#it will last forever there's nothing fragile and no electricity

[stumblngrumbl]

if you have an orange tree, access to one, or a good friend that brings you bags of oranges

i strongly encourage you to get an orange press/juicer

it's easy to use and makes fantastic juice

my favorite is to mix orange with grapefruit or lemon or lime, so the juice isn't too sweet

this here is probably 10% overripe tangerine (skin drying out, too sweet for snacking on), 45% orange and the reminder (left as an exercise to the reader) grapefruit

still sweet, but very tangy. has a little bit of pulp but mostly not

the pressing action gets some of the oils from the rind so you get that tangy sensation as well

[honeyryewhiskey]

when dean falls in love

or, all the little details that run through dean's mind when he's falling in love. and all the fears and self-doubt that come crashing down on him. warnings ! a pinch of angst | mostly feel good | kissing | confessions | dean admiring reader | dean's internal struggles | reader being patient | sam third wheeling j's note ! this is my apology for that sad one i posted last night. also, i had little baby 26-year-old dean in mind for this one. enjoy <3 5k words

Few rules exist in Dean’s life—most are made to be bent, broken, or ignored altogether. But you?

You’re the exception. You’re the rule he refuses to cross.

You are entirely off-limits.

Not that you seem to care. You crashed into the Winchesters' world like a wildfire, all sharp eyes and steady hands, showing up guns blazing in the middle of a nasty hunt. There was no slow introduction, no time for cautious trust. One minute, it was just another night, another hunt—then suddenly, there you were, standing in the wreckage, breathing heavily, covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

Dean should’ve known to let go right then and there—you were too good to be true. But he didn’t. Instead, you stuck to the corners of his mind like sugar between his teeth, sweet and relentless. Your energy, raw and electric, burned through everything around you. You invaded his thoughts, wrapped around his mind like a constant hum.

You were the kind of girl who made a man forget his own damn rules.

At first, Dean tells himself this newfound trio is temporary.

You’re a lone wolf, and the Winchesters don’t do long-term attachments. But somehow, you weave yourself into their lives like you’ve always belonged.

You slip into the passenger seat of the Impala without waiting for an invitation, kicking your feet up on the dash just to piss him off. You steal fries off his plate like it’s second nature, smirking when he glares at you but never stopping. You roll your eyes at his bravado, call him out when he’s being an ass, and yet—when it matters—you’re always there. Ready to fight. Ready to bleed for this life, for them.

For him.

Dean tells himself he doesn’t notice the little things. The way you hum along to his rock tapes like you’ve known them forever, how your hands—so much softer than he deserves—patch him up without hesitation. The way you meet his teasing with just as much fire, never backing down.

None of it means anything.

Because it can’t.

Not when he’s always been too rough, too jagged around the edges to hold onto something as good as you. Somewhere around his twentieth birthday, he made peace with the fact that he was cursed—fated to be nothing more than a soldier, a brother, a blade meant for war.

Being anything else, wanting anything more—wanting you—would only end in tragedy.

But then he catches Sam talking to you in hushed voices over coffee in the morning, like you’re family. As if every diner table and wobbly motel kitchenette was always meant to sit the three of you. He watches you clean his gun without being asked, like it’s second nature now. He hears your voice on the other end of his phone at 3 a.m., always answering when he calls, asking if he’s okay after a rough hunt. 

And just like that, you’re in. You’re a part of them.

A part of him.

And that? That’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Dean doesn’t know when it happened—when the lines started to blur, when the rule he swore by turned into something fragile, something breakable.

Maybe it’s the way you slip so effortlessly into their lives, settling into the spaces he didn’t even realize were empty—mediating brotherly arguments like you were always meant to be their missing piece. Maybe it’s the sound of your laughter, bright and unshaken, slicing through the heaviness of a bad hunt. Or maybe it’s the way you look at him, like he’s something more than the scars, more than the sharp edges—like he’s worth seeing at all.

Or maybe it’s the small moments like this.

The diner is warm, buzzing with the quiet hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates. Sam’s focus is his laptop, half-listening to whatever you’re saying as you flip through the menu, sitting beside Dean, debating tonight’s meal. Dean’s trying to keep up, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of it all.

And then, without a second thought, you reach for his jacket.

It’s been draped over the back of the booth since he sat down, familiar and worn, carrying the weight of long nights and too many miles. And you just take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves, tugging the collar up like it belongs to you.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the menu.

It’s nothing new—he’s handed it over a dozen times before, thrown it around your shoulders without a second thought on cold nights. But this? This is different. You didn’t ask. Didn’t even hesitate. You just did it, like it was instinct, like it was yours.

He clears his throat, trying to force down the feeling clawing its way up his chest. “Comfy?”

You hum, settling into the fabric, your fingers curling into the sleeves. “Mmhmm.” Your voice is light, easy. “You always run so warm. Thought I’d steal a little of that.”

Dean swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Prying his eyes off of you, he tries again to look like he’s reading the menu. Scanning the small font, even though he’s already decided on a burger and fries like he always gets. 

Across from him, Sam sighs, clicking at his keyboard. “You guys do realize you act like a couple, right?”

Dean shoots him a glare. “Shut up.”

Your laugh falls out sweet and quiet, the sound pressing against his heart with a persistence to make it move faster. Your boot nudges Dean’s under the table, and he takes it as an excuse to look at you again. “You jealous, Sammy? Want me to steal your jacket next?”

Dean barely hears the response. He watches as you burrow further into his jacket, your nose dipping beneath the collar. Then, with that same mischievous glint in your eye that always spells trouble for him, you lift the collar to make a show of taking a slow, exaggerated sniff.

His brows press down, lashes forming a tight squint around his eyes as he braces himself, “What the hell are you doing?”

Your lips twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. “One thing about this old jacket, though,” you muse, taking another thoughtful inhale. “There’s this metallicy smell… buried under all that cologne you drown this poor leather in.”

Dean scoffs, shifting in his seat and turning his head to save himself from letting you see the pink creeping up his cheeks. “I do not drown it in cologne.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop, but his chuckle doesn’t help ease Dean’s embarrassment. “You kinda do.”

Dean’s head shoots up, tilting slightly as he glares at his brother. You’re already grinning, undeterred, your fingers lazily tracing the worn seam of the sleeve. “It’s faint, but it’s there. Like… gunpowder. And whiskey, I would assume. And maybe a little bit of blood?” Your teasing gaze flicks up to meet his, “What have you been getting into, Winchester?”

Dean should play it cool. Shrug it off. But he can feel his ears burning red and hot from that little teasing smile on your lips and his brain is a few steps behind, caught somewhere between you’re too damn close and when did this get so hard to ignore?

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. His mind makes quick work to steady buzzing nerves, “Dunno what to tell ya, sweetheart,” he sighs, jaw popping as he finds his barings, “That jacket’s seen more action than you have.”

You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. “Wow. First, you over-season your leather, and now you’re just slinging insults?” You shake your head, dramatic as ever. “I thought we had something special, D.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, yeah. You done sniffin’ my jacket, or should I be concerned?”

You huff, settling back against the booth so that your arms brush against each other when you shrug. “I dunno. Might need another whiff.”

Dean points a warning finger at you, his smile breaks his attempt at stoicism, and all it does is make you grin wider.

Sam lets out another long-suffering sigh, shutting his laptop with a little more force than necessary. “I’m concerned. And I’m officially done with this conversation.”

You smirk, smug as ever, but Dean? Dean’s just trying to pretend he’s not completely, stupidly gone for you.

The rest of dinner passes in easy conversation—at least, for you. Dean is quieter than usual, letting you and Sam fill the space between bites of food and stolen fries. He tries to focus on anything else—the chipped laminate of the table, the hum of the old diner lights, the way his fingers tap absently against the side of his glass.

Mostly, he tries not to look at you.

Not when you lean forward, chin propped in your palm, laughing at something Sam says. Not when you nudge his boot under the table, stealing the last bite of his pie with a satisfied little smirk. Not when you adjust the lapels of his leather jacket like it’s yours now, like it belongs to you the way he does.

By the time the check hits the table, he’s still got too many thoughts in his head, and none of them are ones he should be having.

Outside, the night air is crisp, the motel’s flickering vacancy sign glowing just across the lot. Sam mutters something about research and trudges off toward their shared room, leaving the two of you lingering by the diner’s door.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it is. You shift on your feet, then tilt your head toward the motel.

“What’s it gonna be tonight, D?” Your voice is soft, slipping into the quiet like it belongs there. “You sticking around for a bit, or heading to bed?”

Dean exhales, shaking his head. “Gotta make sure you get in safe.”

Your laugh rings through the empty parking lot, light and easy, curling around him like warmth against the cool night air. And despite only wearing a flannel, despite the late hour and the breeze whispering through the lot, he feels nothing but warm.

“Ah, yes,” you tease between giggles, nudging his arm. “My knight in shining armor, always keeping me safe.”

The short walk across the lot is quiet but never empty—the kind of silence that lingers in the spaces between you, comfortable and charged all at once.

At your door, you unlock it with a flick of your wrist, pushing it open before leaning lazily against the frame. The dim motel light catches the amusement in your eyes as you glance back at him.

“See?” You gesture to the empty room with a grin. “All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves you off, stepping inside without a second thought, the door clicking shut behind him.

You move past him with easy familiarity, shuffling through your things while Dean leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. He watches as you slip into your usual routine—kicking off your shoes, pulling your hair back, stifling a yawn with the sleeve of your sweater. His jacket, draped over the chair beside your bed, stays untouched. He doesn’t move to take it. If he’s honest, he kind of hopes you’ll sleep in it. Let it take on your scent instead of his.

When you return from the bathroom, fresh-faced and sighing contentedly, you crawl onto the bed and sit cross-legged, flipping absentmindedly through an old paperback—the one you grabbed from the library when you were supposed to be researching.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so deep in thought tonight?” you break into the silence without looking up, voice soft but knowing.

Dean huffs, tipping his head back. He’s trying to find something other than you to look at, he’s gotta stop watching you so often. “I’m always deep in thought.”

You snort, “yeah, okay. Sure.”

Your eyes flicker over him, he’s always following you into your room like a stray pup, like he doesn’t know where else to go. He lingers in your space, but is careful to maintain a set distance. At first you thought he was trying to claim you as another notch on his bedpost, but all that ever happened on these nights were quiet talks until your eyes grew too heavy to keep open. And by morning, you’d be alone, tucked beneath the blankets like someone made sure they were pulled around you just right.

You watch him for a beat, noting the familiar tension winding through his shoulders. “Seriously, though. You were kinda out of it at dinner.”

Dean hesitates, glancing away like he can pretend he didn’t hear you. His eyes settle on the peeling motel wallpaper, tracing the cracks like they hold some kind of answer. He hadn’t planned on sticking around this late—not when his head is already full of you. Not when it’s dangerous for the sanctity his carefully drawn lines to be near you like this, feeling the way he does.

But neither of you move. You, cross-legged on the bed, book in hand. Him, still leaning against the dresser, pretending he has somewhere else to be.

He should make an excuse, crack a joke, steer this conversation somewhere safer. But your voice, soft and steady, tugs at something in him. And instead of fighting it, he lets himself lean in.

“You ever think about what happens when we stop?”

Your fingers still against the worn pages of your book. “Stop what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, like that explains everything. “The hunting, the moving around. All of it.”

Your brows furrow slightly as you consider his words, the weight of them pressing down in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. This life—it’s far from glamorous, but it’s all you’ve got. Stepping away from it is a thought you buried long ago, a fantasy that never had a chance. You shrug, pushing the thought aside. “I don’t know,” you say quietly. “Never really let myself think about it too much.”

Dean exhales a heavy breath, eyes dropping to the floor like the weight of your words is sinking in. “Yeah.”

A beat of quiet settles between you. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a weight to it that presses against Dean’s chest, making the space feel tighter than it is. You can feel his tension, like he’s holding something back, but he doesn’t look up.

Then, you shift, breaking the silence with an easy gesture—a pat to the empty space beside you on the bed. “Don’t just trail off on me, D. Sit down. Tell me more.”

Dean hesitates for a split second. This is a bad idea. It’s an invisible line he’s been toeing for too damn long, one he’s tried not to cross—never sit on the bed, never get too close when we’re alone. But then again, it’s you. You’re looking at him like you care, soft and patient, as if whatever’s inside his head actually matters.

And just like that, he gives in. One little exception, just for tonight.

With a quiet sigh, he pushes off the dresser, settling beside you on the bed. He stretches his legs out, but the small mattress makes it impossible to keep any real distance. His legs brush against yours, and his arm brushes yours too. He hopes to hell you don’t see the flush creeping up his neck.

If you notice, you don’t mention it. There’s no teasing, no playful smile—just the quiet comfort of your presence beside him. You don’t push, don’t pry. You just sit there, calm and steady, waiting for him to speak.

“I dunno,” he mutters, “just been thinkin’ lately. About what it all looks like when it’s over. If it ever is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And?”

Dean swallows, debating how much to say. How much to admit.

“And… I don’t see much of anything.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Spent my whole life doing this, I don’t see an ending where I’m not dying at the hands of this. Y’know, going down in the fight.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then—so softly he almost doesn’t notice—you shift closer, your arm snaking its way around his. You’re snuggled right up next to him, watching with careful eyes.

“There will always be monsters to hunt,” you murmur, your voice soft yet steady in the dim room. “But you don’t have to be a warrior forever, D. There will always be hunters, too. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

Dean chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, more an exhale than a laugh. His gaze drifts toward the bedspread, unable to meet yours. "Yeah, well... I don't know if I could just walk away." His words come out quieter, like he’s unsure if he’s talking to you or to himself.

You turn slightly toward him, noticing the tension still coiled in his shoulders. The quiet settles deeper now, heavier with each passing moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice the distance between your words.

“What’s got you thinking about all of this?” you keep your voice light, though there’s a weight to it.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, his thoughts at war with the words he wants to say. "I can’t have the things I want, not really," he finally admits, the confession slipping out before he can second-guess it. His gaze drifts to the side, and his fingertips come up almost absentmindedly, dragging across your temple, pushing stray hairs back into their place.

“This life," he continues, barely above a whisper, "it consumes all the good things in my life."

“Not true,” your voice is firm but gentle, like you’re trying to remind him of something he can’t see.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just quirks a skeptical brow at you.

“You have your brother,” you continue, “and you’ve got me. Nothing in this universe can take us from you.”

Dean’s breath catches, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if you understand just how much weight those words hold. He swallows, trying to hold it together, but he can’t ignore the ache that creeps up his spine. He gives a small, almost rueful chuckle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "What makes you so sure?"

You meet his gaze with a steady confidence. "Because I know you wouldn’t let it."

His hand lingers by your face, his thumb brushing softly against the warmth of your cheek. There’s an electricity in the touch, something that feels too close and yet too natural. He can feel the way his pulse quickens, how much his body wants to close that last inch of space between you. But he doesn’t.

You don’t push him. You just watch him, like you’re waiting for him to decide whether to take the step—or to retreat.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and his eyes drop to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, like he’s trying to reconcile the gravity of what he’s feeling. His voice drops to almost a whisper, his words thick with something raw. “You have no idea how right you are, little miss.”

Your hand comes up, curling over his with a quiet, deliberate touch. The softness of your skin against his makes it almost impossible for him to remember the times he’s watched you move through the world—handling a gun with precision or a blade like it’s second nature. Most of you makes him forget, really, about everything that doesn’t involve you in this moment.

Your warmth, your softness, it makes him lose himself in daydreams of a version of you—one that doesn’t belong to this life. A version where you’d lean into that gentleness, the part of you that exists outside the hunts and the danger, in a life far away from the chaos that haunts him.

You shift, sitting up, still keeping your gaze on him, and it makes something in his chest tighten. The determined strain in your features catches his attention immediately. It’s the same look you get when you're deep into a lore book, your brow furrowed with that little scowl—like something has piqued your interest, and you won’t rest until you’ve unraveled it completely.

“Dean, there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

He shakes his head, trying to brush it off with a quick, dismissive shrug, his lips pouting up into his best attempt at nonchalance. “Nope. That’s pretty much it.”

You let out an exasperated huff, and Dean can tell you’re seeing straight through him. It’s not enough to deflect you. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the rough shove to his shoulder. It makes him blink in surprise, but before he can recover, your fingers press right back into the tension of his muscles he’s been trying to ignore all night.

“You’re as stiff as a board,” you point out, your fingers digging in a little harder. “Something’s bothering you.”

His breath comes out shakier now, and for a moment, his whole body feels like it’s been wound too tight. You can feel it, he knows you can. There’s no denying it now, but the words feel too heavy in his throat. He wants to argue, to brush it off again, but something in the way you’re watching him shifts. It’s not just curiosity anymore—it’s concern. And maybe, just maybe, a part of him wants to let you in.

But damn if it doesn’t feel like a risk.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away, but the pressure of your fingers is a subtle anchor, keeping him there. His gaze flits to the floor, anywhere but your eyes, because once he looks at you, he knows he won’t be able to hide.

"I told you, it's nothing," he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, the words escaping before he can stop them. He tries to push himself up, but the weight of your stare presses him back down.

You don’t buy it. You never do.

"No, Dean," you start softly, the concern clear in your voice, "I know you better than that. Something’s been eating at you for a while, and you’re not gonna keep dodging it."

His chest tightens, his heart racing in his ribcage. Every part of him wants to throw up some wall, some excuse. Something to keep you from seeing the rawness of what’s inside. The vulnerability he’s been running from his entire life.

But still, you watch him, waiting, your eyes steady and unwavering.

"Come on, just let it out," you press, your hand moving to his shoulder again, your touch gentle now but insistent. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know?”

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening, hands suddenly restless at his sides. The fight inside him is crumbling, piece by piece, until he's barely holding on to whatever's left. His voice comes out strained, almost desperate.

“Please, just drop it,” he grinds out, his eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away again, helplessly. “I’m fine. You don’t... you don’t need to know all of it.”

