filling you felt impossible, too much but not quite enough, and you allowed yourself a moment to revel in the feeling. Having him so close, being full of him, after spending so long imagining how he’d feel was overwhelming in the best way. And he eagerly swallowed your noises of pleasure, took them in stride as he gave you a moment to adjust to the feeling of him buried deep.

“Feel even better than I imagined.” His admission lingered on the edge of breathless, words nearly slurred as he waited for your permission to move. “Feel like heave, sweetheart.”

When you gave him the green light, he set a pace that had you seeing stars. And with every thrust of his hips, his composure began to slip, gradually losing himself in the warmth of your body - in the reality of the moment at hand. Words failed you both, too caught up in the feeling of one another to breathe more than a few words of pleasure. The only thing you could focus on was the searing warmth of his chest pressed to yours, the sting of his fingers digging into your thigh, the ache as he stretched you so completely.

Time seemed to still as everything but this, everything but Jake, ceased to exist. With every press of his hips, with every swipe of his fingers over your sensitive bundle of nerves, his pace began to falter. You were both tumbling closer to the edge, falling into the abyss, and your cries were reduced to little but his name.

Jake didn’t seem to mind, however, as every cry that left your lips spurred him on. “I’ve got you,” he promised, pressing impossibly closer. His hips moved faster, sending water sloshing around you both, as he pushed you higher and higher.

As you barreled over the edge, vision whiting at the edges and lips parting, Jake’s mouth met yours. He swallowed your cries of pleasure, noises he knew would actually wake the neighbors, and slowed his pace to make the ride easier to handle. Even still, he followed shortly after with a groan of his own.

The feeling of him filling you drew a gasp, the warmth of his spend searing you from within as you clenched around him. That saw Jake nipping at your bottom lip in warning, though a lazy grin betrayed him. “Watch it, sweetheart,” he teased, grinning when you laughed weakly. “We should get out, get cleaned up.”

“I’m not sure my legs work.” The joke made him roll his eyes, though you could see the way his chest puffed in pride as he waded the pair of you toward the stairs.

“My job’s not done, then. Told you,” he began, grinning as he took your hand in his, “you’re not leavin’ my bed tomorrow.”

Jake’s hand was warm, strong and careful as he helped you out of the pool. The promise was enough to make you laugh, eager for a future you were certain didn’t exist less than an hour ago. There was little you needed to say, not when you knew there was time to say it all later. So, you simply followed along and decided you were grateful for skinny dipping and whatever other changes the night would bring.

_______________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: I can’t believe it’s been so long since I posted a fic, I’m so sorry. Literally, I’ve been to a whole different country since I last posted (I think? I’m pretty sure I last posted like two weeks before I went to Germany). Anyway. Only perk of my life falling apart? I write to pretend it’s not. :) So! Enjoy this, you’ll see more friends to lovers and other stuff. Also, rusty smut, my bad. I’m gonna keep working on it!

Taglist: @lulu-noodles, @holachicos, @getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth, @withakindheartx, @ssprayberrythings, @verin93, @totalwitch2, @malindacath, @alexparkxr, @hangmandruigandmav, @alexxavicry, @calicokel, @jaymum, @dracosluvbot, @little-wiseone, @specialk6802, @mandylove1000, @julesclues, @archetypesoflife, @oliviah-25, @benhardysdrumstick, @caatheeriinee07, @yvespoems, @chloereidwayne, @flower-name​, @callsignharper​, @peoniarose​, @hangmanscoming​, @rh3tt​

[oxygenbefore1775]

thinking about Zeke's blond lashes

➳wc: 0,6k

➳a/n: im not sure if other culture have this but where i grew up you can make a wish if you blow away one of your lashes that fell on your face (although normally you would have to guess on which side of the face the lash has landed and only if you guess right your wish will have a chance of coming true but i digress); this is my comfort written piece if you wish to have it (cuz everything is not daijobu at the moment and this is my coping mechanism)

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath when you noticed a cup of coffee in Zeke's hands — the very same one he chose to leave your embrace for not so long ago. “Do you not want to sleep tonight?”

The unamused tone contrasted sharply with your eagerness to welcome him back into the cradle of your touch as you wrapped your arms around him as soon as he settled back onto the couch. Fortunately, he spared you from teasing despite your inconsistent display of affection.

“You hush,” he shot back, a facade barely concealing the smile on his lips once again. “I’ve had so much of it on the missions that this small amount wouldn’t do anything to me. It takes much more than a single cup before it has any effect.” 

The sound of his voice beckoned your reciprocation. The unspoken tension that once filled the air dissipated with the onset of the night, as if the last remnants of it had died. Why would that be, you mused to yourself, even though the answer didn't require much pondering. 

He would leave come morning.

A dreadful thought — almost worry-inducing — you had to admit to yourself as your mind sought refuge in the relish of his fleeting proximity. Even more so as you lifted your head off his shoulder, your gaze finding its place on his features, solemn and bathed in the moonlight. How silly. To mourn the presence of someone not subject to change. He’d never return — return to you — with a wound forever marring his perfect form. Well, perhaps his eyes were the only thing worthy of languishing in your heart. That forever impermanent look to them was something that you wished to remember.

It was then that you noticed. 

You hesitated but spoke nonetheless. “Stay still.”

He heeded, though a brief flinch betrayed his obedient front when he felt your finger brush under his eye. A frown etched into his glabella as he discovered the reason for your unbidden touch — an eyelash, as golden as his hair. Almost imperceptible against his fair skin. The only reason you noticed it, your morbid urge to revel in the sight of his face aside, was the way it caught the moonlight.

His eyes, evidently, remained oblivious to the unexplainable burst of joy this revelation caused you as he reached out his hand to brush the lash off your fingertip. Quickly, you withdrew your hand, determined to prevent this atrocity from taking place.

“No,” your voice barely above a whisper. “You have to make a wish then blow it away. Then it’ll come true.”

With that, you brought your hand to his lips. In the dimness of the room, you exchanged glances — yours full of anticipation, his devoid of the same sense of wonder that captivated you. It was a rare occurrence for you to closely observe the glimpses of emotion flashing behind his blue eyes. In less than a second, the ice in his gaze melted away as he relented, deciding to entertain your sentiment.

You felt his cool breath on your finger tip as he blew the lash away all the while not breaking off eye contact. And just like that, the golden glint was no more. It melted into the darkness of the room. 

“So, what did you wish for?” you inquired with more curiosity than taunt, resting your chin on his shoulder once more.

His gaze returned to mindless observation of the interior. “Not telling you,” he took a sip, adding weight to his refusal. For the briefest of moments, you saw him purse his lips, as if readjusting, before he spoke again. “Or else it wouldn’t come true.”

[bumblebeesweettea]

A Failed Farewell

Fandom: Sandman DC

Rating: Teen And Up

Characters: Dream of the Endless, Hob Gadling

Relationships: Quiet Pining

Warnings: No Warnings. It's hella long my bad.

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Slow Burn | Possible one Sided Romance

Synopsis: Dream of the Endless visits Hob Gadling at his flat, an unusual occurrence that immediately sets Hob on edge. Dream is burdened by a profound sorrow, revealing he has broken a cosmic law by granting his son Orpheus a release from his tortured existence, a decision that now carries the ultimate consequence: his destruction by the Kindly Ones. As Dream prepares for his inevitable fate, Hob refuses to let him face it alone. Through a mix of quiet defiance and unwavering compassion, Hob offers Dream a moment of respite, imploring him to stay the night. Their conversation reveals layers of grief, guilt, love, and the unshakable bond between them. Despite the shadow of impending doom, the story concludes with Dream accepting Hob’s kindness, allowing himself a fleeting moment of peace in the company of his steadfast friend.

Language: English

It was exceedingly rare that Dream of the Endless came to visit Hob Gadling at his flat. Which was the first clue something was very wrong. So when Hob opened his door to see Dream standing in the hall, hands clasped behind his back with a strange look in his eyes Hob noticed immediately. He wasn't an idiot, though Dream treated him like one on occasion. 

  “Dream," Hob said, leaning against the doorframe, his casual posture betrayed by the way his knuckles tightened against the wood. His eyes scanned the Endless, searching for cracks in that too-perfect calm, like a man navigating an unfamiliar battlefield. Dream’s face was the same—eerily serene, his pale features sculpted with the precision of porcelain. Yet Hob caught it, just barely: the faintest tremor in that dark gaze, like ripples spreading over still water, heralding a storm no one could see. 

When Dream remained silent, Hob pressed onward, filling the weighty quiet. "I thought you preferred your own realm.” He forced a smile, but it faltered, sitting awkwardly at odds with the edge creeping into his voice.

Dream blinked, as though surfacing from a thought too deep and heavy to withstand interruption. Slowly, he stepped past Hob into the flat, his presence trailing like a faded shadow. "I thought I should come to visit," he replied, the words deliberate, mechanical, as if reading lines from a script. His gaze flicked around the apartment, taking in its warmth: cluttered bookshelves groaning under the weight of old, cracked tomes, the faint, pleasant aroma of baked sweets mingling with ink. Briefly, faintly, the corner of his lips pulled into a ghost of a smile. He could almost see Hob baking, flour dusting his hands as the radio hummed in the background. It was… quaint. Utterly Hob. 

Behind him, Hob quietly shut the door, his brows knitting with unease. The air inside seemed heavier than usual, thick with an indefinable tension. It clung to him, dragging at his chest like deep water. "You’re always welcome to visit," he said cautiously, his voice softer than he intended. "Can I offer you a drink?"  

He didn’t wait for Dream’s response, slipping quickly into the kitchen. His hands betrayed him, trembling slightly as he grabbed a bottle and glasses. Anything to keep moving. Anything to stay ahead of the dread crawling up his spine. When he returned, he found Dream seated at the small dining table. Among the clutter of exam papers, stray pens, and small, tactile toys designed for fidgeting, the Endless looked laughably alien, an otherworldly note in an ordinary chord. Yet oddly, his posture slackened as he took in the atmosphere—his friend’s life etched into the chaos of the room. For now, he could simply exist here. For now. 

Hob placed a glass in front of him, the scrape of it against the table too loud in the suffocating silence. Sliding into the seat across from Dream, he watched him closely as they sat. Neither spoke at first, the moments stretching thin and brittle between them. Then, at last, Dream lifted his glass, but he didn’t drink. He stared at the amber liquid swirling within, as though divining answers from the way it caught the light. 

"I know this isn’t… one of our normal meetings," Dream began, his voice pulling taut over the frayed edges of hesitation. "But I just wanted to talk." 

Hob tilted his head, his brows raising fractionally. "About?" 

"Anything." 

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Hob knew damn well when Dream was lying, even if most couldn’t tell the difference. The words carried weight, yet no truth. The sheer desperation threaded through them felt unsettlingly out of place when spoken by a being like Dream. It was enough to make Hob decide, for now, not to push. Instead, he did what he always did—he talked. He told stories about his students, his accidental friendships, the strange quirks of modern life that still left him bewildered. Dream didn’t interrupt, though his silence felt louder with every passing word. 

Hob’s voice faltered as he noticed Dream’s gaze lingering— memorizing every detail of his face. The curve of his smile, the way his laughter lit up the room, the cadence of his voice as it chased away the quiet. Dream’s expression didn’t shift, but Hob could feel it. A choking sense of finality. An unspoken goodbye.  

"Dream," Hob said sharply, the suddenness of his tone snapping the Endless from his thoughts. "You’re acting… strange. Stranger than usual. What’s going on?" 

Dream offered a smile, brittle and hollow as spun glass. "It’s nothing you need to be concerned about, Hob." 

"You’re a rotten liar." Hob reached across the table without thinking, his fingers brushing over Dream’s wrist. The immortal flinched, slightly, his gaze dropping to where the warmth of human skin rested against his own. 

"I…" Dream’s voice cracked faintly, his words wilting before they formed. "I just find myself in need of your company. Your voice and presence are a comfort." 

"Why do you need comfort?" Hob’s voice was quieter this time but held firm, the question weighted with something too close to fear. He tightened his grip on the Endless’ wrist, grounding his own trembling hand. "Please… Dream, you’re scaring me." 

And Dream—trap that he was in his labyrinth of silences and half-truths—couldn’t meet Hob’s eyes. Not now, not when Hob was beginning to see the truth sinking in: this wasn’t just a visit. It was a goodbye, carefully dressed as something else. And if Hob let him walk out that door, he wouldn’t be coming back.  

