#turns out its treacherous. why does that not stick in my brain ever

[butchdykeorpheus]

me, an entire adult and writer with a university degree: google how the fuck do you spell treatchorous

[buckyownsmylife]

t r e a c h e r o u s - final chapter

The one where you are Sebastian’s girlfriend, but Chris can’t get enough of you.

Due to the age gap between you and Sebastian, your boyfriend has a hard time feeling sexually attracted to you. In order to save your relationship, he invites Chris to have sex with you while he watches, hoping that the voyeurism will awaken his arousal and jealousy. Soon, he’ll learn that inviting his best friend into his relationship may have just been the worst mistake he ever made, when Chris finds himself unable to let you go after his role is done.

for general warnings, author’s notes and disclaimer, please go to the fic’s masterlist

A/N: this is it, guys! Treacherous’ final chapter! It’s probably the filthiest thing I’ve ever written and so far out of my comfort zone, but maybe that’s why I’m so proud of it 🙈 Thanks for sticking so far! I’ll probably be announcing my next series soon, hope that you guys will like that as well. If you’re part of my taglist solely for treacherous, but is still interested in my other works, please follow the link in my description or in my masterlist to join another taglist!

Chris’ P.O.V.

I could see the shock in her eyes when she found me on the other side of the door, despite the pouring rain that had been steadily falling for the last three days in LA. I didn’t care about the weather, just like I didn’t care that she was in a relationship with one of my best friends. I just had to see her. 

“Chris?” She asked, and held her robe tighter against her body, which she predominantly hid behind the door. It made me irrationally angry. I was aware of the lack of correspondence between that simple action and the intensity of the feeling that overtook my body, but there wasn’t anything I could do at that moment. I was too far gone, already.

“What? Wasn’t expecting to see me? Didn’t think I’d come all the way down here to ask you why the hell you’ve been avoiding me like I’m the devil?” She flinched, but didn’t make any movement to show more of herself from behind the door. 

“For fuck’s sake, woman, stop hiding from me. I’ve seen you naked before. I’ve had you writhing with pleasure under me…” My voice slowly disappeared as I stared down at her stomach, now visible since I had pushed my way into the house, taking the door away from her. She was tense, her hands trying to cover her belly and failing miserably. “You’re pregnant?!”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. That much was obvious. But if my first reaction was to feel desperation at the realization that the woman I loved was that much more unattainable, a small voice in my brain whispered something that left me curious.

“Who’s the father?” I asked, looking at her directly in the eyes, despite the fact that she was trying to look pretty much everywhere but at me. “Y/N.” The way I called her name was a warning in itself, but she still didn’t budge. “Y/N,” I called again as I took a step closer to her, until we were in fact all but touching. 

“Answer me.” I held her jaw tightly but carefully, forcing her to meet my eyes, but she still didn’t answer, opting instead to bite her lower lip and look up at me with a desperate look in her eyes. I knew what she was asking for, and so I obliged. “Come here,” I whispered, already pulling her to follow my demand. And then I leaned down and took her lips in mine.

It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the night, that she was pregnant and that her boyfriend - my best friend - was sleeping somewhere in that house. All that mattered was her and I and the way it felt when our lips touched.

Her hands came up to my hair and I pulled her up by her ass as best as I could, considering the belly between us. “Where is he?” I whispered, and she didn’t even open her eyes to speak. 

“Our bedroom.”

“Fine.” I took her to the hallway and opened the first door I found, which was of the guest room I had spent a few nights in, oh so many months ago. It shared a wall with the bedroom where Sebastian was currently sleeping in, but the truth was, I did not care. A big part of me, the dark part of me, was kind of hoping he would listen. I wanted him to know that I was fucking his girl, because maybe then she’d finally be mine.

I unceremoniously dropped her on the bed before crawling over her body, pulling her by the back of her neck so our lips would meet again. I was desperate for her, for her taste, for her warmth, her caresses. Luckily, it seemed like she felt the same way.

“Chris,” she whispered as I leaned down to suck on her breasts. They were slightly bigger, I bet they were more sensitive to my touch. I moaned at the thought that soon, they would be filled with the warm milk she’d need to feed her child. I wanted to have a taste of it too. I wanted to be around to witness the changes, worship the body that was growing another human being.

“I got you, baby.” Carefully, I swirled my tongue around her nipples, appreciating the shiver that took over her body. “Does it feel good?” I had to ask, to which she breathlessly agreed, one of her hands coming up to lose itself on my hair, keeping my lips attached to her skin. “I’ll take care of you.”

The words raised goosebumps over her skin, and I couldn’t help but to let my hands follow them until I reached her belly, carefully and softly rubbing it as I continued to kiss her breasts a bit longer.

“I’ll always take care of you, baby girl. You just have to say it.” Her eyes met mine, and it was clear that she knew what I meant. “Tell me who’s the father, princess.” She shook her head, her hands coming up to push me away from her, but I captured her wrists before she could, kissing my way to her face again.

I gave her another one of those soul shattering kisses that I hadn’t known before we met. I tried to show her what I felt, how much I wanted her, just by the way my tongue invaded her mouth. If she noticed my desperation, she didn’t say anything. Quickly, her body lost its tension, her arms escaping my hold to fall beside her body, and she became complacent again.

Good. That’s how I needed her to be.

Pressing one last kiss against her lips, I got back to where I was before, now making my way down to where she was already dripping for me. God, I could smell her. She was mouthwatering in every sense. I couldn’t wait to have her taste in my mouth again.

And so I delved in, my tongue coming out to slowly swirl her clit around. She moaned loudly, pulling on my hair again. Perhaps she wasn’t that worried about Sebastian finding us, either.

The thought spurred me on. I buried my face in her, my nose still bumping her little button as I pressed my tongue as far as it could go inside. I never wanted to forget her taste. When her thighs started to quiver around me, I pushed a finger into her, and she cried out loud, pulling on my locks forcefully. I welcomed the burn. I welcomed any sensation she gifted me. 

Despite her sensitiveness, I didn’t stop eating her out. I couldn’t. I wanted to stretch this experience as much as possible. I wanted her forever. And I was going to convince her to choose me tonight.

So I carefully drank her release, slowly pushing my finger in and out of her until she was thrusting back against me again. Only then did I force another finger into her, watching for her reaction before resuming my movements on her clit. She looked so beautiful with her head thrown back, her breasts bouncing with the force of my movements. I wished I was able to kiss her all over at the same time, keep having her taste in my mouth while I sucked on her breasts the way I was doing to her little clit now.

I could only imagine how gorgeous she would look further down her pregnancy, when her full breasts and her belly became too big for me to meet her eyes while I was taking care of her needs like I was right now. But I didn’t want to have to imagine. I wanted to live it, to be there for her as she gave birth, only to fill her with more babies right after. 

When she filled my mouth with her essence again, I accepted it was time to move on, although I still would have been happy to spend the rest of my life between her thighs, literally drinking her in. But Y/N seemed eager to get on with it too, as she pulled me to her as best as she could and kissed me again.

Her tongue tried to swipe as much of her own taste as she could, and fuck if she wasn’t the sexiest woman I’d ever slept with. A groan escaped my chest and I pushed her against the bed again, pumping my cock a few times before swiping the blunt head against her clit.

“Guess I don’t have to worry about cumming inside of you, right?” My words made her moan, and since she couldn��t reach me anymore, she opted to fist the sheets beside her head, trying to move her hips in a way that would get me inside of her faster. 

Seeing her need, I thrusted into her, but instead of taking my time to let her adjust to my thickness, I only stopped when I bottomed out. And then I immediately started pistoning, fucking her like I hated her. I needed her fucked silly for what I had in mind.

And it didn’t take too long to get her there. The tricky part was trying to contain myself, because she was like a fucking aphrodisiac: the simple sight of her naked body - especially now that she was pregnant - was enough to make me ready to burst a nut. But after a few rough thrusts, she was already babbling nonsense, just like I wanted her to be.

I could barely understand my name and little prayers of ‘oh god’, and ‘yes please’ as I kept on fucking her. Just when I felt her cunt start to contract around me, I pulled out, quickly turning her around so I could fuck her doggy style - our favorite. The second I was inside of her again, I pulled her by her hair so she’d be resting against my thighs.

“Well, now that I have you here…” I whispered against her ear, enjoying the goosebumps that raised where my warm breath touched her skin. “You’re gonna tell me. Who’s the father, Y/N?”

She tried to shake her head when she caught up to my intentions, but I was still firmly holding her hair, just like my other hand was holding her hips against me, so she wouldn’t be able to move.

“C’mon, baby girl. By now you must have realized that I will get this out of you sooner or later. I’ll only stop when I do.” One of my hands went around her to caress her belly.  It’s not like the entire world didn’t know how crazy I was about having kids. And ever since I saw her full belly, it became clear that I only wanted them if it was with her. 

The hand that was on her belly went further south to part her lower lips so my middle finger could play with her sensitive clit. I had to bite my lip to stop from grunting when I felt my own digit softly run over my length as I resumed my thrusts in her, this time forcing her to fuck herself against me.

When I felt her fall slack against my chest, I kissed her temple, cooing meanly at her. “Already tired, baby? I haven’t even started with you yet. Unless, of course, this means you’re ready to start spilling some truth to me.”

I fucked her hard, taking sick pleasure from the little gasps and moans that escaped her as I continued to overstimulate the hell out of the woman I loved. This time, when she came again, I didn’t stop thrusting, finding just enough self control to fuck her through her orgasm and push it further, until she was bouncing against my body, like a rag doll I could easily manipulate.

“Who’s. The. Father. Of. The. Baby?” I punctuated each word with a particularly rough thrust, never stopping the little circles I was doing to her clit, even as she was trying to push my hand away from her.

“Babies!” She screamed as she came again, trembling over my body when I finally stopped, confused. What the hell was she talking about?

“What?” I asked, and when she didn’t answer, I gave another little nudge at her nub and she immediately responded, thrashing around in an effort to escape my touch. 

“Babies. They’re.. They’re babies.” As realization struck through me, an even bigger possessive edge took over my body, and my fingers trembled in the effort to control myself.

“How many?” I asked, softly kissing the crook of her neck as I abandoned her abused clit to run my fingers up her body. Despite my relatively sweet gestures, my voice was ice cold, and I knew she could hear the aggressive undertone of my actions.

“W-what?” It was her turn to question.

“How many babies? Are they twins?” It took her some time to answer, and I took advantage of it to draw over the edge of her nipples with one of my fingers. When I had enough of waiting, I pulled harshly on them, at the same time biting down on her right shoulder. 

“Y-YES. A boy and a girl. Th-they’re a boy and a girl.” The need for domination was rising within me. I was in desperate need of some answers. Was the girl of my dreams fulfilling my fantasy with my best friend or was she trying to keep my kids, my wish come true, from me? Nuzzling against her neck, I delivered a single quick slap over her pussy, just to call her attention to me.

“It could be so easy, baby girl… Just to tell me the truth.” Delivering another slap over her sensitive cunt, she almost doubled over with the impact, but I kept her close to me by the hand possessively wrapped around her belly. “If you tell me they’re his, I’ll leave just as soon as I’m done with you. This will be the last time I’ll interfere in your family life. I’ll stand on the sidelines and watch as you two raise your kids, keeping only the memories of your naked body so I can pleasure myself without you.” 

She was trembling again, undoubtedly ready to cum yet another time, but unable to comprehend how her body was able to.  “But if they’re mine…” I continued, releasing a long, shaky breath as I tried to clear my own mind while dealing with this possibility. “Well then, get ready to start fucking screaming, because this will be the last time you’ll ever see Sebastian in your life.”

I pushed her roughly down against the mattress again, one hand keeping her head on the pillow while the other adjusted her hips so I could pound her. I didn’t hold back this time, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep from cumming for much longer. The thought that Y/N could be pregnant with my kids was too much for me, my balls feeling heavy as they slapped on her clit and my groin and all I wanted to do was to paint her insides with my cum again. So I needed her to cum one last time, and fast.

