#particularly how every drink is taken and by whom and when

[divinekangaroo]

rewatching S6 in bits and pieces for current fic and ahhhhhhhhhh but the whole Jack, Diana, Mosley and Lizzie final dinner is so *viscerally* fucking satisfying on every sensory and intellectual and emotional level of consumption.

[therosehost]

ShuririWeek: D1

Fluff + "Don't Go"

cw: allusions to nsfw content

Shuri doesn't hear the humming at first. She's too frustrated.

She isn't Queen, nor is she the heir anymore, but the Elders hold her hostage in meetings and at inane ceremonies for hours as if she still were. It grinds at her skin like sandpaper.

Especially because Shuri knows why they do it. They care. They've watched Shuri grow from a glimmer in her mother's eye to a white-draped shadow by her casket. The elders care for her, Shuri knows this. But that doesn't make the overbearing attitudes any less irritating.

Today's latest antics had involved them - particularly Elder M'Kathu - insisting that every member of the council attend the Prayer of the Hymned Beetle. Shuri had wanted to throw her chair out the window with herself inside.

That biannual prayer had started in the river tribe as a joke ceremony. It was just an excuse for people to be off from work and drink themselves to incompetence.

It had never been taken seriously, that is, until Elder M'Kathu got it into his head that Shuri singing the Hymned Beetle's lament would somehow make her happier.

HA!

By the time Shuri escapes (just barely) and returns home, she's still wallowing in incredulous anger. She doesn't hear the humming, but when she yanks the bedroom door open she definitely sees the dancing.

Riri, as usual, is beautiful. And she's even more so as the golden silks she currently wears make her glitter in the setting sun.

Positioned in the center of the small garden's inner courtyard, Riri's prayer forms are uncertain. Sometimes her knees don't bend all the way they're supposed to. And at one point her arm doesn't extend to the full ninety degree angle the instructions scrolls describe.

But that doesn't matter because of why her beautiful talented dedicated genius girlfriend is praying. Or rather, to whom.

Shuri knows the prayer that slips low and careful from Riri's lips. She knows every note and syllable. It is her mother's funeral hymn. The Honor of Ramonda's is a celebration of her mother's birth and life, and a bitter bemoan of her death. There's a promise there at the end, humming with a grief that Shuri knows in her heart will last all her life.

She had poured her soul into creating a prayer dedicated to her mother. When Riri sings it, Shuri almost wants to cry.

It's beautiful. Her girlfriend is beautiful. Her girlfriend singing the prayer is beautiful.

Shuri moves forward, past the door where she's stopped in her tracks, and stops only a foot away. Riri's robes swirl around her, a red whirlpool of gauze that stops short when Shuri comes into sight.

Riri watches Shuri with wide eyes, lips parted to express her surprise.

"Your form is all wrong," Shuri says and then wants to shove a fist in her mouth. Damnit.

Riri puts her hands on her hips and laughs, her blouse rising up at the movement. "How are you this awkward?" The skin of Riri's stomach peaks out. Shuri stares. The blessed oils make the skin glisten. Shuri bets if she steps closer she could smell the spiced lotuses.

"I'm not being awkward." It's a distracted mumble instead of the annoyed tut she intended but Shuri can't bring herself to care. She wants to lick Riri.

Riri narrows her eyes, crosses her arms under her breasts, and gives a fox like grin when Shuri licks her lips. "Oh, you not?'" she laughs again. "Then what would you call it?"

Shuri pouts. "Giving constructive criticism, of course".

"Criticism." Riri says the word slowly as if tasting the letters. "I think I've heard of that before but I'm not real familiar. Why don't you stop hovering over there and come show me."

It sounds like an invitation to fight or fuck. Shuri is willing to do either or both of it means she can touch her girlfriend. But-

Shuri shakes her head and moves back towards the threshold. "I want to let you finish though."

"I thought my form was shit?" Riri raises an eyebrow.

"It was, but that doesn't mean I don't want to see you pray." Shuri's words are a lovesick trill.

Riri snorts but presses a hand against her own cheek like she does when she's trying to stop blushing "Nah, see, now my feelings hurt. It was supposed to be a surprise but I don't even want to do it anymore."

"Ok, I apologize. I take it back. Finish the prayer."

Riri hums, rocks back and forth from heel to toe, and then reaches for the towel on the stone bench behind her. Shuri flails.

"You have completely mesmerized me and I want to watch you dance forever," She almost gets on her knees. "Please please please finish."

Riri clucks her tongue, watching Shuri with a sly smile as she backs away. "Naaaah, I lost the motivation. Maybe I'll go hire an instructor instead."

Shuri huffs, rushes forward, and catches Riri around the waist. It startles a laugh out of Riri and Shuri huffs again. "Don't go. I'll help you. We'll pray to my mother together. Just, please, dance for me." She makes her voice as soft as her heart feels.

Riri cups Shuri's cheeks, rubbing a thumb under her eye and kissing her. It's a light brush against the lips really, but it's enough to send Shuri's heart into a frenzy in her chest.

"If you're so desperate," Riri says, her voice is sultry, smile teasing, "then I guess I'll entertain you a bit."

"Yes. I am very desperate." Shuri nods firmly.

Riri wiggles out of her hold with a groan. "Don't do that. I feel guilty for being mean when you get all earnest and shit."

"I like to when you're mean to me though."

Riri groans again and throws the towel she'd dropped at Shuri's head. "Shut up and help me already." Her plush lips form a pout around the words.

Shuri laughs and catches the towel. "Anything you want, my love."

"Uggggggggh. Please stop!"

a/n: this is rushed as shit and mostly unedited. but, ya know, fuck it. i really wanted to participate in shuririweek at least one day so here it is!

@shuririweek

[dedicatednotobsessed]

Bound in Fire and Blood [Aemond Targaryen x Reader]

Previous chapter || Series masterlist || Other HOTD stories

Summary: You are the younger twin sister of Aemond Targaryen and the second youngest child to King Viserys and Queen Alicent. Growing up you were extremely close to your twin brother, practically inseparable and as you continued to grow, you realized your feelings for him were more than just a sibling love….

TRIGGER WARNING: This is a story of incest (obviously, it’s Game of Thrones). It contains strong depictions of sexual content and blood. Please read at your own risk.

Warnings in this chapter: Has mentions of prolonged alcohol abuse and a stillborn child. Also contains mentions of suicide by poison.

Chapter Thirteen: First of her Name

Gif doesn’t belong to me 💚

You had named your son Vanar before you had to prepare him for his burial, his body burning from Revnass’ flames. Every time you looked at your daughter, whom you’ve named Vhaenys, you could not help but feel the guilt boiling within your stomach. Part of you believed the death of your son was because of the crime you committed against the gods. Possibly if Vanar was Aegon’s son, he would have most likely lived.

You stood on the balcony of your personal chambers, Vhaenys sleeping soundly inside. You looked down at your cup of wine with furrowed brows before downing the nearly full goblet. Along with the loss of your son, you have taken up an unhealthy obsession of drinking. You were hoping the wine was to take the pain you felt away.

You turned towards the room when you drank the rest of your wine, furrowing your brows once you heard the door open. No one has particularly disturbed you as of late apart from Eleanah and the wet nurses to take care of the babe.

“Now you decide to come visit your grieving wife?”

“Eleanah was concerned about your drinking,” Aegon said softly looking down at the pot of wine that was nearly empty.

“And so you came on Eleanah’s accord instead of your own?” You scoffed, emptying the pot into your cup, looking up at your husband. “You are the last one to discuss another’s drinking habits.”

Aegon looked over you, a frown on his lips as he watched down the cup easily. He took a deep breath and turned away. “I just wanted to check on you, Y/N.”

“Can you not tell?” You laughed a bit. “I am quite all right.”

“No, you are not,” Aegon said with narrowed eyes.

“How would you know?” You snapped. “Ever since our children were born, you have been in Fleabottom with whichever whore will fuck you.” Your words were a bit slurred as you walked closer to your husband. “That night our son passed, you went straight to your whores. You do not understand what I am going through.”

Aegon frowned, shaking his head. “You do not know how I feel,” He stated, keeping a distance from you. “I had to hear that our son did not survive through the door because you would not let me in the room!” He rose his voice a bit causing Vhaenys to whimper. “I have tried time and time again since the birth of our children to be with you, yet all you want to do is push me away. You are either in here alone or you are with Aemond.”

You stared at him, furrowing your brows. “You act as though you care but I know you do not,” You whispered.

“What?” Aegon asked, feeling the tears pricking his eyes. “I do care. I have always cared about you, Y/N, ever since we were children.”

You shook your head a bit. “I bet that you would have rather let Vhaenys die so you could have an heir,” You said bluntly.

Aegon’s violet eyes turned dark as he suddenly grabbed you by the chin. “Shut your fucking mouth,” He spat with narrowed eyes.

Your gaze stayed on his as Vhaenys’ loud cries rang out through the chambers. You pulled away from your husband and walked over, looking down at your daughter. She was but a moon old and it still hurt to even look at her.

You could not understand what the pain was from whether it was from losing your son or if you were truly being punished for your adultery. You have never expressed your fears to Aegon, afraid he would catch on and in fact know that you had gone behind his back and married your lover in the eyes of the Targaryen gods.

You felt the tears well your eyes as you stared at Vhaenys, the babe calming under a High Valyrian lullaby. You slowly laid her down in her cradle, wiping at your eyes. Shortly after the birth of your children you often thought how easy it would be to end your life to be with your son. You had dreamed of taking the poison known as sweetsleep; to close your eyes and never wake again. You knew though your daughter still needed you, for now at least.

Aegon watched you carefully, his bottom lip quivering when you turned to him. “Do you care about me?” He asked suddenly.

You furrowed your brows, your face being red from all the alcohol you have consumed. “What, Aegon? Are you mad?”

“Maybe I am,” He said as a few tears fell from eyes. “I have always been second to Aemond. You have never once chosen me.” Aegon looked down while laughing a bit. “You do not know how I feel, Y/N, and you never will.”

You frowned a bit as you watched your husband storm out after a moment and let out a sigh. You knew he was correct, not understanding being someone’s second choice. Although Aegon often slept with whores or took the maidenhood of handmaidens, he always tried to choose you first. You never returned what love he had for you though, always running to your second husband for company.

“Vhaenys is quite a strong name,” Viserys said with a small chuckle, smiling down at the babe in your arms. As your father’s condition worsened, you had visited him more and more in his chambers.

You sat across from your father, lightly patting your daughter on the back. You smiled softly while nodding. “Yes, after Vhagar,” You said quietly.

“Ah, yes.” Viserys coughed while he laughed. “I assume Aegon is not fond of the name?”

“He had no other choice.”

“Where is Aegon anyway?”

You sighed softly. “I assume in the street of silk where he has been spending most of his time as of late.”

Viserys sighed softly while nodding. “The maester has informed me you have requested sweetsleep,” He said softly after a moment.

You furrowed your brows a bit, your eyes staying on your daughter as you stroked her cheek lightly, the plump girl just staring up at you with big widened eyes. “I have requested it, yet he did not want to give it to me,” You admitted closing your eyes with a sigh.

“It is because he noticed how unhinged you have become since the birth.”

You felt the tears form your eyes at your father’s words, yet you knew it was true. “I have not been getting well enough sleep and I only wanted to take it to calm myself.”

You opened your eyes when your father took your right hand, feeling the tear roll down your cheek. Sleepsweet did help one to sleep unless one were to take three doses.

“I understand, sweet one, what pain you are in,” Your father said quietly. “And if you ever want to talk, you can always come to me.”

You smiled lightly and nodded when he squeezed your hand gently. Often when you were a child, you and Helaena would come to see your father and sit on his bed for hours. Whether the three of you were talking, or listening to tales; you had a bond with your father that you did not share with your mother. Your mother was always the one to watch over you, yet it was not the same when you were with your father.

“Thank you father,” You said softly and slowly stood up, helping him. You led him to the bed and carefully leaned down after he laid down kissing the top of his head. “I love you, father,” You said with a soft smile on your lips.

“I love you too, my sweet one.”

❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈

You let out a soft sigh, laying your daughter down after you had bid Helaena goodnight. You lightly placed your hand on the cradle, looking over at the silver colored egg that was by her head. It was from Revnass’ clutch, her first one.

You took a deep breath walking over to the fresh pot of wine after a moment. You had asked for one more although Eleanah was concerned that it was your fourth full one for the day.

“Come,” You called quietly hearing the knock, assuming it was Aegon coming to bid you goodnight. You glanced up with furrowed brows at the sight of Aemond. Since the birth, you had not seen much of him, believing he was partially to blame for the death of Vanar.

“You did not come to my chambers,” Aemond spoke up softly, clasping his hands in front of him.

You sighed, a bit annoyed as you took a sip of your wine. “And what of it?”

He looked over you with a concerned look. You had never given much of a snapping attitude towards him, although Aemond has rubbed off on you over the years. Your mother often commented on how you used to be a sweet girl and she believed Aemond to have corrupted you. You knew though if your mother were to truly want to get you away from your twin, she wouldn’t have married you off to Aegon.

“You have not been to my chambers in a moon’s time since the birth….”

“You can always find your company in a whore, my dear brother,” You spat with a small laugh, downing the cup. “But you have always preferred mine it seemed,” You added with a frown, staring down into your empty cup, little droplets of wine sitting at the bottom.

Aemond sighed softly as he stepped closer, frowning when you stepped back a bit. “Y/N….”

“Because of you I have lost my son!” You suddenly shouted, the tears already slipping down your cheeks. “Because of you the gods have punished me!”

“You have had enough….” Aemond tried to reach the cup but you pulled back with a fire in your violet eyes, something that had surprised your twin. He had never seen your eyes turn so dark.

“It is your fault that Aegon does not have an heir, Aemond,” You growled out.

“Vanar would not have been Aegon’s heir to begin with. The same goes for Vhaenys never being his daughter,” He stated, his voice deathly calm.

You clenched your jaw and threw the goblet at him suddenly, the cup hitting his chest. “You cursed me!” You choked back a sob, the tears pouring now. “You cursed me,” You whimpered out.

“Then why did you seek me out?” Aemond asked suddenly, walking close to you with his eye narrowed. “Why did you marry me?” He grabbed onto your arm and pulled you close.

“Because I love you!” You cried, staring into his eye. “Yet, my love for you came with a curse.” You yanked your arm away, sniffling as you turned your back towards your second husband. You stared down at your daughter, frowning.

“I want you out,” You whispered after a moment, crossing your arms. “We need to keep our distance from each other,” You said softly, your heart breaking at those words.

Aemond looked over you, frowning. He could feel the emotions seeping through yet he did not say anything as he turned and left. He glanced to Eleanah who had the chambers door a crack as she waited to enter before he sighed and turned down the hall, his face turning red as he held back his tears.

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[lovenona]

hey bestie hope ur having a wonderful day <3 i cant stop thinking abt sukuna as your ex and yall still have feelings for each other but completely deny it 😭

LISTEN EX SUKUNA IS MY FUCKING WEAKNESS....together for a considerably long time – he was ur first love, u were the first person with whom he'd even come close to understanding what love was supposed to be. it was all going to underground shows together wit his hands on your waist, him finishing your drinks at the bar when u didn't want them, making jokes in the back of the theater during the worst movies (and him trying to get you to look at him, let's do something more interesting during this awful scene.) you wore his clothes, he knew where everything in your kitchen was.

but with that first love passion came an edge: so much fighting. sukuna wasn't good at being calm or patient, and there was a particular fear of vulnerability that led him to lash out a lot more than he wanted to. not that you were that great about it, either – feeding into the flames of his anger, not understanding why he wouldn't take the leap with you into something more serious, having a certain stubborn streak of your own. so the rift just kept widening, exacerbated by the intense focus on your careers (writer, artist) and your inability to settle comfortably on anything. 

the eventual breakup was messy. sukuna dumped you right into the lowest level of hell and it took months to crawl back out. despite all of your relationship problems, you hadn’t expected it to happen – some part of you, the part that loved him to eternity and back, really thought you’d be able to work it out. it was only after you saw him with someone else just a few weeks later you realized that this is fucking over meant i never want to see you again. 

no closure – just you avoiding sukuna at every turn, which was a particularly difficult feat when you shared a friend circle. and even when you did finally get the courage to talk to him at someone’s birthday party a few years after the fact, it was with that edge of neutral disdain fostered by years of ruminating on how much him finally leaving actually hurt you. 

and you want to hate him �� you really, really do – but you can’t. he’s in the shirt you always liked and he still makes those brazen jokes that no one laughs at but you and he’s the same but so different. 

and sukuna wants to be over you – he dumped you because he didn’t want the commitment – but he’s not, especially when you’re the only one who’s ever taken the time to understand him. 

but if anyone were to ask if you’re back together, you’d be the first to spit out an indignant, flustered fuck no. 

[teecupangel]

I shall blame a particularly good story on this one, but - I shall toss another time travel!Deamond at you. Except this time it's nowhere Desmond was before, as he lands smack bang in Valhalla setting. Say, shortly before Sigurd returns. And let's assume that the campfire scenes are Basim's actual character. How does Desmond fare, and whom does he stick to?

