#anyway I went through hamlet again and this time around I found... that I hate him!

[vaguely-concerned]

me, a norwegian, at the end of hamlet: what do you mean, 'tragedy'

[darkacademicfrom2021]

The Dark Team (part 6)

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��What did you fuck up?”, you heard Loki’s sharp whisper through the earbud, while you frantically searched through papers and papers and some more papers.

“I didn’t fuck up. I have the guy. I have information”, cleared Bucky. “Hey, DON’T MOVE”, he shouted at the kidnapped, cocking his gun. He cleared his throat before talking again. “Good and bad news”.

“Must be Christmas”, you said.

“No, Christmas is when you only have good news”, said Bucky.

“Not in my family. Generally, there was only bad news and food. Food was the good news”.

“I love how professional and focused on the mission you two are. Stark would be so proud”.

“Wait, I’m invested now. Tell me more about your family, y/n”.

“For the Norns, I don’t have much time. The information, Barnes”. You could hear Loki's footsteps resonate. According to plan, he should've been walking through a hall full of burocrats, so he was right; he did not have much time.

“Okay, so, I know who has the stick”.

“Good”.

“He’s dead”.

“Not so good”.

“Not really, no”.

“What do we do now?”.

An alarm on the building had set off and every door locked down, with a man on a speaker announcing the disappearance of an important object followed by an awfully accurate description of the three of you.

“We run, that’s what we do now”.

You didn’t have to say more. Bucky threw himself off the window before it finished closing. You looked around desperately, trying to find a way to free yourself from that office. Two security guards entered the room screaming for you to get on the floor, and instead you made an unstable wall with the desk and chairs, avoiding getting shot and giving you enough time to figure out some sort of weapon to take them down.

The watch was already used, the knives were useless if they had guns, you didn’t have a gun yourself (silly you), and the parachute was apparently not working anymore, so you couldn’t jump off the window like your teammates. Damn.

“By any chance”, you whispered through your microphone “could you tele…”, but Loki gave you no time to finish the sentence and teleported himself to the office, still in the shape of a security guard.

“My dearest friend”, he said to one of the shooters, opening his arms welcomingly, “how’s the family?”.

“What the fuck, Robert?” asked angrily one of the real guards. “How did you…”.

Loki kicked off his gun and touched his head with a halo of green lights, making him fall unconscious to the floor. He looked up and down at the second security guard and formed half a smile.

“And what about your wife? Is she well?”.

“You ain’t Robert, ain’t ya?”.

“Mmh, nah”.

You grabbed the second security guard from behind and made him trip, immobilizing his arms and legs, and held his own gun to his head. Loki watched you amused, and then transformed back into himself.

“Oh, there you are”, you greeted him. “Did Buck say anything about the walking dead?”.

“The… what?”.

“The man with the stick. If he’s dead, who activated the alarm? Someone has to have it”.

“He didn’t say anything else. Can’t you track it down?”.

“If I could, why would we have done all of this for?”.

“Point made”.

“I need to get back to our room, take some things off the checklist before going all in for a new plan”.

“Alri…”, he started saying, but his gaze fell back on the immobilized guard you were holding down. “What are you planning on doing with him? He saw our faces”.

“If you let me live I won’t talk about this at all”, he pleaded, face squished against the floor. “I have kids, please”.

“He’s lying, he has no kids”, he said with a neutral face, and you looked at him trying to tell him to communicate telepathically. Surprisingly, he understood. “What?”.

“I’m not killing him, what do we do?”.

“Just kill him, what’s all the fuss about?”. You looked at him horrorized and he rolled his eyes “alright, just threaten him enough”.

You let him go, still pointing the gun at him, and gestured to the door so he could leave. When he reached for the door knob, you shot twice at the wall, mere inches from his head, and he froze in place.

“Talk and I’ll find you”, you threatened.

“I won't say a word, I promise”.

You looked at Loki and he nodded, letting you know the man was telling the truth. You kept your eyes fixed on him while he ran away, terrified. Must be new, you thought. Loki grabbed your waist.

“What the Hell are you doing?”, you pushed him away.

“Teleporting us, as you asked”.

“You have to grab me to do that?”.

“I don’t have to. It’s so you get stability”.

“Oh. Give me a big bear hug, then. No, better, let’s cuddle” you spat with sarcasm. He sighed annoyed, massaging his temples.

“Fine. I’m not even touching you”.

As he teleported both of you, you felt your whole body tear its own cells apart and dissolve, and then regenerate them. Your head spinned like it never has, and something hit your head; but you weren’t sure if it was the floor, a wall or the roof, for your sense directions were nowhere to be found. You took a few seconds to compose yourself before opening your eyes once everything stopped moving. When you finally managed to realize where your head even was, your eyes met with Loki’s, who was holding back a smirk with his arms crossed.

“Reconsidering that cuddle next time, are you?”.

“That was… hilarious. Such a shame I missed the previous part to give me context, though”, said Bucky from the counter of the hotel room, munching on some chips. “Look, the tiny fridge had these. You were right, they’re actually great”.

“Yeah. Grab whatever, they’re on Stark’s”, you said, still with your head a bit fuzzed. Loki offered his hand to help you get up but you did it yourself. He sighed.

“How do you fit your clothes with that huge ego of yours?”.

“I don’t, I walk around naked”, you answered, opening the nearest laptop and starting to work on the checklist.

That night was like the last one. Dark, silent and with your head full on the work. Bucky was barely snoring, and Loki was sitting on his bed reading a book. Every once in a while you glanced up your work to look at how painfully beautiful he was. You hated every thought about it, of course, but you couldn’t deny his sight grew on you a bit. He was an asshole, of course. A parasite on your head. An inconvenience. A distraction, sometimes. But the warm light of the bed lamp and the shadows it formed on half of his face enhanced his features, almost like a sculpture, a piece of art.

While you thought of that you checked on his expressions, making sure he wasn’t listening to your highly embarrassing thoughts.

After a few hours, Bucky had already woken up and you were still spread on the floor, surrounded by the files and laptops from before. The light conversation had caught half the attention of the God, who was still reading peacefully. He seemed so calm you wondered what kept him up anyways.

“You think he still has it on him?”, asked Bucky, changing his shirt.

“I think it’s a possibility. I’m tracking his body down. Should be in the morgue by now, maybe they haven’t taken off his clothes yet. But if not, the security cameras would have recorded who took it from the body”.

“Groovy”.

"Oh my God, James".

"What?".

"What does groovy even mean?".

"You know... it's like saying cool beans".

"Coo... alright".

After a while, you collected all the data you needed for tomorrow. You were so exhausted your eyes were getting dry and blurry. Loki was still reading in that same place, not even fazed by the amount of hours that had happened. You got up to clean the dishes from the last meal, and he lifted his gaze up from the book.

“Wait”, he stopped you. With a wrist movement, the dishes got as clean as they could get and arranged on the shelf. You chuckled.

“I wish I had that ability”.

“Are you going to sleep now?”.

“A few hours”.

“Sleep here”, he said from his bed. You looked at Bucky’s; he fell asleep back again.

“You haven’t slept yet. I don’t want to occupy your bed”.

“I won’t, don’t worry”, you nodded, kind of worried he might pass out of tiredness in the middle of the mission. Why the hell was he not sleeping? “If it doesn’t bother you, I’d rather finish this book on here too”.

“I think there’s enough space”.

He moved and gave you space for half of the tiny bed, and you laid by his side with your arms crossed and a leg on top of the other. He went back to his book, and even though he was sitting and your sight couldn’t reach the pages, you were sure it was in Old Norse.

“What are you reading?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Doubtfully as in to share it with you or not, he then proceeded.

“Hamlet. It’s a translation in Old Norse from an author I adore. I’d say it’s an even better version than Shakespeare’s”.

You felt yourself about to smile. You tried not to, but you probably did. That was your favourite piece of literature of all times. You wondered how could that have gotten to Asgardian hands, and why would he (certainly a Midgardian hater) want to read Earth’s literature. You were so curious in that version. Was it really that good, that would be better than Shakespeare himself? Sadly, you didn’t even know how to say hello in that language.

“Do you like it so far?”.

“I’m re-reading it. Brings good memories”, he said with a subtle smile he had hoped you wouldn’t notice. But you did. Something in your chest warmed up a bit and you shook it off. No, no. Not feelings. Don’t confuse your physical attraction, don’t feed your touch starved soul. No. You had to repeat to yourself a couple of times. You were just very, very tired.

“Brings good memories to me too. I love this book”. You figured it was alright to open up a little. The situation was relaxed enough. He wasn’t snarky or avoidant. He looked… melancholic. Sad, even. Like a facet of himself he didn’t allow everyone to see.

You connected with that. Maybe you could even relate to him in some way. For years, you had a feeling of something not adding up quite right. A longing for something you couldn’t exactly pin up. Melancholy for a blank space.

But there you were, barely knew him for three days yet felt close enough. Not too much. Just a feeling. Just the traces of something that maybe happened in another life. But in this one, you would get the mission done and leave. So don’t get attached, you ordered yourself.

“It’s a really good version”.

“Wish I could read it but I don’t know Old Norse”, you said slower than you intended. Loki chuckled at your tiredness. Maybe you could push your curiosity a little further. What was the damage? That he could just say ‘piss off’ or something like that? “What good memories does it bring to you?”.

He sighed and muttered almost to himself “I used to read it to my beloved”.

You almost gasped, surprised he actually answered you. You didn’t ask for more. It was already a lot he had just trusted you with. He told you he had a beloved. You didn’t even know he had a lover, but of course he had. He was nearly a thousand years old; why wouldn’t he? Did he lose that lover, in past tense?

Curiosity grew bigger on you, but fear pushed you aback. But the questions floated around in your head as a lullaby. Your head started to weigh a little more on the pillow and everything happened slightly slower. Loki closed the book and left it resting on his lap. He whispered “I feel you have questions”, and you denied it with your head. Your eyelids fell heavier than before.

“I’m mmnmnnhnm”, you managed to sort of say before getting knocked down by sleep. You heard his laughter, but nothing more after that.

[princessfbi]

Ok I have got to know what happened with Oliver's character on that one show that makes you rage so hard every time you see him.

WELL NONNIE I'LL TELL YOU!

This is a warning for spoilers if anyone wants to watch this show because my rage cannot be contained.

OK SO...

This show is called Into the Badlands and Oliver's character is named Ryder. Basically the premise of this world is that it's kind of post apocalyptic/alternative universe where humanity got so caught up in trying to one up each other that it sort of imploded and now you have this society where either you're super wealthy (the Barrons), super poor (Cogs and Nomads), or somehow a ninja (The Clippers and whatever the hell MK was supposed to be). ANYWAYS....

Ryder is the son of Barron Quinn. Now the surviving land is either divided into like factions run by Barrons (who control a majority of major trade) or there's these lawless lands that are run dredges of society. You either become a Barron by killing another Barron (which is what Quinn did) or you are an heir apparent. Ryder is more an heir presumptive because Quinn won't outright name him his heir even though everyone just assumes it.

This is because Quinn is batshit crazy and thinks he can just live forever through sheer stubbornness and will alone. This is especially hard to do because he has a massive brain tumor that's dwindling down what little bit of sanity he has leading him to make questionable choices such as killing the only doctor they have in the lands who would've been useful pretty much for the rest of the series but go off Quinn. Ryder has a lot of resentment towards his father, which I will get into in a minute, and at the same time has gone out of his way to prove to Quinn that he's a worthy heir. Except Quinn keeps comparing Ryder to his second and regent, Sunny, and he's just all around a shitty person in general.

NOW HERE'S THE AMAZING BACKSTORY WITH RYDER:

So, when Ryder was a child, he was kidnapped by these nomads who were trying to blackmail Quinn. Ryder's mother begged Quinn to pay the ransom and save Ryder. Quinn... refused. So the nomads tortured Ryder and (Gross warning) like cut off part of his toes and disfigured his foot in the hopes of crippling him and scaring Quinn into giving to their demands.

Quinn, again, refused.

Eventually Quinn's regent at the time, Waldo, defies Quinn's orders and goes to rescue Ryder from these nomads. Waldo defying Quinn is a big deal because he's a clipper which is basically a soldier (often brought in from the slave faction called Cogs) and they take their oaths to their Barrons very seriously. Barrons trust no one but their regents because again you can become a Barron by killing them. But Waldo always had a soft spot for Ryder.

SO Ryder is saved and eventually nursed back to health but he always has a bit of a tragedy cloud hanging around him because from what we were told Ryder was a very sweet, bright child before he was kidnapped and was brought back as "a broken bird" and he's been doing everything he can to get rid of the broken bird image ever since.

Quinn resented Ryder for making him look weak and Ryder resented Quinn for... Well being a heartless dick.

But here's the crazy part... They both, in their own way, still kind of loved each other.

Now I won't bore you with my rant about how the best antagonists are often the tragic figures who have fallen from grace (Peter Hale, Draco Malfoy, Loki to name a few) BUT I will say Ryder had the PERFECT foundation of showing that fall. He was an asshole and hard and spoiled and super privilege but also soft and still a little broken. There's a whole other narrative involved too with his childhood love and how his dad planned on marrying her but we won't get into that.

ANYWAYS Ryder still had this desperate need to prove to his dad that he was a worthy heir but in his attempts to prove himself (and his dad's fall into madness) his dad started seeing him as competition. Competition and another objects (like Quinn saw with most other characters but especially Sunny). But Quinn has this weird kind of pride when it comes to things that he considers his and an attack on his property is an attack on him. There's a character named the Widow who lured Ryder out and tried to kill him slowly and personally as well as Sunny as an attack on Quinn and he went bananas (sorta).

Ryder was fine eventually but he realized that trying to prove himself to his dad was never going to work so he decides to try the other option: which is killing his dad. Partially because if he doesn't, Ryder is smart enough to know that Quinn's going to get him killed, but also because Quinn's descent into madness is spiraling faster and faster and Ryder wants to protect the legacy. Nothing to inherit if his dad burns the whole thing to the ground!

Long story short, Sunny turns on Quinn and stabs him and everyone thinks Quinn is dead and Ryder takes credit for it therefore succeeding his dad by becoming not only Barron of his father's lands but some other Barron that got murdered by another subplot that was pointless.

Now Ryder is determined to bring peace to the lands (not out of some noble obligation but because he just wants people to chill the fuck out). And for the most part... he's doing okay.

BUT THEN PLOT TWIST HIS DAD IS ALIVE AND CRAZIER THAN EVER.

Basically his dad storms Ryder's house, chases him down in the garden, and they fight. But Ryder's foot that was crippled when he was a child trips him up and the fight gets even messier. Ryder's sword breaks and Quinn points the sword to his own chest and tells Ryder to finish him.

Ryder hesitates and so Quinn takes the sword and stabs Ryder. You know like a rational father would do.

Quinn then asks Ryder why he hesitated and Ryder whispers "because you're my father" before he dies in Quinn's arms. Quinn is... horrified because he realizes that with the death of Ryder is the death of the last parts of his own humanity. He mourns Ryder but also like... takes no responsibility for killing him but neither did Ryder so he can't process it. Later on he's haunted by Ryder but again the man has a giant grapefruit sized tumor in his brain so it's all very reverse Hamlet if you will.

SO LOOK AT ALL THIS POTENTIAL!

THE REASON I RAGE:

Is because Ryder was set up to fail from the beginning. Which is great!....... If that had actually happened. The show worked so hard to tell us that Ryder was a failure and a coward but if you look at it from a story perspective... Ryder was the opposite of a failure. Every time someone told him he couldn't do something, he proved them wrong. Again and again and again. But that was never good enough for anyone. So that vicious cycle would've been amazing to see!

But instead of exploring any of that, we had to watch a storyline that was frankly ridiculous from the beginning that took up way more time than it should. There's a character named MK, who was supposed to be inspired by the myth The Monkey King, but if you don't know that story then you never would've figured that out. Hell, I knew the story and didn't figure it out until I had to google his name because I kept forgetting it. In comparison to everything else happening in the show, this magical mythical storyline just didn't fit and I'm not kidding when I say I watched a season and a half of this show and forgot about MK every time.

Now if you noticed my icon is Buck in a Box. That's an inside joke I have with a friend about this fucking show. The first scene starts off with Sunny stumbling onto a group of Nomads who go absolutely feral about this massive box they don't want him to look inside. Turns out MK was in this box for reasons that were too weak for me to even remember but again MK was entirely forgettable. My friend and I kept talking about how it would've been better if Ryder had been in the box because the Ryder and Sunny rivalry had so much unexplored potential that would've been incredible if we started from the very beginning instead of just being told over and over again that Ryder hates being compared to Sunny.

Sunny is the main character and Quinn, unlike with Ryder, was incredibly proud to have Sunny "in his possession" and Ryder hated him for it.

But did we get to explore that? NO! Did we get to explore the parallels of Sunny and Ryder chafing at being considered possessions by Quinn? NO! Did we get to explore the trauma Ryder was working so hard to shake off? NO!

Instead the show spent so much energy victim blaming Ryder essentially for being the son of a Villain and his Nonsensical Ambitious Mother who had the misfortune of being kidnapped by bandits as a child while telling the audience that Ryder was never going to succeed. That Ryder had no honor and was a coward and weak.

They spent way more time trying to tell us that we should hate Ryder and that he was a bad guy but didn't do ANY of the work to show the fall from grace to prove that. Ryder remained a tragic figure that didn't fall from grace but was rather pushed off by lazy writing because they wanted to focus again on this magical ninja boy with a penchant for getting in the way and ruining everything.

I rage because Antagonist and Villain are not the same thing. Ryder had the potential of becoming a villain and his death by the hands of his father would've cycled him back into the role of a tragic figure. But instead... it was just wasted.

THAT is why I rage. You had the material right there and yet you spent so long telling us that we, the audience, don't like Ryder instead of showing us anything that would make us not like him (besides the whiny white boy thing).

Instead I found myself rooting for Ryder. Like could you imagine if Ryder and Sunny went against Quinn together instead of having the weakest rivalry known to man? Could you imagine Ryder's fall from grace of wanting peace in the lands as it turned to greed? Could you imagine Sunny becoming actual competition for Ryder instead of being manipulated to do so?

WE GOT NONE OF IT.

THIS is why I rage.

[rainydayhogwartsimagines]

Love your writing! I was wondering if you could write something where Draco and y/n get into an argument and it ends up with both of them crying and confronting each other?

Oh you want Angst? I GOT A WHOLE VAT OF ANGST

You and Draco. God you two were this ultimate couple. You got together after your third year, both of you falling head over heels. You both absolutely adored each other. However this was not a good day for either of you. You got into a fight. Something was going on with you that you absolutely avoided talking about. Draco respected your privacy but you were now acting out. That wouldn’t be a problem if this didn’t involve fights and other self destructive habits. You were essentially breaking yourself and Draco was having enough of it. “Y/n would you fucking hold still!?” He groaned as he put disinfectant on a cut near your eyebrow. “It hurts Draco, excuse me if I don’t appreciate the burning sensation.” you mumbled. He sighed. “What the hell drove you to even piss off Pansy?” Draco asked. “Why are you assuming I pissed off her?” You asked. “Because you’ve literally been looking for fights for the past few weeks. I haven’t said anything but I have to know: is something going on that I don’t know about?” Draco asked. You sighed and pulled away. “No.” you lied. “Y/n.” Draco said. “I don’t have to tell you shit, okay!?” You snapped. Draco frowned. “Y/n, what is going on?” Draco asked. “It’s nothing! Christ!” You said. “Y/n why won’t you just talk to me!?” Draco asked. “Because I don’t fucking have to!” You yelled, clearly aggravated. Draco shook his head, looking at you. “Y/n, what is wrong? Did I do something?” he asked. Your silence was an answer he didn’t like. Oh shit, what did Draco do? “What did I do?” Draco asked calmly. “I know about the bet.” You said, glaring at him. Oh. Oh no no no no “Well you fucking won!” you said throwing your hands up.

A few months before you started dating, Draco made a bet with Pansy that he could get you to love him. Considering you hated talking to people, this was a challenge that was going to take a while. What you didn’t realize is that two weeks into the challenge Draco dropped it because he actually liked you. “Y/n...” Draco sighed. “Don’t. Just don’t okay.” You snapped. “You have every right to be angry.” Draco said. “Yes. I do.” You said. “I’m sorry.” Draco said. You shook your head. “Sorry isn’t fixing this Draco.” You said. He sighed and you shook with anger, unable to look in his vicinity. “I trusted you. And after everything I’ve been through, you know that isn’t easy.” You said shaking. “I can’t fix this--” “You’re fucking right you can’t! Draco I loved you. I loved you and supported you, even though you’ve done some pretty fucked up things!” You snapped. “Y/n--” “I depended on you! I thought you my entire God damn world!” You yelled. Any student could walk in on this conversation but you didn’t care. You were tired. So fucking tired. “I don’t know what to say-- I will do anything to fix this Y/n!” Draco said, pleading with you. “No! Draco no! You knew I had a hard time around people. I hated being around them but I found comfort with you. Now I can’t even look at you.” You said angrily. Draco was silent. So were you. You were crying and Draco reached out, making you back away. “Tell me it was a lie. Please.” You whimpered. Draco couldn’t look at that expression. He closed his eyes and you shook your head. “Oh my god.” You whimpered. “Oh my god I feel so stupid.” You whispered. “Love, no--” “Don’t!” You snapped. “We’re done.” You said. Draco shook his head. “Y/n I can’t lose you, not like this.” Draco said. “Then tell me it was a lie. Tell me that this is one big misunderstanding.” You said. “I can’t.” he admitted. “Then that’s it.” You said. “You want to throw all of this away-- just like that!?” He asked, frantically, tears building in his eyes. “I love myself too much to EVER put myself through this shit. Until you fucking find a way to reverse this, we’re done.” You snapped. You left, leaving Draco alone. Draco sat on the edge of the couch in the common room, sobbing into his hands. 

You weren’t any better, going back to the Gryffindor common room in tears. Fred and George looked up from and stopped you. “Woah woah woah, what happened?” Fred asked. You said nothing, hugging him and he looked at George with a “What do we do?” glance. After calming down, you explained everything to him. The fight, the dare. Everything. “I am going to kill Malfoy.” George growled. “I can’t believe that fucking moron would do this.” Fred sighed. “I just wasted nine months of my time.” You muttered, looking at the fire in the fireplace. George hugged you, you sighing and wiping your eyes before someone walked in. “Y/n.” a voice said you turned around and groaned. “What do you want Pansy?” You asked. “I need to talk to you. Alone.” Pansy said. Fred and George looked at you and you nodded that it was okay and they left. “Heard you had a break up.” Pansy said. “Really. What gave it away? Was it the emotional distress or the newfound trust issues?” You asked sarcastically. “Draco’s been having a meltdown. I want to explain this. All of this.” Pansy sighed. “I thought you hated our relationship?” you said confused. “It’s better than having Draco’s snot on my skirt because he was crying on me.” She said. You rolled your eyes and looked away. “The dare wasn’t all him. I came up with the idea.” She began. “Why?” You asked. “Easy target. We were bored, you were there.” She sighed. “Draco took it. Mainly because no one except Fred and George knew you and he figured since you were in Gryffindor there was nothing to worry about.” Pansy said. “Then. Two weeks in, he called it off. We all thought ‘wow is she that unbearable?’. But we knew that wasn’t possible because he was getting to know you anyways.” Pansy explained. “Two weeks was all that boy needed before falling head over heels for you Y/n. That’s fourteen days.” “I can do math Pansy. But that doesn’t change the fact that he lied to me Pansy. I don’t trust people easily and I trusted him.” You said. “It’s not like he went and told us your darkest personal thoughts here.” She said. You shook your head. “Pansy, I trusted him to come to me on his own terms. Not a fucking bet. A bet I had to find out about through Blaise!” you snapped. She sighed. “Look, I’m not saying the situation isn’t fucked. It is. All I’m saying is to try to see this like Draco does. He hates people. He hates talking, he hates interacting, he hates it. But he went to you. He befriended you, yes on the pretense of a bet, but he stayed. He never trusted anyone until you. I get you not wanting to date again. But at least talk to him.” She said. You sighed. “I hate that you’re logical.” You muttered. “Someone has to be logical in this bitch. You and Draco are so God damn dramatic I half expected to come back to a Hamlet reenactment.” Pansy grumbled. 

The next day Draco didn’t even bother with classes. He just remained face planted on the sofa, hair messed up, clothes wrinkled... The boy was a disaster. Finally he had a plan. He got up one morning, leaving something for you in the common room. You walked out and saw journals sitting on the coffee table. “What’s this?” You asked. “Draco dropped them off. Said they were for you. Can we use them as kindling?” Fred asked. You sat on the couch, opening it to see that it was his diaries... Why the hell did he leave this here? 

Well after reading and looking in it you knew why. You were HEAVILY mentioned in them, him starting off in true Draco fashion and acting like a smartass the entire entry. He was so sure he had that bet in the bag. Then you got to the next one. “We have a lot in common.” followed by “I never thought I’d be able to tolerate a Gryffindor.” the next entry made it clear how this was going “I’m beginning to think this bet was a terrible idea. It’s like I’m betraying her in some way.” You gripped the book tightly reading on. “She’s becoming a constant thought. I swear Snape is beginning to think I’m on something because of how spaced out she makes me.” You swallowed a forming lump in your throat “I called off the bet. I couldn’t do it. I think I actually fell for her. Ironic. I was supposed to seduce her.. Instead she’s captivated me.” You let out a long shaking breath. You spent most of the night reading page after page. His first kiss with you, his first date, his first time seeing you in a dress, his first time talking with you all night, the first night you two woke up next to each other. Your heart stopped when you read “Honest to God... I want to marry this woman. I want to keep her in my life for as long as humanly possible. She’s trusted me with so much, as I her. I love her. She’s my world. She sang this song in front of me once... I think the best way to describe this is.. I’m stupid in love.” You closed the last journal and leaned back crying. “Y/n? Do I have to kill someone?” George asked. “Guys... I messed up.” You admitted. You explained what you just read, avoiding any deep personal thoughts that Draco most likely wouldn’t want them to know. “....Crap.” Fred groaned. “What?” You asked. “I want to hate this kid. But... Damn if this isn’t a way to make up for this.” He admitted. “Feeling like he betrayed your inner thoughts so he gave you his... Even I can admit this is... Wow.” George agreed. “I have to go find him.” You said leaving.

You walked in seeing his face buried in a pillow, laying flat on the couch. “What the hell?” You muttered, making him snap up. His hair... Yes, you were depressed from the breakup but that hair looked like an owl nested in it and you snorted, busting out laughing. Draco was confused until he saw his reflection and fixed it. You recovered after a bit and finally cleared your throat. “I’m here to say--” “Can I--” “Uh--” “Oh you talk--” “No you--” You both sighed and you motioned for him to talk. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You trusted me with your feelings and I betrayed them. It doesn’t matter if I called off the bet or not, I just... I’m so sorry and I understand if you can’t trust me.” Draco said. You nodded. “It is going to take time for you to earn back this trust. But... I betrayed your trust too. You trusted me to stay and I didn’t... You trusted me with your thoughts, your ideas, your love and I just... I left.” You said. Draco swallowed. “I read them. The journals. All of them.” you admitted. You took in a breath. “I’m sorry.” You said. He shook his head, hugging you. “You did nothing wrong Love...” he said. You pulled away, wiping your eyes. “I love you Draco.” You whispered. He rested his forehead on yours 

“I love you too.” 

[jaskiersvalley]

Please, Just Once More

@fontegagrilledcheese and @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde you wanted a cry, didn't you? Maybe this will help. It has some Lambert/Eskel and Lambert/Letho with off screen major character death, grieving and dash of an unhealthy relationship. Mature content ahead!

CW off screen major character death.

Please, Just Once More

A Witcher's lot in life wasn't exactly much. For decades, almost a century Lambert raged against it. He hated it, vehemently cursed it and wished he could have been anything but a Witcher. But, then again, if he hadn't been, he would never have met Eskel. Or, if he had, he would have probably been just as shitty to him as other humans were. As much as Lambert wished he was different, he knew himself well enough to know he'd have spat and sneered like the rest of the world. Having Eskel was the one small solace of his existence.

They had a rhythm worked out over the years, meetup points to see each other. It wasn't always glorious, muscle aching sex. Some nights they just needed a cuddle, a warm body who could be trusted to sleep next to. Those nights were Lambert's guilty pleasure. And the times Eskel growled and manhandled him. There weren't many people out there who could make Lambert feel small. In fact, other than Eskel, nobody had managed to do that. It was a wonder in his eyes, an indulgence that neither of them ever acknowledged but still actively sought out.

Another little while passed while Lambert was alone on the Path. Some nights the only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that soon he and Eskel would meet up again. This time, it was in a little backwater village where one of the old crones allowed them use of her barn for a few nights. It was only after Eskel had cleared a rather cheeky hirikka out who kept stealing from her vegetable garden that they were allowed access to the barn. She's had no other way to repay Eskel. So now, once a year, they spent a few nights there.

Finally, it was time for Lambert to make the trek to the barn. Usually Eskel was there half a day before him and got things ready. So Lambert was surprised and a little disappointed to find the barn locked and dark still. At least it allowed him the chance to make things ready for Eskel's arrival for a change. Getting the key from the old crone, Lambert got started trying to make things as homely as possible.

The next day Eskel still wasn't there. Lambert did his best not to get antsy or angry, Eskel wouldn't forget him, wouldn't break his promise or their traditions. By the following day, Lambert was restless. Disappointment was hidden under a fiery wall of rage. He was going to give Eskel a piece of his mind when he finally turned. The bastard had probably gotten lost in another fisstech filled orgy and forgot about their arrangement.

On the fourth day the old crone threw Lambert out.

Anger fuelled by fear had Lambert blazing through the next couple of months with a vengeful violence. He seethed at the thought of Eskel skipping out on their meeting. As if Lambert hadn't made it obvious enough just how much they meant to him. It was rare to get a good fuck on the Path and Eskel had been providing that service. If Lambert kept telling himself that, his heart wouldn't break in two and he wouldn't throw all his training out the window in favour of tracking down Eskel to make sure he was okay. Eskel was one of the best Witchers out there, of course he had to be okay.

Another meeting spot, this time a clearing in a forest. Lambert made the fire, set out his bedroll and caught two rabbits. In the morning, the rabbit Lambert had left on the side, carefully bundled up was still there. Eskel hadn't arrived in the middle of the night and, feeling peckish, eaten it. Just out of spite, Lambert had the rabbit for breakfast, even if he was nearly sick afterwards. He had been foolish to think Eskel would come. As if he could have arrived in the middle of the night without waking Lambert anyway.

After a week in the clearing, Lambert was well and truly sick of catching his own meals. If Eskel couldn't be bothered to make an appearance then Lambert would teach him a lesson and not turn up at their next one.

He did go, despite his vow of petty revenge. Eskel didn't turn up there either.

Two more meeting points where Lambert spent as long as he could, waiting for Eskel to arrive. Twice more he was let down. Come winter, he all but charged up to Kaer Morhen, more than ready to chew Eskel out for being a dickhead. He could have at least sent word that he wouldn't be there, that Lambert shouldn't waste coin and time on a foolish matter of the heart.

