#like dig my grave and throw me in it gasping for air cause that knocked the wing right out of me

[abooklover]

Ok so I know I’ve been screaming crying dying over red white and royal blue (which don’t get me wrong I will continue to do because everyone saw that new promo right?!?), but the Heartstopper trailer is absolutely everything to me, it hurts.

[little-corritrice]

Guard Dogs - {PLATONIC} TF 141 x F! Reader

Hanging from the air, I breathed out as I recalled how the hell I got captured and in this position of being beaten half to death for information. I was with Price in the heli then we went down...That's right! Graves, that stupid good looking son of a bitch betrayed us! What an asshole. Now I was with the cartel, hanging from the ceiling and getting beaten with different weapons like I'm a damn pinata. I groaned as I moved around slightly, trying to bring myself up, but ultimately failing as I had no strength in my body anymore. I sighed as I hung my head, hoping and praying my boys would be coming.

~ ~ ~

Waking up to gunshots, my heart rate spiked as I heard them nearing me. I acted like I was asleep when I heard the door swing open, a man coming in as he was yelling before he cut my ropes, making me fall to the floor. He set the knife on the table, turning to dig through some drawers. I quickly got up, grabbing the knife and plunging it into his thigh as he screamed out, turning around and kicking me in the face. I groaned as my nose started bleeding, the impact sending me to the floor. The guy took the knife out, throwing it to the floor as he stomped over, picking me up by the throat. He growled out as he pinned me against the wall harshly, my back stinging from the impact, but I could worry less about that.

My vision was slowly going, black dots appearing slowly, my lungs screaming for air. I kicked and hit his arms, pressing any pressure points I could reach, but it only seemed to make him angrier, his grip tightening. I choked out, tears coming to my eyes at the pain radiating through my body. I kicked him in the groin, my nails scratching at his arms and somewhat of his cheeks, but to no avail. My body started slumping, my vision darkening rapidly now. However, as soon as it almost went dark, a loud gunshot rang throughout the room, the closeness making my ears ring.

The guy's grip left, and his blood splattered across my face, the warm liquid making me shudder. I choked and gasped out as I started crumbling to the floor, however, before I could hit the floor, 2 pairs of arms wrapped around me, holding me up. I looked up, seeing Shadows holding me. "No...no, no, no, please." I breathed, struggling in their grasp, but they held onto me tightly, tugging me along with them. "Please..." I breathed out, them dragging me through the old barn I was held in. Once again though, we were stopped, the barn doors being pushed open. I cried out as I saw a bunch of cartel guys, all of them walking in and holding their weapons up and ready.

The Shadows dropped me to the floor, going to shoot, but they weren't quick enough, the shots piercing through the air, making my ears ring again. I groaned as I started dragging myself away from them, but shots were fired next to me, making me flinch as I covered my head. I got up, starting to limp away but the cartel and Shadows were not making it easy for me as they fired rounds after rounds my way, trying to shoot me and each other. I groaned as I continued limping, but an all too familiar sound made me flinch before I tried hurrying. I was so close to where they entered, bullets flying past me, but I wasn't quick enough. "Grenade!" A Shadow yelled, retreating back, but again, it was already too late for me.

The explosion ringed out through the barn, causing me to go flying back from being semi-close to it. I hit the barn wall hard, my head knocking against the wood before I fell to the floor, my body in agony again. I was in and out of it, looking around as I groaned out softly, my vision focusing and un-focusing. Within my hazy vision, I saw cartels running up to me, surrounding me as they were about to shoot. I slowly closed my eyes, ready to accept my fate, but I heard more rapid fire, seeing all the cartels falling down as I looked past them, rolling over on my stomach. There were my boys in all their glory, opening the other barn door and rushing in.

I cried out as tears came to my eyes, relief filling my bones. I reached my hand out in a silent plea, my vision continuing to fade out as I was losing consciousness from all the blood loss coming from my head. I started to slump down, my head dropping inch by inch until it rested on the floor, my eyes drooping. "y/n!" Price yelled, running over, but ultimately having to take cover. However, that didn't stop Soap and Ghost, both men rushing over as they rapid fired, getting to me as the each grabbed an arm and started dragging me. "Aagh!" I exclaimed out, my body on fire with pain. They got me behind cover, Soap holding me close as he basically cradled me.

He held a hand to my head, moving it to see a bunch of blood. "Well, that's not good..." I rasped, trying to laugh, but coughing in pain as I hissed slightly. "Save your breath, Fiore." Ghost said, stroking my cheek softly. I nodded as I slowly rested back, leaning into Soap's chest. "I am so tired..." I whispered out, but Soap shook me gently, stirring me awake. "You got to stay awake, y/n." He said, and I groaned, grabbing onto his vest as I nodded, groaning quietly as my body was aching bad. "Let's move!" Price yelled out, rushing for the doors with Ghost and Gaz to clear the path. "Heli is waiting!" Gaz yelled out, all of us running outside to it sitting there waiting for us.

Price opened the door, climbing in with Gaz as they both grabbed me, hauling me in. I groaned out in pain, pouting slightly afterwards. "Owww~" I whined, holding onto Price's hand as he held it over my stomach, too scared of hurting me more. "Let's go!" Ghost yelled as he got in, shutting the doors. Everyone was now surrounding me, hands all hovering over me. I chuckled in pain, grabbing onto Ghost's knife. He looked at me confused before he panicked as I dug it into my side, all of them yelling out. "y/n, stop!" Gaz yelled, going to grab the knife. I grunted as I dug my finger into the wound, fishing out the bullet. I held it up, chucking it to the side as my hand fell.

Soap cursed as he held pressure on my wound, Gaz and Price working together to lift me and wrap bandages around me as Ghost took off my vest. "Wow boys. At least take me on date before you start getting handsy." I tried to joke, chuckling softly, but ending up coughing. "Oww~" I whined, squeezing Soap's hand as the helicopter became a little shaky, my ribs and entire body aching bad. "y/n, stop talking! You're only going to hurt yourself more." Gaz exclaimed, finishing up my bandage. "Pssh, oh well." I said, and they all glared at me, and I sighed. "Fine. But can I get a snack when we get back? I could kill for some snacks right about now." I said, and they glared. "Shut up!" They all yelled, making me roll my eyes as I sighed.

~ ~ ~ As I sat in the recovery bed, munching on some of the snacks I was brought, the door burst open, scaring the hell out of me as it ricocheted off the wall. I threw my snacks at them, the gummy bears hitting them right in the eye. "God dammit!" They yelled out, crumbling to their knees as they held their eye. I burst out laughing, groaning in pain as I held my ribs. "Bloody hell, Johnny." Ghost said as he walked around him to me, Gaz bending down to check him out. "This is why we don't scare the marksman, Soap." Price said, getting in and shutting the door. I chuckled in pain as I held my ribs, looking up to Ghost as he stood next to the bed, looking at the scene in front of him. I smiled fondly as he looked down at me, his eyes smiling.

I grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze before turning back to Johnny. "I'm sorry, Johnny. You can't do that to me." I whined, and he got up, coming over to me with one eye closed. "It's alright, lass. Hell of a throw with such a tiny object." He said, bending down as he kissed my cheek. I held him as a way of saying sorry before the others shooed him away to get their hugs. "How are you feeling, love?" Price asked, and I sighed. "Still a bit sore, but otherwise alright." I said, smiling brightly at him. He nodded, bending down to leave a lingering kiss on my forehead. "That's good." He said, nodding at me as he left the room. I sighed sadly as I knew he blamed himself, but I'll just have to smack it into him next time he comes to visit.

The other three boys stood around, all staying and intently watching as any soldier or nurse came in. They would mad-dog them, the receiver becoming nervous with the glaring eyes on them. Like right now, the nurse was taking out my IV, the sting in my arm making me hiss a little. The boys all stood straighter, towering over me and the nurse, making her shift uncomfortably as she side glanced at them. I sighed as I smacked them all over the head, the nurse tensing as well. "Out." I said, and they all were going to protest, but they ultimately shut up as I sent a glare their way. "You can come back in when I say." I said, and they all nodded, walking out the door, sending one last glance at us. The nurse thanked me profusely, continuing her work.

As the nurse left, the boys rushed in, bombarding me with questions on what she did and what she wanted. I sighed loudly as I looked at them, shaking my head. "I'm too tired for the interrogations. I wanna go to sleep in my own comfy bed." I whined, throwing a fit with my legs. "You're like a child, lass." Johnny said, and I glared at him, joking raising a gummy bear in hand. "You want this to go in your other eye?" I asked, making him quickly duck away, going behind the bulky mass of Ghost to hide from me. "That's enough. Let the girl get her sleep. She's going to need it." Gaz said, grabbing Johnny and taking him outside after saying goodbye with hugs. Simon was grabbed by Johnny, all of them saying bye as they piled out. I let out a chuckle, shaking my head at their childish behavior as I got comfortable.

[wormstacheangel]

Suptober Day 6: Cemetery Boys

wc: 1.3k tags: hunter!cas, human!cas, destiel au, case fic, a little grave digging and flirting never hurt anybody

This. This was the worst part of the job; Dean concludes as he shovels away another patch of dirt. He cringes when he realizes that actually the people dying are the worst part but digging up a grave is a close second.

“I am...never...playing that...stupid...fucking game. Again!”

He hated rock, paper, scissors anyways. Couldn’t they play darts or cards to settle bets? Why do they have to play such a childish game? And why does he always fucking lose?

Dean throws the dirt over his shoulder with ache arms. Sam suggested someone had to stay with the pretty girl and protect her from the ghost of some old-timey creep. So, now Sam is somewhere comforting the college cheerleader while Dean is struggling to climb out of the hole. He just needed a second—a minute.

Fuck, he needed a nap.

He was almost out when he saw someone running towards him.

“Shit!” Dean lost his footing and fell onto his back. Landing back into the grave with a loud groan.

He heard a loud chuckle before he opened his eyes and saw, “Wow. Aren’t you pretty?”

Dean saw the man roll his eyes, but all Dean could think about was how angelic the man looked with the glow of the moon behind him.

“Did I just die and gone to heaven?”

“If heaven is finishing this dig, then yes.” Dean barely heard his words cause he was putty under the voice. The deep fucking voice. “You’re Dean, right?”

Pretty boy knows my name! “Yeah.” Smooth. “Yeah, am I that famous already?”

“Your brother sent me over to check on you.” Pretty boy helped Dean out of the grave, holding his hand out and helping Dean regain his balance by holding a hand to his waist. “Says you were taking too long.”

Was this dude teasing him, or was he dead serious?

“Yeah, well, digging up a dead body isn’t as easy anymore.”

“I don’t think it was ever easy.”

Dean blinked at him, still unable to understand if the dude just had a dry humor or if he was fucking serious.

“Who the fuck even are you?” Dean finally asked, handing the guy the extra shovel before he could even answer.

He watched pretty boy take the shovel and jump into the hole with ease. Already digging when he answers in a deep groan. “I’m Castiel.”

It took a second for Dean to stop hearing the name bouncing off the walls in his brain. “Castiel?”

Cas gave him a slight nod, his lips in a tight line as he started to shovel off the dirt quickly. Dean sat down at the edge of the grave and watched him, enjoying the way his arms and back muscles stretch his shirt, but also in suspicion.

“And what the fuck are you doing here, Cas?”

“I was on my way to this hunt, actually.”

“So you’re a hunter.”

“I thought that was obvious.”

Yeah. Well. “Well, we did all the work already, so you can’t take the credit.”

“I don’t need credit. I just want to help.” Cas was already leaving a pretty good dent. “I was supposed to be here sooner, but my car broke down. Left it on the side of the road, hidden by some trees--can’t really call a mechanic when I have an arsenal in the back.”

Dean jumped in and grabbed his own shovel to help.

“Well, it must be your lucky day, Cas.” Cas looked up at him, eyebrows knitted together. “You are looking at one of thee best mechanics on this side of the country.”

“What about the other side?”

“I’m not so good over there.”

They both cracked a smile. So maybe Cas does have a dry sense of humor. And Dean...well, shit, Dean thinks he likes it.

“After we’re done here, maybe I can give you a ride back to your car? See what I can do.”

Cas was staring at him, almost as if he could see right through him, and Dean wasn’t sure if he liked it, but he sure as fuck can get addicted to being seen.

“I would appreciate that very much. Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem. Maybe that would make us even.” Dean says as his shovel hits something old. He slams the shovel down harder and cracks the wooden box. “Jackpot!”

Cas climbed out of the grave with ease and quickly turned around to help Dean out again. He wanted to show that he could get out all by himself, too, but he didn’t want to lose the opportunity to hold the damn dude’s big rough hands.

Shit. It’s been a while for him.

“Dean?” Dean noticed his gaze had fallen to the other man’s lips. It was formed into a small smile. “The salt?”

He’s a professional! He should not be letting this pretty boy interfere with the job. Since when has this been a rule? Now. He is starting now.

Dean picked up the salt, and before he could pour it out into the grave, he felt a familiar push of something hard knocking him back. He landed hard against a gravestone, his back getting the worst of it, while he heard his name being called out but everything was a little fuzzy. The figure before him, dressed in an old prison uniform, grinned down at him before he took hold of Dean’s neck. It was choking him.

“Dean!”

His vision faded as he tried to fight the ghost, but his legs just went through him. But eventually, he fell onto his knees, sucking in the air before a coughing fit started.

He felt strong arms around his shoulders, protecting him. “Come on, Dean. We gotta burn the remains.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t just thrown across the graveyard like a damn rag doll.

Dean followed Cas’s lead without complaint, noticing now that the dude had a shotgun in hand. When they reached the grave again, there stood the ghost with the most fucked up grin that made the Joker’s scars look good. It gave Dean the chills, and he started to feel his body freeze up.

“Cas.” Dean tugged at the other guy’s sleeve. His hands felt so weak, and when he looked down at himself, he noticed they were starting to become purple. “Fuck.”

This is how all his victims were found. Shit, that also meant the damn ghost found him pretty enough to kill.

Cas noticed at the same time and gave Dean’s hand a gentle squeeze as he pulled it off of him. He gave Dean an apologetic smile before turning towards the ghost. “If you want him. Take him.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Dean complained as he watched the ghost’s eyes widen as he looked Dean up and down. “If that dirty hand touches me, Cas. You’re dead.”

“Then I suggest you keep him away from you while I burn this bitch.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile. Even while being used as fucking bait, he could find time to find Cas as cute and funny.

Dean did as he was told, ignoring the way his lungs burned with every gasping breath as he tried to fucking run from the ghost. Like the first idiot who dies in a horror movie.

“You could have given me the gun!”

“Get your own!”

“Ass!”

Dean swore he heard laughter.

And just when he was cornered, with nasty fucking claws trying to bury themselves into his chest, the ghost backs away in screams. Burning up from the inside first and slowly spreading. Then, finally, the screams and remains become lost to the wind.

Dean fell back against a grave, his chest still ached along with everything in his body, when he saw Cas run towards him. He slid into his knees and carefully cradled Dean’s head between his hands, looking at him again. Looking at him like he knew him. Cared about him.

“Dean? Dean, you okay?”

Dean wanted to shove those hands away. He wouldn’t have let anyone take care of him like this, but right now, he didn’t care.

“You owe me, Cas. That grimy nasty shit touched me.”

Cas sighed in relief, knowing Dean was fine. Or at least, he was alive.

“I guess I owe you.” Cas helped Dean up. “Maybe after you fix my car?”

“Deal. But buy me breakfast first?”

“Deal.”

[herstarburststories]

He didn’t make it to 42

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: it’s Dean’s birthday, you go to visit him with some news and things that need to be said.

A/N: Happy bday, De.

Warnings: so much angst, mentions of sex, hopeful/happy ending (?)

Dean’s dead. It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s dead. You can’t argue much.

Sam denied the demon blood inside him, and that didn’t stop its evil nature from growing and gasping for his fresh air to the point he was almost shocked alive. Dean denied his dad’s destructive methods’ results for the longest time, and that didn’t stop the cicatrixes in every emotion he had ever shown. You denied the absence of Dean and that didn’t stop the bricks cracking in your soul. There’s only so far you can go with your eyes closed.

So here you are. Standing in front of an empty grave. You are bigger than the dull tombstone, yet you can’t help but not to feel tall, at all. How can you even start to talk? Talking to Dean used to be easy even when it got hard and now you’re feeling like a lost kid in a supermarket. Your snide thinking spells out his name with venom, saying it isn’t easy for you to open your barmy mouth and spill out contrarian shit because this isn’t Dean, just another meaningless symbolism that Sam promises that will help. The real Dean died almost a year ago, he was burned in a hunter’s funeral, the flames dancing over his body as the smell of burnt meat invaded your nostrils. Whenever you try to remember his fragrance, that manly aroma which you loved to scent each morning, all your brain can come up with is the odor of his skin and guts burning. The smell lingers like bad perfume, it doesn’t matter how many times you wash yourself with his soap-- that only broke your heart worse.

But today is Dean’s birthday. He deserves a visit, even if it’s not him. Then you go and attempt to deal with the desolation, push it away just a little, and pick up something from the enormous pile of things you wish to tell Dean. You glance at the cold tombstone: Dean Winchester. 1979 - 2020. Beloved son, big brother, and husband. Hunter. A hero. Simple definitions that can never make it up for who he was and what he meant. You purse your lips and cough a little, a gentle wind touches your cheek so tenderly. If you were still a believer, you’d think this is some sort of sign, Dean’s presence or some other pious hoax. All you do now is to remain in quietude, a deep breath. Ultimately, your voice comes:

‘’You didn’t make it to forty two, huh?’’ You scoff humorless, reminiscing to the multiple days that Dean said he wouldn’t go past 35. He did live each year like it was the last--- you aren’t sure if it's such a good thing. If you carry on like your days are outnumbered, you are silently entertaining yourself until death's knock on your door. ‘’I always hated when you were right. Let’s be honest, you had the words of a pessimist and the wants of an optimist. Still, if you were to be right about something, it would be about a bad situation. A nest with too many vampires, how crappy the motel’s bedroom would be, or how that third glass of wine would make me tipsy. So yeah, I always hated when you were right. And look at you now! You aren’t right, you aren’t wrong. You are dead! And I’m the crazy girl screaming at an empty tombstone.’’

You let out a laugh empty of joy. That’s how a hunter’s life is: you die and people stop talking about you because it’s too sad or too long gone to hold any pity, meanwhile the ones who recall about you go loud with all the spirits in their heads. You put your hand in the pockets of the heavy leather jacket that once belonged to a green eyed man who would be turning 42 today, some strange force causing you to speak again.

‘’Wow.’’ You shake your head to the blue way you paint the scene until you notice that you never greeted him. ‘’Hey.’’ The simple word adds a comical insult to injury. ‘’Guess the dead don’t care about manners, huh?’’ You arch your eyebrows with a grin that demonstrates anything but happiness. ‘’Miracle died. Sam digged a hole next to the bunker and buried him there. He isn’t the same since you died, you know? Not the deceased dog-- Well, he wasn’t the same either. Always whining and scratching your door like a fucking cat, and sniffing your old boots. He made me company in your bed and I whined as much as he did when you didn’t come back home that day. He stood by the door most days, waiting for you to appear. I can’t judge him, I did the same.’’ You shrug, not caring about how risible that confession may look. It's true. You became as irrational as a loyal dog at some point in this sorrow. ‘’And Sam, your baby brother… I think he died with you right there, Dean. He didn’t try to bring you back as he promised, but I shouted and screamed so much. I said I would burn the bunker and throw Baby over a cliff if he didn’t-- if he didn’t let me try. I lived up to the mad woman title.’’

You are crestfallen, pacing on top of where the eldest Winchester - Sam’s brand new nomination -  supposedly was buried. You know your boots barely touch an infected land, there's no deceased man under your steps. The dead thing is in you.

‘’I spent days dragging your body everywhere and nowhere, anywhere I could catch a crumb of relief in hope to bring you back. But I couldn’t. Jack could, but that ungrateful idiot doesn’t wanna follow his grandpa steps and get too attached to mere humans, the creation or whatever. As if we are just some skin and bone to him, as if you are just another human.’’

You sit down on the tombstone, some tender solace in being close to a thing that's supposed to represent him, like sleeping hugged to a pillow or waking up to a photograph of his. Your nails sink against the gelid concrete at the thought of screaming into the sky for the new God that seemed as deaf as the last one. His calm answer to your burning pain. How he dared to tell you he knew what he was doing— as if he was the original lord and not a three years old. You can't make him do it, so you hold on the fury of some overthrown nation.

‘’Anyway, I couldn’t bring you back. Your body, well, you know how human anatomy works. Your body started to smell like death. We tried to stop with human and magic ways, and it wouldn’t work because you were dead. You should’ve seen the doctor’s face when we got you in that fancy hospital tha night. I think we traumatized the doctor with so much violence and trauma. She didn’t even give us a false hope or anything, you know? She just asked about organ donation of what was left. She just wanted to take every little thing out of you, as if you were just another accident on a Tuesday night.’’ Your shake your head as the memories and your points start to mix, it's hard to discern things and keep a straight line when you have an open wound in your insides. ‘’Well, they couldn’t bring you back to life, and neither could Rowena or whatever I looked for. Don’t be mad because I tried, Winchester. You know I’m too stubborn for my own good. I had to try.’’ you refuse to apologize, yet adds the playful words in his eulogy. ‘’But then your body started to stink and God, how could I continue to be so violent to your corpse? That was when I decided to listen to you for the first time and to Sam, so I let you go. I hate you for asking that.’’ What an ambiguous, contradictory truth to bare. You are glimpses of a person for months because of Dean Winchester, still have the energy to argue his selfless logic, just to love him even more. He's got your devotion, but man you can hate him sometimes. ‘’I hate you for going on that stupid hunt. I hate you for being dead, you giant idiot that I love so much.’’ You can't bring your mouth to say loved. "I was always telling you to let the past go and now I’m in love with a dead thing. What a comic way to end our history. I told you that Miracle died, right? I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I hope he’s in there with you. I wonder what your heaven is like. I bet it has Whiskey.''