 “I... have done something that carries serious consequences.” Dream’s voice, typically light and unearthly, carried a weight now, thick and heavy with emotion. “I broke one of the cosmic laws. And I will be destroyed by the Kindly Ones because of it.” Destroyed? No. Dream was an Endless. A being whose power rippled through the very fabric of existence, threading itself into the dreams and fears of every living soul. He wasn’t something that could be destroyed. He wasn’t... he couldn’t...

“No. No, no, no, you didn’t—tell me you didn’t,” Hob’s voice cracked as he surged forward. His fingers clamped around Dream’s wrist, gripping tightly, as though his touch alone could anchor the Endless to this world, keep him here—keep him safe. Dream’s gaze dropped to the table, to the ancient wood beneath them, its timeworn lines far less agonizing than Hob’s raw, anguished face. He could not bring himself to look.

“Why?!” Hob’s voice rose, trembling between disbelief and fury. “What could have possibly possessed you to—?!” The question caught in his throat, his mind reaching the inevitable conclusion before the words could even form. There was only one law Hob could think of that Dream could have broken to earn the wrath of the Kindly Ones. 

“Orpheus.” Hob exhaled the name, barely audible, his grip slipping away as though the realization drained his very strength. The Endless flinched—so slight it was nearly imperceptible, except to Hob, who knew him too well. The name seemed to wound him in ways no blade ever could. Dream’s head lowered further, and his shoulders curled inward, as though he might collapse beneath the weight of the guilt that now carved itself into him like jagged stone. His eyes, dark voids that once mirrored stars, glistened with unshed tears.

“He asked me... begged me really.” Dream’s voice was stripped bare, quiet, devoid of grandeur. It trembled, unsteady, flayed open to its most human edge. “He couldn’t continue as he was.”

Hob’s heart clenched. He had heard fragments of Orpheus’s story through Calliope, murmured whispers heavy with grief and regret. Dream had never spoken of his son—had never dared to shape the failure into words. “You gave him peace, Dream,” Hob said, stumbling over the words. It felt clumsy, inadequate, but he said it all the same, desperate to erode the unbearable silence between them. 

Dream laughed then, sharp and brittle, the sound wholly bereft of mirth. “I murdered my son, Hob.” 

Hob froze, the words hitting him like a sudden drop into freezing water. And then he saw it—Dream’s hands, trembling in minute, almost imperceptible waves. He saw what he had missed before. The Endless was afraid.

“My son. My blood.” Dream’s voice cracked, and the mask he so often wore slipped, revealing something devastating—a man, broken. “And in doing so, I shattered the laws that bind even one such as I.” 

Hob reached for him again, carefully this time, taking one of Dream’s hands in both of his as though holding onto something brittle, something that might shatter completely with too much force. Dream shuddered, a deep, visceral response, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth, as if he could hold in the howl of despair threatening to escape. 

“There has to be a way,” Hob said, his voice trembling but insistent, grasping at the flimsiest threads of hope. “Orpheus asked you. He *wanted* this. Surely even the Kindly Ones can see reason in that.” His words spiraled into desperation as he sought some invisible lifeline. But Dream shook his head, the motion sluggish and weighted, as though even denying Hob required a monumental effort. His eyes, fathomless and liquid, shimmered with something raw—something close to breaking. 

“There is no loophole for filicide. No reprieve for tany who severs such bonds, no matter the reason.” Dream said. He’d resigned himself to his fate long before he knocked on his friend’s door. He hadn’t come looking for answers; he'd come to spend his fleeting moments with the only friend he had. The one who made him more human.  

“But he asked you,” Hob pressed, his voice rising, shaking now, clawed apart by his own helplessness. “This wasn’t... This wasn’t cruelty or indifference or malice. You gave him release when no one else could, Dream. You... you gave him freedom.”

Dream recoiled, his hand slipping from Hob’s grasp as he retreated, folding into himself like a wounded beast. The motion was deliberate, excruciatingly slow, as though he was holding some vast sorrow at bay, containing it with sheer force of will. “Do you not see, Hob Gadling?” he murmured, his voice distant, cracking under the strain. “It does not matter what Orpheus wanted. It does not matter that I loved him more than the stars can ever hope to shine in the void. I broke the law. And for that, I must answer.”

Hob stared at him, unblinking, his pulse roaring in his ears. There was something primal in him now, something enraged and terrified in equal measure. His chest tightened, clenching painfully under the weight of his own anguish. “No.” The word came sharp, firm—absolute.

“Hob...” Dream’s voice was faint, pleading, broken, but Hob refused to let it stop him.

“No!” Hob almost shouted, his eyes burning with unshed tears, his hands trembling in their futile attempts to grasp something solid. “I won’t let this happen. I don’t care what cosmic law you've broken. I am not losing you.” The words came out in a tumble and Hob had no time to dissect them.  

Dream’s lips parted, but no words came. His gaze lingered, flickering with the faintest, most fragile ember of something Hob couldn’t quite name—hope perhaps, or grief so deep it looped back into belief. But it was gone in an instant, swallowed by the tidal wave of inevitability Dream carried like a mantle.

“I’m going to call Constantine and Death, they might be able to help,” Hob said, bringing his voice back down to more acceptable levels, “and Calliope... She will need to know for more than one reason.”

 “No,” Dream said softly, a hand rising, palm out, a silent plea. “I will tell her. It is my burden, Hob. Mine alone.”

Hob swallowed hard, his throat dry and aching. He could see the fissures in Dream’s composure, cracks spider-webbing through the facade he wore like armor. There was no air of the untouchable, no echo of the impenetrable Lord of Dreams now. Here stood a man—if one could call him that—broken by the enormity of what he had done, the enormity of what it meant to lose a child, even one who had begged for the release.

“Alright,” Hob conceded, his voice gentle, deliberate. He leans closer,, his movements slow as if dealing with a wounded animal that might bolt. “But not tonight. Not now. Please. You’re in no state to—” He stopped, inhaled deeply, steadying himself against the ache in his chest. “Just… stay here.” Did he think he could fend off the Kindly Ones? Creatures powerful enough to kill gods? No. But he might be able to speak with them. Get them to see reason, or at least try to. He knew if Dream left they would never see one another again.  

Dream’s gaze rose slowly, meeting Hob’s. For a moment, the Endless looked impossibly small, like the weight of eternity had ground him down to something fragile and raw. Hob held his breath, waiting, hoping. “I cannot stay, Hob,” Dream murmured, but his tone was devoid of conviction, as if he were trying to convince himself more than Hob.

“You can,” Hob said, “And you should. Just for tonight. Please. You’ve carried enough, mate. Let someone else carry you for a bit. I’ve got a spare room, if you don’t fancy the couch. Or.. do Endless even need sleep? Or do you just sit up all broody and lament about life?”

Dream chuckled, a weak smile on his lips. “Oh? Do you intend on keeping me here? Dream of the Endless ensnared in Professor Gadling’s mundane apartment?” The ghost of dry humor had Hob let out a choked laugh.

“Damn right, I would,” he said, his grin crooked, warm with relief loosening some of the tension in his shoulders.. “You’re the bloody King of Dreams. If you really wanted to leave, I doubt my flimsy locks could stop you. But I’d rather you didn’t. Leave, I mean.” The endless’ eyes finally spark with something bordering on amusement, and he tilted his head, studying Hob with an intensity that made the mortal’s pulse stumble. He didn’t know it, but Hob was risking his life getting in between The Kindly Ones and their Quarry.

 “Why?” The question was quiet, but it landed like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through the air between them.

Hob hesitated, his breath catching as centuries of carefully guarded feelings surged to the surface, threatening to spill over. His heart hammered in his chest, the words he wanted to say clawing at his throat. Because I love you. Because I can’t bear to see you like this. Because you’re everything I never knew I needed. But he couldn’t say any of that. Not now. Not when Dream had just lost his son and his very life was being threatened.

“Because I care about you,” Hob said instead, settling on something close enough to the full truth. “You’re my friend. And I’m not going to let you face this alone.”

Dream’s expression softened, the hard edges of his sorrow smoothing into something quieter, more vulnerable. For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, but then he sighed. “Very well,” he said, almost. “I will stay. For tonight.”

Hob’s chest ached with relief, and he nodded, his smile returning, brighter now. “Good. Uh, Do you want to sit on the couch? Or… or lie down? You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. We can just… be.” Neither of them had touched the alcohol that Hob had poured them earlier. So he thought something else was in order. 

Dream didn’t answer right away, his gaze drifting to the worn sofa against the far wall. “Yes..I think I need some time to just be,” Slowly, he moved toward the couch. He sank onto the cushions, his movements graceful even in their exhaustion, and folded his hands in his lap. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. Hob watched him for a moment, his chest aching with the weight of all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, he crossed the room and sat beside Dream, leaving a respectful distance between them but close enough to offer silent reassurance. The room fell into a heavy, expectant silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside.

“Thank you,” Dream said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. “For your kindness. For your... persistence.”

Hob’s chest tightened,and he reached over, his hand hovering above Dream’s for a moment before he let it drop. “Always,” he said softly, the word carrying all the weight of his unspoken feelings. “I’m always here for you, Dream. No matter what.”

They sat in silence after that, the quiet between them heavy but not oppressive. Hob watched Dream out of the corner of his eye, his heart aching for the man—the being—he’d come to love more than he’d ever thought possible. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for tonight, Dream was here. And that was enough.

[whitetaileddeer]

Gio and Maria

TW: depression and kind of neglect 

Maria and Gio’s relationship is complicated to say the least. They love each other deeply, being the only present figure in each others lives for a long time, and reflect one another. However, their similarities cause conflict, neither of them enjoying the parts of themselves they see in each other. For a long time Maria was not a stable parental figure in Gio’s life.

Maria has never been able to handle her own issues, even when she was a young girl. She experienced bouts of depression as a child/teenager which her mother chalked up to her being purposefully difficult. Maria would often act out, snapping at her peers, breaking her possessions, sneaking off to perform or, most notably, running away when she was only 17. Maria’s acts of defiance could be seen as a form of self medication, chasing a feeling to subdue what she was or wasn’t feeling. 

Maria’s mother fed into her disillusioned coping mechanisms, it was impossible for her to see that her daughter may be struggling. She blamed Maria for how she felt, pushing her further away.

Maria had a troubled adulthood what with having her fiancé, and only friend, cheat on her multiple times with her knowing, being completely cut off from her family and financial insecurity. After running away from Narciso after becoming pregnant with Gio, Maria faced one of the few instances of debilitating depression she experienced. She had been depressed before while with Narciso, being unable to attend shows or move on with tour due to being ‘under the weather’, but this she had to face completely alone. After giving birth to Gio she suffered post natal depression and found herself unable to truly care for him. 

Throughout Gio’s early childhood he can remember dark patches, when his mother wouldn’t come out of her room, where he was left hungry but too little to reach the kitchen counter. He missed days of school, he itched his skin, unclean but unable to figure out how the bath worked. The dark patches were few and far between, and when Gio was very young, he and Maria never discussed it. One day she would simply come out of her room, pick him up and kiss him, and it was like it never happened. Gio thinks back on it now and wonders if it was just some persistent bad dream he had, as whenever he tries to mention it to his mam she denies it. (Most of these occurrences happened after visits from Gio’s father, or interactions between Maria and her family, which were very inconsistent and were rare occurrences)

These instances were easy to forget as Gio got older, until they were almost unsalvageable from the back of his mind. At least they would have been if not for the death of his uncle. Francesco died in a ‘terrible accident’ although almost everyone knows it was a suicide, no one will admit it. Francesco died, who was the only one to helped Maria in her darkest moments, who welcomed her back with open arms when she came home, who was the only one there when she gave birth to Gio, who let Gio experience what having a dad would have been like. Maria fell into a deep depression, which lasted many months. Gio remembers almost none of it, like one entire chunk of his life was picked from his brain and erased. The moments he does remember were disturbing, crying at his mothers closed door, tugging on her arm to feel sharp bones under paling skin or lying in bed beside her and watching the basin of her collar bone fill and fall with her rancid breath. He remembers this awful dreadful feeling that his mother was going to follow his uncle, that he would lose her too. Strategically, Gio does not think on this part of his life at all. But her remembers the sick rolling feeling that would lull from his little body and into the carpet beneath him, making it sway under his feet when he would attempt to climb the stairs. They would stretch on into darkness, a gaping smelling yawning at the top of the stairs, as the end of the corridor, and inside it his mother. Long black hair, lying on her side in a dim room that smelled like stale air and sleep filled mouths. 