“Tell. Me.” I commanded, fucking her harshly, forcefully, and by now her moans carried more pain than pleasure in their sound, although the latter was still present. “Fuck…” I was so close to losing it, I needed to know. My voice wavered as I felt my orgasm approaching, the force of which was so high I felt tears rising to my eyes, much like Y/N, who was already sobbing underneath me. “Please, baby girl. Please tell me.”

I don’t know what did it for her, if it was the tiredness that overcame her after this last orgasm or if the broken tone of my words caught her heart, but when she came this time, she screamed the words I was begging to hear.

“They’re yours, Chris. They’re yours.” As soon as they were out into the world, I was cumming inside of her, the feeling of euphoria that much higher as I struggled to keep softly thrusting into her, to milk both of our orgasms fully.

My strength disappeared as my muscles relaxed, and I had to adjust myself to fall by her side and not hurt her belly. Immediately, a silly smile appeared on my face, and I reached out to caress it.

“You’re not lying, right?” She managed to chuckle a little bit, one of her arms hiding her eyes from me.

“I don’t think I have enough energy to even do that.” That was all I needed to know. I managed to pull her to me by the back of her neck, kissing her with all I had. 

“I hope you know I’m never letting you go.” Y/N smiled softly at me, her hand covering my own, that was still over her belly.

“I’m counting on it.” We stayed like that for a while, just basking in the afterglow, before she suddenly interrupted it with a question I honestly didn’t want to think about.

“Who’s going to tell Sebastian?”

THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN BY BUCKYOWNSMYLIFE. IF YOU SEE IT POSTED BY ANYONE ELSE, IT HAS BEEN STOLEN. PLEASE LET ME KNOW ON TUMBLR, AO3 OR WATTPAD AND REPORT IT IMMEDIATELY. LEGAL ACTION WILL BE PURSUED AGAINST PLAGIARISTS SO THINK TWICE BEFORE STEALING IT.

[acebladespades]

For the sicktember thing, 9 with Nameless King, please? Thank you! 😊

Title (Do not) let him eat cake!

Fandom: Dark Souls

Characters: Nameless King, Ornstein, Gwynevere, Smough, Artorias, Sif.

Word-Count:2911

AO3-Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/34321024

Summary: Eating too many cakes in one go may not have been as fun as Gwynsen had thought...

Prompt: I am not sick

I am so sorry for taking so long!! Life got in the way but I finally finished your prompt :D I hope you like it, writing this was fun!

@sicktember

It was the smell which lured him out of his way and guided him to the dinning hall. Deep down, he knew there was something of importance he was meant to be doing. There was someone waiting for him.

Unconsciously, Gwynsen tried to remember, but all his thoughts faded into the background of his mind once he saw the tower of freshly baked pastries carefully placed on the table.

They exuded a sweet and delicious steam, the spicy scent of marzipan.

There were plenty, enough to feed a small army or a very hungry court.

Or, in Gwynsen’s case, a god of war with a grumbling stomach and a watering mouth.

Well, marzipan cakes are my favorite. Gwynevere finds them overly sweet and Gwyndolin often says they would rather lick a basilisk’s eyeball than to take a single bite of these sugary abominations. Oh Dolin, always so melodramatic.

Gwynsen carefully took one of the cakes in his hands.

So, surely, these were baked for me. The cooks must have wanted to surprise me. They are too generous to me. I shall see that they are rightfully rewarded! But first…

“I shall feast!” He opened his mouth and prepared to take the first bite.

“No, Gwynsen!”

But all he ended up biting was thin air and almost the tip of his tongue when, with a swift swing of her hand, Gwynevere took the cake away from him.

“What the--” Gwynsen said after his jaws recovered from the forceful impact of his empty bite. “Sister, where did you come from? And more importantly, why have you stolen my cake? Could this be fraternal betrayal?”

Gwynsen’s heart started to break at the mere thought of his own sister turning against him; thankfully, Gwynevere soon proved him wrong, but not before giving him a small slap on his head.

“Please, stop fooling around.” Gwynevere said with a heavy sigh as she placed the marzipan cake back in its former place. “Father will not approve of you eating his desserts. You know well how finicky he is about his midday cravings. Do you remember the time he destroyed the East tower with one of his lighting spears just because his pastries did not have enough powdered sugar on top? Because I do, and so do the cooks. I created many lovely memories in that tower. I loved that tower, brother, I really did.”

Gwynevere’s gaze became dark and sharp.

“Sister, please. You are scaring me.”

“Oh, I am sorry. I got a little carried away.” Immediately, Gwyenevere went back to her laid-back and cheerful demeanour, but her determination had not waned. “In any case, you shall have none of these baked goods. Unless, of course, you convince Father to share a few of them with you, but we both know that taming a rageful dragon would be an easier task, so really brother, don’t waste your time.”

“Ask Father?” Gwynsen snorted, half amused and half angry at how ridiculous the idea was. “Please. I would rather kiss Smough on the lips.”

“Brother, don’t be like that, for underneath that grotesque armor, lies a skilled kisser.”

“What?!”

“I said I would never want to do so either.”

“Gwynevere, that’s not what you said.”

“Brother, don’t you have places to be?” Gwynevere interrupted him without shame. “Isn’t it time for your daily training with Ornstein? It is not proper of a god to leave others waiting for long.”

Ornstein!

So that had been his original task before he had become distracted by the mesmerizing aroma of the cakes.

“I shall go to him at once.” Gwynsen exclaimed. His treacherous stomach seconded him with a loud growl.

He looked at the cakes again.

I’m already late for our training… so truly, you wouldn’t mind waiting for a few minutes more, would you, Ornstein?

Ornstein would definitely mind, and Gwynsen knew it.

I’ll think of a way to make it up to him later. Right now, there are more important matters at hand. And I know the way to turn things into my favor...

“Nevy, please.” Gwynsen looked around to make sure no one was around. Once he made sure there were no witnesses, he joined his hands together and looked at Gwynevere with hazy and sad eyes. “Let me have one. Father will not notice its absence, I promise. Please my dear, wise, beautiful, patient, smart, noble, brave--”

“No, Gwynsen.” Without mercy, Gwynevere interrupted her brother’s overused list of compliments. “I already told you no.”

“Then I hope you know how to explain Father about those little kisses you steal from Executioner Smough everyone now and then.”

“Oh dear… you know about it? Yes, I should have expected it. Gossip travels faster than light in this place.”

“So it’s true?! Gwynevere, you really should be more mindful of your secrets and your words. You are not what I would call subtle about them. And why, sister? Why Smough?”

“I think the right question here is ‘ Why not Smough?’ ” Gwynevere answered, winking an eye to Gwynsen.

“Gwynevere, stop. You’re killing your big brother.”

Unrepentantly, Gwynevere chuckled. “Don’t you worry, it was all a jest. Very well Gwynsen… if only to keep this small rumor between us, I shall let you eat one of Father’s cakes. Just one, understood? Now, if you excuse me, I too have someone to meet. He awaits for me in the west tower. And that someone’s name is Smough.”

Lighting power began to manifest around Gwynsen’s frame.

That bastard! How does he dare?

Gwynevere laughed at his reaction. “Oh brother, you are so easy to fool.”

She gave him a small pat on top of his head to calm him down. Gwynsen had just succeeded in controlling his temper when Gwynevere pulled him closer to her and whispered, “Seriously now, don’t come by.”

And with that, she was gone.

“My dear sister and the Executioner? No, I will not allow it!” Gwynsen exclaimed, his voice echoing with ruthless determination, the same way it did every time he commanded his soldiers to battle. “This is a transgression I cannot overlook! Wrathful lighting shall be your punishment, Smough! You shall curse the day you were--”

His stomach growled again.

Almost unconsciously, one of his hands reached for a marzipan cake.

“By the first flame, they sure smell good.”

His fury started to disappear, and it was completely forgotten when, at last, Gwynsen took the first bite.

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

“Master!”  Ornstein welcomed him as soon as Gwynsen entered the training grounds. His apprentice and friend did not bother to hide his anger at his pronounced delay. “What took you so long? We were supposed to start our training two hours ago. I had to listen to Artorias’ anecdotes this whole time. And don’t get me wrong, Artorias is my beloved friend and you know how much I care about him, but I swear, if I ever hear one more story about Sif’s antics...”

“What?” Gwynsen had heard only half of Ornstein’s rant. He wanted to pay attention, but it was difficult for him to focus on anything else other than the torturous knot on his stomach.

It hurt more than a dragon fang stuck in his gut after failing to evade the beast’s jaws. Gwynsen didn’t know how he was still standing, or how his fever had not melted his brains yet.

Oh, nonsense. I’m fine. Am I not the god who slays dozens of dragons and comes out of their fiery attacks unscathed?  I am fine! I just need to walk it off.

“Oh… Oh yes, Artorias.” Gwynsen said, doing his best to sound amused. “Where is he? I thought he would be joining us.”

“He had to leave. It was time for Sif’s daily walk.”

“Wait, the wolf walks his master?”

“What? Master, what are you talking about? Sif is the wolf, Artorias is the knight.”

“Oh… right.”

An awkward pause followed, one in which Ornstein took off his helmet and revealed his concerned expression to Gwynsen.

“Master, is everything alright?”

Ornstein’s worry was like a wake-up call for Gwynsen.

“Of course it is! “Gwynsen replied with the most forced smile he had ever made in his life, even more than when he had to pretend to be happy in his father’s presence. “ Why would you ever think otherwise, Ornstein?”

“You are sweating, your face is red, your legs are trembling.” Orbstein observed, unamused but still concerned. “And you keep embracing your stomach as if you were hugging an invisible lover.”

“Ornstein, don’t tell me you’re jealous!” With gigantic effort, Gwynsen straightened his back and unfolded his arms. The sharp sting in his stomach came close to making him gasp; to conceal it, Gwynsen cackled instead. “There is no such thing as an invisible lover in my arms! Ornstein, you say the wildest of things!”

An agonizing sting pierced Gwynsen’s stomach.

I am going to pass out.

His sight blurred and his belly burned as if he had swallowed the First Flame like it was wine.

No!

Gwynsen stomped his feet. Lighting energy shattered the ground below his sandal.

No, I am not sick! I am fine. My stomach is simply overreacting at the memory of my sister and Executioner Smough sharing kisses.

His stomach growled louder than a furious dragon.

Why Gwynevere? Why did you brand that image on your brother’s mind?

“Master, you are not well!” Ornstein exclaimed with great concern. “We need to take you to Lady Gwynevere. She will know how you heal whatever ailment is--”

“Nonsense!” Gwynsen countered, making Ornstein jolt back in surprise. “My sister is quite busy, you see. He is tending to Smough at this time of the day, and not in a chaste way.”

“What?” Gwynsen and Ornstein said at the same time.

Realizing he had spoken more than he should have, Gwynsen quickly gave Ornstein a strong slap on the back. “It was a jest! Ornstein, you are such a stick in the mud! You need to loosen up and relax, for laughing and resting are also fundamental parts of a knight’s training.”

Before Ornstein could protest, Gwynsen wielded his spear and readied his fighting stance.

My stomach is going to explode. Oh Father, what will you see when you gaze upon the scattered guts of your first- born?

He would probably say something akin to “Oh Gwynsen, look at the mess you made! You are a lost case, boy, you truly are!”

“Oh Father, you insensitive knave!”

“Master, there’s no need to be rude.” Ornstein protested. He too had wielded his spear and had readied his stance.

“No, I was not talking about you, Ornstein.  I was talking of my big, dumb, stupid… No, it doesn’t matter.” Gwynsen shook his head and focused. “Let’s begin. Come at me and try to land a hit, Ornstein. I will treat you as I would an enemy, so don’t hold back.”

“Master, I really think we should take you to your sister instead.”

“You talk too much! Battles are not won with words, but with arms!” Gwynsen charged at Ornstein. For a second, the adrenaline of battle, even one of training nature, erased any trace of pain. For Gwynsen, it was like a blissful and distracting gift.

