#I'm so fucking glad and grateful to be alive

[lightningfilledsaber]

I'm just so fucking glad to be alive

[rainbluealoekitten]

ok mb for worrying everyone but i actually had a BEAUTIFUL afternoon and am feeling pretty happy rn :D rambling about it in the tags ofc <3

[newobsessionweekly]

To protect and to love

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Tim Bradford x rookie!reader Fandom: The rookie

Summary: You unintentionally make Tim jealous, resulting with nothing good but a confession.

Action | Angst | Fluff

A/N: It's a long one I know. But I HAD to put some action and angst in it, i couldn't help it. Honestly I love it and I love to write about Tim. I hope you like it as much as I do. Have a wonderful day bubs and take care of yourselves. Lots of love

Warning: Mention of hurting, one "fucking" slipped somewhere in this, not proofread yet.

Requested: Yes Words: 4.4k GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

The atmosphere in the bar was alive with the buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses as you settled in with your colleagues. It was one of the many nights you and the rookies met after a long shift. It was some bond between the four of you even since academy and it felt nice. They started to feel like a family to you.

As Nolan approached with three drinks in his hands, the fourth person occupied the chair beside you, making your mouth to open in surprise and your heart to race. Tim, looking so perfectly even out of his uniform, so casually in his clothes, wearing the same grumpy expression.

"Oh, sorry sir, didn't know you'd join us today." Nolan excused himself for ordering only three drinks.

"Yeah, didn't know I'd be here either." Tim murmured under his breath, giving you an acknowledging smile. After weeks of persuasions from both you and Lucy, he finally gave up.

"I'm glad you came." you told him as you turned to give him a smile. He did the same, but it wasn't a natural one.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. This isn't really my scene." Tim admitted sharply, the wave of adrenaline and excitement that flowed over you, broke as soon as his grumpy expression appeared.

"So, Tim, what do you usually do after work?" Lucy asked, flashing him a mischievous grin.

Tim shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "Usually just head home and catch up on some game I missed or hit the gym. Not really into the whole social scene."

"Come on, Tim, live a little!" Lucy chimed in, nudging him playfully. "You gotta let loose every once in a while."

You couldn't help but smile at the banter between your colleagues, grateful for the opportunity to spend time with them outside of the confines of work. But as you glanced over at Tim, you noticed a hint of tension in his behaviour, his jaw clenched slightly as he watched the scene unfold.

"So, Y/N, how's life as Tim's rookie treating you?" Nolan asked, turning to you with a grin.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "It's definitely been an adventure. Tim keeps me on my toes, that's for sure."

Despite being his rookie for some time now, you had never spent much time with Tim outside of work. But tonight was different, and you were determined to make the most of it.

Tim's gaze flickered to you, "If it's not a living hell, it means you have potential to become a good cop." you squinted at his words only for a few seconds before a sense of pride to wash over you as you smiled at him "But you're not there yet, so keep your head in the game."

Before the conversation could continue, you excused yourself to go buy another round of drinks. As you made your way to the bar, you felt the weight of several lingering gazes on your back, casting a subtle aura of discomfort. Some eyes stopped over your body as you asked the bartender for a refill, giving them one of the best views. Tim's eyes followed each glance, noting the subtle gestures and expressions of the onlookers. And he counted them one by one.

The handsome bartender took his time to do the refill, as his eyes examined you, flashing you a charming smile.

"Hey there, beautiful." his voice was low and seductive if you think about it, but it wasn't close enough to the one you actually found yourself drawn to. "What brings you here tonight?"

As Tim was left alone at the table with the rookies, he found it almost impossible to focus on their conversation, as his gaze kept drifting back to where you stood at the bar, engrossed in conversation with the bartender.

"Oh, just blowing off some steam after a long day at work." you responded politely and considered giving him a chance.

At this point, you couldn't shut people off for some feelings that are in vain anyway. You need to go back in the game if you didn't wanted to be a single 45 year old cop, redecorating your house on your own between shifts like Nolan. That wasn't nice, you scolded yourself for the thoughts.

"Sounds like you could use a drink then. Let me guess, you're a cop, right? You've got that look about you." the bartender asked with a grin as he wiped down the counter with a cloth.

Tim's jaw clenched with frustration, a surge of jealousy coursing through him as he observed the subtle flirtation unfolding before his eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him, a sense of possessiveness clawing at his chest as he struggled to contain his emotions.

"Tim, is everything okay?" Lucy's voice broke through his reverie, her concerned expression drawing his attention.

Tim forced a tight-lipped smile, his features taut with tension as he tried to mask his inner turmoil. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied curtly, though his tone betrayed his true feelings.

You chuckled at the bartender assumption, shaking your head "No, no. Nothing like that. I work for the city, but I surely don't have what it takes to be a cop." you admitted, drinks in your hand, lingering a little bit more.

"Ah, close enough though." he leaned over the counter, taking his chance to have a closer look at you. "Mark" he introduced himself with a friendly smile.

"Y/N" you responded politely, as you played his game, leaning in his direction.

"So, what do you say we grab a drink together sometime, Y/N ? I know a great place just around the corner." he proposed, his eyes sparkling with genuine interest.

Mark's easy charm and attentive conversation had left a positive impression on you, and you found yourself looking forward to meeting him.

But Lucy wasn't convinced by Tim's response, her brow furrowing with concern as she regarded him intently. "Are you sure? You seem a little...off," she persisted, her voice laced with concern.

Tim hesitated, torn between his desire to confide in Lucy and his instinct to keep his emotions guarded. "It's nothing, just...work stuff," he deflected, his tone clipped as he avoided her gaze.

Lucy nodded in understanding, didn't want to cross any boundaries, so she just let the subject drop. Anyone could see from afar that Tim was uncomfortable, little did anyone know he was feeling like that because you're not around.

Not even Tim knew why he couldn't take his eyes off of you or why he felt like his heart tightened with every laugh travelling to the table.

"Yeah, we could do that." you replied to Mark, considering his offer before hearing the unmistakable beat of footsteps you can't possibly erase from your mind.

Unable to stand by and watch any longer, Tim made his way over to you, determination etched on his face. "Hey, everything okay here?"

You glanced up, surprised to see Tim standing before you. "Oh, uh, yeah, everything's fine. Just getting the drinks."

The handsome bartender eyed Tim warily, sensing the tension in the air. "Is this your boyfriend?"

Tim's jaw clenched at the question, his gaze narrowing as he locked eyes with the stranger. "Something like that."

"Uh, Mark, this is Tim, my trainer from the job." you clarified, trying to make as bearable as possible the atmosphere shift.

Mark nodded in understanding, though a flicker of confusion crossed his features at Tim's abrupt attitude and he regarded your TO with a polite smile, extending a hand in greeting.

"Hey there, I'm Mark. Nice to meet you," he said, his tone friendly despite the underlying tension.

But Tim's response was anything but friendly. With a frustrated growl, he slammed his fist against the counter, the sound echoing through the bar. "Excuse me," he muttered tersely before turning on his heel and storming out of the bar.

His fists were clenched with frustration and your heart sank with a mixture of confusion and disappointment. You watched him go, your mind reeling with unanswered questions and a deep sense of hurt.

Confusion clouded your thoughts as you tried to make sense of Tim's sudden outburst. Had you done something wrong? Was he angry with you? The uncertainty gnawed at you.

But beneath the confusion, a flicker of disappointment burned within you. You had hoped that tonight would be a chance for you and Tim to bond outside of work, to bridge the gap between you. But his sudden departure had shattered those hopes.

Tim's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Jealousy burned hot within him, a primal instinct that had ignited the moment he saw another man hitting on you.

But beneath the jealousy, a deeper sense of frustration simmered. Frustration at himself for allowing his feelings for you to cloud his judgment, for letting his jealousy get the better of him. He knew he had no right to stake a claim on you, no right to feel possessive or territorial. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gripped him whenever he saw you with another man.

As he made his way through the crowded streets, Tim's thoughts were consumed by visions of you and the handsome bartender, laughing and flirting as if he didn't exist. The image burned like a brand on his mind, fueling his anger and driving him further into the depths of despair.

Monday morning is usually a pain in the ass, but with the events that occurred last Friday at the bar, and Tim's attitude towards you, harsher and grumpier than usual, it was a morning out of the burning hell. Your heart was racing as he instructed you, curt and on point, on what will happen next.

May have been a few days since the incident at the bar, but the memory lingered in the back of your mind like a stubborn shadow. Despite your best efforts to push it aside, the tension between you and Tim was palpable, a silent undercurrent that simmered beneath the surface.

You knew that he was testing you, pushing you to your limits in an attempt to prepare you for the cop life, but beneath his tough exterior, you couldn't help but sense a hint of something else—something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.

The morning sunlight bathed the patrol car's interior as you and Tim cruised through the LA streets, the radio's steady hum punctuating the silence between you.

Your usual chitchat about the rookie book is now replaced by a brooding silence, his knuckles white as they gripped the steering wheel. You stole a glance at him, noting the furrowed brow and the distant look in his eyes, and couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at the gulf that seemed to have grown between you.

The radio crackled to life, dispatch's voice cutting through the quiet."7-Adam-19, we have a noise complaint at 123 Oak Street. Caller reports a disturbance in one of the apartments. Please respond."

Tim glanced at you, and you tried to read something in his eyes as he keyed the mic. "Copy that. We're en route."

There was nothing to be seen in his eyes, but you took your time to admire him in silence, your mind playing all the memories since you became his rookie, couldn't stop the thought that maybe the flicker that burned inside every time you touched his arm by mistake, every time he smiled at you, every time he made you smile, was indeed something. You always tend to question your feelings, rather they're justified or in vain, and this one was surely in vain.

There's no way a man like him, so put together, so ambitious — so handsome— would have even the thought of liking a rookie, you thought. You considered this whole situation too stupid, probably every single woman that comes past Tim fall in love with him.

As you pulled up to the apartment complex, the sounds of raised voices and slamming doors greeted you, sending a shiver down your spine.

"This could get messy," you muttered, your voice tense with apprehension.

"And we're prepared for this kind of situations. But if you don't feel like it, you can give up the badge." his voice is harsh and his expression is far from nice.

"That's not what I meant." you mouthed under your breath and followed Tim into the building.

As you reached the door of the apartment in question, you exchanged a wary glance with Tim before knocking firmly. The door swung open to reveal a chaotic scene inside, a group of men engaged in a heated argument that showed no signs of abating.

"LAPD! Hands where I can see them!" your voice cut through the chaos like a knife, but if anything, it only seemed to stoke the flames.

In an instant, the situation erupted into chaos, with shouts and curses filling the air as fists flew and bodies collided. You and Tim sprang into action, replaying in your mind everything you learned from the academy and your TO. But just as you thought you had gained the upper hand, the situation took a sudden turn for the worse. A shout rang out from the far end of the room, followed by the sound of shattering glass as a fight broke out between two of them.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you and Tim moved swiftly to intervene, but the situation quickly spiraled out of control. Amidst the chaos, you found yourself grappling with one of them, seven feet tall man and muscular construction, your heart pounding in your chest as you fought to maintain control.

Tim knew not to mess up his personal life and his professional one, he did it once and didn't end well. He weighed his decision over and over again, continuously adding pros and cons to the equation. It was safe for you to deal with this kind of men? Probably not, but if he would go soft on you and pick an easy target it would mean he let his feelings step out and fail you as your TO.

All Tim could do in this situation was to have your back no matter what and make sure you get home safe to meet with that stupid bartender. That thought run fast like the wind and bought back your laughter from that night hunting him once more. The lovely eyes you gave that man and the smile so bright, a smile he saw for the first time.

Your focus narrowed on subduing the individual before they could inflict harm. In the heat of the moment, you failed to notice another figure advancing towards you from the side.

Suddenly, a sharp blow struck your side, sending a jolt of pain radiating through your body. Gasping, you stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented as the room spun around you.

"Y/L/N!" Tim's voice cut through the haze of pain, his tone laced with concern as he rushed to your side. "You okay?"

Grimacing, you nodded weakly, trying to push through the pain as adrenaline surged through your veins. But with each breath, the pain in your side seemed to intensify, a constant reminder of the mistake you had made in letting your guard down.

Tim's grip tightened on your arm, his eyes scanning you for signs of injury as he assessed the situation. "Officer down," he said firmly into his radio, his voice tinged with urgency "Send backup and R/A."

Despite the pain coursing through your body, you forced yourself to focus, pushing aside the fear and uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm you. With Tim's support, you managed to regain your footing, the determination in his eyes giving you the strength to move on.

When one of them hurt you, the rest managed to move the circus outside the building, now armed and pointing the guns to their heads. You handcuffed your attacker and Tim dealt with the one stuck under you in the ambush. As you pushed the man down to the car with trembling feet, barely holding steady, you heard sirens cut through the air, signaling the arrival of backup. With a sense of relief washing over you, you spared a quick glance toward the parking lot, where a team of officers rushed between the men, their presence a welcome sight amidst the chaos.

"LAPD! Drop your weapon!" Nolan began, approaching the chaos as their eyes counted the police officers surrounding them. "Hands where I can see them, on the ground, face down!" he demanded as you and Tim put the suspects in the backseat of the car. "Spread your arms and legs!"

As the men followed Nolan's instructions, you tried to join your colleagues and handcuff the suspects, but Tim's hand stopped you in place. "Go sit down. You did enough." he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Despite the urgency of the situation, there was a steely resolve in his eyes as he focused on ensuring your safety above all else. Feeling a surge of frustration welling up inside you, you opened your mouth to protest, but Tim's stern gaze silenced you before you could speak. With a heavy heart, you complied with his orders, a paramedic guiding you to the ambulance for a search.

The sound of Tim's voice rang out through the chaos, his words echoing in your mind as he barked orders to his fellow officers. But amidst the chaos and confusion, it was clear that Tim's focus was solely on the task at hand, his attention unwavering as he worked to bring the situation under control. And as you watched from the sidelines, a sense of hurt and disappointment washed over you, the sting of Tim's words cutting deep as you struggled to make sense of the situation.

With the suspects now securely restrained, Tim turned his attention back to you, his expression tight with frustration as he approached. "What were you thinking, officer Y/L/N?" he demanded, his voice laced with anger as he confronted you.