I'm getting Skyrim intro vibes of Desmond just waking up with Eivor going:

Annnnyyywaaaayyy

So they got captured by Kjotve (Eivor tells him that they saw him already chained and unconscious when they got there) and the prologue happens but with Desmond helping Eivor beat them up (they still get away because Eivor's beaten up and Desmond... shit... it's too cold, a hoodie and jeans are not good for this)

After the battle, Eivor tells him he's a strange man but they believe that Desmond is a strong fighter and will be happy to welcome him to their clan (they'll even vouch for him to their jarl) and Desmond, having no other leads because his knowledge of history is only as far as what his bleed pushes into his brain and whatever conpiracy-ridden history rants Shaun gives him agrees to join them (for now, until he knows where/when the fuck he is)

So he's getting acquainted with Eivor's people (and changed to more suitable clothes because holy shit it's cold) and is in a very competitive match of Orlog (Connor's competitive side for board games on the forefront, being fueled by Altaïr and Ezio's general competitive personalities) when Sigurd returns with his 'guests'.

Desmond immediately goes "Assassins! FINALLY!" when he sees Basim and Hytham, but stays in the shadows because "good Assassins? Abbas-bad Assassins? Al Mualim-bad Assassins? Let's be sure first."

But he gets dragged into the celebrations and Eivor finds him in the shadows so they talk to him (maybe even suggest a drinking contest?) and that's where Sigurd finds them. The cutscene happens as it does with Desmond next to Eivor being awkward and thinking (Should I just slip away? Would it count as rude if I slip away?)

Sigurd gestures Basim and Hytham (Desmond really really has a hard time getting used to that name because Haytham Kenway) to come over and Eivor receives Sigurd's gift of the hidden blade and recognizes it as similar to Desmond's so they look at him as they say "How curious, Desmond-"

Desmond's like big doe eyeing Eivor and mentally telling Eivor nope don't tell them about my obviously more advanced hidden blade sssshhhhh

And Eivor's improvised it to "might be interested in seeing this? He is like Sýnin taken human form!"

And Desmond doesn't like being called a magpie (hey, it's not his fault his Eagle Vision just started pinging every chest as gold and he's like "might be important to my situation? oh, just actual gold... (disappointed face)") but it was better than being outed by unknown possible Assassins (the hoods were a dead giveaway) so he looks at Eivor's hidden blade and is like...

.........

Holy shit.

He recognizes it.

It's the same as the ones the Assassins in Alamut used. The hidden blades said to have been used by those before them that even Al Mualim thought were 'these are centuries old, nope, we'll make our own, thanks.' and Desmond realizes.

He's been thrown further than any time period he's familiar with.

Fuck.

As his brain's going 'ohgodshitwhatdoidoknowfuckfuckfuckaltaïryoubetterhavememoriesofreadingthistimeperiodbecauseohmygod', Eivor straps it the way they do and Desmond accidentally cut Basim off by telling Eivor they have strapped it the wrong way.

Oh shit. Basim and Hytham are now looking at him and he's like...

"I mean... look at how they wear it, right?" Desmond awkwardly points at Hytham's left arm 'cause Basim has his hands behind him and he hopes it freaking works.

Eivor, bless them, takes over and says that they're also missing a finger and the cutscene goes like Valhalla.

Things happen, Desmond gets recruited to join Eivor and their fight, he sees Hytham getting thrashed 'cause of that jump assassination (and his bleed of Altaïr telling him what Hytham did wrong, his improper posture, his... god, stop it, obviously the dude's new at this, give him some slack) and the entire time Basim is observing him. He could feel Basim's eyes on him.

And it's making him jittery because there's something about Basim.

Something about him that just screams at Desmond to pay attention, to not let his guard down...

To kill Basim.

And he doesn't know what it is and, from the way Basim interacts with everyone (even Desmond), he doesn't seem to be a bad dude.

So he stays away and observes Basim as well.

The same things happens as is Valhalla.

They reach England, they set up Ravensthorpe.

Basim goes with Sigurd.

And Desmond stays with Eivor because ain't no way he's gonna travel to unknown places with a dude he doesn't know that well (Sigurd) and someone that makes him want to kill him (Basim).

He stick with Eivor.

And more specifically...

With Hytham.

Because Hytham reminds him of Kadar.

Of Darim and Sef.

Of every recruit that Ezio has taken under his wing.

The plot of AC Valhalla happens but, this time, Desmond takes over the whole Hidden One subplot (with Eivor joining the story mandatory targets) and he becomes close to Hytham.

To Eivor.

To everyone in Ravensthorpe.

He's the strange man that's not Dane, Norse, or English.

And that makes him everyone's friend.

Eivor becomes the pseudo-jarl in Sigurd's absence, Randvi stays as their second-in-command and Desmond...

Desmond sorta becomes like a freelancer of sorts that helps out anyone who needs it (priority goes to Hytham though) and his suggestions and comments are taken seriously, even by Eivor and Randvi.

(Annnndd that's as far as I got)

Some 'unorganized' notes I thought of:

Desmond's body is reacting to Basim being completely assimilated with Loki (it's like a defense mechanism because of the trauma he sustained thanks to Juno... and technically Minerva)

This does mean he starts getting the same 'allergic reaction' the more Sigurd becomes unhinged with Tyr's memories

Hytham knows Desmond has a hidden blade but says nothing about it (he reports it to the council though and their leading 'idea' is Desmond is from a different branch, perhaps somewhere in Europe, or may actually be a child of an Assassin who trained him but didn't have the chance to induct him to the Brotherhood)

Vinland... oooohhh booyy. Vinland's entire subplot's gonna change because Desmond can understand them. There will be a scene where Desmond will look at the Grand Temple and wonder why he got sent to this time period. Is it this? Is it because of the Grand Temple? Desmond will also debate with himself if he should destroy the crystal ball. If keeping Juno from influencing Connor would be the right thing to do, even if it means that Connor won't be able to help the Revolution and maybe he'll even become a victim instead once shit hits the fan.

Those 'potions' Valka gives don't make Desmond see 'Valhalla', instead, it works as a pseudo-Animus that lets him relive his ancestors' memories (maybe even make him relive a certain pirate's memories too? hhhhmmm)

Personally, I think Desmond would side with Eivor until the end and will even help him take down Basim but he'll understand Basim's lust for revenge. It's not that different from Ezio's thirst for vengeance against the Templars and the Borgias or Connor's hunt for Charles Lee after all BUT Desmond draws the line in Basim trying to kill the reincarnation of Odin, especially when it's clear that Basim is driven to vengeance by Loki's memories while Eivor doesn't even have any of Odin's memories anyway.

(I like the ending of Desmond actually getting into the simulation and that this whole thing was for Layla to give the staff to Desmond so he can be 'reborn'... but I wanna keep Layla alive so no 'oh this will kill you in seconds if you let go of the staff' because, bad ubisoft, bad)

[bitchfitch]

I'm still picking at 'Retired' spy Zephyr to figure out how he's going to be loony, extremely self destructive tendencies is the current vibe but the Flavor of it isnt there yet. But I've got Retired Supersoldier Renard figured out.

He's spent so long being gaslit and having his actual perception of reality discredited and made to feel fake that he struggles to tell what's real and whats a story. It means he settles into their cover story and new life as civilians almost instantly, but when reality conflicts with the story it confuses him and sends him into explosive bouts of rage as he seeks to Make it fit. That used to be an adaptation he needed to use in order to survive the absolute hell he was put through, but now that he's out... It's just destructive.

He ends up genuinely believing their new lived lie is the truth. He's was honorably discharged from the army following a traumatic head injury before he ever saw actual combat. He and Zephyr were highschool sweethearts who married before Renard was deployed for the first time. Zephyr has always ran a tattoo and piercing studio, Renard is a data analyst now. Neither of them have ever taken a life.

They live in a happy white picket fence neighborhood, all the other houses are empty They have a cat, it's a statuette that was part of the Generic Home Decor their place was furnished with for this experiment. They have two beautiful infant children to whom Renard is a doting father, He hasn't noticed that they don't age or cry, or move, or that they're cheap baby dolls.

Zephyr loves him. He loves Zephyr. Their wedding was beautiful. The pictures of the event make his head hurt because they don't 100% line up with their agreed on story. They got married in the winter, Zephyr already had his piercings and tattoos. The man in the picture is dressed for a hot summer wedding and his skin is bare of any identifiable marks. They've been in love since highschool. Renard doesn't remember anything about highschool. He never went.

Zephyr loves him, they're married, a lot of the time Zephyr treats him like a stranger or like there was nothing between them.

A man from the military comes by every week to talk to them. Renard remembers the man giving them their new identies. He asks questions about them that don't make sense. What cover? What plan? What experiment? Why was he given a new identity? why did the man introduce him to the husband he had had for a decade like they were total strangers the first time the man came to visit the house?

What is he writing in his stupid clipboard? Always writing. the scratching sound is killing Renard. he can take it. it's not Right. he just meant to grab the clipboard and take it away from the man.

Renard doesn't know what he's looking at when he stands in the tiled foyer of his perfect home. The man is on the ground. he's screaming. Zephyr is bolting out the door. There's something in Renard's hand. There's so much blood.

the clipboard is on the floor beside his feet. There's something in his hand. Renard is staring at it and his brain isn't letting him process what it is.

Zephyr comes back. there's other people with him. They take the screaming man away and Zephyr is saying sweet things to him that don't match the movements of his mouth. He takes the thing in Renard's hand and passes it to one of the people. They wrap it in scarlet plastic.

He'd just meant to grab the clipboard. Something told him he'd grabbed the man by the wrist too hard instead... but there was so much blood. He wasn't a strong man. He was big sure, but he wasn't strong. Their story involved nothing about this man, or Renard being particularly strong.

Zephyr was still right there, soothing him. Telling him that now that their guest was gone they should go have a drink in the dining room. Zephyr likes making cocktails, Renard likes watching his husband do it. He just wishes he could handle more than one Martini before he was so sleepy he could barely stand. You'd think a man his size wouldn't be such a lightweight. Zephyr tells him he always has been, and it doesn't feel right to Renard, but his husband wouldn't lie to him. right?

He dreams of torn off hands that night.

[shinynewboots]

ivy / aemond x oc (Chapter 1)

Summary: “Do be careful walking the halls at night Lady Serena of House Tarbeck, there are many untrustworthy men lurking in the shadows.”

“Even you,” She asked, unable to stop herself.

A wide smirk found itself on the prince’s features. “Especially me.”

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, infidelity, angst, mourning, dubious consent, grief, alcohol

Word Count: 3.6k

AO3

Chapter 1: Oh, goddamn

Her husband was drinking. Again. 

He was almost always drinking now. 

Ever since the arrival of Lord Evyn Tarbeck and his wife, Lady Serena Tarbeck, to King’s Landing, there were very few times that Lord Tarbeck was without a wine goblet in his hand, surrounded by other lords making drunken deals deep into the night. 

However, Serena did not mind as his personality (or lack thereof ) became more tolerable once under the hazy influence of wine. 

There was nothing special about Evyn Tarbeck. He was not particularly funny or smart. His sole redeeming qualities were his occasional kindness and his ability to make drunken deals that always seemed to benefit his house greatly in the end. 

Evyn, under the coaxing of his father, was convinced that he and his new wife must make for King’s Landing to represent the interests of House Tarbeck almost a fortnight after their wedding. 

Serena did not mind that abrupt move as it kept her away from the leering eyes of her father in law and the judgemental eyes of her mother in law. 

Serena settled into a quiet routine since the four months they had arrived in King’s Landing: Awaken. Walk the gardens. Tend to Asher (her cat). Join her husband at dinner with the other lords and ladies of the court. Attend the occasional feast or ball. Repeat.

It was at one of these feasts that Serena found herself alone on the wall, staring into the glass of wine in her hand.  The festivities were in full swing. The dance floor was full and the music was loud and jovial. 

Her husband was deep in his cups tonight. She knew that if she were to join him and the jovial group he surrounded himself with, he would be extra attentive. Extra kind. 

His vision would blur and he would only be able to make out her light brown hair and green eyes. He would lean down to her level, his warm breath tickling her neck as he would pull her close to whisper. 

“Dyanna.” He would whisper into Serena’s ear, unable to remember that he was not married to the sister he truly loved. He would only be whispering to the ghost of her replacement. 

And Serena would let him whisper. Let him live out his fantasy as he was consumed in a lavender haze of love and wine. And her heart would break, as it had time and time again.

No, Serena thought, it is better I stay here.

She watched as the other ladies in the court gathered around each other, giggling and whispering as they scanned the room. Serena had tried to find a companion or two during her time at the castle, yet there were no other noble ladies with whom she had made a connection. 

She found her eyes drifting along the various guests until they fell upon the shocking white hair which she had become familiar with during her time in the Capital.

Targaryen. The name itself not native Westerosi but one of Old Valyria. Serena had grown up hearing stories of the Conquest and of the Targaryen rulers but she was still taken aback almost every time she got a glimpse of them in the castle. 

They are more like gods than men, Serena had heard many times growing up. And yet, Serena was not reminded of gods when she gazed upon them but faeries. 

Growing up, her father had always told stories of faeries, beings too beautiful, too sharp, too perfect to be of man. The fae of the stories her father told used their charming, ethereal features for mischief and cruelty, luring men in only to play cruel tricks upon them. Something told Serena that white-haired royalty could also use their Valyrian features for similar means.

Serena broke her gaze from the Targaryen group, hoping no one noticed how long her eyes had lingered. No one could blame her though, they were all achingly beautiful.

She took a sip of her wine, waiting until she had been present an appropriate amount of time before she made her leave. 

She glanced up again only to notice a shock of white hair headed straight towards her, violet eyes meeting her own.

Serena’s own eyes widened as Princess Helaena stopped in front of her. The princess gave her a soft smile.

“Mother told me I must talk to at least one guest before I am allowed to leave,” Princess Heleana declared, violet eyes wide. “I noticed you over here alone and thought to myself that you must be a particularly pleasant person to talk to.”

Serena’s eyebrows furrowed at the princess’ statement, almost positive that her mother, Queen Alicent, almost certainly would not approve of the princess’ candor.

Princess Helaena was ethereal, as all Targaryens were, however, her face was much softer than her relatives. Her violet eyes were captivating, though cloudy as though the princess peered at the world through a day dream. Her voice was soft, like a summer rain that would roll lazily along the windows of the castle in the afternoon. 

Serena could not help as her eyes found themselves staring at the princess’s swollen stomach. She quickly averted her gaze, staring back at the princess, hoping her rude staring had gone unnoticed. Forgetting herself, Serena remembered who she was in the presence of and gave the princess a curtsy. 

“My Princess, it is a pleasure,” Serena said, a hint of curiosity evident in her voice. “Lady Serena of House Tarbeck.”

Helaena grinned in response and grabbed Serena’s free hand. As soon as she did, a strange look appeared on her ethereal features and her violet eyes which had been cloudy now seemed to shine with a clarity Serena could not identify.

“Something tells me we are to be fast friends.” Helaena finally said after an eternity (or rather, one minute) of silence from the princess. Serena gave the princess a soft smile, somewhat unsure but excited at the prospect of finally having someone to talk to in the palace aside from her cat. Her husband was not one for conversation. Or anything at all really. 

A booming laugh stole Serena from her thoughts and she looked over at its source. Somehow, at the same time, the gods had destined Serena and Heleana to make an acquaintance, their husbands had done the same. 

Evyn was no longer sitting, but standing, the wine from his glass sloshing dangerously as Prince Aegon slapped him on the back, wine-stained grins on both of their faces. 

“I believe our husbands have made their own acquaintance,” Serena stated, giving the Princess a tired look. 

Helaena was also looking at the source of the noise, absentmindedly rubbing her swollen belly as she did. “They are both so loud. Aegon alone is boisterous enough.”

Serena laughed in agreement. “ Evyn might give the Prince a run for his coin. Especially once the night grows late.” 

“I do not wish to be here for that,” Heleana admitted. Serena felt for the girl who looked as though she were about to pop. She estimated that the princess had at least another moon to go before the delivery. Having to stand and socialize in such a state was something Serena did not envy. “I do believe I will be making my leave soon if you would care to join Lady Tarbeck.”

Serena gave her husband one last glance just he grabbed the wine decanter out of the hands of a serving girl. Serena quickly turned away and placed her wine glass on a nearby table. She grabbed Heleana’s arm. 

“I would enjoy that very much.”

Heleana was very eager to ask Serena questions about her life and former house, House Sarsfield. She asked about the Westerlands and for Serena to describe its landscape in the most perfect detail she could. She asked Serena about the insects she had encountered growing up in the Westerlands. 

Serena found a familiar soul in Heleana, who she was learning was existing in as much, if not more, loneliness than she. 

Heleana finally found herself fatigued, the state of her condition catching up with her. She bid Serena goodnight with the promise that she would send for tea in the afternoon. Serena responded with a grin that she found herself keeping as she walked back to her and her husband’s quarters. 

Upon arrival, she was met with the knowing yellow stare of her cat, Asher.

Asher was a handsome, young cat with thick fur as black as night. He had been Serena’s closest companion ever since he presented her with a large rat, almost the size of him at the time as he had been a small kitten, some five years ago. He was a good listener and attentive. Sometimes she felt as though he understood her, giving his judgment through glowing yellow eyes, a sarcastic meow, or a bored yawn.

If only her husband was as attentive as her cat.