You sit forward, leaning in just a little, your hand still gently gripping his arm as you search his face. The determination in your gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something softer there now, almost like a plea. “Dean—”

He jerks back slightly, suddenly standing up with a bit too much force, the air between you thickening with a tension that’s making it harder for him to breathe. He takes a few steps away, running a hand through his hair, his back turned to you as he tries to calm the storm rising inside.

"I can’t do this," he mutters, his voice low, rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel. His shoulders still tense with the weight of the world pressing down on him.

You’re silent for a beat, and he knows it’s because you’re giving him space. But he also knows you won’t stop until you get him to say what he’s been holding back.

He exhales sharply, his hands trembling as he clenches them into fists, his back still turned, fighting a battle he knows he’s losing. "God, I don’t want to talk about this." His voice cracks slightly as he says it, and he hates how much it betrays him.

His eyes flick to you then, and there's a crack in the armor—a vulnerability that’s almost painful to see. He looks at you, but he’s not sure he can bear the weight of your gaze anymore. Not when all he wants to do is keep you safe from the wreckage inside him.

His body is coiled tight, but his chest feels like it’s going to implode. He wants to walk away. He wants to escape from the weight of this conversation, from the way you're looking at him like you’re waiting for him to finally crack open and spill it all out.

But when he finally turns back to face you fully, all he sees is that unflinching patience, that quiet insistence that you’re not going to let him go until he finally says what he’s been hiding for so long. It makes him want to burn every rule he’s built for himself.

"You don't get it," he spats roughly, eyes flicking to the floor. "I can’t just... say it. It’s part of me, it’s who I am, this thing that I can’t get away from."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room in one smooth motion. There’s no anger in your steps—just a calm resolve that cuts through the tension between you like a knife.

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," you peek up at him, unfamilarly timid as you cross this uncharted territory. "I see the way you look at me. Hell, at first I thought I was imagining things but I can see it’s eating you alive. And I—” your words cut off in your own shock at the confession, the sincerity in your expression making his knees weak, “I can’t bear to see you like this.” 

Your hands reach up tentatively, like you’re scared he’ll tear himself away again. But he stills, letting your warm hands press into either side of his jaw, “you’re my rock, alright?” your words trail into a soft laugh, easing the tension of your own truth. “I don’t wanna live in a world where I’m not by your side, because you make life worth the fight to stay alive. But you can’t just keep me in the dark, I have to know what you’re feeling.” 

His breath catches in his throat, the weight of your words hitting him harder than he expected. The realization that you know, that you’ve seen through all his defenses, makes everything inside him ache.

"I don’t know what you want from me," it comes out sounding like a plea, still looking for an excuse to retreat into himself.

"I want you to stop hiding from me." Your words are simple, but they strike right at the heart of the matter. "I want you to stop pretending like you can’t have the one thing you want most."

His throat tightens, and he shakes his head, trying to dismiss it. "I don’t get it," he mumbles, though his eyes are locked on yours, searching for the reprieve he still doesn’t believe he’ll find. "I don’t... I’m not fit for this."

"I’m not either, D. I’m just asking you to let it happen." You’re so close now, he can feel the warmth of your body, the soft pressure of your fingers against his jaw. Your gaze doesn’t break, it never wavers.

And that’s when it hits him. He’s been afraid of this—afraid of the way you make him feel like he can finally breathe, like all of his pain and avoidance can cease in your presence. he’s been holding himself together with tattered shreds for so long, and you’re the only thing that’s strong enough to pull him out of the mess he’s made of himself. 

And letting that security live in someone else terrifies him more than any monster he’s faced. 

“I’m not perfect,” he admits quietly, his words like gravel in his throat. “I’m broken, and I’m scared as hell, but god, if you only knew how much I want—”

You stop him with a soft kiss, the sweetest touch of your lips to his. It's gentle, almost hesitant, but it shatters something inside him, enough to freeze him in place. The weight of everything unspoken presses in, and for the first time, it feels like the walls he's built around himself might finally crumble in your hands.

The chains of his tightly kept composure snap at the delicate pressure of your lips, and without thinking, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His hands find purchase at your waist, holding you as if you were the only thing that kept him grounded. The kiss deepens, desperate, as if he's trying to kiss away the years of holding back, the silent fear of letting you see the real him, the uncertainty of if you’d stay with him in the wreckage.

When you finally pull back, your lips linger just above his, breaths mingling. Your voice is a soft whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a thread being pulled taut. “Then say it, Dean. Tell me what you want.”

His heart beats in his chest, loud and frantic, as his walls come crashing down, piece by piece. He can’t think straight with you in his arms, all of his steely armor melts at your touch. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets go of some of those fears.

His eyes are nearly consumed by his pupils as he takes in the sight of you slightly out of breath, lips wet and a little more pink. From his doing, from his touch—it makes every broken rule worth the trouble.

“I've fallen for you, Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice is raw, shaky, but it's honest, every word carrying the weight of what he’s been holding back. “I want to keep falling for you, love and all that crap. And I’m terrified of it, but I can’t keep hiding this from you.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek, the gesture soft, but nevertheless, grounding. A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your eyes hold nothing but certainty. “You’ll never have to hide any part of yourself, Dean. I’ve been here all along, with nothing but love. Just been waiting for you to see that.”

tags <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @dulcescorderitas @bluemerakis

[pricesgirl]

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

11

Y/N

Blue is the first thing that greets me when my eyes flutter open.

Soft, hazy in the morning light, but still unmistakably her. Strands of it spill across my pillow, tangled from sleep, glowing faintly in the pale dawn. I stare at them for a moment, dazed, my brain sluggish as it pieces together where I am—where we are.

Jinx lies beside me, her face half-buried in my pillow, her breath slow and steady, each inhale a soft rhythm. She looks... peaceful. It's a rare sight, this stillness, as if the storm that usually swirls inside her has momentarily calmed. Something quieter has settled over her, something fragile and unspoken, and it wraps around my chest, tightening in a way I don’t know how to name.

The warmth of the covers contrasts sharply with the chill creeping in from the window we forgot to close, the air cool against my skin. I shift, just slightly, and the movement pulls her from slumber. A quiet sound escapes her, a murmured sigh, content and dream-soft. She stretches, limbs sprawling lazily, like the world is hers to claim.

Then, with a suddenness that jolts the air, one of her eyes cracks open. That signature, lopsided grin creeps across her face. "Hi," she murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep.

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me, a little breathless, a little shy. "Morning."

Jinx scoots closer, the movement effortless and easy. Her body curls toward mine, warm and inviting. She presses her forehead to mine, eyes fluttering closed again as she sighs, content.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, her voice almost lazy, a sharp contrast to the usual electric buzz in it. There’s something grounding in her tone now, as if the chaos has softened for a moment.

"Yeah," I answer quietly, the words wrapped in the peace of the moment. "I think so."

She hums in satisfaction, then shifts slightly, tucking herself further under the covers. Her fingers trace random patterns on my arm, slow and deliberate. It’s the kind of touch that makes everything feel warmer, safer—so different from the usual frenzy of her.

"You’re cute when you’re all sleepy," she teases, the grin curling back on her lips, but it’s softened by the tenderness in her eyes. “I like you like this.”

My breath catches in my throat, the warmth from her words spreading across my chest. “Yeah?”

She nods, her face burrowing deeper into my pillow, her hand never leaving mine. “Yeah. You look like you actually know how to relax for once.” She chuckles, a soft sound that makes my heart skip.

I squeeze her hand lightly, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me. “Maybe I’ll have to get used to it.”

Her laughter softens, turning into something quieter, more affectionate. Her eyes search mine, like she's seeing me in a way she doesn’t often let herself. The air is thick with unspoken words, both of us caught in this small, fragile bubble of peace, and for a moment, I wish we could stay here forever. Just her, just me, no complications, no rush.

She presses her lips to mine again, soft and sweet, nothing like the wild, feverish way she usually kisses me. This is slower, lingering—like she’s trying to memorize the shape of my lips against hers.

I sigh into it, my hand coming up to cup her cheek, my thumb brushing over the faint smudge of last night’s lipstick. She melts into me, her body curling even closer, tangling her legs with mine beneath the blankets.

When she pulls back, just enough to rest her forehead against mine, her breath warm against my lips, she hesitates.

Her fingers drum against my hip, tapping out a rhythm I can’t quite place. She’s quiet for a beat—long enough that I almost miss it when she murmurs, “Was I… y’know. Okay?”

It’s so uncharacteristic of her that it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. Jinx, who never falters, who moves through life with the kind of reckless certainty I can only dream of, is suddenly uncertain.

It’s oddly, achingly endearing.

I study her, the way she chews her bottom lip, the way her brows pull together like the answer actually matters to her. Like I matter. The thought tugs at something deep in my chest, something warm and fragile and terrifyingly real.

I don’t speak at first—just reach up, brushing a stray strand of blue from her face before cupping her cheek. My thumb glides over her bottom lip, gently. “You were perfect,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the corner of her mouth.

She exhales, a slow, almost imperceptible release of tension. Relief, maybe. Or something softer, something she’s not quite sure how to hold.

And then—because she’s Jinx, because she can’t let a moment be too tender—her grin stretches wide and wicked. “Yeah, I am pretty amazing, huh?”

I huff a laugh, rolling my eyes, but she’s already tackling me back into the pillows, giggling against my neck.

“You love it,” she accuses, her breath warm against my skin.

And maybe, just maybe—I do.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

The amount of hickeys currently littered over my body is ridiculous. Like, truly absurd.

Summer’s rolling in, which means less layers, which means I’m officially screwed.

I twist in front of the mirror, tugging at the collar of my tank top like that’s gonna help.

Nope. There’s one just below my collarbone, another peeking out from my shoulder, and—goddamn, is that one on my ribs?

I grin.

Y/N, my sweet, soft-spoken, rule-following girl, did all that.

It’s always the quiet ones.

I toss my head back and groan dramatically, flopping onto my bed like some tragic heroine. Because, really—how the hell am I supposed to hide all this?

A week.

It’s been a week since that night, since I had her trembling beneath me, since I learned just how many sweet little sounds I could pull from her lips.

Since I left my mark on her in more ways than one.

And now? Now I’m the one walking around looking like I lost a fight with a goddamn vacuum.

I press my fingers over one of the deeper bruises, feeling the dull thrum of pain beneath my touch.

A shiver rolls down my spine—not from the soreness, but from the memory of how it got there.

Y/N, all breathless and desperate, her hands gripping at me like she was afraid I’d slip through her fingers.

Holy shit.

I slap both hands over my face and groan again, kicking my legs against the mattress. I’m so screwed.

A knock at the window has my head snapping up. I already know who it is before I even turn. No one else ever comes through there.

Sure enough, when I peek over my shoulder, Y/N is crouched on the fire escape, her brows furrowed like she’s debating whether or not this was a stupid idea.

I scramble up immediately, all my previous suffering forgotten.

Because, yeah, I may be covered in evidence of her complete and utter corruption, but I missed her. And I get the feeling she missed me too.

I unlatch the window, pulling it open just enough to smirk at her. “What’s this, toots? Breaking and entering?”

I watch as Y/N tries to climb through the window, but the second she puts her foot down, she wobbles—damn, those Mary Janes. Not exactly made for stealthy, graceful moves.

She catches herself on the windowsill, her cheeks flushing in that way that makes me want to laugh and kiss the crap out of her at the same time.

“Okay, maybe not my best idea,” she mutters, straightening up and brushing her hands down her skirt.

That short skirt.

The one that seems to get shorter every time she moves.

It’s a little too much, a little too tempting, but then she looks at me with those wide eyes, all innocent but somehow not, and I forget all the thoughts that might have made sense a moment ago.

I step closer, feeling the air between us grow thicker.

There’s something electric about how she’s standing there, caught in the tension of the moment—still a little off-balance, but all too aware of how her skirt clings to her body, the way her fingers play at the fabric, trying to smooth it down.

It only makes me want to see more, make it all a little messier.

“You know,” I say softly, the smirk tugging at my lips as I reach out to steady her, my fingers brushing her waist, "I think you might need some help."

Her breath catches, the heat between us igniting, and her lips part like she wants to say something, but the words die in her throat.

Instead, she lets me guide her closer, and before I can second-guess it, I pull her in, lips crashing against hers.

It’s frantic at first—rushed, desperate.

My hands tangle in her hair, the world outside forgotten as we melt into each other.

Her lips are soft but insistent, her hands grip my shirt like she’s trying to anchor herself to me, and god, I want to drown in this.

She pulls away just enough to catch her breath, and her eyes meet mine, darker now, full of something I can’t name. The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable, not at all.

Then she’s back against me, pressing her body into mine like she can’t get close enough.

Her skirt rides up just a little more as she shifts, and I swear, it’s like the world shrinks down to this moment—just her and me.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: mini chapter again, they're in their honeymoon phase, which is the sweetest ;)

please like and reblog <3

[abastardworthknowing]

Ever since I saw that one post that said that what Aziraphale actually meant from:

“Oh Crowley, nothing lasts forever.”

What he meant was that he’d come back… not that the bookshop wouldn’t last forever. Aziraphale meant that he would come home. To Crowley. To the bookshop. To earth, when it was safe. For real this time. Not in the “perfect” peaceful fragile existence kind, but in the heaven and hell won’t bother us ever again kind. The we will be safe forever kind.

Him being in HEAVEN won't last forever.

And every time I remember it, I think back to their miscommunication in the closet… when Crowley said:

“Your exactly and my exactly are different exactlys.”

I am never going to cope with the s2e6 episode ever again!!

Let’s be real here. How else would he react to the Metatron threatening Crowley right to Aziraphale’s face? I think we were all so bamboozled by the ending that we just completely glazed over the fact that that Aziraphale knows what heaven is already. He knows what the Metatron is: Someone who is capable of hurting both him and Crowley if he really wanted to. someone who answers for God apparently. Someone who is basically in complete control of everything. In the book, it’s the Metatron that appears on Earth, not Gabriel, in season one. So why would Aziraphale let him hurt them? Why would he allow Crowley to get hurt by the people that they’ve been running from since pretty much the beginning of time?

Our angel is not going to run away more. And that is why he went to heaven. To put an end to it. Plus he didn’t know Armageddon 2 Electric Boogaloo was going to happen. Because Crowley got so distracted by telling him that he wants to spend eternity with him. I still think that was on purpose. Or somehow things were put into place to make it so that Crowley was too distracted to tell Aziraphale that Armageddon 2 was happening. so now is there a fail has even more reason to be up there and try and do something. They saved earth once before. They are going to do it again, hopefully permanently this time.

Their existence wasn’t perfect because they couldn’t be themselves. I think Azi knew that and I think Crowley knows that. Hence his use of fragile. But perhaps he meant them being fragile. I don’t know. The waiting (for the finale) is killing me.

[cursedbycain]

eternity - Cain x Lane

tagging: @rc-catalog and also my love @kazu-naito who is currently mad at me so this is how i say sorry <3

synopsis: spreading you open is the only way of knowing you

tw: crying, themes of loss, rated T

wc: 1.7k

Lane isn't quite sure what to do with Cain in her bedroom. He's soaked from standing in the rain, aching with something she can't quite place. An ancient pain hangs heavy in the air.

He shrugs his coat off wearily as she watches with a fascination that borders on reverence. She had long ago noticed the haphazard slits at the back of everything Cain wore: rough, jagged cuts, clearly torn with his bare hands. Their unevenness would occasionally reveal a sliver where pale skin met white feathers. But she would always avert her gaze before the image could root too deeply in her mind.

He rests the wet fabric over her desk chair, and faint dripping sounds blend into the pounding of heavy rain against her window. He walks back over to where she's sitting at the end of her bed, steps silent as always.

"You should get some sleep," he tells her, voice low and full of exhaustion. The squad was always taking advantage of the immortal, making him patrol in the freezing rain and stay awake to watch over them. It was no wonder he hardly had time for rest. He makes no move to leave her room. Instead, he sinks to the floor with his back against the foot of her bed as if he had done so a hundred times.

"I'm not tired," she answers with a gentle lie. Her body aches with the urge to lay back on her comfortable bed and let sleep envelop her. But something about tonight feels fragile and rare, a thread of golden light stretching taut between them, and she doesn't want to miss the way it might snap or unravel.

She shifts to sit closer to him, her thigh brushing his shoulder. The dampness of his feathers transfers easily, cool against her bare skin.

"You're still wet," she notes, almost to herself. But her voice betrays her. There's something electric humming just beneath the surface. The memory flashes in her mind: the taste of his lips, the heat of his body pressed against hers, the wooden cross behind her back. The thought makes her pulse quicken. Her skin remembers it before her mind fully does.

Cain says nothing for a long stretch of time. He never speaks without meaning, and when he's like this, she's learned it's worth the wait. The silence between them is not uncomfortable. It breathes, stretches, curls into the corners of the room like smoke.

"You know, Lane, this is all so strange," he says at last, his voice threaded with something unnameable. She doesn't want to press too hard. Sometimes she considers Cain to be like a butterfly, landing on her out of curiosity. Not wanting to scare him away, she often keeps perfectly still until he finds what he needs. He always did.

"What exactly?" Her fingers twitch with the urge to run through his hair again. It frustrates her, how soft it is, unreasonably soft, silken. A texture that belongs to heaven and has no right in her mortal hands.

"When I'm with you, the world begins to seem easier and more understandable. As if my existence finally has a purpose." He pauses, sensing her breath hitch. She opens her mouth to say something, but he presses forward.

"But humans won't be around forever." He exhales heavily, an exhausted sound.

He says "humans" but she knows what he means. Rather, who he means.

"No one will. And this ephemeral feeling you give me is like some strange sense of acceptance." He tilts his head to study her reaction. His eyes flicker up to meet hers, searching. Whatever he sees there, hope, maybe, or a foolish kind of love, makes him sigh again, more wounded and dejected than before.

