#only for them to be flat out lying and then say that it's MY fault for trusting them in the first place | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

koishiro · 1 year ago

Text

# - 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓 📍

masterlist | jjk masterlist | upcoming anon asks

=͟͟͞͞ ⌧ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋 : oh my god I’ve been gone for so long TT I’m so sorry (think of this as my comeback >:))

𝐂/𝐖 : implied afab! Reader, implies to anal (I’m not sorry).

a- aftercare, what's their aftercare like?

You best know he’s doing the upmost. After a few minutes of lying in bed (or wherever you happen to end up) he’ll make his way towards your bathroom and returns with a warm wash cloth before picking you up and guiding his way towards the bath he previously filled up as he quickly makes his way behind you, a fluffy towel placed on the heated towel wrack.

He’d let you dose off for a little while before softly waking you up so he can wash your hair and body. Don’t be surprised if you feel a slight poke to your lower back, it’s not his fault he’s got such a pretty little thing sat bare in front of him.

“‘You too tired for another round? What? ‘S not my fault you’re lookin’ all pretty f’me”

b- bodypart, whats their favourite bodypart and yours too? :

Ohohoho, your ass. Or should I say your ass and your hips. They’re just so plush and a guide of sorts as he locks his big hands on them to lead you up and down on his length. Even in mundane moments he just loves to grab onto your hips when he passes behind you or slap your ass every time you bend over to retrieve something. You go to grab the remote off the floor? Slap. You’re unloading laundry from the washing machine? Slap. You’re just minding your own business lying ass up on your bed? You’re just asking for it now.

When it comes to himself though? He’d have to say his thighs or arms/hands. He just loves to see the wet patch you leave behind after grinding yourself on his meaty thighs for only a few minutes. And he nearly goes feral from the way his hands look flat on your plush tummy, sexual or not. But he damn nearly loses his mind when he’s rutting into you and all he’s focused on is your bulging tummy and his hands softly tracing the outline of his throbbing cock.

“Look at you, d’you like the sight of my cock making you look so nice and full?”

c- cum, anything to do with cum :

You’re nearly convinced this man’s cum is never ending. Not only is it never ending but it’s thick as well. And if he’s not cumming inside, you best know you’ll be covered by the time he’s finished with you.

d-dirty secret, what's their dirtiest secret? :

His colleagues and friends wouldn’t count this as a secret considering he won’t exactly stop someone if they found out but he keeps a Polaroid of you in his wallet. Whenever he casually brings it up everyone would coo over how sweet he is until they actually come across said Polaroid only to find you in a very compromising position (with your consent ofc).

Everything on show, spread before him with his thighs either side of yours, one of your hands between your legs as the other leads a bead of his cum on the tip of your finger towards your lips and fucked out drunk eyes staring up at the camera lens. He’s just thoughtful like that, keeping a picture of his girl on him at all times.

Oh and you both also have a photo album specifically kept for nudes that sits on your shelf with the rest of your family albums.

“C’mon pretty, smile all nice now yeah? You never know who’ll stumble across this pretty picture of you. Gotta show ‘em who I’m buried in every night”

e- experience, how many times have they had sex? :

I’m going to be completely honest here, he’s had his fair share of hookups before he met you. But he wouldn’t think twice about them and he’d never even think of bringing them back his place, it would be too awkward waking up and not being able to ditch and forget so he sticks to their place, much easier and less of a mess in the long run.

f- favourite position, whats their favourite positions? :

Now this man will indulge in the occasional doggy style but it can’t beat the good fucking a mating press can provide. It just lets him get so deep and still be so close. I can imagine he’s a sucker for eye contact and this allows him to do just that while spilling the most vile words. And the way your tits bounce? It’s just the perfect position for him, what more could he ask for?

“Look at you taking me well, all dumb and fucked out, looking so pretty while I do all the work”

g- goofy, do they make jokes? :

Now this depends. If he’s had a bad day and he’s all worked up and frustrated, he just needs a good fuck (I say and he means with love, don’t degrade your worth bby) he’ll practically bend you over the nearest surface not thinking twice about the open windows, but by the ends when you’re both panting and heaving, he’ll make a small joke to lighten the mood, “well that was unexpected” or “thanks f’that doll. My own personal stress relief huh”. Other times when he feels more fluffy and sentimental, he’ll include small quips here and there, “who knew younger me would get the pretty girl in class”

h- hair, is he trimmed? does the carpet match the drapes? :

I like to think he’s completely shaved but I honestly think he has a little bit of hair, enough to coat his abdomen with a happy trail (who doesn’t like a happy trail) but mainly it’s trimmed down but still not fully shaved.

i-intimacy, how intimate are they? :

Again, this depends on his mood and/or a special event. If it’s something like your birthday? He’ll be nice and gentle but slowly work his way to being more rough but with sweet sentimental words woven in. If you happen to be in public? He’ll flirt like a teenager and like it’s his first time meeting you again which only leads to you bent over the sink in the public toilets or cramped in a cubicle with a hand over your mouth as he ruts up into you. (I’m getting off topic here). OH AND DONT GET ME STARTED ON BODY WORSHIPPING. You’ll never feel insecure again!-

Even in day-to-day life, he’ll sneak up and hug you from behind before asking how your day was (even if you were only apart for an hour max), he’d often bring home flowers of different kinds and he’d be clued up on the meanings behind them too.

“Look at these plush thighs all f’me, wrapping around my head so nice. An’ look at these tits, always so so sensitive. Love the lil’ dance you do when I so much as flick them”

j- jack off, how often are they jacking off? :

Fairy regular. Not a lot, considering he has you to come home to. So probably an average amount. Whenever he's away though he's jacking off a lot more. (That Polaroid comes in handy).

k- kink, what are their kinks? :

I don’t know if this counts as a kink but it gets him so hard when he has something that reminds him of you on him while gets down and dirty (does that make sense?), like for example he has a bracelet you gave him on his wrist made with so much thought and love while he fists your pretty pussy or when he’s just stood in line for a coffee and he looks down at the nail polish you did on him knowing where his fingers have been. He likes the thought that only he knows where they’ve been like a little secret between you both.

l- location, where would he take you? public person or private? :

Oh 110% he’d fuck you in public, no doubt in my mind. This man is a brat tamer and you can’t not agree with that. You’re acting up in public? He’ll having you whining with his hand buried deep in your pussy under the restaurant’s table. He’s the kind of guy to fuck you with the door slightly cracked open, leaving the slight chance that his roommate could either hear you or catch you in the act (he wouldn’t even stop you know it).

He does have his times though when he feels like being more private and wanting to keep you to himself, likes to take his time with you.

“Gotta be more quiet pretty girl, do’ya want someone to hear you? Whining all slutty? Is that what you want? You’d get off on that wouldn’t ya”

m- motivation, what motivates him? :

He’s a brat tamer and a chaser, strange mix I’m aware. But it just gets him so riled up when you start acting out, in public or not. He won’t think twice before bending you over the nearest surface (preferably his lap) while he makes you count until you’re too dumb to count any further.

There’s also a running theme in your relationship that keeps him wanting more. Before you were even in a relationship you’d always make it seem like you weren’t too interested in him but you’d leave hints for him to figure out so even now, in a long term relationship, you’ll both still play cat and mouse leaving his brain to haywire.

n- no, what wouldn't they do? :

Consent is a big, big thing in your relationship. He won’t do anything unless you verbally agree to it. You both even have a safe word for when things turn serious. Watersports and scat are both out the window because that’s just disgusting.

“C’mon pretty girl, use your words. Can you do that f’me? Can you use your words?”

o- oral, giving or receiving? :

This one’s a 50/50. As much as I want to say he’s a giver, I have to remind myself he’s also a brat tamer so the urge he has to just shove your head down on his girthy cock to shut you up is immense at times. But he also gets off on being covered in your cum. You could be doing the most mundane thing like catching up on your favourite tv show and he’s between your thighs lapping your essence up like it’s holy water (and boy does he need a lot of that). He’d even let you take a picture if that’s what you really want (yes please).

p- pace, how fast do they go? slow, fast? :

He’d purposefully put you in a false sense of security. Starting off slow and deep and gradually increasing faster and rougher. He’ll tease you by going slow and when you're both chasing your orgasm he starts to go faster. His words would follow as well, starting off sweet and sentimental and gradually turning dirtier and meaner.

q- quickies, are they a fan? :

Now, like I said before, this man loves public sex but that doesn’t mean he’s a big fan of quickies when doing so. Makes him feel like he’s using you sometimes and he certainly doesn’t want to make you feel like that. So he makes it up to you by going long and hard in the comfort of your own home. But sometimes it’s unavoidable, especially when he needs to leave in 15 minutes but how can he when you’ve just gotten out of the shower looking like that? And you know what you’re doing to him so of course he has to teach you a lesson right?

“Look what you’re doing t’me. Gonna make me late now cause of you acting up. What am I gonna say to the guys hm? That I had to fuck the attitude out of my girl? Is that what you want?”

r- risk, are they a risk taker? :

He'd never put you in harms way. So he wouldn't be one to take risks that could put you in danger or get you hurt somehow (like knife play etc). but he will fuck you somewhere you both could get caught. That’s just a given.

s- stamina, can they go for multiple rounds? :

Oh boy can he. In the end he has to hold you up by the hips while he continues to rut into you. He even keeps a glass of water to the side for you in moments like these. (Here’s your daily reminder to go drink some fckn water bby)

t- toys, do they experiment with toys? :

Hehe >:) you could say that yes. He once invested in vibrating panties he had you wear in public while you both walked around the mall hand in hand, it was in your best interest not to talk back to him that day. He also occasionally indulges in vibrators, bondage, butt plugs, analog beads (you get the gist). But he won’t be too pleased in toys for himself like cock rings.

But nothing can beat the feeling of his cock fucking you raw with nothing in the way, although he has sometimes double penetrated you with his cock and another toy.

u- unfair, how much will he tease you? :

He'll tease you for a good while, you'll be a whimpering and begging mess before he's even put it in you. Especially when toys are involved. He loves to see writhing and wriggling beneath him.

v- volume/verbal, are they loud? :

He's not so much as ‘loud’ but more reassuring and teasing in his words, making sure you’re comfortable the entire time. He also makes sure you know that you’re making him feel good too. Don’t get me wrong though, he groans and grunts for sure, both your moans and whimpers fill the silence in the room for sure.

“You okay baby? You holdin’ on? You’re doing so well, keep whining like that pretty. Got me acting some type’a way”

w- where does he prefer to cum? :

He loves to cum inside of you let him. Goes feral at the thought of knocking you up and watching his cum seep out of your puffy pussy before he fingers it back where it belongs. But at times where he’s not allowed, he loves to cover you in it (we all know this man cums a lot so be warned).

“I didn’t think you could possibly get any prettier, but look at you all covered in my cum. Let me take a picture so you can see for yourself”

x-ray, whats going on under those clothes? :

He’s 190cm (6’3) so I imagine him to be big. maybe like, 6.9 (😏) flacid, 7.2 hard. I also imagine him to be fairly thick but not too thick y’know? Maybe like the thickness of his own wrist (that’s probably not too good of an example but here we are). He also has a vein running across his shaft as he curves upwards. He’s not even really aware of his length either. He often thinks back to when you first saw his cock and he was slightly confused at your worried expression. Like what bae? Why so worried, I’ll make it fit.

y- yearning, what’s their sex drive like? :

I’d say Geto has an average sex drive. Not like a teenage boy where he was horny 25/8 but you both still fuck at least 3 times a day no ifs or buts, any time anywhere. Gotta close your fitness ring somehow. And you know when he’s in the mood cause he’ll snake his arms around you before they creep their way towards your tits, soon pawing at the flesh.

INTRUSIVE SIDE NOTE: Does anyone remember that post a while back where this girl had sex with her boyfriend and her parents had a notification from their watches saying they closed their fitness ring after an intensive workout? Yeah that’s you and Geto. That’s had to have happened at least once. No doubt in my mind.

z- zzz :

Geto will not sleep until you're cleaned, hair is washed and brushed out of your face, you’ve drank a full cup of water, skin care outta the way (ofc he memorised it who do you think he is) literally every single need you have has to be met will he then sleep. Once you both do eventually sleep, he has you tucked to his side or directly on top of his chest. He does often hug you from behind though, only so he can grope your tit and fall asleep in that exact position.

529 notes · View notes

plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 4 months ago

Text

anathema

part I

Pairing: Michael!Dean x Fem!Reader (with a hint of Sam x Fem!Reader and Samifer x Fem!Reader)

Summary: You have been with Sam and Dean for years now, you have always loved both of them equally, and while they were reluctant at first—they came to an agreement to share you. When Sam and Castiel return to the bunker without Dean, you learn a horrifying truth. He is no longer your Dean.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, biblical references, religious metaphors, smut (dirty talk, degradation, fingering, oral, p in v, dp, overstim, forced orgasms, cockwarming, dom/sub dynamics), heartbreak, pining, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 8,523

A/N: This is my first time writing on tumblr, so I hope it's alright... let me know what you think, and if you read this all the way through—thank you!!!! <3 Also... gonna be multiple parts to this. So while the warnings listed above (and the pairings) may not be evident in this part, they will in the next one. All the love.

Without further ado: ANATHEMA

There is a moment before the fall—before the first stone is cast, before the altar crumbles, before the faithful are forsaken.

It is quiet. It is sacred. It is the breath before ruin.

This is the nature of gods. They do not love. They do not fall. And yet—

He does.

The bunker door opened, and only Sam and Castiel stepped through.

No Dean.

Something inside you split, sharp and silent, like a fault line in the earth.

Sam wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You didn’t need to hear it. You already knew. But he said it anyway.

"He said yes."

You thought you would have felt it—some cosmic shift in the air, some unseen force tugging you awake in the middle of the night with the knowledge that something had gone terribly wrong. But there had been nothing. Just silence.

And now, there was only absence.

Sam’s voice was gentle, careful, like he knew you were seconds from breaking.

"He said yes."

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t make sense because Dean never would.

You opened your mouth, closed it. The words felt too big to push out of your throat.

Somewhere beside you, Castiel shifted his weight. You barely noticed.

"You’re lying." It came out flat, but your heart was slamming against your ribs. Hope dying violently inside your chest.

Sam exhaled sharply, guilt bleeding through his expression, he said your name. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

The world should have ended in that moment. The walls of the bunker should have cracked apart, the ceiling caving in, the earth splitting wide open. But everything remained still, unchanged, and yet—nothing was the same.

The moment the words left Sam’s mouth again, something inside you snapped.

Not cleanly, not painlessly. It was a fracture deep in the marrow, a violent splintering of something you weren’t built to live without.

"He said yes."

You shook your head. No.

The denial crawled up your throat like bile. No, he didn’t.

You saw the way Sam braced himself, the shift of his stance, the slight wince as you reached for him with shaking hands. He knew what was coming.

And still—he let you break against him.

Your fists hit his chest first. Desperate, useless. Not enough to hurt him, barely enough to hurt yourself.

"You’re lying!"

The first time, it was a snarl, a sharp thing, fury over heartbreak.

The second time, a sob.

The third time, barely a whisper.

Your fists faltered, fingers curling into the worn fabric of Sam’s jacket as you pressed your forehead against him, breath shuddering.

"Tell me you’re lying, Sam. Please."

Sam didn’t say anything. He just held you—strong, steady, like an anchor in a storm too wild to be tamed.

You kept fighting, but it was all for nothing. It had already happened.

Dean was gone.

By the time your body gave out, wrung dry from grief and fury, Sam caught you before you hit the floor. He carried you without a word, like you weighed nothing, like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

You didn’t remember being laid down in his bed, only the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath you, the warmth of his hand resting on your back as the weight of it all finally, fully, crushed you.

You didn’t dream that night. You weren’t sure if you even slept.

The bunker was too quiet.

Not in the way it usually was—filled with the low hum of machinery, the faint rustling of old pages, the familiar sound of Sam pacing in the library.

No.

It was quiet in the way that only loss could create.

You moved through the halls like a ghost wearing borrowed skin. A shell of yourself, too heavy, too hollow.

Dean’s shirts swallowed your frame, the sleeves too long, the scent of him still lingering in the fabric, fading more each day.

You stopped eating full meals. Stopped sleeping in your own bed. Sam didn’t push, didn’t demand anything of you, only watched with quiet understanding as you sank deeper into your grief.

Castiel would sit with you sometimes, as if waiting for something to change.

It didn’t.

Nothing changed. Because Dean was gone.

Gone.

No teasing. No smirks. No more stupid bunker date nights, lying tangled in your bed, listening to vinyl records and laughing into each other’s mouths when he sang a line in that deliberately awful voice just to make you roll your eyes.

No more warm hands sliding under the hem of your shirt when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

No more soft chuckles against your throat, his nose nudging your jaw before he whispered, “C’mon, sweetheart, gimme one more song.”

No more Dean.

The realisation sank into your ribs like lead.

He was never walking through that damn door again.

And if he did— It wouldn’t be him.

The whiskey burned your throat, but you drank it anyway.

Dean’s whiskey.

Dean’s glass.

Dean’s flannel hanging loose over your frame, the hem brushing bare thighs.

Everything in this room had been his first.

Now, it was only yours.

Sam had offered to sit with you, had hovered near the doorway with his hands shoved into his pockets, worry lining his features.

"Just give me some space, Sam."

You didn’t know where Castiel was. You weren’t sure if you cared.

The bunker felt too big when you were alone.

The war room lamp cast a low, amber glow, flickering over the glass in your hand, over the bottle beside you—half-empty now, a quiet act of defiance against the silence.

You weren’t drunk.

You wanted to be.

Maybe then, the weight in your chest wouldn’t feel so unbearable.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the deep amber liquid swirling in the glass.

It was stupid.

You didn’t even like whiskey that much.

But Dean had.

And so, you drank.

The door slammed open and you flinched. The glass nearly slipped from your fingers.

Your first thought—your first foolish, desperate, agonising thought—was that it was him.

Dean.

Finally.

But the moment you lifted your head, you knew.

It wasn’t him.

It was his body, but it wasn’t him.

Michael stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, chin high, the posture too rigid, too proud.

Dean had swagger. He leaned against doorways, arms crossed, mouth quirked in a cocky smirk, always pretending he had all the time in the world.

Michael did not lean. He stood like a king surveying his kingdom, like he had already won.

And his eyes—

Not Dean’s eyes.

There was no warmth, no teasing glint, no flicker of recognition.

Just something ancient, something calculating, something detached.