She bent down and gave the Asher gentle pets. Rumbling purrs could be heard from deep within the cat’s chest. Serena smiled softly at him. 

She stood from her position and readied herself for bed. She knew Evyn would not be returning until early morning and thus it was fruitless to stay awake waiting on him. 

She lay in bed, pleasantly surprised to find the maid had left a bed warmer in anticipation of the cool night ahead. She closed her eyes, allowing the darkness and thoughtlessness of sleep to take her.

And yet sleep did not take her as she lay awake, Asher cuddled against her head. Even his deafening purrs were unable to drown out the thoughts racing in Serena’s mind. 

She could not help but think of Princess Heleana and her swollen belly. It was not necessarily jealousy Serena felt. It’s not as though the idea of having Evyn Tarbeck’s child fills me with joy. 

It was inadequacy. That was the only way Serena could describe it. She did not necessarily even crave motherhood (especially when coming to terms that she might one day birth a replica of Evyn. Boring Evyn Tarbeck). 

It was the idea that her husband could not look at her without wishing she was someone else. And not even some stranger that Serena could not even imagine, but her younger sister Dyanna. 

Dyannna. 

Dyanna had been beautiful, with sparkling green eyes and hair the color of straw. She was the favorite of the two Sarsfield sisters and the most beautiful. Even Serena knew this to be true. 

Serena had loved her dearly. 

She could still the ghost of her sister’s hand in her own when she thought of her for too long. Dyanna had always had the softest hands that she had moisturized with cow’s milk twice a day. She would always offer to share with Serena, who would laugh and refuse. 

“There’s no hope for my hands. My bow’s made sure of that.”

House Sarsfield’s house words were “True to the Mark”, with a green and white arrow as their sigil. Their father, who Serena was convinced was the only person who seemed to prefer her, had from a young age taught her how to shoot with a bow, leaving her hands calloused and rough in the process. Dyanna had never taken to the sport. 

She remembered the first time Evyn had taken her hand and the disappointment on his face when he felt her rough palms. So different than the softness of her sister. 

Serena stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts running wild. 

She glanced around the dark room, willing herself to find something to focus on. Something that helped her fall into a deep slumber. 

And yet she found the opposite as she glanced at the writing desk, the harsh words of her mother etched in bleeding ink into a letter. 

The words “disgrace”, “unworthy”, and “ shameful” had been a few of the choice words Lady Sarsfield had left for her oldest daughter (only daughter now) to read.

You bring shame to our house and your husband’s house by not yet producing an heir. When I married your father, I knew I was expecting you by the next month….

The words her mother had left out but had surely had in mind when writing the letter were: Dyanna would be with child by now. 

She would always be haunted by ghosts.

Serena huffed in frustration, stirring Asher from his slumber. He blinked his bright, yellow eyes and yawned. 

“I’m sorry,” She whispered. Asher seemed to accept the apology and laid his head down once more. 

Serena laid in silence for a moment more before sitting up and leaving the warm bed, her irritation with herself, her husband, and every other gods-be-damned person for the sole reason that she was not her sister. 

Asher looked up once more from his slumber as Serena hatched her plan.

-

Evyn arrived back to their rooms in the wee hours of the morning. He stumbled as he walked in, hastily pulling at his clothes in order to soon attempt to find sweet respite in bed. He sat on the bed, pulling off his boots. 

The fire was still lit in the room, giving off a warm glow though it only seemed to somewhat ward away the chilliness the night had brought. 

Serena had feasted early, though that was nothing new for Evyn. Their marriage had been…quiet. He expected to feel the weight of her on the bed when he reached his hand back and yet was met with only the soft fur of her damned cat. 

“Serena?” Evyn asked into the stillness of the room. 

Soft movement in one of the chairs in front of the fire was his response. 

Evyn looked clearly, now seeing the light brown hair of his wife.

“Serena?” He asked again, a bit more cautiously this time. 

Serena stood from her chair and turned to her Lord husband, clad in nothing. Willing him to acknowledge her. Touch her. Want her.

Evyn Tarbeck could only avert his eyes, placing his head in his hands, suddenly sober at the sight of her. “Serena, I cannot.”

Serena stared back at her husband; her green eyes were unwavering in the frustration they shone. Instead of an answer, she walked towards him like a large cat stalking its prey. She approached him, still silent, and stood before his distraught form.

She placed her hands on his head, almost begging for him to look at her. He lifted his head from his hands, finally looking at his lady wife. It was not the first time he had seen her bare, and yet it might well have been with the way he breathed like a nervous boy, still green before their first whore.

This frustrated her more.

She grabbed one of his hands and despite his apprehension, she placed it upon her bare breast. Her nipples were erect not from a desire for her dear husband but due to the cool draft that permeated their chambers. “Please don’t make me beg, Evyn.”

Her eyes were soft now. Trying, willing, hoping he would perform his duty as her husband.

“Evyn, it has been five moons. Five moons since we were wed.”

She heard the whispers. She could feel their eyes on her when walked through the court, her stomach empty. No signs of a babe filling her womb.

She had received a rather nasty raven from her mother a few nights ago demanding to know why there was no proof of consummation. No proof that Serena had performed her duty as a wife of a Lord of Westeros.

Evyn pulled his hand away from her body as if burned by the touch of it. His eyes narrowed with exasperation.

“And seven moons since I lost her.”

Her.

Serena’s younger sister, Dyanna.

“And you stand here and attempt to seduce me as though you do not care about my pain, wife.”

Serena stepped back as though she had been struck.

“Your pain?” Serena’s lips twisted into something cruel and unbecoming on her otherwise plain features. “Do you think I care about your pain husband?”

Evyn’s eyes widened as he stared at the creature in front of him that seemed to resemble a spiteful harpy instead of his wife.

“I lost a sister. My dearest sister who has left a hole in my heart that will never fill and you lost what? A betrothed you knew only three moons? Dearest husband, do not dare to tell me of your pain when I have stood by your side these long months putting on appearances as a jovial newlywed when every day my heart breaks from a loss I never got to grieve and a husband who will not even show the most minute affection towards me unless he is drunk and forgets that I am not my sister.”

Serena grabbed her shift and quickly redressed, the coolness of the room no longer having its effect upon her as she burned.  Evyn sat in silence, only capable of staring at the force in front of him.

“You might not hear the whispers, but I do. I live with them every day. ‘Odd Lady Tarbeck is not yet with child. You know I do not blame Lord Tarbeck, as the sister was the one with the beauty in the family.” Serena said using the same pompous voices as the ones who gossiped in court. 

Evyn gave no response. Serena huffed and threw on an overcoat and her slippers, unable to stay in close quarters with her husband. She slammed the door of their room, uncaring of who heard, and made her way through the dark, cold halls of the castle. 

She had no destination in mind, anger being her only guide. 

Fuck Evyn Tarbeck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She was unsure how far she had gone out of the wing for the lords and ladies who stayed as guests at the castle. Every winding hallway and corned looked the same as the last.

Serena rounded a corner and quickly came face to face with a white-haired god. 

Prince Aemond Targaryen. 

Where Princess Helaena had the softness of a cherub, Prince Aemond was angular. Sharp. As if she would be cut to pieces if she got too close. 

He was tall. Serena only came up to just below his shoulder. He appeared to be wearing the same clothes from the feast, though she could not accurately say as the heat of her anger still clouded her mind. 

Realizing she had forgotten to breathe, she let out a shaky sigh. “My apologies my prince.”

The prince looked down, regarding her with something between annoyance towards her and annoyance towards the need to maintain propriety even in the oddest of circumstances.

“Mm.” 

Serena waited for a moment for him to say something else, yet he did not. Awkwardness lingered in the air. She had heard that he was quiet. Intense. Many of the ladies in the court found him to be a dark mystery that existed in self-imposed isolation, away from the women of the court. Serena could not blame him. The ladies of the court were vultures. 

She darted her eyes away from him, hoping to make a quick getaway. “If you will excuse me, my prince.”

She bowed her head down and tried to walk past him but was stopped by a rough hand grabbing at her arm. She looked down to see the prince’s slender fingers wrapped around her arm.

“My Prince,” She asked, looking up at him cautiously. His right eye was striking, a beautiful mixture of blue and violet that lacked the cloudiness that shaded Helaena’s eyes. She could see the hints of a scar peaking out from the behind eye patch of his left eye. 

He finally seemed to actually see her, deciding she was interesting enough to be the receiver of his attention.

“It is rude to leave without an introduction,” He stated, his voice soft but intense. Calculating. 

“Lady Serena of House Tarbeck, my prince.” 

“Mm.”

The seconds passed by slowly. Serena felt frozen with the prince’s hand still wrapped around her arm. 

“I am curious what a Lady is doing stalking about the castle in such a…state.” Prince Aemond finally said, slowly looking from Serena’s face down her body. Her eyes widened as she looked down to examine her own state of dress.

Her overcoat, which she had left untied in her haste, did nothing to shield the curves of her nightgown. It left very little to the imagination. Her nipples were erect from the coolness of the night and creating small peaks through the gown. 

Warmth rushed to her cheeks.

Fucking Evyn Tarbeck, Serena thought. 

“Just out for a bit of fresh air, my prince. I suppose in my haste my overcoat came untied.” Serena offered. Judging by the amusement in his eye, he was able to see through her weak explanation as soon as the words left her lips. 

“Mm.”

Mm. If the Prince answered “Mm” to another one of my questions…I will do nothing because he is the prince but I will be very annoyed by it. 

Prince Aemond looked her in the eyes once more, something unreadable brewing within his own eye. He released the grip he held on her arm. 

“Do be careful walking the halls at night Lady Serena of House Tarbeck, there are many untrustworthy men lurking in the shadows.”

“Even you,” She asked, unable to stop herself. Serena, you are an idiot. 

A wide smirk found itself on the prince’s features. “Especially me.”

With that, the Prince moved past Serena in a swift motion and continued on down the hall. 

Serena stared after him, replying to the interaction in her mind before once again becoming aware of her open overcoat. She quickly tied the coat shut and let out a deep breath. 

Fuck.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Headcanons | Being apprentices of Hadad together with Judas | Platonic

Coming from an unsafe background in which you had to firmly stand your ground, you picked up the skill of persuasion quite early in life and found that you had a knack for it. Throughout your childhood, you yearned to be rich someday.

For the sake of obtaining knowledge and skills in the business industry, you happen to stumble into Hadad, who takes you on as his apprentice.

Hadad claims you are one of the best apprentices he has ever had. 

With a silver tongue, you skilfully manage to talk your way into and out of any situation.

He teaches you several techniques on how to sway people into buying anything from you, even if it means a bit of foul play here and there.

In brief, you and Hadad are as thick as thieves in the business, not minding twisting truths every here and there if it means getting what you want.

After a few years, he has taught you everything he knows and you’ve grown a strong bond. You’re not his apprentice anymore, but you still work together.

Until Judas comes along as a rookie businessman, just as eager as you had been, with large and innocent-looking blue eyes which could be used to his advantage.

Although you give him the benefit of the doubt at first since he has no experience yet, it seems that Judas has a difficult time dealing with things weighing down on his conscience. 

Hadad notices your uncertainty towards Judas as time passes, and when he asks you about it, you tell him that you think he is way too sweet and soft for the business. Hadad implores you to give him another chance.

Still, you keep your distance from Judas until he manages to complete an incredibly successful deal, pleasantly surprising you. Standing corrected, you finally start to warm up to him.

The two of you bond over drinks in the public house, and one evening, you tell him your story, of how you grew up and how you want to make sure that you will end up at the top of the social ladder.

Judas knows that you’re way more shrewd than he is, so when he asks what you can teach him, you’re momentarily taken aback. 

Hadad overhears you teaching Judas, which oddly warms his heart. It seems that you’re not only a good student, but a good mentor as well.

One day, Judas dares to ask if your actions never weigh down on you. After downing a few cups of ale, you open up about how you wish you would feel more empathy towards others.

Judas promises to be there for you if you need him, which touches you genuinely.

For a while, the three of you travel from place to place to strike deals and spend your money. 

Judas often expresses his desire to chase after more in life than just making money, and although you understand his feelings, you do not share this sentiment… Yet.

Then, one day, after purchasing a particularly cheap plot of land to open salt mines on, you run into a few men who are looking for a piece of land so that they can host a sermon given by a famous Rabbi, Whom you have heard rumours about.

Curious, you listen how Hadad helps them out with their deal and convinces the owner of the field to lend it to them.

When he accepts, Hadad ushers you and Judas out of the public house and admits that he, too, is of the opinion that life is not all about making money.

Judas quips that he’d be interested to see the sermon, and you’re also keen on checking out what the fuss is all about. 

Right before the sermon starts, you go with Judas whilst Hadad wanders off, who insists on speaking to the Preacher’s followers. The disciples that had been at the tavern recognise the two of you and offer you a place within their group.

You aren’t sure at first, not really wanting to let Hadad down, but with some convincing from Judas’ side, he manages to talk you into accepting the proposal.

It seems that teaching Judas the fine tricks of the trade now turns on you.

Hadad is in shock to hear that the two of you are leaving him to follow Jesus and renounce your shares.

He is especially displeased with your departure, for you used to be so passionate for the business.

You tell him that you’re truly sorry but that you’ve made up your mind

Embracing him tightly, thanking him for everything, you leave Hadad behind in shock.

Together with Judas, you take on the role as the keeper of the purse, finding a new purpose in life other than just becoming rich.

[the-haunted-office]

Timmy's death had been relatively quick, although it hadn't been painless by any stretch of the imagination.

He could remember the day everything happened. His job was standing at the copier, making more copies of documents to send off into other parts of the building. That was pretty much all he did - stand at the copy machine making copies of things for the full-time employees who actually had employee numbers. It was an endless, mindless task, not to mention strange for a company that claimed to be "paperless", but he wasn't going to argue with anyone about that. He just wanted to do his job and go home. Additionally, he wasn't the type to argue in any case.

It was March 17, 2011. A Thursday. 4:25 PM. Almost the end of the standard American work day. He'd taken a brief break from his monotonous task to use the restroom. All the water he kept track of drinking throughout the day made him particularly regular in this regard. It was while he was at the sink washing his hands that he heard everything happening outside. People screaming. Clamor. Things being knocked over. It was one of the loudest, scariest things he'd ever heard, and he honestly thought a shooter had gotten into the building. Some ex-employee who came back for revenge.

Soap still on his hands and the sink still running, Timmy scrambled into the nearest bathroom stall, closed it, locked it, and crouched down on top of a toilet so his feet couldn't be seen underneath. Of course the stalls still had those cracks everybody could peep through due to their poor construction, but it was the first thing he could think of. He crouched there, hand over his mouth to keep himself from breathing too loudly, tasting soap. He'll never forget the bitter taste of it. Or the scent. Suave Rainwater. Something that was supposed to be refreshing but just smelled like a dead-end job.

Unfortunately the assailant causing all this ruckus wasn't a human - it was an extraterrestrial parasitic mist, and there was nothing he could have done to escape it. It could pass through walls. It could see through walls. His soul - the color of honey - is what it saw and that is what it wanted.

He didn't hear a thing as it came right through the bathroom stall and filled his lungs, strangling him inside out with icy fingers so cold they burned, paralyzing him in a matter of seconds. The pain had been immense, but mercifully brief, and that was the only mercy in it, because immediately thereafter he felt the very curious sensation of being pulled through a tube much smaller than he was. Like being sucked through a straw. It thankfully didn't hurt, but it was terribly uncomfortable.

And then he found himself in the belly of the mist, alongside all of his coworkers whom had been consumed before him.

Some of them were already being melted alive - their souls were being disincorporated off the plane of existence and into total oblivion. No remaining behind as a ghost. No ascending. No afterlife. Not even darkness. Just nothing.

Timmy knew at some point his turn would be next, but when would that be? All he could do was cower and cover his eyes and ears to try to block it all out, but that could only do so much. Their screams and cries and wails penetrated every sense he had and twisted and beat him down until all he could do was cry like the others.

He's since been rescued, and although now the danger of being digested by a mist entity has passed, that fear of oblivion still lingers. If he passes on... what will become of him? Will he get to go to a paradise with his loved ones like Stanley did? How could he? He doesn't have any loved ones. Except for his father. Would he be waiting for him? Timmy hadn't heard a word from him since the day he left.

Emptiness fills him, creating a void. He had no one waiting for him.

Perhaps his death hadn't been so quick and painless after all.

[tergridguy]

Cigar of the Day: Davidoff Aniversario Entreacto

This blog is mostly going to be about tabletop gaming and mental health issues, but I can't help but also talk about another one of my passions which I have no other outlet to write about; cigars, pipes, and other premium connoisseur-grade tobacco products. This might seem to be out of place in a blog dedicated to gaming and recovery, but more than just gaming, this blog and a lot of my work ultimately revolves around how we can use hobbyism in general and embrace our own passions and personal interests to aid in our recovery and sustain our wellness. Cigars fit into that picture for me.