"Stop looking at me like that. Don't make my life even more unbearable." His voice is wracked with pain, like he had spent a thousand years suffering. He leans forward and places his head gently on her bare knees. The contact is tentative at first, as though expecting her to pull away. But she doesn't. Melancholy radiates from his skin like mist from a waterfall. He shifts again, pressing closer to her, and the cold of his body contrasts with the heat of her own.

"I'd managed to forget I had ever felt such vivid sensations. Lust, passion, affection, all of these words had come to describe others' feelings. I hadn't cared about anyone for so many years. I'd never thought about a human." His fingers trace the curve of her calf, reverent and ghostlike, as if memorizing her through touch.

"And now?" she asks, matching his tone. Cain looks up at her, gaze unreadable. His face is eerily still, carved from marble, it seems. But in his eyes, something cracks. Not a sob, not a shift in breath. Just the faint glisten of tears rising silently, betraying him. They gather at the edges, shimmer in the low light, and then fall, slow, measured, like water slipping down a statue's perfectly chiseled face. His expression doesn't change. It never does.

"I never imagined I would feel this way. Mortal lives are so..." He trails off, grip on her calf tightening slightly, grounding himself in her presence. The wetness continues to streak silently down his cheeks, each tear ignored, as if by pretending not to notice them, he could will them away. She cups the side of his face, stroking his hair, soothing him like one might a wounded animal.

He flinches ever so slightly at the contact, not because he doesn't want it, but because he does. Her tenderness feels like a spotlight, and he's spent centuries hiding in shadows. He doesn't look at her. He stares past her shoulder, jaw clenched, mouth a firm, unreadable line.

The tears keep coming.

No trembling lips. No hitched breath. His body remains still, composed, wings tucked close in a quiet mimicry of control. But his silence is deafening. He weeps like a condemned thing trying not to be seen, like sorrow has become a reflex so deeply buried it's separated from reaction. It guts her more than any sob could.

She shifts closer, both hands in his hair now, grounding him with murmured words she doesn't expect him to hear. He doesn't speak. His fingers curl into her thigh, not desperately, but with a dull, aching need. He presses his face against her skin, hiding every speck of vulnerability that might betray him.

"I have lived a long life. An eternity without you." he says at last, voice even. Flat.

"I never thought I would find someone who would make me feel like this. I don't think I can bear life after you." Lane has never seen him like this, shattered, yet still performing the illusion of strength. Cain, who had always seemed untouchable, was quietly disassembling in her lap.

"It'll be alright." She murmurs, though even she hears the hollowness of it. He will outlive her. That is the cruel truth of their relationship. One day, she'll be gone, and he will still walk the Earth, aching with memory.

He nods once, a mechanical gesture. His tears continue to fall. The whites of his eyes are tinged red, but his irises remain their usual blue.

"I can't quite imagine it. Never seeing you again. The faces you make, the way you speak..." His voice holds the same quiet cadence, but something in it rings hollow, like he's echoing from inside a cavern.

She brushes the tears from his face again, gently, reverently. She doesn't speak. Just holds him there, her angel with glass bones and a steel spine, crying like a monument abandoned in the rain. Lane had always felt protected when he was around, like no other being could possibly harm her. But in this moment, he is putting himself in her hands, even if she can't protect him from himself.

"I'm right here. Right now." She runs a hand along his wings, tracing the soft edges. He lets out a slow breath and rests his head back in her lap. His arm slips around her thighs, holding her like a lifeline. His face is wet against her skin but she pays it no mind.

They sit in silence, wrapped in their shared quiet. Her fingers move gently through his hair, and she lets herself hold him. Lane hadn't realized how much the angel craved affection and love. She can't help but feel infinitely sorry for him. Not afraid of rejection, she tugs him upward.

"Come sleep." She shifts up onto the bed. Not wanting to part with her for a second, he follows her movements and climbs up. It's difficult to shift under the blankets with his arms wrapped firmly around her waist, limbs tangled together, but she manages it. He flattens his wings so she can rest the covers over them. Cain's hair tickles the warm skin of her shoulder. His breath fans over her collarbones as he presses impossibly closer.

She continues to play with the snow white waves of his hair. Her other hand, pinned beneath his weight, settles against his back. She doesn't know how long she lies there, staring at the ceiling above.

When his breath evens and sleep takes him, she glances down. He looks peaceful, the permanent mask that hides his feelings now softened into something almost childlike.

She closes her eyes.

Her last thought is of the angel asleep on her chest.

When morning light filters in, the angel untangles himself from her slowly. In a dreamlike haze, she tightens her grip with a soft whine of protest. His face has a ghost of a smile as he presses a kiss to her forehead. It's a promise hidden in the morning silence. Finally, he tucks the blankets around her and watches her sleep. When she slips back into a deep slumber, he steps away.

Then, he leaves. A fullness he has no name for, warm and aching, nests beneath his ribs.

[sunlightmurdock]

Like This Forever | 0.3 | Jake Seresin x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Chapter Three. The early stages of pregnancy are really taking a toll on you. Jake’s got questions.

Warnings: talks of abortion / anti-abortion ideology. We’re pro-choice over here. This is an accidental pregnancy fic. Lying. Friends to lovers. WC: 3.6k.

…

Snickering had given the two of you away instantly. From the moment that Matthew Seresin had pushed open the door to the room, he had known that something was amiss. The house was uncharacteristically quiet for a Friday evening — those were the nights you stayed for dinner while your mother worked late, and you had spent hours with Matthew’s youngest brother causing nothing but trouble.

“If you’re in my room, I’m going to lock you out with the cows, you little freaks.” The then seventeen-year old had warned, his eyes narrowed warily as he tiptoed across the hardwood of his bedroom floor, aged floorboards creaking under his weight.

With that, a clammy little hand pressed itself firmly over your mouth. When you turned to look, Jake had been staring right at you, his cheeks dimpled with the sheer joy from his grin. A few more heavy steps and Matthew had dropped his old duffel packed full of wrestling gear to the floor.

Your nose had wrinkled at the smell. Disgusting, sweaty teenage boy athletic gear is a scent that doesn’t fade from memory.

“Last chance, you little germs.” Matthew had warned, craning his neck to check out his closet, then to squint at the open door to the bathroom he had Noah had shared.

From under his bed, you knew you were safe for at least a couple more minutes. As the oldest boy, and the messiest at the time, Matty’s room had plenty of hiding spots back then. Especially for two ten year olds who knew this old house inside and out. But, your window of opportunity was closing — there’s a fragile line between being able to scare the life out of Matthew Seresin, and just evoking his wrath. Back then, in all of his teenage hormonalism, the latter was much easier.

“Three,” Jake had mouthed to you, his shaggy hair falling in front of his eyes and his nose just a fraction too big for his face back then. “Two…”

The two of you had leapt out from opposite sides of Matthew’s double bed, scaring him so bad that he had lost balance in his gym socks, slipped on the wood and landed flat on his ass. He had been so angry that day — the two of you had slept out in Jake’s treehouse because you were so afraid of what Matty would do if he had gotten his hands on you.

Jake has always been a wriggly sleeper. He always tosses and turns, balls his hands into fists and stretches his arms out as wide as they’ll span. He has thought about joining you in your afternoon nap a couple of times now, as you stretch out along the plush bench opposite the kitchenette, but he won’t. All of his wriggling keeps you up, and he hasn’t ever seen you this tired. Even after the two of you had snuck off to Panama City Beach and spent thirty-six hours straight awake the summer after high school.

The tour has been electric so far, and Jake’s still waiting for the high of it all to wear off. His body feels like it’s vibrating as he plucks absently at the guitar strings, turning his head away from you and looking back out towards the open stretch of road. The first three dates have been everything Jake could ever have imagined. He has signed t-shirts, records, hats and skin and listened to crowds call back his lyrics for three nights consecutively. Currently, is a travel day. Seven hours from New Mexico and into Colorado. He’ll have tonight off and tomorrow, he’ll play his fourth gig in Boulder, CO. His eldest brother is going to be able to see him play.

Matt transports things outside of his work at the ranch. Just off season work to make sure his family can have the nice things he wants them to have. Jake can’t wait to see him.

The road ahead is stretching, flat and open. A couple of minutes back, the bus passed a sign informing them that the closest gas station was four miles away. Jake knows this because his driver, Pete, had announced it and interrupted Jake’s train of thought right in the middle of what could have been the best hook of Jake’s career.

With these roads out here, it’s a fifty-fifty gamble between potholes and cracks in the asphalt and smooth sailing. This road is perfectly smooth. It barely even feels like they’re moving. And yet, something wakes you up. You sit up quickly, trying to swallow through the thick churning feeling in your stomach. Your gaze flickers to the whirring air conditioning at the front of the bus as sweat slickens your forehead.

“Stop the bus!”

Pete turns in his seat, wide-eyed and ready to argue about making it before sunset, until he sees the sudden grey sheen to your skin. He doesn’t bother arguing, but his braking isn’t fast enough either.

“Pete, stop the fucking bus!”

Natasha, curled up on the bench beside you, is startled awake by the commotion. Jake’s face has already twisted into a concerned frown, his fingers stilling against the guitar strings as the bus jolts to a stop. As you leap upwards from the seat, there’s a familiar smell of dust that reminds you of that afternoon huddled under Matthew’s bed. The wild look of excitement in your best friend’s eyes are the furthest thing from your mind as you stumble forwards, two left feet trampling over each other and not enough floor space to accommodate the lack of coordination.

The door to the bus, much like the rest of it, is stiff, old and creaky. Your legs wobble down the two steps and your knees buckle, searching for the afternoon-warmed asphalt until your palms are on it too, your stomach twisting into a painful knot.

With how unceremoniously you threw yourself out of the door, Jake has to struggle to step around you without dropping himself boot-first into your breakfast. He winces, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Same old squeamish Jake. With one hand, he gets to work scooping your hair away from your neck and face and with the other, he puts a halt to the crew trying to exit the bus after you.

“Pete — you think there’s an emergency room anywhere near here?” He calls out, craning his neck to squint around the miles of fields and at the mountains in the distance.

First, you wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, and then you sit back on your knees and swat Jake’s hand out of your hair. “I don’t need to go to an emergency room. I just ate something — and all the driving, and… bleh. I’m fine.”

“Yeah and the other day you were just too warm. You’ve been feeling weird for a couple of days, we’re getting you checked out.” With his hand now out of your hair, Jake has it free to rest against your forehead, checking impatiently for some kind of temperature he isn’t going to find. Sitting on your knees, squinting at him through the afternoon sun, finding nothing but that stubborn kind of worry that is only fuelled by love, it makes you feel sick all over again.

As much as you used to bicker and fight, and sometimes you still do, Jake’s light has always matched yours in a way that has been noticeable by everyone for your entire life. You’ve always been a duo, the perfect pair. It doesn’t seem quite right that now you know there’s a part of him that’s fused with you — that your body is reacting like this.

Truthfully, you can’t pretend that carrying Jake’s baby had ever occurred to you. The ‘B’ word, really truthfully, still makes you uncomfortable three days after finding out. But, if you had ever thought about carrying Jake’s baby, you would have assumed that it would just be… easier… than this.

“Sunny, hey, look at me.” Jake frowns down at you, all that worry materialising right in the pools of his green eyes as he squats down. Squeamish Jake who couldn’t even clean the mess up after he got sick last New Years’ Eve, squatting above a puddle of hot puke, just to get a better look at your face. “We’ve got the day off — let’s just see a doctor, get you fixed up. Alright?”

“Map says there’s an urgent care down the street from the motel.” Bob calls from inside the bus, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He’s all faded denim and rolled up sleeves, a real hometown-comfort looking kind of guy. Not a rockstar by any means, but he and those drums seem to have a special arrangement. You’ve never been more grateful for him than you are right now; he just bought you another four hours.

“I can hang on ‘til then. I’ll take it easy,” You promise Jake, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears and wobbling to your feet. He presents both hands and breathes a sigh of relief as you brace yourself on his forearms. “It’s just a couple of hours — and I don’t see any hospitals around here anyway. Do you?”

Jake lets it go.

He boards the bus once again and sits with his elbows on his knees and watches you sleep for the next four hours. The way you’re moving, you’re going to drive that guy sick with worry — and Jake Seresin does not take kindly to being sick.

It’s got to be a sign, you think to yourself as you try to appear asleep. Your body rattles with the bus and the lack of the seatbelt, soft cushion under your back as you take up just about the only ‘tour bus-like’ commodity thag this old girl has to offer. Jake’s baby — fetus — clump of cells — whatever the fuck is chilling in there and ruining your day; you and that thing just aren’t compatible. It’s as simple as that.

It’s bringing you to your knees three days in. You haven’t slept, anything you eat won’t stay down, and your nerves are shot with the idea that you created a lifeform in the filthy back room of the Darkstar.

It’s not like you’re a teenager. You’re a grown up who is old enough to be moved out, old enough to be married. Hell, old enough to be a parent. By the standards of Driftwood, Texas, it’s about time you hitched a ride on the baby making bandwagon. Though, even in this more progressive times, the folks back home wouldn’t be too happy to hear that you just let any old guy knock you up.

That idea plays on your mind a lot at night now. The thought of walking down Main Street, all big and round in a pretty little dress, radiant and ready to be a mother. No husband waiting for you at home, no men in line to get down on one knee either. This clump of cells, or whatever, without a father. Poor thing. Well — that would make things even worse. It wouldn’t take long for people to figure out that your little mistake was a Seresin.

You hope that when they figured it out, they would understand. They would take one look at the photographs of you with Jake — all of those summers, and winters, and nights that weren’t captured by a lens, and know that you’re not just easy. Though — you are, you suppose. Jake hadn’t ever had to even ask. You’d agreed to it wordlessly before, or asked him expressly yourself. But that’s Jake. You hope they all know that’s what makes it different.

But you could save yourself all that explaining, all that hoping. With a small gulp, you know how easy it would be. You’re not that far along. All this sickness, and weakness and exhaustion would be gone in no time. You could just say you had a bug. Jake wouldn’t ever know, and his career would become everything he has ever wanted. You would get to remain part of it.

Maybe some day, you could do it the right way. Intentionally. That would feel better. You’d be prepared, the baby would be loved. This… baby — you’re not sure you could ever love something that threatens to rip away everything you and Jake have worked so hard for. Something insignificant that you hadn’t ever wanted, much less intended.

“How you feeling?” Natasha asks, crouched at your side with a glass of water and two ibuprofen in hand. Breaking into the hangover stash to ease your symptoms now. Not a good sign. You blink through the light, glancing over her head at Jake watching you through the rear view mirror, pretending to pluck at his guitar.

“I need someone to distract Jake when we get to the motel. You’ll take me to urgent care, right?” You ask her, dropping the two pills into your mouth and downing them with a strained gulp of water. Her soft brows draw together just slightly as she squeezes at your knee.

“Of course.”

Tbe plan, of course, was never to go to urgent care. While Jake’s stuck on the phone with his mother in a dingy motel room after a carefully timed ambush from Mickey, you’re across the town of Boulder, Colorado, sitting in the waiting area of a Planned Parenthood. The worst part is — Natasha doesn’t even know why it’s so important to keep Jake distracted.

As far as she knows, it’s because your best friend is over protective and because you’ve already got too much on your mind to deal with all the questions. It’s not entirely a lie.

The pen trembles between your fingers. A dotted line has never appeared to be quite so looming before today. All it asks for is your name, and you’re stumped. Outside, routine chanting presses on. Screeching, more like. They had caught you on the way in. People who looked far too similar to those from home, looking into your eyes, knowing exactly what you wanted so desperately to hide.

Baby. Baby. Baby. Your baby can feel already. Your baby has fingernails. Eyelashes. Heartbeat. The entire concept makes you shudder. All the times you’ve laid your head on Jake’s chest and steadied your breathing to the strong thrum of his steady heartbeat. You wonder if it sounds similar.

“It’s just a consultation.” You whisper. It isn’t until Natasha lifts her head and turns to look at you with those big, brown eyes that you realise you’ve said it outloud. One of her hands curls softly around your knee and squeezes softly. She nods. Not to you in particular.

It is just a consultation. Confirmation that you’re pregnant, a couple of questions about your permanent doctor. Whether you’ve ever been pregnant before. The doctor can see it on your face that this is uncharted territory for you. Talk about your vaccinations, your medical history.

“Okay, and is this pregnancy something that you’re looking to go through with?” You suppose there is no easy way to ask that question, and she doesn’t do it any better or worse than you would have expected. Still, it renders you totally silent. “It’s okay if the answer is no.”

“Will I be able to get pregnant again?” Your voice trembled. It’s a strange thing, finding yourself worry for something you had taken for granted until this point. The answer does nothing to reassure you.

“That’s not a very straightforward question. From the exam, I can’t see any reason why not, but things can change and age will be a factor in that.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m only twenty-six.”

It’s so casual. With a shrug, the doctor hums. “Just in the future. Something to be mindful of.”

You pick at your cuticles, staring towards the ground. “Do I have to decide today?”

“No. But I should advise you, it’s best to perform a termination as early as possible for safety and success.”

Without any of the answers you had been hoping for, you leave the office feeling substantially worse. You’ve been told that the entire crew are going out to a bar in town tonight. Your decision to lay in bed and wallow is both to ease Jake’s nerves and also, so that you don’t have to see his face. That doesn’t work out too well.

It’s just after six when he lets himself into your motel room and locks the door behind him. His smell fills the room, the sound of his boots tap softly against the floor. You squeeze your eyes shut as the bed dips with his weight.

“How ya feelin’, champ?”

A tired smile creeps across your face, even as you try to fight it. Jake worms his way into your bed until his face is opposite yours. Freckles on the bridge of his nose and a glint in his eye. A fond smile on his lips.

“Fine, like I told you.” You answer him. He doesn’t reach for you, but he wants to. He wants to grab both your cheeks in his hands and demand that you tell him everything the doctor told you. If you need more rest, or a certain vitamin, or if you’re allergic to the sun now or something.

As kids, you often discussed which superpower you would pick if you could have them. Right now, Jake has never wanted to be a mindreader more.

