#my tailbone does hurt though. ow.

[crimeronan]

we prepared pretty well for the storm and didn't lose power but we're Still iced in. it stopped sleeting for long enough tonight for me to strap some microspikes onto my sneakers and walk to a convenience store for milk, which made me laugh because even back in new hampshire i never needed microspikes for anything except hiking. when it ices here, there is nothing to be done. nh infrastructure is full of salt trucks and plows and shovels for sidewalks and whatnot, but here there will be full inches of ice on the road and on the sidewalks until it melts. usually it melts in a day! when you're feeling the effects of ongoing climate catastrophe, tho, it does not. It Cold

anyway it felt good to get out of the house and stretch my legs but my calves and feet are now burning So Bad. walking a mile having to dig spikes into ice with every step is probably the physical equivalent of 2-3 miles on normal terrain.

also i fell once when the spikes on one foot slipped off but i didn't die. 🥳

[meatonfork]

Hii!! i wanted to ask how like the 141 would react grim sneaking in a stray cat or dog <33 I also wanted to say how much i love your grim au its literally one of my favs, you stay safe and take care of yourself!!



New Pal

————————————————————————————————————————

pairings: platonic 141 x grim

warnings: none!

summary: grim introduces a new furry friend to the team

————————————————————————————————————————

the team had quickly come to realize you had a deep love for animals. this was never a secret, though.

there were times while on missions that ghost would have to get you back on track after going out of your way to pet whatever animal you’d found in an alley.

you’d been staying at a safe house with the team after a mission. you were bored, and the house was just too stuffy with all the boys cramped into a small house, so you’d decided to step outside for a bit of fresh air.

the boys started to worry after you’d been outside for a bit too long for their liking. they stepped out to find you, expecting you to be sitting on the porch. instead, they found you in the clearing off to the right of the house.

you were slowly creeping to a doe. trees towering over you, and a hand stretched out with greenery in your small palm. bright brown eyes met your soft ones. your steps were calm and calculated, wanting the deer to see you weren’t a threat to her.

she took a step forward, and you halted your movements. your body went stiff as you held your breath in fear of scaring her off.

the boys watched with gleaming eyes as the doe met you and sniffed the greenery before tentatively eating it out of your palm.

you raised a hand slowly and lightly rest it on her coat, making small strokes against her fur. the sun beams leaking through the trees made her warm.

the doe only left once she’d eaten all the food. you watched on as she made her way into the forest, small hoof prints left behind in the dewy grass.

once she left your sight, you turned around to go back inside.

the team’s eyes found yours and you gave a small smile, “hey guys! how’s it goin?”

“grim, how’d you do that?” soap all but sputtered out. his eyes were blown wide at the thought of getting that close to a deer. “was she soft?” his voice softened as he imagined running his fingertips through the coat.

you nodded enthusiastically, “oh yeah! super soft. but, i gotta go wash my hands.” and with that, you brushed passed the boys and made your way to the bathroom.

———

the team was anticipating the day you’d bring in an animal. but, as time went on, and they never saw one, they thought they’d underestimated your ability of self control. and soon, they’d stopped thinking that.

until they started to notice you’d spent more time in your room.

to your benefit, it wasn’t unusual, per se. while you enjoyed being the most annoying person on base, you also liked your space.

it got to the point, they’d almost thought you were having a small episode. and if that was the case, they knew you’d come talk to one of them at some point. when you were ready. the team never pushed you, because you’d never pushed them. and they liked that about you.

but, this was just excessive. you always cracked after four days, and this was the fifth day you went off to seclude yourself after a meal. they were over it.

your door burst open, causing you to jump out of your skin. a small squeak left your lips and you fell to the floor below you.

“ow- shit.” you hissed as your hand fell to your ass, rubbing your tailbone.

“okay, grim. just tell us what’s wrong, kid.” price spoke up. the team were looking over his shoulders, varying looks of concern and confusion on their faces.

soap was scared something had happened on base and you just weren’t telling them about it. he almost felt hurt that you felt you couldn’t talk to them.

confusion crossed your features, brows furrowing and lips pursing. “i have no idea what you’re talking about. nothing’s wrong..?”

“dude, you’ve been holed up in your room for five days. you only come out to eat and shower. you haven’t even torn my door off it’s hinges this week. what’s wrong?” gaz’s head peaked over your captain’s shoulder.

“dude, there’s nothing wrong. scouts honor.” you held up the boy scouts sign from where you sat on the floor. “i swear, if something wa-“

meow

silence. it coated the room, and thick tension filled the room. so thick, in fact, you bet ghost could cut through it with the knife strapped to his thigh. although, you figured it wouldn’t be that hard seeing as his knives were furthest from dull.

“… grim. explain. now.” ghost’s voice spoke from just outside the door.

“heh. uh, yeah! yeah- okay! guys, meet the newest team member. her name is spoon! i think she’d really be able to provide some insight on our missions, and uh, yeah…” your voice trailed off into a whisper as four pairs of eyes just blinked at you.

in your hands was a small black kitten. her fur was fluffy, making her appear as a small, round void in your cupped hands. she squirmed a bit, but settled in your lap.

“please say something.” your whispering voice broke the eerie silence that blanketed the room after your revelation of the small kitten.

“you can’t- you can’t keep her, grim.” price hated telling you no, but rules were rules. and he wasn’t about to break them for some cat you’d found outside.

“NO! wait- please! i need her. i hate being alone all the time, and i know i can get annoying. please let me keep her. she can be useful! she can gather intel, i mean look at her intelligent eyes!” the cat simply blinked, no thoughts. “i promise to take care of her and shit. like, take her on walks, and feed her, and bathe her. plus, i already named her. she marked me. we’re soulmates now. no take backs.” you all but pleaded with your captain.

he stared into your eyes. blue fighting yours. your gaze never wavered, you held strong.

“if she leaves, i leave.” you huffed out. price knew he wouldn’t win this.

his shoulders deflated as he sighed. another squeal left your lips as you held spoon closer to your chest.

“thank you! oh my gosh. thank you!” you rocked the kitten back and forth as a beaming smile took over your features.

“but- the moment that cat even steps out of line a little, she’s gone.”

“deal!”

the cat left your lap, making her way to your team. they stepped out of her way, wanting to know her intentions.

she stopped right in front of ghost, peering up at him. then, she did the unthinkable.

scaling up his side, claws out before she settled upon his stiff shoulder.

everyone held their breaths in anticipation before his eyes met yours. a hard glare set in them.

then he did the unthinkable. his hand moved up to pet spoon’s little head. purring sounded through the room, before he left and stalked down the hall.

“what just happened?” soap spoke up, his head turning to watch the lieutenant and the small cat turn down the hall.

“he just stole my fucking cat.” with that, you were up and pushing your way through the boys and down the hall.

“GHOST- GIVE ME MY FUCKING CAT YOU BASTARD.”

————————————————————————————————————————

a/n: thank you for reading! merry christmas, and happy holidays! <3

[aceofsages]

Hurt/comfort Enid has a nightmare that Wednesday has to wake her from and the comfort that follows

thanks for the prompt anon! <3

cw: gore (?), angst

(find on ao3)

------

Enid lasts four days without sleep.

They’re four exhausting days, filled with classes and extracurriculars and preparing for the Poe Cup again, and every single time Enid returns to the dorm all she wants is to plop on the bed and sleep for days. But everytime she closes her eyes for more than a second she sees blood and claws and big, terrible eyes; she goes off to the balcony and lets Wednesday’s typewriter lull her into a haze. 

(Winter break had been exhausting. Exhausting and horrible and filled with sleepless nights and passing out on the couch and waking up to Mom’s tirade.)

(“Girl, what the hell happened to you?” Yoko asks the third morning, and then wiggles her eyebrows. “Is Ms Goth Psychopath keeping you up?” 

“Yoko! It’s—we’re not like that!”

“Yet,” Yoko mutters, rolling her eyes.) 

But sleep is sleep is sleep; on the fourth day Enid thinks, just a few seconds, and makes the mistake of actually lying down on her bed. It’s just so comfy and god, was this blanket always so soft—

She drifts off.  

Blood. 

It’s always blood and it’s always Wednesday’s. She’s lying in it, covered in it, hair matted and sticking to her gaunt, perfect face; Tyler’s claws have torn her chest into ribbons of skin that barely connect. She’s always late, Enid’s always fucking late—or she never registers Wednesday as safe and she’s the one who kills the love of her life—she howls and howls and howls, attacks the Hyde with his inhuman, cartoon eyes, and Thornhill— 

Enid gasps awake. 

Thank God. It was just a dream. She’s shaking though, covered in disgusting sweat. Automatically her eyes fall to Wednesday’s side of the room. She isn’t there, and Enid sighs. Gets up to take a shower and immediately slips on something wet. She falls down and hits her tailbone hard. Fucking ow. Enid looks around to see what the hell she slipped on. The moon glints on the floor and Enid brings a hand to her face to push away her hair and—it’s bloody. Her hand is bloody. 

She blinks hard. Looks around. Wednesday’s neck looks unnaturally bent in front of her, Thing lies stabbed next to her. Her eyes are lifeless, her hand outstretched towards Enid. 

Enid screams-

“ENID!”

Enid wakes violently and almost claws Wednesday across her face. Only Wednesday’s inhuman reflexes save her. 

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry, did I get you—”

Wednesday blinks, and the action is so startling that Enid immediately shuts up. Wednesday’s hands are tight on Enid’s arms and the touch feels grounding and cold against her feverish skin. Enid almost wants to lean into her touch; since their hug, Wednesday’s been tolerant of Enid’s touches, but this is the first time she’s initiated it and shit, Enid almost wants to forget all about the reason Wednesday’s leaning over her like this.

“Enid,” Wednesday says, sounding flat and annoyed. “You were screaming.”

Enid swallows, viscerally aware that nightmares mean something different to the girl in front of her than it does her. “A bad dream, that’s all,” she says.

Wednesday hums. “Are they why you’ve been avoiding sleep?”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I notice everything about you,” she says casually as if that sentence doesn’t make Enid almost swoon. “Now come on, I think Thing’s finished running that bath for you.”

Wednesday slides her hand down Enid’s arm, leaving goosebumps in her wake, and takes her hand as if she knows how much Enid will collapse if she doesn’t get some skin to skin contact. They walk there with their hands linked.

They stay quiet for a while; Wednesday turns away when Enid undresses and only turns back to her when Enid’s sinking into the bubbles. The smell of lavender hangs heavy in the air—probably Thing’s doing. The only sound Enid hears is the faraway sound of wildlife; that and Wednesday’s slow heartbeat, but that’s always in her periphery. She moves her hands along the bubbles, gathers them up and god, everything about this seems so surreal—did she trip out of a nightmare straight into a dream?  

“Have you ever had one? A nightmare?”

Enid winces; what the hell kind of question is that? Nightmares are for Wednesday what dreams are for Enid. She sneaks a peek at the goth. “I mean, not the kind you enjoy—”

“Once,” Wednesday says, cutting her off, like the answer is dragged out of her. She’s frowning a little at the tiles of their bathroom, her hands tight on the edge of their claw-footed bathtub. Her lips are pursed, and then she looks up at Enid, eyes as dark as the night-sky, unfathomable—and fuck, why does everything Wednesday do be so fucking intense? “After Nero. I taught myself how to lucid dream after that, on the rare occasions I decide to sleep.”

“Of course you did,” Enid says, fondness bubbling out of her for this girl in front of her. She wants to take Wednesday’s hands and press her lips to them, wants to pull her into herself, wants Wednesday to fucking break her and remake her into whatever she wants; Enid wants to let this girl do anything with her, as long as she gets to have her back. Enid wants, and she’s never been good with wanting. She always wants too much or not enough—been too much to ever be wanted, or been the wrong thing altogether. Even now, even after wolfing out, her problems haven’t magically disappeared, though she wishes they had.

But Wednesday’s a constant. She’s always fucking constant, immovable. Thornhill and Crackstone and even Tyler weren’t enough to crack her. She’s just as disdainful with the world, just as cold, just as insane—but she’s also now someone who’s here, comforting Enid in her own way when Enid knows, knows, she’d rather gouge her eyes out.    

It has to mean something. It has to fucking mean something.

(Enid will break if it doesn’t.)

“I’ll leave you to it,” Wednesday says after a few moments of Enid’s inner monologue of angst. “Viper’s in a crucial moment.”

Enid nods, swallowing her disappointment. 

(After Wednesday leaves, the nightmare creeps up on her. Enid cries in that tub, muffles her sobs; scrubs her hands hard, obsessive, even though there’s nothing to scrub away.)

After minutes, hours, days, once the water gets too cold to ignore, Enid gets up. At some point, Thing must’ve left her favorite comfort clothes near the sink. She pulls them on and pads out into the room, lethargic and loose. Wednesday sits typing, but stops as soon as Enid deliberately steps on creaking wood. It sends a thrill up her spine, knowing that Wednesday knows that Enid only steps there when she wants her attention. 

“Will you—” Enid clears her throat—“play the cello? Please?”

Her roomie turns and eyes Enid; she’d avoided the mirror, so Enid has no idea what Wednesday sees on her face, but she ultimately nods.

Enid settles down in her bed, arranging it to her liking, while Wednesday gets her cello out. But instead of going to the balcony, or even using their spare chair, Wednesday sits on the edge of Enid’s bed and looks at her. Her eyes are softer than Enid’s ever seen them.

(It has to mean something, she thinks desperate. Please god, let it mean something.)

“Any requests?”

Enid shakes her head. She scoots closer to Wednesday, curves around her but doesn’t touch her. Wednesday eyes her and says stiffly,  “You can put your arm around me, Enid.”

Enid gapes. 

Wednesday turns back to the cello, but Enid sees the tick of her mouth, and feels warm all over. She puts her arm around Wednesday and buries her head in her hip. She takes in a shuddering breath.

Soft cello tunes float around them, no song Enid can identify but feels in her bones.

They stay like that for a long while.

Wednesday’s hands bleed all over the cello, just like the blood in Enid’s nightmares, but Enid’s long asleep before then.

(It means something. It always meant something.)

[otaku-dragon-lover]

Close Encounters of the 10th Kind…

Ed 10 AU: It's the night of November the 6th, 1983. In different universe, it would be just another night for Eddie. Here however, that isn't the case, and fate has swung in a very different direction. As round of experimenting with the Watch runs into the night, he finds that something is lurking within the forest.

And it has him in it's sights.

Trigger warnings: Strong Language, Referenced Period-Typical… Issues (idk how else to put it, 80s bs is a thing™️ in this, unfortunately)

Part 1 is here

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa-!"

A loud crash broke the relative silence, a few birds scattering in freight due to the sound. Their terrified squawks and shrieks creating a cacophony, one that disrupted the peace of night.

Eddie groaned as he slid to the ground, collapsing in a heap at the base of the tree he'd run into.

If one were to look at him, however, he certainly wouldn't look like himself.

He currently appeared to be an odd-looking Velociraptor, though he was taller than a human. Clutched beneath two-toed feet were a pair of black orbs. Stretching out from his tailbone was a long black tail, with five blue stripes racing down it. His arms were long, with a spike extending from his elbows. At the end of them hands that ended with three fingers, covered by bulky black claws. On his head was a black cone-like helmet, a protective visor with blue markings pulled over his face.

This didn't last, however, as suddenly the visor slid upwards. This revealed a blue face with green eyes, black lips, and stripes that ran under and between his eyes.

He was wearing a black jumpsuit/turtleneck hybrid, with a sleeveless jean vest sitting over it. The grey and black symbol of the Watch sat on his chest, standing out against the dark color surrounding it.

Eddie got up with a grimace, pushing himself off the ground with a heave.

"Ow… why does using super speed have to be so hard?!" The augmented teen whined, his voice now raspy.

It had been a little over a week since he found the Watch, and all he had were questions with no answers. In that time, he'd done his best to pretend that nothing had happened.

Which - he would like to add - was really fucking hard.