His gaze swept over you, slow and clinical, taking in the flannel, the whiskey, the way you sat curled in Dean’s chair like you belonged there.

And then, he spoke.

"Interesting."

The voice was Dean’s, but the inflection was all wrong.

It sent a cold spike down your spine.

Michael took a step closer.

"This vessel reacts to you."

The words settled over you like oil—thick, suffocating, clinging to your skin.

You should have moved. You should have said something.

But you didn’t.

You just sat there, whiskey glass in hand, wearing a dead man’s flannel, and stared at the thing that wore his face.

The silence stretched.

Thick. Suffocating. A living thing smothering the room.

Michael didn’t move at first—just watched. The weight of his gaze settled over you like something ancient, something inhuman, something vast and unfeeling.

Dean’s body. Not Dean.

You gripped the whiskey glass tighter, but your hands had gone cold.

Michael took another step forward.

Then another.

Measured. Controlled.

Your pulse pounded against your ribs, a trapped thing, desperate and screaming.

He reached the edge of the table. He didn’t stop.

Another step.

You could see the grain of his shoes scuffing against the floor.

Another step.

You could smell the soap, the faintest hint of whiskey lingering on the dress shirt he wore.

Another step.

Too close.

Too much.

Your breath hitched.

Michael tilted his head, fascinated.

"Strange." His voice was low, observational. "Your body reacts to my presence."

Your body.

Not you.

Not your mind, your grief, your agony, your devastation.

Just the body.

The words struck something deep and ugly inside you, something feral, something that had been clawing at your throat since the moment he stepped through that door.

And then—

You snapped.

"Get the fuck out of him!"

The glass hit the table with a dull thud as you lurched up, the chair scraping against the floor, your hands trembling, your chest heaving.

Michael didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all.

Just watched.

"He is mine."

You felt it before you heard it—the sob breaking loose from your throat, sharp and sudden, ripped straight from the centre of your chest.

"No—no, you don’t—" You shook your head, vision blurring. "He’s not—he’s not yours, you son of a bitch—"

"This vessel belongs to me."

A sob choked its way out of your throat. Your nails dug into your palms, your knees going weak.

The chair wobbled behind you.

You grabbed the table to stay standing.

"No—no, he’s Dean. He’s Dean."

Michael blinked, as if bored of your grief.

"Dean Winchester was merely the temporary steward of this form." His head tilted again, dissecting you like a puzzle with missing pieces. "It is fascinating how deeply you mourn something so impermanent."

The sound that left you wasn’t even human.

It was grief in its rawest form—a sob so deep it burned.

Footsteps.

Heavy, fast.

Sam.

"HEY!" Sam’s voice was sharp, dangerous, already moving between you and Michael before your knees even gave out. "Get the hell away from her."

Michael didn’t so much as blink.

Then, Castiel.

The sudden shift in energy made the air crackle.

"Michael." Castiel’s voice was measured, controlled—but there was something heavy in it, something unyielding.

Michael finally—finally—tore his gaze from you.

"Castiel." A pause. A flicker of something too cold to be recognition. "This is hardly your concern."

"She is under our protection."

"She is not yours to protect."

"And she is not yours to claim."

The moment stretched too long, too tense, electric with the threat of something breaking.

Sam’s hands were already on you, pulling you back, tucking you into his chest, holding you together as you trembled in his arms.

"Let’s go." Sam’s voice was softer now, spoken against the crown of your head, he murmured your name. "Come on."

Michael didn’t try to stop you.

But you felt his eyes on you until the moment Sam pulled you through the doorway and into the halls of the bunker.

You weren’t sure if it was hours or days since Sam had pulled you from the war room.

Since Michael had looked at you and said this vessel is mine.

Since you had shattered in Sam’s arms.

Now, you sat curled against him, half-draped over his lap, your forehead resting against his chest, fingers clutching at the soft cotton of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from dissolving completely.

Sam hadn’t let go of you.

Not when you went limp in his arms, silent tears staining his shirt, grief leaving you hollow.

Not when you finally, finally stopped crying and just lay there, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a sound that belonged to the past as much as the present.

Dean’s heartbeat had been steady, too.

Once.

Now, you didn’t know if it beat at all.

The bunker hummed quietly around you, the air still heavy from what had happened.

Michael was still here.

His presence was a stain in the walls, a crack running through the foundation of your world.

Somewhere deep in the silence, footsteps echoed.

Not Michael.

Sam didn’t tense.

You didn’t have the energy to care.

The door creaked open.

A long pause.

Then—

"He says he will be staying here."

Castiel’s voice was always deep, always low, always solemn. But now?

Now, it carried something heavier.

Finality.

Sam exhaled slowly, the rise and fall of his chest shifting beneath your cheek.

"For how long?"

"Until his business is finished."

You stared at nothing. At the stitching on Sam’s shirt. At the way his chest moved, up and down, steady and warm.

Castiel shifted, stepping further into the room.

"We need to keep her away from him."

"Yeah," Sam muttered, the exhaustion thick in his voice. "I know."

You barely blinked.

They were talking about you.

Like you weren’t there.

Like you were something fragile, breakable.

Maybe you were.

"She’ll stay here, with me," Sam said, one hand rubbing absentminded circles into your back. "We’ll keep her safe."

Safe.

As if there was safety to be found anywhere anymore.

Safe from what?

From Michael? From the thing that wore Dean’s face? From the sound of his voice, sharp and clean, stripped of warmth?

Or safe from the truth?

That no matter how long you stayed curled against Sam’s chest, no matter how much they protected you, Dean wasn’t walking through that door again.

"Sweetheart."

Sam said it softly, an instinct, the way he always did.

The way Dean had.

And before you could stop it, before you could pretend it didn’t hurt—

You flinched.

Sam froze.

A sharp inhale, his body going rigid beneath you.

You wished you could take it back.

You wished it didn’t feel like someone had just taken a blade to your ribs.

But it did.

God, it did.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then—soft, careful, Sam whispered, "I’m sorry."

The words settled heavy in the air, something unspeakably sad laced beneath them.

Not just sorry for saying it.

Sorry for all of it.

Sorry that this was real.

Sorry that Dean was gone.

Sorry that this grief had nowhere to go but deeper.

"She stays with me," Sam said again, voice firmer this time, as if it was the only thing in his control.

Castiel hesitated. Then, a quiet, knowing nod.

You closed your eyes.

The weight of it all pressed down like stone.

Michael was still here.

And you weren’t sure how long you could bear it.

Time blurred.

The bunker existed in half-light, in the soft glow of lamps and the heavy hush of grief.

You didn’t leave Sam’s room.

Not unless you had to.

Not unless your body forced you to remember it had needs beyond grief.

Even then—

You were never alone.

Sam followed you to the bathroom. Waited outside the door.

Castiel walked with you to the shower. Stood like a silent sentinel while the water burned your skin.

They didn’t say it outright, but you knew.

They were keeping you away from him.

From Michael.

From the thing that wore Dean’s body like a vessel carved from flesh and sinew, like a ruin he had no intention of rebuilding.

Even without seeing him, you felt his presence in the walls.

Felt him existing just out of reach.

You imagined him in the halls, never in Dean’s clothes, never sinking into the couch with a beer in hand, never kicking his boots onto the table with a cocky smirk.

He didn't smirk.

He didn't look at you with warmth.

Michael walked through the bunker like a king waiting for his throne to be built.

And you?

You were locked away like a thing to be protected.

Or a thing to be hidden.

Either way, it was suffocating.

Sam barely left your side. At night, you curled into his warmth, buried beneath blankets, the rise and fall of his chest the only thing anchoring you.

He didn’t talk much.

Because what was there to say?

He was grieving too.

The difference was—he hadn’t seen Dean’s body standing in the war room.

He hadn’t felt it in the air, the echo of something wrong, something missing.

That weight belonged to you alone.

And after days, maybe a week, maybe more, you finally whispered, "I want a book."

Sam stirred beside you, shifting slightly to look down at you, brows drawn in quiet concern.

"What?"

"The library." Your voice felt foreign in your own throat. "I just—just want to read something. I need something else to focus on."

Sam exhaled. Nodded.

"I’ll get you one. What do you want?"

You swallowed.

"I want to go."

His body tensed. Not much—but enough that you felt it.

"I’ll come with you."

You shook your head.

"I just—I just want to walk for a minute."

Sam didn’t like that. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his fingers curled slightly where they rested against your back.

"Five minutes," you said softly, pressing a hand against his chest. "Just five. I need to move, Sammy."

He was still frowning, still uneasy, but after a long pause, he nodded.

Kissed your temple.

"Not long." His voice was quiet, firm. "And if you need me or Cas—"

"I know."

"You call."

You nodded.

He watched as you slid out of bed, as you pulled one of his hoodies over Dean’s flannel, as you pushed your bare feet into socks.

He watched, and he didn’t stop you.

Not yet.

Not now.

You stepped out into the hallway—alone for the first time in days.

The bunker air felt different.

It tasted different.

Or maybe that was just the weight of inevitability settling in your bones.

Because even if you didn’t want to admit it—

You already knew.

You were going to find him.

The library smelled like dust and old paper, the weight of time woven into every faded spine, every yellowed page. You dragged your fingertips over the rows of books, feeling the leather, the cool press of worn lettering beneath your touch, searching for something to hold your attention—anything to pull you out of your own head for a while.

Something on mythology, maybe. Or astrology. Or something in a dead language that you could waste hours trying to decipher, letting your mind stretch and bend around unfamiliar symbols just to keep from thinking too much.

The bunker had been suffocating these past few days. Not because Sam or Castiel had made it that way, but because you had let it. You had tucked yourself into the safety of Sam’s room, hidden beneath blankets and the warmth of his presence, because leaving that space meant acknowledging reality.

It meant existing in a world where Dean was gone.

And you weren’t sure how to do that.

You curled your fingers around the spine of a heavy, leather-bound volume, its title written in elegant, looping Latin. The moment you touched it, something in the air shifted.

It wasn’t a sound.

It wasn’t anything tangible.

But you felt it.

A thick, unseen pressure settling over the room, an almost imperceptible change in the atmosphere, like the oxygen had thinned just slightly—like the air itself was waiting.

You went still, fingers tightening around the book.

The bunker had always been quiet, but this was something else. This was silence in its purest form, deep and all-consuming, pressing at the edges of your awareness like a thing alive.

Your stomach twisted.

It was instinct before anything else.

You weren’t alone anymore.

The realisation lodged itself behind your ribs, weighty and inescapable, curling through your veins like ice.

You didn’t move. Didn’t turn.

Just stood there, breath slow, measured, as if that would somehow make you smaller, less detectable. But it was already too late.

The air had changed because of him.

Michael.

You knew it before you saw him, before you had to look at the thing that wore Dean’s body like it was nothing more than a borrowed suit.

The book in your grip felt too heavy, your heart beating sluggishly in your chest, each second stretching unbearably long as you exhaled through your nose, fighting to keep your breath steady.

Still, you didn’t turn.

Didn’t acknowledge him.

Maybe if you just grabbed the book and left, you wouldn’t have to.

Your fingers dug into the leather, and you ripped it from the shelf, spinning on your heel in one sharp movement, your pulse a frantic drum in your throat.

And there he was.

Standing at the far end of the room, utterly motionless, utterly still, like some relic of a long-dead empire, unshaken by time or ruin.

His posture was too rigid, his shoulders squared, the clean, sharp lines of his dress shirt pristine, ironed to perfection. The fabric stretched taut across Dean’s body, but there was no comfort in the familiarity of it, no ease in the way he held himself.

Michael didn’t slouch. Didn’t lean against doorframes. Didn’t tip his head with that cocky smirk, eyes flashing with something teasing, something warm.

Dean did those things.

Dean had always felt human.

This was not Dean.

This was something else entirely.

His gaze flicked over you, slow and clinical, nothing in his expression shifting, nothing giving away what he was thinking. He didn’t react to the sharpness of your movement, didn’t blink at the way your chest was rising and falling just a little too fast, didn’t even acknowledge the way your grip had gone white-knuckled around the book in your hands.

He just watched.

Observed.

Like you were something peculiar, something fragile, something not entirely understood.

Your lungs felt too tight, too full, like you’d forgotten how to breathe correctly.

You didn’t know what you had expected from this moment, but the sheer wrongness of it was settling into your bones like rot, sinking into the hollow space in your chest where grief had already begun its slow decay.

The silence stretched between you, unbearably thick.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And that was worse than anything he could have said.

Your vision blurred at the edges, heat prickling behind your eyes, but you swallowed hard, tightening your grip on the book like an anchor, like a lifeline.

You couldn’t do this.

Your legs carried you forward before you could think better of it, your feet silent against the floor as you strode past him without a word, feeling his gaze on you the entire way, tracking your movement with something unreadable.

You walked faster.

You didn’t look back.

But the weight of him followed you all the way down the hall.

The walk back to Sam’s room felt longer than before.

Your breath wasn’t right. Too shallow, too uneven.

The book felt heavy in your hands, the leather binding warm from your grip, but your fingers were still cold. The chill had settled in your bones, numbing the edges of everything, leaving you raw and weightless, untethered.

You had seen him.

You had felt him in the room with you before you even turned.

And it wasn’t Dean.

It would never be Dean.

Your steps slowed as you neared Sam’s door, your body hesitating before you even realised it. It was one thing to leave. One thing to push for just a few minutes of air, of space, of movement.

But coming back meant admitting it was a mistake to leave.

You didn’t want to say it.

But Sam already knew.

The moment you stepped inside, his gaze lifted from where he sat on the edge of the bed, sharp and knowing, something heavy settling behind his eyes before you could even speak.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t demand an explanation.

He just opened his arms.

And that was it.

Whatever tension was holding you up finally snapped, and you let yourself sink into him, your knees hitting the mattress as you climbed into his lap, pressing your face into the solid warmth of his chest, fingers curling weakly in the fabric of his shirt.

His arms came around you immediately.

Strong, steady.

A quiet anchor in the storm.

His hand stroked over the back of your head, slow, soothing. He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

You exhaled shakily, mouth barely moving against his chest when you finally whispered, "I shouldn’t have left."

Sam let out a soft breath, his chin resting against the crown of your head.

"I know."

The words weren’t condescending. They weren’t I told you so.

They were understanding.

He knew why you left. He knew why you regretted it. He knew why you weren’t ready to say more.

So, he didn’t make you.

He just held you.

For minutes, maybe longer.

The quiet stretched, nothing but the sound of his heartbeat, the warmth of his palm moving slowly over your back.

Then, his hand shifted, fingers grazing the book still clenched loosely in your grip. He pulled back just enough to glance at the cover, brows drawing slightly together.

"Latin." His voice was low, careful. "Do you want me to read it to you?"

You didn’t lift your head.

Just nodded.

His arm tightened around you as he shifted, reaching for the book properly, adjusting you against his chest so he could hold it in one hand while the other remained firm at your back.

And then, he started reading.

His voice was low, deep, smooth, rolling over the foreign words like they belonged to him, like he had memorised them lifetimes ago and was only now speaking them into existence again.

You weren’t even sure if you were listening.

Just that the sound of it filled the empty spaces.

That the warmth of him kept the cold at bay.

Your fingers twitched against his ribs, tension fading by degrees.

Your body began to sink further into him, exhaustion creeping in at the edges, soft and quiet.

You barely registered the moment when sleep finally took you.

But for the first time in days, you weren’t afraid to close your eyes.

You woke slowly, warmth pressed against your back, the steady rise and fall of Sam’s chest beneath your cheek.

At some point, he had moved you—pulled the blankets over you, curled himself around you like a shield against something neither of you could name.

For a moment, you just lay there.

Safe.

Still.

But it wasn’t enough.

There was a pit in your chest, something deep and aching, something that had been gnawing at the edges of you since the moment he walked through the bunker door.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of avoiding him. Weeks of silence. Weeks of pretending.

You couldn’t pretend anymore. Not after seeing him in the library earlier.

You needed to see him.

Carefully, slowly, you peeled yourself away from Sam, breath caught in your throat as you shifted out from under his arm. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake, and you hesitated, guilt curling at your ribs.

You almost stayed.

Almost let the warmth keep you in place.

But you couldn’t.

You slipped out the door and into the hallway, your bare feet silent against the floor, the cool air raising goosebumps along your skin.

Your heart was already hammering.

You didn’t let yourself think too hard about what you were doing, about what you were walking toward.

But when you reached Dean’s door, you froze.

You hadn’t stood here since before the hunt.

Before everything changed.

Before you lost him.

Your fingers curled into a fist. You knocked.

Silence.

You swallowed, exhaling through your nose before knocking again, voice barely above a whisper.

"Can I come in?"

A pause.

Then—

"If you must."

The words landed like a weight in your stomach.

You turned the handle.

And the air was ripped from your lungs.

It wasn’t his room anymore.

It was the same space, the same four walls, the same furniture, but it wasn’t his.

The bed was made, the sheets pulled too tight, too pristine. The clutter was gone. No jackets draped over the chair, no worn-out boots kicked to the corner, no weapons haphazardly left on the desk.

Everything that had made this space Dean was gone.

Stripped bare.

Your feet remained planted in the doorway, heart slamming against your ribs, breath too thin.

And there he was.

Sitting on the edge of the bed.

Rigid. Composed. Back straight, hands resting on his thighs, chin lifted just slightly in that way that made him look like he was surveying a kingdom, rather than sitting in the hollowed-out shell of a life he had erased.

He wasn’t looking at you.

But he didn’t have to.

Dean’s body. Dean’s scent. Dean’s voice when he finally spoke.

"Why are you here?"

The air was thick with it. Grief, loss, the unbearable weight of what was missing.

You swallowed against the sharp ache in your throat, curling your fingers into your palms.

"I needed to see you." Your voice was quiet, uneven. "I needed to see Dean."

That got his attention.

His gaze finally lifted to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes—the wrong eyes, too sharp, too ancient.

"Dean Winchester is not here."

A breath shuddered out of you.

You took a step inside.

"I know."

You knew. God, you knew. But it didn’t stop the way your chest ached, the way everything inside you felt like it was caving in.

"I need to pretend."

The words felt like a confession, raw and fragile.

A slow, deliberate smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Pretend?"

You nodded once, your throat working around the lump forming there.

"Just for a little while."

Michael’s expression remained unreadable, but the amusement was there, just beneath the surface, something cool and sharp.

"And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?"

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

You didn’t know how to say it.

How to ask.

How to put words to the need that was eating you alive from the inside out.

"I want you to hold me."

