#sorry losing my shit like absolutely losing my shit when I realized he says “da fog” so clearly

[boykingscourt]

it's da fog

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: Post-canon, Nie Huaisang drops the 'Headshaker' facade and his disciples stop pretending they think he's incompetent, and a bunch of Sect Leaders who are used to being able to step all over Qinghe Nie are suddenly faced with a cunning, brilliant leader who Takes Absolutely No Shit.

Associates - Part 1 - ao3

Untamed verse

“I’m sorry,” Nie Huaisang said, so shocked that he didn’t even raise his fan in front of his face. “You want me to what now?”

“Help,” Lan Wangji said. He was seated across from Nie Huaisang, as stiff-backed and formal as if they were having a discussion conference banquet rather than a meal in Nie Huaisang’s private quarters in the Unclean Realm.

“Yes, I gathered as much,” Nie Huaisang said. “Two questions: Help with what? And – why me?”

Lan Wangji’s brow wrinkled minutely, which for the Lan sect suggested a state of extreme stress. “Brother has entered seclusion.”

“I know that,” Nie Huaisang said, firmly ignoring the niggling feeling of guilt. If Lan Xichen hadn’t wanted to be completely wrecked as collateral damage in Nie Huaisang’s revenge plan, he shouldn’t have tried to take Jin Guangyao’s side even after he knew what he’d done.

His da-ge deserved better than that. Especially from Lan Xichen.

“I have been appointed Chief Cultivator,” Lan Wangji said.

“I know that, too,” Nie Huaisang said. “I sent you a present in congratulations, didn’t I?”

Lan Wangji gave him a dead-eyed look, which meant he’d received it.

“I thought you and Wei Wuxian would enjoy it,” Nie Huaisang protested, hiding his twitching lips behind his fan. His favorite, as always – he might switch them out on a regular basis, but he always came back to this one, the one his brother had given him long, long ago. It served as a reminder that he should trust no one, which was a concept his stupid heart had a tendency to otherwise forget. “I understand that appropriate preparation is a very important part of the proceedings –”

The dead-eyed looked turned into a glare, and Nie Huaisang coughed into his hand and stopped talking about the jade phallus and jar of lubricant that he’d sent to the Cloud Recesses in a discreet package under the guise of a congratulations gift.

He really hoped he was lucky enough that Lan Wangji had opened it in front of other people, but sadly he suspected the other man knew him too well to do that.

“Speaking of which, have you married him yet?” he asked, ignoring his hurt at not having been informed. He hadn’t expected an invitation to the happy event itself, of course; Wei Wuxian had made very clear what he’d thought about what Nie Huaisang had done – don’t associate with evil. There was a reason that Nie Huaisang had carefully returned to referring to Wei Wuxian by name, rather than casually. But not even to receive a letter informing him of it having happened…?

“I have not,” Lan Wangji said. When Nie Huaisang goggled at him, disbelieving, he shifted minutely in his seat and said, “He wanted to travel. I – could not.”

“Well, of course you couldn’t,” Nie Huaisang said blankly. “You’re the Lan sect heir. If your brother goes into seclusion, then responsibility for managing your sect falls to you – and of course you were just named Chief Cultivator – wait, are you doing both jobs by yourself?”

Lan Wangji nodded.

Nie Huaisang had a momentary feeling of sincere pity, and then the true horror sunk in.

“And you’re asking me to help you?!” he yowled. “Hanguang-jun! You can’t be serious! Don’t you know what everyone says about me? Me, the hapless ‘I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know’, the one they all call the Headshaker?”

“I know what they call you,” Lan Wangji said, stoic as ever. “I also know what they said about Wei Ying, and about Lianfeng-zun. There is not much gain in listening to what people say.”

“I don’t think those are comparable situations,” Nie Huaisang complained, but even he had to admit it was a bit of a weak response.

“No?” Lan Wangji said. “Then you are not the man who drove Lianfeng-zun into a corner with no route of escape?”

Well, when he put it that way.

“That doesn’t mean I know anything about running a sect,” Nie Huaisang pointed out. “Sure, I’ve managed, but I had –” Er-ge and san-ge do it. “- help.”

“They each had their own sects to run,” Lan Wangji pointed out in return. “You must have done much of it yourself.”

“But –”

“Nie Huaisang,” Lan Wangji said, and Nie Huaisang blinked. Lan Wangji hadn’t called him as informally as that in years, and certainly never since he became Sect Leader. “Please. As a favor to me.”

Nie Huaisang pursed his lips and looked down at his plate, reaching out and playing with his teacup.

It was a low blow, that.

Pity for Lan Wangji that low blows didn’t work on him anymore.

“We used to be friends, once,” Nie Huaisang said, not looking up. “A long time ago – do you remember? I was seven, you were eight, it was right after my father died. I slept in your room.”

He’d had screaming nightmares back then, and they were worse when he was alone. It hadn’t been just about his father, either, but his brother, the memory of fear in his eyes and bruises on his face, the desperate way he’d pleaded for Nie Huaisang to agree to go to Gusu just for a little while, the persistent worry about what was happening back home once he’d agreed, the haunting thoughts of losing him in the same way he’d lost his father…

Lan Wangji hadn’t been much of a talker back then, either, but he’d crawled into the cot they’d set up for Nie Huaisang in his room and had held his hand, right up until he’d passed out like clockwork at nine. His steady breathing had reminded Nie Huaisang of his brother, calming his nerves, and eventually he’d started confiding in him. Telling him all his fears – the secrets he’d guessed about the Nie family cultivation he only half-understood – the qi deviations –

“I remember,” Lan Wangji said.

“Later, when I came back to the Cloud Recesses to learn for the first time, I was so excited to see you again, and so disappointed to find out you were preparing to go into seclusion. When I snuck over to see you, you chased me away – and when you came out, you only spoke to me long enough to scold me about how I wasn’t obeying the rules properly. I thought you were embarrassed to be seen with me.”

Lan Wangji said nothing. He probably had been. With the benefit of hindsight and age, Nie Huaisang could even understand: adolescence was such a prickly age, and little things seemed so important.

“I was angry at you back then,” Nie Huaisang said. “Very angry – but all I did was start treating you coldly, calling you Lan-er-gongzi instead of Lan Zhan, waiting for you to remember that you liked me. And then the next year we had all those adventures together, you and me and Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian, and of course we were close again during the war. You remember, I’m sure, how we used to stay together every time you came back to the Cloud Recesses or visited the Unclean Realm, how I couldn’t do anything for the war but worry, couldn’t do anything but keep you company, but you said it helped to lift your spirits before you headed out again. I even sent you letters after what happened with Wei-xiong– with Wei Wuxian. The siege of the Burial Mounds. I knew how close you were, and I wanted to comfort you if I could...but you never responded to any of them.”

He shook his head and rolled the teacup from one hand to another.

“And then you didn’t show up when my brother died. In seclusion again! For years and years! The honorable Hanguang-jun, always thinking about his cultivation; what a good seed you are, a pride and joy to your sect. Just like everyone always said.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Lan Wangji said. His voice was very quiet, a little hoarse. “I was not well.”

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “No one ever explained, either then or thereafter. And no one else ever guessed ‘busy mourning the death of the love of your life’ was the reason, either, so I don’t know why you would expect me to.”

“You never spoke to me again,” Lan Wangji said, his jaw and throat working. He’d tried, a few times, but Nie Huaisang had looked through him as if he wasn’t there, twittering like a foolish little bird with only the most formal of addresses on his lips. “Only in passing, when you came to visit my brother.”

“As I’m sure you’ve realized by now, I’m very good at holding a grudge,” Nie Huaisang said, and put his teacup down. He knew perfectly well that he was being unfair, that he was being cruel and selfish and completely disregarding the many ways he had undoubtedly been unfair to Lan Wangji in turn through lack of consideration or otherwise. But he was cruel and selfish, his mission this past decade and more evidence enough of that, and that old pain of abandonment had lingered far past the point of reason. Still lingered, if he was being honest. “I’m sorry that you’re struggling, and for my part in it, but you’re going to have to do better than please.”

Lan Wangji was quiet, bowing his head. After a time, he said, “I was in recovery during that period. I did not learn about what had happened to your brother until – until much later. It was kept from me so as not to disturb me as I was healing...I can show you the remaining marks, if you wish.”

“That’d be something,” Nie Huaisang said, because he was a petty person like that. Because that had hurt back then, thinking that Lan Wangji was ignoring him even at that most desperate moment, hurt more than anything.

Well. Not more than anything.

Not more than losing his brother. Than finding out the truth about Jin Guangyao.

Than realizing he was the only one who could right this wrong, and that he would have to do it alone.

“If things had been different,” Lan Wangji said, and he did not lift his head. “If things had gone – otherwise. Would you have trusted me?”

Now it was Nie Huaisang’s turn to bow his head. If he had had Lan Wangji, had trusted Lan Wangji…yes, things might have gone very differently.

For Lan Xichen, at least.

“Perhaps,” he said, unwilling to commit himself but knowing that his mere lack of response said everything. “But enough about the past. Far more importantly - what about the future?”

Lan Wangji blinked at him.

Nie Huaisang sighed. “You’re right. I did learn to run a sect, at least somewhat. I may not be very good at it, but I know all the things a sect leader ought to know – all the secrets, all the gossip, how to commit to nothing while making people think you’ve agreed, who should sit next to who and who shouldn’t, what’s a trap and what isn’t, all the things you’ve never needed to care about it. Your brother made sure I knew it all, and told me many stories about things he was doing to run your sect to use as examples. As you suspected, I can probably help you, even if only in figuring out how to appropriately delegate the work.”

“But?”

“I may not be a very good custodian of it, but my sect is the only thing I have left,” Nie Huaisang said. “And you may have once been my friend, Lan Zhan, but now you’re the Chief Cultivator. Do not associate with evil. Am I to expect a freeze in trade relations? A subtle ostracization of my disciples? Will I be invited to the discussion conferences, or will people turn their faces away from me?” He shrugged. “You don’t get to play hot and cold with me anymore. You want my help, you stand by my side. No more judgment.”

Lan Wangji was frowning. “As Chief Cultivator, I must be impartial.”

“Just like the last three were? Wen Ruohan, Jin Guangshan, Jin Guangyao…oh yes, impartiality is truly intrinsic to the position, with such grand examples in your predecessors,” Nie Huaisang said archly, and this time he did open his fan. Trust no one. “I’m not asking for favoritism. Equality with all the others, and your support if someone tries to criticize me or remove me, especially for anything to do with Jin Guangyao; that’ll be enough. Well?”

Lan Wangji considered it for a long time.

It wasn’t anything personal – Lan Wangji was a contemplative sort of person – so Nie Huaisang didn’t take offense, just waited, occasionally moving to eat a little of the food.

“Very well,” Lan Wangji finally said. “I agree.”  

Nie Huaisang was ready with his next question, and also a bite of some grilled vegetables, which he swallowed down before speaking. “And if Wei Wuxian doesn’t?”

Lan Wangji’s hands tightened around his knees. “I have said I will defend you. I have not named exceptions.”

“Just checking,” Nie Huaisang said, then smiled and put some of the vegetables into Lan Wangji’s bowl. “Eat up, Lan Zhan! We’re going to have our work cut out for us.”

Lan Wangji nodded. He seemed resigned.

“If you want, I’ll even deal with Jiang Cheng for you,” Nie Huaisang said. “But it’ll cost you.”

Lan Wangji tilted his head to the side, as if it could hide how much his eyes had brightened in anticipation of that particular burden being taken off his back.

“Remember when we were kids and I asked you to do my copying for me?”

A slow blink. “You want me to do paperwork?”

“I want you to do so much paperwork,” Nie Huaisang said emphatically. He even waved his hands around in emphasis, he meant it so strongly. “I’ll tell you what needs to be done and who needs to do it, I’ll show you how to keep the smaller sects in line and how to manage conferences, but if I never see another memorial in my life it will be too soon..!”

“I think,” Lan Wangji said dryly, “that we will be able to devise an equitable division of labor.”

“Old friend!” Nie Huaisang trilled happily, holding out his arms.

“Do not hug me.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, don’t be like that –”

“Do not hug me.”

“Don’t be so cold! How are we going to get Wei Wuxian back by your side if we don’t put some effort into making him jealous?”

“…explain.”

“Well, the way I see it –”

[dreamerstreamer]

Never Meant To Be Yours

Pairing: Wilbur Soot x gn!reader

Summary: [Dream SMP!AU] Wilbur Soot’s heart may belong to you, but yours? Well...

Warnings: some cursing (hi, Tommy) + one scene with slight violence 

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: i realized that i hadn’t written a story that was strictly just angst, so... ta-da! this story takes place during the betrayal of l’manberg. inspired by both the events of the smp and also heathers: the musical. remember folks: pog through the pain <3

The campfire crackled and popped as Wilbur tossed another stick into the roaring flames, the embers leaping up and soaring into the starry night sky. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance as Tommy opened his mouth again.

“I’m fucking telling you, Wilbur. Just let me sharpen some sticks and I can win this war for L’Ma—”

Wilbur sighed, reaching over to rip the two branches from Tommy’s hands. “Tommy, if you pick up another set of sticks one more time, I will throw your discs into the fire.”

Tommy gasped, absolutely appalled that he would even suggest it. “Big man, you wouldn’t fucking dare—”

“No,” Tubbo said, smiling as he threw some more kindle into the fire, “I’m pretty sure he would.”

“Oh, he definitely would,” Fundy confirmed, his tail swishing this way and that as he looked on in amusement.

Tommy frowned, snatching another stick from the firewood pile and turning to glare at Wilbur from where he sat on his log. “Fucking fight me for them, you beanie bitch.”

Wilbur stared back, unimpressed and his patience wearing thin. “Tommy,” he said, “I’m not doing this, again.”

“Oh? Are you scared of my sharpness 1000 sti—”

Without even an ounce of hesitation, Wilbur grabbed Tommy by his arms and hoisted him into the air, his feet dangling dangerously close to the campfire. Fundy hooted as Tommy let out a piercing scream, Tubbo watching with wide eyes and a grin on his face as the flames licked at the soles of his shoes. “I swear to fucking god, Tommy,” Wilbur nearly shouted, “I am going to drop you into the fi—”

“You lot seem like you’re having fun.”

Wilbur froze, Tommy practically melting in his arms in relief. “Thank the lord, I’m saved,” he muttered.

You walked over to the group with a small wave and a bashful grin. In an instant, Wilbur had released Tommy, dropping him back onto the log as he walked over to you. The irritation seeped out of his bones as he took in the sight of your face, your eyes glowing in the golden light of the campfire.

“You’re finally here,” he said, leaning over to press a quick peck to your cheek before sitting once more.

You giggled, settling into the space next to him. “Hi.”

Beside you, Tommy made a gagging noise. “Jesus Christ, you guys are actually fucking gross. I would never do some shit like that.”

You gave him a quizzical look. “But Tommy,” you pointed out, “I thought you loved women. Don’t you want to date one, one day?”

“I do love women!” Tommy confirmed. “And I respect them! But you know me, [Y/N].” He patted his chest, smirking with pride. “I’m married to the grind.”

You tilted your head at him, bemused. “Are you, now?”

He nodded with full confidence. “Of course I am!”

“And you didn’t invite me to the wedding?”

Tommy shot you a condescending look. “The grind and I have been married far longer than you and Wilbur have even been together—hell, I’d say we’re a better fucking couple than you two!”

You feigned a gasp and turned to your lover with a dramatic pout. “Hey, Will? Do you hear that? Tommy says his marriage to the grind is better than our relationship.”

Wilbur paused for a moment, blinking, then shrugged. “Well, that’s an easy fix.”

Confusion flashed across Tommy’s face. “How?”

Wilbur stood up and turned to look at you, a serious expression crossing his face. “I suppose we’ll just have to get married.”

You felt your jaw drop, a wave of shock running through you as Tommy sputtered, “Pfft—what the fuck?”

Taking a deep breath, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “Will,” you said, “getting married in the middle of a war doesn’t exactly sound like the best idea you’ve had.”

“But Wilbur never has good ide—”

“Well,” Wilbur said, cutting Tommy off, “how else are we going to beat Tommy and the grind?”

You cocked a brow at him. “Are you implying that are relationship isn’t already stronger than Tommy’s with the grind? That we have to prove it?”

Now it was Wilbur’s turn to sputter. “No, uh, I’m just, um—”

“Will,” you said again, “you realize you have a son that we both care for, right?”

Wilbur paused. “Oh. Right.”

You could see Fundy groan from the other side of the campfire, hanging his head in his hands. “Jeez, thanks, dad.”

Wilbur flashed his son a bright grin. “You’re welcome, son.” He whirled, triumphantly pointing at Tommy’s face. “See? Do you and the grind have a physical representation of your love in the form of another living being?”

Tommy’s face contorted in disgust. “Wilbur, what the fuck, no. I’m a fucking minor.”

The smile dropped from Wilbur’s face like a dead fly. “Oh. Right.”

Tubbo let out a whistle, raising his fist in the air. “Aaand, scene! That’s a point for Tommy!” He shook his head apologetically at the general. “Sorry, Wilbur, but you lose.”

Wilbur looked offended. “How did I lose? [Y/N] and I have a Fundy!”

Tubbo’s expression shifted to something more serious. “Didn’t you know that I’m a lawyer, Wilbur? You don’t mess with the law.”

Fundy let out another groan as Tommy howled in delight. “Oh, no.”

“Big Law is back!”

It didn’t take long for the bickering to start up again, and you found yourself zoning out, simply smiling and nodding every once in a while. A lone crow squawked in the trees above you, and you cast your gaze up at the night sky, watching as the campfire sparks danced and faded into the shadows above. Something stirred deep within your chest. 

It really was a lovely night, and you were surrounded by some lovely people, even if they were rather chaotic. With the campfire keeping you warm and their peals of laughter tugging at your lips, you almost felt sad.

Only a few more days remained of this idyllic life. Just a few days more until—

“[Y/N]? Are you okay?”

Wilbur’s worried voice drew you out of your thoughts and you turned to face him, plastering a small smile to your face. “Yep! Just thinking.”

He leaned down to peer closer at you, his gaze scanning your face. “What about?”

You averted your eyes from his, your cheeks dancing with warmth. “About you.”

He grinned and pulled you into his chest, ignoring the way Tommy pretended to choke at the sight. You giggled, your hands wrapped around Wilbur’s arm in return as he held you close.

High above you, the stars winked down at you from the pitch black sky, waiting and watching to see what came next.

Wilbur sighed, staring down at the map on his desk.

Just how was he going to stage an attack on a nation as large as the Dream SMP? Every opening would have been accounted for, and Dream was not a foe to be taken lightly. Even if all of them came in, bows blazing and swords drawn, Dream was still very much capable of taking them on, even by himself. That, he knew, and that was what weighed him down.

He slumped over, dragging a hand over his face. What in the world was he going to do?

A knock sounded at his door, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Knock knock,” you greeted, leaning against the doorframe with a smile. “You doing alright in there?”

Wilbur offered you a tired smile. “Not really, if I’m being honest.”

You stepped inside, slipping into the seat next to his. “What’s going on? Tell me.”

He sighed. “It—It’s just that the odds are so incredibly stacked against us.” His eyes were sad as he stared blankly down at the parchment. “It makes me wonder, is freedom even attainable, or is it just another one of my silly pipe dreams?”

You frowned, reaching over to stroke his face with the back of your hand. “Freedom is more than just a dream, Will. You know that.” You squeezed his shoulder. “Fundy is living proof of that. Your son is living proof of that. He was born in these walls, remember?” Your voice dropped to a whisper, and it sent a shiver down his spine. “He was born free.”

You pulled away from him, sending him a sugary grin. “We can become free, Will. I know you can do it. You’re not alone. You have me. You have us.”

His smiled crookedly at you. “Even Tommy?”

The look in your eyes was kind as you giggled. “Yes, even Tommy. I’m sure of it. Why else would you have made him your right hand man?”

He chuckled, turning his attention away from the map and onto you. “You’re right. You always know how to make me feel better, [Y/N].”

You offered him a small smile. “I try my best.”

The two of you set into a comfortable silence for a moment or two with you watching Wilbur strategically move pieces across the map while he jotted down notes on a slip of paper. It was only after a few minutes had passed when you spoke up once more.

“Hey,” you said softly, reaching over his ink well to slip your hand in his, “I want to show you something that’ll make you feel even better.”

He raised an eyebrow at you, his hand freezing on its quill. “Oh?”

You nodded, smiling sweetly at him. “I’ve been working on it for a little while, and I really think it’ll help us win that freedom of ours.”

He smiled at you, his gaze fond as he stood, setting his quill on the table. “Let me gather the men and I’ll be right there.”

It only took him a few minutes for him to rally everyone together, although he did have to silence Tommy when he let loose a string of curses yelling about his dedication to the grind. In practically no time, the whole battalion stood in front of you, eager to see what you had in store.

“Alright,” Wilbur said, bowing towards you, “lead the way.”

You grinned, jokingly curtsying back before turning on you heel, a skip lining your step as you strode toward a small tree sitting near the edge of the walls. “If you come down here,” you began, sliding down the side of the hill to point behind the tree, “you’ll see that there’s actually a small entranceway here.”

Wilbur’s eyes widened in surprise. There really was a hole in the hill dug out just here. He wondered just when you made it. “How the fuck did you keep this hidden from us?” Tommy muttered, squinting as you led them inside. “You didn’t even try to hide the fucking door.”

You shrugged, still strolling comfortably. “It was pretty out of the way and it faces the wall itself, so you weren’t likely to spot it, anyways. I didn’t really think it was necessary.”

The walls were dark and dank, lit up only be the occasional torch, but even then it was still dim. “This is a long tunnel,” Tubbo murmured after they had been walking for a minute or two, his head swiveling this way and that as he took in his surroundings.

You laughed. “Well, this place was pretty well-hidden, if I do say so myself.” Suddenly, you stopped, turning to look at the rest of the group. “Well, lads, here it is.”

You stepped in and to the side, and Wilbur gasped.