Your dry chuckle makes your notice the tears in your eyes, glistening your orbs as they go like a waterfall to be absorbed by the thirsty land after leaving your cheeks.

"Sam and I-- We tried to make some sense out of this cruelty, but we can’t. You are dead and I can’t seem to put it past me. I still sleep in your bed, and I can still taste your body burning on the roof of my mouth in the quiet nights. I cried this morning because someone asked for a burger, can you believe that? It was so stupid since I used to shake my head and argue with you about cholesterol. Suddenly I was crying at lunch in a restaurant because some stupid kid asked for a burger with extra bacon. They sang Happy birthday to this dumbass child, and I interrupted with my awful crying, and wished that you were celebrating your birthday and not that kid. I guess you could say I wish death upon an innocent child with a problematic eating routine.’’ That was a whole new level of low, as if you are the one wrapped with the sentiment of laying six feet under.

‘’Everyone tells you about how grief is singular and particular with similar emotions that bring people who went through this together. They even have that crap stages thing and all that. You know what they don’t tell you?’’ Your mouth shuts for a moment, like you are waiting some response. You nod as if whatever you were expecting is handed to you. ‘’Grief can be fucking ridiculous. Who cries because of a burger full of oil and cardiac diseases? Who cries because they found a grocery store recipe under her dead boyfriend’s bed? Who falls on the ground screaming in the middle of the mall because they saw a flannel? Who? Those things are so stupid.’’ You smile like there's no tomorrow and the laugh leaving your lips is a treacherous tone. Perhaps you just aren't build up to express joy anymore. ‘’You see it in the movies and in the books and you think, you know, you think to yourself that grieving is being sad on special dates and randomly remembering the loved ones because of some screaming memory, like a flannel or their perfume. Thing is, it’s not just that. All your body seems so small, so tight for all the ache and agony inside it. Your senses go wild, you are not just one person in one place. You’re just the pain everywhere, like being pulled apart and you beg to jump in the fucking grave with them. At least you would be together, at least you would feel like one person and not suffering edges of a broken earthy thing. And--And you start remembering things you didn’t even know you had mesmerized. I look at the ceiling and remember you saying you’d paint it someday. I look at the kitchen and remember me screaming at you for giving Miracle the rest of the food. I smell Sam’s clothes and started crying because hey, they don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t iron them while drinking anymore, so of course they don’t smell like cheap beer.’’ You are chuckling through the tears and it only makes it more monstrous. ‘’Everything is you now that you are gone. Every man has something similar to you, every garden is green as your eyes, and each step sounds like you are coming home. They didn’t prepare me, not for this.’’ You said breathless. A soft single follows. The knife cuts both ways; the empty breeze and the words hurt. Where's the middle term? Where's the limbo? Where's the only safe place for you to rest your weary head?

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, ‘’I can’t masturbate,’’ I know it’s something stupid and even selfish to say, but I think you’d like to know. I can’t masturbate. That’s a part of the whole losing someone process that people are too ashamed to discuss, or maybe they don’t have the urge to be touched anymore because after someone you love dies, after someone-- the hands who touched are dead and cold, you become a haunted object. That’s how I feel most days, like I’m a haunted house because you touched me and now you’re dead and some days I believe I am too.’’ You look around the places. It's beautiful. It's lonely. It has trees and flowers and green. Not as green as Dean's eyes, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even have eyes at this point. ‘’Well, I can’t masturbate. I can’t touch myself. And I can’t ask someone else either. I tried and ended up punching the guy, Dean. I swear. I panicked when he was between my legs and just punched his nose. You’d have liked it, you were always the jealous kind. I won’t admit that, but I thought it was kinda hot. Especially when you got possessive in sex.’’ A dirty grin appeared on your lips, the echoes of luxury lasting in your eyes for a brief moment. ‘’I don’t think I can be cared for anymore, honestly. Sam tried to hug me when Miracle died and I… It was like I wasn't there. I got frozen in time, and I live in my sleep. In my nightmares you are alive. I  dream about the day you died every week and I used to wake up screaming, but now those nightmares are the only proof you were alive now that you’re as dead as the police report says this time. It was the most painful, calamitous moment for you and I swear it was a nightmare for me, but then I realized that at least I had you there, egoistical or not, I made my nightmare into a dream.’’ You aren't sure which opinion Dean would have on that. Would he understand? Would he shake his head? You wish you can ask him just this one more thing, just beg him to write it down for you on how to be without him here.

You raise on your feet, glaring at the name craved in the concrete. The tears go by still, although they're as usual as the blood in glir veins at this point. ‘’Death is so silly. What it takes, anyway?" Each word conquers more inches of pure wrath. ''People die because they stumbled on their own feet and hit their head somewhere, or they drove their car too close and too fast to the cliff, or because they were giving birth, or because they dated the wrong person, or because they were hunting a fucking vampire and got impaled. What are the chances? How stupid, and idiotic is death? Always creeping and waiting to bite and chew a piece of you-- Taking every scrap of you from me like that’s its right.’’ You are screaming, starting to kick and punch the tombstone with any piece of straight you have. Your limbs hurt and the blood is visible, but you keep going. ‘’YOUR STUPID DOG DIED, DEAN! AND YOU DIED! AND I DIED! SAMMY DIED! YEAH, IS SAID SAMMY! GO AHEAD, TELL ME ONLY YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.’’ Another punch, your knuckles are ripped. Another kick, your boot as a hole. ‘’DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.’’ Kick. ‘’SAMMY, SAMMY, SAMMY!’’ A punch to each name. Anything to get a reaction, to get comfort. Anything. ‘’YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD.’’ Gasping for something you don't need anymore, sweet oxygen, your eyes are on the tombstone again. And the definitions. And the trees. Your body is sore and aching. It is the kind and coercion no person wants which you needed; the freedom of feeling outside the exact pain that was inside. ‘’You can’t because you are dead. I’ve been playing some sick games in my mind, you know? Sam stopped hunting and had his closure. He was always better at letting go than you and I, but he’s still hurting. I never saw him hurting so much. I think he knows you won’t come back this time, how could you make us promise something like that?  Well, my twisted game is a bunch of misleading what ifs. What if you hadn’t gone after John? What if you hadn’t gone on that last hunt? What if you had stayed with Lisa? At first I didn’t like her much. Jealous, I admit that. But she grew on me. She gave you something I couldn’t back then and I’ll always be thankful for that. And even though it would rip me apart, I’d rather you to die at sixth after living your suburban dream with her. Have another kid besides Ben, maybe a girl this time, and just have that apple pie life. You and Sam would live close and your kids would always play. They’d be as close as brothers. Maybe I’d get a guy and bring my own kids and we could’ve a barbecue and everyone would be happy. But we don’t get soft epilogues here. It ends how it starts, right? Bloody and desperate. I thought maybe, maybe Lisa could understand what’s going through my head now. I drove to her new address and parked close to her house. I must have spent hours there, thinking if I should come in or not, If she somehow remembered after Castiel died or if I could make her brain work again if I told her the truth. But then I just drove back home and fell asleep wrapped in that stupid lumberjack flannel of yours. The one I always mocked, yeah? She may understand me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. You want her, you want me and Sam to be happy. I don’t know if I can do that, Dean. It’s like myt brittle soul shrewd and my body is just waiting to collapse.’’ You signed, overwhelmed by the battle without an anthem. The victory with no triumph. Is it still a win when you don't have someone to come home too? ‘’Your dog died, it’s the first birthday you didn’t live to see, and I bought all the things you told Mrs Butters you wanted for your birthday because it’s your birthday. I just don’t know how to celebrate it with you dead. People stop counting after they die, right? They just say he’d have been 42 or he died at 41. They give melancholy smiles when they wake up and check the day on their phones and a woe atmosphere swallows them for the rest of the day. Then they get better the next day. I think everyday is your birthday.’’ You attempt to wipe away your tears, which only causes your pulsating hand to stain your face red. ‘’Dean, for the first time, what died stayed dead! Congrats.’’ Once again, a hysterical laugh. ‘’I wish but no. What died didn’t stay dead, you are alive, so alive in my head. I swear you are there some days. I wake and watch the door, so sure you’ll come back. Sam says I’m living in delusion and I have to wake up and keep going since that's what you would want. That's enough to make him keep going, but it only makes me angry. Everyone we know and some strangers looks at me like I'm a house on fire and no longer a warm home, like I'm a car accident. They think I don't notice but I do.’’ You look at your boots, the whole is rolling out blood like your hands. You feel closer to Dean. How sick.

‘’Help, I’m still right where you left me." You plea, his love lingering like a bruise. ''I think gravity is overwhelming and it keeps me here. Sometimes it’s like I’m one of those dusted books Sam used to read. Or those Bukowski ones that you hid, so we wouldn’t see how smart you’re. You tried so hard to hide your intelligence because you didn’t think you were entitled to it. You saw yourself as the protector and never the valuable one for protection. You, the man who made an EMF out of an old radio, who rebuilt the Impala from the ground multiple times, and who knew patterns better than any detective. The man who showed me I could rely on someone other than myself. The dude with a lopsided grin, tough hands and a heart of gold. I miss you so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing all those classic rock songs and Taylor Swift pop hits, while I drove here. I would think you were home, smelling like guts because you wanted to eat before taking a shower after a hunt. I would think that you are in the Deancave, waiting for me to curl up on your lap to watch Scooby Doo or Doctor Sexy MD until we aren’t watching anymore. If I didn’t know better I would think no death could take you from me. There would be no tear us apart in our vows.’’ The only thing that keeps your organism working is that Dean died knowing how much you loved him. You never let this talk for later or never. No tomorrow is promised. That's a nice comfort, maybe that's what will help you to let go in the future. ‘’But yesterday your stupid, skink dog died and I lost the last living thing that I had from you. You know what’s more angerting? I cried and Sam cried and I noticed we were the living things you left behind and all we have is each other. All your closets of backlogged dreams were left for us-- so yeah. Sam is done hunting and he’s met a lovely girl, and they are moving in like in your domestic dreams. I’m taking care of the family business like your other contradictory dream and making sure Sam is safe enough to be normal. Because I have to, we have too. Stupidly enough, I still wait for the day you’ll burst out the door and tell us to hit the road again. I still watch every episode of your dumb tv shows to make sure I’ll know everything that happened when you ask. I still drive around in your car and close my eyes when the street is calm, only picturing you driving as Baby’s engineers go wild but those are my hands on the steering wheel. If I didn't know better, I’d think you are still around. But I know better. I still feel you all around. I love you.’’

Your monologuing ends as astutely as it stated. You get up, press a kiss to your ruined for the next weeks hands and place it on the rock with writings. You turn around and walk back to the car that you parked near, only in case of Dean wanting to see Baby. How knows? You and your clandestine faith. You lick your lip and get in the car.

You swear you the AC/DC cassette wasn't there before, but when you turn on the car and the radio it starts playing. It's the first true smile that comes to your mouth, it's bloodstained and you look like a shameless woman. With that you can deal.

It hurts a bearable hurt for now. You didn't think it was possible. Maybe someday.

The end.

(she takes a little longer to arive in heaven than sammy. his baby brother says that women are most likely to live around six years more than men. it doesn't ease him up, though. dean waited sam for too long, his platonic soulmate. and now he has to wait his romantic one too? the eldest Winchester considers it the best earthly present when the he sense you around, that smell of orange and apples. it's you, he knows before even turning around. he can't wait to love you again. your name rolls off your tongue so naturally, as if you had seen each other just yesterday: ‘’hey, y/n.’’)

But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?

REBLOG AND COMMENT. Feedback is magic and helps me!

Starburst's footnote: It just didn't feel right to make an author's note on the top. I wanted it all only to be an arrow to the story. So, this is my side note: it's six am and I'm up writing this after inspiration kissed me with a bruise in the middle of the night. Or more like grabbed my throat. Anyway, I had to write and finish this one to post today, even pushing sleep aside. Hey, we are writers, that's what we do! I've been watching the show since I was eleven and I cried like a baby with the finale. This series was just so important and crucial to molde aspects of relationships for me. The song marjorie by Taylor Swift was used here, and so was the line "you got my devotion/ but man, I can hate you sometimes" by Harry Styles. I told you guys I would use it somewhere! A special thanks to @msmarvelouswinchester​ who helped me with her encouraging and opinon. You are the best! And with all of this I wanna say: Happy bday, Dean Winchester!

REBLOG AND COMMENT! Feedback is magic! Especially about this fic, I’d like to know your opinion. Tags in the reblog! Send an ask or dm to get in the taglist.

[miracle-sham]

Yet So Poison Entwined We Fracture.

| {Jasonette July 2021, Saturday Challenge 1: Hurt No Comfort} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] | | [Spotify Playlist Link] |

| It all went wrong so quickly. Marinette thought she could trust Jason, that he'd never betray her. And Jason thought the same. But with a truth-serum turned poison seeping through their veins, neither had thought to look for the purple feathers. |

| Word Count: 1,706. |

———

| A/N: I'll try and keep this short and sweet but it's nice to dip back into writing for Maribat, I really missed it whilst I was gone. Also I've now got a author's channel in MGI where I sometimes put title sneak peaks, snippets, and random au ramblings, so y'know feel free to pop into the channel and have a gander if you'd fancy! And one last thing, keen eyes may have noticed I've added a Spotify Playlist Link, it contains all the songs I listened to when working on this oneshot, if you're curious! |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics or a specific Au, then feel free to send me a dm and or ask! |

| Also side note, Don’t Like? Don’t Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

———

Marinette staggers back, clutching at her bloodied side as the world spins for a moment and everything blurs. Breath catches in her throat as a sharp pang of betrayal pierces her heart, tears springing to the corners of her eyes unbidden. Whimpering, she barely manages to cry out, “J–Jason?”

Heartbreak coating his name like the truth serum-poison making its way through her system at this very moment.

She makes an awful choking noise and collapses to her knees, scrunching her face up and wheezing. Barely is she able to keep her eyes open, fixated on staring at someone she thought she could trust.

Smirking lazily, Jason saunters up to her, crouches and then grabs her face by the chin, forcing her to tilt her head up to continue staring at him in the eyes. “Aw, did you really fucking think I cared about you this entire time?”

Marinette swallows thickly—unable to conjure up a response to him. Black spots start to form in the corner of her vision like watching a spattering of embers burning away on a piece of paper.

He tilts his head to the side and snorts, “really? Nothing to say, no heartfelt "I trusted you!" or "you're lying!". Not even a "I know the real you is still in there?", how fucking pathetic.”

There's a small part of her brain that starts flashing red lights and wailing alarms—warning her that she's in danger, that she's hurt, that she's stopped breathing. She can't breathe, can't move, can't say anything or she'll spill all her remaining secrets.

Jason sighs and drops her chin. “And here I fucking thought your shitty-ass reaction to me betraying you would be more fun.”

Grimacing, she waits a heartbeat after he lets go before mustering all her strength to slam her skull into his—if I'm going down, you're coming with me for this, Marinette mentally vows.

There's a horrendous thwacking sound as the impact lands, and Marinette feels as though her brain has turned into a blender that just had its blades snap mid blend.

Jason, on the other hand, flings himself backwards and curses up a storm. He pulls out one of his guns and with dizzying vision, manages to shoot a bullet that just clips the uninjured side of her ribs. “That's what you fucking get for that you bitch!”

Marinette doubles over as the pain seems to ricochet through her; vision blacking out completely. She struggles for breath, her hearing cutting off not a second later. Objectively, she's aware she's not alone. But as her senses shut down one by one, leaving her helplessly trapped in her own mind, she can't help but wonder why her heart aches with loneliness. I'm sorry, she silently apologises to no one and everyone.

Distantly, she thinks she's swaying—or collapsing again maybe. But it's hard to tell, it's disorientating trying to focus on the world with dying senses.

Marinette is lost. Every little movement, every little thought—it's agony, a struggle to keep going, keep holding on. Once more, she silently pleas for forgiveness from the kwami.

She stops.

Stops breathing. Heart stops beating. Stops fighting. It all stops.

At least this way, she thinks to herself, I can't spill any secrets from the truth serum-poison if I carry them to the grave instead…

She sinks into the darkness, clinging to her final thought in numb relief as she does so. Everything fades away.

———

Jason groans as the knife Marinette is wielding digs deeper between his ribs.

She doesn't move back immediately, so he grits his teeth and roundhouse kicks at her—the heavy thump of collision makes his wound burn like acid has just been poured on it.

He's a few seconds too slow pulling his leg back, as Marinette slices the knife through his calf.

“Fuck!” He bites out, throwing himself further out of her range and breathing. “Marinette!”

With the gall to smile faux-innocently, she plays with the knife in her hand, slipping it between her fingers and swirling it about. “Yes, Jason?”

“The fuck are you doing!?” He growls, shifting his position when she doesn't move to apply pressure to the calf wound.

She shrugs, seemingly unbothered, “what? Did you really think this wouldn't happen one day? That I wouldn't get sick of you. Show you just how much you've hurt me the entire time we've known each other?”

Jason spits blood from his mouth at the warehouse floor in front of her. “I don't believe whatever shit you're being made to spew, but I sure as fucking hell know that you'd never do something as fucked up as this.”

“Oh, that's cute! You still believe in me. What's next, are you going to beg me to come to my senses? Are you going to cry my name and hope it changes my mind? Are you going to declare that the "real" me is still there inside and that you're going to save me?” Marinette giggles, high-pitched and yet hollow sounding.

Jason flinches at the sound, breathing stuttering as the poison from her knife starts to really seep in. Shit, he thinks to himself, truth serum-poison. If I'm not careful I'm gonna say shit that should stay secret.

A flash of silver catches the edge of his vision. And it's all the warning he gets. He immediately ducks and rolls, cursing under his breath as his wounds are aggravated. The air by his hair swooshes as the blade just narrowly misses.

Marinette giggles taper off into a hiss of fury. Her hair slips out of her pigtails from the constant movement, and multiple strands fall in front of her face. She huffs, ineffectively blowing them out of the way. “Did you really think I ever loved you?”

“Yes!” The words are choked out of his mouth before he can even think, the truth serum-poison kicking in hard and fast. Jason wheezes and the taste of iron lingers like malice in his throat. Fuck, he thinks desperately, I'm running out of time and Marinette isn't snapping out of whatever the fuck's been done to her.

He stumbles into another roll, as the blade comes swinging at him again. His vision blurts violently, and the next thing Jason knows—is that his view has suddenly tipped upside down and that there's a throbbing ache radiating from the back of his shoulders and head.

“Huh, you really do have a thick skull. Normally that'd be enough to knock anyone else out. Well, I guess I'll have to do this the old fashioned way.” Marinette rambles, pulling out a rag.

Jason grunts as he pushes himself only to be slammed back into the concrete warehouse floor, rag pressed firmly over his mouth and nose.

He thrashes and refuses to inhale. Marinette scowls and kicks him sharply into the ribs, causing him to gasp through gritted teeth. But it's enough to affect him.

His vision teeters then flickers to black, he can feel his movements slowing—becoming more and more sluggish until he's as still as he was in that fucking coffin he's had to crawl out of once before. At least, he barely manages to cling to the final thought, I can't spill any secrets if I carry them to the grave once more.

And then it all fades away.

———

Lila steeples her finger and smirks. She's sitting in her plain white office for the Agreste, three monitors set up before her on the desk. The middle screen shows her emails and a few tabs up on fashion for work-related reasons. The outer two screens, however, show the feed to two identical cells—two by four by five metres with cement floors and grey brick walls, no windows and a single plain black metal door. No furniture either, not even beds or toilets, just chains attached to the wall opposite the door. And in the chains is what has Lila so very happy indeed; Marinette and Jason, one in each cell and both stuck in the chains with no hope for escape.

A steady pool of blood has already formed beneath the both of them, thanks to the wonderful work of her Sentimonster duplicates of the two.

Lila can't help but monologue in her glee, “It's so excellently simple really. Even if one escapes, there's no way they'll help the other escape now. Now they've experienced the pain of betrayal and torture inflicted by the other!”

Footsteps approach the door to her office; all it takes is a quick click and click of the mouse and her two outer screen feeds flip to showing more work-related tabs and emails.

The door opens to reveal Adrien, slightly dishevelled—hair and shirt ruffled, eyes red with dark bags beneath them, and shiny tear streaks down his cheeks—he stands in the threshold, shaking. “Did you know?”

Lila smiles in fake confusion. “Know what?”

Adrien swallows, gaze flickering to her screens. “Marinette's dead. So is Jason.”

Lila tilts her head to the side to make it look as though she's thinking. “The Wayne boy that was close to her, right? Oh dear.”

His tired gaze turns back to Lila as he continues. “They think both of them were kidnapped and tortured separately. Police have found traces of an altered truth-serum among the bloodstains and…” He chokes for a second, grief plain as day across his face. “and they found pieces of fingers, ears, slices of skin, and all.”

“Oh, oh, that's horrible!” Lila gasps, covering her mouth with her hands to hide the victorious curl forming on her lips. “Have they found out who was cruel enough to do that to them yet?”

Adrien shakes his head silently.

“Hopefully, the culprit will be found soon. But if you need any support, I'll always be here for you, Adrien!” Lila gravely announces, bobbing her head slightly as she spoke.