Caught off guard by his harsh tone, you felt a lump form in your throat as you struggled to find the right words to respond. "I...I didn't see them, sir," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper as you met Tim's gaze.

But Tim's expression remained unforgiving, his frustration palpable as he glared down at you. "You could have gotten yourself killed out there," he snapped, his words biting as he chastised you for your reckless actions.

As Tim guided you back to the patrol car and began the journey back to the station, the air between you was heavy with tension. There was an awkward silence that seemed to stretch on endlessly, punctuated only by the sound of the radio crackling with dispatch updates.

As Tim sat behind the wheel, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions churned within him. He couldn't shake the sense of shame that gnawed at him, a bitter reminder of how his feelings for you had clouded his judgment during the call.

Seeing you hurt had unleashed a torrent of emotions within him, overriding his instincts as a cop and blinding him to the dangers that still lurked nearby. In that moment, all he could think about was protecting you, shielding you from harm at any cost.

But in his haste to ensure your safety, he had let his guard down, allowing the suspects to slip through his fingers and jeopardizing the success of the mission. The weight of his mistake bore down on him like a crushing weight, a stark reminder of the consequences of letting his personal feelings interfere with his professional duties.

As he drove back to the station, the silence in the car was suffocating, amplifying the cacophony of thoughts that raged within his mind. He couldn't shake the sense of disappointment that gripped him, a bitter reminder of how he had let you down when you needed him most. When you needed him to be your role model, the person you should've learned from.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of unease gnawing at you, the weight of Tim's disappointment hanging heavily in the air. With each passing moment, the silence grew more oppressive, suffocating you with its intensity.

Glancing over at Tim, you feel a pang of guilt at the sight of his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. His usually expressive eyes were now unreadable, a mask of frustration and disappointment that sent a shiver down your spine.

As you wrestled with your own feelings of guilt and self-doubt, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Tim's silent treatment spoke volumes, a clear indication of his disapproval of your actions during the call.

Despite your best efforts to break the silence, Tim remained resolutely silent, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Tim, are you okay?" you insisted. But your words seemed to fall on deaf ears, his gaze fixed straight ahead as if lost in thought.

"I'm fine, officer Y/L/N." he muttered tersely, his voice clipped and devoid of emotion. But you could see the tension in his shoulders, the furrowed brow that betrayed the turmoil that raged within him.

You weren't about to let him brush you off that easily. "No, you're not," you insisted, your voice tinged with concern. "Something's bothering you, Tim. I can tell."

He shot you a sharp glance, his eyes flashing with irritation. "I said I'm fine," he snapped, his tone sharp and biting. But you could see the pain that flickered behind his eyes, a vulnerability that he tried so desperately to hide.

"Tim, please," you pressed, reaching out to touch his arm gently. "You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is, I'm here for you."

For a moment, Tim seemed to waver, his defenses crumbling under the weight of your words. But then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed, and he withdrew from your touch, his expression hardening once more.

"I don't need your pity, Y/N," he spat, his voice laced with bitterness. "I can handle this on my own."

But you refused to back down, refusing to let him push you away. "This isn't about pity, Tim," you countered, your voice steady and unwavering. "I care about you, and I want to help. But you have to let me in."

Tim's jaw clenched with frustration, a surge of emotion bubbling to the surface as he struggled to contain his feelings. "I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me I fucking tried," he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them.

The admission hung heavy in the air between you, a raw and unfiltered glimpse into the depths of his heart. And as you looked into his eyes, you could see the pain and anguish that swirled within them, a reflection of your own inner turmoil.

"I need to know that you're safe. Because I care about you," he continued, his voice softer now, tinged with vulnerability. "I kind of like you. And I lost control today because you got hurt. And I lost it too at the bar because you were flirting with that good of nothing. "

The words hung in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of the truth that lay beneath the surface. And as you stood there, locked in a moment of raw honesty, you knew that your relationship with Tim would never be the same again.

The weight of his confession hung between you like a heavy fog, casting a shadow over the otherwise quiet interior of the car.

You glanced over at Tim, his expression guarded and unreadable as he focused on the road ahead. The air was heavy with emotion, a silent barrier that seemed to stretch on for miles.

"Tim, I..." you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to find the right words. But Tim cut you off before you could finish, his tone sharp and dismissive.

"I don't want to talk about it, Y/N," he snapped, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. "Just forget I said anything."

But you couldn't let it go that easily, couldn't let him push you away when all you wanted was to be there for him. "Tim, please," you pleaded, reaching out to touch his arm gently. "I need you to understand that I feel the same way."

His eyes flickering with uncertainty as he glanced over at you. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I mean what I said." taking a deep breath, you summoned all of your courage, pushing aside your fears and doubts as you spoke "I have feelings for you, ok? But I tried to push them away because I didn't want to complicate things. But after you told me..."

Tim's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white as he processed your words. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like an unbridgeable chasm.

Then, finally, Tim let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping with defeat. "I don't know what to say, Y/N," he admitted, his voice tinged with resignation "Things are complicated now, for sure." he chuckled, smiling at you as he parked the car.

"You and me, dinner. Tonight." you demanded, trying to play it off like nothing happened. "We talk about it like grownups."

"It's a date, then." he nodded in agreement, forcing his lips to form a straight line, to hide his dumb smile. "I-I.. I mean if you want to." he stumbled upon his words, scratching the back of his head nervously.

"Yes, Tim. I'd love that." you smiled at him as you both took the men from the backseat and guided them through the corridor of the station.

"Tim and Y/N sitting in a tree—" one of the men started mocking the scene they witnessed, but you and Tim cut him off

"Shut up."

[perpetualfox]

Whoa dude, I love your work mate! I was wondering if I could ask for a NSFW König x female reader, where he comes back home from a long mission, that lasted several months, and sweetly (but with passion) absolutely RAILS his wife. I would me most grateful! Keep up the awesome work!

Language Lesson - König x Fem!Reader [NSFW]

Warnings: Manhandling, Semi-Rough Sex, Creampie

Wordcount: 2521

Well. This got away from me a little bit. Please forgive how long this took and any grammatical fuck ups in the German. I'm still learning (and lowkey using this as practice since I have no one to speak with lmao) (also thank you so much <3 I'm so glad you're enjoying these)

→The mattress groaned as König shifted his weight, bearing down upon you, pressing your body into the plush memory foam. He revelled in the glory of it beneath his battered knees. After so many months sunk deep into mud, and dust, and blood; after so many months catching sleep where he could—in the back of a transport, on the cold metal benches of an evac helo, or the cold, hard ground—he could hardly believe something so soft even existed.

→You on the other hand, he could believe in. Every dip and curve of your body was etched into his memory; burned against the backs of his eyelids. You had graced his thoughts during every precious moment of downtime and haunted his dreams at night. But those echoes were nothing when compared to you—the living, breathing you who looked at him like he hung the moon and stars each night, and bid the sun to rise in the morning.

→How lucky he was, how privileged, how honoured to have you like this: to growl against your throat, his teeth bared against your flushed skin. How blessed he was to strip you naked and marvel at your beauty, to have you to himself—all to himself. He pressed forward, crowding you against the headboard, his hips slotting against yours as though they had been made to do so. His cock lay heavily against your stomach, already flushed and leaking.

→Always so eager.

→You had missed that terribly in the months since he’d been deployed.

→You had missed everything about him—the way he loomed in doorways, always uncertain if he was welcome in to sit with you; the way he held your hand in public, his thick fingers flexing around yours, grip tight: a lifeline and a warning; the way he snorted when he laughed, blushing to the tips of his ears as he did so, and burying his face in his hands.

→You missed the way he always left the grocery shopping to you, but wouldn’t allow you to lift a finger in the kitchen; the way he sat on the bathroom floor while you bathed, his back braced against the side of the tub, long legs splayed out on the tiled floor, just listening to you chatter on about your day; the way he curled his body around yours at night, his strong arms wrapped around your waist, murmuring about what he’d like to make you for breakfast in the morning.

→Even the things you hated about him, you missed—the way he always left his boots right in the middle of the doorway: in the perfect spot for you to trip over them later; the smell of his cigarettes and how he thought he could get away with smoking them indoors so long as he opened a window first; his complete and utter aversion to putting his dirty shirts in the hamper. Then there was the way his tongue sharpened when something put him in a mood; his tendency toward catastrophizing even the most trivial problems when he could not solve them for you immediately; the sulking; the jealousy; the territorial possessiveness; the paranoia.

→You missed it all. The memories were not enough, the few short phone calls he’d managed were not enough—memories and phone calls couldn’t hold you, couldn’t satisfy you, couldn’t fill the empty parts of you. It wasn’t enough to know that he was alive. You needed him home.

→His fingers tightened around your thighs, nails biting into your flesh as he dragged you down, pinning you beneath him. His face remained tucked into the crook of your neck, but his hands were busy, one kneading at your inner thigh, the other guiding himself toward your entrance. He pressed himself against you, warm and thick, the length of him slipping against your slick folds. The crown of his cock bumped up against your clit, and you gasped, nerves sparking.

→“Mmm, babyyy, no fair! Don’t tease!”

→You felt his breathy chuckle more than heard it—a warm puff of air ghosting across the side of your neck. For a moment, he was still, stamping heavy, open-mouthed kisses against your flesh. Your skin felt too tight—overwarm and buzzy. You needed him. Now.

→The breath fled from your lungs in a heavy rush when, at last, he pushed forward, the blunt head of his cock stretching you open for the first time in months. You grabbed for him, hands clutching desperately at the short hairs at the nape of his neck. God, you’d forgotten just how much of a stretch it was to take him like this. The burn of it licked at you, thrumming through your quivering thighs and up into your belly. Your fingers could never come close to the sheer girth of him, nor could they reach as deep as you needed them to—as deep as he could.

→“Scheiße…” The word was little more than a hiss, slipping out between the tight clench of his teeth, “Du bist sehr eng…ich hätte zuerst deine Muschi dehene sollen…”

→His English came back slowly when he’d been away for so long. Though he had been teaching you, and you’d been improving in leaps and bounds, with your brain leaking out around his cock, you were hopelessly out of your depth. He could have said anything to you—threatened your life, called you names, read out his to-do list, or the numbers in a phonebook—it wouldn’t have mattered. Not when he sounded like that. His voice, usually breathy and nasal, had taken on a new tone: fuller and deeper. He always sounded, to your ear, more confident in his native tongue, no matter how excellent his English was. You loved his voice no matter the language it spoke, but there was something about that self-surety that always sent a shiver through you.

→He groaned as he rocked into you, working you open around him little by little. The sudden gush of your warm arousal aided the slide of his cock against your walls. The slick sound of his movements was mortifying, and yet you could do little else but whine, your voice caught high in the back of your throat, “Ohh, fuck, please!”

→When at last he had sheathed himself to the hilt inside of you, König stilled. Your thighs shook, trembling with the strain and overstimulation. He was so big, his cock nestled up against every spot that lit your nerves on fire. After months of poor substitutions, you were finally, blissfully fucking full. Your pussy clenched tight around him; you were so close already, your body thrumming with the promise of it. Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your breastbone—dimly you wondered if he could feel it too, throbbing beneath his chest and around his cock. Surely, he was deep enough for that.

→His lips brushed against the junction between your neck and shoulder. He trembled against you, shaking with the effort it took to hold still; to not simply hold your hips down and take you like an animal—rutting into you until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him. What a pretty picture you’d make pinned beneath him, his cum leaking out around his cock as he fucked a third or fourth load into you.

→You stared up at him, eyes wet and wide—uncomprehending. His hands slid up your body to cup your face, thumbs stroking gently against your heated cheeks. His lips ghosted against your own, warm and wet as he spoke, his tongue tripping over the words as his brain struggled to form a sentence you could better understand. “Let,” he panted, his hips kicking impatiently forward, burying another inch of his cock inside of you, “Let me hear you whine like I taught you, yes?”

→You swallowed hard, dimly catching his meaning, but struggling to remember a single thing he had taught you. The hours you’d spent curled up in his lap, tracing the prominent bow of his lips as he spoke, trying (and often failing) to mimic the sounds he made seemed wasted to you now—a distant dream, the details of which you could no longer recall.

→“Um…­b-bitte…uhh…” Your brain sputtered and sparked, trying desperately to think around the rhythmic clenching of your cunt and the sheer heat of his cock inside of it. You could feel him throbbing—a steady thrum pulsing beneath the frantic beating of your heart, “Ich…Ich…möchte d-dein…mmm…schwarz—no! Schwanz!”

→A peal of laughter, dark and deep shuddered through you, rattling your bones and making your head swim, “Lange nicht gut genug. Nochmal.”

→He kept rocking into you in shallow little thrusts, stopping just short of the spots where you needed him most. Your thighs were shaking. You couldn’t think, you could hardly breathe. There was no room left inside of you for anything but him…

→“Nochmal!” The command rang in your ears, and he snapped his hips forward. The tip of his cock brushed against a spot inside of you that made your vision blur, the world tilting around you. You sobbed, nearly coming undone around him then and there, but with that single thrust, he ground to a halt. His cock pressed relentlessly against that spot, but it wasn’t what you needed—he wasn’t moving. It wasn’t enough. You writhed beneath him, desperate for stimulation, desperate to cum. Your cunt throbbed around him for it, but he had asked something of you, and you wouldn’t get what you wanted until the request had been satisfied.

→“S-Sei…gentle? Gentle…” You wracked your brain for the word, trying desperately to ignore the pulsing need that lay nestled between your thighs. “Ah! Sanft! Sei sanft mit m-mir!”

→König’s cock twitched inside of you, the sound of his language falling so prettily from your lips was almost too much for him to bear. A low, purring chuckle rose from the back of his throat, his hips grinding forward. Stars burst across your vision. A mewling cry escaped your lips as your nails dug into his flesh, leaving red welts in their wake as you clawed at his back.

→“Besser, aber nein, Schatzi.” He leaned down, scraping his teeth along the column of your throat, the salt-tang of your sweat blooming across his tongue. “Ich kann nicht, vor allem nicht jetzt.”