Especially the day after, when he nearly had a heart attack upon seeing the Watch on his wrist, since he'd thought it was all a dream. It was only after he'd woken up more, and his brain wasn't clouded by sleep that he remembered what had happened.

And then he was slapped across the face by the fact that, much to his utter horror, the fire he had caused was all over the news.

Thankfully, no one had been hurt, and it seemed like the blaze was being blamed on a "satellite" that had crashed nearby. Eddie knew for a fact that wasn't what happened, but, well he couldn't exactly tell anyone that.

He'd also been forced to lie to his uncle, who had asked if he'd seen anything. Which, y'know, it sucked major ass that he had to do that, but like, what else could he do??? He couldn't just say "oh yeah, any alien watch got stuck to my wrist last night. Weird right?".

He was pretty sure that'd be a one-way ticket to the looney bin.

It wasn't until the afternoon of the next day, that was when he showed off the Watch to his uncle. Now granted, he didn't tell him where it really came from, instead he just told Wayne that he'd bought a cool-looking watch.

Ever since then, he's been trying to figure out what this thing can do. Since y'know, it was kinda stuck to his wrist.

The answer was: a lot.

There were at least ten… creatures? Monsters? Aliens???? inside of it. Eddie had tested out (including the fire one and the one he was right now) five of those ten, leaving the most inhuman ones to be delt with later.

So, here he was: screwing around in a clearing near Mirkwood, one that (if he wasn't mistaken) more than likely used to be a campsite? Just going off of the abandoned picnic tables, and the (honestly pretty old) trash that was buried in the overgrown grass.

Huh, wonder what happened to it?

"Though really," He mused as he rubbed his head, whacking an old beer can with his tail as he walked, "that just makes it easier for me. 'Least it means I don't get spotted, anyway."

And wasn't that a mortifying thought? Christ, people didn't like anyone who played D&D, how the hell would they react if they saw him like this?!

Well, he knew the answer to that.

"Pitchforks and torches~!" He sang in a oddly cheery tone, taking a seat at one of the picnic tables (albeit awkwardly).

All he had to do now, was wait for the Watch to time-out. After that he'd probably head home, looking at how late it already was.

That being said… with all he did know about it, he still had no idea what he was going to do with the device. He couldn't take it off, obviously, so what to do?

A thought popped into his head, but he immediately brushed it off. It was something so absolutely stupid given who he was to Hawkins at large, he was honestly surprised he thought of it at all.

But then… why did it enchant him like a Siren?

'You could be a hero.'

A hero, hah! As if this place would accept him as a hero, especially seeing as some of these guys (like the one he was right now) didn't conform to "social norms". Whatever the hell that should mean.

'Heroes have secret identities,' The traitorous part of his mind whispered, 'why shouldn't you?'

He gritted his teeth, tail thrashing in reaction to his emotions, 'I can't. Everyone would know it's me like, instantly!'

Although… he did look different between forms, and most of the guys he's used so far have different voices to his own. The only outlier so far was that weird, blob-like guy, who's voice sounded like his over a radio.

He still didn't know what that one did.

Plus, he didn't have to use his actual name. What superhero did that, anyway? He'd been thinking about making nicknames for the creatures anyway, since having to specify every time was a bit… well it was a pain in the ass.

…Maybe he could do-?

The sound of a twig snapping brought his thoughts to a screeching halt.

Eddie leapt to his feet in an (almost literal) instant, his eyes narrowing as he attempted to see into the darkness.

Oh Christ what is he gonna do?! This place was supposed to be abandoned, deserted, vacant! So why the fuck was someone here?!

"…Uh, who's there?! Show yourself!?" The teen didn't think his current voice could raise and crack in such a way, but apparently it could. Fun.

His panicked words didn't elicit a response at first, a dead silence hanging over the clearing. Soon however, there was loud rustling and snapping as foliage was (assumedly) stepped on and shoved.

It was then that the Watch decided to make itself known, by speaking.

"Warning," A robotic male voice droned, scaring the life out of the teen as it continued, "unidentified extra-dimensional lifeform detected. Caution is advised."

Wait… this thing can talk?!

He glanced down at the watchface on his chest, about to snark at it before the… extra-dimension-whatsit started moving again.

Eddie tensed with every sound, the noise gradually growing closer until it stopped at the treeline.

More silence followed.

Finally, the thing stalking him revealed itself, stepping into the clearing slowly.

He kinda wished it didn't.

It was fucking huge, and would tower over him if it stood up fully. It had these long and thin limbs, looking like it had lost a fight with a taffy machine. It… didn't have a face, from what he could see, the head being slightly long but barren of any features. What was really weird (outside of well, everything else) was it's skin: it was soaking wet, like it had taken a nose-dive into a lake and hadn't dried off.

He stepped back at the sight of the thing, eyes wide as he took it's appearance in, his tail and back pressing against the picnic table behind him.

The thing hissed, an awful noise that raked against his ears. It's face shifted and moved in ways that no normal thing should.

Oh fucking hell this thing was horrifying. They way it moved, the way it looked, the sounds it made. It was like some abomination crawled up from hell, something no living thing should ever have to see.

But, that did raise the question: why was it here? What even was it?

Of course, these are all questions that the metalhead asked himself after his brain started functioning again.

The Watch beeped, the face flashing red as his time ran out, "Hostile entity confirmed." It spoke again, uncaring towards his distress, "Transformation time limit has almost been reached, retreat is highly suggested."

"No shit!" Eddie wanted to shout at the device, his panic only increasing. Instead, his mouth stayed stubbornly shut, his body frozen as he watched the thing.

Then it hissed, shifting as it stood to it's full height, and oh fucking hell was it big. It stood on two legs and damn-near dwarfed him, he… really didn't wanna know how big it'd look if he was normal right now.

The thing then let out a loud shriek, it's face moving in a way that… shouldn't be possible. He couldn't tell exactly what it was doing, since it was too dark out, but something told him he really didn't want to know. Either way, he could see the front of it's face peel open, it almost reminded him of a flower, weirdly enough.

Moving on, it was only as the thing suddenly lunged forward, that his body started moving again. He zipped out of the way quickly, letting the thing crash into the table he was sitting at. Loud snapping and cracking followed as the picnic table collapsed, the… monster screeching as it landed.

Eddie's heart pounded, staring at the thing with wide eyes, "Jesus Christ…!"

The Monster climbed out of the wreck, snarling as it locked "eyes" with the teen.

'Oh hell no.'

Before the thing could leap at him again, he did the one thing his mind was screaming for him to do.

He ran.

---------------

By the time he made it back to the trailer park, he was exhausted, confused, and scared. The Watch had given out about a block or two away, which while still pretty bad, wasn't nearly as horrible as it could've been.

He would know, those scenarios are floating about stubbornly in his mind, nagging at him incessantly as he approached his uncle's trailer.

Thankfully, the front door was still unlocked. Wayne probably kept it that way, not wanting to lock him out of his only real shelter. That, or the man had simply forgotten to secure the thing.

Either way, Eddie sure wasn't complaining as he pushed the front door open.

He ignored the howling gale of questions as he stepped inside, shutting the door with his foot. He also ignored it as he trudged towards his bedroom, only half-noticing that Wayne was fast asleep on the living room couch.

It was only once he was in his room, and the door was shut that it hit him.

He flicked on the lights before falling onto his bed with a groan, the tension in his body releasing the instant he hit the mattress.

That didn't mean his brain relaxed, quite the opposite. Now that he was (relatively) safe, his mind was going a mile a minute.

So… there's a monster lurking in the woods, apparently. One that was a very very big asshole, and attacked things on sight. It didn't have any eyes (that he saw), but could somehow see? How does that work?

He… he had a feeling this thing wasn't normal, like - something that isn't part of the "Hawkins Lore". He wasn't a hundred percent sure, but he sure as hell wouldn't forget hearing about something like… well that.

…He was gonna need a damn library, wasn't he?

Whatever it was, it's dangerous, that much was obvious. It definitely wouldn't have any problems with attacking innocent people - which, honestly, typical monster shit right there.

Despite this, he ran. Eddie ran like a fucking coward, he used super speed to do it, for Christ's sake!

Some "hero" he was, eh?

Moving from one brick wall to another; the Watch could apparently speak??? It sounded like someone talking over the radio, but it was definitely the Watch that was talking. It… it honestly reminded him of the Star Trek computers, if that made any sense.

It was yet another mystery to throw onto the pile, he guessed. Which, yeah - great because that's what he needs right now: more fucking questions!

He kicked his shoes off with a sigh, standing up before going to his light switch and turning it off. He then returned to his bed, rooting himself under the blanket as drowsiness overcame him.

Little did he know, that the next morning would begin the town of Hawkins'decent into madness…

[chockfullofsecrets]

Fjord and 17 for the writing prompt? No pressure tho :)

17. Worst “someone finding out you’re ticklish” experience?

“You okay, man?”

Everything hurts. Fjord doesn’t even bother keeping the whine from his voice. “I think this is it for me, first mate… it’s getting dark…”

“That was, like, seventy sit-ups, come on - I’ve literally seen Jes feeling up your abs, so I know you have them-”

“Tell the others to remember me kindly,” he groans, hiding a grin as Beau scoffs at him. “And tell Veth if she touches my stuff I’ll haunt her from the afterlife.”

That earns him another laugh, this one a little louder as his impromptu drill sergeant stalks over. “Up and at ‘em, sailor, you’ve gotta give me fifty more pushups before breakfast!”

With one arm flung lazily across his face to block the first searching rays of dawn, he’s caught completely off guard as Beau digs her bare toes into his side. “Nnh! - hey -”

He flings his arm down to protect himself, already squirming away from the prodding sensation before he catches the look on Beau’s face. “Ouch,” he rushes out, trying to distract her, “gods, did your teachers kick you like that?”

“Yep.” She somehow manages to pop the last letter while maintaining the biggest leer he’s ever seen. It’s terrifying. “How the fuck have you kept that a secret for so long?”

Fjord eyes her warily. “Somehow, it never came up.” Somehow being a lot of held breaths and stifled coughing while various clerics poke at him. He’s not half as bad as some of the others, anyways, as far as he knows - and maybe he wishes it would come up, sometimes, sitting at the edge of piles of tangled limbs and easy laughter and muffled squeals of protest that never seem to be serious enough to take notice of, but - well. That’s a can of worms he’s not really sure how to start opening.

Beau’s still grinning. “So… pushups or I tell Jester?”

He gapes. “You wouldn’t.”

Beau shrugs. “Don’t have to, if you’re laughing your ass off loud enough to wake her up.” 

She levels ten wriggling fingertips in his direction. Fjord shudders, an involuntary motion starting somewhere around his tailbone and shooting up to prickle at the back of his teeth. “And if I’m not going to get those pushups without some encouragement, then-”

Fuck it, he’s never been good at waiting for things to happen to him. “Yeah?” he jabs, rolling to snatch Beau’s calves and bring her down on top of him before she can retort.

“Fuck,” she yelps. And then, more desperate, as he wriggles a hand into the soft part of her side - “Fuhuhuck!”

He laughs and levers himself up on an elbow, just about ready to declare his victory - and then Beau clamps an arm around him, pushing him down flat as insistent fingers worm between them and onto his stomach, and he can’t stop laughing. 

“Hhhah - ahahha - shit, shit, help-” He wasn’t joking about everything hurting, and even as he does his best to wrestle her off he’s finding his muscles don’t want to help with much except curling up into the fetal position and letting the writhing, helpless feeling dancing under his skin squeeze every last bit of breath out of his lungs. 

“Oh, now you want help? Didn’t seem like you wanted my help with training, asshole,” Beau threatens - but she’s laughing too, almost childish giggles leaking out of her as she crushes him into a bear hug and tickles at his sides.

“Pleheheeese,” Fjord wheezes. “Ow, shit, my face hurts.”

“Fiiine,” Beau complains,finally, a little breathless herself as she rolls off him. Not that it stops her from digging her knuckles painfully into his shoulder. “The pushups aren’t going away, though, we’re just gonna do them tomorrow.”

It’s objectively a bad idea to try and tickle her again in revenge, Fjord thinks. He does it anyway. 

[lifblogs]

Twisted Bones

Whumptober 2020 No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury

Sam was glad that it was only his back that was hurting. And the hurt wasn’t so bad after the first initial week of healing. And then he told everyone he was fine. He had to be. What with hunting, trying to save the world yet again, taking care of Jack, having to be ready at any moment’s notice to sacrifice himself or put himself in harm’s way to keep his family safe… So Sam was busy. And his back didn’t bother him.

Then it did bother him, months later.

During a ghost hunt he’d gotten whacked in the lower back with a broken wooden beam. And hell, the beam hadn’t even been that sturdy, but neither was Sam’s back.

He managed to stay upright, and he finished the hunt, and even made it into the Impala. Sam was even fine making it to the bunker. And he told everyone that as he made his way to his bedroom that night after showers and dinner.

It wasn’t till the middle of the night when the pain decided to get really bad. Which was a problem because Sam had to get up to pee. He told himself his back was just a little stiff and that he’d be fine. But as he shifted to get out of bed, and put one leg down on the floor, an ugly CRUNCH! sounded from somewhere in his body. Pain shot down the inner part of his right leg. Sam flinched from the unexpected pain, and then found himself taking quick breaths in and out through his mouth.

The pain was stabbing, reaching down in a tingling line from his pelvis to the bottom of his foot. Numbness danced lazily around the edges.

Sam tried to get up anyway.

I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.

Sam’s left hip cracked, and something in his back seemed to click. He ended up groaning in the once-quiet dark of his room, and he tried to brace himself by leaning down and putting his hands on the bed.

That hadn’t been one of his more brilliant ideas because bending down had pain wrapping around him, starting from his lower back.

Even with the pain, he knew that this had been something that had started months ago. Maybe he shouldn’t have ignored his body.

No, it was good he had. His family had needed taking care of. And he was alright.

Sam pushed himself up from where he’d nearly collapsed on the bed, and then he hobbled over to the door. The pain was going down the inner parts of both his legs now. The entire middle of his body seemed to be yelling like an angry toddler, I HURT! I HURT! I HURT!

Yeah, no shit, Sam responded to it.

Of course, that didn’t do anything at all, except make everything feel pointless and ridiculous.

Somehow, Sam made it to the bathroom, even managed to relieve himself, and wash his hands. And then he tried making it back to his room, not wanting anyone to see him like this. At least only Dean was around since Castiel had taken Jack on a hunt over in Washington.

Dean came out of his room just as Sam was passing by, presumably to go to the bathroom. Or maybe he was getting a beer and a midnight snack. Sam was startled, and flinched back. This left his body seizing tight with pain, and he winced as he tried to remain standing.

Dean immediately reached out for him, hands cupped under his triceps near his armpits, and helped hold him up.

“Whoa, Sammy, you okay?”

Sam hissed in a breath, then answered, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, nice fairytale, Samsquatch. Come on. Back to your room.”

Sam pulled out of Dean’s grip.

“Stop it! Dean, I’m alright.”

Dean put his hands on his hips, and eyed him, a determined look in his eyes.

“‘Kay, then give me ten jumping jacks.”

Sam stared at him helplessly.

Maybe he was hurt. But he wasn’t ready to admit that he’d ignored it for so long. In his opinion, he could keep ignoring it.

“Just let me get to bed,” Sam argued, trying to brush Dean aside.

He managed that, and even managed to get to his room. Dean stared him down from the other side of the hallway.

That went well, Sam thought with quite a bit of sarcasm.

And then he tried to get back to sleep.

Which was really no use because the little sleep he did get was restless, and he learned that the only comfortable way to sleep was on his bed, legs straight out, and a pillow under his butt.

He hated himself when it was morning and he had to call for Dean.

Dean didn’t seem at all smug when he came in. Sam had half expected an I told you so, but he never got one.

“Need some help?” Dean asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, let’s figure this out. What happened?”

So Sam told him about how his back had been hurting, and how he’d been ignoring it, assuming that his back was just going to be like that for life, and he’d have to suck it up and deal with it. He told him what he thought had made it worse recently. And maybe exerting himself hadn’t been helpful either.

