#scrape my teeth against his knuckles until they’re bleeding <3

[inkykeiji]

licks all four of his fingers and his thumb, presses a gentle kiss to each fingertip then licks them all again ♡ traces the lines of his palm and the creases of his knuckles with the tip of my tongue and then coats his whole hand in sticky, shimmery saliva ♡

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Haunting, Haunted, Haunts

Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: ~960

Warnings: Not the most explicit thing I’ve ever written, but definitely not G-rated. This is dark. Set between seasons 3 & 4, so. Demon blood Sam, with all the angst and self-destructive tendencies that that entails. Depression, suicidal ideation, rough sex. 

A/N: For the “Quote E” square on my @supernatural-jackles​​ Tell Me A Story Bingo card! My quote was “I’m here, just like I promised.” Pretty sure that was supposed to be a fluffy quote. Oops. 

This is a phase of Sam’s life that I tend to fixate on a lot; I’ve written about it before in Set Yourself On Fire and Might As Well. Check those out if you enjoy this, I guess? Title and thematic inspiration from an Against Me! song. 

Sam’s mouth still tastes like blood when she comes back. She slams the door shut and he runs his tongue over his teeth, wondering if she’ll be able to taste the coppery-sharp, rotting-fruit tang of it on his lips. 

“You’re here,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that Sam understands. 

Her eyes are a little unfocused, looking through him. He looks down at his hands, the dirt under his nails and the rusty stains coating his palms. The bloodstains aren’t real — or at least he doesn’t think they are. They shiver in and out of existence as he blinks away the not-quite-hallucinations that come with the high sometimes. He imagines the bloodstains fading, and his hands along with them, going translucent until he vanishes. 

Is there a word for when your entire body feels like a phantom limb?

“I’m still here.” 

(Is he?) 

He’s not sure. It’s hard to be sure of anything, these days. He skulks around at the edges of reality, haunting all these liminal spaces. He wakes up in abandoned houses where the dust swirls around him like ghostly figures in slanting rays of light. He sleeps in motels that feel like sun-bleached pastel-hued mausoleums. 

Days go by in strobes of washed-out neon and flickering fluorescent, glinting glass bottles and scraped-raw knuckles, punches from strangers that never land quite as hard as he wants them to — because even when he picks his fights staggering drunk and slurring, he can’t help but win. Dean taught him how to throw a punch and his dad taught him how to take one; if there’s anything Sam knows how to do, it’s how to keep fighting when logic would demand that he give up and die. 

Sometimes he isn’t sure whether he’s real. Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t. 

When the high kicks in and he can’t feel any pain, Sam can almost convince himself that he died when Dean did. When the comedown hits and everything aches, Sam wishes he was dead.  

Her lip is split, and she’s thumbing it absently as she comes closer. She’s still beautiful, even with the bruised-dark hollows around her eyes, the way they’re glazed-over and feverish, and the unnatural flush on her cheeks. 

She puts a hand on his chest, watching carefully as her warm palm makes contact, like she’s waiting for her fingers to go right through him, maybe. Her head lolls to one side, a little too loose. She twists her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pulls him closer. 

He reaches out, grazes a curled knuckle over the swollen slash in her lip, and she shivers at the contact. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. His voice comes out low and heated, and he swears he didn’t mean it to sound so dirty. 

She kisses him desperately, throwing herself against him, and she tastes like blood. 

Sam picks her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, slamming her against the wall and rolling his hips, too much rough friction between them with their jeans, and she groans. He staggers to the couch, sits down hard and pulls her down against him with a hand tangled in her hair, sucking a bruise into the soft curve of her breast. She gives it right back: teeth sinking into his lip, nails raking his back, grinding down so hard it hurts. 

She was out of her skull at the time, and he doesn’t think she remembers telling him: Not so nice. Make it hurt. When you’re nice I can almost forget you’re not Dean. 

She almost rips his shirt getting it over his head, and then it’s a frantic scramble to get her tank top off, get her zipper open — she almost falls when he shoves her to her feet so he can push her jeans down her thighs. She sways into him, unsteady, fumbling with his belt, and when he slides a hand down between her legs she shudders, tilting forward to rest her forehead against his chest, shoulders shaking with a sob as he drags slick fingers up and down and in. 

“Sam,” she says, ragged and desperate. 

“I know. I’m right here.” 

Dean had snuck a glance at her in the rearview, reassuring himself that she was snoring, and he’d said it like a prayer: “When I can’t be here, Sammy, you gotta look out for her. Okay? Just… don’t leave her alone.” 

He’d brushed it off at the time — yeah, right, like I’d just ditch her—but when things were really bad, after — when Sam came closer to the edge than he’d like to admit — he thought of that promise: I’ll be here. 