Lying just within the hill was a grand room. Every surface was made of smooth, polished, black bricks, and pale blue lanterns hung from each corner of the room, emitting a faint light that painted the room in an enchanting glow. Chests lined the walls, and in the center of the room sat a single button atop a panel.

Wilbur was floored—he had no idea when you had built all this.

“What is this place?” Fundy asked, his dark eyes wide with awe.

You hummed, tapping a finger on your chin as you strode to the middle of the room. “Well, I guess you could call it a secret base, but I’ve been calling it the final control room.” Something glinted in your eyes. “I spent a lot of time gathering resources and forging weaponry that we can use to fight.” You pointed at each labelled box with delight. “Look—you each have your own chest!”

Wilbur felt his heart swell with pride. Just when he didn’t think you could be any more perfect, you just had to shatter his expectations.

Everyone split apart, each rushing toward their respective chest with anticipation thrumming in their fingertips. Wilbur grinned as he reached his, unlatching the clasp on the front and flipping the lid open to reveal... nothing.

There wasn’t anything in the chest.

Uneasiness seeped into his stomach.

“[Y/N],” he said slowly, turning to look at you, “these chests are empty.”

You still stood in the center of the room, sending him that same sweet smile you always did.

“I know,” you said, lifting your hand to hover over the singular button lying on the control panel.

Something like terror struck his heart.

“[Y/N]?” he whispered.

It was only then that he noticed how cold your eyes were.

“It was never meant to be.”

What came next happened so quickly that Wilbur almost didn’t process it. He watched as your hand slammed down on the button, and a hole in the wall opened up to reveal the Dream SMP, their swords unsheathed and armour polished to shining. Screams rang out all around him, echoing in the tiny chamber of the so-called final control room. He could only watch in horror as his men were slaughtered at his side until a sword pierced his chest as well.

With a pained gasp, he looked up to you as he fell back, disbelief and the pure, utter pain of betrayal sinking into his veins while he coughed for air.

You still wore that saccharine smile of yours, the one he had fallen for long, long ago. Something menacing shone in your eyes.

He wondered how you could still be smiling at a time like this as his world went dark.

Wilbur awoke with a gasp, lurching forward with wide eyes. Panting, his hand flew to his chest, grasping at where he was just stabbed—or had been stabbed. His shoulders sank in relief as his fingertips met unmarred skin and the softness of his shirt, a sigh escaping his lips.

Coming back after death never really got any easier after the first time. He could only wonder what Tommy and Tubbo were going through—they were so young.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Wilbur’s head shot to the side, his eyes briefly noting the fact that he was indeed lying on the bed in his room. On the opposite side of the room, you sat on a wooden chair, a book clutched between your fingertips. Something warm flitted through his chest as his eyes met yours, and he almost felt glad to see you.

Almost.

“What are you doing here?” he spat, a cruelty he had never felt for you before brewing within his gut. “Why are you even here?”

You blinked innocently at him, shutting the book in your hands and setting it on the table next to you. It was the declaration of independence, he noted with disgust. He felt sick knowing that you held it in yours hands, that you even signed it at all.

“I’m keeping you company,” you said casually, as if nothing had happened at all, as if you hadn’t just gotten him killed. “I didn’t want you to be lonely.”

Rage ripped through him, roaring through him like a wildfire. With shoulders shaking with agony, he tore the sheets from off his legs. “‘Didn’t want me to be lonely’?” he parroted mockingly as he stood to his full height. His glare was as cold as ice. “Is this some sick joke to you?”

You tilted your head at him, your mouth remaining a straight line—hard and firm. “Not particularly, no.”

That was when it hit him—when everything came crashing into him all at once.

You had sold them out.

You had abandoned them.

Did you mean anything you ever said to him? Did you ever really love him? Were your kisses ever real? Did his love really mean nothing to you? 

“[Y/N],” he breathed, horror wracking his every word, “what have you done?”

You stared at him, your expression blank and unreadable—an impenetrable wall standing between him and your psyche. He hated it. He hated how unreadable you were in this moment, and his anger older burned brighter.

“What were you thinking?” he shouted, his voice growing louder and louder. He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, pushing it away from his soot-stained face. “We were going to get married. We—we were going to start a new life together. With Tommy, and Tubbo. Niki. Fundy, my son.” His eyes flashed. “Our son. Whatever happened to that?”

He sank to his knees, suddenly feeling very tired. The fire burned out, and an indescribable sense of sadness flowed in instead, flooding every inch of his being. He felt his eyes begin to water as you simply stared down at him, unfeeling and harsh. His voice cracked.

“[Y/N], why?”

There was no denying what you had done. He had seen it with his own two eyes, had watched a wicked glint creep into your gaze as you pressed the button and vanished.

You were a traitor, through and through, yet he still could not fathom why.

Suddenly, you took a stood, taking a slow and deliberate step toward him. Wilbur’s breath hitched in his throat as he saw you draw closer and closer, his heart pounding in his ears. Even after all that you’d done, after you’d betrayed him, his heart still yearned for you—still ached for you.

Just a step before you reached him, you stopped, crouching down to be level with him. For a moment, you simply stared at him with those eyes—those eyes he loved so, so much. Then, you opened your mouth.

“Wilbur,” you murmured, soft enough only for him to hear. “Oh, my darling, lovely Wilbur.”

Your voice was sickly sweet, dripping like honey that stuck to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed, the tiniest flicker of hope igniting in his heart. Perhaps this was all just some big misunderstanding, some prank that you were pulling on him—you always did love your mischief.

You smiled at him, the glimmer in your eyes wicked and unkind as you stood up. The sun hung just behind you in the sky, framing your face in a heavenly glow.

In another life, you would have looked like an angel.

“I was never meant to be yours.”

His heart shattered.

The tears were now freely streaming down his cheeks, running down like tiny rivers. He half-hoped that he would drown in them, that he would never have to see your beautifully wretched face again for as long as he lived.

Bending over, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, pulling away just a second later after gently patting his head. The spot where your lips met his skin burned, and he hated himself for wishing you would stay.

You strode over to the door, swinging it open with one last glance over your shoulder and an empty half-smile. “Goodbye, Will.”

The door closed. Wilbur stared at the solid oak wood, feeling an abyss open up inside him.

Gone—you were gone.

And he was left alone.

So much for getting married.

“Was it worth it?”

You stopped swinging your legs from the gold throne you sat upon and cast a glance up at Dream, his green eyes boring into you from where he was perched on the chandelier. How he got up there, you still had no idea.

“Was what worth it?” you asked, examining a diamond between your fingers.

He cocked his head at you, gesturing to the castle surrounding the two of you. “This life. Your new title. You gave up so much for them, after all.” He began counting off on his fingers, his lips quirking. “You faked a relationship with Wilbur, pretended to love his son, befriended that brat, Tommy, and then blew it all to smithereens for the crown on your head.”

His gaze flickered back to yours. “Well?” he said again. “Was it worth it?”

You looked at him for a long moment, your expression pensive.

You thought of soft, brown curls tickling against your face as you awoke on the couch. You thought of fluttering laughter and bashful giggles. You thought of a pearly white grin flashing at you from the other side of the campfire. You thought of an old acoustic guitar that was almost always just a little out of tune. You thought of gentle kisses pressed to hands, cheeks, necks, and mouths. 

You thought of Wilbur Soot.

And you smiled and felt nothing.

“Yes.”

[alwaysahiccupandastrid]

His Dark Materials - Season 2 Episode 7 *FINALE* (Thoughts and Rambles)

We have a LOT to unpack here oh my god oh my god

When I say I was screaming and yelling during the episode, I mean I was LITERALLY screaming and yelling

This post is mostly screeching and capital letters, you’ve been warned

“So cold” “life or death meant nothing” - well shit. Accurate description of a Spectre attack damn

I didn’t know what those creepy noises were at first and I was sat here absolutely TERRIFIED because it was creepy as fuck. Then I realized it was cliff ghasts because they said something that I recognized from the book and I was like “oh shit”

Pan and Will talking is the sweetest omg

The fact that Pan told him that Lyra thinks he’s as brave as King Iorek Byrnison :’)

“She’s the best friend I’ve ever had” “You’re her best friend too” - STOP, MY HEART

Lyra was awake and heard the whole conversation :3

“I’m no longer an aeronaut” :( “I’m an insect” - LMAO

Hester and Lee’s banter remains my favourite thing and now it’s bittersweet tbh...

“You could never be an insect, Lee” “Okay, hare” - bless them

Marisa finding where Lyra was staying and then finding Lyra’s coat?? And crying with it pressed to her face?? :’(

In case I haven’t mentioned it already, I am incredibly gay for the witches/their aesthetic/costume. Absolutely beautiful queens, all of them

Oh hi, it’s Mary and the two kids!

The fact that Mary helped them find their adults :’)

Also, “We like you miss” - BLESS

I’m kind of confused as to whether the blue flower petals are important or if it’s just her smelling them? IDK

“I’m close to my father, it’s time I found him” - OOF OKAY UMM ARE YOU SURE

“I let my best friend down” - Noooo Lyra, no you didn’t! :( Your dad is a terrible parent and killed him, that’s not your fault!

“Maybe this is how I let you down” - Well done, Asriel and Marisa, you’ve fucked up a perfectly fine child is what you’ve done

Will telling Lyra that she hasn’t let him down :3

That witch turning up because she was trying to warn Marisa about the spectres, only for Marisa to torture and kill her... oof

FUCKING MONKEY I CAN’T DECIDE HOW I FEEL ABOUT HIM

“She’s MY daughter” - Okay, damn, lady...

“EVE. She’s the mother of all” - OH FUCK YOU TOLD HER. OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK

THE SPECTRE ATE HER DÆMON OMG NO THIS IS HORRIFYING WTAF

Seriously, the way the witch went so grey and lifeless and just fell to her knees and down... Urgh, my stomach is turning

Just when I thought I hated the monkey again, he starts whimpering because he’s afraid of the Spectres :(

“Stop whimpering” - DAMN MARISA YOU ARE A STONE COLD BITCH HUH

Pan being the damn voice of reason and telling Lyra they should stay with the witches like yes, Lyra, listen to him for once!!!

Okay but why are the Magisterium soldiers lowkey dressed like German soldiers from one of the World Wars???

I’m not really surprised that BBC left out the detail of Ruta and Asriel fucking when she found him to be honest XD

So the witches think that the Æsahættr is a person but it’s actually the KNIFE. AND THEY DON’T REALIZE. RUTA YOU DON’T NEED TO GO ANYWHERE, IT’S LITERALLY RIGHT THERE

“...That’s not my dæmon.” “Run.” - OH SHIT OKAY MY WHOLE BODY JUST TENSED UP

So umm Lee got shot and FUCK NO FUCK NO I’M NOT READY FOR THIS EMOTIONALLY THANKS

I LITERALLY DO NOT WANT THIS TO HAPPEN OKAY

“You’re either with me or against me” Umm he’s your dæmon?!?!

THE WAY SHE SCREAMED AT HIM OH MY GOD SHE’S FUCKING TERRIFYING HOLY CRAP

“What are you frightened of?” - oh, I don’t know, Marisa, maybe because YOU FUCKING SCREECHED AT HIM. MAYBE HE’S FRIGHTENED OF YOU

Also I love the detail of Marisa getting onto her hands and knees, sort of crouching and mirroring the monkey’s body language. I just love the parallel

The way the monkey flinched from her when she went to touch him omg :( No dæmon should be THIS afraid of their person (or at all?!?!)

Honestly, I find this series’ portrayal of Marisa fascinating tbh

“We have to do whatever it takes to keep her safe” - Umm, like maybe drugging her and hiding her in a cave for months? 🤔

Also in case I didn’t say this before, the fact she has complete control of the Spectres is fucking scary and always has been from the very first time I read the books

Okay so Lee is fully aware that he’s going to die if he stays behind but he does it because he knows that it’s the best chance of making sure that Lyra ends up under the knife’s protection (because Jopari will find her). All Lee wants is for Lyra to be safe and that hurts my heart so much, he loves this child so much :’(

“I love that little girl like a daughter” - LEE STOP MY HEART IS ALREADY BREAKING AS IT IS

NO NO NO NO I AM NOT AND NEVER WILL BE READY

Oh hey Red PAN-da (sorry I know I keep repeating that joke but honestly LOOK AT HIM)

“Once I change, you’ll stop changing” - OH SHIT. So we’re having THAT conversation then

“What do you think you’ll be?” “A flea I hope” - LMFAO I LOVE IT

“Is it Will that’s changing you?” “I think” - FORESHADOWING FOR AMBER SPYGLASS ANYONE?!

All the meanwhile, while Lee is dying and shit is going down, Ms Mary Malone is just chilling in a cave on a mountain by a waterfall, just reading

I literally struggled to watch Lee’s final scenes. I literally didn’t want to watch it because I cried reading it in the book, and I knew I’d be the same here

The fact that Lee HATES taking away people’s lives but he says “it’s theirs or Lyra’s”... I love him. He loves her so much.

“Think about anything, think about bacon!” - LMFAO I LOVE YOU HESTER YOU ABSOLUTE GEM

THE BULLET CLIPPED HIS SCALP AND I HAD A HEART ATTACK 

“This is my fault, isn’t it?” - NO HESTER NO DON’T YOU DARE BLAME YOURSELF DARLIN’, YOU ARE THE BEST AND WE LOVE YOU AND LEE LOVES YOU

I do this everytime I read the book and I did here even though I know what happens, but I was praying mentally that maybe Serafina would reach Lee in time... just maybe...

I’m really sitting here crying over Hester and Lee on a Sunday night, love that for me

Hester limping :(

“Don’t you go before I do” - FUCK YOU BBC AND PHILIP I’M SOBBING MY EYES OUT

“Oh how far we flew” - STOP IT. STOP IT RIGHT FUCKING NOW I SWEAR-

I literally yelled and cried out “NOOO” when Hester faded away and Lee died. I am so upset even though I KNEW it was coming. I am literally not okay.

Oh god no Will, now is not the time to be walking away from Lyra and that witch 

Also why is that witch asleep on guard?? Come on, love, do better, it’s not like these are the two most important children in all the universes.... 

To be fair to Marisa, I’d feel pretty invincible if I were climbing up a mountain while the Spectres were guarding me/on my side

WILL AND JOHN FINALLY MET AHHHH

“I was told I’d find my father here”  - YEAH AND THAT’S HIM WILL ASDFGHJKL;

I’m low-key disappointed that there’s no brawl between Will and Jopari here. Like they instantly recognize each other and... hmm. I know there has to be changes but still.

“Your mother, Will, where is she?” - Awww. John really didn’t stop loving her :’)

“My son... is the Knife Bearer” - oooooohhhhhhh

“You have a dæmon” - that’s right, Will. Don’t worry, you’ll get one next season

The way I audible went “oh shIT” when Mrs Coulter found Lyra fast asleep. Like I said, I knew what was going to happen but STILL

I’m not really surprised that those Spectres killed the witch who was supposed to be guarding Lyra and Will tbh like that’s what happens when only ONE witch guards two teenagers and that witch falls asleep

The way that Lyra panicked when she woke up and saw her mother stroking her cheek omg 

Off topic but I’ve only just realized that Jopari has a fucking man-bun LMFAO OKAY

The fact that Jopari tried to get back to Will and Elaine but couldn’t will always hurt me

“And you chose these people over your family?” - I MEAN-

“I’ve thought about you every day.” - Awww

So John tells Will that he has to go to Asriel and bring him the knife, and he tells him all about the war that’s coming and I have LITERAL chills because I’m so ready

“And then we go home?” “... And then we go home.” - RIP MY HEART OUT, IT WOULD HURT LESS

“I’m not strong enough” - yes you are, Will! I promise you, you are! And Jopari says, “Both of us were brought here” - exactly! You were brought there for a reason by fate or whatever you want to call it!

“Your duty was to be my father” - WILL REALLY CAME FOR HIS DAD LIKE THAT I GUESS

“Look what you’ve become without me” - Oh my god, just when I thought I wasn’t going to cry again

JOPARI HUGGING WILL, SEEING THE SOLDIER AIMING, AND THEN PUTTING HIMSELF BETWEEN THEM SO HE TOOK THE BULLET INSTEAD OF WILL ASDFGHJKL;

So in the book, Jopari is killed by a scorned witch who had once asked him to be her lover, but he had turned her down (because of Elaine and Will obviously), and she kills Jopari in front of Will and then he kills her (I think?). But here it’s just a soldier leftover from the Lee vs Magisterium fight, so... yeah. Kind of a little peeved about the change personally but whatever I guess.

“The night is full of angels, they will guide you now” - AHHHHH

Also, might just be me, but maybe that line would have been slightly more impactful if the scene had taken place at night

This show really said “fuck healthy parental figures” I guess

Except Will’s mum, she’s the best and if anything were to happen to her we’d all riot

SAYAN KÖTÖR FADING AWAY NOOOO I HATE SEEING DÆMONS DIE

Okay, last little gripe, but I just wanted to say that in the book, Will doesn’t realize it’s his dad until literally the last second before his dad dies - like they both realize and then BAM, Jopari is killed. And while I do love the father-son reunion, I am kind of annoyed by the change because it was such a huge punch in the gut in the book that Will searches for so long for his dad, only to lose him the second he finds him.

Serafina finding Lee’s body and kissing his forehead was yet another punch in the gut, thanks Pullman/BBC/BadWolf

The fact that Will had to bury his dad :(

Also, WILL WEARING JOPARI’S JACKET OH MY GOD MY HEART

Oof that shot of his amputated fingers...

So the narration, when it started I thought it was Jopari at first, like from one of his letters... but then as it continued, I went “hang on”, and then I said outloud “wait, is that ASRIEL?!”

DID MARISA REALLY PUT LYRA IN A FUCKING TRUNK?!? BITCH ARE YOU OKAY?!?

Will putting his hood up like his dad did just hits differently

Okay so um ASRIEL HI I WASN’T EXPECTING TO SEE YOU THIS SEASON OH MY GOD THE SCREAM I LET OUT

HIS MONOLOGUE BY THE WAY IS FUCKING ART AND A MASTERPIECE BUT I WAS TOO BUSY CRYING OVER JAMES MCAVOY TO WRITE THE WHOLE MONOLOGUE DOWN

Oh, hi Stelmaria!

It always makes me scream that this man is not only Lord Asriel now but he’s also fucking Mr Tumnus and MOTHERFUCKING BILL DENBROUGH LIKE HOW IS THIS MAN INVOLVED IN SO MANY OF MY FANDOMS?!?

ANGELS ANGELS OH MY FUCKING GOD-

“We stand with you, Asriel Belacqua” - AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

“Let us prepare for war” - FUUUUUUUUCK

(I was deadly serious when I said this was just me screaming and crying by the way)

I’m still reeling over the fact that Marisa put her daughter in a fucking trunk. Like I get you can’t exactly carry a drugged child about in the open but Jesus Christ, love, really?!?

Also Ruth Wilson / Marisa Coulter in a headscarf? *chef kiss*

The way that the screen went to black as she put the lid on the trunk down - SHIT OH SHIT GOOSEBUMPS

THE CREDIT SONG IS SO BEAUTIFUL BECAUSE IT HAS FUCKING ANGELS NOW I’M-

I WASN’T EXPECTING THE POST CREDITS SCENE OH MY GOD

ROGER?! ROGER! IT’S ROGER I’M NOT OKAY-

BBC YOU CANNOT JUST DROP THAT ON US LIKE THAT FUCK-

“What is this place?” - I’M SCREAMING SO LOUD I CAN’T HOLD IT IN

For anyone unaware, the reason I’m screaming so loud over the post-credits scene is because in TAS, while Lyra is drugged and in a groggy sleep, she has these visions of Roger talking to her from the Land of the Dead, which then later leads to her and Will actually GOING to the Land of the Dead and... well, the rest is even HUGER spoilers but YEAH I’M NOT OKAY.

Honestly, I’m just so happy and emotional because I’ve been waiting over a decade for a decent adaptation of not only NL but for TSK and TAS too, and we’re 2/3 there now. Just one more book/series to go... I wish we could have it now. I really hope that filming for the final one starts ASAP because if we have to wait two years just to see the conclusion to this series, I might cry.

This series is so amazing, and this season especially has been so incredible to watch. It’s been the highlight of my week for seven weeks, and I have no idea what I’ll do with my Sundays now that it’s over. I’ve asked for the DVD for S2 for my birthday already (since it comes out 29th December and my birthday is 13th January... just saying), and words can’t describe how much I do love this series. I know it sounds hollow since I say it about so many things I’m into, but this was such a huge part of my childhood and it’s one of my favourite fantasy series of all time. It’s truly one of the most incredible pieces of literature and now it’s making for incredible television... I love it so much.

[taetaespeaches]

“I could never want less of you.”

hoseok x reader (or oc) genre: angst; fluff word count: 3.3K

a/n: Ok, I’m giggling because this was supposed to be much angstier than what it turned out to be lmao. But like, it’s Hobi and Petal, they just work shit out, idk lol. Anyways, these two are taking a big step in their relationship and it brings out some stress and insecurities and it leads to an argument that is really patched up very quickly lol. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for reading! :))

SITTING at the kitchen island, you scrolled through the photos displayed on your laptop screen of a seemingly perfect apartment that was currently available. The location was conveniently placed in close proximity to both yours and Hoseok’s workplaces, the apartment was stunning, and the building was safe and secure. It appeared to be exactly what you and your boyfriend were looking for.

It was a month ago when you and Hoseok decided you should move in together. He practically already lived at your place anyway, you loved having each other around, and you absolutely planned on spending the rest of your lives together. Finding a new place together felt right.

Bookmarking the page, you wrote down the realtor’s name and number and noted a few details about the living space. Clicking onto another apartment, tapping your pen on the notebook, your front door opened, the sound drawing your eyes to see Hoseok kicking his shoes off before meeting your gaze.

“Hey, Petal,” he gave you a small smile, his eyes darting to your hand that was tapping the pen repeatedly.

“Hi, Sunshine,” you grinned before turning back to the screen to pull up the perfect apartment once again. “Guess what I found,” you said excitedly, Hoseok humming as he approached you. As he peered over your shoulder at the screen, you gestured to the laptop with a playful, “ta-da!”