There was anger in Dean’s eyes, but not necessarily at Sam. It seemed to go deeper than that, like he was angry with whatever had taught Sam to be this way. It could’ve been a number of things: John’s A plus parenting, the hunting life, torture showing him a little pain was not that bad. Or maybe it was from nearly everything out there telling him that he didn’t matter over and over again.

It was also possible that Sam had just inherited his stubborn jackassery from his parents. Or he’d learned it from Dean.

“Alright, Stand up,” Dean ordered.

Sam did so, and Dean lifted up his shirt to look at his back.

“So where’s it hurt?” Dean asked.

“Lower back. Maybe my tailbone too.”

Dean felt around, trying to find the pain area, and just how far it reached. So yes, tailbone and lower back.

“Uh, I don’t know what I’m doing, but bend over.”

Sam did that, gritting his teeth and whimpering from the pain.

“I’ve seen enough bodies and done enough field medicine to know that your back does not look right. Okay, straighten. Anything else hurt?”

“Maybe my hips?” Sam told him, unsure. “Pelvis too.”

“Damn, Sam, you’re a mess.”

“Learned from the best,” Sam got out, fishing for Dean’s laughter.

His brother did laugh, and Sam felt just a little better. Then he was told to lie down on his back, and Dean crouched over by his feet, looking at him dead on.

“Yeah, this is uncomfortable,” Sam told him.

“Shut up. Concentrating.”

“You, concentrating?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

Sam decided to listen to him, though he didn’t like the way Dean was frowning. Sam looked down at himself to see if he could notice the same thing. Without any warning, Dean got up quickly, and then pulled on Sam’s feet.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“Testing something.”

Dean was crouching down again, peering at him.

“Uh… Not like I went to medical school or anything, but I’m pretty sure one leg isn’t supposed to be raised up a little more than the other.”

“Which one?” Sam asked.

“Right one. You have a lot of pain there?”

“In the hip.”

“So… right hip is out of place? And uh, I’m not gonna try figuring out your pelvis, but I’m sure that’s not right either. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…” Dean got up, and pat Sam on the thigh. Thankfully Sam was lying down with his legs straight out, so the action didn’t hurt much. “You are one hell of a mess.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, I can put joints back in the socket, so I guess it’s time to add sub-dislocations to my repertoire. You ready?”

Sam stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Dean, don’t you da—!”

Dean gripped Sam’s side and his right hip.

[cagestark]

I saw you’re a writer. Do you take prompts? If so, can we get tony with a motorcycle giving peter his first ride? 😁 thanks

You got it! Thanks for being my first prompt! 

Starker: Peter is 22yo. 3k. Smut below. Smoking. Tony is guilty and Peter is a little shit. 

“I’m not sure about this,” Peter says. Clutched in his hands is a motorcycle helmet, a great black glossy thing with a tinted visor that he knows gives no impression of the features that might be lurking underneath. He’s seen—okay, admired—it enough on Tony. Part of him laments it when Tony comes ripping up to the curb of Peter’s apartment to visit him, because it should be a fucking crime to hide a face like Tony Stark’s. Another part of him doesn’t mind because it totally looks cool. “It’s only two miles back to the bus station. I really don’t mind the walk.”

He really doesn’t mind. What he would mind is looking like an anxious, fearful kid in front of this man.  

Tony is rifling through the inner pockets of his leather jacket. He’s smoking, a cigarette pressed between his lips. He insists on standing an insulting distance away, downwind, so as to keep his second-hand smoke away. Peter doesn’t usually make a habit of being jealous of inanimate options, but it’s a common occurrence when Tony purses his full mouth around the filter and sucks so indecently, when he sips from a glass of whiskey and holds the alcohol in his mouth, eyes tight shut like in the most painful ecstasy before swallowing. Peter can’t help having an oral fixation. Nor a Tony fixation. At last Tony tugs free a pair of aviator sunglasses which balance so nicely on the bridge of his nose. It’s a little unsettling though, not seeing his eyes, knowing that he could be looking at Peter and he’d never know—then again, in what world would Tony Stark ever be looking at Peter. “A no is a no, kid. If you don’t want to ride—then I don’t want you to ride.”

“I didn’t say that—that I didn’t want to,” Peter says, voice a few octaves higher than he’d like it to be. He swallows but his throat is parched and his mouth no better. “I just. Well. You know. I’ve never ridden before—a motorcycle! I’ve never written a motorcycle.”

Tony’s lips twitch around his cigarette, but he masks it by reaching up to steady the smoke while he takes a drag. Like to balance Peter’s sudden plunge back six years to puberty, Tony’s voice is just a little deeper when he says: “I can guess it’s your first time, kid. Not to toot my own horn (though it’s a hell of a horn to toot), who better to have your first time with? You know. On a motorcycle.”

Peter can feel his face burning. He must be so red that there’s no way Tony could miss it. He can’t help having overactive capillaries. He also can’t help but feel like they’re having two different conversations. They’ve been flirting like this for months, ever since Peter graduated MIT and came back to New York to work under one of the R&D labs at Stark Industries. It’s no secret that Tony is a notorious flirt, and Peter has always contented himself with the fact that if Tony makes too many double entendre’s, it’s just part of the older man’s nature. He’s never made any other move—not even a hint at a move. Never a hand on his back, never standing so close as to let his breath brush Peter’s neck. If anything, Peter once saw him circumnavigate the entire lab to avoid brushing against the young man’s back by squeezing through the narrow space between Peter and a nearby lab table.

Tony isn’t interested. Period.

He shoves the helmet down over his head, taking in the cool, dark tint of the world around him. His curls are plastered to his forehead, but he sees the appeal—at least Tony can’t see his burning face. “How do I look?”

Tony snorts, but he’s smiling. “Like a bowling ball balanced on a toothpick.”

Peter wrenches the helmet off. So much for that. He holds it out. “It’s yours anyway—I can’t take it from you. Headgear is important.”

“Yeah, it is. Which is why you’re going to wear it.”

“No—no.”

“No exceptions. No helmet, no ride, kid. Those are the breaks.”

Peter balances the helmet on the seat of the Harley. “Well, then, I better get walking. It’s supposed to get dark soon—”

Though he can’t see it, he has the distinct impression that Tony is rolling his eyes. “I see what you’re doing Pete—”

“—and I hate to be out after dark, you know, it’s not safe—”

“—don’t even joke about that—”

“Joking? Who’s joking? Look at me, I’m walking away! See you on Monday, Tony—”

Now Tony looks angry, brows low and disappearing behind the mirrored shades. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and points it at the helmet. “Peter, Jesus fucking Christ, put it on so we can get moving.”

Peter spreads his arms, walking backwards so as to keep Tony in his vision. “I’m twenty-two, an adult perfectly capable of—fuck!”

His ankle rolls under him and he crumples, twisting so as to land on his palms and knees instead of his tailbone. Pain makes his whole foot throb in time to his heartbeat, and his hands are scraped and blood when he shifts to sit in the gravel. His eyes sting with pain and embarrassment, and then Tony is there, warm hands engulfing Peter’s, and wow, they are so much larger than his, so much more weathered and calloused, and also ow.

“Damn it, Pete,” Tony mutters. His cigarette is gone, smoldering from where he dropped it when he saw Peter go down. “What hurts, kid?”

“It’s my ankle. I sprained it once as a kid and it’s never been the same.”

Tony’s hands take Peter’s foot, as delicately as if he were Cinderella about to try on the glass slipper. The heat of his skin burns through denim and cotton, right down to Peter’s feverish skin. Very carefully, he twists Peter’s foot this way and that, frowning when he winces. “Probably just sprained it again, but I’m taking you back to the Tower to have it looked at. Can I carry you?”

“Huh?” Peter feels dazed, squinting up at Tony crouched over him as if he was squinting up at the sun.

“To the bike, kid. Can I carry you?”

That’s how he kneels in the gravel, getting dust on jeans that probably cost a month’s worth of his housing allowance back at MIT. Tony slips one arm under Peter’s bent knees and the other around his back, scooping him up—not without a wince himself and the distinct sound of joints popping like popcorn.

“You’re too old to carry me like this,” Peter says, embarrassed.

“Spending so much time with you has aged me prematurely,” snarks Tony.

Peter’s nerves alight as Tony guides him onto the motorcycle. He knows next to nothing about bikes—just how it looks, how it makes him feel. It’s a comfortable-sized V-2 engine, black and shining chrome. There’s no real seat for a passenger, not like on some of the bigger bikes he’s seen in the city. Instead, he’ll have to plaster himself to Tony, practically wrap his legs around him.

“Jesus,” he mutters, already feeling like he needs to adjust himself in his jeans.

Tony frowns, mistaking his oath for pain. Mercifully, he secures the helmet to the side of the bike. Peter doesn’t think his fragile, fragile ego could handle any more blows. “Don’t worry Pete. We’ll have you to the Tower before you can blink. Just hold on tight, okay? And lean into the turns.”

Tony mounts the bike, shifting back until Peter’s thighs are flush against Tony’s sides. Reflexively, he squeezes, legs clenching together. Tony’s boot slips in the gravel, twisting to get better traction. Face red, Peter forces himself to relax. It just feels—different. Having a person between his thighs like this. Sure, he’s not a complete virgin (he’s done plenty of stuff at MIT, thanks very much), but it isn’t as if he’s swimming in willing partners. And none of them could ever compare to Tony Stark.

Clearing his throat, Tony reaches back for one of Peter’s arms to curl it around himself. “Sorry, kid. But you have to hold on to me.”

“It’s—okay,” Peter says. He doesn’t know how to say that it’s very, very fucking okay. That this is the closest he’s ever been to Tony, close enough to smell the scent of leather and expensive cologne and cigarette smoke, close enough that when he lets his head lean forward, it rests against the nape of Tony’s neck, hairs tickling at his nose.

The bike comes to life and it vibrates. Peter tries to scoot his hips back, groaning, hoping that the sound is lost in the roar of the engine. He’s more than half hard now, arms wrapped around Tony’s trim waist. Tony shifts back further, bringing them flush against each other again, and when his erection presses into the older man’s back, Peter ends up whining into his neck. God, he hopes that the older man can’t feel it through his jacket and shirt—

“You hurting that bad, Pete?” Tony turns his head to ask.

Peter shrugs. Sure. His blue balls hurt, at least, the throbbing in his cock taking the notice away from the throbbing in his ankle. Because he loves the pain, he lets one of his hands slip between Tony’s open jacket until it’s flat against his thin t-shirt. The fabric does nothing to disguise the burning heat of Tony’s skin just beneath, the hard cut of his abdominals. The muscles underneath his hand jump and twitch, maybe just because they’re moving now, gravel flying under the wheels until they turn onto the asphalt road.

They were close before, but now momentum presses Tony back into the cradle of Peter’s hips and there’s nowhere Peter can go, nothing he can do but take it. Wind makes him tuck his head into Tony’s shoulders and he doesn’t even try to check his impulses, inhaling like a man coming up from water desperate for breath. One of Tony’s hands comes down to press against the outside of Peter’s knee, squeezing maybe to offer comfort though it makes the younger man decidedly more uncomfortable. He can’t feel his ankle anymore, can barely feel any of his limbs, all of his awareness centered on the hot hand burning through his jeans, his aching erection, the smell of Tony.

Peter can’t take it—his cock is downright painful—and he begrudgingly separates one hand from around Tony’s waist to palm at it, knuckles just brushing the back of Tony’s jacket. The pressure helps as much as it hurts, but then Tony’s hand has drifted back and up further from its place on Peter’s knee until he’s pressing against his thigh.

“I said hold on to me, kid,” Tony says, voice nearly eaten up by the wind.

Peter’s face burns as he puts his arm back. He refuses to rut against Tony, just digging his fingertips into the older man’s abs and pressing his forehead against the ridge of his spine.

That’s when it happens—when he realizes he’s on a motorcycle. They’re going at a speed that seems dangerous through the thick forest, trees blurring as Tony rides like the devil is chasing them. The road has only been curvy until now, but the steepest curve approaches and he can’t remember what Tony said—lean into it? Or against it? His heart is in his throat, arousal and ankle forgotten. He’s going to get them killed, he’s got to say something—

Pressing himself flat against Tony, chest to back, his hands scramble against the older man’s jacket, trying to convey his panic and fear, and one of his hands slips too low where it brushes against a noticeable bulge. The man flinches. Peter’s breath catches. Tony is hard.

Tony is hard.

They take the turn. Peter leans in on instinct, following Tony’s lead. His eyes are open and burned by the wind but he barely notices. Swallowing, he lets his hand drift down again, adjusting to make it appear as if it was on accident and yes, that’s definitely a hard on, solid and straining against the jeans. The motorcycle swerves even as Peter’s hand jumps away to press flat against Tony’s abs again. Tony’s hand is back on Peter’s leg, palm against his outer thigh, fingers curling. Peter thought maybe he was gripping so tightly in a warning—don’t touch me—but the grip doesn’t lessen, and he wonders—

He slides his hand down, purposefully, palm dragging over cotton and denim to palm Tony’s erection. Fingers flex on his thigh, and Tony’s head tilts back ever so slightly, like it can’t help but loll. Peter does his best to curl his fingers around the thick cock, feeling it as best as he can through the jeans, thumb running along it to find the arch of the head—

Tony swerves. His hand comes off of Peter’s thigh and then they are turning off of the asphalt road and onto another gravel path, the road rougher and making Peter’s balls ache where they’re underneath him. It only takes a few hundred feet for the trees to mask the sight of them from the main road. Tony is off the bike in an instant, stumbling as if drunk towards the woods.

Peter sits balanced on the bike, breathing heavily. His ears still ring from the roar of the bike even though it is quiet now. The noise is loud though as Tony goes off the gravel road and into the brush, twigs cracking until he stops, partially obscured by the trees.

“Tony?” Peter asks. His throat is dry, erection flagging. What’s going on—is Tony going to be sick? He steps off of the motorcycle, careful not to topple it over. He squints, trying to get a better glimpse of the older man. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tony groans. “Give me a minute. Stay on the bike, okay?”

Peter swallows. He takes a few careful steps (ankle aching now) and has a better view. Tony has one arm braced against the rough bark of a tree, and the other—

“Jesus,” Peter mutters under his breath.

Tony is jerking off. With his back turned, Peter doesn’t have the best view, but there’s no mistaking the stance, legs spread, the leather clad arm that is moving rhythmically, stripping his cock with a steady, slow rhythm. The only sound are ambient noises—birds in the distance, crickets coming out for the evening—and Tony’s harsh breaths puffing out through his nose. His head tilts back just like it did on the bike when Peter palmed him, and Peter gets a glimpse of his eyes squeezed shut, the side of his jaw, mouth open—

Peter palms at his own cock still in his jeans. He’s harder than he’s ever been, feeling like he could blow with just the gentle pressure of his hand. If Tony turned just a little, just enough to give Peter a glimpse of the older man’s cock, he’d be done with for sure. He shifts.

A stick cracks under his feet.

Tony’s head snaps around, eyes wide and wild. He rakes them over Peter still on the gravel road, and Peter can’t imagine how he looks, obscenely hard in his jeans, hand doing his best to jerk himself off through the denim. The horror of being caught evaporates from Tony’s face and Peter can tell that its arousal that’s left in its wake. The groan Tony gives reminds him of the purr of the bike between his thighs and a sound slips free from the back of his throat, too close to a whimper for his face to not burn at the indignity of it.

“Christ,” Tony mutters. He turns—no use hiding now—to press his back flush against the tree. “What’s with you and not listening to me today, Pete?”

Tony’s pants have been hastily undone, and his cock pulled free. It’s thick and long, flush in the dim lighting through the thick canopy of trees overhead. Tony’s hand continues its motion and Peter is enamored with the way the head disappears and reappears through the circle of Tony’s hand. His mouth waters, jaw aching.

“God, Tony, please—” Peter gasps. “—please let me have it. God, please—”

He groans again, the arm not jerking his cock comes up to press over his eyes. “Jesus Peter, don’t say that—”

“Why not? Is it—not for me?”

