#the way logic flies out of their heads at the first sign of tongue

[daylightaftertherain]

also. making out?? and stripping?? in a boys' dorm hallway?? besties I live in a dorm alarmingly similar to theirs and let me tell you dorm kids are NOSY and the walls are thin. boys ik you don't think bc you're horny teenagers but get your ass inside the rooms this is not the time for The Video pt. 2

[taeyohonic]

stolen dances | chap. IV

summary: sometimes supporting the person you love is the hardest challenge you’ll ever face.

pairing: jeon jungkook x fem!reader

rating: m

warning: none

additional tags: f2l, ceo!jungkook, bestfriend!jungkook, shrink!yoongi, my best friend’s wedding meets 27 dresses (if the boss/secretary couple had happened), angst-y

words: 1900

links: prologue, chap. I, chap. II, chap. III, chap. IV, chap. V, chap. VI

note: lower case letters intended

chapter summary: you are this close to throwing your lava cake in jungkook’s face

“you did not just make another powerpoint”, yoongi groans but still lets you set up your device. the first slide shows up in no time and you can feel him roll his eyes behind your back.

“really, ____?”, your shrink asks as the headline ‘why you should forgive me’ lights up the screen.

“just… bear we me”, you mutter, still clicking on your presenter to let go of your nerves. yoongi has been different the last few days – ever since you came back from your mini-vacation. you get it; it’s not cool to stand up your friend who is also your therapist. still, you’d think he would be a bit more understanding… being your therapist.

“this is my way to ensure you forgive me and, - and even see this as progress!”, you start with faked enthusiasm. yoongi writes something down while shifting his glasses high up his nose.

“the invitation of jeon was non-refusable because first i needed a break as well and second there were other humans with us, creating a human shield between me and jeon”, you show him the graphic with cutouts of taehyung, seokjin and jimin, dancing around the screen.

yoongi continues to write on his ipad, after taking a few seconds to stare in disbelief at your powerpoint skills.

“my only condition – apart from the billionaires financing the whole trip – was that we would fly back on sunday; making me not late for my appointment with you.” the next slide contains a picture of you with yoongi eating funnel cake last spring, your smiles coated with grease. you are really going all in with the sentiment and you see his faint smile as he stars at the slide, not writing anything down.

“then i was so objectively selfless that i pointed out jeon’s wrongdoings. i made him fly back to his fiancée, which left the rest of us stranded on an island… alone… without food and water”, you exclaim. maybe the photoshopped picture of you and the three remaining gentlemen on the cover of ‘lord of the flies’ wasn’t necessary. but yoongi is chuckling, so… yeah.

“to conclude: i did follow your advice to have a) some fun and b) talk to my best friend like he is … just my best friend.”

the last slide just reads ‘you should be proud’.

there is a beat of silence before the man on the couch claps rather sarcastically. well, applause is applause, you think but decide against a bow.

“sit down, ______”, yoongi orders and points to the chair you’ve become rather familiar with. still, the cushion feels itchy with the stare your therapist is gifting you.

“______”, he begins, “how did you feel when you stood up for his fiancée?”

“i-i …it was… like swallowing something sour”, you offer and yoongi just nods reassuringly for you to continue.

“their relationship; it’s so, so different from what i imagined… our relationship to be.”

“you used the past tense there”, yoongi points out. “are you no longer imagining yourself in a romantic relationship with jungkook?”

you have to think about his question. when was the last time you actively thought about the both of you – together, together?

“dunno”, you answer and avert your stare. you know it’s not enough for him. so, you try to scrap in your brain for a logical explanation.

“there is still… hm… jungkook with me… he is still so lovely… and lovable. but him handling his partner? that’s a big red flag. still, with me… it could be different, you know?”

yoongi doesn’t judge often, but this time his question does sound meaner than usual. “so, him leaving you stranded when you made him promise to take you back in time… is him being lovely?”

“i.. i made him go back”; you argue, not ready to face the truth. your therapist meets you with a raised eyebrow.

“i give you that… but he could have easily taken you home with him. why not even tell you about his decision? why did he just… leave you behind?”

his question cuts through you and you feel weirdly defensive. “why do i have to explain jungkook’s motives? this is my therapy – not his.”

you are not a mind reader. yoongi nods in agreement.

“correct. but, _______, you are allowed to question his actions. you are allowed to be mad at him. you are allowed to have negative emotions, to demand an apology”, he reassures you of your value.

“leaving without a word? that’s not okay. not when you are his girlfriend nor his best friend. it’s just… wrong.”

you spent all your week trying to apologies to yoongi and texting with taehyung and jimin, both still laughing at your rushed road trip back to seoul. but confronting jungkook? he did leave a note…

“don’t come at me with a piece of paper as an excuse”, yoongi warns you because he does know your thoughts better than most.

“______”, he softens his voice – never a good sign, “we are not here to change jungkook. we are here to make your platonic relationship with him healthier – by changing your actions.”

“so… i should be mad at jungkook?”, you whisper.

“are you mad at jungkook?”, yoongi counters.

**

“i’m not mad – i’m disappointed”, you say to ms yang, jungkook’s secretary. the wine glass between your fingertips is nearly empty and you don’t even remember taking a sip.

“understandably”, she offers and drowns the rest of her wine. the both of you are sitting on jungkook’s terrace. it’s a crisp night, but the stars are bright and the woolen blanket thick on your lap.

your best friend is inside, catering to some executives form his firm, while you gossip with his secretary far off from all the business talk.

“like… who leaves their friend on an island?”, you exclaim. the wine travelled to your head faster than you would have liked.

“mr jeon”, ms yang answers.

“exactly!”, you whisper-shout and feel the presence of jungkook’s butler behind you.

“you need a refill, miss?”, he asks politely, and you offer a faint smile in thanks.

“i’m good”, you decline to which he nods. “some desert, perhaps?”, the butler asks instead. ms yang laughs at your wide eyes. “please!”

“coming right up.”

before you can continue to bash jungkook, who hasn’t talked to you more than two sentences since the start of this business dinner, your best friend joins you outside.

“ah, so here is the real party”, jungkook greets you, his hands full with cake. it looks like a chocolate lava cake and you can already feel your wine-tinted mouth begin to water.

your friend looks way too handsome in his suit, the black stripes a soft contrast to the deep grey of the fabric. he tried to comb his hair back, but there are still a few lawless strands flailing across his head.

his smile is earnest as he sits down the desert in front of you. then jungkook falls onto the last seat at the table and looks at ms yang.

“you can go anytime, ms yang. i hadn’t noticed the time, my apologies”, he says and cuts into his cake. the chocolate flies across his plate and the smell reaches your nose in milliseconds. you do love chocolate.

“it would seem rude to leave before your guests, mr jeon”, the woman answers and looks between the both of you with a poised stare. after jungkook swallowed the first bite of chocolate, he continues to bid her farewell.

“now, they’ve left. a shuttle is driving you home – it’s already waiting. i imagine your daughter misses you too.”

his words are close to being rude; his secretary looks down and smiles politely in return.

“of course, mr jeon”, she replies and stands up, smoothing the wrinkles on her cocktail dress.

“the butler packed you up some desert to share with your family.” jungkook doesn’t get up but makes the effort to bow sitting down. you on the other hand stand up and hug his secretary goodbye.

“i’ll see you on wednesday?”, ms yang asks and pats your back. you nod and sit back down as she leaves the porch.

“did you have to be so rude?”, you confront your best friend who is already eying your cake hungrily. he hasn’t even finished his! to mark your territory, you take your plate and… lick across the lava cake. your tongue flattens against the dark brown surface and you hum in pleasure at the taste.

jungkook watches your act with fascination, but after seeing your eyes on him, he starts to chuckle while shaking his head.

“you really think your saliva would stop me from stealing your food?”

“did you have to be so rude to ms yang?”, you repeat instead of answering his rhetoric question. jungkook rolls his eyes and finishes off his desert before answering you.

“i’m not rude. she has chocolate in her bag to feed a whole army and i paid for her transportation. she’ll be home safe and sound.”

you scoff at him. “so, she gets an uber while you leave me stranded on an island?”

that’s not the levelheadedness you’d wished for after your session with yoongi. still, it’s sadistically pleasing to see your best friend flinch at the comment.

“i left a note”, jungkook defends himself, without weight behind his words.

“don’t come at me with a piece of paper as an excuse”, you say – only you knowing that you’re secretly quoting your shrink in front of your crush. jungkook’s eyes look bigger than the moon behind him as he helplessly watches you lashing out.

there is a suffocating silence between you both, but you are not backing down. your friend looks as uncomfortable as you feel. then he stares at your hands and explains himself.

“there… there is – i’m not used to include others in my plans, _____.”, he sounds sad by his confession. “there have been my bandmates, but… our agency smoothed every bad decision out, before the other member even heard about it.” jungkook still looks at your fingers with an intensity that makes you conscious of your own hands. you move them out of his view.

“even in the company… i just – it’s my company… i don’t want to reproduce that sneaker? it’s out the next day”, he continues, “she’s the first time… i have to make an effort.”

it shouldn’t hurt to hear his words, but they ice your heart with inhumane force.

“and i’m not worth the effort?”, you question him, for the first time really, really mad at jeon jungkook. his eyes widen even more at your cold voice.

“no, no, no, no, _______, no”, he chants your name like a prayer and you just watch him fumble over his actions. “you are ______, you are my best friend… you don’t need me making an effort… you are… effortless.”

__

hey guys! thank you so much for reading! i really enjoy writing this pairing and i absolutely adore sprinkling in my knowledge from therapy. and i love yoongi a whole lot… i hope you guys do to! i’d love to hear your thoughts! next update: reader is really, really mad at her best friend and he is… adorably dumb about it. love, dana

taglist: @livewittykid​  @thequeen-kat​ @kagami-s-void​ @goldenclosethobi​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​

[diaco1968]

Ice Ice baby

Wanted!Shoto Todoroki x hero!reader

Basically a request from my friend :D

Don't you just want to see this powerful boy helpless?

Warning! Cuffs. Handjob, orgasm denial

You navigated your way through the dark unnaturally cold alley ways. A thin layer of frost on the ground, looking as if someone recklessly dropped white paint and the droplets freely scattered all around. Except it was droplets of glowing delicate ice. Mid summer. You smirked as you followed the trail, getting more and more certain that you were closing in on the person you've been looking for as the tempreture dropped.

Your squad back there was absolutely demolished by this guy. Every last one of the idiots frozen in place in mere seconds and he just walked away from their pitiful pleas like he just swatted a bunch of flies. The thought made you click your tongue irked. 'Useless bunch of total morons.'

"Came for more?" He had his back to you, his head slightly turned to the side as he kept you in his line of vision, without actually having his eyes on you. Not to your liking, you'd much rather he have his attention on you and nothing else.

"More? More what? Your tiny little popsicles?"

That caught his attention as he turned towards you with a raised eyebrow. Truth was he was confused how you managed to escape his initial ice attack. Unless you were not there at the time he froze those heroes to the ground. Not a problem, you'd get a taste of his 'tiny little popsicles' soon enough.

"I wish I could stay and chat, but I don't have time for this ma'am." He raised his right hand, a harsh freezing breeze shooting off his fingers and turning into sharp ice around your feet on the ground. You inspected your heavy ice boots rooting you to the ground, then your eyes moved up to his arm, and just like you expected little patches of frost had already started to appear as he used his quirk again."farewell." He started to turn and walk away but the sound of ice cracking had him snap his eyes back on you surprised.

"Not gonna even tell me that I shouldn't move, or my frozen legs are gonna break and come off?" You said as you effortlessly pulled your other leg free from the shattered ice completely unbothered. Looking up at his surprised eyes you gave him a haughty smirk "I think you do have some time to spare now, what says you?"

He narrowed his eyes as he looked down to your legs then back up at your face "somone is not bothered by ice, I see. No problem. Got just the thing for you. You have a pretty face. Pity." He lifted his left hand this time and before you could react, a burning flame flew past your cheek making you wince quietly. More so from the shock than anything. "Ouch, going straight for the face, are we? Not very polite of you." You rubbed your cheek lightly before removing your hand garing at him, secretly loving the way his smugness wavering and fading.

'Nothing!?' His gaze was intenese as he looked for any sign of burn on your cheek, but there was none. How can one be immune to both Ice and fire?! He had never had to face this problem before and as much as he tried to hide his anxious expression, his face was slightly off. He looked nervous. You offered him an evil grin. Too evil looking for a pro hero. "Where did your sharp wit go now?"

He clicked his tongue annoyed as he raised both hands, launching himself at you. You didn't know what he was going to throw at you, but it didn't matter. It's not like you had to block or repel anything. Truth be told, You did take damage, you were just too quick to heal for him to notice that. He did not hold back on you with both his quirks.

~

His whole body was shaking and mostly covered in now a thick layer of frost as he froze you to the ground again, raising his left hand but all that emitted from it was a puff of visualized air from the contrast of cold and hot, with a pitiful dying hiss. "Damnit..." he breathed out too cold to do more now, you had made him over exert his limits and yourself had barely broken a sweat.

"Aw, what was that?" You chuckled as the familiar sound of cracking ice echoed off the walls of the dead end signalling you were free of your icy binds once again. "Are you done yet?" You walked to him slowly and intimidatingly. He tried to step back but his body was too cold and heavy for him to move.

"Looks like you are done." You said smugly as you pulled the quirk nullifying cuffs out, making quick work of binding his arms behind his back. His jaw was clenched as he tried to stop his teeth from colliding due to the cold. "So what now? Turning me in, little lady?"

You raised an eyebrow giving him a look as if he had said the most stupid thing in the world. From close up you could see why he was known as the Todoroki masterpiece. Not only his double quirk was very outstanding, he looked like such a unique specimen. Two colored eyes, each deep, sharp and threatening enough to make you lose yorself in 2 completely different worlds. A mop of two colored hair you were sure no one else could pull off withouth looking like a clown. A burnt scar on his left eye adding to his mature expression. Peculiarly handsome.

Now, you would normally hand him over, like he had logically assumed. But, at the very moment there was no need. The crimes he was wanted for were pesky little things, no murder or anything, more like an honourable thief. It was the person who wanted him caught that was a big fish otherwise he wouldn't even have to get wanted at all. And honestly you couldn't begin to give a flying fuck about what a big fish wanted.

You smiled and much to his surprise pushed him down flat on his butt, his back hitting the wall and he hissed out annoyed, but soon was distracted as you pushed his torso forward and re-did the cuff, his hands now bound behind him to a pipe. "... you are a pro hero, right?" He looked up at you suspiciously with narrowed eyes, getting a deep chuckle in reply.

IsgoungWht You raised your foot and even though he thought you were going to kick him, he refused to flinch away. However he jumped as you brought your foot down lightly resting it on his crotch, adding more of your weight till you were bent down to his eye level resting your elbow on your knee "You bet I am."

He groaned, frowning as his eyes darted between your foot and your face, annoyed but intrigued. "Your guidelines seem to have changed quite a bit from what I remem-Ngh!" Both his knees jerked up a bit at the sudden add of pressure.

You only smiled at him, running the back of your fingers over his jaw and under his chin, raising his head a bit "now that you've found time, you're actually chatty, huh?"

He puffed out his cheeks and glared up at you.

"what do you want?"

"Now we're talking." You grinned and removed your foot, sitting in between his legs "I have no intention of turning you in to that prick that wants you."

He studied your face carefully "... that much is clear."

You gently put your hand over his mouth and rolled your eyes "shhh I'm talking." You removed your hand raising an eyebrow and daring him to talk, but he remained unfazed and quiet. "Good. You see, what you did back there to my squad doesn't sit right with me, so what we're gonna do is you endure a bit of humiliation then I let you walk free. It's a win-win scenario, trust me. Deal?"

He didn't look one bit like he trusted you as he scrunched up his nose and raised an eyebrow "I don't know, doesn't look like I have a choice."

"Exactly."

Your grin widened significantly and you nestled comfortably between his legs looking throughly at his outfit for the first time. Black skinny jeans with a loose short sleeved shirt. Casual. You ran your palm up his bare arm, brushing off some of the frost that still persistently lingered. Your other hand wandered up his shirt curiously, fingers lingering on his prominent abs a little too long.

"You're weird."

He said maintaining a very intense eye contact. You rolled your eyes "you think?" He opened his mouth to retort but snapped it shut to suppress a surprised yelp, that instead escaped his lips in a strangled grunt as you pinched his left nipple hard.

You chuckled at the glare he shot you "oh wow, perky, are we? Is it for the cold?" Your hands moved down his body, fingers nimbly undoing his jeans. Eyeing him mischievously as he tried to discretely wriggle away from you to no avail "relax, I can warm you up."

"I'm fine, I don't need-..." he trailed off, watching curiously as you palmed him through the fabric of his underwear, running your fingers up and down his length, his leg jumping lightly in reflex as you squeezed down a bit too harshly, clicking his tongue annoyed once more. "I still have no idea what you want from me..." he grumbled eyes not leaving your hand as it dived inside to fetch his hardening cock, delicate fingers wrapping around it and lazily pumping up and down. "Improvise. You'll get it eventually." Your thumb rubbed over the head, squeezing a bead of precum out of it and smearing it around the tip. He hissed out a breath, twitching in your hand.

"Shit..." he did have a vague idea about what you wanted him to do but there was something oddly arousing about being helplessly bound to a pipe in a dead end at such a intriguing character's mercy.

~

He bit his lower lip to suppress his low grunts and moans, closing his eyes as your hand sped up, your other hand joining in to cup his balls and squeeze softly. His hips were bucking in your hands, abs bulging and rippling lightly in sync with your touch, covered in a thin layer of shiny sweat droplets. If his quirks weren't cancelled, he would be smoking with heat. Just as he was seeing white from the pleasure you stopped.

Again.

He threw his head back with a quiet sigh, opening his eyes "I should've known." He said with a breathy voice as he caught his breath.

You nod laughing at him teasingly "yeah you should've. Those sounds you make are very sexy though. Almost got me going too." He raised his head and smirked at you smugly "maybe you should give it a shot then?"

You shrugged your shoulders "tell me what I want to hear and I'll consider."

He chewed the inside of his cheek before finally giving up "...please." voice barely louder than a whisper.