I was a very heavy drinker for a long time, and although I spent many a night polishing off a pint of Fireball or Sailor Jerry, I was also a connoisseur-- that was something I often used as a smokescreen to justify my drinking in public, but it was also sincere to a certain extent. I knew everything there was to know about premium dark rums and new england IPA's, I knew how to handicap a 20 year old bottle of port, and I had strong opinions about various liqueurs and cocktails. When I stopped drinking, I missed that, and I wanted something I could do when hanging out with my guy friends, some of whom drink, and some who don't. Cigars have come to fill that gap for me. I can indulge in a cigar at a bachelor party or backyard barbeque when others are knocking back beers, and I can nerd out about the pedigree of my collection and the stories behind the great cigar makers and pipe carvers. Cigars also allow me to indulge in something which permeates a lot of my passions; collecting. That's something I was never able to do with alcohol due to the severity of my dependence. I may have known all about 25 different premium rums that I favored, but I could never keep a bottle of any of them around long enough to grace a stately home bar.

Today I'm going to talk about one of my favorite cigars, the Davidoff Aniversario Entreacto. This is a premium offering, as with all Davidoff flagship products, and although just about any cigar that isn't a Philly Blunt or a Dutch Masters labels itself 'Premium' in the same way that every corner liquor store says "Fine" wines on the sign, Zino Davidoff means it. At a diminutive 3.5" and a 43 ring gauge, this pocket rocket is about as long and wide as my middle finger. A highly unusual size, the only other cigar on the market that comes close outside of Davidoff would be the Arturo Fuente Hemingway Short Story, which is a different beast entirely.

The Aniversario comes in a range of sizes, and all of them are superb, but the Entreacto has a special place in my heart and part of the reason I like it is the unique size, which is why I will focus on the Entreacto specifically for this profile-- however, my commentary on the flavor notes and smoking experience can be extrapolated to apply for the most part to other Aniversarios, particularly my other favorite, the Short Perfecto, which is only slightly bigger and mostly differentiated by the difference in shape which leads to a more gradual crescendo. The Entreacto's compact size and relative brevity make it a convenient inclusion on an elegant evening, providing a rapturous interlude to any formal affair without sidelining you for an hour or more when there are festivities to attend to. It's also the perfect duration for an indulgent morning dog walk, which is something I look for.

I have this stick on my mind because I ordered 2 boxes today to lay down in my humidor for about ~15 months in advance of my wedding in August 2025. That set me back $516, which might give the layman a little sticker shock, but it has to be taken in context. $258 for a box of not 20, but 25 main line Davidoff cigars is an unbelievable bargain. The Entreacto was the first Davidoff I ever smoked, because the licensed Davidoff dealer in Boston, L.J. Peretti and Son, which is a favorite haunt of mine when I find myself with extra time on my hands downtown, sells singles for around ~$20, whereas most of the full-size Davidoff offerings go for $50 a stick or more. Oh yeah, by the way, you won't find these at Watch City cigar or just any old smoke shop, you need a special license from Davidoff to even carry them because Zino Davidoff takes the integrity of his flagship band so seriously he won't allow for the possibility that a store owner might not store or care for his namesake product properly, which could result in a substandard experience for the consumer, a blasphemy which must never be allowed to occur.

Last week my work took me downtown as it often does, and with a window of opportunity between appointments I decided to swing by Peretti's and pick up a few treats. I always tell myself I'm going to try something new this time, but I find myself at the Davidoff cabinet every time I come through. How can I buy anything else when perfection itself is on offer? Any time I walk out of there without an Aniversario I come to regret it, so I grabbed a few Entreacto's along with a few Davidoff Nicaragua Petit Coronas, an entrancing limited edition Figurado from La Flor Dominicana, and an ounce each of strawberry patch and No. 8 slices for my pipes. I decided this time, I wasn't going to try to save them. I always try to save these for special occasions, but it just hurts to reach into my humidor and grab anything else when an Aniversario is sitting there taunting me. It ruins the experience of every other stick I smoke when I'm wishing it was this.

As I have indulged in these over the weekend, I realized this is what I have to have for my wedding. I always knew I wanted the Aniversario on offer, but I imagined I would put out a more conventional size until I realized that the brevity of the Entreacto lends itself to a wedding reception, where many of the guests won't be regular cigar smokers, and celebratory cigar smoking can take place without sidelining the smokers from the rest of the party for over an hour. Davidoff lists the smoking time of the Entreacto as 20 minutes, but in my experience it can linger for about 25-30, especially if you smoke it down to a nub, which it's hard not to do. Furthermore, the aesthetic of the Davidoff white label series, of which the Aniversario is a distinguished member, with the understated white double band and unpretentious Davidoff insignia, seems, and probably is, thoughtfully designed to serve as a matching accessory to a tuxedo or dinner jacket.

The Aniversario also lends itself to an event like a wedding because it is a relatively mild cigar. Typically I don't tend to skew towards more mild offerings, but the Aniversario is a notable exception. Nothing about this cigar leaves me wanting, it is mild without being bland or flat and possesses a distinct and sophisticated aroma and flavor profile. The distinct experience of the Aniversario for me is the strident dryness and pleasant astringency that defines it. It manages to have bite and complexity without being brutal or pungent. It is the elegance it embodies, proving through its existence the distinction between quality and potency.

The other thing to make note of, for those who aren't familiar with the Davidoff line, is the exceptionally high standard of quality control to which every Davidoff cigar is held. When you buy a Davidoff cigar, you know without any reservation that everything about that cigar will be perfect, not one single stick will leave their factory being anything other than exactly as Zino Davidoff intended. Every one will have impeccable and uniform construction, perfectly fitted bands, every cigar in a box will have an absolutely uniform coloration and wrapper texture. You may be paying, at baseline, at least double what you would pay for almost anything else, but for that extra investment you get the peace of mind that every stick is guaranteed to be of the utmost quality. When an occasion calls for perfection, for unquestioning quality, look no further.

Even the renowned Cuban flagship Cohiba is known to have quality control issues at times, with some cigars being deficient and many collectors know that the Cuban labels cannot be trusted to properly age their offerings, as the cash-starved Cuban government puts pressure on producers to push product out before it is fully mature to provide capital to the state. If I buy a box of Cohibas today (which of course I would never do; that's illegal!) I can't even be certain those will be suitably aged by the time my wedding rolls around. I have no such compunctions with Davidoff. I know that if their product is available for purchase, that means that is a cigar Zino Davidoff stands behind from that moment on. That man hasn't let me down yet.

[jast-art-stuff]

Sonic Spryware

By now you all know my usual routine of getting a game on Thursday from my local unnamed thrift store and I’ve even introduced you to some of the regular staff who have come to know me well, expecting my visit every other day when I got the chance.

But today already started out strange when I walked into a single man at the cashier’s desk, the rest of the store seemingly devoid of any other worker.

“They’re on break” was the cashier’s response when I asked about the lack of staff.

“Every single one?” I asked inquisitively.

It did not and it still does not make sense. There was nothing particularly special about that day and I certainly didn’t trust the man at the register either, whom I had never seen before in town and certainly not in the store. He seemed out of place with the locals of my town. Portly figure, a large shaggy neckbeard, and glasses that were too small for his large eyes. It was uncanny to even look at him. So I didn’t.

“Look kid I don’t know why no one else came in so do me a favor and just pick what you want or come back tomorrow, I’m sure they’ll be back by then,” he said with a scowl, though I recall a slight hint of glee in his voice.

Unnerved I decided to just look around and see if I could find anything interesting, which is when I came across the game. It was a Sonic Adventure CD with the Adventure part scribbled out with a black pen spelling the words, Spryware.

I took it to the cashier at which point he looked up at me, looked at the game I was holding, and for a brief second, he smiled. Not a happy smile, it felt off, like he WANTED me to take the game.

I ignored it for the most part and it wasn’t until I got back that I started to reflect on the creepy encounter I had with him. already there were signs that I couldn’t really trust this guy, I had never even seen him around the town and he didn’t look to be local. His unknown identity and his reaction to the game are setting off more alarms now that I’ve played the game and it’s mainly the dread of having to confront him again if I want to find out more about this game.

 I didn’t start playing the game until it was late at night. Sitting in the family living room with Roko(my golden retriever) by my side, snacks, drinks, and no parents for the night because it was Friday and they had gone off on their weekly outing, it really was the perfect setup. It was the highlight of my week, free time to myself and whatever new game I happened to come upon.

I loaded Spryware into my Dreamcast, setup my camera to record any interesting footage of the game and waited for the usual screens to play before it sent me to the file selection screen, where I came across the first unusual aspect of my gameplay – 2 of the 3 save files were already taken. It didn’t really strike me as odd at the time, I just assumed the game was returned without wiping the saved data, but I was curious to see how far these players had progressed.

The first save file was complete with all the characters unlocked. But the second save file showed the player had last saved in an area called “Ataweyihtam”. The play time was crazy as well, totaling up to 23:17:45:32. I decided to try opening the file to see this new area since I’d never heard or seen it in my time playing the games years ago when it came out.

The game froze for a second but eventually started working. I’m mentioning this because I think this was my first instance with the game’s biggest bug or virus – upon starting the game I was met with the intro cutscene with Sonic perched over the building before moving on to the Chaos 0 fight. I paused the game and exited it to try and reopen the save file, but no matter how many times I tried it brought me back to the first level of the game. This eventually got annoying so I went on to just play the game.

I won’t discuss the details of the gameplay as I’ve already covered Sonic Adventure before, and Spryware’s gameplay was no different in that regard. That is until I reached the Chaos 4 fight. Nothing had happened before it and I was honestly getting bored of the game for not having anything new or interesting, the only thing really keeping me going was the strange second save file.

 Then the Chaos 4 fight started and the feeling of unease washed over me. It was my least favorite part of the game, the uncanny and monotone texture of the trees surrounding the lake seemingly bottomless, pitch-black lake. I always imagined a hand reaching out and grabbing Sonic down to the depths. Or a face to pop up and yell at the player. Anything really, my mind always wandered everytime I stared at the empty lake and I’d come up with all sorts of horrifying fantasies about what could possibly be at the bottom.

 The fight went on normally until I beat Chaos at which point the game didn’t send me to the statistics screen to end the fight.

Instead, Chaos sunk to the bottom of the lake, probably the game’s way of unloading the sprite so I wasn’t too disturbed by it until I was just there, left alone in that small lake surrounded by forests. I waited for the game to do something, anything, all the while trying different keys and inputs like moving around. Everything was working as usual but there was nothing to do. I suddenly got the feeling that I was being watched and this made me jolt in my seat, startling Roko as well who was watching the game, unusual for his normal behavior. I started looking around the dimly lit living room and hallway, though I wasn’t brave enough to venture deeper into the unlit house without Roko, so I went back to grab him.

He was just staring at something on the screen, Roko never does that, usually minding his business with his toys or simply dozing off. But something in this game had gotten his full attention and he wasn’t budging at all. I scanned the screen for a while and didn’t notice anything unordinary in my already unordinary situation until I looked at the lake, and I thought I saw something.

So I looked deeper into my screen, getting closer to the TV to see whatever it was better.

Deeper…

 Deeper…

  Deeper……

 Deep…

  And I saw what Roko did…

  The second instance.

 A sonic sprite hidden behind the Sonic textures. 

It might sound odd, but I think it knew I saw it because the second I looked at it, it was gone. The only proof I have of this instance is this shoddy screenshot.

Suddenly the boss’s music blared as… something began dashing toward Sonic. I thought the game might have restarted the Chaos 4 battle but I couldn’t see anything in the water. I ran to my controller and dashed away from the lily pad I stood on, which sank. I waited for it to come back up, but it never did. I kept dashing from one lily pad to another, terrified of the blaring music that seemed to ring in my ears even when I tried shutting the TV volume off. The thing was still invisible, only notified by the splashing of water in its path. Eventually, I ran out of lily pads, and with nowhere to run I let Sonic drown.

But he didn’t, as soon as the last lilypad went down Chaos’s scream echoed from the speakers forcing me and Roko to cover our ears due to how loud it was. In my haze, I saw a Chaos sprite lurch toward the sinking Sonic before it opened its maw. Chaos doesn’t have a mouth but I swear it opened its jaws and bit down on Sonic dragging him deeper and deeper into the lake as the camera slowly panned down to face the inky depth.

 The audio left me in a sort of shock and I didn’t move until I was sure it had stopped. I slowly lurched up and noticed the camera knocked onto the floor when I ran for the controller. As I reached out to grab it I looked back at the game, shocked, angry, and confused at what the hell I had just purchased.

 There were eyes in the lake. Nothing like any of the sprite’s eyes. Individual white orbs floating in the inky void of the lake. The images of hands reaching out and screaming flashed through my head and I quickly grabbed the remote to turn the TV off and to my joy the screen obeyed.

I stared at the blank TV for a minute, going over everything I had just witnessed and trying to grasp what I had seen grab my Sonic sprite. It looked like Chaos 4, but if he was wearing skin. Skin that was too small, and not his. That sunken maw, had no teeth, no semblance of gums, just another black void rushing towards me.

I forced myself up eventually and removed the cartridge to place it in its box. I’ve found something cursed all right, my dream came true and the rush from the game filled me with wonder and dread.

I didn’t see Roko on the couch when I turned around so I’m assuming he went to his kennel. In the meantime, I cleaned up after calming down for a bit and I haven’t touched the game since that night. I’m going to try and find a better way to capture footage of this game, maybe getting a better camera or something.

Until then, does anyone know what Spryware is? If it’s intentionally scary is there lore the new developer added or is what I’ve witnessed something completely new? I haven’t seen any conversation about the game so the prospect of having discovered something brand new is exciting but also concerning if I’m going to run into more encounters like that.

 That’s everything I’ve got until now, I’ll upload a full recording of everything I managed to capture regarding the easter egg and I might leave the audio of the final encounter (of course reducing the volume).

 Thanks for reading and I’ll see you guys when I get back to the game.

[shig-a-shig-ah]

LAYING CLAIM

» pairing: dabi x fem!reader

» cw: dubcon, revoked consent, noncon (we’re going on a journey, okay?), rimming, anal fingering, anal sex, crying, gratuitously fanon characterization. 18+, minors DNI.

» a/n: Started this months and months ago, and since I’m finally getting around to wrapping some WIPs, I guess you can have it now. Thanks @thebiggergroove​ for beta-reading!

» wc: 5.3k

» ao3 mirror

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The thing about Dabi is he's not usually a possessive guy. Fucking is fucking, as far as he's concerned—it doesn't really matter who is doing it with whom as long as everyone is getting off on it. But goddamn if there isn't something about you that makes him want to make you his.

And he's gotten that, more or less. It took some sweet talking and cajoling, and a few late nights where he made you come until you couldn't see straight, but you agreed not to go sleeping with anyone else. Sure, you've made him promise the same, but that's fine. Not that he's going to actually stop, of course, but he goes out on recruiting missions alone and he figures what you don't know won't hurt you.

That's all enough to satisfy him, at least for a little while. But then a few weeks pass and there it is again: that stupid jealousy and all those unbidden thoughts about the people you were with before him. People he knows. You never talk in too much detail about your past hookups, but he's not stupid, is all too aware that he's not the first one in this ragged band of miscreants that you've crawled into bed with. You've fucked Jin, and Shigaraki, and probably even Magne, god rest her soul—Dabi hadn't missed the way the two of you had huddled up giggling in the corner of the old bar one night, disappearing together unusually early, making those bedroom eyes at each other. And in theory that's fine. Nothing wrong with two girls having fun together, after all. Hell, bi chicks are hot and Dabi wouldn't mind taking advantage of that someday.

But first he needs to find a way to get the image of you with your legs spread for half the League out of his goddamn head.

If he's being honest, it's Shigaraki who bothers him the most. Magne is dead. Jin is a decent dude and, Dabi has to imagine, tame as a kitten in the sack. But Shigaraki, well...Dabi can tell just by looking at the guy that he's a freak, and the idea of you riding Shigaraki's dry, crusty dick, of letting him do who-knows-what filthy shit to you? It just gets to him.

And then Toga has to suggest that stupid game and go putting ideas in his head.

You're all sitting around the crumbling office space that passes for a hideout, drinking to celebrate the League's first successful double-amputation (because fuck that germophobic, transphobic prick), and blondie is just begging to play a drinking game. Normally Dabi doesn't go for that shit—why anyone needs an excuse to get wasted is beyond him—but he's in a good mood, and you make that adorable pouty face as you tell him that you played in college, that it's really fun, and somehow he finds himself sitting in a circle on the dusty floor with the rest of you losers playing 'I haven't' or whatever the fuck it's called.

It's all bland shit to start. Toga's never driven a car, Shigaraki's never gone to school. But, after you've made your way around the circle once, everyone seems to be loosening up and Spinner takes one for the team by getting to the interesting shit and admitting he's never slept with a girl. It spurs a moment of awkward silence made all the worse by his red face and obvious self-consciousness about being a virgin, but then Compress stage-whispers "Neither have I," before winking salaciously at the blushing lizard and taking a dramatic pull from his beer bottle. It's enough to lighten the mood.

After that, Dabi's forced to admit it's a decent game. There's not much he hasn't done sexually or criminally, and since those are the two topics everyone focuses on, he finds himself getting hammered faster than usual. It's a good thing too—his buzz makes it easier to ignore the look you and Shigaraki exchange when Jin announces that he's never tried watersports, easier to pretend his gut isn't twisting at the knowing smirk on your leader's face as he raises his beer bottle to drink and you follow suit.

That particular moment makes it all the more surprising when, on your next turn, you hide an embarrassed face behind your hand and announce that you've never taken it in the ass.