Tony snorts, still not looking. His hips cock upwards, fucking into his own fist. “Pretty sure you’re singlehandedly the cause of all of my erections for the last nine months, Pete.”

Peter swallows. If he doesn’t, he might drool. “Then that’s mine. I should be able to have it, if its mine.”

Tony shakes his head. When his arm moves, his face is twisted in pain, pleasure, guilt, desire. His voice is ragged, destroyed, when he says, “No.”

“But—”

“No means no.”

And Peter can’t argue with that. Whatever is holding Tony back—Peter has to respect it. Even if it’s hurting them both. Peter stops touching himself, determined not to miss a single moment of what he’s seeing. He nods, and Tony closes his eyes in thanks, letting his head loll back against the tree even as his hand speeds up on his cock, legs shifting a hairsbreadth wider.

“I still want it,” Peter says. His voice is low enough to almost be carried away by the nature around them, but he knows by the way Tony’s throat bobs as he swallows that the man heard him. Face burning, he can’t stop, the words cathartic. “When you’re ready—if you’re ever ready. Please let me, Tony. I want to—God—I want to suck you off, want to touch you and smell you and taste you. If I have one more dream about riding you, I think I might go crazy.”

“Fuck,” mutters Tony. His mouth opens, and he gives a handful more brutal thrusts into his fist, knuckles nearly white with how tightly he’s gripping himself, before he lets go, cum bursting from the head of his cock onto the ground and over his fingers. The relieved noises he makes are almost enough to make Peter’s eyes drift close, balls drawing up tight. Thankfully, he doesn’t come untouched.

It takes an entire minute for Tony’s breathing to slow to something resembling normal. Inside his jacket is a handkerchief—honest to God, Peter didn’t even think people under 60 carried those anymore—and he wipes his hand on it. Peter tries not to whine, salivating at the waste. Tony tucks himself back into his pants and carefully makes his way out of the brush and back onto the gravel road.

The older man clears his throat, hand replacing the sunglasses from where he pushed them up to his hair. “We should—should probably get you to that doctor. Maybe now I can drive without getting us fucking killed.”

“Yeah,” Peter laughs weakly. They’re close enough that Peter imagines he can smell the musty scent of cum, and it revives the ache in his cock with a passion until he’s the one groaning. He’s pressing his hand against himself, he realizes, but it’s barely helping. And Tony is watching him. “Tony—” he gasps. Swallows. Tries again. Reaches for Tony’s hand, the one that was just covered in cum. “Would you—please.”

Tony breathes deeply, steps closer, until their breaths are mingling together. Tony’s hand is warm when Peter takes it, warm and still a little damp. Keening, Peter presses it to his mouth, licks a hot stripe across the palm. The flavor bursts across his tongue—salty, a little bitter.

“Jesus, kid,” Tony says. His fingers flex under Peter’s tongue. He closes his eyes. “Do what you’ve got to, Pete.”

Peter takes Tony’s hand and presses the palm flat to his throbbing cock. The pressure is incredible. The fact that it’s Tony is incredible. It comes over him quick, balls drawing up so tightly its painful, and he grinds into the palm as he comes almost immediately, pressing his lips closed so as to not whine out loud. His cock jerks a handful of times, orgasm pulled from the pit of his gut in the most agonizingly pleasurable way. It feels like it lasts forever and is over in a blink. Tony’s fingers twitch, thumb rubbing against the head of Peter’s denim clad cock, making him groan. A few more moments of that and he’s nearly positive he could get hard again.

Tony presses a kiss to the crown of Peter’s head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into the younger man’s hair.

Peter laughs softly, resting his forehead against Tony’s collarbones. “I’m not.”

[thecleverdame]

East of Nowhere - Year Two

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary:  You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Words: 8.5k

Beta:  ilikaicalie  

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

-

YEAR TWO

One Year, Three Days

“This is the one.” You stand beside Sam in the fading light of the afternoon, the wind tossing his hair around his face. Crossing your arms you pull the jacket tighter around you. You’ve been inside every house in the residential area of Shadow Hill, but none of them felt quite right, not until this one.

It’s at the very end of the cul-de-sac, where there’s more room between the houses, not to mention the edge of the forest in the backyard, which flanks your new home with thick pine woods.

You know just by looking at the outside that this one is the right fit. The deep blue siding reminds you of the color of the ocean in books, a rich blue that feels calm and peaceful.

“You sure this is the one? How do you know?” Sam inquires, tilting his head, trying to determine what makes this place different from the other forty houses you’ve spent days inspecting.  

“I’m not sure,” you shrug, admiring for another moment more, then grabbing the wrist of his jacket, pulling him toward the steps. “It just feels like us.”

Once inside, your instincts are only confirmed. The living room is warmly lit with a soft fire, filled with overstuffed chairs and rich colors. Leading off the main living area is a grand oak dining table, big enough for an entire family. The kitchen is new and sleek, pots and pans hanging from hooks above the island. This house feels like a home, almost like someone’s lived here before.

“I like it,” Sam nods in approval, pouting his bottom lip. “Let’s check out the second floor.” You follow Sam upstairs, finding several bedrooms with large beds, each more luxurious than the last. It’s a far cry from the shitty little hotel room that you’ve shared for the last year.

“Why are there so many pillows?” Sam squints, “no one person could possibly need that many pillows.”

“They’re decorative. I like them.” You smile at him, swinging your hips like a happy-go-lucky child.

“I won’t even attempt to fight you for a room, you choose the one you want.” Sam grins, nudging open the door at the end of the hall, peering in. You frown, a sudden reality hitting you for the first time. “What?” He asks, his smirk falling at your abrupt shift in attitude.

“It’s gonna be a little weird not sleeping in the same room, that’s all.”  You walk past him, inspecting the bathroom, thrilled to see a soaker tub big enough for three people.  The look on his face is hard to read, “I’m used to waking up and seeing you right there, talking and farting in your sleep.”

Chuckling, Sam shakes his head “You don’t even want me to tell you some of the noises you make.” You raise your eyebrows and he continues “Yeah, I’m not the only one who talks in their sleep. Oh, don’t stop, harder....lots of sex dreams.”

“Sam!” You yell, slapping his arm. You drop your eyes out of embarrassment, giggling because you have a pretty good idea of who you were dreaming about. When you look up, there’s a broad smile plastered across his face, chest shaking as he quietly laughs to himself. “I hate you,” you grit slapping him again.

“Who am I to say what it was about, maybe you’ve just been dreaming about a really great full body massage.” He cracks himself up, leaning into the wall for support.

“You’re a real comedian.” You sigh, trapped in the space between embarrassment and amusement. “I want this room, the big one.”

One Year, Five Weeks

You think the house will help to alleviate some of the tension between the two of you and, for a couple weeks it does. Sam has one rule above all others, you don’t separate. You get it, you understand why it’s important that you’re always within earshot. In theory, anything could happen, but the fact is nothing ever happens. Your lives become a mundane routine, planned around books and spells and meals that’s wearing you down day by day.

The little things Sam does drive you crazy and not in a good way. Like the way his spoon always hits the side of his bowl when he’s eating soup or how he chews on the ends of all the pens until they’re twisted into mangled plastic. He leaves the toilet seat up and the milk on the counter and he always has to know where you are, every fucking moment.

“It works better if you use the scrub brush,” Sam recommends, sipping his coffee.

“I like the sponge.” You side eye him, elbow deep in rubber gloves and dirty dishes.

“You know, you don’t really have to do that. If you just wait, they’ll clean themselves.” He leans against the counter, seemingly intent on watching you wash.

“No, I do have to do it. Otherwise, they’ll sit here all day and every time I come into the kitchen, I have to stare at a sink full of dishes.” The organized scientist in you has reared its ugly head. Sam’s a wonderful man in so many ways, but he’s obscenely messy.

“Why are you mad?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m not mad,” you grit, jaw clenched.

“Really? Because you seem angry.”

This is the point in cartoons where steam blows out of someone’s ears. Every bit of resentment, indignation, and sexual frustration is boiling to the surface.

“I said I’m fine.” You turn away from him, dropping a bowl to the floor where it shatters with a sickening crack. “God, damn it!” You scream, clenching your fists.

To Sam, this seems like a massive overreaction, but for you, it’s about so much more than a broken bowl.

“It’s not that big of a deal. You get the big pieces and I’ll grab the broom.” Sam moves toward the cupboard.

That’s when you erupt.

“Sam, for fuck's sake stop telling me what to do! Jesus, I’m capable of cleaning up broken glass!” You shake with rage.

“What the hell is your problem?” He shoots back, both ready for a fight.

“You’re my problem!” You scream. As if it had been planned, you step with all your weight directly onto a sharp shard of glass that cuts into your foot like a knife through butter. You shriek, falling onto your butt, coming down hard on your tailbone with a sickening smack on the tile floor. “Fuck, ow….ow.”

Sam crouches in front of you, with his hand around your ankle before you have a chance to process what’s happening. He lifts your foot up to get a better view and cringes, “that’s deep.”

“Let me go,” you kick at him, not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to get a point across.

“I need to get it out,” he scoffs, tightening his grasp.

“I’ll do it myself. I said don’t touch me,” you hiss, pulling your leg back again. This time, he lets you go, you wince as you scoot away from him.

“I’m just trying to help.” His tone betrays the words and there’s venom under the surface.

“I don’t need your help, I’m fine.”

He watches from the other side of the kitchen as you inspect your foot. He was right, it is deep, maybe three or four inches sunk into flesh. It’s a thick gash that’s pooling blood all over the light grey floor. Your stomach turns a little when you realize that you’ve backed yourself into the corner and have to pull it out of your own foot.

The pain comes without warning as if seeing the injury triggers the physical response. A sharp ache rises from your foot and up your legs and tears well over your eyes before you can stop.

It fucking hurts and suddenly you’re worried maybe you’ve managed to really injure yourself. What if you hit a tendon or actually did some permanent damage? The distress rises to your chest as you break out into a sweat.

The pain spirals and the blood isn’t stopping. God, you hate the sight of blood, it’s always made you lightheaded.

“Sam…” you panic, voice trembling.

“Here, let’s get you up.” Without missing a beat, he scoops you into his arm and carries you to the living room like he’s done it a thousand times before. That’s all it takes for him to forget what a bitch you’ve been; he hears the fear when you say his name and all is forgotten. After jogging to the bathroom, he reappears with a small bag.

“It hurts,” you spit, covering your eyes with your arm. You don’t want to look, the thought of all that blood and glass makes your stomach turn over.

“I bet,” he raises your leg into his lap, blood dripping all over his jeans. He doesn’t seem to care, though. You feel his wide hand slide under your yoga pants, halfway up your calf, squeezing lightly. “I’ll take care of you.”

With those words, Sam bears down, holding your leg still with a firm grip and rips the glass out. Not only is there pain, but more concerning is the steady stream of blood gushing out that is warm and slick, streaming down your heel. You don’t speak, you just make a strangled noise that Sam responds to by squeezing your upper thigh.

Your eyes pop open and the look on his face makes you feel even worse, “It’s bad huh?”

He nods tightly, “You’re gonna need stitches.” When you whimper, he just nods. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember. Gonna get you real drunk first.”

One Year, Four Months

You twirl spaghetti around a fork, coiling the noodles in just the right amount before popping it into your mouth. “Oh my gosh, Sam” you nod enthusiastically, “this is really good.”

“See, I’m getting better. I used the recipe this time,” he grins and you both dig in.

You’ve been swapping childhood trauma stories all night and now it’s your turn.

“We used to go on these camping trips when I was kid. Every year, my dad would pack up way too much shit in the back of our station wagon and drag us out to the middle of nowhere.” Sam sits back in his seat, sipping his beer. He likes when you tell the stories, he always seems fascinated by what was usually your boring, run of the mill childhood memories.

“Your dad’s an outdoorsman?” he inquires, crossing his ankles.

“Big time. He was in the army and when he got out, he spent years teaching wilderness survival. He’d live outside if he could.” You pour yourself more wine, then you continue. “So, he decides that we’re going to the Smokey Mountains for two weeks. He drags the whole freaking family out there, my mom and sister, my cousins and asshole uncle Ted. I didn’t care about any of them, I was so excited just to spend time with my dad. He’d taught me, what I thought at the time was a lot of bushcraft skills, I mean, I was just a little girl, but I knew how to build a fire and get a fish off a line, so I thought I was hot shit. I was desperate to prove myself. I never wanted to be like other girls my age, I wanted to hunt and fish and chop trees. I don’t know, I guess I thought it was the best way make my dad proud. So, we’d been there about a week when I decided that I wanted to go off on my own adventure. I packed a bag and wandered off. My cousin, Ryan, was supposed to be watching me, but he was too busy reading comics and no one else noticed.”

“Oh no…” Sam winces, rocking back in his chair.

“It gets better,” you promise. “I followed the trail for a while and then decided that I was fully capable of making my own way in the world and I ventured off into the woods. I probably walked for an hour before I decided I wanted to go back to camp, but it was too late; I was so lost. I walked in every direction and had no freaking idea which way was out. I was eight years old, with a ‘My Little Pony’ backpack and a pair of pink binoculars. I wasn’t dressed for anything more than a trip to the park and the sun started to go down….I was so scared, Sam. This huge storm was rolling in and when it started to rain, I just remember curling into a ball and crying”

“What did you do?” Sam’s enthralled, picking at the label on his bottle.

“I started thinking about my dad, he always said that if you aren’t finding a solution, you're contributing to the problem. So, I looked for a solution, which in my case, was finding the thickest pine tree I possibly could and crawling underneath. It hurt like hell, I was all scratched up, but I knew it would at least keep me out of the rain. And that storm, God, I hate thunderstorms to this day. It was so loud and there was so much lightning. I remember being curled up in the mud under that tree, freezing, and telling myself out loud that I was going to be alright.  Even as a kid, I knew that I had to make myself believe that I was going to survive and I was capable of handling the situation. It was going to be awful and I was going to cry - but that was okay, as long as I made it through.”

“You were out there all night?” Sam leans forward setting his drink on the table.

“Yup. It was almost twenty-four hours before my dad found me. I was wet and dirty, but I was in one piece. You know he didn’t even yell at me? He just hugged me and told me he loved me.”

“That’s incredible, the whole thing,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’d like to meet him.”

“You will,” you take a sip from your glass, pulling your knees up to your chest, “he’s gonna like you. He’s a ‘get shit done’ kind of guy. You kinda remind me of him.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.” Sam’s been less and less positive as the months go by.

“Yeah, we will,” you confirm.

Sam’s still for a moment, his eyes shifting as his own thoughts rush in.

“When, ah, Dean and I were kids, my dad was gone all the time. My first real memory is being in this smelly, dirty motel room and crying because I just wanted my dad to stay with me. I didn’t understand why he left, you know? Dean must have gone out or something because I distinctly remember that when he came back to the room, I turned my pillow over because I was afraid he’d see it was wet and he’d know I was crying.” Sam loses himself in that memory for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know, four maybe? Young enough that no one in their right mind would leave Dean in charge of me.” He scoffs and takes a drink, “That’s just how it was though. My mom died and dad needed to hunt, needed to fill that void.”

“Sounds to me like he was coping the only way he knew how t,” you suggest. Sam’s talked about his father before and you know there’s never ending layers to that relationship.

“I don’t hold it against him, not anymore. He did the best he could under the circumstances.  For a long time, all I wanted to do was everything that he hated. Just be a normal guy, get married, have a couple kids, and be a better father than he ever was.”

“What? You don’t want that anymore?”

“I’m thirty-three and, forgetting for a moment that we’re stuck in Shadow Hill, I’m deeper into this life than my dad ever was. If you care about people, you don’t make them a part of this life.”

“Maybe you don’t get to make that choice for other people,” you shoot back. “Everyone has their shit, Sam, and I’ll give it to you that your shit is crazier than most, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He gulps down the last of his beer, “I’m going to bed.”