He narrows his eyes at her, shakes his head, and then stalks away from her office.

She scowls as soon as his back turns and gets up to shut her door. “Well,” She says to herself as she flips back to the cell feed, “at least that means I'll have plenty of time to pull the secrets from you two without the police thinking to look for you alive.”

———

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| Also feel free to send me any asks or comments with any questions you have regarding this oneshot, I'll be more than happy to answer! |

| @jasonette-july-event |

[leviiattacks]

Two Faced | Chapter One

↳ levi ackerman, the very person who was about to kindly behead you by a surprising turn of events manages to become your loving husband? you would be elated if this was true love, but it's all thanks to a mysterious magic spell that your life is spared. for now at least.

pairing :: duke!levi x duchess!reader genre :: royal au, angst, fluff, slice of life etc word count :: 2.6k → click here for the next part !

Shock-waves of terror rush through your body. You can feel your heart thump erratically against your chest and your train of thought is a complete mess. All you know for sure is that your fate is certain, you're going to die. The illegitimate daughter of the Rambova family from the Negri Republic is going to be killed and it just so unfortunately happens to be you. Your eyes are coated in a fresh layer of tears and all you can do is sit there huddled in the corner of your room whilst you pray. Pray to who exactly? You're unsure of that detail.

The days of pain and neglect that you constantly endured ended with the war caused by a single man. That man who was rumored to be cruel enough to murder the child of another enemy noble in cold blood. The Duke of the Paradis Empire. Levi Ackerman. By the emperor's orders he took an army to conquer all of the rebelling, independent countries which surrounded Paradis, and unfortunately for you the Negri republic was one of them.

Soon, the Rambova family was the last of the nobles left within the nation.

"Y/N. Even a little pest like you has a role to play. You must stay back and protect the castle." that was the first and last thing your father said to you when news of the war spread. Your father threw you away and so did the rest of your household. Not even a thank you was issued when they all dashed past you towards the palace's back gates. Truth be told you were simply a child born out of convenience, born to marry another aristocrat to strengthen the family's reputation, but the war made you see your position with even more clarity.

No one ever loved you in this palace, it would be futile for you to say they did, lying would not ease the numbing ache in your heart.

"SEARCH EVERY NOOK AND CRANNY!" One of Duke Ackerman's men alerts the other soldiers and that's when you begin to shiver in pure terror. The shrill screams of the palace maids can be heard and are more than audible, they echo back and forth, settling in the shells of your ears. You really are going to die today and no one's going to save you. Who would? The servants who laughed at you because of your shameful origin? Those servants seem to be at deaths door themselves, you don't hold anything against them. Or would it be your "family" who treated you like the dirt beneath the crevices of their shoes? That "family" had ditched you and left you for dead in the palace. Duke Ackerman was a wild animal and you were a piece of bait to everyone else. No one was going to help you and this was the end of the line.

You gaze out your window and see even more of his army approach. There's not enough time for you to run, even if you attempt to do so you'll be killed in no time at all. Your mother's words echo in your mind. No one was willing to keep her around. A toy, that's what she was for your father, a play thing on the sidelines for when his real wife wasn't well. A few years after giving birth to you mother had fell gravely ill but father did nothing to help. The money needed for her treatment wouldn't have even made a dent in his riches but he did not see it fit to spend such a large sum on the likes of her. He wasn't going to help a courtesan who refused to abort what he deemed a nuisance. That's what you and your mother were - problems, issues, nuisances and inconveniences he wanted nothing to do with.

But right now all you can think about are her last words. They ring in your head and you feel your tears creep right back up. However, they subside when you take the true meaning in.

"Listen carefully, when the grim reaper comes for you, act proudly and look him in the eye without fear. You must do so for me." the one time you had seen her force a smile was then, on her death bed she had smiled so daintily it felt fake. Why did she have to act strong even in her last moments? Why did she have to try her damnedest to hide her pain and suffering from you?

Without a seconds thought you decide to follow her last instructions and what she taught you. Deciding to look death in the eyes, it's the way your mother wanted you to leave. To die proud of yourself was a privilege she never received.

Shakily, you walk towards your dresser and throw on your best dress. It isn't amazing considering the fact that your father barely invested any time in you let alone any money but you made do with it. Tying the faded baby blue ribbon that came with it around your waist you play around with the frilled sleeves. Screams are all you can hear but you swallow away your fear. Putting your hair up into a bun and pinning it back as tightly as you can, your face is in full view now, you won't be able to hide behind your hair when you're finally taken away.

With faith and hope in your heart, that is how you choose to exit. Faith that after this something better was coming. An after life with mother, one where she would be treated the way she deserved. A place where you'd be able to see her smile in sincere clarity. As you stick the last pin into your hair the door to your bedroom rumbles. It takes a matter of seconds for it to be knocked down by three soldiers.

Two of them march towards you and yank you away from where you are in front of your mirror, in the chaos a vase full of flowers shatters and hits the floor. The sound of the glass shattering and hitting the marble floor only makes the situation more intimidating.

The soldiers drag you through the hallways of the castle and the way they grip tightly onto your arms irks you slightly. They're quite literally dragging you towards the slaughter house yet they continue to handle you and the other innocent people within the palace's walls with this degree of brute force. You know you don't deserve to die, nobody here does.

At some point you're thrown to the floor of the main hall, a pain shoots up your side due to the impact of your hip hitting the floor but you soldier through it. You try to look death in the eye but it beats you to it.

Multiple bloody corpses are scattered across the floor. A heap of them are piled up in one corner and your eyes water in defense. The Palace's head chef is one of the latest additions to this pile, her guts hang out, she's been sliced open mercilessly. The contrast between her current form and her usual stern but soft face haunts you.

This was your fate, your body was going to be hauled atop of this pile of corpses. How were you to die? Would you be cut up into bite sized pieces? Would your heart be ripped out of your chest, left to bleed out until you and death would meet?

You place your hands in front of you and they land on the floor as you raggedly breathe in and out trying to calm yourself down. Mother said death was scary but you never thought death would be delivered to you in the form of cold blooded murder.

Your haphazard thoughts are suddenly put to a halt when you hear a deep, gravely voice from above your head.

"Child of the Rambova Family." He pauses and your head shoots up to see who's addressing you.

Shaking once again the tears you've been holding back spill out. You are face to face with death himself, the grim reaper in human form. Duke Ackerman. His feline eyes are devoid of any emotion and he looks down at you through his eyelashes as though you're an animal.

Looking you up and down as if you're nothing but a pest you can't help but smile at that. Everyone thought of you that way, you weren't ever good for anything right? Your thoughts make you wallow in even more sadness and you burst into an extensive crying fit in front of the Duke himself.

He murmurs something inaudible under his breath then you see him swing his leg backwards. He savagely kicks your left shoulder and you fly towards the cold hard floor."You're oh so, stupid."  Shrieking, as his boot drives further into you, the lump in your throat hardens. "For not." another kick is delivered to you this time, it hits your right shoulder angularly. "Running away." a final kick lands on the left side of your face and despite his boots digging into the hollows of your cheeks you don't cry out in pain like you did the first time. That is until he swiftly holds you by the neck and firmly slams you up against one of the marble walls to perfectly punctuate his point. Letting go of you midway, you crash to the ground again, gulping and gasping for air.

His eyes. They're stone cold. You can't sense any emotion behind him. Yet he kneels down to your level his slim fingers trace the tear stains across your cheeks. The coarse but warm texture of his hand catches you off guard, you aren't accustomed to human touch and by reflex you unintentionally move slightly closer to his warm palm. He sneers at you absolutely disgusted with the way you react to his touch.

"It's a shame that you're objectively my kind of woman." His eyes snake towards the ribbon which cinches your waist in and the tension you feel increases ten fold. His gaze then meanders to your collarbone which is now crudely exposed after your one sided fight. His eyes darken "What a shame indeed." He mutters.

You begin to think that maybe the man above you has some pity left in his heart and you reach your hand out to possibly negotiate but before you can the fatal sound of him unsheathing his sword is heard.

Not even a knife can cut the tension in the air but somehow the words he shamelessly announce next manage to do just that.

"I shall give you the honor of having me personally see to your death."

Your life flashes before you eyes. He darts towards you and the cold edge of his sword is as close as it can be to your neck.

Don't close your eyes, Don't close your eyes. Look him in the eyes for the sake of mother.

Defiantly, you glare at him through the tears which mingle with the perspiration which coats your face. The tears rain down your cheeks and a droplet lands on his hand.

He flinches at the damp feeling but you see the grip he has on his handle harden.

You hadn't noticed in the previous frenzy and chaos but he's covered head to toe in blood, the ugly sight causes you to try and hold in your external reaction. But you can't fight away the tears, you clamp down on your lips so tightly that blood gradually trickles down your chin.

There were so many activities you wanted to try. You wanted to wear a beautiful dress, you wanted to fall in love, you wanted to marry, you wanted to see the world and all it had to offer. You wish as hard as you can for some sort of help some sort of release. You feel terrible because you aren't facing death in the eye. You aren't proud, you've betrayed your mother. Your blood and tears mix together and you swear you see a glint of something from the corner of your eye, but that's not the issue right now. You're about to die. This is real. This is all real.

You watch in fear as he swings his blade above his head preparing to end it all, right here, right now but suddenly a flash of white light illuminates your surroundings, you and the Duke are both momentarily blinded by it. The light morphs into an intricately beautiful symbol. Then, the clatter of his sword falling to the floor is heard. Your thoughts race, what on Earth is going on? At that moment a streak of light pierces through Duke Ackerman's chest and he groans in pain.

Pulsing from the pattern is a strange, bright light. You watch it flicker, changing colors from silver, to a misty white, then it suddenly weaves itself into a sky blue. You clench your fists, your nails digging deeper into your palms. Threads of silver then engulf both you and the Duke. You both become a part of the stunning floral designs. It's whimsical being trapped inside the kaleidoscope of colour, it's all so beautifully horrifying.

Out of nowhere both you and the Duke are flinged to the floor and the performance evaporates away. Curled up in a ball you're far too fearful to look up and see what has happened. You hear his voice again.

"My lady, please forgive me for my rudeness." The Duke murmurs his words and you can't make out whether or not he's being condescending or is genuinely apologetic.

Then he does the unthinkable, he falls down on one knee.

"And please allow me to receive the pleasure of marrying you." He sticks his hand out gracefully expecting you to hold it but you stare at him in pure horror.

"From the moment I saw you my heart was simple ensnared by your beauty." He holds onto your cheek affectionately, it feels different this time, you can feel the love practically spill out of his voice and touch but you're ultimately confused. He can't possibly love you, you're strangers. Oh, and he did try to decapitate you a few seconds ago.

His eyes are the definition of infatuation, they seem to glint with happiness even in the dimly lit hall and you have no idea what to say to this sudden confession. You don't even know where this confession has come from.

Then realization dawns on you.

It does sound impossible but it's really the only thing you can find remotely believable at this point.

Has someone perhaps cast a spell on the Duke? And is that someone, you?

You stare at his hand apprehensively and you know you've got no other choice. Even if he is joking and ridiculing you, at least you know you've tried to not fall directly into death's expectant hands.

"I...am yet to except. However, I shall give you a fair trial to court me." You awkwardly agree and place your shaky palm into this hoping he isn't fooling around. Much to your relief he isn't, you witness the man's eyes soften as he faintly kisses your knuckle.

Your surroundings are a landscape of dead bodies, you want to jerk your hand away from the monster in front of you, but your goal is survival.

Thinking about what exactly you have got yourself into, it doesn't seem to be pretty at all.

[magioftheseas]

You're The Woooorst~!

Summary: Even worse was that he got violently ill in front of Ouma, of all fucking people. That wasn’t the worst day of his life. That was the worst night of his life. Because, as it turned out, when he woke up, he was still violently ill. And Ouma was, of course, the one to know about it, showing up in his damn room unannounced.

Rating: T

Warnings: Kaito being sick but it’s not too bad. Also lotta cursing.

Notes: Wanted to write a short Oumota fic, thought that “taking care of him while sick” would be a simple enough premise. It ended up a little complicated anyway...

***Alternate Ao3 Link***

Commission? Donate?

This was shaping up to be one of the worst days of his life. First, that bastard Shinguuji insisted on telling ghost stories, which freaked him out so much that he had to escape before he got violently ill. Which he did. But even worse was that he got violently ill in front of Ouma, of all fucking people.

That wasn’t the worst day of his life. That was the worst night of his life. Because, as it turned out, when he woke up, he was still violently ill.

“Morn-ing-star-shine!”

And Ouma was, of course, the one to know about it, showing up in his damn room unannounced, with a towel, a bucket full of water, and a puke bag. He must’ve picked the lock because Kaito is damn sure that he locked the door last night.

“Oh, wow, you look great for a sick man on death’s door! Juuuust kidding! Nishishishi! You look awful! Absolutely awful!”

Kaito groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes and wishing for a meteor to crash into his room right now. Preferably where Ouma was standing. Although Ouma skipped closer, cheeky grin splitting his face before he shoved Kaito down onto the bed.

“Didn’t your grandma ever tell you to take it easy when you’re sick?” he sing-songs. “You’re going to fall into your grave before ever taking a single step on the moon! And I’ll be sooooo sad, Momota-chan!”

Kaito growled at him, but he imagined that being in a lame cold sweat and having watery eyes decimated the effect any kind of glare would have.

“Do you really have to be here?” he snapped. “Or does seeing a guy sick get you off?”

“How’d you know?” Ouma asked, batting his eyelashes coyly before gagging. “As if! Even if I were into that, you look like a dog, especially with that goatee of yours.”

“Don’t knock the goatee!” His voice raised to a rasp. “And get the hell out! You’re the last face I need to see right now!”

“Can you even see with eyes that teary?” Ouma retorted, flicking his nose. Before Kaito could attempt to yell, Ouma scrubbed his face with the towel, not even bothering to be gentle, the asshole. “Besides, I’ll have you know I’m here out of the goodness of my heart.”

Kaito would’ve sputtered either way because of the towel rubbing against his mouth.

“That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard you told.”

“It’s true,” Ouma insisted, soaking the towel and wringing the water out. “We both know you’re such a prideful fucker that no one else is aware of the fact that you’re as delicate as a flower, Momota-chan.”

“Fuck you!”

“And as a result.” Ouma tutted at him. “You planned on just sweating it out alone in your room rather than asking for anyone’s help. Which, truth be told, is so stupid I don’t even know how to comprehend it. Seriously, Momota-chan. That’s so miserable, it brings a tear to the eye! Boo-hoo!”

“So, what?” Kaito demanded. “What kind of guy would I be if I put that kind of burden on everyone?”

Ouma wiped down his face again. He was even rougher than the last time.

“Ow, ow, ow! S-Seriously, knock that shit off!”

“You knock shit off,” Ouma retorted, pulling on his beard and hopping away before Kaito could shove him off. “You’re an even bigger bullshitter than I am if you seriously believe that.”

“Urgh.” Kaito rolled his eyes and covered his head with his pillow. “I don’t have to hear this.”

He still heard Ouma shuffling about. Soaking the towel and wringing out the water again. Ouma letting out an annoyed little huff.

“Hey.” There’s a harsh jab into his side, making him jump. “Does your stomach hurt?”

“Fuck off!”

“Not an answer,” Ouma said, unimpressed. He shrugged. “But given that you’re not bitching about it, I guess it’s fine for now.”

Kaito grumbled and glared at him.

“You’re lucky I feel too much like shit to kick your ass.”

Ouma scoffed, heading into the bathroom and turning on the sink.

“And I was so worried about you!” he exclaimed over the running water, faking a sob. “Oh, Momota-chan, you had me worried sick! I thought you might die again! I can’t go through that a second time, I just can’t!”

Ouma came back, an expression like stone and a cup of water in his hand. Rather robotically, he handed it over.

“Drink. Or else I’ll tell everyone about your little display last night.”

“Are you blackmailing me?!”

Ouma’s lips twitched at the corner.

“I would never.”

Scowling, Kaito snatched the cup and downed the water, glowering down at the other challengingly. Ouma remained stoic.

“What?” Kaito had the childish desire to throw the empty cup at him but refrained. A real man kept his cool, even with annoying shits like Ouma around. “If you got something to say, say it.”

“Don’t you get exhausted talking so much?” Ouma cocked an eyebrow. “You’re sick. You should conserve your energy.”

Kaito snarled at him but bit his tongue.

He’s riling me up on purpose. Well. I’m not gonna fall for it anymore.

To prove his internal point, he turned away with a huff, nose upturned. Ouma’s stare on him remained, feeling almost uncomfortable, but Kaito let that wash over him like water. If he couldn’t deal with weird looks from a brat, what kind of luminary did that make him?

A shameless kid like Ouma wouldn’t get that. He’s too—immature. Naïve.

It wasn’t like Ouma was a bad person. Malicious, mean-spirited, and a fucking asshole, absolutely. But not a bad person. Just a brat who sucked ass at connecting with other people.

Kaito wasn’t that stupid. He knew that Ouma was here right now because he was worried. It was more than irritating—the reason why he kept his weird illness a secret was because he didn’t want people to worry, but Ouma was the kind of kid all the more excited when told no. All about butting his head where it didn’t belong, even when it resulted in burdens that no one should have to carry.

Ouma’s existence was so exhausting that Kaito didn’t understand how the kid could have so much energy despite living the way he did. Seriously.

Maybe that’s admirable in its own way?

He wasn’t sure, but he was tired. And dizzy. And nursing a headache. Oh, that was probably the sickness again. Great. Fucking great.

Kaito fell back with a sigh, crumbling the cup in his hand. The loud crackling of plastic just felt like mockery. It made his headache even worse.

“Urgh... This sucks... It sucks so bad.”

Ouma just takes the broken cup from him, probably to toss. How responsible. Too bad Kaito’s eyes were so watery that it was difficult to see now. Ouma just looked like a blob of purple of white. Kinda funny if not for the fact that his eyes stung, leaving him cursing as he furtively tried wiping them off.

The wet washcloth is pressed against his face again, but this time it’s cold, and before Kaito can protest, it’s thrown over his eyes.

“They were getting so swollen they looked fit to burst,” Ouma said, remarkably cool with even a calm click of the tongue. “Not a lie. If your eyes did burst into bits, that would be pretty horrifying.”

“Horrifying?” Kaito echoed before snorting. “It’d be a tragedy. I’d never be able to see the stars again if that happened. Everything would just be dark forever.”

“A nightmare for a luminary,” Ouma murmured. He flicked Kaito’s nose, making him gripe and flail at nothing but the air. “Did you know, Momota-chan? You’re so dim-witted that your vision already is super dark.”

“Oi! That’s uncalled for and untrue!” Momota does push himself up. It causes a bit of a rush that nearly knocks himself senseless, but he manages to keep his body upright as he lunges for that splotch of white. He ends up tumbling out of the bed, hitting the ground harshly and with nothing in his grasp. “Urgh... Ow...”

“See?” Ouma asks airily. “You’re so stuuuuupid, Momota-chan.”

Momota lets out a pained groan, but Ouma’s standing in front of him. Ouma, who grabs the back of his shirt collar. He hears the threads protest and tear and Ouma yanks.

“Dense, dumb, dull,” Ouma scoffs and drops him. He hadn’t been able to lift him much, so it didn’t hurt, but it was still irritating. “I swear. It’s sickening. Get back into bed, idiot. Unless you want to die here? If you do, don’t worry. I’ll lie to the others and say that I killed you. Spare you the embarrassment. Of course...” There’s a grin in his voice, but the laugher afterward... “Saihara-chan’s still gonna figure it out. Nishishishi.”

It doesn’t sound joyful at all.

Ouma’s really just that annoyed with him.

That’s a real joke if Kaito’s ever thought of one, so his chuckle is a lot more sincere. He tastes blood, and it’s still funny.

“What?” Ouma sounds real unimpressed now. “Have you lost your mind?”

He snorts. “Everything’s, uh, spinning a lot. Spiraling. Like satellites around masses.”

“Come on.” Ouma grabs him properly. “Get back to bed before you spiral out of control.”

“Hahah...” He does manage to pull himself to his feet with Ouma’s help, even as he sways a little. “So no-nonsense. You’re sounding less like your usual shitty self, Ouma.”

“Actually, I’m nobody. Nobody you know. Nobody you care about. Nobody at all.”

“Nobody, huh? Then...it’s fine.”

When he falls back into bed, his fingers curl tightly into Ouma’s ragged white shirt and he digs in. Ouma gasps sharply, falling with him. Another thud. Kaito’s head hurts, and when he comes to, he feels Ouma’s arm close to his scalp, Ouma’s knee by his hip, and Ouma’s harsh exhale of breath.

“...what the hell is this? What are you playing at, Momota-chan?”

He can’t answer when it hurts too much to think.

“You’re awful. Just the worst. The absolute worst.” And yet, Ouma does lean in. That liar presses his open mouth to Kaito’s cheek, lips pursing damply against his skin before murmuring into his ear. “You’re also delirious.”

At that point, Kaito just didn’t want to think so he let his eyes fall.

“This is the worst,” he heard Ouma lament just before he fell completely and utterly out of it.

He wakes up later in an empty room, head a bit clearer. He blinks once at the ceiling. Twice. There’s a wet washcloth folded upon his forehead. It’s long since gone a bit lukewarm.

Wait. What the actual hell was that?

[malethirsty]

The Master & The Prinxe - Seth Rollins & Finn Balor

Summary: Seth Rollins has been the lightning rod of anger from the WWE Universe and it’s starting to affect him. After Kevin Owens insults him by bringing up The Shield, Seth is at his breaking point. However the arrival of a friend from another brand throws everything up in the air.