Dabi can't stop thinking about it the rest of the night. Obsessing over it, and the idea of being your first, your only, even if only in some less than conventional way. The thing is, it's downright tame in comparison to a lot of what you two get up to, so barely even kinky that it's almost impossible to believe you've never tried it. Sure, you've never done it together, but he'd just figured neither of you were all that into it, since it hadn't come up when you were doing lewd shit to each other.

That kind of sex is fine from his perspective, but only fine. He doesn't actively seek it out because in his mind nothing beats the feel of being balls-deep in a warm pussy, but that doesn't mean he hasn't done it. He's hooked up with plenty of girls that were into it and has always been happy to oblige; hell, he's even taken it more than once, on account of the fact that when it comes to the bedroom he's willing to try anything twice.

But doing it with you? Well, that thought sticks. The two of you finally go to bed and Dabi's so turned on by the idea of your virgin ass that he can't help testing the waters, prodding teasingly at that tight hole with one spit-slicked finger until you're squirming away and whining. He doesn't manage to convince you right then, but he makes those puppy dog eyes that are far more effective than they have any right to be, and you agree to give it a go in the future.

"Not here," you specify, the words fuzzy on your drunken tongue. "Someplace nicer, with a real bed." You already have your reservations, and you certainly don't relish the idea of undertaking that particular venture now, on a worn mattress in this falling apart building, with its paper-thin walls and complete lack of hot water. Between your booze-fueled haze and the seeming interminability of the League's poverty, you mostly forget about that casual promise by the following morning.

But Dabi doesn't. He picks up a small bottle of lube the next day and carries it around in his pocket shamelessly, a little reminder that he has something to look forward to besides roasting that prick Endeavor, and he strokes himself off to the idea more than he's proud to admit as he waits for the League to move on to better things. He can be patient, when he needs to be.

That patience takes a toll though, and the minute the League settles into their new digs in Re-Destro's sprawling villa, where there's actually privacy and clean, comfortable beds, Dabi shows up at your door with a cheshire grin and every intention of finally getting something from you that's just for him.

You grimace when you remember that promise, try briefly to talk him out of it even, but he isn't so easily dissuaded. It's made all the harder by the fact that you can't give him a specific reason why you've never tried it, beyond that it seems uncomfortable and you hadn't particularly enjoyed the couple instances when you'd allowed someone to slip a finger or two in there.

"C'mon, baby girl," Dabi coos, his breath hot in your ear as he pins you to the wall, working two unnaturally warm fingers into your cunt. "I'll make sure it's good for you. Be gentle, get you nice and warmed up first, all that sweet shit."

It really is unfair how persuasive he can be when he fixes those pleading turquoise eyes on you. The way the pads of his fingers are curling just right deep inside isn't helping either, and he teases you like that until you give in to his cajoling, though you still insist on waiting a couple nights so that you can do your research and make sure you're entirely prepared. Dabi demonstrates his appreciation by burying his face in your cunt and not surfacing for air until you've come three times and are begging for a break.

When the night finally arrives, Dabi's feeling positively giddy. He slips into your bedroom with a bottle of wine and a couple glasses he's brought, a little something to help you relax because he's a gentleman when he wants to be. It should be good booze too—he lifted it from Re-Destro's private stash, and he's certain baldy doesn't drink anything that costs less than ¥30,000. Of course, Re-Destro doesn't love sharing either, but the uptight prick is too scared of Shigaraki to complain about anything the League does. They all take advantage of that, because they can and because it's fun to watch him bite his tongue when they piss him off.

You don't make it easy for Dabi to focus on pouring the drinks though, not when you're reclining in that armchair by the window, freshly showered and fidgeting nervously. He was half-erect before he got here from just thinking about what he was going to do to you, and the sight of you acting like you're some blushing virgin spurs him all the way to rock-hard. By the time your glasses are close to empty, he's straining uncomfortably in his pants, and can't fight back his impatience any longer.

"What do you think, doll?" he murmurs, setting his glass to the side and standing up, shrugging his jacket off before leaning down to ghost his lips over your neck. "You ready to move this to the bed?"

The way you chew at your lower lip anxiously before nodding makes his dick throb.

You empty your glass with one final, large swallow, your heart racing as you rise. You know it's stupid—you and Dabi have fucked countless times and a lot of it hasn't exactly been vanilla—but it's been a long time since you've actually tried anything new. His obvious excitement doesn't help either, paradoxically; it leaves you fretting about what will happen if you're somehow bad at this, or if you can't take it and have to stop. You've never really worried about disappointing him before, but now the thought weighs acutely on your mind.

It's with halting steps that you approach the bed and then, when you can't realistically drag your feet any longer, you finally tug the nightgown you're wearing off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor to reveal what's underneath.

"Damn, baby girl," Dabi breathes, looking you up and down. You'd figured that since it was a special occasion you might as well dress up, donning a strappy bra and panties. They're little more than elaborate, crisscrossing pieces of lace, all white since he'd seemed so fixated on this pseudo-innocent, first-time act. His reaction doesn't disappoint, eyes lighting up as he stares at you hungrily.

You let yourself fall back on the bed, nestling against the many pillows. The look on his face has your stomach fluttering, and the wine has helped you to relax a bit despite your nerves, a pleasant warmth spreading throughout your body. It's joined by a different kind of heat when you feel the mattress dip beneath Dabi's weight as he positions himself over you, one knee resting between your thighs, just barely brushing against your center, a hint of what's to come.

"You look so good I could just eat you up," Dabi whispers hotly against your ear before tracing his lips over your jaw. Even though he wants to take his time, let himself savor this, it's taking every ounce of patience he has to keep the promise he made to get you worked up and ready for him, to not to tear those pretty bits of satin and lace off and have his way with you right then.

You whine eagerly when his mouth slants hungrily over yours, savoring the feel of those mismatched lips, the way the rough skin of the bottom one contrasts so deliciously with the top. Hot hands run over your sides as the kiss deepens, your tongues tangling together, and you moan against him.

When you finally break for air, Dabi moves his lips to your throat, his tongue lapping at your pulse before he sinks his teeth into you. He loves to mark you up, loves making sure everyone can see that you're indisputably his, and it's even hotter now that he knows he's going to fuck you in a way no one else has. You're shivering beneath him as he works, your hand tugging insistently at his hair, and Dabi lets out a low, throaty growl.

"Guess I'm not the only one who's eager, huh?"

Your hips tilt in response, pressing needily into his firm thigh, and Dabi can feel the skin on his cheeks straining against his staples as he grins. He traces one hand up over your ribs, cupping at your supple breasts, teasing your hardening nipple through the flimsy fabric of your bra. Those deft fingers work under the seam of your lingerie as he shifts his weight, increasing the pressure against your center while he pinches and tugs at the peaks of your breasts until you're whimpering, spreading slick along his leg even through your thin panties.

Dabi pulls away abruptly, rolling onto his back and tugging at you to change positions, shaking his head when you move to mount his hips.

"Come here, baby girl," he says, his tongue tracing over his bottom lip. "Like I said, I wanna eat you up."

The promise in those words sends a bolt of heat straight through your core as he guides you to straddle his face, hot breath tickling your inner thighs. One calloused thumb brushes your clit lightly through your underwear, blue eyes sparkling when your breath hitches at that soft touch. When he pulls that useless fabric to the side and runs his tongue over your already-damp slit, you shudder.

Dabi lets out a pleased groan at your reaction and gets to work more earnestly, lapping at your sensitive nub, licking and sucking until you're moaning and only then shifting a little so that he can lap at your insides, that same rough thumb replacing the pressure of his tongue on your clit. It strokes firm circles as he buries that hot, wet muscle inside you, the metal barbell there teasing your inner walls as you grind involuntarily against it. You can't help but whine when he withdraws it, but that disappointment is quickly replaced by you startling as that same wet muscle extends further back to tease at your puckered entrance.

"A-ah, Dabi, wait," you protest, your face heating up self-consciously almost at once.

Dabi pauses, shifting just enough to keep his reply from being muffled as one warm hand runs reassuringly up your thigh. "I don't think I can help myself, doll," he says, his slick-coated lips splitting into a wide grin, "you just taste too good."

That heat in your face worsens as he dives back in, not even waiting for you to respond before he's flexing his tongue to poke at that tight ring of muscle. You still try to squirm away, feeling unprepared for this. You hadn't even considered it among the possible activities were volunteering to participate in, but Dabi is holding you firmly in place with the hand not working at your clit, and when another whine of protest escapes you, it's weaker than the first. The foreign sensation of his tongue against your neglected hole has you hyperaware of the press of his thumb at your apex, and you can feel tension building in your core even as you writhe in embarrassment.

It's as though he knows, too, and you suppose maybe he does; after all, he's the one who's done this before. He thrusts his tongue a little deeper, rolling your clit between two hot fingers with enough pressure to cut off any further protests. A long moan is the only sound you can muster as you spill over the edge, your thighs clenching around his head and your hips jerking shakily as you ride out your climax with his tongue still buried obscenely in your rear.

Dabi's face is covered in your juices by the time he slides from between your thighs, and he wipes it away carelessly with one arm as he repositions you again, pinning you on your back and wasting no time peeling away your now-soaked panties. He grins at the sight of your glistening folds and swollen clit before stripping off most of his own clothes, kicking them unceremoniously to the side and relaxing between your legs, kissing at your still-trembling thighs.

He teases at your sensitive cunt with his fingers, coating them in your juices as you whimper. "Ready for a little more?" he asks, and you nod despite the fact that your cheeks are still burning from before and your stomach is knotting with nerves.

"Just...go slow, okay?"

"Of course, baby girl," he promises, "I told you I'd take good care of you." With that, he starts to work you open, dipping one finger into your tight hole just until he reaches the first knuckle, working it in and out slowly. His other hand toys at your clit, stroking and rolling that puffy nub again, making you mewl.

Dabi waits until you're relaxed before trying any more, pulling away from you just long enough to dig the lube from the pocket of his discarded pants, coating his fingers with it. He works that lone finger deeper this time, in and out until it's buried to the last knuckle.

The sensation is strange, but not entirely unpleasant; even if you think you'd rather have that finger curling in your cunt, the slight stretch is still adding to the faint throb already growing inside you, the one that worsens when his thumb returns to your apex.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Dabi growls when one well-placed stroke of his thumb has you clenching lightly around his finger. He ruts his hips against the sheets, trying vainly to find some relief for his aching member, but it's not enough—he needs to feel you, needs the vice-like grip clutching his fingers to be wrapped around his cock, and he needs it soon.

You feel him withdraw to add more lube, and then he's fingering you again, adding another digit to stretch you wider. It comes with a stab of discomfort when he forces his way past the second knuckle, and you reflexively try to pull back. "Dabi, that's too much."

He abandons his soothing attentions to your clit, one warm palm pressing you tight against the mattress to keep you in place, stroking soothingly at your hip. His breath tickles over your inner thigh as he chuckles softly. "If you can't take this, how are you ever gonna take me, hmm?" he says teasingly. "You're doing great, baby, just relax."

You will yourself to unclench, trying to picture Dabi's satisfied face once you're taking him, that adoring look he sometimes gives you, the one that you relish. Your efforts are only marginally effective, but Dabi keeps pushing deeper, fucking you slowly but insistently with those fingers, and when you don't complain again, his thumb returns to caressing your sex.

"That's a good girl." Dabi picks up the pace, cursing under his breath. "You're doing so good."

You're wriggling against his hand now, trying to increase the friction at your center, not quite minding the foreign sensation of his fingers and the uncanny fullness they bring so much now that there's heat thrumming in your core. "Y-yeah, like that," you pant encouragingly, and Dabi grins.

"That doing it for you?" he purrs. "Think you can take more?"

You start to shake your head—the stretch now feels like all you can handle—but Dabi's already adding a third slick finger, shoving it in with less restraint than before. You feel more than discomfort this time when three knuckles breach your asshole, and it quickly dampens the arousal that had been steadily building. "Dabi, slow down," you gasp.

"Aw, are you sure you can't handle it?" His blue eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide with arousal as he looks you over with the hungry gaze. "'Cause if I'm being honest, it feels like you're trying to suck me in. Like this greedy little hole wants to get fucked."

The huskiness of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, even as another whine of discomfort escapes you. For just a second his expression darkens slightly, but then he's slowing his movements, twisting his fingers instead of thrusting them in and out.

"Better?" he asks, and you think you catch an edge of impatience in his voice.

It is better though, a little at least, enough that you can focus on the way your cunt flutters every time his thumb strokes over your clit. So you just nod; it's not like this wasn't bound to be a little unpleasant at points, right?

Dabi's smile stretches wider, his thumb working faster. A mewl slips from between your lips and Dabi takes that as encouragement, his fingers resuming their persistent thrusts. It's still uncomfortable, though not quite as bad as when he started, and your teeth sink into your lower lip to bite back your complaints. You let your eyes fall closed instead, trying to focus on his attentions to your hooded nub, on the heat that's pooling in your lower belly. You're inching towards another release, and you let a hand lift to your breast, tweaking at the pebbled flesh of one nipple to help yourself along.

"D-dabi, I'm close," you stammer, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Yeah?" His movements speed up, his voice breathy and excited. "Do it, baby girl. Come for me and then I'm gonna fuck this tight little ass of yours."

You swallow hard, trying not to dwell on those words for now—you can tell you've loosened up more, tolerating the jab of his fingers, but his cock is substantially larger than those, all too intimidating. Thankfully, it's not hard to remain distracted, to focus only on your approaching peak.

Dabi can feel that orgasm rip through you when it hits, your asshole clenching around his fingers as you keen, and it's then that he reaches the limits of his patience. He needs you now, needs the thrill of burying himself in your tight ass and claiming you for his own, of reaching his own release deep inside and then watching his seed spill out afterwards. What a satisfying sight that will be.

He scrambles up from between your legs to catch your lips with his, fumbling his boxers off as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright, needy. "Ready for me?" he asks.

You're not, not really, but you can see the fervor in his eyes, hear the urgency in his voice, and you convince yourself that he won't be able to work you open much more with his fingers no matter what. Your agreement doesn't matter anyway—he's already rolling you onto your side and slotting his chest against your back, his straining erection poking at the cleft between your thighs.

"Like this?" you ask, surprised by the choice of position.

"Just like this," he pants in your ear. His teeth nibble at your lobe as he slicks his cock generously with lube. "Want you spooned against me so I can see those cute faces you make, feel you squirming when you take me."

And fuck, when he slips one hand back down to finger your asshole one last time, it doesn't disappoint—your body ripples against him when that invasion catches you off guard, and he can see the way your lips part obscenely as you gasp at his touch. His fingers abandon your tight hole almost as quickly as they'd entered, and then Dabi is aligning himself with your entrance, using the last of his restraint not to slam his hips forward and bury himself inside with a single thrust.

You can feel the spongy head of his glans, and the slick coolness of the ring that adorns his tip, prodding at your rear. One of his arms worms its way under your side, his hand groping distractedly at your breasts as you tense in anticipation.

"Relax, baby girl," he murmurs, but he doesn't wait for you to even try. He's already slipping in, moving slowly until he encounters resistance an inch or so inside, and then pausing.

He has to struggle to keep his composure. Even like this, with not even the full head of his cock in your ass, his balls are tightening, just the thought of what he's doing nearly enough to send him over the brink. He waits until he's sure that won't happen and then starts moving, pushing insistently to work you open around his length with shallow thrusts.

"A-ah, Dabi, g-go easy," you stutter, already squirming. You can feel your body resisting the intrusion, so much larger than his fingers, and it aches slightly every time he tries to breach that inner ring.

"I am, baby, don't worry. I'll take care of you." His cheek is nuzzling against yours, his lips kissing and sucking wherever he can reach, but his motions don't change at all even as he murmurs so sweetly. He only slings one arm over your hips, toying lazily at your clit. That attention helps you relax, helps distract you a little, but it's not enough to prepare you for when he drives himself in further, finally surging past that taut band of muscle.

The invasion brings a sharp pain, one that has you crying out. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your body reflexively contorting to try and escape the cause of that hurt, but his arms tighten around you, holding you in place as he continues to work himself deeper with every thrust.

"Dabi, that hurts." Your words are sharper this time as each stroke sends another unpleasant throb through your overstretched hole, but his only response is to plunge the fingers rubbing at your clit into your dripping cunt.

"Shh, you're doing great." He curls his fingers, stroking against that spongy spot deep inside. It makes you writhe, but that does nothing to address the pain between your legs as he fucks you.

"Dabi, don't, that's not helping, I—"

"It's okay, baby girl, you're taking me so well," Dabi coos. You'll adjust, he knows you will—you're usually up for anything, of course you can take this. And fuck, there's no way he can stop now, not when it's even better than he'd imagined—hotter and softer, your pillowy walls enveloping his length every time he plunges into you, the exquisite tightness of your entrance massaging his shaft with each thrust.

"I'm not— I don't— I don't want to do this anymore." You can hear the desperate edge in your voice now. Your heart is racing and there's a cold sweat forming on your skin as tears of pain and confusion start to leak down your cheeks. "Dabi, stop."

"Shh, shh, you're fine. You—fuck—you feel so amazing. 'S never been this good with anyone else, fuck."

