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thewritetofreespeech · 3 years

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hello!! i've made a request before but this idea came in my brain and i heard your requests were open. So ive seen a lot of fics of the brothers saving mc, but what about mc kinda of saving the brothers, i mean like badass sword fighting style. Just like a stereotypical disney prince saves a princess mc kinda saves the brothers from getting killed by a lesser demon with a sword and just being badass (and sword) and the bros find it hot (weak humans? never heard of them)

*spongebob narrator voice* 400 years lat’er..... So sorry this took so long! I genuinely don’t know why I couldn’t get it done. When I actually tried, I got it done in like 2 days. My only excuse is that I’m a horrible trash munny >.<

Obey me Boys + Power Princess MC

Lucifer

It offends him that this creature, this being not fit to lick the soles of his boots, would raise their hand to him. The attack was not even what upset him, but just the gall. The utter stupidity of this decision to throw one’s life away. The fact that they had attacked with you around only made him wish to end that pathetic life that much sooner.

“Step back [Y/N]. I’ll deal with this quic—” Lucifer cut himself off when you rushed forward. A bright shining sword in your hand as you lunged. Slashing through the demon, who wailed and instantly turned to dust & ash. “What on Earth was that?”

“Oh. It’s my sword.” You reply nonchalantly. Turning around to show it to him. “It’s a holy arc sword, or something. I can summon it from my bracelet whenever I need it. Cool to know it actually works in a pinch.”

“And where did you get such a magical artifact?” Lucifer asked. Perplexed beyond reason, but trying not to show it.

“Lord Diavolo gave it to me when I first got here.” The demon arched a brow. Lord Diavolo? “It would be really irresponsible of him to just let a human wander around hell without some kind of weapon.”

He paused for a moment. Trying to piece all of what you had just said together. Then he just chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it would be.” And here he thought that he had been the only one protecting you. When all along you could do it yourself.

His hand reached out to pat your head fondly. His breast swelling with pride. “I’ll have to thank him for giving you such a thoughtful, practical gift. We’ll also have to add sword play to your lesson plans. I’d be more than happy to be your tutor.

Mammon

‘Shit!’ Mammon mentally cursed as he was hit again.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been rough up outside a club. Given his lifestyle, and his gambling track record, he’d been pummeled by a few bouncers in his life. With his immense power, he could easily take them; if he tried. But then he would be banned from the club, and ever other, and that was something he couldn’t handle over the humiliation of being beat up by these clowns. He needed this. It was all he had.

So, he took his beatings from lesser demons when they came around. He’d only wished they’d picked a different night to get their ‘payment’ back since you were supposed to be here soon.

“Come on guys. Don’t ya think you’ve had enough?”

“We’ll tell you when we’ve had enough!” One demon sneered at him, before kicking a man while he was down. Classy. “You owe us. And we’re gonna get back every cent you owe out of your hide!”

The demon reared his foot back to kick him again, and Mammon mentally sighed. Preparing himself for the kick and really being over this since it began. But….no kick came.

The demon let out a loud grunt over the sound of a metal ‘wack’ before the two, even lesser goons beside him suffer the same fate and they all slump to the ground. “Mammon! Are you ok?!”

The silver haired demon looked up at you in shock. The light from the street lamp causing a halo to form around you, highlighting your worried face as you brandished a rusty pipe like some great sword. “Yeah…I’m fine….”

“You don’t look fine! You’re all beat up!” He just sat there as you dropped the pipe and dropped down to him. Fretting over him as you looked him over. He couldn’t hear what you were saying over the beating sound of his heart in his ears.

No one had ever tried to help him before.

Mammon lifted his arms and wrapped them around you. “Mammon? What—“Let’s get out of here.” He interrupted as he hugged you. Standing up, and helping you to your feet, after a moment to walk out of the alley. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I wanna go somewhere with you.”

“But….I thought you wanted to go out tonight. Play cards. You said you were feeling lucky?”

He couldn’t tell if that was a jab or not, but replied, “well clearly I was wrong.” Though despite his bumps and bruises, he did still feel pretty lucky right not. “I just want to get out of here. I don’t need this anymore.” You both decide to head home to help Mammon nurse his wounds. He never went back to that club, or really any club, after that night.

Levi

“Levi….I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Nonsense!” Levi quipped in response to your perfectly reasonable, concerned feelings. “It’s just a little further. Besides, I want to see Henry 1! I’ve missed him a ton recently, and want to make sure he remembers me.” It had broken his heart to discover his poor, lost serpent had been down here, all alone, this whole time. So he made an effort to see him every now and then.

“Yeah but…isn’t this still like super-secret for Lord Diavolo’s family and stuff? What if there’s like booby traps and stuff?”

“Come on! There weren’t any booby traps or anything before. Why would he when he has Henry to keep it…..” Levi trailed off as both of you were ingulfed by a long, dark shadow. A low hissing sound growing louder as a gold, stripped serpent towered over you with a menacing glare. “That’s not Henry.”

The snake hissed loudly with bared fangs and an open mouth, and you both scream and run to get away from it.

The serpent of course chased you. Easily able to keep up, and only loosing you when the two of you duck into a narrow corridor. Levi turned around to say something to you, but you were gone. His immediate thought was that the stranger snake had gotten you, and it was all his fault, and he would never see you again!

When he came to the end of the corridor, walking out like a man on death row instead of running, he looked up to see the snake in front of him. Clearly angered by having to chase him. Levi didn’t care. He wanted to die if anything happened to you. He’d rather die than live one moment without you.

Prepared to accept his fate, the demon didn’t move when the snake unhinged his jaw to eat him in one gulp. Only for a sharp spike to thrust out from his mouth a moment later. A strange, hissing gasp escaping it before it slumped down in a lifeless heap on the floor. “[Y/N]!”

“Jesus! Not to put too fine a pin on it, but this place is literally a maze. One minute I’m next to you, and the next I’m in some armory on the other side of the hall 50 feet away. Are you alright Levi?”

The demon scrambled up the snake corpse to stand next to you and wrapped his arms tight around your being. “[Y/N]! I was so scared! I thought this Henry imposter got you, and you were dead, and I couldn’t think of anything!”

“I’m really ok Levi.” You assure him, as he wept into your shoulder. “Do you still want to see the real Henry? I think I spotted where he actually is when I was running back with the spear?” Levi nodded into your shoulder. Still not prepared to let you go.

Satan

Satan always tried to be a reasonable man.

He hated being referred to as ‘The Demon of Wrath’. It wasn’t his wrath that had caused him to be born. And he wasn’t any angrier than his brothers, so why did he have to be labeled the ‘bad seed’? So he always tried to be level headed. Calm. Patient. But there were somethings he just could not abide. Like the boorish behavior of someone talking loudly in the library.

“Excuse me,” the blonde said, attempting to remain calm, as he came over to the rude demon two tables over, “could you please keep it down? This is a library.”

“Yeah. I know what it is.” He quipped back rather snippily. “What are you? The librarian?”

“No. Just a fellow book lover.” Satan replied. Grinding his teeth now. “And one who can follow the rules and basic social decorum of keeping my conversations to myself in a place like this.”

“Are you calling me stupid?!”

“No. I’m calling you uncouth. A word meaning undignified, and without manners.”

“Why you!”

The demon rose to his feet, towering over Satan now that he was standing. Not that it mattered. Height was not an immediate representation of strength. Look at Belphie. His younger, shorter brother could level a whole city with a flick of his wrist. Satan could easily dispatch of his imbecile without even breaking a sweat.

He never got the chance though, as just after he stood the demon let out a grunt and slumped to the floor; with you standing behind him on his depleted chair with a book in your hand like you had just pulled it from The Stone. “Bet you’re glad I think Kindles are dumb now.”

Satan had to right himself on what he was seeing, and then frowned at you. “I never said that, and get down.” He insisted. Offering you his hand to get down. You hop down with ease and set your weapon book on the table. “Honestly, I could have handled him without resorting to violence or cheap theatrics.”

“Cheap?? This book was very expensive.” You insist, and Satan had to scoff.

“Be that as it may, please do not use books for more than their intended purpose. I appreciate the assist, but I can’t have you hurting yourself or fine literature in the future.”

“You’re such a buzz kill sometimes Satan…..”

Asmo

Asmo always loved going to the club. The dancing. The energy. The pulsing music. The people.

Well…usually the people. Some people, usually bro-dude demons, just couldn’t take a hint that ‘no’ meant ‘no’.

“Come on Asmo! Why are you being so stingy?!”

“I’m not being ‘stingy’,” Asmo replied with a frown marring his beautiful face. “I’m just not interested.”

“You were interested last time.” His pursuer replied. Like that somehow gave automatic permission that things would happen again.

“That was a long time ago.” The dusk haired blonde replied. Sipping his cocktail and looking thoughtful across the spacious VIP lounge over to you.

Yes, things had certainly changed. Once where it would take a whole room of people and attention to make him content, these days all he wanted was you. Just you sparing a moment to look at him made his heart feel incredibly full. He had come here to have a fun night out with you, but it seemed no matter where he went his beauty was always causing problems.

The lesser demon frowned, then looked towards the direction Asmo was looking to land on you. “Shoot, just bring them along with us.”

“Excuse me?” Asmo asked. Beautiful expression turning Ignatius as he sat down his drink.

“Bring them along. I’ve never had sex with a human. But there must be something to it if you’re willing to do them. Not that I suppose that takes much….”

At that, Asmo leapt from his chair and grabbing the brute by the collar. He wasn’t normally one for violence. He wasn’t like his dull brothers. But he couldn’t let a slight like that against you slide. “Take it back!”

The two demon’s scuffle. Clearing out the VIP lounge as everyone ran. Scared that they might transform at any moment and literally tear each other apart. Asmo somehow ended up on his back, a position that usually didn’t bother him, as the other reared back to punch him in the face.

Or, at least he would have if he didn’t start convulsing and fall on the ground a moment later.

“Asmo! Are you ok?!”

The Lust Demon looked at you for a moment. Then delicately covered his mouth with both hands. Returning to normal. “[Y/N]! You saved me!!”

“Yeah. This little thing packs a punch.” You replied. Holding out your little pink taser from She-Sword from your clutch. “I couldn’t let this jerk hurt your beautiful face.”

“No one is more beautiful than you my fierce warrior queen!” He praised. Basking in the moment for only a second before you both scamper off before security came.

You both might be beautiful, but you didn’t want to end up on the evening news.

Beel

“I want to take up kendo.” Beel announced to you one day. Out of the blue. “I’ve been looking for ways to add variety to my workout. I came across this video on kendo and thought it would be fun.”

Of course, Beel knew you had practiced kendo in the past at school. So he might have also been looking for fitness activities for you to do together. In any case, he really liked seeing you in your little workout outfit. It was super cute.

He also liked you showing him the basics of kendo; stance, footing, basic strike movement. When he felt he had gotten the hang of it, Beel jovially asked for a sparring match with you.

“I don’t know….”

“Come on [Y/N], sparring with someone is the best way to learn fighting.” He reasoned. “Besides, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I’m not worried about that….” He heard you mutter under your breath, but thought that he must have imagined it as you squared off.

Standing across from you in the arena, something changed. The hair on the back of Beel’s neck stood up. Not in the excited way that it normally did when he saw you. But something more….primal. His grip tightened a little more as he realized he might have to get a little serious with you.

It was all for nothing though as the match was over just as soon as it started.

The shinai went flying out of his hands, landing across the room just as Beel landed on his butt. His backside throbbing as his bell was rung clear as day. He rubbed his head as he looked up at you. “I may have forgotten to mention that I was three-time national kendo champ all through school.”

The demon looked up at you with a shiny, sparkly gaze only until now reserved for delicious food. “Teach me sensei!”

Belphie

He hated being out. He wanted to go home.

Being outside in the sun, with all these…..people was hell to him. Belphie would rather be home, in actual hell, with his blanket and pillow and quiet, rather than ‘top side’ with you for the whole afternoon. Not that it was you or anything. You were the only bright star on this miserable day. He’d be damned if he’d let one of his brothers spend the day with you when he could.

“Belphie, do you want an ice cream? Maybe that will help with the heat?”

He wanted to say that the only thing that would help him was getting the hell out of here. But, he bit his tongue. The demon knew how important this was to you to come ‘home’ now & then and he didn’t want to ruin it for you. So he just nodded and asked, “strawberry please.”

He sat in the shade as he watched you go over to the ice cream truck alone. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he was just a hopeless shut in. Like Levi, only worse. He just wanted humans so much that being around them was making him crankier than normal today.

“Geez, get a look at that side show over there.”

Belphie looked up from his daze at the human who was a few yards away from him. Snickering and staring with his friends in a voice that a regular human wouldn’t be able to hear. “If you have something to say, then say it, you chicken shit fuck.” Again, he was very cranky.

The human was obviously taken aback at being heard and then called out like that. “What did you say to me?!” He yelled, once he got his bearings on the situation, and took a ‘threatening’ step forward to see if he would repeat it.

“I said ‘If you have something to say, then say it, you chicken shit fuck’.” Of course he repeated it. “Don’t mutter something under your breath like a coward. Say it like a man, or keep your gross mouth shut.” This was why he hated humans. No spine.

Well, metaphorical spine. If he kept this up, Belphie was gonna prove that he had a spine when he ripped it out and made him wear it as a neck tie.

“You little fuck--!” Belphie, of course, didn’t move when he stomped closer. Not that he needed to, because he was stopped in his tracks rather abruptly when you stepped between then. Holding a knife from your pocket.

“I suggest you get out of here, before the only ‘side show’ around here is your knife swallowing act pal.” The man seemed to frozen for a moment as he tried to process if you were serious. Then his flight instincts kicked in and he took off running with his friends across the park. “Gosh, I think I’ve been spending to much time with you guys. I never would have done anything like this before.” You said after a sigh, then turned back to Belphie.

“My hero.” He cheered softly, in his typical tired voice but still with a soft smile. Seeming extremely proud of the bad influence he was on you.

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cooloddball · 3 years

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This is going to be a super long analysis of jib3 starting with the opening ceremony to the closing ceremony so brace yourselves.

Please note I believe in the breakup theory so maybe my opinion in this one might be biased so please don’t come for me, lol.

I will put it under the cut to avoid overcrowding your dashes with cockles shenanigans.

Also, watch out for profanities and mature language.

And so it begins...

Opening ceremony

The camera used to record the opening ceremony is shaky.

Misha, Jason Manns, and Jarpad seem to be having a lot of fun together and Jensen is just looking at his besties talking to the man he loves and he knows he can’t have that so he just stands there looking at them. Poor guy.

Jarpad asks who took Misha’s riffle? Things are awkward, I honestly don’t know what’s going on.

Misha kisses a plushie while making eye contact with Jensen and Jensen is like “oh, oh, wow” while making eye contact with Misha. LOL. Jack help me. This is a lot!!!

Jensen takes a plushie from Sebastian and Jared takes the one Misha had.

Are you guys flirting about trying to see whether you can keep plushies alive?

Misha throws something at the fans, I think he was throwing treats from earlier or whatever it was and Jensen says “Misha is still throwing” I mean why?

Cockles Panel

Jensen is so extra in this panel.

First of all, when he and Misha come out (no pun intended) a song starts playing and he starts dancing. Jensen is usually so poised while dancing but he is over the top throwing his back and shaking his tush for the mish. I think he was trying a little too hard. Misha spares his ex-boyfriend’s tush a glance smiles and looks away. LOL. The whole thing was cringey, tbh. It was so unlike Jensen.

When Sebastian touches Jensen’s shoulder and says something to Jensen, he [Jensen] laughs way too hard. I would say he laughs abnormally-it’s loud and he throws his whole body into it like he’s trying to prove what Sebastian was funny and it probably wasn’t. He laughs so hard he ends up right on Misha’s side. and Misha laughs at that though.

Rich says something about something in the sac that hurts(It’s incoherent) and Jensen says it hurts right here pointing at his heart (I can’t hear what they are saying exactly so if anyone knows please let me know)

I don’t know if Mark P. was going to hug Jensen or not or he was pointing at something behind Jensen, but at that moment, Jensen sees Sebastian going to hug Misha and whips his head away from Mark P’s direction so fast he almost broke his neck.

Sebastian humps Misha (these two are so playful I love them) and Jensen is just there acting awkward

There’s a comment by Rich about “It’s over, the convention’s over I’m no longer your bitch” I don’t know who this is about.

Now, now, now. This whole time Rich is doing a kissy mouth with his fingers on the monitor behind Jensen and Misha. His hand is right where Misha is standing (you’ll understand once you watch it) so Jensen makes a kissy face back and Misha is blushing? Ummm wtf is going on here?

Jensen also does something strange that he never does during cockles panels he pulls his seat away from Misha.

Misha makes a very weird comment about Sebastian’s libido drying up and they have a weird conversation about libido and Viagra ads. It’s weird.

It gets even more awkward Jensen talks about bringing a total stranger, and a blind date. And it goes downhill from there with them. The it wasn’t you it was me speech. It was special. So heartbreaking. It was clearly not about the show but about their relationship. I always have a difficult time getting through that part. It’s so awkward that the fans are just there wondering what the hell is going on.

They decide to take questions and the fan is all over the place so Misha interjects but Jensen won’t let Misha say what he wants to say so he says, “This is why you make it awkward. You never let people finish what they are saying.” Ouch. Domestic dispute vibes anyone?

The way Jensen is looking up at Misha when he’s answering that question. It’s like he wants to sear his face into his memory before they leave Rome.

Jensen is explaining to a fan how one of the four sound stages they had on set was full of furniture and Misha adds “and soiled mattresses” I mean what was the reason? Did they soil the mattresses with their [redacted]

A fan mentions something about Dean and Cas so these two adorable dorks smile and share a look. Things are starting to look up. Thank Jack.

The fan says something again (I can’t make out what he’s saying) but it must be something nice because they look at each other with smiles on their faces again.

Jensen playing with the head of his microphone. Is it just me or did the temperature rise a notch higher?

The way they look at each other when the fan says to help him choose the hottest female cast member on the show

Then something freaky happens they say the exact same thing as twins or bffs do sometimes. LOL.

When they start talking about the hot women with the fans Misha moves his entire body and now instead of looking at the fans, he is seated facing Jensen. The tension is simmering down.

A point to note is that in all their panels they always sit angled facing each other as opposed to facing the crowd save for this panel and DCCON 2019. But for DCCON I can understand that they weren’t comfortable being meant to be a J/2 panel and a creation event. So you know some people in that crowd are super mean to Mish and others to Jensen, so they had to tread carefully. But I digress back to the chaos.

They ask who wants to have a cockles panel the next year and they both raise their hands. I thought that was sweet

It’s adorable how Jensen keeps repeating everything Misha is saying.

Misha forgets himself and moves too close to Jensen to listen to the song on the phone. Jensen turns to look at Misha, I don’t know what that look is but Misha backs away laughing.

Jensen’s face journey while listening to that song is gold.

Misha moves closer to listen to the song. I have to say the way they are standing is not usually how two bros listening to music usually stand. If you know what I mean

Misha agrees that’s definitely Jensen singing. Of course, he knows because Mr. “Jensen sings to me all the time”

He looks so proud of him. I’d venture to say he’s happy to hear Jensen sing because he has always been so shy about that fact about himself. He even gives him a standing ovation. That’s so adorable. He loves him. My heart.

Jensen is so cute trying to deny it’s not him singing that song. Yeah, it’s you, Jensen. Even your ex agrees it’s you and we bet he knows how your voice sounds in all kinds of situations ;)

we get a tingly feeling so we know it’s you. Jensen’s adorable smile when Misha says that. Aww.

The way they are not even looking at each other but they are seated the exact same way.

Allow me to explain to my friend here. Explains how his parents didn’t know whether he was a boy or a girl. Misha with the steel chair, “when did they figure out that you were a boy?”

How many years did they call you holly?

For six to seven years

Is it just me or is this conversation a flashback of teenage twink-lesbian Jensen years?

Fan asks whether Dean will ever forgive Cas. Watch Misha’s body language, he is trying to pacify himself by rubbing the back of his neck and fumbling with his shirt.

When Jensen says “ No!” without a moment’s hesitation, Misha looks distraught? I don’t know maybe I’m reading too much into this but I feel like this hit too close to home being that they were most likely broken up.

Misha however has a different opinion, “I think he has”

Jensen says, “Wishful thinking” and that elicits a smile from Misha.