→He surged forward, taking your thighs in his hands and forcing them wider apart, pushing them back over the tops of your hips. The cold metal of the ring on his finger bit into your flesh, but even that keen sting melted into pleasure as he began to fuck you in earnest, using the leverage of your new position to bully himself deeper inside of you. You were sure the tip of his cock was kissing your cervix with each snap of his hips. Again and again, his name tumbled from your lips—not ‘König,’ but his name. his real name. It was music to his ears.

→“Ich liebe es dich winseln zu hören, Liebe.”

→Bracing a thigh against his forearm, his thumb found your clit and you thrashed against him, tears streaming down your face as he rubbed harsh circles into the sensitive nub. He cooed down at you, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes flashed in the low light, “Fühlt sich das gut an?” His simpering tone sent another rush of arousal through you. You could practically feel yourself dripping around his cock.

→“Yes! Ja!” You whined, hips kicking up against his hand, desperate for more of his touch after so long without it. “Plea—uh, bitte!”

→“Gutes Madchen. Meine gutes Mädchen.”

→Your cunt throbbed around him, and he whined long and low into the darkness, his thumb still stroking your clit in time with each harsh thrust. You were going to cum—you could feel it building in your stomach and pulsing behind your oversensitive clit. Each swipe of his calloused thumb brought you a little closer to that edge; made you a little more desperate to finally reach it.

→“Fuck! Fuck! I-I’m…I-I’m gonna cum!” You didn’t have it in you play his game anymore. You hadn’t the room in your mind for it now, and he knew as much.

→“Ja, ich weiß.” His lips brushed against the crown of your head, a shockingly chaste gesture for a man buried to the hilt in your cunt. “Es ist okay, Liebe. Komm für mich.”

→Almost at once, as though his permission had been all you had needed, your muscles locked up, clamping down hard around him as the first waves of your orgasm crashed over you. Your eyes rolled in your skull, the whites flashing in the darkness. Your hips jerked beneath his fingers as he pressed them tight against your clit letting you grind against them as the pleasure rocked through you.

→You felt his head drop back down against your shoulder as he fell into you, losing himself in the rhythmic clench of your cunt. His pace was rough and sloppy as he shed the pretense of humanity and fucked into you like it was the last thing he’d do. His lips worked feverishly against your flesh—mouthing a silent prayer into the side of your neck; a devotional in your name: the only God he still believed in.

→His teeth flashed against your skin as he came, your flesh muffling his keening whine as he caught it between his teeth. He couldn’t fuck you through it, his shaking thigh giving out with the intensity of pleasure. Instead, he trembled against you, his hips pressed flush against yours as he flooded you with a searing warmth. He whined your name like it was the only coherent thought in his mind, slurring it against your kiss bruised flesh until it hardly made sense to your own ears anymore.

→How had you survived without him?

→As he slowly came back to himself, he rolled his hips, fucking into you with slow, languid strokes. He revelled in the soft whining sounds he pulled from your throat, grinning against your throat. “Mein.” His voice was little more than a whisper, his chapped lips ghosting over your soft skin, “Mein, mein, mein.”

→He peppered your neck and shoulder with gentle kisses, a contented sigh escaping his lips. His hips shifted to the left, as though he were preparing to roll over. “No!” You gripped his arm tight and shook you head. You felt the knot forming in his brow before he pulled back to look at you, his head cocked to the side in confusion.

→Your head was clearer now, his lessons easier to recall as the lust-addled fog began to clear from your mind. You locked your legs around his waist, “Kannst du noch einmal?”

→For a moment, it was all he could do to stare down at you, his eyes wide. At length, he spoke, “You…practiced?”

→You nodded, staring up at him, your eyes wide and hopeful, desperate for his approval.

→His eyes flashed, his fingers digging deep into the meat of your thighs, “In that case, du wirst mich anflehen müssen, damit aufzuhorenh.”

Translations (huge thanks to @disastersareajoy for their corrections <3):

→Scheiße - shit

→Du bist sehr eng…ich hätte zuerst deine Muschi dehene sollen - You're very tight…I should have stretched your pussy first

→Nein, Liebe - No, Love

→Frag mich auf Deutsch - Ask me in German.

→B-Bitte - P-Please

→Ich…Ich…möchte d-dein…mmm…schwarz—no! Schwanz - I…I…want y-your…mmm…black--no! Cock (hope this makes sense 'Schwarz' and 'Schwanz' sound similar to my ear and I get them confused all the time)

→Lange nicht gut genug. Nochmal - Not good enough by half. Again

→Sei sanft mit m-mir - Be gentle with m-me

→Besser, aber nein, Schatzi - Better, but no, little treasure

→Ich kann nicht, vor allem nicht jetzt - I can't, especially not now

→Ich liebe es dich winseln zu hören, Liebe - I love to hear you whine, Love

→Fühlt sich das gut an? - Does that feel good?

→Gutes Madchen. Meine gutes Mädchen - Good girl. My good girl

→Ja, ich weiß - Yes, I know

→Es ist okay, Liebe. Komm für mich - It's okay, Love. Cum for me

→Mein, mein, mein - Mine, mine mine

→Kannst du noch einmal? - Can you do that again?

→Du wirst mich anflehen müssen, damit aufzuhorenh - You will have to beg me to stop

[sorrowsofsilence]

Burning Out • II

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x Fem!Reader

I was lost, but now I'm found Under the lights and in the sounds So let us sing and sing it loud That we're not perfect, but we're proud of who we are.

Noah Sebastian is lost. His crime-filled lifestyle is anything but perfect; but everything changes once he meets you.

Words: 3.8K

General Fanfic Warnings: 18+, explicit language, smut, alcohol, drugs, violence, mentions murder/suicide, panic attacks/anxiety, nightmares.

Authors note: Chapter Two: Something of the past- (EDITED: 09-03-24) songs are One of Us by the world alive and Broken glass by unprocessed ;)

new? start from chapter one here

THIS IS A FANFICTION USING REAL PEOPLE IN A FICTIONAL SITUATION! I AM NOT IMPLYING THESE PEOPLE WOULD DO THE THINGS IN THE STORY OR ACT THE WAY THEY DO IN THE STORY, IN REAL LIFE! IT IS SIMPLY FICTION, AND JUST FOR FUN! THINK OF THEM AS ACTORS LOL.

+

I smiled at the brunette, feeling grateful for his willingness to listen. He returned the smile and gave me a knowing look, almost as if he understood.

Noah's attention turned toward the houses we passed. His gaze was intense as he scanned each one carefully.

"Sorry for dumping all that on you," I said with an uncomfortable laugh. "I don't know why I just told all that to a stranger."

He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "We're not strangers anymore," he said. "More like acquaintances."

I felt reassured by his words and couldn't help but ask about him. "So what about you? You seem pretty mysterious."

Noah fell into silence, his brows furrowed in thought once again. His gaze scanned the grass intently as if searching through memories. Eventually, he turned back to me with a small grin.

“I’m…just Noah,” He said; but as I stared into his eyes, devouring his soul, I saw that he was much more than that. His eyes held a depth of emotion that hinted at hidden truths and untold tales. But I didn't push. After all, we had only just met.

"Well, 'just Noah,'" I said with a playful smile, "I'm glad our paths crossed today."

He returned my smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Me too. More than you know."

+++++

NOAH

Jolly's angry voice cut through the air as he yelled, "Where the fuck were you? We've been waiting for hours!"

I slammed the door of our dingy motel room, shooting him a sharp look. "Nowhere, mom. Not like you need to know," I retorted.

He stepped forward, getting close enough that our chests almost touched. "You’re right. I don't care what you were doing or who you were doing. But you know what time you need to be back and you're late," he scolded, pressing his finger into my chest.

I pushed against him, creating space between us as I furrowed my brow. "Fine, sorry. I lost track of time," I muttered, throwing myself onto the cot that served as my bed. I let out a heavy sigh and buried my cheek into the musty pillow. As I stared at the retro 80s carpet on the floor, I traced the faint outline of a bloodstain left by Ruffilo last week when he cut his knee open during a job.

"It's your turn, Noah," Nick Folio announced, plopping a backpack onto the table as he reclined in his chair with his legs crossed on top of it. He had a joint dangling from his lips, the smoke billowing out between his teeth.

"I hate doing this shit," I grumbled in protest, shaking my head as I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes for a moment.

"Too bad," Jolly snapped, his voice still laced with anger. "We all have our parts to play. Now get your ass up and do your job."

I groaned, forcing myself to sit up on the cot. The springs creaked beneath me, a sound that had become all too familiar in our weeks of hopping from one seedy motel to another. I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the exhaustion that clung to me like a second skin.

Nick tossed the backpack towards me, and I caught it reflexively. The weight of it made my stomach churn. I knew what was inside without having to look.

"Remember," Folio said, taking a long drag from his joint, "in and out. Quick and clean. No fuck-ups this time."

I nodded in annoyance, my throat tight. The last job had gone sideways, and we'd barely made it out. All thanks to me. Again.

“Just this one for the week brother. Then you don’t need to worry about it till next week.” Nicholas Ruffilo said, smiling at me gently. He knew I hated this. He knew I wanted it to stop.

He tossed me my gloves and mask, the fabric hitting my chest eliciting another annoyed groan from me. Grudgingly, I pulled on the black leather gloves to cover up my tattoos and shoved the mask into my pocket.

I couldn't contain my frustration any longer as I stood up. "How many more weeks do we have to put up with this shit?" I snapped, looking at Nicholas for support. He placed his hands on my shoulders, trying to calm me down.

"I know," Ruffilo said cautiously, knowing how on edge I was.

Jolly let out a bitter laugh. "What else can we do, Noah? Pull a million bucks out of our asses?"

I loved Jolly, I really did. He was my oldest brother for as long as I can remember- but fuck, did I ever want to punch his face into the wall sometimes.

The Swede sat back in his chair next to Folio and continued, "You know the deal. We do what we have to do to survive. How else are we going to pay back D?"

I shrugged off Nicholas' hand and muttered under my breath as I grabbed my combat boots and kicked my old black vans under the cot. As I leaned down and tied up the laces, memories of past jobs flooded my mind and regret weighed heavily on me, knotting together past mistakes.

Cracking open a beer, Jolly took a swig before saying, "Don't forget that you're the reason we're stuck in this mess."

My head shot up, eyes meeting his intense gaze. A red hue adorned my skin as my ears burned with embarrassment and anger, "What's that supposed to mean, you fucking prick?"

Jolly raised his voice, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his knees. "I'm tired of hearing your complaints, Noah. Do you think any of us enjoy this? Do you think we want to keep living this way? Don’t blame us for the work when you fucked us over first.”

My chest heaved with irritation as his words cut deep. "I was fourteen!" I shouted, spittle flying from my mouth. "I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't told me to in the first place!"

Nicholas reached for me, holding out an arm across my chest to force me back. I aggressively swatted his hand away and grabbed the backpack, tossing it over my shoulder.

"I never told you to do anything," Jolly growled, watching as my fists clenched and muscles tightened.

"You're the one I was supposed to look up to!" I yelled.

Jolly scowled, muttering between his teeth, “It's not my fault your parents died.”

Both Nick’s turned to look at him with furrowed brows of disappointment as my heart raced, my palms sweating.

"Don't you dare bring them into this!" I screamed, seething with anger and ready to pounce on the long-chestnut-haired man in front of me. Nicholas wrapped his arms around my chest, pulling me away. I struggled against him, closing my eyes in fury as I fought back the tears that threatened to spill.

Just an hour ago, I had been sitting with one of the most beautiful humans I had ever laid my eyes on. It was risky spending time with someone I had just met, especially someone like Y/N. She seemed so brave, so gentle...so worthy.

How could someone captivate me so quickly? It left me baffled. I knew I was completely infatuated with her, and I already found myself craving to see her again. I've gotten coffee from that same cafe almost every day for a year; it's the only stable part of my routine. Everything was always the same - the coffee, the customers, the servers...except for Y/N. Seeing her there threw off my rhythm. It almost felt like she was purposely placed there just for me- like a breath of fresh air in my dull, grey, lifeless world. There was something about her - the way she spoke, her mysterious aura, her quick wit, and those beautiful fucking eyes.

But here I was, my unworthiness weighing heavily on me, reminding me that I didn't deserve anyone's love or attention.

Nick snapped me out of my thoughts by offering me a hit of his joint, trying to ease the tension between us. I took a puff and handed it back to him, nodding when Nicholas asked if I knew where we were headed next.

"I've been looking at this neighbourhood near the coffee shop," I told them, trying to act nonchalant. "I scoped out some places earlier. Lots of elderly folks, so they probably have some valuable stuff."

“Don’t you think that area is a little risky?” Nicholas said, raising a brow, “We spend enough time around there...as us.”

I shrugged, “Close together and tight nit. Enough places to hide.”

Nick suggested bringing a gun for intimidation, and I agreed. It was all part of the plan, even though a small voice in my head questioned what I was doing.

My finger grazed across the metal. Even through the glove, I felt its cool, metallic texture, my mind jumping back to the woman held before it earlier.

What am I even doing?

Shoving the gun into my waistband I opened the motel door, “See you guys later.” I nodded to each of them, eyes lingering on Jolly for a moment longer.

“Text if you need anything,” Jolly said through gritted teeth, taking another sip of his beer, and avoiding my gaze.

I left the motel room and walked down the wooden stairs, passing the rundown vinyl wall that lined the entire building.

As I passed the paint-peeled doors listening to various arguments, and the sounds of sex. The familiar scent of weed and stale alcohol lingered on the cement, decades of grime living within the premises, never fully washing away. As pathetic as it was, it smelled and sounded like home. It was all I had.

I pulled my hood over my head, letting my hair cascade as a shield around my face, my legs carrying me through the neighbourhood. It was 12:3am on a Wednesday, the nightlife bare as only a few cars passed by me, unaware of my felonies. I wasn’t sure which house would be my victim tonight, but I prayed, to whoever God was, that it would be quick. Get in get out.

Placing an earpod in my ear, I scrolled through songs, before choosing The Apparition. Perhaps, if this is all a dream, I can go back to the time I met her.

But truthfully, ignorance is bliss; and I was tired of consciousness.

And yet, here I am, still haunted by everything that has happened.

And it remains With me to this day

No matter what I do This scar will never fade

+++++

Y/N

I signed off at my job, releasing a heavy sigh after a gruelling 12-hour day. The four-hour shift at the bar was a relief, but I still felt drained, knowing that I only had 8 hours until I had to be back at the cafe for another round.