I knew it. I knew my pain would go away on its own.

Gwynsen closed his eyes, rejoicing in his healthy and numb stomach.

You were no foe for this god of war, marzipan cakes! Your sweet and delicious ingredients are no match for my iron guts. MY IRON---

The rest of his victorious thought remained forever unfinished after an explosion of burning pain, born from the impact of the blunt side of Ornstein’s spear, spread from his stomach to the rest of his body.

Perhaps… I am sick.

Gwynsen thought as the darkness of unconsciousness took over his world.

Just a little bit.

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

“Last time, Gwynsen.” Gwynevere said to her brother with anger as she and Ornstein helped Gwynsen keep the vasin still on his lap as he emptied his stomach inside it. “That was the last time I ever trusted you and your insatiable hunger!”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to.” Gwynsen stuttered in a small pause his intestines gave him. “My will may be strong, but the marzipan was stronger.”

He wanted to say more, but he was interrupted by another gush rushing up his throat. Once he was done, Gwynevere and Ornstein put the vasin down on the floor and tucked him in bed.

“Well, I have to say,” Ornstein sighed with little enthusiasm, “this is not how I pictured my day would go. There was supposed to be more training in it and less vomit.  At the very least, I am glad you are feeling better now, master. Next time, don’t try so hard to pretend you aren’t feeling well.”

“And while you are at it, how about you also try not to devour four hundred marzipan cakes in one go like some hungry animal?” Gwynevere added as she glared at her brother. “God of war… The only thing you are a god of is gluttony!”

“Four hundred marzipan cakes?” Ornstein said in disbelief, only adding to Gwynsen’s shame. “Master, how could you have done such a thing? And here I was starting to think one of the cooks had tried to poison you! Four hundred cakes! And worst of all, why didn’t you ask me to join you or save some for me? You know they are my favorite too.”

“Dragon Slayer Ornstein!”

“N-no, no.” Ornstein turned crimson and began to stutter. “What I meant was… I was just saying… Oh, bollocks.”

“Ornstein!” A newcomer exclaimed. He entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him. “Such foul language in the presence of Lady Gwynevere. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Gwynsen, Gwynevere and Ornsteind stared at Artorias at the same time.

“Hey now, do not look at me all at once.” Artorias chuckled nervously. “No, seriously, please stop. I’m getting self-conscious.”

“Artorias, what are you doing here?” Ornstein asked. “I thought you were walking Sif.”

“I was, but Lord Gwyn summoned me. He told me about what happened with Lord Gwynsen and his poisoning. Something about marzipan cakes? I am not sure. Honestly, I stopped listening to Lord Gwyn soon after he started talking.  I don’t know the details, but he assigned me one task: to be Lord Gwynsen’s one and only companion during his recovery. I told Lord Gwyn that you would be more fit for the job, Ornstein, but he insisted I was the one to do it. He also told me how much Lord Gwynsen is fond of my anecdotes of Sif…. Oh master, I had no idea you felt that way. Worry not, I have plenty of stories I have not told you yet. I’m sure they will be a fine diversion while you recover!”

Gwynsen closed his eyes and cursed his father in his mind.

Father, you vengeful twit! I knew you would not let my mischief go unpunished! It was just some cakes… is this truly the punishment I deserve? You are cruel, Father. Cruel.

“But at the very least, I’m not alone.” Gwynsen said under his breath with relief and gratitude. He opened his eyes again and smiled. “For I have my dear sister and loyal friend by my side.”

The words died in his mouth when he saw neither Gwynevere nor Ornstein around. The only evidence they had left behind of their presence in the room was the open door they had forgotten to close during their hurried escape.

“Nevy?” Gwynsen whispered in despair. “Orny?”

But they were gone.

Only Artorias was there with him.

Artorias and his endless anecdotes of Sif.

“Do not worry master, I am sure they will be back soon.” Artorias said, pulling a chair closer to Gwynsen’s bed and sitting on it. “In the meanwhile, how about I tell you about the time Sif answered the call on nature inside Smough’s helmet and he only noticed once he put it on? That was a day Smough will not forget....”

Father, if I ever turn against you, know that this was the reason!

Gwynsen thought as he hid his head under the pillow.

As for Artorias, he kept talking and talking.

This was the reason!

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

It didn’t take long for Artorias to regret having left his master behind.

“Oh Lady Gwynevere, we should have not abandoned your brother. We should have remained by his side.”

“And listen to the time when Sif chewed on Father’s favorite sandals and almost brought doom upon us all? Do forgive Ornstein, but I think I shall pass. Besides...” Gwynevere turned around and stared longingly at the West tower. “There is someone waiting for me, and his name is…”

“No, I do not want to hear it. My mind shall not be branded as my master’s was!” Ornstein covered his ears and escaped from the scene. He did not know where he was going, but anywhere was better than staying there. As he ran, he kept chanting, “If I don’t hear, it isn’t real. If it isn’t real, it won’t haunt me!”

Gwynevere watched him go and laughed, unaware that Smough was standing behind her and had witnessed the whole thing.

Before he too walked away, he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“By the Lords,” he lamented under his breath, “it is always the same thing with these gods and their knights. Every day. Every darn day.”

[anika-ann]

Attached: Hurtful Words Pt.1

Type: (mini)-series,  Modern-college-professor AU… aka the wrong attachment AU ;)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 5600

Summary:  Stick and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

You knew for a fact that it was a load of BS. The truth is that words can break your heart. And that realization hits you full force the day you have your last exam to earn your bachelor degree.

If you pass, it will be a cause for great celebration. Spoiler alert: it’s not.

A/N: Attached: Hurtful Words is an addition that loosely followes the series. Will be in two (or three) parts. You don’t necessarily need to read the mini-series as a whole, but you will understand much better.

Warnings: I did something in here which I’m usually trying to avoid at any cost; in this story, I used Y/N Y/L/N. Does that count as a warning? 

Warnings II: name calling, humiliation, panic attack!, bad poetry, mentions of vomiting and  alcohol, the briefest mention of self-harm, angst, swearing, threats of violence

Story masterlist

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You released the breath you had been holding, all your willpower put into not sinking into the chair in relief as Professor Phillips announced your grade – one that meant that you hadn’t failed.

In fact, you had just passed your last exam of your bachelor program so you were entirely in the right. In your head, an overexcited monkey started playing cymbals and you didn’t mind the noise despite how sleep-deprived you were from the past few days. A barely contained mad smile fought its way to your lips instead.

Mind you, as you thanked Professor Phillips and rose to your feet – your knees almost giving out, because HOLY SHIT YOU JUST GOT YOUR BACHELOR’S – you would swear you saw a brief smile on the professor’s face too as if he was amused at your antics.

But who cared if he was having fun at your expense?! You PASSED! You had been losing sleep, terrified of this exam, because everyone knew Phillips was a hard-ass – a fair one, but still a hard-ass – and you just passed his examination!

Time to pop the fucking champagne! The one Penny had been saving at the dorm from yesterday when she had finished her own degree; she insisted that she would wait for you, because you were in this together.

You couldn’t leave her waiting any longer and you didn’t have any intention to do so.

Leaving the room and walking into the empty hallway – because of course you came the last as if to prolong your torture – you breathed in and out and deliberately let the grin finally spread on your face fully.

You were free, you were ready to take on the world despite not being ready at all and you had Steve, who you suspected would be proud as hell and would celebrate with you tomorrow, graciously letting you and your roomie do it first-- and gosh, life was beautiful.

Making your way down the corridor, with a grin ever-present, a leaflet that hadn’t been there before caught your attention. It appeared a handwritten note, styled in a regular column – a poem perhaps.

Still smiling, the curiosity took the best of you and you walked to it, peripherally noticing that along the walls, there was even more.

You froze in your step when your gaze fell on the first line; your very own name was staring back at you and it confused you at first, a brief surge of excitement lighting up your body, a naïve belief that perhaps Steve somehow decided to surprise you.

But Steve’s last name came next, which you found strange.

And then came the word ‘whore’ and your heart stopped, your gaze automatically flickering all over the page.

Your stomach made a painful somersault, your mind turning blank.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of that nightmare materializing in front of you, reading and re-reading the poem that almost resembled a twisted nursery rhyme over and over.

Y/N Y/L/N Rogers’ whore Bet she’ll get The highest score For sucking dick Having fucked her ass Let’s hope she’ll soon Be eating grass

Darkness battled to cut off your vision, the world swaying off of its place. Involuntarily, your trembling hand reached out and touched the paper, smooth under your fingertips, your frantically beating heart and the vertigo threating to overpower your sense of balance tying you to the reality, screaming at you that this wasn’t just a really fucked-up dream.

You tore the paper down, lump growing in your throat as you looked around for watchful eyes in sudden paranoia of being followed, only to find the hallway deserted aside from you.

Just you and many papers hanging on the walls.

As if you were just a puppet to a spiteful master, your feet carried you to the next leaflet, tears filling your eyes as you found the very same words written on it; a precise copy.

Your breathing picked up a furious pace, your chest crushed under a weight of an invisible elephant stomping on it. The corridor swam in the dampness of your eyes, your mind too quiet and yet screaming with millions of question marks and exclamation points, panic squeezing your lungs, nausea attacking your stomach.

What the hell was happening? Who would do that? Why? What was the goal? Was it just to ruin your triumph?

Because if that was the goal, it was a roaring success; the thousands of questions swirling in your head and the unexpected sting in your heart turned the fact that you had passed an exam into a faint memory.

All you saw was the words.

Rogers’s whore

Was that what you were? Was that how people who knew about the relationship saw you? Was that how Steve saw you?

The highest score for sucking dick

Was that what you were doing? Using Steve’s position to your advantage? Was that how you got through every exam including the one today, even if unwittingly? Was that what Phillips’ little smile had been about?

Hope she’ll soon be eating grass.

Was that a threat? Was someone wishing that happened to you or were they actually about to hurt you? Why?!

Hearing your own wheezing and feeling your fingertips prickling, your foggy mind did the only reasonable thing it could come up with; it led your steps into the nearest bathroom at lightning speed with no regard for how shaky were your feet.

You stumbled into the open stall, smashing the door shut and leaning onto them with your suddenly damp forehead, feeling the cold beads of sweat gather in your hairline, your cheeks drenching in tears.

When did you start crying so hard?

When did the trembling in your limbs begin?

What the fuck was happening?

What-how--why-but-

Your palms rested on the door as you desperately tried and failed to ground yourself and take control of your breathing. Your temples were pounding irritatingly, your gut painfully clenching--- and exactly in that moment that could have lasted a second or an hour, your fingers brushed over a piece of paper stuck on the door.

Darkness curled around your brain like a treacherous friend, another wave of nausea twisting your stomach.

It took you one blurry glance at the paper and you knew precisely what it was, choking on your sob, ripping the offensive poem off and tearing it to pieces which you blindly threw to the toilet, the flushing sound deafening to your ears.

Your shaky legs finally gave out, knees buckling, your body sliding down the stall wall, fingers pulling at your hair as you felt the dizziness engulfing your head, a bitter taste in your mouth.

You gripped tighter, hoping that the pain on the surface would overpower the pain and gaping hole inside, as another violent sob erupted from your throat.

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

An eternity later, you felt your whole being float.

Your breathing was still frantic and interrupted with sobs, but a sensation resembling serenity spread in your very core—or perhaps it was just numbness?

You couldn’t seem to be able to tell the difference anymore.

The creak of a door made you cover your mouth to muffle the noises still escaping your lips for the fear of being caught – either being found in this state in general or found as in found by the person who wrote---that – being stronger than the subdued power of your previous breakdown.

It was probably too late for the newcomer to miss your presence, but over the slowly fading ringing in your ears, you could hear a few steps that came to a halt and then they sounded a bit quicker as the woman left.

Thank FUCK. You couldn’t do human interaction of any kind right now.

You removed your hand and breathed out shakily, blinking away the tears.