“Oh, an apartment?” He questioned.

“I really like it, look,” you started, Hoseok already losing focus as he took a step away from you.

“Petal, I just got home,” he pointed out, you turning to look at him, inspecting his features. Your heart dropped at the apprehension displayed in his expression. Throughout the past week, your boyfriend had been acting less and less interested in apartment hunting, and you were beginning to take it personally.

When you and Hoseok first decided to move in together, he was the one who suggested it, stating that he couldn’t wait to have a shared space with you.

Lying in bed together, your nude forms pressed together in a post-sex cuddle, you dragged your finger across his chest as he soothed his knuckles up and down the curve of your hip.

“I missed you,” he spoke softly into the moonlit room, the illumination pouring in through the bedroom window.

“Did you miss me or my bedroom skills?” You teased, Hobi chuckling as his hand moved to tickle your side, you squirming against him until you rolled on top of him, resting your chin on his chest. “I missed you too,” you admitted before bringing your finger to his nose, tapping it gently with a “boop”.

“Your apartment is too far from the studio and dorm when the schedule is packed,” he complained with a slight whine. He had been upset all week that he hadn’t been able to see you due to your hectic new job and his demanding idol schedule with a comeback in the works. “Six days is too long,” he added.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the dorm to visit,” you apologized, the man instantly shaking his head.

“No, our places are just too far apart,” he pointed out. “I couldn’t get over here either.”

With your eyes raking over his face, you huffed. “My apartment is too far from everything now,” you thought aloud. “It was good for university but now my job is closer to where you’re at and it just doesn’t really make sense to be living clear out here.”

“Are you thinking of moving?” He asked, his eyes widened.

“I don’t know,” you pondered. “Maybe?”

Your boyfriend nodded slowly, watching you carefully. Inspecting his expression, you knew there was something on his mind. “What is it?” You questioned him, the man smiling in response at being caught in thought.

“Well,” he started nervously, you staring at him curiously. “You’re thinking of moving,” he added, you humming in confirmation, “and well, I’ve been thinking of my life with you. Our future,” he clarified.

“Hobi,” you realized, making him smile wider.

“Would you want to move in together, Petal?” He asked, you holding back your smile as you stared at him.

“You’re not just suggesting this because I might want to move, are you?” You asked, Hobi quickly shaking his head. “Because this is a big decision, it can’t just be made out of convenience,” you added, your boyfriend chuckling as he tried to cut in. “Like we need to actually want this,” you continued, Hoseok smiling even wider.

Calling your name to get your attention, you stopped talking to appreciate the grin spread across his face. “I actually want this, Petal,” he assured you. “I’ve wanted it, I plan on spending my life with you, I obviously want to live with you.”

The words circled your mind for a moment before a smile broke out on your face. “I want this too,” you agreed easily. “Of course I do,” you added, more telling yourself than him. “I hate not having you here in the evening,” you realized suddenly.

“So, yes? Are we moving in together in?” He asked for clarification, you scrunching your nose at him, the man letting out a cute scream in excitement, you laughing in amusement of him. “Omg, you have champagne in the kitchen,” he realized, gently rolling you off him as he ran out of the bedroom butt ass naked to retrieve the celebratory drink, only to return a second later.

“Did you forget something?” You asked through your giggles, the man nodding.

“This,” he said just before kissing you hard and passionately, pouring every ounce of love he had for you into the action. The champagne could wait.

However, as time went on, Hoseok seemed to become anti-enthusiastic about the very real apartment hunt, and it made you worry he only liked the idea in theory. When put into action, he seemed to be changing his mind.

When you turned back to the screen, Hoseok sighed, noticing your dejection. “Ok, show me,” he started, moving closer to you as you shook your head, minimizing the tab as you pulled up your email, shifting focus as you continued tapping your pen against the notebook. “Petal,” he called out.

“No,” you said simply, not wanting to get into the fight that was inevitably on its way.

“Will you please just show me the apartment?” He asked, an annoyance in his tone. Scoffing at him, you continued tapping the pen against the notebook, Hoseok focusing in on the steady rhythm as you scrolled through the pointless junk emails. “Stop tapping that,” he suddenly spoke, you dropping the pen as you pushed your stool away from the counter.

Standing, you began to walk away, pushing past Hoseok only for him to reach for your hand. You let him take it, turning to look him in the eye.

“I don’t want you to look at the apartment because you feel like you have to, I want you to look at it because you want to, because you’re excited about living together, because-”

“I am excited,” he insisted, you rolling your eyes as you pulled your hand from his. “What?”

“Do you think I’m stupid? You’ve acted bothered every time I’ve brought up apartments to you for the past week,” you pointed out, Hoseok huffing as he watched you walk further into the kitchen. “Is it me?”

“What? No. Is what you?” He asked in concern and confusion, you staring at him as your heart pounded in your chest.

“Do you not want to live with me? Is that why you’re not excited?” You asked, holding back the emotions that were bubbling to the surface.

“I do want to live with you, there is not a single bit of truth in that entire thought process, so stop,” he told you firmly, you shrugging. “I’m just tired,” he defended his recent lack of interest, you shaking your head.

“Don’t blame whatever is happening on tiredness, I know you better than that,” you informed him, the man looking at you guiltily. “You went from being really enthusiastic about the whole process and loving every apartment to nitpicking the apartments over small things to completely avoiding looking at the apartments at all,” you continued. “Something is happening.”

The man simply stared at you for a moment, you biting your bottom lip as you tried conceal the tears that were quickly working their way to the surface. Instead of speaking, he looked to the laptop, placing his fingers on the track pad.

“Don’t,” you told him, closing the laptop, Hoseok moving his hand out of the way just before you shut it completely. “What is going on?” You asked him desperately, the tears pricking your eyes as they gathered along your bottom lash line. Sighing, he looked down at the pen. “Hoseok.”

“The pen tapping,” he whispered, you glaring at him in confusion.

“What?”

Looking up to meet your gaze, he noticed the tears, his face dropping at the realization that you were nearly crying because of him. “You tap your pen whenever you’re focusing on something,” he said, furthering your confusion.

“Ok?” You questioned. “So you don’t want to live with me because I tap my pen?” You asked, the man letting out a huff of air as he shook his head, you wiping your face with the back of your hand.

“No,” he spoke in a fragile voice. “I love when you do it. It’s cute and it’s how I know you’ve lost yourself in thought.” His own emotions began taking over as he tightened his jaw.

“What the fuck is happening, what are you saying?” You questioned in frustration, not understanding the point he was attempting to make.

“People say that the small things you love about a person sometimes become the stuff that drive a wedge between you,” he explained, you staring at him in disbelief.

“Seriously?” You questioned, your boyfriend scoffing at your judgmental tone.

“Just forget it,” he dismissed, turning his face away from you to wipe his eyes.

“No, let me get this straight,” you continued, Hoseok looking back at you with a glare. “You think our relationship is so fragile that being locked in a shared living space with me as I’m tapping my pen will be the ruination of us?” You asked him coldly. “That’s what you’re saying?”

“Jesus christ,” he complained, waving you off. “What I’m saying is that I’m scared,” he admitted. “It’s a big change and I’m scared that all the weird little things about me that you love now are going to end up being the things you hate.”

A small sob escaped your lips at the realization that he wasn’t concerned about him falling out of love with you, but rather you losing feelings for him. “Hoseok, do you understand how much I love you?”

“Yes,” he told you as a tear slid down his cheek. “But I also know how fiercely independent you are and I’m worried that with too much time with me, you’ll realize you want less of me,” he told you, revealing the insecurities he had been hiding away.

“But that’s so ridiculous,” you told him, the man shrugging. “Hoseok-” you started just as your phone rang, cutting you off. Your boyfriend looked at the device that sat next to your laptop.

“It’s your work,” he told you, you sighing.

“It can wait,” you told him, Hoseok shaking his head. “No, we’re not done,” you added, your boyfriend holding the phone out to you.

“The job is new, you need to answer this,” he told you, you shaking your head stubbornly. Pressing answer for you, he gestured to the phone, you huffing and cocking your head at him, taking the phone and bringing it to your ear. Sniffling, you greeted your coworker on the other side of the call.

Hoseok walked out of the kitchen, your eyes following his every step, you listening intently as he moved about the apartment. When the shower started, you tried to focus on the call, taking the opportunity to take care of your work while he was occupied. However, you couldn’t care less about the work issue when you knew your boyfriend, who was just feet away, was so scared of you losing feelings for him. Hoseok and his worries consumed every corner of your mind, making you resort to hums and one-word answers to the fellow employee on the phone.

By the time he stepped out of the shower and entered the bedroom, your work call had ended, you instead sitting back at the island as you looked through the photos of the perfect apartment over and over. How could he not know that you’ve pictured your future with the man since your first date? Your love wasn’t so frail that your feelings would just simply go away.

You not so patiently awaited his return to the kitchen to continue the previous discussion, but he never appeared. After about five minutes, you picked the laptop up and made your way to the bedroom, quietly peeking your head inside to find Hoseok underneath he covers in bed, his back turned to the door.

Despite the tension and the leftover frustration, the concern and hurt, you felt nothing but relief in that moment. Watching as his body rose up and down slightly in accordance to the inhales and exhales that entered and left his sleeping frame, you were just thankful that he was there. You always wanted him there.

Stepping into the room, you placed the laptop on your bedside table before crawling under the sheets, and turning toward your lover. You could only see the side of his face, but he looked peaceful as he slept. You were with him. Through all of it, whatever may come. And the knowledge that he questioned that was enough to elicit tears as you draped your arm around his waist, holding yourself tightly to him as you rested your cheek against his shoulder blade, matching the air that entered and left his lungs as he breathed in and out.

The man stirred at your touch, his hand finding yours that rested at the center of his abdomen, his larger one enclosing over yours.

“I don’t know how to assure you, but I’m just so happy you’re here right now,” you told him through your tears, the man immediately turning in your embrace to face you at the sound of your emotions.

“Petal,” he frowned, you hugging him tightly as you buried your face in his chest.

“I love you so much, I need you to feel it,” you cried to him, your boyfriend pressing his lips to the top of your head comfortingly.

“I do,” he promised. “It’s just a big step, I got overwhelmed.”

“I don’t always express myself as much as I should, but I need you to understand that my love for you is the most sincere and intense mix of emotions I’ve ever had the pleasure of feeling and I don’t ever plan on letting you go,” you told him in a surprise verbal confession that neither of you expected to leave your lips. “I love you, Jung Hoseok,” you told him, lifting your face from his chest to look him in the eye, no shame, no embarrassment present. “Thank you for being here,” you told him genuinely. “I always want you here.”

The man leaned his head toward you to press a sweet kiss to your forehead, you leaning into the touch. “I know that,” he whispered against your skin. “I do, I promise I do,” he assured you. “And I don’t want to be anywhere else than right here right now.” You sighed in relief, Hobi’s lips curving into a smile against your head. “Except maybe in our shared apartment,” he added, you giggling lightly at the comment.

“I know it’s overwhelming,” you told him. “I’m nervous for it too, but I’m sure of us.” Hoseok’s smiling lips pressed a few more kisses to your forehead quickly before he pulled away to look at you.

“I am too,” he nodded.

“Good,” you told him with a small smile. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I’m glad you did,” he chuckled.

Inspecting his sleepy features, you brought your hand to his face to run your finger along his cheek purposelessly. “How tired are you?” You asked.

“Why do you ask?” He questioned back, smiling fondly at your smirk.

“Can I show you the apartment?” You asked in a hopeful tone, Hoseok’s grin widening as he sat up quickly, nodding happily.

“Please, I really want to see it,” he told you, you wiggling in excitement before sitting up with him and reaching for the laptop.

“Ok, it’s located perfectly between your studio and my office, and it has a small little deck area, and the floors are hardwood, and omg it has a bathtub,” you ranted on, pulling the computer onto your lap. “Oh and wait until you see this fucking closet it’s mass-” you were cut off by Hoseok placing a finger to your chin, turning you toward him to immediately place his lips to yours, you easily kissing him back.

Your lips worked flawlessly against one another’s, his soft and warm as always. Pulling away from you, he beamed in utter adoration, you grinning shyly. “I really cannot wait to live with you,” he told you.

“Me too,” you agreed simply, back to your short words with big meaning. “And I could never want less of you,” you told him, the man’s gaze softening at your assurance. “Plus,” you added, intriguing your boyfriend. “If I ever get sick of you, I’ll just tell BigHit to send you on a worldwide tour,” you teased, Hoseok playfully scoffing in feigned disbelief.

“You’re so mean,” he joked, kissing your cheek repeatedly, you giggling at the action.

“You’re so obnoxious,” you retorted happily.

“I know,” he grinned, pecking your lips softly. “Now show me this thing,” he told you, gesturing to the laptop.

“Ok,” you turned to the screen, clicking on the first image. “We could have a little garden here,” you told him, “and oh my god, look, we could put a little bed here for Mickey so he can bask in the sun.”

As you went through the photos excitedly, explaining your vision to him, he could see everything vividly. Waking up and walking into the kitchen to see you dancing around to music as the coffee brewed. Cuddling on the couch with you as you both attempted to watch yet another horror movie, only getting five minutes in before you both called it quits, turning on an animated film instead. On the rare days he got home before you, he would cook you dinner at that stovetop and when you came in and greeted him gratefully, you’d sit at the kitchen island and you’d tell each other about your days. On lazy Sundays, he could see you sitting on the deck area reading a book, Mickey in your lap as you read aloud to the little pup.

Every room, every space, he could see your lives happening.

“Can you call the realtor in the morning?” He suddenly asked as you explained the specifications of the apartment.

“You want me to?” You asked, looking toward him, meeting his smile with your own.

“I love it,” he told you, you scrunching your nose before discarding the laptop to the bottom of the bed, promptly crawling onto your boyfriend’s lap as you kissed all around his face in excitement and happiness.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” you repeated between kisses, the man giggling as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

“I love you so much, Petal,” he replied. “I love our life.”

He truly did. And he loved your future. No matter what it brought, he already loved it. Because it was yours, together.

[tinyboxxtink]

"Doppelganger" *Part 4*

I don't know why I do this, I'm such a little shit. I'm leaving this here, the biggest cliffhanger yet and I might not get one done tomorrow! MWAHAHHAHAHAHAA. No I'm just kidding, but seriously it might not go up until most of you go to bed so I'm sorry if you miss it!

This had to pick up though, it was kind of lagging. Gotta get that super angst/suspense ramped up!!!

I'll leave you to ponder that now as you go into this, mwhahaaha.

[Side note the position of the gif's *CHEF KISS* MWAH!!! I didn't even try and do that. It's so beautiful.]

Part 3

Part 5

Tag List

@madamsnape921

@lolliepopsicle

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@milkshqke

@wanniiieeee

@word-scribbless

@gibbs274

@sassyada

@aprildecker-blog

@bookishfanfic

@stars-in-the-skies-world

@stars-trash-18

@omgsuperstarg

@objection-argumentative

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

You decided to grab Rafael’s favorite dish from a nearby deli, got something for yourself and Gabi, and headed up to the DA’s building.

“Wow, fancy,” Gabi remarked as you walked inside.

“I guess,” You shrugged. You had become so used to it when you worked for him, it wasn’t really anything special to you now. You walked down the hall and noted Rafael's new intern, a young guy of course, on your insistence. You knocked on the door softly, having some ‘nam flashbacks of the last time you knocked on this door.

“You ok?” Gabi asked you with a concerned face. “You look pale,”

That could be due to the fact that Rafael was not answering you, now you really WERE having a PTSD panic.

“Rafael?!” You poked your head in, terrified for some reason. To your relief, he was just on the phone.

“Uh huh, yes, yes sir, alright judge I’ll see you this afternoon,” He smiled at you and waved you in as he hung up with the judge. His face scrunched up when he saw you had a guest with you.

“...Who’s this?” He looked at Gabi suspiciously.

“This is my friend Gabi,” You introduced her as she gave a friendly wave.

“....And when did you meet Gabi, exactly?” Rafael still eyed her warily.

“Excuse me?” Gabi asked in an offended tone.

“Rafael, what are you doing?” You asked him through gritted teeth.

“You don’t think Nevada would have plants?” Rafael kept his eye on Gabi, who was starting to sweat. Gabi’s pulse quickened, she tried her best to keep a cool, calm expression.

“Rafael!” You hissed. “Are you kidding me?!”

“Who’s Nevada?” Gabi played dumb.

“Nobody, nothing-- it’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” You waved your hands dismissively.

“What’s your story, Gabi? Do you have a last name?” He kept on her, noting her quickening nervous state.

“RAFAEL,” You grabbed his shoulder.

“Y/N,” He repeated back at you. He looked at Gabi-- “Can you excuse us a moment?” He then pulled you to the side.

“Baby, please be smart about this--”

“So what, I’m just not supposed to have any friends?” You scoffed.

“You have friends! You have Chloe,” He pointed out.

“Oh my god--” You looked to the side trying not to lose it in the office. “Rafael this is exactly what I’m talking about, you need to stop trying to control my life.. Stop trying to be my FATHER,”

Gabi couldn’t help but laugh as she heard you call him your father; clearly you had some raging daddy issues. Rafael glared at her, making her quickly stop.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Rafael started to walk back to his desk, dismissing you.

“Oh will we, dad?” You crossed your arms. “Am I grounded now? I can’t hang out with my friends until I apologize for talking back to you?”

“Y/N, please leave before I say something I regret,” He clenched his fist.

“No, please go on, father,” You spat. “Please, tell me what else I can and can’t do. Maybe you want to pick out my clothes for tomorrow? Escort me to my classes?” You yelled mockingly.

Gabi was enjoying the show, already planning her celebratory dinner with Nevada. Once he heard she drove a wedge between the two of you so he could swoop in would please him so much, he’d fuck her so fast it would make Marcella’s fake tits fall off.

“....Maybe I wouldn’t have to act like your father if you didn’t act like such a CHILD. God it’s no wonder they didn’t want to come see you!” He pounded the desk, then suddenly realized he had said the last part out loud.

Your face turned pale, your mouth dropped open as tears stung your eyes. You couldn’t believe that he had just said that-- he threw your biggest secret in your face like that, in front of a stranger no less. You stared at Gabi, who looked incredibly uncomfortable and confused. She was secretly celebrating being able to look anything else but as nervous as she felt while being interrogated by Rafael.

“Y/N….I didn’t mean--” Rafael immediately went to your side, trying to hold you and apologize.

“Yes you did,” You growled, trying not to cry. “You know what, I need a break,”

“...A break?” Rafael’s brows furrowed. “From me?”

“Yes, Rafael. A break from YOU,” You turned and started to stomp out of the office but Rafael grabbed your arm.

“Carino come on, don’t do this, not now--” Rafael begged you, still not trusting Gabi’s face.

“Oh right, because if you’re not beside me 24/7 I’m going to get kidnapped or something, right?!” You cried as tears dripped down your face.

Gabi was awestruck she was actually watching this conversation take place. Were they fucking with her? Did they know what was going on?

“I’m not saying that, but-- look please, please, listen to me--” He pleaded with you just as you had pleaded with him at the church that awful day.

“NO, Rafael,” You broke free from his grasp. “I’m tired of you thinking that you’re better than me, that you need to protect me like I’m a baby bird,”

“Um maybe I should--” Gabi motioned towards the door.

“YES you should,” Rafael huffed.

“NO, don’t bother Gabi, we’re leaving,” You huffed harder.

“...I’ll see you at home?” Rafael asked you softly.

“What did I just say?!” You rolled your eyes. “I’ll be at Chloe’s, don’t call or text me for a few days,”

“No, no I can’t do that--” Rafael protested.

“Either that or take this back,” You took off your ring and held it out to him. Gabi began to panic again, she knew she had to get that ring.

“Seriously? Don’t you think you’re--”

“What, acting like a child, Rafael?” You glared at him. “I’m trying NOT to, I just-- I just want to calm down, so just-- give me a few days,” You slipped your ring back on to Gabi’s relief. Then you nodded to her to follow her out and you both left Rafael’s office.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--” Gabi tried to act apologetic, but was secretly giddy inside.

“No, it’s not your fault,” You wiped the angry tears from your face. “I um...I need some time to myself right now though,”

“Of course,” Gabi nodded as if she was being kind and understanding, but really she couldn’t wait to call Nevada.

“Cool, I’ll um-- I’ll see you in class,” You were so out of it from being so upset you didn’t notice the huge smile crawl across Gabi’s face as she turned and ran the opposite way you were walking, dialing her phone.

“....Vada? I’ve got your perfect in,”

-------

A few days latter was your final. You had to perform Shakespearean monologues on the big main stage of the University, and you were terrified. You were kicking yourself that you had told Rafael you needed space as you paced back and forth backstage. You hadn't talked or texted him since you had stormed out of his office the other day.

“Hey, you okay?” Gabi came up to you from the side door.

“No, I-- I should call Rafa, I need him,” You went to get your phone but Gabi stopped you.

“Well, clearly he knows that,” Gabi gave you a smile, nodding to the audience.

You looked out to see Rafael sitting in the second row of the theater. When he saw you, he gave you a loving look and a small wave. You sighed happily; he knew you better than you knew yourself. He knew you’d need him here, and here he was. You loved him so much, you just wanted to go and kiss him and tell him you were sorry, but there would be time after your test.

Soon enough it was your turn, and you recited your monologue absolutely perfectly-- staring into Rafael’s beautiful green eyes the entire time. As soon as you were done, Rafael stood up and applauded loudly, making you giggle and blush.

Your professor looked a bit annoyed that your fiancé was there making a show of himself, but congratulated you on a job well done. You walked down the stairs and out into the house where Rafael met you with open arms and a dozen roses.

“Mi amor,” He beamed, as you jumped into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” You apologized as you snuggled into his chest. “I shouldn’t have been so--”

“No no no, shhhh,” He raised your face to look at him, his face so tender and pure. “I’m sorry carino, I never should have brought up your parents, I know how much you miss them,”

“Thank you for coming,” You kissed him gently, feeling complete again. He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue down your throat and biting your lip.