"I don't care, I don't want this." You can't understand what's happening, why he's not listening. You twist your head to look at him, pleading with your eyes, but he's barely even focusing on you. His blue eyes are glazed and half-lidded as his lips wander over your shoulders and your neck, all the while murmuring those useless reassurances against your skin. You're thrashing now, your feet scrambling for purchase on the sheets as you try frantically to pull away, but he keeps his tight grip on you, one of his legs hooking around your own to hold you in place. "Dabi, I said stop!"

He shushes you again, rutting into you harshly, and a choked sob escapes you when he bottoms out inside you, his hips flush against your backside as you struggle against him. You feel sick to your stomach, and it only worsens when he pulls out until nothing but his tip remains, then drives himself back in with one agonizingly rough thrust.

You keep begging, pleading, wracking your brain and trying every past safe word you can recall, but he only continues to pound into you, his breathing erratic as he pants in your ear. "It's okay, baby. You're taking my cock like such a good girl. You're—ngh—making me feel so good."

The ache between your legs is diminishing slightly as you adjust to his girth, your body entirely unconcerned with whether you want that or not. He's still fingering your sopping cunt too, his palm grinding against your oversensitive clit with each plunge of his long digits, the lewd squelching sound of those attentions mingling with the sharp slap of his hips against your ass as he fucks you.

"You like this?" he asks, but you know he's not really asking. "You like knowing I'm the only one? That I'm making you mine, just mine, just like how it should be?"

"Dabi, stop. Please stop." Your appeals are feeble now, far more for yourself than for him as you continue to utter them between quiet sobs. Dabi's somewhere far away, awash in the tight heat of your ass and the satisfaction of finally staking his claim on you, aware of your supplications but not hearing them, not really.

You slump, still sobbing, and let him take what he wants. His attentions to your cunt have a coil tightening in your gut, but when your climax hits it's perfunctory and mechanical, no real pleasure to be found even as your hips jerk and your holes spasm, a joyless whine passing from your lips.

No real pleasure for you, at least. But fuck, the feel of you squeezing around his cock as you come is what Dabi has been waiting for, your insides massaging his length as though desperate for him to decorate your walls with his cum. It's a gift he's glad to grant—he rocks his hips more urgently, keeping his thrusts shallow now so that he's sure to get it all deep inside.

"Fuck," he groans against your neck. "Gonna make me come, baby girl. That what you want? Want me to fill you up?" You shake your head, but his movements are already growing spurtive and erratic, his grunts louder and throatier, and then you can feel his cock jerking inside you, a hot rush of cum flooding your guts.

Dabi doesn't stop then, either, keeps fucking his seed into you until he's softening, not quite able to work himself in and out of your tight, abused hole any longer, and only then does he finally pull out, a dribble of cum leaking obscenely down your thigh.

You're sniffling, drawing shaky breaths, and you try to pull away the moment his arms relax around you. They only tighten again, his lips planting soft kisses along your temple.

"Shh," he murmurs. The sound of his shushing makes you want to scream. One hand lifts to wipe at the tears on your cheeks. "You were so good, baby girl, there's no need to cry. You were fucking incredible." He means it too, doesn't think he's ever come so hard in his life as he did now, making you his.

Dabi can't wait to do it again.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 119: Hope

Harry was always alone.

It sounded a bit dramatic, a little pitiable, and more than a little untrue.

Because he was always out with friends. He had pub nights with large groups of people, he went and took those wine and paint classes with Luna and Ginny every other week, and a cooking class with Ron and Pansy on the off week. He met George, Ron, and Seamus for lunch on Thursday afternoons. Hermione dragged him to a book club with Draco once a month. He met Hermione for breakfast on Tuesdays and had dinner with Ron and Hermione every Monday (and often Fridays, too). Neville invited him for tea every Sunday and there was always someone different there with them.

Still, there was something that always separated him from his friends. All of his friends were buying houses, getting married, having babies, getting pets (or in Neville’s case carnivorous plants). And he was just... stuck.

“Well, well,” a smooth baritone voice said behind him, interrupting his sulk at the bar of the Leaky, and a smile tilted up the corner of Harry’s mouth against his will. “If it isn’t the savior himself.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Are you going to sit down?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the other man.

Silver eyes gleamed in amusement, “that depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’re going to buy me dinner. It has been a long day.”

(Read more below the cut)

“Oh?” Harry said, nudging the chair next to him back with his toe. “Well it’s a good thing I ordered the shepherd’s pie, then. You and I both know that’s always big enough for two.”

“Were you expecting me then?” Draco asked with a pleased grin as he plopped down in the chair next to him.

“Nope,” Harry said. Strictly speaking, this was true, he’d been hoping the other man might show up but not expecting him to. “I just like to have leftovers.”

Draco laughed at Harry as the bartender slid an old fashioned across the counter to him, “thank you,” Draco said, nodding to the man who all but ignored him.

Harry inhaled to say something about the man’s rudeness (an action he knew was futile since he’d done it several times) but Draco put a hand on his arm and took a sip of his drink. “Not worth it,” he said.

Harry sighed at him, “Tell me about work.”

Draco grinned, it was a sort of grin that Harry used to hate when they were younger. It was a grin that meant Draco had been particularly vicious in the courtroom today. With relish he began telling Harry about the woman and her child whom he had defended against a powerful, abusive husband. How he’d eviscerated the man on the stand and freed the two of them from his grasp.

“It was brilliant,” he finished with a sigh.

“Sounds like it,” Harry replied, resting his cheek in his hand.

Draco gave him a little smile. It had taken a long time to get here, even a year ago Draco would have been looking at him, trying to work out if Harry had meant it sincerely. “Tell me about your day,” he said.

“Oh, you know how it is,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sitting around in board meetings, trying to make sure that the people who actually know something get heard. Watching people who only want what’s best for themselves trying to make people believe they want what’s best for everyone.”

He laughed and took a sip of his drink, “I don’t understand how or why you do it.”

“Well someone’s got to, don’t they?” he asked. “Might as well use my fame to some advantage. Help people. You know,” he said, shrugging one shoulder and picking at the label on his beer.

“Come away with me,” Draco said suddenly.

“Sorry?”

The other man grinned at him, “I’m going on vacation. I’m leaving tomorrow for a week on the beach on an island. Come with me.”

“What? Why?”

The smile that had been so bright a moment ago started to dim, “Nevermind. It’s a stupid idea. Forget I said anyth-”

“Draco,” Harry said, realizing he’d misunderstood. He put his hand on his forearm. “I’d love to. Seriously, I would love nothing more than to go and spend a week on the beach with you. I just,” he trailed off, “why would you want me to?”

“Because you’re always moping. And you’re always doing things for everyone else. And you’re bloody lonely.” He shook his head, “And no one sees it.”

“Except you, apparently,” Harry huffed.

The corner of Draco’s mouth tipped up, “Except me. Come on,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, Potter. Fucking seriously.”

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

The beach was fantastic.

Harry had never been to the beach for a vacation and he enjoyed every sun soaked minute.

Draco watched him with an expression that Harry couldn't entirely parse out. It was amused, and fond, and exasperated, and something else entirely all at once. "I don't get you," Draco said eventually, after they'd spent half the day by the ocean; lounging, swimming, drinking, and laughing.

"What do you mean?"

Draco shrugged and took a sip of his sangria before he continued, "You're wealthy, you have time, you obviously enjoy it here; why haven't you done this before?"

He frowned, "Well who wants to go on a vacation alone?"

The corner of Draco's mouth tipped up, "I'd planned to go alone. I have actually taken several vacations alone."

"Sorry, I didn't mean-"

Draco waved him off, "It's fine. I'm not offended I just," he shrugged helplessly, "I find you fascinating."

"You find me fascinating?" he asked incredulously.

"Haven't I always?" he replied wryly.

He huffed but couldn't argue considering that he'd been equally obsessed with the other man for most of their lives at this point.

"You could have done anything," Draco said, "There's nothing that the wizarding world wouldn't have given you. If you'd wanted to go on vacation and not be alone you could have had your pick of witches or wizards who would have gladly gone with you. If you wanted to be married with half a dozen children all you would have needed to do was pick the person." He shook his head, "You could have done anything you wanted, been anything you wanted, had anything you wanted but you've chosen a career that makes you miserable and you've chosen to be alone which makes you miserable." He shook his head again, "I don't get it."

"But how can I know if I'm actually good enough?" Harry asked. "How can I know if I'm good at my job or if it was just given to me because I'm Harry Potter? How can I know if the person who agrees to marry me is with me because I'm me or because I'm Harry Potter?"

"All this time I thought that you weren't on to me," he teased.

He rolled his eyes, "You know what I mean."

"You know what I think?" Draco asked as he leaned back in his beach chair and slipped his sunglasses back in place.

"I couldn't possibly guess," he replied.

The corner of Draco's mouth tipped up, "I think you're just scared."

He frowned at the other man even though Draco wasn't looking at him, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me perfectly," he replied, "You're scared."

"Of what?" he asked incredulously.

"Of being loved," he said simply. "Afraid that if you let someone love you, you'll have to let them in. You'll have to let them see all the dark, broken, twisty bits because it's not love if it's not honest."

"Oh and I suppose you're so much better at that," he snapped.

Draco snorted, "Hardly. I'm just willing to live my life until I've found someone who I'll be able to share those jagged pieces with."

He glared at the leg of the other man's chair, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Alright," Draco replied agreeably.

"I'm going for a walk."

He nodded and yawned, "I think I'm going to take a nap, the sun feels nice."

Harry got up and trudged away without another word, trying to decide if Draco Malfoy was full of shit or if he might just know what he was talking about.

The longer he walked and the more he turned what Draco had said over and over in his head, the more he knew that the only person whom he would trust to see his dark bits was Draco Malfoy.

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

When he got back from his walk Draco was reading a book.

"You might be right," Harry said.

He hummed, "Not to brag but I usually make a point of being right."

Harry collapsed into the sand and stared out at the waves rolling in. "Can I ask you something?"

"Nothing has stopped you so far."

He huffed, "Have you ever been in love."

"Yes," the other man replied.

"How did you know?" Harry asked.

Draco hummed thoughtfully, "I woke up one day and realized that I loved his imperfections more than I loved the perfect image I'd created of him," he said. "I realized that I'm happiest when I'm with him, that he makes me feel brave in my fear and strong in my vulnerability."

"He sounds pretty great," Harry said, swallowing down the bitterness.

"He's also completely oblivious," Draco added. "And normally that would irritate me but his humility is part of his charm."

His heart beat a little quicker, "Is that so?"

Draco grinned, "Yes. And he's not too bad on the eyes, either," he added. "He's got a lovely complexion, fantastic long, dark hair. And his eyes," he let out a low whistle, "A bloke could get lost in those eyes and he wouldn't mind staying in the lovely green of summer."

Harry's mouth went dry and he couldn't quite find any words or summon any courage. Hope blossomed dangerously inside of his chest, expanding and expanding until Harry feared there wasn't room for a shred of doubt.

"He's rather fit, too," Draco continued, giving Harry a once over that even he wasn't oblivious enough to have missed. "And you wouldn't believe his arse," he added, "exquisite."

Harry laughed at that, "You're ridiculous," he said as he bent toward the other man. "I like you, too," he whispered.

"Took you long enough to figure it out," Draco teased.

He reached up and pulled Draco's sunglasses off his face, "I'm going to kiss you," he murmured.

"Took you long enough," he repeated before reaching up to cup Harry's cheek in his palm and draw Harry in.

With a sigh, Harry happily gave himself over to the kiss, over to Draco; knowing that his heart was finally in good hands.

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

Day 118: Glass | Day 120: Tough

[the-witty-pen-name]

Tell Me Your Mine, Darling

Western AU 

18+ ONLY

Lee Bodecker x F!Reader

Warnings: prostitution, mentions of smut, alcohol, cursing, violence, mentions cheating 

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Hey! As always, this is unedited! Please let me know if I missed anything to include as a warning. I’m on the fence if I should make this a longer story, I like the idea of this being a stand alone, but let me know what you think! I’d love to hear any feedback cause this is my first attempt at a Western AU :)

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The player piano echoed throughout the whole saloon, bouncing off the walls as patrons moved about the crowded room. The peppy music was perfect for dancing as a few of the men threw back shots of liquid courage and asked some of the women working tonight for a dance. It was a night where the people who came in through the batwing doors could forget about their troubles and the existence of sins, and partake in merry drink and debauchery. The night air hung heavy and the room smelled of sweat, cheap liquor and even cheaper perfume. 

The women were scantily clad in dresses only slightly less revealing than their undergarments, and the men still in their clothes from long days of travel. Cowboy hats, rugged trousers, and boots that lost their shine years ago. Girls carried around large trays of shots and lagers, passing them around to the drunk souls who struck rich for a night and opened tabs at the bar. 

It was a busy night both downstairs in the saloon, but also many of the girls were leading men upstairs to their beds, for a warm place to lay their head and anything else they can afford. That was the secret that kept this dilapidated building up and running. The music and the watered down liquor wasn’t enough to keep the sheriff from closing and condemning the building. 

If the owner was honest, he knew what kept the sheriff from coming and toting him away to rot in one of the two cells down at the jail. Not only was the sheriff partial to a drink or a few each night after the sun goes down, but he was particularly taken with one of the girls who worked there. Sure, the sheriff must’ve had his turn with every girl in the joint, but there was something about you which made the sheriff absolutely smitten. Of course, no one dared admit to seeing his obviously growing affections but the owner knew as long as you were here, and his glass was refilled, he had nothing to worry about. No one quite knows what happened. He went from coming in every Saturday night asking for whichever girl is free and then it went to asking only for you, every week without fail. 

People theorize that maybe it’s your honeyed smile or the sweetness in your voice. The ability to deceive every man into thinking they’re the only one to ever touch you. The ability to put on the act of the farmer’s daughter while having the dirtiest mouth on this side of the Mississippi. No matter what drew him in, the sheriff had declared you his girl and anyone with half a brain knew better than to try to say different. 

Nothing was any different about tonight, you watched from one of the stools at the bar while the other girls worked the room. Sitting with your legs crossed, your dress skirted up high enough to show the tops of your garters, you sip on your drink stealing glances at the doors waiting for him to arrive. You can’t help but let out an impatient sigh, balancing your high heel on your toe as you watch the clock that’s mounted on the wall behind the bar. 

“Slow night?” the bartender asked as she topped off your drink. You smiled, but it fell a little flat, not meeting your eyes. 

“Every man here is scared to come near me,” you chuckle dryly. Not that you were necessarily complaining- but you worried more and more as the savings you kept under your bed dwindled. The sheriff was a regular who paid incredibly well, but he was feared. And no one else would touch what he called his. You wanted to save up to get out of this town, salvage whatever was left of this life and do something. You didn’t want to live cooped up in that room and in this town for the rest of your days. You were luckier than most, that you understood and never tried to forget that, but still you found yourself daydreaming. 

You thought about the men you’ve slept beside and the wild stories they told you. You didn’t want to live a hard life, the tedious and unfulfilling work they told you about. But, oh, you were so envious of how they traveled. Seeing the naked lands of the country and going to different towns. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to do, but you wanted to have the option. So in a little cigar box under your bed. You scrimped and saved what you could from each week. But, being the sheriff’s favorite girl, meant no one else dared touch you, meaning you have been having to open that little box of savings more and more. 

“That ain’t the worst thing in the world,” you heard a voice next to you. Soft, and velvety- you’d recognize the voice anywhere as Dottie, one of the older women who had been working there much longer than you. Middle-aged, but completely sensual in her mannerisms and her voice. She had the ability to captivate an entire room with her prominent curves and everything you know, you learned from her. 

“I know, I know,” you try to explain, but she feels your frustration. She understands it, and she knows it better than you do. She’d been there herself. The restlessness, the feeling of being incomplete, the utter fear of your life being wasted away under men whom you’re never going to fall in love with. She knows.

But she also knows the harsh realities of this world and how it treats lost souls like you, and she doesn’t want to see how it can hurt you like it hurt her. She understood how demeaning this line of work is, and how from here there is no way to move up in the world. It’s a limbo, where you're stuck in this saloon, listening to the complaints of men who despite their hardships will always have it better than you. However, the alternatives for women like you are far less desirable outcomes for your lives. 

“Appreciate the gift you’re being given, sweetness,” she chuckles, watching as the bartender makes her usual. “As long as that sheriff keeps coming around, you’re working less for the same room and board the rest of us pay.” 

You know she’s right. You know there’s so many things wrong about this town you can’t change. You can’t afford to worry about things like that, while so many of the people in this little one room saloon are just trying to survive tomorrow. It’s never going to be an ideal, and the world is much too cruel for miracles to happen for a woman like you who sold their soul. 

Jesus befriended Mary Magdalene, so it never made much sense to you when folks in this town claimed you were damned to spend your own eternity in hell. You weren’t sure if the people in this town actually read the Bible. Granted, you didn’t know much about religion yourself. But long ago you learned religion was a luxury only the wealthy people in this town could afford to follow, and they were the ones who could afford to participate in the sins you peddled. But, that was just one woman’s observation. 