“Oh. So you don’t want the get-well treats that I got you, then?” There’s a faint rustling of a plastic bag at the bottom of his bed, purposely knocked by his leg to pique your interest.

“Depends what you got.” You both know exactly what he would have gotten you. It’s exactly what you would have gotten for yourself. Jake smiles as he sits up and pulls the bag between the two of you, setting it open to reveal the contents.

“If this doesn’t make you feel better, I think it’s time to call it. You had a good run, twenty-six isn’t a bad age.” He teases, already digging his hand through your bag of goodies to present you with the crème de le crème of gas station snacks. A warm, almost feverish, grin spreads across your lips as he hands you the chocolate bar.

Once it’s in your hands, Jake props himself up on his side and watches you take a bite. He studies you, slow and methodical, looking for any kind of discrepancy. Pain, fear — anything that will give him answers.

“You want a bite?” You offer him through a mouthful. Wordlessly, he leans in with that smirk plastered all over his face once again, and takes a bite from the top of the chocolate bar, then pulls back. Inches from your face, you watch him watching you.

“Haven’t lost your appetite. You’re warm but you don’t have a fever. Dizziness and nausea. You’d tell me if you were gonna die on me, right, Sunny girl?” With that, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Maybe he needs the full picture to study your face better. You scoff, swallowing down a bite of the chocolate.

“I’m not dying.” It’s not the answer he’s looking for; you know you’re just inviting him to pester you more.

You think back to Matthew. You were twelve when he had to sit down his entire family and tell them that he had gotten his high school girlfriend pregnant. He was nineteen at the time. They had been together a long time, but it had seemed like such a bombshell. You remember how upset Jake’s parents were originally.

Matthew’s engagement was short. He married Isabelle before she was even in her second trimester. He works on the ranch through the year and picks up trucking jobs in the off season, now with three kids total. As much as Jake loves his oldest brother — you know that Matthew was his warning sign. Even now, Matt’s a sign to Jake of what he would have to give in to if he wasn’t careful.

Jake stares across at you, “Did they figure out what’s the matter with you?”

“Yeah.” You tell him, watching your hands pluck off a piece of the chocolate and place it into your mouth. Jake’s brows knit together as he watches you fight so calmly to avoid his gaze. He’s starting to look a lot like his big brother.

“Well? — Is it curable? — You’re freaking me out here.” He prompts you, just about ready to snatch the chocolate back out of your hands if it will get him an answer. You scoff quietly. Curable. Sure — to an extent.

You inhale deeply and hold it there. All of your secrets have always also been Jake’s. He’s waiting for an answer, trying not to panic.

“I’m pregnant.”

And there it is. Lingering in the air between you, you stare across at your best friend and watch those two words change absolutely everything. All at once, his face changes and his hands are reaching out for you. His hands curl around your waist, thumbs reaching towards the middle of your stomach. Jake hasn’t ever looked quite so much like his big brother.

In a split-second decision, you rush out a remedy. “It’s not yours.”

His hands still against your middle. The greens of his eyes are pale, empty, searching. He presses his lips into a line. “How can you know that?”

“The doctor said I’m ten weeks along already,” Your lie doesn’t feel good. As it’s leaving your lips, it feels hot and uncomfortable. It doesn’t change the look on Jake’s face at all. “It was before we even hooked up.”

taglist: @fia-thefirst @daggerspare-standingby @dempy @v0id-chaos @moonlight-addisyn @grxcisxhy-wp @shakespeareanwannabe @coconut152 @330bpm-whiplash @takemetooneverlanddd @princess76179 @loveofvernonslife @averyhotchner @trickphotography2 @sushiwriterhere @the-romanian-is-bae @atarmychick007 @talktomegooseman @xoxabs88xox @thedroneranger @roostersforevergirl @buckysdollforlife @abaker74 @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989 @ahoyyharrington @whatislovevavy @lonelywriter10 @s-u-t @topguncortez @callsign-joyride @rosedurin @86laura11 @theenorthstar @mygyn @growup-thatbeautiful @percysaidnever @katiedid-3 @its-the-pilot @mrsevans90 @springholland @kidd3ath @kissmecaiti @swiftsgirlfriend @emma8895eb

[vertejay]

🎸﹐, Simple Melody ; 𝄞

𓇼﹐, the good the bad and the ugly ; 𝄞 ﹐ m.list

𓇼﹐, kageyama ; found himself balancing volleyball with the adlers, while riding out this life-long passion of singing-songwriting that filled an aching hole somewhere inside of him. he was missing something and he frantically searched day and night to no avail. kags has found himself in this terrible, incredibly dull slump and he doesn’t know where he might end up trying to get out. maybe he’ll die trying. texturizing sea salt spray for hair, rosy tints to his highest points of his face and toned body. musky pine and the breeze carrying parts of the salty ocean with it. a scent that brings a fired warmth swirling in your lungs from a single breath. his once calloused hands soothed over from the achingly sweet melodies he comes up with over his electric guitar. maybe you’re too afraid to break him if you hold on the wrong way, for too long, or too tight, as if he were fragile like glass. glass leaves cuts and protects itself in its own way too, glass is tough too.

𓇼﹐, suga ; his beloved upperclassman who made a choice yesterday, today, and will continue to do so as long as tomorrow promises to come, to stick around with kageyama and watch him grow into who he is today. kags is forever grateful for his mentor who has kept his head on his shoulders for all these years. kageyama would’ve quit on one of his life long dreams a long time ago if it weren’t for him. suga helps write songs, brainstorms directions of songs, basically his manager bts. "I’ll do it, if you do it" always, as much as suga encourages the good, he’ll encourage the bad too. he’s witnessed kageyama fall slowly into the shell of himself that he is now, and he sees the longing and undeniable hurt but can never understand the depth of such. soft hands rubbing comforting circles on his back in last effort to comfort kags. he wasn’t called mr refreshing for nothing. he’s like a breath of fresh air. put together, and aquatic. drinking in a mix of bergamot, mandarin, and green tea like a syrup. its thick, but not heavy. aromatic, but no overpowering, thanks to the musk, black currant and sandalwood.

𓇼﹐, shoyo ; maybe subconsciously, keeping him around meant keeping the once great big grievances of highschool around. keeping him around meant life before the life he’s barely living now. it’s laughable how he thought how big his problems were are so minuscule in retrospect now. like comparing a person to the size of the sun. nothing comparable in size, and when put next to each other it would ravage the person alive. but shoyos company was more than that now. shoyo has grown to surpass his prime with kageyama, maybe he’s the only stagnant one. everyone else is growing and thriving, but he’s just standing. he knows more than anyone that time waits for no one. however, he’s grown to see hinata like a brother. someone he had to look out for and take care of even on his worst days. sunshine and suntan lotion on summer glowing skin. salty ocean air clinging to his hair. the sound of the waves carried on the warm breeze. this is summer. not to shy away from fresh coconut, dried sea salt, lime peel, dewy jasmine, delicate musk, and sun bleached woods.

𓇼﹐, kita ; he was awestruck with kitas performing during high school and there was no quieting his busy mind. some how, he convinced himself to reach out and commend kita and his work, for the first time in a while, kageyama felt sympathy for someone. he had stopped kitas final years of volleyball dead in its tracks as he knew it. there were a lot of firsts that night kags reached out. the two of them would catch up here and there, but nothing too consistent. come time that kageyama was recently graduated from karasuno, they began to run into each other more often. their relationship rekindled there and had grown into the fondness present now. late night runs to anywhere, sitting in silence in kitas car listening to music, undeniably there for kageyama through thick and thin. something about him is so inviting, like the hug of warmth from a campfire on a crisp fall night. smells like fall, a complexion of cold yet a depth comfort, but there’s a somber lingering to the profile. maybe it’s from all those days out in the sun.

𓇼﹐, kiyoomi ; at some point, kags found himself coming around the msby team because of his closeness with shoyo. there was an entanglement subconsciously between kiyoomi and kageyama. the unspoken, i hate people and i don’t want to be here, yet they stayed. kageyama is quite close with the team, but often times drifts to shoyo and kiyoomi. there’s an unspoken understanding between them. maybe sakusa saw himself somewhere in the burning passion that unyieldingly made room for itself through kageyamas presence. there was this warmth to sakusa, unbeknownst to those who stood at a distance with him. good at listening, and level headed, therefore good advice. a kind of warmth you can only imagine after taking clothes out of the dryer, or a particular spring day in your childhood. a nostalgic sweetness you can’t quite put your finger on, but always just barely out of reach. clean musk clings to him, like clean clothes that dried outside on a warm slightly windy day on a clothesline. fresh linen or the subtle powdery drift of honey and vanilla.

[negative-speedforce]

Major Spoiler warning for the first draft of how I'm going to end Siv's story

Siv closed their eyes, feeling for the crackling power that used to rest on the edge of their subconscious. "I have to fix this." They opened their eyes- Nothing. "Please. One last time." Siv took a deep breath, and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the world stopped.

A surge of energy rushed through their body as the corners of her vision turned fractal, the familiar electricity rushing through every bone in her. Her just-past-shoulder-length hair stood up on end, floating above them in a nonexistent breeze. Their jeans and hoodie had vanished, replaced by a black leather suit, with dark slate details, and a gold chain belt with lightning-shaped charms clipped to it.

Siv clenched their fist, testing their powers. Scarlet lightning sparked around her hand, and a wide smile spread across her face. Stepping to the ledge of the building she stood on top of, Siv took a deep breath, and allowed herself to fall.

Using a few short bursts of lightning to slow her fall, Siv landed on her feet, a slight shock of pain hitting their knees, but it was inconsequential. They had a mission.

"Eobard Thawne." Siv approached the man, who was frozen in time mid-leap. "I could kill you right now, and you would never notice. You couldn't resist me. Not when you're like this."

Siv touched her father's face, sighing regretfully. "You know, in another world, we could have been a family. If you would have just let go, before everything went to shit, maybe the future would have been different. You and I are very similar in that regard. But I refuse to repeat your mistakes- I'm letting go."

"If I don't let go, it's going to kill me. This rage, this pain- it is killing me. Don't mistake this for me forgiving or forgetting, that's not what I'm doing, and it's never going to happen." Siv explained, though they knew that Eobard couldn't hear them. "I can't chase you forever. I can't be like you- we're more similar than either of us would like to admit. I had a choice- make something else of myself, or die your daughter. We're both obsessive. We hurt the ones we love for that obsession. But the cycle ends here and now. I refuse to be you, and that is what this is turning me into."

Siv put her hand on Eobard's chest, instinct causing her to reach for the energy that flowed through his body. "I'm done blaming myself for Gina's death. It was your choice to kill her. I was a kid who didn't even know their dad was capable of something that horrible. But I'm not that kid anymore. I wonder what you'd think of me now, if you knew who I really was. I'm not that broken, scared little girl who you could manipulate anymore."

When she pulled her hand back, a small ball of crackling lightning followed her, hovering a mere inch above their hand. They clenched their fist, crushing the small ball of lightning like a bug She then took Eobard's hand, pulling him into her perception of time.

"Sivonne?" Eobard blinked, clearly panicked at the sudden loss of his speed.

"I can't be you. That's why I'm giving you a choice. You can let go now, and let your feud with Allen die... or you die, alone and unwanted by anyone. Good riddance." Siv continued. "But I'm never going to let you hurt another person again. Your speed's gone. This fight is going to kill you. You can leave, or die slowly or painfully. It's all up to you."

"You'll never be able to let go." Eobard smirked, clearly bluffing and trying to get into Siv's head. "Do you really think a fragile little thing like you could actually stop me?"

"Fragile?" Siv laughed. "Clearly, you haven't talked to me in a few years. But listen to me. I'm not going to hurt you. I've grown beyond that. But if you get out of this alive, and so much as look at someone I love, there will be a reckoning, and you will die slowly and painfully. Do you understand?"

"Bold words. But that's all they are." Eobard continued. "What are you going to do without me, Sivonne?"

"Live." Siv bared their teeth, a well-aimed punch throwing Eobard back into the normal flow of time, the complete standstill rushing back to normal. Eobard, despite his lack of speed, used his continued momentum to rush headfirst into the lightning bolt Barry wielded like a sword, where he was skewered like a serial killer kebab.

Eobard collapsed to the ground, grasping at the wound in his chest. Siv stepped back, watching from afar as he struggled, then ultimately went limp. It was over. He was gone, hopefully for good this time. But they didn't hope too much. After all, she had died twice and was somehow still kicking, so there was a chance Eobard might return, albeit small.

But now wasn't the time to think about that. It was time to celebrate what had happened- Sivonne Alessandra Thawne was finally free.

[lets-pretend-i-exist]

“Growing up queer can feel monstrous, and I need to see that on screen. When you get preached at that people like you go to Hell for what you are and the ways you want, you start to relate to the demons. When you’re taught the truest, most joyful parts of you are unholy, it’s fair to ask—why should I respect the authority of a system that hates me for reasons I can’t control?

You learn to disguise your desire, and it changes you. It changes you to choke down your feelings, to deny them, to believe that they are sin. You learn to pour them into the hidden language of love that arises between you and whoever you’re lucky enough to share it with, so you don’t learn how to say them aloud. (Their arrangement, “little demonic miracle of my own,” the fourth alternative rendezvous. This is what queer love has looked like for millennia: something beautiful and true, despite, despite, despite.) Unlike those whose love has only ever been legal, permitted, “normal,” “holy”—your relationship is inescapably shaped by the threat behind it.”

“Serpent of Eden, gardener cast from the garden, sculptor of starlight doomed to the pits of hell. You thought nothing would hurt worse than falling, and then you fell for him.”

“You can’t leave this bookshop, Crowley says, but he’s asking, don’t you want me?

Nothing lasts forever, Aziraphale says, but he’s saying there’s nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice for you.”

“This is the shit I’ve been waiting for all my life. When God abandons you, when you’re not sure what to believe in, who to trust—look at who knows you. Who sees you, and wants to know who you are.

Queer love isn’t neat. The closet isn’t just one thing. Love isn’t love isn’t love isn’t love. I’ve always hated that expression, because queerness should be normalised, not defanged.”

“He’s not a human, but he is queer: his love is forbidden, marginalized, at odds with the foundations of morality he’s been taught. And like many queers who get the opportunity to rise through the ranks of a discriminatory system, he thinks he can change it from the inside.”

“This is how human. There’s nothing of you I don’t want. You’ve got me. I want anything you’ll give me, as long as it’s you.”

“If Crowley could feel the Bentley go yellow, I can only imagine what it felt like to drive through hellfire to meet Aziraphale at the air base at the end of the world.”

-

I feel like I’m going to be sick: every paragraph of this post is one astute gut-punch after another.

It feels like the author has strung together all the nebulous pieces – pieces that draw a spot of blood when the curious observer pricks a finger on them individually – to form a somewhat gruesome answer that one feels should have been obvious from the outset. Electricity pulses through the remnant parts and they roar to life in terrifying glory.

I’m thinking about Troye Sivan singing “if I’m changing a part of me / maybe I don’t want heaven.” I’m thinking about “the only heaven I’ll be sent to / is when I’m alone with you.” I’m thinking about six thousand years of codes and handwritten notes and meeting on the top of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts and St James’ Park and all of it necessarily taking place in the background. I’m thinking about everyone else being able to see it clearly but those involved being unable to give voice to the precious, peaceful, fragile existence that we have carved out for ourselves. I’m thinking about Neil calling this season “quiet and gentle and romantic” and that being true but also so completely deceptive.

Season 2 did break me in a way that I don’t think any media, even intrinsically queer media like Sense8, has done before. It didn’t just take up residence in my mind for every spare second of the day. It took me weeks to even mostly recover from the complete decimation it enacted on much of my mind and heart. And in a terribly conceited way, the more I think about it (beyond the profound power of the media itself), this is because I relate to Aziraphale in terms of my past and I relate to Crowley in terms of my imagined future. My present self sits somewhere in between.

Aside from the whole concept of gender representation and presentation — an even more complicated matter than this — I see my past self as like Aziraphale, desperately trying to reconcile who I knew I was and what I knew I wanted with the system and community that I was embedded in. Wanting to believe that people could change their minds if I just compromised enough, just went slowly enough, just worked diligently enough and conformed enough.

I haven’t quite reached the point I want to be: somewhere nearby to Crowley’s position – of shrugging off the whole system and edifice, ripping up the ending, leaving nothing but freedom and choice. I’m not there yet; still clinging to some naive, vague notion that there is any level to which one can compromise one’s own self for the palatability of others without effectively rejecting the self entirely.

I think that seeing this dichotomy presented in s2 like that, converging suddenly, ultimately collapsing in on itself, felt like something breaking within me. These lies and half-truths we tell each other, these stories we use to get through the day — that abrupt loss, realising these choices are fundamentally incompatible… in a non-suicidal way, that loss was internally reminiscent of the fate of Neil Gaiman’s 24/7 diner. When all that artifice and self-soothing is stripped away and one is forced to reckon with what little remains, how will the gap be filled? What will one choose to do? Bury the self or forsake the system?

[grimverse]

Serena stops mid-stride, the hem of her long, sterile-blue dress whispering against her ankles. The tension coils up her spine like a live wire, buzzing in her ears louder than June’s bitter little voice. She turns, slow and deliberate. Her fists clench at her sides, white-knuckled and trembling, nails biting deep into the soft meat of her palms. She hardly notices the sting, the slight wetness gathering there. The pain is grounding. Necessary. The air between them is thick, electric. Charged with something wild and feral that neither of them will name. The words June has flung at her—cruel and jagged—lodge themselves like thorns beneath Serena’s skin. They sting. They rot. Because they are not lies. That’s what makes them unbearable.

For a long moment, Serena says nothing. She simply stares, the sharp ice of her gaze cutting across the space between them. If not for the fragile life growing in that borrowed body, she would strike June down where she stands. She would relish the way the other woman would crumple at her feet. But she doesn’t. She can’t. And so she simply suffers instead, the rage trapped inside her chest like a trapped bird beating itself bloody against her ribs.