“Raffi!” You broke apart and hit him playfully, glancing around to make sure no one saw such a dirty kiss.

“What? I haven’t seen you in a few days, I missed...this,” He grabbed your ass with both hands. You didn’t know what had gotten into him, although you realized you actually hadn’t spent more than a day apart before since you’d gotten together-- maybe you should punish him more often!

“Well, let’s go take care of that then,” You grinned devilishly, grabbing his own perfect little peaches in your dainty hands.

“I know just the place, carino,” He grabbed your hand and pulled you out the side doors.

You hadn’t realized that Gabi had been missing since before you started your monologue, and you hadn’t noticed that she had taken your phone from your purse while you were onstage. Currently, she was at the front doors of the theater lobby, arguing with….the REAL Rafael.

“Look lady, I don’t know who you think you are, but I think I know my fiancé better than you. She needs me!” He yelled.

“And I’m pretty sure I heard her say she NEEDS space, pendejo,” She blocked him from entering the theater.

“Is there a problem here?” Javi came over, dressed in a campus security uniform.

“Yes sir, this stranger is trying to burst in on a PRIVATE class, to stalk a student,” Gabi acted very concerned for her friend's safety.

“STALK a student--? Are you fucking kidding me? Kid look she’s--”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir,” Javi started to escort Rafael out.

“Excuse me? Look man I’m the ADA of New York I’m not some rando--” Rafael started to argue.

“Anyone on campus without a student or faculty ID is strictly prohibited, sir,” Javi lied. “Even if you are the ADD,” He messed up his title just to fuck with Rafael.

“The ADA!” He yelled as Javi pushed him out the front door and shut it, locking it behind him.

“Well, that was easy,” He smirked at Gabi, giving her a fist bump. Rafael saw it from outside the doors.

That could not be good….

------

Meanwhile

“Rafael” led you to a huge limo, helping you get inside.

“Wow, this is a step up from an Uber,” You joked.

“Well, I knew this was a big day for my baby, and I knew I had a lot to make up for,” Rafael smiled, kissing you deeply as you both got in the car, lips locked.

“God I missed you,” You giggled, kissing him over and over. It was true, even for a few days without him was like torture. His smell, his lips, his touch-- you needed it all.

If only you knew you were about to give it all away to someone you didn’t even know.

[animentality]

listen, transphobic author aside, you have to respect that Harry Potter was probably the last story in collective memory that actually bothered to tell a story instead of “subvert the audience’s expectations.”

Harry Potter was predictable as fuck. 

Before the 7th book even came out, I knew RAB was Regulus Black, I had an inkling that Harry was the last Horcrux, and I had a feeling Severus Snape wasn’t the bad guy.

Even my mom who’s...and Mom I’m sorry for this...even my Mom who’s terrible at predicting stories and noticing basic details could see that coming.

But regardless of how you feel about the author, Harry Potter has a clear ending.

Bad guy is defeated, and with a reasonably grand ending, a final battle at Hogwarts involving all of the characters you loved, and references to all of Harry’s teachers, all of his classes, all of his adventures in Hogwarts.

You see Trelawney throwing her glass balls, Madam Sprout smears the walls with Mandrakes and Tentacula shit and what have you. You see Flitwick and McGonagall doing their charms and hexes and shit. 

You get to see all these students you grew to know showing their bravery and loyalty to Harry by dying for a better future. 

And then finally, you get to see Harry doing what he does best, sacrificing himself for others and then getting the opportunity to “kill” the guy who hurt all of his friends. 

LISTEN i don’t agree with J.K. Rowling as a person at all, I think she’s a transphobic cunt in fact, but as a writer myself, I fucking admire the Harry Potter series as a whole. 

You have to be completely in denial to try and insist they’re “poorly written.”

Like no offense, but unless you’re a writer yourself who’s written a long serial story, how can you really say that and expect me to believe you without evidence? 

So many elements of those books came back into play later, it felt like Rowling planned out every step and every important plot point was referenced far before it was relevant.

Like the diadem, for example, in the Room of Requirements.

The Room of Requirements itself was even mentioned by Dumbledore before Harry even needed it for his DA meetings, the room full of “chamber pots.” 

 Tom Riddle’s diary, of course, always had significance. The “twinkle” in Dumbledore’s eye in the fourth book when he realized Harry was a Horcrux. Bathilda Bagshot, magical historian. The sword of Godric Gryffindor imbues itself with magical properties that strengthen it. 

The Vanishing Cabinet at Borgin and Burke’s. 

Sirius’ broken mirror comes back into play in the final book. 

The Bloody Baron and Ravenclaw’s daughter, both of whom were referenced and absolutely had backstories the entire series, but you never noticed them until Rowling pointed them out. 

Harry’s Invisibility Cloak never losing its magic. 

And of course, the fucking Deluminator. 

A cute little device Dumbledore used in the very first book, completely useless and mostly ignored until the final book, given to Ron (and given completely arbitrary bullshit magic, but whatever). 

You can criticize Rowling’s writing, and her personal views, and they’re all fair game.

But all of that shit is evidence of good writing, I’m sorry, it’s just true. 

A story that has pieces that all fit together and brings it all together for a final conclusion that not only makes sense but gives  you an emotional and decisive ending to the whole adventure. 

She wrote a coherent story that was predictable, sure, but god FUCKING damnit I’m so tired of stories not making sense because the popular thing of today seems to be shock and awe.

Like I get it, you need your story to trend on twitter so you do something so astronomically stupid and weird that you force fans to talk amongst themselves to figure out wtf you were doing.

But for me, as a writer and a reader, I will always treasure the stories that know where they’re going.

I would rather read a story that makes sense, and could be predicted if any reasonable person could put together all of the pieces, than some zigzagging corporate product catered to shock gratification. 

Harry Potter, for all of its flaws, wrapped up its story. The epilogue was unnecessary, maybe, but the actual story of killing Voldemort, of destroying all of his souls, and the magical adventures sprinkled in between, it created a legacy that’ll last for a long time.

you can re-read Harry Potter books, they have a lot of re-readability.

Stories that rely on shocking you don’t because when you re-watch them, all of the “red herrings” just look fucking dumb.

I don’t know a single person alive who’s re-watched Game of Thrones after that shit season 8 ending. 

How can you, you know it’s all going to shit?

Write stories with a purpose. You don’t have to know every single plot point, stories are allowed to evolve, but know where you generally are going, and what themes you’re trying to convey. 

Your story will last much longer if you remember that “shock and awe” might surprise an audience for a week, maybe even a month, but will fade from public consciousness much faster than a story with a strong structure. 

Think of like Romeo and Juliet.

Everyone knows the fucking end of that story, and it’s even said in the fucking beginning of the play, but we all re-read it anyway. 

Because the story being told has to be interesting on its own, it has to have something to it worth re-visiting. 

All of our classics, in fact, do not rely on people not knowing what’s going to happen. 

I’m sick of this modern trend. 

Controversial opinion but writers who rely on surprising their readers with pointless deaths or weird thrown in drama rather than simply telling a story with unbelievably good twists here and there are fucking terrible. 

[pallasperilous]

Funny Bone

The other day Supernatural9917 threw out this meme as a cracky Halloween Dean/Cas prompt and I was SO MAD, because I then had to write it:

And so here it is. Goddammit.

Funny Bone

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761150 Words: 4930 Castiel/Dean Winchester Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Skeletons, Bad Pick-Up Lines, No Angels AU, Men of Letters Bunker, Mild Gore Mature (mentions of lewd acts, canon-typical violence, and some truly horrible pickup lines)

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland. It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

Discovering the bunker in the first place was a helluva surprise. The whole facility is legitimately batshit; Dead Guys of Letters knew how to live (and, apparently, die. All at once.).

But after plowing through a dozen rooms worth of priceless treasures and crusty boobytraps, even Sam was looking kinda full up on shock and awe.

“We can hit the basement tomorrow,” he said. There was a big smudge of dust across his nose and some cobwebs in his hair.

“Nuh uh,” Dean answered, kicking the door shut with the toe of his boot. “If there’s shit still kicking down there, we gotta clean it out before it cleans us out. It’s that or we’re sleepin’ in the car.”

“Ugh,” Sam said, as if twenty minutes ago he hadn’t been losing his mind over a rare book about werewolf hemorrhoids.

So discovering that the basement included a no-shit actual dungeon felt more like an unanticipated bonus, and stumbling across a skeleton while exploring it barely even registered. Skeletons and dungeons! They go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor, inside a big circle of greasy black ash.  It looked a little mildewy in in places. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland.

It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

“Welp,” Dean had said, holstering his gun and wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’re all clear. Let’s head back upstairs, salt the shit out of everything, and then we can pick up some groceries.”

“Do I get to buy a vegetable that doesn’t fit in a bun, or are we still in the refractory period?” Sam snarked from the corridor.

“I don’t see you cookin’, “ Dean started, shuffling back towards the hall, and that’s when the skeleton butted in.

“Are those astronaut pants?” it asked. “Because your ass is outta this world!”

Dean absolutely did not scream, but it’s possible there was a yelp. 

He almost unloaded a clip into it – unclear what that would’ve possibly done, but it’s good to start with the simple, available solutions. Next he nabbed the lighter fluid off of Sam and dumped out half a pound of kosher salt as a chaser and set the fucker alight.

This does not have the intended effect.

“Baby, I’d like to put my meat on your grill,” the skeleton says, greenish flames dancing between its ribs, “because you’re hot, and I’m smokin’.” Then it sits up a little, just enough to shoot Dean some finger guns.

“What the fuck,” Dean says.

Sam makes a little evaluatory noise. “Sexually harassed by a skeleton,” he chuckles. “I think that’s a new one. Even for you. Is that a new one? I know a lot of strange shit went down in Purgatory.”

The skeleton perks up even more at that, grungy eye sockets sweeping up and down Dean’s body. “Are you a time traveler?” it asks. (Maybe he asks, because the voice is pretty deep and dude-ish, although possibly just on account of its vocal cords being leather shoelaces.)

“Wh…no, I’m not a time traveler,” Dean fibs. He’s more of a time trafficking victim, anyway. “Oh, wait, god,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you’re asking that because –“

“– I can see you in my future,” the skeleton finishes, eagerly, and Dean really wishes this thing had eyebrows so he could tell if they’re waggling.

“Yeah, okay. That’s enough for today,” Dean groans. “I need a drink.” He starts to back out of the room as a pre-emptive strike against Bones commenting on how he hates to see Dean leave, but loves to watch him go. Dean’s working on stumbling back again Sam’s left shoe when the skeleton pipes up one last time, this time with a husky, anxious edge.

“I realize that Purgatory isn’t accessible through a simple chronological shift,” it says, teeth chattering. “But it does require travel between modalities, and if you’re capable of that, I would very much like to speak with you again.”

Dean and Sam’s heads slowly swivel back towards the skeleton, like two little pizzas on the same Lazy Susan.

 An hour later, they’re still in the dungeon, working on dousing the skeleton with every possible anti-bad-stuff solution they’ve got, just in case he’s a vampire skeleton or a ghoul skeleton or a witch skeleton or maybe just a wendigo that’s incredibly bad at its job. In between progress reports, he’s still hitting on Dean.

“Dude, don’t you have an off switch somewhere?” Dean asks him.

“Well, Dean, you certainly make me feel like a light switch,–“

“– because you turn me on,” all three of them say in unison.

The skeleton looks a little embarrassed, which is kind of impressive when you think about it. “You’ve…heard that one before?” he asks.

“I spend a lot of time in bars,” Dean deadpans. “Okay, sage is a no-go.”

Sam strikes a line off on the clipboard he found upstairs. “Is this part of a curse or something?” he asks, glancing up at Bones. “Like on top of being a sentient skeleton, you can only speak in horrible pickup lines?”

The skeleton shakes his head, which produces a sound Dean recognizes from his kneecaps on cold mornings. “No, the spellwork allows me to speak freely on most subjects; except who I am, or how to free me. But it’s helpful to use language modern humans can easily understand.”

“Huh. Well, in a way, it is Dean’s native tongue,” Sam says, smirking.

“You shut your face,” Dean hisses.

“When I first saw you, I lost my tongue. Can I try yours on for size?” Bones asks Dean.

“Buddy, I don’t know where you get your information from, but nobody actually talks that way,” Dean tells him. “Nobody sober, anyway. Who isn’t a virgin.”

The skeleton slumps. “I learned from my last visitor. He tried to release me on several occasions, but he either died or abandoned the project.”

Dean arches a brow. “The project being…you?”

“I would be very valuable under the right circumstances.” The skeleton shrugs and casually holds out an arm for Dean to scrape at with the demon blade. “He gave me lessons in modern vernacular as a way to pass our time together.”

“Sounds like a peach,” Dean says, before he can catch himself. “If you have a peach-related pickup line in there, man, you’d better just sit on it.”

“That’s what-“

“I will smash you with a hammer,” Dean barks.

The skeleton relents, but with obvious reluctance.

 They call it quits before Kansas rolls up the sidewalk for the night and leaves them stranded with nothing but two Clif bars and a gross of septuagenarian cans of franks ’n beans. Bones shifts nervously when Dean leaves – “Which is better, pancakes or waffles?” he asks.

“Pancakes,” Dean says, with a sense of grim duty.

“Because I’d like to know what you’re making me for breakfast,” says Bones, his voice trailing off as Dean books it down the stony corridor.

  By lunch the next day (bologna sandwiches, so sue him, he’ll make something good later) they’re pretty sure that Bones doesn’t pose any known, immediate threat – other than to Dean’s sanity – so they switch gears to springing him. Maybe he will be worth something, or maybe he’ll crumble into dust and Be Free, or maybe he’ll just stop being chained to the basement wall, in which case he can become their skeleton butler or something.

There are weird runes on the ankle cuff, so Sam snaps some quick photos and heads upstairs to feel up the library. This leaves Dean in the basement with Bones, some good old-fashioned power tools, and Bones’s ex-suitor’s gross sense of humor.

“You know I can understand you just fine when you’re talking normally,” Dean says. “You’re just reciting some prehistoric shit that idiots say to girls to get a pity-laugh, hoping it leads to a pity-fuck.”

“What’s a pity-fuck?” Bones asks, all mildewy innocence. Dean’s pretty sure the grunge in his eyeball sockets is dried eyeball.

“Pretty much what it says on the tin, my guy,” Dean answers, and reaches for the acetylene torch.

 “Enochian,” Sam says, when Dean surfaces for another sandwich and possibly a beer. He’s really disappointed about the torch.

“Gesundheit?” Dean replies, around a mouthful of bologna. Like everything else here, the kitchen is pretty schwa, although the inside of the fridge required three exorcisms and half a jug of bleach.

Sam paws around the smelly old book in a way that makes Dean feel sorry for the girls Sam dated in high school. “The symbols on the cuff. I think they’re Enochian. It’s a fake celestial language made up by some sixteenth century con artists.”

Dean coughs up a bit of Wonder Bread. “I respect the hustle, but what’s it doing on an ankle cuff in a dungeon younger than Mickey Mouse?”

Sam frowns. “Well, it could be for show. But just because some nutbars made it up doesn’t mean it’s totally powerless. Maybe it does have some kind of…heavenly mojo.”

“Liwl probbem,” Dean observes, finishing off his sandwich. “Def nuh heggen.”

“Huh?”

Dean takes a swallow of beer. “I said: there’s no heaven.”

Sam shrugs. “We didn’t think there was a Purgatory, either.”

“Okay, but if we find out angels are real,” Dean snorts, “then Bones can fuck me in the ass.”

 Sam reports his findings to Bones, who sits placidly on the back of his pelvis, carpals splayed out on his kneecaps. What’s even holding him together? Dean can see what’s left of his ligaments, but they look like petrified gas station jerky.

“Do you know what they mean?” Sam asks him, pointing at the sigils.

Bones’s jaw creaks open a little, then closes again, and then he shakes his skull (something rattles inside.) Finally he makes a little frustrated noise and replies – “Baby, are you a book? Because I’d like to check you out.”

“Hey!” says Dean. “Keep it in your pants, man, I’m right here.”

Sam squints. “I think…Dean, I think he’s trying to tell us something, but the spell on him means he can’t say it directly.”

Bones clenches his fists, releases them, clenches them again.

“Yeah. Keep him talking. Let’s see how close he can get.”

Clack clack clack.

“Uh,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Do I need to, like. Give you some kinda opening?” he asks Bones.

“Sweetheart, I’d like nothing better,” Bones answers, then clacks his knuckles on his brow with exasperation.

“Sorry, Christ. Hit me with your best shot, buddy. Dealer’s choice.”

Bones clears his…ghost throat? and tries: “Tell me, Dean…did it hurt?”

Dean blinks. “When I…fell from heaven?”

Sam claps his hands. “Fucking knew it. It is Enochian, and it does have something to do with this. I think he wants me to check the library for another book. Maybe there’s one misshelved or something that I can actually use to translate. Or I can Google around, maybe there’s a subreddit.”

Dean’s pretty sure Bones has never heard of a Google or a subreddit (for that matter, does Dean actually know what a subreddit is?), but it seems like there’s a glimmer of hope deep in those scum-holes.

 Sam gets translations for a few of the words – “obedience” and something he’s fifty percent sure means “millstone” – but the rest is still gobbledygook, and he hasn’t come down with another update in hours. The dungeon is pretty roomy, but it’s not like there’s a foosball table or a cable TV pickup down there, so Dean and Bones wind up lying on the cold-ass ground, staring up into the dark reaches of the ceiling together and, like. Chatting.

Occasionally Bones goes quiet and Dean glances over at him. He really could just be a totally normal, completely dead dungeon skeleton. A good power washing and the right mounting hardware and he’d be ready for a high school biology classroom.

“So if these runes are a celestial thing, does that mean you’re some kinda demonic...thing?” Dean asks. “Cause I gotta say, you’re a much less of a douche than the demons I’ve met.” He snorts. “I know you probably can’t say.”

Bones sighs (how? With what lungs?). “The last person who tried to free me was a demon.” He shifts a little, maybe surprised that he can say this out loud. “It had been so long since somebody had spoken to me…I’m afraid I came close to actually enjoying his company. But he was no better than his kind usually are.”

“Don’t suppose you caught his name? Maybe Sam or me killed him for you already.”

“He called himself—no, I can’t say it.” He makes a sound resembling a harumph.

Then his skull creaks over to look at Dean. “Does your name start with ‘C’?” he says, very deliberately.

Dean is momentarily puzzled, but he works it out by the time Bones wincingly adds “…because I’ve got a D that wants to come behind you.”

There aren’t too many demons under the “C” tab in Dean’s blood-stained mental rolodex, and when he says the name out loud, Bones makes a sound like an entire set of dominos being thrown down a spiral staircase.

  Crowley is pretty pissed, which is fun.

It’s nice that the dungeon floor already has a perfect trap on the floor; they don’t even have to hit up Ace Hardware for paint. A damp shop cloth and a little nail polish (Wet ’n Wild in “Red Red,” don’t leave home without it) brings it right up to working order.

“Why does it smell like a nail salon fucked a bloody wine cellar?” Crowley says, after he’s settled down a bit. He manifested right in the creepy torture chair (in the shackles, even! What service!) and he made some escape attempts followed by angry noises about rust stains. Now he’s recovered his dignity and has kicked back a bit, legs crossed, fingers steepled, oozing maximum levels of 2 cool 4 school.

“How do you know what a nail salon smells like?” Dean retorts.

“I get a monthly mani-pedi. There’s no shame in a little self-care, boys.” Crowley’s eyes trickle down to their feet. “Imagine what fungal horrors those work boots must conceal.” Then he squints, and looks up, finally taking in the whole room. “Could swear I’ve been here before. Little upscale for you, isn’t it? Did we splurge for a vacation rental?”

“Crowley, why don’t we roleplay Titanic?” Bones growls from the wall behind him, and Crowley’s face goes slack. “I’ll be the iceberg, and you can go down.”

Crowley swallows and slowly twists back, as far as the shackles let him. “Feathers, is that you? Well, as I live and breathe.”

“You do neither,” says Bones, with so much gravelly contempt that Dean suppresses a little shiver.

“Oh, I still breathe now and then, when the mood takes me. I’m a sentimentalist.” Crowley cranes his neck a little harder and squints into the dim. “Goodness, you’ve dropped some weight since we last spoke, haven’t you. Finally let go of all that pesky soft tissue?”

Bones tilts forward and kind of clatters onto hands and knees, then tipsily begins to rise up to standing. Dean’s a little concerned he’s gonna topple right over and they’re gonna spend the next two hours collecting him in a basket, but when he moves to help out, Bones waves him off. After a couple false starts he makes it up onto his feet bones and then shuffles out to the end of his chain, right under one of the overhead lights. He’s still a good couple feet off from Crowley, but Crowley looks like he wouldn’t mind a few extra acres.

Bones sways a little bit, just enough for Crowley to wince. “You didn’t come back.”

“I got busy.”

Sam shifts impatiently. “What is he?” he snaps, gesturing at Bones.

“Exceedingly dull,” Crowley says. “I should’ve guessed you were friends.”

Dean uncorks a fresh bottle of holy water.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Crowley amends, quickly. “And even if you did, you wouldn’t know what to do with him. It’d be like giving a laptop to a pair of howler monkeys.”

Dean puts his thumb over the mouth of the water bottle and holds it over Crowley’s head. “Try me.”

Crowley scoffs, rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what he is, since he’s useless as long as he’s chained up. And I wouldn’t have left him down here if I had a single clue how to smuggle him out.  I haven’t even been in here since the Bay of Pigs; I’d worked a loophole in one of the defense spells here that let me in. When it broke down, I lost my exploit. Wasn’t worth the bother after that.”

Dean slides his thumb a millimeter north of a perfect seal, and a fat drop of water busts its ass open on Crowley’s forehead and sends up a thin line of steam. “Good thing I’ve got a limitless supply of bother,” Dean notes. “Sam, we still got those syringes in the trunk?”