"We've been over this, not enough." You scolded again. He sighed loudly "pleease!"

You smiled softly at him making him even more annoyed.

"please what?"

He narrowed his eyes at you before looking at you pleadingly "please finish me off and let me cum."

You grinned "nope, see you around, pretty boy." As you stood up and turned on your heels to leave.

"Wait what!? Not gonna Finish what you started?!"

you looked over your shoulder. It was the first time he looked this distressed

"I will. Later. We will meet again."

He growled and pulled at his restraints with a loud clinking noise "you can't leave me here like this! At least take these off and let me go!" He pleaded.

"I'm sure you can get out of them on your own. You're a big strong smart boy after all." You sent him a kiss from the entry of the alleyway as you winked and disappeared chuckling.

He growled hitting his head back on the pipe sitting there in silence for a while as he thought to himself.

'Strong smart boy'

'Smart boy'

'Smart'

...

!!!

"Bloody fucking hell! I'm going to get you back for this, I swear!" He grumbled angrily as he activated his ice quirk and froze the normal metal cuffs, breaking them and freeing his hands. He was basically not restrained at all this whole time! He smiled depite feeling like an idiot as he rubbed his raw wrists. He would be enthusiastically looking forward to seeing you again.

[copias-thrall]

Pretty Thing

[Should I be working on any of my other things? Yes! Did I write this instead? Also yes!]

Mary Goore is a troll. 

Yes—a shit stirrer for sure, but mostly he’s a fiend who lives somewhere dank and far from people. Some say he squats in a mausoleum, but others will laugh and tell you he sublets a garden-level apartment. He’s always just around—the scene’s unofficial mascot who flits around, always there with everyone and no one, and damn … you just missed him! But on weekends you can find him working the doors at bars and venues collecting tolls for entry.

On cloudy days, you can find him hanging out in The Pit with all the other gutter punks, passing around a needle to pierce each other and the guitar to play out some tunes. At night, though, he always seems to be hanging off the arm of someone way too clean, looking like the cat who ate the canary. Wherever he lives, he seems to spend more time in someone else’s bed.

It’s a bright, sunny day when you encounter him alone—without the camaraderie of your tribe. Mary Goore is stomping down the sidewalk holding a black-lace parasol aloft. It’s a hot day, so beneath his studded and patched denim vest is just the pale , paleness of his dewy skin—so bright and reflective in the sunshine that you think that maybe he was the inspiration for that vampire. His black jeans are so ripped, you wonder if he wore them special—for the aeration. The carefully-constructed mat of his hair is making a valiant effort to stand up, despite how tufts of it stick to the sweat on his skin.

Some of it’s the shock of seeing Mary Goore out in the sunlight , and some of it is just how blindingly white he is—like sun refracting off a snowdrift—but you can’t help gaping at him even when you know he’s close enough to watch you do it.

Now, you don’t know Mary Goore, but you spend enough time in divey bars and underground venues that you’re sure he at least recognizes you, so you expect maybe a wink as he passes by. Instead he walks straight up to you and stops.

“You’ll catch flies that way,” he says, and you shut your mouth with a click. He leans against the building with his free arm and gives you a once over. “Like what you see, gelfling?”

Reflexively, you look him up and down. What you thought were freckles is actually a collection of moles that dot his skin. It’s cute.

“I thought you were a mirage.”

He snorts and leans into your space. “Cuz I’m a cool drink of water?”

You look down again at the flat planes of his pale chest. 

“Because you’re, um … glowing.”

Mary licks his lips and hoods his eyes. Your heart pounds.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He leans in, and your eyes flutter closed. You wonder if he’ll taste as rank as he usually looks, or if he’ll taste like mint gum or something. Instead, you feel his lips at the conch of your ear.

“See ya ‘round, gelfling.”

Eyes snapping open, you whip around just in time to him striding away, the parasol still raised to shield him from the sun.

You don’t make it a point to seek Mary out—in fact, you’ve been trying to avoid him, sure he’d only make fun of you. So, it’s a surprise when—while waiting for your drink order—Mary suddenly appears. You start, but he just leans his elbow on the bar. 

“Hey,” he says as he catches the straw from his—mostly-finished, bright-yellow drink with a pink paper umbrella—and wraps his plush lips around it. He sucks, and soon you can hear the rattle and slurp as his glass empties. He maintains eye contact with you as he keeps going, the death knell of the drink now gurgling in a prolonged throe as Mary makes use of his surprisingly robust lung capacity.

Before you can say anything, the bartender is placing your pint of beer in front of you.

“That’ll be $6.50, doll.”

Mary waves his arm. “Hey, Ned—put it on my tab.”

Ned raises his eyebrow at him. “You mean ‘Stephanie’s’ tab?” His chin indicates a girl across the room with bright pink and purple hair.

Mary grins, then slams his glass down on the counter. “And make me a tequila sunset.”

“That was a sunrise.”

“I know, man. I like variety.” 

When he says ‘variety,’ Mary turns his head to you and winks.

Ned rolls his eyes and buses the glass—but not before Mary plucks out the paper umbrella. Mary crooks his finger at you, but when you hesitate, he leans forward instead.

“I expect you to treasure this forever,” he says as he sticks the umbrella in your hair just above your ear.

You sniff at him. “I’ll treasure it as long as you do your conquests.” You go for a dramatic exit, but almost spill your beer all over you when you practically collide with the guy behind you, and it sloshes a little bit over the lip of the pint glass. Straight backed, you walk stiffly away as Mary guffaws behind you.

The rest of the night, you make a point of not even glancing in Mary’s direction—you don’t want to see if there’s also an umbrella in Stephanie’s hair.

It’s late, and you’re drunk. The lot of you had parted ways after trivia with multiple $5 pitchers. Despite having downed your own weight in French fries, all you want is some fake cheese of the Cheetos variety. 

The convenience store is on your way home and it’s still open. After the dark of the night outside, you almost have to shield your eyes from the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. The bored teen at the counter watches as you stumble around to first the household aisle, then to the candy aisle, and back to the household aisle.

“Motherfucking cum whore,” you say out loud as you squint up at the signs again.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

You jump out of your skin, and almost careen into the greeting card rack—but Mary grabs your arm at the last minute. He’s in his worn leather jacket and some really tight-ass jeans. After leering at his thighs for a moment you say,

“Oh. It’s you.”

Mary squints at you and then grins. “You’re sloshed.”

You make a pffft noise at him.

“What drunk logic has brought you here?”

“I can’t find the Cheetos,” you whine.

He laughs at you. “All right. Hold on.”

You let Mary prop you up against the wall by the magazine rack, and you read all the celebrity gossip headlines while you wait. By the time he finally comes back, your eyes are beginning to droop with sleep. 

“Hey,” he snaps his fingers in front of your face. “No sleeping yet.”

“Cheetos,” is all you can manage before pointing into your mouth with an ah noise.

There’s a bag placed into your hands, already open. You shove a handful into your mouth before you remember you have to buy it. So you start rooting around in your pockets.

“Jesus you’re a mess.You’re getting cheese dust everywhere. The fuck are you doing, anyway?”

“Gotta pay,” you mumble around the masticated food in your mouth.

“I took care of it. C’mon.” He puts his arm around your shoulders and guides you out of the store. You notice he’s got a coffee cup in his other hand when he brings it up to his mouth.

Once you’re outside, you see a woman in her best goth blacks and contoured Elvira face. She looks up at the two of you.

“Mare?”

“Aww, shit. Sorry, baby. I gotta walk a friend home. Some other time?”

The woman looks at you; even with Mary’s arm you’re weaving, and you haven’t stopped shoving the snack food into your mouth.

“Yeah, whatever.”

She walks into the street and immediately a cab pulls over.

“All right, you,” Mary says, drawing your attention back to him. “Let’s get you home.”

The two of you walk in silence except for the crunch of the Cheetos and the slurp of the coffee.

When you reach your apartment building, you say, “This is me.”

Mary shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Hey, uh—do you mind if I crash on your couch?” He gives you a sheepish smile. “I kinda thought I’d be sleeping … elsewhere.”

“Me casa su casa,” you slur.

“Cool, thanks.”

You can’t wait to see the looks on your roommates’ faces when they wake up to Mary Fucking Goore in their apartment. 

But when you all get up, he’s already gone.

You’re eating meat off a stick to soak up the scorpion bowl you and some coworkers shared after a long fucking week. They’re upstairs getting the dance party started, but you’re not allowed up until you finish, so you’re content to watch the shot girls weave expertly in and out the crowd with their wares.

Suddenly a yellow and orange drink slides in front of you.

“But I didn’t …” you start, and that’s when Mary appears and clinks his bright red drink into yours.

“Fancy seeing you here. Oh—is that chicken?” 

Before you can answer, Mary is sliding off a chunk of meat from the skewer and popping it in his mouth.

“Hey!” You sputter at him, but he just pushes the drink at you.

“Drink your sunrise.”

You glare at him, but he just takes a big gulp of his own, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He removes his cherry and holds it out, and you notice that his nails are painted black with a red glitter topcoat.

“C’mon, don’t leave me hanging.”

Sighing, you remove your cherry and hold it out. As Mary touches his to yours he says “Clink”, and then pops it into his mouth. You do the same, squishing it between your back molars before taking a sip from the plastic stirrer in your sunrise. When you look up again, you see that Mary’s mouth is moving, his eyes unfocused. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when he suddenly makes a noise of triumph. He spits something into his palm, which he immediately presents to you proudly.

He’s tied the cherry stem into a knot.

You just gape at him.

Mary deposits the stem into your hand, closing your fingers around it before leaning in. “In case you forget what I can do with my tongue.” Then he gently closes your mouth with a hand to the bottom of your chin. “You know, you keep doing that, and one day someone’s gonna stick something in there.”

Before you have a chance to respond, someone across the bar yells Mary’s name.

“Oop! Gotta bounce! Smell ya later, gelfie.”

And then he’s downing the rest of his drink and heading over to a gaggle of hipsters in flannel and leather. As you finish the last hunk of meat, you watch the group leave as they shout and whoop.

The last thing you expect to see on stage is Mary Goore on guitar when he’s not even in the fucking band. True, he’s been known to mix and match and do the occasional substitution—but there wasn’t even an announcement about it. 

He’s in his stage shirt—the one almost covered in myriad blood trails—and a pair of jeans that are only torn at the knees. There’s a line of drinks next to him from admirers that he’s doing his best to slam back in between songs. The venue doesn’t make those kind of mixed drinks, so you’d sent Mary a shot of tequila with a cherry impaled on a plastic sword in it. “Inside joke,” you’d explained to the confused bartender.

When Mary gets to it, you watch the confusion on his face as he examines the contents. Then his head shoots up, scanning the crowd until his eyes land on you. You wave your own cherried sword at him before sucking the cherry into your mouth. He grins, takes out the sword, and runs it along his tongue before popping the cherry in. There are a few hoots from the audience, and then Mary is shooting the tequila before starting into the chords of the next song.

After the set ends, you convince your friends to stay for another round, vibrating with the certainty that Mary will come out to sass you. You can’t wait to see the look on your friends’ faces when he does.

It’s completely by accident that you even see him leave at all. 

You’re waiting in line for the only bathroom in the entire place, when you see the band erupt from the back room. You raise your hand to wave, but Mary isn’t even looking in your direction. Instead, he’s got his arm draped around the bassist—the one everybody considers the “pretty” one—and is close talking in his ear. From the way the bassist’s hand is moving in Mary’s back pocket, you have a good idea who he’s leaving with tonight even before you watch them slip out the back door.

After that night, you go back to avoiding any place you think Mary might be. So it’s with irritated exasperation that you see him collecting cover for Thursday 80′s Night. He’s sitting on a stool, legs splayed wide open—with absolutely no shame that there’s a giant hole on the inside of his one thigh—his signature leer on full display.

You’re this close to suggesting to your friends that you just ditch theme night and go sing karaoke at the Chinese restaurant that turns into a club after 10pm, but then Mary sees you. He grins and waves you forward. You try to shake your head, but your friends see, and the group breaks free of the line. 

A few people still waiting whine, but Mary just shrugs and taps his pen on the clipboard. “They’re on the list, guys.”

With exclamations of “Cool, dude” and “Thanks, man”, your friends fork over the $20 to Mary. When you try to hand yours over too, Mary just shakes his head.

“Gelflings don’t pay.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snap.

Mary looks a bit taken aback, but nods. “Yeah, ok.”

Again, you hold your money out, but he shakes his head again.

“Nah, you’re all set.

You narrow your eyes at him. “But I want to pay.” 

“Buy your friends a round or something.” He gives you a wolfish smile. “Buy me a round.”

You slam the bill down on the stool between his legs, and he only flinches a little. He looks up and squints at you.

"Uh … have I done something to you?”

Inching closer, you get right up in his face. His eyes drop down to your lips before flicking back up.

“You’ve done nothing to me, Mary Goore. Nothing at all.”

For once he has no witty rejoinder, and you don’t bump into anything as you make your way inside.

Life gets a little busy, and before you know it, you realize it’s been two weeks since you’ve been out and about for real anywhere. You send out a text to the group chat, and soon there are plans to see some up-in-coming band at the bowling alley venue.

When you get there, you’re resigned to your fate when you see Mary holding court in the corner. His jeans are more holy than ripped, but you can definitely see his boxers peeking through. He’s in a modified sleeveless tee and his vest. The table next to his group is littered with empty pint glasses and beer bottles.

You look away before he has a chance to catch your gaze. It’s not like you can hide your presence, but you certainly don’t have to encourage him.

The group of you manage to snag a table close enough to the stage that’s being constructed over the lanes, and you put in an order for a round of beers. You sense him even before your friends do a double take at who’s behind you. Sighing, you twist around in your seat.

“What.”

Something you can’t pinpoint flickers across his face. He shrugs.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round.”

“Well, I’m not a grifter. I got shit to do.”

His face falls.

Your friends are watching this exchange like it’s a tennis match.

“I have something for you.”

Before you can even say anything, he’s walking back to his corner and rummaging through his leather jacket. He comes back over and starts searching your face—or at least that’s what you assume he’s doing. Satisfied with what he sees, he nods, then unfurls his palm. In it is a jeweled stud that’s eerily close to the color of your eyes.

“I noticed you were pieced,” he says as he offers forth the earring.

Game. Set. Match.

“I—”

When you make no movement to take it, Mary gently places the stud on the table in front of you.

“Ok,” he says and walks away. You only watch him for a moment before turning back to your table and picking up the stud.

One of your friends gapes at you.

“Did Mary Goore just penguin you?”

You look up sharply. “What? No. Shut up.”

It doesn’t stop there.

When Mary sees the stud in one of your holes—after you sanitized the fuck out of it—he starts giving you tokens. A bejeweled pin for your coat lapel. A subtle bracelet chain. A scuffed silver ring with a onyx inlay. A mother-of-pearl button to replace one you lost on your jacket.

A new one every time he sees you wearing the last one.

You have no idea where he’s getting them. They obviously aren’t new, and you doubt he’s trolling the pawn shops. Each time, he merely comes over, presents his offering, then leaves. 

Some part of you realizes you’ve accepted his pitched woo when you get him a band pin from the local secondhand record shop. You know he usually works the door at the Irish pub on Friday nights, so you make it one of your stops. If he sees you in line, he certainly doesn’t try to wave you in again—but when your turn comes up again, you can see a smile start to break out on his face before he schools it.

“ID, please. Cover is $10 before 9 o’clock. No exceptions.” He smirks.

You mock gasp at him. “Highway robbery. I don’t even expect to pay that much on drinks.”

“Like you need to pay for your own drinks, beautiful.” His eyes take all of you in.

“Is that flattery, Goore?” you say leaning into his space.

His shrug says “maybe,” but his hooded eyes say “absolutely.”

Eyes still trained on his, you fish out two crisp fives while stealthily palming the pin. He cups his free hand out, and you place the bills in it, then rest the pin on top. Mary’s eyes zero in on the thing that’s not like the other, and you take the opportunity to skedaddle into the pub—two can play at the gift and run game.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and you’re bumming around in your apartment in a ratty tee and shorts when the buzzer makes its god awful noise. You’re a little wary because your other roommates are out, and you’re not expecting company.

You press the intercom. “Yes …?”

Feedback and a garbled male voice come through.

“Uh. This is Mary Goore. I’m here for …” he trails off, and you wonder if at any point you told Mary your name.

“Hey, dude,” you say.

“Oh. Is that you, um …”

You smile.

“Your gelfling? Yeah.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Can I … come up?”

You look down at yourself, and then at the detritus in the living room from 5 people.

“Or you could come down …?” he crackles.

“Gimmie 10,” you say.

Twenty minutes later you’re out the door, and you find Mary leaning against your building, thumbs hooked in his jeans. It’s a dreary day, so his parasol is nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” you say, and Mary opens his eyes. You’re in a comic book t-shirt and your denim shorts, and his eyes travel over you.

“Can I show you something?”

“Sure—” you start, then add, “—within reason.”

He nods. “Yeah. C’mon.”

The two of you start walking, you letting Mary take the lead.

After a block in silence, he says, “Thanks for the pin.”

You look over at him. “Thanks, uh … for the everything.”

He grins. “They look great on you.”

You walk a few more blocks, Mary taking you to a part of town that’s still close to the grid, but far enough that the houses are spaced apart. When he leads you to the back of a 3-story Victorian, you hesitate as he slides through the gate.

“What?”

“Is this the part of my life where I end up in pieces in a ditch?”

Mary rolls his eyes. He points to what looks like a back door.

“My door is here.”

Still wary, you follow after him as he unlocks the door and heads down a set of concrete stairs. You peer down at him.

“Are you sure this isn’t your murder basement?”

He turns to look up at you, his face scrunched in annoyance.

“Not all of us can afford nice, sunny apartments in high rises. Don’t be an asshole.”

“Sorry,” you say, even if you’re not 100% convinced.

You make your way down the steps and into the apartment. It’s actually not the lair you thought it would be. There are support beams throughout, but the paint is cheery and the furniture looks like your grandma got loose. Black clothes are draped everywhere, and there’s an old pizza box on the coffee table—but otherwise Mary’s place isn’t the shitshow you thought it would be.