The only problem was, Eskel never made it to Kaer Morhen before the pass closed. For the rest of winter, Lambert paced like a caged wolf, almost out of his mind with anger. The coward was just avoiding him, unable to look him in the eyes after standing him up. Well, Lambert would make the bastard pay. As soon as the snow eased and the path down the mountain was clear, Lambert was going to hunt Eskel down and give him a proper Witcher bollocking; with signs and all. In all his scheming, Lambert never saw the pitying glances the others sent his way. Or rather, he chose to ignore them because Eskel was alive, if only so Lambert could kill him as soon as they met again.

Spring was just around the corner, there were still patches of snow and ice but Lambert needed to go. He was going back to the first place where Eskel had left him alone and would track from there. It was one of the things Lambert excelled at, sniffing someone out and finding them; it wasn't all that different to tracking down a monster or a creature.

Working backwards, Lambert didn't have to go far. Two town down the road he heard of a contract that had been difficult to fill in one of the nearby hamlets. So much so, it took more than one Witcher to complete it. It had to be Eskel who finished off the contract, Lambert was certain. There was nobody else who could take on a difficult contract and come out victorious. If Eskel couldn't handle it, then the whole Continent was fucked.

The ground was just starting to come up green again after winter as Lambert stepped into the hamlet. He was given wary glances and people scurried out of his way. It suited him just fine, there would be no obstacle between him and the person in charge of the settlement. Knocking to keep an air of politeness, Lambert didn't wait to be permitted to enter, he barged in.

"I want to hear about the Witcher who completed the contract last year."

The woman gave him a shrewd stare, obviously weighing up her options. In the end, she shrugged, "Not much to say about him. Short chap for a Witcher. Didn't much fancy his chances after the big one failed."

Lambert's world stilled. Surely he heard wrong. He tried to smile and shook his head.

"I'm sorry. Did you say short? And that the big one couldn't complete the contract?" By human standards, all Witchers were large. It didn't mean anything that this woman referred to the one that failed as big.

He was given another once over.

"The little one warned us not to melt down or sell the swords or medallion. That someone would be by for them." Her eyes landed on Lambert's medallion. "I'm guessing that's you."

That was not at all why Lambert had come. He wasn't there to ferry some random Witcher's shit back to their home. Fuck, if it was a Viper or a Cat then he'd have weeks of travel. Before he could protest, the woman stood and walked to a chest. Opening it, she pulled out a carefully wrapped bundle that clinked as she set it on the table. Lambert had no time to refuse, frozen in time while the world rushed by him as the cloth was flipped open. Two swords, one silver and one steel stared at him. Running up the almost familiar blades, his eyes settled on the pommel that he knew all too well. Wrapped around the handles, holding them close was a medallion, a snarling wolf angrily glaring up at Lambert for his failure to come find Eskel sooner.

"What happened?" His voice was hoarse, a hand reaching out to run a finger over the sharp edges of the medallion.

"Big brute, scarred to Nilfgaard and back, took the contract but never came back. After three days, his horse was getting restless so a few men ventured out. Found him propped against a tree, still warm but without breath in his body." The woman didn't seem all that bothered by it and Lambert wanted to rage. She should have been devastated that the world lost a good man. "Probably wasn't quick enough. The other Witcher came along not too much later, said we should burn the body, accepted the horse and the dead one's packs as payment. Left the swords and medallion though, said he had no use for those."

Logically, Lambert knew that Eskel was dead before he even got to the barn. But he couldn't help but feel like he should have gone looking. Shouldn't have assumed Eskel was fine, should have believed the little voice in his head that whispered that Eskel wouldn't ever deliberately forget him. Rage surged through Lambert, he wanted to slaughter the whole hamlet for now helping Eskel, for not going to find him sooner. Humans always claimed they were better than Witchers, but they hadn't gone searching for Eskel either. They were just as bad as Lambert, true scums of the earth.

Wordlessly, Lambert wrapped the swords up again but he took the medallion, tucked it into one of his pockets. The last bits of Eskel. Whatever bastard had the rest of his things, had Scorpion had better never cross paths with Lambert because the only way they'd part way was with one of them dead.

Turning to leave, Lambert marched out of the hamlet, kept walking, no destination in mind. He just wanted to reach the edge of the Continent and fall off the rim. Eskel was gone. There was no good left in the world. Nobody to cuddle close against, no broad chest to press into and feel small. Bereft, Lambert sat in the middle of a forest, heedless of what went on around him. Grief stole everything from him, almost as though Eskel had taken with him all Lambert had trusted him with. His heart was cold, there was nothing left in the world that Lambert cherished.

With no purpose, Lambert wandered the Continent. He took contracts without argument, without thought. In a way, he wished that the creature that had bested Eskel was still around, just so he could kill it. Instead, every other monster met their end on Lambert's swords and signs. No kill brought him any closure though. The rage gave way to numbness which eased into indifference.

"Hello little wolf," a low voice growled at the edge of somewhere South. Somewhere Eskel had never been, so no memories could taint it for Lambert. "You're far from your usual hunting grounds."

The Witcher was large. Far larger than any other Lambert had seen and he'd seen a lot. Snarling, he bared his teeth, protecting his pack, keeping Eskel's swords safe. He should have taken them and the medallion back to Kaer Morhen but that would mean letting go of the last of Eskel. Lambert wasn't ready to do that.

Laughing, the other Witcher shook his head. "Don't worry pup, I have no use for your knickknacks. The name's Letho."

"Lambert."

A Viper who seemed all too entertained by Lambert's very existence. He was probably all too confident in his size being to his advantage but obviously he'd never met Lambert who thrived on defying the odds. Within moments Lambert had a dagger at Letho's throat and was met with a delighted chuckle.

"So feisty. Okay, let's play!"

It wasn't much of a fight, more of a tussle but Lambert landed in a few good blows before Letho's bulk overpowered him, broad chest against slender back, all that weight. Lambert couldn't help but go pliant, remembering Eskel's weight against his back. It wasn't the same, too broad, too heavy, too much muscle but it was the closest Lambert could get.

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" Letho purred.

Not that night, but three nights later Lambert found himself naked with Letho in his bed. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was Eskel again, the heaviness of a large body making the bed, dip. But the smell was wrong, the fingers too thick, callouses in all the wrong places. Scrunching his eyes shut, Lambert tried to will his memories into reality.

"You're going to feel so good split open on my cock."

It was the wrong voice and Lambert growled, "Shut up. Just fuck me already."

"Eager. I like it."

The cock that sank into Lambert was big, too big. Eskel had been large but not to such a degree. Wrapping his arms around too broad shoulders, Lambert's fingers brushed against oily skin rather than hair. Nothing tickled at his face either, no hair that escaped from being tucked behind Eskel's ear. Huffing in frustration, Lambert shoved at Letho.

"Hands and knees," he declared. It would be easier, he wouldn't have to smell Letho's scent, feel his muscles or miss the tender, crooked kisses he and Eskel used to share.

In the new position, Lambert could almost feel Eskel behind him. But the hands on his hips were too large, the cock not curved just right for when Lambert angled his hips just so. Still, he could pretend, even if it was for just one last time, that this was Eskel and this was their goodbye.

Once they both spilled, Lambert panted, head on his arms while Letho cleaned him up with his tongue. Not something Eskel would have ever done, his stubble too chafing usually for Lambert, no matter how great the idea of it all was. Instead, that weirdly smooth Viper buried his face between Lambert's cheeks, a hand sneaking between his legs. Lambert came again, whimpering at the oversensitivity of it all. There were bites and kisses left on the insides of his thighs, across his hips, chest and neck.

They fell asleep, Lambert small and tucked under Letho's chin. Even his dreams betrayed Lambert though, as much as he wanted, he didn't dream of being back in Eskel's arms.

Come morning, the bed was empty and Lambert sighed in relief. He stared down at his body, littered as it was with bites and bruises. Even those were wrong. Eskel used to leave crooked marks, the notch in his lip making the shape of his kisses so unique. Pressing on them, Lambert wanted to cry at how wrong they looked on his skin.

"Not to your liking?" Letho asked as he stepped back into the room.

Lambert shrugged, not bothering to cover up. It wasn't like Letho hadn't seen it all the previous night. It wasn't Eskel, never was and never would be again.

"They're not the ones you wanted, are they?"

The question had Lambert stilling, blinking up at Letho. Finally, he managed a small head shake. "You're not him."

Eyes glancing towards Lambert's pack, the two swords still covered, Letho nodded.

"I know."

[mattzerella-sticks]

Idle Hands Are an Angel’s Plaything by mattzerella_sticks

Three cases - man kills wife. woman steals from where she works. employee kills their boss. They shouldn't have anything in common. Except all three suspects claim they have no memory of committing the crimes they're charged with. Sounds exactly like a case for the Winchesters.

Three days investigating, however, and they're drawing blanks. Nothing adds up in any way that makes these crimes align into a neat box. Dean's ready to call it quits, but humors Sam and Cas by agreeing to interview a few more people. However he soon starts to believe this town has something pertaining to their expertise when he suddenly finds himself its next victim.

Will they manage to defeat the monster without Dean doing something he'll regret? Or will the only way to free himself is to let go of the chains he forced himself into long ago?

For the @supernaturaltropecelebration and their amazing Halloween Challenge!

Kevin grunts in his sleep, trying to wake up from the strangest nightmare. Blinking into consciousness he finds himself in a different position than when he fell asleep. Instead of his eyes adjusting to see his beige ceiling, he stares into the bloodshot stare of his wife Darla. His hands at her throat, grip slack.

“Darla?” he whispers, hands moving to her shoulders. Shaking, he asks again, “Darla?” More panicked, twitching fingers returned to check for his wife’s pulse. A sob crawls from his chest as he realizes nothing beats against his touch.

“No, Darla,” he whispers, rolling off her and collapsing back onto his side of the bed. “How did this happen…”

His hands stay frozen at his sides until he works through his shock and calls the police.

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

The Impala pulls into the diner parking lot, fitting in between a rusted truck and a Prius. Dean sneers at the latter car as he gets out, “Fuckin’ douche mobiles…”

“Dean,” Sam sighs from the other side, “focus.”

“Why? We have jack shit anyway.”

“There’s got to be something tying these crimes together!”

“Yeah, humanity ,” he scoffs, leaning against his Baby’s hood, “Listen, I’m not sure if there's anything happening here that falls under ourjurisdiction, okay?”

Sam rolls his eyes, dialing up the softness in his features. Resembling more labradoodle than man, he asks, “Can we go over it all one last time?”

Dean tries to resist, but he succumbs to his brother’s masterful manipulation. “Fine. But let’s at least grab a booth before it gets too crowded, okay?”

Nodding, Sam moves away from the car and over to the diner. Dean turns to Castiel, the angel perched on the hood as well. A silent observer to their bickering. “You think there’s any foundation under the house Sam’s building?”

Head skewed to the side, Castiel squints at him. “While these events are muddled and pedestrian… you two have had less to go off of.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, tapping Baby’s roof twice, “we have.” He pushes himself off, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. “Come on, otherwise Sam’ll order us all salads.”

“I’d like some fries.”

“Well you can order your damned fries when we get inside.”

They walk together, barely an inch of space between them. Castiel’s arm brushes against his with each step, each time making the blush burning his neck to grow hotter. He could move away, but Dean chooses to stay on his path. Reasoning that Castiel should be the one to do so, finally learn about the personal space bubble he frequently bursts. Eleven years, countless battles, and all of pop culture downloaded into his mind in the span of a second and Dean still has to tell him how if he can feel his breath when he talks Castiel isn’t far enough away.

Sam arches an unimpressed brow when they enter, handing them their menus. “Took you long enough?”

“Bite me, Sammy.”

“I’d rather the food. Less calories.”

Dean exaggerates a frown, Sam copying him. Castiel elbows him in the side, glancing between the two. With a sigh he drops the argument, burying his head into the menu. Keeping silent when his brother and angel carry on the conversation. Only surfacing when the waitress swings by asking for their order.

As expected Sam orders a salad, while Dean opts for a BLT and Castiel asks for his fries. Once the waitress is out of earshot, Sam looks to him. “So,” he starts, “can we go over the case now ?”

Tamping down his comments, Dean nods wordlessly. He fiddles with one of the napkins, bending and crumpling the edges before smoothing them. The urge to tear them up spikes, but Dean ignores it. Not in the mood for one of Sam’s lectures about wasting napkins.

“Now the reason we came here over going home was because of the first incident, where a woman was arrested for murdering her co-worker. Although from how she told it to the press, it wasn’t her.”

“Except,” Dean cuts in, “while Cas and I interviewed her, you checked the footage and didn’t see her eyes flash.” What Sam saw, and related to them, was how Kristie twisted the oxygen valve in the storage shed enough that its contents would hiss open. So when her boss, Mark, went for a quick smoke break, the tossed match would ignite the canister and obliterate the shed, everything and every one in it.

“And from our conversation,” Castiel adds, “she didn’t seem too regretful of her co-worker’s death.”

Kristie confided that bad blood existed between her and Mark. That he offered to help her with her diving suit near constantly, made suggestive comments and harassed her often for a date. “I mean why should I be blamed?” Kristie asked, “He was the idiot who kept smoking near oxygen tanks even when Larry told him again and again to find somewhere else to take his breaks! All I was doing was counting our inventory… sometimes I’m just on autopilot, y’know, it’s so boring… anyone could have made that mistake!”

“But then there were the others,” Sam continues, swiping around on his tablet. He shows the articles he pulled. “Banker who transferred over a hundred thousand into her own account and the man who strangled his wife in their bed.”

“Doesn’t mean there’s a shifter though.”

“Three instances where people claim they have no memory of committing a crime?” Sam scoffs, “Might not be a shifter but it’s something .”

“What else could it be, Sam?” Dean rolls his eyes, “Cursed object? All three of the perps didn’t mention buying or finding anything strange, and I doubt one of those could travel so far in a few days. Especially since none of them travelled in the same circles. Witches? There’s no pattern - usually it’s either murder or theft, they don’t do both!”

“So maybe we need to work harder,” Sam growls, slapping Dean’s hands, “and quit it! I thought I told you how much I hate when you do that.”

Dean frowns, following Sam’s gaze to see the sprinkling of napkin shreds all around him. He drops the rest of it, whipping wide eyes up at his brother. “Sorry,” he says, “must have lost focus or something…”

Sam sucks in a sharp breath, judging him silently through his pointed expression. Feeling guilty, Dean ducks his hands under the table.

“As I was saying,” Sam says, “There’s probably something we’re missing… or we’re not considering. Usually we’ve at least spoken to a witness or a family friend at this point, but with how every day there seems to be a new crime we hadn’t had the chance to.”

Dean snorts, “They should really change their town motto. Most exciting hamlet on the bay…”

“I agree with Sam,” Castiel says, “we’ve learned nothing from simply combing through crime scenes or questioning the suspects.”

“At least we’re all on the same page about that,” Dean hums, eyeing the waitress as she sways closer with their food. “Case talk over with, now’s time to eat!”

The waitress arrives as Sam readies an objection. Unable to raise a protest, Sam swallows back his words to make room for his salad. She hands each boy their order, taking extra care when giving Castiel his. “Now would you like anything else?” she asks them, eyes trained on his angel.

Castiel smiles at her. “No thank you, we’re good.”

“Are you sure?”

A tornado whips up in his stomach, upending the trailers of his emotions settled there. His jaw tenses, fingers flexing as he watches her flick her ponytail to the side. A voice whispers for him to trail fingers through Castiel’s hair and repeat what his angel said, to glare at her until she walks away.

He doesn’t do any of that; instead hissing a breath out his nose and digging into his sandwich.

She leaves soon enough, with a promise to return at a moment’s notice. Dean sulks into his burger, cheeks puffed up as he eats.

The others at the table discuss their plan while they eat, every few beats looking to Dean for his input. With his mouth almost always stuffed Dean didn’t talk. Each time Sam found him with gnashing teeth and crumbled foodstuff his lips curled ever downwards. Castiel seemed confused at Dean’s sudden mood shift, unknowing to what caused him to withdraw.

Unfortunately the sandwich, as large as it was, couldn’t last forever. And his voracious appetite meant he finishes far faster than everyone else. Sam still has half his leaves on his plate, speaking more than he ate, while Castiel picked at his fries.

Now without any sort of shield, his brother expects him to participate. Dean nods and answers when needed, but completely checks out of the conversation.

It’s not like him to do so on a hunt. However it’s their third straight one after a salt n’ burn and a harrowing ghoul hunt. Where Dean was almost intimately familiar with what a spike tasted like, if Castiel hadn’t burst in at the eleventh hour. White shirt sticky with sweat and stained with dirt, hair damp against his forehead. Apparently the ghoul tricked his angel, smothering him under six feet of dirt at a play to take him off the field.

“I dug myself free and came straight here,” Castiel explained as he untied Dean, “I couldn’t waste a second, especially on something as mundane as appearances.”

At least, that’s what Dean thought he said. His mind was too focused on the image of Castiel kneeling in front of him, chest heaving and glistening, fingers dancing around the rope. He only started paying attention when Sam rushed in, gun aimed at thin air.

“Nice of you to show up,” Dean barked, shoving the rope off of him and stepping away from Castiel with a blush, “What were you doing? Thinking about what you could turn my room into when you became an only child?”

Neither Sam nor Castiel laughed. Which made for a very awkward ride back to the motel. The atmosphere so stifling between them Dean escaped to the bathroom. Washing away the ghoul stink and rubbing one to the earlier scene. Imagining if Sam hadn’t burst in.

As good as it felt he regrets it only because it gave the others space to find another hunt and overrule his whining.

“Dean?”

He surfaces from his memories and into the present, blinking at Castiel. “Yeah?”

“Is everything okay?”

Dean studies the furrowed brow on his angel’s face. Mirroring the expression, he asks, “Why shouldn’t it be?”

Castiel’s frown deepens, and his head skews to the side again. “Because your hand has been on my knee for quite some time.”

Blanching, Dean whips his gaze to where Castiel claimed his hand rested. Like he said, it lays on Castiel’s knee in a picture of innocent affection. He flicks his eyes up to Castiel, and then to Sam. His brother watches with amused interest.

“Of course my hand’s there,” Dean says, thinking quick, “I - uh… I’ve been trying to get you to scoot over so I can go to the bathroom.”

Face smoothing immediately, Castiel sighs. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“Because,” he jerks a thumb at Sam, “didn’t want to interrupt this one while he was on a roll.” With Sam’s bitchface in the background Castiel moves so Dean can stand. He winks with fake mirth, “Won’t be long.” Then Dean speeds away to the bathroom, hands buried in his pockets and face stoic.

The diner’s bathrooms are single occupants, and Dean finds both the men’s and gender neutral bathroom locked. Sighing, he sags against a nearby wall and plays with his phone. Trying not to focus on the feel of Castiel’s knee in his hand.

Why it was there Dean couldn’t answer, nor did he need an answer. Otherwise Dean will have to confront a host of problems he isn’t in the mood to face. Not wanting to think about it any longer, he chalks it up to exhaustion. Dean then distracts himself by pulling up a game, hoping with each row of Tetris he clears he can believe his excuse.

While deciding where to shove a T-piece, Dean overhears a nearby conversation.

“Can you believe how sad Tony sounds in this caption?”

“I know, but can you blame him? Broken up like that…”

Dean pauses his game, interest piqued. Shuffling to the side, he spies their waitress conversing with another girl at the last booth. Taking a break from working, she chats with her friend with no fear of being found by her boss.

“Who would’ve guessed Felicia was faking it all this time…” her friend says, taking her phone back. “Like did you hear from Jessica?”

“No, why? What does she know?”

“From what she told me - and this is from what Bea told her - that they were having this sleepover. Bea woke up to Felicia spooning her, and her hands were… y’know .”

“ No! ”

“Which, you’d think Bea would’ve woken up screaming!”

“I know I would’ve,” their waitress says, “y’know Creepy Josh tried something like that with me during a party the other night? Lucky I wasn’t too wasted to stab my key into his hand.”

“So that’s why he wore that bandage throughout the show,” her friend says, “I thought it was a character choice.”

“No, that dildo has no character.”

“Anyway, Bea was super into Felicia’s touch. Has had the hots for her for awhile, apparently. Her own best friend .”

“And Felicia felt the same?”

“Apparently…” her friend glances behind, Dean watching as she extends her neck as far as it can go. Whipping around, she smirks, “Speaking of hands and feeling up … who are those two snacks in your section.”

Dean tracks where she looks, shuddering as logic points to only one table - his . “I know,” their waitress gushes, “you don’t see faces like those in this crummy town.”

Her friend nods. “When I walked in I nearly dropped to the floor at the sight of the guy with the long hair.”

“Sure he’s nice,” their waitress says, “but did you not see the daddy in the trench coat?”

“Really? A trench coat?”

“What! He makes it work,” she defends Castiel’s fashion, “Besides, he has this air about him like… he could take real good care of me…”

Rolling her eyes, her friend grabs for her soda. “I doubt he’s gonna be the sugar daddy of your dreams, Monica.”

Monica sighs. “A girl can dream can’t she…”

Dean glares at her from his hiding spot. A girl cannot dream, he thinks, especially if that’s what her dreams are about. His grip tightens on his phone, the plastic digging into his skin. The bathroom door opens and startles him from his spiraling.

Faced with an empty bathroom, Dean remembers what he came to do. He shakes off the annoyance and hurries into it, going through the motions as he calms his racing heart. Stands in front of the mirror as he repeats to himself, “It’s stupid… don’t let it bother you.”

The voice from earlier returns, whispering again. “It’s not stupid… allow yourself to feel…”

His hands squeeze the porcelain sink as Dean wonders why his inner voice decided to take on a grating southern twang.

“Dean?” Castiel knocks on the door, “Dean? Are you in here?”

Broken from the spell, he turns to the door. He opens it, his angel on the other side. “Yeah?”

“You were gone for a long time,” Castiel says, “Sam’s paying… we’re heading out.” Castiel’s hand twitches at his side, reaching out to him. “Are you okay -?”

“Peachy, Cas,” he says, stepping around the concerned touch, “Police station coffee just hitting s’all… let’s hurry and clear this mess up so we’re not stuck here another night.”

Castiel nods, guiding Dean from the bathrooms and towards the exit where Sam waits. On their way there they pass Monica, cleaning their table. She leers at Castiel, obviously raking her gaze over him.

Impulsively Dean presses his hand against Castiel’s lower back and pushes him forward. “Pick up the pace,” he says loudly, “can’t keep Sam waiting, angel.” Ignoring Castiel’s look of confusion, Dean focuses instead on the bewildered expression Monica creates. Holds his head up a little higher.

“Isn’t that… better…”

“Isn’t what better, Cas?”

“I… I didn’t say anything, Dean,” his mouth thins worryingly, “are you sure you’re okay?”

Unconvincingly Dean mutters, “Like I said, Cas… damned peachy .”

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

Dean loses his footing almost immediately after climbing onto the fishing boat. He stumbles forward, nearly falling on his face. If it weren’t for Castiel’s firm hold on his arm he would have known what poopdeck tastes like.

“Rough waters today,” Jim, the captain, tells them, “if you ain’t got your sea legs than you won’t stand much of a chance, son…”

“I’ll manage…” Dean huffs, flattening his suit jacket with nervous hands. He glances at Castiel, pouting at how unruffled he seems by the waves. “How are you not affected?”

Castiel smirks, “Angel grace is a good substitute for ‘ sea legs ’.”

“Whatever,” he says, “you can let go now.”

The fingers around his bicep tighten, a rush of pleasure shooting up his spine. “I think it would be best if I help steady you.”

Blushing, Dean snaps his mouth shut with a click. He looks to the waiting captain, pinched dimples on full display. “So, about your crew member, Kevin Johannsen?”

“Johannsen was a real good fisherman,” Jim starts, leading them towards a pile of nets. Jim picks one up and begins folding as he talks. “Had this uncanny ability to guess wherever the most fish were in an open sea. One day he pointed to a patch and said ‘cast there’ and we nearly capsized from the amount of fish we hauled in! It’s a real shame to hear what happened…”

“Yes, well, that’s why we’re here,” Dean says, “We just wanted to see if Kevin had been acting strange in the last couple of days.”

“Strange?” Jim asks, “What do you mean strange?”

“Exhibiting unusual behavior,” Castiel clarifies, stepping closer. “Doing or saying anything that might have seemed out of the ordinary… maybe he found something while fishing that he kept for himself?”

“No,” Jim answers, “no, can’t say that he has. Any garbage we dredge up gets tossed back into the sea where we found it… and as for Kevin himself he was as normal as he always was. Cursing out the Patriots, drinking the same amount of beers he always did, telling the same jokes …”

Dean arches a brow, the word like a dangling string he felt drawn to pull. “Jokes? Kevin was a regular comedian?”

“Well, he weren’t a Jerry Seinfeld or a Sam Kinison, but he knew how to make us all chuckle every now and then,” Jim says, turning to his crew, “isn’t that right boys?”

There’s muddled agreement. One man, made burlier by his fleece-lined denim jacket, gives them more information. “Kevin liked repeating what he saw on TV, stole a joke or two from Family Guy. Liked doing that Borat thing…”

“Borat thing?” Castiel asks.

Dean rolls his eyes, “It’s this actor… ‘My wife’?”

“Yeah,” the man says, “he liked that one a lot.”

“Although,” another crewman speaks up, “he sounded more and more like the Honeymooners in the past few months.”

Dean latches onto that, hackles raised. He explores it further, hoping the dark rock sinking in his gut was right. “Kevin having problems at home?”

“Not anymore than the average guy,” Jim shrugs, “Complained about Darla more than ever, though…”

“How so?”

The burly man explains how Kevin found his marriage growing stale, and had taken to flirting with one of the girls who sold their fish. “Kept saying how he wished he didn’t marry Darla right out of high school, had more time to sow his seeds,” he tells them, “That if he could he would get rid of Darla and immediately go after Michelle. Pretended to call up hitmen or asked questions about how fast a person could sink to the bottom of the ocean…”

“And,” Dean rubs at his forehead, pressing against the growing headache, “you were all surprised to hear that this guy murdered his wife?”

Jim scowls. “He wasn’t like any of those disturbed people you see on the news. Kevin was normal, like one of us. It was just jokes between boys.”

“Jokes that led to a woman’s death,” Castiel growls, barely containing the venomous glow dripping from his glare.

“Hey!” Jim objects, “We didn’t tell Kevin to do what he did -”

“No, but you allowed him an open forum to discuss it,” Castiel says, “treated his very obvious threats as silly make believe. In what way could joking about murder be acceptable in any work space? You should have fired him and, at the very least, alerted Darla to what her husband was saying.”

“Why would we have done that?” Jim asks, “We all thought it would blow over. He wasn’t the first man to wish he wasn’t married, we’ve all been in that position once or twice.”

“Yet Kevin was the only one who took extreme measures,” he challenges, “If I were you I would think long and hard about the learned behaviors of how women are treated, especially how easily violence towards them is overlooked.”

Each member of the crew wore a mixture of shame and anger, all directed at Castiel.

Sensing the turn of the interview, Dean lays a hand against Castiel’s chest and pushes him backwards. “I think this is where we’ll take our leave,” he chuckles, “thanks for your time.”

Ignoring his angel’s protests Dean hurries them off the boat, waiting until they’re far enough away on the docks to talk.

“I can’t believe those men,” Castiel huffs, “treating those threats as something harmless like a joke -”

“Hate to break it to you Cas,” Dean says, “but that’s all men.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to accept it. Why did you make us run away like that?”

“Because as much as I hate what they said,” he sighs, “I know when to pick my battles.”

“No you don’t.”

“Fine, I know how to pick your battles.”

“They wouldn’t have been able to hurt me,” Castiel tells him, “But I could have taught them a lesson or two…”

The hand still glued to his arm clenches tighter, Dean wincing in pain. Underneath that, though, a current of heat stings his lower body. His dick stiffens and rises somewhat in his pants, adding to the already intense blush coloring his cheeks.

Noticing Dean’s pained expression Castiel cools his anger and releases him. “Sorry,” he says, “I… I forgot my hand was there.”

“S’okay, Cas,” Dean chuckles, “Next time take your frustrations out by writing your local representative…”

“Do we have one? I thought since we don’t vote…”

“...Never mind, Cas. Let’s just go call Sammy and tell him it was a bust.”

They shuffle over to the Impala, at a distance uncommon to their friendship. Dean wants to reach over and calm his angel, express further how unsettled he was by the others’ callous remarks. Remind Castiel that even in all the whirling madness there are a few voices of sanity trying to help others listen to reason. Only some people prefer having their ears stuffed up, comfortable with the silence. And most don’t want to rock the boat and mess up what already works.

Like Dean. Because as much as he wants to hold his angel all he uses his hand for is to open Baby’s door, start the engine, and call his brother.

He picks up on the third ring. “I was just about to call you.”

“You find anything?”

“No,” Sam sighs, “I think you might be right about this one…”

Dean tempers his grin, only allowing a tiny fraction of it show. “What makes you think that?” he asks.

Sam explains what he managed to uncover while snooping around the bank. How Linda was on the fast track to unemployment, her boss showing him the letter of termination they planned. Her co-worker Sandy told Sam how Linda complained about having issues with money. “Apparently she was buried deep in debt after some serious online gambling,” he says, “So we have a motive.”

He reigns in the ‘I told you so’, instead saying, “Same here. Ol’ Kev talked pretty heavily about not wanting his wife around anymore…”

A surge of warmth rocks over him from the thought of wrapping up the case quickly. While it’s an odd feeling to have when discussing murder, making him sound so flippant, he doesn’t care. Picturing his bed in the Bunker gives him tingles, especially when his imagination adds the perfect cherry by placing Castiel atop of his covers.

In the fantasy Dean drops his bags and glides in, kneeling at his bedside. Gently caresses Castiel’s face, the feel of his stubbles so real under his fingertips. As if the welcome relief of a case closed hit him now, while they tie up their loose ends. His angel would then flutter his lashes and whisper.

“...Dean?”

He bites his lip, “In a second, Cas - I’m on the phone.” Adjusting himself in his seat, Dean focuses on the conversation with his brother. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“That I’ll meet you at the motel and we can hit the road as soon as you want -”

“ Dean !”

“ What ?”

He whips around to face Castiel, a hush heavying his tongue. Instead of firing the command Dean chokes on it while taking in the scene.

Castiel stares with wide eyes, Dean’s hand softly cupping his chin. Thumb brushing the cleft, visible beneath the stubble, and his fingers press against his firm jaw. His angel’s plush lips part slightly, as if too stunned to attempt another sound. Dean mimics him, as he cannot understand how his hand got there nor why he hasn’t pulled away.

Sam’s on the other end, asking for Dean again. Wondering what’s happening. A yell, louder than all the rest, cuts through the static playing in Dean’s mind. He jumps, hand flying from Castiel’s face like it burned.

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam huffs, “what the hell is going on over there?”

He wonders the same thing. Suddenly Dean remembers how his hand found itself onto Castiel’s knee in the diner, and the way he pressed it possessively against Castiel’s back. Then the suspects’ testimonies filter their way in as well, all boiling to the same point.

Dean rubs his hand across his forehead, dimples flashing at him from the rearview mirror. “Looks like the road’s gonna have to wait another day, Sam.”

“Dean? What do you mean?”