His brows lifted slightly.

Not in shock.

More like intrigue.

He studied you for a long moment, head tilting ever so slightly, the way someone might observe a strange phenomenon, something they didn’t quite understand but found interesting nonetheless.

And then, finally—

"No."

The rejection landed like a blow to the ribs.

It was a clean refusal. Not cruel, not angry, just absolute.

Your stomach twisted, your chest tightening, something breaking just a little bit more inside you.

Michael watched it happen.

Watched as your face fell, as your hands curled into fists, as your body tensed against the sharp sting of rejection.

You blinked hard, forcing down the heat rising behind your eyes.

Your voice came out hollow, flat.

"Fuck you."

And then, before he could say anything else—before you could do something stupid, desperate, pathetic—you turned on your heel and left.

Your feet carried you back down the hall, your chest tight, your throat aching.

By the time you reached Sam’s room, your legs felt like lead.

You climbed back into bed carefully, curling into yourself, pulling the blankets up tight, tucking yourself into the warmth of Sam’s body as if it could pull the lingering chill from your bones.

He stirred, his arms instinctively wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest, but he didn’t wake.

And this time, you didn’t cry.

Because there was nothing left to mourn.

Dean was gone.

And you had been foolish enough to ask a god to hold you.

You weren’t sure why you were here again.

No—that was a lie.

You knew exactly why.

You had left the night before with the sting of rejection still burning beneath your skin, with the weight of his refusal pressing against your ribs like stone.

You had crawled back into Sam’s bed, swallowed by warmth, by safety, but it wasn’t enough.

Because it wasn’t him.

And that was what you needed.

Even if it was a lie, a cruelty, a foolish, desperate thing.

So, you found yourself standing in front of his door again, jaw tight, hands curled into fists.

You didn’t knock this time.

You opened the door, stepping into the room like it was an act of defiance.

Michael was exactly where he had been the night before.

Sitting on the edge of the bed.

Still. Perfectly composed. Back straight, hands resting lightly on his thighs, gloved fingers flexing just slightly at the intrusion.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

He didn’t look anything.

"Back so soon?"

You ignored the mocking lilt in his tone, the way it slid under your skin like a blade.

"Hold me."

His head tilted slightly, the corner of his mouth curling upward in something close to amusement.

"Again?"

"Yes." Your voice was firm, unwavering. Not a request this time. A demand.

His smirk deepened.

"And what makes you believe that my answer will be any different?"

You exhaled sharply, hands tightening at your sides.

"Because I will not stop asking."

Something flickered behind his gaze.

Interest. Calculation.

A slow inhale, a long, measured glance down the length of you, like he was studying a subject under a microscope.

And then—

A single hand lifted.

Not to pull you in.

Not to embrace you.

Just a single gloved hand, pressing lightly against the curve of your upper arm.

The touch was barely there, almost clinical.

But it was enough.

Your body betrayed you instantly.

Your muscles loosened, the tension seeping from your shoulders like sand slipping through fingers. A slow exhale left your lips, your entire frame softening, melting into the contact you had been starving for.

Your head tipped forward without permission, without thought, without resistance.

And then—

You were pressing your forehead against his chest.

His body was too rigid, too still. But the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something warm and familiar beneath it all—was enough to send a violent ache through your chest.

Michael didn’t move.

Didn’t acknowledge the way you had collapsed into him so easily.

Just let his hand remain where it was.

Felt the way your body reacted to the smallest contact.

"Fascinating." His voice was a quiet hum, detached but intrigued.

You swallowed, eyes shutting tightly, forcing yourself to stay still, to stay pressed against him, to take whatever he would give.

"What is?"

His hand flexed slightly against your arm, fingers pressing just enough for you to feel the cool leather through the sleeve of your shirt.

"This vessel," he mused, more to himself than to you. "It responds to you. Strongly."

You shivered.

Because it wasn’t just the vessel that responded.

It was you.

"And you," he continued, voice dropping just slightly, something sharper creeping into it. "You react with the same force. Almost involuntary, I’d say."

His free hand lifted, brushing lightly along your wrist, the touch barely a ghost against your skin, but it sent heat licking down your spine.

Your fingers twitched.

He noticed.

"Interesting."

The way he spoke, the way he observed, it should have made you pull away, should have sent ice into your veins instead of warmth.

But it didn’t.

Because his voice was Dean’s voice. His scent was Dean’s scent. His touch—no matter how detached, how calculated—still belonged to the body you had spent years craving, memorizing, worshipping.

Your breath was uneven, shallow, every part of you locked in place, unwilling to move away, unwilling to break the fragile, fragile thread of contact.

"You’re weak," he murmured.

Your eyes snapped open.

A sharp flicker of anger cut through the haze, and you wrenched yourself backward, away from his chest, away from the touch, away from the way your body had folded into him like an addict getting a fix.

Michael let his hand fall away easily.

Didn’t fight to keep you close.

Didn’t need to.

He had already won.

Because he had seen it. He had felt it.

The way your body had surrendered to something you swore you would never give in to.

The way you wanted this, needed it, despite knowing how cruel it was.

Michael’s smirk was infuriatingly self-satisfied.

"This is why you will return to me," he said simply.

Your teeth clenched.

"Go to hell."

He chuckled.

"I’ve already been."

And that was it.

That was the moment you knew—this wasn’t the last time.

Even as you turned on your heel, storming back to Sam’s room, pulse still erratic in your throat, body still betraying you with the echoes of warmth where his hands had been.

You would return.

Because he was right.

You were weak.

And Michael knew exactly how far he could push before you’d break.

The first night, you told yourself it was just one more time.

One more visit. One more touch. One more fleeting moment of borrowed warmth before you locked the door to this madness and never returned.

And yet, the second night, you went back.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Each time, you stood at his door, heart in your throat, regret already gnawing at the edges of you even as you knocked, even as you asked if you could come in.

Each time, he answered with that same measured, indifferent tone.

"If you must."

Each time, you pushed the door open.

And each time, he was waiting.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, still and composed, gloved hands resting lightly on his thighs, watching you like a scientist observing a subject in the midst of an experiment.

You never crossed the threshold immediately.

You always hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want this.

But because you did.

Because your body had already learned the pattern of it—the way his scent filled the air, the way his voice hit your ears, the way his touch, no matter how distant, still burned like an old memory come to life.

"Persistent." He mused it against the quiet one night, his tone dissecting you rather than speaking to you. "What is it you hope to achieve by this?"

You swallowed thickly.

You didn’t answer.

Because there wasn’t an answer that wouldn’t make you sound pathetic, desperate, weak.

"Come closer."

And you did.

You always did.

His gloved hand would find its place on your arm—one single point of contact, nothing more.

Just a press of leather over fabric.

Just enough for your body to register it, to recognise it, to react.

Your muscles loosened, your head bowed forward, your breath hitched.

And then, your forehead found his chest.

Every night, you sank into him just a little easier.

And every night, he let you.

Not out of kindness.

Not out of comfort.

But because he was watching.

Because he was testing something.

"Curious," he murmured on the third night, his voice low, speculative. "Your body’s response to this vessel remains… consistent."

You swallowed against the warmth flooding through you, your breaths already coming slower, heavier.

You felt the deep timbre of his voice vibrate through his chest where your forehead rested against him.

"Tell me," he continued, as if reading through notes in a ledger. "If I were to slide my hand lower, would you arch into it? Would your pupils dilate further? Would you make that noise you just swallowed?"

Heat licked up your spine.

"Stop."

"Why?" His tone was mocking, but underneath it, there was something sharper. Something truly fascinated.

"Because I said so."

He chuckled, and it was the worst sound in the world.

"Dean used to say that to you too, didn’t he?"

A slow, deliberate exhale left your lips, your fingers tightening at your sides.

"Fuck you."

"Not yet."

And then, the fourth night.

The night everything shifted.

You had been trembling the moment you stepped through the door, your body already recognising the ritual, already sinking into the warmth of it before he even touched you.

This time, when he mocked you, when he observed the way you melted at the smallest touch, you did something different.

You looked up.

Straight into his eyes.

The wrong eyes. The wrong gaze.

But still Dean’s face.

Still Dean’s voice.

Still the body that had once held you like you were something precious.

"I need more."

Michael blinked.

It was the first time you had ever truly caught him off guard.

"More?"

Your hands lifted. You pressed against him—not rough, not pleading, just enough to move him, guide him, push him onto his back against the mattress.

For a moment, he allowed it.

Allowed you to manoeuvre his vessel as if it still belonged to you.

And then, carefully, deliberately, you climbed onto the bed with him.

You laid against him, your arms slipping around his waist, your head pressing to his chest, your body curling against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Michael didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

You felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the heat of him seeping into your skin, sinking into your bones.

The world tilted.

For a second, just one second, you could almost pretend.

But then—his voice.

"You are quite pathetic, aren’t you?"

You stiffened, fingers tightening against his dress shirt, but you didn’t pull away.

"Tell me," he continued, the mocking lilt in his voice sending warmth curling in your stomach, shameful and unbearable. "Does your body know the difference? Between Dean holding you and this?"

You exhaled shakily.

"I don’t care."

Michael hummed.

"Liar."

His gloved hand lifted, resting on your back this time, the touch just enough, just barely, just cruelly light.

"Your body craves familiarity," he mused, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. "It clings to what it has been conditioned to respond to. This is chemical, biological. Nothing more."

His fingers flexed slightly.

And then—he shifted.

Just the slightest movement beneath you.

Just enough that you felt the tension in his muscles, the weight of his body pressing into the mattress, the reality of what you had done.

And still—you stayed.

Because he was right.

Because you didn’t care.

Because you needed this, even if it was a lie.

The fifth night, you didn’t hesitate.

Not at the door. Not when you knocked. Not when he said, "If you must."

You stepped inside like you belonged there.

Like this wasn’t a mistake.

Like you hadn’t spent the past four nights pushing a god to the very edge of amusement and tolerance.

Michael was exactly as you left him.

Seated at the edge of the bed. Composed. Controlled. Back straight, shoulders squared, watching you before you even opened your mouth.

But tonight, you were different.

Tonight, you needed more.

"What is it you’re seeking from me?"

His voice was smooth, deliberate, but there was something else curling at the edges of it.

Something new.

Something like expectation.

You swallowed hard.

"Not from you." Your voice was steady, but your fingers curled at your sides. "From Dean."

A slow inhale, a quiet exhale.

He tilted his head slightly, considering you like a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

"And yet, you keep coming to me."

"Because you’re all I have."

Michael hummed, unimpressed.

"Then allow me to remind you—this is merely a vessel."

"I know." Your pulse was too fast, too loud in your ears. "I don’t care."

You stepped forward.

The air shifted between you.

"I want to kiss you."

Michael stilled.

Not a flinch, not a sharp reaction, but a pause.

His lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, but the words never came.

Instead, his eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate, tracking the way your chest rose and fell too quickly, the way your hands trembled at your sides.

"No."

"You know I’ll keep asking." You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "Every night, I’ll keep coming back and asking."

There was silence.

A long, sharp silence.

And then—

A shift.

Michael leaned back against the headboard, settling into it like a man utterly unbothered, utterly in control.

Then, he nodded.

It was barely there, barely permission.

But it was enough.

You were on him immediately.

Straddling his lap, pressing yourself against him, your fingers shaking as they slid up over the curve of his shoulders, settling at the junction of his neck.

His body was so still beneath you, rigid, watching, waiting.

"Trembling." His voice was quiet, amused. "Your nervous system is overriding your rationale."

"Please," you whispered, barely able to breathe through the need clawing at your ribs. "Just be quiet. Just let me pretend for a moment."

Michael considered that.

Then, he nodded once.

And you kissed him.

Heat.

That was the first thing you noticed.

The warmth of his lips, the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something darker beneath it all, something that had always made you weak in the worst ways.

His hands didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t pull you in.

So you moved them yourself.

Your fingers wrapped around his wrists, guiding his hands to your waist, pressing them against you, forcing the contact you were starving for.

Michael let you.

Let you position him like a doll, like something meant to be used.

Let you kiss him harder, panting softly against his mouth, your breath shaky, uneven.

Your body was reacting before your mind could catch up.

Heat curling deep in your stomach. Your pulse hammering against your ribs. Your thighs tightening where they straddled him.

You shifted against him, barely, just a small, involuntary roll of your hips.

And that was when he stopped you.

His hands—firm, strong, unyielding—tightened against your waist, halting your movement instantly.

You gasped softly against his lips, shocked by the sudden force of it, by the sudden realisation that something had changed.

And then you felt it.

The pressure.

The hardness pressing against you through the thin fabric of your panties, through his dress pants.

Michael was aroused.

Not because of intent.

Not because of desire.

But because Dean’s body remembered you.

Because Dean’s body responded to you.

And Michael knew it.

Knew it the moment his head tilted back against the headboard, the slow, satisfied smirk curling at his lips.

"Ah."

Your breathing was uneven, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.

Michael just watched you, entirely composed, entirely aware of what had just happened.

"It appears the vessel remembers you after all."

Heat shot up your spine, shame and arousal battling in equal measure, leaving you dizzy and aching.

Michael wasn’t fazed.

"Biological response," he murmured, "but fascinating nonetheless."

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

The room was too hot, too small.

Your body was still reacting, still betraying you, still trying to roll against something that was now off-limits.

"Get off."

Your breath hitched.

"Please—"

"Now."

His voice was calm, but his hands lifted you easily, placing you beside him on the mattress with no more effort than one might handle a fragile object.

His composure was immaculate.

His breathing steady.

Not a single trace of arousal in his expression, only cold curiosity.

You were the one trembling.

You were the one still aching, still needing, still gasping for breath like you had been drowning in it.

Michael exhaled slowly, running a hand down his chest, smoothing out his dress shirt, before finally turning his head to look at you properly.

"That was informative."

"Fuck you."

"Mm." His smirk deepened, gaze flicking over your face, lingering on the way your lips were swollen from kissing him. "Not yet."

You pushed yourself up, stumbling slightly, legs unsteady beneath you as you moved toward the door.

Michael didn’t stop you.

Didn’t say anything.

Just watched.

Just waited.

Because he knew this wasn’t the last time.

Because you would be back.

And next time, he would see just how far you were willing to fall.

The sixth night, you weren’t hesitant anymore.

There was no uncertainty in your hands as you pushed open his door, no faltering in your steps as you crossed the threshold.

Michael was waiting.

He always was.

Seated at the edge of the bed, posture too straight, too composed, too godlike to belong to Dean.

But you weren’t here for him.

You never were.

"You are predictable."

His voice was smooth, teasing, already amused at your presence.

You didn’t care.

"Shut up."

Michael chuckled, watching as you climbed onto his lap without permission, settling over his thighs, pressing yourself flush against him.

His hands remained where they were.

"Eager," he mused, like you were nothing more than a specimen under a microscope. "Tell me, is this how it always was? Were you always so desperate for my vessel?"

You ignored him.

Your hands found his face, slid into his hair, pulled his mouth to yours.

He let you.

Of course he let you.

But it wasn’t Dean.

It wasn’t the way Dean kissed you—hot and desperate, full of reverence, like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there.

This was Michael.

Calculated. Amused. Letting you press your lips against his, letting you drag him into something that he was above.

"Mm." His smirk barely broke the kiss, his voice a cruel hum against your lips. "Interesting. You truly believe this is helping you, don’t you?"

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

You just kissed him harder, drinking in the taste of him, pretending, pretending, pretending.

His hands still hadn’t moved.

You didn’t let yourself care.

Your fingers slid lower, trailing over the front of his dress shirt, undoing buttons as you went, but not lingering—because you weren’t here to waste time.

You needed more.

You needed everything.

Your hands reached the buckle of his belt.

Michael exhaled through his nose, a quiet huff of amusement, but still—he didn’t stop you.

"And what is it you think you’ll accomplish?"

Your fingers worked the leather open, pulling the belt loose, undoing the button, sliding the zipper down.

"I don’t care," you murmured, your voice breathless against his mouth. "Just let me pretend."

Michael laughed.

Soft. Quiet. Cruel.

"What a fascinating, little creature you are."

You freed him from his slacks, your hands wrapping around hot, heavy weight, and a sharp inhale shuddered through your chest.

Dean’s body. Dean's cock.

The shape of him, the heat, the feeling of him in your hands—

It was all Dean.

Michael let you soak in the moment.

Let you shudder, let you lose yourself in the familiarity of it, the unbearable, agonising relief of having him under your touch again.

Then—

"Go on, then."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You sank down onto him, slowly, taking every inch, gasping softly at the stretch.

Michael didn’t react.

Didn’t grip your waist.

Didn’t push up into you.

He just let you use him.

"So desperate," he observed, watching the way your mouth parted, the way your hands trembled against his chest as you adjusted. "I wonder—was my vessel always so willing to let you take what you wanted?"

Your breath hitched as you began to move.

Slow at first.

Rocking over him, adjusting to the way he filled you, the way it ached, the way your body reacted before your mind could stop it.

"Or perhaps," Michael continued, tilting his head back against the headboard, watching you through half-lidded eyes, "he was just as weak for you as you are for him."

Heat licked up your spine, pooled deep in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter with each slow grind of your hips.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

You moved faster.

Your hands braced against his chest, nails biting into fabric, and Michael exhaled sharply—

Not a groan. Not a moan. Not a sound of pleasure.

Just an exhale.

Like he was cataloging something.

"It is remarkable," he murmured, "how your body continues to betray you."

"Shut up," you panted, your breath uneven, your head light, your pulse wild.

"You respond to every stimulus," he continued, entirely unaffected, entirely detached. "Your temperature has risen significantly. Your heart rate—"

"Michael—"

"—is erratic. Your body—"

"Michael, shut up—"

"—is tightening around me."

Your orgasm ripped through you violently, sudden and unrelenting.

Your body convulsed around him, waves of heat flooding through you, pleasure shattering every last ounce of shame, of resistance, of self-preservation.

You didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t hesitate.

Because you weren’t done.

Because Dean wasn’t done.

Your hips kept rolling, faster, chasing after something for him—

But then—

A sharp jerk of your hips.

Michael’s hands—firm, strong, commanding—suddenly gripping your waist and stopping you completely.

"No."

Your head snapped up, dazed, confused.

"What?"

Michael exhaled slowly, his fingers digging in, holding you still, forcing your body to remain motionless over him.

"It is one thing for you to take your pleasure."

You shivered.

"But I will not allow you to decide what happens to my body."

Your stomach twisted, the pleasure still lingering, still humming, but suddenly cold.