Shaking your head wildly, you gritted your teeth in a feeble attempt at bolster yourself. You had to get up off your ass and leave before there would be no longer way of avoiding a confrontation – god forbid a confrontation with Steve, who was probably still in a class, testing his own students.

You climbed to your feet, wiping the remains of your tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand and went to fix your ruined make-up, hopefully enough to look little less suspicious when walking through the campus.

It was probably a vain effort, because you were a walking epitome of a mess.

Rogers’s whore, sounded in your ears and you shook your head again, inhaling sharply through your mouth.

It was time to run and then break down again at the dorms. With Penny preferably--or did she think you were a whore too? You were fucking a professor after all-

Stop that!

Penny wasn’t like that. She understood. She’d be willing to listen all about this outrageous act of terror and would sympathize. Right?

Yeah, you’d talk about it with Penny, your amazing friend, who needed a celebration and a very generous amount of alcohol, which happened to be exactly what you needed too.

Yep, that sounded pretty good.

With one last determined glance on your horrible reflection in the mirror, you headed out.

The door nearly hit you in the face on its way back as you threw it open and froze in the doorway.

You did not expect to see someone so soon after leaving your improvised safe space… let alone him.

“Prof-professor Wilson,” you choked out, clearing your scratchy throat as he stood there, unmistakably waiting for you.

Because that was what you needed at the moment. The university counsellor and professor of psychology in one person.

Fuck.

He said you name in a mild tone, almost as if trying to tame a wild animal, but not quite – all his voice made you feel was shame at getting caught. And a bit of anger at the whole fucking world, because why couldn’t you have a tiny piece of peace after seeing that? Just a little shred of luck, huh?!

Oh, right, you were a whore who were only using Professor Rogers, paying for it in sexual favours.

“Mind if we talk in my office for a bit?”

“Not like I really have a choice…” you mumbled automatically, the realization of how rude it sounded dawning to you oh too slowly, your brain too tangled up in a web of self-pity and self-loathing. “Sorry. Of course. Lead the way.”

“Good. Thank you,” he replied, appearing unoffended. “And for the record, you do have a choice.”

Hadn’t you been a wreck with burning tear-stained cheeks, your face might have felt hotter at the kind remark.

At the slowest pace possible, you followed Professor Wilson to his office, dread and exhaustion filling every fibre of your being.

You noticed however that the walls that had been lined with odes about you, put up for everyone to see, had disappeared; possibly Wilson’s own work.

Somehow, it didn’t make you feel much better, the image of the previous addition to the corridors’ decor stuck in your brain. But hey, it was supposed to be the thought that counted, right?

And Professor Wilson was a nice guy. He offered you a drink – sadly a non-alcoholic one – attempted a joke saying that no, it was no trouble getting you one, which was the reason he offered.

Generally, he treated you as if he wanted to provide you with a safe space.

And then he kindly told you that he knew about the poem, because his cousin who’s in her first year here at the uni, texted him what the heck was the e-mail she received on her uni account about.

In other word, he gently broke to you that whoever had done this possibly sent it to every student in the database too.

You nearly threw up hearing that; the pit you had climbed up from and of which edge you were balancing, deepened. But you didn’t fall back there.

Yet.

It was probably because you were still too shocked at the information.

“I hate asking that question, but do you have any idea who did this?” Wilson asked quietly and you had nothing but a helpless shake of a head for a reply. You felt your vision blurring, dizziness fogging your brain again. “Can you think of anyone who holds a grudge against you for some reason?”

A scoff escaped your lips, cynical as you found the answer obvious from the verses.

“Besides dating Steve, you mean?” you noted sarcastically. Wilson waited for more, his eyebrows twitching in surprise and expectation before he got it under control. “Sorry, I meant Professor Rog-“

“Hey, you can call him Steve,” he assured you, so damn sweet and diligent. “I met him, you know, I’d go as far as calling him a friend. And right here, right now, he is not your professor, but your boyfriend. I’m talking to you as a counsellor so feel free to call me Sam if you’re comfortable. And to answer your question, I assume that it is as good motive as any, but the fact that the two of you are dating is practically a public knowledge at this point, so it doesn’t really narrow our field of suspects.”

Despite his openness and kind approach, you once again could only shrug, growing desperate by the minute. The urge to leave – because suddenly it made even more sense, him taking you here, he was friends with Steve, he was stalling – became unbearable.

You didn’t have the strength to see Steve now. You couldn’t. You would question every gesture, analyse everything and perhaps came to the conclusion that he agreed with the author of the poem and you desperately didn’t want that. You needed to forget about this, preferably with an unhealthy amount of alcohol, you needed to cry some more, you needed ice-cream and a hug and to bitch about everything and you needed a fucking nap that would last at least a week.

“I don’t know who hates me that much, I swear. Can I please go now?”

Sam cocked his head to side, a minute frown creasing his brows. “Is that what you want?”

Do you really want to leave before Steve gets a chance to get here?

You should probably feel guilty. You wanted to feel guilty, because that was you being a coward and it was downright mean to Steve, who would no doubt learn about this very soon and from someone else, but you didn’t have the capacity to think about anything at all besides feeling like you were going to explode any second.

“Yes. Thanks for being nice and all, but I—I’d rather go.”

“You have a roommate? A friend you live with and who’s in?” he fussed, voice gravely, amiable chocolate eyes observing you with worry. Did he think you were about to hurt yourself? Did you look like the type? Were you? You mentally shook your head. Jesus.

“Yeah,” you creaked, already rising to your feet, endlessly grateful that he was letting you go. “Penny. We— uhm, we were supposed to go celebrating.”

You nearly choked on the last word, feeling like everything but going out tonight. The idea of going out and facing all the stares cause by the widely-spread e-mail made your stomach clench.

You kinda lost the appetite to celebrate anything to begin with; all the relief and joy, which had filled every last bit of your being post-learning your grade, vanished and was replaced by a dark sticky substance filling your lungs, your gut, your veins, muffling the outside world.

Perhaps Penny would agree to a loud night in?

“You can still do that, that’s up to you. But please, get some sleep and don’t be alone. Here,” he stood up as well, handing you a card. “My number, even if you just need to talk to a sort-of outsider and word-vomit all over someone, okay?”

You couldn’t argue with his offer – you had a feeling you’d vomit soon, either verbally or literally. Still, you charmed a shaky smile that probably turned out a grimace.

“K. Thanks… Sam.”

“Any time.”

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Of course, Wilson’s unspoken question about moving quick to avoid an encounter with certain professor was painfully on point.

You bailed on Steve whom you were supposed to wait for even if just for a hug and congratulations, practically running to the dorm, your unsteady feet and tears still clouding your vision be damned.

You ignored the ringing of your phone, assuming it was Steve himself; bile rose to your throat at the idea of hearing his voice at that moment. He tried twice before you smashed the power button and threw the phone back to your purse, breathing out in relief and wanting to puke at the same time.

You truly couldn’t find the capacity to deal with him momentarily – you needed to be alone and safe from any prying eyes, preferably in the comfort of your shared dorm with Penny. You cried harder when you finally reached it, your feet hurting from attempting to run in heels.

It wasn’t hard to figure out that Penny somehow already knew, probably from the e-mail – it was written all over her face. And hadn’t her expression been enough, instead of a celebratory champagne she handed you a shot of a transparent liquid the moment you opened the door.

You turned it bottoms up without questioning it and asked for another. Penny grabbed the bottle of vodka waiting on the shoe rack and poured one for you and one for herself. You didn’t bother clinking the glasses.

Though the burn in your throat felt pleasant, it did nothing to sooth the burn in your eyes and heart. Penny’s embrace made it a bit better.

So did the third shot of vodka.

You didn’t switch on your phone that day again – and when it was nearing midnight, after a four-hour nap, you convinced Penny to go celebrate to the Freddy’s as you had originally planned to do. You pretended that no one stared at you and instead you danced and drank until your mind was swimming enough for the sorrow and anger to drown.

You were one lucky bitch to have Penny walk you home.

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Steve was sitting at his desk at the faculty office he shared with Bucky and was working hard at what he excelled at for these past days despite his genuine efforts at not doing so; getting absolutely nothing done at all.

His hands had grown somewhat unsteady, a reflection of how he was feeling, how torn and absurdly broken he had become. He was spilling drinks on a regular basis, items kept falling from his flimsy hold. His brain felt foggy these days as well, most likely a consequence of the shitty sleep he was getting.

His bed felt too big despite his rather large frame and too cold despite his body temperature usually running almost too high; the sheets smelled strange and foreign despite being his own and the bed screamed with emptiness on a volume that kept interrupting his already deficient sleep.

Four days.

Four days since one stupid poem knocked his world out of its orbit and everything that mattered crashed down. Well, perhaps not everything, Steve happened to like his job too and he still had it, but such detail seemed insignificant; it certainly did in comparison to the fact that he had been attempting and had failed to reach you.

Calls.

Texts.

Few e-mails when he felt particularly helpless and frustrated.

His messed up sleeping and eating schedule and the irregularity that came with the exam period would make a perfect case of him losing any notion of time – yet Steve knew about every second without you, practically counting them.

He could still see Sam Wilson standing outside the classroom he had been testing students’ knowledge in as if it happened yesterday. He could recall with painfully stark clarity the unreadable expression on his face and the ominous “Steve, man… we need to talk.”

Steve still remembered Tony Stark waltzing in the next day with a baby in some sort of a front backpack, agitated that someone had gotten into the database, let alone to send all the hate-emails, and how he announced he found the culprit and their accomplices in an hour, which apparently happened to be too long to his liking.

Steve would smile at the memory of the technical genius’ antics, but the gaping hole in his chest caused by the deafening silence from you prevented it. Hell, not even the vivid picture of Carol Danvers from the faculty of law, moonlighting like a member of the legal department of the university, made the corners of his lips rise.

And hadn’t it been quite a show, a downright uplifting experience.

Steve was watching the screen with a frown, a stone-solid clench to his jaw and a firm clench to his fists.

It was almost amusing really; Bucky kept going about Fury being a creep and not a spy, but despite the lack of a one-way glass, the space Carol and the girl was in – just like two other rooms, each with one man – resembled an interrogation room. Steve never had been more grateful for audio and video feed in his life, but he sure as hell wasn’t laughing in delight at being proved right.

In fact, it had been taking all of his willpower not to burst into those rooms and give a piece of his mind to every single person guilty of being involved in hurting you. In causing his life to collapse on itself.

Steve couldn’t quite recall the brunet Carol was roasting, but he suspected he had seen her in one of the classes he was teaching. She didn’t stand out from the crowd of students and he didn’t see anything special about her worth remembering; then again, he tended to forget to take notice of other pretty faces ever since he had laid his eyes on yours.

And right now, all he saw was a face of a vicious bitch who forced you into pushing him away and a single look at her had his blood boiling.

Steve truly wanted to punch the living daylights of her and that said something, because he prided himself in having moral objection to hitting women, especially from sheer anger.

However, the desire was growing with each piece of information he learned. Because Yvonne Whatever-Is-Her-Name was a piece of work for fucking certain.

She talked a guy number one, whom she was attending Introduction to Social Studies 101 and who had a very apparent teenage-like crush on her, into reaching out to his friend, guy number two, whom he often played some online video game with, into hacking the database, sending the e-mails and finding out when and where exactly your exam was, just so Yvonne herself could redecorate the corridors and bathroom and make sure you wouldn’t miss her work of art.

Carol was alternating between visiting each of the ‘suspects’ and man, did they sing like birds.

Steve wanted to strangle them all, but fuck, the hatred for Yvonne Burton specifically was already consuming him and gnawing at his very soul; yes, he found out her last name just so he knew his mortal enemy. He was going to burn her to the ground, one way or the other… not that Carol hadn’t been doing a fine job so far.

That damn brunet had tears running down her face, sobbing occasionally, but still rarely sassing back. Somehow, seeing her like that wasn’t half as satisfying as Steve hoped, because his mind kept wandering to you and wondering if you looked about the same and every time such picture formed in his head, he hated Ms.Burton a fraction more.