“Turns out this case is exactly in our wheelhouse.” He ends the call, promising to explain more when they meet at the motel. Signing off, Dean drops his phone onto his lap and tightens his grip on the wheel. Dean speaks to the windshield, not trusting himself to look at his angel. “You good?”

“I am fine,” Castiel starts, concern bleeding through his gruff voice, “But are you…?”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Dean rushes out, neck hot.

“Funny. You sound exactly like everyone else we’ve come across.” He doesn’t need to see to know Castiel arches his brow while he talks, the sass translating perfectly.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not lying. I… it was like my hand had a mind of its own.”

“I believe you.”

“Because I wouldn’t do that,” his mouth won’t shut up, “unless you wanted me to, it’s kinda creepy and -”

“Dean,” Castiel cuts him off, hand laid across his thigh, “it’s okay.”

Throat dry, he roughly swallows against the heart that jumped up there. Faced with either addressing the problem or ignoring it, Dean relies on where he has the most experience. He shifts into drive and speeds away from the docks. Silent the entire ride to the motel.

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

Sam shifts his gaze between the two, expression wrinkled with suspicion. He glowers at them, hunched over on the chair. “Explain to me again why you changed your mind on this?”

Dean glances at Castiel briefly, his angel sitting next to him on the bed. “I just,” he starts, wringing his hands, “I think that we might have missed something important.”

“Which is…?”

He huffs, physically withdrawing from the conversation so he can think.

Even with how fast Dean drove, Sam beat them to the motel. Waiting for them with twisted brows. Hoping they could shed some light on the stilted and urgent ending to the earlier conversation. Unfortunately Dean could only give half-formed answers, bathed in vagueness. He relied on trust to get Sam to accept the bull he force-fed him.

Sam knocked away every spoon.

“Dean?”

“Dean seems to be suffering under the effects of possession.”

He glares at his angel, lips trembling. Castiel returns a softer gaze, smiling with his eyes. “All of those arrested admitted to not remembering what they did, yet each had motives for doing what was done,” Castiel says, “Either they were filmed committing these actions or had their fingerprints found at the scene of the crime… we believe it must be a ghost forcing people to act on impulses or desires they usually ignore. And Dean is the ghost’s next victim.”

“Really?” Sam says, turning to Dean, “Is that true?”

Dean’s head bobs side to side before sighing. “Yeah, discussed it in the car,” he lies.

“So you’re possessed?”

“Looks like it.”

“What’d the ghost make you do?”

“What?”

Sam crosses his arms, straightening to a more imposing level. “You’d have to have done something you wouldn’t have done. Acted on an impulse… what was it?”

Once more he skirts the truth with his brother. Grinning wide enough his teeth nearly jump out of his mouth, Dean says, “Saw something really sexy down by the docks and started rubbing my junk like no tomorrow… almost got caught for public indecency.”

It’s a gamble that works in his favor. Sam’s nose scrunches in disgust and he cries, “Gross, Dean. God!”

“Hey you wanted to know!”

“Ugh,” Sam stands, spinning on his heel, “Whatever. Go wash your hands, pervert. Then you’re gonna help me and Cas with research.”

Dean nods, pushing off the bed. He looks to Castiel and mouths a quick thanks. His angel winks in return, sending Dean off to the bathroom to wash his hands and will away the blush staining his cheeks.

When he comes back Sam won’t look him in the eye and Castiel moved further up the bed, scrolling through his phone. Dean digs around for his laptop and sits by his angel’s feet. Close enough to not raise Sam’s suspicions but far from any temptation his hands might succumb to.

A healthy dose of fear bubbles inside at the image of his hand creeping, without his knowledge, over to Castiel to play with his feet. He shudders and shifts so his legs dangle off the side, face turned even further away. It doesn’t stop him from being very aware of his hands. Jumping with each twitch and worrying whether it was him or the ghost that wanted him to click a link or scratch an itch.

He wasn’t much help in terms of research.

In the third hour of Dean staring more at his hands than his laptop, Sam cries from nearby, “I think I got something!”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. “What is it?”

Sam beckons them closer, “So get this…” He waits until Dean and Castiel are hovering behind before continuing. “Apparently the town was the home base for this motivational speaker in the 80’s. Really weird guy by the name of Benjamin Moreley.”

“A motivational speaker?” Castiel asks, “What’s that?”

“They get paid through the nose to shout a few words and come up with catchphrases,” Dean tells him, “All in an effort to get people to ‘ change ’. It’s a real racket, especially these days.”

“And back then, too,” Sam says, “over the years Moreley’s messages became some kind of movement, real cult-like. Anyway… listen to this clip from one of his speeches and see if it strikes a nerve.”

Sam unmutes the video, starting it from a minute in. He hits play, allowing Moreley to live again. Benjamin walks across a makeshift stage, soaking up the applause. Dean uses those few seconds to scan and judge the conman. Takes in the ruddy face, sweating profusely under the heavy lights. A hankey with a rich, purple color held tight in his fist, matching his shirt. His suit was white and stained in certain areas. The crowd watching him didn’t find Moreley as pathetic as Dean does, fawning over him loudly.

“Because it is when we take hold of what we want,” Moreley says, southern twang grating but unfortunately familiar, “fight against all the brainwashing society has forced upon us, to fit into their perfect little boxes, that we can truly be happy. The Id is our most basic part of ourselves - fundamental to our needs and desires. Why should we ignore it when doing so makes us miserable. We should be waking up every day with a goal of making each day better for yourself than the last. Looking at every opportunity, asking ourselves ‘does this make me happy’? And if it does, great… go for it. If the answer’s ‘no’... then don’t do it! Somebody else will!”

“Wow,” Dean snorts, “guy sounds like a grade-A douche…”

The laptop snaps shut without warning, Dean’s hand flat against it.

“Dean, what the -?” “I didn’t do that,” Dean says, “I didn’t mean to…”

Castiel huffs, “I guess this answers our question.”

Dean draws his hand to his chest, rubbing it. He frowns, “How’d the bastard die?”

“In all his speeches about giving into your impulses,” Sam says, “he forgot to mention the consequences. He was sued by a few followers for the expected - lost jobs and spouses leaving. Moreley’s defense was that they were happy in the moment, and that’s all that mattered. Halfway through the trial, though, his wife burst in with a gun and shot him while he was testifying.”

He whistles, “Damn…”

“Apparently Moreley was giving into his own temptations,” Sam shrugs, “sleeping with a few of his followers. When his wife found out she decided to lean into his teachings. Took her revenge then swiftly shot herself, too. It was all detailed in this comprehensive article they wrote following the case, even had copies of the wife’s suicide note.”

“If Benjamin Moreley’s ghost is haunting people,” Castiel asks, “where is his body buried?”

“Close by.” Sam re-opens his laptop, scrolling towards the end of the article. “In this huge mausoleum at the center of the Joseph M. Whorly Cemetery. It’s an hour outside of town.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Dean asks, “Let’s get a move on!”

“Dean…”

He bites his lip at his brother’s tone, not caring for it one bit. “Sam,” Dean sighs, “come on -”

“You shouldn’t be going,” Sam rushes, “if you’re possessed then you’re a liability.”

“I’m not gonna let a damned ghost stop me from doing my job!”

“We all saw what happened, Dean!” Sam drags a hand across his face, wiping away the aggravation. “Listen, what if it were me who was possessed? Would you want me coming along on this hunt, doing whatever the ghost is doing to you?”

His mind runs away with the prompt, painting a scene that makes Dean’s blood boil. Sam’s hands on Castiel’s knee, caressing Castiel’s face. Fingers that weren’t his carding through his angel’s hair or tiptoeing down his chest. Finally catching up to his thoughts Dean sneaks a peek at his hand to find it drifting towards Castiel.

Dean shoves it into his pocket, face hot with embarrassment. “I’d want you far away,” he mutters, “so, so far away.”

Sam arches a brow, worried by this display. Dean prepares for his brother to ask another question, saved only by Castiel clearing his throat.

“As much as I agree not having Dean on this hunt,” he starts, “what if the ghost hurts Dean in our absence. Who knows how much his power has grown since the first attack, he could seriously hurt himself.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “what do we do about that?” Dean isn’t worried the ghost will hurt him, confident in his own control against the wannabe Manson. But he doesn’t want to sit on the bench for the rest of the case.

Sam thinks for a moment, grin unfurling when he finds an idea. Dean’s skin crawls at the gleam lighting up his brother’s eyes.

“I think I have the perfect solution…”

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

“Stupid motivational speaker ghost,” Dean mumbles, knocking his head against the motel divider for the umpteenth time, “why’d you have to latch onto me? Wasn’t there some other unlucky sucker you could’ve found?” His arms sag overhead, wrists pulling against the silver cuffs as far as they can give.

Sam’s solution was simple and made the most sense. Dean still complained the entire time.

“Listen if this all works as planned, we'll be freeing you in no time,” Sam said. After testing the cuffs above Dean’s head, making sure they wouldn’t break the divider, he hid the key. Ignorant to Dean’s protests all the while.

“You better hope so,” Dean huffed, “If this isn’t the right ghost then I think the next impulse I’ll have is shaving your head while you sleep!”

Sam hitched the bag over his shoulder, looking to Castiel. “Ready to go?”

Castiel, who stood at the wayside watching Dean’s imprisonment, finally tore his gaze away from Dean. “Yes.” They left without glancing behind, especially when Dean whined about how his nose itched.

A quarter of an hour later, Dean only had himself for company and his nose continued to irritate him. He shifts, ass numb from the awkward angle he was stuck in. “Couldn’t they have left me with a pillow to sit on or something…?”

Suddenly the sound of the doorknob turning cuts across the room. Dean whirls around to face it, confused as to who it could be. Sam and Castiel should still be driving to the cemetery. If it was housekeeping, which Dean hoped weren’t the case, then Dean better have a good excuse to use.

Luckily Castiel is on the other side of it.

Dean relaxes slightly. “Cas,” he says, “What’re you doing here?”

“Well, Sam and I were a couple of blocks away from the motel when I realized this wouldn’t be the most preventative measure,” Castiel explains, shutting the door behind him, “The ghost could use its strength to break the chain, or worse, your bones in such a way to slip your hands free and hurt you. So I suggested one of us staying here, with you, while the other goes to the cemetery. Since it’s a mausoleum we won’t need to dig… Sam agreed.”

“And he let you take babysitting point?”

Castiel shrugged, smiling. “If the ghost does have abnormal strength, then at least I will be able to match it.” He carries a nearby chair over to face Dean, sitting on it. “As we all know, I’m very powerful in my own right.”

The wink sets off a chain reaction. Reminds Dean of the earlier display on the docks, and the effect it caused within him. His dick stiffens again as he pictures Castiel pinning his wrists in one hand and using the other to squeeze his crotch. Dean’s hands spasm against their chain, twitching for freedom and Castiel.

Things became much more complicated than they were when Dean was alone.

Dean lapses into silence, trying to regain control over his hands. The longer Castiel stares at him, unblinking, the less his hands listen to him. Castiel’s presence produces a hypnotic orbit, where every time Dean thinks he’s free his eyes get sucked in again.

Suddenly Castiel leans forward, elbows perched on his knees. “Y’know, I rather prefer you like this.”

He wets his lips, voice raspy. “Like what?” Dean asks.

“Cuffed,” he says, foot tapping rhythmically, “can’t run away… can’t distract… cannot hide, like you usually do whenever a situation becomes too… intimate .” His hands slowly slide down his thighs and rest on his knees, Dean tracking the movement. “If I wanted to I could ask you a question - any question - and you’d have to answer it, wouldn’t you?”

Dean neither confirms nor denies.

“You are patient, though. Could probably wait out the awkwardness until Sam returns…” Castiel chuckles, “Funny, how of the three of us only youwere possessed. Like the ghost knew you had these... hidden desires. Do you have them, Dean? Would you like to touch me?”

He spasms, weak enough that a groan eaks past his lips.

Castiel grins, gaze darkening. “Your hand on my knee… on my back… my chest… as brief as they were, they all felt rather… nice .”

Startled, Dean’s jaw drops at the admission.

His angel carries on, straightening against the chair. “I could’ve asked you to keep them there, told you it was okay. Except you wouldn’t have responded well at all. You’d panic and then make a joke, act as if your affectionate gestures were anything but - especially in front of Sam. Keep up appearances… you can’t do that now, can you? The ghost has removed all pretense - for your hands at least. Your mouth, however, can still deny. But do you want to? Is it worth denying any longer?”

Dean struggles to laugh away Castiel’s suggestion. Except with the intensity of his angel’s stare and the heavy words he spoke, Dean finds little will to carry on the charade. Unburdening himself from his doubts and fears, he shrugs, “I guess it isn’t. It’s… tiring.”

“Would you like to touch me?”

“... Absolutely .”

He attempts to reach for him, only can’t get far with the cuffs still on. Castiel sighs, clucking his tongue at Dean.

“You can’t do that right now, unfortunately,” he says, stretching his leg until his foot is pressed against Dean’s crotch, “But there are other… pointsof contact .” Castiel steps down on Dean’s crotch, lightning flashing behind his eyes as Dean’s legs spasm. The rattling of the chains against the divider gets drowned out by heavy breathing.

Dean bucks against Castiel’s foot. “More!”

“In due time,” Castiel tells him, dragging his foot away, “We’ve been through so much, though… so many years of pining behind closed doors… why should we blow it all in fifteen minutes?” He drops to the floor on his knees, kicking the chair away. Crawling until barely an inch of space exists between their faces.

Castiel’s breath ghosts against his lips. Dean tips his head to capture them, only for Castiel’s thumb to dig into his chin. “No,” he whispers, “not yet. Only when I say so, understand?” When Dean doesn’t respond Castiel pinches a nipple. “Understand?”

“Yes!” he yelps, blood rushing to his dick.

“Good.”

Pulling away from his face and chest, Castiel rests on his haunches as his hands trace the seams of his jeans. “This must not be comfortable for you, can it?” he asks, smirking, “I can take it off if you desire?”

Dean nods, not trusting his voice. Except Castiel pinches him again, on his thigh. “Please,” he pants, “Please, Cas.”

“It is no problem…” He unties his boots, pulling them off to spend more time removing his socks. Peeling each one off slowly, scraping his blunt nail up the soles of his feet as the black fabric comes off. Once more his legs jump and dance uncontrollably. “Ticklish,” Castiel notes, “I’ll remember that…” Moving on Castiel drifts up to the belt, playing with the buckle. He unbuckles and re-buckles the accessory so many times Dean feels lightheaded from the bloodloss. Satisfied, finally, Castiel whips the belt off and snaps it. “Later,” he promises, setting it off to the side.

His fingers deftly unbutton his jeans, tugging them and his boxers away until Castiel exposes his ass and legs to the motel carpeting. Folding his jeans allows Dean the chance to gasp in as much air as he can before Castiel shoves him under again. He glances at his bare legs and exposed crotch, notices how his heavy dick rests in the middle of his bramble-like pubes. With only his shirt on Dean resembles Winnie the Pooh, and his knees scoot closer as if to shield himself.

Castiel guides them to where they were, frowning. “Why are you trying to hide again, Dean?”

He bites his lip, blushing. “Cause I look -”

“Amazing.”

“What?”

Castiel places his hands on Dean’s thighs and splays his bowlegs while dipping close to Dean’s face again. “You look amazing,” he places a kiss to Dean’s chin, “gorgeous,” another to his cheek, “awe-inspiring, lovely,” two to his eyelids, “miraculous,” pecks his nose, “and sexy .” Finally Castiel embraces Dean’s lips, tongue immediately poking past them for a taste.

Dean’s wrists burn from how the cuffs cut into them, keeping him from tugging Castiel’s hair or squeezing his biceps. His angel enjoys Dean’s struggle, though, breaking the kiss to laugh.

“This isn’t your time to touch,” Castiel says, “When it is, I will let you know. Until then… allow me to explore .”

They must have different understandings of what the word ‘explore’ means. Because to Dean it feels like torture . Unable to participate, passively watch Castiel comb over every piece of his body. Moan while Castiel nibbles his ear and tugs at his hair. Vision dizzying while Castiel twists his nipples and laves at his navel. His cock, stiff like a frozen popsicle, leaks precum without being touched at all. Castiel circles it: scratching his thighs, squeezing his balls, and breathing on its tip. All Dean can do is jerk forward, except he never makes contact. His angel tips backwards every time.

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, “good little hunters are patient .”

“Patient?”

“You can wait a little longer, can’t you?” Castiel asks, brow arched devilishly, “Especially since I’m making this so good for you.”

“Too good,” Dean whines, “Let me… please, let me…”

“Let you what, Dean?” he asks, “Like I said, you cannot touch -”

“N-no,” Dean interrupts, “Let me… let me…”

“I’m waiting.”

“ Come .”

Castiel considers the request, thumbs kneading the skin under his thighs. Hums a maddening melody that sends shivers racing up and down Dean’s spine. “You have had a rough day, haven’t you,” he says, “It's not easy giving up control… I guess you may come. But -” his left hand slips into Dean’s asscrack and presses against his hole, “Allow me to help you along.”

“Of course, Cas,” Dean sighs, fluttering around Castiel’s thumb, “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Please…”

“I didn’t think Dean Winchester would be the one to beg…”

“Only for you, angel,” Dean babbles, “I want to be the only one for you… so bad.”

“How bad?” Castiel asks, right hand squeezing his dick, “How long ?”

“Don’t know,” he answers, “One day I blinked and-and all I wanted to do was have you near me. Have you on me. You told me once that you built me from the ground up? Well I want you to tear me the fuck down - up - whatever . Crash through my walls like a fucking wrecking ball until there’s nothing but debris. And then build me again.”

“Are you always this demanding with your partners?”

Dean chuckles, “Only the ones who’ve kept me dangling at the edge for far too long.”

“Then stop talking,” Castiel commands, “and let me push you over.”

He dies there, bare assed and on the cusp of an orgasm. At least, that’s what it felt like. Because one second he was staring at a glowing Castiel and in a blink Dean floated over his own body. Saw how glazed over his eyes became, barely a ring of green around the overly black pupils, and the specks of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Compared the nakedness of his own body to how clothed Castiel still was. Lost in the immense pleasure, Dean barely noticed how Castiel hadn’t removed his layers. Yet with his entire being one delightful static he could take in the little details. Dean floats on a cloud of pure delight as Castiel pumps his dripping dick with abandon. Giggles while Castiel kisses against his chest, rucking up the sweaty shirt he wears.

Soon the static turns into a lightning storm, the cloud he rests on darkening. Dean is struck by a stray bolt, piercing his spirit and waking him from his spell. His body groans with the need for release. His wrists bleed from how they’ve rubbed the metal cuffs. Huffing, Dean begs his angel, “Can I… Oh please, please, please, Castiel, can I…?”

Castiel nods, “Of course.”

The divider snaps in two, Dean’s hands raking through Castiel’s hair. His fingertips twitch with newfound freedom. Overwhelmed by the different choices, Dean feels drunk. His nails scrape against Castiel’s scalp, down his neck and across his trench coat. He grips the jacket as the giddiness fades into his riptide-like orgasm.

Come shoots from his dick without warning, ripping a roar out from a primal part of Dean’s being.  His legs bounce and his vision dangerously fades for a moment. Dean shuts down, sagging onto Castiel’s shoulder. In the next beat his systems reboot, and he gasps for breath.

“Cas,” he breathes, “ Casssssss … CasCasCasCasCasCasCasCas-”

“I’m right here, Dean,” Castiel whispers, stroking his head, “You were so good… so good.”

Dean chuckles, chains rattling. “Don’t know ‘bout that,” he shrugs, “I touched you…”

“I said it was okay, didn’t I?”

He sighs. “This is all really okay with you?”

Castiel halts, the suddenness scaring Dean. Makes him fear he said something wrong, especially when his angel draws back and cups his hands in his face. “Dean,” Castiel says, “There are no words to describe how okay I am with all of this. I am post-verbal, completely. Nothing in English, Enochian, or any other language can come close to describing the fire that burns inside for you. I only…” He ducks his gaze, sheepish for the first time since he entered, “I only hope that whatever… this was… it wasn’t an ending, or a means to an end. It’s a beginning . Is that… what you want?”

Dean’s face hurts from how wide his grin stretches. “You kidding?” he laughs, “I’m not going anywhere . Chuck himself couldn’t write me out of your life, or vice versa. What we did now, it ain’t no ‘Once Upon a Time’... but I’ll be damned if we don’t get the ‘Happily Ever After’ we deserve.”

Their foreheads knock into each other so Dean can only see Castiel’s face. Studies the gentle blue waves of his eyes, peaceful enough to lull him to sleep. His blinks slow and lengthen, lids heavier each time.

Castiel huffs. “You’re tired.”

“No I’m not,” Dean yawns, straightening against the divider. “I can still go. I have to…” he glances at Castiel’s crotch, “it’d be selfish if you did all that and I konk out like some pillow princess.”

“I won’t mind, Dean,” he tells him, “Don’t feel obligated. Besides… we have the time.”

Dean startles, lips parting. “Yeah… yeah, I guess we do.”

“Lay down, Dean. Relax…” Castiel guides Dean’s head to the side, laying it on the jeans he folded earlier. Then his angel follows, wrapping his arm around Dean. Castiel’s chest blanketed his back, easing Dean into unconsciousness.

Before his eyes closed, Dean wrapped both his hands around Castiel’s, squeezing it. “I’m so happy…”

“As am I. Now rest… I’ll be here when you wake up…”

Dean sleeps the easiest he has in years.

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

He wakes with the slam of the front door, a frightful breath rushing into his body. Dean jumps to a sitting position, staring wildly at his brother.

Sam gapes down at him, bag plopping beside him as his grip slackened considerably. Skin pale, his brother’s hazel eyes fade to grey as he processes the sight in front of him. Dean uses the time to take his still shackled hands and pulled his shirt over his junk. “Cas,” he hisses, “Cas, wake up!”

Castiel growls from behind him. “I’m not asleep, Dean.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Angels don’t sleep.”

“Oh, then you chose to let Sam walk in without warning me?”

His angel perks up, squinting an eye open to see the younger Winchester standing in front of the still open door like a zombie. Flying to his feet, Castiel stumbles over to the bed. “Sam?” he gasps, “What are - what are you doing back so soon?”

Watching Castiel panic sets Sam off. Realizing what he walked in on, he claps a hand over his eyes and spins on his heel. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I left you two alone!”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Sam, but how else were we supposed to pass the time?”

Sam splutters, shoulders tensing. “I can’t believe you two were here… while I had to salt ‘n’ burn all by myself!”

“I apologize for the deception, Sam,” Castiel blushes, “if you had known exactly what impulses Moreley made Dean act on, then you would have seen how prudent it was that I stayed here.”

Curiosity piqued, Sam cranes his neck to the side and peeks in. He won’t look at Dean, still pantless. Instead he focuses on Castiel. “His impulses?”

Dean sighs. “Cas here was more magnetic than usual… my hands couldn’t stay away?”

Sam’s eyes rolled heavenward, the hand hovering nearby steeples at his temple. “Could you please put on pants if you’re going to be an idiot?”

“It’s kinda hard when you’re handcuffed…” Dean bites his lip, faltering somewhat. “This… you’re not upset, are you?”

“Kinda,” Sam admits, terrifying Dean, “I mean I was worrying the ghost was gonna make you hurt yourself when all it wanted was for you to fool around with your best friend? I could’ve left you two in the car if that were the case… at least I wouldn’t have been alone.”

Dean’s heart calms at the confession. Glancing over at Castiel, however, he sees his angel’s expression dim. Sensing what needs to be done, Dean clears his throat. “Actually,” he says, “we weren’t… fooling around.”

Sam turns to him, shocked. “What?”

“Me and Cas,” Dean continues, smiling, “it was more than that, Sam. Deeper and… shit. Like, you might see me holding his hand without needing some wackadoo ghost prompting me. So I’m asking again… you’re not upset, right?”

“Dean, I…” Sam offers him a smile, “no, I could never… I’m happy for you two.” He looks between them. “Happy, but also traumatized… I didn’t need to see your dick.”

Dean pulls his shirt further over his junk. “There were more important things than getting dressed… at the time.”

“If you give us a few minutes,” Castiel says, “we can have this place as clean as you left it -”

“Nope,” Sam cuts him off, groping around for his duffle, “you could bathe this entire place in a blacklight and there wouldn’t be a bright spot, I still won’t be able to sleep. I’m gonna see if there’s another room or… sleep in the Impala. You two can have this room.”

He almost leaves until Dean calls for him. “Where’d you put the handcuff key?”

“Bedside drawer!” Sam shuts the door behind him, Dean and Castiel alone again.

Dean stands, moving towards the drawer. Finding the key, he makes quick work of unlocking them. He chucks them to the wayside and rubs his ruined wrists.

Castiel glides over, gently bringing Dean’s wrists close. He lightly brushes his lips against the skin there, a rush of electricity crackling against it. The tiny wounds and cuts heal themselves, the red skin fading into its usual color.

“Nice.”

“So?” Castiel says, “How are you feeling? Are your hands your own again?”

Dean shrugs, laying his hands against Castiel’s shoulders. “Kinda hard to tell… I don’t have any other impulses I’m ignoring at the moment?”

Castiel raises a brow. “Really? None?”

“Okay… maybe one.”

“What is it?”

He shoves Castiel against the bed, scrambling on top of him. Legs spread wide to straddle his angel. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I chose to do that.”

Castiel chuckles, “Was that it?”

Dean kisses him, rolling his crotch so it rubbed against his angel’s tenting slacks. “Not even close… I’ve got a lot of pent-up frustration I need to work through.”

“Well we have the time, Dean.”

“We do, don’t we?” Dean sighs, “We finally do.” They kiss again, Dean’s hands sliding away from Castiel’s wrists to cup his jaw. The stubble scrapes delightfully against his palms, reminding Dean that as fantastical the chain of events were, it’s all real. He and Castiel actually came together and the world didn’t end.

Rather, it felt like his world was only beginning.

[bigsnzstanacct]

Richie Robbins

Here’s my first, totally unfinished sneezefic. It’s all about loud sneezes, I haven’t edited it at all and tbh I found it on some random blog that had clearly grabbed stories from the forum bc I didn’t want to dig through all my old computer backups so ya know if it’s screwed up it’s not my fault.

As passionately as he desired to, he knew he wouldn't be able to evade it. It would come, as so many times before: unavoidable, uncontrollable, unstoppable. He closed his eyes, tilted back his head, let the itch like fire at the edges of his nostrils expand to set his whole nose ablaze with a tickle so strong, only a monstrous explosion could expel it. And monstrous explosions were his stock-in-trade.

"hehh...hehh...HEISSSHOOO!" he exploded. His stunned professor stopped her lecture, as the noise rang out through the huge lecture hall, waking up quite a few drowsy (hungover?) students. Flummoxed, she lost her place in her notes, as the boy sitting next to him, a jock, last name Stevens... first name he couldn't remember, muttered, "Nice one, Robbins. You planning to blow any houses down any time soon?"

Richard Robbins waited a moment before he replied, hoping to make sure the one great sneeze had been enough to expel the full magnitude of the tickly sensation in his nostrils. He sniffed before opening his mouth to reply, which was, as always, a huge mistake.

"Yeah, Ste-st... stevens... I... hah... I...iiegh...ieghhh..ihhh...ihhh..." He thought for a moment he'd gotten it under control, rushing a firm index finger to his quivering nostrils, but it was too little, too late: "Y-yeahhhh... ahhhKESHHHHHuuuhh. HEYY-SHEEUUUUEY!" Another of his roaring sneezes rang out through the room, again startling Doctor Renyolds, who had just managed to get herself composed enough to begin lecturing again. And the sneeze came with a brother, a great screaming affair which appeared to have erupted from the very depths of Richie's being, and, luckily enough, had carried with it sufficient force to finally blast out whatever was causing the terrible tickle in his nose.

"My!" Doctor Reynold's voice came, after only a few seconds, "Whoever has been exploding in my has thoroughly put me off my lecture. Were we speaking about Hamlet or 'The Waste Land'?"

Richie sank in his chair. He had hoped to avoid this, this time. All throughout high school he had been known as the school's sneeze factory, variously going by nicknames from Sneezy to Big Bad Wolf to Johnny Tsunami--that particular psudonym coming from a quite unfunny teacher--but in college, he had hoped to avoid being identified primarily by his nose.

Of course, when you had a nose as big as Richie's, it was rather difficult not to notice. It was nearly always the first thing people noticed about Richie, either because he was busy sneezing or because its moderately thin but hugely protruding shape, rather like a right triangle seen in profile, was the most commanding thing about his face. And his nostrils: they were great, wide, massive things, sucking up irritants with an unholy frequency, tickling with an unthinkable burning fury, exploding with almost unimaginable, messy force. There were times when he felt his older brothers' insistence upon calling his nose Mount Vesuvius was not wholly inaccurate.

Not that any of the men in Richie's family had room to complain about his sneezes. While Richie may have gotten a double portion, this was surely a family curse: when the six Ritchie men--three older siblings: Tristan, Adrian, and Sebastian, Richie himself, his little brother Max, and his father--were united in colds and allergies, it was a wonder Richie's mother hadn't gone deaf. All six of them complained of unusually strong itches that developed deep within their nostrils, which could only be expelled by their characteristically loud sneezes. Stifling or containing the sneezes would never do; it would only intensify the tickle--and the resulting sneezes--by several orders of magnitude.

No, there was little Richie could do in such a situation besides let himself sneeze and hope that no one would notice. Which, thus far, had never happened.

"Hey, Robbins," the jock queried, "should I send out the storm warning to little pigs?"

After class, Richie walked out onto the campus, on the way to his dorm room. He was hit full in the face by the bright September sun, and by his furious nasal tickling.

"Nodda... hiihhh... nodahhh... again... HEEEYY-SHEEUU! HISSHHH! ehh... ehhhSHIIEUUU!" He let the sneezes erupt into the open air, giving them free reign to bend him in half, three times, each sneeze bigger and louder than the previous, though, for Richie, they were comparatively light, more like minor aftershocks than the sneeze-quake itself. He wished these would've hit in the lecture hall, rather than the nuclear blasts he had actually let out.

"Well, you can't always get what you want..." Richie muttered to himself.

"But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you just might find...!" Sing-shouted Richie's best friend, Adam, who had, as ever, appeared behind him.

"How do you do that?" Richie asked, "Do you stalk men unawares in the night by custom? I'm beginning to think you're practicing to be Batman."

"Richie," Adam paused to say, mock-serious, "I am Batman. And even if I wasn't, I'd be able to locate those sneezes from halfway across the campus," laughed Adam. "But anyway, what's up?"

"Well, I exploded in the middle of my Poetry and Drama class, and I'm pretty sure Professor Reynolds hates me, but besides that, not much."

"Old Vesuvius come back to life? Well, no shock there. No offense dude, but your nose has been permanently set to stun since high school."

"Yeah, I've noticihhh... ihhhh... ihhyahhhhhhhAAESSHUUU!"