A fan asks about Dean giving Cas the trenchcoat back and things get interesting. Weirdly, that Jensen can’t say the word gay out loud. He literally uses the word “unmanly” in its stead in the guise of censorship? It’s not a bad word Jensen you can say it. However, Misha and the fans say the word so I’m wondering who is censoring Jensen’s use of that word. He eventually says it but super fast.

Jensen says that saying “I always knew you would come back” is not something he would say to another human being, especially a man. Jesus, there’s nothing wrong with saying that to another human being you care about. He’s the one making it gay. He was extra when answering that one.

They spent one and half hours making that scene just to end up not saying anything and it ended up looking gay anyway. Anyway, that’s interesting.

Jensen angles his body towards Mish and says in a very low soft and sexy voice “I guess I really hoped that you would come back some day” I would venture to say that Jensen at the moment in the panel was actually saying them to Misha. Who knows though?

They talk about it a whole lot for something that bothered him that much.

Misha being so excited about recreating a scene when a fan told Jarpad he’s amazing and Jarpad said "you are welcome.

“I think I understand what she wants. I’m not sure what she’s gonna get.” This is a very good line Misha. I will be using it often.

The way they awkwardly stand too close and whisper to each other. Umm…what is going on here?

Jensen folds over laughing because of something Misha says. They are back. The tension is almost 90% gone now and they are in their element.

The chaos of recording the alarm ringtone for the fan was just great to watch. They kept getting closer and closer and I think they might have shared spit at that point. Gross….LOL

The way Misha is sitting is he you know.

Jensen asking Misha whether he was saying anything or just screaming while they were recording. I think he just wanted to see Misha smile.

Jensen’s joy when a fan mentions that they have Misha’s résumé.

Jensen saying the word shit made my day. I curse a lot and it made me feel validated somehow.

Misha calls him dickhead in return and Jensen stops functioning and laughs instead . He also gets all hot and bothered trying to fumble with the lapel of his shirt. He does this a lot when he is turned on. He has a humiliation kink I think.

They start talking over each other about Misha’s special skills. Looks like Jensen might have known beforehand because he went straight for that. Or maybe he didn’t know but he knew since Misha is a mad genius there must be some amazing things in there. Either way, it was a good moment.

OMG Jensen is so excited and the way he motions to Misha to bring that résumé to him, LOL. This man was thirsty AF.

He even goes down from the stage to meet Misha and invades his personal space trying to reach the résumé. I think this is the moment the tension between them dissipated completely and they were back to some form of normalcy.

Misha holding Jensen’s shoulder trying to get his résumé back. Unsucessfully, I should add.

They read something funny and they fold over laughing and spin around like overjoyed seals. It is far removed from the mollusk family but at least it’s still a sea creature (I don’t know what I’m saying please don’t mind me)

Jensen is still on his knees laughing and can’t get up. As I said, he is being too extra in this panel.

Misha is trying to talk but they both can’t stop laughing. I think Jensen laughed so hard he got an extra set of abs that day.

Jensen is still laughing and you know what he is laughing at? Misha’s special skills being acting on camera. I mean it’s funny but man, prayforjensen.

They are still laughing. Jack, help them.

The way Jensen looks at Misha with pure adoration here makes me so happy and reminds me of the fictional characters they played being all heart eyes for each other.

Misha laughed so hard he cried.

Jensen trying to read the next ‘special skill’ Misha has but he can’t even talk because of how funny he thinks it is. He’s trying so hard not to laugh but he can’t help himself.

Jensen agreeing and also asking the audience to agree that Misha has a knack for certain accents. Accent kink anyone?

Jensen is so excited when Misha starts Tibetan throating singing and does the unicorn laugh facing away from the crowd. Bet he has experienced Misha’s Tibetan throat singing skills on a personal when they are (loud overhead helicopter noises followed by thunder rumbling)

Jensen falling to the ground after feigning a heart attack once he saw that Misha is a certified EMT. I mentioned before that I honestly, 100% think he wanted mouth to mouth. There’s no other explanation. He could’ve feigned a nose bleed or just about any other illness but he chose to fall on a dirty floor and lay down so Misha could either give him the breath of life or straddle him. Luckily for him his dream came true 7 years later at Jib9 when straddle gate happened. But I digress

Too bad Misha was still mad at him and heartbroken so he kicked him instead.

Jensen knowing that Misha kayaks seems to be part of his personal knowledge. Maybe they did it together sometimes.

Horseback riding. Hmm is it just me or do they seem awkward here?

Misha is so close to Jensen’s armpits. Must be missing his man’s musk and being held in those muscular arms again. Poor baby.

Misha can’t talk because of how funny he finds bicycle touring. I mean…I don’t see what’s funny but I guess he knows why it’s funny.

Misha laughing and raises his legs because Jensen is elaborating on the bicycle touring. Maybe it’s an inside joke or maybe it’s no longer funny to me because I’ve watched this panel like 5 times.

I think Jensen’s goal was to see Misha laugh and be happy because he turned to look at Misha who was still laughing hard and the joy on Jensen’s face. Aww.

Misha gravitating towards his man again. He must smell really nice Misha. And those arms. Bet he used to lift you against the wall and (this fucking thunder won’t stop rambling. Are chuck and Amara fighting again?)

Jensen marketing his man’s carpentry skills but then makes sure to make it ‘no homo’ by saying he would never sit on anything Misha has built. Sure Jan. Then he circles back and says that he knows that he can build things.

Misha walks away from him and he looks up to make sure where he is going. Maybe he was afraid Misha was walking out on him. (PTSD from their breakup?)

They mention acting on camera again.

And laugh

Jensen keeps talking about the acting on camera and watches to see if Misha is still laughing He still is and Jensen is happy that his baby is happy. He looks at him again and he is still happy that Misha is still happy. Then once the laughter dies down he starts talking about bicycle touring and checks again to see if Misha is laughing which he is so Jensen throws his head back unicorn laughing and then looks at Misha again to see that he’s still laughing. Then they look at each other and say something maybe it’s about that was a good laugh. Jensen is wiping tears from his eyes because of how hard he laughed Misha does the same. That entire thing was insane and they seemed to love it.

Jensen starts saying that being this happy or goofing around is how they are on set sometimes and have to take a 5-10 minute break and Misha doesn’t seem too happy at the mention of the set.

Jensen knowing that you can buy résumés on eBay. Did he buy Misha’s and then plant someone in the audience to bring it up or? Okay, yeah I know I’m reaching here but it’s probable.

I guess my theory wasn’t farfetched because Jensen says that he’s pretty sure that Jarpad put it on eBay the previous night so maybe he is the one who did all that to win Misha back?

Jensen knows the appellation clogging is a stretch. Seems like Misha has told him about it before.

Jensen looking at his watch to see if they have time for Misha to be telling a story about his high school sweetheart and now wife. I bet he wishes Misha could tell their love story so openly. He can’t stop looking at Misha.

The way Jensen is looking at Misha here. WTF man? He’s literally confused about what the question is.

The personal space question. This whole thing was just so many things. It was awkward, cringey, thirsty, funny.

when the fan asks whether there’s a funny fact between Jensen and Misha. I almost fainted. What? And Jensen repeats it. The two men are so stoic. They are not even looking at each other. They are looking at the fan like the way a statue stares at you, unmoving. Cringe.

The room is so quiet. Poor girl, I hope she didn’t feel awkward afterwards because if it were me, I would’ve cried from how stoic they looked and how quiet everyone was.

How they both scratch themselves, Misha on the head and Jensen on the nose. Maybe the question hit too close to home

Jensen turns to look at Misha as if to say ’help me out here man. We don’t wanna disappoint our fans.”

Misha gets it because he gets up. This whole thing is gold.

The way Jensen breathes out in anticipation. I know it was like they were playing a skit about personal space but why was he breathing like that? Shouldn’t he have been playing it as ‘uncomfortable’ not ‘turned on.’ Boudoir mannerisms.

Moving on Misha is unsure on where to touch Jensen 40.31. This is weird in and of itself because usually, they don’t have a problem touching each other’s faces, tush, eggplants, (jib4 anyone), backs et cetera. But now it’s weird? *cough* breakup *cough*

Misha touches Jensen’s ear and Jensen literally moans. He frigging moans people. In case it is not clear in the video, here is an isolated audio version of it. Jensen is also fumbling with his shirt like he’s all hot and bothered. Just like Misha did earlier. Was Jib3 their couple’s therapy that reminded them how happy and horny they made each other?

Jensen is really not answering the question, to be honest. He’s fumbling for words and trying so very hard to make sense but his word are incoherent.

Misha going in for the nose dip. I know friends do this all the time but you have to be very close and familiar with someone such as a friend friend or a sibling for you to poke a finger in their nose. I mean noses are slimy and eww…anyway. That happened. They seem so comfortable with it. Jensen I love you but please stop talking.

The way Jensen looks at Misha. He has the cutest smile on his face as if saying thank you for making that fun and making me horny, I still want you.

Misha wiping his pinky that touched Jensen’s nose on his pants. (I wanted to add something disgusting about what heshould’ve done with that pinky but I won’t so let’s move on)

Jensen wiggling his nose.

When Misha suggests that Spn moves to Nickolodeon. Jensen laughs a bit too hard.

Misha talking about spn being a puppet show reminds me of how he mentioned them having a puppet show in Jensen’s backyard after the show is over.

Jensen also saying that in a way spn is a puppet show. I mean is someone making snide comments about how their strings get pulled and sometimes they are not happy about it. Like how they fired his boyfriend. It seems like it’s an inside joke.

They named the plushie Zippy aww :))

For jack’s sake guys, the way they look at each other when they mention that the résumé was the highlight of the panel.

Jensen saying the more dirt you dig up on Misha, the more rewarded you are. Aww, someone’s trying to win his man back by any means necessary. You go girl…I mean Jensen.

He talks more about how he’s looking forward to next year when fans have more dirt on his friend Misha. Jensen didn’t want to leave the stage, he was lingering so he could spend more time with Misha.

It’s over guys.

Closing Ceremony

I know you didn’t ask for the closing ceremony but here you go. It’s a free gift.

Can I just mention how Jarpad is an overactive puppy? He has to play with anything and everything he finds.

The mc announces Misha twice for some reason. The second time Jensen looks in Misha’s direction with a small smile on his face. He [Jensen] is also chewing vigorously.

Jensen and Jarpad being typical dude bros and karate chop Rich. This is why the difference between his relationship with Jarpad and Misha stands out. He would be too busy making heart eyes to Misha to kick another guy. LoL.

Jensen hulking out when Jarpad is taking a video of everyone. Lol. This video keeps reiterating my point that his relationship with the two men is just different.

Jensen keeps looking in Misha’s direction, Misha who is busy talking to Steve and having fun. Let me also mention Steve is Jensen’s bestie and so are Jarpad and Misha, but I’m sure that Jensen felt some type of way, jealous when they were having so much fun with his man and he couldn’t. Jarpad also takes a while filming Misha for Jensen of course. They remind me of me having a crush back when I was in school. Wait, did Misha look at Jensen? It’s hard to see because the angle of the video is not expansive but I guess he was.

As soon as Jarpad gets back, Jensen takes the camera from him and starts filming fans. I’m sure he just wanted Misha to look at him

Rich mention’s Misha and something about acting on camera and Jensen licks his lips looking at Misha (I think).

Jensen then vigorously grabs the microphone from someone immediately and mention’s Misha. Jarpad’s reaction at that moment tells you everything you need to know about what’s going on between Jensen and Misha. It looks like he is pleading with Jensen in his head saying, “Don’t embarrass yourself bro. Please don’t” but it’s too late.

Jensen again talks about Misha’s résumé and specifically about acting on camera, the thing that made Misha laugh out loud during their panel. Someone’s smitten. Defending his ex-man.

Jarpad goes to whisper something to Misha. And they laugh while Jensen is thanking the jib staff for doing an amazing job. But when he sees the duo laughing, he loses track of thought and says “and they are all getting married” dude what ??? How do you go from thanking people who worked on the convention and in .1 seconds you are talking about they are all getting married? Who is? Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? No one gets it, he says he’s kidding and gives Jarpad the microphone, spares a glance at Misha and he seems distraught from that moment on. I wish I could see Misha’s face through all this.

He’s glancing in Misha’s direction again. Man’s got it bad. What?! Oh to be loved by Jensen Ackles. Misha must be a prize, I know he is a mad genius and gorgeous and sexy as hell with that golden skin that looks like it was dipped in gold and honey, big blue eyes that are bluer than the bluest blue, but Jensen wtf man? You are in public.

I think Jarpad is telling Jensen something maybe it has to do with what he and Misha were talking about earlier?

And it’s over people.

Overall, I agree with the breakup theory. I mean the way these two were acting around each other was very strange. If you watch Misha and Jarpad, they seem okay from the opening ceremony up till the end but Jensen and Misha are just being weird.

The panel was mostly fun but their body language told a story that something was definitely going on between them.

@littlewolf2703

#jib3 #jibcon 2012 #jib3 analysis #jib3 cockles panel #cockles #this was a doozy #glad to be done #there was a lot going on in that panel #cockles break up #cockles break up theory

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asmobabe · 3 years

Text

400 followers celebratory smut!

Mirror

Warning: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERRACT

Word count: 1906 words

Content warning: Smut, dubious consent, alcohol consumption, slight exhibitionism, mirror fucking, semi-public sex.

Pairing: Female!MC x Asmodeus (Obey Me!)

They move to the dance floor, Asmodeus's hand on Ophelia's back. Her head is wrapped in a haze, equal parts of booze and beat coursing through her veins like liquid gold. It's dizzying, and it's exciting, and it burns. It's the best she's ever felt. Asmodeus pulls her closer so that when her hips swing it grinds against his, and she lets him, the usual shyness diluted by the neon lights.

- I love this song! - she yells over the noise.

- I know, I do too! That's why I requested it!

Ophelia throws her head back with a smile, resting it on Asmo's shoulder. He can peek at the hem of her bra when she moves, and the Avatar of Lust relishes the thought that others might be seeing it too. The way her strapless dress threatens to give in, the mounts of her breasts already exposed. Asmodeus can sense the entire club watching them like vultures. Unfortunately, she soon notices and pushes the dress up, earning a whine from the demon.

- Hey, not fair! I was enjoying the view!

- Sorry, dear. - she chuckles, turning to face him - We're in public, you know?

- And why is that a bad thing?

At the moment, Ophelia can't think of an answer. Maybe staring into the eyes of the Avatar of Lust while drunk wasn't the most exceptional idea. He couldn't charm her with magic, but those eyes worked an effect similar enough.

- Like, we're not going to see anyone here ever again. What's the big deal? You're not afraid of a little crowd, are you? - his hands snake up her waist - They want to see. It's just a little skin anyway.

- Yeah, I guess...

His gaze is heated, almost glowing under the neon lights. Ophelia meant to say something more, she's sure, but, little by little, all her thoughts turn into mud. Head empty, and at last, she relents. The words are breathed inches away from her lips, boiling with anticipation:

- You'll put on a show, won't you, pet?

There's nothing left for the human to do but to melt into the kiss, throwing both arms over his shoulder to bring him closer. Asmodeus's touch leaves scalding wounds all over her body while his tongue licks away her last bit of caution as soon as access is granted. The feeling is intoxicating, dizzying, even, and it burns. He smells so good and tastes even better. It's strange, knowing they have an audience, and still, she doesn't feel uncomfortable. It's actually kind of thrilling! The moment the demon grabs a handful of her ass, Ophelia knows she's done for.

- Asmo...! - she breaks the kiss, gasping for air.

- I adore it when you say my name like that... You're so cute!

Asmo's grin is hectic as he starts to nuzzle her neck, tasting the sweat on her skin. He's playing dirty, and he knows it. Without even realizing it, the girl tilts her head to give him better access.

- Let's just... Let's just leave, ok?

- Oh, I'm so sorry, dollface... The party's only getting started, and I don't want to go yet. But... I did see that the bathroom is free right now... We could have some fun and come back later.

His tone, warm and coaxing, makes it evident that he's enjoying the situation way too much. The truth is that he'd take the girl right there if she wanted him to.

- What do you think? Do you want me to fuck you against the mirror? I have to say, the thought of dancing with you in my arms, cum dripping down your thighs... That really turns me on. You'd like that too, wouldn't you, pet?

Ophelia nods, unable to ignore the warm feeling deep inside her stomach. She lets him take her hand in his, guiding the exchange student through the crowd to the handicapped toilet. Asmodeus closes the door behind their back, and seconds later, the girl finds herself sat on top of the sink with her arms around him, way too dizzy to remember if he put her up there or if she climbed on her own.

Their kisses have something desperate in them. Ophelia's fingers thread through Asmo's now messy curls, pulling him as close as she possibly can. Every bit of his mouth tastes like expensive liquor. The demon squeezes her waist so tightly it almost hurts, clearly as frantic as the human to have his wants satisfied. Hands cupping her breasts, his mouth travels south, pressing wet kisses on her neck and nibbling at her collarbone, sending shivers through her spine. Later she'd be sporting the most beautiful love bites, and there wouldn't be any doubts left over who she belonged to. He hoped she'd mark him too - it'd be lovely if they matched. He pushes her bra up and the dress down. The music blasting from the other side of the door is still audible, and Asmodeus meets the feverish tempo with the griding of his hips, meeting Ophelia's core. Flustered, she begins to work on undoing his belt.

- You're so cute when you're impatient.

The demon giggles, stopping her mid-action. He grabs both of her wrists, lifting her arms on top of her head with one hand, the other moving to move her underwear to the side. "Let's get this out of the way, shall we?", he whispers lightly to her ear. The girl can feel her blood boiling with want and, desperate, throws herself on his neck, taking advantage of their short distance and attacking the skin with needy lips. Asmodeus was granted his wish and reveled, groaning at the open-mouthed kisses pressed onto his throat. He spreads her legs further, caressing her thighs as if they have all the time in the world until finally cold air and cold fingers meet the wetness of her core as he teases her entrance.

- Please, just fuck me already! - the girl whimpers.

He inserts a finger and circles her clit with the heel of his palm.

- You're making it hard to resist, doll... So wet, and I barely did anything.

Asmodeus goes back to ravaging her mouth, his kisses hungry like he means to consume her soul. Ophelia is lightheaded enough to consider letting him had he proposed it. He pumps in and out of her, soon adding a second finger to the equation as the girl struggles to free herself from the hand holding her arms up. She whines into his mouth, frustrated.

- Asmo, please... Please, please, please!

- I gotta say, dollface, I love it when you beg. Do you think you're ready for me, baby?

Ophelia nods, so eager that it is almost pathetic. But it doesn't matter; nothing matters. The demon seems content at last and lets go of her arms, setting her free to continue what she'd previously started. She undoes his pants in record time, pushing the fabric down with a feverish craving in her eyes. All the teasing was worth it for that moment, for that look in her face, the Avatar of Lust thought. He feeds on it, on her hungry hands pumping him once, twice, before guiding him towards her aching cunt. They both grunt as he begins to enter her.

His length drags through her velvet walls at a slow pace that soon picks up speed at the girl's request. Holding on to him for dear life, Ophelia rests her forehead on the demon's shoulder as he pounds into her with a wilder and wilder rhythm, making the sink shake. Without warning, Asmodeus pushes her off the washbasin, only to bend her over it.

- Asmo! - she yelps.

He grabs her by the neck, a devilish grin on his lips.

- Sorry, pet, I just couldn't handle depriving you of the view any longer.

Now grabbing onto the sink, she looks up to see herself in the mirror. Her face is a flushed mess of mascara running and lipstick smudged, and the hairstyle that took so long to perfect is nothing more than disordered curls. Her breasts are lolling out of the dress, and her bra is undone, resting somewhere on the bathroom floor. She's too focused on the mist covering her eyes to care about it. It's such an erotic image. Asmodeus pounds into her from behind, and she can do nothing but watch. He feeds on it, the demon himself the vision of lust.

Ophelia bites her lip, trying to hold back a scream of pleasure as he hits her sweet spot. Asmodeus grabs on her waist, strong enough to leave fingerprints, utterly lost in the moment. The exchange student might paint a pretty picture as she watches herself get fucked, but nothing like the demon. He grunts and moans with reckless abandon, citrine eyes glued on his own reflection, sparing the girl a glance or two every once in a while. Contrasting with Ophelia, his appearance is still fairly in order.

- Yes! Yes! Just like that! - she pleads.