She had used a guy who liked her, which Carol blatantly pointed out. The lawyer didn’t seem to hold back her own snark if the question about how the culprits met – via some forum for bruised ego, was it? – was anything to go by.

“I might be a lawyer, but I’m begging for every art professor and author I know – stay away from poetry. What you wrote is a child’s rhyme really, but like every writing, it says a lot about who you are. And it gives me a plenty of ammunition. We have two names, one full, one last name pointing out a specific person from the context. If I play my cards right, we have defamation on our hands, libel to be precise. Congratulation,” Carol remarked in a surprisingly calm voice. The other woman visibly paled. Good. “And what about the last line? Is that… is that a threat of violence? I can make it harassment, but if I try hard enough, perhaps we can consider it something more serious…?”

“You don’t get to threaten me! You’re lying! I’ve done nothing wrong and so serious!” the girl – and really, in Steve’s eyes, she was nothing but a stupid girl who somehow managed to kick his life in its balls – exploded, jumping to her feet.

Carol levelled her with a glare and an irritated hiss. “Sit down.” Burton did, clammy hands curled up in trembling fists. “And you’ve done more than enough.”

“You don’t understand!”

“Oh don’t I? Be my guest then. Explain it. Your motivation, the legal side, anything. I’m all ears.”

“I love him!” the girl exclaimed and Steve grinded his teeth as a surge of rage shooting through his veins.

Like fucking hell she did. He didn’t remember even talking to her if he ever had to start with and she loved him?!

Was that really what this was about? This girl somewhat liked him and got obsessed? Decided to wreck his girlfriend? To what end? To drive the two of you apart? To make you hate him so he would run to her? To simply ruin your future? What the fuck was wrong with her?! She was a damn kid with hurt pride and zero efforts put in so far, because he couldn’t even remember her-

“Oh you really don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have done this,” Carol responded with a cold edge to her voice, apparently agreeing with Steve’s thoughts and being equally unimpressed with Ms.Burton dramatic confession.

“I’m fighting for him! Ain’t nothing wrong-”

Oh Steve would argue with that so hard. He could feel Sam watching him from the corner of his eye, but neither of them said anything as Steve gripped the edge of the table the monitors were on.

He was sure he was going to be sick, the edge of his vision doing something he only read about; as if truly turning red, crimson with hunger for blood. He never ever craved tearing someone in half, not a single one of the guys who bullied him in school, not the girls that laughed at him when he said he liked them; and make no mistake, he had always felt mad enough.

But right now, he tasted undiluted rage and it tasted like acid with a bitter aftertaste of iron and copper, searing hot on his tongue and spreading through his body, turning it heavy and nauseatingly light at the same time.

“No, you’re ruining his life,” Carol emphasized, leaning onto the table and glaring murder at the girl. “If this is your idea of fighting for someone, it’s pretty twisted. You could have done literally anything to make him notice you, hell, pick you, but leave if he still said no, because that’s a sensible thing to do. But instead, you hurt someone he cared about. And that means you hurt him too – not to mention that his name is in there, possibly putting a scrap on his reputation. If you did love him, you’d want him to be happy.”

Steve gulped and looked away, unable to bear the weight of Carol’s words, feeling the jab on his own person. Because he was familiar with being accused of ruining someone’s life and future despite seemingly loving them. God knew that on a rainy day, he wondered about his own ‘love’ and its purity too – and now, it was fucking pouring and Steve had been forced to question everything he knew.

Was this little brunet Satan a godsend in fact? Was she supposed to tell him to stop lying to himself about not being your doom? Just what kind of a mess this stunt would have made had you been working a steady job and this got to your employer?

A gentle hand reached for his shoulder, a silent support, and Steve found himself torn between irritated, grateful and deeply ashamed.

No matter how much he hated it, he should be on the list to get punched for hurting you too.

“So, sorry to break it to you, but you don’t love him,” Carol continued and with Sam’s palm on his shoulder, Steve forced himself to watch the scene, the grand finale. “You’re just a little girl with attitude issues, a crush that got out of hand, and a ton of luck for knowing a guy willing to help you. Guess what – you just ran out of that luck.”

Heavy silence fell on the interrogation room and Steve’s eyes slid shut, hearing Carol and Yvonne’s parting words.

“And just so you know, she didn’t get the highest score. She got a B.”

Steve didn’t even know that and despite all the shit they were in, he felt a surge of pride for his g- hopefully still his girl.

At the same time, the fact that he learned it from Carol and not from you as he still couldn’t reach you, felt like a punch to his solar plexus.

Carol entered the monitoring room with a discontent expression on her face, wordlessly telling Steve and Sam that the conversation, no matter how harsh, wasn’t satisfying enough.

Still, Steve glanced at her and nodded with severity.

“Thank you, Carol,” he rasped, surprised by how hoarse his own voice sounded; for the burn of rage in his stomach and the tension in his muscles, he almost forgot about the lump gradually growing in his throat with each hour of silence from you.

“My damn pleasure,” Carol huffed with slight irritation, one clearly not aimed at Steve. She subtly raised her eyebrows. “I kinda want to punch her, but I guess I’m not the only one, huh?”

Steve sighed and closed his eyes, his hands almost shaking with the said need. Still, it was surprisingly relieving to be called out on that and to learn that he wasn’t the only one. And when he opened his eyes again, the look on Carol’s face told him that she wasn’t blaming him one bit.

“You have no fucking idea, I- Jesus, I never wanted to—to-- so much in my life.“

The rise of one corner of her lips was sympathetic. “We’ll handle this, Steve. I know it’s hard to hear, but you can’t really help us here. Go home. Rest.”

The lump in Steve’s throat grew nearly suffocating at the idea of going to the empty apartment, where his uselessness became even more evident. Steve eyed Sam, searching with hope for any sign of a better advice, but the counsellor only nodded to second Carol’s thought.

“Go home and try to call your girl. She’ll pick up eventually.”

At that time Steve had done exactly that – however, the result had remained identical to those with his previous attempts. You hadn’t picked up and he had left a voicemail and a pathetic text that somehow seemed to be reflecting all of his insecurities and doubts about your relationship and it hadn’t turned out at all as he had planned – and then it had been too late to take it back.

He had sent another and another, almost hour after hour and he was gradually realizing that he was forgoing all hope and his faith in what you two had and what it could become in the future; and god, did he want the future so badly.

But he couldn’t always get what he wanted, could he? He thought that a miracle had happened when he had first met you and later heard your yes to the date. But here you were.

Four days from that terrible incident.

Did Steve even believe that you two were supposed to be together? He didn’t even know anymore. Perhaps it was an intervention from some higher power and you two breaking apart was meant to be, saving you a heartbreak and disillusions which were about to come later.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought and the sensation that felt like a punch to his gut, his insides cramping.

That was not true. You two loved each other. You had found something truly amazing in each other and you were about to reach out to him any minute so you could continue to your brighter future together.

…right?

Except a minute passed by and nothing happened, the phone Steve was toying with remaining silent.

No received text or e-mail.

No incoming call.

Another minute and then another ten, the phone still spinning in his hand in almost a reflex at that point and still not lighting up.

The knot in Steve’s gut turned tighter and tighter, the tension in his shoulders and jaw growing, his mantra of you surely contacting him gradually falling silent.

Finally, he came to the decision that only fools kept doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.

He was supposed to do that a long long time ago, the moment he had convinced himself that coming knocking on your dorm could be considered harassment… and would break his heart in case you’d shut the door to his face telling him you were done with him.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Steve swept through his contacts and dialled your best friend and roommate in one person.

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Part 2

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Thank you for reading!

Let me know what you thought! I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ doing something with randomly timed shots to a series, so… you know. I’m a bit nervous. And I guess that this is very different from what this series was so far too, so I hope it’s okay. Thank you :-*

[imagine-mr-markus]

Birthday Candles

I had to write sumn for my fave Dad on his birthday, but i got a teeeensy bit distracted watching Hellbenders so its a leedol late, sorry! But yes, here we have some tasty tasty fluff of my boys in honour of The Birthday. And not an all an apology for the fact that the next two I’m working on are just Angst of my Cyberlife Boys, absolutely not

Hank Anderson, at the ripe age of 53 and 364 days, fucking hated birthdays. Hated the smell of cake and frosting and the cheerful wishes of others. What he hated most about them, however, was the birthday candles. The smell of them, the sight of them, even the fucking mention of them was enough to sour his mood beyond recognition, no matter how good it had been before. It hadn't always been like that; in fact, it had only been like that for two years and three hundred and twenty-nine days. Twenty-five thousand, four hundred and sixteen hours. One million, five hundred and twenty-four thousand, nine hundred and sixty seconds. The calculations flash irritatingly behind his eyes like they always have, and he shakes his head as his mood dips. He knows exactly why he hates those brightly coloured little sticks of wax so vehemently.

 They'd been Cole’s favourite.

 It had been a kinda stupid tradition his own mother had started when he was a kid to wake him up at exactly midnight on his birthday with a cake. There would always be another cake later, one for the party and the guests, but at midnight, when the world was quiet and the lights were out, it was just for the two of them to sit and eat a slice after he'd eagerly blown out the candles. Melissa had thought it was the cutest shit to grace this earth and had insisted on carrying on the tradition after they started dating, and he could easily admit that it was appreciated. It'd been part of what kept them together in the long stretch of time when they'd nearly fallen apart after pregnancy test after pregnancy test came back negative. But no matter how bad the fight, every birthday was ushered in with birthday candles and cake at midnight. It had only gotten better after Cole was born, the joy of the new baby and their much firmer foundation on marriage making for a much more relaxed morning. As soon as Cole had seen birthday candles, he’d been enraptured in the way only a child could be, and the new tradition that Cole always helped blow out the candles was born. For a solid portion of his life, Hank’s favourite smell in the world was the smell of the sweet smoke from the vibrant little pillars of wax.

 But not anymore. Not for one thousand and fifty-nine days.

 In the time Connor had been living with him, two hundred and ninety-eight days, his brain helpfully supplies, he's gotten much better at dealing with problems without the use of alcohol. In fact, he hasn't had anything stronger than a beer in months. But tonight, tonight the bar looks more tempting than he'd ever care to admit. He tilts his head slightly as he eyes his keys, fingers itching to make a break for it before Connor gets home. He could do it. Could grab his keys and be out the door. Connor would be disappointed, but he'd understand. Connor was good like that. He could-

The sound of the door startles him out of his reverie, the excited tapping of big paws on the floor following soon after.

 “We're home!”

 Hank turns away from his keys abruptly, mustering a smile as he looks towards the Android stood in the doorway.

 “Hey, Connor. How was your walk?”

 The kid offers him a smile before he bends to undo Sumo’s leash.

 “It was good! It's getting chilly out, but the leaves are starting to change! I like the orange ones best.”

 Some of Hank’s misery eases at Connor’s easy enthusiasm, and his smile is more genuine.

 “That's good. I like the orange ones too.”

 He pauses a moment to gather himself, mentally flipping the bird at his cravings for booze before continuing.

 “So, whaddaya want for dinner?”

 Connor doesn't need to eat, but after the revolution Kamski whipped up some fancy ass robotics that allows him to if he wants. It's nice to sit and eat with somebody again, even if the kid is way too addicted to coffee now that he can taste it. Connor tilts his head as he moves towards the kitchen, an easy grin pulling at his mouth.

 “Can we get Chinese?”

 Hank shakes his head fondly at the kid. Another one of his favourites was Chinese takeaway, and they'd eaten it with fair regularity. Although, Hank is kinda grateful. The kid’s been trying to learn to cook, but his skills aren't…. incredibly tasty as he insists on doing it ‘the human way’. The familiarity of it all helps ease the weight on his lungs, helps pull some of the itch from his fingertips.

 “Yeah, Con. We can get Chinese.”

  _____________________________________________

 “Hank, wake up!”

 His eyes snap open at the sound of Connor’s voice, hand going for his gun as he searches for what made the kid wake him.

 “What is it? What's wrong?”