The pair began walking down the cobblestone path of the university, presumably towards the dorm rooms, then cut through the quad, where, of course, the flowers begot a huge tickle in Richie's nose. "Oh! W-waaahhh... ahhh..." He tried to get the tickle under control long enough to utter the phrase "watch out," but Adam had long since learned to gage when Richie was about to embark upon one of his voyages to a Byzantium of Richter-scale rocking sneezes, and had promptly set his fingers in his ears, got down on his knees, and, in a grand military manner, announced, "Cannons are aimed! Target has been acquired! Fire at will! Fire at will!!"

The fact that he had never, frankly, fired at will, passed quickly through Richie's mind before the sneeze washed over him, washing away all thoughts other than the sneezes, and all quiet in the quad: "yyeeaaaaaaHHHCHOOOOOOOSSSHHH"

Several stunned students turned around to locate the source of the booming noise, and Adam thought that he heard a "wow," somewhere in the distance. A few birds, it seemed, started from the trees. Adam wasn't even entirely sure that he had imagined the swaying he thought he saw in a few of the trees. There was no doubt about it: Richie could sneeze. Ever since they met in freshman year of high school, Adam had seen Richie's nose at the epicenter of a daily series of frightful detonations. This particular sneeze had been not only monstrously loud but torrentially wet, leading Adam to celebrate his decision to crouch at Richie's side; he did not want to get drenched, as he had been on more than one occasion. Ever since freshman year.

"Geez, Rich, you done?" Adam asked, after giving Richie a few seconds.

"SHEEEOOO!" Richie exploded, if possible, even louder.

"Guess not." he chuckled. After Richie (and Adam) felt sure that Richie's nose wasn't about to go nuclear again, Adam stood up, began walking, and quipped, "You know, I'm looking for a side-kick; before I swoop in and lock up the baddies, maybe I can get you to sneeze and blow 'em down!"

"Shut up, Adam." Richie joked, giving Adam a playful slap on the head, before the two rushed off trading barbs as they went.

—-

Richie reached the dormroom with comparatively few incidents, although he had to force himself more than once to obey his father’s favorite dictum: don’t stifle your sneezes. Don’t even try. Richie’d heard that particular sermon preached any number of times, along with his mother’s story: “When your father went on our first date, he tried to hold those things back, and when they finally came out”—“when she smothered her spaghetti in pepper,” his father would always interject—“I thought he was going to blow everything off the table! He sounded a little like you, actually, Richie.”

So, with his mother’s slightly nasally voice ever ringing in his ears, Richie forced himself to let out a series of noisy nasal explosions, in order to satiate his nose’s uncontrollable need for relief from its buzzing, burning, incredibly tickly itching sensations. Few people could imagine just how strong the tickles in Richie’s nose got; perhaps the only way to truly represent their magnitude was their own self-expression in his explosive sneezes. He felt fairly lucky that he'd only had to give in to three or four on his way back to the dorms, although the gaggle of women who had clearly bathed in perfume were less than joyous at the sudden, shocking explosion of elephantine nasal trumpeting which had suddenly erupted to their near right, and each had jumped at least a foot in the air, much to the amusement of Adam, who'd laughed almost as loudly as Richie had sneezed.

Adam and Richie had reached their dorm room, and were sitting about, not really doing anything, as college students are wont to do in lazy afternoons, after classes but before the dinner hours. Of course, they could have been studying, but who’d want to do that? Richie was busy plotting ways to avoid blasting the cafeteria during lunch (take an extra dose of Claritin, bring a handkerchief, and always avoid pepper like the plague), while Adam sat on the bed, debating with himself about whether or not to take a nap, when he felt a tickle invade his nose. Adam’s sneezes, while certainly not tiny, couldn’t compare in the slightest to Richie’s nasal artillery, and the “ihh… ihhhh…IT-CHEEOOooey” he released was nothing compared to a Richie sneeze.

But Adam’s nose wasn’t done yet; the tickle returned, the previous sneeze having done nothing to alleviate it, but rather seeming to have augmented it: “nyehhh… hih! hih! hehhh…” Adam’s nose vacillated on the edge of a relieving sneeze, its power building with every hitch of his breath, “nighiiee…hiegh… ighhhiee… iiiaaAAAAAHHH-CHOOO!” Adam sneezed, much harder than normal.

“Woah, buddy,” Richie murmured over his shoulder, “You really let that one go; you aiming to start a sneeze fight?”

“No, no, no, no,” Adam said, still feeling a bit lightheaded from the sneeze, which had taken more out of him than usual, “getting into a sneeze war with your nose is like bringing three sticks and a baseball bat to the Crimeahhhh… Crimeaaaaahhhh… Crimean... aayyYAH-SHEWWWESSH!” Yet another draining sneeze burst from Adam’s nose, this time with some considerable spray. “Yeesshhh,” Adam said, “that would would’ve drenched a tissue almost as bad as you would! I’m turning into a fire hose sneezer like y… you… you… Ah-CHOOeeeyyy!” Adam let out yet another sneeze, although this one was comparatively light, more in keeping with Adam’s usual sub-volcanic sneeze level.

Thus far, he’d been able to avoid it, having long since learned that if he was to ever do anything except sneeze, he’d have to suppress his sympathetic sneezing reaction. But ever since he’d been a teen, Richie’s nose had been envious of anyone who let out too many sneezes around him, and desired to experience such enormous relief as came with his hurricane-strength achooeys. Thus, he felt a slight tickle brewing when Adam had released his fourth sneeze, and when he heard Adam hitching up to a fifth—“ahhh… ahh… am… ah… am I ever gonaaaahhhh stahhh… stahhh… stop… ahhh…”—he feared his nose too, would begin to go into sneezy paroxysms.

“Adam, man, ah… ah… can you get a hold on those sneezes… my n-nose is starting to tickle too… hoohhhh… ohhhh…”

Richie struggled to get a grip on the still relatively slight tickle that had invaded his nose, as Adam did his best to hold back his sneezy nose from the delightfully relieving fifth sneeze that he knew was on its way. “ahhhh… ahhhh… I-I dunno… ohhhh ahhh… hah… It ruhhhh… ruhhhheaalllly tickles. Ahhhhh… AHHHH… AYYY-CHEOOOSHH!” He let out another sneeze, the strongest, wettest, and most forceful of the bunch, although not spectacularly loud.

But anyone waiting for a noisy nose would have little time to wait. Adam’s fifth and final sneeze had sent Richie’s sympathetic tickles into overdrive, and with almost no buildup, he reared his head back, nostrils flaring wildly like a bucking horse, and bellowed out an enormous, “CCHHHHEEEOOOOOOOO!” Followed by two more, slightly less loud but torrentially wet, “PLESSHEWEY! IT-CHEWWW!” Each sneeze was a spectacularly loud, messy affair, though they were commensurate to Richie’s normal sneeze volume, which, of course, approached the ear-splitting at close ranges. It was more than enough, Richie realized sheepishly, to sound throughout the entire dorm room floor, and maybe the floors above and below. He remembered to make a mental note to avoid staying up late nights—a late night tickle could easily turn peaceful dorm-mates into irate potential tormentors, irritated by being woken by Richie’s cannon-like sneeze. He realized, too, that he might’ve shaken people from any number of midday naps.

When Richie’s series of explosions were done, an affair which sent Richie’s body completely out of control, rearing back and exploding forward with abandon, his entire body at the mercy of his monstrously powerful lungs, mouth, and most of all, nose, Adam couldn’t resist making a quip. “See why I don’t want to get in a sneezing fight with you?”

“Yeah, I know. I hate those sympathetic tickles. Gotta keep that under control,” Richie said, as much to chide his nose as anything else.

“Under control? Your nose? That’s like keeping a bull in a china shop from disturbing a single piece of porcelain. Really wish I could find out why I was sneezin’ though. Those were pretty big for me, though for you it’d be like taking an earthshaking thunderstorm and replacing it with a light, pleasant summer rain…” Adam laughed, but paused when his joking was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Richie shouted, fearing that it was an irate neightbor, awoken from a nap. This had been one of his many fears about college; each of his older brothers had brought home several stories of how they had woken up between one and several fellow dorm-mates, roommates and apartment neighbors (not that the Robbins boys needed to be in the same building with a person to make themselves known by their noses; the family’s suburban neighbors had revealed on several occasions that someone, usually Richie, had been audible through the windows). Tristan, the oldest, who had, after Richie, the second most Vesuvial nose in the family, once told the story of how he had woken up, very literally, his entire dorm with a series of cold-inspired sneezes, and how only the awesomely pathetic sight of his sickly state, ensconced as he was in blankets and almost covered in used tissues and hankies, had prevented him from receiving one of his dormmates infamously cruel practical jokes.

Richie hoped to avoid such a situation, and so it was with apprehension (and desperate attempts to remember his self-defense classes) that he opened the door.

“Hey, dude!” Said the surprisingly pleasant and excited looking young man at the door, “was that a sneeze, or did somebody set of a nuke in the room next to mine?”

Relieved as Richie was by the friendliness of the visitor, Adam slightly sluggishly slid out of bed, laughing as he did, “That’s my man here, Richie, the Nose extraordinaire, the loudest sneeze in the west, superman of sneezes, the titan of ticklish nostrils, Sir Vesuvius himself, the leaf-blower…”

“Richard, just Richard is my name.” Richie cut in, eager to cut Adam off before he got to the detested “Johnnie Tsunami” epithet.

“Well, Richard-just-Richard, I had to come over here to see if that nose actually just came out of a person!”

“Sorry, I can’t help it…” Richie said, suddenly blushing slightly, “I hope I didn’t wake you or anything…”

“Nah. I wasn’t doing anything. But really, you just sneezed that loud? You got some kinda supernose or somethin’?”

“Well, it’s not exactly thin, as you can see,” Adam began, with a professorial air, “and the protruding shape and large nostrils provide some explanation as to its loud-speaker like qualities…”

“It’s just been that way since I was a kid,” sighed Richie, mildly put off by the awkward conversation.

“Dude, I haven’t heard a sneeze that loud since, like, ever, probably. Although my dad sets off some real firecrackers back at home… I didn’t think I’d hear anything like that for another few months. Kinda reminds me of home, actually.”

“Well, anytime you get homesick, just give us a ring and bring the pepper, though you might wanna bring some earplugs actually…”

“Adam. Geez, do you ever run out,” Richie inquired, with an irritated air.

“Not really.” Adam replied straightforwardly, "I'm a joke machine. And a love machine. Just FYI, let the ladies know..."

“Well,” the visitor declared, “Adam, Richie, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Jerry.” He stuck his hand out, and Richie shook it forcefully, though he found his grasp met with a vice shaking like a centrifuge.

“Nice to meet you, too.” Richie said, wincing slightly from the handshake.

“Hey, dude, we’re headed to lunch soon, wanna come?”Adam asked cheerfully.

“Yeah, totally. I was actually kinda hoping to avoid eating lunch alone,” Jerry confessed, “though I don’t know how you get through lunch, dude. Better warn ‘em: hide the pepper!”

That’s a joke I haven’t heard before Richie thought to himself. But, though not original in his jokes, this new acquaintance wasn’t half-bad, and was certainly an improvement upont the angry neighbor Richie’d feared he’d encounter. And speaking of curing homesickness…

“Are you wearing co-cologne… cologne… ehhhhh… ehhhhhhh… EHHHHHSSSSHOOOO!” Richie erupted another characteristically noisy sneeze, which, at unusually close range, prompted both Jerry and Adam to dramatically cover their ears to avoid the full blast of Richie’s nasal explosion, which was easily a nine on the Richter scale, probably a ten.

“Geez, man, I thought they were loud through the wall!” Jerry said, awestruck.

“Richie’s nose? Man, you haven’t seen anything yet. He’ll blow the paint off the walls before we graduate,” Adam joked, yet again.

“I think I might go ahead and take a shower,” Jerry responded, “I’ll meet you guys in about thirty minutes, alright?”

“Sounds great!” Adam said.

Richie would’ve replied, but Jerry’s cologne hadn’t yet finished with Richie’s surpassingly tickly and tickle-able nose. “hahhhh… HAHHHHH…HEHSHOOOH!” Richie erupted again, thanking his lucky nasal stars that his nose had seen fit, for once, to not let out a great big wet one while he was right in someone’s face. He opened his mouth to say, “nice to meet you,” but what came out was another, “TITCHEWWWEY! SHEWWWWWSH!” It was hugely, horribly wet, and in his zeal to avoid blasting his new compatiot, he had turned and, inadvertently, sprayed a great, big wet one into the face of his good friend Adam.

“Well… um… are you trying to tell me you don’t like my jokes, buddy?”

Now, getting sprayed by a sneeze was usually a messy affair, but getting sprayed by a Richie sneeze was pitched somewhere between “elephant sneeze” and “sprayed by a fire hose”. Adam was drenched, and Richie found himself reflecting yet again as to why he never, never attempted to use a pathetic tissue to hold up against the surpassing force of his all-powerful nasal eruptions, the tickly twin cannons of wind, wet, and sound that had taken up residence on his face, began full-strength operations in high school, and seemed to grow in power alone as their experience increased.

“Well, I think I’ll be taking a shower too.” Adam said, before promptly turning around, grabbing a towel and some clothes, and rushing to the bathroom, letting out an irrepressable, high-pitched, and surpassingly effete “EWWWWWW!” which sent Richie and Jerry into shaking convulsions of laughter.

—

After cleaning himself off from Richie’s hurricane-force discharge, Adam proceeded to the downstairs dining hall to meet both Richie and their new friend Jerry. Of course, he heard Richie before he saw him. “heh… heh… HAT-CHOOO!” It was a comparatively small one for his good friend Rich, but the noise still carried well out of the dining room and into the hallway. Adam often kidded Richie about his sneezes, but half the time he genuinely felt bad for the guy. After all, those massive eruptions that had punctuated almost his entire high school experience weren’t just occasional explosions, they were daily at the very least. Any number of things lit Richie’s sneezing fuse, setting off a chain reaction inside Richie’s nose that led inexorably to a blast of such volume and violence that people often inquired of Richie how such a loud noise could come out of a 45-year old 6’ 10’ two-hundred-thirty-pound ex-logger construction worker with a bad head cold, much less little old Richie Robbins. Every time he sneezed with people around, Richie would blush, shrug, and, Adam knew, mentally wish himself out of the room. It wasn’t easy having a semi-superpower—not that it’d do any good in a fight, Adam mused—for a sneeze. But it was life for poor Richie, and that was simply that.

For Adam’s part, he’d never been particularly bothered by his best friend’s outrageous a-choos. Maybe he just had ears of steel, but the volume didn’t bother him, and it did provide a decent shake-up during lulls in conversation. Heck, he’d been a regular vistor to the Robbins household, and that was an experience unto itself. Multiplying Richie’s sneezes with a father, three older brothers, and one younger made a ruckus that just didn’t make sense. If anyone needed proof that sneezes were hereditary, well, Adam knew where to bring them. He’d heard the same story from all six Richie men: it’s the tickles. The tickles, itches, tingles, and twinges that invaded the Robbins family sinuses were purportedly unbearable, like a thousand invisible brushes sweeping all the way up the nasal cavity. And the only way to get those brushes (temporarily) out was to let out a blast that could be heard across three counties (or at least a small suburban house… and a few of the adjacent ones.) Their sneezes came from their toes and then some. But the big sneezes were just the only way that they could relieve the incredible pressure and the tickle that built up in their large, protruding nostrils, swishing around their noses with an unimaginable irritation. The ones with long build-ups were the worst. He’d seen Tristan and Adrian, Sebastian and Max, even Mr. Robbins, staring up at lights, forcefully fanning under their noses, doing anything to tip the tickle out of the gate and onto the flight ramp, at which point a sneeze would shoot out from their nostrils of which any elephant would have been proud.

It was thoughts like this that preoccupied Adam as he sat down with Richie and Jerry, who were discussing the finer points of eruption-inspiring allergens.

“For my dad, is the dogs that are the worst, man, get him within ten feet of a dog, especially one of those great big shaggy things, and oh man… it’s time to break out the protective earmuffs, I’m tellin’ you…”

“Yeah, dogs get me bad too, but the cats… oh… waay… wait a second… I’b gonnahhhh… ahhh… HASHOOOEY!” Richie gasped out a “’nother… nothaaahhh” before bursting into a second tectonic shift of a sneeze, “YASSSHOOOOOO! Oh, I’m so sorry, that was a big one.”

“They’re always big ones, Rich!” Adam said as he sat down.

“Can’t argue with you there.” Richie sighed. While he often wished he could just get rid of his charateristic sneez-plosions, Richter rockers, or Richie Roars, as his nasal expulsions were variously called, Richie was grateful for friends that weren’t repulsed, shocked, or amazed by his sneezes, and he felt much less self-conscious about lettin’ it rip when Adam, or, as of today, Jerry, was around. Not that he had much (or any) choice.

“So, you two comparing notes?” asked Adam.

“Yeah,” Jerry said, “so far, we’ve mentioned flowers, pepper, animals…”

“Actually, most spices get me, red pepper worst of all.” Richie began, “In fact, the reason I sat down at this table is because it doesn’t even have a red pepper shaker, thank goodness. But I’ve blown back the fur and feathers on just about any pet you can imagine…”

They continued on talking like this, unaware that at the table just behind them, the very jock that had filled the standard role of Richie’s sneeze tormentor was subtly listening in on their conversation. Ashton Stevens was his name, and he, like Jerry, had also had a big sneezer at home. But he didn’t have such generous memories of his parents’ noisy noses. In fact, he had been driven nearly insane by his mother and father’s constant loud sneezes, which, unlike Richie’s, seemed put-on, fake, as if they both just wanted to announce to the world how noisily they could sneeze. The crowning moment had been that day, the day of senior prom… but Ashton tried not to think about it. For his part, he had rather dainty sneezes, somewhat at odds with his large and muscular build. He, of course, had never been plagued with allergies on the level of Richie’s, but he had gone through an allergic phase as a teen. During that time he constantly focused on controlling his sneezes, squelching them down until they were little more than a semi-audible, “chuh”. Richie’s gargantuan gale winds had brought him right back to that moment at the senior prom, and he secretly seethed inside every time Richie’s nose went out of control and spasmed with a silence-smashing sneeze. But he was formulating a plan, in the back of his mind, that would shame Richie into shutting up, as his parents never would.

Meanwhile, as Ashton Stevens seethed, Richie (predictably) sneezed. “yeaaaahhhh, ahhhh… aaaaahpppppSHEWWW! Uh, another one. I don’t know what’s making my nose so itchy!” The sneeze, honestly, had been the lightest one he’d let out in a while, only audible above speaking voices at the end, indicating a comparatively low-level irritation. Probably a stray flake of black pepper. While he reacted to pepper as much as anybody else, Richie had never had nearly as much of a problem with pepper as he did with dander, other spices, and the dreaded perfume and cologne.

“So,” Adam inquired, “what are you boys up to this evening. It’s Friday night, and ah… ah… HAT! CHOO!” Adam let out a neatly segregated sneeze, a firmly punctuated breath drawn in followed by a neat and tidy choo, which, although somewhat wet, was not extremely loud, as per the normal pattern of Adam’s sneeze. “Woah, I don’t know why I keep sneezing.”

“Yeah, come to think of it, neither do I,” Richie added, “do you think you’re allergic to something up here?”

“Nah, I’m as hardy as a bull, allergens can’t get me down. Try as they might, they cannot invade the fortress of my mighty nasal guard. Granted, they don’t have as big of a target on mehh… on mehhhh… me… as…. BAA-shewww!” Adam sneezed again, with a sound that sounded utterly fed-up with sneezing.

“Any chance you might be getting a cold?” Jerry inquired. Adam and Richie exchanged anxious looks. Each knew what the other was thinking: if Richie caught a cold, his sneezes, seemingly impossibly, would grow significantly in strength, volume, and mess.

“No,” Adam said, attempting to laugh away the possibility, “No way! The last time I had a cold was…”

“The camping trip in eleventh grade. And I promptly caught it and nearly blew down our tent on several different occasions.” Richie finished for him, “And I hope it’s not happening now,” he moaned, “because if you get sick, then I’ll get sick, and if I get sick…”

“Don’t worry, Rich!” Adam insisted, “I’m not getting sick! But so you don’t worry, I guess I’ll take some vitamins, and call it an early night, I guess…”

“No way, man!” Jerry interrupted, “we’ve barely been in college for a week. We’re goin’ out tonight. We’re going somewhere, and if you don’t like it, mister, too bad!”

Adam laughed. “Well, can’t argue with a command like that, sir. Where do we go?”

“There’s a nice bar nearby,” Richie offered.

“No, no, no, I mean a real club: loud music, sloppy drunks, and scantily-clad women.” Of course, at the mention of women, all three hormone-addled brains perked up instantly, and any reluctance at club-going was instantly erased.

And, Adam saw another perk:

“Plus, the club’s so loud, Richie, that it’s probably one of the few places on earth where your sneezes can’t carry. You know, places like construction sites… death metal concerts… one of my sister’s shouting—I mean singing recitals…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. But that’s actually a good point, and the sneezes have actually been comparatively light...” but suddenly Richie’s eyes got a distant, faraway look. His nose scrunched up, and the itch exploded in his nostrils like a thousand buzzing tiny, invisible flies, sending his nostrils into a rampage of twitching, his upper lip, his entire face swishing and moving with the enormous need to sneeze that had burgeoned so suddenly in his nostrils. This was gearing up to be a real monster; his breath hitched, “hahhhh… hahhhh…,” his eyes bulged. He reached his hand up to try to scrub away the itch, although he knew it was useless. This was shaping up to be the biggest sneeze that had hit him all day… “hih! hih! ah! ah! ah! ooooh, it won’t come ou… outahhhh… ahhhhhh… ahahhhh… ahahhah…” the sneeze stuck for a moment, leaving Richie’s face in a mask of sneezy agony, the corners of his mouth turned firmly down, his eyes tearing and glancing upwards, searching for a light bright enough to send his brewing eruption into its final stages of detonation, his eyebrows severely arched. His watering eyes rapidly blinked for what seemed an eternity, before he gave his nose one more good sniff and gave in to the inevitable detonation: “hhhhaaAAA-AARRSCHOOOhhh! HAAA-HOOOOOSH-SHOOOOEY! Ahhh… igghiee… hah…" He hitched for just a few seconds before absolutely roaring out the thermonuclear explosion of his final sneeze: "RAAH-SCHOOOOOOOOHH!”

“Woah.” Said Adam and Jerry simultaneously.

The sneeze was so big, it left Richie panting a little after. It wasn’t just the biggest sneeze all day, it was the biggest set of sneezes he’d had in a month! Richie had rocked back and forth with each colossal sneeze, giving his tickly nose complete abandon. The sneezes took him over, and each was a nearly-shouted affair that was louder than most people can shout. Those sneezes seemed to come from his whole body, his nose being merely the epicenter of the eruption. He was completely out-of-control for each massive gusting sneeze, his whole frame shaking and swaying at the mercy of his king-sized schnoz and the unbearable itch that had taken three of Richie’s most powerful sneezes to expel. When he opened his eyes afterward, he was half-afraid that he’d blown the table away!

Adam and Jerry, prepared by experience, had covered their ears, but the rest of the dining hall… well, being unprepared, some had dropped forks, plates, and cups, most had stopped their conversations, and quite a few shocked “what was that?”s sounded around the room. Those had been big even for Richie, far too loud, in fact, for anyone to hear the near-simultaneous soft, tickly “chuhh! ch-hoooh! chuhh! ka-chuuhhh!” that had come from the next table over, soft barely-there puffs of air in comparison to Richie’s Kansas twister sized sneezes, which he swore would have been big enough to send Dorothy not only to Oz, but to the other said of Mars.

“Dude,” Adam said, as the dining room slowly went back to normal, after being rocked by Richie’s “You totally shouldn’t have jinxed it.”

“Ha-ha,” Richie said, not feeling exceptionally prepared for laughing after single handedly—or rather, single-nosedly”—overpowering an entire dining room full of noisy college students in volume. “Let’s just get out of here as quickly as possible. I don’t want another one of those to happen… and I think… there might still be the beginnings of a… ah…” Richie quickly clamped his hands over his nose, hoping that he might fight the tiny residual tickle back before it became another of room-rocker, or at least get outside into the open air to release the beast.

Adam, Richie, and Jerry hurried surreptitiously out of the dining room. At the table behind them, sat Ashton Stevens, face upturned, irritated tears forming in his eyes, but a smug smile on his face, nose twitching and jerking with otherwise imperceptible “chooh! chuh! ha-hushh!” sneezes, with a plate of spaghetti practically drenched in red pepper. His little “experiment” confirmed, he threw the plate away, which promptly cleared up his sneezes, and walked calmly out of the dining hall, but not before slyly sliding the red pepper shaker into his waiting pocket.

--

Richie had, of course, erupted again outside, although once out of the range of the red pepper flakes that were like gunpowder for Richie’s cannon-like nostrils, the sneezes hadn’t registered quite so high on the Richter Scale (“a minor aftershock!” Adam had quipped).  But sneezes that huge left Richie concerned; could he be catching a cold? That would be disastrous. Besides feeling bad, he could hardly go to class, detonating another sneeze every few minutes, sneezes that would rock a three hundred person lecture hall and perhaps even send his papers flying down to the row below, sneezes that would throw even the most concentrated lecturer off of his or her game, sneezes that, in a smaller classroom, would probably disturb not only his own class, but all the classes on the floor! Of course, he’d had mega-sneezes like that before, and it didn’t always mean he was catching a cold, but if he was… well, he’d just take a lot of vitamin C that night. But going to bed early wasn’t an option. Richie, Jerry and Adam were going to a nearby club, Club Z, for a night on the town. After running back upstairs to change (again), the threesome left their dorm and headed towards Club Z, chatting all the while.

“So, Rich, how are classes going?” Adam asked, to get the conversation started.

“Oh, pretty good, when I’m not busy sneezing through them. Sebastian warned me that his sneezes tend to disrupt standard professorial activities, so I knew mine would probably blow out a few eardrums. Not that I’m not used to that sort of thing.”

“How about you, Jerry?”

“Oh, things are going well for me too. Chemistry is kicking my butt, but besides that I’m doing pretty well. That class is so boring! I almost wish that someone would come in there with a great big Richie-cane kinda sneeze. At least that way things wouldn’t be quite as boring!”

“Oh, you would have loved our high school then,” Adam cut in, “Almost every time I fell asleep in class, Richie’s nose would get an itch and once the nasal volcano got going, sleeping was not an option.”

“Whatever, Adam,” Richie said, blushing slightly at the extended discussion of his nasal… ahem, prowess, even among friends, “I didn’t even have a half of my classes with you.”

“Exactly.” Adam replied, smiling. *** Soon, Richie and company arrived at the club. However, they were still several feet away when the perfume started getting to Richie’s nose: “ah…. ahhhh… agghhha… igghhiiie… AAAA-CHOOOOH! heh… heh… AHHH-CHOOOOOH!” he sneezed, blasting out the tickly perfume smell as hard as he could. When Richie sneezed, his whole body was involved; in fact, Adam was surprised that Richie didn’t have a six-pack from all the forceful contractions of his stomach and chest as he roared out all that sneezy air at obscene velocities, and decibel levels.

“Bless ya, buddy. Are there some flowers around,” inquired Jerry.

“Na… no, nahhh.. ahhhhh WAAAAAASSSHOOOO! ARRRR-CHOOAAAYYYY!” Richie screamed out each sneeze. While not as loud as the true Richie-canes of the dining hall, these sneezes produced more than enough volume to echo loudly off of the nearby buildings and turn quite a few heads. Richie was quite afraid that an irate head would poke out of one of the windows of the high-rise apartment buildings on the street to demand that he achieve the impossible feat of quieting down his great lion’s roar of a sneeze.  He’d been asked by more than one teacher (and moviegoer, and theater patron, and restaurant waiter, and even, on one notorious occasion, a few patrons at just the sort of rock concerts that Adam had supposed would be loud enough to drown out Richie’s roars, but then again, not only were all the people there drenched in cologne and perfume, but Richie had left from a friend’s house who had a very furry german shepherd, and Richie had the beginnings of a cold) to control his thunderclap sneezes, but, like the thunder, Richie’s sneezes were a force of nature, and could not be quieted down or controlled any better than the wind.

Hoping he’d gotten his nose under control with that last massive sneeze, Richie ventured to speak, “No… it’s the perfume... oh, wait… ‘nothing one’s cahhhh…. coming…. RAAAAASSSSHOOOOOH! YASSSSSSHHHHHHHH-OOO!” Richie sniffed loudly, as two girls, one of who was probably wearing the sneeze-causing perfume, looked around. The girl wearing the perfume, alright slightly tipsy, half-spoke, half-shouted, “Ugh, I can’t stand it when people exaggerate their sneezes like that! Can’t he control it? That’s just too loud!”

Aside from the irony of the woman commenting on Richie’s loud sneezes with her loud voice (although Richie had to admit that even a trained opera singer would have difficulty keeping up with him in volume when he really got going), Adam was offended by her comments about his friend, and was about to walk up and give the perfume drenched woman a piece of his mind when her friend abruptly did it for him!

“Oh, Charlene, be quiet! They can hear you. Besides, how can you expect a poor kid to control his sneezes when you can’t even control your big mouth!” Adam had to admit that he was impressed, and as Charlene and her assertive friend got in line for the same club as Adam, Richie, and Jerry, Adam made a mental note to “bump into” her at some point that night. Maybe Richie’s wind-machine strength allergies would flare up again and give him an excuse to talk to her?

Meanwhile, Ashton wasn’t far behind the trio, cringing at each of Richie’s elephantine sneezes. He thought to himself, “This is ridiculous! He sneezes even louder than my father! How embarrassing! I don’t even know how those other goons can stand to be seen around him. I’ll teach him not to be so disgusting with his sneezes.” As the perfume got to his nose, Ashton harshly muffled three sneezes by pinching his nostils, “shhhmp! chikkk! ch!” They were barely audible. Ashton fingered the red pepper in his pocket as he watched Richie and company walk into the club. He bided his time for a few minutes, and then, after walking around the block a bit, went in as well.

—-

As soon as the threesome entered the club, Ritchie rushed off to the restroom, hoping to give his nose a good, strong blow to clear his nose of perfume and pollen, so as to head off the sneezes at the pass. But by the time he reached the restroom door, his twitching, tickling nose had had too much, and, bleary-eyed, Richie let it take over for six full-strength sneezes: “HAASSSSSHHHHHOOOooooo… hh… hhhiiiiiIIIIIIIIICHOOOOOOO! Ih-CHOOO! haaahHH-CHOOOOOO! ahhhhhHHH-CHOOOO! HAHH-CHOOOOOOOhhhhheyyy” That last one was a monster, making a gutteral, throat-scraping sound as the normal “choo” was twisted by Richie’s awe-inspiring lung power into a growling, snarling shout of a sneeze, leaving Richie somewhat lightheaded and dizzy. And of course, he immediately connected the number of sneezes (Richie rarely let out so many all in a row like that) to the head cold he was desperately afraid was brewing in his firecracker nostrils, those wide, vacuum-like tunnels where tickles went in, and sneezes came out that were second only to the Big Bad Wolf with a bad cold.