As I walked out into the chilly 1 am air, I reapplied my red lipstick to soothe my dry lips. Thankfully, home was just a short ten-minute walk away, and the thought of my warm bed and my cat waiting for me kept me going.

But even in my exhaustion, I couldn't shake off the excitement of meeting Noah earlier that day. His charming smile and mysterious demeanour lingered in my mind, making my heart flutter with butterflies. Was this just a one-time thing? It was hard to believe that I went on a 'date' with someone I had just met, but then again, work was pretty much all I did. My life needed a little bit of thrill and adventure.

As I hummed to myself, hoping for a text from Noah in the morning, I pushed aside the dread of working again tomorrow. Lost in fanciful daydreams, I reached my townhouse and inserted the key into the lock; only to realize that I may have left it unlocked in the morning when I was exhausted.

Shit, did I really forget to lock it? That's not like me...

With furrowed brows, I opened the door and double-checked that it was locked before stepping inside. But something felt off - there was no sign of my orange cat Juice by the door as usual. And none of the lights were on, even though I always left the living room lamp on so it's not completely dark by the time I got home.

"Juice?" I called out nervously as an uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. Something was not right. The house was quiet and still as I made my way cautiously towards the kitchen.

"Juju baby? Where are you?" I called out, flicking on the bright kitchen light. What was once the comforting warmth of home, now turned into a thick sense of dread as I placed my bag on the counter, eagerly awaiting my cat's response. But instead of a familiar meow, I heard the floor above me creak in a rhythmic pattern that was definitely not feline in nature.

My heart pounded and my breath caught in my throat as I froze in place. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as goosebumps prickled along my skin.

I strained to listen for any other sounds, but all was quiet except for the occasional rustle coming from upstairs. Adrenaline surged through me as I reached for the largest kitchen knife from the block, gripping it tightly as I crept towards the stairs.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I cautiously ascended the stairs from the kitchen. With each step, I couldn't help but think, this is how people get murdered in horror movies, you dumb bitch, but it was too late to turn back now.

Finally reaching the top, I turned on the hallway light and scanned the darkened doors illuminated by moonlight streaming through the windows. My bedroom door slowly creaked open and a figure emerged.

My heart stopped and panic seized me until I realized it was just my cat; wide-eyed and meowing. "Jesus Christ, cat!" I scolded, overcome with both fear and relief as I fell to my knees and scooped him into my arms. His soft orange fur was a welcome comfort as I ran my fingers through it, rubbing my face along his head. He didn’t pur like usual though.

"You scared the absolute shit out of me," I laughed shakily, kissing his head before setting him down. Juice wriggled free from my grasp and darted into my room. Shaking my head with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, I placed the knife on the banister and followed him, grateful for his presence in the otherwise empty house.

Perched on my bed, Juice hopped to attention as soon as I entered the room. His tail flicked back and forth eagerly as he stared at my mirrored closet, emitting a series of demanding meows. I flipped on the lamp next to my bed and approached him, reaching out to pet him. "What's wrong, buddy? Are you hungry?" I asked, even though I knew his bowl was full downstairs.

He continued to meow and I shook my head, pulling off my sweater and tossing it into the hamper.

"What is up with you-" I started to say before a gloved hand covered my mouth, muffling my words.

Panic flooded through me as another arm encircled my waist, holding me tightly against the stranger's chest, and my eyes widened with fear as I looked up at them, unable to scream for help.

I could feel their heart pounding against my back, their harsh breaths mixing with mine as they turned our bodies towards the mirror. Tears welled up in my eyes as I saw the reflection of the menacing figure behind me. Their entire body was covered except for their eyes and mouth, peering out from behind a black ski mask.

I whimpered helplessly against their hand as my stomach dropped at the sight of the gun poking out from their black cargo pants.

The most terrifying thing of all was the distinct scent of Dior cologne that filled my nostrils, making my heart race even faster with fear.

His voice, with its distinct accent, burned into my memory as he spoke the words that filled me with dread. In the mirror, I saw him - Noah. The cologne, the voice, it had to be him. I knew I should have never gone out with a stranger. How could I have been so foolish?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” He said slowly, words filled with worry and caution.

Tears streamed down my face as I shook and cried, his hand still covering my mouth. He followed me home, and now I was paying for my stupidity. But I wasn't going down without a fight.

"I'm going to leave," he said calmly, "and you're going to let me. Understood?"

I nodded against his grasp, my eyes glued to his every move through the tears. He closed his eyes briefly before taking a deep breath, his body moulding into my back.

Did he know that I knew who he was?

There was no way I was going to let this asshole get away with whatever he had planned for me.

"Please don't scream," he said, loosening his grip slightly. As soon as he let go, I spun around and kicked him with all my might in the groin area.

He fell to his knees, letting out an agonizing groan as he held himself in pain. With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I ran into the hallway and grabbed the knife from the bannister.

"You fucking creep! You followed me!" I screamed, brandishing the knife at him. "You're a lowlife piece of shit! Get out of my house or I'll call the cops on your sorry ass…Noah." His name tasted like bile in my mouth as it escaped from between my lips.

While shaking with anger and fear, I pulled out my phone and dialled 911. Noah crouched in front of my bedroom door, pain etched on his face.

"I swear to god, Y/N, I didn't know this was your house," he said, desperation in his voice. "Please, don't call the cops."

"Why shouldn't I?" I yelled back at him, my thumb hovering over the green call button.

"Just...just please don't," he pleaded, pressing himself against the door. But it was too late for him to try and play innocent. I pressed the button and held the phone up to my ear as it rang, arm still holding the knife toward him.

Noah's eyes widened with panic before his hand reached for the gun tucked into his waistband. Time slowed as he pulled it out and pointed it at me, causing me to freeze in fear. The 911 operator's voice was muffled by the sound of my racing heart.

"Hang up," Noah whispered, his hands shaking with the weight of the gun. "Y/N, please hang up."

"Hello? Are you still there?" The voice on the other end of the line asked, repeating the question over and over.

"Y/N, please hang up," Noah repeated, his voice urgent.

“Hello?”

Noah held out his other hand, palm up as if inviting me to take it. It was a stark contrast to the gun he held in his other hand.

The phone fell from my grasp, landing on the carpeted floor with a dampened thud. He quickly reached for it and ended the call.

As he let out a relieved sigh, guilt washed over him. He hung his head and tossed the gun toward the bathroom before removing his mask, revealing the face I had been longing for just hours earlier.

The brunette looked shattered and torn as he watched me crumple before him, my panic attack consuming me.

“I-I didn't mean to scare you. I-I” Noah stammered frantically as he moved closer to me, “I can’t have the police involved- I can’t leave my brothers.”

I collapsed to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest while staring at the gun near the bathroom. Fear overtook me and I began to hyperventilate.

“I swear, I won’t hurt you,” Noah said as he leaned down in front of me and took hold of my wrists.

I struggled to breathe, trying to pull away from him but felt paralyzed, and my breathing became erratic as I felt like I couldn't exhale.

“Breathe,” Noah's hands were now on either side of my face, “please Y/N, just breathe!”

His eyes scanned my face with concern as he held onto me tightly. “Count backwards from 100 by threes with me, okay?”

“100, 97, 94, 91, 88…” Noah started and I followed his lead.

“85, 82, 79…” I managed to choke out and Noah loosened his grip on my face. He placed his hands on top of mine instead.

I wanted to run away in fear but at the same time, I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to breathe again.

Noah continued counting with me, showing me a steady breathing pattern and I followed suit. “58, 55, 52, 49…”

We finally reached zero and my breathing remained in sync with his. I pulled my hands away from him abruptly and hugged myself tightly as I scooted away from him, as if he were the most disgusting thing in the world.

“I don't know whether to tell you to get lost,” I said, glaring at him, “or thank you.”

Noah looked at me with concern before running his gloved hand over his face. Realizing he still had them on, he groaned in frustration and angrily ripped them off, revealing his tattooed hands.

I couldn't help but follow the outlines of the flower with my eyes once again.

“I know you probably won't believe me but I swear I didn't know this was your house,” he began, holding his hands up in surrender, his pleading eyes met mine.

He seemed so genuine and sincere that part of me wanted to believe him, but screw that.

“You’re right, I don’t,” I snapped back, “But why were you even in someone else’s house?” I wiped my mouth, realizing the smudged lipstick from earlier. I must've looked like a total mess.

Noah watched me intently, his gaze studying my lips.

“I- I swear if I could explain, I would,” he rambled again, avoiding eye contact and looking at the carpeted floor, “but-”

Three loud knocks at the door interrupted his sentence, and Noah's eyes widened as he stared at me, the colour draining from his face.

“This is LAPD!” A booming voice called out from the other side of the door. The doorknob jiggled, trying to open.

“Shit,” Noah muttered, frantically scanning the hallway for something. He stood up and looked around before turning to me, a realization dawning on him. Without hesitation, Noah ripped off his sweater and black tank top, leaving him shirtless in front of me.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whispered-yelled, furrowing my brows at him in distaste.

“Kiss me,” he pleaded, kneeling in front of me again with an expression filled with fear and distress.

“Excuse me?” I now yelled a bit too loudly as the door below us rattled once more.

“LAPD! Open up!”

“I need you to kiss me, please,” Noah's intense gaze locked onto mine as he begged, “Just this once Y/N.”

I hesitated for a moment but ultimately gave in to Noah's desperate request. His hands gripped the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair as he pulled me towards him. With complete desperation, Noah kissed me intensely.

Chapter three

Tags:@crimson-calligraphyx @lma1986 @spicywhenspeaking @sammyjoeee @shilohrosechicken

@princessmarshmallowx @laurpartyprogram @cookiesupplier @nojoyontheburn @lacktoesandtoddlerant

@veronicaphoenix @er3nslovergirl @cncohshit @scrumptiousfestivalpost @melcchs

@flowery-mess @mentallynot-here @judging-from-afar @darkmxgician @badomensls

@hoe-for-daddywise @philomenie @xxkittenkissesxx @venturethroughtheveil @thefallennightmare

@blend-in-with-the-madness @reyadawn @deathblacksmoke @Anameunmusical @sitkowski

@anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @amelia-acero @rumoured-whispers @artificialbreezy

[bella-rose29]

Deck the Halls (and not your partner) - Part 1

Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader, enemies to lovers, fake dating, set at Christmas (because I'm feeling festive)

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: swearing, lockwood is an arse, so is the reader, it's enemies to lovers what were you expecting really, Norrie is alive for the plot, I am British so if you're confused about words then that's why, mentions of extended family members being meanies, I think that's it?

Tag list is at the bottom (it's getting too long to put up here now), and as always if you would like to be added to/removed from it, then ask here or send me a note! <3

series master list

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

It was safe to say that Y/n L/n was not having a good morning.

George had been watching her over the top of his paper while she paced the living room on the phone, his eyebrows changing between furrowing and raising as he tried to figure out what was happening with only one half of the conversation.

"Are you... alright?" He wasn't the best at this sort of thing, but when it came to his friends he tried to put some sort of effort in to show that he cared about them. Y/n huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose and looking like she was about to break into tears. If that happened George would have to go and get Lucy, because he definitely had no idea how to deal with Y/n when she cried. Normally he went and made her tea and plated up some biscuits, and she always accepted with a grateful smile and a lot of sniffles and let him leave again when he stood awkwardly near her, shuffling his feet on the spot.

He got the feeling that wouldn't be happening now, and he'd be held hostage instead.

"It's my mum. You know I've got this family Christmas thing coming up, right?" She paused while George nodded, taking her hand away from her face to see his reaction, then continuing on as she gestured wildly. "She seems to think I have a boyfriend, which I absolutely do not-"

"What, really?" George exclaimed sarcastically, pressing his hands over his heart in mock surprise. Y/n glared at him, looking incredibly non-threatening in her very jolly Christmas jumper. He resisted the urge to snort, knowing full-well that his friend spent most of the time complaining whenever relationships were the topic of conversation, since she couldn't understand why she was still single.

"As I was saying," another glare was aimed his way, "Mum thinks I have a boyfriend, and my aunt overheard her on the phone just now talking about my non-existent boyfriend, and it was Aunt Linda-"

"The one who gossips to everybody?"

"Yes!" Y/n jabbed a finger in George's direction, expression wild and fierce. "The one who gossips to everybody! So by now I think my entire fucking extended family and every single family friend knows that I have a boyfriend, who does not exist, and thinks that he's coming to our family Christmas in the middle of fucking nowhere!"

"I thought it was your childhood town?"

"Which is in the middle of nowhere! Genuinely nothing but fields and forests and the general countryside for miles and miles. Oh, and to top that all off, my cousin will be there-"

"The bitchy one who makes you feel like shit who you also thought wasn't coming this year?"

"Yes. Her. And Linda is her mum so Steph'll definitely know." Y/n finished, throwing herself into the sofa with a groan, turning over slightly, and screaming into a pillow.

George was about to stand up and head to the kitchen to put the kettle on (Y/n normally screamed not long before crying full-out) when Lockwood poked his head through the door, frowning at the sight before him.

"Everything alright?"

"Y/n's having a crisis. Fancy a cuppa, Lockwood?" George properly got up now, glad that another member of the household was here to deal with the situation. Lockwood nodded, then frowned again when he realised that George was escaping and shutting the two of them in a room together. Lockwood absolutely could have left anytime he wanted, but it was likely that Y/n thought he'd volunteered for the role of caretaker and couldn't leave without looking like an arse, or starting yet another argument between the two of them.