Maria drew herself out of this depression after learning about Narcio’s other sons, her little boy’s brothers, and flung herself into the long process of fostering and adopting Juan. 

(Side note: This may be the only point of contingency Gio has towards Juan’s adoption. He’s always harboured a grudge, not towards Juan but towards his Mother, that Maria was able to pull herself out of her depression for Juan and not for him. Maria was always able to fully parent Juan quite consistently, while Gio never truly got to experienced this.)

When Maria was well, which was most of the time, their relationship waxed and waned. Maria was never quite sure how to raise Gio, and walked a fine line between too strict or too lax. Maria and Gio were extremely close, having only each other, so even as a child Gio shared very similar tastes with his mam, the same music and shows and activities. And with Gio having very few friends, almost all of his time was spent with her. However, whenever conflict arose (Which was quite often as Gio was quite a…difficult… child) Maria found herself falling back on her own mother’s parenting. Shouting and punishing without clear reason, ‘because I said so’’s and frequent silent treatments. Maria wasn’t able to deal with her own emotions, let alone Gio’s, so when tension grew she would simply pretend he didn’t exist until he apologised. 

Maria deeply feared that Gio would turn out the way she did, so she used strict demands to keep him from following her path. Forcing him into classical music extracurriculars, church twice a week, confession, confirmation, alter serving, all devices to be handed into her at whatever hour she felt. As Gio began developing odd behaviours and conversations, Maria read his diaries (This probably let to a lot more secrecy from Gio, he never truly forgave her for that.) She would change her rules at random, leaving Gio to struggle to catch up, never confident in her own parenting. 

Besides the strange bouts of strict parenting (Mussolini treatment in Gio’s words), Maria could flip very easily into being a very lax ‘cool’ mam. Despite the conflicts that arose from their similarities, there was a lot of solidarity there. They shared an odd sense of humour and a general distain for their neighbours and people at Gio’s school. Maria would swear around Gio, and allow him to do the same, she’d let him wander to the beach whenever he fancied and together they amassed an impressive audio library of any and all music. She would let him read any books he got his hand on, and even encouraged him to pursue his own literary interests over whatever his school set him. (Maria had a long history with Gio’s schools, always defending him no matter the behaviour, they share an unpleasant attitude towards organisations and neither like to be told what to do.) She never pushed him to make friends, knowing he hated the idea.

Maria’s ability to flip from being completely chill and relaxed into extremely strict at the drop of a hat always left Gio confused, never knowing what he could or couldn’t say to her, likely leading to him keeping things from his mam, in order to keep the peace. Even now, he keeps secrets to not distress her, knowing any wrong thing could send her spiralling into distress or anger. Gio has many mood swings that reflect his mams.

To say the least, when things were good between them they were vey good, and when things were bad they were very bad, neither Gio or Maria do things half way, so their relationship is a pendulum swing of extremes. 

When Gio thinks back on his childhood with his mother he can never make up his mind about how he feels, to him his mother was both his best friend and his dictator (He’s very dramatic). He’s made his peace that they’ll never go too long without arguing, that he’ll never truly make his mother understand his perspective on things, and him hers, and that there are things that happened when he was a kid that he knows shouldn’t have. But he knows that at the end of the day his mam would shout down teachers for him, would spend whats little left of her money on anything to make him happy, that she’s just scared and unwell and wants whats best for him, even though her ways of achieving this may not always be the best. 

tldr:

Maria and Gio are not ‘half arsed’ kind of people and their relationship reflects this.

[mama-qwerty]

Returning the Favor

Super self-indulgent snippet, written specifically because I was feeling bad and needed a pick-me-up.