“The lady’s mom died down here,” he says as he drops his keys on the kitchen counter. “I got it at a steal. As long as I pay rent and don’t blast music past 10pm, she could really give a fuck.”

“Is this what you …?”

He smiles at you, almost shyly. “No. C’mere.” He opens a door, and your interest propels your forward.

It’s Mary’s bedroom. Black cotton sheets are hung all around the room, and what look like back silk sheets—ripped at the corners—are stretched over a queen mattress laid on the floor.

“I’m not allowed to paint,” he says when he sees your line of sight. “And she got rid of the bed for obvious reasons.”

Your gaze comes down to the mahogany dressers. They’re covered in … costume jewelry? You approach one and are fascinated by all the baubles on it. There’s also a stack of polaroids. You pick them up to shuffle through. Most of them are portraits of what you assume are Mary’s conquests—though there are few … less than tasteful nudes. 

You squint up at him. “I don’t understand, Mary. What am I supposed to be seeing? Some dead woman’s costume jewelry and bedroom set? Your porn collection?”

“Sorry,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I forgot about those.”

He comes over to take them from you. “I usually keep them here …” He opens the top drawer of the dresser, and you see that it’s full of lingerie.

You back away. “What the fuck is this? Am I here to pose for you or some shit?”

“What? Wait, no! That’s not—” Marys rubs his face in his hands. “Wait, lemme start over.”

Even though you’re dubious, you let Mary take your hands in his.

“Yeah, this place has strong grandma energy … but everything else is me. I brought you here because …” He sighs. “I like to look at the jewelry and I like to wear the lingerie. People, too. I like pretty things, ok? I like to collect them.”

You look back over at the hoard on his dresser.

“So you like … go to estate sales or something?” 

You try to imagine Mary in his studs and ripped clothes—fake blood dripping down his face—at some fancy yard sale. 

He grins at you.

“You have no idea what my day job is, do you?”

“It’s not making breakfast for your conquests?”

Mary laughs.

“Jesus, no. They want me to stick around as much as I want to stick around. No. I’m a grave digger. Well, I’m kinda a grave digger. Blah blah blah … long, boring story: because of union rules I can’t officially be a grave digger—so I’m paid under the table.”

You slap your hands to your mouth. “OH MY GOD. You’re a grave robber. OH MY GOD YOU’RE A GRAVE ROBBER. Did you?” Your hand flies to the stud in your ear. “ IS THIS?! ”

Mary chuckles at you, then shrugs.

“Yeah, ok. Maybe. But it’s not like they can take it with them—and it turns out that under the table doesn’t come with benefits.”

“Oh my god—is this where the mausoleum rumor came from?”

Mary again takes your hands and draws you closer to him.

“That’s actually not far from the truth. It’s a nice, quiet place. The stone’s a little cold, but no one bothers you there. We should go sometime.”

You look around his room again.

“But … I guess I thought you lived …. This is nice, Mary. Why wouldn’t you want to take people here? Why did you sleep on my couch that one time?”

He shrugs. “It’s just a place to sleep, isn’t it? A cheap, furnished basement.”

You stare at him.

“Why me? Why show me?”

He sighs, air punching forcefully out his nose.

“I dunno. Just a feeling. You ever just. Vibe with someone?” He ghosts a finger down the side of your cheek. “And I like pretty things.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to.”

You stare at him. Hard. “I don’t like to share.”

He grins at you with too many teeth.

“If I collect you, I want you to be mine.” He crowds into you. “Will you be my Pretty Thing?”

You smile back at him before you’re leaning forward to press your lips into his.

[cutieodonoghue]

dark gray (3/?)

summary: Killian Jones operates a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere, preferring a life of isolation, until one day a woman and a baby wash up on his little island and change his life forever.

read it on: ao3, ff.net

///

Three

When Emma wakes up, it is to the sound of a door slamming shut.

She bolts upright on the couch and her eyes are wide, her heart racing with confusion and fear, before she realizes that it is the morning and that her one-handed friend must have just left the tiny house to start his chores.

She sighs as she sits there, contemplating lying back down and sleeping for a while longer, but then she chooses to get up and search for the bathroom instead.

Logically, she searches the bedroom first, but finds nothing but piles of things lying where she swears they hadn't been the night before.

On a groan, she starts limping her way back through the living room, where she realizes that the man whose distorted version of kindness she's taking advantage of is living in filth.

There is trash everywhere and things aren't exactly in tip-top shape for a Navy Man, so she wonders as she walks through the disaster area of a kitchen, if he just doesn't clean.

There are flies swarming an overflowing trash can in the kitchen by the front door and there are scuff marks everywhere from his boots, which makes her roll her eyes. If he'd just pick up his feet, the floor would be less of a tragedy than it is.

She finds the bathroom, a tiny little thing, tucked back by the kitchen table, which is itself cluttered in dishes, beer bottles, and piles of notebooks and papers.

When she opens the door to the restroom, she is overwhelmed by the scent of grime and scrunches her nose as she manages to drop the toilet lid.

Emma examines the little room as she stands there, wincing at what looks like the start of mold on the wall of the shower, and she discovers a colony of ants that are nonsensically marching their way along the crumbling molding.

This man lives in a pigsty and she is being forced to share it with him for four weeks. Great.

After she discovers that he doesn't have any soap and that the water only runs cold in the sink, she pulls open the squealing door and studies the rest of his kitchen and pantry.

She finds that the ants continue to march into the storeroom, where he's left some food haphazardly spilt on the floor. She huffs and shakes her head, then goes to see if he has any cleaning supplies tucked away anywhere.

Emma discovers that he does have some cleaning supplies, but they appear to have never been touched or even considered as useful. They're crammed into a portion of the storeroom behind light bulbs and barrels of water that she has to work at to grab them. He has a vacuum cleaner, but she doubts it would work without the cord that has clearly been cut off for some reason.

She looks through the shelves of food and finds that there isn't much here. She figures he must have an emergency stash somewhere, and she decides she'll ask him about it later. If they're going to be stuck here together for a month, she's not going to be the one that suffers because they don't have enough to eat.

On her way back toward the living room where Henry's silence indicates he's sleeping, Emma stares at the bathroom door, at the paint chipped walls, and the ants marching along the cracked crown molding.

Almost compulsively, she goes to work cleaning the house right away.

She starts in that disgusting mess of a bathroom and scrubs every surface until she is satisfied that she won't contract a disease if she were to visit it again and it smells like a cleaning solution, a clear sign that it has been sanitized.

If her mother were here, she probably wouldn't believe that Emma Nolan would ever risk another injury while nursing one already in order to scrub behind the dusty, grimy toilet base.

Her leg is in a lot of pain by the time she finishes tidying up the kitchen and storeroom, so after wiping the dust off of the shelves of the bookshelves in the living room, Emma tends to Henry and then lies down again.

Killian hasn't returned yet, which is probably for the best, and she closes her eyes with the duster still in her hand.

When she opens her eyes again, it's because Henry starts fussing. It doesn't feel like it's been long enough for her to have slept long at all.

Suddenly, she understands why her parents only wanted one child.

She immediately goes to help and care for him, taking him into her arms with a slight struggle. His cries almost offend her. Emma definitely hasn't spent enough time around children to know what to do, but she thinks she should get him something to eat.

It's much nicer with the room clean and the trash taken out. She can actually make out what is where and the smell isn't overwhelmingly rank.

She'd discarded all of the garbage to the back of the house in what appeared to be a landfill-type pile that he'd started.

She hadn't seen Captain Hook then. She's sure he's off sulking and keeping to himself right now instead of dwelling near them.

Emma opens up the curtains to let light into the living room as she feeds Henry and then, when he's finished and burped, she settles him back into his bed of pillows so she can clean the rest of the man of the house’s mess.

She throws her hair up into a bun atop of her head using a rubber band she'd found in one of the drawers in the kitchen and hobbles around as she moves piles of garbage and creates a cleaner smelling and looking place of dwelling. She wonders if he's ever actually cleaned as she discovers a pile of clothes on his bedroom floor.

"Looks like I'm doing laundry now, too." Emma mutters, throwing the clothes onto the bed so she can wrap everything up in his probably horribly dirty bed sheets.

She carries everything out into the kitchen and throws out the garbage before she takes a tub from the storage room and fills it with water. She finds some soap and gets to cleaning everyone's clothes outside, by what appears to be a good enough place to hang the wire to set things to dry.

She handles her and Henry's clothes with care and makes sure they smell exceptional before allowing them to dry on their own line, pinned down with some clothespins she discovered in a miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen.

She keeps her eye out for Killian, but doesn't see him anywhere amongst the smattering of trees and shrubbery.

Her gaze goes to the lighthouse at the end of the beach. It's tall and white, appearing a little worn for its years. The waves rolling in against the shore remind her of the night she stood on the side of the ship and was tossed from the upper deck and to the lower one.

Her leg hurts when she thinks of it and she takes a deep breath. All she sees when she closes her eyes is her parents in mourning over the loss of their only child and it makes her want to throw up what's in her stomach.

After she goes back inside, Emma starts to prepare herself a meal of oatmeal and bread, returning to Henry to give him some attention as she makes her food.

He’s a good baby, she thinks, because when he’s properly taken care of, he doesn’t complain. She sings a little to him when she sits down to eat her food with him in her arm and pokes at his nose, laughing a little when he makes a face.

"You're too cute, Henry."

She just barely reaches for her spoon when the front door squeaks on its way open.

Killian stares at her first, his mouth open as if he was about to reprimand her for something, and then he looks around the room.

"Did you clean?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

"You were living in filth. Of course I cleaned." Emma scoffs.

He just looks confused and bewildered as he searches over the room.

"The clothes and your bed sheets should be dried soon and I'll have those folded up and replaced as soon as I can." Emma takes a bite of her oatmeal. "Oh, and you had mice living in that storage room, by the way. I got rid of them. Or… tried to. I think you need to patch up the wall in there."

His eyes widen at that and she smiles smugly, looking down at the bowl in front of her again. "You shouldn't... you didn't have to do all of that."

Emma hums. "I'd thought you would have been more appreciative that I'm doing housework. You know, being a woman and all, I have no other good use." He stares at her with a clenched jaw and steps inside, allowing the door to clatter shut. "You're welcome, by the way."

He scowls a little and wipes his feet on the mat she'd discovered in the bedroom under a pile of other misplaced items. He walks over to the kitchen appliances and sets to making something.

Emma ignores the feeling of underappreciation and attends to her own meal and Henry, whose attention rests on his own toes.

"How do you get warm water for baths?" she asks. "I should give Henry one."

He doesn't answer her. He opens and closes drawers like a man plagued by fury.

Emma sighs. "Plates are by the stove. Silverware in the drawer by the sink."

He stills and she hears the two open one after another.

Killian takes a seat at the table across from her a short while later and she watches him with a raised eyebrow, waiting for her answer.

He's made himself a sandwich that he eats as if she isn't here with him. He doesn't have any regard for manners or her, it turns out, and he makes little noises that infuriate her between hard swallows of breath through his nose.

"Boil it over the fire," he tells her gruffly. She's looking at Henry, biting on her lip so hard she thinks she could draw blood, and keeps her gaze down. "Shouldn't be using that leg, though."

Emma looks up at him. "I do what I want."

He sighs, pushing the last bit of sandwich into his mouth. "Your funeral."

Killian stands up and disregards his utensils into the sink, thankfully, before he storms back outside, the door slamming shut roughly.

"Your funeral," Emma mocks, sticking her tongue out toward the door childishly.

/

Killian sucks in a deep breath of the ocean air as he walks back toward the lighthouse.

His fingers twitch by his side and he reaches up to drag his hair out of his face. It's getting too bloody long, but he doesn't feel like cutting it.

He opens the door to his lighthouse and studies the pile of wood he has set up on the floor. He has decided to build Henry a bed, because it doesn't feel right forcing him to sleep in a cradle of pillows.

Even though Henry's cries can be a bother, he'd rather be able to look back at this time and say he did the proper thing.

This was the proper thing to do, right?

With a heavy sigh, Killian sits down in the chair in front of the lumber. He switches on the record player and the slow, quiet tones of the melancholy guitar begin to echo around the small circular base of the lighthouse.

He knows the song by heart, but he doesn't sing, he just listens as he works the wood and finishes shaping the cradle for the little one.

Memories of a time years ago flashback in his mind and he closes his eyes sorrowfully while he leans back.

There are letters ingrained in the wood from where he'd put his chisel years ago, the initials of a child he'd never get to meet.

Sometimes the memories come and he drowns them out in alcohol, but when he considers the present- how he has a woman and a child in his home now, and how that woman cleaned his home from top to bottom without him asking- he figures he should stay as far away from the bottle as he can.

Killian scrubs his hand over his face and averts his gaze to the photograph sitting on the edge of his desk- of he and Liam years ago. They're both grinning, but Liam has it worse, his arm wrapped around Killian's shoulders, and Killian has his uniform on. The two of them stand in front of the lighthouse while a boat sits tied off to the dock.

Killian feels a pang of regret settle in his belly and he closes his eyes as he turns away from his desk and instead toward the door.

"Apologize, you git." Killian mutters under his breath. He sighs heavily and hesitates for a few moments before he steps forward.

As soon as he stands outside in the cold, with the sound of the ocean roaring against one side of him, he hears Emma's screams and hums a laugh.

"I told you, didn't I?" he shakes his head, but rushes forward regardless.

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 14

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: (Brock Rumlow x fem!reader), Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: Loads of angst and dealing with trauma. I’m won’t tag for cussing anymore, just assume that it’s there. A/N: This chapter’s been a long way coming due to GISH and getting used to working, but here you go. 

14 - Under the Skin

Logic has no place in your mind anymore. You must have lost it during the time Brock kept you prisoner. It’s not the only part of you that’s changed either. Any sudden sound scares you, especially if it comes from just the other side of the door, from the part of the world that you haven’t dared go out into. Not yet. The room is a cave where you can be safe because you are the one who can lock it as you please, meaning you can keep people out…and you do. The only one who’s given access is Natasha.

When your redhead hero is with you, things feel better. Less twisted, less grotesque. The looming shadows become peaceful rather than threatening as if, for a moment, Tasha has been able to restore your mind that otherwise makes monsters out of nothing. The horrors are still there when you close your eyes or when you look at the wounds healing under the attentive care of your saviour, and you wish the broken parts of your soul could be fixed as quickly as the rest of you. It can’t.

Waking in the night, screaming, it’s Natasha’s cool hand that wipes away the tears streaming down your cheeks. Her lips that murmurs in your ear to breathe.

“It’s a nightmare. It’s not real.” She leads your hand to her chest. “Feel my heart, feel the bed you sit on…that’s real.”

Hearts synchronize. Breath calms. She’s your haven.

…   Romanoff’s PoV   …

The two redheads are breathing deeply as they leave [Y/N]’s room. Pepper’s beaming with elation at the progress they’ve witnessed, but of course Natasha can’t shake the worry. For the first time since the return to the Compound, the woman in recovery has lower the defenses enough to let in another person.

“She’s doing much better,” Pepper offers.

“Mhm.”

“And I promise to keep you updated…I’ll be there for her each day.”

Natasha knows she owes her friend a glimmer of optimism despite the turmoil. Of all the parts of her life affected by the fallout after dumping SHIELD/Hydra intel on the net, leaving [Y/N] behind for a few days is the worst. It’s inevitable, of course. The moment the former Russian became the spokesperson for the agency and the Avengers during the hearing, she knew it’d be near impossible to dodge out of any hearings and the week she’s been granted is much more than she could have hoped for. Now the time is up.

“Get Jarvis to monitor her sleep discreetly…she has nightma–“

“I know. Nightmares.” There’s nothing but kindness in Pepper’s voice. “You’ve gone over everything twice already. Now, you’ve got to get going or you’ll be late.”

Still, it’s with reluctance that Natasha grabs the few things she’s packed and heads for the car, only pausing to wave at the guys sitting in the lounge. Clint’s on the phone and Nat knows he’ll be sending greetings from the family later. Just for her. No one else knows about the wife and kids.

…

She makes it in time for the hearing although she has to change in the car – at least Stark has made sure the windows can be completely darkened, having had his own experiences with the press. And the throng of shouting and chaotic people can only follow to the sets of double doors leading into the opulent building. By the time Natasha takes her seat, she hasn’t checked the phone much more than a dozen times.

The hearing is long, exploring the history of Hydra with the help of “trustworthy” intelligent officers and historians which requires very little direct involvement from the Avenger’s side with the exception of a senators attempts to hold her responsible for events older than the redhead. Ticking away slowly, the clock marks the seconds as slowly as though they were minutes. Time comes to a near standstill while Natasha studies the people around her, then the condense water on the side of the glass as it slides onto the table to form a ring…anything but the phone that feels heavy in her pocket.

…   Rumlow’s PoV   …

“She WHAT?!” Spittle flies onto the lowly agent standing in front of Rumlow. “The order was – it –”

Words fail the man as he paces back and forth, momentarily lost to the world around him. He doesn’t give a shit that the scar grows red and throbbing when the blood rushes to his head, doesn’t give a damn if the people in the room think he’s overreacting. Firstly, it’ll be his ass on the line with the higher-ups hear about this. Secondly, even a dimwit should’ve been able to know why [Y/N  Y/L/N] could never be allowed to fall in the hands of the Avengers one more time.

Rounding on the pale and shaking agent, Brock gets up close and personal to whisper: “Either you go finish the job…or I’ll acquaint your brain with the floor.”

“Bu–“ Rather than finish the protest, the agent bites his tongue then nods and leaves.

“You,” Brock barks at another random agent, “follow and make sure he does as told.”

Rubbing the tender wreck of a face, Rumlow tries to calm down, marching out of the room with a tall man in tow. Not a word is said while the first cools down and the second polishes the monocle before replacing it with a click and folding the handkerchief neatly. Who uses that anymore? A glance over at the buzz shaven man is all Brock can muster right that moment. Handkerchief. Monocle. Bloody German.

“Zo, you are certain zis voman of yourz is gifted…but you let ze Afengers take her?”

Oh, what wouldn’t Brock give to punch the guy in the face. Preferably with a sledgehammer. “I was told to retreat and leave the cleanup to the imbeciles.”