He keeps on, just like that. The girl's knuckles turn white as she holds on to the sink. The words fall out of her mouth like a jumble on the floor, a mantra of spilled words.

- I love you. I love you so much. Please, just like that.

- You're doing so good, doll. I love you too, so, so much! You're such a good pet. Now, focus on the mirror. See how pretty you look? You've never looked more beautiful.

Her cheeks flush more if that's possible. The heat on the bottom of her stomach is about to explode in a ball of fire.

- I'm so close! - she cries.

That's music to Asmo's ears. He doesn't change a thing, even as he gets close himself and the usual stammered pace should come. Only when he can feel her walls clenching around him and see her eyes close with satisfaction that he allows himself to change speed. His hips stutter once, two, three times, and with a final moan, he empties himself inside of her.

- You're such a pretty little whore, do you know that? - he asks, taking his cock out of her, watching the white cum spill.

Ophelia can only nod. A frown reaches Asmodeus's face as he inquires:

- Are you tired? Do you wanna go home and sleep?

- What about the party? - she looks up.

- I don't care about the party, if you're not okay to dance, then I don't want to dance.

The exchange student thinks for a second. Her mind feels so soggy... A nap wouldn't hurt...

- Yeah, let's go home.

She puts on her bra and gets her panties right, trying to ignore the feeling of Asmodeus' cum drenching the fabric. Her hair is such a mess.

- I'll fix that for you. - says the demon, taking out a plastic comb from his back pocket.

He sits on top of the toilet and starts running the comb through her hair, peppering her head with kisses every two seconds. She fixes her dress.

- You did, so, so good, doll. Really.

- Really? - she looks up at him, puppy-eyed.

- Really. I love you so much.

She smiles through the smudged makeup.

- I love you most.

#obey me #obey me smut #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo #obey me asmo x mc #my writing #mine

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jadelynlace · 3 years

Text

When You’re Unmatched Art / Ink Drinker Modern Vikings AU Request [Ivar x F!Reader]

[you can find the reference for the tattoo Ivar did here. He thought he was being slick, but he most certainly was not. Ivar, your feelings are showing!]

catch up on the porno, I mean series, here.

requested by: @quantumlocked310 ♡

author’s note: thanks to this post, you’ll all be subjected to the written requests. brief mentions of smut under the cut, and love sick Ivar.

synopsis: Ivar finally figures out how to design your first tattoo.

✎

For this to be Ivar’s passion—his mortal life’s calling—he could not, for all of the seconds in the year, figure out how to design your tattoo. There had never, in his professional life, been a client that had given him complete and utter reign. No simple idea, no nudge in a specific direction, hint of any realm no where on the forefront. You told him to design you a tattoo to take up space on your thigh. And that was it. Even after he declined, saying there must be some idea you had, you shook your head and give him control. Total, and utter control. And it was almost too good to be true.

Ivar knew he was screwed, when an entire sketchbook’s worth of pages went torn, crumpled and tossed into the garbage can with failed ideas. Even Sigurd offered no help—not that he was the artistic hand Ivar needed, he was the needle pusher and piercer. Music selector and unruly greeter. Floki only offered his normal words of wisdom, a way of not answering the question but instead making Ivar look deep within himself. “Don’t think about it much, Ivar. Just let your heart and your mind run freely together.” Great. No help. Both of them were caged in a muddled pile of muck and mud and dead leaves and Ivar couldn’t pull them out.

Through every outing the band of brothers went on, you in tow more often than not, Ivar would be at the receiving end of your questions—how he was coming along with it. You had no deadline, you understood his craft took time, but you were far too excited to see. Then came the first hook up—Ivar driving you home because you were too many martinis in, you inviting him up but he declined because it “wasn’t a good idea, princess” and you told him you “weren’t his fucking princess” and he drove around the block twice before finally knocking on your door. Weight against the frame with his temple kissing it, apologizing playfully for his nickname and you invited him in. A game of truth or dare later, Ivar asked you how drunk you were when it was his turn. And you told him you were sober enough to make decisions, clear ones, and then he dared you to kiss him. You felt like a high schooler again. When it was your turn to ask him and he had picked truth, your one question was the end of the game:

“If I asked you to fuck me right now, would you?”

“In a god damn heart beat.”

He was more than screwed when you wouldn’t leave his mind, after you rocked his world and he used your name on his tongue to get himself off the next time his left hand was needed. And then he texted you, asking how your day was, that was it. And after a conversation, playful but real, he was over at your apartment with take out and beer and you two watched true crime and Ivar told you he had seen this one and tried to have you guess before the show told you. When you were right he said you were smart, when he silently figured out an equation in his head, how many liters to grams to degrees, or whatever the hell it was, you almost dropped your beer. He wrote it out for you to show you, a near different language across the page through algebra, and you told him he was smart. The tattoo idea clicked then. The minute Ivar realized he caught feelings, the tattoo idea became so visible he drew it in almost an hour.

There was never a nervousness with him when it came to the day of appointments, even with the most picky of his clientele, Ivar took it as it was gifted because he loved his craft too much to have these types of petty things take up hatred in his heart. But you walked through the shop, shortest of shorts on, a pair of flowing pants in your bag for the event that session went longer and nipped off into the chilling night time air, and both a coffee for yourself and a Red Bull for Ivar. He nearly wanted to throw the ink onto the floor because he was scared that once you saw the design, you’d laugh, you’d call him something pathetic and walk out, and it would be the last he’d see of you. Instead he handed you the artwork, and your eyes scanned the image for almost five minutes, mouth agape and holding it as if it were a map to the unknown, hiding gold and jewels and you asked him if you could keep the sketch. Even with it forever on your skin you nearly begged him for the original artwork, saying something about how you wanted to frame it. You’d never seen Ivar blush before, but you were sure he did when you said that.

The session wasn’t short—it was almost his full day’s work of hourly long needle dabs, buzzing and brotherly bickering between him and Sigurd. Intensive talks between you and him, explain to him the less than glamorous parts of your job, the funnier parts and the teenage humor of the men you worked with. Hvitserk’s track record for receiving the majority of patient vomit on every call and you watched Ivar laugh, smile more than you had known him too and you wondered if it was because of the machine in his gloved hand or if it was you.

Sigurd ducked out right before lunch, picking up with the three of you had ordered and your skin received the welcome break from the on-going buzz. You were quick to kiss Ivar once, lingering lips on his to thank him and he looked shocked for a moment, worrisome that his brother would see before he tossed the fear aside, shoving his tongue down your throat. When it was all said and done, dawned with the artwork on your flesh you couldn’t stop the smile. Neither could Ivar. He’d promised the sketch after he photocopied it for his portfolio and you went home with the sore leg but a full heart. He showed up late, just shy of midnight after cleaning up the day’s worth of work, buying a frame and bringing dinner for the two of you to eat. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of it, even in its red and swollen, tender state, you loved this tattoo, and Ivar took his time treating it for you. Even after his head spent time between your thighs, one hand plastered on the bare skin and the other holding yours. Even after you rode him, artwork in his line of sight and it made him finish quickly; watching the piece on your skin, your palms on his chest as he moved your hips for you. Your head tossed back as you moaned his name when you came, the heavenly sight and you were forever marked with his skill. The after care from the sex went beyond the closeness, holding you as the television played in the background; he spread the lotion over it, his entire hand nearly able to cup your thigh as he made sure to leave no line un-slathered.

“You know I’m going to want another one before this one even heals,” You said to him, craning your neck up to look at him.

“Yeah?” Ivar asked, his hand in your hair. “Where do you think you want your next one to go?”

“On my arm, so I can see it all the time,” You replied, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Who knows, maybe I’ll just cover myself like you do,” You giggled.

“You’re perfect already,” Ivar said through a yawn, his eyes closing, head drooping against yours. “You tell me where you want ‘em, and I’ll do it—but you’re perfect already,”

Ink Drinker Tags:

@smileysam13579 @dreamtherapy @heisentwerk @angelofthenightposts @ill-skillsgard @youaremyfamiliar @unbetaedimagines @kathryn-jane @readsalot73 @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @queen-sarang @anastasiaskarsgard @andmyannabellee @walkxthexmoon @flowers-in-your-hayr @peachyboneless @heavenly1927 @istorkyou @victoria-styles @quantumlocked310 @xbellaxcarolinax @mighty-ragnarssons @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @queen-of-upshur @nanahachikyuu @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @ivarhoegh @a5hl3y5ibley @apenas-mais-uma-pessoa @youbloodymadgenius @love-all-things-writing @theanxietyqueen17 @trip2themoon @tgrrose @synnersaint

*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/ones-shots/blurbs/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

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sunflovverharry · 4 years

Text

Sweet Time

a/n: soo, I took the liberty of changing the pov in the song to be from harry’s perspective instead of the oc’s, but i’m quite happy with how it turned out. i recommend you listen to the song this fic is inspired by while reading as it might give some more depth to what’s going on inside harry’s head than what i already give throughout the story. Thank you for reading and please reblog if you enjoy it xx

This fic is a part of @harrystylescherry playlist fic challenge which i’m super excited to be part of! Remember to read the rest of the entries and show your support <3

Pairing: Harry x OC Delilah Warnings: Angst, fluff, language Word count: 4.7k

It seems bad luck runs through all of Harry’s relationships. The three he’s had that lasted long enough to be considered serious all ended because of the same reason - Harry’s fame. Mixing their jealousy of the women media connected him to; and anger that he couldn’t be with them every time something important happened made him exhausted. His girlfriend was supposed to support him in every way possible, just as he would support them and know that if he could spend more time with her, obviously he wouldn’t be flying to god knows where for who knows how long. It clearly wasn’t enough for his exes to know that if he could, he would, but his life isn’t run only by himself. He has managers and a record label who tells him what to do and when.

Lucie had been ringing his phone for the last hour without any answer and it surely must have pissed her off because the texts she sent after weren’t pleasing to say the least. Harry had been in the studio for a while and his phone had been silenced so he could solely focus while creativity was rolling through him. He had told his girlfriend that he would be unavailable for most of the week with writing and recording as much as possible, but he’d call or text whenever he was free. Thinking she had understood, he didn’t care to text her right before entering the studio to tell her she wouldn’t be able to get a hold of him for a while, but after seeing the texts he thought to himself he should’ve texted her.

“Why the fuck aren’t you answering??” “Harry you better answer your fucking phone this instance or we’re over!” “Seriously Harry what is more important than me, your girlfriend!!” “Are you with another woman???? ANSWER ME YOU FUCKING DICK”

No, it wasn’t the first time Harry had been subject to her angry texts, probably drunk off her ass and having no one else to be mad at. He knew he shouldn’t put up with the way she’s treating him, but when they’re together she acts completely different. She never raises her voice at him or asks who women he’s seen with are. They always enjoy their time together, cuddling on the sofa while watching a movie or going to her parents’ for a Sunday roast. Though she’d never be seen cleaning or cooking, telling Harry that it wasn’t her job to do so when he could have maids and chefs.

Even his mum had told him she wasn’t what he needed in a girlfriend. A snobby, gold digger who has jealousy and anger issues ultimately wasn’t someone he had time for. Those texts were what made him decide that he had to end the relationship now, before it’s too late.

A week later he made it home from Los Angeles and he wasn’t surprised to see Lucie running towards him after hearing the car doors slam outside. She always acted as if nothing happened while he was gone. He couldn’t believe he had wasted almost a year on this girl and before she could get any closer to him he told her they were done. Yes, it sucked to tell someone they weren’t wanted any longer, but it was the right decision in the end and his mum would surely be happy he got rid of her.

A year after breaking up with Lucie, his third girlfriend (who honestly might have been a little too into his fame and money than he realized at the time), he met Delilah. To be honest, Harry had told himself that he wanted to stay single and focus on himself and his upcoming album, but Delilah threw his plans out the window after only a month of dating - or what he called “just friends getting to know each other”. Delilah on the other hand called them dates and could only hope it would expand into something greater than that.

Harry had been sat in the restaurant they were meeting at for half an hour, hoping Delilah wouldn’t be much longer. He was grateful she had texted him to let him know she’d be running later than expected as the traffic was crazy and she had to stay at work an hour longer than anticipated. If she hadn’t let him know, he’s sure he would have cried from the embarrassment.

Not knowing how much longer she’d be, he called his mum. Her voice had always calmed him down and that’s exactly what he needed at this very moment - sitting alone in a restaurant at a table for two in a secluded corner waiting for what might be the prettiest girl he’s laid eyes on.

“Hello my sweetness. How are you?” They got into talking about Harry’s surprise trip home for his sister's birthday in a couple of months. Anne and Harry were planning a surprise birthday party for her and it wasn’t something he’d ever want to miss. After minutes of talking about the surprise and anything else popping up into the conversation, Anne asked what he was doing. It wasn’t that he had hidden the fact that he had a new friend on purpose, but he supposes that he wanted to keep this one private - even from his mum who knows everything going on in his life.

“Just having dinner with a friend who’s running a tad late which is why I called you.” He wasn’t sure he was able to keep the excitement out of his answer. Though Delilah was only a friend and he certainly wasn’t looking for another relationship that would end up breaking, he already liked her more than he probably should.

“Oh, I see. A friend friend perhaps?” Anne snickered, knowing that if she pried long enough, he’d have no choice but to spill. This time it wouldn’t happen though as he saw Delilah walking towards the back of the restaurant and the table where he was seated waiting patiently for her.

“Sorry, mum, my guest has arrived. I’ll call another day, love you.” Harry didn’t hear the ‘love you’ his mum said back to him before pulling his phone from his ear and hanging up. Pocketing his phone while standing up, he smiled at Delilah who looked stressed but beautiful in her very classy outfit paired with some killer heels and Harry didn’t even want to think about how much they hurt her feet.

When they both finally sat down, the chatter never died down and the wine never stopped pouring.

It took a while before she earned Harry’s trust, but it was proof that he did trust her when he invited her over to his house for the first time after five months of dating. She had proved to Harry that she took his privacy seriously and she, too, wanted to keep whatever it was they had going on between only the two of them. Almost as if it was something sacred, and really it was.

Harry had been over for movie nights and dinners at Delilah’s plenty of times, even going as far as staying over a handful of times. She gave him complete reigns of what they did and never pressured him into going out in public and there wasn’t a suspicion (that Harry knew of at least) of why he didn’t want to go any further than light groping and making out before pulling away. When he wanted to talk to her, she would be there for him.

Delilah had her legs thrown over Harry’s thighs and his hands were lightly massaging her feet tired from a long day at work. They had ordered pizza from what Harry called ‘the best pizza place he’s ever been to’ and when Delilah took her first bite she couldn’t help but moan at the explosion of taste in her mouth. It really was the best pizza. This was only her second time hanging out at Harry’s house, only wanting to come when he invited her as to not invite herself into his most private space.

Harry had shot her a message earlier in the day asking her if she’d like to come over after work seeing as it was a Friday and therefore the night didn’t have to end as early as a weeknight. Of course, he didn’t tell her that, but he wanted to have the option open for her to stay the night if he felt comfortable enough by the end of the night to ask her.

Delilah could Harry’s head was spinning in all directions while mindlessly continuing to rub her feet, up to her legs. She could positively say none of her exes had ever given her a foot massage, making Harry look even better in her books (though he didn’t need it, he was already better than any of her expectations and she could only hope she reached his expectations).

“What’s wrong, sweets?” She had taken up the nickname for him after hearing his mum call him something similar, but not wanting to steal her nickname for him. Harry smiled every time she called him that, loving the feeling he got in his stomach from how it sounds coming off of her tongue.

“Just thinking and going in circles round my head.” It didn’t give away anything other than he was stressing or worried about something Delilah had no idea what it could be. Sitting up, she planted a kiss to his cheek before smashing their cheeks together in a tight hug - all she wanted was to be there for him if he wanted to talk, or just sit in silence together. Hopefully he’d have the guts to throw her out if he wanted to be alone.

Harry giggled when she didn’t let up her strong hold around his neck, not nearly enough to choke him, but enough to hold him in place. He turned his head to look at her quickly before melting their lips together in what can only be described as an expressive and intense kiss. Delilah didn’t know what he was trying to express, but it must be something good with the way he’s pulling her onto his lap, their lips never separating more than a second.

“Would you want to stay the night?” He had gone through every pro and con in his head, but Delilah showing him she was there for him without trying to pull anything out of him made up his mind. There was no doubt he wanted her to stay at his place for the night and he’d drive a hard bargain for her to even think about saying no.

There was no need for a bargain though, Delilah nodding her head quickly before pulling him in for another kiss, or two, or three. She wasn’t worried about not having pajamas here or her toothbrush or her trusty face cleanser. None of it mattered even slightly, when all she could think about was how much trust Harry was putting in her. For a minute there she was the happiest she’s ever been and as Harry’s nerves subsided he was the happiest he’s ever been.

The couple went for a short drive to Delilah’s apartment to pick up some essentials, as well as the supermarket to buy ingredients for breakfast in the morning (and new bathroom essentials to keep in his bathroom for times when she would stay the night). By the time they got back to Harry’s, they were ready to hop into bed - a bed she had yet to try out, but was sure would exceed all her expectations.

Harry was tucked into his bed on the side he regularly slept on when Delilah walked out of his ensuite, ready to lay down right next to him. Knowing from the past times they’ve shared her bed that he’s a big cuddler, she was excited to see how much more comfortable and cuddly he’d be in his own bed.

Though Harry felt safe and trusted Delilah enough to share his house with her and have her sleep over, something was still holding him back from asking the big question that they both probably knew should have come earlier. Even his mum was unsure why he hadn’t asked her yet or let her meet the woman he’s spending all his time with.

By the seventh month of dating, she was starting to question herself. If she wasn’t doing anything wrong and he still trusted her, why would he not have asked her to be his girlfriend already? She thought it was pretty clear to everyone that knew about their ‘relationship’ that she wouldn’t say no.

“So, Delilah, how’s it going with Harry?” She was out for drinks with her best girlfriends and the only ones she had told about Harry - except her parents, of course. It was an unwritten rule to not talk about boy trouble or anything of the sort on their nights out, but it was clear Delilah’s head wasn’t in it. Something had to be up with her and the only thing her friends could think of, was Harry.

“We’re good. He’s feeling safe and comfortable with me. We’re going to his mum’s next weekend to relax before he leaves.” Her voice was definite and if her friends didn’t know her they wouldn’t think anything was wrong with their relationship. Delilah spends a lot of time with him and the past month she’s slept over most nights, even on the days she’s had work the next. Harry had cleared out more space for her in his bathroom vanity and closet - which he knew was way larger than what he really needed, but had still managed to fill with no problem.

Delilah sipped on her drink as she went back into her head, thinking about how tonight was just like any other day. Harry will pick her up exactly ten minutes after she calls to tell him the night is over, he’ll hold her thigh on the drive back to his home while she talks his head off about nothing. When they arrive home, they’ll do exactly what they always do when she stays the night - wash their faces together, brush their teeth and while Delilah finds her outfit the next day Harry goes to get a water bottle he always keeps in the fridge that they will share throughout the night. It’s become routine and the domesticity around it makes Delilah’s heart flutter.

“Have you had the talk about going official? Becoming boyfriend and girlfriend? I thought maybe he’d asked by now with how you’ve been. I mean, you basically live there by now.” Lyla tried to pull out the thoughts swirling around Delilah’s head without being too invasive if she really didn’t want to talk about it.

“I don’t know honestly, I think we’re doing great and I’m so happy with him. I don’t want to force him if he isn’t ready, but it’s been seven months and he hasn’t said anything about making it official no matter how much it feels like it already is. I can’t imagine he doesn’t feel the same. It’s pretty obvious what we’re doing is exactly how it’s like being in a serious relationship.” She braced herself and let it all out - all her thoughts about not making it official yet or how domestic their relationship has become over the past couple months. She would be indescribably sad if Harry wasn’t to actually feel like she thinks he does and that might be the reason why she hasn’t had the guts to be the one to initiate the conversation.

The next couple of weeks went by smoothly for the pair. With Harry being gone for most of it, she had a lot of time for herself to go through her feelings and get the chance to figure things out. She tried to hide her - what felt like crushed - feelings from Harry, not wanting him to pry for her to open up and ruin everything. She agreed with herself that if they had to do things slower than normal because Harry needed the time to get there, then that would be okay as long as he actually would get there one day. There was also no way she could leave the man behind just because he’s been hurt in the past and is now - overly - precautious. The very least she could do to save what they had was to try and help him realize that she wasn’t going anywhere and didn’t want anything but the best for him, and she wanted to be the best.