Crowley snarls. “Go ahead and melt me like the cartoon shoe in Roger Rabbit, it’s not going magically make me come up with a solution.”

Bones grunts and rattles his leg chain. “Do you speak Spanish, Crowley? Because you look like the Juan for me.”

“Did I teach you that one? You absolute xylophone.” Crowley glances back at Dean. “Do your worst, Squirrel, I deserve it.”

Sam frowns. “He uses the lines to get around the spell’s speech restrictions. This is something about speaking languages…were you able translate the Enochian symbols on his cuff?”

Crowley blinks. “What symbols?”

 After a whole lot of faffing around with mirrors and terrible cellphone photography, they confirm that Crowley can’t see the symbols at all.

“More demon-proofing. Clever little buggers, those Men of Letters,” Crowley sighs. “A real shame they were peeled and eaten like bananas.”

Finally Sam just hunkers down with a pencil and pad to transcribe the entire ankle cuff, and Dean awkwardly holds up Bones’s ankle, like he’s being sized for a glass slipper. When they shove the results in Crowley’s face, Dean watches his eyes dart along the words.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, boys. Along with the usual wankery, there are instructions on how to release the cuff. I can translate it,” he finally says, with an unusually low inflection of bullshit, “but I’ll thank you to release me, first.”

Dean is flummoxed. “What, you’re not gonna haggle for a cut of the profits or anything?”

“Activating the release mechanism will free him completely, and restore his…restore him. I’d rather be at a safe distance.” He glances back at Bones, looming in the shadows. “A continent or three should do the trick.”

“If it doesn’t work–“

“I’d be more worried about what happens if it does,” Crowley sighs.  “But feel free to summon me back for tea and sympathy. Here, I’ll even give you my number. But please, no personal photography. I pity you enough as it is.”

  Crowley finally smokes out, and Dean has a beer to celebrate while Sam looks over the list of what they need and Bones clatters his fingertips like castanets. The ingredients are (as always) larded with shit that’s exotic and expensive; Sam is looking crestfallen at some of the items. “I’ve heard of all of this, but I’ve only seen maybe half of it for sale anywhere.”

“Baby, are you a yard sale? Because you’ve got some serious junk in that trunk,” Bones monotones. He’s back to lying on the floor.

At least it’s getting easier to translate this shit. “They’ve got all the ingredients here somewhere,” Dean says. Sam looks skeptical. “C’mon, Sam, no way these dudes would use a lock when they didn’t have the key.”

The ensuing scavenger hunt takes a few pints of elbow grease, but at least by the end they’re both familiar with the Bunker’s floor plan, document filing system, and inventory records. They find virtually everything in-house, though they do end up driving to the nearest farm stand for some hen’s eggs and rosemary (and heirloom tomatoes, because they look bomb).

Dean christens – or maybe exorcises – the kitchen range with some red meat, and they fuel up with burgers before taking the plunge. Dean’s still licking the ketchup off his fingers when Bones pipes up one last time. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

Dean and Sam brace for impact.

Bones sighs. “That’s not the start of a pickup line. I genuinely have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you so intent on freeing me? You could have just left me down here. I’m not a threat this way. You only have Crowley’s word that you might profit - or suffer - from my release.”

Sam gives Dean a look; it’s the look that says I sure hope you have an answer, because I think this entire thing has been dumb as shit and half as necessary. It’s a look Sam uses pretty regularly.

“Uh. It’s the right thing to do? As far as I can tell, you haven’t hurt anybody or done anything else to deserve being down here. We went through all those records upstairs, and there’s no note that says ‘by the way, that skeleton downstairs eats babies for breakfast.’ This place is cool, but the dudes who built it were obviously shady as fuck.”

“I see.” Bones sounds a little disappointed.

Sam fake-coughs into his hand, and Dean sets down his paper napkin. “Also, you seem cool. Like, you’re easy to hang out with. Other than the stinky one-liners, and we’re gonna wean you off of those.”

Bones straightens himself out a little. “Thank you, Dean. You know, on a scale of one to ten, I’d rate you a nine.”

“Okay, okay. Why not a ten?”

Bones sets his chin on his knuckle bones with a tidy little clack. “Because I’m the one you’re missing.”

Dean groans, but he thinks the guy might be smiling, somewhere behind that skeletal grin.

 By hour two, Sam’s pretty tuckered out from pulverizing a billion and three mummified dove livers while reciting nonsense syllables, and Dean’s right arm is about to fall off from holding up this giant silver swizzle stick that’s either a really weird short sword or a decorative javelin, but Bones has never looked perkier. He’s lying on a nice white bedsheet and looking fresh as a recently exhumed daisy.

“Okay,” Sam rasps. “Light the candle and we should be good to go. Any last words, Bones?”

“Are either of you religious?” He crosses his arm bones over each other.

“Fuck no,” Dean answers, before Sam gets a chance to launch into it.

Bones shakes his skull fondly. “You should reconsider. Because you’re the answer to my prayers.”

Dean makes a gagging noise and lights the candle.

 What happens next (well, after the cuff pops open) is some of the freakiest shit that Dean has ever seen, and his Freaky CV is pretty fucking impressive, thanks. Bones tells them to avert their eyes, “just in case”, but he takes a peek between his fingers anyway, because he’s an idiot.

For a second Bones is just lying there, and Dean has a second of real disappointment that maybe he’s Moved On Past The Veil or something, but then he starts…foaming. It starts out kind of uniform and colorless, but then it really picks up speed and volume and starts to separate into swaths of distinct and horrible colors and textures. He closes his eyes again for a second to give his stomach a chance to reboot, and when he looks again the foam is gone, and instead there’s a whole lot of angry jelly trying to form into organs.

Just as the jelly is really getting its shit together and looking more like lungs and intestines and stuff, the heart-jelly pulses once and sends out a fistful of big squishy vines…veins? and a fat white worm of nerve scrambles down the spinal column and starts putting out franchises. This is followed by some disturbingly tasty-looking red sheets of muscle that swiftly sheathe over all the whole scene, and then the muscles start sweating out fat and cartilage and this is the point where Dean decides that looking away is actually definitely one hundred percent for the best. Even then, the sounds are tough to handle.

Kinda wild: he’s seen people taken apart, but watching one get put back together is somehow gnarlier. Well, if this guy is even a person. It’s a human skeleton, sure, but god knows even Mickey Rourke has one under there.

Finally everything seems to have quieted down.

“How you doin’ over there, Bones?” Dean asks, and dares to take a peek.

Bones is crouched down in front of them, fists balled up in the bedsheets (it’s a relief that the bedsheets didn’t get accidentally sucked into the muscle layer or something, like one of those surgeons who leaves a sponge behind). Dean sees white guy skin and some dark messy hair and gets the gist of a decent build.

The face slowly cranes upwards, and Dean is really truly ready for anything here; tusks, fangs, Klingon forehead ridges, gingivitis. Instead he gets a faceful of hot math teacher. Bones’s eyes are still closed, but he’s frowning like he’s mentally reviewing his strategy to explain the quadratic equation to a roomful of horny teens.

He slowly rises to standing (yikes! Naked! Dean is a Moderately Bad Man, so he glances, but just long enough to register “nice), uncurling slowly and carefully.

Then he’s all the way up. Bones squares his shoulders and straightens the last kink in his spine, and the frown resolves. Dean’s about to say something, when his eyes snap open, and this cold white light absolutely blasts out of them, and fuck, Crowley wasn’t kidding: this guy is definitely A Thing. The whole room flattens and distorts in the light. Shadows race up the walls like they’re looking for a way out, then snap together into the shape of enormous ragged wings, stretching thirty feet higher than the actual ceiling clearance.

Then the light dies down; the wings fade into regular-grade shadows. Instead of a terrifying unearthly avatar of Oh Shit, Dean’s looking at a buck naked thirty-something math teacher. Who happens to be an unearthly avatar of Oh Shit. And has nice eyes.

“My name is Castiel, angel of the Lord, Seraph of the First Shield,” the avatar says, in a piss-shakingly resonant version of Bones’s voice.

Then: “Do you speak English, Dean?”

“Yes?” Dean fumbles.

“So do I,” says Castiel, and smiles.

Then he makes finger-guns.

  Castiel sticks around for a grand total of five minutes before he’s suddenly gone again, because angels are (a) real and they can (b) teleport? at (c) any moment because (d) fuck you, then he reappears six hours later (clothed) standing over Dean’s bed, having apparently forgotten that humans like to sleep; this time Dean does shoot him, but luckily he doesn’t seem to take it personally.   

“I located Crowley,” Bo- Castiel says. The silver sword-javelin thing is sitting on the kitchen counter in front of him; apparently it’s an Angel Blade and it lives in Castiel’s coat sleeve and can vaporize demons. It doesn’t look like it has any Crowley on it, but maybe it’s self-cleaning.

“Did you kill him?” Dean asks, now that he’s semi-coherent and wrapped around a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Not this time,” Cas answers. “He did help, after all.”

“Sure,” says Dean.

“You don’t need to let me fuck you in the ass, either,” Castiel says, and Dean honks some coffee up the back of his nose.

“Oh,” he gasps. “Okay. Cool. Thanks. Didn’t realize you could hear that convo all the way down there.”

“Angels have excellent hearing. Mine wasn’t impacted by the spell.”

Dean can think of at least three very private moments Castiel almost definitely could hear every instant of, and longs for death. Or maybe not, since apparently this guy lives in Heaven and could hear him there, too. “Great. Good to know. Noted.”

“But…” Castiel looks wistful.

“What?” Dean nudges him. Dean Winchester: angel nudger.

Castiel frowns. “If I said…” he stops himself. “This is…what I want to say is very irregular, at least between angels and humans.”

“Jesus christ on a goddamn pogo stick, man. It’s three in the morning, some of us have a circadian rhythm and a limited lifespan. Say whatever it is you gotta say.”

Castiel looks up and drowns Dean in his swimming pool eyes, which Dean has learned belong to a radio ad salesman in Illinois, who Castiel possessed a few years back before jumping several decades into the past to run some errands and getting rope-a-doped by the Men of Letters and then warehoused in their basement; after they all spontaneously bought the farm, he just slowly ran out of the power reserves needed to keep his vessel from turning to mush and hey presto, talking skeleton.

Classic story, really.

“If I said you had a beautiful body, Dean,” Castiel says, solemnly, “Would you hold it against m-“

Dean doesn’t let him finish. {AO3 version}

[lectophile]

Okay WAIT A MINUTE. I have to say something:

Feyre had only had two previous relationships before being mated for life to a 500 yr old angsty bat lord.

One of those wasn’t even official and was purely physical, and more to distract Feyre from the world and stuff she had to deal with.

The other was a super hard burn love that destroyed her. No matter what we think of Tamlin, Feyre was in love with him and died for him. So yes, it does makes sense that she could one day hate him, but the truth is that someone’s first love is always difficult to get over (i.e., did Tamlin really ever love me? Was he always planning on playing me like a pawn? Did he ever take me seriously?—these are questions that aren’t resolved by destroying the man’s world.)

THEN we have Rhys here (who has 500+ years of experience with love, relationships, ya da ya da ya da) who’s like: “Hey baby girl—actually baby girl because your entire life is less than 0.042% of mine—we’re mated by this thing called a Cauldron that you only just learned about a couple weeks ago and so that means you and I are like...like a thing...but for forever. You in? I’m in even though I should probably let you live your life and explore this new body you’re in and the new world before I make you settle down to anything because you don’t know anything about life either as a human or Fae because you haven’t really lived much.”

Rhys never gave Feyre a choice. He had the opportunity to say: “Hey, you need to learn to think for yourself, to think about what life means to you, what happiness and love mean to you, before you think about accepting this bond. I don’t want to force you into something you have absolutely no idea about, especially since you’d have to commit for like... eternity, and that’s a long time for you since you haven’t even reached your first hundred. I want you and I know you want me, but I’m not sure you understand what a mating bond and this entire world entails. Please live your life as freely as you want and let’s talk about it again in about 100 years.” But he didn’t. He just swatted the idea aside that, HEY, just like YOU got 500 years to live life and figure yourself out, MAYBE your mate should get the same opportunity.

She also has severe daddy and mommy issues, as well as childhood trauma. And as a man who seems to have his own (and has 500+ years of life experience) wouldn’t he realize that that means that she is desperate to be dependent on someone, to feel like she has just enough of a voice to feel strong but not enough to be on her own, and a security created by friends/family that is guaranteed to not let her down? 

The reason I say this is because as someone who’s had a first love, I can tell you that I regret so many things. I regret the way I put the world aside for him. I regret forgoing thinking logically because my hormones kept saying, “This is endgame. This is endgame. This is endgame.” I wish I had put myself first so much more in that relationship, and realized that I loved that guy so much that I was changing and molding myself to be perfect enough for him so that he could never leave me—because for some reason that had become my #1 fear in the world.

This seems to be Feyre’s first time with a guy that gives her some semblance of a choice and so I feel like she’s somewhat doing the same. But even more so since she seems to be really scared of the idea that she’ll lose this family too, so she’s doing everything she can to keep that from happening—including molding herself to fit their happy little circle perfectly.

Like, I don’t think that she doesn’t love him or the IC, but I do think that she’s using them to cope with all of that stuff and they don’t seem to realize how problematic that is. Like, aren’t y'all scared that one day she’ll be angry at you for not encouraging to explore the world before settling down? If I were Feyre in 300 years, I’d break everyone’s noses saying, “HOW COULD YOU NOT LET ME BE ME? HOW COULD YOU PRETEND YOU GAVE ME A CHOICE WHEN REALLY YOU TRAPPED ME AT 21 INTO A COURT/MATING BOND/WORLD THAT I HAD SHIT FOR BRAINS ABOUT?”

Also, these ARE fictional characters, so the criticism really lies with SJM whom I don’t think really thought any of this through.

Also, I feel like this is one of the reasons Nesta isn’t a fan of Rhys or the mating bond between Elain and Lucien. I mean, even Elain, who (I LOVE YOU ELAIN IM SORRY) easily conforms, didn’t just give in to the mating bond. She’s hesitant and waiting for herself and learning about herself before accepting anything like that.

[pixie-cocaine]

ATEEZ reaction to: their S.O. being dominant

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: we all have our own opinions on how the boys will react, and since I find a select few pretty subby, they react differently in my eyes to female dominance. Don’t @ me lmao, it was never that deep. Also, this is directed towards females, so if you’re a male, don’t worry, I’ll start a male master list in the future 😘)

Songs listened to: Church - Chase Atlantic, Desire - Meg Meyers, I Wanna Be Adored - King Woman, Party Favors - Tinashe, Body Party - Ciara, Make You Feel - Alina Baraz, If You Do - GOT7, You Get Me So High - The Neighborhood, Lurk - The Neighborhood, Light - ATEEZ, Positions - Nia Sultana, Gentrify - Da Voska Docta

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Mature, so read at your own risk!!)

Hongjoong ♡:

• hmmm

• He’d probably be hella surprised when you pushed him onto the bed after making work of his shirt, straddling his thighs almost immediately and going to kiss at his neck

• He’d be low-key turned on dkdnsbhxdh

• BUT, I know that bb has limits to how submissive he’s willing to be

• cuz let’s be honest, Hongjoong is a natural-born Dom

• he’s just a flexible person and he’s willing to try a lot of things

• So if you tried to like, peg him or some shit, he’d be like:

• “woah, woah, woah. I’m really not trying to have a plastic dick up my ass, can we go back a couple steps?”

• really not used to his sexual partners looking at him like you do

• the fire in your eyes, the way your mouth opens in a subconscious show of arousal when he sucks on your fingers, it’s all enough to make him cum just by seeing it

• he’ll let you have your fun, but if he’s not really feeling things out of his comfort zone, then he’ll switch roles

• “Uh-uh, my turn, baby” sjejwhwjns

• like: *knock knock* sir? you called for a free sex service?

Seonghwa ♡:

• so y'all shouldn’t even have to guess this one

• Hwa has said it hundreds of times with the lil hints he be throwin out. First, him spanking his plushies, second, him with the fuckin belt in his asmr vid, and then with the goddamn bdsm ring??

• WE FUCKING GET IT, HWA. YOU’RE A DOM

• so we already know that as soon as you threatened to tear his orgasm away from him while jerking him off that he’d raise an eyebrow and pull you onto his lap by your jaw

• he’d throw you down on your back before crawling over you, fingers finding their way to your cunt, sliding in easily with the slick you’d gathered from the foreplay he’d graced you with previous

• “I’d like to see you fucking try, little girl”

• you’d try to give a firm face, breathing uneven, but when he hit a certain spot inside you that had you jerk forward, your composure broke and you began to squirm

• “look at me when I’m giving you my attention,” he’d say as he wrapped a hand around your throat to yank your head forward

• “You can try to be tough all you want, but you know that as soon as you feel the mere graze of my fingers, you’ll be a quivering little leaf beneath my grasp”

• but if I think about it for a minute, it really depends on how dominating you are. While he does give a more intimidating vibe (which is prob only his stage presence :/), it’s a possibility that you can flip the tables fairly easily if you do it right.

Yunho ♡:

• Babyyyy :D

• ok, so I know some of y'all will be against this, but tbh, I don’t really give a fuck lol

• I see Yunho as a sub-leaning switch

• let’s say you’re straddling his hips and he’s laying beneath you, yeah?

• if you began to roll your hips down into his and put a hand at his neck, choking slightly, I just KNOW he’d frown slightly and let out an encouraging whine OH MY FUCKING GOD LET ME EAT YOUR ASS YUNHO

• speaking of eating ass, if you were to try and finger him, he’d most-likely be really into it.

• just imagine him, needy, and bouncing on your fingers. Sweat beading his forehead, seconds away from release, and just babbling on about how good you are to him UGH-

• I’m so sorry. Sub!Yunho always has me feeling some typa way

Yeosang ♡:

• Yeosang, Yeosang, Yeosangggg

• ok so I feel like he enjoys being a top most of the time

• I can just tell he’s a soft Dom, but I don’t think he particularly likes torturing his partners with teasing and stuff *cough cough* Hwa

• but he’s pretty flexible, so it might be an off-and-on thing for you guys

• maybe on occasionally, he’ll let you smack him around a bit, but most of the time he’ll fuck the soul outta you jdnsns

• but when you top, you won’t be able to do anything TOO crazy, but he’ll let you tie him up if you want

• idk, Yeosang is a special card, but I think he’s a natural soft Dom so, ya know

• oh boy, here we go y'all

• San would be so used to being in control, a lot of his past relationships, he was topping

• I feel like you’re the only dominant partner he’s ever been with

• you’re unmarked territory for him, bro

• so when you came home from a long day, kicking off your heels and shaking your hair from the tight bun it’d been in before ordering him to sit on the bed

• he’d be like: ●👄●

• “_____, are you-”

• “I’m not going to tell you again, San. Go sit down before I lose the last bit of patience I have left.”

• since he’d be so used to calling the shots, you’d have to go absolutely stupid on his ass for him to submit, even then, it’d take a little bit

• in other words, he’d be a little brat

• “I don’t know if you know this, but I’m not some dog that’ll immediately do whatever you want at the snap of your fingers,” he’d chuckle, raising a brow at the blank stare you gave him

• the next thing he saw before you had him pinned beneath you on the bed was the ghost of a frown on your face, then you had a fistful of his hair and a hand gripping his dick through his sweats like a vice

• “I don’t think you realize who you’re talking to, brat”

• he’d be heeeeeella turned on, considering he’d never been treated so rough and never had someone speak to him in such a degrading way

• San is such a great switch, bro

• bb can give and take like a fuckin bank (bars?)

• I can smell the twink on him-

Mingi ♡:

• big babie 🥺

• so just like Joong, he has limits to how submissive he’s willing to be

• but since he’s pretty flexible, he’s ok with a bunch of stuff

• really likes when you pull his hair

• will literally melt if you do

• but most of all, loves when you praise him, will do anything to get you to do so much as call him “a good boy”

• “God, look at you baby,” you cooed, running a hand through his blood-red tresses and smiling down at the beautiful male under you, staring at you like you made the world go round

• at the sound of the nickname, he’d groan slightly and shove his face further between your legs to drag his tongue up your slit, nose rubbing against your clit with the movements of his face

• literally the sweetest boy omfg don’t make me cry

Wooyoung ♡:

• alright y'all, onto our favorite five-dollar hooker

• Woo, in general, is a Dom-ish person ??

• but he wouldn’t mind having his hair pulled or being ridden with a couple fingers in his mouth

• but other than that, this bitch is whiny about being topped

• “But what if I don’t wanna be on bottom?”

• “Woo, I’m not even gonna be that rough on you, I promise-”

• “I don’t feel like it thougghh”

• [insert Woo being a dramatic fuckhead]

• lol jk this man is a switch and can be a huge bratty sub

Jongho ♡:

• oh lawd it’s my buff baby

• ok, so right off the bat, huge sub energy

• not even gonna lie to y'all, I really just can’t see Jongho topping unless he was big mad or it was a special occasion where you couldn’t be bothered to bend his ass over that day

• I’m so sorry, I really can’t see how people see him being a huge Dom, y'all are so funny haHA

• you can’t look at him and tell me he doesn’t like being fucked in his ass-

• and speaking of being fucked in the ass, I can just smell it that he likes being pegged big boy time

• literally just imagine:

• Jongho on his back, clenching the sheets in his fists, and squirming in a fit of euphoria as you jerked him off with one hand and held one leg open in the other while you obliterated his ass

• God he would make such cute noises here and there, fucked-out expression and all

• I’ll probably make a fic about this actually, this shit is too good to pass up

• I love Jongho y'all, I’m really about to sell my soul just to make sure nobody hurts him omg I’m so in love jshshxjjxjs

[mcgrillzdumpinc]

Meeting with Masks

Summary: Nie Huaisang is beyond excited when he is invited to a Jin party including Carnival masks.  He doesn't expect to catch feelings at the party, but it's not so bad. Written for day 7 of SangCheng Month - First Meeting!

ao3 link

Pairing: Sangcheng, mentions of NieYao Rating: T Warnings: Mentions of queerphobia Word count: 1811

“The Jin invited us to a party.”