Dread comforting Callie. 'Nuff said.

~~~~~

Dread scrounged through the cabinets in the Sanctuary’s kitchen. He was the only Knuckles here for the moment—a rare occurrence—and he aimed to take advantage of the solitude.

Any leftover cookies were going back to No Place with him.

“All treats are meant to stay in the Sanctuary for the enjoyment of all Knuckleses,” Cyber called, as though he had read Dread’s mind. The blasted ghost always seemed to want to spout off rules and spoil his fun.

(Yes, Dread knew the others referred to Cyber as a ‘holler-gram’, but that really seemed like a silly word for what the echidna obviously was. Cyber was see-through, appeared and disappeared at will, and couldn’t interact with the physical objects of the Sanctuary. Only one kind of creature exhibited all those traits, and Dread was no fool. Cyber was a ghost. A sentient one, sure, but a ghost nonetheless.)

“At th’ moment, Cyber lad,” Dread said, digging through the last cabinet, “I happen t’ be th’ only Knuckles here. Well, the only real Knuckles here. No offense, lad. So any sweet treats be rightfully mine. Finders keepers an’ all that.”

The pirate uttered a triumphant laugh as he discovered a container filled with chocolate chunk cookies, and pulled the lid off to shove one into his mouth. He turned to give Cyber a crumb-covered smirk, and the transparent echidna produced a very convincing scowl. Dread had Cyber on a technicality, and although it seemed to annoy the ghost, he didn’t say anything.

The two stared each other down for a moment, before Cyber blinked, his eyes glowing green.

“Miss Callie, incoming,” he announced, just as a portal opened.

Dread nearly choked. He wasn’t scared of anyone or anything, but if the lass caught him scarfing down the rest of the cookies like this, she’d give him one of those looks. The one that was part disappointment, part annoyance, part irritation, and part disapproval. And he’d rather face down a dozen krakens than endure that look cast in his direction just once.

Callie came through her portal, moving at a fast walk.

“Lass!” he called out, hurriedly swallowing the cookie mush in his mouth. He slammed the lid back on the container and shoved it into the cabinet before turning around to throw her his best charming smile. “I were jus’ gettin’ meself a snack, an’ . . . lass?”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even seem to notice him. Instead she made a beeline for the quiet room, pulling the tie from the bottom of her braid as she went. She dropped it, right before running her fingers through her hair, separating the plaits and giving it a sharp tug as she uttered a low grunt.

Then she was in the quiet room, closing the door behind her.

Dread’s brow furrowed. He’d never seen her like that.

Hopping down from his stool, the pirate walked over to where the lass’ hair tie lay. He picked it up, giving it a look before turning his attention back to the door of the quiet room.

“Miss Callie occasionally requires the peace the Sanctuary offers,” Cyber said, his voice softer. “She requested I keep her informed on the occupancy here, so she may come when it’s empty.”

Dread turned his attention back to him. “She’s done this b’fore?”

The holler-gram nodded. “Twice. She goes into the quiet room, and although I don’t directly monitor in there, sound carries, especially when it’s quiet out here.”

“What kind o’ sounds?”

Cyber hesitated. “I feel it would be an invasion of her privacy if I repeated anything more. I should not have told you what I have.”

“Well ye did an’ now I wanna know th’ rest,” Dread said, moving a step closer to the transparent echidna. “What sounds, ye blasted ghost?”

“Hologram. I am the avatar for the Master Emerald—”

“I don’t give a flyin’ fig if ye’re a holler-gram, avertar, ‘r jus’ a persnickety figment of me imagination.” A snarl curled Dread’s lip as his patience quickly ran out. “Tell me what sounds ye heard. Now.”

Silence settled over the two, and Cyber pulled his lips tight. “Sorrow.”

Dread’s face fell. “She . . . ye mean, she were cryin’?”

A short nod. “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s more of a frustrated scream. Emotions are tricky for me to decipher, I can only extrapolate from the data I’ve collected from the rest of you. And I have never observed Miss Callie in situations which conjure these types of reactions.”

The pirate turned back to look toward the quiet room’s door. He didn’t hear anything at the moment, just an ominous silence, one that rang in his ears as he stared.

Sorrow? What would cause the lass such a deep feeling of sorrow that she would (regularly) need to come to the Sanctuary to let loose those emotions? He could understand her wanting to do so when the place was empty—she was one of the group ‘moms’ and thus felt the need to be in charge, to have control of herself at all times. To be the voice of reason (even if she sometimes was as bad as the rest of them when it came to pranks and snarking at each other) and keep a level head when others were letting their own anger or sadness get the better of them.

She was the rock that many of the Knuckleses—him included—relied on to keep them sane and grounded. She was the one they leaned on when their feelings were too big, their thoughts too heavy.

But now that he thought about it, who was her rock? Who helped her when she was sad or angry or otherwise feeling like she was getting lost in her own head? When she felt like a great weight had settled on her shoulders, and it was slowly crushing her, little by little?

Maddie had her husband. Dread had met him once or twice, he seemed a decent enough bloke, for the most part. Kinda straight-laced. A bit boring. But devoted to his family. Supportive. That kinda thing.

But Callie didn’t have a mate. She was alone, raising her two boys (and dealing with a multitude of Knuckleses) by herself. There was someone—Wayne? Wyatt? Dread had met him once or twice, too. Reminded him a bit of Gnarly, to be honest. And the man seemed to have a bit of a soft spot for Callie, but the lass never mentioned anyone in terms of a romantic-type of interest. It was just her. All alone.

Who did Callie have to lean on?

Dread tossed the hair tie in the air, catching it in a fist as he turned and headed back toward the kitchen area. He tucked the tie into his pocket as he dug in a drawer, pulling out a well-worn brush. It was one she used to help calm and soothe many a Knux—yes, him included—and he picked out what quills and fur was stuck in the bristles as he headed toward the quiet room door.

His fist hovered for a moment. Should he knock? What if she refused to let him in? Would he simply go in anyway, thereby showing her that he didn’t respect her wishes?

Then again, how many times did she sit with an upset Knuckles, even when they thought they wanted to be alone? Wasn’t this the same situation?

But maybe that was different. She had come to the Sanctuary specifically when (she thought) there were no others around. Didn’t that mean she truly wanted to be alone?

A little frustrated huff left his lips. All this thinking and over thinking wasn’t productive. Dread was better when he listened to his gut and just acted, and didn’t waste a lot of time wondering and worrying if that was the right thing to do.

So he went with his gut.

Dread dropped his hand, resting it on the door handle and giving it a gentle push. He poked his head into the room, catching sight of a blanket covered lump on the couch, and a pair of glasses sitting on the table to the left. “Lass?”

The lump shifted, as though the person beneath curled tighter. “Go away.”

Instead, Dread moved into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. “C’mon, lass. I be a captain. Ye can’t give me orders.”

A sigh, shaky and wet. “Just go away. Please.”

Dread flinched. He’d never heard Callie sound so . . . weak. So defeated. So utterly broken.

He moved closer, holding the brush tightly in one hand. Suddenly this didn’t seem to be the best idea. But, good idea or not, Dread was committed. “Thought ye may need a brushin’. T’ help soothe whatever’s gotcha all . . .” He gestured toward her, even if she couldn’t see it. “Like this.”

She didn’t respond. The blanket pulled tighter, and she scooted toward the back of the couch. Dread had an idea she was lying on her side, facing the back, and simply wanted to wedge herself in as tight as she could to feel safe.

“C’mon, lass,” he said again, moving closer. “Talk t’ me.”

Another sigh, but this one harsher. “I came here because I didn’t want to talk to anyone, Dread. Leave me alone.”

Dread cocked an eyebrow. Anger. Okay. He could deal with that.

“Oh, that’s quite th’ double standard ye got there,” he said, moving to the couch and hopping onto it, by where he assumed her feet were. “How many times did ye make me talk when I said I didn’t want to? Jus’ plopped yerself right down an’ did that thing where ye prodded an’ questioned an’ dragged me thoughts outta me head anyway.”

A little growl answered him, and she flipped the blanket off enough so she could sit up and shoot him a glare. Her hair was a mess—a tangled mop of red—and she wiped at the tears on her cheeks.

“If this is how you felt when I did that then I’m sorry to have bothered you!” she hissed, right before her foot shot out and kicked him off the couch. “Get lost, echidna. Let me wallow in my patheticness in peace.” Then she rolled back over, pulling the blanket back over her head.

Dread hit the floor with a startled cry. Okay, that had been unexpected. He’d seen her angry before—her temper flared on occasion, and they’d had a few screaming matches—but he’d never seen her like this.

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself back to his feet. “We’re doin’ it like this, are we?”

Without giving her a chance to respond, Dread dropped the brush and took two handfuls of the blanket. With one quick motion he gave a pull, yanking it free and bringing her with it. She rolled, landing on the floor with a smack.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she spat, moving to sit with her back against the front of the couch. Dread uttered a sharp laugh.

“Me? What th’ hell be wrong with ye?” He moved to stand before her, hands on hips and an angry glare in his eye. “The lass I know wouldn’t wallow in self-pity. She doesn’t mope ‘neath a blanket. She faces trouble head on an’ back straight. What happened t’ her?”

Callie heaved a sigh, pulling her legs in to hug and resting her forehead on her knees. “Maybe she’s tired of being the one everyone runs to. Maybe she’s sick of being in charge. Maybe the rock everyone else relies on just needs some time to break once in a while.”

The anger drained from Dread at her words, at the soft, tired tone she spoke in. His thoughts from before came back to him. Who did Callie have to lean on?

It would seem the answer is no one.

Dread sighed.

That just wouldn’t do.

“C’mere.” Dread picked up the brush, moving to climb onto the couch behind her. “Let ol’ Dread take care o’ that rats nest ye call hair, aye?”

She didn’t respond for a long moment, instead keeping her head resting on her knees. Dread sat behind her, giving her the time she needed. His anger had drawn hers out, breaking through the initial wall of self-pity she’d put up earlier. Now he would wait, and let her reach out when she was comfortable.

A little smile curled his lips at that. Oh how the tables had turned.

After a moment, Callie let out a long sigh, lifting her head and brushing her long, tangled hair behind her, where he could reach it. He didn’t speak, opting to simply begin gently dragging the brush through her mane, moving slowly so as not to tug.

When the brush refused to move through some of the more difficult areas, Dread paused to pull off his gloves. His claws worked better through the tougher knots, and he used them to pick apart the worst offenders. He occasionally reached higher to gently scrape her scalp, making her shiver slightly from the sensation.

“Talk t’ me.” His voice was soft, his hands never stopped moving. “C’mon, lass. Get it off yer chest.”

She let out another sigh, lowering her head slightly, her fingers fiddling with the hem of the blanket. When she spoke, her voice was soft and quiet, like a child who was telling their deepest secret, their most hidden fear.

“It’s just hard sometimes.”

“What is?”

“Everything. Being the one responsible for making money, and paying bills, and taking care of the boys and the house and you guys and keeping the library running and dealing with the hundred little things that come up every day . . .” She pushed out another sigh, this one sounding more tired. “It’s like a bucket filling up, and every now and then, I just need to . . . empty it, I guess.”

“An’ ye have no one t’ lean on when it gets t’ be too much for ye.”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. He knew it was true, just as much as she did. Saying it out loud would make it even more true, and she was enough like him that she didn’t want to do that.

“I come here because time moves differently,” she said, her voice still soft. “It’s essentially like hitting the pause button on my regular life. I come, get my little breakdown out of the way, and then go back to do it all over again.”

“That ain’t no way t’ live, lass.” He shook his head, working the last knot from her hair. “Ye deserve better ‘n that.”

She pulled her shoulders up in a shrug. “It is what it is.”

“Don’t make it right.”

“It’s the hand I was dealt. You know better than anyone that life isn’t always easy, or fair.”

He supposed that was true. His own childhood was evidence enough that bad things happened to innocent people—children, even—and you had to learn to deal with it before it killed you.

Still, what she was dealing with wasn’t exactly the same. She wasn’t fighting to survive—not in a literal sense, anyway—but she was breaking under all the weight she carried. And she carried it all herself, because she had no one to share the burden with.

But it didn’t have to be that way.

“Ye c’n always reach out, ye know,” he said, turning back to the brush once all the knots were worked through. He dragged it down her hair, his hand running behind to smooth any stray strands. “Don’t have t’ face everything all on yer lonesome.”

“Everyone else has their own problems,” she said, and to Dread it sounded like an automatic response. Something she convinced herself of long ago. “They don’t need to deal with mine, too.”

“Aye, an’ ye have yer own problems,” he said, smoothing the final part of her hair. “Don’t need t’ deal with everyone else’s, too.” He paused, a little smirk curling his lip as he leaned to the side to look at her. “But ye do.”

She cast him a side eye, a little blush rising to her cheeks. The smirk on Dread’s face widened until it was a smile. Looking like this—the blush, her hair down, and no glasses—made her look so different than he’d ever seen her. More vulnerable. Less like a headstrong lass who could take on the world, and more like one who needed protection from it. Even if just for a little while.

“That’s different.”

“No it ain’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“Why?”

She gave a little shrug, turning her face away. “It just is.”

The smile faded from Dread’s lips when she turned away, and a little furrow appeared in his brow. Did she honestly not see that letting others help her was no different than her helping them? She wasn’t that stubborn was she?

He gave a little eye roll. Of course she was that stubborn. That’s why they got along so well.

The smile returned as he gave his head a little shake. He planted his hand flat on the top of her head, turning her back to face him.

“Ye wanna know what I think?” he asked, casting a cocked eyebrow. “I think ye convinced yerself askin’ f’r help be a sign o’ weakness. An’ if’n there be one thing the mighty Callie MacPherson hates, it be t’ show herself as weak. She likes t’ be strong. Likes t’ show care t’ others, but be so damn bad ‘bout acceptin’ it f’r herself. Lookit her now, gone all blushin’ an’ turnin’ away at the barest amount o’ care. Even from a nasty, smelly ol’ pirate such as meself.”

She stared at him, her blue-green eyes locked with his violet. He smiled wider, a chuckle rumbling through his chest.

“An’ now she be speechless,” he snickered, releasing her head and moving his hand down to caress her cheek with his knuckles, and tuck her hair behind her ear. “No doubt thinkin’ what a strikin’ specimen of a man be sittin’ b’side her. A man the likes o’ which she ain’t never seen b’fore. A pow’rful man, a fine fig’re of a man, one who makes her feel things she never—“

Callie snorted out a laugh, reaching forward to shove his face away. Dread responded with a laugh of his own, leaning back to rest against the back of the couch.

“You little dork,” she said, scooting herself around to lean her side against the couch. “Ruining my perfectly good pity party.”