At last, her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—no, there is no joy here—but a brittle, bitter thing, like a crack spreading through glass. When she speaks, her voice is low and dripping with disdain, cool and cruel as a scalpel. ❛ Well, ❜ she murmurs, tilting her head just slightly, a false sweetness coloring her voice, ❛ it seems you’ve found your tongue again, Offred. ❜ Her words fall like snow—soft but suffocating, meant to bury. ❛ These walks were beginning to grow dreadfully stale with only me to fill the silence. ❜

She lifts her chin, hands smoothing the front of her dress in a motion so practiced it feels automatic. Mechanical. If she presses down hard enough, maybe she can keep the bitterness from bubbling up and spilling over. ❛ You hide behind that child like a shield, ❜ she goes on, voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial, almost kind, which somehow makes it even more cruel. ❛ The only reason you’re still standing here, speaking to me like this, is because you’re carrying what doesn’t belong to you. But don’t mistake protection for power, ❜ she adds, her voice trailing like smoke behind her. ❛ It won’t last forever. ❜

She doesn’t admit guilt. She doesn’t plead innocence. What would be the point? They both know the truth rotting beneath all this ceremony and scripture.

June’s words hang in the air like an accusation wrapped in a veil of pity. Her spine stiffens. That small, forced kindness—that is what breaks her composure more than any act of open rebellion ever could. Her jaw tightens as her eyes fix forward on June, she bores into her with an icy stare, but she doesn’t move. Not yet. The ache in her chest is a familiar one. It lives there, constant—quiet some days, deafening on others. Today, it roars. She has spent years smothering it with the script of righteousness, with long rehearsed lines about duty and divine providence. But when June speaks to her like that, soft and human, it feels like mockery. It feels like a knife slipped gently under her ribs.

She speaks just loud enough to be heard, her voice low and cold—measured. The kind of tone made for razor-thin insults, meant only for the one person it’s addressed to. ❛ You think you understand, ❜ she begins, and there’s a clipped breath between her teeth, ❛ but you don’t. You can’t. That’s the problem with women like you. You think pain makes you special. That suffering gives you insight. It doesn’t. ❜

She could stop there. Should. But the words are already curdling in her throat, and she needs to let them out before they rot her from the inside. ❛ This is not what I was promised. ❜ Her voice cracks like dry ice under weight, a barely audible fracture. ❛ Do you think I wanted this? To play house with your womb? To smile while people paw at your belly like it belongs to me? ❜ She shakes her head, slow and bitter.

A silence. Just long enough to feel oppressive. ❛ It is cruel, what God has done, ❜ she says it almost like she’s afraid to say it, and her tone becomes colder, harder, a hiss behind clenched teeth. ❛ To give you this gift. While I am left to watch. To pretend. To stitch together a delusion and call it faith. ❜ The words hang there—ugly and raw, cut too deep from somewhere she wasn’t meant to reach. Serena freezes, her breath shallow, as though she’s just realized she’s spoken a secret aloud that was never meant to have a voice. There’s a pause. Just a heartbeat, but in it, she hears it all—the heresy of it. The blasphemy stitched between the syllables. Too close to doubt. Too close to truth.

She inhales sharply, drawing the air in through her nose like she’s trying to pull herself back from the edge. ❛ But… maybe this is my punishment, ❜ she murmurs, the words quieter now, tangled in something that might almost be regret. ❛ Maybe this is what I deserve. For having doubts at all. For not trusting that God’s plan is still… a plan. ❜ Her voice tapers off. She feels as though she’s cracked open something inside herself and can’t find the lid to close it.

If the wrong person had heard that… The thought is cold and swift, like icewater down the spine. But June—June isn’t the wrong person, is she? That’s what unsettles her most. The stunning, disorienting truth of it. Serena swallows, throat tight. Her tone hardens—not enough to erase the tremor beneath it, but enough to pretend she’s in control again. ❛ It’s easy to believe when things go the way you hoped. But faith—faith isn’t real unless it’s tested. Maybe… maybe this is just a test. ❜

She says it as if saying it aloud might make it true. As if dragging the words into the light might force God to hear them, and answer. But the sky remains empty. And the only sound is the echo of her boots as she starts walking again.

[creative-classpect]

The Land of Pillars and Palladium

An empty expanse of ashes stretches towards the horizon. Hidden, half buried in the wastes, lie roads of wires and energy coils. Palladium pillars, crumbling and archaic, line the way, sparking with electricity. Though the snaking road is long, it is without destination. The great mausoleums of this world, megastructures hidden underground, are all that remain. And it would be wise to leave the ghosts alone.

This is the Land of Pillars and Palladium. LOPAP.  

While LOPAP is a swirling dust storm of ruin, it is not without features. While the world may lie dormant, it is not without opportunity. Beneath the initial layers of LOPAP is a dense, rich history of a culture. A great and powerful civilization. Once, in an older age, this was a land of prosperity, of incredible technological progress. Electricity ran across the land, the great palladium highways acting as conduits that ran across the world itself.

A powerful, world spanning machine. But nothing lasts forever. With great power comes great responsibility. And an interconnected world of information banks, whirring supercomputers, and heavily encrypted radio signals needs a special amount of care. It was powerful, yet fragile.

It was not able to weather the ruin that would befall it. The great and terrible calamity that fell the world, and indeed, the session.

The end of days came, with a wave and a whisper, and the great civilization of LOPAP fell away to the depths of time and memory, only upheld by the thousands of glyphs the consorts inscribed.

It's not clear how such a grand design could crumble, how something so large and interconnected was able to collapse, but those secrets are not lost forever. The palladium pillars, still standing, hold the key. The coded messages carved into them remain intact, and with it, the ability to access the great fallen world of LOPAP.

The Rogue of Mind must scour these lands and uncover the lost cores and information networks lost to the ages. Only by dungeon delving into the haunted mausoleums and their shattered remains could

Denizen: Vohu Manah, divine entity of good mind, thought, and purpose in Zoroastrianism

Features

The Nexus 

The largest of the submerged super structures, the Nexus was once the heart of the world. It was the great factory that built the palladium pillars, it was the engine that lit the world with lightning, and it was the library that once housed every piece of information that LOPAP was privy to.

A treasure trove of technology and resources, it now lies barren, picked clean by the scavengers of the world, and left to rot by the entropic eras it has endured alone.

While it may have once housed countless consorts, and even the denizens themselves, it now lies barren and broken. If only someone could figure out how to repair and reactivate it…

The Tower of Progress

The highest point in the land, and indeed even the session, the Tower is a pillar to outshine all others. A monolith of incredible size, the Tower is a crumbling ruin that scrapes the sky. Its cavernous halls produce a strange humming noise that can be heard for miles around.

In ages past, the Tower stood as a beacon of power and progress, lighting the world with electricity and illuminating the masses with its mechanical marvels. 

Something within it stirs, hungry for knowledge and the glory of ages past...

- - -

This post was commissioned by @apogender ! If you want to commission me or support my content, you can find me @ https://ko-fi.com/kesscal or over at https://linktr.ee/Skywhale09 !

[gallawitchxx]

ficlet friday ⛓

this sweet baby is for chrissy of @you-are-so-much-better-than-that , whose love for prison boyfs cemented our beautiful friendship & for cat of @iansfreckles , who's on a lil break, but who's also celebrating a birthday today ✨ cat's bday tropes were angst with getting back together & was a perfect match for chrissy's prompt about reunited prison boyfs talking tattoos.

this one got a bit poetic, but was written with love 🖤

- - - -

Lights out.

Ian wishes there was more light, wants to see him, knows that if they were to move to the top bunk they might be able to take advantage of the small strip of glass that teases the idea of an outside world, but it’s been years and he never thought they’d see each other again and now Mickey’s flushed with the heat of his last orgasm, pliant and smiling and pressed against Ian’s chest, and Ian knows they’re not going anywhere, not even to another bed 3 feet above them.

How could they when they’d just been reunited? When Mickey had surprised him after all this time with his presence, his protection and his fucking love?

Mickey is gorgeous, even in the dark, and Ian runs a hand down his arm, feeling his firm muscles ripple beneath his skin, taken with the hair that now covers him, coarse but fucking sexy, like in their time apart Mickey had become a man.

His body is different now, solid in places where he was once soft, a bit bulky in ways that make Ian want to grab on and throw him around before holding on tight and never letting go.

Both of them are different now. Grown. Hard. Matching jet black hair, for now. New versions to add to their unfolding story of dirty, gangly miscreants turned teenage lovers and fathers; the plot of their unyielding magnetism spanning infirmaries, incarcerations, and now Mickey’s latest role—informant.

Ian’s breath hitches and he wonders if it’s possible to be undone by limbs and hair and disbelief.

The last time they’d been together, there hadn’t been much time to explore. Nothing felt safe. Time wasn’t ever on their side, but especially not then, only making allowances for lusty fucks that made Ian’s every nerve ending surge with pure electricity and his blood sing—the cold, night air nipping at the beads of sweat that pooled in the dimples on his low back, and quickies in the car and on the harsh, desert ground, as they ran for their lives, pausing only to remind themselves of what awaited them on the other side of the border.

An imagined line in the sand that held the keys to their freedom, their togetherness, their only hope for a future.

But now.

Now.

Four walls, a steel door that locks from the outside, and a barely-there polyester bedsheet has Ian feeling like he’s staying at the fucking Ritz.

Locked up, locked down, and yet—

“What’s this say?” Ian asks, his voice small and curious, his fingers ghosting over the black of the reaper that marks lily-white skin.

“Southside Forever,” Mickey answers, his eyes still closed, relying on touch alone for understanding.

Ian hums, tracing the words, his hands light, but certain. “You miss home when you were there or somethin’?”

Mickey opens his eyes then, watching Ian’s movements, the blue of his irises barely visible in the dark. “Or somethin’.”

Freckled fingers make a move, trailing over to the peach fuzz on Mickey’s belly, making his stomach flip and his dick twinge, the tenderness foreign and long forgotten, like a memory or a dream, both buried and now unearthed.

Ian’s eyes are on him, heavy and purposeful, following the path from Mickey’s abdomen to his chest, his fingers pausing to circle the dark areola of his nipple, eliciting a gasp from Mickey's reddened, kiss-bitten lips. Ian chuckles, a breathy huff of something that’s less of a laugh and more of a distraction, a detour before arriving at his intended destination of jagged lines, of devotion etched into fragile dermis.

He slows as he approaches and Mickey flashes to another cell, almost identical to the one they occupy now, and yet another reality entirely, one he would deny if not for the proof that he carries with him.

“Can I?” Ian asks, pulling him back into the present.

Mickey exhales, his body still, but alive, and he nods before he can stop himself.

Ian’s fingers make contact with his own name and the awe on his face makes Mickey think maybe, just maybe, his whole fucked up life has been leading him inevitably to this moment, like somehow every star in the sky was actually conspiring in his favor to bring him here, to this decision, this new sentence, this Ian.

“You kept it.”

“Ink’s kinda permanent, man.”

“Coulda covered it up.”

If only Ian knew how much Mickey had tried for years to cover up his feelings for Ian. Tried and failed to cover his bases and his tracks.

A fool’s errand.

“You gonna cover those fuckin’ tits on your back?”

Ian winces, like he’d been shocked and Mickey instantly regrets his delivery. But he gets it. He’d been shocked to see them while Ian was taking a leak earlier, his yellow jumpsuit tied around his waist and his thin, white tank already stripped off and lying in a puddle on the floor.

A confusing picture and a stark reminder of time lost and choices made independently of one another had left Mickey flooded with upset, hypocrisy be damned.

“It was a miscommunication,” Ian whispers.

“You don’t say.”

“I think,” Ian admits, his hand leaving Mickey’s body to run across his face, smoothing out some of the surprise and the pain. “Hard to know really. Even if I wasn’t manic, everything just hurt so fucking bad. Dunno that it woulda turned out any different.”

“You turn straight or somethin’ since I last saw you?”

“Or somethin’,” Ian echoes sadly. “Was supposed to be a tribute. To Monica.”

Any upset that was still flowing through Mickey’s body is instantly replaced with an ache that permeates his fucking marrow, deep and intrinsic, like there is no separation between what he and Ian both feel. The heaviest anchor dropped in the deepest of oceans.

“When?”

“When we were last…“ he starts, but trails off, leaving Mickey to fill in the rest.

Mickey inches his body closer to Ian’s, as if it were even possible, hoping by some miracle to inhabit the same skin, so they could hold both hurt and comfort in the same shared container, and he presses his lips to Ian’s collarbone, bringing a hand to rest on his waist, pressing the pads of his fingers gently, but firmly into the skin above Ian’s hipbone and rubbing small and soothing circles.

“‘M sorry, Ian,” he offers and means. “Didn’t mean to—“

“It’s okay, Mickey,” Ian whispers, his eyes forgiving. “You didn’t know.”

And there it was.

The Truth.

Their truth.

There was so much they didn’t know.

They’d share, they’d learn, they’d spend hours unraveling what they both went through when they were apart, a sprawling narrative of Mexican towns and drug operations, of queer Southside teens and desperate attempts to save lives, of failed attempts to move forward and tender ironies of what it meant to help.

But tonight, their first in each other’s arms after an eternity, miraculous in ways they were both still piecing together, they allow for words to fall away, replacing them with the wet, hungry slide of lips, the steady waltz of tongues and teeth, and the feverish need to touch and taste and meld to one another.

So much lay before them, so much was still to come, but for the first time, perhaps ever, Ian and Mickey knew they had time.

[shreddedparchment]

A Wife for Thor Pt.23

A Royal Invitation

05/02/2021

Pairing: King!Thor x Reader          Word Count: 5,960

Warnings: fluff, slight angst, language

A/N: I hope you all enjoy this one. It took me forever to get out after several life events that just couldn’t be ignored or put on the back burner. I had a lot of fun in the second half of this chapter and I hope y’all find it as entertaining as I did. Let me know what your favorite parts are! I’d love to know. As always, thanks for reblogging if you happen to do so. xoxo

Please DO NOT repost my stories on any other sites or blogs.

REBLOGS are always welcome!

The city is in celebration for three nights after you come home.

They’re not necessarily celebrating your return although that is part of why they’re happy, but the baby. The baby is already so loved. The baby is the city’s hope and future.

You can feel their exuberance when you and Thor take a walk through the city, flanked by Valkyrie with Loki on your left walking just slightly behind you.

He’s busy but smug and keeps his fingers moving swiftly across the screen of a tablet provided by Tony Stark who’d left the city taking Bruce with him back to the United States on Avengers business.

What Loki is doing, what's got him so glued to his tablet, you don’t find out until the evening of the first day of celebrations.

As your people’s cheers, laughter, and music filter in through the long wall of windows that Thor’s had thrown open to let the joviality in, Loki crosses to the long couch across from the one where you sit with Thor.

Legs thrown across his lap, Thor’s hands gently massaging your calves and feet, you lean back against the cushions that Thor set up against the arm for you.

The sitting room is long, rectangular and faces the East side of the palace. You can’t see the entire city and have more of a mountain view than on the West side where your rooms are and you can see the expanse of the ocean.

Like the rest of the palace, it’s decorated in a mixture of wood and silver steel. The chandeliers above are carefully carved and wired, the lighting kept dim. The seats are also wood but covered with soft cushions for lounging and restful naps.

There’s a slightly simpler look to this sitting room. Relaxed.

Before you’d taken your break from being Queen, you hadn’t spent much time in this part of the palace. Nothing had called to you. The garden had been the only spot you’d sought out but this sitting room is quickly becoming your favorite.

“I like it in here,” you confess, smiling at Thor who’s still squeezing your foot gently.

He smiles and meets your gaze, “Why’s that?”

“Because Jane was never in here,” Loki supplies, swiping left on his tablet then turns it to face both of you. “We’ve got more energy signatures. New ones.”

You and Thor sit up a little straighter.

“What quadrant?”

Loki purses his lips and then turns the tablet back towards himself cutting off your look at a map of the night sky.

“All of them. Whatever it is, it’s jumping around. I think perhaps they know we’re watching.”

Swallowing hard, you scoot closer to Thor, pulling one of your legs down as you twist to face Loki a little better. Thor takes hold of your thigh instead as it rests over his and wraps his other arm around your waist, eager to have you close.

Both of you haven’t stopped touching each other since your return last night.

“What does that mean? If they’re trying to confuse us, then they’re headed for us, right?”

“I won’t let anything happen to you or our little one, cherub,” Thor’s reassurance comes softly, his smile confident but soft. “Whatever this is, we’ll be ready for it. Have you sent the data to the others?”

“Sif is coming in for a debrief and we’ll send her to relay the specifics in person. It will need some explanation and Fandral will probably only skim the information if we send it to him via email.”

“We must have all of our troops trained for whatever attack is to come. I’m not going to let someone jeopardize our place here on Earth. We will protect our people but we will show the humans that we will defend them too from any threats to come,” Thor declares, his voice deep and determined, even angry.

He doesn’t like someone threatening his new home. Not after what happened to Asgard. The stress is in his eyes and you lean against him which you’re glad does what you want.

It distracts him.

“I had Stark build you a safe room. He called it a panic room, I think? So, should something happen, you’re to go in there and lock yourself in while we deal with any threat.”

You nod but push yourself back again to rest against the arm of the sofa while stretching out your legs again. It feels good and you sigh heavily as you rub your belly. Sitting scrunched up like that had been annoying.

“I have been training though. Even pregnant. At home, Loki would spar with me and help me with my technique. The short swords aren’t heavy anymore.”

Thor looks at his brother who sits smiling proudly at you before he notices the edge in Thor’s electric blue eye.

“It was all done safely. She and the baby were never in danger. I thought it was foolish to have her out there without her swords and the training to go along with them. Just because she left didn’t mean that she could slack off. Don’t give me that look. You know as well as I do that she needs to know. Even carrying your child, it’s important for her to know. One might even say especially because she's carrying the heir."

Loki’s voice grows steadily more subdued. Sad. Like a bad memory is playing itself over in his mind.