And speaking of colds, Richie was terrified of developing one. Every cold he’d ever had had settled directly in his nose, causing a near-constant tickle that he could only blow out with his biggest, most ear-drum busting, dorm-wall rattling, earthquake-causing sneezes. Even Richie’s biggest sneezes could only provide momentary relief from the tickle; minutes later, the tickle would come back with a vengence, and so would the sneezes, until Richie would deliberately blow them out as hard as he could, just to get the tickle to stop for a few minutes. Richie’s colds were events in the Robbins household (and every house on the surrounding block); he hoped and prayed they wouldn’t become events on-campus too.

Looking around the restroom and finding it (thank goodness) empty, Richie marched to a stall to give his nose a few of his patented, honking nose blows. While not quite commensurate to his sneezes in volume, those bass-note honks of his could certainly send a rumble through any room, and Richie was glad that the room remained empty as he did his best to keep his nose free and clear, so as to minimize sneezing episodes.

Meanwhile, Adam and Jerry were on the prowl, and getting shut down all the time. Jerry had offered to buy drinks for no less than three women, with no success, while Adam’s jokes were falling unusually flat, perhaps owing to the volume of the music and the near-impossibility of hearing anything (except perhaps for Richie) over the thumping bass and wailing noise of the speakers.

So it was that Adam and Jerry had given up and begun dancing their way into the morass of people at the center of the club, when Richie went searching for them. Of course, hidden as they were in the mass of people, Richie had no hope of finding either of his friends, and sat down at the bar, quickly flashing his (fake) ID, and ordered a beer. He figured he’d wait until he found Adam and Jerry to start dancing, and he was sure that his nose would give him ample opportunity before then to test Adam’s theory that the noise of the club would muffle the rumbling explosions of his nose.

In fact, as the bartender slid Richie his beer, Richie felt his nose flaring into life. His breath hitched, his face contorted, his nostrils assuming control of his face, twisting this way and that as though they had a life of their own, reacting to the bucking bronco of itch that had, as always, brushed ferociously against the twitching walls of his sensitive nostrils. And as Richie’s face contorted, his watering eyes slid closed in preparation of the great big sneeze to come…

…and Ashton Stevens saw his chance. He’d been sitting at the bar, plotting how he could cause misery for Richie at the club. Luckily, he’d been at the bar while Richie had erupted in the restroom (especially since the only thing Ashton found more disgusting than sneezes was nose blowing), but now he was sitting not too far from Richie, and had been spying on him out of the corner of his eye since Richie had sat down. Now was his chance. He slid the small shaker of red pepper out of his pocket and sent a cloud floating up into the air, knowing that the strong air conditioning in the room, as well as the breeze from the constantly opening front door, would waft the tickly spice straight into Richie’s all-too-combustible nose.

And he was right. Seconds later, Richie froze, as he felt the tickle in his nose multiply exponentially. The itch in his nose, already monstrous, became a thousand buzzing flies, scurrying through his nasal passages, wreaking havoc on his sensitive sinuses, creating such tremendous pressure in his nose that he knew that the only way to get any relief would be to blast out a sneeze at full-strength. He felt it gearing up to be as big as the one in the dining hall, if not bigger. Out of his watery eyes, he took a quick glance around him: there was no way he’d get to the restroom before his Vesuvial nose gave an eruption that would put Mt. St. Helens to shame, and the way his nose was feeling, it’d be wet enough to outshine Old Faithful. But there were so many people around. Richie had been warned about it time and time again, and he knew he shouldn’t… but he didn’t want to spray any strangers! So… he stifled.

“ahh…. Ahhhhhh… AHHHHHHHHH… AGGGHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAA…” He wound up, with huge, powerful breaths, and then… “chhhmmppppppppppp!” He sneezed, somewhat wetly, but contained, and with nowhere near enough volume to be heard over the noise of the club. Stifling successful.

But his nose was on fire. It was as if he had quadrupled the already unimaginable tickle. If he was going to fire off one eruption before, now he was preparing for a twenty-one-gun salute. Finger struck firmly beneath his nose, Richie rushed to the restroom as fast as he could, pushing past the clubgoers in the crowded club, afraid to give so much as an “excuse me” for fear that speaking would tip the sneeze into the uncontrollable zone. Richie forcefully pushed the door open as he marched into the restroom, which was, of course, filled with people. In the already small, echoing restroom, Richie’s sneezes would probably reach ear-splitting volumes and annoy, if not terrify, every patron in the restroom. But it wasn’t as if he had any choice; he had to let the monsters loose.

Richie quickly swung a stall door open and closed as his breaths became audible, and grew louder, and louder… “iiihhhhhh… HHHHHiiiiIIIHHHHHH… HAHHHHHH… HAHHHHHHH…. HHAAAAHHHHHHHHH…HAAAAAAAAAAAAA-SHOOOOOOOOOOOOO! BAAACCCHOOOOOEEYYYY! HASSSHHH! HAHHSSHHHHuuhh… OOOO-SHOOOOOOOH! USSSSHHHHHH-CHHAAAHHH! Ahhhhh… Ahhhh… ahhhhh…CHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

They came, sneeze after sneeze after sneeze, outrageous in volume, hurricane like in spray. Richie heedlessly swung backwards and forwards, gulping in air to fuel each massive explosion. He knew now why his parents had warned him to never, never hold in his sneezes, because this was the result: a constantly seizing nose in a fit that would last for minutes.

The reaction of the men in the restroom, as expected had been vocal and noisy. The already somewhat drunken patrons had no trouble voicing their disapproval: “What the hell?! Did somebody drop a bomb in here? Shuddup in there, I can’t hear myself think!”

But Richie, whatever he wished, he no ability to shut up. His nose was in control now, and it was going to blow, and blow, and blow until the pent-up tickle was blasted out, full-strength.

“Hehhhh… ehhhhhh… EEHHHHH-SHOOOOOH! EH-SHOOOH! Eghhhhaaaa… haaaa… haaa… YAAAAAAA-SHHHEEEEEWWWWWWWW!  SHIISSSHHHHH! ISSHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH-SHOOOH! AHHHHHHHH-SCHOOOO! AH-SHOOOOH!”

The sneezes just kept coming, unbelievably loud, unbelievably powerful. This was one of the longest fits Richie could remember (though probably not the worst he’d experienced). Gradually, the sneezes grew farther apart: “haahhhh.. hahhhh.. HA-SHOOO! Ahhhhh… HA-SHUU! iiSHHHIIII-OO!”

Each sneeze, though still loud enough to echo through the restroom, was at a more manageable volume. Still, Richie was exausted from firing off sneeze after sneeze, and as his nose finally let out its final “heh… heh-chhh-EW!” Richie just wanted a nice long nap. He sat in the stall for a moment to survey the damage. He had been right about the spray; he could see the glistening drops decorating the entire stall door as though it had been hit with a hose. He still heard the men grumbling and muttering about his sneezes, and he was sure that those who were in the restroom (and probably those near the door) would spread the word to their friends about Richie’s incredible eruption. Sometimes, Richie just wished that his nasal curse could just go away. Why was his family cursed with the world’s most massive sneezes? Why was his nose the epicenter of such eruptions? But, as he sniffed gently, preparing for a nose blow to clear the last bits of congestion in his nose, he was glad for one thing: the tickle was completely gone.

Meanwhile, Ashton had been standing near the door, and had heard Richie firing off sneeze after sneeze after sneeze. He was red with rage; that fit had been exactly like the one his dad had blasted out at Ashton’s senior prom, in the middle of Ashton’s prom king acceptance… all over the prom queen. She dumped Ashton within the week.

Turning violently on his heel, Ashton marched out of the club, certain that he had a new secret weapon to use against Richie: if he could get him to clam up those sneezes, just once, then he knew Richie would fire off a show of sneezes so loud that Ashton could use it to embarrass Richie in front of anyone within earshot; in other words, Ashton grimly laughed to himself, anyone within a five-mile radius.

—-

Ashton, however, had not been the only person close enough to the restroom to hear those gale-force blasts trumpeting out from Richie's nostrils of fury. In fact, just as Richie was beginning to launch into a fit for the ages, Jerry had decided he ought to slip off to the restroom; no need to "break the seal" yet, but Jerry had anticipated he was in for a fairly long night, partying with his newfound friends, and--hopefully--with a few more newfound "friends" from among the club's very attractive female population, and as such wanted to make sure that his tiny bladder would not interfere with his very large-sized dreams---oh, alright, fantasies---of what would go on that night.

But Jerry was pretty far from the door when he heard that tell-tale eruption coming from the men's room. He quickly stuck his head into the restroom and knew immediately the source of the disturbance. He would scarcely have believed that even Richie could sneeze so forcefully. He was putting up a good fight with the music in the club, and that was deafening as it was. Heck, at close range, Richie's nose could have outdone a shotgun, a leafblower, a small nuclear explosion... but in the midst of these musing, Jerry noticed Ashton. Unlike everyone else in the restroom (and nearby), who were scrambling to get away from the noise, Ashton seemed transfixed. He was just standing by the restroom door, not going in, didn't seem to be coming out, and he had the most peculiar, almost devious expression on his face. Of course, Jerry knew Ashton somewhat---Ashton was touted as one of the most talented football players of the freshman class, and at their D1 school, that meant a lot. But this threw Ashton in a completely different light. Why on earth was he just standing there? And what was that strange look that passed across his face each time Richie bellowed out another monsterous, "HHHHHEEEEEESSSSSSSSCHHHHHOOOOOOOOoooooh!" Jerry was not a suspicious person by nature--and as Richie's twenty-one gun salute went on, he knew he had to check and see if Richie was alright--but he filed that instance away in his mind as yet another strange happening of college life.

The more important thing was to check on Richie. When it finally seemed that Richie's nose had calmed down enough that he'd be able to speak, Jerry ventured forth a, "Hey, man, you alright in there?"

"Jerry?" Richie responded, fearing the worst, "oh, god, don't tell me you could hear me all the way out..."

"No, no, man, I was just heading to the restroom when I heard the big bang from outside the door, don't worry. But what happened there? I didn't think you were ever going to stop!"

"N-neither did... oh, god, h-here ihhhh... here it gooohhhh... ohhhhh... oohhhhhh... ahh... HA-CHOOOOH! Man, thought I was done there," Richie give a liquid sniff, "but the aftershocks just sneak up on me."

"And speakin' of sneakin', there you guys are!" Adam quipped.

"Are you just everywhere?" Richie asked, half-laughingly, half-exasperated. Adam had the strangest habit of popping up everywhere.

"A magician never reveals his secrets, young Richard." Adam gave a sudden gasp before, "Ha-chooOOSH! Huh... hashhhooo! Ugh, must be in the air," Adam said, as he grabbed a tissue from the sink counter to blow his nose. He was a bit of a nasal honker, and his blows were decidedly louder than his generally quiet, gentle sneezes (although, in comparison to a Richie-cane, your average elephant was pretty quiet and gentle), and were much louder when he had a cold---because he didn't have Richie's almighty, head-clearing sneezes, he relied much more on forceful nose-blowing to blast out the itch from his nose, and still had far less success--unsurprisingly--that a full-force sneeze from Richie, even without a cold or that dreaded red pepper.

Richie, however, wasn't so sure that something was "in the air"; the humongous fit he'd just succumbed to made him almost positive: he was catching a cold.

"No, Adam, it's not 'in the air'--we're sick, and I'm going home." Richie declared. Adam was somewhat taken aback at his friend's unusually forceful tone, but he knew that, as always, he could joke his friend out of his resolve.

"Oh, you're not sick---granted, a 300-pound body builder with a bad head cold and a wind machine up his nose probably can’t compare to the ‘ol schozz-cannon you’ve’ got… but those, my friend, were not cold sneezes.”

“How do you know?” Richie demanded.

“I still have hearing in my right ear, obviously.”

[harryswanderlust]

Overdue

where y/n’s the new library assistant and harry doesn’t actually show up for the books...

warnings: none

requested: nope

It wasn’t until the beginning of September that Y/n had really started to appreciate her job in the campus library. She’d been working there for only a few weeks, every night from six ‘til eight, and she enjoyed it. She enjoyed sorting through endless amounts of books and placing them back on the proper shelf. She’d end up finding new and exciting things to read from doing this, and at first, she thought that was the best part of her job, but after someone waltzed into her library during the start of September, she was given a new reason to love it so much.

She remembers it being a particularly cold night, which was surprising to no one since it was the beginning of the autumn season in upstate New York. Everyone already had their jackets pulled out by the end of August and were adjusting to the cooler temperatures. Everyone except Y/n. She’s always hated the cold, and she’s set on moving out of New York once she graduates. All she wants to do when fall and winter roll around is curl up in a pile of blankets and read until she falls asleep, but on that night a cup of hot chocolate would have to suffice.

It was a typical Thursday, and it wasn’t any quieter or less empty than any other day of the week since most kids couldn’t find the library even if they tried. She always finds it amusing when certain students come rushing in to find a book for a paper they were supposed to start writing weeks ago, but chose to wait until the last minute instead. It’s usually the same people over and over again, and thankfully it’s not a daily occurrence, but it did happen on this night as Y/n’s shift was coming to an end.

She’d lost track of time, so it was a few minutes past eight when he hurried in, but the library hours have always been clearly posted on the doors. She briefly looked up from what she was reading–Shakespeare’s Hamlet–when she heard the door swing open, and felt a gust of cool air blow in. She let out an annoyed sigh when she glanced up at the clock to check the time. She was hungry and planned on grabbing something to eat after locking up, but now she was going to have to wait because some idiot couldn’t read a sign.

She observed the stranger as he made his way inside, trying her best not to scrutinize him too hard or get caught staring. He was wearing a university hoodie that appeared to be in desperate need of a wash, and his hair is falling in disheveled ringlets in front of his face from being windblown. She cut him some slack for it because everyone on campus was only trying to stay warm, but it didn’t make her less irritated with him.

He looked to be a bit older than she was. Maybe around twenty-one? She didn't think there was any way he could be a sophomore like her or any younger than a junior really. His sleeves were half rolled up, exposing a trail of tattoos up his left arm and a wristband on his right arm with the name of his frat house. She decided to shrug it off, simply going back to reading her Shakespeare while he went about finding the books he needed. She was almost near the end of the third act when he walked up to the checkout counter, shaking his hands through his tousled curls for about the tenth time since he arrived.

It wasn’t until then that she truly got a good look at him, and she could physically feel her heart skip a beat when was met with a pair of forest green eyes, simultaneously shutting the play and nearly falling off her stool in the process. She stumbled before catching herself on the counter and flashed him a smile to try and conceal her embarrassment.

“That’s one of his longest plays isn’t it?” He asked her as he slid a few books across the counter for her to check out. Her brows drew together, his question throwing her way off guard before she registered that he was talking about Hamlet. Her eyes shifted back and forth between him and the play because she definitely wasn’t expecting him to ask her that.

“Uh, yeah. I think it is,” is all she could manage to say in response, working to grab the books he placed in front of her to scan them. She eyes him unsurely for a moment, and an awkward silence stretched between them as the scanner beeped a couple of times.

“It’s been a while since I’ve read that, but ‘to be or not to be: that is the question’, right?” He asked, quoting the play to her, and she swore her jaw practically dropped to the floor. She didn’t think he was dumb–hell, she didn’t even know the guy–but if someone had told her she’d be talking to him about Shakespeare she wouldn’t have believed them. But here he was quoting Hamlet of all plays. Her own friends didn’t even discuss Shakespeare with her, and they’ve always got their noses stuck in some piece of literature as much as she does.

“I think Hamlet should’ve let nature run its course, you know? I believe in fate, and by taking things into his own hands he only made things worse. Nothing was really resolved,” he said, reaching for his books as she handed them back to him.

She nodded, considering his words. She’s only ever heard people’s thoughts on Romeo and Juliet and everyone’s opinions are pretty much the same on that one. “I believe in fate,” he’d said. Was it fate that lead him into her library on that Thursday night? Was it fate that lead to him coming in almost every single night after that?

“I’m Harry by the way,” he added, introducing himself with a dimpled grin. Y/n’s not sure why she was finding it charming or why she’d become more endeared by him than she was several moments ago.

“And could you try to not look so surprised that I’ve read Shakespeare before?”

She frantically shook her head, stammering over her words as they quickly fell out of her mouth. “No, I’m not–I, I mean I wasn’t–I mean it’s, it’s just that–”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll let it slide since you’re cute,” he teased, shooting her a wink. Her entire face heated up at the compliment, but she didn’t know what’s worse: how little she thought of him or how he had called her out on it. “Definitely cuter than the last library assistant. What was her name? Callie or Catherine or something like that?”

“Caitlin,” she corrects, causing Y/n to remember how she heard somewhere that she was caught with pot in her room and got kicked out of school. Whether that’s true or not, Y/n doesn't know. But she hasn’t seen Caitlin around campus since so she’s definitely not around anymore. She also found a secret stash in between some books one time which makes the rumors seem more truthful than they are not.

“Caitlin, that’s right. I liked her. She’d write papers for me sometimes if I paid her enough.”

Classy, Y/n thought to herself. She mentally rolled her eyes at his confession, finding it unsurprising. She figured this guy may have known a thing or two about a famous playwright, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t another lazy student that only tries to pass so they can keep partying every weekend. She didn’t care for guys like that and assumed that everything she found attractive about him was all on the outside.

“Anyway, I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“That's because I didn’t give it to you,” she’d shot back, watching as his grin grew wider and he licked his lips. She wasn't aware, but he was the type that liked a challenge. He loved having to work for it.

“Guess I’ll have to call you princess from now on then.”

The pet name didn’t earn any appreciation from her, nor did it make her want to keep talking with him at that point.

“If you think I’m going to write your papers for you, you’re wrong. And your books are due in two weeks,” she told him, ignoring his subtle attempts at flirting with her. He should’ve stuck to giving her his analysis on English literature.

“I’ll be back in two weeks then.”

That’s the last thing he’d said before shooting her one last wink and leaving with his books tucked under his arm. She didn’t know what exactly to think of the guy, and he even hadn’t crossed her mind until he returned to the library again. She had hoped that she wouldn’t see him again after that, but that proved difficult since he purposely showed back up two weeks later during her late night shift. As it turned out, he wanted to continue the conversation they had when they first met, but Y/n didn’t buy it. She thought he wanted to see if he could take another shot at possibly trying to get into her pants.

She was quick to judge him though, and soon found out how wrong she was about him. Sure they don’t run in the same circles, and honestly, they still don’t, but they have a lot more in common than she was willing to give them credit for at first. It took a while, but she eventually started looking forward to his infrequent visits. And after a couple of months, the infrequent visits turned into a daily routine.

At first, he’d act as though he was coming in to find a book he wanted so it didn’t seem like he was only there for the cute, alluring, library assistant, but he soon gave up trying to hide it. Not that it wasn’t at least a little obvious to Y/n. He only ever came in when she was there, and she knows this because she took it upon herself to ask the actual librarian if she’d seen him. She told Y/n she’d never seen or heard of him before. It’s possible that she could’ve simply missed him, but before Y/n started working there Harry had only seen the inside of their library a solid two times.  

So by the time the end of the fall semester rolled she had fallen in love with her job, and by mid-February, she had fallen for him. She tried to chalk her feelings up to love being in the air and all that, but she wasn’t just enamored by his riveting smile or adorable curls. She didn’t want the four walls of the campus library to be the only place she ever saw him. She wanted to be able to be with anywhere and recite her favorite soliloquies to him or listen to him play his guitar or sing to her.

That was their thing. He loved art and music, and she loved books and poetry...and maybe even him too. She hasn’t been able to find the guts to tell him, out of fear that he might not feel the same way. If he hasn’t asked her out by now then she doubts it’s going to happen. Besides, they’re good at the whole friend thing, and there’s no way she wants to ruin that.

“Did you read the book before you wrote this paper?” She asks him one day when they’re sitting at a table in the library. They’re going over a paper he had to write over Homer’s Iliad, and she’s pretty sure the only thing he’ll get credit for is putting his name on it.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” He responds, and she shakes her head. He groans as he takes his paper back from her, running a hand over his face and through his messy locks. He tugs slightly at them with frustration, and she places a hand on his shoulder. She gives it a soft squeeze, offering a sympathetic smile.

“I should read it shouldn't I?”

She nods, murmuring a quick “yeah” before standing up. “I’ll go find it for you.”

She slips behind the bookcases, finding the book with ease since she read it herself a while back. She hears the light pattering of footsteps behind her, and she whirls around to find that Harry has followed behind her. She gasps when she almost collides with him, the book nearly falling out of her hands.

“What’s that?” She asks when she spots a cd in his hand. He shifts back and forth on his feet, his body towering over her as he looks down at her. His face flushes at her question, a pink tint blossoming over his cheeks as he twists his lips to hide a smile from her.

“I...I made you a playlist of all my favorite songs. I thought you might listen to it while you’re reading or studying or whatever,” he tells her, shrugging nonchalantly as he wipes his hand against his jeans. It makes her realize that he’s actually nervous. She’s actually making him nervous.

She smiles fondly at him, her heart swelling at the simple gift. He could’ve just thrown all the songs onto a Spotify playlist, but he went out of his way to make her a cd.

“Thank you. I love it,” she says, wanting so badly to kiss him for it. He’s standing close enough that it would be easy. All she’d have to do is lean in, and she’d be lying if she hasn’t spent some time thinking about how his lips would feel against hers. Like the beginning of a beautiful song is what she guesses.

“How can you love it? You haven’t listened to it yet, princess.”

She rolls her eyes, playfully pushing his arm.  “Because you made it for me, silly.”  

This gets him to smile, and she swears it makes her want to melt. His fingers gently trace over her wrist, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles. Her breath hitches at the contact. She didn’t see it coming, his gaze is cast downward at where they’re touching as he pauses for a moment.

“Would you wanna go to a party with me tonight?” He finally asks once he’s racked up enough courage.  

She blinks a few times. “What?”

“I mean, you totally don’t have to if you don’t want to. My frat’s throwing one tonight, but I’d understand if that’s not your scene. I just thought it might be nice to hang out somewhere besides here,” he explains, afraid that asking her out has scared her. He’s as terrified of moving too fast as she is, and doesn’t want to assume that she likes him.

If only he knew.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” she says, wrapping her own fingers around his.

He bites his lip, bringing his other hand up to push her hair behind her ear and cup her cheek. He slowly pulls her closer to him, their noses brushing against one another’s. It tickles and a giggle escapes past her lips as her eyes flutter shut, anticipating a kiss. But his lips ghost over hers, not giving her the one thing she wants.

“Great, I’ll pick you up in couple hours?” He whispers, pulling away from her and letting her go.

She nods, not trusting herself to say anything. She can hardly breathe, and when he leaves she leans back against the shelf full of books. Her head spins, unable to process what just happened.

He asked her out.

He finally asked her out.

————

Taking a nap wasn't her smartest move, and she was dreading how little time she had to get ready. She had an outfit picked out in her mind before she even left the library, but had to quickly throw on a dress and shoes in order to focus on getting the sleep out of her hair and face. She doesn't look bad, but she did envision herself looking better for a first date. Though, going to a frat party as a first date wasn’t exactly what she had in mind either.

She slides into the passenger's seat of his car when he pulls up, immediately noticing how he ditched the dirty hoodie and fixed his hair. He looks as nice as she does, and even more handsome than he ever has in their tiny, old library.

“You clean up nice,” she compliments, taking a second to buckle her seatbelt. It’s dark but she can still see him blushing as his hand reaches for the gear to back out.

“Only when I really like the girl,” he teases. “And you look beautiful too.”

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, biting back a smile. Her fingers wind tighter around the sweater she grabbed on her way out, the butterflies in her stomach starting to flutter faster. Somehow she’s more nervous that she’s ever been. He’s just Harry. The guy who stops by the library more times to see her than he does to read a book and is now probably going to become her boyfriend.

Wait.

Boyfriend? Now she’s getting ahead of herself. He doesn’t want to be her boyfriend. Sure he had her a mixtape–which is undoubtedly pretty romantic–and he did ask her out, but he’s not going to become her boyfriend all of the sudden. She’s not even sure what to call what’s already going on between them.

“You want something to drink?” He asks when they arrive at the house, surrounded by hundreds of half-drunk college students and someone’s terrible playlist blasting through the giant speaker.

“Yeah,” she nods.

“Okay, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!” she frantically grabs his arm, pulling him back to her. He glances at her, brows drawing together to show he’s confused and making her mentally slap herself for acting like a crazy person. “I’m...I’m not really comfortable being alone.”

She releases her death grip on his arm, praying that she didn’t make herself seem like a pathetic freak. She shifts uncomfortably where she stands, avoiding his gaze. But he smiles softly at her and grabs her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

“Alright, I won’t leave your side,” he tells her, squeezing her hand for assurance. She looks up at him, squeezing it back as a thank you.

He leads her to the kitchen, which causes an outburst from several of Harry’s friends. A blonde one comes from around to counter to pull him into a hug, engaging in some sort of handshake with him afterward. He pats him on the back, telling him that he was wondering when he was going to show up.

“I’m here now,” he tells him, stepping to the side and placing his hand on the small of Y/n’s back. “And this is Y/n.”

“Wow, Harry. You’ve always known how to pick them,” a lankier one says before winking at him.

“Is she your girlfriend? Or another one of your hookups you never intend on calling back?” Another one pipes up, tauntingly.

“No, we’re–”

“You’ve always been quite the ladies man haven’t you?” The blonde one nudges his shoulder.

Okay, his friends seem like nice people except they really don’t. But was what that one guy said true? Did he have a thing for hooking up with girls and never calling them? Was she really just another conquest to him? And if she was, why would he put so much effort into a quick screw?

“I think I’m going to go to the bathroom,” she lies, excusing herself from the awful situation. Harry calls out after her, but she doesn’t turn around and instead makes her way towards the stairs. She hurries up them, set on heading for the bathroom but stopping short upon finding something else.

To her left, a bedroom door is open slightly and inside she can see the same hoodie Harry was wearing earlier hanging off a chair. Now, she's in a house belonging to a bunch of frat boys that all play the same sport, so that doesn't mean the bedroom is his. But is that going to stop her anyway?

Absolutely not.

She presses her hand to the door, opening it further and stepping inside. The first thing she notices—besides the condom laying out on his dresser—is the Iliad laying out on his bed. So it’s definitely his room, and she definitely wasn’t expecting so many Fleetwood Mac and Pink Floyd posters. What also comes as a surprise is the bookshelf full of books, including classics like Hemingway.

“I see you got lost on your way to the bathroom,” Harry says, now leaning in doorway and watching her with a subtle smirk.

She ignores him, her fingers scanning over the spines of the books. “So you’ve got Wuthering Heights on your shelf, but you can’t get through the Iliad?”  

He shrugs. “Wuthering Heights was entertaining.”

She snorts, “Spoken like someone who didn’t understand the book.”

“Did you?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but can’t find any good way to answer because she, in fact, didn’t understand it. So that’s twice now that’s she’s not given him enough credit and put her foot in her mouth, right?

“You know this is like way overdue right?” She pulls a book off the shelf, holding it out for him to see as she points clearly at the return date sticker. He was supposed to return it a couple months ago, but she’s partly to blame for giving him a pass every time he forgets to bring his books back.

He walks over to her, one hand grabbing her waist and the other brushing her hair away from her face.

“What are you–”

“I think this is too,” he cuts her off, gently cupping her cheek with his hand and pulling her in for their lips to meet. The kiss is deep and slow, lighting up her body and she finds it hard to catch a breath. Her arms wind around his neck, her finger running themselves through his curls.

She moans when he pulls away, still keeping her body close to his. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that,” she giggles, giving him another peck on the lips. “Could never really tell if you were into me.”

Harry nods, pinching her hips and causing her to giggle again. He could listen to that sound on repeat, like a sweet melody.

“Trust me, I am,” he says before pulling her in for one last kiss.

[musicprincess655]

Kyouka had given Atsushi the day off, which she probably thought was a kindness. It means, however, that Atsushi is hanging around the bunker without much to do, and he’s bored. His days have been so filled with action and work that having an entire day to himself isn’t something he’s quite sure what to do with.

“Come with me.” Atsushi jumps at Gin’s sudden appearance. She’s probably been there for a while, but she moves so silently it’s nearly impossible to track her movements.

“What?”

“You’re not busy. Everyone else is.”

Atsushi glances over at Akutagawa, who hasn’t paid them any attention. He’s so absorbed in his work that the tea by his elbow isn’t even steaming anymore. Atsushi has a wild urge to wreck that still image.

“Don’t,” Gin warns, but apparently she’s spoken enough to gather Akutagawa’s attention. He glances up at them both staring at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Gin says. “I’m taking Nakajima to the market.”

Akutagawa shrugs and goes back to his work.

“I’ll keep an eye out for trouble,” he says.

“All the rats are back from No. 6?” Atsushi asks. He’d only realized they left two behind after they’d gotten back, but everyone had assured him that it was normal for the rats to be left on their own for long stretches. Then Atsushi had wondered why he was so attached to robots. Cute as they were, they weren’t actually alive.

“Cravat is still there,” Akutagawa says. “I’m working with him. Hamlet and Rashomon will keep an eye on you.”

“I still think Rashomon is a little over the top for a rat.”

“You named one Cravat, which isn’t even a real thing.”

“Yes it is!”

“Stop,” Gin sighs. “Nakajima. Come on.”

“Better you than me,” Akutagawa says. “I guess you’re not completely useless, though.”

Atsushi freezes with whatever insult – or maybe blow, he hadn’t really thought it through – he was preparing to throw at Akutagawa, because that might be the nicest thing Akutagawa has ever said to him.

Which says a lot, to be honest.

How strange that as soon as Atsushi stops taking any amount of Akutagawa’s shit, as soon as he’s willing to fight back, Akutagawa becomes a whole lot more tolerable.

“So what do we need from the market?” Atsushi asks. If this is just a shopping trip, it will officially be the most normal thing he’s done since he left No. 6.

“We went to all that trouble of getting those medicines, now we have to sell them,” Gin says. “Some of them, anyway. We’ll hold onto some until the money gets better.”

“Don’t people really need those?”

“That’s not our problem.” Ostensibly, Gin is the better of the Akutagawa siblings, but she’s still a product of this harsh world. She’s just as ruthless as Akutagawa, and Atsushi should stop forgetting that because she doesn’t have such a problem with him personally.

“Do you need them for Akutagawa’s lungs?” Atsushi asks. He’d noticed the cough Akutagawa really can’t seem to drop, and it can’t be just a passing cold.

“If there’s a medicine that can fix those, we haven’t found it yet,” Gin says. “He’s not dying. So it’s all okay.”

Still, Atsushi has been living with the siblings for a few months now. He can see the care Gin takes of Akutagawa, the way she takes on physical tasks so he doesn’t have to, the way her eyebrows pinch together when one of his coughing fits goes on for just a little too long. Gin might speak roughly to and about him, but she cares.

And Akutagawa cares about her right back. Maybe that’s easy, considering she’s his little sister, but Atsushi knows he takes more care with her than with Dazai and Chuuya. The two of them have been gone all day, and as far as Atsushi knows, Akutagawa hasn’t bothered to use the rats to check in on them. The arguably less risky trip to the market warrants backup, though, and Atsushi is sure it’s purely because Gin is going.

It shouldn’t be so surprising that under all that anger, Akutagawa is human. Maybe it’s just that Atsushi doesn’t like to have to look at him that way.

“So how does this work?” Atsushi asks. “Is there a stand? Do we have a cash register?”