Dread chuckled again, leaning forward to rest his weight on one arm. The color was still in her cheeks, but the heavy air around her had dissipated. Even without her glasses and her hair out of that signature braid, she looked more like the lass he knew.

“Turnabout be fair play, me lovely lass,” he said, dropping a wink. “There be plenty o’ times ye spoiled me rotten mood. All with yer kind heart an’ clever words.”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Since when has the legendary Captain Dread ever cared about playing fair?”

He gave her a little smirk. “The legendary Captain Dread c’n play fair, so long as the legendary Captain Dread still gets the result he wants in the end.” The smirk melted into a more sincere smile. “An’ in this case, seein’ ye smile be worth every second of it.”

Her cheeks burned hotter at that, and he gave another chuckle. Despite outward appearances, Dread was actually one of the more engaging of the Knuckleses, and knew his way around a compliment. Yes, violence was a quick way to get what he wanted, but sometimes charming someone was more discreet, easier, and more fun.

But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t sincere in what he said now. While he hadn’t been serious in his flirting, he always enjoyed making her smile.

“My, my,” she said, giving him a little smirk back. “Dread actually has a heart. And cares about others. Wait ‘til the rest of the Sanctuary hears this.”

“Lies. I’ll deny everythin’. No one will ever believe ye. Think ye’re off yer rocker. The lass has lost it! Oh, ‘twere a shame, aye, it were. Bet Cyber may want t’ run tests on ye. Examine yer brain ‘r somethin’.”

She snickered. “Oh, good point. Guess I oughta keep this little chat to myself, lest I ruin your reputation, and my street cred for being, you know, sane.”

They shared a laugh, allowing the serious nature of the situation fade. This was something Dread really enjoyed. They poked at each other, tossed barbs and insults and snark like it was their job, but in the end their bond was different than either had with any other Knuckles. More sibling-esque.

He’d never admit it, but she was the only person whose opinion of him mattered.

A comfortable silence settled over them, and she rested her elbow on the couch, perching her head in her hand. She sighed, looking back to him with a little smile.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice soft. “For not going away.”

Dread matched her smile, giving his head a little shake. “Never. Ye be stuck with me. So quit bein’ so damn stubborn an’ jus’ ask f’r help when ye need it, aye?” He leaned forward, bringing their foreheads together. “Ye lean on me when ye need. I be strong enough f’r the both of us. Ye jus’ call, an’ I’ll come runnin’. Ye have me word on that.”

It was an odd thing to hear come out of his own mouth. For so long he’d been only interested in his own wants, his own needs and desires. Even after the Prism Shard incident, he felt disconnected from the rest of the crew. It had taken a while to overcome those feelings of greed and selfishness. Of possessive obsession.

But now, he was different. Part of something bigger. His crew, the Sanctuary, the other, well, hims . . . they all helped him understand who he was. It felt good to finally receive kindness and love and support.

And it felt even better to offer it.

“Thank you, you smelly little pirate,” she said, a smile in her voice. “Even though I wanna feed you your hat some days, I still love ya.”

“Aye, ye be a right pain in my backside most days,” he said, and she snickered. “But ye’ve wormed yer way int’ me heart.”

They sat with their foreheads touching for another moment, before pulling back. Callie gave him a little look, that smirk back on her face.

“How ‘bout we go and finish off the rest of those cookies? ‘Cause I know that’s what you were doing earlier.”

Dread gave a dramatic gasp. “Lass! Ye offend me.”

“I doubt it.”

He tried to keep his offended expression, but her gaze made him break character. He snickered, nodding.

“Aye, ye got me. They be so good, I couldn’t resist ‘em.” He cast her a sly look. “There be plenty t’ share.”

She gave him an identical look back. “Assuming I don’t beat you there and get ‘em first.”

They stared each other down for a moment, before Callie grabbed her glasses and made a break for the kitchen. Dread laughed as he sprinted after her.

In the end, Dread’s original desire to snatch away all the cookies for himself was replaced with the urge to share them with a friend as they sat and talked. They agreed to regular check-ins, under the guise of a free meal for the pirate, and that unspoken promise to be there for each other strengthened.

As they argued their right to the last cookie, Dread couldn’t help but marvel at how his life had turned around. Treasure was no longer the only thing on his mind. Right now, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be, than right here.

[writingoncloudydays]

Omen

a/n: Sorry for the wait, but here it is. Hopefully, it met your standards. Come along to ride this fic and see all the drama and happiness. This ended up being longer than I thought it would be, but oh well. I also don't have anyone to read over this for me, so I'm sorry in advance for grammar and spelling errors. The first chapter Is now complete. Enjoy <3 Warnings: Descriptions of dead bodies, usually hunting things, angst?? Maybe.

3.17k Words

The gentle humming of the Impla fills the silence swimming in the air, the gentle breeze brushing against Dean’s arm. Which hangs low out the window, his other hand drumming against the steering wheel.

The beat of the music flows through his hands, one drumming on the wheel, the other lightly tapping against the car door. He hummed softly to whatever songs were playing on the radio, occasionally singing along, causing Sam to chuckle at him. Sam sits in the passenger seat beside Dean, enjoying the comfortable silence and glad that Dean is enjoying the little things. Simple things rarely come to the boys, no matter how little they want them. There is always some end-of-the-earth mission to save, though it almost always ends with bloodshed. 

Sighing to himself, Sam shakes the thought, focusing back on the iPad with their case information to distance himself from the neverending pain in their lives. Sam tries to stay positive, but sometimes it's rather complicated. Seeing so many people he has loved going to nothing but a memory stored in his brain. 

Glancing over at Dean, a soft, simple smile rests on his face. He enjoys the gentle hum of the Impla and the loud music blasting from the speakers. The sight made him more at ease. His eyes fell back onto the iPad. Scanning over the information once more, he analysed all he could. Hunts never go as planned, and their first guess may only sometimes be correct.

The radio's volume dies down as the journey approaches the town. The once comfortable silence now feels weighted. The humming of the Impala, now drumming against their skull, gave a slight headache. The dread of the hunt is kicking it, and anything fun goes out the window. 

Dean and Sam Winchester arrive in the quaint town of Havenwood, Havenwood is a picturesque and seemingly idyllic small town in the heart of the American Midwest. Known for its charming, tree-lined streets and historic Victorian houses, Havenwood exudes a sense of timeless tranquillity.

The town square is a focal point of community life. It features a beautiful gazebo surrounded by meticulously maintained gardens and various locally owned shops and cafes that offer a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

However, Havenwood harbours a deep history intertwined with the supernatural beneath its serene exterior. The town's founding dates back to the early 1800s, and it has long been a place where the veil between the mundane and the mystical is fragile.

Local legends speak of unexplained phenomena and strange occurrences that have puzzled residents for generations. The town's proximity to ancient Native American burial grounds and location along ley lines add to its mysterious allure.

Sam worked on finding as much background information on the town as possible before they arrived, with some idea of the history and layout of the town.

The boys may have a slight advantage. As they never know what they could be, leading themselves into danger is always present. No case is safe. No matter how simple it may seem to their eyes, things can change drastically.

One of the reasons the case caught their attention was the string of mysterious deaths, which, of course, baffled the local authorities, having not seen anything remotely like this. Strangely, the town's officers have yet to take action after reaching dead ends and not solving the case. 

Dean and Sam Winchester drive their Impala down the winding roads of Havenwood, a town that seems to have been preserved in time. The sun sets behind the rolling hills, casting long shadows over the Victorian houses and the town square, where a handful of residents can be seen enjoying the cool evening. Despite its outward, the brothers sense an underlying tension in the air, a feeling that something sinister lurks just the surface.

Their first stop is the local morgue, a small, nondescript building adjacent to the town's clinic. The coroner, a middle-aged man named Dr. James Hargrove, greets them with a wary look. He has seen his share of unusual cases, but something quite different from this.

"You must be the FBI agents," he says, eyeing their fake badges with scepticism. "Agent Smith, Agent Wesson, right?"

"That's us," Dean replies with a confident smile. "We're here to take a look at the recent victims."

Dr. Hargrove leads them to a sterile, dimly lit room where the bodies are kept. The air is cold, and the fluorescent lights glare harshly on the metal tables. He pulls back the sheet from the first victim, a middle-aged woman named Martha Jenkins.

Her face is serene and almost peaceful, but the most striking feature is the strange, radiant burn mark on her chest—a sigil neither Dean nor Sam has seen.

"All the victims have this mark," Dr. Hargrove explains, his voice tinged with unease. "I’ve never seen anything like it. It's almost... celestial."

Dean leans in closer, studying the mark with a critical eye. "It's an angelic sigil, Sam. No doubt about it."

Sam nods, flipping through his father's journal for any references. "But it's not one we've come across before. It looks ancient, something from a time long before any of the angels we've encountered."

They move on to the next body, a young man named Peter Lawson, and then to an older woman named Edith Turner. Each bears the same sigil, each mark glowing faintly as if imbued with residual divine energy.

As they examine the bodies, they note other similarities: a look of peaceful resignation on their faces, no signs of struggle or pain, and no discernible cause of death other than the mysterious burns.

"These people didn't suffer," Sam observes, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's almost like they were... chosen."

"But chosen for what?" Dean mutters, frustration creeping into his voice. "And by whom?"

Their investigation leads them to the old church, Havenwood's most prominent landmark. There, they find Father O'Malley, the town's elderly priest, who is more than willing to share the church's history and strange occurrences.

"These deaths have shaken our community to its core," he says, his hands trembling slightly. But the symbols you've described match the ones in our stained glass windows. Come, I'll show you."

The brothers marvel at the church's intricate stained glass windows depicting various scenes of angelic intervention and divine protection. Hidden within the vibrant colours and celestial imagery are the same Enochian symbols they saw on the victims. Sam takes photographs, making sure to document every detail.

"These symbols are part of an ancient angelic ritual," Sam explains. "But why would someone be using them now?"

Dean's mind races as he considers the implications. Angelic rituals are not something that can be performed casually; they require immense power and purpose. The idea that someone—or something—is using them in Havenwood sends a chill down his spine. He glances at the bodies again, the radiant sigils glowing faintly in the dim light. The peaceful expressions on the victims' faces do little to ease his growing unease.

"We need more information," Dean mutters, pulling out his phone. "Cas might know what's going on." He dials Castiel's number, feeling the urgency of the situation pressing down on him. The phone rings, each moment stretching out as he waits for the angel to answer. Finally, the line crackles and Castiel's familiar gravelly voice comes through.

"Cas, we need you here. Now," Dean says, his tone urgent. "We're in Havenwood, and we've got a situation. People are dying, and they're marked with some kind of angelic sigil."

There's a pause on the other end, and Castiel replies, "I'm on my way."

Minutes later, Castiel appears in the corner of the room, his sudden presence causing the air to hum with residual energy. He takes in the scene: the bodies on the tables, the worried expressions on Dean and Sam's faces, and the photographs of the sigils.

"These marks... they're from a Seraphim," Castiel says, his eyes narrowing as he studies the images. "An ancient class of angels, far more powerful than most. They were believed to have vanished eons ago."

"Well, one of them's back," Dean replies, frustration evident in his voice. "And it's leaving a trail of bodies. Why now, Cas? Why here?"

Castiel shifts uncomfortably, his gaze meeting Dean's. "The Seraphim were guardians of divine secrets, keepers of Heaven's most sacred knowledge. If one has awakened, it's not by chance. Something significant has disturbed the celestial order."

Dean clenches his jaw, the tension between him and Castiel palpable. "We need answers, Cas. And fast. People are dying."

"I understand, Dean," Castiel responds, his tone softening slightly. "But the Seraphim are not like other angels. Their motives are beyond our comprehension. We must tread carefully."

Dean's frustration bubbles over. "Carefully? Cas, people are dying! We don't have time to be careful. We need to figure out what's going on and stop it."

Castiel's expression hardens. "I am aware of the urgency, Dean. But rushing in without understanding the full scope of the situation could make things worse."

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to reign in his anger. "Alright, fine. What do we need to do?"

"We need more information," Castiel says. "I will reach out to my contacts in Heaven. There may be records or knowledge about this Seraphim that we can use. In the meantime, you and Sam should continue investigating any local lore or history that might give us clues."

Dean nods reluctantly, the tension between them easing slightly. "Okay, Cas. But hurry. We can't afford to lose any more time."

With a determined look, Castiel disappears, leaving Dean and Sam to continue their investigation. As they regroup, the gravity of the situation settles over them. They know they are up against an ancient and powerful force, and the stakes have never been higher.

Castiel stands on a secluded hilltop, his eyes fixed on the twilight sky. The evening is still, but within the silence, he senses a disquieting tremor rippling through the fabric of the celestial realm. It is a subtle yet profound dispiecesthat reverberates through his very essence. His celestial senses, honed over eons, detect a surge of divine energy—ancient and formidable—stirring from a long-forgotten slumber.

The presence is unlike anything Castiel has encountered in millennia, its power both overwhelming and familiar. He closes his eyes, reaching out with his grace, probing the disturbance with cautious curiosity. As he delves deeper, fragments of ancient memories surface, fragments of an era when he was but a fledgling angel among the heavenly host. 

The presence he feels now resonates with the same awe-inspiring might of the Seraphim, celestial beings of immense power and purity, long thought dormant or lost to the annals of history. A sudden, vivid vision assaults his mind: a celestial being, radiant and terrible in its glory, standing amidst a sea of stars. Its wings, vast and shimmering with celestial light, cast an ethereal glow that illuminated the darkness. 

Castiel recognises this being—an ancient Seraphim whose name has been whispered in reverence and fear among the angels. The Seraphim's eyes, burning with a fierce determination, lock onto Castiel's, conveying a message of warning and challenge.

The vision fades, leaving Castiel breathless and shaken. He realises that this ancient power has awakened with a purpose that could reshape the foundations of Heaven and Earth. 

His implications are staggering; the balance of power within the celestial realm is shifting, and the Seraphim's intentions remain mysterious.