“I was too late, Loki,” Thor interjects, drawing your gaze to him too. He also looks sad. “And if you hadn’t been in that cell you’d have been long gone. Neither of us could have saved her. And you’re right. I know how important it is.”

Thor looks at you and takes your feet back in his hands, “I’m glad you trained. Once our child is born you’ll have to show me those skills of yours.”

Despite the playful nature of his taunt, you can see that he and Loki are both still in the depths of their grief. They must be thinking of their mother.

"So, these energy signatures, you still have no idea who could be causing them?"

The question is pointless. You know they don't know but it's something to say when all you can do is worry silently.

“I have theories,” Loki admits, exchanging a careful look with Thor. “But nothing concrete. Nothing that would put you at ease.”

“I don’t need to be put at ease, Loki. I need to know if there’s something to worry about. This doesn’t just affect our family but our people. If we need to warn them, we can’t be hesitant. Earth deserves a heads up, too.”

This is your job right? The voice of both your new Asgardian family and the people of Earth? This is why you were required to marry Thor.

Thor’s hand increases in strength around your foot as he tries to calm you.

“You’re right, cherub. Loki only means that there is no evidence to prove his theories so until we can find something to link these strange power surges to what he thinks it might be, then we should play this safe and hold off on raising any alarms. Isn’t that right, Loki?”

“Mm,” Loki agrees, nodding.

You frown, pulling your leg off of Thor’s lap to sit down properly and face both brothers. They sit up a little straighter in response to your own rigid back, your hands on your lap.

This isn’t right, whatever they might think.

“No,” you shake your head and watch as Loki puts his tablet down.

Thor scoots forward, reaching over to take your hand. You let him because he’s not trying to comfort you anymore. Instead, this reach is one of support and when you look at his singular eye, the patch on his empty socket gleaming softly in the dim light of the room, you can see he’s intent on listening and understanding.

If Jane has made any positive impact on you and Thor, it’s this. He’s really listening to you.

“Thor, you and the Asgardians are a unique people. You’ve all had it hard and I’m not trying to say that your struggles haven’t been difficult, but by nature, just by the very way that you all are made and born, you are stronger. It’s in your body’s makeup.

“For someone like me, if I were to jump from that open window, I would die. If you or any of the other Asgardians jumped from that window, you’d probably ache for a while, maybe a few would even get a few broken bones or cuts but they’d be superficial wounds.

“You know from experience how fragile humans are. Both of you,” the look you give Loki pulls his gaze down to his feet. “We’re unprepared for anything other than each other. We need more of a warning than you. We need time to prepare.”

It all falls into place in your head and with confidence you turn to look at Thor, turning your hand over to take his in your own hand.

With a quick squeeze, you scoot just a little closer to him, “Thor, I need to speak to the ambassadors. We need to schedule an official meeting to give them the rundown on what we’ve been doing here and what we’re keeping an eye on. Because, knowing Tony, I’m sure he hasn’t said anything to anyone outside of the compound?”

Loki sits back, crossing his legs as he shuts his tablet off, “No. Stark is as preoccupied about raising the alarm as we are. But now that you mention it, I suppose both we and he are not looking at this from a regular civilian of Earth’s point of view.”

“Y/N,” Thor calls your attention back to him, “This could backfire. We could be doing more harm than good by sharing with them the information we’ve gathered.”

You shake your head, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m jumping the gun here. The last thing I want to do is cause a panic. But I don't think that’ll happen. It’s not like we’re going to leak it onto the internet. We’re going to meet with the ambassadors and provide this information to world leaders so that they can prepare the way they see fit. Trust me, these prime ministers and presidents and kings aren’t going to just announce to their people that some alien threat is on the way. They don’t want to look out of control or unprepared.

“We need to give Earth’s humans a chance to defend themselves. Even if they end up needing our help, they deserve to know.”

Loki and Thor are silent for what feels to you like a long time. In reality, you know it must only be seconds. However, this is the first time you’ve pushed back with them. This is the first time you’re speaking on behalf of the human race.

It makes you nervous and anxious. Will they let you be Queen in this sense? Or is it all just show?

They look at each other, staring and communicating silently before Loki gets to his feet and turns his tablet back on.

“Well, if I’m to set up a meeting with the ambassadors, NATO, and the UN I should probably get started.”

Your heart explodes with pride. They’re letting you really rule! You’re making a difference. True change. Your excitement mingles with a sudden terror as you realize that your choices are going to affect what will be millions if not billions of people.

Luckily, Loki’s words also serve to distract you from your trepidation.

“Wait, Loki,” you hurry to your feet and scurry to his side before ripping the tablet from his hands and hiding it behind your back.

“Hey,” he protests, reaching around you to try and grab it.

You hurry back to Thor and instead of sitting beside him you plop yourself onto his lap and sit as close as you can to trap the tablet between your bodies.

You can hear Thor’s heart begin to pound. Aside from those kisses yesterday, this is the closest you’ve put yourself to him since you got back. He’d slept with you in your shared bedroom, but he’d laid facing you and you him, a good six inches between your bodies.

He wraps his arms around you, placing his hands along the swell of your tummy. You can almost feel him glowing with happiness.

“As eager as I am to give Earth a heads up, I also think you need a break. The energy isn’t going anywhere and the Warriors Three and Sif are on the watch. Please do me a big favor and just take a day or two? You’ve been at it like crazy since I left the palace and it would make me so happy if my baby’s Uncle Loki would take a breather. He’s gotta be strong and in tip-top shape if he’s going to keep up with his future nephew.”

“Or niece,” Thor interjects. “She’s right, Loki. Rest. We’ll get back on this in two days and you can set everything up then. The city is roaring with celebration. Go out and enjoy it. You always loved a good party.”

Loki glares at the pair of you, “Using the future prince or princess is blackmail. And if I’m out there, what will you two do?”

Thor smiles at him, reaching between your bodies to grab the tablet from where it’s hidden. He sets it aside and his other hand trails over your side before wrapping around your waist to cup your bump again.

“I’m sure my queen and I will find something to keep us occupied. Making up for lost time, perhaps?”

Your neck burns but you grin up at Loki who fixes you with a knowing smile, “Of course. How silly of me. Well, let me not keep you from reacquainting yourselves with each other. If you have need of me, I will be around. Just call.”

“Have fun, Loki,” you call after him.

As he shuts the door, Thor tilts your head to the side, pulling you back against his chest fully so that he can kiss you without prompting.

“Sleeping beside you once more was dreamlike, cherub,” Thor tells you, low and full of want.

“And what would make it more real for you?”

“Shall I show you?”

And he waits, like the jerk that he is. He literally just dangles the carrot in front of you. His hard body pressed against your back, the heat of his legs seeping through your clothes to your skin.

His hands trace tantalizing circles around your stomach but make the slightest tickles to the fold of your pelvis. You hate him!

“Oh my god, hurry up, dummy.”

That’s all the invitation he needs. In an instant you’re in his arms as he settles you on the sofa, his hands already yanking and pulling at your clothes but when your tummy is exposed, he drops to his knees and worships your pregnant body with gentility and softness.

At least until you growl and yank him up to finish what he’s started.

~~~~~~~~~~

The sheets against your skin feel soft as silk. They’re slightly sticky but that’s more to do with your own body’s sweat.

“Why are you up?” Thor’s voice is heavy with sleep.

It’s thick and rough. It makes you smile and your ears burn because he sounds delicious and you missed mornings like this.

“I’m hungry,” you admit.

Thor tumbles from the bed, dragging with him the heavier faux fur blanket that sits at the foot of your bed for decoration usually. He wraps it around his waist and pulls the cord by the door.

“I already called them, puppy,” you assure him, and he smiles sleepily at you before moving towards you.

“I missed my term of endearment. Why a dog?”

As he reaches you, you open your sheet and his eyes roam the length of your naked body before he gets all handsy and dives into the sheet with you, eventually settling his hands on your bum. No groping, just resting. Then slowly he trails his fingers up along the sides of your back up to your shoulders and back down.

It leaves your skin full of goosebumps and you shiver. He misinterprets it and instead of stopping his stroking, he uses his flat hand to create friction instead.

“It’s not a dog, it’s a puppy. They’re cute and they’re kinda, I don’t know, like...clueless?” You laugh because that’s not the word you were looking for but it’s what comes out.

“Uh, excuse me, I have plenty of clues,” Thor argues, but he doesn’t seem offended.

“That’s not the right word,” you laugh again. “I don’t know how to describe it. I just want to squeeze you and cuddle you because you’re like this big blonde golden retriever only sexier.”

Thor makes his thinking face as he tries to pull up the picture of the dog breed you just compared him to, and he nods slowly.

“I think I can live with that,” Thor smiles down at you then leans to meet your lips.

You kiss him eagerly, your bodies both humming with anticipation even though you spent the last two days--practically--in bed.

Both of you know that there’s a time when this lust might not necessarily fade but dull a bit? Then again, it is Thor and he’s ravenous for you almost all the time.

You chuckle against his lips and he pulls back to look at you.

“What has you laughing so adorably?”

You let go of the sheet and before it can fall, Thor replaces your hands with his own to hold it up around you both. With free hands you’re able to trace the length of his arms, tracing the large curves. His skin is so damn soft.

You’re still not sure if that’s a Thor thing or an Asgardian God thing? What you know is that you love it and your fingers eat it up every time you touch him.

Whatever laugh or trace of humor you had falls away as you start to really look within yourself and examine why you’re so happy.

You shove your arms underneath his and wrap your arms around him, small whisper slaps of his skin as your hands are splayed out along his wide back. You press your ear against his chest. The thud of his heart is strong and slightly speedy, probably in response to your sudden shift in mood.

The swell between both of you, the little life kicking in response to your mood pulls both your attention for a few seconds before you find your voice.

“I missed you, Thor. More than I thought I would. Way more than I ever knew I could.”

The somber tone of your voice has him giving you a nice gentle squeeze. He likes having you right there right up against him just as much as you like being there.

“Well, you were very angry with me,” Thor reminds you. “I didn’t know your face could make those expressions. That day at your home?”

You hug him tighter, staring out at the small bloom of sunrise in the distance. It’s very slightly starting to glisten on the still ocean line.

“I was angry. But it was more than that.”

“I know,” Thor kisses the top of your head. “I hurt you. What I said, I-I didn’t mean it, cherub. I promise you. It was a temporary insanity. The moment you came into that room after I said what I did, I knew that I could never go through with it. And if you’d told me that we were expecting a child-”

“I couldn’t,” you sigh, leaning back to look up at him. “In my head, if I told you then after what you'd said that I was pregnant and you chose to stay with me, I would live the rest of my life wondering whether you chose me because you really loved me or because I was finally going to give New Asgard their heir.”

Thor’s face crumbles a little, brow scrunched, mouth pulled down at the corners as he shakes his head.

“I will always choose you. Not because you are the mother of my children, but because you are the love of my life. The one I did not expect. The one that I can never chance to lose again. I’m sorry that I ever made you doubt me.”

Staring into his eye, the intensity of his gaze, you know that he means what he says. He loves you.

Even though you can’t admit it to him because your reconciliation needs all of the positivity that you can both muster, in your heart, you can’t help but wonder if you can truly trust him.

~~~~~~~~~~

The days go by like routine after the Asgardians find that they have to go back to their jobs and lives.

As much as they all love a good party, Thor and Loki included if the last two days are any indication, they know they can't keep going and must get back to life as usual.

Thor at first makes an attempt to stay with you. The last few months of being without each other makes it difficult to be apart and for Thor especially, with the baby.

He hates leaving you. He wants to be there for every kick and every shift.

His largest grievance is that he can't listen to your laugh when the baby kicks and it feels weird. This you only find out because Loki, in his annoyance with the constant trips Thor makes him do to check on you when he's in his meetings.

Although you believe Loki, you take all of these little indicators of Thor’s love with ease but with the knowledge that it might very well be fleeting.

You try not to think about it and instead just allow yourself to enjoy the fact that Thor does indeed love you and you love him too. Even if it may not be forever. Even if it can change. Even if the future is now a little less certain.

Your meeting with the ambassadors approaches quickly. It takes a month to set it up. Longer than you'd thought and it doesn't take long to understand why.

"This is the third time they've pushed the meeting back," you gripe, moving over to Loki’s computer to look over his shoulder at the surprisingly very short email.

Please inform Her Majesty, the Queen of Asgard, that we are unable to meet with her as previously scheduled this week and will be in contact as to the next available day.

Should any true trouble arise, please tell Thor that we are more than happy to meet with him.

Sincerely,

Earth AMB Mark Coates

You're seething. You've never been this angry. Never this absolutely heated. Not even with Thor and what happened with Jane can compare to the absolute rage flowing through your veins.

"They don't seem to take you seriously," Loki realizes. "Because you're a woman?"

"Partially, probably," you growl as you move back around his desk to sit in the padded armchair by the window where you'd been watching Thor visit with the Valkyrie.

He's not there anymore though and you can see Hilde and her girls relaxing a little. Adjusting their armor, laughing, sitting and talking. Now that their inspection is over they can breathe.

Why they get so nervous you don't understand. Thor’s such a fanboy. He gushes about them constantly.

"What other reason might there be?" Loki asks, rising and moving around his desk to lean against it casually, hands shoved into the inky black pockets of his slacks.

His jade vest is unbuttoned and the sleeves of his dark gray button-up folded up to his elbow.

Summer is almost here and it's getting hotter.

You don't answer right away. Hands slowly stroking your belly, trying to calm down for the baby's sake. Feeling that upset can't be good for him.

You take a long deep inhale and with a heavy sigh release the stress.

"My Queen?" Loki urges, and you smile.

Realizing he's calling you by your title to reaffirm your place among them to make you feel better, you turn your smile on him.

"You've always been my biggest supporter. You and David," your smile falters. "I miss him."

"Is he still in Baghdad?"

"Yeah. He’s in deep so, no contact. I hope he's okay."

"You know, you do have a part time Avenger as a husband and the best magician for a brother-in-law. One word and we'd be happy to assist with your lawyer's extraction."

"Which is why I don't ask. If he needs help, David will let us know. He has his panic button."

The gift had been given to you by Tony who had made it for you to press when you and Thor had been estranged. An easy way to call for Thor if something should happen.

Your brother-in-law nods.

"I suppose it would be a little like nepotism. Fine. What should I do about the misogynistic email?" Loki wonders.

"He's not exactly a misogynist. Not completely anyway. The ambassador blowing me off has more to do with me specifically than it does with me being a woman."

This seems to set Loki off more than if the ambassador was doing this because you're a woman.

"What right does he have to snub the Queen of Asgard? Doesn't he know what that might do to relations between Earth and our people?"

You shake your head, smiling because his anger makes you feel better.

"No, he doesn't. Because to the world my marriage to Thor is show. It's a necessary political move. They don't care whether Thor and I love each other and Jane and Thor’s relationship was so publicized that it’s hard for them to accept that Thor might actually love me.

"Thor went to extreme lengths to protect Jane in the past. Public displays of affection like that aren't forgotten easily.

"To the ambassadors and probably most of the world, offending me doesn't mean an offense against Thor. To them, I'm a queen in name only. No real power here."

Loki huffs through his nose, standing straight with his hands at his waist before he turns to walk back behind his desk.

He stops for a moment, thinking hard you guess, then whips around and stomps towards you before shoving his finger towards the windows.

"I know it has been a while for me, but I can very easily open another tear in space over New York. Or wherever you need me to. I might need a bit of time to locate the power and forces to do it but I will show the people.of Earth what happens when they underestimate the love of the Asgardian people for their queen."

Leaning back in your chair, you keep your arms around your bump as you watch Loki make his threat.

"That's a bit much for a dude who just thinks that my political marriage is just that, isn't it?"

You keep your face clear of amusement, because it really is very sweet of him to be so upset for you. But you can't help the small smile that stretches your lips.

He deflates, moving to other armchair across from yours and sits but leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

"It's shameless disrespect, Y/N. We cannot let them get away with it. You are Asgardian now. A slight against you is a slight against this Kingdom."

"I know, Loki. But-"

Behind Loki his office door opens. It faintly creeks and through it pokes Thor’s searching gaze.

He looks confused as he scans the room until he spots the two of you and with a little skip in his step and a wide unfettered smile, he shuts the door and moves towards you.

"Hi," you smile at him widely in reaction to the loveable look on his face.

"Hello," Thor replies, his voice low and quiet as he leans down towards you.

"You finished early today," you observe, voice just as quiet.

"You know I hate being apart," Thor whispers and presses his lips to yours.

His kiss is so soft and slow.

He pulls away too quickly and as your heart stutters, you reach up to hook your hands into the sides of his chest plate and pull him back down for another kiss.

He'd worn his full uniform today for an early meeting and the inspection of the Valkyrie. He looks so good but with his hair growing in, now just past his shoulders.

He still has the two small braids you'd worked in on the left side of his head and he looks so good, you might jump him later. If you don't pass out for an afternoon nap.

He pulls away again, this time smiling brightly.

"Will I always get this welcome if I come home early? I might have to shorten my days."

You chuckle as he moves around you and stops by a side table where Loki keeps a few weapons on display on a stand. He starts to remove his harder pieces of armor and places them aside.

"What has you looking so stern, brother?" Thor asks, keeping his back to you both as he moves onto the leather pieces that keep his chain mail from shifting.

Loki sits back, sighing heavily as he considers how much to tell Thor.

"Something I should worry about? Come. Tell me and lessen your burden."

"He's upset for me. That's all."

You hear the clink of Thor's mail as it falls on the table then he's moving around your right to squat by your chair so that he's below your eye level.

"Upset for you? Why?" His look of concern is upsetting and pleasing at the same time.

You purse your lips and look at Loki.

"It might be easier if I showed you," he says then rises and moves to his desk to get his tablet.

Thor reaches out to place his hand on your belly and you place yours over his.

He smiles at you then leans down to kiss your tummy while you run your fingers through his hair and try to ignore the utterly breathtaking and heartaching butterflies that his sweet love on your baby gives you.

"I missed you," he whispers to you.