Warnings: M/M smut (21+), Violence

Authors Note: This was a fic I had posted on my personal account @thesimonkshow​, reposted here because this is where my M/M fics go. 

Seth Rollins was in a bad mood. He had just confronted Kevin Owens about his defection to NXT at War Games & he retaliated by bringing up Seth betraying The Shield, which had happened once, incomparable to the opposing RAW team members consistent level of betrayal, which seemed to happen every other day.

He didn’t notice the pacing of feet as someone sat down besides him “Well hey there Seth. Someone got you hot and bothered?” Seth turned to see Finn Bálor, his friend & also a member of the NXT team this evening. “And why would I tell you?, you’d only use it to further your team.” “Now why would I do something like that? I may be on their team, but you & I run deeper than this match.” Finn responded. Seth sighed, it seemed he would be safe. “Fucking Kevin Owens, I brought up War Games, cause I was worried about our team that I have pit my grieviances aside for, and that bitch brings up me betraying The Shield, when he’s on Betrayal number who fucking knows?” Finn chuckled “That little cunt wouldn’t know loyalty even if it decked him in the face.” Seth let out a gutteral laugh, somehow things felt better when he was with Finn. They had grown close when they first feuded, the connection deepening when they would face The Miz for the Intercontinental Championship, Seth even considered making him a Shield member, maybe something even more, but anytime he thought about it, his mind returned to Dean & he pushed the thought away.

“It seems like your putting your reputation on the line for people who couldn’t give a shit about you. They just throw you away like you’re nothing. I remember when I faced The Fiend, everyone wanted me to lose, I was so alone, so unhappy. And when I lost I heard the audience cheer & I felt so full of rage, like darkness just filled me. I waited for my moment to strike, and when it came, I ripped Johnny Gargano from limb to limb, I became The Prinxe.” Seth listened to Finn entranced by the Irishman’s words, he felt the same way, he’d tried to stand for the lockerroom, for Vince, for WWE, but found himself hated and despised. Legends had tried to stand up for Seth like Bret Hart, but their appreciation did the exact opposite of what was intended. Hell In A Cell was both a release of that tension but also rock bottom, the hatred became like acid, attacks on him became more frequent. After emerging from that damn hole after being attacked by The Fiend at the draft, he had felt humiliated, but that quickly turned to rage, he had felt that same anger Finn felt.

“Yeah, I know what you mean, after everything that has happened, when I beat Bray up & set fire to his house, I felt so good, like at WrestleMania where I won the Universal Championship. I felt like Seth Rollins again.” “When Hunter pulled me from the roster & got me back to his brand NXT, I felt like I had just won the Intercontinental title again. So on top of the world, even though I should have known I was all along, I just needed that push.” Seth paid attention to every word Finn said, it felt as if his friend knew his struggle & was giving his hand to help, the only person he cared about was giving him a way out. “Listen, I have to get back to my team, but I heard you weren’t gonna be wearing your RAW shirt, so if you choose, I got you something more your style. See you out there.” He pushed a package into Seth’s hand, grinned and set off. Seth opened the package, making sure no one was looking & grinned, he knew what he had to do.

The match was fury and fire as expected, Drew scored a big opening by knocking Dominik Dijakovic out in a few moments and to Seth’s delight, Kevin was quickly chucked by Tomasso Ciampa. After a lengthy match, he, Roman & Finn were the only surviviors. He knew Roman would form an alliance with him & sure enough “We take Finn, then you & me” he heard Roman whisper in his ear “Always man” Seth said back, Roman advanced forwards. Seth knew, now was the time.

He raced up behind Roman, low blowing him, putting Roman into a Pedigree & let Finn take him out. The crowd, already hostile enough on it’s own right, began booing at an alarming rate. Seth caught Finn’s eye & Finn knew what Seth wanted to do, he slipped out of the ring, marched to the announcer & tore the mic out of their hands. Returning to the ring he passed Seth the mic, the crowds now preceding to chant ‘CM Punk’ as loud as they possibly could. “SHUT UP!” Seth screamed with so much malice and venom exuding from his booming voice, that everyone actually listened and fell silent, even the commentary team. “For years I have been the one paving the way for WWE, creating The Shield, becoming the beacon for all of the heels when I joined The Authority, setting a precedent for Money In The Bank when I cashed in the Main Event of WrestleMania, a precedent yet to be topped! I became a Grand Slam Champion & even came to your aid when Brock Lesnar had this division by it’s balls and wouldn’t let go, TWICE!” Seth sucked in an angry breath & continued “And how did you repay me? You went beyond the booing expected by the WWE Universe. You spat on my reputation, you cursed my name when I disagreed with AEW, when I tried to stand up for everyone in the back, you hoped for The Fiend’s success, though he’ll soon run through the entire division, treat us like he was treated by Vince, until the entire division is buried. You wished for my death just for your own pettiness to be sated. You ran from me, just like your precious Roman Reigns ran.” He kicked Roman’s unconscious body emphasising his point. “He ran, all the way to SmackDown & besides our match at the Draft never once bothered to check up on me. Use me to achieve his selfishness of wanted his ‘Band of Brothers’ back together, and what did he do? Threw me away like I was disposable. Dean left because Vince used him, got the crowd to hate him through his turn that night, through those orders of saying he wanted Roman dead. Dean saw through it, much earlier than this time last year, he was right to leave.”

Seth looked at Finn, every word he said about the universe turning on him, he meant, not just for himself but for Finn as well “There was one man who truly cared, and that” he gestured over to Finn, watching on with his trademark smile, not filled with love, but with pure evilness, joyful at how Seth was brutalising everyone “was Finn Bálor. He was the only one who knew exactly what I was going through, cause he was there in my spot just months ago. He even knew I wasn’t myself, so he got me something that showed he knew me, what I’m all about, what I should have been about from Day One.” Seth ripped off his Red Chicago cover & the entire arena gasped. Below it, Seth wore Finn’s package, a half shirt, one side with Seth Freakin’ Rollins, another a side decorated in gold and black, the NXT logo emblazoned on the front.

“The Prinxe saw me when I was feeling the strain & gave me a way out. So Monday’s will no longer be Monday Night Rollins, cause I am no longer here to please you or anyone else. I’m in it for myself like Finn, doing things because I want to. I’m The Master of NXT, and if anyone gets in my way I will BURN. THEM. DOWN.” Seth let out his familar heel cackle & threw the mic away, hitting Corey Graves in the face with it. As the crowds boos sounded, he no longer cared, he was liberated, himself again. He grabbed Finn’s hand, the two survivors, the two that would always survive & strode to the back of the arena, they turned & in unison, raised Finn’s trademark guns, and shot right at the centre, where Roman still laid broken.

NXT would go on to win the evening, and a party at the bar was where everyone went, even the Undisputed Era, still sore but exctatic that their brand won the night. Triple H was the only one whom noticed Seth & Finn were not there, he rang them both, letting them know where their victory party was. Unbeknownst to Triple H, Seth & Finn were partaking in their own victory party. In Finn’s apartment, the two had thrown off each others clothes, both men on the bed, Seth’s head thrown back in ecstasy as Finn’s mouth worked his cock. “Fuck Finn, I’ve wanted you for such a long time.” Seth moaned, Finn proceeded to suck Seth’s balls, Seth letting out a sharp groan “Fuck, I should have told you earlier, I put it to the side, scared of hurting Dean, no more, I do what I want from now on.” Finn moved up to Seth’s face, kissing him. “And what does The Master want?” He asked, flirtingly, Seth gripping onto Finn’s back, nails digging in “You, Finn Bálor.” He threw Finn onto the bed, sinking into his tight ass. Both men moaned as Seth began to fuck his Prinxe “Fuck, you feel so good around me Bálor. So good for your master.” Finn gave Seth a seering kiss “We work with each other, now and forever, the NXT division will tremble before both of us, together on our rightful thrones, the way we knew it was from day one, the way it should have been.” Motivated by Finn’s powerful words, the two began to thrust faster and faster, the clock on the wall, the pouring of the rain, the buzzing of their phones, all lost to their pleasure. “Seth, Master, I’m about to cum.” Finn moaned out loud as Seth grabbed his dick and began to jerk it, desperate to get Finn off, to get his Prinxe to orgasm. “Seth yes, keep going. SETH FUCK!” Finn screamed at the top of his lungs as he came, landing atop of Seth’s chest. He leant down and licked it off, causing Finn to moan. “God Finn, your ass is so tight, I’m going to cum!” Seth made to pull out but Finn shook his head, he wanted Seth’s load. Seth moved his hand onto Finn’s torso, gracing every single one of Finn’s amazing abs. “God, I love you Finn Bálor.” Seth’s face, eyes and whole body lit up with adoration as he thrusted with more strength than he’d ever had, leaning down to kiss Finn as he came, shot after shot filling Finn’s ass. Pulling out slowly, Seth collapsed next to Finn. Pulling him in for a kiss. “Wow babe.” Seth grinned at Finn “You’re welcome babe.” The Prinxe letting out a cold laugh, one that many would never thought they would hear out of the good hearted Finn Bálor, but one that was soothing to Seth as The Master laughed coldly as well “We’ve got each other now though, as we truly are: The Master & The Prinxe.” Finn moved up to Seth’s face, Seth leaning down, catching his soulmate’s lips in an Earth shattering kiss.

[mieteve-minijoma]

Songfic Day 16: Don't Fear The Reaper

Day 16: A song that’s a classic favorite: Don’t Fear The Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult

PART TWO: 

Jughead Jones is tasked with protecting Betty Cooper, the reporter who had a hit put out on her life and had come to them for protection. Sure Betty is stunningly beautiful, but she digs under the skin like a knife. 

She is determined to defy him until she gets caught in a terrifying situation and can’t help how her attitude changes once she sees that multiple sides of the future Serpent King.

***** 

“Alright Princess, you’re with me,” Jughead gripped her hand tightly, dragging her out the room before she could protest, and up a second set of stairs to another locked door. Betty hated to admit that this dominant side of him did things to her, but she wasn’t about to show him that.

“If you’ll be so kind as to get the fuck off me,” she spat as she yanked her arm from him, “that’d be great. Where the hell are you taking me anyway? FP said to watch me, not lock me away in a tower Mother Gothel.”

Jughead placed his hand over his chest in mock offense, “Ouch, you wound me Rapunzel. I really think I identify more with Flynn Rider then Mother Gothel.”

“Why is your name Eugene and that’s why you go by Jughead?” Betty mocked him as they entered another hallway, this one with two doors across from one another.

“Believe me Princess, my real name is much worse then something as plain as Eugene. That name would be a blessing in my book,” Jughead chuckled as he unlocked the door on the left and dragged her through it, relocking the door behind him.

“Do you seriously feel it necessary to lock me inside? Where am I going to go, really?” she scoffed, “I mean it’s not like there are a lot of places that are especially safe for me right now.”

Betty noticed his demeanor change, his lips turning down into a scowl and his eyes darkening, “Don’t think I am gonna just up and trust a northsider just because she bats her pretty little eyelashes and gives my Dad some sob story about the Ghoulies. I don’t know you and I don’t trust you. So while we are stuck with each other, you will follow my rules or pay the piper. Got it, sweet cheeks?” he growled.

Betty felt her face flame in anger at his abrupt attitude shift and his blatant distrust of her for just being from a different side of town. She did her best to not judge the southside or the people that resided there. She shouldn’t be mistreated just for the prejudice of others and she sure as hell wasn’t gonna let some James Dean wannabe treat her with disrespect.

Betty stepped closer to him, narrowing her eyes and poking him in the chest with her index finger, “First off, this whole Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Douche-bag routine you got going on isn’t going to fly with me, so knock it the fuck off. As you said we are stuck with each other, so we might as well attempt to get along, for however long this takes. Secondly, the next time you call me sweet cheeks, you’re gonna get a taste of what your little friend downstairs got. You got that, asshole?” 

   

*****

Jughead was legitimately speechless right now... Speechless and just a little bit turned on.

Never in his whole life growing up on the southside had anyone, male or female, stood up to him the way this girl had in the short span of a few hours. He couldn’t help the smirk his lips curled into as he wondered if she was just as feisty in the bedroom as she was at any other time.

Betty must have read his thoughts because her eyes narrowed at him again, “What?!”

“Nothing really, just...” Jughead paused as he leaned to whisper in her ear, grinning wider as her breath hitched, “If you wanted to top, all you had to do was ask, I’d be more than happy to switch and bottom for you anytime,” he chuckled at her shocked gasp.

“Well I never-” Betty started but Jughead simply laughed, flicking his thumb across his nose and smiling wider.

“Somehow I doubt that Princess,” he winked, walking into a room down the hall and closing the door behind him.

Jughead slumped against the door, his heart hammering in his chest and his body betraying his cool and calm facade. Jughead looked down at his erection, laughing to himself, You need to get it together, man. Girls like her are bad news and you damn well know it. So she’s hot? And what if she has spunk? She is here for protection, nothing more, nothing less. Don’t mix business.

Jughead pushed himself off the door, clicking the lock before gathering some clothes and heading to his bathroom to take a shower. A nice cold shower...

*****

Betty couldn’t move from her spot in the middle of his living room, staring at the closed door a few feet from her. Did he really just insinuate? And did I... I mean, did I like it??? Betty wondered, clenching her thighs together as she pictured exactly what he might be doing on the other side of that door. Jesus Cooper, reel it in, you’re acting like a teenager for God’s sake.

Her phone ringing pulled her from her thoughts and when she looked at the caller ID she saw that it was an unknown caller. Fighting the urge to throw it across the room and hide somewhere safe, she slowly answered, “Hello?”

“Hey there Blondie, miss me?”

“Malachi. To was do I owe this dishonor?” she rolled her eyes. She really regretted going undercover and getting involved with the Ghoulies and most especially Malachi. From everything she’d seen, he was ruthless. He had a blatant disregard for honor or empathy for other people. All he cared about was his money and his drugs. Oh, and power. That was what this scum lived on.

“Oh baby, now is that anyway to talk to the man that holds your life in his hands? Although I wouldn’t be mad to hold a lot more than that in my hands.”

Betty’s stomach turned at his sinister laugh, the thoughts of him touching her causing bile to rise in her throat. She shook it off, gathering her strength, "What the fuck do you want asshole?" 

"You listen here bitch, I know where you are and who you are with. I have eyes on you already and that snake pit isn't gonna protect you."

Betty felt her blood run cold as her mind raced, How does he know where I am? I made sure no one followed me...

"Oh and if you think the Serpent Prince is going to be of any help to you, think again Cooper. Everyone has their price. How do you think I found out where you were? See you soon, Blondie."

As the like went dead, Betty dropped her phone to the carpet with a thud, her heart stuck in her throat. Had she really so gravely misjudged the Serpents that she walked right into a trap? Was that why he'd locked her in, so she couldn't get away? All Betty knew for certain was she wasn't sticking around to find out. 

Betty gathered her things, looking for a way out. She could pick the lock but getting past a group of Serpents would prove almost impossible. She looked out of the window and saw a fire escape that lead all the way to the back alley. The window wouldn't budge so Betty had a choice to make.

And ultimately, Jughead was right. They didn't know each other, and there was no way in hell she was gonna trust him after what Malachi said to her and the things he knew.

Betty looked around, spotting a baseball bat by the front door but as she went to grab it she heard Jughead's voice calling from inside his room.

She raced to the window, smashing it with the bat and took off down the fire escape and into the night.

*****

"Princess, can you not hear me-"  Jughead's question was cut off by the sound of shattering glass and footsteps on the fire escape, "What the fuck?!" 

Jughead watched as Betty raced down the metal stairs, looking back up at him with terror in her eyes. What the hell spooked her? Jughead didn't have much time to think. He grabbed his jacket and threw his boots on, thankful that he'd decided on jeans and a tank, grabbed his gun and took off after her.

"Where the hell do you think you're going!" he yelled, running faster after her. He didn't have any idea what she was doing or why she ran but he was determined to find out. 

Jughead raced around a corner, eager to cut her off at the other end of the alley and figure out what the hell she was thinking when a scream made him freeze. He heard a scuffle, like she was fighting someone off when he heard a familiar voice.

"God, Malachi said you were gullible, but I think honestly you are the dumbest bitch I have ever seen." Tallboy? What did he mean Malachi?

"You know, I was just supposed to put you down but since I got you here all alone, I might as well have some fun first." Jughead heard her struggling again before a slap resonated through the air.

"Hold still bitch! I promise after I have my fun, I'll make sure you are nice and ready for Mal and the boys when I take you back to him." Tallboy laughed causing Jughead to snap. 

He ran around the corner, gun drawn and ready, "Back the fuck away from her Tallboy or I swear to Christ, I will put you down."

Tallboy laughed, grabbing Betty by the throat and pressing her to his chest as a shield. Jughead could see the fear in her eyes as blood dripped from her nose and lip. His jaw tightened when he caught a glimpse of the bruise forming on her cheek.

"What are you gonna do you little piss ant? Oh, the mighty Serpent Prince, all fear him. Well, now I get to take you out myself, then I'm gonna hurt this little cunt real bad and hand her over to Malachi and no one will ever know." Tallboy ran his fingers along Betty's jawline as she struggled against him.

Jughead scoffed at his cockiness, "What makes you think no one will find out?"

"Cause no one figured out when I took out Joaquin, they won't figure it out now." Jughead growled at his confession, stepping closer to Tallboy and Betty.

"You are missing one glaringly obvious thing Tallboy, I never go anywhere without backup." Suddenly a shot rang out, the bullet catching Tallboy between the eyes and sending his body crashing to the ground.

Betty collapsed into tears on the gravel below, the shock of the situation turning into realization. Jughead stepped closer to her and scooped her into a bridal hold in his arms just as FP and a few others came running.

Jughead stopped in front of his Dad, Betty still in his arms and clinging to him for dear life, "Tallboy was the mole, he killed Quin and he's working with the Ghoulies. He tried- he tried to hurt Betty... Toni put a bullet in his forehead."

Jughead lifted her higher in his arms, whispering into her hair, "Don't worry Betty, I promise no one will hurt you as long as I'm around." 

To Be Continued...

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (Epilogue)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Death by fluff.

A/N: Here we have a visit from a very hungry super soldier, an enormous helping of domestic bliss, and an unexpected surprise for Bucky. Thank you to everyone who stuck with me on this little adventure. I appreciate every bit of encouragement and support, and I hope you enjoy the end! ♥️

If you’re interested in the song the boys are whistling, it’s a war song from 1942 “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” You can find it on Spotify. ☺️

Links don’t work, so if you want to access the full ALTNL Masterlist, just click the MASTERLIST header on my blog.

Previously...

Slipping a knife from his boot, he crouches down and digs his blade into the tree. With a few twists of his wrist, he carves a rough cross deep into the base of the tree trunk. He gazes at the small token for a minute, before sliding the knife back into his boot.

Standing with an inaudible sigh, he backs away. Straightens himself up. Snaps his feet together and offers a sharp salute to the unmarked grave.

“Rest easy, Soldier,” he murmurs.

And then Sergeant Bucky Barnes turns and heads home.

*****

One month later

Out by the woodshed, Bucky lifts the hem of his shirt and wipes the sweat from his face. Sorting through the pile of wood, he finds the best piece, balancing it on the chopping block. With an easy swing, the sharp blade arcs through the air and the pieces tumble into the growing pile.

Chopping wood seems unnecessary this late in the season, but he likes the work. Manual labor feels cathartic, and he relishes the pull of his muscles with each swing. Besides, even though he runs hot, he knows she doesn’t. If he has to put in some elbow grease to keep her warm, he’s happy to do it.

Spring is so tantalizingly close, he can almost taste it.

More and more of the ever-present world of white disappears daily, the shining sun turning the world beyond the cabin into a slushy mess of mud. So muddy in fact, they’ve gotten her truck stuck twice.

The first time they got it out no problem, but the second time - Bucky has that memory tucked away forever. While the wheels spun uselessly, he got out to push, which was a nice idea in theory. Until the truck leapt forward and he face planted in the mud. When she hit the brakes and jumped out, she ran around back to find him staggering to his feet, covered head to toe in black muck.

Of course, her surprised laughter turned to shrieking when he chased her through the slop until he caught her, picked her up, and threw her in a snowbank, his fingers tickling the entire time. They rode home dripping wet and covered in mud, barely able to stop laughing. When they arrived, Bucky pulled her into the shower with him until they were both perfectly clean and thoroughly interested in getting dirty again.

Yes, spring is a magical time.

Life feels new. After a long, cold, dark winter, he can finally see the other side and everything it offers. It’s like being born again, his life with her brimming with hope.

Taking a deep breath of the clean air, he selects another chunk of wood.

Above the sharp thwack of the ax, he hears a faint sound floating on the breeze.

Shading his eyes, he sees a figure walking along the road. Even from here, he sees a bright red stocking hat pulled low over his head, a hitchhiker’s bag strapped to his back. There is a brief flutter of nerves, before his stomach eases. The slope of broad shoulders and bouncing walk are telltale signs, but then he hears the whistle of a familiar song. Embedding the ax into the chopping block with a dull thunk, he whistles the tune in return. Strange words he unconsciously knows from another time.

Praise the Lord, we’re on a mighty mission

All aboard, we ain’t a-goin fishin’

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition

And we’ll all stay free

Dusting off his hands, Bucky ambles down to meet the man, a relaxed grin on his face.

“Still singing that damn song?” Bucky greets him. “Anyone tell you the war is over?”

Steve Rogers pulls off his stocking hat with a theatrical groan and uses it to mop the sweat from his face.

“Classics never die,” he huffs. Running sweaty fingers through snarls of golden hair, it sticks straight up in an awkward mohawk. “God damn, this was a fuckin’ walk. You got anything to eat? I’m starving.”