“Many good agents vere lost ven SHIELD fell.”

“Yeah, well…they’ll be honoured.”

“Indeed. Hail Hydra.”

“Hail Hydra.”

Finally alone, Brock stomps the last of the way to his quarters and locks the door behind him.

Kicking off his boots to feel the cold concrete under the feet, he stands with eyes closed and arms hanging lose, breathing deeply as he counts under the breath.

At five thousand his eyes snap open, his gaze landing on the ceiling where pictures and notes are attached in perfect rows linked together with a few pieces of strings. There’s an overwhelming amount of photos featuring the same face over the span of several years, most of them taken without the subjects knowledge to capture the soft smile or the tongue escaping from behind the lips due to concentration. And the eyes blazing with a tenacious stubbornness that kept her from breaking during the time they last were together. [Y/N], how could I not end you? It was close alright, but each time he thought she’d reached the point some hidden source of resistance would well up.

After so long, it only makes sense Brock’s superiors wanted him off the case and on to something that could wield results and he’d been fine signing off on her death warrant. Or so he’d claimed. But his ex isn’t dead and his soul screams to the deepest pit in Hell with agony at the thought that she’s with someone else rather than him.

…   Romanoff’s PoV   …

Several texts are waiting, and one voicemail from Clint. He’d called Laura just as Natasha had suspected, asking for any sort of advice the sensible woman could give them. Naturally, the Mrs. Barton repeats the same things they already know.

“Miss Romanoff,” a drawling voice calls out, “care to explain where you’re going?”

Dark-red hair bounces as she pins the senator with a cold stare. “The hearing has been adjourned for the day and I intend to do exactly as I’ve been asked…hole up and wait for the session tomorrow.” She considers adding some less diplomatic words but thinks better of it.

Walking down the hallways, the glow of the phone in Natasha’s hand helps ward some curious people off while the rest get the point with a glare. Pepper. Cap. Automated messages from Jarvis. None of them are from [Y/N], and the woman can’t help the heavy knot of worry that’s growing in the stomach though nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. It’s gonna be a long night, she sighs, putting the phone away.

…   Reader’s PoV   …

It’s just not the same. Even if you try all the mindfulness and meditation techniques you can think off, your heart keeps racing and you can’t sit still. Turning the restlessness into intense training (as much as it’s possible in the little room without any equipment) has barely made any difference except that you’re now sweaty and weak.

You step into the shower on shaky legs, carefully avoiding to look at the reflection in the mirror and glass door. Eyes fixated on the tiles a foot above your head, you stand under the warm water, allowing it to flush away the dirt from a long day spent on your own.

Well not entirely alone because Pepper had stopped by both with the most delicious meals anyone else could want (but not you) and simply for the company. It’s a bit better than no one, but eventually the oppressing worry radiating from the kind woman became to much and you pretended to be tired only so she would leave.

Reaching for the soap, the bright scars on your hands and arms come into view causing you to freeze mid-motion. The wounds are healing well, and Natasha is confident that the barely will be anything left to see thanks to Dr. Cho’s prescribed treatment. It’s not even the scars that bother you the most. Under the healing skin are parts that still are broken and you’ve no idea how to put it all back together. Pieces of you seem to be missing, others have been graffitied on to the point that you don’t recognize it. The scars? They are the reminders, together with the fading bruises, and the thinness of your body. You know the changes all too well even if you haven’t dared look at yourself because you couldn’t keep your minds blank as Brock did what he did. You felt it all. Felt it and hated it, and now you hate what he’s left you…but it’s all you got, and an ember of stubbornness tells you to grow strong and rub his face in it.

[adrenaline-roulette]

He’ll save every one of us Chapter 3

Brian May x Reader with side notes of Roger Taylor x Original female character 

Preview: “There was a contract type thing. Is it binding if it was written on greasy, fish and chip paper?”  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s still binding.” “You’re killing me Brian! Aren’t boyfriends supposed to be supportive?”

Chapter three: Kick him out!

“I just don’t understand how he can miss so many practises, and yet Bree won’t agree with me, and kick him out of the band?” You mutter, sitting behind Roger’s vacant drum set. Brian had invited you to Queen’s band rehearsal, with the promise of dinner afterwards. He had been raving about a small fish and chip shop, which he had been going to since he was a child. Once you had mentioned you had never been there, he had done everything in his power to ensure you would go, this had meant cancelling Friday night scrabble with the band, much to Freddie’s anger. Freddie was convinced the only reason why Brian had, conveniently, double booked his Friday night was because Brian knew he would never be able to beat his tripple word score for ‘Innuendo’ which had won him the game only last week. You kick the bass drum pedal twice, in an attempt to release your frustrations, though it does little to help. “I hate to be the barer of bad news Y/N, but didn’t Jake create the Midnight Librarians? Maybe Bree is worried about trying to kick him out of his own band?” Brian suggests, strumming a few chords on his guitar, making sure she was perfectly tuned, as always.

“Well, I mean yeah, he did, but, but… Why should that matter?”

“Because technically, if you were to kick him out of the band that he created, any money you get from the gigs you guys do, would go straight to him. If you signed any sort of contract or anything, saying you agree to be in the band with him.”

“Fuck, there was a contract type thing. Is it binding if it was written on greasy, fish and chip paper?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s still binding.”

“You’re killing me Brian! Aren’t boyfriends supposed to be supportive? Not to find flaws in my wonderfully thought out plans!”

Brian rolls his eyes, resting the Red Special down on his guitar stand. “Your wonderful plan was to stop playing in the middle of your next gig, walk up to him with a beer in hand, shout into the microphone, ‘Get the fuck off stage Jake, you’re fired.’, then pour the beer on his head.”

“And I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn’t been for you meddling kids!” You smirk, as you swivel around in circles on the drum stool. Brian was right, you ran the risk of losing all the extra cash you were making with your gigs this summer. Granted it wasn’t your only income, but the café you worked at had been giving you less and less shifts this past month, and with college about to go back, you had to save as much as you could!

“Plus, if he came up with the name, then he could make it so you were no longer able to use it…”

“Aha! Saved! I came up with the Midnight Librarians!”

Brian makes his way over to you,  his tall frame looming over you as you grin up at him, head tilted all the way back just to see him, bloody hell Roger had this stool set low! “Has he really missed that many rehearsals?

   You frown, trying to figure out when the last time Jake had shown up for practise had actually been. Granted, he had shown up for the all your other gigs so far, ever since that first night where you had met Brian. So that was better than nothing… “I don’t think we’ve rehearsed with him in close to two months. I mean, he came to rehearsal once, drunk as a skunk. Spent half an hour wondering around my apartment, searching for paracetamol, threw my pack of smokes out of the window, then collapsed in the bath and slept. That was a, productive, afternoon.”

Brian chuckles, resting a hand on your shoulder gently, rubbing soothing circles over your shirt. “Well, it sounds to me like you don’t really have grounds to kick him out, especially not without Bree’s agreement. He’s been coming to the gigs at least, I won’t comment on how well he sounds, but at least he’s been there. That makes it a little bit tricky to kick him out on the grounds of him not showing up…”

The door to the practise room swings open, just as you pout up at Brian, a warm breeze filling the small space. “Afternoon...” Roger smirks, strutting in, glancing over at Brian and your close proximity.  “I see you’ve been warming the seat for me, why thank you Y/N.” Brian rolls his eyes at the leering tone in the drummers voice, and you simply shake your head, pressing your lips against Brian’s when he leans down to meet yours.

Freddie bursts through the door next, the door nearly hitting poor Deaky in the face, as he lets it swing shut behind him. “Shit! Deaky I’m sorry, I thought you were further behind me than that!” Freddie yelps, as Deaky opens the door slowly, a dazed look across his face

“My life just flashed before my eyes…” He mumbles, blinking slowly. Roger howls in laughter at Deaky’s melodramatic response, Brian and you grinning from ear to ear.

Once Frddie has checked over John, making sure he hadn’t actually hurt his favourite bassist, you leap up from the stool, gently pushing Brian away from you in your haste. “Thank god, she moved!” Roger smirks, skipping over to the vacated seat, twirling his drumstick in his right hand once seated.

“Deaky help me! Brian is trying to use logic on me again!” You giggle, racing up to the young man, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. Over the past month and a bit, not only had you grown exceptionally close with Brian, you had come to know the other band members quite well also, with Deaky well on his way to being one of your closest friends.

“Better be careful there Bri, looks like Deaky is about to run off with your woman.” Freddie grins, brushing his long, dark hair back behind his shoulder, and gliding past the two of you, as you hug.

Deaky chuckles, as you releases his arms from around you, while you do the same, still standing close to each other. “You’re right Fred, Deaky and I are going to run off and elope. Sorry Brian, Deaky has won my heart!”

“Typically people don’t warn others about when they are going to run off and elope, they just sort of, do it…” Brian shrugs, a smile paying across his lips, as he fishes his sixpence coin from his back pocket, holding it carefully between his ling fingers.

“See what I mean! He keeps using logic! I can’t take it any longer!” You cry dramatically, fanning your hand in front of your eyes as if pretending to fight off tears.

“You know, he is right…” Deaky half smirks, and your eyes grow wide in their sockets.

“Are you on his side now? I can’t have both of you using logic against me, that’s just not fair!” You cry, stepping away from Deaky, pressing your back up against the door, in an excellent imitation of a frightened cat.

“If you want someone illogical, Roger may be your best bet.” Brian grins, ducking out of the way of Roger’s expertly aimed drumstick. The wooden stick barely missing Brian’s wild mane of curls as it flies through the air, before landing neatly by your feet.

“I am not illogical! And I don’t want to date Y/N!” Roger grumbles, scowling at the tall guitarist to his left, bitter at his missed shot at his head.

You glare at Roger, before crouching down and picking up the lonely drumstick. “This is mine now.” You declare triumphantly, as you slip it into your front pocket. If Roger didn’t want to date you, then there was no chance in hell he would grab for the drumstick with where it was now. “What do you mean you won’t date me Rog? I’m a catch!” You laugh, sticking your tongue out at the grumbling blonde.

“Wouldn’t Bree complain if you and I started dating? Wouldn’t Brian?” He countered, looking down sadly at his lonely drumstick.

“I doubt Bree would care, and Brian is the one who suggested it!”

“Alright fine, how about I date you, and Brian can date Bree?”

“But that leaves Freddie and Deaky left out! Let’s just swap entirely! Roger, you and I are together. Brian you get Bree, Deaky you and Mary are a couple now, and Freddie you get Veronica!” You can’t help but laugh at the shocked expression on everyone bar Roger’s face. None of the men seem to know how to respond to what you had just decided upon. “Come on lads, it won’t be that bad! Think of all the cute quadruple dates we could go on!”

“I’m suddenly really regretting starting this who conversation.” Brian shudders, lifting an eyebrow at where you had stored Roger’s drumstick.

“Besides, Mary has already told me that if she and I weren’t dating, then she would be all over Brian again. She once said something about missing his freakish tallishness. Though at the time she was attempting to reach something in the top shelf of the pantry.” Freddie chimes in.

“To be fair, I too miss Brian’s freakish tallishness when he isn’t around, and I don’t feel like climbing on a stool to reach what I want.” Deaky smirks, as he makes his way over to where he had left his bass, clicking open the latches on the case.

“Hey, Brian..” Roger half whispers, half shouts, causing the taller man to turn on his heel, heading towards his friend. Roger beckons him closer with a few frantic hand gestures, and Brian leans down, so Roger can whisper in his ear. You watch the two exchange their whispered conversation, eye narrowing into slits as the two occasionally peer over their shoulders to look at you. You’re not sure whether to be nervous or annoyed at the secrecy.

“Thanks Rog, I’ll keep that in mind.” Brian smiles, as he steps away from him, before heading over to you, both hands nestled in front pockets, causing his shoulders to hunch as he walks.

 Roger busies himself with ensuring his drum kit is still perfectly set up, while Freddie and Deaky discuss what their new set list should be for their first gig as a new band. “May I help you, May?” You smirk, looking up at Brian as he leans his shoulder against the wall beside you, entwining his fingers between yours.

“Just wanted to finish what we started, before we were so rudely interrupted.” He breaths out, before leaning down and capturing your lips with his. You smile against the kiss, pressing your body closer to his, as he wraps his arms around you waist, yours falling over his shoulders. You allow your eyes to flutter shut, the warm, safe feeling that came from being in Brian’s embrace, wrapping around you like a woollen blanket. That feeling however, came crashing down around you, when you felt Brian’s hand move from where it had been resting on your left hip. Before you have time to process what he’s doing, his fingers have slipped into your left pocket, wrapped around the stolen drumstick, and pulled it free.

You pull away from his lips, playfully glaring up at him, Brian had just accomplished the ultimate betrayal. “Sorry luv, we can’t have a drummer with only one drumstick.” He teases, brushing his lips across yours one last time.

“How about we get him a set of bongos’ instead? That way he won’t need drumsticks at all!” You suggest, grinning wickedly at the idea. You wonder what would happen if Roger were to walk into the rehearsal room one day, and find his drums gone, and bongos’ in their place. You would have to talk to Freddie about orchestrating that little idea.

Brian throws the drumstick towards Roger, the wooden piece being aimed with far less precision than Roger had initially thrown it with/ “Thanks mate, you’re the best!” Brian waves him off, before giving your hand one final squeeze, as Freddie clears his throat.

“Deaky and I have come up with a basic outline for our new set list, let’s see how far we can get through it this afternoon…” Freddie begins, before Brian raises his hand, something all the band had begun doing when they wanted to speak. It caused less arguments, and made it so everyone could actually hear what was going on. Freddie doesn’t allow for Brian to speak this time however. “Yes, Brian dear, I know that you and Y/N will be leaving at five o’clock. Don’t worry, we haven’t created a four hour set list.” Brian lowers his hand, a sheepish grin on his face.

You laugh softly, before heading towards the old sofa pushed against the far wall, there was a knitted blanket draped over the back, which you had discovered was mostly there to conceal the rather large tear that had formed in the fabric. Beside the sofa was a bar fridge, which played host to what beer had been on sale recently, and a couple of bottles of water. From what Brian had told you, he couldn’t quite recall how long the water had been I there. Knowing you would be here for a while, you make yourself comfortable on the sofa, laying on your side with your head propped up on your hand, watching the four men take their positions. “We’re starting with Keep yourself alive. Y/N, tell us what you think won’t you dear?” Freddie grins, as Roger counts the band in, music filling the small practise room in a crescendo.

The music seeps into your very being, and you can’t keep the smile off your face, this must have been the song Brian had been raving about these last few weeks. He refused to give you any details, other than it was a brand-new song, and he thought it sounded incredible! He was right! “Keep you satisfied…” Freddie sings quietly, as Brian and Deaky play the last few chords to the song, Roger twirling his drumstick once, just for show.

“Holy shit…” You whisper, staring wide eyed at the band before you. Four sets of eyes stare back at you, all unblinking, as if daring you to speak first. “You guys, that was incredible! Do you have any idea how far you guys are going to go? You will make it big with this type of music, everyone will know the name Queen!”

Freddie laughs gleefully giving Deaky a sturdy hi-five, as Roger throws one stick in the air, his bright blue eyes sparkling a the knowledge of people loving their song. Brian steps over to you, reaching his hand out to you, your own hand moving to clasp his, allowing him to help you to stand. “You really liked the song?”

“Of course I did, it was amazing. I never knew you could compose like that, you’ve been keeping secrets from me.” You tease, swinging your hands gently back and forth, between the two of you, your fingers locked tightly together. “Queen will be big, no, bigger than big! You guys are going to be stars! And you, Brian May, will shine the brightest.”

Read Chapter Four

Reread Chapters One Two

My Masterlist

[virmillion]

As Above, So Below - Part 4

Part 1 // Part 3 // Part 5 // Masterpost

It’s ya boi back at it with a second fic in the same day because they’re on vacation and time is an illusion - also sorry this one is twice as long as the last few, I apparently love writing from Logan’s perspective because descriptions are too fun

Ship(s): None yet

Warning(s): None, but let me know if you need something tagged

    Logan strolls calmly through the corridor of the palace, adjusting his blue tie to sit straight and unwrinkled. The sun rises with the dawn outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows casting sunbeams into the hall, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air and warming the space like summer. This is one of Logan’s favorite times of day—the silence at daybreak, a whole palace to himself as all of the other inhabitants doze peacefully for a few more hours. A close contender is late at night, when everyone else has retired to their rooms, or raided the kitchen already. The quietness and his own company are all Logan really needs, and just toss in a good book with some Crofter’s-jellied toast for a good day.

    He reaches the end of the windowed hall, immediately feeling colder in the next room, with its curtains drawn and doors tightly shut. The library. An ideal room, full of towering bookshelves overflowing with every genre imaginable, organized thousands of different ways every week—one of Logan’s favorite hobbies. But that’s a task for later. For now, he continues through the cold room, trailing a hand over the only cypress desk in the room—a dark slab of wood amidst a handful of pale brazilian cherry tops. Fond memories live within this desk, of late hours preparing for royal court visits, or burning eyes from straining to read with the shrinking light of the candle wick, of escaping the havoc of Exolas and its problems for more peaceful, distant worlds.

    In the hall and down the stairs, Logan runs his hand over the red mesquite banister, admiring the smooth finish—the palace staff finally replaced the offending old oak railing. It was like a stain overlooking the grand space before it, painted in a red and white pattern so unnatural it might well have been hundreds of candy canes lining the steps.

    Having thoroughly criticized the old decorations, Logan jumps from the third-to-last step to the floor, allowing himself a small smile at the pleasure of it. An old tradition from when he was younger, a little less of a daredevil now than he was then—sliding down the railing on his stomach, face-first and hands in the air, isn’t exactly the safest way to get down the stairs anymore. It probably wasn’t necessarily safe in the first place, anyway.

    On to the kitchen, just starting to see the beginnings of activity as the cooks prepare breakfast. Logan lifts a hand in greeting to the head chef, Grace, who waves back with a batter-covered spatula.

    “Hi Lo!” she calls out, “why haven’t I seen you lately?”