Nie Huaisang looks up from his phone just as Nie Mingjue tosses a letter on the dining table.  The envelope is crisp and cream, the flap decorated by gold filigree.  Nie Huaisang pulls out the invitation, which matches the envelope perfectly, and reads.  The party is actually a ball being hosted at the main Jin mansion, intended to celebrate Jin Zixuan’s twenty-first birthday.  Dress code is formal, drinks will be served, blah blah blah.  What really interests Nie Huaisang is the text at the bottom of the invitation, several font sizes larger than the main text and bolded to emphasize its importance—

Bring a Carnival Mask!

Nie Huaisang lets out a low whistle that quickly turns into giddy laughter.  “Da-ge!  Update the scoreboard!  The Jin are less crappy than the Yao now!”

“Because of the masks?” Nie Mingjue guesses very correctly because he is the best big brother ever.

“Yes!  Oh my god I’m going to have so much fun making your mask, da-ge!  Do you want to go intimidating?  Sexy?  Mysterious?”

“All white,” Nie Mingjue replies as he takes a black dry-erase marker to the scoreboard on the refrigerator.  “This party is stupid, anyway.”

“Booooo!” Nie Huaisang declares as he stands up, arms thrown into the air in protest.  “You’re boring!  The most boring da-ge!”

“I still get ass,” Nie Mingjue says with a smirk.