As they delve deeper into Havenwood's secrets, they uncover a local legend about a celestial guardian who once watched over the town, a Seraphim who vanished centuries ago. The legend speaks of a time when the guardian would return, chosen by the divine to carry out a holy mission. The puzzle pieces start to fit together, but the picture they form is far from reassuring.

Their next step is to regroup with Castiel, who has been scouring his sources for information. They meet at a secluded spot outside town, where Castiel shares his knowledge. "The Seraphim's awakening is not a random event," he says, his voice laden with urgency. "Something, or someone, has triggered it. We need to find out who and why."

The brothers and Castiel realise they are up against an ancient power with motives that could reshape the world. Armed with their newfound knowledge, they prepare to confront the celestial being, hoping to stop it before Havenwood becomes a battlefield in a war between Heaven and Earth. As they set their plan in motion, the tranquil town of Havenwood braces itself for the impending storm, unaware of the celestial forces converging upon it.

 With time running out and the body count rising, Dean and Sam must race to stop the rogue angel before Havenwood becomes ground zero for a catastrophic event that could unleash heavenly wrath upon the world.

With urgency, Castiel knows he must act swiftly. He turns to seek out Dean and Sam Winchester, his trusted allies, knowing they will need to be prepared for the trials ahead.

The disturbance in the celestial realm is not just a harbinger of change but a call to arms. Together, they must unravel the enigma of the Seraphim's awakening, uncover its intentions, and brace themselves for the celestial storm that threatens to engulf Heaven and Earth.

Dean and Sam drive through the night, the Impala's headlights cutting through the darkness as they race back to the Men of Letters bunker. The road is long and winding, but their minds are focused on the task ahead. They know they need more than just information; they need a plan and the right weapons to face a being as powerful as a Seraphim.

"Sam, start making a list of everything we know about the Seraphim," Dean says, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "We need to find any weaknesses, any lore that can give us an edge."

Sam nods, already flipping through their father's journal and cross-referencing it with his laptop. "I'll check our archives for any references to Seraphim. We might find something in the old Men of Letters files."

The miles pass in tense silence; both brothers are lost in their thoughts. The enormity of the situation weighs heavily on them, but they know they can't afford to falter. The familiar sense of determination settles over them as they pull into the bunker’s garage. This place, filled with the accumulated knowledge of generations of hunters, is their best chance at finding the answers they need.

Inside the bunker, Castiel is already waiting for them in the library, his expression grim but resolute. "We don't have much time," he says as they enter. "The Seraphim's presence will not go unnoticed by other celestial beings. We need to act quickly."

The Winchester brothers and Castiel gather in the dimly lit library of The Man of Letters Bunker, a place filled with the echoes of ancient knowledge and supernatural lore. 

The heavy wooden table before them is strewn with open books, faded maps, and pages of Enochian script. The air is thick with tension as they process the gravity of the situation.

We need to find out everything we can about this Seraphim," Sam says, laying out the books he brought from the Impala. "Its history, purpose, anything that can give us a clue about what it wants and how we can stop it."

Dean adds, "And we need to arm ourselves. We can't go in empty-handed if we're going up against something this powerful. Cas, any ideas on what might work against a Seraphim?"

Castiel nods thoughtfully. "Angel blades will be effective, but we might need something stronger. There are ancient weapons relics from the time of the first angels that might be hidden in the Men of Letters' vaults. I'll help you locate them."

Dean paces back and forth, his brow furrowed with worry. "So, you're telling us this Seraphim is awake? An ancient angel that powerful isn't something we can just hunt down and gank," he says, glancing at Castiel with a mix of disbelief and concern.

Castiel, standing by a dusty bookshelf, nods solemnly. His usually calm demeanour is tinged with unease. "Yes, Dean. The Seraphim are among the oldest and most powerful of angels. They were created at the dawn of time, their power rivalling that of archangels. If one has awakened, it signifies a monumental shift in the celestial realm."

Sam, seated at the table, poring over an ancient tome, looks up. "I found a reference to the Seraphim in these texts. They were believed to be guardians of the divine order and protectors of Heaven's most sacred secrets. But they disappeared ages ago, their fate unknown."

"Until now," Dean mutters, rubbing his temples. "Why now, Cas? What could have possibly triggered its awakening?"

Castiel sighs, his blue eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. "I don't know. But the disturbance I felt in the celestial realm is unmistakable.” The Seraphim's presence is a beacon—a powerful surge of divine energy that hasn't been felt for millennia. Whatever its purpose, it won't go unnoticed by other celestial beings or those seeking to exploit its power.

The room falls into a contemplative silence, the weight of the revelation settling over them. The implications are vast and daunting. An ancient being of immense power, with motivations unknown, could spell disaster not only for Heaven but for Earth as well.

Sam breaks the silence, his voice steady but persistent. "We need to find out everything we can about this Seraphim. Its history, purpose, anything that can give us a clue about what it wants and how we can stop it."

Dean nods in agreement, his resolve hardening. "Agreed. We can't let this thing wreak havoc. We need to be prepared for whatever it throws our way."

Castiel steps forward, a determined look on his face. "I'll reach out to my remaining contacts in Heaven, see if they know anything. We must tread carefully. The Seraphim's awakening will attract attention, and not all of it will be friendly."

As they delve into their research, the sense of urgency grows. Every passing moment brings them closer to a confrontation with an ancient and powerful being.

The stakes have never been higher, and failure is not an option. Armed with knowledge, determination, and the strength of their unbreakable bond, Dean, Sam, and Castiel prepare to face the Seraphim and the celestial storm it heralds.

The brothers and their angelic allies feel a sense of urgency as they disperse to gather complicated information to formulate a plan. The bunker, usually a sanctuary of relative safety, now feels like the war room of a desperate battle.

They are on the cusp of facing a threat unlike any they have encountered before—a being from the dawn of time with the power to reshape the destiny of both Heaven and Earth.

With their bond of trust and unwavering determination, Dean, Sam, and Castiel prepare to confront the ancient Seraphim. They know their journey will be difficult, but they also know they stand a chance to protect the world from an unimaginable celestial upheaval. 

[stewblog]

A Haunting In Venice

How do you find a suitable challenge for the world’s greatest detective? You force him to confront and consider the unexplainable. 

To the rational, calculating mind, ghosts are a laughably naive concept. Such is the stance of the now-retired Hercule Poirot (Kenneth Branagh). As we encounter him in Venice, he seems content to live a solitary life of retirement, tending his garden and indulging in pastries, all while fending off constant streams of people desperate to employ his impeccable deductive skills. But when the closest thing he has to a friend, best-selling murder mystery author Ariadne Oliver (Tina Fey), implores him to try and debunk the work of a spiritual medium on Halloween night, it’s not long before he is thrust out of retirement and back on the case. 

Poirot is certain he’ll make short work of Joyce Reynolds (Michelle Yeoh) and her sham seance’ as she claims to be in contact with the spirit of a girl who jumped to her death from the house’s balcony one year ago. But when someone is murdered with no immediate suspects and seemingly inexplicable occurrences begin filling the house, the master detective is forced to reckon with what is and is not impossible. 

There are twists and reveals and jump scares a-plenty. But what A Haunting In Venice may lack in originality, Branagh more than compensates for with good old-fashioned style and a satisfying (albeit straightforward) execution of its story and characters. 

The visuals are by far the film’s strongest suit so let’s start there. This is an absolutely gorgeous film to take in and I recommend seeing it in the largest format available. Is it in IMAX near you? It’s absolutely worth the premium format fees. This is a sumptuous movie to behold with deep shadows and a superbly established sense of place. The palazzo where the majority of the film takes place isn’t your typical haunted house locale but Branagh shoots it to be perfectly disarming. I’m not the first writer to make this comparison, but it bears repeating that Branagh clearly took more than a little inspiration from Orson Welles’ 1962 surreal film adaptation of Franz Kafka’s dystopian novel The Trial. Welles’ film uses unusual and disarming camera angles and depths of field that create a deep sense of unease and paranoia. It’s done in a way that I’ve rarely seen imitated, making Branagh’s point of inspiration all the more clear. It’s a lovely tribute to an underrated, underseen film that also serves to further underscore the psychic duress these characters, but especially Poirot, endures. It deserves to be seen as large as possible because much of the film’s sense of dread and oppression comes from seeing this house and its shadowy structures tower and overwhelm. 

As for the substance beyond the style, Branagh and the film’s script are a bit more subtle. It’s a Poirot mystery so it shouldn’t shock anyone that a murder happens within the first 20 minutes, but to whom it happens may be a bit more of a surprise. Each surviving character has their own ultimately sympathetic (though some more than others) motivations and connections, but it’s seeing the measured ways in which Branagh shows the cracks in Poirot’s confidence and the roots of his dedication to logic and deduction that I found most endearing. Heroes are at their most interesting when they’re vulnerable in one way or another, so seeing this nigh-invincible mind forced to confront mysteries he may not be able to solve as he’s forced to consider concepts he’d long since evolved beyond is right where Poirot should be at this point in the series.  

If there’s a complaint that lingers, it’s that a single casting choice stuck out like a sore thumb. This is due almost entirely to the character’s unmistakable similarity to another played by the same actor in a contemporary piece of entertainment. I’m trying to be vague in the hope that no one else will be immediately distracted as I was, but it took me out of the moment multiple times. I realize this is almost entirely on me and through no fault of the actor’s but there it is all the same. 

All that said, I can’t recommend this enough, especially if you’re looking for a more old-fashioned haunted house mystery now that we’re on our way into this year’s Spooky Season. 

[beaniearchive]

Day 4: Doubt

Writing Prompt: You receive a letter dated ten years from now, written in your own handwriting, warning you not to trust someone you love

“To younger Saph: I’m saving you years of your life, so please listen to what I have to say in this letter.” 

Well, this was definitely what she expected when she opened up the mailbox. The last time she touched a letter was back in senior year of highschool, and those were filled with only good memories. There was nothing better than receiving promotional material from elite colleges that stoked one’s ego. 

“Leave the man.” 

She flicked her right eyebrow, but continued reading, 

“Yes, I know what you’re thinking, Saph. Who are you to tell me I should leave? Ten years from now, you are going to file for a messy and miserable divorce with Dave because he is a lying piece of shit. Do yourself a favor and save yourself the heartbreak by leaving the man. Don’t question me, please, I just want you to avoid living in this hellhole. You don’t owe him an explanation on why you’re leaving. You need to make sure you move out and go back to mom and dad’s house because there is someone you need there. Go back, please.” 

The words are smudged out on the piece of paper, but Saph feels her hands shake as she reads out, “____ will be waiting for you.” 

“Who…?” She racked her mind for anyone’s name, but she had lost contact with everyone back home. Why should she believe this letter anyway? It could have been a low prank. Saph bit her lip. But who would go so far as to tell her these things? There was no one around her that knew about her relationship with Dave. The contents of the letter were all so specific, too. But, was there really a reason for her to follow through with this? If she found a way to work around this before it happened, wouldn’t there be no need for her and Dave to break apart? Saph found her eyes on the front door of her shared apartment, and decided to give it more time before jumping into a rash decision. She would talk to Dave about it afterwards. He would understand why she’d want to talk to him about this before anything. They were able to work around their busy schedules last time. This would be the same. It won’t be that difficult. 

But the palpable sense of dread had made its hold to her heart. She desperately wanted to trust her partner and prove future her wrong. Because why the hell would she give her orders instead of context? If she knew about the divorce–was living the divorce–why wouldn’t she give her why Dave was a lying piece of scum? He was always busy at work, but he always texted periodically throughout to update her on his whereabouts. What could he possibly be lying about. Saph glared at the piece of paper sitting in front of her. 

“You know, this is all your fault too. I don’t know how you ended up in my mailbox. I thought getting mails were supposed to be a rare friendly occurrence that happens when an old acquaintance decides to correspond with you. Now I’m stuck with unnecessary thoughts in my head. I should be focusing on my upcoming trip with Dave for our second anniversary instead.”

Word Count: 548

[pratanumindpowerdevelopment]

The Haunting of Banerjee Manor - HORROR STORY BY PRATANU BANERJEE

Pradip Banerjee had always been a man of words, weaving intricate tales that captivated his readers. For thirty years, he lived in a sprawling ancestral house in Kolkata, a house that had seen generations of Banerjees come and go. Pradip lived there with his mother, Ankita, and his wife, Anarkali. The house, with its crumbling façade and ivy-covered walls, held an eerie charm that was both enchanting and unsettling.

The Whispering Walls

The Banerjee Manor was not just any house; it was a living, breathing entity with secrets etched into its very foundations. Pradip often found himself drawn to the old study, a room filled with dusty tomes and antique furniture. It was here that he wrote his most successful novels. However, as the years passed, he began to notice strange occurrences. The sound of whispers when no one was around, books falling off shelves, and the flickering of lights became a regular occurrence.

Ankita's Secret

Ankita, Pradip's mother, was a stoic woman who had seen much in her lifetime. She rarely spoke of the past, but there was a sadness in her eyes that hinted at buried memories. One night, as the monsoon rains lashed against the windows, Ankita revealed a dark secret. The house was built on the site of an old graveyard, and the restless spirits of the dead had never left. She spoke of a time when she was a child and saw apparitions in the corridors, and how her own mother had performed rituals to keep the spirits at bay.

Anarkali's Nightmare

Anarkali, Pradip's wife, was a vibrant woman with a keen interest in the supernatural. She loved the house's history and often delved into old manuscripts and local legends. However, her fascination soon turned to fear when she began to experience vivid nightmares. She dreamt of a woman in white, her face obscured, wandering the halls of the house. The dreams were so real that Anarkali often woke up screaming, convinced that the woman was standing at the foot of their bed.

The Unveiling