Again, your heart stutters. He’s so easy with his words. These declarations feel so good but that little voice in the back of your head also makes your heart ache.

You just smile at him. Unable to speak when you feel like you're glowing and grieving at the same time.

"Here," Loki holds out the tablet and Thor stands then takes it.

He moves to the loveseat across from your and Loki's armchairs and plops down before reading.

You watch him, admiring the out of armor look. His black leather pants are just as hugging as they always are. His top, a dark gray long sleeve made with breathable fabric leaves no room to wonder just how defined his muscles are.

He's Asgardian perfection.

He breathes in deeply then exhales loudly, a passing shadow of rage overcoming his Godly features before he tosses the tablet at Loki lightly who catches it easily.

Thor spreads his legs a little, tapping his heels as he throws his left arm along the back of the small sofa, his other hand resting on his thigh.

"Write the bastard and tell him I'm requesting the meeting then. Then my cherub and I will both be waiting to give him both the information he needs to warn Earth and a piece of my mind."

You look down at your feet, heart pounding and stomach tumbling with nerves.

You don't want to be the reason any rifts come between New Asgard and Earth. The whole purpose of the position you hold is to protect the citizens of this city.

"Thor," you warn, turning to meet his gaze only when you know you can handle it.

"He wants me to contact him, so I will. In fact, send a raven instead. Do the works. Scroll. Seal. And when they arrive, give them a royal welcome with trumpets and a guard."

"Thor…"

"They will not disrespect you and find warm welcomes in my home. You are my wife. My Queen! Even if all they assume is between us is political agreement, they should respect the title you hold. We may not be above them, but we do outrank them an they need to know that you are not to be messed with.

"The fact that I love you only makes my resolve stronger."

"Okay. I get it, puppy. And I'm grateful to both you and Loki for standing up for me. With your tempers, no one would believe you aren't blood related. Sheesh."

You gran hold of the arms of your chair and groan only a little as you push yourself up onto your feet.

"Oof," you reach back and place your hand on your waist.

Thor’s arm immediately extends out towards you. Beckoning you to his side.

It takes you a moment but you get your footing back and move for him. As soon as you're within reach his arm is around you, helping you sit down carefully.

He doesn't let you sit back all the way. He pushes you to your left so that you'll shift and sit angled while he sits up straighter and turns to face you.

With gentle but firm hands he starts to work out the kinks and knots in your back.

Unintentionally you moan with relief. Thor’s eyes are on Loki though.

"What was your idea?"

"I offered to open another tear in space above whatever city she deemed proper. With the allowance of time to find both the power to do so and the army to lead through it."

You can't see Thor expression but when he speaks, his disapproving sounds fake.

"I'm not sure even idly that threat is in good taste. But I understand the sentiment."

"Do you really want me to make all of that fuss to make the ambassador come and meet with you?"

"Yes. I think he needs to be humbled. He may be in a position of power and my Y/N may owe her marriage to their insistence and meddling, but she is Queen and they are speakers for Earth. They would not have jobs had we not come to live here. Their disrespect of our Queen is a slight on our people.

"The moment I took Y/N under my banner is the moment she became Asgardian from the tips of her cute toes to the top of her irresistible head. And with our child on the way, they should know better."

Loki gets to his feet and moves towards the door, "Very well. One royal invitation coming right up."

As he leaves, Thor’s focus is diverted completely to you.

"Does that feel good, love?"

You only moan in return.

Thor chuckles and keeps going for a few minutes longer before you push back towards him and he lets you rest your back against his chest.

You can't be scrunched forward too long before your stomach begins to feel squished.

You look straight up at his face and he smiles.

"Hi," you tell him.

"Hello."

You smile.

"Was the massage satisfactory?"

"Mmmm, it was great. Your hands are godly, puppy."

Thor chuckles at the pun but leans forward to kiss the tip of your nose.

"And you, my sweet cherub, are a Goddess. And I will make sure you are treated as such."

[delimeful]

pull apart at the seams (7)

continued from this fic! some of the chapters for this (5&6) are only on ao3 so make sure to check there if you haven’t!

warnings: arguing, PTSD, panic, dehumanization, angst

-

“Logan Sanders!”

Above him, Logan froze, and for a moment his expression was nearly comical, reminiscent of nothing more than a cat caught with both paws stuck in the canary cage.

A heartbeat later, his features forcibly smoothed down into a cold neutrality, and with the giant’s shadow still weighing heavy over him, Virgil was swiftly reminded just who the canary was in that metaphor.

The giant didn’t reach for him, though, stiffening up from his admittedly incriminating looming position to turn and face Patton’s glare head on. Virgil didn’t think he’d ever seen Patton look so angry, and he probably never would again if his estimate of how likely he was to get out of the situation alive was correct.

Behind Patton’s shoulder, the other werewolf— Roman?— was peeking out past the doorway, making sheepish eye contact with Logan, and silently but exaggeratedly mouthing what looked like an apology. It made a confusing addition to an already alarming situation.

Virgil himself felt as though the rug had been yanked out from beneath him. First, some semblance of a conversation and even a near-apology from the guy he’d been convinced would horrifically murder him for the past week, and now Patton was, what, defending his property from his packmate?

“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” the giant in question continued, lips curling up in a barely-suppressed snarl.

“We were simply having a conversation,” Logan replied, sweeping a hand back slightly to indicate Virgil in the ‘we.’

Virgil just barely managed not to flinch, remaining perfectly still instead. Patton’s gaze flickered to him for a moment before returning to Logan somehow more intense than before.

“Was it really just a conversation?” he asked, firming his stance as though to say that he wasn’t going to let this go.

Logan’s shoulders rose a few millimeters defensively, but his demeanor only grew icier. “I wasn’t aware that you were the only one in this household who was allowed to try and communicate with the human.”

“Communicate with--,” Patton stepped forward, “You looked like a scavenger bearing down on a pup! Why would you corner him like that?”

Logan clicked his tongue irritably. “It’s impossible not to corner him, he’s a human! Being in the same room as a creature that small and slow could qualify as ‘cornering’!”

“You know what I mean!”

Still hovering in the doorway, Roman was grimacing, glancing between the two of them as though watching a particularly heated tennis match.

Virgil felt more like he was watching bombs go off, the argument too loud, too harsh, too reminiscent of his months in conditioning. Each sharp gesture or cutting glare registered as wrong-bad-hisfault, electric-spark phantom pains building up in the back of his skull. He swayed on his feet.

“He’s terrified of you, and you’ve certainly given him plenty of reason to be!” Patton shouted, and the room went quiet and suffocating, Virgil’s survival instincts dragging his attention back to the present.

“He told you.” Logan’s voice was monotone, but it sent terror racing down Virgil’s spine worse than any growl. His mouth formed the shape of protesting words, I didn’t I swear I didn’t, but no sound came out, his lungs constricted by the tense certainty that this was it, this was really how he died.

Patton shook his head, some of the anger fading from his frame, washed away by misery. “I guessed, Logan. The pieces were all there, sitting in front of my face, but I… I didn’t want to see the full picture.”

There was a terrible, fraught stretch of silence, and then Logan’s gaze slid to the side, going distant and glassy. “How long do I have to pack, then?”

“What?” “What?” The other two giants asked, voices overlapping.

“I understand. I’m being evicted for my transgressions,” he forced through grit teeth. “How long do I have?”

“Logan, no,” Patton replied fretfully. “We’re not kicking you out, you’re part of this family! We want you here!”

“I don’t believe the human I tormented will agree,” Logan bit out, but the words were double-edged with guilt, cutting back against himself. “Forcing him to share a residence with me would be cruel.”

Cruel.

There was a sharp, bitter sound, almost unrecognizable as a laugh, and Virgil only realized it had come from him after every eye in the kitchen turned his way. His chest seized with panic again, and he crumpled to his knees.

“Vee!” Patton gasped, and steps thundered closer, a hand hovering overhead--

“Don’t!” Virgil managed, the cry cracking halfway through. He curled in on himself, as though presenting a smaller target and begging would do anything but diminish him in their eyes even more. “Please don’t.”

Patton paused above him. “Don’t-- Don’t what, kiddo?”

Don’t grab him, don’t touch him, don’t look at him. How was he supposed to explain? They didn't understand anything.

“Don’t,” he said again, and flinched away from each of Patton’s movements.

“I-- I don’t understand,” Patton started weakly, and this time it was Logan that cut him off.

“Forcing him to share a residence with me would be cruel,” he repeated slowly, like he was puzzling each word against Virgil’s reaction to see how they fit. “Forcing-- Oh. Forcing him to stay where he doesn’t feel safe… would be cruel.”

A beat later, Patton’s shadow retreated from him entirely. The bands around his chest eased slightly.

“Let me go,” he choked out, each word bringing back memories of singed hair and tingling skin. “Just let me leave. Please. I didn’t want to be bought. I’m a person.”

A beat of silence, and then a set of footsteps rushed out, followed shortly by another set, leaving him behind. The fragile threads of Virgil’s hope dissolved back into nothingness.

“Leave and go where?” the last giant in the room asked.

Roman stepped closer, meeting Virgil’s gaze stubbornly. “To go get caught again? Or die out in the first storm that catches you? Everything here is just as huge as us.”

“Better than… dying here,” Virgil spat, and then his throat closed up, deciding that was enough words for today and quite possibly forever.

“What about living here?” Roman asked, glancing after his packmates briefly with unhidden worry. “Genuine living. Not as a pet or a-- a captive. Just as a roommate. I mean, obviously you don’t precisely trust us at the moment, but a mutually beneficial arrangement could be worked out.”

Virgil stared at him with dull, confused eyes, watching as the giant got more antsy with each passing moment of Virgil’s unresponsiveness.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still find humans downright impertinent, but if you go off and die, my pack is going to be miserable and morose for more than a few moons,” he continued to ramble. “We can negotiate terms, set up rules, anything within reason to ease their guilt and your terror.

“And this way, you have a real chance,” he finished. “Think on it, won’t you?”

It seemed to be an earnest request, but Virgil’s mind had done enough rapidfire processing for one day, and was now thoroughly shutting down.

Good thing he didn’t have to worry about thinking while unconscious.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the little death rating: T+ word count: 2,409 summary: Two years after his fight with Death, Trevor’s injuries start catching up to him while Alucard realizes that humans are more fragile than he thought. 

For @trevorsmellmont ❤️  Thank you so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

There’s a sharp pain pooling beneath his right arm, coursing through his ribcage. Trevor ignores it just as he’s ignored all the other aches, jabs, and stings over the past two years. Two years of building something better, something sustainable to last far longer than its young, admittedly green founders. Countless days, weeks, and months erecting homes, gardens, and pens for those dumb gentle animals who think the entire townscape is their personal pasture. Not another mistake of allowing them to wander aimlessly straight into the castle. As if heifers need to learn how to craft medicine or conduct what’s being referred to as “electricity”.

The work will never be finished. Even on days like this when the sun burns hotter than any circle in hell. A few drops of warm salt-ridden sweat crawl past Trevor’s pressed lips and into his dry mouth. Pain and thick heat were never enough to stop him before—he tells himself this, barely certain of his own supportive thoughts (a new concept taking root in his mind). Take it slow, don’t push yourself, idiot. This cabin made from the earth will get built eventually. Another family will receive their forever home to fill with lots of babies. Old wounds beg to differ as Trevor’s arms begin to weaken, each movement slower than the last, struggling to keep up with Greta’s superior pace. She’s always known her way around a mallet.

Another bead of sweat gets caught in Trevor’s lashes, sparing his eyes from temporary discomfort. Though it wouldn’t have mattered as they’re already past any sort of respite. He looks for distraction but can only see the blurred shapes coming from a huddle of bodies, despite being a short distance from them. He knows it’s only Sypha and Alucard with the village children, which gives Trevor some relief.

There’s more comfort to be felt when he remembers that one of those little monsters is his own, nestled in Sypha’s lap then placed in Alucard’s gentle arms. She has a name far too long for any toddler to pronounce—Elizabeta Belnades Tepes Belmont—so what rolls off her developing tongue instead is simply “Liza”. She’s innocent now but once she leaves this little man-made paradise and ventures into a harsher world, she will take more after her mother and father. Grabbing whatever life offers with both fists, clawing and biting her way through every obstacle until her teeth are reddened with bloody meat. For the time being, they relish Liza’s soft cheeks, wispy hair, and the way she throws herself at whichever adult happens to be in her nearest vicinity. The other children are helping her socialize by playing games and embracing frivolity; a tactic Trevor remembers from his own upbringing, though with less games and even less frivolity. 

“Think you can handle one or two more?”

Greta’s voice manages to cut through Trevor’s mental fog. Funny how she asks if he can “think” about anything especially at this suffocating moment. She must have noticed the way his lips curl into a happy doped up grin while observing his family and couldn’t help but inquire. As any close, loved and valued friend would.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“What’s wrong with looking a bit further into the future? Now that we all have one.” 

“Looking is one thing, but seriously suggesting is something else completely. My… performance in certain areas isn’t as up to snuff as it used to be.”

As Trevor says this, things deteriorate and get a bit fuzzier from his eyesight down to his chest. Out of focus. Painful. He keeps talking, keeps ignoring the inevitable. Always ignoring what his own body screams for.

Greta wrinkles her nose at his statement. “There are children present, Belmont.”

“What? I’m referring to the house. I barely managed to get one wall up while you’re already on the fucking roof.”

“So dramatic. You three really do deserve each other. And you’re still young.”

“On the outside, maybe.”

She laughs at his lie, misinterpreting it as another piece of mild self-deprecatory banter he might never be able to live without. Greta says something else, perhaps her own personal jest to counter his, but Trevor cannot hear. Breath grows heavier, forcing out a raspy “it’s fine. It’s just my chest”. Barely able to tell if Greta actually said anything about his sudden condition. Or rather, not so sudden. No, this has been building over quite some time now. His muscles and bones screaming, begging for relief or death, and end to everything—whichever comes first. Feelings that only worsened over the years.

Trevor loses control over his legs, now practically boneless. The collision between his head and the ground is nothing compared to the inner war over his heart. Whether it will finally succumb. Greta immediately calls for help—he thinks without confidence, once again. Trevor can still hear voices, but not their exact words. Not Sypha when she demands to know what happened. Not Alucard when he begs for him to stay conscious. Not even Liza as she cries for her papa.

Then all the chaos in the world fades into slow darkness.

--

Alucard stands outside the closed bedchamber door, contemplating how often he’s touched Trevor’s body. Lithe fingertips have memorized every crevice, scar, soft and rough spots alike. Not just as a lover with wandering hands underneath blankets in the dead of night. Or a friend who holds him steady on both feet when he needs it. But as this family’s self-appointed physician. 

Perhaps the prince of two worlds took after his father after all. “Polymath” is what Alucard used to describe Dracula and the very same word others have referred to him as, mostly in the realm of medicine. He knows more than anyone, little offence given towards the herb dispensers and leech farmers (only to be polite for his own townsfolk). Thus, through the anxieties and trembling hands, Alucard gave Trevor his diagnosis: heat exhaustion along with a muscle somewhere in his chest that decided to go rogue and strain itself.

The son of Tepes, the only local doctor worth trusting, and arguably the co-leader of their little prospering hamlet paces across the hall like Trevor did the day Liza was born. He’s on the other side of that closed door, resting. Bedridden from heat exhaustion and a fucking pulled muscle. It bothers Alucard. This shouldn’t have happened to someone who stood up to the personification of Death and pissed in his eye. A stupidly common and easily treatable inconvenience to the human body shouldn’t be the end of a fucking Belmont.

It shouldn’t—unless Trevor’s scars have anything to say about it. The ones on the inside and outside. Inside, unseen, and untreatable. There’s a harsh revelation to be found there; one which the prince has been purposefully avoiding up to this moment. Alucard can try as he wants, use the tools left behind by his father and mother as though it were their final death wish, but he might never tend to what pains Trevor on the inside. He’s a Belmont, undeniably so, but Belmonts are human despite the many recurring signs pointing to the contrary. Then there’s Sypha with her magic, but she’s human as well. Greta and Liza are still human. Humans are more susceptible to dying easy, little deaths even when they follow world-saving victories.

Where does this leave Alucard? Thoughts spiral down, down towards darker places the longer he nervously hovers outside the bedroom. He’s been known to awkwardly stumble into deflection, insisting he’s only half human whenever certain someones bring up this topic of necessary conversation. Meaning he might as well not be human at all. Not when the bodies of those he loves change so rapidly while his remains petrified. It’s only been two years, filled to the brim with countless hours he wouldn’t ever want to trade for the entire world. But the thought of one night as they nestle themselves into bed and Alucard touches either Trevor or Sypha’s chest only to feel an anomaly within their hearts. The earliest sign that time and age will eventually betray them as it does for all mortals—it could be the one thing to break him.

Alucard stops himself at the opportune moment, right before he starts thinking about his mother and father. Did Dracula ever contemplate Lisa’s mortality? Was the decision to never turn her easy or the hardest thing he forced upon his unstable, immortal conscience? Arms crossed over his chest like a protective cage, fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt until it hurts, Alucard swallows a bitter glob of spit and reaches for the doorknob. Sypha will have to accept the fact that he couldn’t wait for her. He quietly thanks her for the lessons she taught him. If he needs to talk about something—truly talk, no sarcastic wit or banter, just the raw emotions—Alucard no longer hesitates. He won’t, not as he enters the room and immediately sees Trevor still in bed, not quite altogether there. At least he can manage a decent smile and wave of his hand.

“Evening.”

“How does your chest feel?”

“Still a bit tight, but I’ve been taking deep breaths like the doctor ordered.”

The amount of strain heard in Trevor’s voice worries Alucard. Hopefully the Belmont has learned something from the recent past, so he won’t be stupid and suggest anything having to do with leaving bed or getting back to work.

 “I think I should get up.”

“I think that’s a poor decision.”

“Are you saying that as my physician or because you’re letting that pretty little blonde head of yours get too worked up?”