“Gross!!!!!”

~~~

Thankfully, the Jin (probably only Guangyao) had the foresight to send the invitation a few weeks in advance, so there was plenty of time for Nie Huaisang to research Carnival masks and start making one of his own.  To Nie Mingjue’s great pleasure, there was even a mask that fit his boring requirements.  So on the day of the ball, the Nie brothers arrive in hand-made and impeccable masks.

“Do you think anybody will recognize us?” Nie Mingjue asks as he readjusts his cape.  Yes, cape.  Nie Huaisang made him a bauta mask and Nie Mingjue, in his full jock-nerd glory, decided to wear the full historical garb, tricorn hat and cape and all.

Nie Huaisang rolls his eyes.  In contrast to his nerd brother, Nie Huaisang has opted to dress a little slutty in tight-fitted dress pants, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, and black corset vest.  His neck, fingers, and wrists are decked out in green and gold jewelry, all polished to shine in the light.  He’s decorated his white mask in a similarly lavish fashion—gold lips, black eyes, gold and black filigree at the sides and top, and below the eyes is a series of gold hexagons that lead into teardrops.  “I hope not,” he responds to his brother.  “It’ll be way more fun surprising people.”

Together they walk up the many, many steps into the main Jin mansion.  After temporarily removing their masks to prove their identities, they slip inside.  The foyer is already alight with revelers, most of them likely entertainment hired to hype up the guests.  It’s only 7 p.m., after all, and only a select few people would be this drunk so early into the evening.  Unless the food or drink is spiked, in which case Nie Huaisang needs to find out for himself before he lets Nie Mingjue have a taste.

“Be careful with the food,” Nie Huaisang advises as he takes a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

Perceptive as always, Nie Mingjue replies, “A-Yao knows the diet my doctor recommended.  He wouldn’t poison me.”

Maybe in the past he would have, but Nie Huaisang is pretty sure Jin Guangyao has a more vested interested in his Nie Mingjue’s health now that they’re dating.  Hopefully.  It’s hard to tell when it comes to the Jin.

“Still, be careful.  Yao-ge could’ve missed something.”

Nie Mingjue stares at him.  Even beneath the heavy mask, Nie Huaisang knows his brother is giving him a disbelieving look.

“You never know!” he defends as the duo reach their destination.

The ballroom is massive, large enough to house the entire population of a small town during a natural disaster.  True to pompous Jin nature, Jin Zixuan is seated at the far end of the ballroom on a stage.  Nie Huaisang knows it’s him because of the way he sits—the body posture of somebody who absolutely does not want to be there.  Twenty-one years and the poor guy is still not used to the way his family does things.

Nie Huaisang can sympathize.  He’s pretty different from the rest of his own family, too.

“I’m going to go find A-Yao,” Nie Mingjue speaks up over the orchestra music.

“Okay.  Make sure he taste-tests your food!” Nie Huaisang exclaims as he raises his mask to take a sip of champagne.

“Shove off!” Nie Mingjue scolds good-naturedly.

Nie Huaisang waves off his brother before heading into the crowd.  Looking around, there’s nobody he immediately recognizes.  There’s one guy in bright red wearing a plague doctor’s mask that keeps catching Nie Huaisang’s eye, but he quickly decides that tonight is not the night to bother with the crazies.  It’s generally good advice to follow when in Jin territory.

In time, Nie Huaisang finds himself a wallflower.  He’s not the most easily sociable person.  Friendly, sure.  But he’s never been good at approaching strangers.  He would have gone up to Jin Zixuan, but Nie Huaisang has no idea if the guy would lose it the second he saw a friendly face.  Which would be an entire headache if that did happen.  So, wall.

It’s been at least thirty minutes since he finished his champagne and he’s not feeling even slightly drugged, though.  So that’s good news for his brother.

Just as he’s considering finding the buffet, a stranger joins Nie Huaisang at the wall.  The stranger is tall, at least 8 centimeters taller than Nie Huaisang, and cuts an intimidating figure with broad shoulders and large hands.  Their loose, black hair is long, falling to about their shoulder blades, contrasting starkly to the orchid purple button-up shirt they wear.  The waistcoat they wear is a darker purple with black buttons.  Slung over their right arm is a formal jacket that matches the waistcoat.  Interestingly, their choice in bottoms is a pair of orchid purple pants, with the left side covered by an ankle-length black skirt.  Nie Huaisang finds himself smiling at that detail—as a person who’s still questioning, he can appreciate a challenge to the gender binary.

He looks up to meet the stranger’s eyes.  The stranger is looking back at him with a lovely pair of brown eyes.  It’s a shame that the rest of this handsome stranger’s face is hidden by what Nie Huaisang would call the creepiest of the traditional Carnival masks—a moretta.  Pitch black and perfectly round, it’s like a void has replaced the rest of the stranger’s face.  In the bright lights of the ballroom, Nie Huaisang cannot see any ties keeping the mask up, so the stranger has opted for the traditional way of wearing the mask—a button between their lips.  Even if they can talk, they have rendered themself effectively mute.

Still, though.  Nie Huaisang likes a challenge.  He introduces himself with a bow.

The stranger bows silently in return.

Nie Huaisang laughs to himself.  “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks.

The stranger rolls their eyes.

“Yeah, Jin parties are like that for me, too.  They care way too much.”

The stranger raises their champagne glass, as if to say Cheers to that.

Nie Huaisang finds himself smiling.  “You know, I really wasn’t expecting a moretta mask, of all things.  It’s unique.”

The stranger doesn’t respond.

“Not a bad thing,” Nie Huaisang clarifies.  “But I’m curious.  Join me for a trip to the buffet?”

The stranger nods.  Nie Huaisang offers his arm and, after slipping on their jacket, they take it.  Together, they leave the crowded ballroom for the crowded hallways and manage to get themselves lost a few times before finally finding the buffet.

“Why the hell would they put it so far away from the ballroom?” Nie Huaisang grumbles as he moves to wait in line.  He hears the stranger laugh.  “I hope you remember the way back.  I’m terrible with directions.”

The stranger reaches up to remove their mask.  Underneath the void is a strikingly handsome visage, with sharp cheekbones and shapely lips.  Nie Huaisang very much wants to ravish them immediately.  “Don’t worry, I do,” they say with a rumbling, deep voice.

“Fuck you’re sexy,” Nie Huaisang utters with absolutely zero forethought.  Realizing his mistake, he slaps a hand over his mask’s mouth.  “I’m so sorry!  That just came out!”

The stranger looks equally flustered, their eyes avoiding Nie Huaisang’s as they mumble, “It’s okay.  You don’t seem like a creep.”

“I promise I’m not,” Nie Huaisang says as he removes his mask.  “Which I know sounds exactly like what a creep would say, but scout’s honor!  Not a creep!”

The stranger stares at him for a long second before saying, “You’re not so bad-looking yourself.”

Nie Huaisang manages to hide his fluster by announcing, “I better.  It took twenty tries to get this eyeliner right.”

The stranger snorts.  “Jiang Cheng, by the way,” they introduce themselves.

“Oh, shit.  You’re pretty important, huh?”  The Jiang hold a near-monopoly in all water-based trade in and out of their city.  Nie Huaisang’s parents have pretty regular contact with Jiang Fengmian and his wife Yu Ziyuan in the interest of not losing some important trade negotiations.  But, last he heard, Jiang Cheng was the Jiang’s son.  “Can I get your pronouns?”

“Any,” Jiang Cheng answers.

Ah.  “So the moretta mask is pretty symbolic, huh?”

“I’m out as genderfluid, but I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Jiang Cheng tells him with a notably flat affect.

Nie Huaisang frowns.  “That sucks.  I’m still questioning, but my family is pretty supportive.”

“My siblings are, too.  Supportive, that is.”  The duo reach the banquet table.  Nie Huaisang receives Jiang Cheng’s mask as the other starts preparing two dishes of food.  “My parents are trying, but you know how some people take queerness these days.  Anyway, should I not refer to you with he/him?”

“I’m still comfortable with those pronouns,” Nie Huaisang easily responds.  “Oh, get me some sausage.”  Jiang Cheng obliges.  “Honestly, I might just be on the gender-nonconforming side, but I’m not sure yet.”

Jiang Cheng smiles.  It brings an ethereal softness to their features that Nie Huaisang would love to kiss.  But he keeps his hands to himself as the two of them reach the end of the buffet table and hurry to find a spot to eat.  “It takes time,” Jiang Cheng says as they trade a plate of food for their mask.  “Hey, after this, want to dance?”

Nie Huaisang offers them a smile in return.  “Absolutely.”

[lia-jones]

Growing Stronger - Chapter Thirty-Six - The Father of the Bride

They say one of the hardest days in a man’s life is the one when he gives his daughter away to another man. And Jeremy was travelling into that dark night alone, without any one to advise him. His father never had the same experience; Jeremy’s sister never got married. Not that his father would care or even be present should his sister get married. In fact, Jeremy was sure his father was the reason his sister never married in the first place.

Fortunately, that wasn’t his daughter’s case. She had had the example of a happy family, one that he had raised with love and understanding, hoping to break the cycle of abandonment. Although her experience before Victor was enough to send anyone on a one-way trip to celibacy, that wasn’t his Andrea. She was strong, resilient, and had within her a joy of life many spend a lifetime trying to obtain. She was insightful and hopeful, and that gave her the truly rare ability to see beauty in everything. Apparently, such had been the case with Victor. Where everyone else saw coldness, she saw light.

Although Jeremy and Victor were very different men with very different backgrounds, he could see so much of him in that remarkable young man it was almost funny. Yet, he could never exactly figure what it was that he found so similar. The realization dawned on him at the rehearsal dinner, when he saw Gregory interact with his son.

A deadbeat dad is a deadbeat dad, no matter the social status. That night, he had seen in Gregory’s eyes the same contempt he saw in his own father’s, and in Victor’s eyes the exact same blend of hurt and defiance that he was sure oftentimes he had in his own. And in that moment, Jeremy was absolutely certain that Victor was the best husband Andrea could find: a man who had experienced rejection and pain, but was driven enough to create a life full of love and understanding for himself and the love of his life.

Jeremy sighed and rolled out of bed. This was way too much contemplation before coffee. Plus, he hated to wake up without Mariana, and he could really use her that morning. She would surely and quickly put an end to his useless internal monologue, either offering kind words or simply telling him to get his lazy ass out of bed.

Well, his lazy ass was out of bed. Now what?

What does the father of the bride do?

As he stepped into the cold shower, he pondered about what was expected of him that day. What the heck is the role of the father of the bride? In short, absolutely nothing. He comes forward with a check to pay for the wedding and takes a little stroll down the aisle. Since Victor was a multimillionaire, the stroll was all he had. Jeremy scoffed, accidentally getting a little bit of shampoo in his mouth, pairing with his bitter thoughts: a lifetime racking his brain on how to properly raise a girl and on the most important day of her life, all that was required from him was to be able to walk a straight line. Even a sobriety test could be more interesting.

Getting out of the shower, he noticed a new notification on his phone. A text from his wife.

Have you seen Andy?

To aggravate him even more, Mariana was at Andrea’s room, to help her put on the dress, dote on her, calm down any eventual wedding jitters, leaving him to his own devices. Him, he had no job. Not only was he losing his daughter that day, he had to feel like a useless bum too.

His stomach growled. Maybe it was just hunger putting him in a bad mood. Time to put on some clothes, look for Andrea, and get some grub.

He had just shut his bedroom door when he heard a loud thump at the end of the hall.

“Crap! Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!” Andrea fumbled to get herself off the ground, her cheeks red as tomatoes.

He watched her awkwardly walk down the hall, a knowing smirk on his face. The bride’s room wasn’t that way, the groom’s was.

“Woke up early to walk the dog?” He jested, knowing this would make her blush even more.

“Sorry, Dad, no time to talk!” She quickened her step, going for the stairs.

“I was going to say don’t keep him waiting, but it looks like you didn’t!” He joked again, only to be ignored. He didn’t care, though, laughing at his own joke.

Ok, that seemed to be taken care of. At least both bride and groom would be relaxed before the ceremony. Well, as much as they could be. It was time for breakfast.

It was clear to Jeremy that Terry and Mina loved Victor like he was their own child. He was aware that all the preparations depended on Victor’s money and the wedding planner’s taste, but there was an additional and special care in everything Mina and Terry did for him, one that wedding planners can’t replicate, one that is only given to a son. This would remain unnoticed by a lot of people, but to a parent, this special attention was plain to see.

“Good morning.” He announced himself, as he entered the dining room.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones.” Mina greeted him from the kitchen, as she dispatched two trays of food, probably for the happy couple. “I will be right there with you.”

Soon enough, she arrived with a plate filled with bacon, eggs and pancakes, placing it on the table, in front of him.

“Have all the others had breakfast yet?” He asked, seeing himself alone with Mina in the dining room.

“Yes, everybody is already busy with their tasks, they came to eat really early.” Mina was about to leave when Jeremy stopped her.

“Care to sit with me for a quick coffee? I don’t like eating alone.” He asked, feeling weird about having a meal on his own.

“Your granddaughter is so beautiful.” Mina commented, sitting next to him. “So playful and always smiling! Victor loves her, I have never seen him so fascinated with a  child before.”

“Yeah, that one has him wrapped around her little finger…” Jeremy chuckled. “All of us, really.”

“It’s just so sad that Andrea…” Mina trailed off, a concerned look on her face.

“It is.” Jeremy frowned, remembering her pain during that dreadful year. “A farewell gift from that abusive piece of shit.” He cleared his throat. “Pardon my English.”

“No, those words are appropriate.” Mina supported him, almost as enraged as he was, making it clear she cared deeply about his daughter. “It just infuriates me to see these two kids, with such big hearts, go through so much. My Victor acts tough, but in the end, he is still that small little boy that just wants a little affection. At least they found each other. Andrea seems to love him very much.”

“Oh yes, she does.” Jeremy nodded. “That one will love on him until she’s blue in the face.”

“My heart breaks for him today, to tell you the truth.” Mina was misty-eyed, her voice somewhat strained. “It’s the most important day of his life and his father can’t be supportive. And surely he must be hurting, thinking of how his mother didn’t live to witness his special day. It’s like he is being abandoned all over again.”

Jeremy’s thoughts drifted back to his own wedding, in Portugal, away from his friends and family. There was something that cheered him up on that day though: a postcard from his aunt, with some money and his mother’s ring and the words You got this, kiddo. Be happy .

Jeremy smiled confidently at Mina.

“He has someone. He has a mother right here. The one that loved him and nurtured him for years. And that’s the one he needs.”

Well fed and in a much better mood, Jeremy marched to his bedroom. He was wrong, he had a job after all: to be a comforting voice. That was usually Mariana’s job, but she was so busy tending to their daughter and the other bridesmaids that she wouldn’t have the time to work her magic. That day, such a daunting and important task seemed to fall on him. He hoped some of his wife’s wisdom had rubbed off on him.

He took out his wedding suit and put it on, checking himself in the mirror. He was a far cry from the boy he was thirty five years ago, although one thing remained: the look of happiness in his eyes. He was looking for his cuff links when his wife stormed into the room, already wearing her own formal dress, her hair and makeup perfectly done, yet a livid look on her face.

“Where were you? I have been calling you!” She reprimanded him.

“Oh shoot, the sound was very low, I didn’t hear it.” He grimaced, looking at his phone. “Why? What happened?”

“ Filho da puta, arrogante de merda! ” She swore in Portuguese, which was rare for her. Something very wrong was going on. “Gregory is not coming to the wedding. Apparently, his reputation is more important than his son. And your daughter is on the verge of a panic attack, because that producer had the fucking brilliant idea of telling her about the dozens of reporters writing articles about her wedding!” She held her husband’s face, looking him in the eyes with determination. “Our kids need us, Jer. Did you bring that special brandy?”

“To open with Victor after lunch, yes. Why?”

“Forget lunch. He needs it now.” She shook her head with sadness, probably name-calling Gregory in her mind. “Jer, he needs a father.”

Jeremy didn’t need to be told twice. Bottle of brandy in hand, he ran to Victor’s room. He suddenly felt as infuriated as his wife, picturing himself punching Greg square in the jaw for being such a prick, both for  Andy and Victor. Not even on his son’s most special day, he couldn’t avoid a scene? He had to let his son down once again?

He found Joshua pacing nervously outside.

“Oh, thank God!” His son sighed in relief. “I honestly don’t know what to do! His old man was here, they had a huge fight. I had to grab Victor, he was on the verge of punching his father. Fuck, the things he was saying about Andy, I felt like punching him too, but then I remembered what mom said.” Joshua took a deep breath to calm himself down. “After that, he wouldn’t touch his breakfast, Goldman had to threaten to call Andy if he didn’t eat. He’s completely shut down, Dad. He’s barely talking, just sits there, lost in thought.” He looked at his father with angry eyes. “I honestly don’t know if he’s well enough to get married right now. He looks… broken.”

“Don’t worry, son.” Jeremy patted his son in the back. “I got this.”

Jeremy knocked on the door, and as soon as Goldman opened it, he signaled for the assistant to wait outside. He found Victor already in his wedding suit, sitting on the sofa, staring at the floor.

“You look tired, son.” Jeremy started, pretending not to know what was going on. “That’s what you get for sleeping with the bride before the wedding.” He joked, not getting a response. “Or wedding jitters kept you up?”

Victor suddenly looked up, his face expressionless. Jeremy could see the pain in his eyes, though.

“I’m fine.” He answered with a flat voice.

“Well, I have something that will make you feel more than fine.” Jeremy placed the bottle on the coffee table with a loud clunk. That definitely caught Victor’s attention.

“A Rémi Martin XO?”

“A wedding gift to calm your nerves.” Jeremy went to the food table. “Let me get two glasses.”

“Feel free to help yourself.” Victor slid the bottle further from him. “It’s too early for me to drink.”

“Son, you need this more than I do.” Jeremy poured some brandy into a glass, handing it to his son in law. “You may fool your friends out there, but you can’t fool me. Drink. It’ll help.”

He watched as Victor took a sip, letting the brandy sit in his mouth, swallowing after with a satisfied exhale.

“Magnificent.” Victor observed the brandy in his glass. “Are you sure you want me to have it?”

“Of all the people I know, you are the most worthy of it.” Jeremy chuckled. “Andrea or Joshua wouldn’t appreciate it correctly. I would be casting pearls to swine.”

After a brief moment of silence, both swirling the brandy in their glasses, Jeremy decided to jump in and address the matter at hand.

“How are you feeling, son?” He carefully observed Victor.

“I’m fine.” Victor answered, his voice hinting his frustration. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?”

“It’s a big day, after all. We tend to look back, make a quick review of where we’ve been, how far we have come. The people we miss.”

With a sigh, Victor put his glass down on the coffee table. But didn’t utter a word.

“How most things won’t change, no matter how hard we try.” Jeremy offered again, hinting at Victor’s relationship with his father.

Victor smirked bitterly, looking at him. Still, not a word.

“Mari and I were much younger when we got married, I was 25, she was 22. Her family didn’t accept our relationship, so we eloped in a city nearby and got married without anyone’s consent. I could see she was upset not having her family there. I was actually relieved to not have mine.”

His son in law looked at him, surprised. With a weak smile, Jeremy continued.

“As you may have already noticed, Mari and I never talked much about my family to my kids. To be honest, I don’t even know if they are dead or alive. My father was an evil man that left us for another woman. My mother was a weak-minded woman who could never stand up for herself or her children. The moment he left, I had to start working to feed our family, in a winery in Napa Valley. That was how I became an oenologist, my boss helped me in every way he could to give me a steady path.”

Jeremy kept his eyes on the table, unwilling to let past emotions take hold of him.

“The day I got married was the happiest and the hardest in my life. As I looked at the woman by my side, there was a feeling of dread inside of me. I felt alone, unprepared, just a kid. I had no real experience of what a healthy marriage was. My father was an awful husband and a lousy father, how could I be any good at it? I was afraid to repeat his mistakes.”

“Yet, you didn’t.” Victor concluded by himself.

“No, I didn’t.” Jeremy shook his head, feeling proud of himself. “All it took was a look at the woman I loved, standing by my side, smiling at me, and I knew I wasn’t alone. When you stand at that aisle, and you see Andy walk towards you, mark my words, you’ll feel invincible. Nothing else will matter. You’ll know that you love her with all your heart, and even feeling unprepared, there is nothing you wouldn’t do for her.”

“There isn’t.” Victor looked Jeremy in the eyes, his expression assertive. Jeremy knew that look too, it was the one he had on his wedding day.

“I know.” He assured the young man. “That life you leave behind will seem like a mirage when you lead the one you chose for yourself. Don’t let it weigh on you now. You’re almost there.”

“Thank you.” Victor said in a low voice, seemingly touched by the story.

“And I need to see about a bride!” Jeremy downed the rest of his brandy, making a face. “On second thought, this brandy might not have been such a good idea. Maybe don’t drink it all.”

Not giving another word to the men waiting outside, he strode to his daughter’s room, feeling very good about himself. His job here was done. Time to see how beautiful Andrea looked.

She was breathtaking in that dress. Jeremy couldn’t care less about dresses, but even he had to notice the beautiful work in the halter neckline, lined with beautiful stones and covered with lace. It was like nothing he had seen before, a true work of art. Becoming a Lee sure had its advantages.

Not that Andrea cared though. She was still somewhat anxious with all the media outside, all the girls surrounding her, trying to reassure her.

“No way I’m going out there! We’ll have to get married inside.” Andrea concluded, panicked.

“It will be ok, you’ll do fine.” Mariana stroke her back, comforting her.

“No, it won’t! Everyone’s eyes will be on me, I’m going to embarrass Victor!”

“You are not, Andy. It’s just a short walk to the carriage, and then to the aisle. We’ll be with you every step of the way, you’ll do fine.” Diane chimed in.

“And I have instructed the photographers to be as discreet as possible, you won’t even notice them, I promise.” The short producer offered. But Andy wasn’t listening anymore, her mind reeling with fear.

“Oh my God, I can feel myself sweat, I’m going to have pit stains in my dress.” She fumbled with the skirt of her dress. “And it’s too long for me to walk anyway, so I’m surely going to trip on it. I’m going to faceplant on the floor, and every magazine will have a picture of it to remember it.”

“No, you won’t. I will be holding your arm the entire time, remember? Just like I held you when you were learning to walk.” Jeremy spoke up, stealing Andrea’s attention.

“Dad?” She looked up, seeking his support. The same look she had in her eyes like when she was just a child, and still needed him. Jeremy felt his heart swell with joy.

“Remember, Mari?” He spoke to his wife, as he took his daughter’s hand. “This one could talk even before she could walk. And she was so scared of falling.”

“You would only stand and walk if we held your hand.” Mariana continued to talk. “Your father would hold your hand, keeping you straight, while you took your first steps. It took a while to convince you that you were safe, but eventually you walked on your own.”

Andrea smiled, and Jeremy could almost see her, so little, blonde curls jumping up and down as she tried to steady herself.

“You know, as you and Josh grew up, I always thought you’d be the one that needed protection the most. Especially after a few years. Josh was a lively kid, full of spunk and surrounded by friends, while you spent your days pressing the keys of that piano, by yourself. You seemed so fragile and lonely to me, and oftentimes I wondered if you had a hard time making friends, since Josh was the only one you'd play with. But then you had your first recital.”

“I remember that day. I was so nervous.” Andrea recalled, seemingly more relaxed. Mariana left the room with the bridesmaids, probably wanting to give them a moment.

“I remember you walking to that stage, so small, and playing masterfully, getting a look of awe from everyone. That’s when it hit me. What I was seeing wasn’t a small girl isolating herself, but instead someone who, at a very tender age, was already working tirelessly to achieve a goal. You weren’t hiding from the world. You were preparing yourself to face it.”

“Dad…” His daughter was misty-eyed, smiling at him.

“For some years, my heart relaxed.” Jeremy continued. “I consistently saw you work towards your goals, and in the meantime you made friends, a tight circle. No one could ever make you give up what you wanted. Until that scumbag.” He paused, relaxing his fists, that he had unwillingly clenched while he spoke. “There is no greater pain than to helplessly watch your child fade away, lose her spark. But once again, you proved me wrong. You got to your feet, you overcame your trauma and healed from the abuse. You got your doctorate, an outstanding career, a good man to start a life with. You are one of the strongest people I’ve ever known, stronger than me. I have no words to describe how proud I am to be your father.”

“I’m not stronger than you.” Andrea blinked a few happy tears away. “I am strong because of you. Because you always saw worth in everything I did. Because you always believed in me.”

“Hurry up, guys.” Mariana peeked into the room from the door. “The groom is ready. It’s time.”

“Well, I believe some photographers won’t stop you now.” He stood up, taking Andrea’s hand. “Let’s go. There’s a nervous young man anxiously waiting for you.”

“Victor is nervous?” She smiled at him, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh yes. I had to get him slightly drunk.” Jeremy chuckled at the scolding look in his daughter’s expression. “Don’t worry, he’s sober enough.”

He left the mansion proudly, Andy by his side, holding his arm tight. There were sounds of flashes, of pictures being taken, but she kept her eyes on him, confidently, like she did so many years ago. They climbed into the carriage that would take them to the wedding venue, and she looked serene, sure of herself, happy. The same expression she had when facing so many trials in her life. She was ready.

As he walked down the aisle with his precious daughter, Jeremy’s chest felt warmer with a sudden realization: he wasn’t giving away his daughter, because she wasn’t his to give in the first place. She had always belonged to herself, following her own path, focusing on her own dreams, making her own choices. Jeremy was simply privileged to hold her hand as she bravely took her first steps towards a brilliant future.

[creativewritingpracticestudio]

Leave You Low(Twiggy Ramirez x Reader)

Era: Mechanical Animals era(1998).

This one is based on the request of @headoverhiddles <3 sorry it’s not great but I’m learning!

In this, you are Twiggy’s girlfriend and a guitar player for the band. The both of you are addicted to drugs, although you heavily deny it. One night, the drugs result in you and Twiggy having meltdowns on stage, and you’re forced to come to terms with the fact that you can’t continue this behavior.

Remember to send in requests for more Marilyn Manson x readers and Twiggy Ramirez x readers! Smut warning. This ones long, sorry.

Of all the places you want to be right now, performing on a brightly lit stage in front of tons of people with deafening sounds all around you isn’t one of them. You and Jeordie have just got done with another “date night”. That is, snorting lines, binge-eating, vomiting, and fucking.

Your head is pounding, body aching, stomach turning, mouth going dry and metallic. You feel like you’re gonna pass out. Looking at your boyfriend, he isn’t doing much better. Even for an experienced drug user, he’s done too many lines in one sitting. Unfortunately, there are no sick days in rock and roll.

You stumble over to your boyfriend, who is laying out on the dingy couch, eyes half-lidded and fingers twitching. “We’re on in 15, baby.” You lean down and pull him up from the couch. He staggers around for a second, and then leans against the wall, eyes closed. “Think we overdid it?” He shakes his head, and mumbles under his breath. “Wanna see a magic trick?”

You nervously say yes, and he steps away from the wall and lazily holds his arms out at his sides. “Ta-da.” Is that the trick? Holy shit, you two have definitely gone too far. “Um, very nice, baby. Good job.” He grins gleefully at the praise, and then promptly turns, leans down, pulls his hair back, and vomits on the floor. You flinch, and then quickly walk to comfort him. This is far from a rare thing.

When he’s done, you wipe his mouth off with a napkin and rub his head as he leans against your shoulder. “Sorry, baby. I think I did too much.” You shush away his apologies. “It’s okay, baby. We need to go now, Brian is probably pissed at us.” He agrees, and the two of you walk out of the room to find the rest of the band, heads spinning and arms on each other’s shoulders for support.

Brian automatically knows that the two of you are fucked out of your minds. “Where the hell have you two been? We’re on in 5. How much cocaine have you assholes done, you look fucking awful.” Jeordie looks hurt, but you roll your eyes. “Chill. You do cocaine all the time.” “Yeah, but I know my limit. You assholes fucking don’t. Now come on, dickwads. You better not pass out on stage. Vomiting is fine. But no passing out.”

You roll your eyes as he saunters on stage. What an asshat. Jeordie pipes up, his head resting on your shoulder, sounding on the verge of tears. “Is he mad at us?” You look down at your doped-up boyfriend, smile reassuringly, and shake your head, ignoring your own dizziness and naseua. “Of course not, baby. He’s just in a bad mood. Come on, let’s go.” The two of you stumble on stage, and you brush off Brian’s harsh words. Brian’s just paranoid. You and Jeordie are fine. Everything is fine.

———————————————————————

As it would turn out, everything is not fine. Things start to go downhill from the moment you and Jeordie get on stage. The lights are extremely bright and the fans and instruments are extremely loud, making your migraines and stomach aches worse. You haven’t gotten a migraine from drugs since the first time you and Jeordie used it. Not to mention, Jeordie’s so out of it that he almost misses several notes. If it weren’t for muscle memory from playing the songs so much, you two would be messing up almost every other note.

The stage is spinning, the fans are spinning, you’re spinning, Jeordie’s spinning. When it’s time for the finale, you know that you and Jeordie are absolutely fucked. The lights and strobes become 10x more intense, the fans scream as loud as they can, the song is the loudest one possible: Angel With The Scabbed Wings. Brian’s been giving you and Jeordie angry looks through the performance. Jeordie looks like he’s gonna throw up his entire stomach and intestines. You feel your legs start to give out underneath you. Oh Shit.

About 30 seconds before the song ends, everything finally comes to a head. Jeordie slams his bass down on the ground repeatedly and violently retches on its remains before tripping over his feet and falling flat on his back, legs up in the air. The crowd cheers louder, and you realize with a start that they think it’s an act. Which makes sense. Jeordie does stuff like that a lot.

Knowing you’re about to pass out, you follow suit, slamming your guitar violently on the ground, falling to your knees and throwing up. The song ends. Brian looks back to see why you stopped, and you can already tell you’re gonna be in for some deep shit for your little stunt when you get off the stage. But, he goes along with it and turns back to the fans, milking the finale for all it’s worth. As the crowd continues to cheer, Brian throws his mike down and storms off the stage.

The rest of the band have smashed their instruments in a panic to hide that the outbursts weren’t planned. Ginger hurriedly helps you to your feet, and John hoists your skinny boyfriend over his shoulder and carries him off the stage as he mumbles something about dog clothing and cupcakes. As soon as you’re out of view of the crowd, Brian kicks over a speaker and whips around to face you as you clumsily attempt to get your wasted boyfriend on his feet. “What the actual fuck was that?” You grit your teeth and turn away from his scary glare.

“Relax. The crowd thought it was a part of the show. Twiggy’s thrown up before, and we smash shit all the time.” Jeordie falls on his ass and stares up at the ceiling. “Yeah, and that shit is planned. That just looked stupid. Twiggy doesn’t usually get carried off the stage when he does that, and now we’ve wasted the instruments we were gonna smash in the next show. I don’t even care about that. You two need fucking help.” You blink. “What?”

“You two need fucking help. I wasn’t gonna say anything until after the tour, but this shit has to stop. You two have a fucking drug problem. I don’t care if you snort cocaine, just don’t do it so often it melts your fucking minds. I swear, every time I turn around you’ve got a straw up your fucking nose. Only addicts use straws. I’m getting you two checked into a rehab facility first thing after the tour is over. I’m not firing you and I’m not asking. You two are getting clean.”

You stare at him. “Brian, it’s not like we haven’t smashed shit and thrown up on stage before, you’re overreacting-” “That’s not the only thing I’m talking about, goddamn it! You two literally live off of cocaine, it’s all you ever do! You’re both addicted and you need fucking help. I’m not arguing with you. I don’t want to lose another band member to this shit, I already lost Brad. Both of you get the fuck out of here now and go back to your hotel. You’re not staying for the after-party. You start rehab in a week, I already have you both scheduled to check in.”

You start to fire back, but stop. It’s pointless to argue with Brian. You grab Jeordie from the floor, pull him up, and lead him out the door. As you walk out, you hear Pogo start to try and reason with Brian. You know it won’t work, but you appreciate him trying. The hotel is across from the venue, so the two of you stagger across the street, wincing at the bright lights of the passing cars. You go up to your room, and Jeordie slumps onto the bed and curls up into a ball. “You okay, baby?” You glance at him with concern.

“Yeah. We really fucked up, didn’t we? Do you think he’s right?” You sigh, and go to your bag to grab you and Jeordie’s pajamas. “Honestly..I think he’s got a point. We’ve never been that fucked up on stage before. And I don’t think there’s been a single day in our relationship where we both weren’t high. I mean, for God’s sake, our date nights are just snorting lines, binge-eating, throwing up and passing out. Going to McDonalds and shoplifting at Walmart if we feel romantic.”