Determined to uncover the truth, Pradip delved into the house's history. He discovered that the original owner, a British officer named Colonel Edwards, had built the house in the early 1800s. Edwards was a cruel man who was rumored to have committed heinous acts. The locals believed that his spirit, along with the spirits of those he wronged, haunted the house.

One evening, Pradip, Ankita, and Anarkali decided to perform a séance. As they gathered around a table in the dimly lit study, they felt a chill in the air. The candles flickered, and the temperature dropped. Suddenly, the table shook violently, and a guttural voice filled the room. The spirit of Colonel Edwards spoke, revealing his crimes and his torment. He pleaded for forgiveness, but his voice was filled with malice.

The Final Act

The séance unleashed a wave of paranormal activity. Objects flew across rooms, ghostly apparitions roamed the halls, and the air was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. Pradip realized that the only way to end the haunting was to perform a cleansing ritual. With the help of a local priest, they conducted the ritual, invoking the blessings of the gods to cleanse the house of its dark past.

As the ritual ended, the house seemed to sigh with relief. The oppressive atmosphere lifted, and a sense of peace settled over Banerjee Manor. The whispers ceased, the nightmares stopped, and the spirits were finally at rest. Pradip, Ankita, and Anarkali could now live in their home without fear, but the memories of the haunting lingered, a reminder of the dark history that had once enveloped their lives.

4o

write more

The Unseen Watcher

Despite the successful cleansing ritual, Pradip remained uneasy. The house was quiet now, too quiet, and the silence seemed almost unnatural. One night, as he worked late in his study, Pradip felt a presence behind him. He turned around, expecting to see Anarkali or Ankita, but there was no one there. Dismissing it as his imagination, he continued writing, but the feeling of being watched persisted.

The Portrait

A week later, while exploring the attic for inspiration for his new book, Pradip discovered an old, dust-covered portrait. The painting depicted a young woman in Victorian attire, her eyes hauntingly lifelike. He showed the portrait to Ankita, who recognized the woman as Isabella, Colonel Edwards' daughter. According to local lore, Isabella had mysteriously disappeared shortly after the house was built, and her body was never found.

Ankita recalled stories of Isabella being kind and gentle, the opposite of her father. Pradip couldn't shake the feeling that Isabella's spirit was still in the house, seeking justice or perhaps just recognition. He decided to hang the portrait in the main hall, hoping to appease her restless spirit.

Anarkali's Discovery

Anarkali, intrigued by the portrait and its story, started researching Isabella's life. She discovered old letters and diary entries hidden in the library, revealing a tragic love story. Isabella had fallen in love with a local Bengali man, much to her father's outrage. Colonel Edwards had forbidden the relationship, leading to a violent confrontation. It was rumored that in a fit of rage, Edwards had killed the young man and locked Isabella away, eventually leading to her death under mysterious circumstances.

Anarkali became obsessed with uncovering the truth, often spending hours in the library piecing together Isabella's story. She felt a deep connection to Isabella, as if the spirit was guiding her to unveil the long-buried secrets.

The Ghostly Encounter

One stormy night, as Pradip was again working late, he heard soft footsteps approaching his study. The door creaked open, and a cold breeze swept through the room. Pradip looked up to see a faint, translucent figure of a young woman standing in the doorway. It was Isabella. Her eyes were filled with sadness, and she silently beckoned him to follow.

Pradip, though terrified, felt compelled to obey. He followed her through the dark corridors to a hidden room in the basement. The room was damp and musty, with old, rusted chains hanging from the walls. It was clear this was where Isabella had been imprisoned. In the corner, under a pile of rubble, Pradip found a small, ornate box. Inside were love letters, a locket, and a journal detailing her tragic story.

The Final Rest

Pradip, Ankita, and Anarkali held a small ceremony to honor Isabella and her lost love. They buried the box in the garden, under a large magnolia tree that Isabella had cherished. As they completed the ceremony, a sense of calm and warmth enveloped them. The house, which had been a place of torment, now felt serene and welcoming.

Epilogue

With the spirits finally at peace, Pradip's writing flourished. He penned a novel based on Isabella's story, which became a bestseller, bringing him fame and recognition. Anarkali started a local history society, preserving the rich and often dark tales of Kolkata's past. Ankita, now free from the weight of the house's secrets, found joy in her gardening and spent her days tending to the magnolia tree that stood as a silent sentinel over Isabella's final resting place.

[wrathfl]

[ HC V: FC5 ] How Mercy received the 'WRATH' marking by John Seed and lost her sobriety.

  Mercy's heart still pounded just thinking about that night - the one that broke her after three years of sobriety. All it took was one night with the youngest Seed brother, John The Baptist - the Devil incarnate. 

  Mercy could only recall everything from that fateful night when she tried to escape from John's hunters. They caught her, bound her to a chair and left her there in darkness until his arrival. When he finally entered the room, Mercy heard creaking metal doors and faint clicks of his shoes as they hit the concrete floor. But what shook Mercy to her core was hearing John hum one of his twisted melodies...never before had something sent such primal dread through her body as this moment did. Even all those times running scared from Jacob's Judges paled next to facing off against a predator who'd already won before he started chasing you down.

  Each step John took towards her amplified every stroke of terror within Mercy who was left feeling like no more than trapped prey facing an unrelenting predator who had already won long before starting their hunt. Mercy's breaths were coming in short, shallow gasps as she watched John approach the work table. He placed his metal toolbox down and started talking loudly about his family and the abuse he endured from his adoptive guardians, all while she sat there bound to that darn chair. For once, Mercy remained silent beside him - a rare occurrence for someone like her who always had something witty or sarcastic ready to say.

  The moment he mentioned Joseph's name, something changed within John. His dominance shifted into pure malevolence right before her eyes. Suddenly he leaned over her chair, hands planted on either side of her body. Mercy felt like a rabbit caught in a snare...utterly helpless with no chance of escape from the man who held her captive both physically and mentally.

“ I'm going to teach you courage. Teach you how to say yes so you can confront your weaknesses.. You will swim across an ocean of pain and emerge... free. For only then can you truly begin to atone.”

  Mercy tried with all her might to suppress her emotions, knowing that if John sensed her terror or weakness it would be all over. He'd break every bone in her body and devour her alive without another thought. John moved his hands to her chest, slowly unbuttoning each one of the buttons on the shirt she wore. His cold fingers brushed against her skin, causing Mercy's breath to come out in shallow pants as a sense of dizziness took hold. His smirking face and soft humming only served to heighten the pure fear coursing through her veins until she felt like she was sinking into an abyss of darkness. The sudden sound of a tattoo gun jolted Mercy awake from this nightmare. When he leaned closer to whisper in her ear while gently moving his fingers through her hair, it was like nothing else mattered except for the thunderous pounding of Mercy's heart that drowned out everything else around them.

  “ You won't regret this. I promise”

Mercy's body was trembling with fear and adrenaline as she felt John's thumb gently brushing against her bottom lip. It was an odd sensation, one that made her want to both pull away from him...When the needle pierced her skin, sending searing waves of pain throughout every inch of flesh. She wanted to scream - beg for him to stop or do anything at all to make it end. But all she could manage was a tiny sob escaping her throat. John continued working on the tattoo contently while ignoring her cries and pleas for mercy - each jab of the needle causing more agony than the last. And when Mercy finally slipped out of consciousness from it all, the last thing she saw was his wicked grin...filled with nothing but satisfaction at what he'd done to her

  As Mercy slowly regained consciousness, she felt the cold prickly sensation of the ground beneath her and the stench of John all around her in that bunker - it was so awful that she could barely keep from gagging. All she wanted to do was cry and scream out for help, but no tears would come. Her throat was parched and dry...just like her eyes were after those long nights spent dwelling on John's ghostly presence around her.

  No matter how hard she tried to resist or forget everything that had happened, paranoia slowly crept into Mercy's mind more every night. She'd hear his voice whispering behind her in corners or imagine seeing his figure moving towards her out of some darkened hallway.

  It wasn't much longer before Mercy started drinking again after three whole years of being, just to numb herself to the feelings of terror and agony brought on by memories of John's touch - his face, his voice. Anything to ease the pain now lodged deep within her psyche...anything just so she could feel safe again.

[beesinmymoth]

Cult of the lamb romantic garbage I barfed up <3

Immortality had its gripes.

The One Who Waits thought that every day he spent in this dreaded cult. It was designed to be his. It was cultivated and shaped in his image, and now he didn’t even have the capitals of his pronouns anymore. He was stripped of his status, his power, everything but his name.

And now, he was married to the lamb who took it all away from him.

The stares of the other cult members bore into him when the lamb gleefully pointed at him for the marriage ceremony. He knew saying no would mean certain death, and death was something he had evaded for as long as he could.

So, he gave in.

He spent days in the cult farming and chopping wood, worshiping at the altar, doing anything that dreaded lamb asked. This was almost worse than being chained in the depths of wherever he was before. It had been so long, he’d forgotten.

Followers around him grew old, died, were replaced with new followers by morning. A cycle he had wished to run, to destroy, to start anew again on his own terms. Without that wretched lamb.

Over time, he guessed, the lamb grew on him.

Daily kisses went from eyerolls to reciprocation. Chats and dances with the lamb became more enthusiastic as he grew into his role. This life was simple, but god it had its perks.

He began to look forward to his daily interactions with the lamb. And hey, if there was a bloodcurdling scream or two in the night, he didn’t breathe a word of it to his fellow cult members.

It was a leader thing, he supposed. It needed to be done, and he understood that better than any of these mortals.

So, The One Who Waits settled into his new life. Almost a century passed in it, with him tending to the farms and saying hello to that god forsaken line of frogs every morning.

It wasn’t until the ninety-fourth year that he noticed something was amiss. His third eye caught a stain of something on the robe of his beloved leader.

Now, bloodstains on the lamb? That was normal. Expected, even. With the murdering of the elders in the night to the frequent outings to the lands of the old faith, red stains often adorned the lamb. But this one in particular caught his eye.

It was black.

No other follower would have noticed such an occurrence, and if they did, they wouldn’t know the significance of it. But The One Who Waits, having worn the dark crown, knew.

The one who wore the crown bled black ichor, the blood of the gods. And the lamb had stopped taking hits around forty years ago.

So either there was a new threat out there, or the lamb was growing weaker.

Sadistic joy filled his veins, and he knew all he had to do was wait until the sun went down.

~*~

As the sun disappeared over the horizon, The One Who Waits crept out of bed and wove through the houses of the other members. He spotted the lamb, out sitting near the farm. Silently, he crept closer, trying to assess the situation before deciding what move to make next.

He heard raspy breaths as he drew close. The lamb’s hands were gripping the ground, black blood staining the grass and sinking into the dirt below from where it dripped at their side. Their cloak was stained even more now, and as the liquid seeped into the fabric he caught little wisps of gold sparking out of it.

The lamb was weak. Now was his chance.

He crept closer, stance low and ready to take back his crown. This was his only shot, and by god he was going to get it.

“Narinder.”

He froze.

The lamb hardly spoke, opting for nonverbal communication with that absolutely smarmy smile of theirs. Their voice, however rare it was to hear, never betrayed how they were feeling in the past. It was always just on the edge of questioning and conceited. But now, as he heard their deep baritone voice sound more brittle than it ever had before, he knew he was caught.

“...Yes, my lamb?”

The lamb stood, turned. The unreadable expression on their face was enough to send ice through his veins. He stared into their red tinged eyes, unblinking, sideways pupils shaped into slits as they looked down at him.

He finally managed to tear his gaze away, staring at the ground in front of him as he began to bow in the grass.

“Apologies, I didn’t-”

The lamb’s hand beckoned him, and he stopped in the middle of his apology to look up at them. They gestured again, this time for him to sit next to them in the grass. He sat hesitantly.

He dared not speak.

They extended an ichor-soaked hand to him, allowing him to take it. They guided it to their injured side, staring in his eyes the entire time. He felt exposed, like they were picking his brain apart from just staring into his pupils. On instinct, he felt his third eye close.

When his hand made contact with their side, the lamb hissed, eyes going completely red as they broke eye contact. They quickly regained their composure, however, and resumed staring at him.

They kept still, waiting.

Experimentally, he lightly dug one finger in.

Their eye twitched, but they made no move to stop him.

He dug another, harder this time.

Their entire face scrunched up and they leaned forward, resting their forehead against his chest. Their hands gripped his forearms and yet they didn’t pull his hands away. They just…waited.

The One Who Waits felt a twinge in his chest. The crown was in front of him, staring at him with its piercing eye. Almost like a challenge. He had the lamb at his mercy, after all of these years. He was so close, he could just pick the crown off their fuzzy little head. He had his hand in their flesh, gripping it so hard that they crumbled under his hold. It was a power rush, so intense and overwhelming that his third eye opened back up and he reached his other hand for the crown.

But he couldn’t.

He was touching the crown, and still it stared. Still it bore its single eye into his soul, daring him to take it. Daring him to rip it away from the god that sat trembling against him.

And he couldn’t do it.

His mind kept replaying the past near-century in his head, flashing through every moment they shared together. Of his defeat, his utter humiliation and greatest shame. Of them showing him mercy, extending their hand to him and him slapping it away and trying to make a swipe at them again. Of the first month he was here, freshly wed and full of hate.

Of their renewal of vows ceremony.

Of the time many years into their relationship that they swore off all mortals, opting to make a special place in the cult for just the two of them.

Of the many nights they spent together in that place.

The handmade meals.

The daily kisses.

The way they held each other in their arms late into the night, even though the lamb had never a need for sleep.

He looked down at them, at the way they gripped his shirt, at the way their breath seemed almost silent if it weren’t for the occasional wheezing gasps.

He brought his hands away from them. He couldn’t do it.

He hated to admit it but this sight was painful for him.

He hated to admit that he actually cared about them on a level he had never cared for anything before.

And sitting here, seeing them in the most amount of pain he had ever seen them in, he felt sick.