“Of course not,” Gin scoffs. “Kyouka-chan has already spread the word that we have the medicines. People will come to us.”

“That seems less efficient,” Atsushi says. Gin shrugs.

“It works,” she says. “We’ll probably sell some to one of the vendors, if they offer enough. We usually get a better price from people seeking us out, though. People can get desperate.”

“You’re all…kind of terrible people. No offense.”

Gin doesn’t look all that bothered.

“I can see why you annoy my brother so much,” she says. “Bleeding heart, no substance. I get why he hates you.”

“Who says I have no substance?” Atsushi asks. “I can back this up.”

“Can you?” Gin asks. “Living isn’t free. We need the money and the trade to survive. Even the work you do with Kyouka-chan falls under that. She makes some money renting her dogs, but mostly she makes money on her information. That shipment she tipped us off on? It was in exchange for some of what we got.”

“But that doesn’t mean we have to let people die, does it?” Atsushi asks. “Can’t there be a balance?”

“We have to survive first,” Gin says. “And that’s why my brother hates you. You’re so willing to sacrifice yourself for someone else that you won’t bother to save yourself. It makes you dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Atsushi sits with that all the way through Gin’s first customer, someone she gouges so hard on a bottle of aspirin that Atsushi winces.

“I still think there can be a middle ground,” Atsushi says. “Between surviving and letting everyone else die. The world doesn’t have to be black and white.”

“So you say,” Gin says. “You’re not so bad. But if it comes down to it, I’m going to choose my brother over you.”

“That’s fair.”

In spite of everything, Atsushi really does like Gin. She’s not so hard to get along with. She might have her brother’s temper, but it’s rarely directed at him.

She reminds Atsushi of what Akutagawa was like when they were kids, before Akutagawa decided he hated Atsushi with every fiber of his being.

“Is that really the reason he hates me?” Atsushi asks. Not that it bothers him that Akutagawa hates him, necessarily. Atsushi isn’t Akutagawa’s biggest fan either. But it was a pretty abrupt shift, and Atsushi can’t imagine why it happened.

“Dazai-san approves of you,” Gin says.

“And?”

“And he doesn’t approve of much Ryuu does.”

“And?”

“Stop playing dumb,” Gin says. “You can’t be this stupid. You have to have noticed how they act around each other.”

Atsushi has noticed the strain in Dazai and Akutagawa’s relationship, the way Akutagawa seems so desperate for Dazai’s regard. What he doesn’t understand is why.

“Dazai-san and Chuuya-san took us in when we were younger,” Gin says. “Well, they found me first. It was over a year before we found Ryuu again. I’m not sure Dazai-san would have let him stay if it wasn’t for me.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask him.” Gin’s eyes are shadowed, so Atsushi can’t quite see them. “I’m grateful to them for looking after us when we needed it, for teaching us how to survive. But I’ve never liked how Dazai-san treats my brother. And Ryuu respects him for being the one to save us, him and Chuuya-san, so he just wants them to both acknowledge him. I wish that just Chuuya-san could be enough.”

Really, though, Atsushi thinks he might get why Dazai treats Akutagawa the way he does, at least a little. Akutagawa fights first and asks questions later. He kills before he looks for another way. Dazai, who thinks his way around every situation, couldn’t possibly approve of that approach.

A light tap on Atsushi’s shoulder makes him turn from the conversation, and Rashomon sits in the corner of his vision.

“Get out of there!” Akutagawa’s voice comes out.

“What?”

Atsushi looks around, immediately looking for a threat. He doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. It’s just a market, people milling around, going about their business. The loudest thing here is someone down the block haggling with a vendor.

“Start running now!” Akutagawa’s voice shouts even louder. “I’m on my way, he’s coming for you!”

“Who’s coming?” Atsushi asks, turning and looking desperately. What is Akutagawa talking about?

“Run!”

And far too late, Atsushi sees what Akutagawa means.

Gin is just as busy looking for a threat as Atsushi is, more focused than he was, not even bothering to question her brother. But she’s looking in the opposite direction, expecting Atsushi to be watching his own side, and from that angle, she can’t see the man charging them both with a knife.

Atsushi doesn’t have time to warn her. He only has time to put himself between her and the man with a knife, raising his arms in a weak attempt to protect himself.

He hisses as the knife stabs into his forearm, and Gin whips around. She’s in motion in a second, kicking the man away from them both.

“Give me the medicine,” he demands, climbing back to his feet to swing at them again.

Suddenly, Akutagawa is there, cheeks flushed an unhealthy color from how fast he’s running, and he draws his own knife across the man’s throat, arterial spray coating Atsushi’s shirt. Atsushi gapes as Akutagawa drops the man without a second thought, going straight for Gin.

“Are you okay?” he demands. “Hurt anywhere?”

Gin shakes her head, pointing at Atsushi’s arm. Atsushi looks down. The knife is still stuck in his arm, and it doesn’t hurt all that bad. Atsushi’s sat through enough lectures from Yosano to know that’s only because he’s in shock. He twists his arm anyway, almost fascinated by the way the knife sticks under his skin, like it’s not really a part of him.

“Stop playing with it,” Akutagawa growls. “Both of you, let’s move.”

Akutagawa thrusts the cravat – and it is a real word, not matter what he says – he wears around his neck at Atsushi, and Atsushi accepts it, wrapping it around where the knife stabs in. There isn’t much blood for now, and Atsushi knows better than to remove the knife and change that.

Dazai and Chuuya are back by the time they’re safe in the bunker, and both of their eyes widen when they see the three of them.

“What did you three do?” Chuuya demands. Dazai takes Atsushi’s arm, inspecting it critically.

“We were attacked in the market,” Atsushi says. “Someone wanted the medicine.”

“Are either of you hurt?” Chuuya asks.

“Someone’s not using his eyes,” Dazai teases, but most of his attention is on Atsushi’s arm.

“Fuck you, I can see Nakajima’s arm, I meant hurt anywhere else,” Chuuya snaps.

“We’re fine,” Gin says. Her voice is soft and almost shaken. “Ryuu warned us in time.”

“Good work,” Dazai says absently. Akutagawa visibly straightens from the praise. “Well, Atsushi-kun, if you had to get injured, you picked a good time to do it. We have the stuff to stitch you up.”

As if in response to Dazai’s words, Atsushi’s arm starts to throb. Atsushi tries not to squirm. He’s not the biggest fan of needles.

He turns away from where Dazai’s working, trying to ignore the feeling of his skin knitting back together, watching Akutagawa, Gin, and Chuuya discuss what happened.

“Looks like we’ll be better off selling to a vendor this time,” Chuuya says after a hushed discussion. “Medicine might be a little too much in demand. If we’re just going to get attacked each time, it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“We should still get a good enough price that way,” Akutagawa says.

“Alright, Atsushi-kun, you’re good to go,” Dazai tells him. Atsushi finally looks down to inspect Dazai’s work. A white bandage wraps neatly around his right forearm, hiding the cut entirely. Dazai picks up his other hand and puts a few pills in his palm.

“Take.”

“I don’t need painkillers.” Atsushi might be trying to put on a brave face, just a little. His arm really hurts now that he’s calmed down and adrenaline isn’t masking the pain.

“They’re actually antibiotics,” Dazai says. “You don’t want a nasty infection taking your arm off, do you?”

Atsushi shakes his head, dumping the pills in his mouth and standing to get a glass of water.

“Oh, and one of them was a painkiller,” Dazai adds as Atsushi gulps his water down. Atsushi chokes on it. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I think it’s fair for everyone to call it a day,” Chuuya says. “One attack is enough for now.”

Atsushi doesn’t think he’ll have such a hard time sitting around this time.

Gin stays on the couch, though, still talking to Chuuya, a cup of tea gripped just a little too tightly in her hands. Atsushi and Akutagawa leave her to it, heading back to the other room. They let the silence sit uncomfortably for a while, and Atsushi suddenly realizes he has something he can hold against Akutagawa, and it’s something he can use.

“I saved Gin’s life.”

Akutagawa snorts.

“Gin doesn’t owe you shit, Jinko,” Akutagawa says. “Did you forget the part where she saved your life first?”

“I never said Gin owed me anything,” Atsushi says. “You do.”

Akutagawa whips around, teeth already baring.

“Fuck you.”

“You do, though.” Atsushi can play Akutagawa’s game, if that’s what it takes.

“What do you want, Jinko?”

“Stop killing people.”

Akutagawa stares at him, eyes still narrowed in anger.

“Why?” he demands. “Why would you hold this over me and ask for that?”

“Because I’m going to show you something other than killing,” Atsushi says. He doesn’t understand Akutagawa’s view of himself, his relentless pursuit of strength when he already has so much. He’s proven he has a good mind, and if Atsushi can force him to stop killing, he’ll use that instead.

Akutagawa’s hands come up, like he’s about to reach out and strangle Atsushi, but he stops himself.

“Fine,” Akutagawa growls. “For six months, I won’t kill anyone. Good enough?”

Atsushi shrugs. Six months should be enough to prove his point.

“It’s a deal.”

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

seal moves in

(i dont remember if i ever posted this so im reposting it, this is from the far far future)

Seven centuries ago the Wyld washed over an entire direction in the wake of a Crusade, and it recedes slowly. Islands of lucidity jut forth like washed-up debris, either raksha playgrounds or remnants of Creation. It is here, scant miles beyond the edge of the world, that Siege Perilous looms. The sun does not reach here, though there is light; the deserts give way to paving-stones and green hills, and a hamlet in the shadow of a castle. The hamlet is empty, long abandoned by the look of it -- but surely less than seven centuries empty, when bleached banners still fly in the square intact. No, these houses were evacuated a mere five years ago, when their ancient hero finally returned to liberate them from raksha encirclement. When the castle's heir took up his rightful seat. When the Seal of Unforgotten Kings came home. A marble statue stands in the Siege's courtyard, gazing down on those who would enter the castle. In those five years, it has seen the Dusk a scant three times. 

A bottle of champagne smashed across its sunburst-crowned brow. "I hereby chrishen thish party... open!" Star declared.

Seal glowered up at him, perched on the statue's shoulder. "Get down from there," he shouted. "I wanted to fucking drink that."

Star shrugged, tossing the neck of the bottle over his shoulder and fluttering down. "Desh brought more, I think. Beshidesh, that shtuff schucksh. Gotta drink like a bucketful to get tipshy."

Des had indeed brought more; various bottles nestled in the crook of her arm, and beside her a white-haired boy labored under what appeared to be picnic baskets laden so high they obscured his face. Des clicked her tongue at him. "You know you don't have to carry all that, Sever," she said. "I could have got a ghost to do it."

Shoulders shrugged carefully on either side of the tower. "I don't mind," a basket at face height replied. Severed Tail of the Serpent Resembles Truth By its Writhing carefully adjusted the tower, distributing the weight more evenly, and continued on his way. Behind him, Des frowned and followed.

+++

Seal flung the castle doors open. "Honey, we're home," he shouted, emboldened by the presence of his friends. The empty hall echoed it back to him, white dust swirling in the corners from the sudden breeze.

Take this seriously, a voice said in his head. Seal could see him out of the corner of his eye: the spitting image of the statue outside, standing ramrod-straight and two heads taller than Seal, running a finger across the breastplate of a nearby suit of armor. Brightest Morning Star frowned at Seal. Is this any way to treat your domicile? The inheritance of centuries?

"Shut the fuck up, old man," Seal muttered through gritted teeth. "You're not even real."

Realer than your cleaning skills, the man responded before Star breezed through the space where he should have been standing. "Scho, where do you want thisch?" he said, louder than usual and brandishing a pilfered bottle of Shadow's brandy. He was pointedly not making eye contact, and Seal recognized that he had heard him talking to his preincarnation.

He flushed with anger. "Do I look like I give a shit?" he snapped. "We're gonna desecrate every fucking room in this castle, I didn't make a fucking itinerary." 

Schtar shrugged and moved on, sweeping his gaze around the castle -- probably doing that dumb Investigation shit again. "Oh, here we go," he said, opening a door. "Big ol' dining hall, kitschen muscht be thish way. C'mon, let'sh shee if they got schomefing to toasht thish bread with." He disappeared into the darkness, and the other Deathknights followed suit.

Brightest Morning Star reappeared in front of Seal, a phantom wind blowing away the nothingness that obscured him. You haven't picked up after yourself since the last time you were here, he reminded the boy disapprovingly. Or the time before that. You could at least sweep up some wreckage before they see. 

Seal grabbed an ornamental vase and flung it at the apparition. It sailed through empty air and smashed against the floor. "Fuck you!" he shouted at the silent hall, but images assailed him behind his eyelids: ruined tapestries with the faces singed away, spears with the hafts snapped in half and buried in discarded shields, the remnants of Seal's last tantrum here. The vast mural of stained glass he knelt before, unable to destroy it, unable to look directly at his predecessor's face. Seal swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping away hot tears. He flung the red droplets on the floor. "Fine!" he declared angrily. "I'll go do your dumb fucking chores. Bitch."

Broom's in the upstairs closet, if it hasn't rotted away, Brightest Morning Star sniped from inside his mind.

+++

The broom was not in the upstairs closet.

Seal stared at the rack where it should have lay, where his-and-not-his memories pictured it beside the dustpan, which was also gone. "Hey, old man," he called out. "Are you fucking senile or did you just have servants do all your shit for you? Don't know where your own goddamn broom is?"

No response. Seal slammed the closet shut, and it rattled the frame pleasingly. "What the fuck now?" he asked out loud. Did someone break into the castle and steal his fucking broom? Glorious First Light loomed in the back of his mind. What if, by taking it from the castle, he'd left it vulnerable?

"Shit, shit, shit," he muttered, and broke into a run. Seal might have hated all this fucking stuff, but it was his fucking stuff. The treasury was filled with priceless First Age artifacts and also a bunch of stuff he'd smashed to pieces, and if some raksha bastard even fucking thought about fucking touching it --

Seal skidded to a halt. There was no raksha bastard. The treasury door was open, and as far as Seal could tell everything was in place. Except for the story crystals he'd smashed to pieces last time he was here, and had left scattered across the floor. As far as Seal could tell, there wasn't even a splinter of crystal on the floor, though their spots on the shelves remained empty.

What the fuck? Seal spun around. The sword he'd bent in half was gone as well, replaced with a completely different one -- a jian instead of a dao. The row of statuettes was artfully arranged to hide the ones Seal had beheaded. Even the trophy case Seal had cut in half was standing straight. He ventured over and tapped a finger against it.

It crashed down -- someone had merely shoved the two halves together so neatly Seal hadn't spotted the join. The noise startled him, and he jumped back -- and, out of the corner of his eye, saw movement. "Hey!" he cried reflexively, and pursued. The castle was a maze of halls and display cases and rooms full of junk, but whoever Seal was chasing seemed to know it like the back of their hand -- Seal only caught a flicker of movement, a flap of cloth disappearing around a corner. "Stop fucking running, bastard!" he shouted, and hurled Glorious First Light.

The spear blasted a crater in the wall at the end of the corridor, coming to rest buried a full hand into the stone -- and a hair's breadth from Des' face, where she was coming around the corner. "Who are you yelling at?" she asked, unflapped, stepping back and tucking her hair back behind her ears. "There's no one here." 

Seal came to a stop with one foot up against the wall, trying to yank the weapon out. "Some -- fucker -- stole my broom," he said, grunting. "And cleaned my fucking treasury." 

Des raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Stole your broom and not your hoard of ancient and extremely valuable relics?" she asked. "And... swept with it? Surely you should be thanking them." 

"I don't know what they fucking did," Seal grumbled. He pulled one last time and finally pulled the spear free, which meant that boy and weapon went tumbling head over heels. From his new position on the floor, Seal swore loudly and freely.

Des' eyes sparked with laughter as she helped Seal to his feet. "Well, if you think the mystery can wait for an hour or two, Star has managed to warm up the pie. Without any slime involved."

"Pie," Seal said fervently, and forgot about the broom entirely.

+++

The pie was burnt. The sandwiches were dry. The brandy tasted like shit. Seal enjoyed the hell out of it all.

They had left the great hall dark and empty and chosen to eat in the kitchen instead. It was cozy, gathered around the slab in the center while the fire blazed in the stove. Des had found a fork and knife; Star and Seal were eating with their hands. Seal wasn't sure Sever was eating at all, but every time he looked there was less food on the plate, so he guessed he must be. Also, Seal was drunk. 

"Sol's own fucking cock," he said, wiping his mouth. "This stuff really fucking tastes like a rat's ass." He slammed the empty glass down on the table and motioned for Des to pour him another shot. "But damn if it doesn't fucking do you."

Star's giggle broke into hiccups. "How do you know what a rat'sh assh tashtesh like?" he managed to slur out. "Eat a lot of rat asshesh in your schildhood?"

"Not as many as your fucking mom," Seal shot back. Star gasped, actually offended, but Sever distracted him with a slice of pie and Seal gloated silently at getting the last word. 

"So," Des said, pouring herself another glass of rose, which Star and Seal weren't allowed to touch (Sever had a small cupful in front of him). "What sort of magnificent things have you got in this castle anyways?"

Seal shrugged around a mouthful of burger (helpfully prepared by Pho ahead of time). "Treasury mostly," he replied. "I raided the armory but there's a bunch more shit in there. Like five fucking rooms full of random junk. East tower's full of little glass things, no idea what they do. Library, chapel, hangar --"

"--hanger?" Star piped up. "Like a big clothesh hanger?"

"I believe Seal means a hangar," Sever cut in smoothly. "Where First Age flying vessels are often stored."

Star's jaw hung open, comically filled with half-mashed mince. "You got airschipsh?"

A grin spread across Seal's face. "Hey, Star. Betcha can't fly faster than a First Age warbird."

"Betscha can't hit me in the air with a Firscht Age warbird," Star countered, and they were off.

+++

This is not the intended use of a warbird.

"Can't hear you over the sound of this fucking warbird!" Seal shouted, over the sound of this fucking warbird. 

These are holy weapons of war, not children's toys!

"Eat my fucking ass," Seal answered hotly, pulling back on the harness-gloves. The warbird responded, thirty thousand pounds of ancient magic carefully yoked to steel and fire, made to cut through behemoths like wet paper. Currently, Seal was trying to keep Star in his sights, though the winged Day Caste was swooping erratically through the air above the Siege Perilous. 

At the very least you could shoot him down, Brightest Morning Star replied a little petulantly. It's commendable how quickly you've picked up the controls, but we both know it's really my hand at the helm. Show me what you can do.

Seal waved a hand dismissively, which caused the warbird to spin alarmingly through the air. "I'm not gonna kill him," he responded when the aircraft was back under control. "Just wanna show off a little."

Oh, and smashing a warbird into him at a hundred miles an hour won't kill him?

"He's got Resistance Charms," Seal said, squinting as he finally lined Star up in the center of his sights -- "He'll probably be fine." -- and rammed the throttle forwards. 

The warbird's skeleton, Seal vaguely remembered his preincarnation vaguely remembering, was made of orichalcum and jade inlaid with starmetal. But all the architectural parts were mundane steel, so it really should have been no surprise when the warbird intercepted Star with a sickening crunch and the nose of the warbird crumpled inwards, Star's body tearing through it like a cannonball and rocketing backwards past Seal's head. Seal whooped even as the warbird began blaring new alarm sirens; orichalcum and steel versus soulsteel and Abyssal, it was no contest.

I hope you're happy with yourself, Brightest Morning Star spat. Try not to land on my best roses.

The ground rose to meet Seal, and everything went black.

+++

When he came to, he was on fire.

Seal yelped and struggled out of the warbird's cockpit, slapping at himself all over. Half his shirt had burned away, and the right leg of his pants tore off entirely as he snagged it on something falling out of the cockpit. The flame didn't blacken his skin like it should have, but it still stung like a bitch, so Seal spent a good minute rolling on the ground and loosing a barrage of curses.

"Having fun?" a voice asked from nearby. Seal righted himself to find Des sitting at a glass table, teacup in hand. They were in the castle's courtyard, though Seal could see a smouldering streak on the roof where the warbird must have caught it on the way down; empty flowerbeds surrounded them, organizing the courtyard in a geomantically auspicious pattern. Seal could remember every flower that had bloomed here once, the perfected Essence they had channeled. None of them were the black roses spilling out where Bloodthorn was planted blade-down in the soil.

"Practically dust," Des said, setting down her teacup and running a hand over the dirt. "Haven't been watered in two thousand years. Still, there's life in these old things yet." She fondled a rose, heedless of the thorns. Seal was dimly aware that she was making a point, and decided not to care. 

"Where's Star?" he demanded. "Fucker owes me fifty yen."

Des shrugged. "He landed over there," she said, indicating a point over Seal's shoulder. He turned to see a divot gouged into the earth, and at the end a pair of craters he had come to associate with the Wings. "Then he got up, mumbled something about his bones, and limped away. Sever was preparing a party in the chapel, so I think he went there to lie down." Seal lit up and turned to go, but Des caught his hand. "Listen, Seal," she said, her voice lower. "Honestly. How are you feeling?"

A butterfly fluttered down to land on a rose. Vibrant blue shimmered against velvet black.

"Weird, honestly," Seal admitted. He came back to flop down into a chair opposite Des. "It's like.... he's still here, obviously, but this place isn't his anymore. It's mine. But he keeps trying to be me, or I keep trying to be him." He grunted in frustration at not having the words, but Des hummed softly and nodded.

"It's complicated," she agreed. "Hard to tell what's you and what isn't. And everything hurts in every direction. You know," she said, saving Seal the awkwardness of having to reply, "you should try talking to Sever sometime. You've got a lot in common."

Seal scoffed. "Sever?" he said scornfully. "I love the guy, but he's got more in common with a filing cabinet than a human being."

Des hummed again. "You might say that. Just as he might say you've got more in common with your spear than with any of us." Seal's anima burst into darkness, but Des laid her hand on his -- gently, communicating her calm. "Exactly," she said. "Exactly." 

Seal grumbled and withdrew his power. "Fine," he said. "Let's go see about this fucking party.

+++

They found Sever and Star in the chapel. Star was laying on a pew, an arm over his eyes, still smoking slightly. The Wings had sawed a hole in the back of the pew so they could drape dejectedly onto the floor. Sever was sitting on the floor, a scroll of parchment rolled out down the center aisle. Seal limped closer to discover that Sever was making exactly the itinerary he hadn't made: a room-by-room schedule that spanned the entire night. 

"Sol fucking Invictus," Seal muttered. "Did you hand write four fucking copies of the same schedule?"

"It is not the same schedule," Sever explained, handing them out. "These also contain personalized information such as alcohol preferences and sleeping arrangements. But, yes."

Des took her itinerary with interest. "My, Sever, this is.... very thought out. You've placed yourself on a team with Seal for chicken?" 

Seal thought he saw the shadow of a blush cross Sever's face. "Star has an advantage because of his wings and Seal has one because of his Caste, so I thought your style of motion would complement Star's best." Des nodded thoughtfully. 

"Yeah! We're gonna fucking kick your assh at schicken!" Star called from the pew, where he was now face down. "Juscht asch shoon asch my fasche shtopsh being on fire."

"You owe me a hundred yen, by the fucking way," Seal called back. Star grumbled and fished around in his pockets for a minute, then flipped him a koku and muttered for him to keep the schange. Seal pocketed it and glared around the room darkly. Colored crystal occupied the entire wall behind the podium, depicting Brightest Morning Star with four arms driving his spear down the throat of a serpentine raksha. There was no sun above Siege Perilous, yet Brightest Morning Star's face shone as though the sun were shining through it. Seal exchanged glares with it for a minute before looking away. "Do we have to fucking start here, though?" he muttered. "I hate this fucking room."

Sever looked down with a frown, pen already in hand, but Des caught his hand before he could start writing. "That's exactly why we're starting here," she said. "I've brought some supplies I think you might enjoy." She reached into a basket and pulled out a small silvery cylinder, with a bump at one end, and handed it to Seal. "Hold it like this," she instructed, "twist that nozzle, and press down. No, hold it the other way --"

A hideous shade of yellow-green filled Seal's vision, and he reflexively flared his anima. As Essence blasted outwards from his body his eyes cleared, and he could see that a faint cloud of that color was still hanging in the air, except for what had been blasted away and was now coating the carpet. Des sighed. "It's paint," she said. "You spray it on the walls and it stays there just about forever. I thought you might like to personalize the wall over there." She indicated Brightest Morning Star's shining disgusting face, and Seal grinned.

"Wake up, Star," he said. "Let's commit some fucking art."

+++

They defaced the chapel. They had a mock war in the armory. Seal let Des raid the library for all she could carry, then they built book forts and launched dictionaries across the room (Cascade of Papercut Terror made its debut to thunderous applause). They got scandalously, outrageously, rip-roaringly drunk in the wine cellars, which were full of booze that must have made even a First Age god-king's constitution take pause. They sang extremely rude songs in the courtyard, and did somersaults on every bed in every bedroom. The castle filled with laughter and dust. 

Eventually, though, even the most powerful of Exalted wear themselves out. Des found a glory-crystal saga in the library, the dramatization of some First Age romance-battle, and they set up in the great hall to watch. The deathknights bundled themselves up with blankets pilfered from the master room and scarfed down candied berries from the pantry. For something produced in a golden age of magic and science, the reenactment was laughably bad, and they spent a pleasant hour flinging critiques and berries at the projection. "Come on, haven't theshe guysh ever shtabbed anyone in the back?" Star shouted. "Thish ish the worsht fucking form I've ever sheen!"

"Completely horrendous," Des agreed as she popped another berry in her mouth. "But she deserves it. My god, anything to make her shut up for a second."

Seal stretched his arms out and yawned. "She talks more than Shadow fucking does when he's trying to justify his dumb shit as extremely wise fucking shit." He glanced around the room. "Hey, quick question. Where the fuck is Sever?"

Star diverted his gaze to scan the room for a moment. "Guessh he shtepped out for a minute," he said. "Maybe he couldn't shtomach the schitty shpeschial effectsh."

"Seriously, Sculpted Seafoam Eidolon is a Terrestrial spell, would it fucking kill them to put some effort in?"

"I'm gonna go find him," Seal declared, standing up and wobbling momentarily from the Exalted-level alcohol in his system. "Nobody gets to miss this shit." 

Des shrugged. "Whatever you say."

+++

Seal found Sever watching the ocean. 

The window at the end of the west hall, Seal knew, looked out onto a perpetually stormy sea with grey skies. Seal knew this cause he was pretty sure there was no fucking sea near Siege Perilous, and had been about to smash through the window and check it out before Brightest Morning Star yelled at him not to. He was never sure if it was a portal to some real sea in Creation or just an illusion, or maybe something else entirely.

Sever was curled up in the windowsill, head turned sideways to stare out over the roiling black waves. Seal thought for sure he would hear him coming up, but Sever was so lost in thought that he didn't notice until Seal tapped him on the shoulder. Only Seal's keenly honed battle senses let him notice the instant of reflexive tension before Sever returned to perfect relaxation and turned to face Seal serenely. "Ah, Seal," he said, sounding professional as ever. "How are you enjoying the festivities?"

Seal snorted. "You kidding?" he asked, moving to sit in the opposite end of the windowsill. "This is the best fucking birthday bash I've had in..... uh, ever. So fucking cheers to you." He mimed raising a glass, and Sever smiled faintly.

"Well," he said, rising smoothly, "I won't obstruct you, then. Continue to enjoy your evening --"

"Whoa, whoa, slow the fuck down," Seal said, catching Sever's wrist and feeling again that reflexive tense. "Where the hell are you going?"

Sever waved a hand vaguely. "To clean," he said, not resisting Seal's pull but not giving in. "The kitchen should be scoured, and though I understand the art in the chapel is to be a permanent fixture I'd like to sharpen up the edges and cover some of the more fragile --"

"Hang the fuck on," Seal said, as his brain finally caught up with what Sever was saying. "Was that you earlier, that cleaned up the fucking armory and then ran the fuck away like some kind of freak? What did you do that for? How did you know there was shit in there?" Sever looked like he was trying to answer every question at once, but Seal didn't let him get a word in edgewise. "For fuck's sake, dude, we brought you here to have fun, not to be some weird shadow with a broom. Live a little! Have some fucking fun, man!"

"As a matter of fact, Seal, I am enjoying myself. In my own way." Sever sounded slightly put off by Seal's enthusiasm.

Seal scoffed. "Bull fucking shit you are."

Sever blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said bull fucking shit on a rat's hot cock you're having fun. You think I don't know angst brooding when I see it?" Seal gestured out over the waters. "Dude, I brood here all the time. It's, like, my number three spot in the castle. Stare at the fucking ocean and think about death or whatever. Right?" he demanded.

Sever blinked again, more slowly. ".... something like that," he admitted after a long pause.

"Something fucking like that," Seal agreed. "Well, bullshit to fucking that. I'm not allowed to brood tonight, and neither are fucking you. No more cleaning either. Des can summon some ghosts in the morning."

"But I'm perfectly capable of --"

"-- of sitting your ass down and acting like a human being, you jackass!" Seal was surprised by the force of his own words. "Sol Invictus, it fucking wigs me out sometimes, you know that?" A mixture of emotions crossed beneath the surface of Sever's face. "I know you are, even if you fucking don't. Yeah, you don't know who you fucking are, your soul was eaten or what the fuck ever, big fucking deal. None of us knows a goddamn fucking thing about ourselves, and do you think it's ever stopped me? Come on," he demanded, suddenly rising to his feet and striding down the hall, Sever still in tow.

"Where are we -- I really must protest --"

Seal dragged Sever all the way to the treasury, scooped a shelf-ful of glass figurines into Sever's protesting arms, and then back into the chapel. "Right," he said, taking the figurines from Sever and setting them on the floor in front of him. "Got your sword with you?"

"Unfortunately," Sever said, "I was not allowed to bring Atrumarkinos on this expedition."

Seal rolled his eyes. "Good," he said. "You'd be too good with it anyways. Here," and in a single motion he summoned Glorious First Light and brought it crashing down on the back of the pew.

Sever flinched so hard Seal thought he might actually leave his body. "What are you doing?" he asked, so pointedly that Seal could almost consider it a shout.

"Improvising," Seal answered, pulling at a bar of wood off the back of the pew. He had to stand on it with one foot and wrench it off with both hands, and only Essence saved him from a fistful of splinters, but in the end he was left with a plank about half as tall as Sever was. He handed it to the bemused Day Caste, returned to his spot, and held up a figurine. "Right. What can you tell me about these?"

Sever peered at it from across the room. "First Age artifice is not my forte, but I believe they are similar to a lesser form of yasal crystal. Each imprisons a minor spirit, hardly greater than the god of a grain of rice. I cannot say what purpose such a least spirit could serve. Perhaps simply to retain a memory, and recount it when charged?"

Seal squinted down at the figurine in his hand, a little statuette of Brightest Morning Star with spear overhead. "Really? Huh." Now that Sever mentioned it, there did appear to be a little light flickering in the middle of it. Seal looked back up, tossing it in his hand to gauge its weight. "Well, I guess you're not wrong. But you're also totally wrong. The only fucking thing these things are good for," he said, winding up, “is for smashing.”

Sever flinched a good ten seconds before the figurine smashed against the wall behind him. A wisp of glowing smoke rose up and whispered in a tinny voice before dissipating. "Come on!" Seal shouted. "I know you have Melee, hit it with your fucking thing!"