Jeordie is quiet for a minute. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” You’re trying not to cry, but your shoulders are starting to shake. Jeordie sits up, alarmed. “What’s wrong?” You wipe your nose with your arm, walk over to the bed, and sit next to Jeordie, hugging him tightly. “He said he doesn’t want us to end up like Gidget did. I don’t wanna end up like him. We really can’t do this anymore, Jeordie.” He just nods, and hugs you back tighter still. After a minute, you pull away.

“He’s right. We have to go to rehab. It’ll be okay..we’ll at least be together. And we can still smoke weed. And he’s not firing us. It’ll only take a few months. Let’s just get some sleep, baby.” You get up, walking back over to the crumpled nightgown on the floor, and peel off your tank top and jeans. “Fuck.” You turn around, and Jeordie’s hardcore staring at your naked body, his bulge obvious through his tight dress. He gives you a puppy dog look.

“Jeordie, baby, it’s late.” He whines softly, grabbing at his hard-on. “Please? It’s been so long, and I get really horny when I’m high, and you have the greatest tits I’ve ever seen on a-” You interrupt him by sitting on his lap and pulling him in to kiss you. He groans against your lips, grabbing your hips and moving your body against his aching cock. His hands tangle up in your hair, and you pull away long enough to fumble with his dress, hurriedly throwing it aside.

He lifts up so you can wriggle him out of his boxers, and you quickly wrap your hands around his dick, feeling it harden even more in your warm grip. You pump your hands up and down, twisting over the head and rubbing the tip with your fingers, his precum allowing for quick movements. His eager moans egg you on, and you feel your pussy clench, knowing you’re already getting wet. After a minute, he stops you. “Can you put your mouth on it, baby?”

You nod eagerly, and he gently pushes your head down. You force as much down your throat as you can, swirling your tongue around the head and licking long lines up and down his shaft and squeezing and rubbing his balls in your free hand. He throws his head back, moaning loudly and forcing your head down more. After a few minutes, his breathing becomes erratic and he pulls you off. “Can’t cum yet, hehe.” He gives you a goofy grin, and you playfully roll your eyes.

He goes for your bra, pulling it off and lovingly admiring your breasts before leaning in, licking and sucking on your nipples as you squirm and whine in his lap. You push his head closer to your body and stroke his hair as he leaves a hickey between your boobs and gently pushes you down onto the bed, moving down to your hips. You clench your thighs together, moaning softly at the pleasure. He rubs two fingers against your wet clothed pussy, and your moans get louder.

He pulls your panties aside and mumbles appreciatively. “You’ve got such a pretty little pussy, baby.” You gasp at the words, face heating up with lust and slight embarrassment. He sounds almost sober. He leans down, a hand on each thigh, and runs his tongue along the outside of your dripping wet heat. You squirm and instinctively buck your hips against him, and he repeats the action, licking up your wetness and gently pushing a finger inside of you as he teases your thighs with his tongue.

He works on your g-spot with his finger as his tongue works around your clit, and then adds another finger. Maybe it’s the drugs, or how tired you are, or just how desperate and horny you are in the moment, but you cum quickly, much quicker than usual. He cleans your pussy out, and licks his lips before aligning his cock with your hole and pushing in. “Oh fuck! Holy shit, Jeordie, harder! Fuck me harder, baby!” He grins at the encouragement and obliges, his hips snapping against yours in a quick pace.

His hand closes around your neck, and he presses down just slightly. God, you love it when he does that. “Who does this pussy belong to? Who do you belong to?” “Y-you, baby! Only you! This tight little pussy is all for you!” His hips begin to stutter, pace going erratic. “That’s right. Fuck, I’m about to cum. Say my name, baby.” “Jeordie!” His hand tightens around your neck, his hips slam into you roughly, his other hand begins to finger your g-spot again. You feel a heat form in your belly. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby!”

“That’s right, baby, cum for me. Cum on my cock, baby.” You throw your head back, gasping his name one more time as your orgasm washes over you. He cums at the same time, and you feel it dripping out of you as he sighs and tiredly lays his head against your neck. “Thank you, baby.” You rub his back, lightly scratching it with your nails. “I need to get up and pee, baby. Come with me, we can shower and clean up.”

He nods, and you pull him up. He, surprisingly enough, doesn’t stumble. “Are the drugs wearing off?” He nods. “You know, being sober probably won’t be all that bad. I feel pretty sober right now. Not too bad. Thirsty, though.” He picks up a bottle from the counter and chugs half of it down.

“Jeordie, you just drank perfume.”

[lostinfantasies38]

14 Days of DA Lover’s - Day 10 Surprise Kiss

@scharoux @14daysofdalovers

Pairing: Cullen/Alistair

Locus Amoenus

[def Latin - “pleasant place,” usually a charming field or a walled garden]

Strolling the quiet fortress in the evening was a favored pastime. He noticed many things that others might overlook. Dorian and Varric discussing history in the library. Cassandra and Josephine swapping romance novels with excited giggles.  Lels and Vivienne plotting on the mage’s terrace or maybe discussing their mutual love of fashion, but since they spoke in Orlesian, he wasn’t sure which it was. Since teaming up with the Inquisitor, Alistair began to see the various companions as family and the castle his home. Surprising, indeed, since the last time he lived in a castle it had certainly not felt homey.

Of course, his feelings had absolutely nothing to do with the enigmatic Commander who also lived and breathed and, Maker’s breath, prowled the halls like a caged lion. Alistair sighed heavily. He’d pined for Cullen since he was old enough to realize his brotherly affection for him wasn’t quite so… brotherly.

Leliana was right… again. Damn that maddening woman! He should have spoken to Cullen about things face-to-face before he left. Then, he wouldn’t have spent 16 days, 9 hours, and 27 minutes stressing about his reaction. If he had simply told him, instead of leaving a furtive note and running away, he could have spent the time away either celebrating…or more likely, patching up his battered heart away from prying eyes. Now, he had to walk blindly into a mess of his own making - well, he would if he hadn’t been avoiding every opportunity to speak to him over the last two days.

Andraste’s flaming sword!

Entering the garden, Alistair found it blissfully empty and quickly located his favorite spot at the far end of the cultivated square. Closing his eyes, he leaned against a column hidden by riotous purple blooms and tried to muster the courage to do what he needed to do. Everyone is at dinner and I’m sulking behind the wisteria, hiding from my problems - like usual.

“I thought I might find you here.”

The rich baritone startled him and he wrapped his arms around the cool marble in shock. Swallowing hard, his hazel eyes landed on the man casually leaning on the wall across from him, noting the twinkle in his amber eyes, and his surprising lack of armor.

His attire was the same as his own, except his tunic was red instead of cream, and Alistair’s lips twitched.  Of course, he would wear red – it was practically his signature color. Not that he was complaining, because the shade definitely suited him and without his mantle Alistair could appreciate how Cullen’s muscular legs filled out his breeches.

Clearing his throat, Alistair stammered. “Cullen… I, ah… shit. I’m really sorry about the letter… and everything. I shouldn’t have just thrown it in your lap and disappeared like I did. I –“

Cullen’s warm chuckle interrupted his rambling. “I hope you aren’t sorry about the letter, because I’m not.”

Alistair sucked in a ragged breath as his lips curled into that infuriatingly gorgeous smirk that made him weak in the knees. Producing a red rose from behind his back, he twirled it with careless finesse. He nearly collapsed; his heart pounding so hard he thought it would surely burst. A strangled wheeze tumbled from his mouth without his permission, rudely exposing his absolute astonishment to the man who never had so much as a single hair out of place.

In three quick strides, Cullen stood before him, one hand cupping his face with a tenderness that Alistair dreamed of for almost twenty years. Cullen’s gaze flicked to his lips and closed the two inches that separated them, scattering all rational thought from his mind as he allowed himself to be swept away, fantasy at last made real.

Full lips moved against his own, the scar surprisingly smooth, and Alistair swore he could hear Andraste singing. When they deepened the kiss, brandy and mint danced on his tongue, setting his blood aflame. The moans ripped jointly from their lungs proved he was not alone in this maelstrom of emotion. The arm hooked around his waist might well have been steel, holding him captive as their sweet kiss rapidly gave way to something more primal, insistent, demanding. He needed more; he needed all of Cullen, everything he thought he could never have, yet hoped for since his youth.

Separating with a gasp as his brain asserted the need for oxygen, Alistair stared at Cullen in awe. The blond was just as dazed, swallowing hard before he rasped, “Is that answer enough for you?”

Alistair blinked in residual astonishment while scrambling for a response. “W-why...did you never say anything?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced in embarrassment. “I’m sure for the same reason you didn’t. I was… afraid that I would lose your friendship and… I –“

“Would rather have that than nothing, at all.” Alistair finished and they smiled shyly at one another. “When did you know?”

The blond cleared his throat, features pinking slightly with his admission. “Ahh, when you poured that bucket of dish water over my head and instead of making me angry, it made me laugh. Surprised the hell out of you, if I recall.”

Alistair snorted. “Surprised the hell out of all of us, actually, but Maker’s breath, Cullen! I’d already been in love with you for a year at that point!” Recognizing the enormity of his words, Alistair clammed up and stepped aside to flee. Yet Cullen always anticipated when he would retreat and snagged his arm to return him to his original position.

His eyes shone like polished bronze in the fading light of the garden and Alistair was lost in them. Cullen’s breathing increased along with his and he hoped, he prayed, that he had not stuck his foot so far in his mouth that he couldn’t dig his way out, if needed. A strong arm snaked around his back, deliberately pulling him closer until they were intimately flush. Uncertain what he should do with his arms, he settled for wrapping them around the blond which must have been the correct choice as the other man visibly relaxed in his hold.

Alistair was the taller of the two, but in this moment, he felt small and vulnerable. Cullen also seemed unsure, but certainly more confident than Alistair after his slip. Brushing a hand across Alistair’s cheek, Cullen whispered hoarsely, “I love you, too, Alistair. I have for… far too long without being able to tell you. I-I want this… you… us. If… you’ll have me, that is. I know that I am not… whole anymore.”

“Don’t say that!” Alistair’s wide eyes pleaded, gripping him firmly, mimicking the tightness in his chest. “No one can ever understand what you’ve been through, Cullen, not even me. But you are not broken. You are a survivor and I have so much damned respect for you. Giving up lyrium? Leaving the Templars? Commanding an army?” Alistair thumbed his stubbled jaw. “You’re an inspiration.”

Cullen scoffed softly, glancing at the ground as color flared up his neck and face. Alistair smiled and lifted his chin, stating adamantly, “Yes, Cullen, you are. You’re an inspiration to me.” Tears briefly welled in his golden gaze, but he blinked them away with a small quirk of his lips, relaxing in his gentle hold.

Alistair glanced at the rose in Cullen’s other hand. “Is that the one I gave you,” he whispered reverently, melting at the tenderness with which Cullen cradled the bloom in his large hand, a fond smile decorating his face as he admired the flower.

Cullen nodded slowly as though lost in thought, his thumb delicately rubbing the velvety petals. “I… ahem… asked Dorian to enchant it – preserve it, so it won’t die.”

Alistair rocked on his heels in shock. After a heartbeat, he gasped breathlessly, “You told Dorian?”

His brow furrowed with uncertainty, fear beginning to swirl in his amber eyes. “Yes… only because I needed his help. Should I not have? I was hoping you wouldn’t mind.”

In response, Alistair captured his lover’s mouth again, pouring his heart and soul into the kiss. A few moments later, he rested his forehead to Cullen’s, choking back tears when he spoke. “Of course, I don’t mind, you chivalrous knight! You told someone about me… us.”

Cullen cupped the nape of Alistair’s neck, affectionately circling his soft skin with battle-worn fingers, the clouds of anxiety now banished in favor of understanding. “Of course I told someone. You’re not a dirty little secret, Alistair. I love you. I am in love with you and I have been for half my life. I never expected you to feel the same way, but I am not ashamed of you or us… as a couple.”

Alistair’s tongue was thick with emotion when he replied, “I love you, too. I’m in love with you, Cullen.” Brushing their lips lightly together, he then pressed a chaste kiss against the scar he loved, but knew made Cullen self-conscious. The blond’s breath caught at the action – so much said in that one touch. A lifetime of kisses and acceptance in one and neither of them ever felt so full.

“Come with me,” Alistair whispered, afraid to speak any louder and potentially break the spell in the quiet garden. Cullen nodded mutely, eyes suspiciously bright as he clung to Alistair’s hand, gingerly holding the enchanted rose as they stole up the stairs to the battlements and Cullen’s tower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flower symbolism:

Red Rose: the lover’s rose

Wisteria: this vine has multiple meanings, but I used it in this scene for this particular one “serious devotion, whether it’s to a cause or another person”

[momentofmemory]

fictober - day sixteen

Prompt #16: “Listen. No, really listen.”

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe - Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Netflix Marvel (Daredevil) 

Rating: T

Warnings: Sensory Overload, Explosions

Characters: Peter Parker & Matt Murdock

Words: 2279

Author’s Note: set somewhere between spider-man: homecoming and avengers: infinity war (but after DD s3). this was not meant to be as long as it is and i guess maybe i’m writing more of them now?? only time will tell…

>>I Hear, Said the Blind Man

A sword comes flying out of nowhere at his head, and Peter thinks that is this is exactly why he should never leave Queens.

The great thing about being a superhero in New York City is that the city is arguably huge, but patrolling never feels like it because of the sheer number of vigilantes in the area. Queens is his, but Harlem belongs to some guy called Luke Cage, the aptly named Brooklynite has, well, Brooklyn, and the Bronx has—

…Does the Bronx have anyone, actually?

Peter backflips mid-thought to avoid getting skewered by another very pointy sword, then launches himself at the ceiling as it’s immediately followed by a blast from the alien guns he’s been tracking all month.

Hell’s Kitchen is technically Daredevil’s place, and he knows the guy’s pretty territorial but he didn’t exactly have a way of contacting him, so.

Field trip.

“Do you even have a license for these?” Peter fires his web-shooters at the closest gun-wielding ninja, yanking the contraption away and slamming its wielder into one of the supports. “I know you guys are like, two hundred years out of date, but the DA tends to be pretty strict on enforcing unauthorized carry laws.”

Peter takes advantage of his perch in the rafters to remove the power core from the gun, then chucks the useless shell at its previous owner. A warning blares at the base of Peter’s skull, and he lurches to the side just in time to avoid a throwing star aimed for his chest.

“Okay, I get it, I get it, no one likes unsolicited legal advice.”

Peter’s hand snaps out and wraps around the wrist of the ninja trying to sneak up on him. “I’m not a fan of unsolicited murder, either!”

The ninjas are definitely way more skilled than he is, but what Peter lacks in finesse he makes up for in raw strength. He sidesteps the ninja’s sword (man, these guys are quiet), then throws him forcefully over his shoulder and into the last ninja.

They both go down and stay down.

Peter hops down to floor and dusts himself off—rafters are always disgusting—and nudges one of the fallen ninjas with his toe. There’s no sign of consciousness, so he slides around the black-clad figure to check on the box the guns were packed in. He peeks over the edge of the crate and notes only one is missing—the one he’d already disarmed. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Score one for the Queens kid,” Peter says, webbing the last gun and snapping it to his outstretched hand. “I hope you enjoyed the show but I will not be here all night, because some of us have calculus tests to study for.”

Peter slips his phone out of its hidden pocket, and is just about to call the police when his sixth sense lights up his entire spine. He whirls around just in time to see at least twelve more ninjas slip into the warehouse.

He’s surrounded.

“Listen guys,” he says, ignoring the warnings Karen’s blaring into his feed, “if this is your idea of a surprise party I gotta say, you need to work on your presenta—”

Peter’s cut off when a ninja materializes beside him, and he barely gets the gun up in time to block his opponent’s attack. He flinches when the blade still goes more than three-fourths of the way through the metal casing.

He shoves the man using more of his super strength than he’d normally be comfortable with, and the ninja flies across the room and lands in a soundless heap. “Not to go full nineties, but I knew I should have stayed home today.”

That’s the last quip or takedown Peter manages to pull off, because while he’d done pretty well against five ninjas, he is no match for a dozen. Peter tries his best to make offensive moves when he can, but for the most part he’s caught in an endless cycle of successful and slightly less successful dodging. He’s further handicapped by the fact that he’s trying to stay in the vicinity of the weapons container, certain that the second he loses sight of it, it’ll be gone. After the fifth sword swipe he’d failed to entirely avoid, Peter thinks maybe he should give up on that part.

In that moment, two things happen.

First, a red and black billy club comes flying from the rooftop and incapacitates the ninja about to turn Peter into a shish kabob, and Peter thinks holy shit I’m going to meet Daredevil.

Second, said ninja’s sword is redirected towards the weapons crate and slices clean through one of the power cores, and Peter thinks holy shit I’m going to die.

Then Peter’s world explodes.

Or at least, Peter’s pretty sure that’s what happens, because he doesn’t have any other explanation for how he goes from fighting for his life in a warehouse to leaning against a chimney on a rooftop.

“You all right?”

Peter turns his head towards the voice, but everything feels muted, like that one time the Vulture dropped him into a lake. Or like that one time the Vulture nearly got them both blown up.

That last one’s probably more relevant.

Peter starts to yank his mask off in an attempt to breathe easier before he remembers he’s not alone. Instead, he blinks a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus. Slowly, the blurry shape in front of him materializes into the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Then everything else materializes, too.

He doesn’t feel any injuries from the explosion per se, the suit having protected him from the brunt of it, but it’s wreaked absolute havoc on his senses. Sound comes rushing in as his accelerated healing repairs the damage to his eardrums, and it’s too much, too fast, too loud.

“Karen, turn the—turn the dampeners on,” he gasps.

He sees hears feels Daredevil tense across from him, but he doesn’t have the brain capacity to figure out reason for the Devil’s reaction.

“I’m sorry, Peter. The settings for limited sensory deprivation are not available at the moment.”

The blood drains from Peter’s face, and his already high-pitched voice jumps an entire octave. “What do you mean not available?”

“Some of my systems appear to have been damaged in the explosion. The suit will require manual repair in order to bring them back online.”

“Spider-Man?” Daredevil’s voice is too loud, too close.

Peter waves a hand in front of him, trying to get him and all the noise associated with him to go away.

“Your blood pressure appears to be spiking, Peter. Do you require assistance?”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. “No, I’m fine Karen, I just—I—shit.”

It’s childish, and dammit Peter wanted to make a cool first impression on another superhero for once, but instead he presses his hands over his ears and whines because it’s just so much and it’s everywhere and it’s—it’s—

It’s his heartbeat thumping wildly out of control in his chest—

It’s the crunch of gravel under Daredevil’s feet—

It’s the wind skipping across the roof and over the air conditioning units—

It’s the cat stalking a mouse on the street below; the man rifling through the garbage; the hurried footsteps of late night traffic; tourists with cameras, car horns honking, brakes squealing, engines backfiring, locals yelling, sirens wailing; the sound of his breathing, the leather in the Devil’s costume, the drip of a drainpipe, the drip, the drip, the DRIP—

Daredevil squats down in front of him and Peter’s head jerks up.

“Can you hear me?”

Peter bites his lip so hard it bleeds, because he’s pretty sure Daredevil is whispering but it sounds like it’s being shouted through an air horn. “That’s—that’s kind of the problem, Mr. Daredevil, sir, I’m really sorry—”

“It’s okay.” The cat hisses on the street, and Daredevil lowers his voice even further. “Can you listen?”

Peter thumps his head against the chimney, because he just said that’s all he can do right now and the cat’s just caught that mouse and—

“No,” Daredevil says, interrupting his spiral. “Really listen.”

Shit, does he have mind reading powers?

“Pick one sound and listen to that.” The Devil keeps talking, and somehow Peter hears him over the rest of the noise. “It’s okay if you still hear the others—but only listen to one.”

Peter slowly lowers his hands from his ears and tries, but there’s just so many of them.

A window slams shut two buildings over at the same time Daredevil clears his throat. “There’s a grandfather clock with a second hand that skips every third tick, in an apartment building four blocks from here.”

Four blocks what the hell—

“I uh—I can’t go quite that far,” Peter stammers, cautiously opening an eye. “But there’s a drainpipe across the street that keeps dripping.”

Daredevil tilts his head to the side, then smiles. “In front of Dahlia’s Flower Shop.”

“I guess so.” Peter closes his eyes again.

Peter hears Daredevil back away from him, just a few feet, to keep from crowding him. “Tell me about it.”

His concentration slips when a tourist stops in the middle of the sidewalk and someone starts berating them. “It’s… a drainpipe?”

“Is it metal? Concrete? Plastic?” Daredevil takes out his billy-club and rotates it between his hands. “What does the way it echoes sound like?”

Peter searches the dripping noise out and tries to focus on the water and the wind.

“…Metal,” he decides.

“Is the water fresh, or dirty?”

Peter doesn’t know how to distinguish between the two at first, but then he imagines the way dirty water sloughs through pipes as opposed to the way clean water glides, and when he realizes he can isolate the smell, too, he says, “Dirty.”

“And how high is the pipe when the water drops out?”

Peter listens to the water separating at the mouth of the pipe, waits for how long it takes for the splash as it hits the ground. “…Two feet?”

“Good.” The smile is still in the Devil’s voice. “Last question: what is the water landing on.”

Peter tilts his head in the same way Daredevil had, and strains his hearing to pick up as much detail as he can. The water coming out of the drainpipe feels hard, like the metal encasing it, but when it lands the splash is muted—like it’s sliding to a stop instead of hitting a flat surface. There’s also an almost bouncy quality to it, so it must be something that’s not rigid—something delicate, or fragile.

He remembers what Daredevil had said about the shop the pipe was connected to, and his eyes fly open with a grin.

“Flowers!”

Daredevil nods and sits back against one of the air conditioning units. Peter keeps listening to the sound, wondering what else he can figure out about it.

After a few minutes, Daredevil slides his billy-club back into its holder. “How’s your hearing?”

“Wha—?” Peter jerks his attention back to Daredevil, and suddenly realizes the world has gone back to sounding like Normal-New-York, instead of Acid-Trip-New-York. His eyes widen.

“Whoa, thanks! It normally takes forever to go back to normal when this happens. How’d you learn to do that?”

“Not in any way I’d recommend,” he says, propping his elbow up on his knee and letting his hand hang down. “Now, at the risk of sounding needlessly overbearing, what’re you doing in my city on a school night?”

“Oh, uh, well I didn’t really mean to come all the way out here, but I’ve been trying to track down this weapon’s deal for like a month and—” Peter chokes as he registers the end of Daredevil’s sentence. “Wait, school night? Why would uh, why would that matter?”

“It’s your heartbeat. Too fast to be an adult’s.”

“I was panicking!”

“And your voice?”

“…Also panicking!” He clears his throat and attempts to drop a half step. “Not that I am anymore. Because I’m a superhero. Adult. Adult superhero.”

“Hearing people’s heartbeats also means I can tell when they’re lying.”

Peter freezes, then drops his head into his hands. “Shit.”

“Are you old enough to say that?”

Peter’s indignant. “Yes!” Then he pauses. “Wait, if we’re here does that mean the ninja guys got away?”

Daredevil shrugs. “The blast took out all of the weapons. The Hand wasn’t interested in sticking around after that.”

“The Hand?”

“…Stick to Queens, kid.”

Peter flinches and draws his knees in to his chest, which probably doesn’t help his image, but. He’s really tired of being a disappointment.

Daredevil gets to his feet and for a second, Peter thinks he’s just going to leave him. Then a gloved hand appears in front of his face.

Peter looks up in surprise.

“You’ve got talent, Spider-Man,” he says, and Peter notices he doesn’t remove the man part.

“Really?” Peter’s mood lifts almost instantaneously. “I mean—yeah, yeah of course. Talent. You too.”

Daredevil shakes his head, but pulls Peter to his feet without commenting on his exuberance. “Give me a call if you hear anything else about weapons—or ninjas—in Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe we can work something out next time.”

“Whoa,” Peter breathes, his feet rooted to the ground as Daredevil walks away. Daredevil’s already reached the edge of the roof before an important thought occurs to him. “Hey, wait, I don’t have your number!”

Daredevil smirks. “You don’t need one.”

With that, the vigilante flips off the roof to the next building, and disappears behind its slope. Peter stares at nothing, and wonders if he should try to chase him down.

Then Peter hears water dripping out of a drainpipe, and thinks four blocks down.

Peter grins.

[backofthebookshelf]

Book Recs for Magnus Archives Fans

I was just rambling in tags the other day about how my avatarsona was "the Archivist, but a public librarian: Oh, you like dirt?? Let me tell you all the dirt stories I have!!!!" so, uh, here I am I guess.

I'm gonna spare you all the M.R. James and Algernon Blackwood and House of Leaves and Blindsight; you know all that already. These are my horror backlist recs.

The Bone Key by Sarah Monette Y'all. Y'ALL. Kyle Murchison Booth was absolutely the Archivist before Gertrude. He was poached from the Parrington by the Usher Foundation and the Eye glommed onto him at once, because the Eye loves disaster queers who can't people right (and also Gertrude). This I believe to be true, and so will you.

Kyle Murchison Booth is an archivist at the Parrington Museum, which is somewhere in New England, sometime in the early twentieth century. He also has a lifelong entanglement with the supernatural which is almost entirely not his fault, and he would very much like it to stop, but he also feels responsible and he can't just let evil mirrors and cursed necklaces and possessed dressing gowns randomly eat people who have no idea what's happening. Even if it means he's going to suffer for it.

(This collection doesn't contain all of the Booth stories, so here I am going to link to "White Charles", which happens to be my very favorite Booth story.)

For you if your favorite part is: honestly everything about MAG, from the modern sensibilities about early twentieth-century-horror, truly eerie ghost stories, to suffering eldritch librarians (thanks to whoever tagged my most recent fic with that you're so valid), monsterfucking and soft gay pining. No happy endings here, sorry.

Bedfellow by Jeremy C. Shipp You may or may not have heard that Macmillan-Tor is launching a horror imprint, and I don't know how long it's been since a major publishing house has had a horror imprint, but I am EXCITE. This book is part of the trend that's the reason why: Tor.com has been publishing these kickass novellas for a couple years now, and their horror books are top notch.

One night a stranger knocks on a family's living room window and asks to be invited in. They ask him to stay the night. He's an old friend, after all, he needs a place to stay. You can't kick out your twin brother when he's just gotten divorced, no matter how much Gatorade he spills on your two-year-old hardwood floors.

For you if your favorite part is: the Stranger, this is all Stranger, it's terrifying and good.

Through the Woods by Emily Carroll A graphic novel, some of these were originally posted as webcomics (have you seen His Face All Red, and if not, why not???) and the only disadvantage to having them in book form is they can't blink at you. Probably. Very folktale-ish, with all the death and violence that implies, and also the slightly eerie feeling that you know this story already, and then it turns around and slaps you.

For you if your favorite part is: looking over your shoulder when the foley gets good; Once Upon a Time in Space (I know that's not technically part of the Magnus Archives but shush)

Universal Harvester by John Darnielle I am not usually a fan of artists who jump media. Just because you can write songs doesn't mean you can write novels. Apparently writing good songs doesn't mean you can't write good novels, though, because John Darnielle of The Mountain Goats (pretty sure that's his full name at this point) wrote Universal Harvester and I love him for it.

Jeremy works at a video rental place in Nevada, Iowa (it's pronounced Nah-vey-da, and yes it’s real, I've been there, and yes, it's probably haunted). It's the 1990s, and someone's been returning their VHS tapes with something on them that isn't just the movie. Footage that includes a barn that he recognizes, just outside of town.

Fair warning: this is not the kind of mystery that gets tied up in a nice bow at the end.

For you if your favorite part is: Jon losing it with paranoia in S2, The People's Church of the Divine Host, the Lonely

The Good House by Tananarive Due If this author's name is unfamiliar to you, RUN, do not walk, to your nearest internet bookseller and purchase every single one of her books immediately, you will not regret it. She also just came out with a documentary on black horror, Horror Noire, on the Shudder streaming service. They've got a free month if you aren't a horror movie person, it'd be worth your while. This book summary sounds like it's full of tropes. It is, but Due has the cred to write them well.

Angela Toussaint hopes to salvage her suffering marriage and her troubled relationship with her teenage son with a trip to her grandmother's house, a home so beloved the locals in small-town Washington state call it "The Good House," but tragedy strikes instead. Two years later she returns and finds that the tragedy isn't over, and it's not going to stop on its own.

For you if your favorite part is: the very practical statement-givers who know what's happening to them and Will Not Put Up With This Shit, the Desolation, the Hill Top Road statements

The Library at Mount Char by Scott Hawkins Is this horror disguised as fantasy? Found family disguised as horror? Grown-up Neil Gaiman? Less grimdark George R.R. Martin? Honestly I have no fucking idea, but it's amazing. Fair warning, unlike Magnus Archives, this deserves all kinds of trigger warnings, including but not necessarily limited to: sexual assault, torture, mental manipulation, dysfunctional families, incest(?)

Father is missing, and his twelve children (though extremely talented in their own ways, and not strictly speaking children any more) are at a loss without him. But also, without him, things are starting to seem different. He might be God? They might not be human? (They were probably human once.) He might not be God but maybe one of them might be next? If any of them survive.

For you if your favorite part is: slowly turning into a monster, the relationships between entities and avatars, monsters hot (not kidding about the trigger warnings)

The Loney by Andrew Michael Hurley I have to keep reminding myself that Magnus Archives isn't really folk horror, there are two separate (if related) strains of British horror here and folk horror is not the one we're on, but at the same time I really want a good creepy rural pagan cult to show up in the series, you know? Anyway.

When he was a child, our narrator used to go with his family on an Easter pilgrimage to shrine on a bleak stretch of Lancaster coastline locals called The Loney. His Catholic mother was searching for a cure for his older brother, and she was convinced if they kept going long enough she would be granted her wish. The locals, however, are not huge fans of her annual visits, and even less so when the boys become involved with the goings-on of a pair of glamorous tourists.

For you if your favorite part is: the Lukases, I didn't realize until I was writing this up that I'm picturing Moreland House in the exact place described by this book

Eutopia by David Nickle One thing I love about the historical statements in Magnus Archives is just how truly historical they are. There's almost nothing in "The Piper" that isn't historically accurate - yes, Wilfrid Owen spent several days in a trench underneath the shredded bodies of his fellow soldiers. Like. You can't make up horror worse than that. But then you add monsters and it gets good. And I'm a sucker for early-twentieth-century history, it's such a bonkers time.

It's 1911 and the new Eugenics Record Office is sending agents out to catalog the disabled, infirm, and otherwise undesirable members of society so they can figure out what to do about them. In the utopian town of Eliada, Idaho, Dr. Andrew Waggoner runs from the racism of American society and straight into the influence of Mister Juke, the most troubling patient in his new practice. (Trigger warnings for, obviously, a whole lot of ableism. Treated like the monstrousness it is, but there's a lot of it.)

For you if your favorite part is: learning history through horror, the Flesh

A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay I hate male writers writing about teenage girls, so you are going to have to trust me when I say that I had to check, several times while reading this book, to make sure that Paul Tremblay is actually a dude. He's very good. This book was kind of his breakout, so if you follow horror you've read it already, but if you don't necessarily then please do not miss it. His newer ones, Disappearance at Devil's Rock (Stranger, Spiral) and The Cabin at the End of the World (Slaughter, Extinction), are also good but not as good as this, I think.

Fourteen-year-old Marjorie is having a rough time - outbursts, hallucinations, paranoia. Treatment is difficult (and expensive) and her family ambivalent; they turn to a local Catholic priest, who recommends an exorcism and, to help manage those medical bills, a production company who's interested in filming a reality TV show about the process. Fifteen years later, Marjorie's sister deconstructs the now-famous show and wrestles with her own memories of childhood. Trigger warnings for ableism on the part of many of the characters, but not the narrative.

For you if your favorite part is: the Spiral, metafictional analysis of horror tropes