Delilah came home from work to Harry cooking a storm in the kitchen late one afternoon after he came back to London. It wasn’t that she didn’t know he could cook that surprised her, no, he was always making them dinner - with or without Delilah’s help. What did surprise her though, was the romantic set up in the living room that she had never seen before.

Harry was in deep concentration standing over the stovetop where he had vegetables boiling, along with the chicken he’s grilling. It’s getting close to done when he heard his front door open and he didn’t bother turning around, knowing it could only be one person - Delilah. The girl he’d been obsessed with for the past eight months. But, fuck, he was terrified of getting infatuated with someone again, only having been burnt by it in the end previously.

There was something so raw and new with this one, though, such a breath of fresh air for him. It was like he was supposed to go through those bad relationships to end up here - with the perfect fit for him. She never took it to heart when he couldn’t be there for some things, having to leave the country for weeks at a time, but encouraged him to go, have fun, text me when you land. The first time she told him so, he was speechless and couldn’t move his feet for seconds before he got back to earth.

The first time he slept over at her place was pivotal for him and him realizing where this could go, and that was over six months ago. He had told himself to take it slow, enjoy the moment and not do anything because he felt it was the right time. The right time was usually never right in the end because he still wasn’t ready. If he were to lead a relationship with Delilah it would have to be on his terms, mostly because he didn’t want this one to go wrong. This potential relationship with the girl of his dreams was something he needed to get right. If that meant waiting a little longer to make it official, move in together or start a family - now he’s really thinking far into the future - then he would do so because he knew in the end it would save them both from heartbreak.

Ever since him and Delilah got closer his mum saw a change in him, though the insecurities and unease he had from former relationships were still haunting him. The first time he voluntarily spoke to his mum about her, she told him to follow his heart and only time could tell if she was the one for him. The last time he spoke about her, Anne told him he had to do something, because even though they act as if they’re together, she doesn’t have the security blanket of love that she needs to stay with him. That really set fire to his plans - knowing he had to do something about it before it was too late.

Therefore he ended up deciding on making her dinner and putting in effort to show his romantic side that she hasn’t seen a lot of was the way to go. He wanted to go all out for her to show that this is what he wants and he feels safe and secure enough in himself and them as a couple to make it official. It’s what he craved.

He heard Delilah’s feet softly moving on the hardwood flooring to get from the entry to the kitchen. He also knew she had smelt his cooking and seen the rose petals, candles and blankets scattered all over the living room. There was no doubt she was suspicious over the reason for his doings, but at the same time she held back and waited for Harry to make the first step.

“Hi lovey, dinner is almost ready. You want to change into something comfy before we eat?” Harry only turned around for a single second to try and see if her face could tell him anything about how she’s feeling.

“Smells delicious. Be back in a tick, sweets.” The grin creeping out from his lips couldn’t be stopped after hearing her call him his favorite nickname. He hopes it means she’s happy with him. While Delilah changes upstairs in their - pretty much - shared closet, Harry dishes up the plates and finds her favorite red wine to drink with the meal. Right as he finishes putting everything in its place, she descends from the staircase and Harry finally takes a moment to admire her. He finds her beautiful in a pair of leggings and one of Harry’s hoodies she decided to steal. Before getting completely lost in her beauty, he coughs and reaches his hand out to tell her to come sit with him on the floor in front of the sofa.

Harry wanted to wait until they had finished their meal to bring their relationship up, hoping to enjoy their little impromptu - on her end at least - date night before getting serious. Delilah was smiling and wouldn’t stop gushing over his surprise making him feel better about what was to come. He was sure she would say yes, but the little doubt he had left in him wouldn’t go away until he got his answer and knew for sure.

Later in the evening, they were still sitting on the floor, talking about their days and upcoming events. Harry’s hand was running along her legs thrown over his lap and hers were holding the wine glass recently filled up again when he felt the need to get everything off his chest.

“Darling. I know I’ve taken things slow with you, slower than we both probably wanted, but I hope you know I haven’t been stringing you along for nothing. Tonight I wanted to show you how much you mean to me and how much I’ve grown to care for you. I hope you knew that anyway.” Harry was smiling at her while coming clean with all his thoughts and feelings.

“I’ve loved the naturalness of how we’ve moved through our friendship. Nothing with you has ever felt forced or uncomfortable, maybe because you let me take my time and have control over what I can. I can’t tell you how much that has meant to me and I want you to know that it hasn’t gone unnoticed. The domesticity around us feels so easy and I hope that doesn’t ever change. Because we’ve been acting as if we’re together, it kind of slipped my mind that we’re not, but tonight I wanted to ask you, finally, if you want to make it official and be mine?”

After making it official, there was nothing holding them back from each other. They were together as much as their lives allowed them to be and Delilah even surprised Harry by going to his first show on tour in Los Angeles. He thought she didn’t get the time off of work to be able to come, but Delilah knew he wouldn’t be upset with her lying about it when in the end it would make him happy. They had been official for six months at the time and were practically inseparable. Neither of them knew how they would do with the distance over a longer period of time compared to the two to three weeks he was usually gone for before coming home. Sure in themselves and what they had, they knew they’d get through this, too.

Delilah hadn’t gotten the chance to surprise Harry much over the past year since she got to know Harry, unlike how he had managed to surprise her quite a few times. They were often small, but thought out and always showed her how much he appreciated her. For the longest time; she had been thinking about how she could surprise him without him finding out - and her chance came landing right into her hands with him going on tour. She called Jeff the minute she thought of it, the day after Harry asking her if she would be able to come out for a couple of days during his tour, preferably the first show.

Jeff and Delilah had managed to keep the secret from Harry for over a month with Jeff buying her a plane ticket for the day his first show was. She got picked up by a driver at the airport and drove straight to the Forum to catch him on stage singing his heart out. Though she was only able to see him for the last fifteen minutes of his first show, it was exactly what she imagined - Harry dancing around the stage, singing to a crowd so loud she thought her ears might lose hearing.

Right before Harry was set to come off stage, Delilah was guided through the backstage area to Harry’s dressing room where he would finally see her and hopefully get surprised. She was sitting on the black leather sofa with her hands fiddling in her lap as she waited the short while. It was clear he was getting closer as the loud screams got quieter. Excitement, nervousness, happiness, restlessness. They were all feelings running through her, the anxiety easier to feel when she finally heard his laughter moving through the hallways and she knew he was only meters away from her.

Only seconds later she saw the door handle jiggle before the door opened just a crack as he was still standing in the hallway talking to someone Delilah couldn’t quite distinguish. Finally, he pushed the door further open and he was turning toward her, no idea someone would be waiting for him, nevertheless, his girlfriend he thought was stuck at work back in London. His eyes landed on her and for a while, he just stood in front of her still in the doorway thinking he was seeing things. When he understood that she was actually sitting in front of him his eyes couldn’t help but glaze over while shutting the door - he wanted this moment to be between him and his girl, no one else. Harry practically ran toward her, thinking he couldn’t get to her fast enough, and Delilah just about managed to stand up before he threw himself at her.

For a long time they stood on his dressing room floor, Harry’s arms around her neck and Delilah’s around his waist as they held each other close. Both of them had tears rolling down their cheeks, not from the three weeks they had been away from each other, but the sentiment of her actions. All the small things she had done for him since day one, waiting for him to feel comfortable and ready to dive into what they hoped would be a future together, always asking before doing something he might not be okay with, being too kind and gentle with him, always, and lastly her surprising him on tour. Something suddenly clicked in his head as he smelled her cherry blossom perfume he loved so much - this was it; Delilah was it for him, it was she he had been waiting for to come into his life after going through too many shitty relationships and breakups. There was no way he would let this one go when she understands him and loves him for everything he is (though they hadn’t said that yet - Delilah being afraid to scare him away and Harry wanting to wait until one day it slipped and came naturally).

Delilah, too, felt the same. She knew he was it for her - showering her with the affection and tenderness she needed from someone she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. They were perfect together and if taking it slow was the way to go with Harry then she would continue to do so forever, making sure he is always comfortable and safe with her.

Thank you for reading, will hopefully be back with another chapter of my fwb series soon <3

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sunflowerryvol6 · 3 years

Text

Movement - H.S

Warnings - Angst

WC - 2.4k

Hey! So I promise I don't intend to write such angsty things, but it just came to me! Hope you like it. Feedback is always welcome, and my ask box is open for requests. This might have a part two, but I'm not sure yet, let me know if you would like it. Please like and reblog. I have some more non-angsty ideas, but I'm stuck, so I'll try to work on them and put them out.

Masterlist

Today Mohini sat by the windowsill in her parent's home, silently counting fruits on the mango tree in her neighbours' yard. Teentaal played in the back. Shed, she was doing her warm-ups when she got distracted. The dark green raw mangoes were a clear sign that summer has begun in full swing. She and Harry had come down to India arguably during the worst time of the year. But this was the only time her guru(teacher) could give her the time she needed during the year. Mohini has been up since 5 am in doing stretches for a very strenuous riyaaz by herself before stepping away for class with her teacher.

Harry wasn't awake yet, he usually wakes up by around 7, and she's well into her hour-long tatkar footwork by then. She comes out to the terrace balcony to open up and use the more vacant space for chakkars (pirouettes). She sets her mat down and starts with sun salutations and some prayer. Silently working on arm movements where teentaal plays dimly in the background. She thinks back to how she and Baba would do riyaaz together. She had become a dancer because of him, of course. He was the one that pushed her to pursue her dream to become a dancer. If not for Baba, she'd have never met Harry. The same Harry who was now asleep in the room upstairs, who she doesn't want to wake up so early, which is why she pushes tatkar to the last of her riyaaz. She makes a mental note to tell him all about the time she and Jaya stole mangoes from their neighbours' yard and how she wants to show him how to do it, to recreate that memory in a way. With that thought, she goes back to working on her pirouettes.

He's not really used to the muggy heat in Mumbai, but it's not too unpleasant. They try to avoid stepping out when it's hot anyway. Today he's pleasantly lulled out of sleep by the sound of her ghungroos. This his favourite way to wake up, he thinks. That lights up an idea in his mind. He knows she'll be working on her footwork for a bit. It gave him enough time to scour through his stuff and find his latest purchase, the Exakta RTL 1000. He knew it was the right moment to take it out for a spin. A Photowalk was due, but with their conflicting schedules, they hadn't ventured into town yet. Staying close by in the suburbs, so Mohini could help out with her dance teachers classes. They did have plans to explore the city, maybe go away for the weekend, but hadn't been in a rush. They were here all throughout the Indian summer and some of the monsoon. He slowly walked down the stairs, camera in hand, ventured out into the balcony where he knew the music was coming from. He could hear her feet patter away to the rhythm of the music. Looking at her right now, he's taken back to the first time he'd seen her at the dance studio a few years ago. He'd been there rehearsing for treat people with kindness music video, and she was in the studio room right next to his, blasting Fineline. It had really caught him by surprise, so he wanted to see who was playing the music. He was met with Mohini at her finest, in a red flowy cotton tunic and loose linen pants, she had these gold bells tied to her ankles that he now knows are called ghungroos. She was performing to his song, easy to say he was in awe. The way she moved effortlessly to the music, was really a treat to watch. He stood by the door and watched her perform to the whole 6 minute song, tearing up by end at intensity and fervour her performance exuded. He knew then that he was done for. After watching her for so long, he felt obligated to tell her how much he loved it. He approached her, only for her to get really startled and then upset that he was eavesdropping. He apologised of course, but he was expecting her to recognise him, considering the song, you know? Turns out, her friend had hooked her up to a gig at an art gallery in London to do an experimental piece; and she also suggested the song. Mohini really had no clue about him. What were the odds that she would run into this international pop star in a beat-up studio in Hampstead? But that's precisely what happened. He asked her if he could attend this said performance since it was his song and all. She reluctantly agreed and told him where it was. He went there the next week, in a poor disguise, to catch the least attention possible. But he needn't have done that, because nobody cared who he was, at Akademi Dance, they were there for her. They watched in awe, tearing up just like he did that same week. He didn't need a better sign. It was love at first sight, really, at least for him. He called Jeff after that performance and had his management contact her. It wasn't that hard. She was very known with the south Asian classical dance community but tough to book. So he went back to that studio in hopes of finding her there. Today he's not ashamed to admit, that he went there consistently for 2 weeks before she showed up, surprised to see him there. He told her what he had in mind.

Today that's known as one of the most viewed classical meets western ballad performance. They had to contact the gallery to erase any trace of that performance. Mohini rechoreographed it to the music, with Harry and his inputs, though they were very few, if at all. With his audience, she had dance companies contacting from all over the world. But all Moh wanted was to stay in London and teach. The one thing he hopes, she remembers fondly, is her falling in love with him during that project. Rest is history. He went on tour for the album. She continued teaching, performing a fair bit. The two met up at different venues, depending on where the other person was.

The morning sun hitting her just right, sweat glistening her face and chest. She had a thin gold chain with an H pendant around her neck which swayed as she moved. Her hair was slightly damp, likely from the heat and her practice. Mohini's side was facing him. She was wearing a light pink tunic with loose white linen pants. He was waiting for her to turn so he could quickly capture the elation on her face that he knows is there when she's practising. "Moh! Why don't yeh give me dazzle?"

She turns when she hears Harry, quickly covering her face with her palms. "H! I'm so sweaty right now! Stop it!" she's laughing now. Having stopped dancing, he chases her around the balcony getting as many photos of her as he could. He stops when he's cornered her at the edge. Her back hit the rim of the balcony, she leaning outwards. He puts the camera on the table where her speakers are placed and locks her within his hold. Both hands on either side of her waist, she's breathing heavily now, adrenaline coursing through her. He slowly moves one finger to swipe the sweat that gathered on her exposed chest. Her breath hitches at that, taking in the look in his eyes, but she knows she can't back away now, so she takes charge, grabbing him by his face, inching closer to kiss him. Just when he thinks she's going to kiss him, she leans forward and gently nibbles on his ear, which has his knees weak. She whispers, "Think we should smoke that blunt, Jaya got us last week", and ducks under his arm, laughing as she runs back into the house. "I'll get yeh back fo' that, Moh! Just wait yeh little minx," shaking his head smiling.

That evening, Moh and Harry brought out the works. She only smoked when she felt the tension to release some of that pent up energy. Harry will use any excuse to spend some time with this girl, knowing he wouldn't get any time with her this summer. They were here for her work, after all. So he pulled out all the stops for the night, went out and got her favourite snacks, whipped up some quick salad for dinner, knowing they would be gorging on munchies. He set up a blanket on the balcony floor, brought out all the food while she showered upstairs. He had been working on some writing and recording today. They brought a bunch of their recording equipment along, so Harry could set up in her dad's study. Ever since her parents passed, her home in Bombay laid vacant for her to use whenever she pleased. Coming home to an empty house had been hard for her last year, but Harry had been there by her side through everything. Cleaning out all the supplies, arranging things, throwing out old items and keeping things that would remind her of her parents. He made it home for her that year. So when she was asked by her teacher to spend the summer here, she readily agreed because Harry would be with her, and going back home wouldn't feel so morose. The first week had just been setting up the house to their liking. They were just about getting comfortable around the house. Somehow Harry knew the terrace balcony was special for her, so that's where he'd set up their make-shift date night. She walked in, wet hair from her shower dripping all over. She was wearing one of his loose t-shirts and he was lounging in a pair of white shorts. He looked up at her, smiling softly. "How was class today? Is Madhuri doing any better?"

"Yeah, I think so, she is, but she was resting, we did some footwork with the kids, movement exercises and whatnot, and with me, we just went over some of the stuff I'd been working on back home", she smiles.

He sits down, leaning against the railing, and pats the spot next to him, silently motioning her to join him. She does so, reaching her place and leaning in to kiss him on his nose before picking up the joint. She lights it and takes a long drag from it. "I miss baba", she exhales.

He takes the joint from her, "Know yeh do, pet. D'ya want to talk about it?"

"No. I just hadn't said that out loud in so long. Felt like it was eating away at me, y'know?"

"Yeah, know what yeh mean, s'okay though, we can just sit here and take that in for a bit."

"Madhuri Ji, asked me if I'd considered coming back," she said

"Yeah? Well, yeh are here now, and we'll be here all summer." He added

"No, I think she meant moving back here, but I didn't give her an answer yet"

"Are yeh really considering that? Thought we were looking to put the down payment for that house in Chelsea when we went back?" He asked, slightly confused

"Yeah, I mean, we are, but I didn't want to not consider it. I'd be able to help her out with classes more often, work on new projects with artists that I don't get to back home, and just" she pauses ", I just wanted some time to think about it, y'know."

"Okay, well, yeh know I've got to go back after the summer, pet, if you'd like to stay for longer, that's okay, we can figure something out." He sighed. He knew Vrindavan was vital to her. She had too many memories attached to it. She thought she had time with those here, but with her parents passing away in an accident last year, it really took that opportunity away from her. So now she felt cheated of her good memories of her home. He knew she'd want to keep this place, but they'd always talked about settling in London and coming down here for her performances and to meet Madhuri. Something changed her heart, and she seemed unsure of their plan to settle in London.

He kissed her softly and put an arm around her, bringing her close to him, "We'll sort it out, darling. Baba and Ma are going to be with yeh no matter what."

That conversation ended with them lazily passing the joint, munching on the snack laid out. Both of them passed out contently in each other's arms out in the open terrace that night.

Come monsoon that year, Moh decided she wouldn't go back to London, so she sat on her bed, watching the love of her life pack away all his stuff to leave for his home the following day. The yellow light of their room fell on him, which only made him look more beautiful. She realised how much she would miss watching him play her his new songs sitting in the same spot he sat now. Rain poured mercilessly, almost as if Bombay was weeping at the state of their relationship. She didn't want this to end, but she also couldn't leave the only semblance of her father behind. She wanted Harry to stay, desperately hoping he would make it work, but she also knew that wasn't rational. He couldn't fly back and forth so often, it would be detrimental to his health. So she turned her face away to wipe the tears that lined her waterline.

"I wish you'd at least consider coming back with me. If yeh still don' like it there, you can come right back, Moh" his voice shaky, she knew if she listened to him any longer, she wouldn't be able to hold her sobs back. So she looked at him with this vacant look, tears brimming in her eyes. "I'm not ready for that yet, Harry. I don't think I will be. It's not fair to you."

"Okay then, if you change your mind, know I'll be waiting for yeh, pet" he wipes away a lone tear and goes back to packing.

The following day she waves Harry goodbye and rushes to the balcony terrace to watch him go gently twisting the H hanging from her neck. The mangoes are long gone, so is the light from those summer mornings.

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kuramirocket · 3 years

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On July 10, 1520, Aztec forces vanquished the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés and his men, driving them from Tenochtitlan, capital of the Aztec empire. The Spanish soldiers were wounded and killed as they fled, trying in vain to drag stolen gold and jewels with them.

By September, an unexpected ally of the would-be conquerors had reached the city: the variola virus, which causes smallpox.

How the Aztecs responded to this threat would prove critical.

The Aztecs were no strangers to plagues. Among the speeches recorded in their rhetoric and moral philosophy, we find a warning to new kings concerning their divinely ordained role in the event of contagion:

Sickness will arrive during your time. How will it be when the city becomes, is made, a place of desolation? Just how will it be when everything lies in darkness, despair? You will also go rushing to your death right then and there. In an instant, you will be over.

Facing a plague, it was vital that the king respond with grace. They warned:

Do not be a fool. Do not rush your words, do not interrupt or confuse people. Instead find, grasp, arrive at the truth. Make no one weep. Cause no sadness. Injure no one. Do not show rage or frighten folks. Do not create a scandal or speak with vanity. Do not ridicule. For vain words and mockery are no longer your office. Never, of your own will, make yourself less, diminished. Bring no scorn upon the nation, its leadership, the government.

Retract your teeth and claws. Gladden your people. Unite them, humor them, please them. Make your nation happy. Help each find their proper place. That way you’ll be esteemed, renowned. And when our Lord extinguishes you, the old ones will weep and sigh.

If a king did not follow this advice, if his rule caused more suffering than it abated, then the people prayed to Tezcatlipoca for any number of consequences, including his death:

May he be made an example of. Let him receive some reprimand, whatever you choose. Perhaps punishment. Disease. Perhaps you’ll let your honor and glory fall to another of your friends, those who weep in sorrow now. For they do exist. They live. You have no want of friends. They are sighing before you, humble. Choose one of them.