It’s her fault he can’t just fade away. 

He shoves her face-down on the couch, feels the throb of his pulse in his cock as she strains back against him — as she struggles. He grabs her hip with one hand, fingers pressing into bruises that echo their shape, biting into where her flesh gives so nicely under the too-tight grip. 

He shoves himself down, feeling the slippery-silky-softness of her body — inside — where she’s wet and hot and undeniably alive.

They’re still here. They’re here, and this is what people do when they’re alive, right? They fuck and they struggle and they hurt each other until they bleed. 

They’re here, and Dean’s not. 

He grits his teeth, grinds into her, feels the buzzing high under his skin and the convulsive shudder of her inhale under his body. He drags his fingernails up the side of her hip. She reaches back, grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair, and the sting is enough to make his eyes water. 

I’m here, just like I promised. 

It hurts. 

.

.

.

[ashes-and-ashes]

Okay so some context:

I literally had this vision of Remus picking shattered glass out from Sirius’ palm, and the whole thing just expanded from there. I really like this whole concept of troubled youths though - maybe I’ll do something based on this later on?

(This sucks - I keep saying I’ll write longer fics and yet I can’t seem to do anything but oneshots. How annoying.)

~

“You’ve got to stop doing this.”

Sirius lets out a tiny groan, burying his head into the crook of his arm. They’re in some storage room, perched on upturned buckets, blood splashing down from the cuts on his hands.

“Stop what? Fighting? Brawling? Punching my hand through windows?”

Remus lets out a noise of fustration, roughly raking his hands through his hair. “All of them?”

“Sorry,” Sirius says. He leans against the wall, tips his head back to rest against the corner. “No can do.”

Remus sighs and bends over his hands again. The tweezers gleam in the cold light; sharp and metallic and vicious. Sirius bites down hard on his lip as Remus presses the tip into his skin, tries to ignore the stabs of pain against his skin.

“So,” he says, his voice coming out slightly strangled. “Anything else I should know?”

Remus sets the tweezers down. “Oh nothing much. Just that you’ve got another 3 weeks of therapy added onto your existing amount. And Snape is in the hospital with a broken nose and fractured rib.”

“Good,” Sirius mutters, and Remus sighs. “Jesus, Sirius. You’re not getting out of here if you don’t try to at least change.”

“Now why would I do that? Not like my parents are going to take me back. I’m stuck here till I’m 18.”

”Even longer if you don’t learn how to control your anger.”

They were all in here for a reason. Hogwarts School for Troubled Youth, the sign proudly proclaimed, erected outside of a dim, grey building. Once you went in, you often didn’t come back out.

Sirius scowls again, glaring down at his bleeding hand. He knew what his file said, had memorized every fucking letter on the paper. Officially he was in here for anger management issues, psychological trauma, violence and impulsive behavior. Unofficially he was imprisoned for being far too much for his parents to handle.

“Sorry,” he mutters. Remus flicks his eyebrows up in surprise. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for...you know. Beating up Snape and Malfoy. Putting my hand through the window.”

The corner of Remus’ mouth turns up. “And?”

“And for being a jackass.”

“Apology accepted.” Remus picks up the tweezers again; he smiles, his eyes wide and guileless. With a flick of his wrist the tweezer disappears, vanishing from between his fingers in the space of a breath. He winks and reaches forward; Sirius rolls his eyes as Remus pulls the tweezers from the mass of dark curls piled on top of his head. “Would you quit doing that?”

“Doing what?” Remus repeats innocently. He twirls the tweezers again; they snap in half between his hands. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, Yes. We know you’re an incredible thief. And a pickpocket. And a magician.”

“Damn straight,” Remus mutters. He makes a fist around the broken shards of the tweezers and gently blows. When he opens his hands again the tweezers are whole. “I’m incredible.”

Sirius resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Can you get the glass out of my hand?”

Remus smirks. “Right.” He bends over, presses the tweezers into Sirius’ hand again, underneath the skin to where the glass shards were embedded into flesh. Sirius stifles a groan, bites down hard on his lip and lets his mind wander.

His gaze swoops down, towards Remus’ hands. He’s studied them, a lot, the long, slender fingers and the ropes of scar tissue that snaked their way along the skin. One of his fingers are crooked, bent in two different places, the only hint toward the scars that coated the rest of his body.

How many hours has he studied Remus, his laughs and his moods, the quiet, watchful way he observed the world? Always moving; his hands reaching up to brush against his hair, fingers tapping on his knees, the flashes of light as he flicked objects between his fingers, dropped coins into his pockets. He was sent here for stealing, hustling people on the street to scrape together enough money to save his dying mother. It all fell to shit when he stole from the wrong person, got his ass sent to Hogwarts.