"I do not believe this is safe, Seal," Sever called with rising urgency as he ducked another figurine.

"Safety is for fucking cowards!" Seal bellowed as he began to throw them with increasing speed. "Stop dodging and break some shit like a man!"

He had to admit, though, that Sever's evasive skills were impressive. Seal was putting some Essence into his throws now, trying to peg Sever in the arm or leg, and normally would have guessed there was no power that could stop him -- but whatever was driving Sever, fear or common sense, animated him like a madman and kept him just slightly faster than Seal's projectiles. A luminescent haze rose from the floor at Sever's feet, miniature gods dissipating into the ether. And then Seal saw the change come over him. To his adrenaline-charged senses, it seemed to happen in slow motion: Sever' feet squared against the stone, back foot braced and front foot pointed. His spine, usually painfully upright, bent like a coiled snake; purpose set his shoulders and tensed his arms. The crack of glass against the wood echoed throughout the chapel, and Seal could have sworn it was the most beautiful sound in the world, just before the spray of glass ricocheted back and stabbed him in the face.

Sever dropped the plank like it was red-hot and hurried over to where Seal was rolling on the floor, hands clutched to his face, making a sound like a dying elephant. "Are you alright?" he asked frantically, trying to hold Seal still long enough to assess the damage. "I'll get Des, maybe she can moliate something --"

Seal grabbed at Sever's shoulders. "That -- was -- fucking -- brilliant!" he shouted, and confusion replaced fear as Sever realized Seal was laughing. Blood dripped down his face, from cuts of glass and from his caste mark. "Yes! That's what I'm fucking talking about! You're a fucking natural!" Seal laughed, pumping a fist in the air with elation. 

+++

Des and Star found them another half hour later, the crystal-saga having ended on a cliffhanger. It was the sound that drew them to the chapel: sounds of shattering glass, splintering wood, and laughter -- a laugh they had never heard before. Des rounded the corner first, then threw out an arm to stop Star and backpedaled hurriedly. "Look," she whispered, so Star stuck his head around the corner to look, and what he saw made his jaw drop.

Seal was standing at the far end of the chapel, piles of glass figurines around him. He was hurling the shards overhand at Sever, who was standing with his back to the chapel's entrance, holding.... a broken-off piece of wood? And was, unerringly, smashing every figurine as it sailed towards him, even when he had to jump to catch it or dive before it hit the floor. Unerringly, the spray of glass flew back towards Seal, who appeared to be playing a game of how long he could wait before hiding behind the pulpit. Blood speckled the wall of crystal behind him, though only Star's Essence-enhanced senses could pick that up. But he didn't need Essence to identify the unidentifiable noise.

Both Sever and Seal were laughing.

[gingers-writing-blog]

New York Bound

Chapter 4

Everything pretty much goes to shit in this chapter

Triggers: Physical Abuse, Swearing, Head Injury, Fight

New Words: /

Word Count: 2,876

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"Cat! Cat! Wake up!" I opened my eyes slowly and propped myself up on my elbows as I wiped some sleep away.

"Wha---What's up?" I asked, bleary-eyed.

"Fletcher didn't come back last night."

"Shit!" I bolted upright and whacked my head on the bottom of the bunk above me. I held my head and swing my legs down off the bed. "What happened to him?"

"No one knows! I've asked around, but no one can figure out where he is!" I hunched over - still holdin' my head - and leaned on my knees while sittin' on the bed, Tommy Boy sat down next to me.

"Shit...shit...shit!" I whispered. The Jordan Brothers must have him. "Ok...shit!" I said out loud.

"What?" He asked, his face lined with worry.

"Nothing...I'm just worried. I need to make sure he's alright..." Tommy lifted his arms and wrapped them around my shoulders. He pulled me into a hug and kissed my head where I whacked it. I could feel a bruise formin' and I was grateful that Tommy kissed it gently.

"I get it...He's probably still at Alice's place...He'll be ok, it's Fletch..."

"Yeah...He'll be fine..." I reassured myself, but it was just for show...I knew what was really goin' on, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him what was really happening...

"Ok...I'm gonna go get dressed, then we can go out selling..."

"Oh remember the new rule...Can you remind people about the new sellin' groups? Thank you, baby..." He nodded and stood up. He walked back to his bunk and got dressed, remindin' people as he went.

A couple of people rolled their eyes but didn't make a stink about it.

Thank god...

I stood up and pulled my clothes and shoes out from under my bed. I brushed the thin layer of dust off them and got dressed slowly. I wasn't in the right frame of mind for anythin' today. I couldn't even start my new book last night, I just couldn't focus on it at all...

I tied up my shoelaces and waited for the distribution bell to ring.

"Hey Cat..." Lucky came up to me.

"Hey Lucky. You sleep alright? How you farin' without Smalls...?" I asked.

"I...I don't know...I'm kinda alright I guess..." She trailed off and we stood around awkwardly. Then the bell rang.

Saved by the bell.

Everyone made their way down the stairs, but no one laughed, or shouted, no one talked above a whisper...Everyone could tell somethin' was wrong.

There was uncertainty laced with anxious tension in the air.

I was the last out the Lodging House and I closed the door behind me. I turned around to see Robin, Lucky and Tommy Boy waitin' for me.

"You didn't have to wait for me guys," I said.

"Are you ok?" Tommy Boy asked.

"Yeah, my head just hurts is all..." I replied. That wasn't the full reason, but I didn't want to go into it...

"Maybe you should stay here for today, you don't look too good." He suggested.

"I said I'm fine." I snapped. I immediately regretted it. His face changed. His eyes softened and he lowed his hands. His shoulders slumped and he sighed slightly.

"I---I'm sorry Tommy. I...I'm just not with it today..." He nodded. "I'm sorry," I said as he walked off.

"Shit!" I muttered again. I ran and caught up with him.

"Tommy!" I grabbed his shoulders and make his turn to face me. I didn't let go when he tried to walk away from me again. "Look, I'm sorry."

He rolled his eyes. "You say that a lot Cat. But are you really sorry?"

"Yes! I am! I'm so sorry." I let go of his shoulders and he didn't walk away. "I'm just stressed. There's some shit goin' on with our allies and the Jordan Brothers and Mr Fink and The Foreman and the Workhouses. And my period started last night and I hit my head and I think I'm gonna throw up and I'm so sorry that I snapped at you but---"

"Wait what?"

"What?"

"You said there's shit happenin' with the Workhouses..."

"Oh...yeah...I...didn't mean to say anything..."

"Tell me. What's goin' on Cat?"

I yanked my hat off my head and stuffed it into my trouser pocket. I raked my hands through my hair and blew air out through my cheeks in one long breath. My stomach was full of spiders and it really didn't help my sick feeling. My hands shook slightly, but I couldn't understand why...

"Ok...ok, ok, ok," When I lowered my hands to my sides, he took them in his and squeezed them. It grounded me and kept me from havin' a full-blown panic attack.

"Ok...the Jordan Brothers, Mr Fink, The Foreman and the Workhouses have been arrestin' kids and lockin' them up. None of them have been able to get out and no one knows why."

"Fuck...That...is...really not good." He said. His breathin' got faster, but not out of control. He was still panickin' slightly and this time it was me squeezin' his hands to keep him grounded.

"That can't be legal..."

"Nothin' those bastards do is legal."

"So that's why we have the new rules, and why you opened the emergency room..."

I nodded. "Yeah, I also told everyone to take somethin' to defend themselves. Some of the older guys took knives and brass knuckles. They also sorted out their sellin' groups and I'm pretty sure everyone hates me now." I took one of my hands away, checked that I had my knife in my waistband, and put it back in its place holdin' Tommy's free hand.

"That's not true."

"Really?"

He didn't answer. I clenched my jaw and nodded, turnin' away slightly.

"Exactly."

"Well, I don't hate you. I couldn't love you more."

"I love you too." I let go of one of his hands and we walked to the distribution gates. I thought we were goin' to be really late, and we were, but no one was buyin' their papers anyways...

"Hey Cat! Get over here!" I heard someone shout from across the distribution square.

I let go of Tommy's hand and ran over. "Hey Lucky. What's up? Why's no one gettin' their papers?"

"The Jordan Brother's ain't there." She pointed up to the window and I turned around to get a proper look.

"What? Why?" I asked.

"I don't know...I don't wanna know..." I turned back around.

"Fink ain't there either."

"Shit..." I took a deep breath in. "Well, we gotta get out papers either way."

"Ok." I walked back to Tommy Boy and Lucky yelled across the square. "Ok guys! Let's just get our papers and get the hell outta here."

~ Meanwhile at the Lambeth Workhouse ~

The Foreman placed his thick, scarred forearms on his ornate desk, his fingers interlaced in front of him and his back straightened. His shoulders set and he had a dangerous air about him.

Despite the confident façade, his left foot tapped so quickly it almost sent vibrations through the wood flooring.

He stared straight ahead at the 3 men cowering before him. His jaw clenched, his eyes hard.

"We've paid the substitute distributors for such short notice."

"Yeah, it came out of my salary..." Joey mumbled. His older brother stamped on his foot for talking out of turn and he looked back down at the floor, staring intensely at a nail sticking out of the wood.

Mr Fink coughed to cover up his nephew's mistake, and waited for the signal to carry on talking. It came when the Foreman nodded once.

"We've managed to arrest 10 more kids from...uhhh...Brent, Tower Hamlets and Southwark."

"Poor kids..." Joey whispered again, shaking his head slightly. He thought he kept his voice quiet enough, but not quite.

Mr Fink turned around, saw Dan cuff his brother on the back of the head, then cleared his throat again and turned back to the Foreman, anger blazing in his eyes.

He was a hair's breadth away from losing his temper and he always had a very short fuse...especially after a few drinks.

He kept his anger down and kept talking. "We've decided to take you up on your offer."

The Foreman raised his eyebrows expectantly.  

"We're going to get the Barnes' kid. Today. Even if it's the last thing we do on this earth. The kid for 20 pounds."

Joey scoffed. He remembered the rules a fraction of a second late.

"Have you got something to say to me?" The Foreman lifted his chin slightly, and his foot stopped tapping.

The boy stayed silent.

"Well? Speak up!"

"I just..." He looked over at his brother. He could see it in Dan's eyes.

The message: 'Don't do this Joey!'

"I just...think we've got enough kids now...I don't see why we have to...keep...hurting them..." The Foreman stood up, his chest swelling. "They're just kids!"

The man walked around his desk, his steel-toed boots falling heavily on the floor. He came to a halt in front of Joey. He towered above the boy and he wished he'd stayed silent.

No one in the office dared to even breathe.

You could almost hear Joey's heart pounding in his chest.

"Joey." The Foreman rumbled in a low, threatening voice.

"Yes, sir."

"Either you find a way to keep arresting those kids...or you find a way to get out of a sack at the bottom of the Thames."

"Yes, sir." He swallowed, despite the dry feeling in his mouth, and rubbed his hands together behind his back.

The Foreman stepped away and Mr Fink lunged forwards.

Dan had to dive out of the way as quickly as he could so that he could dodge the backhand slap that inevitably found its mark on Joey's cheek.

The boy cried out and was reminded of his place.

"Get out. Your uncle and I need to have a little chat."

Dan and Joey left the office as quickly as they could and Joey's eyes pricked with tears. His brother stormed off down the corridor, but Joey stood outside the office. One tear streaked down his red cheek and he wiped it away.

"Hey. Come on! You wanna be here when they get out of there?" Dan called from the end of the hallway.

Joey shook his head and ran down the hallway. He got to the end and Dan put an arm around his shoulders.

"Why did you speak up, Joe?"

"I don't know...Those kids don't deserve what we're giving them."

"I know." Dan sighed. "But we're too young to do anything about it. We're basically nothing to them."

"Come on! You're 19! That's old enough to do...I don't know...something!"

"Yeah, but..."

"But what?" Joey stopped on the bottom of the 3 steps of the workhouse entrance.

"You're still to young to move out," Dan replied from the top.

"I'm 17! That was old enough for mum to have you! Why can't we just---"

"Yeah, well mum's not here anymore!" Dan all but yelled.

Joey took a sharp breath in and tears reformed in his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but images...horrific images...of their mum flashed before him.

"I'm sorry. Look, we can't do anything about it. Let's just get one more and be done with it." Dan shook his head and looked down. He scuffed his foot on the floor.

"Ok. I'm sorry."

"It's ok."

~ In the office ~

"My client in New York is expecting another delivery within the next month." The Foreman sat back behind his desk. He span around and glared down at the city through his window.

Behind him, Mr Fink fidgeted with his hat. "And they will get it." He assured nervously.

The Foreman nodded.

"Sir...The Mayor is getting suspicious of your...dealings and agreements."

"Don't use large words, Fink. You only sound stupid."

"Did you hear me, sir? The Mayor wasn't born yesterday. He's noticing things."

"Let him." The Foreman commented nonchalantly.

"You're not gonna do anything about it? About him?"

"The deals between myself and my client will be closed within the next 2 months. Let him investigate. I shall be destroying any and all evidence tying myself to anything remotely deviant." He rose from his chair. "I won't need to do anything about him."

~ Back with Cat and Tommy Boy ~

The coins jingled in my pockets when I jumped down from my box and counted how many papers I had left.

'21 left...'

I put my free hand into my left pocket and rhythmically ran my thumb over one of the coins, the cold metal groundin' me. Through the day, I had become easier and easier to scare, which was growin' increasingly annoyin' since I was also zonin' out easier.

I put my remainin' papers on the box I'd just jumped off and lowered my head. I rubbed the back of my neck with my right hand.

I tipped my head all the way back since there weren't any people around yet. I had about 5 minutes before the dock workers swapped their shifts.

I looked around and saw Tommy Boy about 30 feet away, near the union office and the pub. He called over to me and I waved back half-heartedly. He wasn't smiling. Neither was I.

I needed a break. I needed to sit down.

I shoved my papers off the box, not carin' if they flew away, and sat down. I had enough money for the day anyway...

5 minutes. That's all I need.

I took a couple of deep breaths in and before I knew it, the clock on the front of the union office tolled out 12 times and a hoard of men came floodin' up from the lower platforms of the docks.

I stood up again and was immediately lost in the sea of men. I scrambled around to salvage some of my papers.

'Why the fuck did I push them off the box? I'm so stupid! That was the worst thing I could possibly have done...'

I managed to save about 10 and sold them as quickly as I could.

"Cheers girly!"

"Thanks."

"Just chuck it 'ere!" A few of the men shouted to me.

A few coins fell out of my hand when I sold the last of my papers. I was strugglin' to hold them. The workers had been quite generous today.

I dropped to my knees to pick them up, but when I came back up, a hand closed over my mouth and I was dragged backwards.

No one noticed.

No one noticed because the crowd of men for the next dock shift was weavin' their way through the clusters of men from the previous shift and no one could see me anyway.

I was dragged backwards until I was thrown to the ground. I crashed into some metal bins and I figured out where I was.

I was in the side alley of the Hook and Tackle pub. I then realised who took me there.

Dan and Joey Jordan.

I scrambled to my feet and ripped my knife out of my waistband. I gripped it tight as I looked from one brother to the other.

"What do you want?" I asked. I knew exactly what they were doing. They had come to take me to the Workhouse.

"Please just come with us," Dan replied, not answerin' my question.

"We don't wanna hurt you." Joey rubbed his arm slowly.

I jerked my head in Joey's direction. "Nice shiner." Pointin' out the bruise on Joey's right eye.

He clenched his jaw slightly and took half a step back.

"I'm not comin' with you." I turned back to Dan.

"You don't understand. We have to do this...They'll kill us if we don't."

"Not my problem."

"If you don't let us take you...they'll kill you anyway." Joey looked at me, pleadin' with his eyes.

I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could get anythin' out, Tommy came sprintin' around the corner into the alley with brass knuckles on his fist.

"Get away from her!"

"Tommy wait---" He punched Joey hard in the jaw and he went down to the ground. He spat out some blood while I was frozen in place.

Tommy aimed a punch at Dan's head, but he dodged and managed to get Tommy into a headlock.

"Get off him! Please!" I cried as he struggled against the much stronger 19-year-old.

"Come with us!"

"No!" Dan sighed and nodded to Joey who had got to his feet by that time.

With remorse in his eyes, Joey punched Tommy on the side of his head and he went limp. Dan let go of him and he crumpled on the ground.

"Tommy." I choked out. I knelt down next to him and looked up at the two men standin' above me.

"I can't go. My newsies...I can't go. Please don't." I begged.

The last thing I saw was Dan Jordan's foot rapidly fallin' towards my head.

My body slumped over Tommy's and we were both carried to the Workhouse van waitin' for us.

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A/N I hope that wasn’t too bad! Once again, thanks for reading! Please like and reblog! It would mean so much to me

[snowbellewells]

A Fic-aversary and an Apology

Okay, folks, I really hate to do this (and have tried really hard not to up until now) but I am going to have to skip a week on my CSSNS MC “Run to Me (in the Dead of Night)”.  I’ve been really busy with my job, plus lots of crammed weekends running here and there where I didn’t have time to grade or write.  Then, I started feeling like where I was going in chapter ten and on from there needed to deviate from my initial plan, and it just wasn’t going to happen in two days’ time.  I’ve been a couple days late the last two weeks and then it’s even less time to get the next one written, and so on.  So, I really apologize and don’t mean to keep you waiting too long, but it will be next Friday before I have chapter ten for you. What I do have instead is a fic I wrote about a year and a half ago, before I was terribly good at posting on Tumblr that I’m bringing back for a bit of an anniversary. It’s near and dear to my heart, and I would love for more folks to see it.  

Most importantly: It has gorgeous cover art now, which I am just in love with, made for me by @hollyethecurious !!  She really made it more beautiful and eye-catching.  

Anyway, to tide you over until next week (and I hope to also FINALLY update my CSRomCom au again this weekend as well) enjoy “Looking for a Heart (that’s not Walking Away)”!!!

(Liam x Belle multichapter fic, canon divergent from about 5x15/5x16)

(This one was a completely new and different fic attempt for me.  Not only does it go AU from about the middle of 5b, but it changes a lot of what happened with Liam in 5x15, and while some of 5x16 and 5x17 happened, some of it didn’t.  Beyond all that, it’s putting a large focus on characters I haven’t written much before, and one that we really haven’t seen a lot of to characterize in the same way that I can work with say Emma and Killian.  Still, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and finally found that I had to give this a try.  It doesn’t explain how everything happened right away, but events will be filled in as the story progresses.  I feel like this is a bit of a mix between canon divergence and AU.  Slow burn friendship/relationship for Belle and Liam; sideline CS and others.  I definitely don’t own them, just having fun imagining.  I’d love to hear what you think!!)

*I will also attempt to add ff.net links to the rest of the chapters at the end...

“Looking for a Heart that’s Not Walking Away”

chapter one: like ships in the night

          In the wee, cold hours of the morning, anyone walking Storybrooke’s town square would have seen only peaceful, vacant storefronts and the dim stillness of a little hamlet still fast asleep; or they would until they reached the library and found one solitary light burning stubbornly in the back of the building.  Most residents and visitors knew the building and the sweet, brunette librarian who kept the place with pride, but even without the whole story, they also knew she had not been the same since her return from the Underworld with the rest of the heroes.  The light burning in the middle of the night, and the large, dark circles under the clearly sleepless woman’s eyes when one saw her in Granny’s Diner the next morning picking listlessly at her pancakes and syrup, were only outward signs of her inner turmoil and pain.  

          This particular night turned earliest bit of morning, Belle Gold sat at the circulation desk, a cup of lavender tea, which she had hoped would soothe her and induce sleep, long gone cold at her elbow, and a large, gilt-edged book open before her.  In her insomnolent state, she had returned to this once-favorite story for help, but instead she found herself wishing to violently rip the pages from its spine, more troubled than ever as she huddled on the high stool pulled up to the counter to perch on as she read and wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around herself against the now-familiar questions swirling in her mind: ‘What did I ever see in this story?’ ‘How stupid could I have been?’ ‘What ever made me think I could influence anyone or be a hero?’ ‘Every attempt I’ve ever made went wrong and only made things worse…’

          Shivering against the drafts of a still-chilly April night and the cold certainty that she was nothing but a fraud; so naively convinced of her pretty ideals but completely ineffectual at doing anything with them when the moment of truth had come, Belle knew rest and peace were far from coming.  A tear ran silently down her pale cheek as she thought of all that had happened – the tangled, progressively darker events which made up her own story – and she sucked in a ragged breath, trying to keep it from turning into the wrenching full-bodied sob she felt rising within her.  Though she had fought so valiantly hard, it would seem her tale could not possibly end in happily ever after now.  All her efforts at love and bravery – at goodness – had turned to dust in her hands, crumbling like the shriveled brown flower Hades had used to taunt her after Gaston’s fall into the River of Lost Souls.  

          The only thing keeping her from falling apart completely, she thought ruefully as one small, graceful hand lowered to rest protectively on her slightly protruding belly was the tiny being she had wished for so long.  This baby should have been a lovely, innocent symbol of her and Rumple’s love, a living hope and second chance – for her husband, and for herself – and now Rumple would never even know his second born child.  Though Belle was not sure what she had left to give this unborn babe, her hope and belief nearly dried up and vanished forever, its growth inside her was what kept her from lying down on the floor of her precious library and never rising again.  All of her gumption, her resolve, her joy, were gone, deserting her as completely as they had ever filled her before, and the fact that her child would need her was all to which she could truly cling.

          Eventually, just as the dark night turned early morning and lightened to grey, and the faintest traces of sunrise began to streak the sky, Belle’s head lowered, the side of her face coming to rest on the printed page of the book she had so loved once upon a time, her impossible, idealized version of a hero pressed to the soft, pale skin of her cheek as she slumped over the counter in a restless sleep…

          As she dreams, she is once more in the Underworld, brought by the man she has tried so hard to win back from the Beast within – the pressing roar in his ear of magic and power – the man who, despite it all, she has never ceased loving, to the very throne of the Lord of the Dead. Rumple’s hand clenches her forearm so tightly it hurts, and she realizes with stark clarity that even the Dark One is no match for a deity.  Rumple is sorely afraid, though he doesn’t let his outward appearance show it.

          From there, the moments progress like an inexorable nightmare.  So soon after her inadvertent actions against Gaston, things already seem hazy and unreal; she can barely comprehend the showdown forming between her husband and Hades. Fire and light shoot back and forth, crashing against one another in the middle and neither attack striking its intended target.

          Winded, panting, nearly falling to his knees with exhaustion, Rumple finally raises a hand in surrender, as she runs to support him and help him back up, seeing the drained former spinner without his precious might and the upper hand.  Putting a bracing hand beneath his elbow, she steadies Rumple as he stands once more and intends to do so as he moves forward, until he turns to her, bringing them to a halt.

          Meeting Belle’s eyes in that moment, Rumplestiltskin’s gaze shows pain and infinite regret; only somewhere beneath those emotions is the love lingering for her, love that she had always wanted to believe would triumph over the Dark One’s lies.  “I am so sorry, Belle.  For so many things…” he whispers brokenly, the back of his hand stroking her cheek as lightly as the mere brush of air in a breath, as if hesitant to hurt her more than he has already. “I have put you through more pain than any love should have to bear…only to have it all come to this in the end.”

          Pulling his gaze away from her face, Belle sees her husband’s eyes slide back to meet the god’s controlled, implacable stare and subtly shifts forward to stand in front of her, partially shielding her from Hades’ view.  Her heart is swept up in pride for him at this moment of real, selfless bravery, even as it then breaks when his next words sink in. “Very well, Hades,” Rumplestiltskin hisses, sounding as reptilian and menacing as Killian has always insisted, his sharp eyes flashing even as he concedes.  “You know that I cannot best you, but with the powers of the Dark One and its immortality, you cannot end me either.  Let Belle and our child go, and I will serve you by finding you a replacement soul, one that will prove much more satisfactory than a mere infant.”

          The silent air crackles around them, and Belle opens her mouth to cry out, “Rumple, no!” and pull him back, both terrified at what the Lord of the Underworld might do, and horrified anew that Rumple could once more offer up another person’s soul as if it were his to barter, even as she had thought for once he was making a heroic sacrifice.  But she feels his fingers curl around her even more firmly, and a tingle runs up her whole arm, holding her in place, words bottled in her throat no matter how she tries to force them out, until she realizes that Rumple is using his magic to hold her back and keep her silent.  Emotions rise in a confusing swirl, and Belle is not sure if she is moved by his desperate bid to protect her or impotently furious at his overriding her free will.

          Hades tilts his head to the side, coming closer as he studies his nemesis calculatingly.  “Let me see,” he mused, wearing a face that gives the sense of bored unconcern, even Belle with no magic or powers beyond human intuition knows the god is toying with his prey – if pressed, she has seen much the same look on Rumple’s face too many times as the Dark One.  “An intriguing proposition,” he drawls out the words slowly, as if tasting the flavor of some delicacy on his tongue, “…but do I believe you?”

          “You would do well to take me seriously,” Rumple vows, iron in his voice and threat on his tongue.  “I may not win, but you will be battling me until the judgment day, neither of us able either to triumph or to pass on.”  He steps forward as well, standing taller with a hint of the malice that shows at the heights of his power, limp nearly unnoticeable as he meets Hades and reaches out his hand.  “You want to take this deal, trust me,” Rumplestiltskin asserts, nearly baring his teeth as he does so.  “I will be your right hand, Hades – if you spare my wife and my unborn child, never to trouble them again.”

          Hades tilts his head, studying the Dark One with amused curiosity as if he is some new species the deity has never seen before. “I’d be a fool to trust you for even a moment,” he replies coolly, “and I know you will only serve me as long as it takes you to find an escape.  Yet…” he takes a moment to muse as if there is no trouble or threat at all, Belle resenting all the while that he can balance all their lives in his hands while appearing not to have a care in the world.  Finally, he gives a quick, decisive nod, his pondering resolved. “If I’ve already gotten what I need from you by then, why shouldn’t I be free of your tiresome, disloyal presence?”

          Belle is sure there is some horrible drawback, some hideous fine print somewhere which has been missed – added to the fact that Rumple is bartering someone else’s soul for their safety – and she hates being forced to stand idly by, no one paying her any mind.  Her husband moves to shake the god’s hand, and she begs silently, regardless of whether either of them can hear, “No, Rumple, please don’t do this!  There must be a better way!”

          Without deviating from his original intent, Rumplestiltskin leans even more toward the Lord of the Dead, not allowing himself so much as a glance at her, solely focusing on Hades, alert for any move or threat from his dangerous adversary.  Their hands meet in between, as if to shake on the arrangement, and a burst of magical power so ground shaking shoots out sparks, tossing both Hades and Rumple apart. It topples Belle to the ground, momentarily blinded by the white hot flash and breathless from the impact, her awareness shattered.  For a time, she knows no more, and when she comes back to herself, she is lying on the moving floor of the library elevator they had taken down to Hades’ inner sanctum, and the door is sliding open to reveal the Underworld’s version of her beloved haunt.  As the lift reaches the top and halts, Belle sees that she is also utterly alone…

          A few scratching sounds and a thump against the outer door of the Storybrooke Library, followed by the sound of something metal picking at the lock, the doorknob rattling, and an accented male voice calling her name hopefully, before the tell-tale sound of the lock clicking free, awakens her just a couple of hours later, still early morning, but light now.  She hears the sound of more than one pair of booted feet striding toward her as she blinks dazedly and surfaces from the flashback-dream and her tormented rest. Shooting upright quickly, hoping they haven’t seen her pathetically asleep where she fell, Belle nearly loses her balance and topples off the stool she’d been perched on.  Wincing at the pain in her lower back from sleeping in such an awkward position, Belle tiredly rubs her eyes and tries to focus on her early visitors.

          Only a second later, she registers Killian Jones’ voice jovially greeting her as he walks toward her across the open entryway and also hears the low, warm chuckle behind him from Liam, his revived older brother.  She had been introduced to him as they were all working together to leave the Underworld, but she has not had much occasion to be around him since, and so she is surprised by his seemingly easy good humor, and the sparkle in his eyes that much resembles the one she’s often seen in Killian as they’ve researched some Big Bad threatening the town or discussed favorite books over lunch.

          Startled, she lets hesitant brown eyes come to meet his friendly, open gaze and gives what she hopes is a welcoming smile as she teases Killian in hopes of keeping his usual perceptiveness from picking up on her disheveled, unhappy state.  “What brings the Jones brothers to my library at the crack of dawn?”

          Killian flashes her a devious wink, before nodding his head to her briefly in a playfully slight bow, “Ah, but wouldn’t you like to know, Lass?” he teases.  His voice is bright and jovial, and there is a happy twinkle in his ocean-blue gaze that has been absent in many instances where she has seen him appear dazed or haunted since his return to life and the world above.  She simply has to return the mischievous grin – happy for this former enemy who has become a true friend, proud of him (though it may not be her place) that he has found the strength Rumple never quite mustered to change for the better, make right the wrongs within his power to mend, and became the man he was always meant to be.

          Tilting her head to study both of the men before her with friendly curiosity, she begins checking in the small stack of books Killian has carried in with him to return.  Liam meets her eyes but doesn’t speak, his smile warm and friendly, but his general bearing more restrained than his younger brother’s.  They certainly resemble each other – well-formed, strong features, straight noses and piercing eyes – but Liam is a bit taller, slightly broader of shoulder, and with fairer hair beginning to grow out enough to show curls that Killian’s straight, dark, shaggy locks don’t possess.

          Deciding to get to know the intriguing man before her a bit better, Belle chooses to ignore Killian’s baiting and glances at his older brother from beneath lowered lashes.  “And what about you?” she asks softly, “Do you enjoy reading as much as Killian does?” For some reason she has to fight a tremor in her voice as the words leave her mouth, and a thrill of nervous awareness racing up her spine as Liam Jones’ lips angle up into a fuller smile.

          “Aye, Mrs. Gold, I do indeed,” he replies, with a succinct, definite nod of his head as he steps closer, right up to the counter of the circulation desk between them, while Killian wanders away into the stacks to look for new volumes.  “We share our love of the written word, ever since I first taught him to read when we were boys, though Killian has always tended more toward daring adventure tales, epic fantasy and the like.  I’m a bit of a history buff myself – love learning how kingdoms rise and fall and how leaders are formed.  There is much to garner from such real events that have come before.”

          Belle bobs her head in an excited nod, warming to the topic as she leans over the counter, absorbed by his words in spite of herself and forgetting the pain and confusion of the dream vision to a more pleasant topic.  “I know exactly what you mean!  There are so many good records, biographies, accounts of battles, journeys, and expeditions – it’s amazing to learn what that must have been like, to imagine traveling alongside such great adventurers when such momentous enterprises were being undertaken.”  She pauses to draw in a breath, having begun to speak quickly in her excitement. Amusement shines in the look Liam Jones levels at her across the desk, but understanding and a sort of relief that intrigues her glows from his expression to warm her as well.

          Belle makes an impulsive decision in that moment, wanting to share something she still loves and finds joy in with someone else who has weathered and survived much and clearly loves it too.  Moving to stand quickly, with the intent to take Killian’s brother to their nonfiction section and show him some of her favorite tomes, Belle forgets for a moment how much her subtly widening stomach throws her off balance and pitches forward as she slips off the stool, then cries out softly as overcorrecting to catch herself pulls at her back painfully.