One Year, Five Months

You’re going alone, you’re going no matter what he says because you don’t care about his rules anymore.

Sam’s reading in the living room, so engrossed in The Handmaid’s Tale that he doesn’t really hear you when you square off your shoulders and say, “I’m going for walk.”

He just smiles up at you, completely oblivious to whatever you just told him, “Whatever you want.”

If we’re being a hundred percent honest, you know it’s going to piss him off. But, there’s no way you are both going to survive without a little alone time every now and then. If it keeps up like this, one of you is going to kill the other.

You wander down the street and behind the houses to Miller’s Path, leading out of the town and into the looming pine forest that surrounds every side of Shadow Hill. After walking for some time, you veer off the path, heading toward a clearing in the distance.

You maneuver through the brush, the trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind you of seaside waves; even the color of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft and damp, yet your fingers come away dry.

You tilt your head upward, feeling your hair tumble further down your back; the pines are several stories tall, reaching toward the golden rays of early fall. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. A new smile paints itself on your face, rose-pink lips, semi-illuminated by the dappled light. Before you know it, your feet have begun to walk, body and mind both on autopilot - it's around noon and you don’t think you’ve been gone that long.

You find the clearing, trotting happily back out into the sunlight.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sam’s voice booms, snapping you out of your solitary moment. You whip around to the sight of him standing at the edge of the tree line, his chest huffing and eyes wild.

“What, I’m just...out here.” You’re caught off guard more than anything else, stumbling over your words. Sam’s mad, breathless, nostrils flaring, pissed the fuck off.

“Just hanging out?” He throws his arms up, stepping closer to you.

“I was just taking a walk, I told you where I was going…” You step back, he looks like he might throw you over his shoulder and lug you back to the house himself.

“You’re acting like a damn kid sneaking around. What if something happened to you?”

“Nothing is gonna happen to me. What do you think is going to happen, Sam? Nothing ever fucking happens here. It’s just the same shit day after day and it’s driving me insane. It’s making me resent you and it’s not even your fault, I know that. But, I need to be able to take a walk or go to Tolliver’s or do just one damn thing on my own.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m not done! Let me finish. Look, if I could choose anyone to be here with, it would be you, Sam, it really would. I had no idea I needed you in my life before I met you, which I know sounds nuts and makes no sense whatsoever, but it’s how I feel. I like spending time with you, but I need time to be alone, I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“What if you decide you want to go for a stroll and you never come back? You just disappear. Huh? What then?”

“If I’m going to disappear, it’s going to happen whether you know where I am or not. I could be sitting next to you on the couch and poof, gone. Just like that,” you snap your fingers for added effect and he winces.

“Okay, sure, let’s just throw caution to the wind. You don’t care, right? Whatever happens, happens!” He’s screaming, pointing at you with an accusatory thrust of his arm.

“I never said that,” you glare, “stop being so dramatic! God, I hate you so much right now!”

“Screw you,” Sam, spits, lunging toward you and the next thing you know his mouth is crashing into yours. You’re still in shock, mouth hanging open as his tongue snakes past your lips, meeting your own. He tastes like almonds and salt and it is fucking wonderful. His arms engulf you, enveloping you in a crushing embrace, pulling your body flush with his. You tip your head to the side, mouth opening further to give him full access, a move which he accepts eagerly, his tongue exploring deeper as this kiss becomes less about rage and more about a year and half of sexual frustration. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it occurs to you that despite how good this feels, you’re still pissed. Groaning into his mouth, you place two hands on his chest and push back, parting in a breathless smack. Sam looks down at you, his shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.

“You kissed me.” You meant it as a question, but instead you’re just stating the obvious.

“Yeah,” he flexes his jaw, “I did.”

“Well...I...” Just a moment ago there was so much you needed to say, but your head is swimming and you can’t think. “I’m not saying that I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t done-”

In the distance there’s a faint noise, growing louder. At first, you both look from side to side, but the closer the sound gets the more you realize it’s coming from above you. By the time you identify the noise as paper fluttering in the air, you can see the mystery object plummeting down toward the ground and it lands with a heavy thud on a patch of grass. You both inch toward it, Sam moving in front you with his arm out, “Don’t get too close.”

You stay behind him until you realize what you’re looking at and step forward as he grabs at the back of your shirt. “It’s alright, it’s just a book.” You bend down and pick up what appears to be a very worn, very old copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“What the..,” Sam’s voice trails off as you show it to him. There’s a feather sticking from between the pages and you open it to reveal a small line of text that’s been underlined by hand.

Glancing up at Sam you clear your throat read the text, “Sometimes the last person on Earth you want to be with is the one person you can't be without.”

“What is that, like Jane Austen?” he asks, completely perplexed.

You suppress your urge to comment on the fact that he recognizes Jane Austen when his face twists. You can watch the flutter of realization cross his face. “What?” You shift the book in your hands, “what’s wrong?”

“Someone’s watching us,” he snorts.

“But,” you hesitate trying to decide what the right questions are, “who?”

“I don’t know, but literature’s greatest hits don’t just rain the from the heavens. That was meant for us.”

“This is freaking me out.” You wipe your mouth, feeling the weight of the novel, and looking behind you.  

Sam’s words sink in; someone’s watching.

He looks from you to the book, then up to the sky. There’s a moment of silence before he loses it. “What is this? A lesson?” he shouts, turning in a circle with his arms outstretched. “We’re listening, we’re fucking listening! Hello?” Nothing. He’s fuming, his cheeks bright red and fists clenched. He looks like he’s ready for a fight and not the kind that utilizes words. He wants to break something, frantic for anything to hit and watch his knuckles bleed.

“Sam,” you reach out, grabbing his wrist. He recoils when you touch him, pulling back as if he’s going to smack you. It’s muscle memory, something dormant left over from too many years of staying constantly vigilant and sleeping with a gun under his pillow. He cocks his fist and you stumble back, nearly falling over as he catches you.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to-” his face scrunches, to your surprise there are tears welling up in his eyes, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

What Sam can’t tell you is the combination of emotions coursing through his veins. He’s so frustrated that he can’t even control his own reactions and it makes him feel painfully impotent.

“I know, Sam,” you drop the book to the ground and wrap yourself around him, pressing your head over his heart, “I know you wouldn’t.”

One Year, Seven Months

After the ‘Dr. Darcy Incident’, as you dubbed it, Sam does his best to give you more space. And just like you predicted, your relationship with him begins to heal itself almost immediately. Time away eases the urge to pick at each other and allows you to enjoy your time together again. It’s a morning like any other, except Sam isn’t there when you wander half asleep down to the kitchen. Sam’s always awake before you, a pot of coffee already brewing by the time you crack your eyes open for the first time. You assume he must need the sleep and try to recreate his normal morning routine, so that by the time he wanders into the dining room, there’s two eggs and wheat toast waiting for him.

“Good morning,” you greet him, setting your plate next to his.

“Good morning,” his voice is low and he blinks at his eggs.

“You still asleep over there?”

“I think so,” being the man that he is, he just throws you an appreciative glance and digs in.  He spends the rest of the day going through his normal routine; run, weights in the basement, then a shower and off the to the library to grab a few books he wants to add to your growing in-home library. By that evening, he’s looking pale, dark circles forming under his eyes. He tells you it’s just a cold and that he just needs some sleep. You don’t think twice. Maybe he’s not feeling well, but it doesn’t set off any alarm bells. The following morning, you’re up earlier than usual, feeling uncharacteristically rested. Lacing up your sneakers, you hit the snowy pavement as the sun is rising over the horizon. It’s a beautiful morning, too cold for a walk, but it’s perfect as you pick up speed out of the neighborhood and head towards town. For several miles, all you hear is the controlled sound of your breath and your feet hitting the ground. You push further and faster than you ever have before, extending your route up the hill past Hill’s Cinema (the one room movie theatre) and winding back down around the city center park. By the time you’re trotting back to the house, the sun is high overhead and the chill of a bitter winter day is creeping in. Covered in a thick sheen of sweat, you head for the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of water and drink it. After a few moments, you happen to see a foot peeking from around the corner near the bottom of the stairs.

“Sam,” you call high pitched. You don’t want to look. The tight grip of fear rises in your chest as you round the corner and find him sprawled on the floor, face down still in his pajamas. Dropping to your knees, you turn him over. The moment you touch his torso, you can feel the sweat soaking through his shirt, he’s drenched. “Sam, can you hear me?” You brush away the damp hair stuck to his forehead. He’s burning up, his whole body is radiating heat. You’re not sure what to do, the only semblance of medical training you have is from watching re-runs of House on daytime cable. Shaking your hands in a panic, you try to mentally put together a list of priorities. At the top of that list is his breathing, so you press an ear to his febrile, damp chest and listen. He’s breathing shallowly, but his heart is galloping a hundred miles a minute. He’s so hot, you know it has to be dangerous, his body temperature must be cooking him from the inside out.

“Sam!” You yell, right at the shell of his ear. He’s three times your size and you know there’s no way you can move him on your own. “Sam! Wake up!”

When he doesn’t move, you do the only thing that comes to mind, you slap him, hard and fast right across the face. He jerks and his eyes flutter open with a groan. Thank God.

“Hey, can you hear me?” You hover over him, his eyes rolling back into this head for a moment before settling on you.

“What?” he slurs, his face contorting.

“You gotta help me Sam, you have to get up.” You move behind him, lifting him into a sitting position and fuck if he isn’t ridiculously heavy, his limp body doing nothing to assist you. “I can’t do this by myself. We just have to get to the shower, it’s right there.”

You grab his face and turn his focus to the small bathroom just off the entryway. “Okay,” he gulps and squeezes his eyes shut, “I’m dizzy.”

“I know, but we gotta do this now. Come on.” You stand in front of him, taking his hands and pulling with every ounce of strength you can muster. With a minimal amount of assistance, you hike him up, his arm grasping at your shoulders. The two of you shuffle down the hall, his weight threatening to take you both down. You get him into the shower, where he collapses onto his butt with a thud.

“My brain feels like it’s boiling,” he rubs a hand over his face.

“You’re gonna feel better in a minute.” In reality you have no idea if what you’re doing will help in the slightest, but he doesn't need to know that. You climb in the tub behind him and he instantly falls limp between your legs, his back crushing your chest as his head leans back on your shoulder. The fever is practically pulsing through him, his cheeks are bright red and heartbeat still quick, threatening to beat out of his chest. With your shoe, you kick at the faucet until a burst of freezing water erupts from the shower head and gushes over the both of you. You both yell in shock as the icy stream soaks your clothes and washes over your skin. After a few torturous minutes, the drop in temperature seems to calm his body. You’re shaking, teeth chattering as you feel his hand grip your knee. He turns his head toward you, his face at your throat.

“This is not at all how I imagined taking our first shower.”

“First?” You laugh, completely exasperated, chin trembling, “talk about presumptuous.”

You wrap an arm around him from behind, squeezing his wide shoulders and kissing his cheek, “You scared the shit out of me, Sam.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “didn’t mean to.”

Once he’s fully coherent, you give him aspirin, find him a change of clothes, and tuck him back into his bed. He grabs your hand as you walk away, pulling you beside him. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You smile, patting his chest “It’s what we do, right? You and me ‘till the wheels fall off.”

One Year, Nine Months

Sam has no intentions of going through your stuff, he’s just out of toothpaste and you’re out for a run. He pads into your en suite bathroom, feeling like a kid who’s trespassing in his parent's bedroom. Neither of you have ever said your rooms were off limits, but there’s an unspoken respect for personal space. He pulls open a few drawers, pushing around lotions and q-tips when he sees it. He knows what the pills are the moment he lays eyes on them. Amelia’s were in the same pink, little plastic case she pulled out of her purse every time the alarm on her phone went off. Looking behind and satisfied you’re nowhere nearby, he pops the case open, to find half the pack empty.

You’re taking birth control pills.

If he’d asked you about it, you would have told him that you found them in the pharmacy a year ago, right after the ‘almost kiss’ and figured that taking precautions was the smart thing to do. You didn’t know where this thing with Sam was going, but it felt like it might sneak up on you someday and you didn’t want any more surprises.

Sam looks at the pills again, weighing out several scenarios until he hears you bounding up the stairs. He hastily shoves the pack back in the drawer behind an open box of tampons. He finds the toothpaste just as you swing through the doorway, sweating and breathless.

“Jesus Christ,” you jump startled at the sight of him.

“Sorry,” he smiles tightly, waving a tube of Crest, “just trying to brush my teeth.”

One Year, Ten Months

You slide on sock feet over the hardwood of the living floor and take a seat at the edge of the arm chair. “I’m going to the greenhouse.”

“You want me to come with you?” Sam glances up from his nest on the floor with a pen between his teeth.  He’s sitting cross legged in front of the coffee table, books and notes everywhere.

“No, I’m good, I need some quality time in with my African Violets.” You tie your sneakers, watching him as he shakes his head and makes a note on an already crowded legal pad. For a moment, you let your mind wander. The intellectual in you, the woman that loves historical fiction and collects vintage copies of the periodic table, can’t help but be insanely attracted to this man.

He will never know how utterly delicious he looks in a v-neck t shirt, barefoot, and lost in some obscure text. Sam’s always a little sweaty and at this very moment, there’s a sheen layer of perspiration right at the hollow of his throat that’s nudging your mind in a thousand directions. It’s been way too long since you’ve had sex, but you don’t hold onto hope because Sam might as well be the president of the Shadow Hill Abstinence Society.

“I’ll bring you lunch,” he offers, without looking up.

“Sounds good, see you later.”

You hop on your bike and enjoy the ride to the greenhouse. It’s on the far side of town, a little over a mile, and you shiver in the cool morning air, your thin coat doing little for the brisk ride.

Green Thumbs, as the sign reads, is a fully functioning hot house as big as a barn. The heat hits you in a wave as you open the frosted glass door, enjoying the smell of the flowers and earth that overtakes your senses. You check on Sam’s plants first, the ones he asked you to cultivate for spell work. You fuss over the Mugwort and water the Lady’s Mantle before moving to your orchids that require repotting. At first, you didn’t know if you’d be able to grow anything, with Shadow Hill wiping the slate clean, but the greenhouse has proven to be space that allows change to stick. Your flowers and herbs grow tall and strong, perhaps better than they should. You lose track of time, surprised when you hear movement behind you.

“Hey you,” you see Sam and turn to greet him with a sweet genuine smile.

Sam gulps. It’s hot in here and you're in a tank top that’s sticking to your sweaty, glistening body. There’s dirt smeared over your stomach and arms and a little just beside your nose. Your hair is a wild mess, barely contained by the failing ponytail. He’s been having a harder and harder time with his own self control when it comes to you, but this is the moment he knows that it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks.

“Sandwiches,” he holds up a paper bag, looking at you with the familiar yet strange look he gets from time to time. You have no idea what goes in that head of his, but you’d like to find out. You wash your hand off with the hose and join him on the small wooden bench for turkey sandwiches. He hands you a bottle of water as you catch his eyes wandering over your body.

You glare at him, “I know I’m a filthy mess.  I promise I’ll shower before I sit on the furniture, okay, dad?”

Sam just chuckles, looking at roses and biting into his food, “You’re so far off base you don’t even know it.”

One Year, Eleven Months, Two Weeks

A deafening crash of thunder rips you from your slumber, as your heart beats nearly out of your chest. The second boom makes you jump, as lightning illuminates your room. It’s so loud, that it sounds as if the heavens might crack open from the power. Rain is falling heavily on the roof as you crawl out of bed and look out your second story window. The clouds look low enough that the far mountain peaks appear claustrophobic at the proximity. Between the flashes of lightning, there’s an inky darkness that sinks into the marrow of your bones. You glance at the clock next to your bed, but it’s black. Great, the power must be out. You don’t like storms. Most of the time, you’re an adult and you can power through it, but this is loud and bright and something feels uneasy and electric all around you. You make your way across the hall and rap at Sam’s door.

After a moment, you hear, “Y/N?” You turn the handle and creep inside as he sits up, shirtless and dazed.