Perhaps he [the bad ruler] will experience what the common folk do: suffering, anguish, lack of food and clothing. And perhaps you will give him the greatest punishments: paralysis, blindness, rotting infection.

Or will he instead soon depart this world? Will you bring about his death? Will he get to know our future home, the place with no exits, no smoke holes? Maybe he will meet the Lord of Death, Mictlanteuctli, mother and father of us all.

Clearly, the Aztecs took the responsibilities of leadership very seriously. Beyond uplifting morale, a king’s principal duty in times of contagion was deploying his subjects to “their proper place” so that the kingdom could continue to function. This included mobilizing the titicih, doctor-healers with vast herbal knowledge, most of them women pledged to the primal mother goddess Teteoh Innan.

What about the rest of the people? As with our own modern call for “thoughts and prayers,” the Aztecs believed their principal collective tool for fending off epidemics was a humble appeal to Tezcatlipoca. The very first speech of their text of rhetoric and moral philosophy was a supplication to destroy plague. After admitting how much they might deserve this scourge and recognizing the divine right of Tezcatlipoca to punish them however he sees fit, the desperate Aztecs tried to get their powerful god to consider the worst-case outcome of his vengeance:

O Master, how in truth can your heart desire this? How can you wish it? Have you abandoned your subjects? Is this all? Is this how it is now? Will the common folk just go away, be destroyed? Will the governed perish? Will emptiness and darkness prevail? Will your cities become choked with trees and vines, filled with fallen stones? Will the pyramids in your sacred places crumble to the ground?

Will your anger never be reversed? Will you look no more upon the common folk? For—ah!—this plague is destroying them! Darkness has fallen! Let this be enough. Stop amusing yourself, O Master, O Lord. Let the earth be at rest! I fall before you. I throw myself before you, casting myself into the place from which no one rises, the place of terror and fear, crying out: O Master, perform your office … do your job!

Smallpox arrived in Mesoamerica with a second wave of Spaniards who joined forces with Cortés. According to one account, they had with them an enslaved African man known as Francisco Eguía, who was suffering from smallpox. He, like many others on the continent of his birth, had no immunity to the disease carried there by the slave traders.

Eguía died in the care of Totonac people near Veracruz, the port city established by the Spanish some 250 miles east of the Aztec capital. His caretakers became infected. Smallpox spreads easily: not only blood and saliva, but also skin-to-skin contact (handshakes, hugs) and airborne respiratory droplets. It raced through a population with no herd immunity at all: along the coast, over the mountains, across the waters of Lake Texcoco, into the very heart of the populous empire.

The epidemic lasted 70 days in the city of Tenochtitlan. It killed 40 percent of the inhabitants, including the emperor, Cuitlahuac. Had he found it increasingly difficult to keep his people’s spirits up as tradition commanded? Had his leadership faltered? Did his subjects pray for his death?

Whatever the case, the memory of that devastation would echo for centuries. Some Nahuas—mostly the sons and grandsons of Aztec nobility—described the devastation decades after the conquest.

Their account harrows the soul:

It started during Tepeilhuitl [the 13th month of the solar calendar], when a vast human devastation spread over everyone. Some were covered in pustules, which spread everywhere, on people’s faces, heads, chests, etc. There was great loss of life; many people died of it.

They could not walk anymore. They just lay in bed in their homes. They could not move anymore, could not shift themselves, could not sit up or stretch out on their sides. They could not lay flat on their backs or even face down. If they even stirred, they screamed out in pain.

Many died of hunger, too. They starved because no one was left to care for the others; no one could attend to anyone else. On some people, the pustules were few and far between. They caused little discomfort, and those folks did not die. Still others had their faces marred.

By Panquetzaliztli [the 15th month of the solar year], it began to fade. At that time the brave warriors of the Mexica managed to recover.

But a hard lesson had been learned. None of the old remedies had worked. Entire families were gone. Funeral pyres effaced the sun.

The epidemic was only the beginning of the unexpected forces working in tandem to bring down the Aztec empire. On May 22, 1521—just as Tenochtitlan was beginning to recover, trying to rebuild trade routes, restock its supplies, replant its fields and aquatic chinampa gardens—Cortés returned.

This time he commanded more Spanish troops, men from the same second wave that had brought the smallpox. With them marched tens of thousands of Tlaxcaltecah warriors, the sworn enemies of the Aztecs. Smallpox had reached Tlaxcallan first, but its people—not as densely packed in urban areas like the Mexica—had fared better and were now ready to finish off their rivals.

The massive military force laid siege to the Aztec capital. Even with more than half the population dead or disabled, with little food or water or supplies, the Mexica held the city for three months.

Then, on August 13, 1521, it fell. Emptiness and darkness indeed prevailed.

Lines from a song composed by an unknown Mexica not long afterward sums up the emotions of the survivors:

It is our God who brings down

His wrath, His awesome might

upon our heads.

So friends, weep at the realization—

we abandon the Mexica Way.

Now the water is bitter,

the food is bitter: that

is what the Giver of Life

has wrought.

Without the smallpox, it’s much less likely Cortés and his allies could have taken Tenochtitlan.

The plague—cocoliztli—was the most devastating post-conquest epidemic in large parts of Mexico, wiping out somewhere around 80 percent of the native population.

“Somewhere around” because population estimates are difficult to come by, with extrapolations made from incomplete colonial sources that date back to precolonial times. For the ethnohistorian Charles Gibson, there is no “sure method for determining whether the later [colonial era] counts were more accurate or less accurate than the earlier ones,” so that “the magnitude of the unrecorded population seems unrecoverable.”

Nevertheless, Gibson’s best estimate is a population of 1,500,000 inhabitants of the Valley of Mexico at the time of first contact with Europeans. There was a sharp fall of about 325,000 by 1570; a drastic fall to about 70,000 by the mid-seventeenth century; followed by slow growth to about 275,000 by 1800. Gibson’s figures are simply staggering. They give us a rough impression, but tell us little about the suffering and massive social upheaval caused by these catastrophes.

Slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to the “Virgin Soil” theory, the epidemics were so desctructive because “the populations at risk have had no previous contact with the diseases that strike them and are therefore immunologically… defenceless,” as the psychiatrist David Jones writes in the William & Mary Quarterly. The theory is still widespread, often devolving into vague claims that indigenous people had “no immunity” to the new epidemics. By now we know that the lack of immunity played a role, but mostly early on. Current research instead emphasizes an interplay of influences, for the most part triggered by Europeans: slavery, forced labor, wars, and large-scale resettlements all worked together to make indigenous communities more vulnerable to disease.

According to a group of scholars writing in the journal Latin American Antiquity, in colonial Mexico, “by the mid-17th century, many… communities had failed, victims of massive population decline, environmental degradation, and economic collapse.” This is why it’s crucial for today’s scholars to emphasize the influence of colonial policies—as opposed to the Virgin Soil theory, which shifts responsibility away from Europeans.

One peak of the epidemic occurred in the 1570s. The exact pathogen that caused that epidemic is not yet known. Some scholars have speculated that, since it struck mostly younger people, it might have been something unique to the New World and reminiscent of the Spanish Influenza outbreak, possibly a tropical hemorrhagic fever. Other recent theories include Salmonella, or a combination of diseases. Native communities were the main victims of this epidemic due to their poverty, malnourishment, and harsh working conditions compared to the Spanish population.

Three Circles in the Sun

Aztec authors from central Mexico noted their reactions to the epidemics in fascinating detail. Writing 100 years after the Spanish military takeover, they were painfully aware of the consequences of epidemics and colonization: epidemics had taken place before, but the unprecedented scale of the disasters caused widespread incomprehension, sadness, and anger.

Much of the extant writing by Aztec authors dates to the turn of the seventeenth century. Many of the authors had experienced the plague themselves, its effects still fresh in their memories. I want to focus on two pieces of writing: a report by the well-known historian Diego Muñoz Camargo from Tlaxcala, written in Spanish; and an anonymous text in the indigenous language, Nahuatl, from the Puebla region.

As Diego Muñoz Camargo, the famous historian from the era, wrote:

In 1576, another great pestilence struck this land, bringing death and destruction to the native population. It lasted over a year and brought ruin and decay to most of New Spain [the Spanish Viceroyalty covering today’s Mexico], as the native population was then almost extinct. One month before the outbreak of the disease, an obvious sign had been seen in the sky: three circles in the sun, resembling bleeding or exploding suns, in which the colours merged. The colours of those three circles were those of the rainbow and could be seen from eight o’clock until almost one o’clock at noon.

This passage demonstrates the great importance of omens for the Aztecs.

It is not surprising that the second report, from the smaller community of Tecamachalco, also links diseases with the appearance of a comet. Probably written by the native noble Don Mateo Sánchez, the text shows the extent of the catastrophe in words quite similar to Diego Muñoz Camargo’s:

On the first day of August [of 1576] the great sickness began here in Techamachalco. It was really strong; there was no resisting. At the end of August began the processions because of the sickness. They finished on the ninth day. Because of it, many people died, young men and women, those who were old men and women, or children… When the month of October began, thirty people had been buried. In just two or three days they would die… They lost their senses. They thought of just anything and would die.

Several of Don Mateo’s family members also died, including his wife and the alcalde (mayor) of his quarter. Don Mateo then took over the post of alcalde. One can sense his incomprehension and anguish. The decimation of the indigenous elites is evident throughout his account.

This decimation contributed to the transformation of native societies well into the seventeenth century, including forced native labor and resettlements, the introduction of hierarchical Spanish laws and government, Christianity, and the alphabet. Together with increasing European immigration, the epidemic led to a massive upheaval of indigenous sociopolitical organization and ways of life, especially in the Valley of Mexico.

Don Mateo’s is not the only surviving account of the epidemic from an indigenous perspective. Other anonymous annals from Puebla and Tlaxcala from the era discuss earlier waves of disease, which remained firmly rooted in collective memory more than 100 years after the events. Like Mateo, these sources do not try to account for the origin of the disease, but they provide an idea of the scale and horror of the epidemic and the personal tragedies involved, the uprooting of families, of whole towns.

Meanwhile, the Spaniards’ narratives tried to explain the catastrophic effect the disease had on the indigenous population by pointing to difficult living conditions. But they also interpreted it as divine punishment for paganism and a sign of the native peoples’ alleged inferiority to Europeans. Of course, European remedies such as bloodletting, used in hospitals to treat indigenous patients, worsened conditions instead of healing them. Ultimately, the Spanish Crown feared above all a further loss of cheap or unpaid labour; the priests a loss of souls to be converted.

Holding Off Oblivion

Despite the harsh conditions, the descendants of the Aztecs did not give up—as has long been claimed in traditional scholarship. As the historian Camilla Townsend has argued, the demographic collapse lent urgency to the projects of major native historians—including the authors I’ve cited in this essay. Nearly all pre-Hispanic sources were destroyed by the Spanish, with some lost over time. The Chalca scholar Domingo de Chimalpahin commented on this confluence of factors: the destruction of sources and abandonment of communities strengthened his sense of responsibility to future generations. By writing history, he attempted to save his ancestors’ past from looming oblivion. Drawing on pre-Hispanic faith, continuing political participation, and recording the histories of their people: these are some of the ways in which Aztecs proactively shaped their lives following colonial devastation.

Centuries of colonial exploitation and violence have made the indigenous peoples of both Americas disproportionately vulnerable to current epidemics. This makes the resilience of indigenous peoples and cultures all the more incredible. Such resilience has developed over more than 500 years, in the face of continual adversity and disregard. Native American peoples provide varied and remarkable testimonies on weathering existential crises. The least we can do, in the midst of the current pandemic, is listen.

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awritingtree · 4 years

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Until Every Star In The Universe Dies

Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: Everyone talks about war and its hardships but no one talks about its aftermath. No one talks about the pain of having to learn to live without the love of your life.

@weasleydream‘s 500 followers writing challenge - Song prompts! Prompt 22. “Take me back to the night we met.” (Lord Huron - The night we met). I’m sorry this took so long 💙

Words: 4k

Warnings: a bit of fluff, sadness, mentions of war, mentions of violence, mentions of death, character death (Fred lives don’t worry), depression, mourning

A/N: well all I’d like to say is I’m sorry....... I hope this doesn't flop because I really put a lot of work into this fic 😂 but I did write it during exams so like hopefully you all like it xx

A big big big thank you to @iliveiloveiwrite for helping me with this fic 💙

The Night We Met - Lord Huron

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

I am not the only traveller Who has not repaid his debt I've been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met

Fred sat in the Great Hall surrounded by all the survivors. The battle was over, Voldemort was dead. But then why did he not feel the want to rejoice like everyone else around him? Why did he feel numb to his surroundings - the sounds, whispers, light, joy, everything? It was because the one person that mattered the most wasn’t there with him. How did any of this matter, winning the war and defeating the darkest wizard of all time, if he didn’t have her by his side? He’d lost his person; nothing mattered anymore.

If Fred wasn’t lost in his head, he would’ve noticed George making attempts to get him to talk. But he was lost in his thoughts, reliving every moment they’d both had together; their first date, their first kiss, their first I-love-you, the first time they’d met.

Y/N was walking through the corridors of Hogwarts late at night, heading back to her common room after a tedious evening detention. She was completely exhausted, the reason for which she’d gotten detention was completely unreasonable and spending her entire evening scrubbing cauldrons clean seemed to be a harsh punishment for being ten minutes late to Potions, in her opinion. But that was Professor Snape, always hating on all students and making their lives a living hell.

She sighed, massaging her aching hand as she made her way through the barely lit corridors, her fear of the dark driving her to reach the common room in record time.

Suddenly something knocked into her with a force so strong causing her to go crashing to the floor. She barely had a moment to comprehend what had happened before a warm hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her up and along with them as they ran through the corridors, turning at corners and running up the many stairs. She could see the back of a red-hair’s head, a Weasley no doubt, a twin perhaps from the late-night escapade he seemed to be upon.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to pull her hand back with no success; his grip was too firm.

“Mrs. Norris. Filch,” was the only thing that fell out of the twin’s mouth as he quickly shoved a tapestry aside before pulling her into the small space the tapestry was hiding with him.

“What the he-” Fred covered her mouth with his hand.

“Shh,” he said, pressing a finger against his lips.

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him but stayed quiet knowing she’d regret it if she didn’t listen to him; he was more experienced than her in these situations. Soon enough, the purrs of Mrs. Norris and the shouts of Filch echoed across the corridor.

“I know you’re here! Come out, come out wherever you are.”

Filch’s footsteps and shouts drew closer.

She held her breath as they momentarily paused outside the tapestry before continuing onwards, releasing her breath only when she could no longer hear them. She turned to look up wide-eyed at the chocolate brown eyes staring down at her in curiosity. Both their chests heaved heavily, trying to get enough oxygen into their lungs.

Y/N raised an eyebrow at Fred in question once she’d caught her breath, “And what exactly were you doing that Mrs. Norris was after you?”

“I don’t want to know,” she stopped him from answering her question.

“Now that’s a smart decision, love,” said Fred with a smirk, “What were you doing out so late?”

“That’s none of business,” she rolled her eyes and stepped away from Fred, moving the tapestry aside to get out of the cramped space.

“Well, um, thank you I guess,” she stammered out before awkwardly turning around, making her way towards her common room again.

“You never told me your name!” she heard Fred shout out after her.

She spun around, continuing to walk backwards in the direction she was heading, watching a grinning Fred stand next to the tapestry.

“Y/N Y/L/N!” she called back before racing away as the shouts and purrs of Filch and Mrs. Norris headed towards them once again.

She giggled hearing Fred curse out loud as she ran away. She thought this would be the first and last time they would interact. But unbeknownst to her, a friendship would blossom between the closest trio of friends Hogwarts had seen; “Closer than the Marauders,” McGonagall would come to say in a few years.

And then I can tell myself What the hell I'm supposed to do And then I can tell myself Not to ride along with you

Fred found himself in a slump, one that he couldn’t seem to get out of. All his days now consisted of laying in bed; hiding away from the world, reliving every memory he had with her. On some rare days, he would pull himself out of bed to go and sit in the garden not uttering a single word, only looking out into the horizon. George would join him at times, sitting there in silence until the last light of the day had faded away, replaced by the glowing moon and twinkling stars.

On that particular day, Fred was roaming around the room absentmindedly. He was not sure what to do, not sure what he could do anymore. His want for living, waking up each day and facing the world was gone, buried six feet under the ground, soul floating up to the sky to become one of the stars she’d always admired.

He suddenly bumped into a table, all the things he’d been avoiding piled onto it, falling onto the floor with a loud crash. The soundbox he’d gifted her fell open, a familiar bittersweet melody echoed throughout the quiet Burrow.

It hit him all at once, the first sob fell free from his body as he sank onto the cold, wooden floor.

The door to the bedroom flew open as George hurried in. The tune had reached his ear and he knew that nothing good would come from it. George rushed to the hunched-over figure and gathered him up in his arms.

Fred’s breaths came out in gasps, he was struggling to breathe; the walls felt like they were closing in, pushing all the air out of the room. Tears streamed down his face.

In the kitchen, Molly could be seen gripping onto the countertop, her knuckles white, not being able to deal with the gut-wrenching sobs that sounded through the Burrow.

George remained quiet, holding his best friend and rocking him back and forth.

“It hurts. It hurts so much,” Fred cried out.

George’s heart broke at the raw heartbreak in his brother’s voice.

“I know. I know,” George said softly, trying to keep himself together.

“Make it stop, please. Please make it stop,” Fred pleaded, clawing at his chest.

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this without her, George. Bring her back.”

George held Fred in his arms, heart aching for his two best friends; one dead and the other may as well be. He wished he could bring her back. He missed her too.

“Take me back,” Fred muttered over and over again, pleading the universe to rewind time and let him live these past seven years with her again.

“Take me back to the night we met.”

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met

What was he supposed to do without her in this world? They had their whole life planned out. They were supposed to get married after the war and live out the rest of their days with each other in a small home at the edge of the ocean. They were supposed to dance early in the morning every day as they made breakfast, and come back home to welcoming arms each night after an exhausting day of work. They were supposed to have their own children, grow grey and wrinkly together; help the other when their bodies had begun to fail.

Fred twisted the ring between his fingers, staring at what-should-have-been; the simple gold ring that belonged on her finger, not dangling from the chain around his neck.

“You really love her, don't you?” asked Molly as she watched her son stare at his girl who, in Molly’s eyes, was the perfect match for him.

Fred adored her; he adored everything about her. And everyone in the presence of the both of them could see it; could feel the love radiating from them. He was devoted to her, worshiping the ground she walked on.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the sofa which Ginny was leaning against as she sat on the floor. The soft orange light from the crackling fire lit up the side of their faces. Christmas music drifted through the Burrow from the radio in the background.

She was wearing one of Fred’s jumpers, the sleeves folded up to her wrists to allow her fingers to weave through Ginny’s soft ginger hair, so much like her brother’s; dutch-braiding it into two sections. Fred watched Y/N throw her head back laughing at George’s joke, the sound of her laughter bringing a smile to her boyfriend’s face.

Fred’s eyes didn’t waver from her as he answered, “I’m going to marry her mum.”

His eyes drifted away from her to look at his mother, “I know we’re only seventeen and we’re still young but there can be no one but her.”

Molly teared up at seeing Fred speak so maturely, the same boy she thought would never settle down, always busy with pranks and whatnot.

“Oh, Freddie,” she said, pulling him into a hug.

Fred groaned at his mother’s overly affectionate and emotional tendencies but gladly accepted the hug. He watched over his mother’s shoulder as Y/N looked up towards their direction, her eyes meeting his, and sent him a small smile before returning her attention to George and Ginny’s hair.

“Come back to me,” he whispered into the abyss.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met

Fred crawled out of bed one morning. It was extremely early but sleep would not come to him. He’d been tossing and turning all night long, but he supposed he could count this as the most sleep he’d gotten in months. The nightmares from the battle; the wall crumbling, her lifeless body flashing in front of him every time he closed his eyes, keeping him awake.

The circles under Fred’s eyes were darkly visible from several feet away, his cheeks had become hollow from the lack of self-care. His unruly hair had lost its bounce and shine, his eyes had lost their light.

His feet lightly padded across the room, closing the door softly behind him. He carefully made their way down the stairs, avoiding the steps he knew would creak so that no one would wake up.