Dottie disappeared back into the crowd as quickly as she arrived, and soon you were back to watching the doors again, waiting for the sheriff to relieve you of your ever growing boredom. The place was in full swing as a posse of men you don’t recognize entered, talking about how they were on their way to the coast, to mine for gold and become millionaires. You can’t help but roll your eyes, and you keep to yourself as they whoop and holler, making demands of the barkeep to send out a round for the whole place on their dime. Their rowdiness makes you flinch, and for the first time tonight, you find yourself anxiously waiting for the appearance of the sheriff so you don’t have to entertain the likes of them. Maybe God does like you, because before one of the men staring at you has an opportunity to saunter over, the saloon doors open suddenly and you can be saved. 

You know you shouldn’t find it thrilling, but there is something about being his favorite that fuels your ego on nights like this. The most commanding man in the town, calling you his- making you have this untouchable status for the night. It was the closest you think you can ever be to royalty. In that bar, on the nights he regulars, you’re a Queen. It’s a rush that's definitely spoiled you and yes, in the moment, you absolutely revel in the power you feel as he changes the atmosphere in the room- with his hardened blue eyes locked right on you. 

“Evening, sheriff,” you coo and shoot him a smile, genuinely happy to see him. 

“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Lee, darling?” He smirks, placing his hands on your knee so you uncross your legs and he can stand between them. The feeling of his hands on the exposed skin of your upper thighs sent a tingle right up your spine. His thumbs slowly rubbed circles on your skin, making you shiver. 

You rest your hands on his chest, rubbing gently, your hands shamelessly feeling the strength of his chest under his shirt. You straighten out the gold sheriff’s badge on his chest, and you can feel him tremble slightly at your touch, which strokes your ego more than it already was. 

“I forget,” you tease, straightening out his tie. He smirks, looking down at you as his hands trail up higher, resting on your hips under the skirt of your dress. “I need you to keep coming back and remind me,” you flirt shamelessly. 

“Your usual, sheriff?” the bartender asks over the loud music, people settling back into their own business after the excitement of the sheriff arriving has died down. Lee replies with a quick thank you but doesn’t take his eyes off of you. 

“Did you miss me, darling?” he quips, rubbing your sides, his thumbs trailing across the waistband of your undergarments. 

“I always do,” you wink, leaning up and pressing a quick kiss to the side of his jaw. “It’s so slow when you aren’t here,” you practically whine, pouting your lips slightly. 

“I’m sorry about that, sugar,” he mumbles, leaning in and trailing kisses down your neck. 

“It’s your fault you know,” you tease, your nails scratching his scalp affectionately. 

“Is it now?” he chuckles, as he nips at your skin. 

“No one else comes near me,” you admit, and you feel him smile against your skin. 

“Good,” he murmurs against your collarbone. 

“Ice is melting,” you chuckle, referring to the drink he’s ignoring on the counter. He just chuckles, pulling away only long enough to finish the drink in one long sip, and you watch as his Adam’s apple moves, and how the condensation of the glass drips onto his knuckles. 

After he places the empty glass on the counter, you pull his arm to lead him upstairs with you. He takes your hand and let’s you lead the way, he knows like the back of his hand, and at this point better than his own house.

“Impatient, darling?” he teases, “Not going to ask me for a dance?”

“You never say yes,” you giggle, “Figured you want to have some privacy.”

“I might’ve said yes,” he retorts and you can’t help but roll your eyes. 

“Would you have?” you counter and he shakes his head no with a devilish grin. 

“One of these days, doll.” 

“I’ll be an old maid,” you joke, continuing up the stairs and down the hallway towards your room. 

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he says. You don’t know exactly what he means, but you don’t push him for an explanation. As soon as the door clicks closed behind you both, Lee’s lips attach to yours like if he waits a second longer he’d evaporate. 

“Been dreaming about this,” he mumbles against your neck, leaving a trail of love bites that send a shiver up your spine. “Think about you every night I can’t visit you.”

You noticed how much more intimate your interactions with the Sheriff were gradually becoming. You weren’t sure how much of it he meant. The way he fawned over you and treated you like something more. Plenty of times, men behaved this way, never admitting except behind closed doors that that craved a much deeper sense of intimacy. You had always assumed the Sheriff was no different.

He’d take care of you, and you saw over time the way he handled you changed. It used to be rough and impersonal, oftentimes as well relying on you to do all the work so to speak. But, overtime, his visits became more of a mutual endeavor, and soon he was kissing you like how he is now, or begging to let him settle his head between your parted thighs, saying he felt good making you feel good. 

“I’m addicted to the feeling of your skin, darling,” he whispers as he lets his fingers linger as he pulls the straps of the dress down your arms. When the dress pools at your feet, he stares in awe like it’s the first time seeing you, and then soon enough his lips are on yours again and his hands are free to wander where they please. 

“Most stunning thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers as you work on taking off his shirt, teasingly slow at undoing the buttons. 

“You say that everytime,” you point out and he chuckles, running his hands up and down your sides. 

“Cause I mean it everytime,” he smirks, walking you back until the back of your knees hit the back of your bed and you lay down with him on top of you. 

One time a month or so back, you were sitting on top of the bar counter with him settled between your legs. You were using a rag to wipe blood off of his face after a messy fight that happened. Well, a fight that he started. 

“I didn’t like him looking at you like that,” he grumbled, still fuming and he winces slightly as you press the damp cloth to the cut by his brow. “Shouldn’t be touching you like that,” he slurs, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath. 

“Just means I’m doing my job right,” you chuckle, amused at his possessiveness. “It don’t mean nothing,” you say.

“It don’t mean nothing when it’s me either,” he pouts, with his eyes closed like he could fall asleep standing up. You are convinced he’s just drunk and doesn’t know what he’s saying. He leans on you slightly to keep himself upright, and you move to wipe the blood that is smeared by the corner of his lips. 

He’s so handsome, you can’t help but observe. From a distance, sure he’s gruff and rough around the edges but he’s got the most handsome face you think you’ve ever seen pass through. You’ll never admit to yourself that you were taking your time patching him up so you could just look at him like this for a little longer. It’s always nice sometimes to pretend a situation is something that it’s not. 

“Tell me your mine, darling,” he almost whispers when his eyes flutter open again to look at you. His gaze on you felt heavy and you weren’t sure what to make of it. 

“I’m all yours, Sheriff,” you can’t help but chuckle, thinking he’s just fooling. Just trying to tease you. He frowns and looks so  sad, those damn blue eyes more expressive when he’s drunk. 

“Tell me your mine,” he asks again, like a whispered plea as his eyes roam over your face. 

“I’m yours.”

By the morning, he’s always gone. He always leaves more than necessary, insisting to you the night before not to tell the owner. He doesn’t want him taking a bigger percentage. He whispers not to worry, and to let him take care of you. He knows how much he affects your wages and he wants to do the right thing. 

Lee doesn’t like to pay you. It’s a horrible reminder to him that you don’t actually care one way or another if he shows up or not. It’s the terrible wake up call come morning that you aren’t actually his, as much as he asks you to say it. 

You’d just have to say the word and he’d do just about anything to make you love him back for real. But he knows that this can’t ever go further. You deserve to go off and see the places he hears you tell the other girls about. You don’t think he knows about you wanting to leave but of course he does. 

The pictures of far away cities are hung on your mirror held up between the frame and the glass. There’s a picture of New York that sometimes he’ll stay up staring at, knowing your heart ain’t tied down yet to one place like his is tied here. He can’t leave and he knows he can’t in good conscience ask you to stay. He knows you would, but not for the reasons he wants. 

Good god, you’re still young and have a spark in you that he damn well knows he doesn’t want to be the one to put out. He wants nothing more than for you to look at him and see you could be happy and be in love. But what life is that compared to the life you’re dreaming of. You have hopes, dreams, and Lee knows he isn’t at the center of any of them. 

So for now, he settles for the time you share with him when he comes by like tonight. Where he hopes he can silently tell you with his touches how much he feels for you. Where he can carefully tread the waters of sweet sentiments in hopes you’ll return them without him asking. It’s not real, none of it is. 

He can hold you close and touch every part of your body like it’s only his to see and feel. He can hear every noise you make and watch every reaction to his touches and it fuels him for now. It’s enough for now to leave bruises on your skin and pretend it’s enough to keep others from knowing you’re his. It’s not, because the marks won’t matter. 

He can feel himself inside you, and feel how your body reacts to him. The way to him, nothing will ever come close to the feeling of you around him. He’s addicted and he can’t go back. He’s been ruined by you, and no one else will ever come close to adding up to you. 

But it’s not real. He’ll go home in the morning, and lie to his wife one more time, swearing that it’s the last time he goes back. He’ll tell her he worked late and slept in the Sheriff’s office. He’ll make the promise that he’ll be home on the weekend. But it’s not real. Because, he knows that he’s going to find himself going back to you. And he prays to God you won’t be there.

Taglist:

@missyellowbirdie @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @weenersoldierr @msgodofmischief @lowercasegenius @demirunner​

[artpigeons]

Anyway I mostly wanna post this because whenever I've read about people with ADHD who mask, I've always thought it sounded like "Some people with ADHD can simply choose to not display symptoms", and I've always thought, like. Damn. Wish I could mask.

I think in part it's because not a lot of emphasis has been placed on whether it's intentional or not - so I've assumed it must be intentional, and that I simply didn't do it. Because surely I'd be aware of it if I did?

So in case someone feels the same way, here's my experience in case it's helpful to anyone lmao. It's long and pretty specific, so I'm putting it under a readmore.

The main thing that's made me think about this is a problem I've been having with a friend lately. She's not a super close friend, but we hang out relatively often and get along well - however, lately I've been pretty frustrated with her. It seems like every time we've hung out, I walk away and start thinking about 100 things she said/did that either annoyed me or straight-up offended me and stepped on my figurative toes.

I've been talking to a few of my closer friends (who don't know her) about this, because I'm not sure how to approach the issue - it's obviously not fair to myself that I feel walked all over, but it's definitely not fair to her either that I don't say something - after all, how can she be aware there's a problem if I just keep quiet and seethe to myself?

So I was talking to a close friend about this, who seemed confused when I explained that I never notice the issue until way after the fact. After all, she pointed out, I don't have this problem with her - if one of us has a problem with something the other has said, there's no issue just saying so right in the moment.

And I was honestly kinda taken aback, 'cause I didn't have an explanation for why that's the case. I have a few people with whom I notice these things immediately and have no trouble speaking up or asking for clarification, and then a whole host of other people where I just don't notice these things until the situation is over and I'm by myself.

And it got me thinking about something another friend (one of the ones I feel 'safe' around) said - that when I worry I'm being a bit of a doormat around people and that I have trouble standing up for myself, he almost has a hard time believing it, 'cause I'm never that way with him. In fact I'm kinda the opposite; around him, I'm loud and impulsive and often a bit bossy.

I've always chalked this stuff up to, you know. We all act different around different people. You don't act the same with your great-grandma that you would with your drinking-buddies and all that. And that I probably just unintentionally did that to a very big extent. And hey, maybe my mum was right when I was growing up, maybe I'm just two-faced and untrustworthy (thanks mum, very chill thing to say :3)

But like... this friend, the one I'm having the issue with, also considers me far more introverted and organised than I do. She knows me as "guy who is perpetually early and literally has three calendars" because that's what I am around her. She calls me a "pleaser" like it's an insult. Because that's what I am around her.

And people at my work know me as someone who is super diligent and conscientious.

And my family all think of me as very closed-off and cold and distant emotionally.

It's just not... actually remotely accurate to who I am? Like, the people I feel most at ease with, and who I never feel drained after being around, all know me as an impulsive chaotic goofy guy who barely knows what day it is but cares a lot about a lot of things.

I don't do any of it intentionally, is the thing. And it's not that evenly separated, either - I'm not particularly cold or closed off at work, for instance. But it's still draining for me, because I'm spending so much energy being Dilligent Polite Organised Guy. I still go home at the end of the day and wildly neglect anything that doesn't immediately recharge the ol dopamine, because I've spent all my energy for the day and there's none left for doing the dishes.

And I think that's what masking is????????

I think I mask so super hard that I basically become a whole other person, and that the cost of it is that I shut down my own emotions and boundaries to the point that I just don't feel them at all, and that it takes so much out of me that usually, when I've had any kind of Interaction, I can't do anything the rest of that day, except try to recharge.

I don't really give a shit about being 'authentic' or 'my true self' or whatever - I care that this might be contributing to my heinously low energy-levels.

Idk if it sounds totally banal and stupid, but I'm kinda having my mind blown about it a bit. Like... is half of who I am just an elaborate coping mechanism that's ruining life for the other half??? I'm 30! I've been diagnosed for over a decade! How did I never think about this?????

Local man has Symptoms Disorder, is surprised to experience Symptoms, I guess.

Holy shit Holy shit Holy shit I just realized that I mask so hard that I've never even been aware I did it

Jesus Christ I just thought my mum was right when she called me two-faced growing up, what the fuck

Gonna come back and ramble about this later when I'm not busy but fuck me

[whelvenwings]

who will fall beside you, if you fall

Dean Winchester's been loved in a lot of different ways throughout his life. He was shaped by that love, changed by the expectations and hopes and hurts of the people he cared about. He learned fear and silence and caution. But Castiel's confession, free of expectation, might undo those lessons.

Tags: Fix-It Fic, Endgame Castiel/Dean, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Minor Lisa/Dean Snippet and Minor Cassie/Dean Snippet, John Winchester’s A+ Parenting, Fallen Angel Castiel Word Count: ~4k

“If you’re angry, you could just tell me,” Dean said. “God knows I’d get it.”

He glanced to his left and right before crossing a road, his eyes lingering on the faces nearest him, as though he were looking for someone.

“Cas, just talk to me.” The words were so quiet that no human but Dean himself heard them. He was still watching around him, waiting, but nothing happened.

He put his hands into his pockets again. Walked with his shoulders set a little lower.

“It’s not…” Dean muttered, a broken-off answer to a thought inside his head. “Just – I don’t know what you want me to do. Can you hear me thinking about you? ‘Cause it’s all the time, man. I don’t know what to do. Last time I saw you, you told me… but now you aren’t even…”

He rounded a corner and began to cross a small parking lot.

“If you’d just come here. You could tell me what I’m supposed to do. All I want is…” Dean’s eyes searched the backs of the cars he passed as if their number plates were esoteric texts with all the answers, all the things he needed to say. He breathed out. “I don’t know how, man, I don’t know what to do.”

Read the whole thing below the cut!

Dean was three years old and not quite steady on his feet, still, when his father took him outside to help shovel the snow. In his coat and hat he was a little duffled-up sweetheart, to whom nothing particularly bad had ever happened.

Red-cheeked and grinning, he left small bootprints in the snow.

“Come over here, Dean.” John stood behind Dean and lowered the shovel down to Dean’s height, so that they could hold it and move the snow together. Dean pressed his lips together and frowned as he followed his father’s movements. John’s coat smelled like smoke and the outdoors. They moved one, two, three, four, five big shovel-fulls.

“That’s enough for one day,” said a voice from the porch – Mary, smiling down at the two of them. John carefully lifted the shovel out of Dean’s reach, standing up to his full height. They’d managed to clear just a short stretch of the path that led up to the house.

“But Mom, there’s loads more!” Dean said, pointing to the rest of the pathway.

“Your dad can clear that. You need to come in and have some lunch,” Mary said. “Come on.”

Dean looked up to his father with wide eyes, but John put his hand on the top of Dean’s head and ruffled it so that his hat almost came off.

“Listen to your mom, Dean. In you go.”

Dean’s eyes travelled from his father’s face to his mother’s.

“There’s your favourite for dessert,” Mary said, coaxing him with a little smile.

“Yes!”

Dean made a sudden break for it towards her, running down the path he’d just helped to clear. After the crunch-crunch-crunch of the snow, the cleared pathway was hard under Dean's feet. Hard, and unexpectedly slippery.

“Whoa, there,” said John, as Dean felt his balance go, his feet skidding out from under him – and suddenly he was being lifted, one hand on either side of him. John pulled him up out of the fall, and set him back down in thick snow.

Dean blinked. It had all happened very fast.

“Next time,” John said, giving Dean a little push indoors, “I won’t catch you. You’ve got to learn, Dean.”

–––––

And now Dean was eleven years old and trailing after his father down a quiet midnight street, with a sleepy little brother in tow.

“Dad… are we nearly at the motel?”

“Nearly.”

He’d pay for that question later somehow, and Dean knew it, but because he’d asked there was a new purpose in John’s step. They didn’t stop at the liquor store that Dean knew John had been weighing going into. Walking past it, Dean felt a little break of relief in his chest. They’d get out of the cold sooner, and Sam could get to bed.

“Dean?”

Dean turned his head to look at his brother, keeping walking. Sam was wearing Dean’s coat, swimming in it, the hood pulled up and the elastic tight so only the round circle of his face was visible. It was nearly funny, but they hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the humour was shaved off everything.

“Come on,” Dean said.

“I’m cold.”

“I know.” Dean cast a glance forwards at his father’s back. He lowered his voice. “It’s okay. Just a little bit longer.”

Sam made a miserable face. Their breaths were puffs of air between them. Underfoot was the hiss and crunch of melting, slushy snow.

“Can I have soup when we get there?”

“It’s late, Sammy. We’ll have something in the morning.”

“But I can’t sleep when I’m hungry…”

“Okay.” Dean cast another worried look towards his father, and then made a meaningful face at Sam when he looked back around. “I’ll find something. I think we have some of that apple juice left over.”