"It isn’t your body." Your voice was weaker than you wanted it to be.

Michael smirked.

"It is now."

You stared at him, breath unsteady, the reality of what you had just done settling into your bones like ice.

Michael tilted his head.

"What’s the matter?"

His grip tightened.

"Isn’t this what you wanted?"

You climbed off him slowly, like moving through deep water.

Your body was too warm, too heavy, too full of something thick and suffocating. Your legs trembled when they met the floor, and for a moment, you thought you might collapse under the weight of it.

Michael remained where he was, leaned back against the headboard, his dress shirt open, belt undone, watching.

Always watching.

You didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

The shame was a living thing, curling tight around your ribs, clawing up your throat.

And then, his voice.

"Leaving so soon?"

You flinched.

Not outwardly—he’d never see it, never know he had that power over you—but inside, something twisted violently.

You swallowed, fists clenching at your sides.

"I’m not coming back."

Michael hummed, a soft, knowing sound.

"No?"

"No."

A pause.

You knew he was still watching. Memorising the tension in your shoulders, the erratic rhythm of your breath, the way your body still radiated heat from what you had just done.

His voice was unhurried, composed.

"You’re lying."

Your teeth pressed together so hard your jaw ached.

"I’m not."

Michael sighed, the sound mocking in its ease, in its certainty.

"Yes, you are."

You turned on your heel and walked out without another word.

The hallway was colder than before.

Your body still burned, still ached, still carried the weight of him.

Your skin was flushed, your pulse uneven, shame still threading through your veins, mixing with something darker, something you weren’t ready to name.

The door to Sam’s room was only a few feet away.

You needed to tell him.

You needed to say it out loud, spill it onto the floor between you, let him take some of the weight.

Your hand trembled slightly as you pushed open the door.

Sam was asleep.

Curled on his side, the blankets tangled around his waist, one arm stretched across the empty space in the bed—where you should have been.

Your stomach twisted sharply.

He had known.

Even before you spoke a word, before you took a single step forward, before you placed a hesitant hand against his shoulder—

He had already known.

"Sam."

His breath caught slightly as he stirred, but his eyes were already soft when they blinked open, already full of something achingly familiar.

"I know." His voice was heavy with sleep, warm and quiet in the dim light. "Come here."

You didn’t hesitate.

You climbed into bed, pressing yourself into his warmth, tucking yourself into the space where you had always belonged.

His arms came around you easily, instinctively.

Not holding you together—holding you through the breaking.

"I’ve been sneaking away." The confession was muffled against his chest, your voice raw and thick with something close to grief.

Sam exhaled slowly, his fingers threading into your hair, grounding.

"I know."

Your throat tightened.

Your hands fisted into his t-shirt, gripping something solid, something real.

"I—I’ve been with him."

Sam didn’t tense.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t react the way you thought he might.

Instead, he just held you tighter.

"I know."

The dam cracked.

Tears burned hot behind your eyes, pressing, threatening, breaking.

"I just—" Your breath shuddered, the sob barely contained. "I needed to feel close to him."

Sam let out a quiet breath, a soft whisper of your name.

"I know."

Not an accusation. Not what were you thinking. Not you shouldn’t have.

Just understanding.

Because of course he understood.

Because he had lost him, too.

Because he knew what it was like to ache so deeply for something you could never have again.

Because he had been watching you drown for weeks, and he had been powerless to stop it.

His hand slid up, fingers pressing gently into the back of your neck, his lips brushing against the junction of your shoulder—a quiet gesture, a steadying touch.

"You’re hurting yourself."

Your ribs tightened, something sharp catching in your throat.

"I know."

"Then stop."

"I can’t."

Sam sighed, but it wasn’t frustration.

It was just sadness.

"I know."

Your tears slipped past the barrier, hot and quiet, dampening his shirt, seeping into the space between you.

Sam didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t tell you to stop crying. Didn’t try to fix it.

He just held you.

Held you because it was the only thing left in the world that made sense.

Held you because he didn’t know what else to do.

And for tonight—just for tonight—

You let yourself believe that it was enough.

121 notes · View notes

random-thot-generator · 2 months ago

Text

Better Not to Know + Pt. 8

KYLE 'GAZ' GARRICK x READER

Summary: A work drama leads to a pregnancy scare. But no worries. Kyle takes care of his girl.

cw: pregnancy, mention of violence, fluff

mdni banner: @saradika-graphics

"YOU INCOMPETENT COW! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

Heart thudding in your chest, you turn on shaking legs and walk as fast as you can away from Webster's office. You need to get to the loo, because you're on the verge of bursting into tears, and you don't want to break down in front of everyone.

As you hurry along, you can see your coworkers poking their heads out of their offices, peeking around their computer monitors, creeping away from their workstations, to witness your waddle of shame. The blood rushing in your ears drowns out their whispers, but their pitying looks almost do you in.

The first sob breaks free as you barrel into the ladies' room and stagger into one of the stalls. By the time you plop down on the toilet seat, you're full-on ugly crying.

"Fucking arsehole," you warble out, pawing at the toilet paper.

It's not your fault he missed his zoom meeting with the new client. You set it up for him, added it to his itinerary, set an alert on his computer and even called his cell—which he didn't answer!—to remind him. What else could you have done?

Without leaving word about where he was going, and with no other way to contact him, you ended up having to ask the art director, Lydia, to take the meeting in his stead. She did a brilliant job, despite being unable to explain Webster's absence, and essentially saved the company from losing a major account.

But did Webster thank anyone when he came strolling back in a half hour after the meeting had ended? No. He blamed you because he missed it.

Your sobs hitch in your throat when you hear the door open then close with a thunk. Heels tap softly on the tile floor as you hold your breath, then release it in a rush when you hear Lydia call your name.

"I just need a moment," you reply, trying to steady your voice.

"You need more than that after what that sniveling little shit just put you through. Here," she says, her hand appearing under the door with your phone. "Call your young man to come pick you up."

You're so tempted to do it, but balk at the idea. Running away never solves anything, and besides, you can't get used to relying on Kyle for every little upset. He's being so supportive, and you don't want to take advantage. He doesn't need to be dragged into the middle of your work drama.

Inhaling a fortifying breath, you wipe away the tears and haul yourself up to your feet. You'll be fine once you—

Woah! Stood up too fast, you think, a wave of sudden dizziness overtaking you. You stumble back, sprawling on the toilet with a thud. Eyes fluttering, the edges of your vision go cloudy gray.

There's a roar like rushing water in your ears, Lydia's voice calling your name now sounding distant, indistinct. You try shaking your head to clear it, but that only makes the room tilt at a nauseating angle. With a low groan, you close your eyes, but the darkness pulls you right under as you hear someone (Lydia?) somewhere beyond your stall shouting for help.

>>>>>

Voices.

You hear so many of them, and they're talking over each other, garbled words you can't make out, but there's one voice that keeps calling your name. You frown, not familiar with the voice, and... Someone is touching you. Who is touching you? It makes you shiver with unease.

Eyes slitting open, you're confused by the sight that greets you. There's a strange man leaning over you, his face turned upward, speaking to someone else. Above him, you see the recessed lights of the bathroom ceiling and realize you're lying flat on your back, the cold from the tiled floor seeping through the back of your thin dress. What's going on? How did you end up on the floor?

"Wha'...?" you slur, trying to sit up.

"She's come 'round," the man above you announces, his gaze locked on yours. "You're gonna be fine, love. Passed out on us, yeah? Don't worry, though. We'll take good care of ya."

You passed out?!

There's a flurry of activity going on around you, people still talking, the man above you shifting around, maneuvering your body this way and that. Something flat and hard gets shoved under your back. The baby kicks and real fear takes hold of you as you're lifted and set on a gurney, the hard, flat thing underneath you being taken away.

"My baby!" you gasp out, hands clutching your abdomen. "Is he alright?"

Straps are pulled across you and secured, then a gentle but firm hand encased in a surgical glove presses down on your shoulder.

"Need ya to stay calm, Miss. Your blood pressure got a bit too high, made ya pass out, so we're takin' ya to the A and E to get you and the babe checked over."

Terrified, you glance around as the gurney starts to move, passing through the door of the loo. You see your coworkers huddled back against the walls of the hallway, watching. Frantic, your eyes latch onto a pale-faced Lydia.

"I need Kyle," you plead to her, desperate. "Please, call him!"

Lydia hurries to move along with you, her hand grasping yours. "It's alright, darling. We've already called him. He's going to meet you at the hospital. Just hang in there, love."

The emergency techs wheel you into a waiting lift, one of the building's security guards holding the doors open. The last thing you see before the doors close is Lydia's unsettled expression, your concerned coworkers gathering at her back.

>>>>>

Kyle stands in the hallway outside your hospital room, trying to keep his eyes on the doctor in front of him instead of your prone form lying still in your bed. His hands still tremor at his sides despite being reassured that you and the baby are fine.

"We've given her a mild sedative to calm her nerves, but it's safe for her and the baby. Her blood pressure is almost back to normal now, so she should be fine, but we're going to keep her overnight for observation, just to be safe.

"This isn't uncommon, Mr. Garrick. Abnormally high blood pressure can occur during pregnancy, so we'll need to keep an eye on that, but she and the baby are healthy. Your job is to ensure that she takes it easy for the remainder of the pregnancy. She needs to avoid doing anything strenuous or stressful. Keep her calm, keep her relaxed and keep her off her feet as much as possible until her due date."

Kyle nods and mutters his thanks, ready to go back into your room when someone calls his name. He turns to see a middle-aged woman in a classy dress suit coming towards him, another woman, slightly younger but dressed just as nicely at her side.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Garrick. My name is Lydia Downs and this is Jessica Frank, my assistant."

"You're the one who called, yeah? You work with her?"

Lydia gives him a tight smile and nods. "Yes. I was with her when she collapsed in the loo, poor thing. We brought her things from the office for her. How is she?"

Kyle relays what the doctor told him as Jessica hands over your belongings. Balling his fist in your soft cashmere cardigan, he glances between the two women.

"Can either of you tell me what happened to her? She seemed fine this morning, otherwise I would never have let her—" His words cut off with a choked sound, teeth clenching.

Face turning sympathetic, Lydia grips his arm. "That's what I'd like to discuss with you, if you have a few moments."

Kyle returns to your room several minutes later, his teeth still clenched, but his hands now shake for a completely different reason. He stays until a nurse comes in to check your vitals and suggests he take a break to stretch his legs and grab something to eat. Standing, he leans over you and plants a soft kiss on your lips.

"No more worries, pet. I promise," he whispers, then stalks out of your room.

>>>>>

It's early the following morning, still dark outside, when you finally begin to stir from sleep. The low murmur of a telly reaches your ears, broadcasting the local news and weather. You figure you must have fallen asleep on the couch again.

Stretching, your eyes slowly open to take in your surroundings, giving you a bit of a shock when you find yourself lying in a dim hospital room, an IV in your arm and a clip leading to a monitor attached to the end of your finger.

"What the..." you breathe out, confused, until the events of the previous day begin coming back to you.

Webster screaming at you. Passing out in the loo. Scared out of your wits as the doctors examined you. Kyle gripping your hand while you waited for news on your baby's condition. Sobbing on Kyle's shoulder with relief when the doctor finally told you that the baby was fine. Kyle pressing his head against yours, whispering sweet words in your ear until you drifted to sleep.

God. Kyle...

Your head turns to find him still seated in the chair next to your bed, one arm lying on the mattress beside yours. He's sound asleep, head tipped back and to the side. Your heart melts at the sight of him.

"Sorry if I woke ya," a soft voice speaks up from your other side.

You turn your head to see an older woman in the hospital bed beside you, an apologetic smile on her friendly, round face.

"No worries," you assure her, keeping your voice down. You glance back at Kyle to make sure you didn't wake him.

"Lad's been watchin' over ya all night," the older woman whispers, grinning with a nod towards Kyle. "Worried sick, he was. Nurses sent him out for a bit, but he came back carryin' those with him. Been here ever since."

She points to a vase of bright pink and ivory star lilies sitting on the window ledge. "He said they were your favorite, bless him. Sweet lad." She nods at your baby bump. "Is this your first?" she asks.

Your hand rubs over your distended belly, a relieved smile appearing when you feel your little bug kick. "Yes, it is. A boy."

"Ahh... a boy, is it? Bet your lad there is excited, yeah?"

You grin, nodding. "Very. We both are."

"Hm, I remember my first. My husband Sam was a nervous wreck the whole time," she says with a soft laugh. "I'm Imogene, by the way, but you can call me Genie."

You give your name in return. "It's nice to meet you, Genie."

There's a sharp inhale beside you, drawing your attention back to Kyle, who's now sitting up and rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. He blinks, then one of his brilliant smiles spreads across his face.

"Pet," he murmurs, scooting closer to take your hand, relief evident on his face. He brings it up to his mouth to kiss it softly. "Christ, I was so worried about you and the baby."

"Kyle..."

He blinks back sudden tears, his eyes glassy, his breath sounding choked as he huffs. Sniffling, he brings his other hand up to smooth the hair back from your face. "How are ya feelin'? Do ya need anything?"

Your tummy growls and you both snicker. Placing his hand on your stomach, you giggle when the babe kicks him. "I think Junior is saying he wants a snack."

Kyle stands and leans over to press a kiss to your forehead, then your belly. "I'll go get you something. Be right back."

You and Genie watch him hurry out of the room, a man on a mission.

Genie chuckles. "Lad's head over heels for ya, lass."

You can't help the little twinge in your heart. If only, you think, but then push the thought away.

After the scare you had, it's put some things into perspective for you. Here you've been stressing yourself over work, worrying about your situation with Kyle, when it's the baby who should be your main focus. Your little bug is all that matters.

You've been reading too much into Kyle's attention, when in reality he's just been trying to be supportive. You need to stop deluding yourself into believing that it's something more.

You sigh, feeling a bit deflated, but console yourself with the knowledge that at least the two of you are friends now. You both can work together to raise your boy and give him a happy life. Despite what your heart secretly yearns for, that will be enough. It's time to put this silly, girlish crush aside, you decide, and concentrate solely on the baby.

"Mind if I turn up the telly a bit?" Genie asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You give a resigned sigh and settle back into your pillows. "No, not at all."

Genie turns up the volume as a stoic looking newscaster reports that an assault occurred outside a strip club the previous evening. Your scalp goes prickly with heat when a picture of your boss, Webster, appears on the screen.

"The assault occurred outside of a local gentleman's club late Wednesday evening. One of the performers, who had accompanied Mr. Gentry outside the club, witnessed the attack."

A young woman with pink hair, large, globe-sized breasts and enhanced, puffy lips pouts at the camera. The name under her image reads 'Patty Cakes'. Hell of a stage name, you think as the reporter asks Patty to describe the attack.

"Me an' Webbie were in his car—um... talking, when this bloke walks up an' smashes Webbie's window. He dragged Webbie out by the neck an' punched him in the face a coupla times then, bam! The bloke slams Webbie right on the hood o' the car. Didn't catch wha' the bloke said t'him, but he whispered somethin' tuh Webbie. Then he got Webbie's wallet, took his ID an' waved it in front o' Webbie's face, an' he said, 'Now you're really gonna pay, mate.' An' then he left. Tha's when I got outta the car t'check on Webbie, an' he yelled at me t'call the police."

"That must have been terrifying to witness, Miss—ah... Cakes. Thank you for recounting your harrowing experience for our viewers. Is there anything else you would like to add?"

'Patty' nods and smiles coyly at the camera, twirling a bit of her hair around her finger. "I'll be on the main stage tomorrow night at Club Steam. There's a cover charge at the door an' a two drink minimum."

The reporter tries to hide his smirk as he says, "Er, right. Back to you Niall."

Webster's picture pops up on the screen again, alongside a photo of his mother as Niall finishes his report by tacking on Webster's affiliation with his mum's advertising company. Oh, no! This is a PR nightmare.

"Hah!" Genie laughs. "That's Evelyn Gentry. She owns half the business district in London, doesn't she? Hoo! Talk about bad press, havin' her own son caught out with a stripper in his car. No mystery what went on there."

Nope. No mystery there. Webster's always been a slimy womanizer, and now everyone is going to know it. You foresee bad things happening in 'Webbie's' future.

"I'll have to get Sam to pick me up some of those gossip magazines. They'll dig up all sorts of dirt on that lad, watch an' see. You can tell he's a dodgy sort," Genie mutters.

Though you're a bit worried about how this will affect your job, you can't help but feel a bit smug about Webster finally getting exactly what he deserved, the sorry wanker. One thing's for certain. Your days of dealing with Webster are over. His mum will probably ship him off somewhere to lie low until this all blows over. Good riddance.

Kyle returns a few minutes later bearing a bowl of fruit and a sandwich, a bottle of juice tucked under his arm.

"Here ya go, pet. Turkey on wheat, light mayo, just the way ya like. They didn't have your favorite brand of juice, though, but it's still cran-apple."

"That's fine," you mumble, still dazed by the news report, absently watching as he opens the juice for you.

It's as he's passing you the bottle that you notice his knuckles are split open and bruised, his hand and wrist slightly swollen. Taking hold of it, you brush your fingers lightly over the damaged flesh.

Surely he didn't...

"Kyle, did someone tell you about what happened to me at work?"

His eyes flare with anger for a brief second, before he schools his expression. "Yeah. A friend of yours from work stopped by to check on you. Lydia Downs. She filled me in."

You just bet she did. Lydia despises Webster. Then again, so does everyone else in the office.

You place a soft little kiss on one of his split knuckles, noticing the way his breath hitches.

"I just saw on the news that my boss, Webster, was assaulted outside a strip club last night. They interviewed the stripper he was with." You glance up at him. "His reputation is ruined. His mum will have to remove him from his position as company manager or risk losing all her brand name clients."

Kyle huffs, a sneer curling up his lip. "Pity, that."

You hum in agreement as you caress his fingers, warmth filling your chest. "Kyle, how did you hurt your hand?"

Kyle flexes it in your grasp. "It's nothin', pet." He then brings it up to gently cradle your cheek, staring down at you with smoldering, half-lidded eyes. "Doc said, no more worries for my girl, so no more worries, yeah?"

You clasp his wrist and turn your face to kiss his palm, your heart pattering as your insides go molten.