Fred waved his wand to get the water boiling for some tea as he entered the kitchen. He sighed and sank into one of the chairs, resting his head in his hands which were propped against the wooden table by the elbows. He clenched his hair, pulling at it, as tears started to make their way down his face as his mind drifted away.

It was a quiet summer morning. The sun had just begun to rise, soft, warm golden beams infiltrating the Burrow’s windows through the white lace curtains. Y/N and Fred were the only people awake in the house.

Y/N was preparing the kettle for morning tea as Fred stood leaning against the counter admiring the love of his life. She was protected against the early morning cold by one of Fred’s sweaters that Mrs. Weasley had knit ages ago. Fred had long since outgrown it but it fit perfectly on her petite body.

She jumped slightly as she felt hands wrap themselves around her waist and a body pressing against her back. She relaxed as Fred pressed a kiss on her trapezius before resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Come dance with me,” he whispered into the quiet of the morning.

“What?” she laughed.

Fred spun his girl around to face him and pulled her against him.

“You heard me,” he said with a smirk before proceeding to dance goofily around the kitchen with her.

Quiet giggles filled the air as they danced around the small space, Fred occasionally dramatically twirling her around.

As their energies started to drain, Y/N rested her face on her boyfriend’s chest slowly swaying to the music of their hearts, both their eyes closed and smiles spread across their lips in content. Fred rested his chin on her head. He held her flush against him, softly humming a melody he’d heard fall from her lips many times before.

The sound of the kettle’s whistle blowing and feet rushing down the stairs brought Fred back to reality. He quickly got up and moved the kettle, setting it on the kitchen countertop. He leaned against the countertop for a moment, attempting to pull himself together. He took a breath, wiping the remnants of a memory he’d treasure for all time to come.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he mumbled, heading towards the cupboard that stored the mugs.

Ginny frowned looking at the person in front of her; the person that was always so full of joy and life.

But now she was gone, taking his light away with her and all that was left behind was a human shell moving around the kitchen like a ghost of his past self.

When the night was full of terrors And your eyes were filled with tears

“I’m scared,” Y/N whispered into the dark as she lay on her side.

She felt Fred shift around next to her in the bed so they were facing each other. The moonlight from the window highlighted Fred’s features; the flames on his head, the melted chocolate in his eyes, the constellations across his nose and cheeks.

Fred watched her, the scared look in her glazed eyes shining brightly through the dark room. But she still looked beautiful, ethereal in the silvery moonlight.

“Me too.”

They laid there in silence, staring into each other's eyes, relishing in the feeling of being in the other’s arms because who knew if they would be able to do this again. The war was coming, everyone could feel it. The darkness looming over the world had reached its optimum point, the muggles noticed it too whether they knew what it was about or not.

“If anything happens,” she started.

“Hey, let’s not talk about such things,” said Fred softly, raising his hand to caress her cheek, “Nothing is going to happen to you, my love. I promise. I am going to make sure nothing happens to you.”

“If anything happens,” she persisted, “Just know I love you. I will love you until every star in the universe dies and their light can’t be seen anymore.”

“And I’ll continue to love you after that,” whispered a teary-eyed Fred with a loving smile, before leaning into a kiss.

Their lips moved slowly and gently against each other, treasuring this moment for it could be one of their last.

They laid in bed in each other’s arms that night. Sleep was the last thing on their mind as they exchanged small kisses and quiet I-love-you’s, and wiped each other’s tears away. They stayed awake as the morning light streamed into the bedroom lighting up the world in a soft orange glow, staring at each other knowing that could very well be the last night they got to do this.

When you had not touched me yet Oh, take me back to the night we met

Fred’s fingers danced across the frame, tracing her face. Tracing her face the same way that her fingers would always trace his freckles; playing connect-the-dots. A loving smile would appear on his face as he’d feel her fingers ghosting over his cheeks and nose, eyes shutting in pleasure.

He saw his broken reflection staring back at him as a teardrop trailed down his cheek and fell onto the glass.

It was a picture from the first day after their seventh year was over, their first time together at Weasley Wizards Wheezes. They’d made their way there right after the Hogwarts Express had arrived at King’s Cross station.

It was the day they’d decided to move in together.

It had been a few months since they’d seen each other; each moment away from each other felt like years. He had not felt her body as he held her against him, fitting together like missing pieces of a puzzle. He had not seen her beautiful eyes or heard her angelic voice. He craved her vibrant presence like he had never craved anything before.

“Freddie!”

Fred turned around towards the sound only to feel someone jump on him. He stumbled back due to the force, holding the person tightly against him. Y/N clung to him, her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands around his neck. Her face was buried in his neck whilst his was buried in her hair, breathing in the intoxicating scent he’d missed the past few months.

“I missed you,” Fred said quietly.

Y/N pulled away, standing again with Fred’s help.

“I missed you too,” she said, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. He still looked the same: the same sturdy body, the same ginger hair and chocolate brown eyes. The same chapped lips that were always pulled in an infectious smile, the same hands that never failed to ignite the skin they left in their wake, trailing against every inch of her body like a blazing fire. The only thing different about him was his choice of clothes.

“What is that ghastly thing?” she questioned, staring at his dragon-skin clothes.

“You don’t like it?”

“No. As I said, it looks ghastly. I very much prefer you in your normal simple clothes but if you like to wear this… Well go ahead, I won't stop you. It is your choice.”

Fred chuckled at his girlfriend and leaned down to kiss her nose.

“You’re lucky you’re cute or I’d be extremely offended.”

“Oi! Stop hogging her all to yourself,” said George before pulling Y/N out of his twin’s arms and spun her around as they hugged.

Fred watched the interaction with a smile on his face thinking they already behaved like a brother- and sister-in-law would.

He wished the shop could’ve waited till their final year was over, instead of starting it in the middle of their seventh year.

Looking back on it now, Fred hated the decisions made from his side. He could only think about all the time he had missed out on - a few months of time that could’ve been spent with each other.

“Should’ve stayed together,” he thought as he held the picture against his chest, sobbing into the silence of the night.

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met

The world that was once orange and warm, was tinged blue without her. Food no longer had any taste, the sun was no longer warm, birds no longer chirped, the butterflies in his stomach had abandoned their home. Music was no longer mellifluous, the joke shop was no longer humorous, home did not feel like home anymore. His heart no longer beat.

The world was dull and bleak without her; hopeless. The fundamental part of his very being, his core felt broken; irreversible, never to be mended again.

In a single moment, his entire world had come crashing down around him. Irretrievable.

“Why? Why did you leave me? Why do I get to live whereas you died?” he asked, his throat constricting as he compelled himself not to cry.

“Why? Why did you push me out of the way?”

“NO!”

The air exploded just as soon as he felt someone push him out of the way. His body flew through the air as the sound of the wall collapsing rumbled through the corridor.

Fred groaned as he sat up, moving the stone and wood aside. His eyes burned because of the dust floating through the cold air blowing in from the side of the castle that had been blown open due to the sheer force of a casted spell.

He hurriedly got up as he remembered what he’d heard right before the blast had occurred. He stumbled through the rubble, terrified, and began to search through the wreckage, having no care of the ongoing war around him.

He moved a large stone out of the way only to find a hand adorning a familiar ring that was shining through the debris.

“No. Please no. No no no,” Fred choked out, hurrying to move the broken wall pieces aside and uncover the body, hoping it wasn’t her even though deep down he knew it was.

The world fell silent as Fred fell onto his knees, numb to the shock that went up through his legs. He let out a blood-curdling cry at the sight of her unmoving body; eyes unblinking, staring up at the ceiling but seeing nothing.

He gathered her up in his arms, moving her hair and dust out of her face.

“Wake up love,” Fred begged. “Please. Oh Merlin, please no.”

He held her face against his chest, trying to protect her from harm, clinging onto her, refusing to let go. Even as Percy and Ron tried to pull him away to get to safety, Fred did not budge.

“Wake up. Please love. Please,” he pleaded to someone who would never hear him again, who would never respond to him again.

Her unseeing eyes stared ahead hauntingly as Ron ripped Fred away from her body and dragged him away from the impending danger. Fred continued to fight against Ron, shouting at him to let him go. He couldn't leave her alone, he had to get back to her. She couldn’t wake up all alone in the middle of an ongoing war.

“No! I can’t leave her alone! Let me go! LET ME GO!”

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Take me back to the night we met

“I miss you. I miss you so damn much. Come back to me, please,” Fred sobbed with a hoarse voice.

He still had a hard time believing she was gone. She had so much left to do; her future was filled with so much promise. So many days not lived, so many words not said.

Fred would risk his life, give everything away, his soul, if only he got to see her smile, hear her laughter as she laughed at one of his jokes once again.

“I can’t do this without you. Please, I need you.”

Fred didn’t know how long he stayed there, crying to the dead.

The sun had started to set; the yellow, orange, red, purple and blue blending together in the picturesque scenery; one that artists wrote poems about or created paintings of.

He sighed realizing he had to leave soon or his mother would get worried and send out a search party after him. He wiped his blotchy face using his sleeves as he got up, looking around the cemetery melancholically.

The first smile, in months, broke out on his face, similar to the rays of sunshine peeking through the breaks in the clouds after a storm, as a gentle breeze grazed his cheeks, the feeling equivalent to fingers tracing the freckles on his cheeks and nose, playing connect-the-dots.

“I will love you until every star in the universe dies and their light can’t be seen anymore.”

“And I’ll continue to love you after that,” Fred whispered softly, tracing the name on the stone before turning around and walking away.

Y/N Y/L/N

A loving friend, daughter and fiancé

“For every dark night, there's a brighter day.”

⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑

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heliosthegriffin · 4 years

Text

Jaune “Mean Bastard” Arc AU.

The Arc family is a family stapled into history with their deeds of heroism, their immense physical strength, willingness to accept others into their clan at the drop of a hat, fighting against insurmountable odds for no apparent reason other than it being the right thing to do.

...That was only half the story however.

Ozpin thought to himself as he watched a tall, very lean blonde strut off the airship.

“Please, please don’t make scene today, Mr. Arc.” Ozpin said to himself, but the tone lacked hope, and most of all was riddled with fear. “Your not even a student here! You didn’t even send in transcript! How’d you even get onto the airship!”

But, deep down Ozpin knew, he always knew, he was an Arc, and Arc’s found a way, one that most people wouldn’t call ethical, sane or even reasonable.

Ozpin shivered, the Arc clan had been much too quiet in recent years. Was he the reason?

What terrible reason could this new Arc have to come to his school.

“Gods help us all, gods help every one of us.”

“So, much for a warm welcome to Beacon.” Ruby muttered to herself in her crater.

“Need a hand?” A warm voice asked her.

Ruby looked up into the two bluest eyes she’d ever seen, and blushed deeply.

“You ok? Looking a little hot under the collar.” The man before her asked with concern.

Ruby could hardly speak, he looked like a modern day fairly tail knight. WIth long blonde bangs, sapphire eyes, handsome face, dressed in all white, blue, and gold.

“I..I”..I”m fine!” Ruby squeaked out.

The blonde boy reached out to grab a flailing hand and pull her to her feet. Ruby wasn’t ready for that however and ended up face to abs with him.

‘So warm, so firm, I could stay here forever.’ Ruby thought to herself. Before going atomic on her blushing, and Rose Warping ten feet behind herself.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, just thought you could use a hand getting up.” The man said with remourse. “I’ll let you go about your buisness now.

“RUBY ROSE!”

“Hmm?” “MY NAME IS RUBY ROSE! THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR HELPING ME!”

The blonde man reeled back from her sudden outburst of thanks.

A smile graced his face.

“Jaune Arc.”

“So I got this.”

*Unfurls Crescent Rose*

“Neat.”

“So, you got anything?”

“Hmm. not here.” “Oh, did you send it ahead?” “Nope just didn’t feel like bringing it from home. Didn’t think I need a weapon for this.”

“What! How are you going to fight any Grimm if you don’t have a weapon!? Even my sister needs Ember Celica before she goes punching Grimm out!” Ruby said doing so painfully bad shadow boxing.

“Oh, I didn’t come here to fight Grimm.” “What? Why are you here then, if you’re going to be a hunts-man in training you need to fight Grimm.” “Bold assumption, I’m not already a huntsman.” “Oh, yeah right, you look pretty strong and stuff...” “But, a correct one.” Ruby could only pout at being played like she had. Eye little eyes then spyed two blocky pouchs on his waist.

“What are those?”

“Oh those, one is my journal that take notes in, and the other, well, hehehe, I guess you could say it’s ledger.” “A ledger for what?” “Oh, for keeping track of debts and stuff.”

SIlence filled the space between the two.

“Are you a kneecapper?”

“Of sorts.” “I don’t think we can be friends.” “That is fair.”

“Do you work for the mob, or like, Torchwick.” “Nope, I work for me.”

“Freelance?” “All of my debts relates not to money, but personal experiences.”

“Oh, kinda like when you help some move, and they drive you across town?”

“Close enough, and looks like we’re at the auditorium, I’d say see you around, but since we can’t be friends, bye forever.”

“Wait, wait, I take it back!” But Jaune was gone into the crowd.

“Ahh, fiddle sticks.”

Ozpin looked calm and composed on the outside, but he was freaking the hell out on the inside. He lost track of the Arc, he fucking lost him! He could be anywhere doing anything!

He hasn’t even told Glynda, or anybody else, oh, gods this is going to be a blood bath.

He gave a inperceptible sigh, and decided to give his speech. “Hello, children-”

Warm breath behind him caused him to freeze.

‘When did he get behind me!?’

He could see the children murmuring at the unexpected guest.

“Hi, you must be Ozpin!” The warm voice said behind him. “I’m Jaune Arc lord patriarch of the Arc Clan, and you have been at the top of our shit list for five decades, you have a one day to prepare your last will and rights. Tah-Tah see you in twenty four hours.”

“What are you doing here young man! Get off the stage!” He heard Glynda yell at the Arc behind him.

He would stop her, but he needed to right his will again tonight.

Jaune Arc seemingly did nothing to react to Goodwitch but stare at her.

“Are you obstructing me?”

“Why yes I am, you are interrupting the initiation!”

“I see then.” Jaune brought out his note book.

“What are you doing!?” “Adding you to my shit-list ma’am, and if you don’t stop talking I’m going to just put you further up there.” Jaune said as if it was the most casual thing in the world.

“What I, I never, you, you miscreant!”

“Just keeping talking sugar tits, just keep going up my to-do list.” He shot a Glynda a smirk. “I changed my mind I want to break you into the Arc clan, we like ‘em feisty.”

She went Nuclear with rage and leveled her wand at him and fired a telekinetic wave at him.

“Oops,” Jaune said as the wave hit him, sending him out of the room and into the courtyard.

“That’ll teach him, the arrogant miscreant, should have been smarter to pick a fight here.” Glynda said proudly, “Someone get him off this campus and into a hospital.” “Ah, so kind. You do care, too bad you hit like a child.” Jaune said from behind Glynda picking her up in his arms like a princess “Well, fix that later.” Shooting her a wink in his arms.

‘So strong, and comfy.’ Glynda thought gobsmacked in his arms.

He then looked at Ozpin. “Remember old man, a day and no more.”

It was then that Jaune remembered a legion of students looking at him. “The fuck you all looking at, never seen a man take care of business before?”

The student shuffled around awkwardly.

“Yeah, I damn well thought so. Why are you all dressed so damn weird? Am I at a Anime con or a huntsman academy, Ozpin your standards suck.”

‘I like him more already.” Glynda thought. ‘Standards have been dropping for years.’

“Alright, I know whats happening next.” Jaune said proudly. “I am going to walk my happy ass out of here, and if anyone of you can so much as inconvience me, I will personally train or find someone to train you at the Arc compound.”

The student started looking very nervous, the man took down Glynda Goodwitch with no effort. What chance did they have?

Yang thought differently and launched a flying punch at him, Jaune bent his waist and launched a brutal kick straight into Yang's midsection and sending her through the ceiling.

Ruby came next like a rose petal reaper for his bent over next. Jaune grabbed it with his teeth and threw her aside like a puppy with just neck power.

Weiss not to miss a opportunity, speeds forward on glyphs to skewer him also while shoot a wave of ice at his feet, and a stream of fire at his face.

Casually he flexed his legs and shattered the ice, and kicked his leg out hard enough to send a shock-wave that knocked over idle students and killed Weiss flames.

Weiss however sped through the shock wave, and went to stab Jaune. The blade mere inches from his heart, Jaune leaned down to head butt Weiss while dodging the blade. Weiss went down like a sack of potatos.

Nora went down with hammer at Jaune, but he moved and let her fall on his knee, then grab her by the neck with his teeth throwing her through a wall. Jauen followed up with a kick behind him hitting Ren rag dolling him.

Pyrrha appeared last, an launched a series of precise shots and then strikes at Jaune, only for him to dodge each one, and knee her when she over extended by the millimeter.

WIth that the last of the challengers fell unconscious. All within twenty second, All with Goodwitch in his arms.

“Nice try, I’ll come collect the one’s who tried tomorrow, but first.” Jaune grabbed a handful of Goodwitch’s ass, causing her to gasp out. “I got break in the new Arc.”

“It’s Goodwitch..” She muttered weakly.

“Not anymore.” “...Ok.”

“Ozpin, anyone else that wants to try can do so tomorrow when I merc’ you ass.”

And with that the Arc left, taking Ozpins secretary with him.

That was the other side of the Arc clan, one of maruding madmen who recorded their grudges and never let them go, holding onto any slight for centuries, training their young to perfecting and taking fresh blood to increase their grudge spilling power.

Destroying Grimm Hordes because they killed a family pet.

Killing Tyrants for increasing taxes.

Cucking buisness men, because they heard they them demean their name.

The list goes on. But the fact is the Arc Clan is petty beyond reason, and always looking for more members... If you meet their interest that is.

AN: Added a drop of smut in there, don’t know how I feel about it. Hope it turned out ok. Then again it’s crack.

#Jaune Arc #Ozpin #Team RWBY #Crack #Really don't take it serious.#The Arc Clan holds grudes.#Glynda Goodwitch #Team NPR

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

Text

in support of Texas relief, @padxleckiss donated $50, and requested always-a-girl!Deanna/Sam, lingerie, comeplay. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

In the week after they get back from St. Louis, dealing with James and the witches and the familiars and everything that got dragged up along with them, Deanna throws herself into the bunker. Sam thought she was nesting before; turns out he didn't really know what that looked like, from his sister.

There's cleaning. There's rearranging. She turns the kitchen upside down and finds another farmer's market over in Smith Center that even in late February Kansas weather has produce that she fairly squeals over, when she's dumping her egg-crate of loot out onto the island. "How are you getting tomatoes this time of year?" Sam asks, and she makes a raspberry noise and says, "What? Greenhouses, or something, Sammy, don't bitch when I'm bringing home gold." While Sam's still digging out in the library, still trying to make sense of the diamond-mine of lore and records and history that they've fallen face-first into, Deanna makes mysterious trips to Wichita, to Topeka, to department stores, to—who knows where else, because Sam isn't invited, because he, apparently, "doesn't know how to shop." Sam didn't know Deanna did, considering that their whole lives she's lived on thrift-store finds and leftovers same as him, but apparently his sister has yet more depths Sam didn't realize he wasn't privy to until they were suddenly revealed.

She comes home late after another trip—swinging past Kevin on the houseboat, but clearly an excuse from the shopping bag swinging on the end of her finger—and Sam's tired from a long day sitting in the library and trying to manage this nagging cough without worrying about it, but she bounces up the steps and there's a shine to her that hasn't been there since—since Sam doesn't remember, how long—and he smiles at her, despite everything. "Good drive?" he says.

"Update, Kevin has advanced in his diet enough to alternate between hot dogs and Hot Pockets," Deanna says, and wraps an arm over his chest from behind and kisses his cheek, easily affectionate like they also haven't been in too long. He swallows, tasting iron, and catches her wrist to keep her there. She hmms, reading his laptop over his shoulder like she always does. Her hair swings down, too, falling over her shoulder, smelling like road and like the faintest trace of her crappy strawberry conditioner. More absently: "Not even the good kind. He's getting, like, off-brand meatball and four cheese."