“I um, I just...the storm woke me up,” you shift from one foot to the other, standing in his doorway.

“You want me to get up with you?” he mumbles, trying to shake himself from his sleep.

“No, I’m being a baby, go back to sleep. I’ll read or something.”

Sam throws back the sheets on the open side of his bed, and nods with his chin, “Get in here.”

You don’t hesitate, you crawl in beside him, and he pulls the cover up to your waist. You don’t know if he’s fully coherent or not, but he rolls into you, as if it’s no big deal. His body presses into your side, his face burying into your neck and his hand sliding across your stomach and coming to rest on your hip.

Shit.

You lay like that for a while, now more awake than ever before in your life. Everywhere he’s touching you feels excruciatingly sensitive, like you’re in overdrive. Sam’s breathing hot at your neck just under your jaw and instead of softening with sleep, it’s only getting faster and faster. A crack of thunder roars down from the night sky and you involuntarily jerk. Sam’s hand tightens around your hip, his body pressing into your side as he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

You feel the shift of his head as his lays a soft kiss to the skin of your neck, it’s not a grand gesture, but it’s supremely intimate as you lay here in his bed. He kisses you again, this time moving down a little further, just the tip of his tongue darting out to taste your skin.

Your breath catches in your throat as you tip your head away, giving him more access. His hand moves from your hip back over your stomach, resting his palm just below your belly button.

“Can I touch you?” he murmurs at the shell of your ear. You exhale in a desperate, fractured moan.

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding.

Sam pulls at the hem of your nightgown and before you know what’s happening, it’s up and over your head, leaving you completely naked. He makes a guttural grunt of approval, pleased to see you’ve forgone undergarments. Still on his side, he leans over and cups one of your breasts with a calloused hand, taking your nipple into his mouth. You gasp, his wet tongue sliding over the hardened bud before tugging gently with his teeth.

His fingers play down your abdomen, barely grazing, as his touch sinks lower. You feel his fingers swipe over your sex, the tip of his fingers delicately stroking over your lips. When he feels that you’re wet, he pushes further, coating his fingers with your own slick. The pressure of his finger shallow inside you makes you quiver, your thighs falling apart.

Continuing to mouth your breast, his finger moves upward, out of your pussy to find your clit with expert efficiency. He rubs over the little bundle of nerves, eliciting a buck of your hips.

For what seems like a lifetime, he works your body just like this. His hand between your legs and nipple between his lips. His finger moves back and forth across your clit, rubbing and coaxing soft moans as you rock your hips up into this hand. Sam rolls his tongue over your nipple, then clenches down sending shocks that reverberate in your nether regions.

“I’m going to taste you,” he explains calmly, pressing a kiss between your breasts, moving downward placing his lips at the crown of your ribcage.

“Sam,” you puff, his words only adding to the anticipation, just a vague outline of what’s to come next, leaving him to fill in the details. The caress of his lips travel down your stomach, stopping for a moment to trace the outline of your belly button with his tongue. As he moves lower, he readjusts his body, crawling between your legs, hooking his hand behind one of your knees and bending your legs, using his shoulders to hold your shaking thighs open for him.

There’s a scrape of his teeth over the mound of your sex and you feel his breath before anything else, hot and warm with his face so close to your apex. Then his fingers; Sam uses his thumb and index finger to peel you open, revealing the throbbing little bundle of nerves.

There’s a tight swell of anticipation building in your stomach, but it’s nothing to prepare you for what comes next. With the tip of his tongue, slippery and warm, he scoops up and over your clit, once, twice, three times.

“Sam,” you groan, your back arching as he repeats the same, slow lick, just his tongue and fingers to hold you open. With his free hand, he reaches up, spreading his palm wide over your stomach, holding you down. Without warning, his whole mouth engulfs you, running his tongue flat and hard over the sweet spot that now controls every inch of your body.

Sam’s fantasized plenty of times about what you would taste like, but it’s different, better than he imagined. You’re salty and metallic in his mouth, making him only want more.  He has a plan for this first time, what and how he wants to pleasure you. Between the noises you're making and the insistent thrust of your hips into his face, he knows he’s right on target.

He could do this for hours, incandescently happy with his head in a vice grip between your thighs, with a mouth full of tangy slick.

You don’t know long he’s down there, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? All with his tongue making spine-tingling circles around your most sensitive parts. He knows what he’s doing too, changing his rhythm, adjusting the pressure of his tongue to keep you from coming, he doesn’t want that yet.

He knows you want more, he almost fucks you with his fingers, but he wants the first thing you feel pushing inside to be his cock. He wants you to come for the first time while he’s in you. He wants to watch you pulse and shake while he’s sunk deep. His dick is rock hard, grinding against the sheets as he thinks about it.

“Sam,” he scrapes his teeth over your clit when you call his name, groaning into your pussy. His tongue dips down, teasing between your folds before moving back up to his focus area. All you want is something, anything to fill you up, his tongue, his hand, his cock, the specifics don’t matter.

“You want me inside you?” he asks, looking up from your thighs.

“Please, God yes,” you groan at the sight of him, crawling back up over your body.

He settles his hips between your own, pushing his sweatpants down his thighs. His hand brushes stray hair out of your face and then he kisses you for the second time since you’ve known him. His lips meet yours, diving deep with a scoop of his tongue.

Lost in the bliss of his body weight and mouth, you feel his hand between you, then the head of his cock rubbing over your clit and between your folds. There’s the sweet moment when he presses the tip into you for the first time, slowly sinking as you stretch around him. You moan into his mouth, his kisses deepening as he slides thick and stiff until he’s fully seated.

You feel impossibly full, it’s an incredible sensation that sends pleasure shooting out from where he’s sunk inside you. You wiggle your hips, canting up to his, desperate to take as much of him as you can.

Breathless and panting, Sam’s mouth parts from yours. He reaches up to grab the rung of the headboard for leverage and drops his mouth to the hollow of your throat, kissing sweat soaked skin as he moves, pulling out and thrusting back into you with a force that makes your eyes pop wide.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, reaching for the pillows, the other hand clinging to his arm as his veins bulge with tension.

“You feel so good,” Sam groans as he’s trying his best to make this last. He wants you to remember this first time as intense and incredible, but he’s not sure he can last as long as he’d prefer. You’re so tight around him, like he’s balls deep in hot silk. You’re squirming under him, rubbing your pretty little body up into his like your life depends on it.

He looks down at you, your lip caught between your teeth, naked and straining at the sheets. Sam thinks you twisting under the weight of him is the best thing he’s ever seen in his life. He fucks you hard and slow, pushing all the way in and grinding his hips in slow circles that turns you to into a quivering mess of wet, raw nerves.

His mouth is everywhere, at your mouth, neck, biting at the ball of your shoulder. He moves from those mind blowing grinds to a steady rhythm as the rooms fills with the rolling thunder and the wet, carnal slap of his body into yours. You’re both close, the pumping of his hips faster and harder than before.

“Can I come inside you?” he pants, a growing desperation in his voice.

“Oh God,” you sink your nails into his back, frantic to pull him deeper at the very thought. “Yes, Sam, don’t stop.”

He props himself up on his elbows, his hips snapping fast as your breasts bounce with every thrust. Your nipples are still hard and he can’t help but take one back into his mouth, sucking hard as his hand snakes between your bodies.

His thumb presses over your clit, flicking up and down as he slows his movements. He grinds slow, just like before and you tip over the edge. You come in a glorious crescendo of pulsing nerves and taut muscles, clinging to him like a life raft.

Sam feels it, your body throbbing around his cock as you chant his name. You’re so beautiful, head thrashing to the side, mouth open, lost in the pleasure.

Before your orgasm has completely ended, he’s moving again, quick hard thrusts that make your muscles clench. Sam comes with your name on his tongue, filling you with everything he has, rocking slowly as he empties, twitching inside you. His forehead falls to the crook of your neck as his movements slow to a snail's pace. You rub his back, hands trailing up and down until he’s totally still.

Kissing you, he pulls out then flops onto his back and you lay side by side, silent in the dark as the rain continues to fall in sheets outside the window.

Sam brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing softly. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

“Me too,” you confess. This has wide ranging implications, none of which you want to think about right now. You’re sated with Sam and pleasure and that’s where you want to stay for the rest of the night. You feel him shift onto his side, his hand over your stomach again, dipping between your legs to feel the wet of your thighs, the product of his hard work and your arousal. “I need to get you into a shower.”

“The power was out…” You glance to his bedside clock which is lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Looks like it came back on,” he sits up.

“Not yet, I want to lie here a little while longer.” When you protest, he moves back to you, pulling you into the crook of his arm where you're both sweaty and overheated. “I just wanna be like this, just for a few minutes.”

“Whatever you want,” he concedes, not five minutes later he’s snoring gently.

But you don’t fall back to sleep. You lie in the dark, as the storm rages outside. You think about Sam and Shadow Hill and wonder if all this will actually last.

-

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

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[wiggly-blue-shite]

Chapter 3 From The Top!

(Prof H X Ted)

Ted walked into the studio in basket ball shorts and just a shabby tee shirt. It's not what Hidgens would have suggested Ted where but it will suffice.

"Good afternoon Ted,"

"Yo" Ted nodded uncomfortably at Henry.

"I should have asked this yesterday. How much dance experience do you have exactly?"

"That would be a solid none."

"Ok," This is going to be interesting, "did you stretch before you got here?"

"Uhhhhhh, yes"

That was a blatant lie.

"Ok, Just watch me and do what I do. Alexa, play warm up playlist."

Ted struggled along to the stretches. If this was hard for him the rest of the class is going to be a struggle. He's dedicated though, it really looks like he cares. That's sweet.

"Ok for this stretch you're gonna need to lay on your back and put your legs up against the wall." Henry stood up and directed Ted to a wall. "Ok now you're gonna speed your legs."

"Hey, at least take me to dinner first" Ted smugly smirked up at Hidgens. Henry proceeded to knock Ted's legs from their spot on the wall. This action basically put him into middle splits. Well almost middle splits if we're being generous. Ted inhaled sharply from the pain.

"Hey you're hips are actually relatively flexible considering you dance experience." That was a weird thing to say? Why did he say that? Why did he notice that? Why?

Ted winked up at Henry. He could feel his face warming up. Henry didn't know what to do. So he just pushed down on Ted's legs putting him into a deeper splits and consequently putting him in immense pain. Ted flopped off the wall.

"Ow what the fuck."

Hidgens didn't really mean to hurt him. He just didn't want to think about... that anymore. He offered Ted a hand up. Ted begrudgingly accepted the help.

"Sorry about that, I just wanted to push you to go farther." Stupid Stupid Stupid. Henry is what are you doing.

"Yeah whatever. Are we done with stretching yet?" Ted was starting to look inpatient. It's nice how he cares about this.

"Just about. Are your legs ok?"

"Yeah I'm fine"

"Ok so we are going to start with the basics of ballet. Most dancing that you will do will incorporate these basics. First of all I'm going to need you to adjust your posture. Your slouching a little." Hidgens mirrored Ted's poor posture then adjusted it. Ted tried to adjust his posture but if anything it got worst.

"Do you mind if I?" Henry walked over to Ted and adjusted his shoulders back. They were sturdy. Ted was a relatively unimposing, so this caught Hidgens off guard. "Now straighten your pack and tuck in your tailbone."

"My tailbone?"

"Stop sticking your ass out" That seemed like the easiest way to tell him what to do.

"that's the first time I've been told to do that!" Ted chuckled.

"What... I don't even... ok whatever." Henry did not understand where the joke was in that. Ted was an interesting person.

"This is very uncomfortable." Ted's posture was still mediocre but greatly improved. He was taller, still short next to Henry, but taller.

"You'll get used to it. Ok now we're going to go over ballet positions."

"Oh I know all about positions." Ted smirked and winked at Henry through the mirror.

"I feel like these are getting progressively worse." Hidgens stopped looking in the mirror and turned to the man standing next to him. He took a deep breath and faced the front mirror again. "Watch me carefully.  This is first position... this is second position ... third... fourth... and fifth. Do you understand?"

"Uh wait does my left foot also go in front at one point or is it just all in the right?"

Henry couldn't help but to chuckle. It's kinda cute how fucking stupid he is.

"Sorry That was a stupid fucking question." Ted looked really embarrassed.

"No no I'm glad you're asking questions." Henry smiled at Ted.

The rest of class went on similarly until...

"Well I guess class is over. Weird it feels like class just started." Ted looked at the clock.

"Time flies."

"Hey Henry you have any classes after this? You wanna grab some food? I'm fucking starving."

This was Hidgens last class for the day. He was totally free to get food. But why would he willingly spend more time with this douche bag.

"I'd love to"

[tintinwrites]

love | Modern Poe Dameron x Reader | Part One

A/N: So I saw Life Itself and now I’m unhappy, so it seems like a good time to reveal a new series I’ve been working on. The prompts are from this sensory prompt list and it’s basically important moments in a modern Poe Dameron and reader’s relationship! I wanted a super pretty title and my heart told me ‘love’. Is it too basic?

Rating: T

Warning: None.

Word count: 733, I guess!!

Prompt: 5. Trying to walk on ice

Summary: "That's what I get for trying to be a hero, huh? Poe Dameron."

He held his hand out and you told him your name as you shook it. "At least I'm not the only one to fall now."

You were really stupid to have been so sure of yourself.

I can carry it all in one trip, your lazy, in-a-hurry mind had suggested.

Now you were staring across an icy parking lot with four full grocery bags in your arms, wondering if your car slid to that super far spot or you had been delusional when you thought you parked close to the building.

You had to do this, though. You couldn't just walk back into the store and get a cart to put your bags in.

Well, you could, but your natural pride wouldn't allow it.

So you put one foot in front of the other, carefully skirting around patches of ice. Why did it seem like you weren't getting any closer to your car?

You came to some ice so large that it stretched from one row of spaces all the way to the row across from it. Your options were to turn to the right or the left and take a very long way around while trying not to step on many patches of ice, or try to make your way across and hope the tread on your boots was enough to get you to your vehicle, which seemed closer now.

You took a more tentative step, planting your foot firmly on the shiny surface.

Then you moved your other foot.

A smile came to your face as you stood perfectly still.

But, with only ice under you, you took another step and your feet immediately went out from under you. Your grocery bags went flying — much like you at the moment — and, ow, your tailbone was going to be hurting for a few days.

"Whoa! Are you okay?" Quick footsteps, then a slightly manly yelp as your handsome, wannabe hero landed on his ass right in front of you.

You blinked in surprise, watching him grimace and rub his hip. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I—" He looked at you and himself, pausing, before he started to laugh.

It was such a genuine laugh that your lips twitched into a smile. A second passed and you were giggling loudly with him.

"That's what I get for trying to be a hero, huh? Poe Dameron."

He held his hand out and you told him your name as you shook it. "At least I'm not the only one to fall now."

"Hey, that means I'm still a hero." He had the sweetest grin, you noted as he stood and helped you to your feet. Your boots slid on the ice and he tightened his grip on your hands, meeting your gaze. "You good?"

"Yeah." You moved off the ice and he didn't let go until you were only standing on asphalt.

He followed, crouching down to start gathering your groceries.

"Oh, you don't have to do that..." You were crouching with him immediately, tossing a couple boxes into a bag.

"Don't worry about it." He took two of the bags in his arms and straightened up. "Which way to your car?"

You opened your mouth to protest his chivalry, but decided against it at the look he gave you, which told you he wasn't going to let you take all four bags. "This way." You took the long route, stepping around ice as you lead him to your car. You balanced the two bags you had so you could unlock it, opening one of the back doors and leaning in to put the groceries on the seat.

You stepped aside to allow Poe to put the rest in, then he leaned an arm on the roof of the car and gave you a charming smile. "So, what does the hero get?"

He was handsome and it would be shameful of you to offer yourself. Only because you didn't know him.

You reached into a bag, feeling a bunch of bananas and taking one off, holding it out to him. "Potassium."