    “Busy with royal nonsense, you understand,” Logan replies, sidestepping someone carrying a platter larger than his head.

    “Definitely, but when are we gonna see you down here more often? You’re missing training,” Grace whines, looking back at her oven as Logan recalls the near misses of a knife to his head in their ‘training.’ Admittedly, not a displeasurable time.

    “Maybe so, but I would assume you’re missing it, too, if you’ve clawed your way to head of the kitchen staff. How long, precisely, has it taken you to get here?”

    “Couple weeks, but you know I’m gonna fight tooth and nail to keep it.” Grace expertly flips a giant rainbow chocolate chip pancake to prove her point. Undoubtedly a special request from one of the younger denizens of the palace.

    “I’m sure,” Logan grins. “I’ll look into coming back for training, as I do rather miss it.” He plucks an apple from a basket by the door and calls goodbyes as he slips out of the kitchen, wiping the apple on his shirt and heading for the stairs again. With the apple’s tart flavor spreading over his tongue, it’s time to traverse the endless hallways to find and wake Roman.

    As Logan lifts a fist to knock on the tall white door, adorned with red ribbons and rubies, it flies open, Roman’s beaming face behind it.

    “Since when do you wake up this early in a good mood?” Logan asks. “You’re the last creature alive I’d associate with being a morning person.”

    “Because I finally found one that’ll stump you!” Roman declares triumphantly. He holds up a book of logic puzzles, from which he gives Logan one the first time they see each other every day. Needless to say, most of those who live in the castle avoid going to the bathrooms frequented by the pair in the morning, since they likely don’t want to hear another riddle when they’re just trying to pee.

    “Alright, let me have it.” Logan smiles, biting into the apple again. Roman rarely gets this excited unless the puzzle is really hard.

    “Okay, so there’s this guy trying to get into a secret club, right? So he stakes out the club building and watches other people get in. The person guarding the door says a number, and the one trying to get in says a number in response. The guard says twelve, so the first member says six. For the next person, the guard says six, so the second member says three. When the guy trying to sneak in goes up, he’s given the number ten, so he says five, but they don’t let him in! Why not?” Roman summarizes all of this from the longer description in the book, snapping it shut with an air of confidence that Logan won’t be able to solve it.

    “Roman, I had high hopes for you! This one should have been far more difficult, given your excitement in its introduction,” Logan remarks.

    “Big words from someone who hasn’t solved the riddle yet,” Roman pouts. Logan swallows an apple chunk and gives his answer.

    “Not out loud, I haven’t. The guy sneaking in should have said three—three letters in the number ten, three letters in the number six, six letters in the number twelve.”

    “Way to kill my mood.” Roman sticks his tongue out, tosses the book into his messy room, and links an arm with Logan, stealing a bite from his half-eaten apple.

    “First of all, if you would give me a better riddle, I wouldn’t have to ruin your mood. Secondly, I’m about to make it even worse,” Logan reassures him, snatching the apple back.

    “How so?” A note of dread tints the edge of Roman’s words. Logan making a threat is never a good sign.

    “Today is AKI day.” Assessment of Kingdom Issues, otherwise known as sitting on a throne and doing nothing while citizens talk at Roman, letting Logan deliver the harsh blows before allowing Roman to comfort the people. What fun. “Come on, Princey, down to the throne room, where many great joys and adventures await you in the riveting political scheme of Exolas.”

    “I thought I said not to call me that,” Roman grumbles, pretending to be upset. Logan ignores him, carrying on through grand ballrooms, expansive hallways, and peaceful lounges to arrive at the second largest set of doors in the palace. Just ahead of them in size is the entry doors, which proudly guard the building at three stories tall. The doors now in front of the pair are backed with white birchwood, the towering gates looming over the hall. They consume all light and attention with their inlaid rubies and diamonds, spitting it back in glittering patterns across the walls. Even the pashmina carpet, embroidered with gold, dances in the light of the shining stones, all crawling up the door and intertwining with gold piping as it runs across silver lace. Breathtaking, to say the least, but too manufactured for Logan’s tastes.

    He throws the door open without a moment of hesitation to admire the shifting reflections of the jewels, exposing a room to rival the doors themselves. A long, vermillion carpet leads up to an elevated stage of hickory pine, polished to smooth perfection. Upon the stage rests one throne, cushioned with rose red and held up by a frame of gold inset with pearls. Only one throne, as the king never lowers himself to interacting with his subjects for AKIs. Dotting the walls of the room stand great marble columns, covered in reliefs of the king in stuff of legend, defeating every obstacle in his path. There’s but one column remaining incomplete, just to the right of the door; some servants hammer away at it, revealing a scene of Roman dueling a dragon.

    Having already become desensitized to the scene over their many years of entering the room, the two boys walk right past it all, hardly noticing the striking progress on Roman’s column, or the fervent bows of the workers they pass. Roman settles heavily into the throne, situating his sash to be unrumpled before resting his right ankle on his left knee. Logan takes up position to the left of the throne, holding his shoulders square and clasping his hands behind his back. Roman twiddles his thumbs impatiently as Logan looks on, watching the large doors swing shut to allow unhappy people to line up behind them before coming in to yell at a prince who has absolutely no control over their rotten lots in life.

    With a forceful clearing of his throat, Logan kicks the foot of the throne before holding out something very important that Roman somehow managed to forget—his crown. Honestly, it’s a downright miracle that Logan doesn’t just wear it himself at this point. He’s got half a mind to do so, but the other half is preoccupied with sorting out problems for those lucky enough to be able to vent their misdirected anger at Roman.

    As Roman finishes adjusting the crown on his head, the doors swing open like a gaping mouth, allowing a castle guard to escort in the first unhappy citizen. Haggard, with tattered clothes and filthy hair, but the shoes on their feet are just shy of being worn all the way through, indicating that while this person might be down on their luck, they haven’t yet reached the bottom of the barrel, typically shown by wearing paper bags for shoes.

    “That city of convicts is out of control!” they yell, prompting the guard to shift into a defensive stance. “Every day, they’re always out and about—”

    “Doing what?” Logan interrupts, already disinterested and a good deal irritated. “Being human? Trying to move past their soiled backgrounds? Avoiding airheads like you that refuse to accept that some people have it worse than others, and that leads them to make regrettable bad decisions?” The person below Logan and Roman opens and closes their mouth a few times, not unlike a fish gasping in air. With a scowl, Logan jerks his chin at the door, prompting the guard to show the person out. “You aren’t the first person to complain about them,” Logan calls, “and I’m certain you won’t be the last.” Roman gives a half-hearted apology, but the snobbish complainer is already gone. Embarrassment, anger, or something else has made them rush out in a huff, without waiting for the guard, but quite frankly, Logan doesn’t really care.

    The next person ushered in carries a basket of spoiled fruits and vegetables. Evidence, in Logan’s opinion, is always more useful in these situations than empty grievances aired for the express purpose of seeing the inside of the palace. This person has some issue about pesticides from a neighbor killing all of their crops, a real problem with an actual solution, finally.

    Logan leans down to murmur in Roman’s ear, “send them back with a cease and desist notice for the neighbor, and have the guard take them to the kitchens for some produce-friendly pesticides. Say to ask for Grace, and mention that Logan sent them.” Roman repeats as much to the basket-carrier and the guard, pleased when this citizen walks out in much higher spirits than the one before.

    AKIs aren’t so bad, truthfully. Just exhaustingly tedious. With few real problems and all too many complaints about the city of convicts, Logan and Roman are at their wits’ end, and it’s not even lunch yet.

    “It’s about the city of convicts,” the latest person says, barreling straight through Logan’s automatic ‘holier than thou’ speech. “Not the convicts themselves, but there are these two boys that are nowhere near as rough as the other people in that city.” Before Logan can attempt to interrupt the person again, Roman holds a hand up in a stop gesture. This might actually be worth listening to. “Both of them have purple hair, kind of like yours,” they bow to the prince and Logan in turn, “and I’m just not sure that it’s in their best interests to leave them out there. I don’t know the two personally, but I’m concerned for their safety.” The person bows low again before allowing the guard to lead them out. The door shuts behind the pair and remains so. AKIs over.

    “Now that’s an interesting one,” Logan remarks. Roman gives a noncommittal grunt of agreement, rising from his throne in search of food. Making a mental note of the latest complaint and carefully filing it away for later consideration, Logan follows.

Tag List:

@reality-isfor-muggles @artistictaurean @adfandertime @virgils-old-sweater @karaidemon @dudapoconeh @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @fallingamor @ghostdorkphil @tinysidestrashcaptain @punch-you-with-friendship @pattykrabbies @virgils-hoodie @twettypuff @justanotherpurplebutterfly @lizethemotherlycat @skyshade48 @tree4life25 @andromeda-galaxsander @sombraplayslazertag @lemonpepperpizza @erlenmeyertrash @raincloudverge @potatoes-and-depression @milomeepit @coffeestudylive @sakurahayasaki

[the-kryomancer]

A Trickster’s Apprentice

Chapter 3: The Plan

Warning: Spoilers for Season 13 episode “Devil’s Bargain”, people are killed, Castiel gets mad

Tags: @imagines-by-loki-and-kylo @ukcatsgirl10 @tobys-timeout-box

Don’t be afraid to ask to be in the tags list

——————————————————

“Are you sure? Elin, you need to be one hundred percent sure about this.” Sam told her as he paced back and forth. It couldn’t be true. She was wrong. Gabriel couldn’t be alive. He died saving them from Lucifer. There was no way.

“I’m sure!” Elin stood up from her chair. She pulled off the ring on her finger and held it between her thumb and index finger. “This doesn’t lie. It only glows when Gabriel is near or if he needs me to contact him. He’s alive.”

“Okay, look. There’s gotta be some sort of logical explanation for this.” Dean gestured to the ring. “Are you sure it’s not broken?”

Elin looked at him like he just insulted her mother. Well, she would have preferred him to insult her mother rather than what atrocious words came from his lips. She felt like punching him.

“No, it’s not broken!” She exclaimed with a death glare toward the older Winchester. If she wanted to, she could crush him like a bug. “It doesn’t break.”

“Where the hell did you get that thing anyway?” Dean snapped.

It was midnight and she couldn’t sleep. She felt like there was some kind of force holding onto her skull, preventing her from falling into the comfort that was sleep. He had been gone for days and still no sign of him. He promised to be back soon. This wasn’t soon.

“Gabriel, I swear to all things sweet and sugary, I will kill you if you don’t get back in ten minutes.” She mumbled into the pillow, her voice so muffled even she could barely make out her own words. She flipped onto her back and stared at the wooden ceiling of her room. She could hear the wind outside the window and patter of snowflakes assaulting the glass of the windows. A winter storm is not what she needed right now.

“Geez, all you had to do was ask nicely,” Gabriel said, suddenly in the room. Elin screamed and toppled off her bed, landing face first onto the floor. She groaned and sat up, lifting her pain ridden body onto the bed. Gabriel stood at the foot of her bed and snapped his fingers. The candle on her bedside table lit. He was holding something in his left hand.

“What do you have there? Is that why you’ve been gone for days?” Elin practically wanted to bondard him with questions, especially ‘where the hell were you?’

Gabriel sat down next to her and opened his palm, a shiny silver ring in the middle of it. There was strange writing on the inside of the band. It was a language she had never seen before.

“It’s for you,” he explained. “That’s enochian.” He pointed to the text on the inside of the ring.

Elin picked it up and examined it. “I don’t speak enochian. Isn’t it a dead language?”

“It’s not dead,” Gabriel scoffed and plucked the ring out of her hand. “And if you must know, it says “Promise to always come home”. Meaning, that no matter how far away we are from each other, you can always come to me.”

“Wait,” she paused and her eyes lit up. “No matter how far we are? Does this mean I can–”

“Yes,” Gabriel interrupted. “You can be your own, independent Trickster.” He smiled at her. “I’ll never stop worrying about you, you know that right?”

“Yeah,” she took the ring and placed it on the ring finger of her left hand. “I know, Gabe. And I’ll never stop being that troublesome kid you took in like, what? Four hundred years ago?”

He nodded followed by a laugh. “Almost five. Time flies. I can’t believe you’re so grown up.”

“Hey, earth to Elin!” Dean snapped his fingers in front of her face. “You there?” Elin jumped back to life with a gasp. Sam and Dean flinched as she clenched her jaw. Elin jammed the ring back onto her finger and walked towards the exit of the bunker, frustration practically radiating off of her.

“Where are you going?” Sam called after her.

“Out!” She shouted and slammed the door shut.

Elin’s blood was boiling—no. It was on fire. She felt the fiery heat of a thousand suns burning in her chest and she hated it. Gabriel was important to her, he was her family. And he left. She kept the promise to always come back to him; looks like he didn’t keep his. He never was good at keeping promises.

But right now she needed to put her anger aside. Her informant was going to be there any moment.

“Elin, it’s good to see you again.”

There he is.

The demon smiled curtly at her. His black eyes seemed so dark and dangerous, yet at the same time held fear and dread. Gerard had been her hellish informant for years now—ever since Gabriel’s demise at the hands of his brother Elin did her best to keep tabs on Hell.

“I need answers, Gerard.” Elin spoke shortly, her annoyance and anger seemed to be bubbling to the surface. It made the demon uneasy but he wouldn’t show it and let her gain the upper hand.

“Regarding?” His voice was almost suave, enough to sweep any girl off her feet.

Elin crossed her arms. “What do you know about Gabriel being alive?”

Gerard took a sharp breath. “I know a lot about the subject. But before we get to the details, I need something in exchange.” He gave a uneasy smile. “Trickster blood is very hard to come by, and it’s essential for certain spells.”

Elin rolled her sleeve up and held out her arm. “Okay, whatever. Just tell me what you know.”

Gerard pulled out a knife and twirled it in his hand for a moment before bringing it towards her skin. Elin pulled her arm away with a tisk.

“Nu-uh. Not until I know this info is worth my time.” She folded her arm back into herself. “Now spill.”

Gerard sighed. “Asmodeus has Gabriel locked up in the dungeons. He needs Gabriel. Asmodeus recently acquired the Archangel blade, which, according to the lore, is only effective in the hands–”

“Of an Archangel.” Elin finished. Sighing, she nodded. “Great. Asmodeus is still a pain in my ass.”

“So…” Gerard rubbed his hands together. “About that blood.”

“Yeah…” Elin trailed off and pulled an Angel blade from a pocket inside her green camouflage jacket. “About the blood.” Before Gerard realized what she was doing, Elin stabbed the blade through Gerard’s chest and he glowed orange that flickered for a moment before his body fell lifelessly to the ground. “Thanks for the info.” She used his jacket to wipe off the blood on the blade before putting it back into her pocket. Snapping her fingers, Elin appeared at a playground with a sand box.

She stood there, waiting for someone or something to notice her presence. What she was going to do next twisted a knot in her chest. She knew this was risky. She knew Gabriel wouldn’t be happy with her for this. She had no other choice.

A whirlwind of energy emerged from the sandbox and two well dressed figures came out of the energy. They both held blades that matched Elin’s.

“What do you want, Trickster?” A woman growled.

“I want to talk to your boss: Lucifer.” Elin crossed her arms. “I know he’s taken the throne. But I need to talk to him.”

“You will do no such thing!” The man to the female Angel’s left shouted. Elin rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers, the vessel exploding everywhere.

“Now,” she took a step towards the remaining Angel who had a look of horror on her face. “Let me talk to your boss.” The female Angel nodded and disappeared back into the light. Moments later Lucifer stepped out.

He frowned at Elin. “What do you want, kid?”

“I have a deal to make with you.” She stated simply. Lucifer scoffed at her. Elin continued. “Look, I know you’re getting tired of having your ass kicked by Asmodeus. But he has a weapon. One that can and will kill you. An Archangel blade.”

“Hate to break it to you sister, but an Archangel blade can only be used by an Archangel like moi.” Lucifer pointed to himself. “And I don’t think I’ll be sticking myself with that knife.”

She rolled her eyes at how pompous he was. Elin held up four fingers. “Let’s do a head count, shall we? Michael is in the cage—” she put a finger down, “—you’re standing right here—” another finger went down, “—and Raphael is dead.” She put down one last finger, leaving only the pinky. “So that leaves your baby brother, Gabriel.”

“Who I killed.”

“Or did you? Because as of right now, Asmodeus has him trapped in Hell.”

The fallen Angel let out an exasperated sigh. “What are you saying?”

“I propose a deal. You distract Asmodeus and keep him out of Hell long enough for me to sneak in, get Gabriel, get the blade, and get the hell out of there.”

He hummed. “And what do I get?”

“You can have the Archangel blade.” She told him. “I’ll have Gabriel back so there’s no need for the blade.”

“Fine. When do you want me to lure the little urchin out?”

“Tonight. Ten p.m. That’s when I’ll go to Hell and get Gabriel out.”

She knew Sam and Dean would be mad. Probably beyond furious. They would shout at her, threaten to kick her out. In the end it wouldn’t work. She wasn’t scared of them and she could do so much worse to them. She could make them inside out or take away every nerve in their body. She could remove their tongues, or just slowly kill them from the inside out. But at this point, it would be counterproductive.

When she got into the bunker, Elin prepared herself for the hellstorm that would soon arrive. She glanced at the clock. Eight p.m.

“Where have you been?” Dean asked as soon as she entered the room. She snapped her fingers and took a bite of the chocolate bar she now held. She was a stress eater and she hated it.

“I was getting information from a source. And I may have helped us.” She explained through a mouthful of chocolate.

“You know where Gabriel is?” Castiel inquired, unsure as to what she was up to.

Elin nodded. “He’s in Hell, trapped there by Asmodeus. Along with an Archangel blade.”

Castiel‘s eyes widened. “Are you sure? The Archangel blade has been missing for millennia. How would Asmodeus have gotten it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. All I care about is getting Gabriel back.”

“How are we going to get into Hell without being caught?” Sam spoke up. He was leaning against a bookshelf. “There’s probably demons everywhere. Not to mention the risk of running into Asmodeus.”

“I… kind of have that covered…” Elin rubbed the back of her neck.

“What did you do?” Castiel demanded.

“Okay, so I kind of talked to Lucifer and–”

“Kind of?” Dean shouted. “There’s no “kind of” talking to Lucifer!”