 “Nothing. Happy birthday!”

 He looks at Connor properly, taking in the sight of the kid grinning at him excitedly from beside his bed. He's dressed in Hank’s old clothes, a hoodie too big even for him swallowing the Android whole and pair of ratty flannel pants from Hank’s much younger days hanging off his frame. He's got flour down his front and a streak of bright blue frosting on his forehead, LED shining a bright, contented blue at his temple as his eyes sparkle with excitement in a warm, flickering light. And before he even looks down at what he's holding, Hank knows it's cake adorned with candles. He can smell it, the sugary sweetness clinging to the back of his throat and the scent of melting wax in his nose. A sharp pang of something ugly strikes at his chest, a deep hurt pulsing behind his ribs and a flare of an irrational fury between his lungs. He can feel his face twist with it, and he sees Connor’s expression fall as his LED spins yellow.

 “Did…. did I do something wrong? I thought this is what family did on birthdays.”

 The kid looks heartbroken at the thought that he fucked up, doe eyes falling to look at the cake as his mouth turns down like he's about to cry. The expression pulls at that softness in him he had kept buried for so long, the gentle instinct to comfort and console. It was an instinct he'd always had; part of the reason people had been surprised he'd taken the promotions from beat cop upwards when he was one of the few cops who could handle kids well. It was where he'd gotten the idea for kids of his own, and that feeling had only grown exponentially once he did have a kid. Melissa had been a great mother, but it had always been Hank who would roll out of bed whenever Cole cried in the night, and Cole had very clearly been Daddy’s Boy. Melissa used to joke that if they ever had another she had dibs, but the fact remains that Hank has always been better with kids because he's a fucking bleeding heart who can never turn down a crying child. And he may logically know that Connor is not a child, but that doesn't change the fact that with his lower lip stuck out slightly and his big brown eyes ready to fill with tears at any moment and drowning in clothes too big for him, he sure as hell looks like a little boy that's been scolded. And that sets off that tender heart of his hard enough he grimaces before what Melissa used to call the “Dad Spirit” switches on. His tone gentles out of reflex, and he adjusts himself on the bed to sit up properly as he sighs slightly. He softens his shoulders, looking at Connor earnestly with forgiveness and apology in his gaze.

 “No, Connor, you didn't do anything wrong. I was upset, but not at you, alright?”

 Connor blinks up at him hopefully.

 “Really?”

 Hank can't help the little curl of his mouth at Connor’s question, nodding a little. He's bracing himself for what comes next, but for just a second, it's alright.

 “Really, kid. Now c’mere, lemme see it.”

 As quick as it had gone, that unbridled excitement is shining out of the kid’s every goddamn pore as he eagerly presents the cake. Finally, Hank forced himself to look at it, and he nearly loses his goddamn mind right then and there. It's ugly, there's no getting around it, but endearingly so in that way that screams of love poured into the batter. The cake is uneven and lopsided, and smothered liberally in baby blue frosting. There are candles neatly sunk into it, and Hank knows without a doubt there are fifty-four of them arranged precisely in concentric circles. And there, in the middle, spelled out in neat lettering that he can recognise as Connor’s own personal font (though the frosting is wobbly and has been badly fixed) are the words “Happy Birthday, Dad!”. A shaky smiley face has been added beneath, and its obscenely cute. There's suddenly something in Hank’s throat. Connor has never called him Dad before, and it makes his own mouth wobble treacherously. He coughs a little before speaking, ignoring how thick his voice is.

 “You make this yourself? I thought you didn't have any cooking protocols.”

 Connor looks almost ridiculously proud of himself as he nods excitedly

 “I did! I was tempted to download necessary coding, but I wanted to do it like a human, so I followed the recipe in the cookbook above the refrigerator! This one was labelled as your favourite!”

 His mother’s cookbook. He hadn't touched it in years, and the only time Melissa had ever gone near it was for that specific recipe. The last time he'd used it, he'd been making Cole’s cake. Connor had found it, he'd made him his mother’s birthday cake, and Hank isn't crying, he isn't goddamnit-

 “Hank? Are you alright?”

 He clears his throat again and scrubs a hand over his face to wipe away any damning evidence.

 “Yeah, Con. I'm alright, just got something in my eyes. C’mon, the candles are starting to drip onto the cake.”

 He crosses his legs so there's room on the bed, and Connor moves easily to perch in front of him. It takes a second of him considering his own legs with a yellow LED before he crosses them like Hank’s, a pleased little grin turning his mouth. You wouldn't know it if you only saw him at work, but the kid was gangly and faintly awkward when it came to anything related to sitting. It had taken months for Hank to break his habit of sitting ramrod straight with his knees together and hands on his thighs. Now the kid would sprawl all over the couch, but he was still like a pubescent boy learning how to use his own limbs and how to arrange them, almost like a fawn learning to walk. It shouldn't have been as adorable as it was, but Hank has given up on trying to deny how fond he is of the kid. He shakes his head as Connor sets the cake down on the bedspread, and he stares at the cake for a long moment with a strange mixture of joy and grief and fondness and sadness in his chest like a bruise. He lets out a slow breath and looks up at Connor with a smile.

 “Well? Are you gonna sing to me or not?”

 Connor brightens and nods, but a brief show of yellow spins at his temple before he turns his head.

 “Sumo! Come here!”

 There’s a quiet boof from the living room before big paws thud towards the room, and the shaggy dog trots into the room to sit beside Connor expectantly. The kid gives the dog a fond pat before turning back towards Hank. His smile widens as he takes a deep breath, something he doesn't technically need, before he starts to sing, and Sumo awoos quietly with him in an odd harmony.

 “Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday dear da-ad

Happy birthday to you!”

 Ok, Hank is crying. He’ll admit it. It's one thing to see it written out in the cake, it's another to actually hear Connor call him Dad. And while it's not a surprise, he's thought of Connor as family for a while now, it brings a painful lump to his throat and a feeling filling his chest to hear someone refer to him as Dad and mean it. It's a feeling he hasn't had in one thousand and sixty days, and he had missed it dearly. He scrubs at his eyes again, sniffling a little.

 “C'mere, kid. Help me blow out the candles.”

 Connor gives him a brilliant grin and scrambles to sit next to him, carefully manoeuvring around the cake. He picks it up to settle it on their knees, Hank’s right knee supporting the left side of the plate and Connor’s left supporting the right.

 “Ready, kid?”

 “Ready, dad!”

 That feeling clogs his throat again for a second before he offers Connor a nod. He bends closer to the cake, and Connor follows suit as they inhale. He blows out a good chunk of them, and Connor catches the rest with ease before laughing a little. It's not exactly a new sound, but Hank feels downright fucking blessed to hear it if he's honest with himself. Connor doesn't laugh too often, not outside the house, and it still feels special to hear the kid be so human. He's still fucking crying, but they’re good tears. Cathartic is the word, he thinks. A fork is offered to him, and he takes it gratefully. The hurt weighing on him hasn't gone away, he doesn’t think it ever will, but it's shifted, moved some, become lighter, and he rolls his shoulders back slightly as he sits up a little straighter. He's moving to take a bit of the cake when Connor gasps beside him, and he turns with a raised eyebrow.

 “What is it?”

 “I almost forgot!”

 The kid plunges his hand into his pocket, pulling out a very familiar, very worn old Polaroid camera. Hank blinks at it, taken aback. He hadn't known he'd still had that around the house.

 “The fuck you find that thing?”

 Connor beams at him.

 “In the boxes in the garage, along with the photo albums! They were shoved in the back, but I found them while I was cleaning over the summer. It's where I got the idea to make you cake!”

 There's that funny rolling in his stomach again, like overwhelming happiness and sadness mixing like oil and water in a shaking bottle. But it's… it's good. Like the tears. Cathartic. He nods, gesturing with the fork.

 “Alright, well let's get this show on the road. I wanna eat my cake.”

 Connor laughs again, and Hank grins at him as he slings his own arm over the kid’s shoulder to bring him closer as he raised the camera.

 “Sumo! Come get in the photo!”

 The dog bounds easily up onto the bed, big head bumping at Connor’s forehead as he sniffles at the frosting there. Hank chuckles and shakes his head as he looks at the camera, making sure the text on the cake is visible as Connor presses the button. The flash is temporarily blinding, but he blinks it away as the camera spits out the sheet of thick film. Hank doesn't shake it like his mother used to, he knows better than that. He wants this one pristine if he can help it, especially because he's going to want copies of this shit. Eventually, maybe soon, maybe not, he'll stick it in the photo albums Connor found. The ones he hasn't had the guts to look at for years. But maybe…. maybe with Connor sitting next to him, he can focus on the good times as he tells him the stories about the photos. The kid is still pressed firmly into his side from Hank’s arm around his shoulders, and it's a good feeling, to sit beside someone. No, not just someone. His son. He knows Cole is never coming back, his little boy is gone, but maybe someday he'll see him again. And with any luck, he'll get to introduce him to his older brother.  Well, younger brother? It's a comforting, if slightly confusing thought, and Hank grins as he transfers his fork to his other hand so he can keep Connor close while he digs into his birthday cake. The photo develops a little while later, and Hank loves it. You can see that he's been crying, but his smile is easy, and Connor has his nose scrunched up as Sumo licks his forehead, and the cake looks even uglier in the flash from the camera and it's absolutely perfect. He’s gonna need a copy for his wallet AND his desk, goddamnit, and he might even feel brave enough to put one of his pictures of Cole beside it. It's only right that both of his boys be present, really.

 The smell of sweet candle smoke is heavy in the air, and he breathes it in. He can see Cole as he was the last time they celebrated together, green eyes sparkling and one of his front teeth missing from his broad smile as he shouted in the dark.

 “Happy birthday, dad!”

 Connor’s voice comes from beside him, and he turns to look at the kid as he smiles.

 “Happy birthday, dad.”

 He leans against Connor slightly, squeezing him gently.

 “Thanks, son. I'm glad you decided to celebrate with me.”

 And he means it.

 ___________________________________________________

 At the age of fifty-four years and one hour, Hank Anderson loves birthdays. He loves the birthday cake that's lopsided and the too thick layer of frosting and the cheerful wishes of the Android beside him. And most of all, he loves his favourite scent in the world.

 Birthday candles.

[skybound2]

Where You Keep Your Shoes

Who wants some stream of consciousness Drowley written on very little sleep?! I gotcha my darlings!

It happens slowly, Crowley's death. Not the actual moment. That happens quick, like a knife slipped between two ribs. So sharp and whip swift that you barely know what's happening until you look down. 

But then you look down. You look down and you see the handle sticking from your chest. And the pain and confusion seeps in slow as the blood fills your lungs, and you have an eternity to wonder and regret and wish before oblivion takes you. Until you have no time for anything at all ever again.

Crowley's physical death is like that.

What comes after though? That is infinitely worse. A barren void. Both inexhaustible and exhausting. An oppressive, crushing weight dragging you ever further down into insignificance.

But then - then - the cold fingers of death release their hold one by one, letting in tiny pinpricks of light as they dissolve away. Until Nothing becomes Something. Until what once was Empty becomes a little bit less.

The pain of it is, perhaps, just that much worse for it. But that's okay. It's a reminder. Proof of life.

Better than feeling nothing at all.

So there's pain, and that means life. And that's...good? He thinks. Pain seasoned with equal parts wonder and fear.

Wonder that he's back. Wonder that someone would bother. Wonder that anyone would care.

Fear that it can't last. Fear that it's one final joke the universe plans to play on him. Fear that he's out of his depth.

He was no good as a human the first time around, who's to say he's not going to screw it up this time too?

So he deals with it in the only manner he's any good at.

Bargaining. Making deals. Or trying to at least.

Trouble is, there's no one for him to bargain with. No one to whom he can plead his case for continued existence. (He doesn't call it praying. He won't . But what else is it when you beg in silence to an unknown entity that holds the power of life and death over you, with no hope of response?) Because no one claims responsibility for his return at all.