“That’s cold,” Sam said, but he’d quietened his voice, too. “And a drink.”

“You didn’t know?” Dean said, making sure his face was completely straight.

“Know what?”

“That’s the best part,” Dean said. “Cold drinks make you warm up faster.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, and Dean cursed internally. Every day Sam got a little smarter and a little harder to keep happy.

“That’s not true,” Sam said.

“It is,” Dean promised. “You’ll see.” He thought for a few seconds, and then said, "Maybe we can heat up the apple juice."

“Keep up, boys,” said John’s voice, from too far away. Dean realised he must have slowed down as he’d talked to Sam, even though he’d been trying to hold a steady pace. He reached for Sam’s hand, turning his head at the same time to call back to his father – and as he did so, he felt his balance betray him. His feet slipped in the slush, and in a rush he was a jumble of elbows and knees hitting the ground in all the wrong places.

For a second he sat still, assessing the damage. Nothing broken.

“Are you okay?” Sam said, the dish of his face looking pale and worried above Dean.

“I’m fine… ugh.”

“Get up,” John called, and when Dean turned his head to look, he saw that his father was turning away to keep walking. Dean scrambled to his feet, hands out for balance. His hip ached – he’d landed on it.

“I’m alright,” Dean said to Sam, pulling on a smile. “Let’s go.”

He hurried after John, making sure Sam was beside him, going as fast as he dared until they were right behind their father. His knee was starting to throb, too, and he kept it off his face carefully, because Sam was still glancing up at him.

“Saw you reach for your brother when you were falling,” John grunted. “Don’t do that. If you two’re on your own and both of you go down, you’re both dead. If Sam’s still up, he can go for help.”

“I wasn’t –” Dean tried to say.

“Don’t do it,” John repeated, more forcefully.

They walked on in silence.

––––-

And now Dean was twenty-one years old and stepping out into the brisk air of a winter evening, with his head a little light from the drinks he’d had in the bar at his back.

“Come on,” Cassie said from beside him, her eyes bright with laughter. “You can tell me.”

“Hey, we’ve been through this,” Dean said, as they began to make their way down the street, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“As if you could,” Cassie said.

Dean glanced over at her smile, and thought about the way the shifter he’d taken out earlier that day had looked at him, right before he’d swung the blade through her neck. He swallowed hard.

“I might,” he said, and held his arms a little out from his body. “How long can I contain this much raw aggression, you know?”

“Stop," Cassie said, nudging him with her shoulder. “Seriously, okay, just tell me what your job is.”

“Is it really worth your life?” Dean asked, putting on his most serious face.

“You’re really trying to tell me you’re, what – a spy? A fed?” Cassie asked. “C’mon, you can’t expect me to believe that. With that face?”

“Hey,” Dean said, mock-offended, as they passed closed-up stores and parking bays. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“Nothing,” Cassie said, “that’s literally the problem. The FBI don’t hire people who look like you, do they? This is real life, not HBO.”

“Okay,” Dean said, his face working not to look too pleased. Underfoot, the pavement was shiny with ice. Dean started to walk a little slower. “So, if this isn’t the face of a fed, what is it the face of?”

“Mmm. Radio show host?” Cassie laughed when Dean threw her a look. “Well, c’mon, how am I supposed to know? Third date and you still won’t tell me?”

“Just trying to keep the mystery alive,” Dean said, faking an absent kind of tone in the hope that Cassie would drop the subject. The sidewalk was getting more and more treacherous, each of his steps sliding just a little.

“The mystery is too alive,” Cassie said. “It could die a bit. I’d be okay with that.”

“Whoa… careful.” Dean’s foot slipped out from under him, and he only managed to keep his balance by grabbing onto a parking meter that happened to be close by.

“Easy, big shot.” Cassie watched him start to move again, even more tentatively. “Wouldn’t wanna lose the deal with HBO if you fall on that perfect face.”

There was an edge of hurt to her tone of voice, and Dean jaw tightened. Was he ever going to tell her, he wondered. Surely not. She’d hate it. Spending time with Cassie was like visiting a parallel universe. That world didn’t have room for monsters under the bed.

And so Dean kicked them back underneath as hard as he could, and smiled at Cassie, and held out his hand.

Cassie looked down at it, and then back up at him.

“Really?” she said, a smile waiting at the corners of her mouth.

“It’s slippery,” Dean said, and wiggled his fingers temptingly.

“Yeah,” Cassie said with a laugh, pushing his hand away, “it is, asshole. That’s why I’m not letting you take me down with you.”

––––-

And now Dean was thirty-one years old and watching a soccer game, gloves on, hat on, clapping along with the dark-haired woman next to him.

“Come on, Ben!” called Lisa.

“Like we practised, okay, kid?” Dean added, and watched Ben’s face relax into concentration as he placed the ball for his free kick, just a yard outside the penalty box.

“You practised free kicks with him?” Lisa said to Dean, sounding like she was holding back a laugh. Dean glanced down at her; she had her eyes on her son, but there was a little smile on her face.

“A couple times,” Dean said. “He asked.”

“That’s sweet. And I thought you two just watched TV and ate too much pizza together.”

“We do that too,” Dean said. “When I have a say in it.” He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up. On either side of Lisa and Dean, also at the edge of the soccer pitch, were other parents all waiting on Ben to take his kick. They were standing on wet grass, a few of them stamping their feet to keep them from going numb.

Ben took a short run up, swung his leg, made contact. The ball sailed high, dipped – and the goalie caught it neatly.

“Next time,” Dean called out when Ben’s face fell, and gave him a clap. The game played on.

“God, it’s cold,” Lisa said.

“You want my coat?”

Lisa looked up at him, her big brown eyes soft.

“You’re cute, you know that?”

“... Right.” Dean smiled awkwardly. Lisa’s would-be compliment hung in the air, sounding more incongruous the longer Dean stood tense and unmoving.

Lisa reached out, and put her hand on his folded arms.

“You wanna order in, tonight?” she said lightly. “Or I could make fajitas.”

“I can cook,” Dean said. “I’ll make burgers.”

“Mmm. Twist my arm.”

Some small burst of relief, there. Dean’s expression eased. He put his hands in his pockets, lifted his chin, as though remembering the role he was playing. Who he was, now.

He shifted his feet – and felt his right foot slide, almost right out from under him. He steadied himself, hands out to the sides, looking down at the grass.

“Careful,” Lisa said.

“Jesus,” Dean said at the same time.

“Come here,” Lisa said, holding out her hand.

Dean smiled.

“It’s all good,” he said, reaching out and giving the hand a squeeze, and then letting go quickly.

“Can’t have the head chef breaking his arm,” Lisa said, her hand still out.

“It’s fine, really.”

“Dean, would you hold my hand?”

“We’ll both go over,” Dean said.

“Mm-mm. I’ll hold you up.”

Her expression allowed no argument. Unwillingly, Dean allowed her to loop their arms together, Lisa pinning Dean to her side and turning back to the game, calling out to support Ben as he went for a tackle. Dean stood quietly. He was having to lean down ever so slightly so that Lisa could keep his arm tucked under hers.

He tried very hard not to move. Just the smallest slide of his feet and he’d be over and he’d take her with him. Every muscle in his legs was clenched, forcing himself not to slip.

After just a minute or so of stiff silence, Lisa sighed.

“Okay,” she said, “you win.”

She let go.

––––-

And now Dean was forty-one years old and walking down a street in Lebanon, Kansas, on legs that still felt a little new. The cold air was harsh; he took in a deep breath.

He went to cross the road, and a car gave a screech as it swerved suddenly to avoid him. The driver made a few different gestures at him through the window, and Dean held up a hand in apology.

It was easy to forget that things didn’t part and make way on Earth like they had done in Heaven.

“Couldn’t fix that for me, could you?” Dean said aloud. “Not that I’m not grateful for the ticket home, Cas, but Heaven had its perks.”

Silence. Dean kept walking, with only the slightest slump to his shoulders and crease on his brow. Lebanon was wearing snow like a big white coat. Dean’s boots crunched in it when he stepped off the gritted path to let a mother with a stroller go by.

“I should probably stop expecting to see you round every corner, huh,” he said. “Been a week now. And I keep wandering around thinking you might show up just ‘cause I’m looking.” Someone passing gave him a slightly frightened look and a wide berth as he walked by, talking to himself. Just another thing no one had much noticed in Heaven: the prayers. Dean frowned, and ducked his head. Tucked his hands in his pockets.

He walked quietly for some time.

Long enough for his hands to come back out of his pockets, and his shoulders to lose their self-conscious hunch. Long enough for the hurt in his eyes to seem nearer the surface.

“Might not even have been you that got me out of Heaven,” Dean said, his tone quiet, as though picking up the thread of a half-finished conversation.

A pause, in which he walked. Passed by other people, made no eye contact. Dean meandered a little as he went, as though his mind were elsewhere.

“If you’re angry, you could just tell me,” he said. “God knows I’d get it.”

He glanced to his left and right before crossing a road, his eyes lingering on the faces nearest him, as though he were looking for someone.

“Cas, just talk to me,” he said. The words were so quiet that no human but Dean himself heard them. He was still watching around him, waiting, but nothing happened.

He put his hands into his pockets again. Walked with his shoulders set a little lower.

“It’s not…” Dean muttered, a broken-off answer to a thought inside his head. “Just – I don’t know what you want me to do. Can you hear me thinking about you? ‘Cause it’s all the time, man. I don’t know what to do. Last time I saw you, you told me… but now you aren’t even…”

He rounded a corner and began to cross a small parking lot.

“If you’d just come here. You could tell me what I’m supposed to do. All I want is…” Dean’s eyes searched the backs of the cars he passed as if their number plates were esoteric texts with all the answers, all the things he needed to say. He breathed out. “I don’t know how, man, I don’t know what to do.”

He swallowed.

“It feels like I have to do something, though.”

He kept walking.

“Or, I don’t know. Maybe I just want to.”

He breathed out.

Emotions were crossing his face, too fast to catch one alone, too swift to parse. He looked down at his feet, watching where he stepped.

“If I had what I wanted,” he said, “you’d be here.” After a pause, he rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that’s news to you. Like, wow, right? Not as though I’ve ever asked, after all.” Another silence, and then he said, “But you know, I – it’s not that I just want to… fix it, or… finish things off. It’s not… I’m not…” He pressed his lips together, smiled wryly. “Jesus. I hope you can’t hear this. I’m not making any sense. I’m just trying to say, I want you here, man. I want you here to stay.”

A little flicker of light seemed to touch Dean’s eyes.

“You could stay now,” he said, “right? You could actually stay. If you wanted to. And we could…” He stopped. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

A car drove by, and the child in the backseat stared out the window at him. Dean blinked back to reality.

“We didn’t have time to think about what we wanted,” he said into the quiet of the parking lot, when the car had passed and he was walking again. “All this time. Or maybe you did. But I didn’t.” He looked upwards, towards the iron sky. “And now there’s time, Cas, and all I’m thinking about is you.” He looked down. “I said that already.”

He moved on, stepping out the other side of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk.

“I remember you said that the… the thing you want, you can’t have.” Dean took in a breath and let it go. “I don’t know why you thought you couldn’t. Whatever it is, man, you deserve it.”

His feet carried him onward.

“You gotta be sick of hearing me talk at this point. But I just…” Dean’s eyes glanced over the snowy Lebanon street in front of him, and he crossed the road. “I just want you here. Maybe I should take a damn hint.” His voice strained, hurt betraying the attempt at levity in his tone. “But you said… I keep thinking back on what you said. About how you feel. And I, uh. You know. If you’d just let me…”

Dean lifted his hands, a little helplessly, into the air as he walked, as though wanting to give something invisible to someone who wasn’t there. He dropped them awkwardly, his expression creasing.

He was circling back around towards the mall, his footsteps pointing him towards home. He looked heavy, weary. The lines on his face were deep, and his eyes were unfocused, lost in thought.

The people around him paid him no attention. He was just part of the crowd. They swirled across his path and around him, irrelevant to him, not seeing him. Except –

Dean came to a sudden stop. His gaze sharpened.

Twenty feet away from him, standing completely still, was a figure. Not struggling with carrier bags or strollers or wallets and keys like the other shoppers going into and out of the mall. Utterly stone still.

Tall, almost as tall as Dean. Wearing a long coat. Brown-haired. Impassive.

Watching Dean as though waiting for him.

And Dean visibly blossomed. His mouth fell slightly open, his shoulders loosened, one hand reached out unconsciously.

“Cas?” he said, disbelieving – and Dean saw a slight smile appear on Castiel’s face, and the angel slightly raised one hand in greeting.

Warmth touched Dean’s eyes, rising up as though from a great depth. He began to move, at first taking care on the slippery sidewalk. But his feet hurried him, and he was walking fast and then he was almost running, caution forgotten, eyes on Castiel’s.

It was when he was only a few steps away that his foot hit a patch of black ice. His arms went out, struggling to balance him – Castiel moved forward, one hand out – Dean reached for him on instinct, grasping his arm, his body relaxing in obvious expectation of Castiel being able to pull him upright –

But Castiel’s weight tilted along with Dean’s, and the ground gave them both a hard and cold welcome. There were some muttered ooohs from people passing by, and a few of them came to awkward stops nearby.

Dean landed hard on his back, head hitting the cement. He stared for a moment up at the sky. It had all happened very fast.

He sat up, and saw Castiel kneeling beside him, inspecting his own hands.

“Fuck,” Dean said. He put a hand to the back of his head. No blood.

“Are you okay?” said someone behind Dean, and he waved them off.

“All good,” he said, seeing in his peripheral vision that the people who’d stopped to look were moving on. He looked at Castiel. “Are you… you’re…”

Castiel stopped staring down at his hands, and looked at Dean instead. His blue eyes searched Dean’s face. Under his gaze, Dean smiled – a smile that grew on his face from a tiny brightness in his eyes until his whole face was alight with it.

“It’s you,” he said. "Damn, Cas, it's really you."

“It’s me,” Castiel confirmed. His voice held a recognition of Dean’s smile, a reciprocal warmth.

“You’re here.”

“I heard you,” Castiel said.

“You heard me? Just now?”

“Yes.”

Dean nodded. He was breathing a little fast. His gaze searched Castiel’s face, partly seeming to be looking for something, partly seeming already to have found it. People were stepping around them to get inside the mall.

“It’s good to see you,” Dean said.

Castiel smiled too, at last.

“But you know,” Dean added, “you could’ve just appeared right next to me instead of a whole freaking mile away on a slippery sidewalk. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Ah.” Castiel, still on his knees beside where Dean was sitting, dropped his gaze. “That was, in fact, not under my control. Jack sent me down here. After I asked him to do something for me.”

Castiel looked down at his hands again, and this time Dean looked too. His expression broke into slight surprise when he saw red on Castiel’s palms, at the sight of the blood – and then the surprise came in a second, deeper wave, as realisation hit.

“Cas,” he said.

“Just a graze,” Castiel said calmly.

“But you – you’re – that’s not supposed to happen,” Dean said. He reached out, and took Castiel’s hands in his own, inspecting the little scrapes on the skin. “You can’t get hurt like this.”

“Well,” Castiel said, “I can, now.”

“But you’re…” Dean stared at Castiel, seeming suddenly caught in consternation.

“Staying,” Castiel finished for him.

Wide-eyed, still sitting on the sidewalk, Dean took this in. Something light crossed his face, then anger, then confusion.

“I heard you,” Castiel reminded him. Dean stared at him.

“What I said?”

“Yes.”

“About staying?”

“Yes.”

“And you… you want that?”

Despite the hustle of people around them, the crunch-crunch of their boots in the snow and the harshness of their voices, Dean and Castiel might have been the only two people in the world when Castiel said,

“Yes, Dean.”

“So, but – before, in the bunker, with the Empty, when you said – the thing – the thing you said you wanted –”

Castiel looked down at their hands. Dean’s holding Castiel’s.

Dean tightened his grip.

“Just that?” he said, his voice sounding thick.

Castiel said nothing, words seeming to fail him.

They stared at each other. Hands in hands, touching, Castiel bleeding. Dean didn’t let go.

“It’s yours,” Dean said roughly.

“You mean…” Castiel’s eyes were suddenly wide. “You mean that you…”

“Since pretty much day one. I just never thought you’d want that from me.”

The world moved past and around them. They didn’t notice. Castiel was radiating happiness in every body line, though he was unmoving. Dean was watching him as though afraid he might disappear in the space of a blink.

"Is this real?" he said. "My head hurts enough for it to be real."

Castiel nodded.

“You’re really staying,” Dean said.

“As long as you’ll let me.”

After enough time under the steadiness of Castiel’s gaze, it seemed finally to sink in for Dean – the truth of it, the reality of it. Dean breathed out.

He swallowed. He looked down.

He smiled.

“We should get home, then,” he said.

Castiel didn’t say anything, but he gave a nod made small by emotion.

“Oh. I’m sorry, though,” Dean said, his eyes catching on Castiel’s small injuries now that he was looking down again. His thumb lightly touched the place where blood was drying on Castiel’s palm. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have run at you.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel said, getting to his feet and pulling Dean up with him, their hands not letting go.

“I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Don’t be,” Castiel said, his blood on Dean’s hands, and still holding them. “Don’t be.”