“Look,” Elin’s eyes glowed gold. The color was more prominent than before. It wasn’t subtle anymore. “I made a deal with him. He distracts Asmodeus and I’ll give him the blade.”

“You’ll what?” Castiel growled. He stomped over to her and grabbed her by the neck. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“I wasn’t going to give him the blade!” She exclaimed. “I needed him to distract Ass-modeus so you three could nab Gabriel and the blade. Easy-peasy.”

Dean ran a hand over his face and pointed at Elin. “Your plan better work. If not, I won’t hesitate to gut you.”

Castiel let go of her neck and Elin didn’t hesitate to rub the sore spot. “It won’t,” She snapped. “I’m excellent at persuasion. I got you three to help me, didn’t I?”

Sam shrugged. “She has a point.”

“When do we go into Hell and liberate Gabriel and nab the blade?” Dean asked, taking a sip from the beer he had on the table.

“I told Lucifer ten p.m. so be ready by then.”

“We have time to prepare.” Castiel walked out of the room, glaring at Elin all the while. She stuck her tongue out at him and took a bite of her chocolate.

She sat in the library with Jack and Mary. Jack was reading something—probably a lore book since that is all that there seems to be in the bunker. Mary was watching Elin the whole time, trying her best to settle the Trickster’s nerves. Elin couldn’t stay still. She washed the dirty dishes, tried to read three different books, even ate six chocolate bars. Her stomach was queasy and she immediately regretted eating all of that chocolate. Nothing seemed to occupy her for long. In short, she was a big ball of nerves.

“Don’t worry,” Mary said gently. They were supposed to be words of encouragement. “If anyone can get him back it’s my boys.” She gave Elin a soft smile. Elin looked at her, eyes glowing intensely gold.

“I’m not worried that they won’t bring him back. I’m worried that they will.” Elin explained.

“What do you mean?” Mary inquired. Jack sat there, book forgotten as he listened intently to the conversation.

Taking in a sharp breath, Elin glanced at the clock. It was half past ten. “It’s comp–”

She was cut off by the sound of the bunker door opening and closing.

“They’re back.” Elin whimpered.

[spnroundrobin]

Masterpost: Round Two

Prompt: Cas and Dean have been dating for a couple months now but are trying to keep it quiet while they figure things out. There’s some unexpected downtime and Dean’s determined to make the most of it, setting up a whole bunch of activities for the two of them. The only problem: they keep running into Sam and have to pretend that they are not, in fact, on a date at all.

Sam and Eileen have been dating for a couple months now but are trying to keep it quiet for now. When the brothers get some down time, Sam invites Eileen over to spend some much needed time together. They make a day of it and are having a great time… except they keep running into Dean and Cas. Eventually they’re going to run out of excuses about why they can’t stay to hang out with them…

(Keep it Teen rated. Innuendos are fine but no on screen sexual acts. Your post can focus on one of the couples doing a date activity, both couples, and/or the brothers trying to avoid each other. Side characters welcome but only over the phone/Skype. The boys aren’t confined to the bunker, but let’s keep them in Kansas. No hunting, no killing, no one’s hurt. Set vaguely during canon.)

Schedule and Posting Instructions

(As submissions are made, they will be posted here by the mods.)

#1 @weasleychick32

Castiel stares at the boat for a long moment before turning his back on it and frowning at Dean unhappily.

“I thought dates were supposed to be enjoyable.”

Dean stops patting his pockets in a futile attempt to locate his misplaced coupon and turns an expression of outraged offense onto Castiel while the woman manning the rental booth sigh and turns her flat stare to the sky as though to ask what she ever did to deserve this. He can relate.

“We haven’t even gotten on the water yet!”

Therein lies problem number one. As for problem number two…

“Why is it shaped like a long-necked waterfowl?”

Dean glances at the boat then back at Castiel. “Dude, it’s a swan.”

“That’s what I said.”

Dean roughly scrubs a hand down his face then through his hair, looking pained. Why do humans insist on dating when it causes them so much stress? He’d be content staying in the bunker and watching Netflix, as they usually do between hunts, but for some reason Dean insisted he needs to start “treating him right” and thus instigated an entire day of forcing them to perform traditional couple activities. As of yet, he doesn’t see the appeal.

Long-necked waterfowl are mean.

“Just… trust me alright? You’ll like it. If I could just find…”

Muttering under his breath, he resumes checking his numerous pockets for the coupon that isn’t there. With a sigh, Castiel lets his attention wander. There’s the pond–green algae clinging to the outer-rim’s surface as tiny flies flit about–circled by a well-worn tree dotted walking path that is punctuated by a small sno cone stand almost opposite where they stand now.

Intrigued, he watches a child skip happily away last, a pink-topped cone in hand that she bites into with apparent relish. He catches himself licking his lips and with a frustrated huff turns away only for his attention to be snared by a familiar figure heading down the path from the parking lot. Make that two familiar figures.

“Sam is here. With Eileen.”

“What?!” Dean startles and for a moment Castiel can see him form the decision to drag him behind the nearby dumpster and out of sight, the only logical course of action to be sure, but then Sam looks up from signing to Eileen and freezes mid-step.

Excellent, they’ve been spotted. Castiel lifts his hand in a wave while Dean visibly fights the impulse to drag his arm back down to his side. He’s not sure how Dean’s insistence that Sam knowing about their romantic relationship would make things “weird” fits into his determination to “treat him right”, but he leaves that dissonance for Dean to resolve.

Sam waves back disjointedly and only then does Eileen look away from his face to follow his gaze. When she catches sight of him and Dean a beaming smile splits her face and she doesn’t waste another moment before hooking her arm through the crook of Sam’s elbow and dragging him down the path to meet them.

As they come, he catches a flash of Sam stuffing something into his pocket that looks mysteriously like a certain missing coupon. Dean curses under his breath, but due to his limited human eyesight, he doesn’t believe he spotted it. This is all good and well because while he doesn’t much care for long-necked waterfowl, swan or otherwise, he would very much like to try one of those sno cones.

#2 - skipped

#3 @ravenscat-tumbler

“What are you guys doing here?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, we had time on our hands so uh, I decided to bring Cas here, y’know… since he’s still learning what humans do in their spare time and all.” Dean says, fumbling through his excuse.

Cas frowns at him and Dean pleads, with his eyes at Cas, not to say anything.

Cas turns away and looks towards the sno cones again.

Dean sighs in relief and looks back to his moose of a brother. “What are you doing here?” He asks.

“Oh, uh Eileen said she was going to be in town for a couple days and we decided to take a chill day.” Sam explains. “Uh, we were just leaving anyways. I’ll see you later.” He says.

Eileen who was reading his lips, frowns.

“But we just got here…” She says as well as signs.

“OK BYE!” Sam says, interrupting her and then dragging her away.

Dean shakes his head and then turns back to where Cas was standing to explain, except Cas was no longer there.

“Cas? Cas! Shit.” Dean frantically looks around for him, sighing when he spots the back of his trench coat by the Sno cone guy.

He walks over to him and sees that Castiel is now crouched down, trying to pacify a cute 4-year-old girl. She was crying over her fallen Sno cone and her mom was no where to be found.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s just a sno cone. I’ll get you another one.” Cas says. “Which one do you want?” He asks, picking her up so she could see the flavours and colours.

“The blue one.” She sniffles out.

“Okay, you got stop crying first.” He says.

She nods and wipes her tear streaked face.

“A blue and a red please.” He says.

The guy hands them over and Cas places the girl down before grabbing them and handing the blue one over.

“Here you go.” Cas says.

“Thank you.” She says as she leans on her tippy toes to kiss his cheek.

Dean’s heart melts, that was the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Castiel would be so good with their kids. Wait, did he really just think that?

Cas smiles at her and ruffles her hair, “You are very welcome.” He answers.

Just then the girl’s mom comes rushing towards them.

“Oh thank god! I thought I lost you, Gem.” She says, grabbing her daughter and picking her up.

Gem tells her mom what Cas had done for her and her mom looks at him appreciatively.

“Thank you so much.” She says, walking over to him and rubbing his arm, suggestively. “It’s hard being a single mom you know. I just try to keep her happy.”

Cas nods, “I understand. You are doing a very good job.”

She smiles at him.

Dean clears his throat and walks closer to them. Giving the mom the evil eye, he slips his hand into Castiel’s.

“Hey babe, ready to go?” He asks.

Cas nods.

“Oh, uhm. Thank you once again.” The lady says, blushing before heading off with her daughter.

“I was under the impression that you didn’t want people to know you were on a date with me.” Cas says, gesturing to their hands.

Dean blushes, “C’mon man. It’s not like that.”

Cas ignores him and proceeds to eat his sno cone, fingers still laced together with Dean’s.

#4 - skipped

#5 @angelofthemoor

They continue down the sidewalk. Cas eats messily; soon, his nose is dotted with red juice, and his lips are stained red.

Dean taps his own nose. “You got a little something here.”

Cas brushes the side of his nose. “Did I get it?”

“No,” Dean chuckles. “Here.” He leans in and licks Cas’s nose. It tastes of cherry and that unique flavor he can only describe as Cas.

Cas scrunches up his nose, which still lies on the tip of Dean’s tongue. “Was that really necessary?” Cas pouts.

“Hmm.” Dean pecks Cas with his lips as he drags them from Cas’s nose to his mouth. His lips stop there, and they linger, Dean infusing the kiss with all his love.

When they reluctantly pull back, Cas solemnly declares, “Yes. Completely necessary.” Dean laughs.

Their hands remain intertwined as they stroll through the park. On the other side, there’s a breathtaking garden he wants to show Cas. He’s caught the guy studying a sunflower for several hours, so he knows Cas’ll love the colorful flowers. Plus, he’ll get a kick out of the animal-shaped bushes.

They pause so Cas can toss his empty foam cup into a trash can. A few hundred feet in front of them, there’s a carousel. Dean spots Sam and Eileen heading toward it, so he hastily tears his hand out of Cas’s.

“Look,” Dean says, nodding toward Sam and Eileen.

They step onto the carousel. Eileen straddles a horse, and Sam stands beside her, resting a hand on the small of her back. Like he needs to support her posture. He’s surprised she doesn’t swat his hand away.

Dean titters as he watches the merry-go-round spin. Kids crowd the ride; Sam and Eileen are the only adults on it. When the carousel finishes, Sam and Eileen hop off the ride, laughing.

“Aren’t you a little old for that thing?” Dean calls.

Sam jumps practically ten feet away from Eileen and blushes. “Uh.”

“It was my idea,” Eileen interjects. Sam and Eileen speak in a rapid flurry of sign language, which just isn’t fair. Way to make a guy feel included. When did Sam become so fluent in sign language, anyway? He’d known Sam had been studying it, but not that he’d become so adept already.

“When I was a kid,” Eileen explains, “I loved carousels. I had a case of nostalgia.”

“Oh,” Dean murmurs. He slaps Sam on the shoulder, and Sam scowls. “Well. We’ve gotta go. See you around.”

“Ditto,” Sam replies as he and Eileen stride off.

Cas squints after them. “They were lying.”

“What?”

“When they were signing. They were trying to decide on an excuse to give us.”

Interesting. What could they be hiding?

Not that Dean cares all that much. “C’mon, you gotta see this garden,” Dean asserts as he resumes walking.

Cas rolls his eyes. “So you keep telling me. This ‘hype’ better be justified.”

Dean smiles to himself. On occasion, Cas still pulls out the air quotes. Dean may gripe about it, but really, he thinks it’s cute.

#6 @posingasme

There was probably nothing in the world more endearing than tough Eileen Leahy pretending she wasn’t limping. Sam was falling for her all over again just watch her scowl.

“Shut up,” she signed irritably.

He couldn’t help chuckling. “Okay, mighty huntress,” he teased. “Come here.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m fine.” She was moving her hands sharply, as she did when she was annoyed.

“You turned your ankle. Don’t be stubborn.” He smiled down at her. “Besides, I’ve been trying to get my arms around you all day. Throw me a bone. Let me pretend you need me for a minute.”

Eileen allowed a small smile to peek through finally. She sighed with dramatics. “Oh, Sam,” she cried. “I am a distressed damsel in need of a giant knight to save me-”

“Oh, all right. You suck at making a guy feel needed!” They laughed together, but she leaned on him at last, and he felt his entire body warming. She was exactly his type of strong and soft, and he was certain he had never been more in love than with this fascinating woman. “I know you don’t need me, but I hope you want me,” he murmured.

Sam hadn’t realized he had ducked his head until he felt her fingers lifting his chin. “Face me, please,” she said quietly.

His cheeks heated. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn't…” He stopped to take a deep breath. When he wasn’t using signs, stuttering was bound to make him harder to understand.

But Eileen was an excellent lipreader. It was a point of pride, he had learned, since many in the deaf community were not so adept as she, although they were inevitably more practiced than their hearing peers. She smiled at him. “It’s all right. I just like to point out when you’re talking to yourself,” she teased gently. “In case that’s an issue for you.”

He smiled back. One day, he would tell her everything, about how Lucifer had once haunted him, and he hadn’t been able to trust even that Dean was Dean, or that he was himself. But not today. Today, he just wanted to look into her eyes and hold her as long as she let him.

“Well?” she demanded. “Are you carrying me or am I hobbling the rest of the day?”

A bright grin came over him, and he sighed happily. “Where to, huntress?” he signed.

She loved the pet name. When he had asked her for the sign weeks ago, she hadn’t understood. “No, no. That’s hunter. You taught me that one. What’s huntress? Like Artemis. A female hunter. A warrior goddess who hunts evil and protects innocents. I know hunter. But I want to know the sign for Eileen. Huntress.” She had beamed at him, and shown him a variation on the sign he already knew, and it was how he addressed her, always.

“Anywhere,” she breathed.

He took her into his arms, and lifted. While he certainly didn’t like that she felt pain, he wondered if Eileen turning her ankle on the hill beyond the fairgrounds wasn’t the best thing that had happened all day.

But then he looked ahead, and dread came over him. “Dammit.”

It was too late. Castiel had seen them. “Sam! Eileen, are you all right?” The angel began toward them with concern in his eyes. Dean, behind him, had something else in his eyes entirely.

“I was,” she muttered. But she smiled. “I’m okay!” she called as their friend approached. “Just a twisted ankle.”

Castiel raised his two fingers, with which he extended his healing grace.

Sam sighed.

#7 @magickmoons

“Lucky we ran into you, so that I could help,” Cas commented.

“Yeah, lucky,” Sam echoed, as he reluctantly set Eileen back on her feet.

She flashed him a wry grin, then turned to Castiel. “Thank you.”

“Okay, well, now that’s settled, we can all go on with our own – separate – plans,” Dean declared. “Not that we had ‘plans’ exactly.” Dean’s eyes went wide when he found himself using Cas’s air quotes – couple of months dating and he was already picking up Cas’s bad habits – and he dropped his arms quickly.

Sam didn’t notice Dean’s air quotes, already pushing out his own stumbling response. “Yeah, no, we didn’t make any plans either, man. I mean, this was just kind of a spur of the moment, spontaneous, uh… thing.”

“Right, yeah. So, uh, we’ll just be on our way.” Dean nodded, just stopping himself from laying a hand against Cas’s back to guide him. He was anxious to get to the gardens, and maybe find some secluded, overgrown corner to steal a kiss or two. Or, at the very least, to get away from Sam and Eileen’s entirely-too-perceptive eyes.

“We will see you later,” Eileen said.

And the four of them started walking… in the same direction.

#8 skipped

#9 @hells-keeper 

“so… What’s your plans, huh?” Asked Sam, somewhat awkwardly. He wasn’t sure it was the best idea to start another conversation, but just walking away… It felt weird. 

“Like I said, nothing in particular. Cas and I just wanted to hang out, y'know?” Dean scratched the back of his head. He and Cas walked close to each other, but that was not new, and the road was a bit narrow for 3 muscular men and another not-so-petite woman. 

“Yeah, but… You had nothing in mind?” 

“Nope.” Dean said, and popped the ‘P’. 

“Oh, look, Dean!” Said Cas. 

“What is it B- buddy?” Dean covered his stumble with a well placed physical stumble.

“A bakery.” Cas grinned. 

“I guess we do have plans now? Wanna join us?” 

“No!” Sam almost shouted, and then calmed at his brother’s raised eyebrow. “I’m not a fan of baked goods like you, I think Eileen and I will be better on our own.” 

“Okay, see you later.” Dean smiled and he and his angel went to the bakery. 

“Why did you invite them? I thought you wanted us to have some 'alone time’?” Damn, Dean will never get rid of this habit if Cas keeps using air-quotes.  

“Rule number whatever if social interaction, Cas. When you ask someone in awkward situation like this if they want to join you, they won’t even follow you, they’ll go away 'cause they want all the awkward to be over. And anyway, speaking of awkward, what the heck is this place? A kosher bakery? How do you even–” 

“Dean, most bakeries don’t have anything with meat. Being kosher brings more costumers. Think that now it’s accessible for people whose hometown either doesn’t have bakeries, or a kosher one, and then, well, the price of the ingredients is fully paid back. Also, what’s the problem with that?”

“Doesn’t it usually… I don’t know, taste not as good?”

“First of all, their baked goods are mostly dairy, and not parve, second of all, you liked that vegan our I bought you once. You said it was one of the best you’ve ever had.” Cas said in his usual solemn voice. 

“What the heck Cas? You trying to poison me? Next you’re gonna say you put things in the quiche in such a way I won’t find them.” 

“Indeed.” 

"Cas! You trying to get me killed? I don’t need rabbit or tree-hugger food, I–” 

“Need to stay healthy. I also merit from it.” He squeezed Dean’s hand and brought the knuckles close to his face. 

“Also, I know for a fact that you can’t say no to pie unless you’re worried. And I know you’re not.” He kissed the back of Dean’s hand gently, and smiled. 

“Well, you are right…” 

“Do you want anything?” Asked one of the employees. He had the appearance of a sloth, and his name tag showed “Sid” 

#10 @zolaliz

Eileen waited until after the boys had headed off to the bakery to turn towards Sam. She didn’t have to say- or sign- anything for him to understand that bemused expression; the one very typical of his Eileen Leahy.