George breathed a sigh of relief, then made for the kitchen. He'd need a cup of tea in a minute when Y/n realised who was there to comfort her.

~~~

"The fuck do you want, Lockwood?"

"I- uh... what's... what's the problem?" His voice sounded pained, like he really didn't want to be in the room, and Y/n rolled her eyes.

"If you don't care, then leave," she said, attempting to hide the wobble in her voice at the thought of having to find someone to drag to her family gathering for three days, where she would be interrogated and prodded and poked and watched every second of every minute of every day, and criticised for every tiny thing she did. She was dreading it, really, but at least the third day would just be her immediate family and her non-existent boyfriend. The first two days would be filled with inquisitive relations that hadn't seen her since last year, wondering about her job and why she hadn't pursued something more stable, or asking about her love life (that was completely uneventful) and why she wasn't thinking about settling down.

Lockwood's frustrated sigh brought her out of her thoughts, and she pulled her face out of the pillow enough to see him clenching his jaw as he studied the wall with a lot more interest than it deserved. "Fine. Vent if you need to. Can I help at all, or are you going to get on my nerves until you leave?"

"Do you always have to be such a dick, Lockwood? Or are you like that because you're compensating?"

"Fuck off."

"Lovely comeback," she snapped, turning to lie on her back, staring up at the ceiling instead of at her boss' face. If she looked at him any longer she might bore holes through his head with the intensity of her glare. Neither of them said anything for a minute, the only sounds the clock ticking away in the corner, counting down to her imminent doom, and George in the kitchen making tea. "My family thing, this weekend. Everyone thinks I'm bringing my boyfriend."

"You don't have a boyfriend though."

"I know that, Lockwood. But my family think that I do have one, and now I have less than forty-eight hours to find one." She heard him snort, and squeezed her eyes shut in the hopes that it would block out his next words.

"Good luck with that. Maybe Kipps'll volunteer? He needs the free food."

"Can't you have just the tiniest bit of sympathy for me?" She pushed up, moving to sit and direct her frustration at Lockwood. "I am in a near-impossible situation here and you're being insufferable right now!"

"Maybe you should take Lockwood," George said, and Y/n jumped at the sound of his voice in the living room.

"Where the fuck did you come from?" she asked, already eyeing up the plate of biscuits on the tea tray. "Wait," Y/n paused as she properly registered George's words. "Take him?" Lockwood looked just as horrified by the idea of it, shaking his head frantically.

"Yeah. Oh, here's your tea, Y/n/n."

"What about you, George?! Surely you could come along and help me out instead?!"

"I thought I told you already, I'm going to my own family's house for Christmas. Lucy's going to stay with Norrie, and Holly's spending the holidays with her girlfriend. Lockwood's alone, in this big old house, and you've got limited time and also limited options." Y/n was annoyed at how right George was, but she wasn't giving in so easily. Not when giving in meant spending three days with the one person she despised more than anything in the world.

"Fine, if you have no other options by the time you need to leave, I'll go with you. But I will not enjoy a second of it if I do," Lockwood finally ground out, and Y/n had to fight back a look of surprise at his words.

"You- what?"

"It saves being in this house alone over Christmas. I've done that one too many times now, and at least your family will be a distraction. And," he added, "a great way to see all your baby photos." His smile was wolfish, and Y/n wondered how anybody ever found it charming.

"Alright. But I'm finding someone else, so it looks like you'll have to miss out on this one I'm afraid." Her smile was simpering, sugar sweet and sickly with how faked it was.

George looked between the two of them, then sank back into his armchair with his tea. "That's that sorted then."

~~~

It was absolutely not sorted.

Y/n was panicking. A lot. Apparently nobody fancied spending Christmas with some random agent for three days in the literal middle of fucking nowhere with her entire extended family, which was incredibly inconvenient for Y/n.

She now was supposed to be leaving in roughly two hours, and was frantically shoving the last few things in her suitcase while phoning anybody that she could attempt to pass off as her fake boyfriend.

Anybody that meant she didn't have to take Lockwood.

Perhaps if he wasn't such an asshole all the time, she'd be less reluctant, but since the first day they'd met he'd been rude to her.

It had been after a job, three years ago back when she was a solo agent taking any work that meant she could keep a roof over her head and food in her belly. Her night had been long, making her tired and weary with how much her bones ached, and she was hardly looking where she was going when she turned the corner onto her street, making her bump into a tall figure. Her first thought when the two of them stumbled away from each other was how gorgeous this boy was, and her second was how utterly awful his personality was. She had apologised before she could see his face, already muttering excuses and explaining her lack of coordination, but within seconds he was opening his mouth and talking, telling her that she should have been more alert and "could she not stand on his shoes, they're new" and she'd taken a proper look at him and decided that yes, he was pretty, but he was also not particularly nice.

Then a few months later she'd seen an ad in the paper for a small agency that had needed a new agent, preferably with strong Touch, and had chosen to go along for an interview. What she hadn't expected was the boy from that night to be the one interviewing her, and evidently he was just as shocked to see her, his expression quickly settling into a frown.

"No thank you. We don't want careless agents like you, thank you very much." His words had stung more than she cared to admit, making the backs of her eyes prick and her throat close up with emotion. She'd almost turned tail and walked out the door (something she very rarely did), but a girl dressed mostly in blue and with an excited smile on her face came in to the room, asking if this was their new recruit. Apparently the boy couldn't say no to her, or the other girl that appeared a few moments later with her clothes all neat and ironed, or indeed the other boy with glasses and curly hair who had ketchup stains on his t-shirt. Within minutes of the three of them arriving in the room, Y/n had a job at the company as an agent with a strong sense of Touch, and was being given a biscuit and a cup of tea.

She had quickly learned that the first girl was Lucy, the second was Holly, and the curly-haired boy was George, and then Lockwood had introduced himself as the head of the company.

"Don't you have... supervisors?" she had asked, confused as to just how this company worked exactly.

"No." His smile had been tight, and he had left the room right after, pushing past his colleagues and heading up the stairs. Lucy had been quick to fill in the rest, explaining all the answers to every question that Y/n had, with Holly and George chipping in when she forgot something.

Lockwood had continued his behaviour from that day ever since, despite Y/n's best efforts to get him to like her, and eventually after a few months of attempted friendship offers, she gave up and leaned into the whole hating each other schtick that was apparently happening.

So no, she did not want to have to bring Lockwood to her family gathering for three days and pretend to love him. She didn't want to do that at all.