"Did you cook?" Sam says, and she goes pff against his cheek—tickles, and he flinches away, grinning despite himself—and she says, standing, "I am not Kevin's mommy, Sam, what do you take me for?" When he cranes his head back to give her a face she presses her lips together, rolling her eyes, and says, "I mean, yes, I made lasagna, okay? Kid can't live on weird mystery meat alone. It's got tomato sauce, that counts as a vegetable." She snorts then, tugging her wrist out of his loose grip, and Sam flattens his hand against his chest instead, wanting her back already. "You shoulda heard the noise he made when he got the first bite, too. If he never lost his virginity before, that thing blasted his cherry."

"Dee," Sam groans—Kevin's been through shit but he's still a kid, as far as Sam's concerned—and she says ha, unrepentant.

"You eaten?" she says. Bag on the other table, the one she's staked out as hers, which he isn't allowed to spread 'moldy records' on, apparently. She squats at the brand new mini-fridge, rummaging, though when Sam's silent she gives him a sidelong look. "Samwise? Dinner? Supper?"

"That would make you Frodo," he says, and she rolls her eyes again, coming up with two beers. She cracks them on the edge of the fridge—there's already a scraped-spot coming up—and comes up to him holding his just out of reach, her eyebrows high. Sam sighs. "Yes. Like, two hours ago. The mothering routine is weird, you know."

"Oh, something about us is weird, huh?" Deanna says, smile pulling at her mouth, and when she holds out the beer for him to take she keeps her fingers on the bottle and pulls herself in when he takes it, sliding inside the v of his legs, pressing her thigh against his. He tips his head back and she leans in, making a fake sweet moue of concern. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Dude," he says, protesting only vaguely, and she grins outright, pushing his shoulder and turning away.

"Yeah, whatever," she says. She scoops her bag off the other table and half-salutes with her beer. "I've got a date with the shower room and some new sheets. You going to come to bed tonight, or is this whole lore fetish permanent?"

Asked casual, her eyes on her shopping bag as she presumably admires whatever purchases. Sam swallows down a cough. "Give me a few hours," he says.

Deanna glances at him, not smiling at all for a moment, before that little exasperated dimple peeks up in her cheek. "Fe-tish," she coos, half-singing, and he rolls his eyes for her to see so she'll grin, brief, before she disappears again, her boots clomping loud down the concrete hall, so he still knows where she is even if he can't see her. Sam holds the beer in both hands, running his thumb along the edge of the label, listening. The bunker feels different, when she's in it. The world feels different, when she's in it.

It's been… how has it been. Complicated. That's the best way, maybe, to describe it in brief and still be truthful. His sister is one of the most complicated people on the planet, though she'd protest that description. Sam's personal opinion is that she's one of the most complicated people in history, and considering their relative position in history it's probably not a stretch to figure that, on an objective scale, she's at least ranked.

The last eight months or so—that was complicated, too, although in some ways it was very, very simple. Sam had been with another woman for almost a year and Deanna had been with another man and regardless of extenuating circumstances—death, or presumed death, or loneliness so complete that it gave Sam nightmares, even now, these bleak dreams of an empty world where he calls out and his voice doesn't echo, a deaf-and-mute misery where all he sees is absence—that was it, pretty much. Since then, they've forgiven each other. They broke off other concerns and when Sam walked back into that cabin in Whitefish Deanna was standing at the window with her arms wrapped over her stomach, looking out at something Sam couldn't see. She cut her eyes over when Sam closed the door and Sam shrugged and her lips folded between her teeth and, for a second Sam's always going to remember, she closed her eyes very tight, the faint crow's feet beside them going white with tension. Then she went to the cupboard and got down two cans of chili, and Sam found the can opener, and she uncapped the beers. They ate silently, watching a rerun of a wrestling match with six inches of space between them on the couch, but they were together, and that was more, almost, that night, than Sam could handle. It wasn't until the ridiculous adventure with Charlie—until after—when he woke up in the middle of the night already reaching for his gun with her hand small on his wrist and red-and-white makeup still smeared at her temples, her hair still caught up in the ridiculous Viking braids Charlie had given her—with her leaning in, in the too-big t-shirt she'd stolen from him to sleep in when she first came back from Purgatory and, he quickly realized, nothing else—when she said, soft in the dark, Sammy, asking—and he touched the bare shine of her knee gleaming in the moonlight and saw how her eyes closed again, very tight again, and he sat up and put his thumb to the clenched tense skin beside her eye and put his lips to her cheekbone, on the opposite side, and felt all the way through his body the breath she let out, like a tension she'd held close for a year or more was unraveling, all at once.

His sister. He knows what that means, about them. It's worse, of course, because she's his sister who raised him, who taught him how to shoot and bandaged his skinned knees and who beat the shit out of the first girl who ever stood him up for a school dance, when he was fourteen, and Sam had tried to intervene but Deanna had whirled on him, furious, and said no one gets to treat you like that, you get me? No one. Sam remembered that moment on the Greyhound, pressing his forehead against the window and watching the pale grey Arizona desert go past in the moonlight, California beckoning and Deanna's face, turned away while Dad shouted, pinned miserably behind his eyes. His sister, rowdy and caring and bullish and sweet. The town whore, boys had claimed when Sam was a teenager, and he'd gotten in his own fights, for that, fights that had led to Deanna pressing wadded TP against his lip and holding frozen peas against his eye, shaking her head, saying, Sammy, I know I taught you to box better than this. You fixing matches and making bank on the side, or what? His sister, who stood smirking in his kitchen in Palo Alto, her eyes not cutting to the girl at Sam's side even once—who said to him, voice sore, we made a good team, back there—who said to him, when Sam was out of his skin with worry after moving matter with his mind when the vision of her dead had filled it, nothing bad's gonna happen to you, not as long as I'm around, and smiled at him with her eyes clear, like it was nothing but true—who wept, cracked-open miserable, when she was sure that their dad had sold his soul for her—when she said to Sam that she wasn't worth it, and she didn't know why he had—that she was sorry, that she'd lost their father for both of them—his sister, who he folded into his chest, cupping his hand around the wavy-thick weight of her hair, noticing in a way for the first time how small she was, compared to him, and how she quivered, shaking in agony, caught against him, and how when he tipped her chin up on that mountain pull-out in the late afternoon sunshine the tears gleamed on her cheeks and her face was wrecked, her eyes red and her nose shined with snot and her mouth screwed up, bitten red and chapped, but full when Sam dipped and kissed her—plush, and startled-open, when Sam kissed her—giving, and tasting of salt, and desperate, and furious, and yielding, and precious-sweet, delicate, shocked, when Sam kissed her. She blinked, when he pulled away, stunned silent. Her eyelashes clumped and dark, and her eyeliner smeary, and her mouth red, red, red. Sam touched her lower lip with his thumb and she took in a huge deep breath that stuttered on its way in, staring at him big-eyed, and then she gripped his hair in both fists and tugged him back down and kissed him again, vicious, and that—well, that was it. His sister, and him. All the years between then and now, and that's still what it boils down to. Sam and Deanna. No matter what, the and is still the most important word.

He comes to bed. Midnight. A little after. They have separate rooms but Deanna's is nicer, despite the guns racked on the walls, and the weird obsidian axe that Sam doesn't ask about in pride of place, above the headboard. She's made the room her own—girly, sort of, despite the weaponry, although Sam doesn't describe it that way out loud—a new-built rack of her FBI-pretext suits and her few dresses on the other side of the wardrobe, and a throw blanket and fluffy pillow she has completely failed to explain or acknowledge on the uncomfortable loveseat, and candles on the shelf above the bed that she clearly had burning for a while before she went to sleep, because the room smells faintly of orange blossom when Sam's pulling off his boots, leaving his jeans on the chair in the corner. When he slides into bed behind her into the apparently-new sheets she makes a faint questioning sound, her head turning. He shushes her very quietly, sliding his hand over the wide curve of her hip, over the blanket. The memory foam sinks beneath him, too soft, but the bed already smells like her and so it's comfortable, anyway. He presses his lips against her bare neck, the soft baby-hairs there silky, her hair pulled messily up for bedtime as always, and she sighs, in her sleep, and curls in closer to her pillow. Sam smiles at the back of her head, wishing—well, whatever he wishes doesn't matter. He tucks in, knees pulling up into the curve of her knees so that he'll fit in the bed, and closes his eyes, and figures that, whatever he dreams, at least when he wakes up he'll be here, in what passes for home, with his sister.

As a matter of course Sam wakes up first. Unless there's a job-related deadline or nightmares dragging her awake, Deanna would happily sleep straight through the morning, and with no check-out times nagging at them in the bunker she's often wandered out into the library wrapped in one of those too-big robes at ten a.m., her hair wrecked and her slept-in makeup smudged and her mouth surly, demanding to know if Sam's made coffee. He has always made coffee.

This morning, though. Sam's alarm goes off at seven as usual, and he groans and smacks his phone, as usual, barely awake but knowing that he doesn't want to hear Deanna's bitching if it wakes her up, too—but there's no too-warm plush weight plastered up against him, and no murmured threats of shooting the phone if he doesn't change his alarm sound, and when he drags his hand through his hair and sits up and his brain actually comes online—the bed's empty, and the room's quiet, and he sits there blinking, surprised, not really knowing what to make of it.

Smell of coffee, when he opens the door, and bacon-smell snaking underneath it. When he gets to the kitchen, still trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes, Deanna's in her sleep-shirt (still Sam's, the shoulders way too big and the v-neck gaping), and tugged-on shorts, and bare feet, and her hair in a honey-brown messy pile on top of her head, and she's in a whirl of breakfast, pancakes on the griddle and a pan of bacon going and something being whisked with extreme prejudice in one of the big steel bowls, more suited to feeding thirty than just the two of them. She jerks when she notices him, like she's been caught at something, but then her eyes go to his hair and she starts to smile, wide mouth pulling into what Sam thinks of as her Joker grin. "Don't start," he says, and she says, too innocent, "Start what? I think it's very brave that you're joining a Flock of Seagulls cover band," and he drops his head back and sighs and ignores her snort-laugh, but he also drags his hands through his hair a little more strenuously while she says, "Whatever, Pigpen, take a seat. Grub's up in five."

He gets coffee, first. Strong, but good—like, really, really good, for some reason that he doesn't quite get—it's the same machine, same crappy tub of pre-ground stuff they get from the little market in town—but then Deanna's always been better at this kind of thing than she let on, and he savors the first few sips, breathing caffeine. She ignores him, moving confidently around—the whisking it turns out was eggs, which she pours onto the griddle too and starts working like she's a line cook—and he watches her, content for a second to let that be the only thing he's thinking about. She was a line cook, once, he remembers. When he was in high school, and she'd quit school by then, and the credit cards hadn't come through. She got a job for a few weeks at that diner, in Joplin. "What was that place you worked?" Sam says, while she's flipping pancakes. She frowns at him over her shoulder. "They gave me free grilled cheese for dinner, that month."

The frown clears. "The Show Me Diner," she says, turning back to the griddle. "Manager always joked I should show him my tits." Sam pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. He never heard that part. Deanna laughs, scraping at the griddle with the metal spatula. "Man, that kitchen was gross. Great fries, though."

"The grilled cheese was good," Sam says, after a second, and she says, "Damn right it was, I was the one making it," and then she's ducking under the island and grabbing plates, and then in the next second there's breakfast—fresh and hot and delivered with a fork clattering down into his eggs and his sister plopping down on the other side of the table, tucking her foot under her other knee and gesturing with the other fork: "Eat, drink, be merry. Happy birthday, Sammy."

Sam frowns. "Uh," he says, and makes a show of looking at his watch. "Unless I slept way too late—"

She rolls her eyes, cramming pancake into her mouth. "Shut up," she advises, garbled, and he wrinkles his nose at the chewing but looks down at his plate. It does look good. Bacon's burned, exactly the way they both like it. He picks up a piece, lets it shatter on his tongue, but he gives her a look, too, and she rolls her eyes again—a little too obvious, playacted, which makes him pay more attention—and makes a show of swallowing. "I know, duh. But, hell. I wasn't here for the last one. And, you know, I didn't really get a chance to make it up to you. Before."

She cuts another bite of pancake, studiously piling it and syrup and egg and bacon-shards into one monstrous bite, while Sam's processing that. "We didn't do anything for yours, either," Sam says, after a few seconds. Jesus, his birthday? He was in Kermit, then, only barely coming to terms with how he was going to have a hole in his chest for the rest of his life. On Deanna's birthday—god, that was only last month—they were moving into the bunker, he thinks, and they were okay but that hole in his chest somehow still smarted, and Sam doesn't even remember if they did the bare minimum of pizza and beer.

"We can do a Seagal marathon sometime," she says, shrugging one shoulder, and smiling at her plate when he groans. "I'm taking the opportunity, dude. We've got a house, we've got steady cash, the world isn't currently ending, so. I'm in charge. Birthday queen. You've gotta do what I say."

"How is this my birthday, again?" Sam says, and she says, "Shut up," lightly, and then taps his plate with her fork and says, "Eat up, beanpole," and so he shuts up, and eats. Why not. It's good. Of course it is; she made it.

There isn't, it turns out, all that much of a plan. He washes their plates but then she shoos him out of the kitchen again, tells him to run a marathon or bench press a car or something, and so he goes for a jog, as ordered. Not much of one—full stomach, and the cough, which forces him to stop and lean against a fence-post and spit, laced with red. He licks his lips, swallows, and keeps running, and when he's back Deanna's still in her pjs, doing something in the library, and she gives him unimpressed eyebrows and says, "You look like you reek, Lance. Shower time." So, fine, shower time.

When he's done, he finds clothes in his room laid out for him. Basically pajamas: soft loungey sweatpants in a dark grey that are clearly brand new, and a thin soft black shirt to go with them. "Merry un-birthday," he hears, and when he turns Deanna's leaning in his doorway, clearly enjoying him in his towel. "You like?"

"Uh, I guess," Sam says, fingering the material. Their birthday presents to each other are usually along the line of a six-pack or embarrassing porn or, memorably, twenty-nine boxes of Ho-Hos when he turned twenty-nine. Three guesses who ate more of them. He picks up the sweatpants, giving her a quizzical look, but she only lifts one shoulder and raises her eyebrows, waiting, and he huffs and then, fine, drops the towel. It is sort of—something—how immediately her eyes drop to his dick, and he bites back a smile and tugs on the sweatpants with a minimum of show. They are soft, thin but warm in the bunker's cool air, and the shirt stretches only a little over his shoulders. He pushes the sleeves up to his elbows and turns, modeling. "You like?" he repeats.

"You'd still get thrown out of bed for eating crackers," Deanna says, eyes tracing his body. "But you'll do."

He comes to her, sliding a hand over her waist, and she doesn't move except to tip her head back, eyes steady on his. Watchful and more still, now, like she wasn't before Purgatory. The kiss is unhurried. He parts her lips with gentle pressure and she sighs, letting him in, her head tilting back. Her mouth, perfect. He slips his hand down to her hip, squeezing the wide curve of it through the t-shirt and the ancient denim cut-offs, and she unfolds her arms and wraps a hand around his wrist, stopping him from going further. When he pulls back her cheeks are a little flushed but she blinks at him, shakes her head. "Not yet," she says, and he frowns, confused. Like they haven't messed around in the middle of the day before? She bites her bottom lip, attempting to look coy. "I mean. There's… stuff to do, first."

Sam narrows his eyes and she switches from attempted coy to attempted innocence. "Dee," he says, and her eyes go round, guileless as a cartoon princess. He drags his thumb over the soft of her belly, his hand still trapped by her light grip but enough room for him to find the waistband of the shorts through the t-shirt, rub there. Her eyelashes flicker, but she remains steadfast. "Stuff to do," he says, finally. "Like what?"

"Oh," she says, waving her other hand. "You know. Important stuff."

Okay, so she's clearly got some plan. He glances down at himself, dressed for… nothing, as far as he can tell. If it's going to be an elaborate and terrible roleplay fantasy, as least she isn't making him be a cop or a doctor or something. "And what am I supposed to do?" he asks, conceding. "While you do important stuff."

She starts to grin but bites it back, in that way where her dimple peeks out. "I think you should hang out in the library," she says, half serious.

"The library," Sam says.

Deanna nods, the dimple deepening. "For like… an hour, probably." She tips her head, eyes cutting to the side. "Um, maybe longer. But I'm sure there's a book in there that'll entertain you, gigantic nerd that you are."

"Thoughtful," Sam says, and her grin blooms wide, her eyes crinkling in that way they do when she's really happy, and it catches in Sam's chest, like it always does. He dips and kisses her again, quick, just because he needs to, and she puts a hand to his jaw and lifts into it, eager, before she dips away, licks her lips, lifts a finger. Sam sighs. "An hour."

"Ish," she corrects, but she slides a hand down his chest to his stomach, presses in. "It'll be worth the wait," she says, warm and promising, in that way she has where she can flip from just the biggest dork in the world to the sexiest woman he's ever known, even in ratty pajamas and still all mussed from sleep, and he doesn't need more than just—her, just her, ever, and she should know that, but—he nods, and her eyes drop to his mouth and she looks tempted, but then she nods too, and disappears down the hall, bare feet noiseless on the concrete, and he closes his eyes and tells the warm wanting feeling in his gut that it has to wait, unfortunately, and he goes to the library, and he finds a book.

He doesn't actually know how long passes. He stands over the archiving work that he still needs to do but—god, he's not going to be able to concentrate on that, with this tugging in his belly that says he's got something better coming down the pipe. He goes over to one of the alcoves, instead, picks one of the leather armchairs, picks a book off the shelf. History—the Spanish incursion into Tenochtitlan—and it's dry and old-fashioned and he scans page after page, half-focused, barely taking in details about the supernatural elements of Aztec ritual when he's thinking about…

It took him until he left to realize that he judged all women against his sister. His first official college hookup, after a freshman mixer, was a perfectly nice girl whose name he can't quite remember, but he remembers to this day how he thought: shorter than Deanna. Blonder than Deanna. No freckles, not like Deanna. When she tugged him into her dorm room, both of them more than tipsy on jello shots and cheap beer, she tugged off her tank top and dragged his hands up to her breasts and he'd thought, in a way he didn't examine at all until much later, that they were bigger than Deanna's, and her ass filling his hands was—was probably smaller, although Sam didn't have the evidence then to know it, and when he rolled off of her afterward she curled up against his arm and promptly fell asleep and he looked at her muzzily confused and thought, distantly, that Deanna didn't do that, with guys, that the few times she'd brought someone home to their motel room when she thought Sam was either out or sleeping she'd fucked the guy and gotten whatever satisfaction she got and then showed him the door, and they were done, except for how sometimes Sam would squint carefully through shut eyes at how she stood with her back to the door for a few minutes, her eyes closed and her head tipped back and her body barely hidden in a big t-shirt or a towel, and he didn't know what she was thinking, then. She certainly didn't just roll over and drool on the guy's shoulder, until he had to awkwardly extricate himself, and fret over leaving a number, and then ultimately decide to just go. Bethany, Sam remembers, suddenly. It was Bethany, who was not Deanna.

He's stretched out in the chair, book open but mostly-abandoned on the arm of it, staring unseeing out at the library. Deanna, five foot seven in her bare feet, her lips a plush pretty curve and her tits a good handful and her ass, god, her ass, that she fretted over when they were younger and made him say that it wasn't fat—but it is, god, this fat perfect swell, impossibly hot along with her wide hips and her thighs gorgeous below and her body just—made for his, he thinks, sometimes. Even if of course that's impossible because they shouldn't be—it shouldn't be how it is, between them. Impossible or not, though—

"Ahem," he hears. He looks up.

Deanna's standing there, one hand on his research table, the other holding closed her grey dead man's robe. Sam blinks, taking her in. Her hair's up but she's clearly taken some time to style it—not quite the FBI-agent bun she's perfected, but looser, and the layers near her face tucked faux-messily behind her ears. Make-up, her eyes framed with liner and thickly sooty, but nothing on to hide the freckles, and her lips shining like they're freshly licked with that clearish-pink gloss she likes. Nothing too odd, or different. She takes another step, that clicks, and he glances down to find that she's wearing heels—not ones he recognizes, very high and impractical and shiny black, not her usual at all—and above the heels—

"I'm in charge, remember?" Deanna says, dragging his eyes back up to her face. "You've got to do what I say." He nods, feeling his face already getting hot, and he sits forward but she holds up a hand. "Stay sitting," she says, firm, "and don't touch, okay, not until you're told," and with that, she unclasps her other hand from the front of the robe, and lets it slide off her shoulders, and Sam takes in a breath and doesn't know if he ever lets it out.