Grabbing Steve in a giant bear hug, Bucky lifts him off his feet and Steve squawks in protest.

“You’re such a little shit. Come inside. Got someone you need to see.”

*****

On the porch, Bucky removes his mud-covered boots and neatly lines them up beside the front door; raising his eyebrows, he points for Steve to do the same. Steve grins at the domesticity and follows suit, before following him inside.

“Hey darlin’?” Bucky calls and there’s an answering shout from above.

Dressed in old wellies, jeans, and a knobby grey fisherman’s sweater she appears, trying to zip up her jacket as she trots down the stairs.

“Buck, if you actually want potato soup tonight, I have to go into town. I didn’t realize when you said you ate all the bacon, you literally ate all the bacon. There were three pounds of it, how did you even -” looking up, she stops.

Astonishment floods Steve’s face when he sees her, but he schools it quickly. Standing up straighter, he nervously tries to smooth his hair, before eventually recognizing the futility and shoving his hands in his pockets. He gives her a bashful smile instead.

“Hey. I’m, uh, sorry for just showing up. Probably should have called, I just -”

The words are struck from his lungs when she bounds forward and throws her arms around him, knocking him back a step. Steve hugs her tight, glancing in surprise at Bucky who looks on fondly.

“You never have to call, Captain Rogers. You’re always welcome.”

“Christ, no,” Steve grimaces when he releases her. “Call me Steve, please. Get enough of that Captain bullshit at home.” Catching himself, he looks momentarily horrified. “Shit, I mean shoot, sorry, pardon my language.”

“Please,” she says with a laugh. Elbowing Bucky, she winks. “Let’s not pretend I haven’t heard worse from him.”

Wrinkling his nose, Bucky wraps a playful arm around her neck. “I told you, it’s how I spice up my vocabulary. Science says swearing makes me smart.”

Rolling her eyes, she pokes her fingers into his belly and he grunts breathlessly.

“God, you two are adorable,” Steve says seriously. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”

Placing his whole hand over Steve’s face, Bucky shoves him away while she laughs, her arm curving around his waist.

“Want me to go warm up the truck? Pull it around for you?” Bucky asks, and she kisses his cheek.

“No, I’m good. Stay here and catch up. Maybe get Steve some food, I’d hate for him to starve,” she says.

“I love her,” Steve stage whispers.

Grabbing a bundle of tote bags, she heads outside, stomping carelessly through the muddy yard. On the sunny porch, the two men stand shoulder to shoulder, waving as she drives the clunky old truck down toward town. Once it disappears, Bucky turns to Steve and claps him on the back.

“Come on asshole, I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

*****

One carton of eggs and a loaf of bread later, they sit on the porch with steaming cups of coffee. Bucky tucks an errant strand of hair behind his ear as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Steve sits back in his chair, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

“It all sounds insane, doesn’t it?” Bucky asks quietly.

Fiddling with his coffee cup, Steve scratches absently at his beard. “Maybe. Maybe not. We always knew there were others. Whatever they did to him, it wasn’t perfect, but it must’ve been enough for him to survive. Whatever survive means.”

“Yeah. I guess so. ”

Taking a long drink of coffee, Steve frowns at his boots before looking up to Bucky. “So, you buried him then?”

There’s a defiant edge to Bucky’s voice when he responds.

“Just felt right. He was a soldier, not a lab rat.”

Steve shrugs casually as he sits forward. “I get it, don’t need to convince me. We don’t have to tell anyone.”

Amused at the blatant lack of adherence to the precious world of protocol, Bucky gasps.

“Goodness gracious, I’m clutching my fuckin’ pearls. Did I just convince Captain America to commit treason?”

“Well you always were a terrible influence. So many bad decisions, all because of you,” Steve says loftily.

“You’re so full of shit,” Bucky laughs. Steve grins wickedly, knowing full well all their youthful indiscretions came from his ridiculous decisions; not that he’ll ever admit that one to Bucky.

At the thought of their past though - it makes him wonder.

“Can I ask something?”

“Hit me,” Bucky says easily. There are a couple minutes of silence, while Steve tries to find the words he wants.

“When she wipes memories, that’s - that’s it? They’re gone for good? We couldn’t - like, there’s no chance of getting them back?”

Bucky smiles ruefully. “No. I was curious, so I asked. But she said it was absolute. Looked so miserable when she told me, I’m sure as shit not mentioning it again. Besides,” he contemplates the blue sky beyond the porch railing, “it doesn’t matter. What do I need all that for anyway? Got her. Got you. That’s enough.”

The relief in Steve’s reply is palpable. “Good. I hated your dumbass running around trying to dig up the past.”

“Me too,” Bucky sighs. “Only did it ‘cause I thought I should. But now - I’m just worrying about the future. Those are the only memories I need.”

They sit in companionable silence, gazing out into the cool morning. In the treetops, birds chatter back and forth, and Steve feels himself relax. An unfamiliar peacefulness steals over him, filling him from head to toe; he almost doesn’t hear the quiet question.

“Stevie?” Looking sideways, he finds Bucky watching him calmly. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m tired. Just want a normal life, a home with her. Something quiet. Is that - will that be okay?”

The hesitancy in Bucky’s voice hits Steve like a fist to the face. Turning away, he blinks back tears and clears his throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, Buck. Of course that’s okay.”

That unspoken weight always dragging Bucky down disappears. With Steve’s words, the decades seem to fall away and there - the fleeting image of Sergeant James Barnes flashes across his features. Lighter. Softer. Carefree and full of laughter, wanting nothing more than to hang up his boots and find a warm home with the girl he loves.

“Thanks,” Bucky whispers looking back into the clear morning, a contented smile on his lips.

With the crisp breeze swirling around them, the soldiers sit in silence. One light haired and one dark, with two matching pairs of blue eyes, and two gigantic hearts.

*****

The sun is just beginning to sink when Bucky announces he’s going to go clean up the woodpile before it gets dark. The night air blows sharp when he opens the door, ushering in the wintery chill that still insists on arriving when darkness falls.

“Nah, stay here and catch up,” he urges, when Steve goes to grab his jacket. “It’ll just take me a few minutes.”

“Thanks love,” she murmurs and Bucky beams at the pet name, a happy bounce in his step as he heads outside. Grinning at Steve, she goes to the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of beer from the depths, popping the tops and handing one to him.

“Cheers,” she says, clinking them together and he nods shyly. Pulling out knives and cutting boards and stock pots and skillets, she assembles everything for the potato soup Bucky begs her to make at least once a week. Salted water is simmering on the stovetop, before Steve finally speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Scrubbing potatoes, she looks up in surprise. “Sorry for what?”

Steeling his nerves, Steve frowns. “For not coming back. For letting you deal with his death alone. Always promised him, if something happened, I’d do my best to take care of you. And then I just -” he breaks off.

Wiping her hands on a towel, she reaches over the counter and squeezes his hand. “You just saved the world,” she says gently.

Swallowing hard, Steve looks down. “Still. My best friend’s girl, and I let her down. I let both of you down.”

Releasing his hand, she picks up her knife and starts dicing the potatoes.

“No, you didn’t. If I’ve learned nothing else in this life, it’s that you can’t stay in the past. What’s done is done, and now we move on. We’re all here now, Steve,” she says quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

Taking a deep breath, Steve lets the tension of his apology melt away. “He always said you were smart.”

“Hmmm, did he now?” she says with a mischievous grin and Steve can’t help the responding smile; it feels infectious.

The kitchen radio plays in the background, filling the small kitchen with the punchy sound of trumpets and piano, the world of old French jazz. Steve watches her cook, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“How come - how come you didn’t call? Didn’t tell us you were here?”

Without replying, she lays out slices of bacon and starts chopping. Immersed in her task, it takes her a minute to respond.

“When I heard they found you, I almost came to New York. But then, I imagined telling you what happened and - I was too ashamed.” Setting the knife down, she looks up and he sees deep sadness in her eyes. “The last time I saw him, he had no clue who I was, and I had no idea if he was still alive. It all seemed impossible. And then I saw him come back, and I just - you were with him and I was so relieved. He had you. I knew you’d do everything in your power to help him recover. After what I did, I didn’t think I should be part of that.”

Canting her head down, he sees her shoulders slump slightly. Steve knows that feeling better than anyone, what it means when you can’t save someone. Particularly when you can’t save Bucky Barnes.

“Back then, you saved him. During the war. I hope you understand, I hope you know.”

She doesn’t speak, but finally looks up. “Know what?”

He gives her a gentle smile. “How much he loved you. Never shut up about it. Used to drive us all crazy with all his sighing and his mooning around.”

The brilliant smile she gives him lights up her whole face and Steve feels his own lips curve in response. Both of them automatically glance toward the front door when they hear Bucky’s boots clomping up the porch steps.

“I know,” she says, her eyes shining bright. “He tells me every day.”

*****

Steve has more than a thousand stories about Bucky, from growing up in Brooklyn to traipsing across the European front to all their avenging these past few years, and unfortunately for Bucky, Steve seems dead set on relaying every stupid thing Bucky’s ever done. The worst part is, he can’t even refute the stories - Steve could be making everything up, and Bucky can’t even call him out on it.

A fact he continually points out and a fact Steve blithely dismisses.

“Trust me,” he says with a sage nod. “Captain America would never lie.”

“That is the biggest crock of shit I ever heard,” Bucky states. He looks mildly put out when she shushes him.

“Hush Bucky, I need to hear this story.”

“Uh, no you most certainly do not,” he replies, as Steve tells about the time him, Bucky, and Sam were stuck in a safe house in Mexico and every time Bucky went to sleep, Sam moved everything in the apartment three inches before convincing Bucky the place was haunted.

“Well for fuck’s sake, there are aliens aren’t there?” Bucky exclaims. “Why the hell not ghosts?”

Scooping up a huge spoonful of soup, Steve swallows it down and gives him a serious look. “That’s true Buck. And that’s why I supported your idea of having a séance to contact the ghost. It seemed like the sensible thing to do.”

“I hate your face so hard. Remind me why you’re here again?” Bucky groans. Leaning back, he slings an arm around her chair and tucks his face against her neck. “Don’t believe anything he says. He lies,” his plea is muffled.

Patting his head, she scratches her fingers in his hair just like he likes, and he hums delightedly. “Don’t worry, I think you’re very adorable.”

“I am very adorable,” Bucky mumbles.

Lifting up his bowl, Steve slurps down the rest of his soup; smacking his lips, he gives them a mysterious smile. “Actually, there was another reason I came to visit.”

Bucky pulls away from her and glares at him. “Was it to destroy my happiness?”

“No, that’s just a fringe benefit,” Steve says cheerfully. Shoving away from the table, he goes to his oversized backpack and starts digging. Pulling something free, he comes back to the table and sets a cloth bag in front of Bucky.

“It’s a bag,” Bucky deadpans. “Inside a bag.”

“Smartass. Open it.”

Wiggling his eyebrows at her, Bucky un-cinches the bag and pulls out a leather satchel.

“It’s a bag, inside a bag, inside - a bag.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re hilarious?”

“Literally everyone who’s met me,” Bucky says with a grin. Glancing curiously at the worn brown leather, his smile begins to fade. Something about the bag seems insanely familiar, and he racks his brain -

And he catches his breath. Wide-eyed, he looks back up at Steve.

“Wait. Is this -“

“Yep,” Steve says, eyes sparkling. “You’d left it back at the base camp, must’ve gotten stuck in some of the camp containers they shipped to headquarters. Anyway, I spent the last three weeks banging around the SHIELD archives trying to see if I could find anything - there’s so much shit down there by the way, like an episode of hoarders - and then I was digging through this moldy ass box, and there it was.”

“My bag,” Bucky marvels. Excitement fills his face, bright sunrise in the evening. “From the war, from before. All my stuff.”

“All your memories,” she says breathlessly, squeezing his thigh.

“Go on,” Steve encourages. “Open the damn thing, I’m dying to know what the hell you kept in there. You never let me see anything.”

The leather straps are fastened tight, decades of moisture and dust creating a concrete knot that takes several minutes to unravel. It creaks irritably when it finally gives way and Bucky tugs it open. One by one, he pulls out items.

A book appears first. Front cover torn, they see a copy of ‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’, one of the compact armed service editions published for soldiers. Some of the pages are stuck together and as he thumbs through it, Bucky sees familiar handwriting. Notes he scribbled in the margins, passages he underlined. Words and phrases pop out like friendly messages from another life. Flipping toward the end, he finds his favorite line, one that caught his fancy when he read the book again last year.

“Dear God,” he reads, voice wobbling slightly, “let me be something, every minute of every hour of my life.”

He touches the words with a cautious metal finger and looks up to find her watching him, a soft look in her eyes. Leaning over, he gives her a kiss and she brushes his hair back.

“You were always something, no question about that,” she says and Bucky smiles.

The next item is a thick sheaf of papers. Folded into neat rectangles are a set of maps, the ones he and Steve received from the Priest in her village, before they headed out on that last mission.

“Oops,” Steve says sheepishly. “Guess we never did get those back to the church.”

Two white, army issued packs of cigarettes follow; when Bucky tips out a Lucky Strike, it crumbles to powder in his fingers. His silver lighter is next, scales of brownish-red rest covering one side. As he tries to light it, the coils give a harsh screech.

“Okay, I was gonna give up smoking anyway,” he shrugs.

When he pulls out a dented flask and unscrews the cap, a faint wisp of whiskey floats out. Steve makes a gagging noise and shudders.

“Holy hell, I remember that garbage. Dugan bought it off a medic at a field hospital in Germany. Cross my heart, it was the worst shit I ever tasted. Gave me nightmares.”

“I remember it too,” she pipes up, looking slightly nauseated. “He convinced me to try it once and I haven’t tried whiskey since.”

Bucky grins at them both and plunges his hand into the bag again, this time, jerking back with a curse. Cautiously, he reaches in again and discovers an open switchblade. Carved below the marble handle in flaking gold are the letters JBB.

“Becca gave that to you, before you shipped out,” Steve says quietly. “She sold her pearl earrings to buy it.”

Rubbing the white marble gingerly, Bucky gently folds down the blade and sets it carefully aside. It hurts for a minute, and his throat works hard to swallow down the emotion.

“Anything else in there?” she nudges lightly, and he shakes himself from the reverie.

Reaching into the bag, his hand bumps something. Buried at the bottom, he feels a soft bundle, a rectangular parcel wrapped in old green cloth. When he pulls it free, he has to unwind it several times before they discover what lies beneath.

Bucky blinks when he sees it, his heart leaping at her soft exclamation.

“My letters,” she says, wrapping her arm around him and curling closer.

“Your letters,” he repeats faintly. Sudden tears fill his eyes and he surreptitiously wipes them away, gruffly clearing his throat.

Handling the paper reverently, he brushes his fingers over the faded handwriting. The whole bundle is tied together with a broken boot lace, and it takes a few tugs before it releases.

Eleven letters.

Eleven letters, written just for him. Eleven of his very own memories, real and tangible and full of her love. Something he knows he kept in his coat pocket every day, drawing comfort and strength from her words, while he battled through the horrors of that unending war.

Unfolding the first one, he takes a deep breath.

10 March 1944

Dear Jimmy,

I wanted to write this on your birthday, so I could fill it full of all the things I wish we could do, if you were here. Maybe next year, everything will be possible. The war will be over, and your day would look something like this.

We could spend it in Paris, how lovely that might be! We could sleep in, no need to get up early. I might wake you up with a kiss, one on your cheek, then on your nose, then on your lips, and then I’d make you breakfast in bed, strong coffee and fried eggs and sizzling slices of bacon and fresh croissants, and we could spend the morning reading the papers and laying in the sun. Then we might go for walk down by the Seine, see the bridges and the booksellers, throw coins in the river and make wishes. Eat chocolate cake and drink bottles of wine. Whatever your heart desires my love, it would be your day. Maybe that night, we would be walking home, and hear a musician playing in the streets and we could stop and dance. Just you and me, holding each other in the moonlight.

And when we get home, I think I’ll take you upstairs to soft sheets and soft pillows and all kinds of things that are rather inappropriate for this letter, but I can certainly tell you one thing - sleep would not be on our minds.

Something to dream about for next year.

But if you remember nothing else on your birthday, I hope you will remember there’s a girl in France who loves you with all her heart.

6 June 1944

…and please don’t ever tell Steve, but I laughed forever at your letter. Such a demure, solemn man when I met him, I keep picturing him covered in mud and so frustrated with all of you! I do hope his knees are feeling better, give him a hug from me.

Sending you all my love, now and always.

19 August 1944

Dear Jimmy,

I’ve never been to a drive-in movie, but I must tell you, I think it sounds wonderful. I have no doubt we could show those kids a thing or two, because the simple truth is that I could spend my entire life kissing you. There would be no need to ever stop, I know that much.

The days of sunlight are long now, and so often I lay out in the field behind the house, where the grass grows tall and the world smells like wildflowers, and I think of you until long after the stars appear. The sweet taste of your lips, the rough feel of your hands, the sound of your voice when you say my name. How much I love the red highlights in your beard and the dimple in your chin and the way you purr like a house-cat when I scratch my fingers through your hair. Everything you are, your kind heart and your curious soul, it fills me with a wanting I cannot explain.

Do you know, when I fall sleep, your face is the last thing on my mind? Sometimes I still believe this is a God, because He lets you into my dreams every single night.

30 December 1944

My love,

Just this morning, I let you go again. Back into this wretched war. It feels unforgivable, letting you leave. My heart fled with you and I admit, tonight I am having trouble remembering to breath.

You are the one thing that gets me through everything. Isn’t that so strange? I had no idea my heart missed you, until the day we met. There are so many things I want to say to you. Things I want you to know about me, who I was and who I am. So many things I want to learn about you.

But now, if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear your voice. It’s there in that lost place between sleep and awake, where you tell me good night darling, that Brooklyn drawl coloring your words.

There is nothing I want more than a life with you. Sitting on the porch while the sun sets, holding your hand. Falling asleep wrapped in your arms. Loving you until there is nothing but grey left in your hair. I miss you so much. Please, please, please come home soon.

Resting her head on Bucky’s shoulder as he reads, she follows along in silence, reliving every word, every phrase, every bit of punctuation. How familiar it seems, even after all this time.

When Bucky finally sets the last letter down, he turns to her. Tipping his head down, he touches his forehead to hers and closes his eyes; cradling his face in her hands, she rubs her thumb over his lips. Neither one speaks. Old letters and faded memories and quiet breaths are the only words they need.

*****

The evening is late when Steve flops on the couch and gets comfortable. Digging through the hall closet, Bucky returns with a couple pillows and a fuzzy blanket and tosses them over.

“Alright Rogers. You need a teddy bear? Glass of milk? Bedtime story? Should I check under the couch for monsters?” he asks and Steve flips him off with a huge yawn.

“G’night, asshole.”

“Night, punk.”

Flipping off the lights, they leave him snug in the warm darkness downstairs, the flames burning low in the fireplace. Steve watches as they walk upstairs together, Bucky patting her on the butt as she walks ahead, muttering something that makes her laugh. Buried in the couch cushions, he smiles drowsily as he listens to their quiet voices get ready for bed, the calming footsteps above, the soothing laughter gliding down the stairs.

It sounds perfect.

Like a home.

Slowly and surely, the firelight lulls him to sleep.

*****

Standing in the bedroom doorway, her mouth curves up at the image.

Leaning against a pile of pillows, Bucky sits with all his letters spread around him, shuffling through them again. They haven’t left his hands all evening, so perfectly enamored with his small treasure, something he never expected.

“Would you like me to write them for you again? So you have fresh copies?”

Squinting up at her, he contemplates the offer, before shaking his head.

“Nah, already have them memorized. Besides, now you can write me new ones. I like to be romanced.”

“Hmm. I had no idea this relationship would be so much work,” she teases.

Gathering up the letters, he places each in the correct envelope, wraps them back up in a fresh piece of cloth, and tucks them into the drawer of his nightstand. Giving her an outrageously sultry look, he clicks off the lamp and pats the bed next to him invitingly.

Slipping under the sheets, she immediately tucks her cold toes against his leg and he yelps at the icy feel, but lifts his arm automatically, letting her nestle into her favorite spot against his chest.

“Good god, you need to wear socks to bed,” he says with a shiver.

“No, I don’t. I have you,” she says happily.

Smothering a laugh, he rolls to face her. Face to face on the same pillow, two pairs of eyes adjust to the dark room. When she traces the back of her knuckles down his cheek, he catches her hand and presses a kiss to her wrist.

“Love you,” he whispers.

“Love you,” she breathes.

Comfortable silence fills the room, and as the minutes tick by, her eyes grow heavy. Sleep never comes easy for him, so Bucky watches her instead, content to fill his sleeplessness with nothing more than the curves and shadows of her face. He can hear her heartbeat slow, her breathing steady, and right before she goes under, a thought pops into his head.

“Darlin’, can I ask you something?”

“Course,” she says sleepily.

“All the stuff you’ve kept over the years, what you had hidden around the house. Why’d you do that? Hide it that way?”

Slow fingers trace up his chest as she thinks, and her voice is low and raspy with a reply.

“I know what it means to lose everything you’ve ever known. Instead of having it all up here,” and she taps her forehead, “I keep things everywhere. Never all together, so I can’t lose everything at once.”

“Are there more things in the house?” he asks curiously, and she hums.

“Lots more,” she answers, and snuggles closer. Closing her eyes, she presses her lips to his skin. “Can I tell you more tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he murmurs.

A moment later, her deep, even breaths tickle his chest and Bucky keeps watching, mesmerized by the sight. Everything he ever wanted, everything he ever needed, right there. Wrapped up in his arms.