"Yeah," you whisper, smiling up at him. "No more worries."

pt. 7 | pt. 9

#kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick #kyle garrick x reader #gaz cod #gaz x reader #pregnant reader #cod mw2 #call of duty #better not to know

64 notes · View notes

foreverromanticising · 2 months ago

Text

renegade | ln4

(7) sunsets and glasses of wine warp your memory of any reasons why you could've been annoyed at lando

lando norris x fem!reader | 2.6k words | a still perfect summer with lando norris

(please please please if you have anything to say then pls pop them in my ask box instead of comments as i can't respond :( but i soooo wanna chat and hear what everyone thinks)

masterlist<3

As the sun set into the horizon and your hand never left Lando’s for more than five minutes at a time, you couldn’t stop Alexandra’s words from rattling through your mind. You tried, of course, to focus on Lando’s touch as his hands skirted along your bare skin and teasingly tugged on the strings of your bikini, but it was no use. Perhaps it was your own doing, allowing yourself to create a perception of Lando in your mind and then getting upset when that didn’t follow through to be the truth.

You had imagined Lando with a small flat in London; a one bedroom, maybe a studio, just enough for what he needed. Though you knew he was a driver, maybe in his spare time he frequented the tube, opting for public transport rather than dealing with the abysmal London traffic. You could picture it clearly - Lando sitting across from you on the tube; his messy curls pulled under the hood of his jacket, drenched and pitiful looking from the unavoidable rain, and maybe a pair of wired headphones falling out of his pockets. You could see his life clear as day, laid out in front of you.

But that wasn’t true, that wasn’t the reality you were living in. Again, it was your own fault that you had believed otherwise. The Lando you had gotten to know over the trip spent money like he had it burning a hole in his pocket, he geeked out on flashy cars and luxury restaurants, he wore sunglasses that would cost you at least six months of straight working, and he tried to hide his anxieties like they were something to be ashamed of. So maybe, your vision had been clouded when you had tried filling in the blanks of what you hadn’t known about Lando.

“Hey, y’wanna get out of here?” Lando’s words drew you out of your own mind, his thumb beginning to rub along your skin as he continued to hold your hand, fingers intertwined. “Go a walk, get somethin’ to eat.”

He had been chatting to Carlos and Charles for a while now but he couldn’t help but notice how lost you were in your own mind; the slight pinch between your eyebrows and the way your bottom lip was tucked between your teeth. You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but that yacht, and Lando knew you were sticking it out with a fake smile for him so the least he could do was whisk you away.

“No, no, I’m fine, honestly,” You shook your head as Lando pulled your body closer to his. You had learned in your short time knowing him that when he started to grow tired, he would then start to become clingy, more touchy - needing the pressure of your touch and the feeling of your skin on his as soon as his eyes would start to droop. “We should stay, they’re your friends.”

You didn’t want to be the reason

“Yeah but,” He dragged out his words, scrunching his face in what you could only describe as close to disgust. “I see them all the time, these get boring after a while.”

“Yacht parties get boring?” You laughed at his absurdity, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “I’m sure they do.”

“Yeah, and I like, get totally sea sick too,” He started to drag you around the deck of the yacht, not even bothering a quick goodbye to his friends. “It’s so bad, I need to get home as soon as.”

“And this sea sickness,” Though you knew he was lying, you couldn’t help but play along to his charming antics. “It’s just randomly struck you down now?”

“Totally random, babe, there’s no way of knowing when it happens.” Lando shrugged his shoulders and let out a dramatic sigh, acting as though this sudden sea sickness was nothing but a burden to his life.

“Well, in that case…” You let your words drown themselves on as Lando kept his hand tight to yours, tugging you off of the boat.

“Pizza sounds good, yeah?” He had that mischievous smile on his lips that you found yourself to be so smitten with; when he looked at you with that smile - like he held all the answers to the world if you simply followed him to them - you knew you were long gone. You would follow him to the ends of the Earth and back if he so kindly asked.

With the low sun lighting your way, you followed Lando into a pizza shop not far from the yacht, a quick ten minute walk and you were sat down in some chairs that looked like they were older than you. You looked across the small table at him, your knees crashing together under the table for the lack of space, and the fluorescent lighting really allows you to take in the fresh sunburn that was taking over Lando’s face. You had reminded him consistently throughout the day to continue applying it but he claimed he didn’t need it, he tanned after all, but you could now see that he did in fact need it. But you weren’t one to ruin the moment by saying ‘I told you so,’.

The nightlife was only starting up, club reps beginning to make their way around the town, but Lando knew that both of you had had enough for the day - that a slice of pizza and an early night was more than what you wanted for the night. So when Lando’s name was shouted with the pizza sitting ready, you followed him.

You followed him the whole way home as he insisted he wouldn’t let go of your hand, he swore he could manage the balance of a pizza box and your touch. He seemed to like to make things difficult for himself, claiming a walk home along the beach was better than a walk along the designated, flat path. Not that he would admit it, though he was sure you could see, the tumultuous nature of the sand added on an extra level of difficulty.

It’s all worth it for Lando, the minor inconveniences he faces are nothing to him as he watches you kick off your shoes in order to feel the still warm sand below your feet. He tries desperately to keep your hand in his but you can tell his arm that still holds the pizza box is beginning to struggle, to grow tired, so you dropped his hand for a moment and allowed him to wordlessly swap your hand to the other side of his body.

“You’re tired.” Lando mumbled into your hair as he pressed a kiss there, his arms encasing your body as you unlocked the front door of the villa whilst he kept the pizza box from digging into your arm. He had noticed how quiet you had been on your walk home, and comfortable silence wasn’t uncommon to Lando or you, but this had stretched for the better part of fifty minutes - which was entirely unheard of from you - he could only pin it on tiredness.

“Hm, not true.” You hummed into his touch as you pushed the door open, letting him skirt around you to finally put the pizza box down.

“Hm, very true,” He opened up the back patio door, nodding his head towards it so you would follow him, as he ran around quickly picking up blankets, the pizza, and a bottle of wine or two. “You’ve been quiet since the boat, ’s been a long day in the sun and getting to know new people - socialising can be draining.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” You sat down on one of the small couches around the campfire Lando was trying to desperately light, you stifled a giggle at his attempts and instead opt to wrap a blanket around you. “Your friends are funny, though, I see why you like them.”

“They’re great, aren’t they?” Lando slid beside you on the couch, tugging the blanket over his own legs too as the wind started to nip at his bare skin. “Carlos liked you, liked that red bikini- what’d I say, baby?” He winced dramatically when you elbowed him after his teasing words.

“Shut up,” You let Lando kiss you sweetly as an apology, a murmur against your lips was enough for you. “Alex was really sweet too, nice to escape being surrounded by boys for a while.”

“I hadn’t thought about that, actually - have you spoken to your friends, y’know, since all this?” It was almost as though a light had switched on in Lando’s mind once he was reminded of watching you and Alexandra - you had friends of your own, back home, that he hadn’t heard you mention once. “I don’t want them thinking I’ve, like, kidnapped you or anything.”

“I mean, I don’t really talk to them much when I’m home anyway so they won’t be expecting anything,” You shrugged your shoulders for you weren’t entirely too bothered about the fact you hadn’t really spoken to your friends, it didn’t matter to you all that much - though, you couldn’t deny the sting in your chest whenever you watched Lando surrounded by so many people who adored him, just another reminder of how different the worlds you came from were. “My mum knows where I am, though, I’m not gonna be daft about this.” Your words were true but you wanted Lando to know you weren’t biting - you wanted to remain safe even if the situation you were in with Lando was wildly irresponsible.

“Your friends wouldn’t want to know where you are?” Lando couldn’t hide the worry that bubbled up inside him, or rather the feeling of sadness, after hearing that your own friends wouldn’t be expecting to hear from you whilst you were literally travelling throughout Europe on your own. “They wouldn’t be worried if they hadn’t heard from you for a while?”

“Not really,” You hummed and debated spilling your guts to Lando but you didn’t think about it as much as you usually would’ve if you hadn’t already sank two glasses of wine. “I dunno, everyone kinda stopped speaking to me when they all went to uni and I didn’t. It’s difficult to keep up friendships when they’re all across the country and I’m still home, still working in retail,” You let a beat of silence pass as you took another sip of wine. “No one wants to be friend with the girl who didn’t go to uni, especially when I’m the only one who didn’t.”

“You just wanted other things, just because you don’t fit into the same box doesn’t mean they should just pretend you don’t exist anymore,” Lando found himself growing annoyed on your behalf - how could anyone simply throw you away just because your paths in life don’t match up? “Such bullshit, baby, you’re better off here without them.”

“I know, Lan, I’ve moved beyond on it,” You had made the executive decision long ago to not allow yourself to be bothered by it any longer. “I’ll just have to hope I don’t bump into them when I’m back in England,” You took a deep breath, pondering if you wanted to bring this up but you couldn’t help Alexandra’s words from swirling around your mind. “Speaking of, I’ve never asked whereabouts you stay in England, we could be minutes away from each other, for all you know.” You tried to play off your question as casually as you could, trying to portray some sort of faux nonchalance.

“Near Glasto, not far off it,” His eyes quickly flitted away from yous, opting to instead focus on the blue light radiating off the pool. “What about you? Where are you?” He threw your question back at you, hoping to keep the conversation off of him for a moment as he took a bite off of pizza instead.

“London, maybe just outside of it,” You didn’t want to push but you couldn’t help but feeling confused after Alexandra had mentioned Lando going home to Monaco whilst he told you he stayed near Glastonbury. “I wouldn’t go around saying London, though, I’m hardly near the city.”

“Hm, city girl wants to experience life outside the busy city?” Lando trailed his fingers up your bare arms as you still sat in your bikini top despite the fact the sun had long dipped below the sea, he watched as goosebumps rose up on your skin - whether that be from his touch or the chill in the air, he wasn’t bothered. “Want to see what life’s really about? Is that what this is all about?”

“I know you’re trying to make fun of me but yeah, you’re right,” You bathed under Lando’s touch, it did nothing to help the tiredness you were trying to fight off. “I want to see the world properly, I want to meet new people, and write all about it - even just for me - I want to have this all documented.”

“Well, you just let me know when you want all the pictures from my camera - they’re yours to have.” Lando let his mind wander to the photos of you that flooded his camera; photos of you clad in nothing but lace, or sat atop his kitchen counter with a bowl of strawberries, or even flush underneath his body with the white sheets crushed around you.

“Sounds good to me.” You nodded your head at his words though you weren’t particularly listening, instead you curled into the side of his body as you soaked up any heat that he was radiating.

“C’mon, let’s go to bed,” He wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you closer into him, watching as your eyes fought to stay open beside him. “You’ve had a big day, let’s just get to sleep.”

“But I like chatting, Lan.” You near enough whined when Lando pulled you up off of the couch and onto your feet, resisting the thought of going to bed as you had enjoyed sipping on wine beside Lando.

“Yeah, pillowtalk, baby.” He tutted as he pulled you along and into the bedroom, rolling his eyes at your dramatics but he couldn’t deny he was growing to love it.

And so you both fell into your domesticated routine for the night; you would take your makeup off in the bathroom mirror whilst Lando would stand beside you to brush his teeth. He loves to sneak a glance at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you let him watch you. But you don’t shy away when you look at him in his halfway burnt state, admiring the freckles that plaster his face from the sun and how his curls have drooped so much in the day he has to push them out of his eyes.

Though, when both of your eyes meet, your heart speeds up just a few beats more and you fight a smile as you push a toothbrush into your mouth. Moments like these were your favourites with Lando - you didn’t care for the sports cars he drove you around in or how many times he insisted he would pay for your dinner, you craved the quiet moments. The quiet moments that made you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush once again.

“Let’s go, pretty.” Lando moves to wrap his arms around your waist, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as he watched you through the mirror. The tiredness you had been resisting for so long had spread to him and he wanted nothing more than to have you in his arms beneath his white sheets, in more ways than one.

#formula one #formula 1 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #f1 #lando norris blurb #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris fluff

90 notes · View notes

pankowcrumbs · 2 months ago

Text

Karaoke Confessions X Austin Butler (Requested)

MasterList

I’ve always known there was something dangerous about karaoke. Maybe it’s the cheap tequila. Maybe it’s the way it makes otherwise composed adults sing like they’re auditioning for The X Factor. But tonight? It wasn’t the off-key singing or the conga line through the Wetherspoons that got to me. It was Austin. My flatmate. Drunk, sun-kissed, California-born Austin Butler.

And now he’s currently half-collapsed on the sofa, still humming Wonderwall like he’s Liam Gallagher reborn.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, nursing a glass of water and trying not to smile too obviously.

“You’re really going to keep singing that?” I ask, tipping my head back against the edge of the coffee table.

Austin opens one eye. “I’ve got a good voice, right?”

I snort. “You’ve got something. Whether it’s a voice or a hernia, I’m not sure.”

That earns a lazy laugh from him, one of those low, raspy chuckles that always makes my chest fizz a bit. He’s lying on the sofa like he owns the place legs spread, one arm flopped over his eyes, golden fringe a mess across his forehead.

He’s dangerously pretty, even like this.

“’S not my fault,” he mutters. “You put that song on. What did you expect me to do?”

“Maybe not scream it at the poor bartender,” I say, glancing over at him. “You owe her an apology tomorrow.”

He grins, peeking at me. “I’ll bake her a cake. You’ll help.”

“Will I?”

“Yeah. You like being domestic.”

I roll my eyes but laugh anyway. “Only because you can’t figure out how to use the washing machine.”

“Okay, that’s slander,” he protests, lifting his head. “I can use it. I just don’t know what half the settings mean. What’s ‘cotton eco’ even supposed to do?”

“Save the planet, probably. While cleaning your socks.”

He groans and lets his head fall back down. “Too many decisions.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, the kind of easy silence we’ve fallen into since moving in together four months ago. We weren’t exactly strangers when he moved to London for a few months for a movie we were mutual friends, flirty DMs, a couple of nights out before we signed the lease. But since living together, something’s shifted. Something’s building.

He’s been more… touchy lately. Soft glances, casual hand grazes in the kitchen, brushing hair from my face when I’m trying to cook. It’s subtle, but not nothing.

Still, I don’t know if I’m making it up in my head. I overthink. I spiral. I write romcoms in my imagination when really, I’m probably just his “mate with a spare room.”

I steal a glance at him now. His hand’s resting on his chest, fingers twitching to some invisible beat. There’s a pink flush high on his cheekbones. Whether from the drinks or the heat of the flat, I’m not sure.

“Y’know,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “You’re kind of stunning.”

I blink. “I’m sorry?”

He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His blue eyes are glassy but sincere.

“I said you’re stunning.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “How many drinks did you have?”

“Too many,” he admits, then grins. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

I laugh, but it’s awkward now, heat crawling up my neck. “You’re drunk, Austin.”

“So? Drunk people tell the truth.”

“Or fall asleep mid-sentence and wake up in their jeans.”

He shrugs. “Still telling the truth.”

He’s looking at me like he means it, though. Not just a passing compliment. Like he’s seen me the messy bun, the faded hoodie, the toothpaste stain on my sleeve and still thinks I’m worth noticing.

And that? That’s dangerous.

“Don’t do that,” I say gently.

“Do what?”

“Say things like that if you don’t mean them.”

“I do mean them,” he replies, more serious now. “I’ve just… been crap at saying it.”

I chew my bottom lip, heart thudding. “Saying what?”

He sits up fully now, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees. His voice drops, soft and steady.

“That I like you. A lot. More than I should, probably. And I know it’s messy, being roommates and all, but… every time I come home and see you sitting in my hoodie or singing in the kitchen or making stupid jokes when I’ve had a crap day I just think, ‘God, I’m in trouble.’”

The room tilts slightly. Or maybe that’s just my brain. I set my water down carefully.

“You’re being serious?”

“Deadly,” he says. “I’ve fancied you since day one. Tried to play it cool, y’know? Be the chill American roommate. But it’s hard to be chill when I’m losing my mind over how good you look in my t-shirts.”

A tiny laugh escapes me, nervous and disbelieving. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he counters. “And brilliant. And funny. And I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

My breath catches.

“So do it,” I whisper.

He leans in slowly, testing the moment. Our faces are barely inches apart, his hand brushing against my cheek. His fingers are warm, slightly trembling.

“I’m gonna blame the tequila,” I murmur.

“You can blame whatever you want,” he says, voice low. “As long as you don’t stop me.”

And then he kisses me.

It’s gentle at first slow, almost tentative. But then I’m climbing onto the sofa, knees bracketing his thighs, and his hands slide beneath my hoodie to grip my waist. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer as the kiss deepens, hungrier now. His lips move against mine with a desperation I recognise. A slow-burning want that’s been simmering for weeks.

He groans into my mouth when I grind down slightly, his hands flexing at my hips. The sound goes straight to my stomach.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he mumbles against my jaw, trailing kisses along my neck, my collarbone. “You’ve no idea.”

I gasp as he sucks lightly at the skin beneath my ear. “You’re not the only one.”

His hands slide up, tugging the hoodie over my head and tossing it aside. His eyes flicker over me, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little faster.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, reverently.

I laugh breathlessly. “You’re such a flirt.”

He smirks. “Only for you.”

His mouth finds mine again, and everything else falls away the telly still on in the background, the half-drunk pint glasses on the table, even the karaoke memories. There’s only this the warm press of his body, the taste of tequila and spearmint on his tongue, the way he whispers my name like a secret he’s finally allowed to say out loud.

And when we stumble toward my bedroom, hands roaming, clothes discarded like breadcrumbs, I know this isn’t just some drunken mistake. It’s been a long time coming.

I wake up tangled in sheets and limbs.

Austin’s arm is draped over my waist, his bare chest pressed against my back, legs knotted with mine under the duvet. His breathing is steady, warm against my neck. One of his hands is resting just beneath my ribs, fingers splayed like he’s afraid to let go.

The room smells like sleep and his cologne, and something about it feels right. Not rushed. Not messy.

Just... right.

I stretch slightly, careful not to wake him, but he shifts anyway, tightening his grip.

“Mm,” he mumbles groggily. “You’re not allowed to leave.”

“I was just stretching,” I whisper.

“Good. Stay.”

I smile to myself, heart fluttering.

He shifts again, nose nuzzling into the curve of my neck. “You’re warm.”

“You’re clingy.”

“Mm-hmm.” He kisses my shoulder. “You love it.”

We lay there in silence for a few more moments, the golden morning light creeping through the curtains.

“Did that really happen?” I ask eventually.

He lifts his head slightly to look at me, hair tousled, eyes soft. “Yeah. It did.”

“You’re not freaking out?”

“Are you?”

I think for a second, then shake my head. “No.”