Unfortunately, it was starting to look as though she wouldn't have a choice.

~~~

"Well? Please? Come on, I never beg for anything from you."

"I know, and I'm actually rather enjoying it."

"Prick," Y/n muttered, frowning at Lockwood. "You said that you'd do it if you had to. Well, you have to. So pack your bags and let's go; the train's in an hour."

"Fine. But I am not happy about this." He made his way back inside his bedroom, leaving Y/n stood outside the door (she refused to cross the threshold of this one particular room).

"Oh, because I am personally so ecstatic about this situation!" Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and Lockwood paused in his packing to glare at her.

"It's not my fault you couldn't find somebody to pretend to date you for three days."

"No, but I'll blame you anyway."

"Charming."

"Hmm. Hurry up."

"We've got ages, stop fretting like a mother."

"The train leaves in an hour, and it takes ten minutes to get there. Then you have to factor in maybe five to ten minutes of traffic, and difficulties getting through the gates at the station which is what, another five minutes? And then if there are any problems with the actual trains then we want to be early just in case so that a plan can be made to get a different one, and also if there aren't any problems then we at least want to be there early so that we can get on first and get a table. So no, we haven't got ages, we've got minutes before we need to go. Hurry up."

Lockwood had been staring at her in disbelief while she talked, his jaw slack and his eyes wide, but when Y/n glared at him again he went back to packing. "You really think that much about travelling?"

"There is so much that can go wrong with trains, so yes."

"Fine," Lockwood huffed, coming out of his room to cross into the bathroom, grabbing his wash bag out of the cupboard and shoving a toothbrush and flannel in. "Where's the toothpaste?"

"I've got some, so we can share. Trust me, you don't want to share with George. He's like a dragon with the way he hoards his toothpaste."

Lockwood gave her a weird look as he zipped up the bag, heading back into his room to finish stuffing items into the large bag he was taking with him as luggage. Y/n was sure he'd repurposed a kit bag for this, but if it meant she wasn't having to explain to everyone why she had failed at bringing a boyfriend that didn't even exist then she supposed she could forget about where the kit was currently being stored.

"Ok, I think that's everything," he said, running a hand through his hair as he stood up, yanking the bag up and over his shoulder. He was still in a suit, which Y/n thought was ridiculous since they didn't even have any meetings today other than the one with her family, and when they made it to the bottom of the stairs he grabbed his jacket and signature long coat. Y/n was already in her own winter coat, thick scarf wrapped around her neck and gloves poking out her pocket, her boots echoing throughout the building. They were the only two left now, since the other three had already left for their own Christmas celebrations, so Lockwood had to spend an extra minute finding the keys to lock up, and then another minute trying to put them back in his pocket. In the end, Y/n was so frustrated with how long he was taking that she snatched the keys from his hand and shoved them in the chest pocket on the inside of his coat, turning and dragging her small suitcase behind her into the pre-booked taxi.

"Sorry, he takes a while to do things every now and then. He's immensely stupid," she said, smiling at the driver as the man put her suitcase in the boot of his taxi. He looked concerned, frowning up at Lockwood where he was coming down the stairs, then nodded slightly, his expression morphing into confusion.

The drive itself was fast, and there were no problems at the station, but Y/n still couldn't help but feel that something would go wrong on their journey to her parents' house.

"The only thing that's wrong-"

"Don't say that, you bastard!"

"-is me being here."

"Oh. Well, that's true."

"Why couldn't you have just gone on your own?"

"You'll see when you meet everyone. Are you... will you be alright? I mean, it's literally everybody still alive in my family along with all of our close friends, which is near on fifty people, all in my parents' house."

"What are you trying to say?" Lockwood's expression was stony, and a coldness had come into his eyes that Y/n had only ever seen back when she was trying to be his friend and asked about his family. She had since learned that they had died when he was young, and had steered well clear of the subject afterwards.

"I just... it's a lot for me, and I do this every year. I can't imagine how awful this'll be for someone who's..." she trailed off, trying to find the right words.

"Who's family is dead?" Lockwood asked, more forcefully than he needed to.

"No, I didn't mean-" Y/n said.

"Sure," he cut her off, tone sharp and as bitter as the wind that was whipping around them. She tried to speak again, but he scoffed and turned away before she could explain what she had really meant by her words. Lockwood didn't seem to be relenting anytime soon, instead choosing to stare out at the tracks with a clenched jaw. The conversation died, and they didn't say a word until the train pulled up to the platform and they were attempting to find a good seat.

When they were finally sat down, bags secure and able to relax a little, Y/n sighed softly at Lockwood's still tense figure. He wasn't looking at her, which she supposed was a good thing because generally when he looked at her he was coming up with something rude to say. But if they wanted this to work, they needed to be talking.

And apparently, Y/n had pissed off her fake boyfriend.

Ugh, she thought. This is going to be a fucking shitshow.

part 2

Tag list (hopefully this is everyone): @anathemaloren, @augustisintheair, @avdiobliss, @briar-rose23, @curseofhecate, @dangelnleif, @el-de-phi, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @informedimagining, @karensirkobabes, @locknco, @mischivana, @mitskiswift99, @mrsklockwood, @mrsyixingunicorn10, @no-morning-glories, @novelizt, @ran23sblog, @superpositvecloudshipper, @t2sh0, @taygrls, @tournesol77, @whenselenefallsinlove, @wordsarelife

[widebrimmedhatsblog]

I'm going to combine my reply to yours on AO3 with this, but yes, I 100% get it. People can be so rude and unappreciative and I know it's usually not on purpose but it can still be grating. Not very demure, not very mindful 😓

This is a really young fandom (not just in age specifically, but in fandom experience) and I try to remind myself of that all the time. I'm in a place now where I just scroll past in my inbox and barely take in comments like that, but I get how disappointing it can be. We work really hard on these pieces and they genuinely take a lot of our time and energy we could spend doing other things (I haven't read a book in months), so getting responses like that on a labour of love is so grating.

I feel so awkward as a writer who gets it even phrasing "I'd love to see more" in comments. It's very: I want this person to know I loved it so much I want to see more of it, but also: I don't want this person to feel pressured to do it just because I love it, I just want them to know. Even when I commented, I had in the back of my mind how many WIPs you were working on and how stressful that can be holding all of that in your head, but I don't think normal people realise.

It's like you have a million things to do but you've spent all day baking a triple layer cake with filling and frosting and all the toppings and you're exhausted and your feet hurt but you're eagerly watching someone eat the first slice...and they say "nice! have you got any biscuits?" and you're just like???

@justallihere and I always talk about starting a fandom podcast to talk about things like this and educate people and honestly, I think the world needs it. People treat writers like TikTok content creators and that's just not how it works over here.

(Also, I promise we're not girlbossing it, we're bullshitting our way through every minute of every day)

I'm annoyed that this has ruined the excitement of posting a new work for you, you should be able to bask in our shared joy after gifting us something like this. I really loved the work, truly and I can understand the lack of inclination to continue it given the little worldbuilding we've been shown. It certainly doesn't make canon-adjacent fic easy. Love that you don't like Brennan though, or have any desire to write him. He's dodgy as fuck.

As a writer, you can only write what you want to write. If you're not enthusiastic about it or inspired by it, it either won't be written at all, or the magic won't be there. If you can see where it goes but you don't want to write it then you shouldn't.

I'm so grateful for you taking on the prompt in the first place, it was a wonderful gift and the pair of them were everything I could have hoped for—Violet being her prickly self and Xaden still being a self-assured casanova? Delicious. Plus, we love a fic where Violet gets eaten out in the wilderness 😉 Welcome to the club! Should we create a 'cunnilingus in the wilderness' tag for this fandom?

You put so much thought into this whole world and it's absolutely, truly appreciated by those who matter and understand how hard the process is and what a gift it is—thank you, thank you, thank you! 🙏

Amy!!! You are so lovely, thank YOU. I get you 100000% and I didn’t feel pressured by you whatsoever. I definitely agree that people who aren’t writers just don’t get it. I got a comment this morning that was like I’d read 200k more of this, and it’s like, someone has to WRITE 200k more of it then. Two hundred thousand words are not going to fall out of the sky just because you’d like to read them. But I digress!!! There’s been a lot of joy in it too, especially in discussing the backstory with everyone. If you and Alli had a podcast I think I would go a little insane!

I personally am just not huge on writing Brennan when he’s alive because he makes NO SENSE. I feel slightly similar about the Fen & Xaden dynamic. I just prefer to write him being dead for that reason.

Again, I’m so so SO glad you specifically enjoyed the fic!! I thought about you a lot while writing it, so I’m glad that paid off.

Cunnilingus In The Wildnerness Tag!!! Absolutely. I am honored to join the club .

This made me very happy, and definitely helped me feel better about things + my reaction to them. Thank you.

[shhh-secret-time]

Star Park AU: Stan Marsh Edition

-> Lives on Tegridy Farms with his family. His dad sold their house and moved them out to the valley when Stan was ten. (They're essentially where Marnie is in game.)

-> Sparky is still alive but he's getting older, so he sticks to laying on the porch waiting for Stan to get back

-> Plays football with Clyde, Craig, and Tolkien! Kenny and Cartman will join in sometimes and he practically drags Kyle out to join them.

-> He works for Joja Mart with his sister. They'd both rather work there than be near their dad.

》 He's saving up to move back to the city, or so he says. Truth be told he can't leave behind Sparky or his Mom.

-> He bought his own chicken coop and has a few chickens of his own.

-> He goes to the saloon every night, most nights by himself

-> But on Fridays, after Jimmy's comedy act, him and his band will play!

-> On Sundays when everyone else is in church or doing their own thing. Stan and Kyle will go up to the summit past the railroad tracks and spend hours up there. Catching up and just unwinding.

-> He probably has a mini event that's kind of like Sam's 2 heart event, where he asks the Farmer what type of music they like.

Gift Guide:

Loves: Pizza, Survival Burger, Book of Mysteries, Frozen Tears, Beer (This changes after Heart Event 6)

Likes: Joja Cola, Apples, All Eggs, Void Esscene, Large Milk

Neutral: All Fruit (Except Apples), Coffee, Peppers

Dislikes: Fertilizer, Daffodil, Any Fish, Pink Cake

Hates: Rabbit Foot, Coleslaw, Clay, Beer (After Heart Event 6)

Loved: "Dude! Are you sure?! Man this rules!"

Liked: "Oh, uh thanks! Should I get you something back?"

Neutral: "Cool, I'll find a use for it."

Disliked: "What...is this? Why?"

Hated: "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Given any alcohol after Heart Event 6: "Why would you give me this?! You know I'm trying to stop!"

Heart Event @ 2:

Stan is throwing empty beer bottles at the passing train, they shatter just as the Farmer approaches him. He looks back at them with a grin offering one for them to throw. He mentions that he was drinking with his friend Kenny but he had to go, so now he's just passing time. He's not quite drunk yet but he's tipsy. When the Farmer takes the bottle and throws it he relaxes a little, says that he's glad they're not put off by the behavior. After a little bit of silence, he asks them why they moved to the Valley. There's not a lot of money in farming and then makes a comment about how he fucking hates it. How he feels isolated from the rest of the town sometimes.

-> Feels that way sometimes doesn't it? But at least you have your friends (+)

-> You're literally closer to town than I am, don't your friends come to visit you? (-)

If First Option: He mulls it over and decides you're right. He should he grateful he at least has them. Though lately it feels like they're drifting apart. Stan comments how you must feel lonely being new to town and all.

"Oh well. I guess we can be lonely losers together. Farmer buddies and all that."

If Second Option: Stan doesn't really appreciate the sass. He wasn't looking for a pity party, just wanted to kinda vent. He makes note not to talk about it again.

"Yeah sure. I guess, but you didn't have to be a dick about it."

Heart Event @ 4:

Stan and his friends are playing pool at the tavern, a rare instance where they're all off work and finally get to hang out. He leans over the pool table and sinks another ball, much to Kyle's annoyance. As the Farmer comes in Cartman makes a comment that Kyle is getting his ass kicked and bad. It prompts Kyle to snap at him and shake the pool cue at him. Kenny and Stan laugh a little before Stan realizes you're there. He smiles and gestures for you to come over! Now that you're here they have enough for teams. Farmer is confused because there's already four of them, they make five. Stan whispers in their ear, explaining that Cartman won't play with Kyle anymore. He lost one time and now he's convinced that Kyle cheated. Something about how there's no way Kyle would ever actually win a game fair and square. When you agree he gets excited and before anyone else gets the chance he announces that you'll be on his team!

"Awesome! We're gonna smoke these guys! Kenny wrack 'em! Farmer is with me!"

⚠️ TW: Attempted suicide ahead ⚠️

Heart Event @ 6:

Stan's drinking again. Right next to the railroad tracks but this time he's got one foot on the railroad, rocking back and forth. There's glass bottles around him, unbroken and too many to count. He almost stumbles down to the ground but he keeps himself up. Farmer approaches and that's when they hear the sound of the train coming in, and it's coming fast. Stan had no intentions on moving, in fact he looks like he's about to fall forward willingly. The dead look in his eyes tells them that much. Farmer runs across the field and tackles him into the ground, the train narrowly missing the both of them. Stan lays there having just had the wind knocked out of him. His head is spinning and he feels sick, but he also feels the Farmer on his chest and his back against the ground. He's not dead. Then it hits him, you almost died to save him. You who's kept talking to him despite everything, even when he was being an ass.

"You....you could have gotten yourself killed why would you do that?"

-> I couldn't just stand there and watch you die Stan!

-> Are you crazy?! You almost got us both killed!

-> I don't know...my legs just moved on their own.

-> (Just hug him)

If First Option: Stan starts crying and presses his palms into his eyes. He lays there and sobs, but he feels safe enough to do it.

"Hey Farmer...hic...can you help me to Kyle. I'm scared."

If Second Option: He grits his teeth and digs his hand into the dirt. Stan knows what he did was crazy, he can't be mad at you for snapping like that. You just saved his life. But he didn't ask you to.

"Fuck...I know. Look, just help me get to Kyle. I think I'm gonna be sick."

If Third Option: Stan doesn't know what to say but he thinks he gets it. He just closes his eyes and tries to stop the dizzy ride his drunken state is on. He doesn't want to move but he can't just lay here all day.

"Do you think Kyle is gonna yell at me...if I show up looking like this? Maybe if I just go to sleep I won't have to think about it."

If Fourth Option: Stan freezes he wasn't expecting the Farmer to do that. They should be angry with him, furious. But they're hugging him and clinging to him for dear life. His life. Stan wraps his arms around them and starts to cry. It's the most vulnerable he's been with anyone in a long time.

"Shit...fuck dude...just please don't let me go. I don't wanna go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Heart Event @ 8:

It's early morning when the Farmer steps out, they're greeted with the sound of music. Stan is sitting on their porch playing his old guitar, the acoustic one that's seen better days. When the Farmer gets closer he looks up at them for a moment, unable to look them in the eye for too long. After a moment of silence, he tells them that Kyle got it out of storage for him. Says it'll help him focus on something other than the withdrawals and that Kyle put him in contact with a therapist. He thanks the Farmer for saving his life, and apologizes that they had to see that. As he plays a somber tune again he makes a comment, this is the first time he's been on their farm. First time he's been out this way since they moved into the valley. He confesses that your farm is a lot nicer than his dad's and that maybe farming isn't so bad. Farmer sits beside him and he quietly continues playing, they've never heard him play this song before.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry I've been a jerk to you. You and Kyle shouldn't have to take care of me, but you did. You care and I should remember that. Sparky would have been really upset if I never came home. So thanks...for everything."

When given the bouquet:

"!! I don't understand why you'd choose me, but...I'm selfish and I want you all to myself. So I accept!"

Heart Event @ 10:

Stan is leading Farmer past the railroad tracks, he doesn't even seem bothered much anymore to be here. He leads them up the path that he's taken a thousand times. There he leads them to the summit, his favorite spot to be at. They sit together at the edge if the cliff with their legs dangling off the side. He admits to them that he liked coming up here a lot as a kid, when his dad and him would fight it was his little hiding spot. Then he brought Kyle and it became special. The days where he'd get stupid drunk he'd think about just falling forward like that day with the train. But it's because of those amazing memories with his best friend, he could never bring himself to do it. They're special and he wouldn't want to ruin them for Kyle. It's things like that, that remind him why he's alive. Things like you. He smiles at the Farmer and tells you this. Tells Farmer he wants to continue to make more memories with them so he has a reason. His hand inches closer to theirs, not quite touching. Before he can pull away, Farmer takes his hand and slides closer to him. They rest their head on his shoulder and look up towards the big illuminated moon that's in front of them. Stan wraps his arm around them and lays his cheek on top of their head.

"Every moment with you reminds me why I'm here. I'm not...perfect and I don't think I'll ever understand why you choose to stick around. But I meant what I said, I want you around me always. I can breath with you around."

Heart Event @ 14:

Stan's outside playing with Sparky and Farmer's pet, when he moved in he brought his beloved dog with him. Sparky seems to be getting better every day he's here and Stan couldn't be happier. Farmer walks up with hearts in their eyes, making him a little bashful. He rubs the back of his neck just as Sparky brings the ball back. He mentions that he really loved animals, and that he's always had a soft spot for them. Farmer questions him about his love for Survival Burgers, which he quickly points out that they're made of Cave Carrot NOT beef! After a little while of playing with the pets he sits in the field with them, looking over their hardwork. Stan turns red and starts ranting about how the last time he went to visit his dad, he started nagging him about grandkids. He's embarrassed because Randy has never mentioned it before and it makes him uncomfortable.

"He's such an ass! You'd think he'd stop trying to tell me how to live my life after I moved out. Why doesn't he bother Shelly with this?!"

-> He probably does. We don't have to have kids if you don't want them! I'm just happy you're here with me! Don't let him get to you!

-> Don't let your dad pressure you into anything you're not ready for. It's our relationship and we'll decide when and if we want kids. But if you're anything like you are with Sparky towards kids, I think you'd be a great dad!

If First Option: Stan grins and tells them they're right as always. He leans down and kisses the top of their head. Sparky walks over with the Farmer's pet and lays in their lap. Stan smirks and makes a comment about how they could just get another dog.

"Our farm is big enough for another one right? We could get one or two more puppies. They could help with the sheep and chickens! Help dig holes!"

If Second Option: Stan says he'll think on it. Later that night while Farmer is cleaning up the dishes and putting them away. Stan walks up behind them and wraps his arms around them. He murmurs in their ear that he's been doing nothing but thinking about what they said. The thought of starting a family with them is starting to sound appealing, plus it could be fun raising a mini them. He presses a kiss into their temple.

"You really think I'll make a good dad? I just don't wanna end up like mine...but if you're with me I think I could do it. And if they're anything like you, they'll be an amazing kid."

Random Marriage Quotes!!

"You looked really adorable asleep last night...you also drooled on my arm."

"Having a bad thought day...I might be a little off today. I'm sorry."

"Babe, you got dirt on your face. C'mere, let me clean it. Just let me take care of you butthead!"

"Sparky and I watered the crops today! How do you know how much to give them? I feel like I'm drowning them."

"Fed the animals! They're doing great! Would...you judge me if I took a nap out in the field with them?"

"Hey...real quick...I uh- I love you. I know I don't say it enough and I'm sorry, but I really do."

"Morning. Made you some pancakes! I stole the recipe from my mom! Why do you look scared?"

"Hey babe, I'm going to visit my parents today. Please feel free to come save me when you're done doing what you need to do."

"Are you coming to the tavern tonight? We're playing a new song tonight, I wrote it for you."

"You know, when I was a kid, when I got nervous, I'd throw up. You make me nervous sometimes but I- hey! I'm not going to puke on you, I'm not twelve. Get back here!"

Tag List: @hunnysnoops

[theosb0rnway]

Just finished the Bad Batch finale and HOLY SHIT IT WAS SO FUCKING GOOD

SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

THEY ALL LIVED!!! HOLY SHIT THEY ALL LIVED I CAN'T BELIEVE IT--

So um.... yeah Tech's still not dead to me, CX-2 is alive, everything is fine, we'll see him soon, it's fine-

Crosshair GOT HIS HAND CUT OFFFF- Not the biggest Crosshair fan but I still feel so bad.... BYT AT LEAST HE MADE THE SHOT AND SAVED OMEGA AND HE GETS A HAPPY ENDING NOW

Speaking of happy endings, THEY ALL GET TO GROW OLD!!!! I'M SO FUCKING HAPPY FOR THAT, I'M SO GRATEFUL THEY GET TO LIVE THAT PEACEFUL LIFE THEY WANTED, EVEN IF WE DIDN’T GET TO SEE IT

GONKY'S ALIVE AND WELL, THANK THE FORCE

Emerie helped the kids escape I'm so glad they all made it too AND THE KIDS LOOKED SO CUTE ON PABU WITH MOX, DEKE, AND STAK

ECHO'S STILL ALIVE AND HELPING THE CLONES FIGHT, HELL YEAH

They rescued the clones!!!! I'm SO FUCKING HAPPY they did

HEMLOCK AND RAMPART ARE FUCKING DEAD, LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOOOO

Rampart was a double-crossing son of a bitch and he got what he deserved. Rest in peace, Nala Se. You may not have always been on the right side, but you died doing the right thing.

Did I mention that I don't think Tech is dead?

The CXs were SO COOL I wish we got to see more of them!!!

DID I MENTION THAT I DON'T THINK TECH IS DEAD?!? (I'm not losing hope guys, I'm not-)

The Zillo beast absolutely RIPPING UP TANTISS was fucking FANTASTIC and I love it and it was VERY VERY MUCH DESERVED

Baryn is me, I need loud destructive noises to fall asleep LOL (this is why I can only fall asleep to FNAF songs in my ears-)

Seeing grown up Omega made me cry, and I love that older Hunter looks like pretty much every older Hunter fanart ever drawn-

Wish we could have seen older Wrecker and Crosshair, and GIVE ME SCENES OF BOTH OF THEM HEALING, PLEASE- (Crosshair did not eat on screen the ENTIRE SEASON I don't like that at ALL.)

Overall, I thought the finale was a solid 9 1/2 out of 10, the only thing that could have made it better was a CX-2 is Tech reveal, but... I mean I got everything else, so I'm not entirely disappointed.

I'm still staying VERY MUCH a part of this fandom, sorry not sorry to my followers who came for the Ninja Turtles and got Star Wars copy-paste men instead-

As I mentioned, I do have a Bad Batch project coming out soon, and I guess I could call it a fix-it now... but yeah, I'm not done with Star Wars and at this point in my life, I really don't think I'm leaving this fandom any time soon. Yes, it has some issues, as all fandoms do, but it's where I fit best at the moment. I'll still be posting other stuff, but Star Wars and the Scream franchise are my main fandoms for now.

Thank you to the cast and crew of this WONDERFUL show, you did it again, Star Wars. (*puts TBB in my top 3 TV shows of all time*)

And thanks to all my friends here on Tumblr who helped me get into this show and traded theories and so much more! (Also special thanks to @atyourdinosaurs for all of your love, theories, and ideas [and for inspiring my new project], and to @casp1an-sea and @thecoffeelorian for being two amazing friends I made from this fandom!)

We had a great run, guys. It's a honor to love this show and to be here for its final moments. Here's to more Star Wars and to more Bad Batch content in the future.

-Oz

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Watching you get hurt is like a blade through the heart, I can't take it.

Could you write a small piece of Highchool AU with this? (Perhaps the night Adam got attacked? Please :<????)

Ouch my own heart.

Beep....... Beep....... Beep......

That was the only sound that Adam could hear as he started to wake up. He groaned, everything ached his head felt heavy. Opening his eyes, light hit him right away making Adam wince.

When he finally adjusted, he opened them to see his arms covered in many wires and bandages. The sheet was pulled up halfway and Adam could see the bandages on his chest. His chest suddenly felt heavy, it throbbed with pain making Adam gasp.

What the fuck happened?

"Adam? Oh my god you're awake." He looked to see Lucifer sitting beside him, his cheeks stains with tears but he was smiling at him. "I was so worried."

"Lu?" Adam's voice was coarse, his throat dry like sandpaper. "What happened?"

Lucifer took Adams hand in his, making sure to be gentle. "You don't remember?"

Adam looked down at their hands, trying to recall what happened. It hit him like a semi, the memory of Alastor coming up from behind and throwing him into the wall before stabbing him.

I don't normally play with my food, but I'll make an exception for you.

The words echoed in Adam's mind, his stomach clenched, chest felt tight.

He was gonna puke.

Sensing this, Lucifer grabbed the trash can and placed it in front of Adam in time as he threw up the contents of his stomach. When he was done Lucifer put it back.

"That fucker stabbed me, he tried to kill me, he called me food." Adam sobbed. He felt a weight move onto the bed and he leaned into Lucifer's chest and cried he didn't care how it looked.

Lucifer was still pissed at that asshole Alastor, he deserves worse than what he did to him for stabbing Adam. "Shhh, it's okay love you're safe now." It took a while for Adam to stop crying. "I'm sorry."

Adam looked up at his boyfriend confused. "The fuck are you sorry for?"

"Not being there. Maybe this wouldn't have happened. Watching you get hurt is like a blade through the heart, I can't take it." Lucifer felt his eyes water again, the memory of Alastor having Adam pinned to that wall, blade in his chest, blood pooling....... Lucifer didn't want to think about it he never showed up.

Adam would be dead for sure.

"Luci, you saved my life. I'm forever grateful to you, I love you." It may be the pain meds talking, but Adam was feeling emotional.

"I love you, too." Lucifer placed a kiss on Adam's forehead. "I'm glad you're alive."

Adam snorted. "Yeah me too."

They stayed like that for a while until Sera and the doctor came in. Adam would be in the hospital until his injuries healed more and Lucifer would visit every day.

[hotxcheeto]

How do you feel about a fluffy Abby x reader where Abby is stressed to heck and back and reader soft doms her in order to help her relax and unwind. I'd prefer it sfw as I'm not super comfortable with smut (I know, kinda odd, given the soft dom aspect) if that's all good.

━ 𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨) - Abby Anderson x G/N!Reader 

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 - Like one curse word, mentions of abby going through it lol, mentions of wounds? ( brief )

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 ? - Yeah/Nope

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚 - so sorry this took so long!!! ily!! also enjoying the new blog looks :)))

You'd gotten home late, but not as late as she had.

Standing in front of the shared bathrooms' mirror, you dried face off after washing it, the hot water from the shower continuing to steam up the bathroom. But the door had been left ajar, giving you fresh air as you turned to hang the towel back up.

"Fuck I forgot my clothes." You heard her mutter, quietly talking into the air as if you weren't there. "I already got your clothes for you babe. Next to the sink, like always."

You heard her mumble a quiet 'thank you' as you walked out, moving to go sit on the bed while you waited for her to be done.

Though, despite the very short conversation, and the sad and strained undertone in her voice, you were grateful. Grateful that for the past week, she'd made it home alive, unscathed besides a few wounds you'd patch up for her.

Silently, of course, because lately it seemed as if she could barely catch a moment of silence.

Nonstop. Working. Fighting. Mission after mission.

You loved your girlfriend, you did, but sometimes you wanted to beat her over the head with a bat and ask her to just take a break.

And finally, she is. A few days, in fact, unless of course that stupid man wants her back out there for an 'emergency only she can handle'.

He, quite frankly, could get bit, and you wouldn't bat an eye.

"Hey." You broke yourself from your thoughts, turning your head to face her, a smile finding its way onto your lips. "Hey there, what can I do for you?"

As if your voice was magic, her shoulders dropped and the thin line on her face turned upwards. The bed sinking as she began to crawl lean towards you.

"How was your day?" You then asked, Abby moving to lay her entire body over yours and lay her head on your stomach, smiling at your laughter.

"You tired?" She hummed, letting out a quiet noise when you ran your hands through her wet hair, scratching at her scalp. Not minding how wet your shirt got because of her hair, you were just glad she was here.

"I missed you today." You then said, looking forward as she huffed. "Let me guess, Isaac made you leave as early as humanly possible?"

You felt her silently laugh, glancing up at you as she finally spoke.

"Yeah, but he also said that I need to get more sleep so I can be 'on top of my game' whatever the hell that means." You snorted, looking up at the ceiling, rubbing your sore eyes. "What an idiot." You groaned.

"You've been working all week, m'just glad you're finally off."

"Yeah but I still have to do that run for him in a few days, and he wants me to take a group and run it and–"

You tapped her lips, making her eyes flicker towards you once more.

"You're off." You whispered. "How about we forget about Isaac in all his dumbassary and instead, we relax." She opened her mouth but you shook your head making her grumble.

"Sit up, let me braid your hair." "Why?" Abby ran her hand over her face, muttering a few quiet complaints. "Because we both know you'll complain about 'how your hair dried; and that 'it's knotted' as soon as you wake up."

Abby, with dramatic eye roll, sat up and turned around, showing you the back of her head.

"Thank you." You hummed, a soft smile on your lips as your brushed her hair back with your nails. "Yeah, yeah." "Mm, don't start with that. When I'm done, you're sleeping, understand?"

"But what about the stupid report, Isaac said to give it to him in the morn–" "The morning ends at eleven fifty-nine. He doesn't need the report at eight o'clock on the dot Abs." She huffed once more, leaning back towards your hands as you began the braid.

"Fine. What about Nora? She said she could use my help tomorrow, and since I have the day off–"

"Abigail, you are staying in this damn room the entire day tomorrow even if I have to chain you to the bedpost."

You tied the braid, setting your hands on her shoulders as you leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"You're relaxing, that's final." Your voice had quieted, leaning against her shoulder while taking in her smell. Closing your eyes in content.

"You help everyone, always. Tomorrow, me and you, that's it. I make myself clear, babe?"

"Yeah. Thank you." Abby leaned her head towards you, asking silently for another kiss to her cheek, which you gave her. Then kissing her forehead.

"Lay down. Bedtime."

Abby complied moving to lay beside you, facing your frame while you turned back to turn the lamp off. Rolling over to face her, pulling her body towards your own.

"I love you, cuddlebug." You felt her smile against you at the use of her despised nickname, yet she was too tired to fight it.

"Love you more babe."

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys. 

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

-

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel? 

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

-

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home? 

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean. 

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him. 

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

[batorchids-meadow]

Happy New Year! Satan x GN!MC

Fluff, low social battery, cheesy confession, new years party

Constructive Criticism it welcome, hope you enjoy :)

I will most likely make a part 2 for this which is more on the smutty side, will be up once finished.

Word Count: 1.1k

Last year was, weird. Really fucking weird. I met nine demons, two angels and a sorcerer, the twelve of them slowly but surely becoming some of my closest friends, yet my mind always came back to one of them. A specific recluse. A lovely bookworm with a short temper, but I’ve found that his temper has improved over the time I spent with him during the exchange program. And when I came back and accidentally landed on him, he didn’t threaten to kill me like he would anyone else. In fact, he hugged me and said he was glad to see me alive and healthy. I’m glad I met him, and I'm glad that he’s the one I've grown closest with. We’d often have book nights in his room and sit in a comfortable silence with tea by our sides. Satan is something else. An angry personality with a soft spot for me. I'm really grateful for him. We were all at a new years party at the Demon Lord’s castle and I was hoping to dance with just the blondie of my dreams but, I never got the chance. Instead, I had Lord Diavolo, Lucifer, and Mammon all over me with Simeon and Solomon intervening at intervals they saw fit. I never had the chance to dance with him and that made me upset. My social battery had been at a rapid decline for most of the party, but he was here so I couldn’t just leave. Plus, Diavolo put his heart and soul into making this party enjoyable, even Levi was enjoying himself. Yet I was stood on a balcony gasping for fresh air as all I wanted was to go back to the house and spend a quiet evening with Satan by the fireplace in the library while we read, listening to the crackle of the fireplace on new years eve. But that wasn’t going to happen. At least not this year or right now. I wanted to leave, badly but I'm not allowed. Even if I did leave the castle, Lucifer has the house keys, and I don’t have the heart to beg him to let me leave. I heard footsteps coming towards me and if I was correct, Barbatos was about to ask me either: if I was okay or to come back inside and enjoy the party. Knowing him, it’d probably be the former.

“Are you alright MC? You’ve been out here on your own a while.” He said, I knew it was him. He’s the only one who can slink away unnoticed. I nodded saying something about fresh air and my social battery reaching its limit. I assume he nodded and made a quiet exit because when I turned around to face him, he was gone as if he’d never been there in the first place. I wanted to go back inside, I really did but at the same time, I just wanted to leave. To go home and have a comfortable evening. I heard another set of footsteps. A bit heavier than Barbatos’ but not heavy enough for me to pin who they belonged to.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, I'm lucky I bumped into Barbatos, and he told me.” A gruff voice sounded from behind me. I knew in that moment that it was Satan’s. I turned my neck to be able to look at him from the corner of my eye and, damn did he look good in a suit. He looked good in a lot to be honest. I let him walk towards me and look across the Devildom at my side. Leaning into him, I felt my whole body relax and my social battery began to recharge. All be it slowly, but it was recharging.

“You know, you are the most beautiful looking at this entire party.” Satan whispered to me; a light flush covered my cheeks in that moment as he wrapped his arm around my waist. He often did stuff like that: holding my hand in public, holding me by the waist during our book nights and if I was busy falling asleep, he’d play with my hair lightly and give me a kiss to my forehead as I drifted off. He hasn’t always been this comforting especially when we first met, but he warmed up in time and I'm so glad that I stayed with him the whole time.

“Did you want to dance with me?” He questioned.

“I really did, but then I had Diavolo, Lucifer, Solomon, Simeon, and Mammon constantly asking. And now my social battery is fucking gone. I'm sorry, id love to dance but I'm exhausted. It’s the whole reason I came out here.” I confessed, my feet ached, and my ears were ringing from the loud music playing.

“You were the only one I wanted to dance with because you know when I want to stop and you do, the others just constantly begged for me to keep dancing, Simeon being the only exception.” I drawled, my words starting to slur slightly together as my exhaustion slowly started to catch up. It was at that moment when the new year clock began to count down, and everyone in the hall began to count down. They started from thirty.

“Look, there’s something I've been meaning to tell you for a while and… I just don't know how to say it.” Satan started speaking, I was solely focused on him and his words.