Around them, the room is blanketed in darkness, deep blacks and shades of gray and he thinks about all those memories he’s collected. All that color, good and bad, and what it means to have a past. And then he thinks about the future, free from the turmoil of war, with nothing ahead but the delicate blue of her cool touches and the bright gold of her sunny smiles and the rainbow of color he hears when she laughs.

So many colors. So much time.

The paintbrush in his head lays down to dream. Closing his eyes, Bucky drifts to sleep.

*****

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

So just for something fun, supernatural AU/crossover?

[Dear Anon, I’m not sure if you meant “supernatural” in the general sense or “supernatural” as in Supernatural the TV series, but I went with the latter.]

Their van belongs to Tobias.  The title’s in his name, anyway, even if Rachel does most of the driving.  It’s Marco, however, who paints the thing to look like the Mystery Machine.

Rachel blanches at the sight of the turquoise horror that greets her when she walks out of the motel room the next morning.  Jake grumbles about it the whole day, complaining that he’s been betrayed by Tobias’s willingness to help Marco with this monstrosity.  Now no one will take them seriously.

…which is, Marco says, the whole point.

The cops who investigate grave desecrations and destruction of property have no reason to suspect the six dumb college kids driving the garish performance piece.  The otherwise-suspicious locals tend to break their narrow-eyed glares to smile in spite of themselves when they see that van pull up outside.  The demons don’t know to be afraid — not until it’s already too late.

Anyway, it’s their home.  They stop by Marco’s parents’ roadhouse as often as they can, and they’ll spend the night at Toby’s any time they swing through Indiana.  If one of them is injured in a way impossible to explain to a civilian doc — striga claw marks, holy water burns, hex bag brands — that’s when Cassie’s mom will stitch them up with no questions asked.  But there are six sleeping bags bundled into the back of their van, and six duffels that rarely leave its trunk.  Their van has 900,000 miles on it and counting, worn places where Rachel rests her favorite rifle on the dash as Ax drives and a window seat that sags perpetually from Jake’s too-long legs jamming up against the support springs.  It’s been with them since Tobias first came to collect them, one by one (“my dad’s on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a few days,” he’d said, so casual, as if they didn’t all know what that meant), and it’ll probably outlive every single one of them.

Rachel is fond of pointing out that they are, none of them, suited for desk jobs or apple-pie life.  They’re hunters, she says, and they’re better off this way.  Jake wonders, sometimes, who she’s trying to fool.

Cassie crouches to close the little girl’s eyes, fingers trembling.  The striga was done eating by the time they arrived, too late to be of any help.  M-O-L-L-Y, says the hand-painted line of flowers on the wall.  Cassie looks for a long time, before she can straighten up and move on.

Marco arches off the bed sometimes, gasping hard like it’s him the kelpie dragged under the waves.  Like he’s the one who went down, sailboat and all, to drown in the cold depths of the Pacific.  He becomes too bright and too loud and a little too mean, any time they find themselves dealing with a water demon or a ghostly possession.

Jake enters the first four, first five, sometimes the first nine digits of his aunt’s phone number, on burners and payphones and Michelle’s secure lines.  He never gets all the way, never actually asks anyone to let Rachel come home, and he’s never even tempted where his own parents are concerned.

“What’d you get for it?”  Cassie’s voice is hard-edged with anger in a way that Marco has never heard before.  He doesn’t bother to ask how she knows.  That tiny touch of psychic, mostly on her father’s side, means that she was always going to figure it out.

“Three years,” he says, offering her his smoothest smile.

Cassie stares at Marco.  Both of her hands are fisted in the hem of her flannel, trembling slightly.  Her lips are pressed into a tight line.

“You know what?”  Marco laughs, the sound more desperate than he means it to be.  “That was far more than the demon wanted to offer, even for a top-shelf soul like this one.  I drive a hard bargain.”

Cassie continues to look at him, until he feels himself shrinking in his seat.  “What did you get for it?” she asks again, still not asking about the time.

Peter called today.  For nearly an hour he chattered so much — about the roadhouse, about the new dog, about the wedding in July — that Marco could barely get a word in edgewise.  Marco’s not sure about this Nora person, or he wasn’t at first, but Peter smiles every time he sees her or even says her name.  The first smiles Marco’s seen, the first complete sentences he’s heard, since the Coast Guard knocked on their door and asked them to sit down.

What’s dead should stay dead.  After five years in the business, Marco knows that much.  His mother is gone.  But happiness… even a lifetime’s worth… that doesn’t have to be out of reach.  Not for Peter.  Even if it does come with a toy poodle and an excess of algebra.

Marco pushes to his feet.  “None of your business,” he says.  “It’s my soul, and I’ll do what I want with it.”

He honestly doesn’t know what Cassie has in mind when she stands and crosses over to him.  Not until she grabs him in a hug so fierce it hurts, squeezing her whole body around him.  “I’m getting you out of this,” she promises.  “I don’t care what it takes, I’m not letting them collect.”

Ax was never even supposed to be on the mission to retrieve Marco’s soul from hell.  He tells them that a lot, that he was the only cherub included in the entire garrison of seraphim on what was supposed to be a milk run, an easy first mission just to get his wingtips wet.

He wasn’t supposed to be the only survivor.  He certainly wasn’t supposed to rebel mere months later when ordered to cut out Tobias’s heart to complete a cosmic ritual.

But then, lots of things that weren’t supposed to happen have happened anyway.  Marco was never supposed to die facedown in the half-frozen mud of a South Dakota ghost town.  No righteous man was ever supposed to reach the gates of hell, breaking the first seal as Taylor’s claws broke the surface of his soul.

Aftran is supposed to be helping her overlords do their best to destroy the earth right now, not assisting humanity’s rebellion against angels and demons alike.  Jake is supposed to be at home with his parents, not wanted by the FBI for his brother’s murder and a dozen corpse mutilations.

For that matter, “hasn’t been home in a few days” was supposed to mean that Tobias’s dad was “dead or worse,” not “forcibly called back to heaven to help set up the apocalypse, ‘cause turns out he left out a few crucial fucking details when explaining my family history.”

“…draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te!” Rachel recites.  And then waits, arms crossed, holy water at the ready.

Jake’s mouth curls.  “Okay, we’ve got the Catholic bullshit out of the way.  Now do you believe me?”  Two fingertips drum against the arm of the chair to which he’s tied.

Tobias looks over at Rachel.  Neither of them makes a move to break the devil’s trap.  “What the fuck are you?” Rachel demands at last, feeling her patience fray.

Jake’s shoulder lifts in a half-shrug.  “A high school dropout with six bucks to his name?”

“And severe cataracts?”  Rachel flicks more holy water at Jake; it continues to do nothing.  “We saw your eyes flash white.  Cut the crap.”

“Or what?”  Something subtle shifts in Jake’s voice, becoming rough and cold.  “You’ve killed enough of your cousins for a lifetime, don’t you think?  And Tobias…”  The thing under Jake’s skin runs his tongue over his teeth.  “I know what you and this one get up to in the dark.  Either way, I’m guessing neither one of you is ready to hurt this precious meat—”

Wham! The chair back slams to the floor.  Rachel’s knee is pressed into Jake’s chest.  Her knife blade digs into his throat.  “Guess again,” she snarls.

“Rachel!”  Tobias’s warning comes too late.  Partway loose now, the demon gestures, flinging Rachel across the room.  Jake’s body pulls free from the broken chair, motions not quite human.  Turning, the demon spots Tobias.  It draws itself up.  And up.

Jake’s eyes go white with shock when the thing inside him realizes it has lifted clear off the floor.  That it cannot move his arms or legs.  His mouth opens; there’s an abortive motion as it struggles to escape the meatsuit that now entraps it.

Tobias’s right hand is raised.  His eyes shine with a radiance entirely different from the sickly, jaundiced shield over Jake’s.  The light surrounding Tobias seems to come from everywhere at once, and yet it all shines on him, throwing the wings of his silhouette into sharp relief against the far wall.

“What are you?” the thing inside Jake asks, half-strangled.

“Been asking that question for twenty-three years, pal,” Tobias says.  Blood trickles from his nose.  His hand trembles slightly.  His eyes are steady.  “Guess we’re in the same boat, because I’ve never seen anything like you either.”

Jake’s lips pull back from his teeth, grimace or smile.  “I am what happens when a demon eats an angel.  Swallowed him up, grace and all, and now I’m a Knight of Hell.  And now I’m starting to think that before that happened, Elfangor might’ve got busy while he was here on Earth.”  It leers.  “So naughty, that one.”

Tobias squeezes his hand inward.  Jake’s body convulses, yellow-white flashing under his skin.

“Wait, wait—”  The thing gasps air.  “I can give you power, information, revenge, I can give you—”

“I want my father back, you son of a bitch.”  Tobias closes his hand.  Light flares, sharp enough to blind.  With it comes the unearthly scream of angelic power.

When their vision clears, Rachel and Tobias find Jake — just Jake — kneeling on the floor.  He’s swaying in shock where he stares up at Tobias.  “Did we know you could do that?” Jake asks, voice sandpaper-raw.

“I’m gonna vote ‘no,’” Rachel says, looking at Tobias’s flabbergasted expression.

“Okay, cool, still badass.”  Jake slumps sideways; Tobias lunges to catch him before he hits the floor.  “I’mma take a nap… for the next eighteen hours or so… then we can figure this all out later.”

“It’ll scar, won’t it,” Rachel says, watching Cassie’s neat row of stitches press into her leg as if it belongs to someone else.  She’s not bothered, she doesn’t think.  It’s not that she thinks scars are cool, or that they’ll impress anyone.  Marco will flutter his eyelashes and swoon when he sees it, of course, but that’s about all the reaction she’ll get, all the reaction she’ll want.  She doesn’t think scars make her tough, or that they make her ugly.  They’re proof, and that’s what she hates and loves about them.  Proof that she’s still alive.  Proof of what she’s been through and yet survived.  Proof that you should see the other guy, only of course there’s no seeing him, because he — it — is always ashes on the ground.

“Tobias?” Mr. Feyroyan says, and Tobias stops at the door.  He’s pleasantly surprised to be remembered, given that he attended this high school for a few months at most.  “Did you ever get out?” Mr. Feyroyan asks.  “Make your own life, the way you said wanted to do?”

Tobias considers talking about the five semesters of college he managed before the same things that’ve been chasing him his entire life caught up to him.  Considers explaining that he understands, now, why they had to move so often and why his dad had to be away so much of the time.  Considers admitting that the family business pulled him in, the way it was always going to do.

Considers the traces of ectoplasm still embedded under his nails from the ghost possession this morning.

“I help people where I can,” Tobias says, because at least that much is true.  “And this life isn’t so bad.  Not as long as you’ve got people willing to live it with you.”

Ax wasn’t raised to doubt.  He was raised to be a warrior.  The right hand of God.  Absolute.  Unquestioning.  Wrathful.  He was raised to fight and die in the war against the demons and forces of darkness.  Not to make decisions on his own, with no one to guide him.

“Is it a sin,” Cassie asked him once, “to want to know the truth?”

She believes in him, the way that she’s meant to.  The way that he’s meant to believe in Jake, in God, in the righteousness of heaven.  That doesn’t stop her from asking questions of them all.

Humans are pitiful, evanescent beings.  Earthly and evil.  Half-clay, half-spirit, and the clay half usually wins.  Aximili is supposed to demand their respect, to tell them be not afraid as they quail before him.  He is not supposed to let them shorten his name and feed him pecan pie and show him soap opera marathons.

It’s hard to remember that, sometimes, when he and Rachel exchange a bumping of fists over an annihilated vampire nest.  When Marco lifts yet another bottle down from the bar, wait’ll you try this one.  When he watches his nephew curl an invisible-intangible wing around Jake’s body where they sit at the edge of a reservoir, as if Michael’s sword is not a mere empty vessel but a precious and unique soul, worthy of being treasured.

“An angel, a demon, a nephilim, and their pet humans walk into a bar!” Marco announces loudly.  It has the desired effect, which is to say that Nora lowers the shotgun she grabbed the instant Euclid started barking at their approach.

Still in the front entrance of the roadhouse, Marco and Euclid exchange their usual greetings of polite mutual loathing.  Even Marco can’t deny that the little monster has his uses, when it comes to smelling unclean things.

Aftran seems solid enough, mostly.  But Marco thinks sometimes he can detect a hint of what Euclid smells coming off her: sulfur, smoke, the occasional unsavory whiff of little Karen’s body rotting around the corpse-animating creature within.

Nora thunks half a dozen shot glasses on the bar, pouring holy water-laced whiskey as she goes.  That’s for the humans, and Tobias.

“What’ll it be for you, Precious Moments?” Nora asks, using Marco’s nickname for Ax.

Ax refrains from pointing out for the four millionth time that being a fallen cherub doesn’t mean that his true form bears any resemblance to porcelain figurines, and instead sits at the bar.  “I would like the usual, if you please,” he intones.

Chuckling, Nora reaches down a bottle of Cinnabon Pinnacle.

Jake swallows his shot quickly, grimacing at the taste of the silver-lined glass.  “Does Peter have anything for us yet?”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Jake,” Nora says.  “I’m doing well, thanks for asking.  Have you killed any monsters since we last spoke?”

Chastised, Jake settles over his second drink.

“There are new omens, of course.”  Nora slides a plate of fries and a glass of whiskey — sans holy water — toward Aftran.  “All up and down the U.S.  The pattern isn’t holding anymore, or it’s just gotten so dense it can’t be detected.  Almost like…”

“It’s the end of the world?” Marco suggests.

She smiles grimly.  “Almost.  Funny, you noticed that too?”

Marco likes Nora, mostly because she doesn’t try to mother him.

“Let’s get to it, if that’s all right with you.”  Jake sets his glass on the bar.  “World’s not gonna save itself, after all.”

Marco runs off row after row of glossy badges, engraved name tags, exquisitely forged shields.  Only to have Ax present them upside-down, wide-eyed and utterly clueless.  Only to have Cassie drop the act and start telling the truth the millisecond she thinks a witness or victim has half a chance of believing them.  He’s not even sure why he hangs around with these numbskulls.  Probably because they’d be lost without him.

“Would you have made a good lawyer, you think?” Jake asks.

He and Tobias are sitting at the lip of an open grave, splitting a beer as they wait for the bones to burn down enough to fill the dirt back in.  Their shoulders touch, which is the most affection they ever show, really, living out of each other’s pockets as much as the six of them do.

That’s probably why Jake thought to ask.  Because this is the closest they ever come to having a real date: watching bones burn.  Jake’s already on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, and Tobias is wanted by forces a hell of a lot scarier than mere law enforcement, so they tend to be the ones to risk racking up an entirely moot number of grave desecration charges while the others clean up the rest of the hunt.

“Probably not, no,” Tobias says.  “You’re always telling me I see too many sides of every story.  That would’ve made me a crap lawyer, even if…”

Even if he wasn’t a walking grimoire of spare parts.  He’s gone through the lore in Cassie’s family’s bunker, enough to know what all those demons and angels are after.  A vial of his blood can grant a few hours of invulnerability to harm.  A drop of his grace can open an interdimensional rift.  Cut his heart out and you can close heaven itself.  Stuff an angel inside him, and the resultant being could create and destroy universes with a wave of the hand.

“You could get out, you know,” Jake says.  “Now that you can protect yourself.”

Laughing, Tobias shakes his head.  “Cassie,” he counters.  “Cassie could get out.”

“Cassie will get out.  Just as soon as she figures out a different way to help, one that involves less hurting.”  Jake’s confidence probably isn’t even misplaced.  Cassie’s the one with the clean record, the sane outlook, the skills she can actually put on a résumé.  She’s not like the rest of them, dragged into this life because of one tragedy or another.  “I have hope for Rachel too.”

Tobias hmmms.  That one, he’s not so sure.  Rachel’s record is clean, yes, if only because everyone from the cops to the surviving Berensons believes that it was Jake who pulled the trigger on Tom.  “Rachel thrives in this life,” he says.

“If she would just freaking call her mom, get a little help getting set up…”  Jake makes a gesture of frustration.  He went to prison to protect his cousin, only to have her break him out and them both end up living full-time to hunt things like the one that took Tom.

“Marco’s headed for semi-retirement already, you watch.”  Tobias changes the subject, because he’s a coward.

That one catches Jake by surprise, causing him to twist around.  “You sure about that?”

“Semi-retirement.”  Tobias takes a long pull of the beer, passing it back.  Their fingers overlap, then lace together, as they talk.  “Like what my mom had.”

“She was a hunter?”

“She was the director of the FBI,” Tobias says, smiling at the memory.  “On the phone, anyway.  She went blind some time before I was born — got a few guesses, now, as to how that happened.”

Jake grimaces.  He’s seen for himself what happens when a human looks at the unshielded grace of an angel as powerful as Elfangor.

“So that took her out of field work, and she switched to working the phones full-time.”  Tobias tilts his head back, remembering the long row of landlines and cells, the raised bumps of the Braille labels for insurance investigators, Homeland Security, even MI5.  “Did that until I was seven, which is when…”  When someone came looking for spare nephilim parts.  Tore her to pieces instead.

“I stand corrected,” Jake says at last.  “Marco would make an excellent full-time bullshit artist.”

Tobias chuckles.  “And Ax?  Now that he’s all… locked out of heaven?”

“Your taste in music is a crime, you know that?”  Jake doesn’t answer the question, which is an answer in itself.

Tobias knew he shouldn’t have asked.  There’s no future for fallen angels or freak-of-nature nephilim or alleged career criminals.  Not in the private sector anyway.

“So.  You, me, and Ax-Man, huh?” Tobias says.  “‘til the end of the world?”

Jake levers himself to his feet with a grunt of effort.  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”  He pulls Tobias up; they lean into each other against the cold graveyard air.

“No.”  Tobias takes a breath.  Lets himself feel Jake: fragile, human, warm.   “Doesn’t sound bad at all.”

[romancefreak]

Antisepticeye and Jacksepticeye: I Am Real Now

"Come on… Come on…I’ll defeat you Anti, I’ve got this guys, don’t worry!“ Jack shouted at the camera as he fiercely tapped the keys on his keyboard. At the moment, he was filming a livestream, and he was trying to take down the final boss of a wonderful fan game someone made for him, and the boss happened to be Antisepticeye. At the corner of his eyes he saw people were cheering him on in the chat. He smiled to himself as he thought about the amazing hype and rally behind his “dark self”, which commented on as he continued to fight in the game.

“I’ve watched the community go crazy over my teases and hints, making theories, drawing fan art, and–whoa, almost got hit there–and it’s amazing and beautiful how much this community bonds together–argh, he got me, but I t'ink I’ve got enough health I can get him in this next hit—so thank you guys for making things like this possible and for being so open to each other and making it so much fun. Almost… YES!” Jack punched his fist in the air as his sword gave the final blow, killing Anti as he disintegrated with a loud scream.

"HA! TOLD ya you’re a glitch bitch, Anti!” Jack laughed in triumph, smiling as he watched his avatar in the game release his friends out of the cages Anti had put them in. After watching the ending scene of the game and reading a heartfelt message from the developer, Jack smiled warmly at the camera, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Dude thank you so much for making this game. It means the world to me that you love the channel that much that you would take so much time and effort to make something like this. I appreciate it very much and I’m so happy to have played this. The story was really good, and it’s awesome that I get to battle Anti for the first time in a fan game. In the past it’s always been Billy, which of course I loved, but now Anti is in a fan game, which was really cool! And–”  

Suddenly, his lights flickered out, casting Jack in darkness, startling him.

"Whoa! Umm…. What the hell? What just happened? Hello? Who turned out the lights?” he asked, looking around his recording room. The only light that was on was the bright light of his computer and the steady blinking of the red light from his webcam. The only sound he heard was the cheerful music coming from the game, but even that seemed to have lowered. A small chill ran up Jack’s slender back, not liking the atmosphere of the room at all…. It had become eerily still….

“I think… maybe the lightbulb just blew…” Jack explained, trying to make best of the situation. He saw that people were already getting concerned in the chat, and he didn’t want to scare his community. He chuckled a bit, though it was clear in his voice he was a bit uneasy.

"Heh, what a...what a coincidental time for that to happen. Maybe it was Anti coming to say hi and–”

“Oh I have indeed, Jack…” A high pitched, but quiet voice suddenly whispered in the darkness, causing Jack’s heart to jump in his throat as his blood ran cold.

“Who the hell said that!?” Jack yelled, frantically looking around for the source of the voice. “Show yourself! Who’s there!?”

“I think you know EXACTLY who I am, Jack…” the voice said, much louder this time, sounding angrier. Suddenly a terrible screeching static noise sounded from his computer, making Jack cry out, throwing off his headphones and clapping his hands to his ears, trying to block it out. He turned white as a ghost as he saw a familiar face, a horrible, maniacal familiar face smiling evilly through the glitching screen…

"N-n-no…. It… It can’t be… You’re n-not real… You’re not real!” Jack cried out.  He reached for the power button, hoping that shutting it down would get rid of him. Suddenly a powerful glitching hand grabbed Jack’s arm, stopping him.  

“Oh, I’m very real, Jack… You, and your precious community you care soooooo deeply about MADE me, after all…” To Jack’s horror, the monster crawled out of the screen, the monster with dark green hair, black gages in his pointed ears, sharp teeth in an evil maniacal smile, and blood dripping from a horrid ragged cut on his pale throat. Antisepticeye.  Anti kicked Jack in the guts, sending him flying backwards and crashing into the wall behind him. Jack cried out in pain, feeling the wind get knocked out of him as his head throbbed from the impact, making him fall to his knees. Holding his stomach and gasping for air, he gazed at Anti with shock and terror.