No. No he simply sparks back into being on the doorstep of the Winchester's humble abode in the middle of a rainy winter afternoon. Coughing up blood from a wound that's no longer there; chest heaving for breath, and the muscle trapped beneath his ribs pounding against its cage like it plans to escape.

Something it'll try again. Over and over, night after night. Week after week. As his spontaneous second (or third or fourth, because who's counting anyway?) life trudges on. Waking him up from broken visions of Nothing, bathed in cold sweat, with the familiar taste of ash and brimstone in his throat that no amount of whiskey can wash away.

So he bargains. Makes promises that he'll do better this time. That he'll try, if only he can avoid being sent back to that place of manifested Absence ever again.

The worry that he'll be tossed unceremoniously back into that place plagues him like nothing else ever has. It's a slow, insidious type of torture a former demon such as him can respect.

He doesn't swear to be good, because he doesn't believe he's truly capable of that. But he can pantomime, he thinks. He's spent enough years being foiled by the Winchesters to have a general grasp on the concept, even if his days playing at it before his death were sadly limited. And now, having been given shelter in their bunker, he has a front row seat to what Being Good looks like on a daily basis.

It seems to work, his bargain. He keeps breathing. His heart keeps beating. And he eases back into the world, to life, a day at a time. Learning what it means to be human; pretending he understands what it means to be mortal.  

To be moral.

He trips up sometimes. Forgets why people ( Other people. People he doesn’t know. People he doesn't like.) matter. Sam will shake his head at him, the lumbering oaf sighing that heavy dramatic sigh of his that Crowley is certain he practices in the mirror for optimal judgmental effect, and walk away.  

Feathers and Luci’s brat are more patient with his mistakes. But being near them makes his skin itch. Reminds him of what he was for so long - what he no longer is - in a way that leaves him feeling vulnerable. Exposed . Which just makes him lash out like a cornered housecat.

And like a cornered housecat, he’ll skitter away as soon as the coast is clear; to whatever little dark, solitary place he can find so he can lick his imaginary wounds in peace.

He’s never alone for long though. Dean always finds him. And for all that Crowley sometimes chafes at his presence, he’s grateful for it too.

(But then, he’s hard pressed to recall a time when he wasn’t grateful for Dean Winchester. As even on the days when he was making Crowley’s life difficult beyond measure, he was also making it more interesting.)

Crowley can be alone when Dean’s there. Alone with his thoughts; with his confusion; with his uncertainty. And Dean will let him wallow, but only to a point. Dragging him up and out of the bunker when he gets too maudlin. To pool halls and bars, usually, or easy hunts with black and white answers, where Crowley gets to pretend that he has the faintest idea what it means to be good. But sometimes he just leads him outside. Away from the recirculated air that reeks of blood and sweat as much as it does of parchment and ink.

Dean will let him rant and rage on occasion too, something Crowley appreciates as much - if not more so - than everything else. Maybe because Dean calls him out on his bullshit. Every. Single. Time. And that’s something Crowley has always found refreshing. Demon, human, or somewhere in between.

At first Crowley’s not certain what Dean gets out of it. But as the weeks bleed on into months, he begins to suspect that what Dean gets out of it isn’t all that different from Crowley.

Space. A chance to sort himself out without anyone putting demands on his time. On his thoughts.

Someone who gets it.

Memories of hell a shared space between them, even if they are looking at it from different angles.  

It’s a year and some change after his return that Crowley accidentally falls asleep in Dean’s room for the first time. The nightmares that dog his steps send him scurrying out of his room, in search of some place...safe. But rather than seeking out a bottle and an out of the way corner in the bunker like he is wont to do, his feet carry him to Dean’s door.

Dean answers his knock with a grunt, swinging the door open wide and allowing Crowley entrance with nary a word. The television on Dean’s dresser is paused on a scene of a show Crowley doesn’t recognize, the Netflix logo emblazoned in the corner.

Somehow Crowley finds himself sitting on Dean’s bed. Maybe it’s the lack of chairs in the space, or the fact it’s after midnight and it is by far a more inviting option than the floor. Or maybe it’s just that Dean gestures for him to do so, and an invite to Dean’s bed - no matter in what capacity - is not something Crowley is built to refuse.

So he ends up on Dean’s bed, watching a poorly acted, poorly scripted program on the screen. He slowly migrates back, towards the pillows, his feet lifting from the floor inch by inch as he does.

“Dude, take you shoes off.” It’s a command, not a request. Something Crowley may have balked at in days past, or even in the light of the sun at present. But laying on Dean Winchester’s bed watching Netflix in the dark of the night, visions of the bleak Empty he so fears tickling his mind, Crowley does nothing of the sort. Instead, he does as he’s told. Sliding them off and onto the floor at the side of the bed before settling back on the mattress to watch the show. 

He wakes up before the sun crests the horizon - not that anyone can tell that sort of the thing in the windowless bunker, but Crowley’s internal clock is good at it’s job - still laying on Dean’s bed, the elder Winchester’s sleeping visage a scant few inches away. The sight makes Crowley’s heart once again attempt a messy escape from his chest.

Crowley stares, shock and wonder at the sight he’s been gifted holding him in place. Crowley watches as soft lips he’ll recall the feel of until his bones are dust and insanity all that’s left of his mind, part on an inhale. He watches as what he knows to be impossibly green eyes dart back and forth behind closed lids. He watches, and wonders what Dean dreams about.

But not for long. No. When Dean shifts minutely in his sleep, turning towards Crowley - coming dangerously close to making contact - Crowley flees. Sitting up and dropping his feet to the ground.

When he reaches for his shoes, he finds that they aren’t quite where he’d left them. Instead of beside the footpost, they’ve been slide beneath the bed. Tucked away behind the blanket draped across the mattress that both him and Dean fell asleep on. There they sit, next to another battered, but clean, pair of shoes belonging to the owner of said mattress. 

The sight trips him up for a moment, but then Dean sniffles in his sleep and Crowley gets moving, grabbing his shoes and heading for his own room like a thief in the night.

Crowley tells himself it's not important. That it doesn't mean anything. That there's no reason to dwell on it.

But he does. His treacherous, oh-so-very human emotions clog up his brain with thoughts of it. After all, he's never fallen asleep next to Dean before. And Dean has certainly never done the same. Not in all the nights that they'd dallied about back when Dean had been a demon, and Crowley had been grasping at straws. They’d engaged in all manner of sin, but never something so naked as that .

It happens again three months later. And again a month after that. Then a week. Soon enough it's happening with alarming regularity and frequency. 

He'll show up at Dean's door, ready with an easy excuse that Dean never asks for, and so Crowley never provides. Instead, Dean just lets him in, no questions asked. Door swung open, and shut with a click of the lock behind him, all in the time it takes Crowley to exhale.

Some nights they talk. Bantering about the idiocy on the screen, mostly. But sometimes it’s light anecdotes about life past, or discussing the last hunt, or lamenting the fact that Jack’s interest in cooking ‘family’ dinners has outpaced his ability to make anything remotely edible.

But mostly they sit in silence, watching whatever inane thing is playing on the screen that night. There’s no pressure for explanations. No expectation of confessions or demands for anything beyond simple companionship.

In fact, the only demand that is made, night after night, is that Crowley take his shoes off before putting his feet on the bed.

So Crowley does. Every time.

And every time, when he wakes up, he finds his shoes stowed in the same spot beneath the bed.

Next to Dean's.

It confuses Crowley almost as much as it warms his erratic heart.

They don’t talk about it, of course. Crowley doesn’t want to call attention to it, for fear that doing so will bring an end to, well, all of it.

And Dean, well, Crowley knows Dean well enough to know that there’s only two reasons why he wouldn’t bring it up. Either it’s so unimportant as to not warrant mentioning. Or... it’s the complete opposite of that.

Crowley also figures he knows Dean well enough to know which one of those choices is the more likely one, so he keeps his mouth firmly shut.

He’ll take ambiguity over clear rejection any day. 

It goes on like that - month after month, night after night - Crowley spending more hours asleep in Dean’s bed then in his own - always making sure he’s gone before Dean wakes - until Crowley is celebrating a second rotation around the sun as a human. A day that comes and goes without fanfare, for all that the knowledge of it settles on Crowley like a lead shroud.

Two years, and he’s still no closer to figuring out why he was brought back, or how to make sure he doesn’t go back.  

Two years, and he still thinks he rather sucks at this whole ‘Being Good’ thing, though he’s making progress. (He hasn’t been on the receiving end of one of Sam’s epic judgmental sighs in six solid days.) Slow, tedious progress, but progress all the same.

Not that time or progress helps with the nightmares at all. No. No, the only thing that seems to help alleviate those is the presence of one unfairly attractive hunter sleeping nearby.

It’s the dawn of the morning after said two-year anniversary when everything changes.

Crowley’s soaking in the sight of Dean, peaceful in sleep a hand length away, allowing himself a few precious moments of silent adoration before he has to sneak from the bed. He heaves a sigh, wanting to hold onto the moment longer, but being too much a coward to take the chance of getting caught.

(There’s a vague feeling of loss for the centuries of his life when he’d take whatever he wanted with no thought as to something as mundane as consequence, but he can’t quite bring himself to wish to be back in that time again.)

He’s only just begun the process of rolling from his side to his back when he freezes at the feel of fingers grasping at his wrist. His gaze swings to the location of the touch, his traitorous heart thundering away in his chest as he’s forced to admit that yes, that is in fact Dean Winchester’s hand holding him in place.

“Dammit, Crowley. Just once can you stay put? Be nice to get a full night’s sleep for a change.”

And because Crowley is the epitome of articulation at four in the morning when the man he’s been in love with through life and death and rebirth is touching him skin to skin for the first time since said death for a reason not related to impending doom, he says: “Pardon?”

“Sleep, Crowley. I want to get some. And it’d be a hell of a lot easier if you stopped with the nightly walks of shame.”

It takes a monumental effort to pull his eyes away from where Dean’s fingers are encircling his wrist, but he manages. Sliding them up to Dean’s face, trying to read the look he’s being given by the pale light of the dimmed television.

If Crowley were a less pessimistic sort, he’d think it was almost fond. Annoyed, but fond.

But pessimistic or not, Crowley can’t ignore the fact that Dean is actively holding him back from leaving, and is complaining about him having done so in the past. Crowley’s messy human emotions set his heart racing, his blood rushing. The point of contact between Dean’s fingers and Crowley’s wrist the source of the most intense physical sensations that Crowley can recall since he donned a mortal coil.

Despite his physiological response, Crowley’s mind manages to cling to his sense of self-respect enough to stop him from doing something as embarrassing as declaring his everlasting love or something equally ridiculous. “Hardly a walk of shame, Squirrel.”

Dean’s eyebrows lift towards his hairline. An action that when combined with the sideways position of his head illustrates the lines of age that have begun to carve their way across his forehead. (A fact that - if anything - makes Crowley find him even more attractive.) “No? What else would you call tiptoeing outta here before sunrise every morning in your socks?”

“Being considerate?”

An exasperated chuckle escapes Dean. The sound gravel-rough with sleep, and all too-pleasant to Crowley’s ears. “Considerate would be you keeping your ass in bed for a whole night.”

Crowley chokes on his next breath of air. “You want me to spend the night here?" 

“I haven’t kicked you out, have I?”

“Well, no, but, falling asleep watching D-list eighties movies isn’t the same thing as you wanting me to stay.”

“You think if I didn’t want you here, I’d have let you stay here one night, let alone a hundred?” The question is punctuated with an almost imperceptible brush of Dean’s thumb over Crowley’s pulse-point. The action - simple as it is - sweeps away the vast majority of Crowley’s lingering doubts.

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“Good. Glad that’s settled. Now, sleep.”

Crowley swallows down the questions clawing at his throat, and nods his head. He’s rewarded with a soft smile from Dean. Green eyes holding Crowley’s gaze for lingering moments before sliding shut on a sleepy exhale of air.

Dean doesn’t let go of his wrist.