“Good,” he says, dropping a kiss to my temple. “Because I meant everything I said.”

“Even the bit about my singing voice?”

He groans. “Alright, maybe not everything.”

I laugh, rolling over to face him properly. He’s grinning now, cheeky and sleepy and absolutely gorgeous.

“Y’know,” he says, voice still gravelly, “this might sound mad, but I think this...us might be the best decision I’ve made since moving here.”

“Even better than that dodgy burrito place you love?”

He snorts. “Especially that. I think it gave me food poisoning.”

I giggle, then lean forward and kiss him again, soft and slow.

And just like that, the hangover, the confusion, the nerves they all disappear.

Sometimes, the best nights start with tequila and end with confessions.

#fanfiction #reader #x reader #one shot #requested #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler fic #austin butler imagine #austinbutler #austin butler

51 notes · View notes

spikedblanket · 1 month ago

Text

hikaru ga shinda natsu s1 wincest au where sam disappears on a hunting trip:

dean, after days of searching in the woods screaming himself raw, finally returns to the motel room. sam hasn't ever gone missing like that, not since he was a kid and didn't want to be found. they're past all of that now, they're finally okay, which means that sam's in deep shit and it's dean's fault.

they left the television on while leaving in such a hurry, and it's blaring commercials for local contractors, diners. sam's clothes are still folded neatly in the drawers, even though they'd only planned to stay three days at most.

dean goes to the front desk to buy another week in the room. too shaken to realize that he looks fucking insane, covered in dirt and his own blood, though the latter's dried enough to blend with the first. the smell hanging around him gives him away - sharp, metallic, wrong. the front desk clerk eyes him weird. hands him a new set of towels.

dean showers, totally numb, the water either too hot or too cold to register as any kind of pain. just lets it slough over him until it runs semi-clear and stumbles into bed. the wet leaches from him into the sheets. his last thought before sleep is that the bed feels like a tract of sweating skin.

he bolts awake at four in the morning. blinking into the neon-red gash of the numbers on the alarm clock, he decides that five hours of sleep is enough, more than enough, and gets dressed to go back outside. he hesitates before reaching into sam's drawer, pulls out the khaki jacket - one of two that sam has. his own is out of commission for now, anyways.

he puts it on, thinks about how big it is - at least as big as their father's jacket is on him. he thinks about what that means - clothes and the fact that the right people aren't there to wear them. vestigial bits of his family lying limp across the backs of chairs, hanging quietly in closets. reanimated by him and him alone.

he's got a hand on the doorknob when he hears something scratching on the other side. like it doesn't know you're supposed to knock.

he takes a step back. he's not stupid enough to let hope be the thing that gets him killed, so he stays quiet. the scratching stops after a little while, like the thing is recalibrating, and starts thumping at the door with the flat of its hand. hey, it calls. hey, it's me.

if it were a shapeshifter, the transition'd be too smooth. it'd already be trying to worm its way under dean's skin using sam's memories, mannerisms, like an actor that's so good they start running through their lines a little too quick. but something else is obviously off.

dean grabs the holy water, the salt, the works, and arms himself with a silver knife. he opens the door quick, pulls the thing inside, slams it into a wall.

it's "sam".

staring wide-eyed at dean, looking about as good as dean did when he got back, which is to say, like total shit. the holy water rinses some mud away from his face so dean gets a better look at him when he pries his mouth open to shove salt inside. he hooks his thumbs underneath "sam"'s lip to reveal those familiar, blunt fangs, the throat struggling to close, gagging on the dissolving salt. "sam" lets him.

he also lets him cut a line into his forearm. dean watches his face for any of those telltale, out-of-the-ordinary pain reactions and gets nothing. sam can take it. apparently, "sam" can too.

it's me, he says again. dean wants it to be. he's run the gamut of monster-tests, so it must be, and he pulls him in close, relief drowning out the alarm bells ringing in his head.

what happened to you? dean asks. where were you?

we were chasing that thing, "sam" says, and i - i fell. i fell and hit my head. i must have rolled under something, somewhere where you couldn't see me.

dean combed those woods. he knows that isn't true. but he pulls away from "sam", and "sam" looks at him, his face closer than normal. holding on for longer than he usually does. a calculated look in his eyes like he doesn't know what he and dean are to one another. running through a limited understanding of the permutations of human relationships, the ways he can test the waters.

a sickening possibility presents itself to dean. an opportunity.

there's no time before recognition clicks into place and shutters it off, forever, so dean acts on instinct. presses his knee a half inch further between "sam"'s legs before he knows what he's doing.

they stay like that for a minute, dean's hand on "sam"'s shoulder and his forearm on the wall behind his head, slanting himself in closer. pressing one side of his body flush against his. maybe an outsider who's seen them fighting before wouldn't know the difference. dean does.

"sam" smiles like he's got the right answer.

dean can't meet his eyes, so he lets up and pushes him towards the bathroom. he listens to the water running and tries his best not to shoot himself before "sam" comes out, because what the fuck is he thinking?

what is that thing?

dean watches him fall asleep. doesn't sleep himself. makes the decision to keep them both in this town until he can find out what's happened to the real sam. chalks up his freak behavior to keeping track of the difference between the two.

but "sam" makes that difference plain. in the morning, dean watches him try to scrape mud off of their father's jacket before giving up and putting it on. what are you doing? he asks, numb.

"sam" stops, his arms going still in sleeves that hit right at the wrists. like they're supposed to.

dean sits through some lame excuse about wanting to switch things up and doesn't miss the way his eyes wander over to the khaki jacket, logging away new information for later. they trade clothes.

when they head out to the impala, "sam" lags behind like he doesn't know which car is theirs instead of beelining for shotgun, the two of them splitting off like the prongs of a wishbone, an easy, fine-tuned movement carved into every space they've been in together.

dean doesn't need a map to head back to the woods, but tells "sam" to open one up anyway. sam leans over to point out the turns, brushes against dean's hand, leans lightly into his arm. laughs big and bright at the jokes he manages to make, stares hard at dean's profile in a way that makes him sweat.

he doesn't have to tell "sam" what they're looking for. being back in those woods seems to unlock this instinctive, territorial side to him. one that doesn't want to go back. one that wants to stay here, with dean.

so he pulls out all the stops. lays a casual hand on dean's thigh when they're breaking for a lunch of slim jims and skittles, licks the melted sugar from his lips slow and leaves them parted so dean can just make out the red of his dyed tongue. looks at dean like he wants something from him. dean can only imagine what his own face is saying. it's probably some mix of hunger and agony, please personified.

they do that for ten days straight: dean searching, getting nowhere. "sam" working his way to the core of him.

and whenever dean looks unsettled, whenever dean starts itching for more answers, more time under those trees looking for a piece of the real sam that explains any of this, "sam" will learn how to distract him.

he flatters dean. slides his fingers into the hidden places dad's jacket normally covers up - the insides of his wrists, the seam where his jaw and ear meet, the side of his neck. convinces him to skip town, i hear wyoming's beautiful in november, flashing those pretty teeth in smiles that almost look right. acts like the next town over is hawaii when dean finally agrees to take them someplace else.

but it's not far enough. something in that forest wants him back.

and dean would give him to it. scrap this entire project, torch the evidence - he's scared of "sam," scared of himself - but each passing day eclipses the idea that anyone else is waiting for him in the ashes. there's no hand reaching back. no little brother that isn't good but tries to be, for him. For once.

"sam" is offering. all dean needs to do is take.

when the time comes, it'll be so easy. that's what makes it sick.

they head west. a perfect corpse in the passenger seat and a shitty memorialist at the wheel.

#tw: incest #wincest #samdean #weirdcest #supernatural #spn #sam winchester #dean winchester #the summer hikaru died #hikaru ga shinda natsu #picture this: the vibes of wendigo samdean but after they've gotten close again #don't ask me why “sam” doesn't know how to knock but knows how to work a motel shower. for the drama.

20 notes · View notes

seventh-district · 1 year ago

Text

This Evening I Will Not Forget

“I jumped into the fray with the intention of helping you and next thing I know I’m standing there uselessly watching the first person I’ve dared to love in two fucking centuries take a warhammer to the stomach!”

He turned to face you as he emphasized his last few words, now standing all but frozen in the middle of the tent with his hands held out, gesturing toward your injury. You’re about to pipe up and insist that it wasn’t his fault, but the words dissipate before you can speak them as another part of his sentence echoes in your mind. You repeat them back to him in a disbelieving whisper.

“The first person you’ve dared to love?”

His tense, frustrated expression instantly falls flat.

“I didn’t say that.”

An injury and an argument lead to you revealing far more of yourself and your unspoken past to Astarion than you planned to.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Word Count: 3,292

Content Warnings: [injured Reader] (not graphically described, just mentions of bruising and pain) [mean/avoidant Astarion] [argument] [mentions of Reader's scars & non-specific allusion to their Tragic Backstory™] [vulnerability] [possibly (probably) OOC Astarion]

Author's Note: This is an excerpt from my fic An Evening I Will Not Forget, but can be read as a standalone one-shot. The only context I think you'll need is that this fic is written in the style of reliving memories, hence certain lines will mention Reader "looking back" on them.

“What's important is this evenin' I will not forget

Purple, blue, orange, red

These colors of feelin'

Give me love, I'll put my heart in it”

You’re lying on your back as cold, pale fingers press against your sensitive skin, pulling a small pained sound of protest from you.

“Sorry, sorry…”

Astarion retracts his hand, fingers curling into his palm. You reach out to catch hold of him before he can completely pull away, your voice tense with pain as you reassure him.

“No- no... don’t be. I know you’re just trying to help.”

You bring his hand back toward your exposed stomach, his fingers still coated in the healing salve he was attempting to apply. His hand hovers hesitantly over your bruised and broken skin.

“Yes, but- I’m not very good at it.”

Your thumb brushes across his wrist as you hold onto him, suspecting that if you let go he’d just retract his hand again.

“What do you mean? Of course you are.”

He shakes his head insistently.

“No. It seems like every time I try to help you, I just end up hurting you even more…”

Confusion is clear both in your voice and on your features.

“That’s not… that’s not true, Star.”

You tug lightly on his wrist to get his attention, your voice soft as you ask him a question.

“Is this about what happened today?”

He pulls his hand out of your loose hold and you let him, watching as he stands and begins pacing circles inside the tent.

“No, I’m in a bad mood because the weather isn’t quite to my liking- of course it’s about what happened today!”

The initial sarcasm in his voice gave way to frustration near the end. Not with you, but with himself.

Now that you’re observing this memory from his perspective as well, you can see the moment you sustained the injury playing over and over again in his mind, working him up further and further.

“The first person you’ve dared to love?”

His tense, frustrated expression instantly falls flat.

“I didn’t say that.”

Your eyes widen, nodding slowly.

“Yes you did.”

Nervous laughter escapes him as he takes a step back, distancing himself from you.

“No, no, you… you must have heard me wrong. I didn’t- I was talking about helping you, I didn’t say anything about love, what’s love got to do with this?”

You hate to push him, fearing he may bolt like a frightened deer if you double down, but you know what you heard. It wasn’t like the first time you heard him say it, slapping it on the end of a string of pick-up lines, the word obviously carrying no weight, no truth. No, this second time was different.

“I think it has more to do with it than you’re willing to admit, Astarion.”

He falters, one of very few times you’ve seen him truly caught off guard, truly speechless.

“Those are…” He searches for something to say that’ll cover up the truth that’d just spilled out of him. “...bold words for someone currently bedridden.”

You bark a laugh and it turns into a low groan at the pain it causes to flare in your lower ribs.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

If he’s being honest, even he’s hardly sure what he meant. He’s truly floundering here, for the first time in… forever.

“It means… it means that I can walk away from this conversation right now and there isn’t anything you can do about it.”

Stooping so low as to resort to childish threats, you can feel the embarrassment radiating off of him.

“Would you truly be so cruel as to do that to me right now? Walking away, leaving me vulnerable and confused just because you can’t handle the truth?”

You’re pushing your luck too far and you know it. Surprisingly, though, he takes one step toward you, moving away from the exit.

“Cruel?! If you think that me simply walking away from you counts as cruelty then you truly haven’t suffered enough.”

His words are suddenly laced with venom and they hit you harder than the barbarian’s warhammer did today, leaving a chill colder than ice in their wake.

He seems to actually hear what he said a moment later, the careless words ricocheting off of you and coming back to slam into his chest, nearly knocking him over and crushing him beneath the weight of his sudden regret.

A furious wave of heat and adrenaline courses through you as you bolt upright in the makeshift bed, ignoring the sharp pain that flares inside you in response to the sudden movement. Reaching down and grabbing at the tail of your shirt where it’s bunched up around your ribs, you hastily yank it up over your shoulders and head, tugging your arms out of the long sleeves and furiously tossing the garment directly at him.

“Suffered enough? You think I haven’t fucking suffered enough, Astarion? You don’t know the goddamned HALF of it! You’re not the only one in this tent that’s been abused, you know?! Oh wait- that’s right- you DON’T!”

Your voice cracks under the pressure of volume and emotion as fat, hot, angry tears roll down your cheeks against your will. Astarion stands there like a deer in the headlamps, your balled-up shirt having hit him softly in the chest and fallen anticlimactically to the ground. As his eyes rake over your heavily scarred arms, the angry purple markings showing no signs of lessening as they curl over your shoulders and disappear behind your back, it suddenly starts to make a lot more sense why you were so damned insistent that no one remove your clothes while treating your wounds earlier.

Shadowheart rips open the flap covering the tent’s exit, a very concerned looking Halsin ducking down behind her. Part of you is grateful that at least not everyone was currently at camp to witness your sudden breakdown, but even the sight of the two of them is enough to have you panicking. Pulling at the blanket gathered around your waist and shouting in an admittedly very childish, vulnerable voice, you demand they leave as you choke on your tears, hastily covering yourself up.

“GET OUT!”

Unsure of what to do, Shadowheart surveys the scene before her with a critical eye before sighing, seeming to understand that the best thing they can do right now is give you back your privacy. She knows that if you needed her, you would call. Turning to shoo away the concerned man behind her, she lowers the flap back down with a quiet murmur of “They’re… fine. Let’s give them some space.”

Astarion finally breaks free from where he’s been stood like a statue, slowly moving toward the exit as well with an unsure glance in your direction.

You bury your face into the fabric clutched in your hands, shouting into it in exasperation.

“NOT YOU!”

He freezes, no longer knowing what to do but wishing that the ground would simply open up and swallow him whole. Back under six feet of soil feels like where he deserves to be after what he just said to you.

He racks his brain for the right thing to say, coming up empty handed and eventually deciding that honesty might just be the best policy in this situation.

“I… I’m going to level with you. I have no idea what to do right now.”

In spite of it all, you laugh, a broken sound that cuts through your tears, causing you to cough, then the strain from coughing causes more tears to fall. Though he can’t admit it, Astarion knows right then and there that he never wants to hear or see you in such pain ever again.

“I… I’ll level with you, too.”

You pull the blanket away from your face, looking at him with watery, bloodshot eyes.

“...Neither do I.”

You glance down at the floor, attempting a deep breath and failing spectacularly as another broken sob escapes you. Dropping the fabric still held up against your chest, you press your hands down into the bedroll beneath you in an attempt to support your upper body and ease the pain radiating through your core.

Astarion takes one cautious step toward you, his unsteady voice the only thing filling the silence aside from your soft crying.

“I need… to apologize. For everything.”

You shake your head in disagreement and clear your throat.

“No, you don’t. You’ve been through a worse hell than I could ever even imagine. It’s… stupid of me to try and compete with you in that regard.”

He takes another step forward, insistent.

“That isn’t true. You have… clearly been through your own hell, and it was… stupid of me to assume you hadn’t. Even worse of me to try and downplay my avoidance by… holding my past over you like some sort of… like some sort of excuse.”

You shift your weight to the side in order to lift one hand, reaching out to grab at one of the small cloths stacked beside your bed. Astarion sees you struggling to reach them and rushes forward, closing what remained of the space he’d put between you as he lifted a cloth and handed it to you without a word.

You bring it to your face, pressing it to your eyes in a useless attempt to dry the tears that were still falling. Then, moving it down to blow your running nose into the cloth before you could make an even bigger mess of yourself than you already were. Finally able to breathe a bit better, you counter his point.

“Yeah, but- the thing is, I feel like you kinda have the right to do that, given all that you’ve survived. Of course you’d see the pain of walking away from a conversation as trivial when you compare it to… literally anything you’ve experienced.”

Now that he’s returned to your side, Astarion’s head angles to drag his gaze across your exposed back, finally seeing the full extent of your scarring as you lean forward a bit to toss the dirty cloth to the floor of the tent next to your shirt. Nausea swirls deep in the pit of his stomach as the upsetting sight of your marred skin burns itself into his memory.

“I believe… that’s called a double standard.”

You throw him a sad, confused look, and he explains.

“You’re trying to give me some sort of… free pass based on what I’ve been through, but I’ve never once seen you give yourself that same sort of leniency.”

“That’s… not the same thing.”

“I’m not saying we’ve been through the exact same thing, but…” He gestures vaguely to the entirety of you. “...clearly you’ve gone through something. If I get to lord my baggage over you then surely you’re permitted to do the same.”

Your tears begin to slow as you consider his words.

“I don’t… want to do that, though. Obviously. That’s why I haven’t told you. I don’t want you giving me special treatment because ‘poor pitiful me’ has gone through some shit. I don’t think that excuses any of my current behavior.”

The silence hangs in the air for a moment before he gently drives his point home.

“Yet you think it excuses mine?”

Hm.

“...okay. I guess you’ve got me there.”

You sigh, body beginning to feel heavier than lead as the sudden rush of emotion and adrenaline fades from you. You ease yourself back down, hissing at the pain as your bruised ribs and torn muscles protest the stretch and movement. Astarion wants to assist but truth be told he’s afraid to touch you. So, he watches on helplessly, still berating himself in the back of his mind for the role he feels he played in you sustaining today’s injuries to begin with.

Once you’re laid down and relaxing into the bedroll as much as you can, you make no effort to cover yourself up, not caring how long his eyes wander across your exposed skin. Silently, he tries to read the countless jagged lines and dots carved into you like they may eventually come together to paint him a picture of all that’s happened to you.

No picture anyone could paint would ever do the pain justice.

He settles himself down next to you as your tired eyes stare a hole in the ceiling of the tent.