“Oh shut up,” he muttered, simultaneously signing the words. That little smile of hers broke into a grin, and after checking that Dean and Cas were out of sight, looped her arm with Sam’s.

“Shall we continue to the garden?” She said in her attempt at a snooty rich person tone. He laughed fondly, pulling her ever-so-slightly closer, and nodded.

“Lead the way, Madam.”

As they walked along the path, the colorful array of flowers peeked into sight over the next hill. Even from afar, Sam could spot butterflies and bees swirling around the pretty petals. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a overzealous puppy bounded onto the path in front of them, and almost knocked into Sam’s knees.

Eileen pulled him out of its path of fluffy destruction in the last instant, saving him from a date with the pavement.

“That was a close one,” he signed to her, leaning against her grip on his midsection. She laughed good- naturedly, and crouched down to let the puppy smell her hand.

“Oh my god, ohhhh my god, I’m so sorry,” an apologetic owner ran over, her arms outstretched toward her dog, “he really doesn’t mean any harm- I swear it! He just doesn’t know his own size, and-”

“It’s fine, really,” Sam assured the lady, nudging Eileen to get her attention. “He’s a cutie- who could be mad at this face? What’s his name?”

Though his question was directed to the lady, he still faced Eileen, allowing her to read his lips.

“Macaroon,” she replied breathlessly, swooping over him to reattach him to his leash.

“Macaroon,” Sam repeated, smiling, “that’s a great name.”

“I call him Roonie for short.”

“Hello Roonie,” Sam greeted, giving Macaroon’s ears a fluff. Eileen grinned and joined him in petting the slobbery thing.

“Is he a Lab?” Eileen asked the lady, who flushed and suddenly looked a little uncomfortable.

She turned to Sam, concerned, whispering, “I’m sorry, I don’t know sign language.”

“This guy here’s a Newfoundland,” Sam answered for her, and Eileen grinned down at the puppy, “they’re closely related to the Labrador.”

“And don’t worry about sign language, I can read lips. Sam is still learning too,” she gave a affectionate squeeze to Sam’s shoulder.

“Oh! That’s so adorable- you’re learning ASL just for her?”

Sam gave a bashful smile. “I guess I am, aren’t I? She is my girlfriend after all.”

The lady smiled down at them with the same look they were giving the puppy.

“Well sorry again for interrupting your date- have a nice day!”

“You too,” the lovebirds chirped together, giving Macaroon one last pat before walking away.

“So,” Eileen knocked her shoulder gently against Sam’s arm, “you’re comfortable telling a complete stranger about us, but you can’t tell your own brother?”

“You know it’s not that simple,” he sighed, eyes tied to his feet.

“Sam-”

“I know what he’ll say. That people like us- hunters, the life- we can’t have this.”

“But I’m a hunter too!” She signed quickly, face reddening slightly, “I can take care of myself- and Dean wants you to be happy, Sam. You know he does.”

“Sorry, could you slow down a little? I-”

“Sorry, sorry,” she complied, “Dean cares about you, Sam. And if he has any problem with us, tell him I’ll take care of his younger brother just fine. He has nothing to worry about. Besides, if he said anything on the matter he’d be a hypocrite, ‘cause he’s obviously dating Cas.”

“That’s different, Eileen. He can come to me with that when he’s ready.” Sam didn’t leave Eileen any chance of responding when he cupped her hands in his and brought them up to his lips. “Now, let’s go try and find a bouquet of flowers that’s as pretty as you.”

She held his gaze a moment longer, hesitant, before rolling her eyes and snorting, “impossible.”

He kissed her nose, and agreed.

#12 @blue-reveries

“For someone who was so hesitant about the baked goods, you seemed to enjoy that pie quite a bit,” Castiel said, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice as they walked out of the bakery at a leisurely pace. They were walking slowly because Castiel feared that walking too quickly might cause Dean to become sick.

Eating almost an entire pie could do that to a person.

Dean glared petulantly but rubbed his tender stomach gingerly. “Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have had that last piece but damn I’m glad I did.” He grinned impishly and paused for a second before looking at Castiel expectantly. “So what do we want to do now?”

Castiel nodded towards the walking path that ran along the water. “It might be beneficial for your stomach ache if we took a nice stroll,” he replied as he grabbed Dean’s hand in his and started to gently pull him towards the path, ignoring Dean’s whine of protest.

“I do not have a stomach ache,” he said but nevertheless he matched Castiel’s sedate pace and interlaced their fingers. “I just over indulged, happens to the best of us.”

Laughing quietly, Castiel nodded. “Very true, I suppose I can’t really tease you too much considering how many hamburgers I ate in my Famine induced binge, not to mention that little incident with the liquor store.”

Dean chuckled and lightly bumped their shoulders together. “Yeah, you’re just as bad as me,” he shot back playfully; Castiel rolled his eyes but smiled.

They continued to walk down the path, enjoying the sights; Castiel revelled in the simplicity of walking side by side with the man he care so much for, in getting to enjoy the feel of Dean’s warmth and more than occasional touch of their clothing brushing together. Despite all the various hiccups, today really was turning out quite well. True, he was still a bit disappointed that Dean wanted to keep their relationship secret from Sam but knowing that Sam was just as guilty of the same thing made him feel a bit better. It must be a strange Winchester trait to want keep things such as this under wraps.

And speaking of other Winchesters…

Luckily, Dean was looking off in the opposite direction so Castiel was able to subtly change their course so they avoided the line of benches coming up to their left. It was more than likely a selfish move, avoiding Sam and Eileen, but deep down Castiel knew that the other couple would appreciate his running interference.

So as it was, Castiel was the only one to see Sam and Eileen seated side by side on the bench; Eileen’s head resting on Sam’s shoulder, a small bouquet of flowers held in her hand. They looked utterly content and it made Castiel happy to give them this moment.

And as he and Dean continued on their stroll, Castiel hoped that maybe he’d get to have a moment like that with Dean as well.

Bonus Round #1 (or #13) @righteousdemondean​

Sam and Eileen were content. 

The day was still pleasant, and they didn’t have to hide what was between them. The meeting with the dog made it even better. But Sam felt like something was missing. He knew what it was. Dean. It’s funny how, despite everything, happiness for Sam has to include Dean in the equation. Without him, Sam can’t be really happy. 

Looking back to the time he was with Jess, he understood that. He was very happy, yes, but the guilt and loneliness never really left. He knew Dean would be broken when he left. Dean had put so much effort to give him the best this life could offer and above, and still was left alone with their dad, who, Sam realized only later, never really liked Dean too much. He blocked the vague memories of Dean telling him to go to his room when the Impala’s engine was heard getting closer, and tried to avoid any negative thought. 

He was happy now. Truly happy. And when he’ll tell Dean, and Dean would smile and accept it, he’d be immensely happier. 

If a voice inside him said, but Sam chose to ignore it. It was Dean after all. Dean was kind and thoughtful, and loved Sam enough for both their parents and probably grandparents. He just hoped Dean won’t make too many jokes because of it, he really didn’t want to be in this place. If Dean ever dated anyone, Sam really wouldn’t mind. Dean hooked up with chicks all the time. Maybe he could find one that’d actually fit him emotionally. 

                                                           ++++

Dean and Cas’s stroll was stopped dead by Dean.

“Cas…”

“Yes, Dean?”

“How do molecules taste like?”

“Single molecule usually doesn’t really have taste because not enough is reacting with receptors in your tongue. But few molecules shape a vague, not very pleasant, taste. I could feel all the chemicals reacting and the bonds made… Like, imagine that you feel the the amylum becoming a less tight knit chain, and the functional groups bonding with your tongue. Atoms are 99.99% empty space. Which means… Food is both tasteless and tastes like chemical reactions.” 

“That’s cool. I liked chemistry in high school, but I don’t remember them teaching us about how taste works. I do know that Spicy foods are reactions with heat receptors and that that’s why water doesn’t help. It doesn’t bond well with these things. Polar and not-polar dissolvent, right?”

“You’d be correct, I believe.” Castiel nodded. The world his father had created is more than impressive and complex. Whatever his father did, was only part of it all. After some time, he left, and evolution took its rightful place as the reason for the existence of everything. it always filled Cas with awe.

“What I still don’t understand…”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Why does the male body have nipples if they’re practically useless?”

Cas had to rest his face in his palm. “Really, Dean? If you really want to know, it’s probably because fetuses are female until they become male, so nothing really leaves the body, and rather grows out–” 

“Okay. I think the point is clear.”

“Also, I didn’t hear you complain about it wh–” this time Dean put a hand on his mouth.

“Shut up, angel, let’s talk about things that are socially acceptable when in public okay?”

Cas nodded and bummed in agreement, but was focused on a admittedly adorable canine playing with (probably) its owner.

Bonus round #2 @blue-reveries

It was dusk by the time they started to wander their way back to the car, Sam holding her hand while Eileen rested her head lightly on his arm. She was slightly amused at how Sam pouted when she said she was able to walk on her own; it was obvious that he secretly liked carrying her around. The parking lot was basically empty by the time they got there but not entirely.

There was a very familiar black car parked two rows over and several spaces down.

A few other cars broke up the distance but Eileen could see Dean and Cas walking to the Impala, Dean’s hands filled with boxes. Sam was occupied with searching for the key so he could open the car doors so Eileen took a chance and managed to get Cas’ attention.

“Dean, perhaps it would help if I just held the boxes while we drove home,” Castiel suggested, hiding the laughter in his voice as he watched Dean try in vain to find a way to stack the pie boxes so they wouldn’t shift around as they drove. Dean had insisted on going back into the bakery as they’d walked past it on their way to the parking lot and proceeded to buy multiple boxes of pie to take home, leaving Dean to balance the unwieldy stack in his arms on the way back to the Impala.

“I can do it,” Dean answered stubbornly, head still inside the car as he began muttering to himself about proper pie precautions. Shaking his head, Castiel looked upwards and smiled; it was as he was turning to look back at Dean that he noticed Eileen in the distance.

There was no mistaking the fact that she was trying to get his attention.

Hello Castiel she signed rapidly, you can sign, right?

Castiel raised his hands after making sure Dean was preoccupied. Of course, I speak all languages. Did you have a nice time on your date with Sam?

Even from the slightly long distance, Castiel could see her smile brightly as she responded. Yes, how was yours and Dean’s?

Smiling softly at the way Dean cursed at his current arrangement of boxes, Castiel nodded. It was perfect.

He watched as Sam made a gesture that he interpreted as joy at finding the car keys that dangled from his hand before he leaned down and kissed Eileen, who gave no indication she was talking to Castiel, on the cheek. While Sam was preoccupied with unlocking the car, Eileen signed rapidly. I think it’s about time we nudged these two in the right direction.

Castiel repressed the urge to laugh in relief. Yes, I agree. They think they are fooling each other but at this point it’s just embarrassing.

You work on yours and I’ll work on mine? Eileen said, nodding towards Sam’s broad back. They didn’t have much time, Dean had just declare that he “finally got it” and it looked like Sam was about to turn back around.

He nodded and signed back. That sounds like a good plan.

Sam started to turn back around so Castiel ducked and hid. He peeked his head over the top just in time to see Sam get into the car and catch a glimpse of Eileen stealthily signing as she walked around to get into her side of the car.

Good, see you at home!

Smiling, Castiel nodded and waved, making sure to be subtle, just as Dean emerged from the car. He turned to Castiel and gave him a kiss on the cheek, luckily he didn’t notice the car behind them.

“And we’re ready to go,” he said, slipping an arm around Castiel’s waist; his smile was utterly content and it made Castiel’s chest feel pleasantly warm. Dean rested their foreheads together. “Did you have a nice time?”

Castiel smiled. “I had a great time. Today was perfect.”

Dean gave him another kiss on the cheek and pulled away. “Alright then, let’s go home.”

[tessatechaitea]

The Book of the VIP Jeffrey

[ourdarkcollectorrunawayme]

Conversations with my conservative friend

specrOkay, so my friend is huge defender of Ben Carson and claims that the criticisms against him with his appointment to the secretary of Urban Development and Housing, with his lack of experience is racist. I sent him a list of points as to why the criticisms against Carson are not racist, but actually reasonable. My friend then responded, trying to redact logic and reality. I going to post the points I made and the responses he made, to make sure that their is a complete context to the conversation. I would appreciate anybody, whichever side of the political spectrum you are on, with your opinions. 

If Ben Carson was white he would still get the same criticism that he is receiving from Elizabeth Warren and other progressives on his qualifications to be the secretary of the Department of Urban Housing and Development.

Ben Carson, M.D. is a Republican, and if he were a Democrat, he would be getting NO Criticism from Warren. This IS a Type of Racism ... against Minorities in a non-progressive Party that Warren deems an “Uncle Tom” Figure. That is still racist, and that is still disgusting.

Research what other black figures are saying about him, and Kanye West doesn't count, because he doesn't know what he is talking about half the time.

Colonel Allen West, Ambassador Alan Keyes, Senator Tim Scott all like him. That is good enough for me. Even Herman Cain knows Carson, M.D. is a Genius.

The term "urban" is a word that conversatives use when they are talking to their white constituants. It is term used to dogwhistles the idea that "people of color live in the cities and they don't have the same values as rural white Americans and I will protect you from them".So saying that Carson is qualified for the position because he grew up in the urban city of baltimore is like saying because I lived near a beach, I am qualified to be head of the navy.

That is not a Comparison I recognise as accurate. In the South, the rural AND urban Areas have mixed black and white Areas in it. It is only up north that “urban” is a derogatory Term for “black.” And it is true that Values ARE different. The Society and Culture is different. Just look at B.E.T. and C.M.T.

2. Urban Development and Housing department specializes in programs that help people who live in those urban areas, and may not have the same advantages as people with money. And how a city can operate to the best advantages for everyone. Meaning he would be in charge of which programs get funding and contacts and loans going to different companies. This also covers people who would be well within or under the poverty and approves or denies them public housing.If anything, this means my stepmom, as an architect, is more qualified than Carson for the position.

Do you honestly think Obama was qualified for the Presidency or even Hillary? I do not see you going after them. These Secretaries have People under them that have worked in that Department for Years waiting on Retirement that will help guide Doctor Ben into making the big Decisions. I am not worried. H.U.D. IS an important Department. I know someone who works at the Francis Marion Hotel who used to live in Federally subsidised Housing. It is very important. But Carson, M.D. is not making the big Decisions all by himself.

3.Warren's main concern is that the incoming president's business and companies deal in construction and real estate, who he has violated many anti-discrimination laws and mistreating and underpaying the people who build his hotels. Warren just wants a yes or no answer out of Carson that the funds the department receives will not benefit from that department with a friend of his incharge. Carson keeps evading answering that question.

Trump’s Businesses are going to be run by his Sons and Daughters, and they are more than qualified to do that. Donald is not going to be involved with them while he is President. As for Mistreatment, this is the first I am hearing of it. As for underpaying, my last Boss did that for Painters and Construction Workers that did a shitty Job when no Contract was signed. That is Business. I am also concerned Trump’s former Businesses do not benefit, but I have no Reason to assume he would be devious about it.

4. Carson constantly tells the story that when he was young he was angry black man, who was only tamed by Christianity to white conservatives because it plays into their racist master narrative that all blacks are savage and violent. Friends, family members, and people he knew when he was young contract those claims, saying that he was actually quiet.

I am not surprised vindictive Shits would lie about his Childhood. The Lifetime Film I watched about his Life starring Cuba Gooding Jr., seemed to portray him as inwardly angry but outwardly silent about his Frustrations. That is the way I am. And why are only conservatives racist? And why are only whites racist? Larry Elder, a black Libertarian Radio Show Host from L.A. says in one of his Books that black Americans are more racist than white Americans. Hell, he and I are alike in the Christianity tamed me Story. I used to be very angry. You are looking at it from a racial P.O.V. when Race should not be a Factor. He is a PERSON! He is a Human Being and a Christian who happens to have had a troubled Childhood. I think you are inventing Racism – and though I am not calling you prejudiced – that CAN be a Form of Prejudice. Not saying you are!

5. Name another black politician other than Herman Cain.

Lt. Col. And former Congressman Allen West, Amb. Alan Keyes (I voted for him for President over George W. Bush), Doctor Ben Carson, Sen. Tim Scott, John Knight, Thad McClammy, Alvin Holmes, Richard Arrington, Jr.

6. I looked up your claim about Elizabeth Warren, I check politifact and this is what I got http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/statements/2014/oct/29/facebook-posts/critics-say-elizabeth-warren-lives-54-million-mans/ . Another good thing to do when making accusations is the credibility of your source of information.

I said she lived in a two million dollar House with two Servants, a Maid, a Cook, and a Butler, but I may be wrong about the Butler. I think she has a total of four People waiting on her in her Cambridge Mansion.

7. Would you be saying the same things about Elizabeth Warren if she was a man. When you describe women of power like her as "sharp-tongued", "domineering", "ambisious", you are saying she is a "bitch and shouldn't be in a man's position of power". Where as you would applaud men with similar or the same traits.

Instead of inventing Racism, now you are inventing Sexism? Rough Stuff ... I am mad at her for using the Myth of Native American Heritage to get into a good University, obtain Work Credit, and get to where she is. When she ran against Scott Brown it all came out, but she upset him anyway. Women of Power? What about how much I like Condoleeza Rice, Janet Brewer, Sarah Palin, Lurleen Burns Wallace, and so forth? Did you vote for Nikki Haley? I never used the word Bitch. I never even called Hillary Clinton a Bitch, even though my Mom has. And what about your Attitude towards Maggie Thatcher and repeating a Quote where she was called a Bitch? I would not throw Stones in Glass Houses.

7. The word "elitism" has now become a dogwhistle for conservatives. It means "people who are smart and know what they are doing". In the most recent episode of the Young Turks, the panel talks about that and what it means. In a tolitarian society, its not the most vernrable in society to go first, its the intellectuals because they are warning everyone of the danger that is coming. Then ruling party begins devaluing education.