"Thanks." He took it, chuckling. "I probably don't get enough anyway. You probably want me to leave you alone, but stay safe, okay?" He started to back away. "Don't slip without me."

You wouldn't have minded if he stayed and you both lived in the grocery store parking lot; a strange fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless.

He slipped on some ice and quickly stumbled off of it, giving you a thumbs up before he walked off, leaving you giggling again.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Unexpected Companion

Summary: Dean wakes up in bed next to someone unexpected...

Square Filled:  ClaireDean

Pairing: Dean x Claire

Word Count: 2,200ish

Rating: explicit (smut (implied drunk sex, protected sex), language)

A/N: Written/created for @spnkinkbingo

Dean woke up feeling something warm and soft under his arm. He smiled, recognizing it as that of a bare woman’s back. He fluttered his eyes open, the back of a patch of blonde hair staring at him. 

His head pounded and he knew he couldn’t remember who this woman was but her hair smelled like honey. He loved when he could smell the shampoo still in a woman’s hair. The sheet was barely covering her ass but he woke up half-hard and was curious if she’d be down for more. Normally he’d expect the woman gone by now or he’d slip out until she got the picture to check out on her own. But the curve of this one’s back, the dip of her tailbone before it curved up over what Dean guessed was a very cute butt...

“Morning beautiful,” said Dean quietly, leaning over, kissing her shoulder. He felt her shift, burying her still unseen face in the pillow. He trailed them down her spine as she shifted some more, waking up now. Dean moved back as she rolled to her side. “How about we-Claire!”

Dean was wide-eyed as he saw the confused young woman staring at him. 

“Loud much?” she said, smiling to herself. “Actually you are kind of loud if I’m thinking about it.”

“Why are you naked in my bed?” asked Dean, shifting back. That’s when he saw the pang of hurt over her face. “Do not tell me-”

“I knew this was going to be a mistake,” said Claire, throwing back the covers and turning away, reaching down to the floor for her underwear and a bra. “I just knew you wouldn’t be able to see me any other way than a kid. Everything you said last night, that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Dean wasn’t even sure where to begin. He certainly didn’t remember last night or saying anything or even Claire if he was being honest. 

“Hold up kid, what-”

“I’m an adult, Dean. I can screw who I want. Stop calling me kid, douchebag,” said Claire, walking to the other side of the motel room, picking up a pair of jeans.

“Claire,” said Dean. She ignored him as she pulled the denim on. “Claire.”

“What,” she said shortly, throwing her hands up. Dean saw how upset she was and how well she was hiding it. But he needed some answers before she walked out that door.

“I don’t remember anything. Anything Claire. Nothing,” said Dean, Claire crossing her arms over her chest, popping out a hip.

“You were like super drunk. Called me for a ride,” said Claire, she said, dragging her toes back and forth through the carpet. “You’re real chatty about what you want when you’re wasted.”

“Thanks for getting me back here I guess,” said Dean, rubbing the back of his neck. Somehow he got a flash of a memory, of small hands running over that neck not so long ago and he sighed. “Hold up.”

“Later Dean,” said Claire, throwing on her shirt and grabbing her coat. Dean was out of bed and pulling up his boxers, pushing the front door shut just after she opened it. “Oh don’t do the nice guy act. You were drunk, you wanted some, you got some.”

“We had sex last night. I want to know why,” said Dean. “I don’t care how drunk I was. You were a willing participant in all this.”

“Because you’re hot. You’ve got that older guy but still youngish thing going on. God, don’t get all clingy,” said Claire, moving Dean’s arm away from the door.

“What did I say I wanted,” said Dean, planting it down hard. Claire glared at him but rolled her eyes.

“You said, I don’t know, sweet guy crap to make me flustered so you could get me in bed,” said Claire. “Whatever, I’m over it.”

“I’m not,” said Dean. “I don’t do that. Something happened to me and you aren’t telling me the truth.”

“I’m not gonna tell you,” said Claire. Dean took her by the hand and sat down on the edge of the bed, Claire trying to shake him off but sighing. “You got all...weird. Like saying you liked me weird and not in that big brother way I always thought we had going on.”

“What did I say,” said Dean, rubbing circles into the back of Claire’s hand. 

“You said you wished you could be that brave sober,” said Claire. She looked him dead in the eye and Dean suddenly felt like the young one, unsure of how to handle the situation. “Like I said, you were drunk and it’s fine. Just forget this ever happened.”

Some of it was coming back to Dean. The taste of her, the way her skin felt velvety smooth, the curve of her body...that hot, hungry desire that felt strangely safe with her. Dean was doing the math in his head when he realized there was no need. She was an adult. Something happened last time they worked a case, when she was bitten by that wolf. Something he never wanted to admit to himself out loud.

For one, Jody would probably kill him. Claire too if he ever told her the truth. Dean put his head in his hands when he remembered he did tell her. He told her everything last night. That was way too much to put on her, put on anyone really. Yet here she was, still there after those drunken admissions, still choosing to go with him after they were said.

“Claire,” said Dean, reaching for her hand when she stood up. “Stay and we’ll talk about this.”

“Either you were lying when you were drunk or you’re scared and about to start lying now. It’s done Dean. You’re car’s at the bar on sixth. I’ll see you around,” she said, shaking him off. Dean watched her leave, unable to find it in him to go after her.

“We just had to go and fucking tell her we liked her, dumb idiot,” said Dean, falling back in bed, deciding to hide away in the motel room for a while longer.

Two Weeks Later

Claire was quiet, looking like she was trying to hide away in herself which scared the shit out of Dean. Sure, part of her tougher attitude was an act but Claire was a strong person and could hold her own. So the fact that she called him when her hunt went bad, the fact that she wasn’t talking still even though it was settled and done...he knew she shouldn’t be on her own right now.

“Sam’s not here right now,” said Dean, letting Claire look over the bunker, temporarily getting lost in it.

“Why does that matter,” she said, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. 

“I was just telling you. Geez,” he said, pressing against the small of her back, leading her into the hall. He stopped at an empty room and opened it up. “You can crash here as long as you need.”

“I’m fine,” said Claire, dropping her bag and pushing him out. “Goodnight.”

She shut the door in his face and Dean sighed, walking to his room at the other end of the hall and slipping inside. It was late and he’d driven a while to go get her, wanting nothing more than to pass out in bed. Dean slipped out of his jeans and into a pair of black sweats, his flannel tossed in his laundry basket, socks balled up and thrown in along with them.

He wandered to the kitchen, threw on a pot of water and dumped in some stove top mac and cheese. It was easy and he was hungry. He didn’t even bother to sit down and eat, just standing next to the half full pot, shoveling spoonful into his mouth as he glanced around at the quiet room.

“Food,” said Dean a minute later, knocking on Claire’s door, putting the bowl down on the ground just in time to see it swing open. He glanced up and her face was soft. She held out her hand and he handed it to her, catching the slight eye roll as she realized what he’d made. She took a spoonful and nodded her head, Dean turning to go.

“Wait,” she said. “Thanks for...getting me.”

“I owed you one,” said Dean. “Kitchen is just down the hall. Leftovers in the fridge if you want more.”

Dean would have walked away, given her some privacy but she was just staring at him with big wide eyes as she ate quickly. Before he knew it, she was done and putting the bowl down on the desk inside. 

“Do you need anything?” asked Dean. She nodded and he waited for her to speak. And waited. And waited and she just stood there, looking up at him like she was waiting for him to do something. “Claire.”

“Can I sleep with you?” she asked. Dean blinked a few times as she shifted on her feet. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Okay,” said Dean, stepping back, leading her down the hall to his room. He knew that feeling, the one after a bad hunt where he needed to feel something up against him to keep him grounded.

Dean watched Claire get in first, settling in beside her, not used to sharing his actual bed with someone. She closed her eyes and curled into his side, burrowing her head against his shoulder. He moved his arm around her without realizing. 

“Claire,” said Dean quietly. She grumbled and he brushed his thumb over her cheek. She tilted her head up to look at him. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“You said you don’t like sleeping alone,” she said. Dean gulped. “You really don’t like letting people take care of you, do you?”

“I like it. It doesn’t mean I deserve it,” said Dean, seeing the eyes staring back up look down. “Claire, you should forget everything I said. You’re young and you can find a way less screwed up guy out there.”

“Have you met me Dean?” asked Claire. “My life’s been screwed up since I was a kid. So has yours. A less screwed up guy isn’t going to understand all of that.”

“We shouldn’t. You need-”

“Grow a pair and tell me the truth. Do you like me or not?” she asked. Dean leaned in and kissed her slowly, remembering that taste, doing his best to not let it fill him up and overwhelm him. After a few seconds he pulled away, searching her face for something to tell him he could have this.

She leaned in this time, more force behind her actions, Dean letting her and practically smiling against her lips.

“I like you too,” she said, pulling back, straddling her legs over his torso.

“Claire,” said Dean, trying not to groan when she kissed along down his jaw. “You have got to be honest with me right now, before we go any further. When I said like, I didn’t mean in the I want to screw you way. I meant-”

“I know what you meant Dean. Relax. I’m not doing this for the sex,” she said. “Even though it was good.”

“Jody’s going to murder me,” said Dean, sliding his hands up Claire’s back.

“No she won’t. We’ll just have to explain it to her,” said Claire, tossing her shirt to the side, pushing Dean’s pants down enough to expose him. “I’m a big girl. I can pick who I want.”

She didn’t have the patience to let Dean take her underwear off and neither did Dean for that matter. He caught her waist and pulled her down next to him, listening to her groan. Dean reached into his nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom and tore it open fast, rolling it over his length.

Claire watched him as he did it, her breaths growing heavier before she got back on his lap, pushed her underwear to the side and sunk down fast.

Dean didn’t know why he thought she’d want something soft and slow but damn he wasn’t going to last if she kept riding him like that. He went to ask her to slow it down but when her eyes met his, he decided he felt too good and to just lay back and enjoy it. There’d be plenty of opportunities to learn every inch, every touch, every thing she liked.

He came first, hot and hard and Claire clenched around him when he did, ripping an honest to God moan from him. She giggled, liking the noise obviously and went a bit faster, chasing her own end, finally coming herself and nearly sending Dean into a second orgasm if he could have had one that soon.

“Was that okay?” she asked, like she thought maybe Dean hadn’t enjoyed himself. He helped her off and discarded the condom in the trash, pulling his pants up and giving her shirt back. 

“That was definitely okay,” said Dean, pulling her into his body the second she was dressed again. She laughed and he kissed her forehead. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with this? With us being a thing?” asked Claire. Dean only held her tighter, throwing his legs over hers. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Night sweetheart,” he said, pressing a kiss to her lips. 

“Night Dean.”

[5hfanfiction]

my b

on watt @ longerr_hours

So Camila’s having a really extraordinarily bad day. She’s had bad days before, tons of them but this one just takes the cake as the worst day in history of bad days.

It started out with waking up after her alarm, a furious mother coming in rambling about “the sixth tardy in ten days” and “just set multiple alarms if you know you’re going to sleep through the one.” Because of her delayed start, Camila had to skip out on eating breakfast, but since Camila’s such a strong advocate about the most important meal of the day, she made Dinah get her a coffee from the school’s cafe.

This coffee of course just led to the inevitable spill not only on her light pink sweater, but also all over her flash drive with her english project. Luckily enough she’d saved the project onto google drive but she’s pretty sure she had a small heart attack when she thought she’d ruined it for her and her group. Obviously she forgot about the google file at first and spent her study hall retyping what she could, only noting the wasting of the period once she realized she had the back up, and not getting her math homework done.

She tripped on the stairs in front of her crush on her way to history, making her blush like an actual idiot, even more when she saw the amused smile on Lauren’s face. Then she tripped again while trying to play it cool. The two of them weren’t friends at all though, so it’s not like she could play it off by laughing at herself and making a joke, especially since she lost all ability to speak without sounding like a complete moron when the older girl was around.

The rest of school she managed to get out unscathed, but she isn’t as lucky when she misses her bus ride home after school and has to walk because Dinah has student council meetings after school. She trips on the curb at one point, which not only adds a bit of a limp to her already clumsy walk, but earns laughs from the sixth grade boys hanging out at the basketball court she does it next to.

Getting home she had realized she left her textbooks she meant to pick up after school in her locker meaning she has to go in early to do any of her homework, then finds out that her laptop is dead and her charger is another thing she meant to grab.

Sofi who’s never anything but a sweetheart is learning from Dinah how to be full of attitude and prank ideas, which would normally just lead to playful bickering, but when Sofi throws confetti at Camila when she rounds the corner with her plate of dinner, she kind of snaps, yelling at the younger girl and then having to deal with feeling guilty for the rest of the night but not wanting to be the one to cave and apologize first because she’s stubborn like that.

The cake on top is her parents arguing which has been happening a lot lately and she knows it’s just because the election results and changes have been stressing everybody out, but it just kind of makes everything feel a hundred times worse because now she’s thinking about how that disgusting excuse of a man is the president and how her parents are fighting a lot lately.

Calling Dinah is kind of second nature. She doesn’t crack until half past eleven, meaning Dinah is well into her beauty sleep since it’s a Thursday and she needs a full ten hours daily, but Camila needs her and she knows Dinah will answer.

It takes the second call to wake Dinah up, grumbling a “this better be good,” before Camila goes into a rant about how awful everything today and just in general lately has been.

Dinah just listens for her part and that’s how they always go about it when one of them needs to vent about something. She hums to reassure that she’s still awake occasionally, but she just lets Camila pour out everything she needs to before responding to any of it.

“You up to go out right now?” Dinah proposes after Camila’s finally gotten to the end of her long list of complaints.

“I am,” Camila mumbles out with a shaky breath, more grateful for Dinah than she has been in a while because she’s just such a good friend. “I really just need a hug and some sad food and maybe a chick flick and also a nap but I can’t sleep and-” she begins rambling and feels herself getting more trembly-voiced because she’s getting emotional but Dinah cuts her off before she can get too deep.

“Chancho don’t cry yet, I’ll meet you at our spot then we can go get ice creams and cry together okay?” Dinah says hurriedly over the other line and Camila can hear the ruffling of movement meaning Dinah is already up and moving.

Camila knows how good of a friend Dinah is, but it’s always emphasized when she does stuff like this. Dinah “sleep forever” Hansen waking up once she’s already asleep and moving at all just because Camila is having a rough day shows how much she cares about her and makes Camila remember why the sometimes overly sassy girl is her favorite person in the world.

“I’ll be there in ten,” she hears Dinah confirm and nods, remembering a moment later that Dinah can’t see her so voicing her agreement before hanging up and making her way down to get her keys and take off. She doesn’t bother telling her parents she’s going out because she’s pretty sure they don’t care at the moment whether or not she’s within the vicinity.

Camila gets there in five minutes since the park is closer to her, and waits in her car for a moment before deciding to head to the tree they usually meet at with the view of the small pond.

The two had stumbled upon the quiet area when they were in seventh grade and playing tag like six year olds. Camila had been the one to trip down the hill obviously and Dinah the one to follow down chuckling and then they’d both stopped their game to admire the peaceful aura they found themselves surrounded by.

But it’s almost been ten minutes so Camila makes her way down to the hidden area slowly, knowing Dinah is usually late so she has time to kill. She’s shocked however when she turns the last corner to get there and sees a figure sitting on the rock her and Dinah usually take up residency on.

Now, Camila had had a bad day, as stated before, and she’s not had a lot to look forward to in a while, so ice cream and Dinah’s hugs is something to excite her, right? Right! So instead of greeting Dinah in the normal way that people do, she decides to take the better approach of sneaking up and jumping on her in a koala hug.

Bad idea.

“What the fuck?” a voice that is definitely not Dinah’s screams out in fear as the arms Camila has latched around flail out in attempt to break free from the hold they’re under.

“Get the fuck off I have mace and rape whistle I’m not afraid to cut a bitch,” the voice continues and-

okay Camila has already let go as soon as she realized that it wasn’t her friend, but that wasn’t as smooth as she would’ve liked since she was literally hanging off of the stranger and is in result now on the dirt with a pain in her tailbone to add to her list of bad things (buybadthingsoniTunes) of the day.