“You do not have to accept my apology, but I will not rescind it. I do have the wherewithal to know that what I said was wrong. It was cruel. I…”

He exhales, the heavy sound full of the weight carried by a man that hasn’t been this honest with anyone in centuries.

“I… tossed aside any consideration for how you may have felt, letting myself get lost in my own… stupid fears. It wasn’t right. It certainly wasn’t fair to you.”

Your head lolls to the side, appraising him with lidded eyes.

“You know… you’re surprisingly self-aware when you aren’t being a pompous ass.”

Your words draw a surprised laugh out of him and after a moment of consideration, he nods slowly in reluctant agreement.

“I’ve… had a lot of time to sit with myself and think. Eventually you get to know yourself pretty well.”

He looks down, idly picking at the loose threads on the edge of your well-worn bedroll.

“All of that self-awareness apparently doesn’t make me any kinder though, does it?”

It’s a rhetorical question but you answer it all the same.

“I still stand by my statement that you have good reason to be so… abrasive. Just being aware of those reasons doesn’t mean that they suddenly don’t affect you any more.”

Your hand raises from where it laid lifelessly beside you, reaching over for Astarion’s and pulling his anxious fingers away from attacking the weak points of your bedroll. You don’t release his hand once you direct him away from the loose threads, holding onto him as you continue to muse aloud.

“I think that a lot of us are just doing our best to not allow our past to affect our present, to varying degrees of success. Sometimes we fail. But- I believe all that truly matters at the end of the day is that we’re trying, though. … And, Astarion?”

“...yes?”

“I can tell that you’re trying.” You squeeze his hand. “And I accept your apology.”

You take a slow, deep breath, and listen as his voice comes out softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Thank you.”

You nod your head in a silent “of course,” laying in thoughtful silence for a few moments before speaking.

“I… feel like I should apologize as well.”

Now it’s Astarion’s turn to be confused.

“What ever for?”

You weakly raise your other hand to gesture all around the room.

“Just… this. The scene I just made. Heaping all of this emotion onto you when you were obviously already struggling with how you felt about me in the first place.”

He doesn’t take long to respond.

“No, I don’t think you need to apologize for that. This… seems like it really needed to come out. I could never be upset with you for sharing it with me, regardless of the… unideal circumstances.”

He then seems to realize something.

“I hope you don’t regret it, though. Sharing this with me.”

You shake your head decisively and the motion causes your impending headache to flare.

“No. I don’t. I- uh- you were going to find out eventually with how… close we’ve been getting. I just couldn’t find the right time to tell you- or- well, show you, I guess.”

Your hand releases its hold on his, reaching up to carefully brush your fingertips across the mottled skin of your stomach. You raise your head up, angling it down to look down at the injury with a thoughtful gaze. Glancing over toward Astarion, you ask him another question.

“Can you hand me that salve from earlier? It never really… got fully applied.”

He immediately reaches behind him for the container, but holds it in his grasp as he stumbles over his words.

“I- I, uhm… wouldn’t mind trying again, if you want me to. If you don’t I’ll understand, though. Just… want you to know that the offer is still there.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, but you’re completely willing to let him do it.

“Oh… sure? You’re welcome to, I just… assumed you wouldn’t want to.”

He holds his other hand up and only then do you realize he never wiped the salve from his skin.

“These fingers are numb already anyways, might as well spare yours the same fate.”

You vaguely remember Shadowheart’s words as she passed Astarion the container earlier, cautioning him to not leave it for long on any skin he didn’t want to temporarily lose feeling in.

“But hey, at least we know that it works now, right?”

You give him a tired smile, appreciative of his efforts to lighten the mood.

“Mmm, I suppose so.”

You pull your hand away, exposing your injury to him once again.

“Have at me, then.”

With your permission, he sweeps a scoop of the healing and numbing mixture across your sensitive skin and you notice how feather-light he keeps his touch this time. Looking down to observe his work, you note how the messy mixture of the massive bruise’s dark colors stand in stark contrast to his pale white fingers that brush across it.

A thought slips out of your exhausted mind.

“Pretty…”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, unsure if he heard you correctly.

“Hmm?”

“The colors. They’re pretty. Purple, blue, even kinda orange…”

You look away from the bruise and up into his ruby eyes.

“...red.”

He’s silent for a moment, his hand pausing its gentle motion. Then he scoffs, looking away and internally dismissing your words as the ramblings of a tired mind.

“You’re talking nonsense, dear.”

Your filter has all but completely vanished, feeling almost drunk on your current mixture of exhaustion and relief after such a hell of a day. Sleep beckons you and your eyes fall closed as the pain in your ribs fades, on its way to being numbed out by the potent salve. A hazy thought surfaces, reminding you to give your thanks to Shadowheart when you next awake. For now though, you relax, no thought given to the words that slip from your lips.

“But you love my nonsense, don’t you…”

His heart feels like it jumps in his chest as he hears you so casually speak the word that he’s still reluctant to even think to himself, let alone say aloud. As he finishes massaging the salve into your skin and pulls his hand back, his eyes pass over the expansive unspoken history of pain evidently etched into your skin, up across your chest, over your shoulders and down your arms. He figures the least he can do is answer you honestly before sleep pulls you under.

“I… suppose I do.”

End Notes: If you'd like to read my commentary on this scene, you can find that in the end notes of Ch. 5 on AO3 - right here!

Header Image Source: x

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #my writing #eheheee my attempt at baiting more people into reading my fic by posting parts of it as oneshots on Tumblr has begun /hj #i'm only half joking tho cause yeah while getting more eyes on the full fic would be a nice side effect if the oneshots do well on here #i also just want to give my favorite parts of the fic that i feel can stand on their own a chance at a second life here on Tumblr #regardless of whether that brings more people in to read the full fic or not

158 notes · View notes

silveryhill · 11 months ago

Text

F1 RACING, 01.06.2001

Murray Walker's interview with Alain

The last is the inevitable one, Ayrton Senna. But before you answer, I want to tell you a little story. One year at Monaco, I waited four and a half hours outside the Marlboro motorhome to do an interview with Senna. The two of you were having a debrief. When the door opened, the first person who came out was you. I said: "You've been in there for four and a half hours. What on earth do you talk about for all that time?" You said: "Well, Murray, we talk about this and we talk about that, but I do not like to be the first to leave!" Did that sum up your relationship with Ayrton?

Yes and no. The team were very professional. Everything we could get from each other was important. If you left too soon, you would miss learning something.

But the way you said it, I had the impression that once you left, Ayrton would say, "And put another two pounds in the tyres."

We were very professional. Even when we had the big fight. It was a funny situation because we only talked to each other in the briefings. There, it was like we never had any problem. We were sharing set-ups and things on the car. I promise you – and I don't know whether the same is true for him – that I never, ever lied to him.

As someone who had enormous admiration for Senna, I never forgave him for lying about Japan in '90.

The only problems I have today are Imola '89 and Japan '90. I really suffered over them. Everybody lies in life, but when you lie for your own benefit... I suffered a lot. I almost stopped at the end of '90. For a few days I wondered whether it was worth carrying on, especially when I saw the comments in the papers that it was almost my fault! I remember one of the Honda engineers coming to me on the evening of the race and saying, "We have looked at the telemetry. It is unbelievable, Senna stayed absolutely flat until the impact." I thought, "Shit." Why didn't the truth come out? Living with that was very difficult. You must understand that Ayrton's motivation was to beat me. All he wanted to do was beat me. Being world champion was one thing, but that was almost second to the challenge of beating me. I was his obsession. As soon as I retired, he changed totally. We talked on the phone as if we had been friends for a long time. After I stopped, our new relationship made me forget about everything else. I remembered only the best of Ayrton and not the worst. It's like in school.

#alain prost #ayrton senna #Murray's joking abt them lmao #who leaves first...their little mind games #I was his obsession #yeah i know but still shocked every time i see words like that...can you imagine?#our new relationship made me forget about everything else...you fell hard for him Mr. Prost i have to say #prosenna #classic f1

75 notes · View notes

myriadparacosm · 6 months ago

Text

Black Beats Black - snippet 2 chapter 9: Blazing Star

because this part still makes me laugh

"How come you're so fine with it?"

"Wormy, shut it," James says with a scowl. "I'm starting to think you're actually plotting— are you?"

Peter throws him a flat look and glances at Sirius. "Why would I do that? I just find it weird that Sirius almost threw his brother in your arms."

"I can't just be a nice supportive brother?" Sirius argues but he doubts that Peter is actually trying to mess with them. "And I didn't throw them in each other's arms. I just saw good— opportunities."

"Well, you and Regulus don't really get along. Until now. And then Prongs is all— Prongs."

"What? What does that mean?" James asks when he sees Remus nodding wisely at Peter's words.

"And that's exactly why."

"Oi, insult me to my face at least."

"It's a compliment, Prongs," Sirius dismisses.

"I'm pretty sure we agreed that we never date mate's siblings. Don't you remember with Marlene's sister?"

"What's that?" Remus perks up at Sirius' gasp.

"Shut it!"

"She had this gigantic crush on Sirius."

"It's not my fault!"

"Meryl?"

James nods. "And Peter has always been sweet on her-"

He gasps. "That's not true!"

"Oh, you liar," Sirius hisses because it's his fault that it was even brought up.

"What happened?" Remus asks.

James grins viciously. Sirius kicks at the table's foot instead of his shin as he throws him a dark look. "That was the first time Sirius could sleep over, back in second year, and we had Marlene over with Meryl."

"She studies in— Belgium, right?"

"Yeah at the Naaszcademy. Meryl was pretty much always into Magizoology so she only did her first 4 years here, passed exams to enter the school and studies there for— another year, I reckon? She is doing a speciality or something."

Sirius busies himself with his butterbeer. Peter shoots him an accusing look, to which he replies with a scoff and foam spitting around.

"I vaguely remember her. She was in Ravenclaw, right?"

"She was. Wormy and I knew since we were children and he had this huge-"

"I didn't!"

"You let her do everything on you."

"Woah."

"We were playing healers!"

"And potioners. And tailors. And magizoologist."

Peter glares at James with flaming cheeks before turning on Sirius. "Anyhow, she met Sirius once when we slept over at James and Sirius broke his heart."

"I didn't!"

"You did!"

James shakes his head at them and leans across the table to reach Remus. "See, Wormy liked Meryl who was seduced-"

"I didn't seduce anyone!" Sirius exclaims.

"So it was an awkward weekend."

Remus chuckles, amused eyes pausing on Sirius as if it's his fault. "I can imagine."

"I didn't do anything," he insists with a scowl. "I was just having fun with my mates and she was there!" His head snaps toward Peter muttering in his drink. "How is it my fault?! I was only twelve! And you could have told her something."

Peter blushes and his jaw tightens in indignation. "Not with you around."

"Merlin, you're a prat."

"You're a slag!"

"Obviously nothing happened," James resumed. "Marlene got pissed that Meryl pestered her about Sirius and she made this huge scene after the break that no one is dating anyone's siblings because that would be disgusting. We all agreed."

Peter scoffs. "And yet you're dating Sirius' brother, hence breaking the deal."

Remus bursts out laughing at that and Sirius straightens in his seat to look at James.

"That's true!"

"No! We promised about sisters, si-sters," James insists. "And back then you weren't even talking to Regulus."

"Oh, this is such a low blow! You know it counts and we did say siblings!" He argues, despite the half-truth. At that time, Regulus had been barely on his mind. How foolish.

"Brotherfucker," Peter mutters.

Sirius slaps his hand on the table. "I should have tattoed-" Remus quickly hushes him- "that on your lying arse!"

"Regulus wasn't part of the deal!"

"He is my brother!"

James pauses. "Well, it was about sisters."

"It was about siblings!"

24 notes · View notes

julemmaes · 2 years ago

Text

Always Been You

Nesta Archeron x Cassian, ~2.5k words

a/n: I saw a reel of a baby and this was born, it's trash but I love them, so enjoy!

"Sweetheart, do you know where my sweater is?! The black one?"

Cassian was rummaging through his wardrobe in desperate need of something heavy to wear in the frigid winter Velaris was hitting them with.

Nesta's robotic voice came from the speaker of his phone, hidden somewhere between his bed sheets. "Uh, might be here, actually."

Here, as in her place. On the other side of the city. More than half an hour from his flat.

He groaned, bending his head forward and halting his hunt.

"Care to tell me why yet another piece of clothing of mine is at yours?"

Nesta chuckled, rejoicing in his despair. He glared at the phone, thankful that his best friend couldn't see him and level him with an equally nasty look.

Her words came muffled this time, more distant, and Cassian knew he'd put him on speaker.

"Not my fault this time. You used it to wrap Little Miss Sunshine up," he couldn't help the smile at the nickname he used to call her daughter. "You claimed she was gonna be too cold on the oh so long way from your car to the door."

"Sounds like something I would do," he muttered to himself, a dopey grin on his lips still. He loved that little nug of happiness that was Nesta's daughter. He loved her as if she were his own.

He shook his head, focusing on the date ahead, and put on another sweater, of a light brown colour he despised, and shook out his duvet, fishing for the phone.

Turning off the speaker, he put it to his ear, "You think I could pass by after the pub?"

Nesta only hummed, seeming distracted.

A few beat of silence, "What is the girl's name again?"

Cassian clenched his jaw, pondering whether he should lie or not, and knowing full well that if he gave Nesta too much information she would stalk the poor lady till sunrise.

"Her name is Anne," he lied.

"Liar," she scoffed. Then she grunted, "Whatever, keep your secrets. But don't come crying to me when you'll find out she has a secret dark past as a pig slaughterer."

Cassian laughed, "You're so dramatic."

"And you love it." She couldn't even begin to understand just how true those words were. "Now leave me alone before you're late to the party."

Nesta didn't give him the time to say goodbye that she'd hung up.

***

Slamming the door and closing himself shut in his precious, silent car, Cassian finally got to open his texts app and check what Nesta had sent him mere minutes before.

The date hadn't gone terribly, but Lidia was not his type. And he wasn't hers.

That had been starkly clear after the first fifteen minutes they'd spent talking about a new friend of hers, a certain Ruhn that she'd been crushing on for a while now.

He was her type. He and him only.

She had apologised, and Cassian had laughed, confessing that he had been forced into this date by his brothers, who were so over seeing him brooding because he was single and they were married and with kids.

Their words, not his.

Because in reality, Cassian was happy.

He was happy waiting for his friend to notice he was there for her, when she decided she was gonna have him.

He was happy splitting his time between his own apartment and Nesta's, whenever Logan requested his presence. Which nowadays bordered on always.

Exactly why he wasn't surprised when, opening his thread with Nesta, he found a video of the little girl, now almost one year and a half old.

A weak smile blossomed on his face as he clicked on it.

Nesta was lying on her side, her right arm under Little Lo's head and the baby was looking up at the ceiling, probably staring at the bioluminescent stars he had glued there.

He didn't press play immediately, because the picture of his best friend's half face was too distracting.

Nesta wasn't even fully in the frame, but Cassian wasn't seeing anything else. Her lips were tugged on a corner, a half smile there as she cuddled with her daughter. Her nose glimmered with moisturizing cream, something he knew she put on every night before bed. Her eyes were hidden, out of the picture.

He could have killed, if it meant the promise of tracing his finger down the nape of her perfect nose, to her lips and chin. Of caressing her jaw, holding her face in his hands.

He would have killed to taste those lips, even once.

Taking a deep breath and pretending he wasn't unsettled by the mere thought of touching Nesta, he pressed play and his heart clenched in his chest.

"Da-da, dada, da-da-da-da," Logan was simply calling out for him, basically whispering in the quiet room, brushing her fingers on her lips. "Dadadadada, dada."

His eyes stung lightly and his pinched the tip of his nose, reigning in his emotions.

The little girl turned to the phone once she noticed her mom was recording her and the smile she gave him ended him. Lo yawned in the most cute and tiny way on video and Cassian's stomach tightened to the point of pain.

He loved her.

She smacked the phone from Nesta's hand, calling for her dada once again and everything went black for a few seconds.

The moment colours and pictures came back up, it was Nesta's face smiling at him, now sitting with a writhing Lo saying his name over and over again.

Nesta tilted her head to the side, avoiding being smacked in the face by the baby, "I need you to come here asap. This little beast won't go to bed unless she hears her favourite uncle's lullaby."

Uncle.

The video ended with an otherworldly screech from Logan and Cassian turned off the screen, throwing the phone on the seat, a weird kind of sorrow pulling at his heart.

Uncle.

Nesta had this bad habit of calling him uncle whenever Logan insisted on calling him dada, or dad, or any other way that pointed to the girl thinking he was her father.

And he couldn't be mad. Fuck, he couldn't do shit about it if not accepting the fact that that was the truth.

Logan wasn't his daughter and the only reason they had stopped trying to make her call him anything but dada was because of the meltdowns she had whenever they did.

She was definitely too little still to understand what they were saying, but she rejected the idea anyway. It was like trying to take her favourite toy away.

Putting the car in reverse, he drove out of the parking spot and on the road, hoping Lo would still be awake once he got to their house.

He tried to keep his thoughts at bay as much as he could, failing miserably.

Cassian wanted in on their life. Cassian wanted to be part of it, every morning he wanted to wake up next to them and love them the way they deserved all day long and at night he wanted to hold them tightly to him and fall asleep again. And do it all over again the next day.

For the rest of his life.

He didn't have a single dream or goal that topped this one.

And he was so tired to pretend anything else was more important to him.

***

He cupped the chubby rosy cheek with his palm, passing his thumb over her eyebrow over and over again, watching the way her tiny, tiny lips moved in her sleep, as if she was latching. Logan's little body twitched in his arms, and Cassian repositioned, hoping not to disturb her too much.

Her minuscule hand clutched his shirt and she rubbed her face in the niche of his elbow.

He lowered just enough to place a kiss on her forehead and the small sigh she released did something to him.

He was so focused on memorizing every little detail on her baby face—knowing perfectly well how fast she was growing—that he hadn't noticed Nesta standing just outside the nursery door.

"I'm happy she has you," she whispered.

Cassian didn't look up from Logan, too afraid of his own feelings, which were riding rampant in his mind tonight.

"I'm glad she..." Nesta paused, drew a deep breath and stepped inside. She sat next to him on the fluffy couch and pulled her legs up to her chest.

He hoped she didn't feel him tense when she leaned against him, her head on his shoulder as she put her hand on Logan's belly.

"I'm glad she can count on somebody else. That is not me."

Cassian paused his face massage, sliding his hand under Logan's head and moving so her neck wasn't straining. He fixed his gaze on the floor, not daring moving a muscle.