          Liam is around the counter and at her side in an instant, one hand on her arm to steady her, the other coming to rest at her waist.  “Steady on, Lass.  Easy there,” he murmurs with soothing concern.

          Killian darts back out from where he’d ventured, good arm full of novels and brows pinched together with worry.  “What is it?  What’s wrong?” he asks.

          Belle shakes her head, offering Liam a grateful smile, even as she blushes in embarrassment and also feels warmth flood her at his contact with her body.  She tries to calm both of them – conscientious, old-fashioned, chivalrous gentleman through and through – and step away.  “N-nothing.  I’m fine. Just lost my balance is all. …Th-thank you though, Captain Jones,” she adds sincerely to Liam.  Unthinkingly, she raises her hand to her neck which feels cramped and stiff as well, wincing slightly before she even realizes.

          Killian, observant as ever and an especially intuitive friend when it comes to her, notices her moving gingerly and guesses at her sleeplessness, speaking gently as he touches his metal appendage to her shoulder and impels her to look back up at him simultaneously.  “Still not resting, Love?” he asks, already seeming assured of the answer.  “You’ve been sitting at that counter all night, haven’t you?”

          Sheepishly, the tiny brunette dips her chin to her chest in the slightest of nods, feeling even smaller under the concerned scrutiny of these two tall, strong former naval officers.  It isn’t worth denying the fact; Killian already knows the truth. She had confided in him long ago, even before their trip to Camelot, her sleeplessness from a broken heart.  He is certainly astute enough to realize that the organ is now only more broken.

          What startles her however, is his proper older brother’s reaction.  In interactions, Liam has always been friendly but reserved; now, he ushers her forward, an arm coming around her waist to guide her toward the reading lounge she has set up by the windows and into an overstuffed, comfortable chair. “Milady Belle, sit, please. You’re with child.  You must take care of yourself.”

          She doesn’t fight him, letting him lead her to the seat and settling into it with an actual sigh of relief.  And he surprises her again by kneeling before her and grasping her delicate hand in his much larger one, enveloping it completely. There is an open, earnest look on his face that both soothes and puzzles her as he gazes up into her face and asks her if there is aught else they can do or fetch for her.

          Liam himself doesn’t understand what has come over him as he looks up into the weary, hurting face of this lovely but lonely young woman.  All he is certain of – and he knows he will speak to Killian about why she isn’t sleeping, what she has been through – is the concern for her he feels.  He wants to find out why she is so sad, and to find a way to make it better.  His resolve is firm, even if not fully understood, and he senses the beginning of a new mission, a new adventure.

Link to Chapter Two: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/2/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Chapter Three:  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/3/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Chapter Four: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/4/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Chapter Five: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/5/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Chapter Six: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/6/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Chapter Seven: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/7/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Chapter Eight: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/8/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Chapter Nine: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/9/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Chapter Ten (Epilogue): https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12138837/10/Looking-for-a-Heart-that-s-not-Walking-Away

Tagging a few who may enjoy (sorry if not, or if you’ve already read it, but thought even previous readers might want to see its new art! ;) : @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @winterbaby89 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @effulgentcolors @aloha-4-ever @winterbythesea @hollyethecurious @laschatzi @jennjenn615 @therooksshiningknight @ohmakemeahercules @shireness-says @resident-of-storybrooke @spartanguard @revanmeetra87 @teamhook @vvbooklady1256 @xemmaloveskillianx 

[handelplayssims]

Final day with the Mete-Brandt household! In this run at least! We open with Rua...wanting to be enemies with a child. Pathetic. Practice your speeches. Forget the child.

Today, Belle goes off to work again and we attempt to regain her passion for it. Which she manages to somehow do! Doing things she hates but hey, this does make money. And I do have plans for this household with the money they’ll get.

Anyway, Rua wishes to go and compliment someone’s outfit which is another good opportunity to make another friend! My only thought is...where the heck should we meet up? I’m tired of hitting the local bar and he’s not really a gardener, to hang out at the gardening public space, or a tinkerer, or even much of a museum dude, that’s more his wife. San Myshuno always feels like a fun prospect to go to and there is a nice cafe to meet up and chat at, so that is my choice!

I realized that I wasn’t really interested in turning the Old Salt House into a residential lot, so I decided to see about making it into a venue. I found this great cafe made by a user called ImpressedBee and so I even went to the effort of picking up some kits that he used to pick up the pack. Industrial Lofts I can definitely recommend but that’s because I rather like the style of architecture it uses and Blooming Rooms...well, it’s one of those where I knew every single builder was going to use it frequently. Kinda like how I suspect the latest clutter kit will go as well. Le sigh. Dislike fear-of-missing-out but feel an absolute need to and EA’s storefront does a good job of hiding how much dlc feels like to cost...unlike Steam which lays it all out.

Anyhoo, lots of socializing happened and Rua gained another friend. His next want was to go and chat with Katrina Caliente whom is also an acquaintance...but also a co-worker. And also a vampire but shhhh. So time to chat with her about things and stuff! Riveting gameplay to write about folks! And then his next whim to to play some tunes, which I did quickly at the Caliente’s home because they have loads of instruments. If we want further practice, we gotta head back home!

...which I’m doing anyway because Belle just got off of work and I’m tired of talking! Let’s go home! We find Belle wanting to listen to her tunes, natch, and get some nectar. This lady has only two wants in life, I swear.

Ooh, one of Rua’s things for his aspiration is to make a Best Friend Forever. The dream! There are people I could attempt this with but the easiest is to go with your spouse. And while their romantic relationship isn’t the strongest, their friendship is back to being rock solid. So Rua and Belle are now besties for life, no matter what happens!

So for now, these two are the best of friends and have re-ignited their relationship. For now. Things may always change in this world of the Sims.

And thus do we end our first full household rotation! We reforged the Mete-Brandt’s marriage and got Rua through the last leg of university! Good run all around. Now to end this properly with a

Neighborhood Watch!

Ernest Guevara in the Guevara household has died. Ernest thought he could conquer a mountain, but the mountain conquered him.

RIP.

Erica Moses in the Moses household has died. Erica was so angry she burst into flames and died.

RIP to whomever this is.

Forgotten Hollow: The Faamoana household recently moved in.

Welcome to the vampire hamlet! Enjoy your stay.

ON THE NEXT EDITION OF THE PERSONAL FILE! We’ll be visiting the Lonely Artist, Gunther Munch!

[chromium-siren]

I'm Looking Through You (Literally)- Part 1

Pairing: Finn x Reader x Hux (hurray for polyamory!)

A/N: I was inspired by a fanfic where Poe was a ghost and also by Mardi Gras

@rebel-scum-stuff @propertyofpoeandbucky @the-new-fanfic-order @kyber-hearts-and-stardust-souls

At last, you were all unpacked and moved in to your new home in New Orleans, Louisiana. Being a gourmet chef and all, you were lucky to be living in the Big Easy surrounded by music, interesting stories, and of course, good food. You decided to go to a local delicatessen to satisfy your hunger after all that moving you finished up.

Outside your house, people were starting to decorate for Mardi Gras, which was in two week's time, and fortunately, a restaurant was nearby for you to grab something to eat. Dameron's Grocery called to you with it's Art Deco sign as you walked in and waited for a table.

"What can I get you?" asked the waiter, who had curly brown hair and eyes the color of a delicious chocolate truffle. You tried to focus on the menu, but you ended up staring at him anyway.

"What do you recommend?" you managed to squeak out before Poe, according to his name tag, smiled at you.

"Oh, everything on the menu is delicious, but I think you'd like the muffuletta sandwich," he said as you handed him the menu.

"Sounds delicious, I'll have the muffuletta, please," you said, as he wrote down the order and went to the kitchen with a wink. The atmosphere in the restaurant was exciting, and you looked around at the various patrons. A woman with a scarf in her short blonde hair read a brunette girl's palm, while another girl (she was in a yellow dress) played the violin as she made her way between the tables.

"So, what brings you to our hamlet?" Poe said, startling you slightly as he brought you your sandwich.

"Don't do that!" you chided, playfully slapping his wrist with a smile. Poe smiled and took a seat at your table.

"Sorry about that, this is just my first time seeing you. So, what brings you to New Orleans?" he asked.

"You know that British chef Obi-Wan Kenobi? Well, I work with him, and I just moved here because he's been hired by Arnaud's," you said with pride, smiling brightly.

"Bienvenue," Poe said, taking your hand and kissing it. "You do know that some people say that Arnaud's is... haunted?" he added, raising an eyebrow and throwing in a playful smirk.

"Get real," you retorted, holding in your laughter. Poe, on the other hand, looked serious.

"No, for real. This is one of America's supposedly most haunted cities. I hate to sound like a stalker, but where do you live?" he asked you, the smile gone from his face.

"By the French Market," you said matter-of-factly, which made Poe's eyes go wide in alarm.

"Wow. You're living where the Lightning Storm of '25 happened?" Poe asked. You had no clue what he was talking about, but you nodded anyway. "Back in 1925, there were these two musicians who were going to play at a Mardi Gras party. One played trumpet, the other played clarinet and saxophone. It was a few hours before the party was about to start, when they went on the terrace of their shared home to practice. Unfortunately, there was a lightning storm that accidentally killed them both, and they never made it to the party. Some people say you can still hear Dixieland music in the house where they used to live, but of course, there's no one there," Poe said. You rolled your eyes at Poe and went back to your sandwich.

"Is this some kind of joke?" you asked him, but then looked at his serious face and realized he might not be joking. After all, you did hear about New Orleans being haunted before, so maybe this wasn't unusual for Poe.

"No, no joke. But I have to hand it to you- not many people are still living where you are now. That proves you've got guts. Anyway, I'll leave you in peace now, and welcome to New Orleans," he said with a smile, getting up from your table and heading to another. Once you left the restaurant, Poe's story stuck with you all through the rest of the evening.

You fell asleep with Poe's story still rolling around in your head, when you found yourself waking up to the sound of a Dixieland band. You looked around the rooms, at your computer, even outside- but there was nothing. For a minute, you were going to blame Poe, but that was improbable. You decided to chalk it up to imagination instead and drifted back to sleep. Until you were woken up again by music. Someone- or something, rather- was playing a jazz duet on trumpet with a saxophone downstairs. Your eyes widened- maybe Poe was right, after all! You slipped on a robe, grabbed your phone to use as a flashlight, and tiptoed downstairs- with every step, the music got louder. What you saw from the landing shocked you.

The ghosts of two handsome young men were the source of the music, and they played in the foyer of your house. One was African-American and played the trumpet, while the other was a slender redhead who played the saxophone, and both were dressed impeccably in dapper suits. As they played and moved about, you watched them as they seemed to glow with a certain iridescence to them.

You walked downstairs to get closer, listening as the trumpeter took a solo, bending and twisting the melody till it became an exciting new thing, as well as passing the baton to the saxophonist. Listening to them both play made your heart flutter with longing as the song came to a close and they disappeared.

Really? you asked yourself, sitting on the couch of the foyer, waiting for something to happen, slowly drifting off to sleep...

"Bon soir," you heard a voice say, which made your eyes shoot open in terror. You looked around in search of invaders, but found nothing. You ran into the bathroom to splash some water on your face, when you heard someone clear their throat. As you looked up, you noticed a man had suddenly appeared in your mirror. He smiled and nodded hello at you before you ran out screaming and back into the foyer, covering your eyes like a frightened child.

"Finn, mon ami, you frightened the poor mademoiselle!" someone said, but you were too scared to look.

"Oh dear, I suppose I have! Poor thing's shaking like a leaf," another voice, you assumed it was Finn, said to the first one.

"Don't worry, I can fix the situation," the first voice said, before fading away slightly. "Mademoiselle? There is no reason to be afraid. Open your eyes!" the first voice said. Hesitantly, you did. Right in front of you were the musicians you noticed playing in the foyer, the trumpeter and the saxophonist.

"Who are you?" you asked. The trumpet player (who you saw in the mirror) floated towards you and took your hand.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself properly, miss," he said, kissing your hand. "My name is Finn Calrissian, but I mainly go by Finn." The second ghost floated forward, a saxophone hung from his neck.

"And I am Armitage Hux. Enchante, mademoiselle," he practically whispered in his French accent, kissing your hand softly.

"D-did you two use to live here?" you asked, looking at them.

"Yes, but... there was a bit of an accident," Finn admitted.

"Lightning storm?" you asked.

"Oui," Armitage agreed.

"Please forgive us from waking you up, miss," Finn asked, a shy smile dancing on his lips as he looked at you. "It's just that we haven't been able to move on properly," he said, the smile sadly now disappearing.

"Oh, that's terrible. Anything I can do to help?" you asked, turning to both of them.

"Yes, there is something you can do. Search for a medium, one mademoiselle Phasma. Speak to her, and she will tell you exactly what you need to help us with our dilemma," Hux said. You nodded and listened to everything they had just said with some skepticism.

"Are you sure this is gonna work?" you asked, looking at them.

"Of course. Phasma has been blessed by Marie Laveau, so she will be able to solve our problem. Good luck, miss," Finn said, before slowly fading away.

"But how do I find her?" you called out to them.

"Bonne chance," Hux added, fading away until you were alone in the foyer. Surprised with what you found, you went back to bed, still thinking of the ghosts told you. This was something you needed to tell Poe about the next day.

[purplesurveys]

270

What’s your favorite nail polish that you own? I don’t use nail polish. I move my hands around too much and anything I put on my nails would get chipped in an instant. What’s your favorite play by Shakespeare? I never enjoyed taking up Shakespeare in high school. I guess I was most engaged when we studied Macbeth, though. That or Hamlet. What’s your favorite recipe that takes less than 15 minutes to prepare? Homemade pizza. We were taught how to do it in preschool–hotdogs, mayo, ketchup, cheese on white bread then pop it in the oven toaster. I haven’t had it in like a decade just because I’ve never had time to make them, but it’s the best thing that takes less than ten minutes. It’s such a preschool recipe but since I had it so many times as a kid, it’s comfort food to me. What is the smallest thing that made you embarrassed or anxious? Ordering in restaurants, asking for help at a store, talking on the phone, asking questions, people looking at me. Anything can make me anxious really, so long as I’m thrust in the spotlight. You’ve just written the most annoying computer virus ever made. What does it do?  I used to have the world’s most annoying virus on my ancient laptop. It used to type down random Vietnamese texts on its own. Like I could be watching a YouTube video and it would make a group of Viet words show up on the search bar. If I had to wish something on my worst enemy it would be that.

Did you ever attend a wedding that was a complete disaster? Fortunately no. Filipino weddings aren’t as dramatic as the horror stories I’ve heard in other countries. What is something that you were surprised you were able to do?  Dunno. Keeping a magna cum laude standing to this day is one of them though. What movie surprised you with how good it was? Wonder Woman. I never go to see blockbusters, much less superhero films. That one was a pleasant surprise. Is there anything you’re stressed out about? Yes, but I’m on Tumblr right now to de-stress so don’t remind me. Satan decides to make a new Hell for the lesser sinners where everything is mildly inconvenient. What would you expect to find there?  Ads. Lots and lots of annoying, unskippable ads. Think the Fifteen Million Merits episode of Black Mirror. Which persistent myth/misconception annoys you the most?  Can’t seem to think of any now... What’s the last video you watched on YouTube? I think it was a snippet from The Return of Superman, the Korean show with dads taking care of their kids. Do you have any extensions on your web browser? No, I don’t download third-party programs onto my Mac now since I want to keep it as clean as possible. What is the most bullshit sounding true fact that you know? The fact that mammoths were still alive when people were building up the pyramids. That or people before the 1800′s had no idea what dinosaurs were. If you were to create your own candle scent, what would it be? I don’t know. Cookie dough? I’m sure that’s been made already. Have you ever bought food online? I always have my food delivered online because I could never call them up. Are there any foods that you avoid eating? Yes. Any kind of fruit. What Oreo flavor is your favorite?  Just the regular ones. What G-rated joke always cracks you up? They’re all in Filipino so nobody would understand anyway. If you won free food and drinks for a lifetime to a restaurant of your choice, which restaurant would you choose? Vikings. It’s this huuuuge buffet restaurant so I would always have a variety of choices. What comedic sound effect would completely ruin sex? All I could think of is Mario screaming “YAHOO!” so that. Do you think they should have made a sequel to Nightmare Before Christmas where they explored the other holidays?  I’ve never seen that movie so I don’t know if it would be a good idea or not to extend it. But I know I wouldn’t want, say, Love Actually to be turned into a Halloween or a New Year’s movie, that’s for sure. What is your favorite holiday?  Halloween even though it isn’t a holiday. Do you ever make playlists? Yeah, for certain moods. I have a playlist for when I drive my car with Gab in the middle of the night and a playlist for when I’m sad, to name a couple. Do you think you could create an entirely new font?  No. I’m so not creative. Sour gummy worms or plain gummy worms? Errr I guess sour. I’ve never had a gummy anything that tasted plain. What songs have you been listening to a lot lately? Dua Lipa’s Homecoming is SOOOOO good. It’s a breath of fresh air from New Rules, which is becoming overplayed to an extent that I don’t particularly enjoy. What was something that looked easy but turned out to be hard?  Being an adult.  Ever been in a talent show? How many times? What did you do? No, because I have no talent that I could at least show off to an audience. :/ Ever try out for the talent show and not make it? Did you cry? Well not a talent show, but I did try out for the school newspaper. I got through the first cut, but not in the final one. I did cry; it had been my dream to be in that paper since I was in fourth grade (they only accept high school students.) I never tried out for it again and instead became part of the editorial board for the yearbook when I was a senior. When that was happening, the paper was begging me to pick them and work for them...too bad. What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever cried about? Nothing. That’s the stupidest thing I had ever cried about–I literally cried over nothing. Do you like peanut butter?: LOVE IT. Put it on/in my pancakes, my cookies, my cakes, my cupcakes, my chocolate bars, and on my kare-kare. Peanut butter is life. What about marshmallows?: I fucking hate marshmallows. How do you roast your marshmallows?  I don’t even eat them. Do you eat s’mores?:  Sometimes. That’s really the only time I get to enjoy marshmallows. What’s the best brand of chocolate?  Reese’s, Twix, and Maltesers. Do you own a disco ball, or know anyone who does? No. Gabie sure deserves one, though. She’s stuck in the 70′s. Own a lava lamp? I don’t but I did want one when I was like 14. Own any sort of glow-in-the-dark room accessory? No. I have glow in the dark sticks and bracelets that I got from concerts, but they’ve long faded by now haha. Ever faked an orgasm?: Never. If I couldn’t have one I’ll just let my girlfriend know and snuggle instead? Done something illegal to your car?:  No. The car wasn’t bought under my name, so if I did anything stupid it’ll be my dad who answers to that and I don’t want him to kill me. Own some type of work out machine? My mom owns one but I have no idea what it does. Ever pooped a weird color besides brown, green, or orange?: No. Are you quickly getting grossed out?  Not at all. Think a drum player for a band is hot?: I don’t find them hot, but I always found anyone who could play drums cool. Do you tend to like male or female bands better? I like bands with music I could listen to better. What scars on your body do you have? One near my eye and another on my pinky toe. Ever did something sexual in public? Sure. Do you like the taste of squid or eel?  Yep, we live on seafood down here. Ever date anybody in middle school?: I didn’t. No joke, as a grade schooler, I thought I wasn’t supposed to develop romantic feelings for anybody until I was at least 25. I just thought it was an adult thing. What was your first date like? I’ve never been on a getting-to-know-someone date...my ‘first date’ was literally the first date I had with Gab, since I went straight to asking her to be my girlfriend and never really courted her hahahaha. It was beautiful. We went to a museum and had a nice Italian dinner and had a sleepover in my house where we played video games (well she did) and had pizza delivered. It was the purest thing. What about your WORST date? Ugh. That Shakey’s date was THE WORST. It was our last date before we broke up and also my last resort to get through to her, after I realized that she was distancing herself. Everything was my treat and it was because her birthday was coming up...I felt like shit when I learned it wasn’t going to fix anything anymore. Share a really embarrassing moment?  Driving out of the gas station and nearly entering the highway when I didn’t even wait for my change :(( The gas attendant had to run after my car, since I was basically driving away from around ₱400. That’s a week’s worth of lunches, and it would have sucked if I was able enter the highway immediately. Did you like to get dirty when you were little? Nah. My mom hated it and wanted me to stay clean, so it got passed on to me. Do you find the show Family Guy absolutely hilarious?:  There are some scenes that are funny but ultimately, it’s not my humor. Most jokes just fly over my head since they’re too political or too pop culture-y for me to recognize them. Own anything that has to do with dragons or unicorns? I don’t think so. Believe in mermaids/mermen?:  Nope. What piercings do you have/want?: None anymore. What tattoos do you have/want?:  Also none anymore. Hate needles. Which is cooler - pink or purple?: Pink.

[tyson-berry-blog]

William Nylander #1 - Not What You Think

Anon asked: Yo image idea where ur austons bff but u and nylander can literally not get along at all and everyones always joking that its bc u guys are too similar or theres just so much built up tension u need to hook up or somethin so one day auston takes u to a team party maybe?? and drunk nylander sees u w some other mans and gets jealous so he pulls u aside and starts an argument and it either ends in aggressive smut or him blurting out that he is actually in love with you u decide :)

Here you go anon! This one kind of got away from me and ended up being way longer than I intended. I had a lot of fun writing this and had to restrain myself from making it even longer than it ended up being. I hope you enjoy it!

You shut your textbook in triumph and placed your head in your hands. The library was bustling around you with students finishing assignments in a last minute attempt to boost their grade before school let out for winter break. The last assignment you needed to hand in was a paper for your literature class that only needed to be edited and you had no motivation left to do it. You did have two days left until it was due which is why you picked up your phone and thumbed through the messages you had waiting.

Unsurprisingly you had several from your best friend Auston and all of them seemed to be about some team gathering at Morgan Rielly’s house.

“Leave me alone,” you typed out. “I’m doing work.”

“False,” came the immediate reply. “You never answer your phone when you’re working.”

You rolled your eyes but knew he was right. It was a policy you put into place much to Auston’s annoyance. You put your phone on Do Not Disturb so you could only be reached in the event of an emergency and as much as Auston begged, you didn’t put him on the list. If you answered him every time he texted, you would get almost nothing done.

Before you could respond your phone buzzed again.

“Please come to Mo’s. It’ll be fun.”

“Will William be there?”

“I don’t know what your problem is with him. Willy is a chill dude.” “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You hesitated. You honestly didn’t mind William, quite the opposite. He was the one that seemed to have a problem with you and you had no idea why. Auston had brought you as his plus one to the first team gathering because out of everyone in Toronto he said that you made him feel the most comfortable. Eventually you started accompanying Auston to most events, even long after he became familiar with the team. As Auston grew closer to his teammates, you did as well. You got to see the guys for who they really were and not who the media tried to make them out to be. They no longer seemed like untouchable athletes, but instead a group of guys who got to do what the loved. With that realization came the feelings you had no control over. William Nylander was no longer a scary, force to be reckoned with but instead a goofy twenty-one-year-old whose smile lit up any room he entered. Except when he looked at you. Any time his eyes met yours it was like someone doused him in water, effectively killing the light. You tried to not let it get to you but sometimes it hurt.

You didn’t realize you had zoned out until your phone vibrating in your hand startled you back to reality. It was an incoming video call from Auston that had you rolling your eyes before accepting. You put your earbuds in and looked at him with your eyebrows raised.

“Please come.”

“Why do you need me there? You’re fine with the team.”

“I know that but can’t I want to have my best friend with me?”

“Don’t let Mitch hear that.”

“Oh Mitchy knows already. No one can replace you.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel guilty.”

“Is it working?”

You sighed, “fine! What kind of party is this?”

Auston whooped, “it’s casual, a barbeque I think.”

“In this weather?”

“We’re in Canada, if there isn’t snow on the ground it’s outdoor weather.”

You looked him in the eye, “you owe me.”

“What do you want?” Auston asked without missing a beat.

“I want to wear your Leafs sweatshirt. The fuzzy one with the - ”

“With the number in the corner, I got it. You know they sell similar ones online, you can just buy one instead of always asking for mine.”

“Ha. Not on my college student budget.”

“They’re not that expensive.”

“Says the guy with the NHL salary.”

Auston chuckled, “I’ll pick you up around five.”

You looked at your watch, “that gives me no time!”

“You better get going then.”

You held your middle finger up to the camera and hung up on him. The girl next to you tried to stifle a laugh. You quickly put your finger down and felt your face blush.

“Boyfriend?” she asked.

“Oh definitely not,” you laughed. “My best friend.”

You didn’t have time to think about the look she gave you as you dashed out of the library and back to your dorm. You had hardly any time to change and cut it incredibly close to when Auston texted you saying he was out front. When you slid into the passenger seat a piece of fabric hit your face.

“Auston what the hell?”

“It’s the sweatshirt you wanted.”

“You’re so annoying. I can’t believe anyone would think I’m dating you.”

Auston looked at you, “wait what? And I’ll have you know, I’m a great boyfriend.”

“Some girl in the library asked if you were my boyfriend after our conversation.”

“That’s funny.”

“I know right!”

Auston paused, “well I can kind of see what she is getting at.”

“What?”

“I mean we are really close.”

“We’re best friends!”

“I know that obviously. I’m just saying.”

“Auston I need you to answer something for me.”

“Yes?”

“You aren’t into me right?”

“Gross. You’re like my sister.”

“Okay first off, gross? Really?”

“You know what I mean.”

“And secondly, that’s good because no offense but I definitely do not like you like that.”

Auston parked and looked at you, “glad we’re on the same page. But wait. Do you like someone?”

“No,” you answered quickly.

Auston narrowed his eyes, “I don’t believe you. You answered way too fast.” You put the hoodie on and refused to meet his gaze.

“You so do! Do I know them? Is it one of the guys?”

“What guys? We know a lot of guys.”

“It is! Is it Mo? He’s a good guy.”

“I don’t like Morgan.”

“Well why not? He’s cool. Okay let me think,” Auston mentally ran the roster through his head. When he looked at you with wide eyes, you knew he had figured it out. “Is it Willy?”

“No,” you answered with too much force.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

You shoved him, “since when do you know Hamlet? You know what. Never mind. I’m going inside.”

“To your true love?”

“Shut up,” you hissed. “You do not tell anyone. It’s embarrassing.”

“Why?”

“Because he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you. I don’t think he is physically capable of hating anyone.”

“Auston please.”

“I won’t say anything, I promise.”

“Thank you. Let’s go inside, it’s freezing.”

Auston knocked on the door and it was quickly opened by Jake Gardiner on the other side.

“Glad you guys could make it. Mo is out back with the grill, and drinks and stuff are in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

“Thank you for having us,” you said.

“Someone has to make sure these kids are actually eating stuff besides take out.”

You gestured at Auston who had moved further into the house, “I know this one isn’t a complete failure.”

“Well he has you to look out for him.”

“It’s a daily struggle but I do the best I can.”

“And we thank you for your sacrifice,” Jake joked.

You said bye to Jake and moved down the hall Auston had gone down. In the short span you had been here he had somehow convinced Morgan to let him help out on the grill. You rolled your eyes fondly and went in search for the drinks. You had only been in this house once before so while it was slightly familiar, it had been a while. You grabbed yourself a bottle of water and squeezed past James van Riemsdyk to get to the living room. A few players and their significant others were sitting on the couches while a game played on the television. The only available seat was next to none other than William Nylander. You hesitated in the doorway before squaring your shoulders and walking into the room.

“Mind if I sit here?”

William looked up and just liked you predicted the smile slipped from his face but he gestured to the seat anyway which you took as a sign to sit down. You found yourself sucked into a story Freddie was telling and did your best to ignore the guy sitting next to you. Morgan finally came in to announce that dinner was ready and everyone jumped up to help themselves. You decided to wait a bit for the line to get smaller and remained seated. Slowly the team trickled back into the living room and took their seats. Auston walked in and handed you a plate.

“Thanks, but you didn’t have to. I was about to get up.”

“Well now you don’t have to.”

Auston took the seat next to you that had been previously occupied by William.

William chose that moment to walk back through the door and stopped when he saw Auston in his seat.

“I think William was sitting there,” you whispered to Auston.

“Hey sorry bro. You can have your seat back.”

“It’s fine.”

“Nah it’s cool. I’ll move.”

“Really, it’s fine.” William ducked back out of the room.

Auston shot you a weird look but shrugged and went back to eating.

“I’m going to get some water; do you want anything?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

You placed your plate on the dining room table as you walked by and went into the kitchen. William had his back to the door and didn’t notice it was you when you came in.

“William?” you asked tentatively.

He spun around to look at you, eyes wide.

“Wait!” You put your hands out to stop him from bolting.

“What?”

“Can I just talk to you for a second?”

“What?” he repeated.

“Why do you hate me?” You blurted the words out before you could stop yourself and his eyes widened even more.

An awkward silence fell between the two of you.

“I don’t hate you,” he said quietly.

“Well it sure as hell seems like it.”

“I don’t.”

You crossed your arms and waited for him to continue. This movement brought his attention to your jacket which only made him scowl deeper.

“See that,” you pointed at his expression. “That doesn’t look like the face of someone who doesn’t hate someone.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You said that already but have yet to prove me wrong.”

“I like you,” he gritted out.

“Excuse me?”

He took a deep breath, “I like you a lot, but you have a boyfriend so...”

“A boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“You’re dating Auston.”

This caused you to let out a laugh that did nothing but bring the scowl back to William’s face.

“It’s good to know you find my feelings funny.”

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“Whatever,” he said clearly not believing you. “Just do me a favor and not tell Auston until I’ve left.”

“William. Willy. I’m not dating Auston, nor have I ever been. We’re just friends.”

“You’re wearing his jacket.”

“That means nothing. This is a high quality jacket that I find very warm and cannot not afford on my college student budget.”

“You guys are always touching.”

“Auston is a tactile person. You should know that, you play with him.”

William was silent for a second, “you’re really not dating him?”

“Of course not. He is like a brother and besides, I like someone else.”

His face shut down again.

“It’s you, you idiot.”

“You better not just be saying that.”

“I’m not.”

This was the first time one of William’s smiles had been directed at you and you were by no means prepared.

“Um so,” you fiddled with your hair. “What does this mean?”

“I think this means we exchange numbers? Only if you want to, of course.”

“I want to.”

Willy’s smile somehow got bigger and you found yourself smiling back. He passed his phone to you and you entered your number. He did the same with your phone.

“I should probably go back. I told Auston I was just getting water.”

He nodded and you turned around to go back.

“Hey,” he called behind you.

“Yes?”

“You might need this,” he tossed a bottle of water at you.

You caught it easily, “right. Thanks.”

“I’ll text you.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You walked back into the living room and sat down next to Auston.

“Geez, did you get lost? I was going to send a search party after you.”

“I just talked to William.”

“Oh god. Did you hurt him? Do I need to send a search party out for him?”

“If you need to find him, I can always text him,” you hid your smile behind your hand.

“Did you get his number?”

You nodded.

“Dude, nice,” Auston high-fived you. “Did you work out whatever problems you had.”

“I think so.”