No. Yes. Both? If only Trevor didn’t look up at him with those glassy eyes (can he still see him?) the colour of stained glass windows erected in cathedrals he felt so unwelcome inside. If only that smile, somehow both soft and shit-eating, wasn’t in place of a more serious expression. Then maybe Alucard could voice his concerns without being accused of acting overbearing—an accusation grounded in solid evidence but he’s not ready to admit that yet. Not out loud.

“Normal, healthy adults do not become bedridden after pulling a small muscle in their chest.”

“Belmonts aren’t normal… or healthy in my case.”

Alucard’s brow furrows. “I want to think you’re healthy—” I need to. “—that you’ll live long enough to see the children of this village have little ones of their own. Liza included.”

“God’s sake, she’s only two years old. You and Greta, always talking about looking one step too far into the future. Let her be a child before adulthood rears its ugly maw.”

“Try not to change the subject.”

Trevor lifts his head off the indent pressed into his sweat drenched pillow. “Alright. Fine. I feel much better. I won’t push myself and give my heart some more time to recover.”

No response coupled with broken eye contact; sure signs of Alucard’s reluctance to accept his rather weak assurance. The Belmont has no other choice.

“Come here. Sit.”

Another moment’s hesitation before Alucard complies. Feeling his weight upon the mattress, Trevor blindly reaches for his wrist until calloused fingers grip cool, unblemished skin.

“Now lie down. No, no. Not like that. Place your head right here.” He pats his chest and with a fleeting amount of guidance, Alucard’s cheek fits perfectly between his breasts. Two hands smooth over the dhampir’s curves before one before one rests on his silk smooth head and the other against the small of his back. Alucard lied about one thing: his own body can change in small yet noticeable ways. Without the need to fight for the lives of others, whether today or tomorrow, sharp edges turn softer. Trevor and Sypha have finally let themselves breathe as well, let go, and enjoy all of life’s pleasures.

“Hear that?” He asks Alucard.

“... It’s slow.”

“Slow and strong like it should be.”

Alucard wishes he could bottle up that heartbeat or place it in a box. Preferably a music box to listen to its soothing melody long after its original body and soul are both eventually gone from this world. Who knows? It might make things hurt a little bit less like when he redrew his parent’s portrait or built a much larger nursery where his own used to be. Not a lot, but Alucard could possibly live with just “a little”.

“Speaking of Greta…” The baritone of Trevor’s voice sends deep vibrations through his broad chest, tickling Alucard’s cheek. “She said something about more children.”

“More orphans joining us?”

“No, even though I know how much you love those damn orphans. She asked if we could handle one or two more.”

“What did you say?”

“I implied that she was taking after Sypha’s influence by being wonderfully insane.”

Alucard chuckles in agreement. That sounds like Greta. “You never know. It might be good for Liza if she has a younger sibling.”

With the sound of Sypha’s well timed arrival, he’s mercifully saved from Trevor’s lengthy speech about how patience is apparently a virtue and tirades about his “performance” or lack thereof. Greta reveals herself shortly afterwards with a still crying Liza in tow. So many bodies gathered around one inebriated individual, here for him and him alone. Trevor’s consoled yet exasperated expression directed at Greta in particular says “isn’t there someone more important you could be helping right now?”

Sypha is the first to voice her gratitude after fussing over her exhausting loved one. “I will never be able to thank you enough, Alucard.”

“I think the bed did most of the heavy lifting, love.”

Trevor is given an affectionate, somewhat caring glare in response but his focus is demanded elsewhere once he suddenly notices Liza jumping onto the bed. She snuggles herself between him and Alucard, wetting their shirts with her tears.

“Easy there, you little monster. Papa’s still a bit tender.” Not that she can understand or care.

There’s an aura of relief felt amongst everyone in the room—less with Alucard who smiles bittersweetly. It’s a truth he knew he had to acknowledge before it tore his heart open. Trevor and Sypha will die one day and he will have to bury them. He’ll bury Greta, he might even bury Liza. Not today thank all the gods, or tomorrow, not for the next few decades if fate is kind enough. 

But the day will come. And it will be Alucard’s own little death.

[sunshineneedsaplacetokeephernsfw]

Immortal - 1, Introduction (kinktober)

Kaminari Denki - Electricity

Warnings: 18+ (minor dni), non-consensual touching, electricity, creepy Denki, running, not edited

Word count: 3,185 (this is longer than all the other parts)

Masterlist

Part 1 | Next

October

The month that had become dedicated to stories and decorations on store shelves that ranged from spooky to creepy. But there was a strange unsettled feeling resting in the air this year. You felt it in the cool breeze and the whispers as people talked about the missing heroes from the past two years.

It was hard to believe the year was almost over. Especially when it felt like it had only just started, but here you were. You checked the clock and found your shift was done. You promptly wrapped up what you were doing and practically skipped out, with a book in hand. On your way out, your ear caught snippets of a conversation.

"It's horrible what happened."

"I wonder if it's going to happen again this year."

Right.

Two years ago, in October, the famous incident occurred when several students from U.A. went missing during a mission they had all been on. No one could ever find a single trace of them.

You pondered on it as you walked on the sidewalk with your book tucked under your arm. The sky was a deep blue and the air you breathed in was crisp and refreshing. And you were off work for the rest of the day. Which meant you could finally read more of the book that had been sitting on your counter for the past month. And it was a perfect day to read outside.

But you couldn’t stop recalling the strange, seemingly related event that happened last year. The next year after the disappearance, also October, two more heroes who had only just recently graduated from U.A. vanished the same way. It was also around that time when they realized that the villains Shigaraki and Dabi never showed their faces again, and the League of Villains seemed to be looking for them.

However horrible the disappearances, it soon faded into past news and life went on like nothing had ever happened. However, when the calendar changed to October once more, everyone was on edge. The heroes seemed more cautious, the public held their breath in anticipation.

You did your best not to care. It put a sick feeling in your stomach. Hopefully your book would manage to distract you.

Upon finding a nice bench, with a view of the nearby forest, you sat down with a content sigh and flipped the book open. Thankfully, it worked. You slipped into the story, hardly even noticing when you flipped the page or even when the clouds began to block out the sun. You only stopped when it became nearly too dark to read the page. You looked up.

Night had fallen. Shadows stretched and covered everything like a blanket. The only bit of natural light was a dim blue that was sure to fade soon enough.

Your heart beat fast. You closed your book and started in the direction of your apartment. There were always stories. Stories you knew were real. Stories that you'd hear all throughout the whole year, about people staying out too late at night and running into the wrong people. Real monsters.

This was your plan until you spotted somethin- no, someone moving. In the darkness, it took you a moment to see them more clearly. Someone in black and gray from head to toe, not a single bit of skin showing. And one in yellow, a top hat, and a theater mask. It took a moment, but you recognized these two as villains. You stumbled back. They were on the news once, and now they were there. You could see them. They could see you if they looked, they just hadn't yet. Or had they?

Your hands shook. Your limbs were frozen for a few precious seconds. Seconds that you could have used to get away. You ran to the forest. It was the first place you thought of. Maybe you could hide in the trees if they followed you. It was certainly a better option than running in the middle of the street.

The shadows swallowed you. You rushed past the tall trees that loomed over you. Twigs snapped beneath you. The sound of your own terrified breathing filled your ears. So loud, you thought everyone could hear.

The thought of actually stopping to hide finally occurred to you. You ducked behind a tree, hoping it was wide enough to completely hide you. Your eyes darted everywhere. You stopped breathing, praying that you wouldn't hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Nothing. Just the wind in the trees above. The leaves were so dark they looked more black than the sky above you.

Suddenly, your eye caught something that you missed. It was large. You jumped, as if some primal instinct were prepared for a giant monster. It didn’t move. You squinted and let out the breath you were holding.

It was a mansion. There were no lights on inside of it, and the wood was so dark it almost blended in. You never heard about this being here.

You wondered if anyone lived in it. Maybe they could help you. Though, it thankfully seemed like you weren’t being followed. It would be easy to just walk up and get a closer look. With a hand against the tree, you considered your options, to stay or check it out.

Your curiosity won the day.

You stayed low, prepared to dive behind a tree or bush, or duck underneath the mansion porch's railing. Almost every sound was amplified in your ear, making you jump. Which included the sounds even you were making.

The door wasn't locked. It swung open with ease, seemingly inviting you in.

You were considering whether you should enter, when you heard a distant, deep voice behind you. Your heart leaped from out of your chest. Following the voice, now another one, were footsteps. Without a second thought, you dashed inside and closed the door.

The entrance was large and open. Two staircases across from you. Two rooms to the left and right. You stepped into the left room to peer through one of the windows. You walked closer and closer to it. But no matter how close you looked, even when your nose was nearly against the cold glass, you could only see black. You stepped back in confusion.

It was the moment that you heard the door opening that you realized there was nowhere to truly hide in the left room. You quietly ran and dove under the table in the right room. Probably a dining room. The old carpet was rough against your elbows propping you up. You willed yourself to stop breathing as you watched their feet slowly tread in.

"I don't remember this mansion wasn't here last time we searched here," one said.

The other closed the door behind him.

"Yeah. This place is cool, but a little creepy. It's old and boring!"

"You don't suppose this mysterious mansion would have anything to do with Shigaraki's and Dabi's disappearance?"

"Hopefully, definitely not! Everyone's been looking for them for a long time. But I think the voice behind the screen cares more about Shigaraki."

You couldn't hold your breath anymore. You tried to be as quiet as you possibly could, but the small amount of air you allowed yourself just made you breathe faster and heart race. What were they doing here? Still looking for Shigaraki? You resisted the urge to peek up at them. If you could see them, they could see you. But somehow even looking at just their feet filled you with anxiety. Jumping every time one seemed to walk towards you. You wished the table was lower. That there was a long tablecloth that would hide you. That they wouldn’t see you.

"We should tell Kurogiri about this. Let's just leave."

"I agree." A moment passed. He tapped his foot against the floor. "I seem to not have a signal here."

A few seconds and some rustling. "Me neither. I'll go out and make the call."

His heavy steps left, leaving the other to wait behind, but only for a second.

"Um, you might need to see this. We're screwed."

"Hm?" He promptly left, leaving you alone.

You considered getting up and running away. But where would you hide? Would you be fast enough to hide somewhere else? Maybe you could open a win-

"How… did this happen?"

"I don't know! I just walked out and saw the ground wasn't there anymore! Or the trees or anything!"

You barely concealed a gasp. The door slammed shut and you saw two pairs of feet walk in once more. They debated for what felt like hours. Your nerves were shot and it felt like your elbows had rugburn. Finally, they walked up the stairs. You waited just a little longer until you heard a door closed. And even longer, until you were sure.

You slid yourself out from under the table. That couldn't be true, right? You ran to the door on your tippy toes, wincing every time you made the slightest sound. The door opened after a gentle twist.

You looked out. And sure enough. There was nothing beyond the porch but an endless black. Not the kind of black when everything's too dark to see. Even then, the shadows had depth. This.. seemed to stretch on forever.

You rushed back in and grabbed a vase on a wooden stand. Fragile white with turquoise lines that formed diamonds. You almost felt bad for what you were about to do. You lowered the vase to the dark, one hand on the floor board while the other reached down as far as you could with the vase in hand.

The vase never touched the ground. With a sigh, you let go of it. It dropped and dropped. Fell and fell, slowly spinning… until you couldn’t see it anymore. You listened for a crash, some sign that it reached the bottom, but the only sound was your own breath.

No bottom in sight.

This had… this had to just be some sort of quirk. Some sort of… defense for someone living there. It was the only explanation. That had to be it. You weren't trapped there with no way out, right?

You sat up. You cautiously glanced into the room before stepping in. You hadn’t noticed that it should be too dark to see anything. But somehow you could, like dim light coming from a moon that didn't exist.

A red carpet led to the staircase, then split to go up each set of stairs. Between the two sets of stairs was a book on a stand. One you hadn’t noticed.

You opened up a window and looked out. The void was still there. Still wrapping around the mansion. The only thing that existed now was you and this house. And the villains.

You wrestle with your pocket while dashing to a dark corner beside a table, and ripped your phone out. It nearly fell out of your hands as you turned it on and dialed the first contact you saw. Dial tone. The number was unavailable. You texted your parents. The text couldn't get through. Zero bars. You could get onto social media or make a Google search. But you could post or message anyone. Not one word, not on a single forum.

Your hands trembled. You ran one through your hair, grabbed onto the roots, and pulled. It didn’t even hurt. Nothing to distract you from your situation.

What to do. What to do. Well, hiding there was doing nothing good. Maybe you could search for a way out. Or find the owner and tell them what had happened.

There was no way you were going through the dooring up the stairs. You wanted to avoid the villains at all costs. You picked the door on ground level to the right. Book shelves were lined against the wall. There was no dust, but something gave you the feeling they hadn't been used in a long time. No lights, but strangely lit like the room before. You walked through the next door. A bedroom. The bed was sloppily made. Maybe it was the lack of people, but something unsettled you. Nothing felt quite right. But perhaps this was reasonable considering nothing else about the mansion was normal.

You reached for the knob of yet another door when you heard footsteps on the other side. That was your chance. You should have seen who it was, if they could have helped you. But there had been almost no real sign of anyone being in the mansion up until then. Even with the used bed, what if the villains had found another way downstairs? What if they were about to catch you?

You turned and made a dash. Through every door you'd been through so far. You should have just hid under the bed, but you didn't think of it at the time. You just wanted to get as far as you could.

When you got back to the entrance, your heart dropped in horror when you saw the villains emerging from the doors at the top of the stairs. They hastily ran out of it and firmly closed it behind them.

"Who is that!?" The louder of the two said.

Blood pounded in your ears. You didn’t stop. You were already opening the door in the left room and pulled the door shut behind you, still running.

How did they get there? Were they actually following you? Was it someone else you had run from? Was any of this even real?

You lost track of how many rooms you had run into. This one was hardly any different from the others. Same dark red wallpaper. There was a wardrobe, but did that really make a difference? You stopped in front of a window. Black. The moment you stopped was the moment your exhaustion hit you. Your legs and chest ached. You glanced at the door quickly then stared at the window.

Was this real? Was this all some sick dream?

You opened up the window.

If this was a dream and you fell, you would wake up.

You leaned out, placing your hands on the farm and beginning to lift a knee. The whole time you just stared into the nothingness.

"Woah, that's not a good idea," a cheerful voice behind you said, pulling you back by your waist.

Your back hit the stranger's chest. You twisted your head back to see who it was. His blond hair was long enough to reach his stubble covered jawline. He looked to be in his twenties, and was familiar for some reason. None of the villains, fortunately.

You breathed a much needed, heavy sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness you're not them."

“Nope, I’m Kaminari. Kaminari Denki. Wow! It’s been forever since I’ve talked with someone new. Hi, I’m Denki. Oops I already said that.”

You raised an eyebrow at his behavior. He held you a little too tightly. It was then you noticed you were too close together, with his crotch against your rump. You, embarrassed, gently pushed him away and he let go.

“Nice to meet you too. Kaminari? That sounds familiar.”

“Maybe you heard of me from the U.A. Sports Festival?”

“U.A…? Wait! Chargebolt? One of the U.A. students that went missing two years ago!??”

“The one and only.” He puffed his chest out.

“But.. what? That’s not possible. You look like you’re twenty-five or something.”

“You’re right, I am! It’s been so long since I had someone else to talk to! Did I already say that?”

He held your hand and pulled it close to him. Electricity sparked, going straight into your hand and making you jump.

“Sorry.” He smiled with concern in his eyes. “I have a little bit of a hard time controlling it now. Especially when I’m this excited.” His other hand reached towards you.

You stepped back and pulled your hand away. “Don’t touch me, please.”

He tilted his head, like he didn’t understand. But he didn’t come any closer.

"By the way, who were you talking about earlier? I’m not who?"

"Villains! They came in here after I ran in to hide from them."

“Really? What did they look like?”

“Twice and Mr. Compress. Twice has a black and gray suit, and Mr. Compress has a top hat, a mask, and a yellow jacket. Did you see them?”

“Yeah, I did. Actually, I saw them coming this way.” He pointed towards the door he had just come from.

“What!? Oh no…” your head whipped around, eyes scanning everywhere for a place to hide.

“I know a place to hide! In here.” Kaminari opened the wardrobe.

He quickly stepped in and moved to make room for you. You slid the hanging coats and clothing to one side and closed the door with just a small crack to see. It was too cramped for you. It was uncomfortably warm, but you would take it.

Your heart pounded in your ears. It was hard to see anything in the room with the small slit. Even then, you prayed they wouldn’t see you through the crack. If they did, you’d be finished with nowhere to run.

His fingers were against your waist, something you hardly even noticed because of the adrenaline. But they began rubbing circles into you, small tingles of electricity tickled you. One slipped down to the dip where your legs attached to the rest of your body. He pressed against your butt, at first you assumed it was simply him adjusting and the lack of room, but he didn't move. In fact, he pushed himself flush against you. You felt something warm and hard between your cheeks through the fabric of yours and his pants. If you tried to back away, the wardrobe door would open more, and the villains might come in any time.

"Please stop," you whispered.

He didn’t stop. He rubbed his head against the back of yours. He breathed in contently.

His hand rubbing you fell to your hip, then up again, into your shirt. You felt him drag against your soft skin. Reaching up to your bra. He made a clumsy effort to slip beneath it before squeezing and massaging it with the bra still on. Tiny sparks from his fingertips only drew your attention to this. You jolted when one ran over your nipple.

"Hey," you tried to sound angry, but it came out as a whine.

Much to your dismay, you felt your core growing unbearably warm. You wanted to stop him, but you froze. Your breaths were heavy. It didn’t help when he dipped his hand into your pants. Electricity somehow teased your clit through your panties. You barely held the moan in your throat.

"We can't be doing this," you said as a final attempt, "What if they hear?"

His lips fluttered against your skin. "Who will hear?"

"What do you mean? The villains… they are…" Did he actually see them coming?

He chuckled and ran a finger against your waistband. "We're gonna have some fun."

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