"Sometimes I think I'm fucking everything up by not actively looking for someone that would step up as her dad, but–"

Nesta moved again, pressing closer to him, moving her hand from Lo to his arm. He knew that if he looked at her, even if he just turned her way, he would kiss her.

When she spoke again, her voice was trembling slightly and Cassian's heart was threatening beating out of his chest.

"What I'm trying to say is, thank you. For being here for her."

He stayed silent, not knowing what to say. He just resumed tracing lines on Lo's cheekbones, something that never failed to soothe her before bed and that knocked her out almost immediately.

It was a long time before he found the courage to talk.

"Nesta, I–"

Or maybe not.

What if he fucked everything up?

What if he was reading her wrong, and all of this was just in his head?

"Yes, Cassian?" She whispered.

He took a shaking breath, closing his eyes, and said, "I don't wanna be her uncle."

The words were out now. And he couldn't seem to be able to stop them.

"And I don't want you to text me during a date that you can't get her to sleep because she needs me to sing to her. I don't wanna have to drive all the way down here every other day because you might need something from me. And it's frustrating when I'm at home and I wanna eat something, just to remember that I bought it for your place and not mine. And don't even get me started on my clothes. Half of my wardrobe is in this house, as far as I know."

Nesta retracted from him so fast that his head whipped her way. He missed her warmth on the spot.

She was looking at him like she'd hit her. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes were shiny, watering with unshed tears.

His throat closed, "Nes, what–"

"I'm sorry we're such a fucking problem to you," she hissed, doing a piss poor job at hiding the hurt.

Cassian's eyes widened with horror, "Problem? What are you talking about?"

She didn't give any sign she'd heard him, "If it's such a pain in your ass driving here just to make her happy, then don't. I annoy you with my texts, I'll stop texting, no big deal." She was heaving now, emotion and exhaustion from a long day taking over. "And you can get your food and your clothes and get the fuck out of here and never come back for all I care. But you could've told me sooner that we were such a bother to you, I'd have kept her from getting so attached."

Cassian was moving before he knew what he was doing.

One second he was on one side of the couch, looking baffled and confused for all the shit that she was spitting at him, the next he was on her, Logan's body close to his chest as he lunged for Nesta's lips.

He moved his hand to her hair, sliding his fingers to the back of her neck, pushing her towards him. He closed his eyes, savouring the plush touch of her mouth on his for the first time.

Taking in everything she was giving him.

Nesta didn't react immediately, but as soon as she realized what was happening she melted into the kiss, backing away slightly before going back for more.

Her hands went to his face, cradling his neck and bringing him impossibly closer to her, as much as she could without hurting her daughter, and Cassian soared.

They both lost track of time before they stopped, never going far. Nesta pushed her forehead against his, brushing her nose sweetly to his.

"Explain," she breathed out.

He chuckled, stunned, "I want her to call me dad, dada, daddy, whatever she prefers. I wanna be there for her, I'm happy to be there for her." He started, leaving a kiss on her lips.

Nesta turned her head sideways, keeping the contact with him, "Focus."

"I hate driving up here every day because I wish I didn't have to go back to my house. It's just another reminder that I'm a guest, someone that is temporarily here.

"I forget I bought food and brought it here because I eat basically all of my meals with you girls, and I want the entirety of my wardrobe to be in this home. I hate going back there. It's lonely. And I want to be here. All the time.

"I want this to be my permanent home. I want you to be my permanent home."

Nesta was keeping her eyes closed, but a tear was running down her cheek. He swiped it away with a thumb, and then passed his fingertip to her lips.

"Cassian," she said.

He kissed her again, a slow, full-of-love peck on her lips.

He inhaled, "I love you, Nesta, and there's literally no other place I'd rather be, than here with you and Logan."

She opened her eyes then and let him in, at last. She let him see the love there, the wanting and longing that had been eating at them both for years.

But they were done running.

"It's always been you," she said, running a soft hand down his cheek.

Cassian nodded, nuzzling her palm, "It's always been you."

acotar tag list (if you wanna be added or removed just dm me or send an ask)

@my-fan-side @superspiritfestival @simpingfornestaarcheron @the-regal-warrior @princess-rumi-blog1 @live-the-fangirl-life @sayosdreams @rowaelinismyotp @swankii-art-teacher @bookstantrash @lordof-bloodshed @nahthanks @sannelovesreading @courtofjurdan @imagine-me @moodymelanist @dread3r @sv0430 @mariamuses @leiawritesstories @thewayshedreamed @duskandstarlight @letstakethedawn @perseusannabeth

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #nesta has a kid cause you all know I clearly have issues with kids fics #domestic fluff #slight angst very slight compared to my usual

229 notes · View notes

hxvasstar · 3 months ago

Text

Silly one shot (kinda) of me and snoti cause we soulmates ❤️

“Go on patrol with her, they said. It'll be fast, they said, and now? Look where we are!”, Snotlout kicked angrily and clearly annoyed the stones out of his way while walking towards Hookfang. I just rolled my eyes and listened to his whining. Typical Snotlout, he always has to blame the others for everything. “I wasn't the one who felt provoked...”, I muttered quietly to myself. “Me? You mean me? Provoked?”, he laughed as if I had made the funniest joke of all which made me sigh. “Yes, you, snotface.”, Snotlout fell silent, his expression priceless.

“Ouch.”, he replied quietly to himself.

“But actually, it's still your fault.”, he tried to argue, turning his back in offense with his arms crossed. “Liar! you didn't want to stop doing tricks on Hookfang!”, I argued back. “And what was the problem?”, he said while rolling his eyes, his back still facing me.

“I was behind you!?”, I yelled at him.

He turned back to me, his dragon behind him, flat on the ground. My little green terrible terror was lying on his horn, asleep. Both were exhausted from the long flight. “You know why I have to. Hooky and I always have to be fit.”

I watched him unconvinced doing some silly looking exercises by stretching his arms and all that stuff. Was he being serious right now? I mean Fit? Yes, he was. An airhead? Definitely, too.

“Besides, we only crashed because you pinched my side...”, he mumbled under his breath and grabbed the side of his torso just above his hip. It’s hard not to feel sorry for him, he’s a silly guy. But seeing him stroking his bruise I gave to him almost made me laugh. How come he always acts so strong when he’s almost about to cry just because I pinched him a little. I shook my head in disbelief about what I was to say.

“Okay, okay I admit. I was a bit to blame too. But please promise me one thing, no more dragon tricks in the air when I'm on that red lizard too.”, I said as I wiped my hair out of my face and began to gather some branches off the ground. »hey! His name is Hookfang! It’s not his fault that he looks like a big red lizard. You better watch your mouth, after all he’s a flaming monsterous nightmare.”

“Do you think I’m joking? How about I teach you and your monsterous snotmare a lesson?”

“No need to!!”, he yelped as he held his arms in front of him to keep distance. “Geeze, take it easy girl. Hooky will stop it.”

His dragon growled.

“hooky and me.”

Hookfang let a ray of fire flash past snotlout. He screeched: “Okay, fine fine! I will stop that!”, he heard me giggling to myself from a little further away and cleared his throat. With his shoulders squared, he strutted over to his dragon and plopped down in front of him. By now I had collected enough branches and threw them at his feet on the grass.

“Svörk, fire.” My little dragon woke up and spat a shot of fire at the pile of wood, which then ignited.

“Take care of the food, will ya?” I said to snotlout, who already had his helmet over his eyes. “Yes, yes, you're the boss,” he said as he drove me away with a wave of his hand.

#art #oc #httyd rtte #rtte #snotlout jorgenson #httyd snotlout #self insert #httyd #fanfic #oneshot

7 notes · View notes

undertheopensky · 2 years ago

Text

Anticipation

Whumptober Day 16: Alt #5 Body Modification

Characters: Legend, Wild, Warriors

Trigger warnings: Presumed drowning, body horror, painful transformations, some blood

Read on Ao3!

Oh look! More drowning! Except not really.

-----

“Why is your Hyrule so inconvenient?”

“It’s not my fault the lizalfos took over the docks!” Wild stabs one under the arm. Black-blooded and undeterred, it just hisses and swaps its jagged weapon to the other hand. “I clear them out and then they come back, it’s just the ways things work here!”

“Well it’s fucking annoying!” Wars knocks aside the spear aimed for his gut, then uses his shield to knock the monster back a few paces. When it stumbles at the edge of the wooden platform, he pushes the advantage and shoves it off into the river below.

“Wait, don’t -”

“They swim,” says Wars flatly, wiping his hair out of his face. He ducks to the side when the lizalfos spits at him again.

“Yeah,” says Wild. “And good luck getting them out of the water again.”

Wars mutters curses under his breath.

Having - finally - finished off his current opponent, Wild switches to a bow so he can take out the lizalfos Wars had unsuccessfully tried to drown. The best thing to do is just pepper them with arrows until they get angry about him dodging their return shots and come close enough to hit with a sword, or keel over with twenty arrowheads in their face. And since Wild is best with a bow, that makes it his job. Fortunately it’s one he enjoys.

Wars curses again. “Shit - vet, look out!”

There’s a yelp, a splash, and triumphant lizalfos jeering.

Wild rolls his eyes. “You okay down there, vet?”

He fully expects to hear cursing, or maybe complaints about getting his boots wet. That there’s nothing -

“The vet can swim, right?!” he asks, running for the dock Legend had been standing on.

“He said he could!”

But there’s uncertainty there, because none of them have ever seen him do it. When they’d wound up on Outset for a week Legend had refused to get within spitting distance of the water.

Absently blocking a tail swipe, Wild scans the rough water for red and gold and pink, and - there! Dragged along in the current. It doesn’t even look like he’s trying to swim, just struggling uselessly against the water. The vet is so going to get it for lying about being able to swim. If Wars doesn’t kill him, Time definitely will, once they make it back and Wars snitches.

Graceless but efficient, Wild hacks away at the lizalfos until it collapses in a heap of smoke. A quick check proves Wars is holding his own against the only two remaining, a black and a blue, so he can handle that.

Monsters dealt with, Wild jumps in the water -

And finally hears Legend screaming.

Sound underwater is always weird. Too flat, and strangely echoing. Wild still recognises the sound of Legend in pain, and his heart tries to turn itself inside out on the spot. Fuck. Fuck. What had happened? Had one of the lizalfos got in a lucky shot while pushing him off the platform? Was that why he hadn’t surfaced? But it’s been minutes what could have - there’s blood in the water -

Wild swims closer. There’s a - a zora? Tangled up with him, are they trying to help Legend? Wild doesn’t know them, doesn’t know anyone with that combination of pink and gold and gossamer veils instead of thick fins. What if they’re not helping? What if they’re why Legend is screaming? Zora are big and strong and agile in the water and this one must be huge to have such a big tail -

Legend shudders, and goes silent, and the thrashing stops, and Wild can actually get a clear look at what’s going on as he dives to the rescue.

There was no zora. The tail is attached to Legend, his body Hylian to the hips then transitioning to the pink and gold scales of an enormous fish. Wild’s never seen one with such delicate, translucent fins.

Or one that was, y’know, attached to a person, but that’s neither here nor there.

Wild hooks an arm around Legend’s waist and tows him to the surface. He’s desperately close to out of air; what about the veteran? He’d been - goddess - screaming right up to the last, so was he able to breathe underwater like this? He hopes so. Legend’s not resisting him at all and it’s really concerning, actually.

Breaching the surface, Wild takes a few seconds to gasp for air - he’d really cut it too close - before turning to inspect Legend. He’s relieved to find the veteran blinking back at him, tired but aware, water pouring from his face and hair. “Oh thank the goddess. Where are you hurt?” Wild starts swimming them towards shore - it’s not as close as it should be, because the current had apparently said ‘fuck you’ and pushed them both out to the middle while dragging them downstream.

“Mm? Jus’ a bruise, the lizalfos tripped me n’ I hit my hip on the platform as I fell.”

Wild remembers just how much blood there was in the water and does not believe him, but there’s no easy way to check while they’re both treading water. Legend being half a fish will probably also make things tricky. Do fish even work the same way Hylians do??? Legend is definitely a little hazy. He’s barely helping Wild tug them along, just giving a sluggish kick now and then, more to keep his balance then for propulsion. “Okay, so how do we get rid of the tail?”

“I transform back when I leave the water.”

Cool, that’s easy. Wild finally finds the riverbed with his feet. Blessed solid ground! Well, semi solid. It’s more sand than mud, at least. Although… hmm. There’s no way Legend will make it out of the river without feet. Wild will have to carry him. “Alright, up we go!” He scoops Legend into his arms and starts wading out.

Legend falls against him, visibly confused, before he registers what’s happening and his eyes go wide. “No!” He throws himself backwards, and his massive tail thrashes. They overbalance.

Up to his neck in river water with sand creeping into his pants, Wild turns a dead-eyed glare on Legend. “Why.”

“I wasn’t - I don’t -” Legend’s tail flicks back and forth like an agitated cat. He sinks deeper into the water. “I wasn’t… ready. I can’t -”

“Can’t turn back that fast?” Okay, so there’s a time component. That’s fine. Wild would like to get dry sometime today, but he can cope. “How long til you can make the switch back, an hour?”

“No, it’s just -” Legend looks away, shame pinning his ears low. “I just - need a break. Need to brace myself, first.”

Wild remembers Legend’s screams.

Dread rising, he asks, “It’s the same turning back?”

Legend reluctantly nods.

“Fuck.”

Legend gives a humourless bark of laughter. “Yeah.”

“The fuck kind of ability is it?”

“Cursed item,” Legend says. He scowls at Wild’s raised eyebrows. “What, did you think I was joking every time I told you not to touch my shit?

“No, I’m just surprised you still use it. It sounds horrible.”

Legend sighs. “Part of the curse. There’s no item to use - it’s just a part of me now.”

“Ledge! Wild!”

They both look up. Wars is jogging along the shoreline towards them; he would have had to navigate the docks to get off the river first before even starting to follow them, poor bastard. He’s a little out of breath when he slows to a stop near them. “Are you both okay? Ledge, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you in time, but you told us you can swim!”

“I can swim,” Legend snaps, a bit more life coming back into him. “It’s just a bit difficult when a cursed item is unexpectedly breaking every bone in my legs!”

Warriors’ face goes horrified, scanning Legend like he can see through the water still rushing past. Legend reddens. “I’m fine, stop giving me that look!”

You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you, says Wars dryly.

The sigh Legend gives is long and loud to express his annoyance, but he kicks back in the water so the pink and gold of his tail comes close to the surface. “Involuntary transformation,” he says shortly, and rights himself.

“It’s pretty,” says Warriors.

Legend glares at him, tense and waiting for the punchline.

“Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

The tail thrashes, churning up river mud into a murky soup. “And open myself up to every joke and taunt you all can think of? ‘Legend turns into a pretty pink fish, let’s knock him in the fountain for a laugh!’”

“Legend. That doesn’t sound like a joke. That sounds like torture.”

Legend flinches and looks away.

Wars continues doggedly, “I knew a guy in the war who used transformation magic. Scary stuff - and it always left him pretty fucked up afterwards. I saw blood in the water, was that from you?”

“It was,” says Wild, ignoring Legend’s irritated hiss.

Wars grimaces. “And I bet transforming the other way is just as bad. Shit. Is there anything we can do to help? Make it easier?”

Legend shrugs and sinks deeper in the water, uncomfortable. “I mean, it’s not as bad if I have warning? When it’s unexpected it always seems to take longer.”

“That happen often?” Wars asks.

He wobbles a hand. “Not so much these days. I’m more careful around water that’s deep enough to trigger it.” He snorts. “I’ve been waiting for one of these portals to dump us in a lake, though.”

Wars and Wild both cringe.

Breathing out sharply, Legend sets his face into something grim and determined. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

Legend’s stifled screams are awful, but somehow not as awful as watching his beautiful tail tear itself in two. The scales slough off in sheets, exposing twitching muscle underneath, before pale skin crawls in to replace them, painfully slow. Coiling ribbons of crimson are swept downstream along with shed scales, glimmering pink and gold. Eventually, he’s left fully Hylian, drenched and panting in the shallows.

Wars insists on running his hands over his legs, checking to make sure the skin sealed fully and the vet is intact.

“It may look horrific, but it does at least put everything back when it’s done,” says Legend dryly.

“Sounds horrific, too,” says Wild. The sound of Legend’s bones breaking, tearing away from themselves, and then reforming had nearly made him hurl.

“And this happens every time? Isn’t there any way to control it?”

Legend cracks one tired eye to look at him. “No. As soon as I’m submerged up to the waist, the curse takes over.”

“Fuck,” says Wars.

“I already said that, you’re behind the times,” says Wild, making Legend grin.

“Well it bears saying again.” Wars scrubs at his eyes. “Wild, you’re the expert here - how far off course are we?”

“Uhh.” Wild has to pull out the slate to answer that one. He knows they wound up downriver, but how far? Whoof. “Well, we’re almost to Thims Bridge,” he says, “which is not closer to Kakariko.”

“More’s the pity,” Legend mutters, trying to wring out his hair.

“However, instead of trying to catch us horses in the wetland, since we’ll be going straight past a stable I can just pull mine. So, yay for that?”

“How far is it to the stable?”

Wild squints, trying to do the math on foot. “Like… half a day, maybe? We weren’t gonna make Kakariko today no matter what, so it might be better to stay at the stable’s inn overnight.” He and Wars meet each other’s gaze and carefully do not look at Legend, who most needs the rest.

“Sounds like a plan,” Wars agrees.

With a grunt of effort, Legend levers himself upright. “Which way, then?”

“Well according to the weird glowy map, the bridge is that way, but I’m not seeing how that’s your problem.” Wars kneels in the sand, presenting his back to Legend. “C’mon, climb on.”

“What? No. You are not carrying me, there’s no need for that shit.”

“Are you kidding me? Look at you. You’re exhausted. You can barely stay on your feet. It won’t cost me anything to carry you for a bit while you get your strength back. Besides,” he adds, “your shoes are soaked. If you walk half a day in them now you’ll get blisters.”

Legend makes an indistinct grumbling noise. “Fine.”

When they eventually make it to the stable in the evening, they’re beyond relieved to see the rest of the Chain waiting there. It does mean that Wild has to race ahead making frantic gestures for everyone to shut the fuck up, lest they wake Legend, sleeping peacefully on Warriors’ back.

#whumptober 2023 #linked universe #lu legend #lu wild #lu warriors #lu fic #skies writes

104 notes · View notes