"How...? How are you...!?" he tried to ask, wheezing and struggling to get air back in his lungs.    

"Alive? Real?" Anti chuckled deviously, smirking down at him, his voice ranging from deep and throaty to high pitched and bone-chilling. "I already told ya, Jack. You, Robin, and your oh-so precious little community created me. Like you said in your Kill Jacksepticeye video..." His eyes turned black as he glitched harder in front of Jack, blood dripping more from his throat as he mocked him."'I've kept control all this time... Nothing gets rid of me! I am eternal!'" He laughed with malice as he watched Jack struggle to get up.    

 "But...but you aren't supposed....to be actally real...."   

Anti laughed cruelly, bending down to sit on his haunches in front of Jack, resting his elbows on his knees. "Ah, that's the beauty of it all, Jackieboy.... You know the power of the community is strong. The same goes for their imagination. Both can be used for good, oh yeah." His eyes gleamed as his evil smile grew wider. "But it can also be used for not so nice things too. Ya see...As my popularity grew after your videos you and Robin worked on, fans have drawn me in various ways, wrote fan fiction of me, even cosplayed as me. And from there, I was born. I grew stronger and more powerful feeding off of their creativity, waiting for the time where I can be powerful enough to take physical form." He leaned in closer, smirking at his creator as he grabbed at his throat. "Ya see, Jack? They wanted this to happen! Your adoring community that claims to love you and support you want you dead and they want me to be real! And you continue to dig your own grave by feeding their precious theories dressing as me, acting as me..." His eyes gleamed as he squeezed Jack's throat harder. "BEING me."

Jack felt the color drain from his face, scratching at the demon's unexpectedly strong hands as he gasped for air, his heart pounding in his ears. "That's... not true.... The community isn't like that... They're not... They're not evil like you.... I'M not like you..."   

"No?" Anti cackled, lifting Jack in the air by the throat and throwing him into his gaming chair where glitching shadows suddenly wrapped tightly around his wrists and ankles. "You call me evil. You call me a demon." He leaned in closer until Jack could see his terrified expression in the reflection of Anti's eyes, his voice dripping with venom. "But let me ask you this.... If I am evil, what does that say about you who created me in the first place?"   

Jack went even paler in the face, coughing and tearing up as he gulped air. What DID that say about him? He did enjoy teasing his fans with all the cryptic hints he and Robin would put all over the place, lighting the community on fire. He loved horror and Halloween which is often when Anti would appear. And he even liked playing as Anti sometimes. Does... Does that mean...? He shook his head then with vigor. No. Just because he did those things doesn't mean he was anything like this monster. He looked up at his dark ego with a defiant glare as he struggled against his bonds.

"For one, the fans chose me to look up to. I don't know why they do, because I'm just some guy from Ireland who loves video games and making people laugh and feel welcome. But I guess they like that about me, and I'm grateful to them for their support and love! And other thing, you were first created from fans as a joke but then the community, Robin and I expanded upon you and created you as antagonist for a story, to show good will always win over evil and you can conquer your demons, just like any storyteller would." He glared at Anti defiantly, pulling against his bonds harder than ever. "You're nothing more than our puppet, our glitch bitch!"

Anti slashed his claws against Jack's cheek, making him cry out as blood trailed freely down his pale skin. "Funny....I thought it was canon that you were MY puppet under MY control in your videos," he snarled, the evil smile gone from his face as anger flared in his black devilish eyes. "I'll show you who the bitch is here!" He grabbed the camera fiercely, bringing his glitching face to it, blood streaming from the cut in his neck.

"All those who are listening out there.... You really should have thought twice about creating me if you didn't want your beloved Jack to be harmed! So in the words you so dearly like to make me say... He grabbed Jack by the throat again, the most evil smile spreading across how glitching face. "If you want him back so badly, why don't YOU SAVE HIM!?" Suddenly Anti took a demonic looking shadowy figure , looming above Jack before plunging into Jack's mouth and eyes, possessing his body. For a moment, all was eerily still as the Livestream chat was screaming in text, crying out with no noise, helpless to do anything. Then, slowly, Jack's head lifted up, and his fans saw with horror that his eyes were streaming with bloody tears, his lips trembling, looking more terrified and helpless then they've ever seen him.

"G-guys...help me...." he whispered. Suddenly his eyes turned black and an evil smile spread across his face, Anti's distorted voice coming from Jack's mouth.

"You heard him.... Come help him... If you can.... This is my world now...." He cackled maniacally as he punched the camera, cracking the lense and glitching wildly. Then, the screen went blank as Jack's fans around the world panicked, screamed, cried, and/or sat frozen in fear and shock.

Jacksepticeye, their entertainer, their idol, their friend......was gone.

----

Soooo.... This was my first Antisepticeye fan fiction. I was kind of inspired by this line from BATIM Rap/Can't Be Erased by JT Music. "Call me a seed of evil but what's that mean if I'm conceived within your mind?" I mean, we helped create Anti...so....

Anyways I hope you guys like this creepy concept. I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)

[gymwrites]

Second Thoughts: A Fan Sequel to First Times

[Author’s note: Final part of Chapter 8 done and dusted. I’m working on Chapters 9 (the one everyone’s been waiting for) and 10 (the wrap up). Thank you for sticking with me on this crazy ride. Do let me know what you think!

I wrote this chapter to: A New Beginning (Extended) by Alexandre Desplat]

Links to: Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 (Part I), Chapter 5 (Part II), Chapter 6 (Part I), Chapter 6 (Part II), Chapter 6 (Part III), Chapter 7, Chapter 8 (Part I), Chapter 8 (Part II)

Chapter 8: Lights (Part III)

It’s quiet.

Very quiet, save for the frantic rhythm of Aliya’s heartbeat tapping out a warning that this is a mistake. As nerve-wracking as it may be, it’s a mistake Aliya is willing to make, because it feels right.

Though Aliya was certain she wanted to be on this side of the door, what to do once she followed Aly inside was far less clear. She had made it two steps past the entrance before coming to a hesitant stop. Blinking to adjust to the darkness, she notices the temperature is much warmer in here than the hallway they had just come from. It might have something to do with the memories her mind is unhelpfully conjuring up of her and Aly in enclosed spaces.

The sound of something - a glass? - being knocked over onto a hard floor shakes Aliya out of her daze.

“Oops.”

Grateful for the distraction, Aliya watches in silence, lips twisted in amusement, as Aly throws out an arm and happily slurs out “Welcome to ‘merica”. She sways and fumbles her way over to what appears to be a bedside table, miraculously avoiding knocking anything else over. The faint outline of a lamp is just visible in the corner, and a dim band of light is thrown across the room once the girl manages to switch it on.

Aliya takes the opportunity to let her eyes wander, absorbing the homely messiness that makes it obvious the lefthand side belongs to Aly.

There are clothes spilling out of a half-zipped suitcase, a chaotic smattering of makeup on top of a set of wooden drawers. A mug stamped with the words ‘Sassy And Just A Bit Bad Assy’ is rolled on its side at the foot of an unmade bed, one of two in the room. Pushed up against the far wall between the beds is a modest desk, on top of which several framed pictures are neatly arranged.

One of them looks very familiar.

Smiling, Aliya walks past Aly and up to the desk. She reaches out to brush fingertips over the glass panel of the picture that’s caught her interest. Her smile broadens as she takes in the grinning, freckled girl with the shiny metal braces, arms wrapped around her siblings, soft brown eyes blown wide and brimming with love. The image stands in stark contrast to Aliya’s old photos. Most depict the ferocious scowl she would hurl at whoever was unlucky enough to be tasked with making her smile for the camera.

Aliya can make out the sounds of Aly shuffling and rustling behind. She expects the girl to erupt in protest at her rediscovery of that particular childhood snapshot, the way she did the first time in London. When no protest comes, Aliya spins around, of half a mind to get a rise out of Aly with some well-placed teasing.

Her jaw drops before she can formulate a single word.

What is she -

Aliya sucks in a wet, ragged breath at the sight of Aly’s plaid jeans, now thrown into a crumpled heap on the bed; at the realization that Aly is dressed only in her underwear and button-down shirt.

Briefly snapping her eyes shut, Aliya reminds herself that she is nothing if not disciplined. She works to contain the dull ache that starts pulsating in her veins. Next, she resolves to not stare too much, nor to catalogue in detail the strong, shadow-painted lines of the muscles in the girl’s bare legs. She almost succeeds too, until Aly casually starts peeling her shirt off like she’s completely forgotten there’s someone else in the room.

Aliya’s heart shoots up into her throat, a tiny gasp flying from her lips quicker than she can kill it.

At the sound, Aly freezes. Realization seems to jolt through her the instant she glances up to see Aliya gaping at her. Even in the dark, Aliya catches how Aly’s features flush a deep red.

The girl clears her throat uncomfortably. “I’ll go into the bathroom to change.”

“No,” Aliya whispers, cursing how her voice cracks. She takes a step forward, only to halt with a jerk, her body and mind warring furiously over just how much closer she should get to Aly. “Stay.” A small voice orders her to at least avert her gaze to give Aly some privacy, but she ignores it and stays rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle, heart straining painfully against her chest.

Aly takes a moment to search Aliya’s face with unfocused eyes. Eventually, she nods and continues the process of shedding her clothes, but it isn’t long before she encounters a new obstacle. “Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have worn this,” the girl mutters.

Aliya swallows hard as Aly’s fingers flutter uselessly over the buttons that are preventing her from just slipping the shirt over her head. She guesses by how tightly Aly is gritting her teeth that the aftermath of too much vodka is starting to kick into high gear. And really, maybe the drinks Aliya consumed herself are starting to affect her too, because she moistens her lips, exhales a shaky breath and says unthinkingly, “I help you.”

The hesitant offer barely brushes the air, and for a moment Aliya isn’t even sure she said it at all. But then Aly looks blankly at Aliya and echoes in a low voice, “You’ll help me?”

Putting on an air of nonchalance, Aliya straightens her back and strides towards the American, motioning for her to sit down on the bed. “Either you break nice shirt, or I help you take off,” she says, tone brisk and all business, like there is nothing more to her proposal than simple practicality. And it was, wasn’t it? She had already dragged Aly halfway across the Olympic Village and firmly discouraged strange attachments to lamp posts - this was just one more thing that fell under her duties as a friend.

Yes, that common duty all friends have to help undress each other, Aliya thinks sarcastically to herself.

A dazzling smile lights up Aly’s face.

Aliya lifts a brow. “What?”

“You think my shirt is nice,” the American repeats in a tone caught somewhere between gratitude and smugness.

Aliya rolls her eyes. Without waiting for outright permission, she steps closer, shivering a little as she reaches for Aly and moves into her space. Forcing herself to be calm, Aliya brushes her fingers over the top button of Aly’s shirt. She deliberately avoids any eye contact, but that hardly prevents a thrill from rushing down her spine when she pops the button open and hears Aly’s breath hitch roughly in her throat.

“Aliya.”

The breathiness with which Aly utters her name stirs something in Aliya, something dizzy and wild. She looks up to find the girl staring wide-eyed at her, and for a moment, it feels like they’re perched dangerously on the edge of an abyss, both waiting for the other to leap in first. The slow pounding beneath Aliya’s ribs grows to a painful, thudding pace. Aly’s gaze is half-lidded and hazy, and the unspoken passion in it sends ripples of heat through Aliya’s system, from her throat, to her stomach and then further down.

Aliya isn’t thinking. Only reacting.

So she lets her hands drift away from the buttons and starts sliding them slowly down Aly’s sides, drawing a gasp from the girl. She dips her fingers lower, wrapping them around the curve of Aly’s waist, timidly at first, but the tremor that races through Aly’s body quickly turns the touch into a fervent grip.

And then she leans forward to press her trembling mouth to Aly’s.

The girl is so stunned, Aliya can almost taste it. Her muscles go still, almost rigid, beneath the trail of Aliya’s fingers over her hips.

For the life of her, Aliya can’t think of a single reason why she didn’t do this sooner. It’s like rediscovering fire and the missing breath of her heart, along with every perfect thing they’d sacrificed to the distance between them.

The relief is overwhelming and makes Aliya’s eyes sting.

She tilts her head and pushes further in, shuddering at the small sob Aly releases against her. Aly’s hand flies up to cup Aliya’s face, the fingers of the other seizing the back of Aliya’s neck to tug her in with equal intensity. A wordless understanding passes between them; that if forever wasn’t in the cards, then they could at least have this moment to take back with them, to die with the memory of it branded on their lips.

Inhaling sharply through her nose so as not to break the kiss, Aliya makes short work of the rest of the buttons. She pushes open Aly’s shirt with surprising speed and hungrily runs her hands over the girl’s stomach, loving the tautness and smoothness and familiarity of her skin, reveling in the way Aly hisses at the contact and quakes beneath her fingertips.

Aliya wraps more fully around Aly’s bottom lip and sinks her teeth in. The soft moan that rips up from Aly’s throat fuels a heady mix of adrenaline and desperation, causes Aliya to dig involuntarily into the girl’s hips, makes her want more, more, more.

“Aliya - ”

Through the heated haze, Aliya hears Aly gasp her name out a bit louder. It’s the pressure of Aly’s hands against her cheeks, holding her with so much tenderness and yet somehow also holding her at bay, that snaps Aliya back to attention.

“Aliya, wait.”

Wait. Did she say…?

It takes all the discipline Aliya can muster to pull back, momentarily disoriented. Breathing hard, faces only inches apart, Aliya locks her eyes onto Aly’s: they are soft, heated, beautiful… grave. Aliya draws her brow together in a sharp frown. At once, she remembers where they are, what they were doing - what she had done - and her stomach suddenly clenches into a ball of doubt. Her hands drop from where they were clutching at Aly’s waist, as if they had been burnt.

“I am sorry,” Aliya says abruptly. “I should not have - “

“Don’t. I’m not sorry.”

Aly slips one hand down around Aliya’s lower back, giving her a reassuring squeeze and bringing her forehead to Aliya’s. With a small sigh, Aliya can’t help but to press closer, to breathe in her scent and savor as much as possible everything about this girl she’s missed so much.

“I want you,” she hears Aly murmur, warm breath stuttering across Aliya’s lips. “More than you know. But I want this… you… when I’m not - ” Aly’s head tips back, eyes squeezing together as a flash of pain crosses her face.

"Aly."

“If tonight is the last night we have together, I might regret not having you,” the other girl continues after drawing labored breaths. Her words are no longer slurred, but spoken with the emphasis of someone who has yet to recover full control of their faculties. Aly reaches up to run shaky fingers through Aliya’s hair, and a painful lump rises in Aliya’s throat. “But I know I’ll regret it more if I have you when I’m… like this. If I do have you, I want it to be right. I want to show you that I - that you - “ Aly takes in another unsettled breath. “I want it to be perfect.”

Perfect is you being with me, Aliya wants to tell her.

Instead, she just nods and whispers, "Okay."

Aliya closes her eyes and leans into Aly’s touch, shoulders sagging weakly as Aly strokes along her jaw. She isn’t aware that she’s crying until Aly lifts a thumb to gently swipe away a hot tear that’s managed to slip down her cheek.

When she opens her eyes again, she finds Aly looking at her, through her, like she sees the entire galaxy held within her depths. Aliya stares back, breath frozen, unable to believe there is someone like Aly for whom she had fallen, who had fallen for her.

The moment is broken by a sharp groan from Aly. The American lets go of Aliya, stumbles and falls back down onto her bed, as if she’s been hit by a jet of cold water. She passes a hand over her eyes.

“Ugh. I think we made a good call. If I had barfed while we - oh God. I feel like someone’s just punched me in the stomach.”

Despite everything that’s happened, Aliya emits a soft laugh. The immense heat burning a path through every inch of her body doesn’t let up, but she can feel the more rational side of her returning slowly, if reluctantly, to the fold. She doesn’t know if she’ll regret that they didn’t take things further, but she does know how to take care of a girl suffering the early onset of a bad hangover.

With practised efficiency, Aliya helps stretch Aly’s legs out and reaches over to anchor Aly’s pillow more firmly beneath her head. Another rumbling groan is all the response she gets. “Be still,” she soothes. “It will be passing soon.” She carefully works the blanket out from under Aly and tucks it around her legs (she judges it too hot to draw it all the way up to the shoulders). Finally, after reaching over to switch the lamp off, Aliya steps back to admire her handiwork.

Brilliant whitish moonlight streams through the window, spilling over Aly’s pale face and the exposed skin underneath her open shirt. Aliya tactfully averts her gaze, sweeping it instead over trembling eyelids and the cute sprinkling of faint freckles over the bridge of her nose. Breathing shallow but steady, Aly already looks to be out for the count.

That has to be some kind of new record.

The girl mumbles something inaudible and shifts, a rich tangle of hair spilling across the pillow, and Aliya’s fingers twitch with the desire to touch.

Just as Aliya is debating whether that’s her cue to make an exit, Aly’s eyes snap open. She blinks them once, slowly and deliberately, as if wiping cobwebs from her mind, before latching them onto Aliya.

Aliya unconsciously holds her breath.

“Do you think you’ll ever feel this way about someone else?” The hesitant way Aly asks it turns the question into a half-desperate plea, and it breaks Aliya.

“No.”

The hot promise in Aliya’s voice astonishes even herself, but maybe it shouldn’t have. Any other answer would have been an outright lie.

The tension in Aly’s body relaxes. “Me neither. I guess there’s that.” She sinks back into the bed, the lines in her face smoothing out. Another long silence lapses. Aliya remains standing beside the bed, restlessly shifting her weight from foot to foot. Waiting…

“Would you… do something for me?”

Aliya raises her eyes to find Aly staring again. She tilts her head questioningly, her curiosity intensifying when the girl blushes.

“I mean, only if it doesn’t bother you, and if you don’t have to be getting back to your team. I’m sorry you had to leave the party early. I know it’s not that often we get time off, and you’re here looking after me, and I really shouldn’t ask for anything more. Besides, it must be late, and you must have to get up early tomorrow for training…“

Even when done at a slower, more inhibited pace, the babbling is so quintessentially Aly and so very obviously broadcasts her vulnerability that it makes Aliya want to climb straight into the bed and wrap the girl up in a tight, protective embrace.

She doesn’t, of course.

“What I can do?” Aliya cuts her off gently, settling for inching a bit closer.

An odd mixture of apprehension and boldness appears in Aly’s expression.

“Will you stay with me?”

Aliya’s chest constricts, like there’s suddenly not enough room for her heart to pump under her ribs.

“Just until I fall asleep,” Aly says softly, holding Aliya’s gaze, as if aware of the emotional terrain her request is putting Aliya through. “If you leave now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”

Silence for an interminable moment.

Then Aliya dips her head in quiet assent.

And then, she has to tear her focus away from the shy smile now radiating from Aly’s face while she quickly analyzes the safest way to do this. She considers sitting on the edge of the bed at Aly’s feet, but dismisses that as too forward. She could settle on the floor, but surmises the hardwood boards would soon become uncomfortable. Aliya swings her head around and catches sight of the round plastic chair pushed under the desk.

She can work with that.

Before she can execute her decision to drag the chair over towards the bed, she spots Aly biting her lip, still staring at her with that intense look that makes Aliya want to squirm. There’s a flutter at the base of Aliya’s throat as she swallows, and she knows Aly sees it, because the girl’s mouth curls into a knowing grin.

Narrowing her eyes at Aly and crossing her arms with a huff, Aliya tries to communicate how much she doesn’t appreciate the fact that an American has managed to reduce her to this unrecognizable, indecisive, awkward version of herself.

It doesn’t have the intended effect, because the next thing she knows, Aly is flipping the blanket open and patting the empty side next to her. Her eyes never once leave Aliya’s face.

“Please,” Aly whispers, the grin on her face slowly fading, replaced with a look of quiet pleading.

A shiver crests on Aliya’s skin. Something about how that particular word falls from the girl’s lips gives it power over her, makes surrendering herself to Aly the only viable option.

“Okay, Aly.”

With what sounds like a sigh of relief, Aly scoots over on her side to make room, putting her back against the wall the bed is wedged against.

Aliya stares at Aly for awhile longer, captivated by the soft jut of her shoulders where her shirt has fallen away. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Aliya kicks off her boots. She slips underneath the blanket gingerly, wriggling down the length of the bed as she tries to get comfortable without bumping into the other gymnast.

The bed isn’t really made for two, but it’s wide enough that they can simply share the space without touching. The stillness of the air belies the hammering of Aliya’s heart. She’s a little crestfallen that Aly appears to be respecting the invisible boundary she had felt obligated to draw between them.

Until the bed dips with a jolt.

“Aliya.”

“Hm?”

“I have to compete in event finals tomorrow.” Aly’s words are infused with slight panic.

Aliya frowns. Today is Friday -

She’s distracted by more movement, then the tickle of soft breath against her ear.

“If Martha finds out I’m competing with a hangover, she’ll skin me alive.”

Aliya turns her head to meet huge round eyes filled with worry. They’re gorgeous, and so easy to get lost in.

“I am not thinking your” - Aliya fishes around for the English term for ‘team coordinator’ but gives up - “she, is wanting your skin.”

The pillow makes a swishing sound as Aly shakes her head against it. “You haven’t met Martha.”

So the inexplicable fear of this Martha character hasn’t changed since London, either.

“Aly, I know many coach in Russia who is ten times Martha. Remember she is needing you more than you need her. You are one who is doing hard work, who will bring home the medal.” Sensing further argument, Aliya places a comforting hand on Aly’s shoulder. “And you are not needing to fear. It is Friday.” Her mouth quirks. “Your event final is on Tuesday. You are having many days to get well.”