They don’t talk about it in the light of day. Not that Crowley really expected they would. But there’s a distinct shift in their interactions as they move about the bunker. Dean drifting into Crowley’s orbit too often for it to be accidental. Crowley’s head and heart make sure to scream out at him every time it happens, just in case he wasn’t paying enough attention and might miss it.

The internal screaming is made even worse every time Dean smiles or laughs or breathes in his general vicinity.

Dear Mother of Sin, but Crowley feels like a sap.

How he manages to make it through an entire day of pretending that his perception of reality hasn’t been fundamentally altered by one Dean Winchester, he has no idea. (Jack’s attempt at making meatloaf a la mode for dinner helps, he suspects.)

After, Dean heads to bed earlier than usual. There’s no pointed look in Crowley’s direction. No sense of invitation to join him. Nothing at all out of the ordinary.

Crowley follows after him an embarrassingly short time later.

Dean lets him in, as always.

(In retrospect, Crowley can admit that should have been one hell of a clue.)

This time though, when Crowley ends up on the bed with Dean it’s more than just his shoes that join Dean’s on the floor.

So yes, Crowley's death is slow. The slowest in the universe. It begins the moment he first agrees to help the Winchesters, and ends the moment he finally figures out where it is he belongs.

And after that...well, after that, Crowley truly starts living.

~End.

[chameleonspell]

199: keening

"I knew it." Julan's hands had tightened into fists beneath the table. "I knew you'd do something like this. I knew it, I just-- hoped--" Iriel sat opposite, still as stone. "I'm sorry," he said, yet again. Between them on the table lay a sigh-thin crystal blade, bright as tears. Fixed in a hilt like a banded shackle. Even motionless, it seemed to be travelling at a great speed, as if without the hilt to hold it still, the blade might vanish, slicing through reality and away. When Ire held it, he became faster, sharper. Everything around him began to look like a short cut, ready to be opened.

He hadn't intended to have this conversation now, had meant to wait until everything was over. Perhaps, by then, he'd know what to say. Or he'd be dead, which would, in many ways, be easier. Now he'd let it spill clumsily over his lips anyway, and perhaps some of the terror had gone with it, because he felt eerily calm. "How long?" Julan asked. "How long've you been planning this, without telling me?" "I wasn't planning anything," Iriel said softly. "I've known it was in my head for some time, but... I thought it would go away. I assumed... that it was only my treacherous brain, trying to make me sabotage everything, as usual. I hoped... that was all it was." "But," said Julan, voice flat, "it's not." Iriel pressed his lips together, and shook his head, slow and deliberate. "Were you even gonna tell me?" That old, paranoid hitch in his breath. "Or was I just gonna wake up, one morning, and find you gone?" "No!" The first word was a reflex, torn from his throat. The rest took longer to organise. "I told you," he said at last, brow knotted with the effort of clarifying his meaning, each word precisely enunciated and spaced. "I want you to come with me. That's why I'm asking you to come with me, because you need to know. How much I want it. It's just that... I already know your answer, and I understand why." Ire held his lover's gaze. He felt the grief, a hard lump in his throat, but he kept it there, and didn't let it rise. Julan looked back at him, jaw equally tensed. "I thought about not asking," Ire continued, slowly paying out his confession like a chain. "Or saying that I didn't want you to come. Staying is so obviously the best thing for you, that I thought I'd spare you the guilt of turning me down. But... surely you know I could never leave without a word, leave you wondering why? You deserve to know how desperately I want you to come with me. You need to know that, when you make the choice we both know you'll make." Julan seemed about to get up and range around the room, but at the last moment, he changed his mind. He focused the energy into his stare, instead. "Why are you so sure you know what I'll choose?" Ire folded his hands carefully in his lap. "Because you need to be needed," he said. "And they need you more than I do." Incomprehension spasmed in Julan's face. "The Ahemmusa... they don't really need me, not... not me! They need hunters, warriors. Maybe a few of them want me as a symbol, a reminder of my father. Minabibi even thinks Sinnammu's planning to put me forward for khan someday, but not because I'd be good at it! Because she thinks she could control me! It's all just... politics. Not one of them cares about me the way you do." "Only because they don't know you the way I do. They'll love you, if you let them. Don't you dare go thinking I'm the only one who ever will." "You underestimate the Ahemmusa if you think one person is the difference between survival and destruction. They're stronger than that." "Still stronger with you, than without. Anyway, it isn't just that, and you know it. They're your people, they always have been. You need them, and they need you." "And you don't." The last syllable fell dead from his tongue: not a question. Ire raised his chin, held the lump where it was. "No. I love you and want you beyond anyone, and I'll miss you... past all metaphor, because nothing comes close, but... I'll survive. I'll be safe, like I promised." "Cutting away all the things you don't need any more..." Ire made a noise of frustration, calm aura dissolving. "Sweetheart, how many times must I say that I want you to come with me? Do you think that if people don't need you, there's no reason they'd keep you around? It's the opposite! It's because I don't need you to survive any more that I can see clearly just how much I love and want you! How full my life can be, when I move past mere survival." He exhaled sharply, ran his hands through his lengthening hair. "I used to hate needing people. I thought independence was the same as freedom. I know, now, that isn't true. But I refuse to invent a dependency that isn't there, simply to manipulate you into a decision you'd regret later." His voice pitched upwards, tight-strung. "I'm trying to make this easier on you. I'm sorry, I know how much you hate that." Julan's head slumped between his elbows, chin on the desk. He made a choking noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "I wish I could be selfish, and hide here with you forever," Ire continued. "But you see... it's not just about me. There are things I need to do. Which is your fault. Yours, and everyone else who made me believe I could do them, and who gave me the tools to try." "And you can't do it in Vvardenfell, whatever it is, you have to do it in Summerset?" "Yes, because my country... my whole people... are a system. And so long as I remain here, I'm still within that system, and I'm doing what it expects of me. It's no true opposition at all." "That makes no sense." "Summerset has neat categories, for rebels, and people who don't fit. You're made an Ouster, or an exile, and either way, you become invisible. As long as I stay within that narrative, they're getting what they want from me, and I can't bear that." "You're going back out of spite?!" "Gods, you make it sound so petty. I want to change things. Not everything, perhaps, but something. Make things better, if only for a few. Not as a warrior, not even one like my ma, but... quietly. Softly. Like Muriel or Helende, Jobasha or Uupse Fyr. Or even Kaye, but... if you want to heal suffering, it helps to understand it, and there are certain types of suffering I know a lot about. Perhaps I can use that knowledge. Make it worth something, finally." Settling his hands, he laced them on the table before him. "There must be other people, falling through the cracks, and someone ought to be there to catch them. Or to fish them out of wherever they land." "Fishing, huh?" Fighting its way through the other emotions on Julan's face was the edge of a smile. "Well... he is good with nets. And... someone has to go and rescue him, don't they? Assuming he even made it to Morrowind, who knows what might happen to him, all alone? He's a bit of a delicate flower, my pa, to be honest. Not that we'll go back to Lillandril, at least not yet. I have no interest in seeing my ma, though if she does hunts us down, I think I could handle her, now. But... there are plenty of places we might try. After all, I promised Tilde I'd find her somewhere safe." "Sottilde's going with you?!" "She wants a new start, somewhere as far away from the Camonna Tong as possible. Remember last time we saw her, on that awful silt strider that swayed so much she kept threatening to name the baby after it, if she had to give birth inside a bug's arse?" "...Still dunno about Thorax for a boy, but Antenna’s kind of pretty..." "After we got to Vivec, I told her to go and wait for my pa, in Ebonheart. I didn't have a plan, then, only that they should take care of each other, if I didn't come back from Red Mountain. Now, I... think I might have an idea. And it involves me going with them." He made a dubious face, wrinkling his nose. "I won't lie to her, it's going to be difficult. Scandalous, probably, though I hope I won't have to actually marry her to save her honour. I mean, in Summerset, that would only exchange one scandal for another. Marrying a Nord, the depravity! Far worse than marrying a man - think of the bloodline! Of course, I also have no legal existence there. Which... might even help, actually. I might be able to... work the system a little." "You do have this all planned out, then." "Oh gods. Not remotely. I only hope Tilde can handle a sail better than you. I'm sure she can handle my pa, I have no concerns there. Charm him in seconds, probably, no spell required. In fact..." Iriel broke off, chewing his nail, eyes darting around the room. "What?" "I do hope he's put on weight since I last saw him, I just had the most appalling thought." "Sounds like you've had enough thoughts," Julan said, jamming a stick into the gears of Ire's churning computations. "Since you're so certain you know my choice already." Iriel reached for his hand across the table, careful not to touch the crystal blade lying between them. "I know that you spent your whole life trying to be part of something bigger than yourself, and now you can. I know that you're a young, green thing, growing into any scrape of dirt that will hold your hungry, scrabbling roots. And I would love to let you cling to me like lichen as I run before the wind, but that would be selfish, because you aren't lichen, my love, and you can't thrive that way. You need deeper soil to grow into the tree that you are." Julan frowned, gripping Ire's hand with a belligerent strength. "And you need to stop telling me off about metaphors, then saying stuff like this! More importantly, stop telling me what I need! It's complicated. You're not wrong about some of it. But... you're not the only one who's learned things about survival. Roots... soil... they're not always where you think they are. I know what clan really means, now. Why'd you think I wanted to be marked for you, first? But... still... gods. I don't know. If I left, and something happened..." "Something will always happen, wherever you are, love. It's not up to you." "I know, but... I'd..." "Rather be wrong about staying. I know." Ire was losing control, now, but held onto a smile long enough to say: "Will you at least come and see us off? I'd like you to meet my pa. You could even change your mind at the last minute, and take a flying leap off the docks. That would be very romantic." "Or you could change your mind, and come back to me. No matter how long, I'd still want to see you. To know that you're happy." "I will be. You have to be, too. Happy fucking endings, right?" His voice broke against the fifth word, and the last was muffled in Julan's chest, who had rounded the table to hold him. He wouldn't let go, but in time, Julan said, "I haven't decided, so don't start thinking different. But... suppose I did stay... you'd take care of Tilde for me, right? And let her take care of you?" "Of course." "And would you do one other thing for me?" "What?" "Have the tribe perform the bone-rites for you." "The...?" Julan's arms were clamped around him, his lips at Ire's ear. "The ghostline. Bind your soul into our ghostline. You always said you didn't want to go to Aetherius with a load of Altmer, when you die. So come back and be with me instead." Ire was paralysed by surprise. "Julan, I... I don't believe in that. Even after everything, I still don't believe that my soul, or whatever energy survives, after my death would be me, in any real sense. Anyway... don't you need my bones?" "Well... I still, um..." Releasing Ire, he fumbled in his shirt pocket, and dug something out. Ire stared at the off-white fragment in his palm. "Oh gods. Is that...?" "Yeah. D'you want it back?" "What? No!" Iriel sat back, his lips moving silently as he tried to think. "But surely the rites would never work across such a great distance. Teleportation wouldn't." "It's not the same. It's not about working out numbers of arcane whatever. There's a reason only the Ghostfence could stop it. It's about faith." "You know I've never been good at that." "Then let me do this, if it doesn't matter anyway." "It does matter." He laughed shakily. "I mean, what if it worked? You really want a weird vassith Altmer soul in your family ghostline? Where I'll have to meet your wife and children... oh gods and your mother... and make polite conversation about... oh, hello, yes, I'm just someone your father used to... to..." A tear fell, then, and Julan gathered him back into his arms. "Souls don't work that way, Iya. I don't know much, but I know it won't be like that." "I know, I'm just...  I... all right. I don't think it will work, but... yes. If we live, I'll do it." "And if you meet someone new, and you change your mind, and want to go wherever he's going instead... then... I get it, but... you have to come back to Vvardenfell. To tell me, and to undo the rites, and you have to bring him with you, so I can meet him and see if he's worthy of you." Ire felt him shrug. "Or let him take bone-rites, too. I'm not as jealous as I used to be." next: 200: heart previous: 198: sunder beginning: 1: numb