The crown looked at him once more before it let out a sigh, closing its eye.

The One Who Waits sat there, in the dead of night, and relinquished the last of his former self.

He stripped himself of his title as he scooped up the trembling lamb, carrying them back to their shared hut.

And if in the morning any of his fellow members noticed that the sign outside their hut read “The Lamb and Narinder,” well, they didn’t say a word.

[sakumasmut]

having thoughts abt izumi again, he's my fav after all😳

izumi's a mean dom, isn't he? so, imagine asking him if he's down for intense sessions like bdsm, cnc, fear play, knife play, etc., he'd stop whatever he's doing immediately and looks at you with wide eyes, his entire face as red as a tomato. he doesn't mind though, as he himself has thought of the idea several times (and jacked off to it but that's for another time). expect the two of you having a prolonged discussion about the session, asking what you're okay with, your safeword, and many things related to the subject. despite being a total asshole during intimate times, he's still your doting s/o, and the thought accidentally hurting you during sex fills him with dread.

would enjoy the entire session, seeing you so weak under him drives him absolutely crazy, wanting to fill you up over and over again. he loves being mean, it's his part time job at this point.

you don't have to worry much about the aftermath, he would take such a great care of you. will praise you more during aftercare since he knows that an intense scene takes a huge toll on you, though his praises might turn out cheesy, he's just not used to complimenting someone— but you appreciate the sentiment regardless.

what izumi didn't expect though, is that the scene would also take a toll on him. yes he loves being mean during sex, and dacryphilia is one of his major kinks, he thought he would enjoy this with no problem on his side. but in reality? he's slowly getting eaten up by guilt, especially if you were crying during the end of the scene. the sight of your body covered with bruises (both intentional and unintentional ones) makes his heart ache. he knows you two agreed to this, but why does he feel so awful?

but oh how he was wrong, you're not a fool— you could see through all of his façade. you reassured him that everything was consensual and you would've uttered the safeword if anything went wrong. the lingering guilt is still there in his chest, but at least your words reassured him a bit. he'd prolly let out a few tears while you were reassuring him, before passing out in your arms. a very rare occurrence as he's always the big spoon, but you didn't mind a single bit— you love this side of him after all.

though the degradation and rough pace during casual session remains, it'd be a while until he's ready for another intense scene— he loves it as much as you do, but he admits it's not good for his heart.

tl;dr: izumi loves being mean in bed but if it comes to being one during intense scenes he'd most likely get into dom drop or whatever the term is idk💔

(tad bit angsty here aren't we😭 i love izumi so much he might be mean sometimes but he's still a sweetheart... ily silly boy❤️ once again sorry if im not making any sense🥲)

— crocsnon

awe izumi 🥺 I love this man sm, so concerned and guilty over potentially hurting his s/o his heart aches? good stuff

[lestwritewhilewaitingforajobcall]

The Spark That Split the Seas - Poseidon x Reader x Thor

(A/N)

Hey guys I’m back! I’ve been grinding hard for a new character that I’d gotten in this game, Genshin Impact, so I’m sorry for the absence! Anyways, as always, I want to thank you all for the support on my past two stories and on my account, I truly appreciate every one of you! On a story-related note, since I’d mentioned on my previous post that I had a lot of Poseidon x Reader x Thor fics written in my drafts, I decided to post one so you guys could also join me in the feels! Any feedback would be appreciated! This was originally shorter than the final story you’re seeing now, as I’d first only written their dialogues, but as usual, I excitedly itched into making a story out of it!

This is for entertainment only. Record of Ragnarok belongs to Shinya Umemura, Takumi Fukui and Ajichika. I also do not own you, the reader.

The Spark That Split the Seas

Poseidon x Reader x Thor

For more than all the millennia the gods and other species alike had known the lonely kingdom of Atlantis, never once did the crashing waves gave way to the chirping of the largest Albatrosses until now. Otherworldly flying creatures joined with the familiar exclusively earthly ones in enjoying the ebb and flow of the ocean, albeit this time, the hungry ocean appeared more satiated and seemed to follow a regular pattern ‘from sudden crash to a long calm, to crash again then back to another lengthy calm;’ life in the sea rejoiced in this odd occurrence.

Beautiful yellow sun rays poured through the stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope pattern on the large interiors of the kingdom ruled by the god of the seas, and catching the reflection of his nonchalant visage. The long, elegant dining table filled with every kind of seafood delectable imaginable also fell victim to the light, along with a figure that sat down opposite, whose invitation was clear.

Hidden from this heavenly atmosphere were the prying eyes of a little messenger bird who stood unobtrusively behind one of the tall pillars near the far end of the room, halting his slide just in time to witness this miracle:

The living bearer of the most fearsome title, the ruler of both this grandiose palace of the most precious gems and coral and all the oceans and waters, the almighty Poseidon, though against all reason and self-proved authority whatsoever, against the epics of Greek poets, was indulged, seemingly willingly, in the pleasure of having another’s company. In the shadows, Hermes’ red eyes shot wide open in shock.

Poseidon, the ever abrupt and rude god who had deemed most beings to be below him, received a guest, a still breathing one at that.

What in the gods’ name?

In a tone of haughty contempt, a grunt escaped from Poseidon’s lips. Finishing chewing the last bite of delicious food in your mouth, you nodded your head in earnest agreement with his point. Your next words were uttered with the firmness of an old sage who had all the answers, your beliefs shaped by the countless lifetimes you had lived.

“Existing is painful.” Your shoulders bobbed with your chuckle.

Although Poseidon felt a small measure of relief−a feeling that by habit had always been easy to brush-off with a condescending thought, his face betrayed nothing as his stoic features remained still. “If you agree, then why not allow me to kill you this instant?” As if to emphasize his strength, the crashing sound of dreadful combat between waves and rocks rang in the air, and you almost wished that a low rumble of thunder accompanied it, finding beauty in its loud peals, and additionally giving a volume of inspiration to Michelangelo below.

Despite your gaze being unrequited, you were sure you had the god’s attention. Since arriving here, Poseidon noted that your expression had always been smoothed into a calm, smiling one. “If you had intended to kill me, we would not be having this conversation right now.”

Poseidon sat rigid and silent.

“It’s a comfortingly tragic drama, my circle of life. I may not have been lucky to acquire a life as long as that of the gods, but I have definitely lived more times than you have.” Your words were so nonchalant, for a second there Poseidon thought you were kidding.

“That is for the simple fact that you mortals are weak, pathetic.” Lips as pink as young petunias touched the clear edge of the wine glass as Poseidon’s eyes closed, content to give over to listen.

“Yes, we are.” You paused. “But because of this frailty, we learned to adapt, evolve.”

“There is no need for evolution if you are perfect from the moment of conception. Hence why gods such as I, will always be above you.”

“You’re correct. Humans will never become gods after all,” Again, Poseidon found himself absorbing your words like a sponge. At the same time, he experienced an occasional sharp prick at the edge of his emotions, as if signaling him to pull back. “The same as gods will never become like humans.”

“Extremely foolish of you to think that trash is worthy of the shiniest Orichalcum. Your race has been created by us, for us, and will therefore always be inferior.”

“Humans are inferior in all aspects, this, is a fact. It is hence no accident that there is a history of rebellion and consequently, a false notion of superiority. But to be able to look beyond this, is to understand that we never truly intended to surpass animals nor the gods themselves. The nature of our desire: everything was meant for either survival or man’s search for meaning.

“We are by nature flawed and inconsistent creatures. And as you have no doubt seen for yourself as well, despite reaching all our goals, achieving our wildest dreams, we have never reached a position where satisfaction is achieved.” Keenness made your words sound almost heroic. There was a twinkle in your eye and a lilt in your voice, and Poseidon found that now he had a much clearer picture of your reputation for an irrepressible desire to see what is beyond your reach as you questioned: “If I may ask, as I have seen the gods share this sentiment of looking for meaning, do you feel an inkling of the same?”

When Poseidon had put the wine glass down, he hesitated a moment, his supposedly closed mind wavering between doubt and certainty. He would never come to understand this, nor admit to feeling this dissonance, but at last, he shook his head at his consideration, trying to reduce the unpleasantness he felt by the same way he had always used to get out of extremely rare difficulties.

“Do not disrespect me, mortal.” He knew himself that it was an empty threat.

“Those were never my intentions.” You bowed with great respect, but there was at the same time apparent in your manner the consciousness that while Poseidon would never in any way confirm your statement, he did not necessarily refute it. Your heart rose in gratitude as you regarded him with a look of affection, believing in your intellectual companionship.

“Lord Poseidon, as the fearsome god of the seas, what is the meaning of life for you?” The god surveyed your reflection in one of the golden plates, and maybe it was because he had acted in a charitable way towards you, but he saw brightness, a refreshing difference, as if there were no heavy shackles to weigh you down.

“My husband has always been in search of a worthy opponent. What about you?”

It was like a pin came dangerously close to the rational bubble of Poseidon’s beliefs. But then your words penetrated his mind, and he berated himself for almost falling prey, yet…

“Perfection.” Poseidon blurted out loud, full of self-indulgence, but uncomfortable with the thought of pity reeking from his pores, a role that was clearly uncharacteristic of him.

Tilting your head, your brows meshed inquisitively upon hearing this. “This presents the conundrum; you are already perfect, as should all the gods. Since you have explained, gods have always been pristine, perfect, the moment you all were born.

“So, if you have already achieved the meaning and purpose of your life, what is there left to live for?” There was something entrancing in your guileless form, and Poseidon was displeased that another should feel such an interest in your wise, unguarded character. “And if gods have already reached perfection, why is there an endeavor still for the dross of earth?”

For the first time in Poseidon’s life, he was receptive of contraries. Not one single time, had he ever been in the position where he listened, much more considered the act of interpretation. What he said goes, but for some frustrating reason, he was coming to terms of mutual respect; whenever he was sitting opposite you, chin in hand, the more he caught the flame.

Quickly, he stopped that train of thought and he seamed his mouth, stoic. Only his eyes betrayed a spark of defiance. “Stop asking ridiculous questions.”

Again, you bowed. “I apologize if I have overstepped such boundaries.”

“You better be.” With a look of eager inquiry, Poseidon asked, “Why are you not afraid of me? Is it because you are confident Thor would protect you?” One thing that distressed him was that the more he was alone with you, the more he saw your hands, always ungloved, noticed the wedding-ring on your finger. That closed circle excluded him, his face registering the insult. “As expected from a repulsive weakling,”

“No. I know he would be there for me whenever I should need him, and also the times when I don’t.” You said still a smile on your mouth.

Although you were unaware of the eagle eyes that were watching your every move, you had the instinct. You did not need all the information, and you had nothing to hide. Your shoulders were loose, back wasn’t ramrod straight and you exuded a carefree attitude. “The sole reason why my fears have dissipated is because perhaps, I enjoy your conversation.”

To say this whole exchange took Hermes by surprise would be an understatement. After the initial expression of shock, he laughed lowly.

You continued, “I have already accepted your beliefs. No one is entitled to those except yourself.

“If I were to die from imparting what my beliefs are, that is simply fate, a tragedy, but nonetheless, fate. Of course, I would try my best to avoid disappearing from this lifetime, seeing as I have made a promise with my husband, to continue to fight for my life, shall needed, until the very end.” Poseidon’s grip tightened the slightest bit.

“I believe that despite our obvious differences, we are simply two being who each have our own unique experiences that shape our views and beliefs. For hundreds of millennia, I’d seen calamity from all angles; mainly conflicts over a universal truth,

“But so long as there are questions, there will never be one solid concrete truth. And I’m okay with that.” You concluded.

Compliments never rolled off Poseidon’s tongue easily, since in his view they were nothing but hollow words. But this time, he could hardly slip a word in bad taste. He thought it pleasant to hear you, but it could not distract him from the uninvited presence in his throne room.

“You’re a heretic.” His usual strong voice beckoned your attention, discerning the sternness on the table of his expression to be forced. No matter, you had just enough of a last glimpse to see his face looking younger in repose.

“I have been labeled as such.” You noticed the unique rhythm of the crashing waves seemed to have settled along the sand grains, and you admitted it was so beautiful and timeless.

“You’re dismissed.” Poseidon believed in being straightforward with affairs. Since the conversation has ended, the final interchange of words was not likely to be a substantive one. Though this was his original reason, the face at the forefront of his mind right now was not yours but Hermes’.

You stood up and curtsied to show your gratitude. “Very well. It was splendid to be in your company this afternoon.”

Blue eyes followed you as you began walking away, and he watched you until you went out of sight when you began to ascend the Skíðblaðnir, a ship so completely reserved only for you by the Kingdom of the Norse. Then Poseidon’s ears turned toward the messenger’s direction.

Hermes quickly dashed to Poseidon and knelt to greet him with such a great respect akin to the expectations all elderly gods have always expected of their younger ones.

“We gods are perfect beings from the very start; therefore, we do not plot schemes nor engage in disagreements.” The implication registered with a jolt, and Hermes felt his mouth open as the real reason for your invitation became clear. He fought the urge to look at where Adamas had died brutally as a lowlife, not failing to recognize that this was the exact opposite of that faded history.

Finding quiet when Hermes immediately left, the god of the seas stared at his dominion, taking deep breaths of the air, not feeling the normal icy sting carried by the ocean. Over again he dwelt upon in his conversations with you, interested to find out if the Norse god of thunder had been able to sustain a similar type of conversation.

The very first quiver of interest sparked through Poseidon and though he did not recognize it nor perceived it, he understood the most important things, the only ones he ever needed to:

You did not seek validation nor attention. You had no fear of death, neither of the hardships of life.

Your depths of wisdom were unparalleled throughout the realms, which he would comment on its wasted potential, however, he knew Hermes already understood that part of it.

And the god of messenger did, as the word got around slowly but surely:

“There would always be those who dare to brave the ocean’s roar, but there was only one who withstood it.”