“Oh. I could have sworn it was tomorrow,” Aly replies wearily. “Time just goes by so fast.”

Aliya is about to offer more reassurance when she’s startled by the pad of Aly’s finger carefully tracing over her cheekbones, her lips, then down the curve of her neck. Her breath stills in the echoing darkness and her eyes drift shut, trying to carve every sensation into her memory forever. When Aly’s arm drops away, Aliya has to bite down on her tongue to prevent a disappointed whimper from escaping.

“We need more time,” Aly murmurs.

We will never have enough time.

There’s only time enough for one last important concern before the girl finally drifts off into a deep sleep.

“I should brush my teeth,” Aly muffles into her pillow.

“Tomorrow, Raisman.”

“… It’s not civilized.”

Aliya shushes her.

“Sleep now.”

She counts each second it takes for Aly’s breathing to slow to a lumbering pace, making each one last for as long as possible.

-----

Time is a strange paradox.

If Aliya thinks about how she should pry herself from Aly before her teammates return, it flees from her at the speed of a falling star; each moment flames bright and meets a quick death. But if she concentrates on the way her arm is wrapped snugly around Aly’s waist, time slows almost to a complete stop.

Oh that. That had just… happened.

Thirty minutes in - or maybe it was ten minutes, or two hours, Aliya can’t be sure - Aly had rolled onto her side, putting her back towards Aliya. Without warning, she had also grabbed hold of Aliya’s hand in one swift unconscious act and wrapped it around her middle. And kept right on sleeping.

That’s how Aliya finds herself reflecting on how she got here, treasuring the slow burn of Aly’s body pressed against her front.

At one point, Aliya had thought she could hate Aly.

It was after the girl had heartwrenchingly told her she couldn’t keep their relationship going, couldn’t stand loving her anymore. It was then, that Aliya thought hate was inevitable. When it didn’t come naturally, she categorically tried to hate her, and when that failed, she vowed to at least never put her trust in Aly, ever again.

And yet…

For all the times she claimed herself distant and imperturbable, Aliya never truly doubted the fact that Aly cared for her, just as much as she cared for Aly. They were each bound to the other in ways she will never completely fathom. The pain of the past might still weigh on Aliya’s heart, but it had become impossible to bury it without also burying the best, most precious parts of herself. The two are intertwined, and she is slowly beginning to accept that.

It helps that the residual hurt seems to be fading to a dim memory; that the calm rise and fall of Aly’s breathing next to her is now layering something else over it, something that feels incredible and wonderfully alive.

Aliya does what she does next to feel alive.

“Aly,” she breathes into the darkness.

She thinks she hears a barely perceptible sigh, but other than that, Aly’s deep breathing continues uninterrupted. Still, she should make certain.

“I only let you winning silver in all-around final because I know you will being a big baby if you lose to Russian again.”

Aliya counts to thirty.

When no indignant outrage ensues, a wave of trepidation and exhilaration sweeps over Aliya. It allows words she has kept locked away for too long to well up and rise to the surface in one resurgent tide.

“Aly, I… I love you.”

It’s surprising, how much it quickens her pulse to say it for the first time, how it blocks her throat with something between a sob and a laugh. If it wasn’t so impossible, Aliya could believe she had loved Aly before they even met, before they had been given names, or shapes, or lives, because it feels like love for her had always been.

Saying it once isn’t enough. So Aliya draws the words up from the depths of her soul, releases them more fervently the second time round.

“I love you.”

Aliya tightens her hold on Aly, breathing in the sweetness of her hair, presses a light kiss to the nape of her neck.

This time, no one wipes away the lone tear tracking down her face.

-----

The second thought Aly has when she wakes to the sound of her own pained groan is how empty her bed feels. It was a miracle she’d even had a second thought, because her first was pure confusion over why little fuzzy dots were taking turns stabbing at her eyeballs with white lightsabers.

It takes another few moments before Aly realizes what, or rather who, is missing from her bed, and then she is instantly and violently awake. Her swollen bladder promptly forgotten, she stiffens, fully alert, swiveling her head back and forth like she’s at a tennis match.

The fuzzy dots in her head pick that exact moment to swap their lightsabers for raging jack hammers.

Forced to flop back down onto the covers, Aly feels her heart race, even as she tells herself to calm down, she can’t have imagined Aliya in her room last night, in her bed… it’s all too vivid to have been some crazy dream…

She sucks in a deep breath before turning her head to the side, wincing as she does. Madison is tucked into the bed opposite, fast sleep.

Aly tries everything she can to remember the details of the night before. She runs her hand over the crumpled space next to where she had woken, squished against the wall. She thinks she detects the faint indent of another body pressed into her sheets. When she squeezes her eyes hard enough, she swears a light hint of Aliya still lingers on her pillow and her blanket.

As soon as she feels well enough to run her gaze over the room, hoping it will help jog her recall, she’s immediately drawn to the English-Russian dictionary placed on top of her bedside table.

Aly frowns. That was definitely not where she left it last time. The oddity makes her reach towards it, and sure enough when she flips the dictionary over onto its side, there is a particular page with its corner folded. Dog-earing books is something Aly has always thought should be outlawed, not least because it grates on her to ruin a perfect piece of paper.

Except this time she welcomes it with a slow-spreading grin and an unexpected flood of hope.

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter if what happened last night was dream or reality, because the one word circled in light pencil on the open page in front of her confirms that it was both.

 всегда:

Always.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Oliver wakes with a gasp, his heart thundering beneath his ribs as he scrambles to find the switch on the reading lamp beside him. The vestiges of his nightmare loom cold and foreboding despite the muggy air of the bedroom, and his stomach churns even as the details fade from his consciousness, leaving only a nebulous sense of dread that rocks him to the core.

Counting backwards from ten, he turns his face towards the slight breeze coming from the unshuttered windows, and when that does little to calm his racing pulse, he drains the lukewarm glass of water from the bedside cabinet. At two weeks in, he considered himself accustomed to the weather here in B, but yesterday had been the hottest day so far, and the slick layer of sweat that covers his bare torso feels nothing short of suffocating.

“Enough,” he mumbles, all-too-familiar with the signs of an impending panic attack. “You’re better than this.”

Struggling with the thin cotton sheets, he kicks his legs free, restless limbs urging him to run, though he knows not where. It’s unsurprising, then, that he finds himself hunched over the bathroom sink, both arms braced on either side of the porcelain bowl as he clutches the countertop in a white-knuckled grip. His lungs pinch tight, and squeezing his eyes shut he concentrates on his breathing, trying to recall the various techniques he’s used in the past. He succeeds, to a degree, yet his thoughts continue to flash like the slides on Samuel’s projector, and unable to pick a single focus point beyond the one he should not - must not - adhere to, he pictures his favourite rock near the ocean, instead.

In, then out, he repeats. A constant mantra. In, then out.

It doesn’t work.

The serenity he’s searching for remains out of reach, and the distant wheeze in his ears brings his dream rushing back with startling clarity. 

The whistle. 

The train station. 

The imminent threat of separation that ticks an unforgiving countdown inside his head.

Which is ludicrous, in retrospect. He’s no alchemist of time, and these halcyon days in Italy are borrowed from the greater good of the duties that lie before him. 

A wise man once said, conformity is the jailer of freedom, and the enemy of growth, and with the ever-present knowledge that his return to the States is unavoidable, he wonders how it will be possible for six weeks to sustain him a lifetime. 

“You’re okay,” he tells himself firmly, reaching for the faucet. “Everything’s fine. You’re okay. It’s alright…”

But it’s not. 

It’s not.

Nothing about this is alright.

Yes, he’s happy here. His every cell radiating contentment. But the villa itself is a fool’s paradise, and Oliver’s hemorrhaging his futile aspirations without so much as a tourniquet to stem the flow. Beyond these grand walls, the real world with it’s inherent obligations still awaits. For better or worse, his path is nigh-on set in stone, and his parents’ expectations cannot be ignored simply because he’s discovered his true self amidst poolside apricating and lively debate. It would be unconscionable, and in the face of it, the fact he’s falling hard for a seventeen year old feels relatively straightforward in comparison.

Nothing can come of it, he knows - Elio is too young, too full of potential to be tainted by the likes of him - but it’s the other side of that voluntary abstinence which concerns him most. The inevitable goodbye that has him splashing his fevered brow as the bloodshot eyes in the mirror offer their own baleful judgement. He’d hoped that a modicum of distance would minimise the impact, however the dark circles above his cheekbones make him look haunted, and the shivers wracking his frame leave him clawing at his own chest, needing to purge himself of the darkness trapped within.

It’s yet another harsh reminder, and glancing at the bathtub, Oliver wishes he could wash away his bitterness and regret as easily as he does the detritus of the pebble-strewn beach outside.

He’s on the verge of hyperventilating, his temple throbbing so hard it sounds like someone’s knocking on the adjoining door, and when he shakes his head, trying to clear his vision, a flurry of black spots encroach around the edges. His legs buckle, but he doesn’t collapse, and it’s only the hasty, vice-like grip on his biceps that keeps him upright as he stumbles into the wall next to the pedestal, his flailing elbow causing a half-empty tube of toothpaste to skid across the polished surface.

It’s a feeling not unlike drunkenness, and it takes him a moment to realise that Elio is there, whispering soothing nonsense as he eases him to the floor. The words remain a mystery, however, because there’s a voice inside his mind telling him to man up. To stop this ridiculousness. That he doesn’t deserve this kind of care. It sounds just like his father, and Oliver raises his knees, pressing his forehead against them until the frantic gallop of his heart slows to a not-quite-so-urgent canter.

“Breathe with me,” Elio coaxes. Elio, who’s dropped to the tiles alongside him. Who’s holding his right hand and tracing gentle patterns over the various lines and whorls of his skin. “In for three… hold for three… out for three. That’s it. Molto buona. And repeat.”

“I’m fine,” he manages, bunching his jaw.

“You’re not.”

“I’m sorry, I -”

Oliver hitches a sob, and Elio’s pulling him into his arms before he can apologize again, holding him close, one palm spread at the base of his neck, the other rubbing small circles over his naked back. His soothing tone is a balm to his blistered nerves, and it occurs to Oliver that in this, as with most other things, they are evidently the same. 

“Elio…” he whispers, wanting to reassure him in turn. “You don’t -”

“Va bene. I’ve got you.”

The sudden intimacy is both a blessing and a curse, and he grips Elio’s waist tightly as he buries his face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of citrus and cigarette smoke embedded in his t-shirt. He shouldn’t welcome the low humming against his temple, but it’s cathartic, nonetheless, and blinking fiercely, he’s finally able to suppress his tears. His moral compass is on shaky ground, and Oliver’s shame returns tenfold as he tips his chin to look at him, unclenching his fists from where they’ve been gripping Elio’s sleep pants like a mainstay.

“Bene allora.” Reaching above them, Elio tugs a bath towel from the rail then passes it over, watching mutely as he wipes his face. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, shuffling closer, and Oliver shrugs. He doesn’t trust his own voice, and when Elio rolls his eyes, he’s grateful he doesn’t press him any further. “You know… sometimes I wish I were an oracle,” he says, picking at the jagged edge of his thumb nail. “That way I’d be able to read your mind.”

Oliver scoffs, already certain he’s an open book. “Trust me. You’re not missing much.”

“Un professore così modesto.”

“I thought I was arrogante?”

“Aren’t we all? In a way?”

They grow silent, merely existing side-by-side until Elio moves as if to stand. It’s like a jolt to the system, and Oliver catches his wrist without thinking, seeing the surprise flicker over his features when he holds on tight.

“Don’t -” he says, stricken, unable to finish his sentence, and maybe they’re both under the same spell, because Elio sinks back down immediately, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. 

“My father would probably tell you to embrace the fear,” he says cautiously, as if testing the unstable ground beneath them. “But if you’d cracked your head open on that sink, Mafalda would’ve soft-boiled more than just your eggs.”

It’s accompanied by a playful nudge, and Oliver can’t help it. He laughs. Slightly hysterical, he’ll admit, yet it bubbles free from somewhere unexpected, working miracles to lessen the dismay that threatens to choke him. “Goose,” he rasps, sitting up properly. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t -”

“You did.” Oliver swallows. “So thank you,” he repeats. “For everything.”

“Prego.” Elio shoots him a shy smile. “At least you can’t accuse me of being a bad host.”

“Perish the thought.” Oliver angles his body towards him. “Could you -” Feeling rather pathetic, he clears his throat and tries again. “Will you stay?” he asks, somewhat aware he’s digging his own grave. “Just for a little while?”

Elio seems taken aback. “If you’d like,” he says, searching his face for… something. Whatever it is, he must find it, and a second later he rises to his feet, holding out a hand. “Let’s try to get some sleep, d’accord? You look exhausted.”

Oliver hesitates - a split moment of indecision - but in truth he’s bone weary, and the call of oblivion sounds wonderful as he lets himself be guided to the other bedroom.

“We can share,” Elio says, throwing back the covers. “It’s big enough.”

“Liar,” Oliver teases, eyeing the single frame doubtfully, yet once again his better judgement takes a back seat as he stretches out beside him, stiff and awkward at first, until Elio huffs, snuggling down into the pillow. “Buona notte, Americano,” he murmurs on a yawn.

Is this a good idea? 

Not likely. 

Could he refuse him? 

Absolutely not.

And if Oliver falls asleep to gentle fingers running through his hair, for now, at least, he’s safe in the knowledge that those who would condemn him are half a world away.

[boysintears]

Nightmare // Winchesters

Warnings: angst, death, inuries, very discriptive/graphic, gore, panic attack symptoms i think, like organs getting ripped out, swearing

Words: 1,816

Summary: one of the youngest winchesters night terrors

A/N: this isn’t written as readers pov, gender neutral sibling, i wanted to write this for longer now, i hope you like this

Tags: @supernatural-squadd ; @winchesters-favorite-girl ; @thegreatficmaster

Opening my eyes, everything was black, I couldn’t see nor hear anything. It was a deafening silence, only my erratic breathing, sounding in my ears. Trying to figure out where I was, I lifted my hands above my head, only for them to come in contact with a soft surface. Pushing my hands against it once more, but it wouldn’t budge.

Slowly I laid my arms back against my sides, realizing I couldn’t get up. My limbs were getting heavy and it was getting harder to breath.

Rolling onto my stomach, I tried to crawl to the sides, but I only came into contact with the same material than above me.

Panic was washing over me. I was laying in a coffin. A fucking coffin. My breathing was getting more frantic, the air only getting thinner. I turned back onto my back. Lifting my hands over my head again, was costing me a lot of strength. I pulled at the cloth, trying to tear it, to come to the wooden lid of my prison.

I was panting, black dots dancing in front of my vision, pieces of clothing hanging into my face, my fingers bloody and sore, when I finally came into contact with the wood. Digging my nails into the lid, getting splinters stuck into my fingers, blood dropping onto my face.

The air was getting dangerously thin, as a whole lot of dirt fell onto me. I couldn’t breath. No more air was around me. Coughing, I tried to get the dirt out of my throat. I was suffocating on it. No! I wouldn’t die! Not now, god damn it!

Digging myself further up as far as I could. My fingers were numb, I couldn’t feel a thing anymore, besides my heartbeat, that was beating too fast and hard. The earth against my fingers got softer and more humid, as I neared the surface. Only a bit more.

My vision was nearly completely black, when suddenly my fingers broke through the ground, I could feel a soft gush of wind against my numb limbs. Getting myself to wok faster before I would become unconscious.

Heaving my body out of my grave, I didn’t care about my surroundings, bending over and coughing, getting all of the filth out of my lungs, vomiting. Using the rest of my strength to puke out all of the earth I swallowed.

Taking shaky breaths I slowly opened my eyes and sat myself up. Gravestones surrounded me, overgrown with with undergrowth. Lifting myself up on shaking legs, I brushed the leftover dirt off my face and stumbled to the nearest grave. Brushing the plants out of the way, there was no name on the stone just a number. 25. What did it mean?

Crawling back to the next grave, I found another number, 311. Confused I turned around and walked to the hole I just dug myself out off. Pulling away the scrub, with shaking hands, I found a number like the others. 12. What the hell did this mean?

Pushing my weak body up again, I walked through the graveyard. The further I walked, the newer the gravestones looked, and the higher the numbers got. The last one I saw was 600.

A shudder crawled over my back, when I stepped out of the cemetery. Throwing a last glace back, I hurried to get away from my grave.

Running through the forest, stumbling over roots and getting scared by the sound of animals, I tried to find my way out. I needed to to get back to my brothers. I needed to get back to Bobby’s. Tears started to make their way down my face, I was scared. Fucking scared, and I didn’t even care. Walking further, just getting further. Just never stay in one place too long, who knows whats out in these woods.

My lungs were sore, breathing hurt like hell, I couldn’t take any deep breaths. I needed to rest, even though I felt way too unsafe, my body couldn’t do this any longer. Reluctantly I let my body sink to the ground against a fallen over tree. Taking deep, rattling breaths of air, I tried to steady my heartbeat.

Closing my eyes for a second, I thought back to the weird numbers on the gravestones. My thoughts were interrupted when a strong hand closed itself around my throat and lifted me off of my feet and into the air.

Gasping for breath, my eyes shot open, meeting glowing yellow orbs staring into mine. A slow grin spread itself on the lips of my opponents. Showing sharp yellowy fangs, that were starting to turn black in a few spots. The grip around my neck got tighter and claws started to make their way, painfully slow, into my skin.

“Look what we have here”, he rasped. “12 lived through it”, the grin got even wider, showing of more fangs. “I should bring you to the lab right now. But I wanna have a little fun with you. So run little sheep, run as fast as you can”, he laughed.

The hand around my throat let its grip looser and he threw me against a tree not far from him.

It took me a second to realize what just happened, before it hit me and I scrambled to my feet and run as fast as I could.

Pushing myself to run faster, as I heard it’s footsteps catching up to me. My legs were tiring, but I pushed them to run even faster than before, having the feeling of somebody breathing down my neck. I didn’t dare to turn around, afraid of falling over a tree root and being caught again.

I was panting, my throat hurting from the monsters hard grip, my pace was getting slower, my body being too tired from all the events, that happened in the last few hours.

Not having heard anything in a while, I dared to turn around and look if the thing was still behind me. A loud scream left my lips, the monster standing directly behind me, wearing a disappointed expression on it’s face.

“Oh, 12, you let me down”, he sighed sarcastically. “I really hoped you’d make it further, being the only one that lived through the first round of our experiments”, he said grinning.

I was frozen in fear, looking at the creature towering over me, before he let his clawed hand come down, swiping it over my face.

Falling to the ground, the pain made me cry out. He grabbed me by my hair, lifting me up again. Holding me directly in front of his face, his stinking breath causing goosebumps to appear on my skin.

Without saying anything, he beat my head against the next tree, knocking me out.

The next time I woke up, a bright light was shining directly into my face. Turning my head away, I tried to lift a hand in front of my eyes, only to find them bound to my sides. Groaning, I lifted my head to find myself on a doctor like chair, my hands and feet bound to the material of the seat.

Fearfully I looked at my surroundings. The room was big and windowless. The walls were made out of cement and the plastering was falling off in some places. Weird tubes, filled with green liquor, were standing in the middle of the room.

In one of the containers swam a body, it didn’t move, looked dead even, and it was hooked up to three different tubes. Suddenly the body moved, only for a second, as if a shock ran through it.

Scared, I looked away, to the other side of the room. I could see a big metal, double door. It was closed and looked very heavy.

Weird sounds were coming from the other side of it, like metal, hitting some other, softer material. I heard something break, before loud heavy steps neared the door. Instinctively I started to tug at the bounds around my wrists, trying to get free, before the person the steps belonged to could come through the door. But it was no use, the door opened and two tall, muscular built men, stepped through the door, they were dragging a cart behind them. The materials on it making clinging sounds.

As both neared the light, their features became more visible and a feeling of relief swam over me as I recognized them. “Sam? Dean?”, my voice broke as I croaked out their names. A happy smile on my lips.

I was free, my brothers came to safe me, like they always do. We were going to go back and everything was going to be okay.

But they didn’t react to me calling their names. Instead Dean surrounded the table, to stand on my other side and turned my head away from him, so he could look at the holes in the flesh of my neck.

“Why can he never do as we tell him”, he sighed. I was confused, what was going on? Tears were falling from my eyes. Why weren’t they helping me? Sam took a pair of scissors off of the cart and cut open my shirt, before he changed them against a scalpel. Taking a rag, that was hanging on the seat I was sitting on, he cleaned the knife, while Dean started to speak again.

“12, I am surprised, that you lived though the procedure. I didn’t expect your scrawny, weak body to be strong enough”, Dean said. He took a needle and rammed it into my neck.

The substance burned in my veins, making me scream in pain. My voice was coarse, my body burning all over. I was in such agony, that I didn’t notice Sam started to cut into my chest with the scalpel.

He cut all the way from my chest to my belly button. I saw him pulling my chest open, sticking his hands into my ribcage. My brother frowned, when he didn’t get what he wanted.

I was in so much pain, wishing that I could just fall unconscious, but even though black spots where dancing in front of my eyes, it wouldn’t bring the loved blackness.

Dean put his hands into my chest as well, and grabbed a few of my ribs. He started to pull at them, ripping pieces of them out of my body, until there was a hole big enough for Sam to reach.

A searing pain shot throughout my whole body, a scream as loud as a banshee’s escaped my sore throat.

Looking up through my teary vision, I could see Sam holding my, still pumping, heart. He grinned madly before he took a big bite out of it. And finally the pain ended and everything became black.

I shot up screaming, seeing a face in front of me wearing a, way too familiar, mad smile.

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