The heels are the least of it. It's hard to take in all at once. His eyes leap from detail to detail. Deep maroon, in the silky material of the bustier, the bra-cups curved in and arrowing down to satiny buttons that close it at the front. It covers her ribs, surprisingly modest. Modest, too, the matching maroon panties done in a full cut, except that they're also sheer lace, and he can see the shadow of her trimmed hair through them, barely visible through the pattern. What's making his mouth dry, though, beyond the fact of her presented like this, is: a wide black garter belt, sitting high on her hips, leaving just an inch or two of bare white belly below the bustier—the arch of it high enough that the soft dimple of her navel's visible, above the waist of the panties—thick ribbons, for the garter, that curve sweet over her hips and down her pale thighs—and half-sheer thigh-high stockings, black lace thick at the tops, going all the way down her long legs to the heels, shining in the puddle of the discarded robe.

One heel turns in, her knee bending a little. Sam's dick pulses, caught in the sweatpants. This isn't—she doesn't bother, never has, and he never even thought to ask—in his life, he wouldn't have asked—

"Surprise," she says, spreading her hands to the side like a dancer, and Sam says, "Holy shit, Deanna."

Her tongue flicks to wet the center of her top lip. Nervous, almost, but what in god's name would she have to be nervous about? "Figured I could dress up," she says, shrugging—god, the way that makes her tits move—"and you know, it's your birthday, or uh—your unbirthday, right? So—"

"Are you sure I can't get up?" Sam interrupts. She blinks at him. "I really want to get up."

"So—" she says, fingers curling, and Sam says, "God, come here," with his voice rough in this way he didn't intend it to be, but she blinks again and then smiles, slow, her tongue pressing against the back of her teeth, and she steps forward, hips swaying, coming close enough to touch. He starts to reach but she puts her fingers to his collarbone and stops him, pressing him to the back of the armchair, and then she stands between his spread knees, leaning over him a little, so he can smell—the chemical peach of her bodywash, and the faint vanilla of the lotion she prefers, and beneath that—christ—he can smell her, her body clearly ready from whatever she was thinking as she put all this on, and he has to grip the arms of the chair very tightly not to get his hand on her pussy and find out just how ready she is.

Deanna trails a finger down his sternum, looking down at him with her lower lip caught in her teeth. "Didn't think this was going to be this much of a hit," she says, quiet, and Sam huffs. He's still looking all over. God. Her soft belly, lightly dented by the garter belt. The way the buttons of the bustier strain over her tits. "Hey, Sammy? Tell me something." He makes some sound. The stockings, christ, the stockings—that's doing something to him he didn't even know—"If you could do anything right now what would you do?"

His brain doesn't engage with the answer; it comes straight from his balls. "I'd eat your pussy," he says, and Deanna's hand spreads on his chest like a star, her chest heaving under the breath she takes. "Can I?" he says, belatedly, looking up finally at her face, because he wants to suddenly very badly, can practically taste the wet split of her, and she's pink over her cheekbones and ears, her lips wet and flushed, already, but she says: "No," and climbs into the armchair with him, instead, straddling him, her ass settling down on his knees, her hands in his hair, pulling his head back, making him keep eye contact. She dips her head, lips brushing his, and he opens his mouth for her but she doesn't quite kiss him. A tendril of hair swings forward, brushing his cheek, and she follows it, her lips faintly wet and a little sticky from the gloss, trailing over his cheekbone, breathing warmly damp against his ear. Her thighs clench around his and his hands flex, on the chair-arms, and his dick—god, he hasn't hardened up like this with no contact at all in years, didn't even know he could, but any second now it feels like he's going to start leaking, ruin the new pajama pants she gave him.

"If I asked you to hold on," she says, low and private against his ear—like anyone else could hear, like they're in a strip club and she's offering a private show. "You think you could? Hold on, not go until I said?"

"What, because I'm on such a hair trigger the rest of the time?" he says, attempting lightness, but honestly—christ, it feels like that could be a danger, right now, with her in his lap like this, with her smell, with her fingers dragging out of his hair and down his chest again, trailing down his abs through the sleep shirt. "God, Dee—you're so—" He's interrupted, when her fingers brush against the shape of his dick, through the sweatpants. She leans back, looking between them, her lips barely parted and her eyes dark. His dick flexes, against her hand, and her eyes flick up to meet his. "I can hold on," he promises, recklessly, and she flattens her palm and presses him thick against his own thigh where he's caught awkward in the soft material, but her chest heaves again on a deep breath, clearly as turned on as he is, and he says, then, "Kiss me," and she leans down immediately and does.

No touching rules or no, he's not going to just sit here, inert. He lifts up into the kiss right away, knocking her mouth open and licking inside, and she grips his hair again, fucks her tongue against his, squirms. "Scoot forward—come here—" she mumbles against him, half-coherent, and he hikes his hips forward between her legs so he's right on the edge of the seat and that, fuck, that tucks his hips warm between her thighs where he belongs, and his dick swells up against her pussy, the heat of it intense even through the layers of sweatpants and lace.

She doesn't tease, not exactly. She grinds down against him but then slips her hand right back to his dick, cupping the bulge of it firmly through the soft cotton and then sliding her hand inside. God—soft, warm. She rubs her thumb at the base, scratching her nail through his pubes, and then says, "Get it out," and he lifts, squirms, drags the waistband of the new pants down below the urgent heave of himself. Christ, he's hard. She presses right up close against him, thighs closing around his hips and his dick crammed tight up between his stomach and the scratchy lace of her panties, and she fists him capably, knowing, her cheek pressed against his and looking down between them, her breath heaving. She presses his cockhead up against herself, smearing it in the window of bare skin between the waist of the panties and the line of the garter belt—the sensitive ridge catching against her navel—and rubs her thumb hard under the crown—and fuck, fuck. Sam's balls ache. "Jeez," she says, low but light. "Happy to see me, huh? Wish I could suck it but I think I'd tear my tights if I went on my knees."

Sam groans. "You could try," he says, and she snorts, smears her lips against his jaw, kisses him brief and hot. She's as turned on as he is, which isn't helping him cool down at all. "Fuck, Dee. Let me—can I—"

"You can touch my ass," she offers, and he grabs her there immediately, squeezing, tugging her in so the spine of his dick crushes in against her pussy, grinding where her clit's got to be swelling, all trapped in the lace. She hitches air, back arching, and presses his dick firmer there with the hand caught between them, riding the pole of him. It feels outstanding but he's half-distracted because her ass, her ass. Fat and hot and so soft, denting under how hard he's gripping her. He slides his thumbs under the garter straps, tugging, and then sliding down, daring, finding the clips where they attach to the stockings. She squeezes his dick and he pulls, there, slipping his fingers under where the top of the stocking rides high and sweet and tight, and groans again, and says thoughtless Deanna, and she lifts her head up, looks down at him, eyes bright and her face flushed and her lips wet and her expression half-thoughtful, half-delighted. "Sammy," she says, and he squeezes the fat sweet swell where her ass rises up out of her thighs, the garters slipping silky against his palms. "That doing it for you? My stockings?"

He can hardly say, just lifts up and kisses under her jaw, sliding down to suckle at her throat—pulling—but she finds his hands, arrests them. He wants to knock them away but his brain's not completely offline yet and he stills, lets her pull his wrists away—lets her stand, fuck, up, wriggling backwards off his lap and getting her heels on the floor again, standing. "Hm, let's see," she says, low, and turns around, and that's when he gets to know that the stockings ride just a little higher in the back, the straps pulling with how the belt's fastened high at her waist, and they've got a thick seam that arrows down the line of her legs, ending in a little triangle of lace at the heel, just barely visible above the patent leather. The panties are practically sheer in the back—the lace finer, showing the crack of her ass—and the bustier dents in at the sides of her waist, making the tiniest roll there between the edge of it and the top of the garter that makes him want to fucking bite her, there, feel the soft flesh, taste her salt.

She's kicked the fallen robe out of the way and found the research table, her table, the one that's clear of books and mess. She bites her lip like a coquette and beckons, and he's up in a second, crowding in close, hands on the table on either side of her hips because she said, she said—

"If you want," she says, looking up at him, flushed, "you can eat me out, now."

He goes to his knees so fast it hurts and his mouth's between her thighs in the same second. He opens wide, breathes hot, sucks through the lace—her taste, right there, the fabric soaked at the little knot of the seams coming together—and she groans, bracing her heels on the floor, her ass barely perched on the edge of the table. He knows her cunt in every single way but like this it feels new, wrapped and pretty and served up for him, and he takes it slower, savoring. Drags his teeth over the unfamiliar scratch of the lace, kisses the pale-plump inside of her thigh above the edge of the stocking and suckles there, pulling tighter and tighter until she's squirming and gripping his hair and saying Sam breathless, and then switching to the other side and doing the same. Fuck, her smell. Salt-ocean, the queer unmistakable tang of pussy. He sucks at her clit through the fabric, not hard but in slow pulsing drags of his mouth that work her plump lips even fatter with hot blood, and her hips lift against him, a low pleased noise making his dick pulse. "Take them off," she says, somewhere, and he lifts up and kisses the little half-moon of skin above the waistband, fucks his tongue into her belly-button, and when he tugs—he pulls—dragging the panties down under the constriction of the belt and its straps—and he doesn't know how to get them out without ruining her whole costume—but christ, these are his present, aren't they?—and so he pulls harder, tears, and she gasps up above, "Holy shit, you lunatic," but then the lace is in two pieces and her thighs are pulling wide and he gets to dip his head and lick wide up the whole glossy slit of her, burying his nose in the slick-wet gingery patch of her hair, getting the salt without any stupid fabric in between. She grabs his head, pulling him closer, and he hooks his fingers into the straps of the garter belt and works, deep sloppy licks that smear slick all over, her clit swollen and aching just like he likes it. He spreads her wide with the edge of his thumbs, not touching, and licks the entrance to her vagina without dipping inside in the way he knows drives her absolutely nuts—and, yes, her thighs close around his shoulders and she arches with this surprised stupid sound that makes him grin against her cunt and she says, "Fuck, fine, fuck, get up here, come here—" and he stands slow, kissing her belly and her sternum and breathing against trapped satin swell of her breasts before she grabs his face and kisses him, eating her own taste out of his mouth.

"If you don't get your dick in me," she says, panting, "in about two seconds—" and so he grabs her ass and tips her backwards on the table and feeds his dick inside, pressing in bare, the scraps of lace tickling a little at his skin but the overwhelming feeling just the, fuck, the tight slippery grip of her, the close-grasping heat, the way she arches and makes this little hurt sound when he gets deep because he's thick, and he didn't even finger her to warn her, but she's so sloppy-wet he's not sure it makes much of a difference. He tips his hips in and presses his pelvis against her clit and leans in deep and kisses her, just staying still for a minute, feeling—christ. All of her. She slides a hand down between them and feels where he's splitting her wide, and he rocks back a little so she can hold his dick and then feel it slot right back in where it belongs. Fuck. "Fuck," she says, breathless, her hand flattened between their hips, and then Sam realizes she's massaging her mound with heavy, slow pressure. "Come on," she says, low and tight against his cheek, and he grips her hips and works her with a deep rocking, hardly pulling out, just grinding up and up and up inside while she works herself from the outside, and it's no surprise at all when she comes, fast, rippling inside and clenching so hard that he can barely move for fear of getting pushed entirely out. He drops his forehead to her collarbone, pushing deep, letting her clench and pulse. His dick feels so fat and swollen he could imagine all the blood in his body's there. It certainly doesn't feel like he's brain's involved.

Deanna sighs, after a second. "Holy crap," she says, like relief. "Mm. Lift up, 'kay?" He lifts up, keeping his hips right in place—his back cracking as he stands all the way straight—and she's flushed and pleased, spread out below him. "Shirt off?" she says, and so he strips it off, tossing it to the other end of the table. She reaches out and trails cold fingertips over his pecs, his abs, licking her lips. "Hm," she says, and smiles at him, wide and unexpected. She kicks her heels off, each one clattering to the floor, and lifts her legs against his sides, the stockings slick and smooth against his skin. He grabs her thighs immediately, savoring the long clench of muscle under the satin. She unbuttons the top two tiny buttons on the bustier—the top three—her tits spilling a little, the creamy swell of them loosened, and when she arches he can see the dark shadow of areola, peeking from below the maroon cups. She laughs a little at whatever his expression is, and then reaches down and grasps his hips, the sweatpants still barely caught around his ass. "Okay, birthday boy. Your turn. You can do whatever you want, but—" and her nails dig in, making his ass clench. "You make sure you come inside."

"Jesus christ, Dee," Sam groans, and she grins, eyebrows popping high like she's made a joke she's letting him in on, but it's not a joke, christ, it's not at all, and he hooks his fingers into the garter again and jolts his dick inside, deep as he can where he knows it knocks her cervix, and her eyes fly wide and she grasps his biceps instead, thighs clamping around his waist in shock, and that's—yeah, yeah, that's what he wants, and so he nails her again, and then one more time to make her gasp in a deep choked way and say shocked oh, that's—oh, and then he leans down and mouths her tit away from the soft cup of the loosened bustier and slip a sweet dark nipple into his mouth and then he just—fucks her, gripping her thighs and suckling her tit and slotting in and in and in to the perfect wet of her, making her gasp, making her clench and cry out, her heels dragging against his ass in harsh drags, scratching because of the lace, the seams of these perfect fucking stockings, pulling at him. She's soaked, her pubes a sticky mess when he drags his thumb over her clit, and he drags that wet up over her quivering belly to the garter belt, smearing there, rolling his dick in these demanding dragging slides that are making Dee arch her back, lift up one elbow, her other arm hooked around the back of his neck, her hips working back against his, her lips wet and helpless against his temple as he works her, her pussy grasping and clenching and knocked-open for him. He pulls out just because he can—feels the load of wet that spills out with him—looks down between them, at her tits spilling flushed out of her lingerie and her garter twisting and her stockings, fuck, still neat and tight in place even with her all red-sloppy and fucked-open between them—and when he pushes back in, her pussy parting immediately and welcoming, tight, perfect—she groans in this deep shocked way that connects directly to his nuts, a molten tight thing taking over where his brain ought to be, and he hooks a hand into the split of the bustier and grips a thigh tight against his side and fucks her hard, fast, his orgasm screaming up his back. If he weren't feeling so insane he'd wait for her, make sure she came again good, but it's—this is for him, she said, she wanted this, she wanted him to have her wrapped up like a present, to use like she told him to use her—and he dips down and finds her nipple again and bites there, sinking his teeth into the swell of her tit, and she squirms and clenches and says hot and quick, "Sammy, Sammy—harder—" and he unloads inside, just like she asked him to, his wad pulsing out of him hard enough that his thighs shudder, struggling to keep him up. He slams a hand on the table by her head and she flinches and moans at the same time, feeling it maybe—his dick twitching and pulsing so urgent that surely, she can feel it, even if she's so wet she can't tell her slick from his load—and he lifts off her tit with his jaw loose and his mind strange as an animal fresh off a kill, and she clutches her legs around his hips to keep him tight inside and grabs his head in both hands and presses her mouth open against his. Not kissing. Just their lips brushing, and their air shared and hot, and her forehead tipped against his, bone to bone.

His dick throbs, satisfied. His balls clutch, unload another wet pulse. He slides his hands down her sides, catching on the bustier, and then up again to frame her tits in the soft cups. The left one's out, the bitemarks obvious. He tugs down the little maroon-silk shield on the right and finds that breast full and pale, faintest freckles dusting the top, and kisses it softly, tender. Licks over the half-swollen bud of the nipple and feels it tighten, and suckles it gently when it does. Deanna's fingers comb through his hair, her chest rising against his mouth, and below her pussy clenches around his still-hard dick, needing. Wanting him.

He lifts his head and she's watching him, very close. Her eyeliner's smeared with the sweat of their fucking, the lip gloss long-gone. He fucks his dick in and out, carefully, and watches her eyelashes waver, and then slides out all the way and feeds three fingers in right after, squishing in on the mess he left, his thumb riding over her clit. Deanna's hand flashes down, fingers covering his thumb, and he lets her take over, watching not her hand but her face as he helps her chase it. She's close, has to be with how swollen and hot she is around his fingers. He kisses the pale inside curve of her tit where the bustier buttons are split wide, and the sweet peek of her belly, and then crouches and spreads his mouth wide on the thin skin of her hip, where the garter strap's still hanging on, fucking his fingers in again and again in steady pulses while Deanna arches and tightens and clutches around him and then ripples so hard he can't move, for a second. He looks up and she's silent, her mouth split and dark on a heaved breath, her head tipped back. He rubs his thumb over her wet fingers and she shudders, and he's pushed out of her pussy that way, the muscle clenching deep. His fingers are smeared white. She grabs his hand, quick, and pulls, and he stands up between her legs again and his dick presses against her pussy and he watches while she wraps her lips around his fingers and sucks, her eyes closing in concentration, her tongue slick against his knuckles, getting every last drop of come, until he's clean. He tugs his fingers out and she blinks at him, looking almost dazed, and he holds her eyes while he slots inside again and scoops out another gob of come—christ, it's slipping down against her thigh, staining her stocking—and he collects that too, and presents it to her, and she takes his wrist in both hands and sucks it all in, taking it, wanting all of him.

It's—quiet, after. Sam's tugged his sweatpants up. They're folded into the armchair but she's in his lap, this time, tucked in with her head on his shoulder, her legs slung over the arm. Deanna's torn panties are discarded on the floor and he keeps looking at them. "Do my hair?" she murmurs, finally, and he shifts them a little so he can reach and then does, searching careful for the bobby pins and pulling them out one at a time, setting them on the side table with little clicks, mussing her hair to looseness as he goes. Long time, since she asked for this. Not since… god, it was when Sam's mind was still trapped behind a wall, and he'd had a few bad flashes of memories he didn't understand. When they'd screwed madly, after that terrible job with the mannequins, and she'd held him inside in the same desperate, needing way, and she'd…

Her hair falls to mid-back, when all the pins are out. He combs his fingers through it, thick and soft. "Thanks," he says, quiet.

"Thank you," she says back, snuggling her head against his chest. "Now I'm not gonna stab myself in the middle of the night. Hallelujah."

Quiet, dumb. He sweeps her hair over her shoulder and runs a finger down her spine instead, finding the edge of the bustier and rubbing there in a soothing, repetitive line. "Dee," he says, asking, and she sighs, and doesn't say anything.

That time, that last time, when she'd been so desperate and clinging, when she'd wanted him inside. Held her hand against herself when he pulled out and felt the load he'd left, and of course it couldn't do anything, she'd been on birth control since she was fifteen, but it had made something go queerly hot in his gut to see it. Like some instinct she was operating on, trying to absorb him every way she could. Greedy, his sister. At least she used to be. He wonders if that's true, now, and doesn't know if he can ask. She's nesting, she's content, but between them—things are good, but…

Sam kisses the top of her head and she makes a small content noise, turning her face against his throat, her lips soft. He runs a hand over her knee, the stockings slick, and finds the lacy top, plucking lightly where it bites into her skin. He pulls at the garter strap and she smiles against his skin. "Never thought you'd be such a horndog about this," Deanna says, and it's sleepy-smug enough that he pinches her, on the soft plumpness of her thigh, barely hard enough that she'll feel it. She completely ignores that and crosses one knee over the other, bumping her leg up into his palm. "Should I get more? Pantyhose under the FBI suit?"

"I thought you said pantyhose was the patriarchy trying to suffocate women to death, or something," Sam says, and Deanna leans back so he can see her face, grinning, and says, "Yeah, but if it gets your dick that crazy then I'll deal with suffocation, doofus."

Honest, and nothing but content. Sam slides his hand over her belly where the garter's still digging in and slips two fingers between the clutch of her thighs where her pubes are still damp, incredibly hot, and she blinks at him surprised and then her smile changes, her thighs pulling open just like that. Easy for him, just like always. Sam puts aside any other worries and nods, thoughtful. "I guess I wouldn't mind seeing you use a garter belt to strangle a vamp," he says, and she barks out a quick delighted ha! and then lifts her mouth to his, opens her body to his, and he takes what's on offer instead of wondering about what's not.

#ffcc #wincest #girl!dean #lingerie #my writing #sam going nuts for deanna's pussy is even more boneheaded than him going nuts for dean's ass #which is saying something

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