She’d let out an equally as surprised yelp when she had hit the body and realized it wasn’t Dinah, but now she’s narrowly avoiding a heart attack as she realizes who exactly she had accidentally attacked in her mistake.

And of course it’s Lauren Jauregui, the one girl she’s unable to form any sort of logical explanation for.

Camila recognizes her voice after the second question because it’s Lauren’s voice and it’s so hot it’s impossible not to recognize, but also because the girl is squinting down at her as she rolls around in pain to try to figure out whether or not she’s a threat.

“Fuck I’m- oh my god I’m so sorry I thought, Dinah was- fuck oh my god I can’t believe I just-” Camila rambles as her hands reach down to try to feel her tailbone for any clear sign of being snapped in half, squirming again in pain when she accidentally presses what seems to be an early forming bruise too harshly. “Holy shit I did not just jump onto Lauren- fuck Jauregui fuck I’m so so so-”

“Woah slow down, are you okay?” Lauren’s voice cuts in and, like okay Camila realizes it’s probably because she’s realized Camila is no threat whatsoever by her embarrassing squirming, but she also thinks it’s sweet that Lauren’s first concern is her after probably giving the green eyed girl a heart attack.

“Yeah I’m just dandy down here but holy shit no I’m not I’m mortified by- fuck I can’t believe I just-” Camila stops herself to press her hand against her forehead in attempt to maybe cover her face enough that she’ll disappear and never have to admit that she just did that or face what, “I am so unbelievably sorry I probably scared the crap out of you. I’m supposed to meet my best friend here and I just assumed you were her which thinking about it is a dumb excuse because why would I want to give her a heart attack when she’s the one being nice and coming out to help me get over my bad day and-”

“Hey calm down, nobody had a heart attack, but you may have broken your butt or something. Seriously are you okay?” Lauren jokes with a small laugh, trying to ease the tension as she perches down to try to assist Camila in getting up from where she’s lying basically in fetal position on the ground, on hand clutching her head, the other reached to cup over her lower back.

Camila let’s go of her head to reach for Lauren’s hand and props the other on the ground in attempt to push herself, silently freaking out at the thought of touching Lauren’s hand but more relieved than anything that Lauren isn’t kicking her and cursing her into next week for being obnoxious.

“Here let me help-”

“Fuck owe,” Camila snaps out on reflex as Lauren tries to pull her up completely straight and her back flexes. “Sorry reflexive thing, didn’t actually hurt that much,” she tries to play off but Lauren gives her a look saying she doesn’t buy it.

“Turn around and lift up your shirt,” she instructs with a neutral tone.

“Geez at least take me to dinner first,” Camila jokes to ease the tension she’s feeling at this point and is relieved when instead of faking a laugh or just groaning in annoyance at Camila’s humor Lauren barks out a loud laugh as she turns on a phone flashlight to examine the damage.

“Shit you’re going to be sore tomorrow, it’s a bit blue already but like I’m sure if you ice it it shouldn’t be as bad, I had something like this from softball last year and it sucked at first but like, after a few days it goes away completely,” Lauren explains as she gently lowers Camila’s shirt again and the smaller girl spins around to face her again.

“Darn it, I swear I have the worst luck out of everyone in the whole entire world,” Camila scolds herself slightly because like as if this day weren’t bad enough. “Look I’m like really sorry about jumping on you, like I said I’m supposed to meet my friend here - who by the way is really late now I think but that’s beside the point. If there’s anything I can do to-”

“You said you were having a bad day? If anything I’m sorry for intruding on you and your friends plans because this probably didn’t make it any better,” Lauren jokes lightly as she perches against the large rock again, Camila staying standing still because she’s pretty sure she can’t lean on anything at the moment. “But if Dinah is late, do you want to like talk about anything, it’s the least I can do for stealing your spot,” she continues making Camila’s eyes snap back up from where they’d been shamelessly attempting to check out Lauren in the dark because she’s like, Lauren Jauregui, how could she resist. (Plus she’s kind of assuming/hoping that it’s too dark for Lauren to see where her eyes are at).

“Oh god no I don’t want to bore you with my long list of embarrassing mishaps that pooled together to ruin my day,” Camila jokes and smiles a little when Lauren chuckles at that.

“Like tripping up the stairs maybe?” Lauren jokes back, and Camila feels herself flush at the memory but also wait a second that means Lauren recognizes her which i something.

“How’d you recognize me, same groan of annoyance when my feet fail to hold me up?” Camila jokes again and Lauren laughs back before replying.

“Actually Camila I just recognized the coffee stain,” she laughs and Camila feels herself flush again before realizing that holy shit Lauren Jauregui knows her name what the fuck. “Besides, I would’ve recognized the hug if you’d given me a minute, pretty sure you’re the only person I’ve seen give these out so it kind of narrows it down…” she trails off teasingly, nudging Camila’s arm who flushes again at being called out, but also at Lauren Jauregui knowing anything about her.

“Hey I’m obviously very sorry for the… brutality of my approach but you should be honored that you got to experience one,” Camila jokes and Lauren smiles brightly before the younger girl continues. “I feel like I kind of have to make up for almost scaring you to legit death though, I mean c’mon ‘I have mace’? You were scared shitless don’t try to deny it,” Camila teases and Lauren chuckles before holding up her hands in surrender.

“You caught me, I was pretty terrified, but you try being jumped on in the middle of the ight in a dark woods,” Lauren argues. “Maybe make it up to me sometime this weekend? Dinah’s bringing you ice cream now but how about you get me some later?” she proposes with a burst of confidence.

“Yeah umm, that sounds like- yeah that’s definitely something I could do to-”

“Just give me your phone dumbass,” Lauren stops Camila’s adorable rambling and holds her hand out to grab the younger girl’s. “Here,” she says, biting her lip and making Camila giddy as she enters her number then shoots herself a quick text, now we’re getting somewhere,” she jokes and Camila’s face is already covered with a bright smile because no way did she just get her crush’s number by ambushing her in the woods at night.

She’s about to reply, not knowing what to say but sure that her dazed brain will say something embarrassing to continue conversation, when a recognizable voice breaks the bubble, “Walz! I stopped early for the ice cream because I figured you’d want to sit here instead of- oh hello we have company,” Dinah stops herself, holding two cups of ice cream and shooting Camila a smirk and questioning look as her eyes find the green eyed girl who Camila was just complaining about tripping in front off on the phone.

“Hey, this is Lauren I don’t know if you guys-”

“Yeah we had accounting together last year, hey Laurenza long time no talk. Now what are you two kids up to in the woods all alone,” Dinah greets with a teasing smile towards both of the girls who are too busy trying to hide their own blush to notice the other’s.

“Umm nothing, just waiting for you and I bumped into Lauren,” Camila explains with a shrug, hoping Lauren won’t out her embarrassing tackle move.

“Yeah, but I should get going, I was just on a run and wanted to take a break but I’ll let you guys chat,” Lauren explains, smiling at Camila’s audible sigh of relief when she doesn’t tease her for koala attacking her. “I’ll see you around though?” she perks up and amila smiles brightly at that and Dinah is ignored because they’re too caught up looking at each other, but she is teasingly smirking from the sidelines.

“Yeah yeah umm, definitely I’ll text you or something to make up for- yeah,” Camila agrees nervously, blushing when Lauren chuckles at her reaction.

“Okay then I’ll take off,” Lauren smiles and Camila is kind of hypnotized by it but- “let me know how your butt is,” she winks and fucking fuck Lauren Jauregui just winked at her so Camila doesn’t even care that now she has to explain it to Dinah.

“I will,” Camila calls after the girl who waves over her shoulder. “Dinah,” she starts once Lauren is out of sight and she’s sure she can fangirl. “You have no idea how amazing this day was.”

[reveriesevenik]

The Boy Who Fell Through the Underground

Ernest T Smith liked his name quite a lot, so it was with very thinly veiled irritation that he endured all manner of taunts that used his name like a weapon against him.

If he wasn't being called “Ear-nest” for the way his bowl cut made his large ears appear to stick out even more than they already did, he was being told that his last name was not, in fact his last name.

“It's Chan, right? Or Ding-Dong or somethin’. Whatever it is, it’s not Smith, so stop lying to everyone already. Where are you really from?” someone, probably Randy Welch, who delighted in telling everyone how his father employed nearly a quarter of the people in London and was therefore more important than nearly everyone else at school, would jeer.  

The cocky boy was far more popular than scrawny, dark-haired Ernest, with his Young-King-Arthur looks and his wealthy family, and it was obvious that he relished his status. Randy even wore a gaudy, jewel-encrusted necklace on a thick chain to school every day and bragged that it had been in his family for generations.

“Ding-Dong isn’t even an Asian name,” Ernest would reply, “but I hear that’s what they used to call your mother back before she had you.”

His brain was always a few steps ahead of his feet, which was why he often found himself at the wrong end of a fist soon afterwards.  

It wasn’t that Ernest didn’t have friends, but he was prone to alienating the few he had by saying something cruelly witty before he realized that it was probably a bad idea to say it.  It didn’t help that he was literally one of the only students at his private, all-boys school, whose parents hadn’t paid through the nose to get him in.  He wasn’t a stellar student, but he wasn’t a dropout either, which meant that he was worse than either of these things.

He was, unfortunately, unremarkable, except for one very important thing.

Ernest Smith could sometimes see the future.

Luckily, it didn’t happen every day, a mercy for which Ernest was rather thankful. It was disorienting to find himself randomly shoved face-first into the future for a few moments before being dragged back into the present, which usually ended up with him tripping on something or having an awkward conversation with someone who wouldn’t take “randomly popped out to look at the future for a bit, but I’m back now” as an explanation. Episodes of future sight felt a lot like being pushed underwater in a fast-moving river, and he had to struggle to keep himself focused on what he was seeing enough to figure out what was going on.

Secondly, it rarely provided useful information.  Though Ernest was fairly thankful that he wasn’t left with infuriating, vaguely worded prophecies after one of his “episodes,” his forays into the future were not exactly inspiring.  He could see very clearly what would be served for lunch and which line was the shortest at the snack bar, but since he always brought his lunch from home, he never really needed to use the information for himself.  He could see what people would be wearing the next day or the day after, but beyond a few bets he made (which dried up after he won more than once), that information hadn’t exactly yielded positive results either.

And so, Ernest just tried to ignore his so-called “gift” and refrained from telling anyone about it.  His mother had at least an inkling about it, for he’d brought it up when he was much younger, but he’d spent a lot of time convincing her that he had grown out of it (though, really, how does one “grow out” of seeing the future?). It was, he decided, a ridiculous explanation, but his parents seemed relieved at the lie.

As he grew older, Ernest was finding that lies often worked quite a lot better than the truth when it came to parents. Selective truths made up the rest of it. It seemed that cruel truths of the world were simply too much for the grown ups of the world, and Ernest wasn't about to upset them, not when they had the power to make his life miserable.

Seemingly unrelated to the obnoxious episodes of being pushed randomly into the future, Ernest also had recurring dreams about glossy black wings and the scent of mint as someone with a gruff voice whispered something unintelligible to him.  It was an oddly soothing dream that he looked forward to having, though he certainly didn’t have much love for any of the garbage-stealing corvids that made a mess of the rubbish bins around the city, and he hadn't smelled the scent of real mint since the summer before, when he’d gone to the country to visit family.

It was on a fairly forgettable Friday that Ernest made the first terrible decision in a series of terrible decisions that would change his life forever.

It was his first class of the day and he slipped into his seat only to feel something cold and slimy underneath him. He jerked out of his seat and fell to the floor with a scream that echoed through the classroom.

Everyone stared and a few people began to point and laugh. Ernest turned his head to see that someone had piled his chair with cold, slimy noodles.

Shame colored his cheeks as he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

“Thought you'd appreciate a bit of chow fun this morning! You should thank me, Chinaman!” Randy jeered, his cronies surrounding him like an assortment of particularly dim rocks.

Ernest muttered something angrily under his breath just in time for the surly biology teacher to enter the classroom.

“Mr. Welch!” Professor Mungin growled, looming over the suddenly very contrite boy. “Bullying students again are we?  You will clean up this mess and apologize to Mr. Smith. Then, I think that you and I shall take a little stroll down to speak with the Headmaster.”

Randy looked a bit panicked at that, but he appeared to think of something quickly enough and his expression turned smug.

“Oh, Ernest knows that it was just a joke. Harmless fun, right Ernest?”

The way he said it promised dire things if Ernest did not agree.

“No. Not right,” Ernest replied bitterly, wincing at the twinge of pain in his tailbone. “He was just laughing about having done it.”

“Is that so?”  Professor Mungin glared angrily at Randy, who was not even bothering to disguise the look of utter hatred on his face.

Ernest knew it was a mistake the moment he heard the door to the classroom close. The rough, rock-faced boys gave him the sort of look that made his breath hitch with fear. One drew his finger across his neck and then added, as though Ernest couldn't have understood the obvious meaning of the gesture, “Yer dead, Smith.”

Randy didn't return to class with the teacher and Ernest sank even further down in his seat, which, though it had been wiped down, was still cold against his somewhat soggy trousers.

He dreaded the end of the day.

“Oi!”  The voice was sharp and full of undone violence.

Ernest did not turn back. He ran.

He could barely hear anything over the roar of the blood in his ears, but from the chorus of shouts behind him, he knew he was in trouble. Ernest had short legs, but he also wasn't very tall. Normally, these two things were the respective banes of his existence. It was hard to get other blokes to take him seriously when he was nearly a head shorter. Being small and sleight was a boon, however, when running away from a group of murderous thugs in a crowded, bustling city.

Ernest flew into the street and sidestepped a lorry just as it barreled on through the intersection without even slowing down. As he landed on  bus flew by behind him at breakneck speed and he could hear his pursuers swearing over the cough of exhaust that escaped the giant beast of a vehicle as it braked to turn into a bus stop. Ernest ran ahead and ducked down behind a large dumpster.

Sure enough, the group of angry thugs ran by, and when he was sure they'd gone, he quickly took off in the opposite direction.

He’d made it all the way past the turnstiles and was standing near one of the support beams near the subway platform when he someone grabbed his shoulder and pushed him...hard. Ernest let out a shout and half-stumbled towards the end of the platform. He finally caught himself and turned, only to find himself face to face with a furious Randy Welch.

“Come back here, you slanty-” Randy let out a noise somewhat like a balloon being deflated as Ernest headbutted him in the stomach.

“Leave! Me! Alone!” Ernest ground out as Randy grabbed his arms and began to push back against him, his mouth a comical “O” of pain as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Just you wait ‘til my friend Freddy gets here,” Randy gasped out, his fingers curling around Ernest’s arms like steel beams. “He doesn’t like your sort.” He snarled. “Half-breeds.”

Ernest only had a moment to turn his head before Randy spat on his cheek, the warm, thick sensation filling Ernest with a deep, unsettling desire to fight and flee at the same time.  His blood boiled in his ears as he began to struggle like a caged animal against the stronger, bigger boy’s grip.  Ernest felt as though he was looking down a long, dark tunnel, his only desire to hurt Randy until he let go and then get away.

There was a whistling sound in the distance as policemen ran down the platform, but it might as well have been a million miles away.  The rumbling and hot hiss of air as an approaching train filled the stagnant underground station, but Ernest was focused only on one thing.

Get away. Get away. Getawaygetawaygetaway.

Ernest clawed frantically at Randy’s chest and his fingers hooked around something cold and solid.

The pendant on Randy’s stupid necklace.

“-are you crazy-” Randy was shouting something else, but Ernest pulled in the opposite direction blindly, his mind only coming back to him the moment his right foot hit empty air.

There was a horrible metallic snapping noise as the chain snapped and Ernest fell backwards, his head turning to see a bright light growing brighter in his eyes until he couldn’t see anything at all.

There was a scream, and Ernest wondered vaguely if it was his own, but then, with a blast of heat and light, his forehead slammed against something hard and then he didn’t wonder anything at all.