Sirius bites back a moan as Remus probes too deep into the broken skin. He jerks slightly; the metal presses deeper into the bleeding skin, making him clench his jaw. Remus pulls back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sirius takes a deep breath, gaze dropping towards the floor. Shards of blood-soaked glass litter the ground, countless others burried in his hands. “It’s okay. I can handle a lot.”

Remus meets his gaze. Sirius always loved Remus’ eyes; brown, flecked with bits of hazel and gold and bronze. There’s a ripple in one eye, a jagged chasm of black; Remus had just shrugged when Sirius asked him about it. “I got my head slammed into a lot of corners,” he muttered, then refused to say anymore on the subject.

He realizes he’s staring, eyes locked on Remus’. Remus flushes, blood rising to his cheeks; he tears his gaze away, looking down at Sirius’ hand. “I better,” he starts, then trails off. “I don’t want the wound healing over the glass. I better get this out.”

“Sure,” Sirius says, then stifles a moan as Remus shoved he tweezers back into his hand. He leans his head against the wall, teeth bared, forcing himself to stay still even as the pain snaked its way up his arm. “Where’s James?”

“Probably lighting things on fire behind the dumpster,” Remus mutters. Sirius loves it when Remus concentrates, all pursed lips and lowered lashes. “They found his lighter, though, and the can of gasoline under his bed. He’s pretty pissed about it.”

Sirius huffs a laugh, then winces as Remus slowly pulls out another piece of glass. The skin splits, blood trickling down his wrist in vibrant ruby ropes. He closes his eyes, heart pounding.

He’s always known, known the feeling inside of him. It was what started the fire, the raging inferno inside of him, the endless pit of fury that nothing could put out. He’s burning, burning and burning and burning and there’s not a damn thing that anyone could do about it.

God, he’s wrecked. He hasn’t spoken to anyone, hasn’t even seen Reg for 7 years. He wonders what happened to him how, if he was still the sweet-faced, innocent child that Sirius left behind.

“Sirius,” Remus says, and he’s jolted out of his thoughts, back into the storage cupboard with blood down his arm and Remus too close at his side. “Sirius, you’re doing it again.”

“Sorry,” Sirius breathes. “Flashbacks.”

Remus’ eyes go dark; he has his own demons to battle with. He still didn’t know what exactly plagues Remus, but he had a general idea. There were too many nights spent tossing and turning, listening to Remus’ pleads; Greyback! Please, not her, take me instead -

He wondered who Greyback was. He was going to rip him apart.

Sirius takes a shuddering breath as Remus removes another piece from his skin, feels the skin catch and tear. He bites his lip, embraces the feeling, the cold agony that helped cut through the whirling in his head.

He used to, when he was younger, used to trace bits of metal across his skin until he bled. The scars were still visible, though they easily blended with the scars that his mother carved on him.

And even those paled to Remus’ scars. He still didn’t know what caused them, all the rips and shredding. Patches that looked like burns, places where the skin hadn’t smoothed over. He dreamt of tracing them, sometimes, with his fingers and teeth and tongue.

He shudders as more glass comes out from under his skin, filling his veins with shattering lines. He’s burning, he knows this, burning up with all that rage and he’s in love with his best friend.

“So,” Remus says, his voice soft. “Why did you beat them up?”

“Who?”

“Snape and Malfoy.”

Sirius forces a laugh. To be honest, he didn’t know. The day had already been tough, pressing on top of him like a goddamn pressure cooker and all it had taken was one comment (“Hey Black! On your way to fuck the whore?”) and he was on top of them, swinging punches left and right, feeling things cracking underneath his hand.

Later, locked in the office, he had began shaking. Hard and fast, until the room spun around him in foggy waves and he needed to think, to breathe, to prove that something in this fucked up life was in his control -

He didn’t recognize the pain at first - that came after. All he could hear was the shattering of glass, the pounding of his heart, Remus’ low curses as he found him on the ground curled over his bleeding hand.

They weren’t allowed tweezers - apparently they were a suicide risk. But there was nothing Remus couldn’t steal, no lock he couldn’t pick and there was a pair in Remus’ hands a mere 5 minutes later.

And now...Sirius bites back a groan.

His hands hurt. His back hurt. His ribs and his legs and his raw, bloodied knuckles but nothing hurt as badly as being in love with Remus. Of staring out into the sea and knowing that you’ll never find land.

Sirius grits his teeth, so hard he thinks he might pop a vein. He swallows, tasting blood, watching the tweezers press into his hand again.

“Sirius,” Remus says, his eyes shadows and mist and dust. “Sirius, are you alright?”

Sirius takes a deep, rattling breath. “Never been better.”

Another shard of glass comes out, clattering onto the floor.