An Elitist is not necessarily someone smart. People criticised Mitt Romney and Donald Trump on Intelligence. An Elitist is someone in a high Mark in Society, plenty of Money, lot of Power, and looks down on everyone else. You are taking my Words and making up your own Definitions. Intellectuals are Libertarians, not Conservatives, Liberals, or Statists (Authoritarians/Totalitarians). Intellectuals never get elected. John Kerry is an Elitist. He married into Money twice. Now he flies aboard Air Force Three. Mitt Romney is not an Elitist because he was a Servant to Men, Women, and Children two Years in Paris giving up a lot of free time, College Years, and earned Money. He was also the Son of Mexican Immigrants. I doubt he has armed Bodyguards. Donald Trump is more or less an Elitist, because he has his own Money, earned, Bodyguards, he looks down on others, and has an arrogant Aura about him. He is still the best out of those four Oddballs. Jill Stein, M.D. was my second Choice. The Liberals and Progressives hate and despise her. The real War on Women is coming from the Left.

And Education is being devalued as we speak. Elimination of Vouchers and Charter Schools, cracking down on private and parochial Schools, sprouting up of Common Core, New Math, etc., and getting rid of School Choice. It is the dumbing down of America, and the inner Cities and metropolitan Areas are being hit the hardest. Ben Carson, M.D. would be better served as Secretary of Education or Surgeon General. I am not sure what the Qualifications for Cabinet Posts are, but Hillary was not qualified for Secretary of State, and look how People flocked to her. She served less than a Decade in the Senate, and she was a First Lady. She got nothing accomplished. I agree that spells bad News for these non-Politicians in Trump’s Cabinet, but maybe it is for the best. You might have preferred Ivanka Trump in the Oval Office since she is a Woman, yes? ~_^

I have noticed Liberals and Progressives not only hate Conservatives, they hate Libertarians as well. I never understood their Bigotry and Intolerance of others who were different ... or traditional. Present Company excluded. I will get to your other Messages tonight, Jen. Take Care! And sorry for me getting all heated.

Please keep comments and reblog responses civil. I am not putting up my friend’s name or email, because I don’t want to throw him completely under the bus or cyberbullied by anyone

[elizehurley-blog]

Daily Horoscope December 26Th

New Post has been published on https://www.withallwomen.com/daily-horoscope-december-26th/

Daily Horoscope December 26Th

General Horoscope

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Good judgment returns once the intelligent Moon enters sensible Virgo at 12:49 pm EST. In any case, even the most unremarkable enhancement may touch base with a stroke of scholarly brightening while the Moon frames a superconductive Grand Trine with electric Uranus and the splendid Sun. Our reasoning may give off an impression of being whimsical, yet common sense rules. An inventive thought is useless except if it can affect the course of occasions right now.

Your 2019 Horoscope Click Here

Aries Horoscope MAR 21 – APR 19

Your day appears to unfurl with a characteristic effortlessness, as though your life is streaming naturally. In spite of the fact that your schedule may be stuffed with activities, you’re willing to make each stride as it comes, instead of worrying about conditions outside your ability to control. Sadly, you might be enticed to get languid if everything seems, by all accounts, to be running easily now. Try not to squander this chance to be beneficial by falling into the device of inaction. Strike while the stars are your ally.

Taurus Horoscope APR 20 – MAY 20

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It is an appreciated help when you can detect the ground again under your feet. Maybe, simply the possibility of restoring dependability is sufficient to make you feel safe. You are progressively agreeable in your own skin when you have sufficient energy to convey what needs be without being receptive. Loved ones may be the first to see the positive move in your frame of mind, however it’s probably going to swell out into the world with little exertion on your part. Try not to roll out any critical improvements currently; just cling to existing conditions while it works to support you. Greek doctor Hippocrates expressed, “To do nothing is some of the time a decent cure.”

Gemini Horoscope MAY 21 – JUN 20

In spite of the fact that you may begin your day with an extensive rundown of objectives and the stamina important to accomplish them, you lose steam in the wake of applying a critical burst of vitality. You may be found napping by how quickly everything changes today. Tragically, you could squander a great deal of time attempting to figure out what occurred and why your energy is no more. Be that as it may, this sort of self-investigation isn’t gainful at this point. The answer for your quandary is to get once more into apparatus, regardless of whether you’re moving much slower than previously. Discover a pace you can support. Any advancement is superior to no advancement by any means.

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Cancer Horoscope JUN 21 – JUL 22

In some cases you wish you couldn’t have cared less so profoundly in light of the fact that it expects vitality to process each inclination, regardless of whether it has a place with another person. Fortunately, you get a brief respite today from the obligation of expecting to react to each blip that shows up on your mystic radar screen. Rather, pick just those feelings that fill a particular need now. Give common sense a chance to be your guide. Aldous Huxley expressed, “There is just a single corner of the universe you can be sure of enhancing, and that is your very own self.”

Leo Horoscope JUL 23 – AUG 22

You may assign your day to be one of making up for lost time with incomplete business, particularly where dangling discussions with others require last goals. In spite of the fact that your reasoning is by all accounts lined up with the most down to earth individuals around you, words can just go up until now. You’re not intrigued by only discussing what should be done today; you’re prepared to do it. Tennis boss Arthur Ashe stated, “Begin where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.”

Virgo Horoscope AUG 23 – SEP 22

Your normal affinity for association serves you well today as you consider wrapping this year up. You need everything in your reality to be flawless and clean; you lean toward it when every one of the subtleties are cautiously tied up in immaculate bundles. Despite the fact that there are numerous pieces that are still strange, the effective Virgo Moon’s trine to the ascertaining Capricorn Sun is a blessing from the universe, empowering you to make a far cry toward your objective. Keep your eyes ahead and your shoulder to the wheel. Reliably pushing forward now brings the advancement you look for.

Libra Horoscope SEP 23 – OCT 22

Debate with collaborators and companions are immediately settled in the event that you depend on political approaches to express your feelings. Rather than requesting consideration, you’re willing to work in the background while the reasonable Virgo Moon is visiting your twelfth House of Invisibility. Your vital nature prompts you to play out each conceivable technique in your psyche. Be that as it may, rationale will just take you up until now. Fortunately, divine knowledge is promptly accessible at this point. You don’t have to weigh out each choice before settling on a choice in light of the fact that your instinct will demonstrate to you which approach to go. She who falters is lost.

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Scorpio Horoscope OCT 23 – NOV 21

Rolling out proactive improvements throughout your life is confounded by diversions of your own creation today. You may get yourself excessively reactionary for reasons you don’t see, yet tallying to ten preceding saying anything can be sufficient to keep you from heading down an ineffective way. Be that as it may, holding your sharp tongue doesn’t mean covering your sentiments. Find approaches to make your point through helpful activity. Buckminster Fuller thought of, “You never show signs of change things by battling the current reality. To change something, construct another model that makes the current model out of date.”

Sagittarius Horoscope NOV 22 – DEC 21

You can’t depend on the Pollyanna Principle to get you through a candidly fragile circumstance today. Others would prefer fundamentally not to hear your positive assertions when there is a genuine emergency within reach. The nitpicking Virgo Moon is featuring your tenth House of Public Responsibility, expecting you to supply statistical data points to back up your present cases. You will develop a legend on the off chance that you can discover the tolerance to concentrate on the subtleties and offer a solid answer for a current issue. Guarantee less, convey more.

Capricorn Horoscope DEC 22 – JAN 19

In spite of the fact that you blossom with creating substantial outcomes, you get yourself curiously thoughtful today. As opposed to starting activity in reality, you can become mixed up in an intricate snare of interrelated actualities as you endeavor to settle on choices around a forthcoming excursion. Investigating every one of your alternatives might be as energizing as really bouncing on a plane, however your momentum examine isn’t just about the delight of revelation. Assemble all the data you should settle on the most ideal decision. Roman savant Seneca expressed, “Fortunes involves readiness meeting opportunity.”

Aquarius Horoscope JAN 20 – FEB 18

You are ablaze today as one absurd idea after another flies into your brain. Obviously, you’re no more interesting to strange reasoning, yet in some cases your thoughts are so far out they should be dreams. Luckily, your strokes of brightness are upheld by logical investigation that prompts handy applications. You have the capacity to shake things up in reality in case you’re willing to catch up your conceptualizing with productive exertion. Thomas Edison stated, “Virtuoso is one percent motivation and ninety-nine percent sweat.”

Pisces Horoscope FEB 19 – MAR 20

In spite of the fact that you’re known for your creative way to deal with critical thinking, your instinct takes a rearward sitting arrangement to your logical ability today. Amusingly, the responsive Moon’s essence in your seventh House of Others shows you may get your best thoughts from your associates and companions as they share their innovative considerations with you. Fortunately, there’s no opposition to see who thinks of the best answer when you’re all playing for a similar group. You’re ready to make another person’s reasoning a stride further, which is your essential commitment to the procedure. Never preclude the unparalleled power from claiming a mystical cooperation.

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'It's the mist! Can't you hear it sizzling?' 'A sizzling mist, is it?' The landlord looked at the wall, which was quite empty and unmysterious except for a few cobwebs. The urgency in Mort's voice unsettled him. He would have preferred the normal scaly monsters. A man knew where he stood with them. 'It's coming right across the room! Can't you feel it?' The customers looked at one another. Mort was making them uneasy. One or two of them admitted later that they did feel something, rather like an icy tingle, but it could have been indigestion. Mort backed away, and then gripped the bar. He shivered for a moment. 'Look,' said the landlord, 'a joke's a joke, but —' 'You had a green shirt on before!' The landlord looked down. There was an edge of terror in his voice. 'Before what?' he quavered. To his astonishment, and before his hand could complete its surreptitious journey towards the blackthorn stick, Mort lunged across the bar and grabbed him by the apron. 'You've got a green shirt, haven't you?' he said. 'I saw it, it had little yellow buttons!' 'Well, yes. I've got two shirts.' The landlord tried to draw himself up a little. 'I'm a man of means,' he added. 'I just didn't wear it today.' He didn't want to know how Mort knew about the buttons. Mort let him go and spun round. 'They're all sitting in different places! Where's the man who was sitting by the fire? It's all changed!' He ran out through the door and there was a muffled cry from outside. He dashed back, wild-eyed, and confronted the horrified crowd. 'Who changed the sign? Someone changed the sign!' The landlord nervously ran his tongue across his lips. 'After the old king died, you mean?' he said. Mort's look chilled him, the boy's eyes were two black pools of terror. 'It's the name I mean!' 'We've – it's always been the same name,' said the man, looking desperately at his customers for support. 'Isn't that so, lads? The Duke's Head.' There was a murmured chorus of agreement. Mort stared at everyone, visibly shaking. Then he turned and ran outside again. The listeners heard hoof beats in the yard, which grew fainter and then disappeared entirely, just as though a horse had left the face of the earth. There was no sound inside the inn. Men tried to avoid one another's gaze. No-one wanted to be the first to admit to seeing what he thought he had just seen. So it was left to the landlord to walk unsteadily across the room and reach out and run his fingers across the familiar, reassuring wooden surface of the door. It was solid, unbroken, everything a door should be. Everyone had seen Mort run through it three times. He just hadn't opened it. Binky fought for height, rising nearly vertically with his hooves thrashing the air and his breath curling away behind him like a vapour trail. Mort hung on with knees and hands and mostly with willpower, his face buried in the horse's mane. He didn't look down until the air around him was freezing and thin as workhouse gravy. Overhead the Hub Lights flickered silently across the winter sky. Below — — an upturned saucer, miles across, silvery in the starlight. He could see lights through it. Clouds were drifting through it. No. He watched carefully. Clouds were certainly drifting into it, and there were clouds in it, but the clouds inside were wispier and moving in a slightly different direction and, in fact, didn't seem to have much to do with the clouds outside. There was something else . . . oh yes, the Hub Lights. They gave the night outside the ghostly hemisphere a faint green tint, but there was no sign of it under the dome. It was like looking into a piece of another world, almost identical, that had been grafted on to the Disc. The weather was slightly different in there, and the Lights weren't on display tonight. And the Disc was resenting it, and surrounding it, and pushing it back into non-existence. Mort couldn't see it growing smaller from up here, but in his mind's ear he could hear the locust sizzle of the thing as it ground across the land, changing things back to where they should be. Reality was healing itself. Mort knew, without even having to think about it, who was at the centre of the dome. It was obvious even from here that it was centred firmly on Sto Lat. He tried not to think what would happen when the dome had shrunk to the size of the room, and then the size of a person, and then the size of an egg. He failed. Logic would have told Mort that here was his salvation. In a day or two the problem would solve itself; the books in the library would be right again; the world would have sprung back into shape like an elastic bandage. Logic would have told him that interfering with the process a second time around would only make things worse. Logic would have said all that, if only Logic hadn't taken the night off too. Light travels quite slowly on the Disc, due to the braking effect of the huge magical field, and currently that part of the Rim carrying the island of Krull was directly under the little sun's orbit and it was, therefore, still early evening. It was also quite warm, since the Rim picks up more heat and enjoys a gentle maritime climate. In fact Krull, with a large part of what for want of a better word must be called its coastline sticking out over the Edge, was a fortunate island. The only native Krullians who did not appreciate this were those who didn't look where they were going or who walked in their sleep and, because of natural selection, there weren't very many of them any more. All societies have their share of dropouts, but on Krull they never had a chance to drop back in again. Terpsic Mims was not a dropout. He was an angler. There is a difference; angling is more expensive. But Terpsic was happy. He was watching a feather on a cork bob gently on the gentle, reed-lined waters of the Hakrull river and his mind was very nearly a blank. The only thing that could have disturbed his mood was actually catching a fish, because catching fish was the one thing about angling that he really dreaded. They were cold and slimy and panicky and got on his nerves, and Terpsic's nerves weren't very good. So long as he caught nothing Terpsic Mims was one of the Disc's happiest anglers, because the Hakrull river was five miles from his home and therefore five miles from Mrs Gwladys Mims, with whom he had enjoyed six happy months of married life. That had been some twenty years previously. Terpsic did not pay undue heed when another angler took up station further along the bank. Of course, some fishermen might have objected to this breach of etiquette, but in Terpsic's book anything that reduced his chance of actually catching any of the damned things was all right by him. Out of the corner of his eye he noted that the newcomer was fly-fishing, an interesting pastime which Terpsic had rejected because one spent altogether far too much time at home making the equipment. He had never seen fly-fishing like this before. There were wet flies, and there were dry flies, but this fly augured into the water with a saw-toothed whine and dragged the fish out backwards. Terpsic watched in horrified fascination as the indistinct figure behind the willow trees cast and cast again. The water boiled as the river's entire piscine population fought to get out of the way of the buzzing terror and, unfortunately, a large and maddened pike took Terpsic's hook out of sheer confusion. One moment he was standing on the bank, and the next he was in a green, clanging gloom, bubbling his breath away and watching his life flash before his eyes and, even in the moment of drowning, dreading the thought of watching the bit between the day of his wedding and the present. It occurred to him that Gwladys would soon be a widow, which cheered him up a little bit. In fact Terpsic had always tried to look on the bright side, and it struck him, as he sank gratefully into the silt, that from this point on his whole life could only improve. . . . And a hand grabbed his hair and dragged him to the surface, which was suddenly full of pain. Ghastly blue and black blotches swam in front of his eyes. His lungs were on fire. His throat was a pipe of agony. Hands – cold hands, freezing hands, hands that felt like a glove full of dice – towed him through the water and threw him down on to the bank where, after some game attempts to get on with drowning, he was eventually bullied back into what passed for his life. Terpsic didn't often get angry, because Gwladys didn't hold with it. But he felt cheated. He'd been born without being consulted, he'd been married because Gwladys and her father had seen to it, and the only major human achievement that was uniquely his had been rudely snatched away from him. A few seconds ago it had all been so simple. Now it was all complicated again. Not that he wanted to die, of course. The gods were very firm on the subject of suicide. He just hadn't wanted to be rescued. Through red eyes in a mask of slime and duckweed he peered at the blurred form above him, and shouted, 'Why did you have to save me?' The answer worried him. He thought about it as he squelched all the way home. It sat at the back of his mind while Gwladys complained about the state of his clothes. It squirrelled around in his head as he sat and sneezed guiltily by the fire, because being ill was another thing Gwladys didn't hold with. As he lay shivering in bed it settled in his dreams like an iceberg. In the midst of his fever he muttered, 'What did he mean, “FOR LATER”?' Torches flared in the city of Sto Lat. Whole squads of men were charged with the task of constantly renewing them. The streets glowed. The sizzling flames pushed back shadows that had been blamelessly minding their own business every night for centuries. They illuminated ancient corners where the eyes of bewildered rats glittered in the depths of their holes. They forced burglars to stay indoors. They glowed on the night mists, forming a nimbus of yellow light that blotted out the cold high flames streaming from the Hub. But mainly they shone on the face of Princess Keli. It was everywhere. It plastered every flat surface. Binky cantered along the glowing streets between Princess Keli on doors, walls and gable ends. Mort gaped at posters of his beloved on every surface where workmen had been able to make paste stick. Even stranger, no-one seemed to be paying them much attention. While Sto Lat's night life was not as colourful and full of incident as that of Ankh-Morpork, in the same way that a wastepaper basket cannot compete with a municipal tip, the streets were nevertheless a-bustle with people and shrill with the cries of hucksters, gamblers, sellers of sweetmeats, pea-and-thimble men, ladies of assignation, pickpockets and the occasional honest trader who had wandered in by mistake and couldn't now raise enough money to leave. As Mort rode through them snatches of conversation in half-a-dozen languages floated into his ears; with numb acceptance he realised he could understand every one of them. He eventually dismounted and led the horse along Wall Street, searching in vain for Cutwell's house. He found it only because a lump on the nearest poster was making muffled swearing noises. He reached out gingerly and pulled aside a strip of paper. Tanks very much,' said the gargoyle doorknocker. 'You wouldn't credit it, would you? One minute life as normal, nexft minute a mouthful of glue.' 'Where's Cutwell?' 'He's gone off to the palace.' The knocker leered at him and winked a cast-iron eye. 'Some men came and took all his fstuff away. Then some ovver men started pasting pictures of his girlfriend all over the place. Barftuds,' it added. Mort coloured. 'His girlfriend?' The doorknocker, being of the demonic persuasion, sniggered at his tone. It sounded like fingernails being dragged over a file.