“The time we’ve spent together has been amazing and I wouldn’t wish for it to be any other way apart from one thing.” I raised an eyebrow at his statement, my confusion starting to sober me up.

“It’s just, I just… ugh, I want to know-” He was cut off from everyone inside getting louder:

“Ten.”

“Nine.”

“Eight.”

“Seven.”

“Six.”

“Five.”

“Look, I really want to be able to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Four.”

“And I’d be so grateful if you would like to spend those years with me.”

“Three.”

“And I hate that it took me this long to be able to tell you.”

“Two.”

“To tell you that-”

“One.”

“I love you.”

“Happy New Year!” and with that, he kissed me. Slightly passionate and wanting, almost lustful. I kissed him back, wanting this for I can’t even remember how long.

“I love you too.” I whispered to him, as we broke the kiss. I've wanted this for ages, but I’d been too shy to be able to tell him.

“How about we get out of here.”

“But Lucifer has the house keys.”

“I already thought about that.” He held the keys in front of me and shook them slightly allowing them to jingle quietly.

“Then lets fucking leave!” I whisper yelled back to him.

[navybrat817]

Would you ever write a bratty or sassy reader with Steve Rogers?

I very much would, nonnie. Just need the right set up for it!

Sassy? I could be projecting because bills, but can you imagine Steve and the gang saving the day once again, only for you to come out and see your car demolished? The car you JUST paid off last month? After the worst day leading up to it?

You: "He wrecked my car!"

Your friend: "You can't really be mad, can you? It's Steve Rogers. He's a hero!"

You: "Yeah. Hero. Great. Very thankful to be alive and so fucking glad he ruin my car. I'm ALLOWED to be grateful for my life and pissed about this."

Your friend: "To be fair, your car was kind of a piece a shit."

You: "But it was MY piece of shit!"

Your friend: "Well, he's over there if you want to say 'thank you'."

You: "Hey! Steve Rogers! Yeah, you. Thanks for Mario stomping my car like it was a goomba! Appreciate you!"

Your friend: "..."

Love and thanks! ❤️

[hell-drabbles]

I've been binging your Embittered Companion AU and with the new story event I've been having brainrot so fucking bad. This might be a bit inaccurate to the lore since I'm only towards the end of Chapter two. (The game is fun, but it also really fucking drags.)

I also took some liberties with the angelification of the reader.

I'm apologizing in advance for my rambling.

Hurt with no comfort and gore coming right up, be warned!

Spoiler warning for the current Story Event!

You know how Lucifer made himself fall because he ripped out his wings? Make that the reader/companion when they are aware/lucid after they were turned into an angel.

The charm the angels used to turn them into an angel had been flawed. Their angelification could never be truly be completed from the very beginning. It was meant for devils after all, and they were never a devil to begin with, being human through and through. It had left them inbetween, stuck being angel and human, both at the same but neither in a single breath. It left them torn between their humanity and the Angelic Grace forced on them. It left their mind broken, the few moments where their mind resembled being whole enough to remember who they were so very rare and so very short. But that was enough. Because in those moments were long enough for them to remember their friends left behind. They would not let themselves be used to hurt those they cared for. No more will they let themselves be treated like a puppet and thosr angels their puppeteer.

That moment of lucidity was just long enough to rip out those wretched feathered wings. They dig their nails into their fragile skin, their own blood painting their hands and body as it splits apart underneath their own hands. It hurts, the feelings of the muscles ripping and the tendons snapping. But the pain is nothing to the agony of the holy light always burning behind their eyelids and the loud choir of angels they were never supposed to hear beckoning them to join the masses always ringing in their ears. So they claw at the bones that were never supposed to sprout from their body, the wings that were never supposed to be attached to their back.

They fall from the Heavens, leaving the wretched beings that think only themselves deserving of God.

They fall. Finally silence, finally there is darkness where previously those grating screams were heard and the painful holy light glowed without mercy.

So they fall from the Heavens, past the Earth were they were born and lived and to Hell.

They are a bright streak across the red sky. They burn like a star falling, their body breaking apart.

Their scattered memories flash across their mind as they fall.

It's been months since they were turned. They remember seeing Ra-On and those devils that always sticked to him like glue. They remember hurting the devils and being used for Ra-On's torment by those damned angels that kept them on a leash for so long.

What would Ra-On think, seeing them now? What would poor Mhinyeok think, left behind on Earth like he was?

Maybe they would think them dead. It feels very much like they are dying, they think with some dark humour for their current situation as their consciousness fades to black as they slam into the ground with the force of a thousand suns, burning alive and spilling rivulets of red and glowing white-gold on the grass beneath them.

Awaken ye, you who has been reborn twice.

The You who is not Human, neither Angel, nor Devil now and yet all three the very same, You who no longer belongs to any place.

For You have been made anew, this Your third Dawning after Your Life ended twice.

Come forth, return to those You wished to protect.

I hoped you liked this and let me know what you thought of this! It was a fun writing practice and great way to get those thoughts rattling in my brain out.

Heheheh oh I love the good ol hurt with no comfort. Just, blast me with that angst. I'm glad to see that people love the Embittered Companion AU as much as they do. I was a little worried initially that it would set people off, since I'm aware of how protective people are of self-insert MC's but I'm glad there are people that have the same reservations as me.

Anyways, hohoho, here's a drabble that popped in my head. Warning: we be exploring the body of the Companion after they made impact on the ground.

Nothing and no one came to gather what lay in the center of that great crater. The only visitors were rain, snow and hail. Isn't it strange, though, to see that no matter how much times passes, the body within continues to bleed? You were in pieces, consciousness no longer a part of the waking world, and yet you continue to bleed.

Perhaps you would think it strange, if you were awake at all. But you weren't. You were simply there, still, as time moves ever forward. As grass, once singed, regrew back. As birds flew over and picked at what pieces were left of your clothing to make for their nests. As bugs began to make new homes near and around your body.

Nature, no matter what you may be, will never treat you any differently. Be you a devil, an angel, or a human, the earth will seek to swallow all the same. The flora and fauna would treat you as another thing of everyday life.

Perhaps, such treatment would've made you happy, at least for a time.

Nothing, in all your barely hanging on pieces, grew back. But nothing rotted further either.

Instead, your blood continues to flow, red sinking to the bottom, white slithering to the top. All the same to the plants growing around you, for they care for nothing but more nutrients.

The sun rose high in the sky, blind to way it highlights all of your broken limbs. The moon loomed over, oblivious to the pulsing, painful pieces of your wings. Celestial bodies, useless to you, but they continue to exist nonetheless.

Time passes and you continue to lay, not found or touched by anyone.

But then, there was a voice.

Your blood lost all its white shine, lost all its red luster.

Then you opened your eyes.

[curseofaphrodite]

Prince of Diamonds

DAEMON TARGARYEN X READER

link to part 2 | series masterlist

summary: the day had arrived for you to marry Viserys, but of course, weddings in Westeros are nothing if not chaotic.

The castle was alive with laughs — there were so many people from so many places, so many congratulations, and as many gifts (from pieces of jewelry to weapons) that it felt like you were in a fairytale of some sort.

Except you were fucking terrified the entire time.

Everything about the day felt off, as if you were about to be hung from the ropes than be wed to a king.

You went to take a stroll through the kingdom in disguise to get your mind off things, and were surprised at the commoners' lives.

For some reason, you had thought they'll be warm and cheery and content with the small life they led, far away from royal politics and bloodshed. But poverty seemed to have tightened its grip on most of them, and you wondered why the fuck Viserys hadn't mentioned any of these issues before.

It was always strategies to protect the people, but everything else seemed to have been missed from council meetings. You included had wanted the Iron Throne, but never knew the asterisk that came with it.

Until now.

It was heartbreaking to see how lively the town was, as if they were used to the miseries by now. As if they didn't know there was a castle right within their reach with leeches living their best lives while they were wallowing in debt.

"Apple, miss? Fresh apples?" a kid yelled from the sidewalks. You walked on as you didn't want to be recognized.

"What about grapes? I have grapes too!" he followed and you noted how he didn't sound desperate — just very casual, like he was your friend for more years than he had been born.

"I'm in a hurry," you replied hastily, but he was easily catching up.

"C'mon! I'll let you taste some for free! It's so delicious you won't resist buying the rest for your family."

"Look I—"

But he ran in front of you and made you halt anyway. You could only see his feet properly because you still had your clock on.

"What's up with your attire? Are you one of the circus performers?" he asked, seemingly forgotten about his own business.

You sighed, seeing no way out of it. You pulled down your robe and stared him right in the eye. He gasped, his jaw on the ground.

The place seemed to have stopped its bustling. Silent murmurs died away as everyone seemed to notice you. They all stood right where they were, not believing their eyes.

"It's the Queen-to-be!" A middle-aged guy finally yelled, falling to his knees. Following his example, more bent down. You knew this was to be expected, but it still shook you to your core. These people already seemed to respect you, even with a short acquaintance.

You found yourself hoping it was respect and not fear.

"Rise," you said loudly, thinking on the spot. "I've come to invite everyone here for the wedding. There will be food enough to feed two armies."

The kid blinked. "The guards will let us in?"

"If I command so, of course they will."

Grateful gasps rippled through the crowd and soon they started to murmur among themselves, probably wondering why you came all the way here, why you couldn't have sent a messenger, why you seemed so humane while the royals seemed like gods. They were asking all of that with approval, like they wouldn't have it any other way.

"Forgive me, your Highness," a woman rushed forwards to the kid. "He's young, he's been known to provoke- he didn't realize—"

"It's fine," you reassured, suddenly glad that you took off your robe. "In fact, I think I'll do some wedding shopping."

--------

"You invited the whole of King's Landing?" Viserys asked, barging into your room.

It was almost evening, exactly three hours before the wedding. Right as he entered, all the maids fussing over you did a short curtsy and exited, as if they all collectively smelled a fight coming on.

But Viserys looked more exhausted than angry.

"Yes," you replied simply, looking at the finest of gowns laying on the bed, not sure which one to choose.

He sighed. "I wish you would include me in these decisions, Y/N."

"Like you include me in the council meetings?" you snapped, turning around to glare at him.

"There's always a seat for you at the table, I just didn't know if you'd like it."

"There's nothing about this I like."

"Pardon?"

Fuck. "I'm nervous," you lied, sitting down on the bed. "All of this is so much right now."

"We can take it one step at a time," Viserys smiled. "That's all it has to be. And I'm not mad at you for going to the town, but I do wish you had let a guard accompany you."

"That's defeating the purpose," you cracked a smile in response. "I'll consider it next time."

"Good. I'll leave you to it then," he gestured towards all the extravagant gowns and accessories. He hesitated. "One more thing... you haven't heard any rumors of late, have you?"

You hated yourself right then. You wished Viserys was an evil man, but he had grown to be your friend. He didn't force you to a marriage, you had agreed to it yourself. He never yelled at you or looked down on you, but it was as if right at that moment, both of you knew you could never be happy with each other.

Because the rumors he was referring to wasn't about you and Daemon. It was about him and Alicent. How he visits her chamber at night, how he only leaves in the morning.

"Did Daemon say anything?" you asked in reply.

"He wished to convey his congrats."

"That doesn't sound like him."

"Exactly what I thought."

You smiled. He turned around with guilt in his eyes.

"For what it's worth, every townsfolk who's at the gates has been hailing your name." He said softly. "You're already a queen in their eyes."

If anything, that reassured you even less.

----

You stood at the top of the aisle in a plain grey gown, your hair in a braid and covered in gold accessories. Weddings in Westeros were grand as they were gothic.

You didn't notice the people, just Daemon standing beside Viserys, his eyes on anything but you. He appeared collected and quiet, and you wanted nothing more than retrace the last night with him. What if I had said... nevermind.

The priest went on about legacies and love, and you failed to see how they were connected. Sure you were zoning out, but you also couldn't hear him out of the sounds of your own heartbeats.

There was silence, and everyone was looking at you. You had reached the part to say your vows. Your throat closed up. Viserys blinked in confusion.

"I—" you stammered, unable to go on. Sudden whispers started across the hall. "Can I talk with you for a moment, my lord?"

"Must be awfully important if it's the middle of this," Otto Hightower said loudly. Son of a bitch.

"Viserys... please."

Daemon gritted his teeth and came out of his statuesque behavior. He came by your side and started to whisper so others couldn't hear.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Daemon—" you were surprised at how worried he sounded.

"It's a terribly inconvenient time to get cold feet! Do you realize how stupid you're acting? For fuck's sake, remedy this before—"

"Get away from her," Viserys said sharply. Daemon instantly obeyed, not wanting to make things more serious, only out of concern for you. "Y/N, what is the meaning of this?"

"I can't be your wife," you said softly. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Viserys looked lost. Surprised. But not hurt. That was something.

"Can't you see it, my lord?" Otto yelled for the benefit of the hall, glaring at both you and Daemon. "She's been defiled. Guards!"

Your throat was met with the sword of an eager knight. It didn't touch your skin, simply hovered there for further instructions. You understood why this show of power was necessary. As the betrothed, simple rumors were enough to get you exiled, but a claim as vulgar as this simply thrown to the air led to bloodshed every time. After the initial shock, someone in the audience screamed.

Daemon didn't care about political advances and even if he did, he would have still done what he did next. He brought his dagger out and held it over the throat of the knight in mere seconds.

"A scratch on her and I'll burn you inside out," Daemon said quietly.

"STOP THIS MADNESS!" Viserys ordered.

The knight dropped his sword at once, but Daemon didn't let go. If anything, the dagger was pressed tighter. The knight was already bleeding. Viserys grabbed your hand and pulled you away from the scene, towards the secluded corner where no one was watching. Eyes followed, but none took a step forward.

"You haven't slept with Daemon," he stated firmly. "What kind of game are you playing?"

"I fear if I were to stay in this palace, I could be involved with him. You deserve a queen more loyal than that—"

"Don't you dare say this is for my benefit!"

"—and I deserve a husband who doesn't cheat too," you hissed. "You've been to Alicent's room more than you've been to mine. Or did you think I wouldn't notice?"

He paled.

"It's the right thing to do. You don't love me. This is an arrangement." You stressed. "You care about me like you care about your friends. I can't rob you of your happiness and you can't rob me of mine. Let me leave in peace before I besmirch your reputation."

"You're doing that already by refusing to be the queen."

"I'm not refusing. I can't be the queen right now. Have you seen the state of your people? Frankly speaking, neither of us is fit to be rulers. At least I'll acknowledge that and take my leave."

"I have duties!" he yelled.

"Then do them," you snapped. "Don't drag me into this."

"You would be declaring war between our houses," he said pleadingly. "I don't want to cause you hurt."

"You won't," you said firmly. "Hold your troops. Have meetings about the stained integrity of my house. Feed lies to your people that actions have consequences. Fuck Alicent. Marry her. Just let me go."

He groaned. "Even if I let you go, the rest of them won't."

He was talking about Otto, the guards, and everyone who was prepared to see your downfall. You knew it. You had also planned for it.

"Viserys please," you begged, gritting your teeth. "Let me escape. I'll go to a place where no one knows my name. I'll come back a queen, just not of Iron Throne."

He glared, but you knew he had caved. "I'll hold the fort for three minutes."

"You're the king," you said, pecking his cheek with gratitude. "You can do five."

Then you were off.

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

When you reached your room, nothing had been left. The cupboards were emptied, the table looked like new and even the books were missing.

Daemon Targaryen stood in the middle of it with a huge bag.

"No," you said, connecting the dots. "You're not coming with me."

"If you go alone, you're dead."

"I'll take my chances," you deadpanned, reaching for the bag which had your stuff. He pulled it away.

"Now's not the time for ego. Look at it this way, I know Westeros better. I know the secret passageways. I know this place because I've bled on it."

"Do you not want to know why I've stopped the wedding?" you asked cautiously.

"Because you chickened out and realized none of this is a game."

"Because I knew you'd ruin everything if I went through it. I didn't marry him because of you."

He snorted. "The blame falls on me now?"

"Daemon you can't come with me or you'll be the main source of rumors here. Everyone will think we ran away and when you come back, you could be killed."

"Then I won't come back." He took a step forwards. "Is that what you want me to say? That I'll actually run away with you? That we'll go to the other side of the Narrow Sea and spend our days in the sun with no worries?"

"Don't be ridiculous, that sounds boring," you interrupted. "I'm saying I need to lay low until I figure out a plan."

"I'm good with plans."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not but I'm coming anyway."

"Daemon—"

"We'll do as you say," he said hastily. "We'll lay low for a while. Just until the smoke blows over and Viserys finds a new wife. I'll make him do formal amends so the kingdom can stop talking about this. Then you'll come back with me. If anyone dares to speak a word, I'll cut out their tongue."

"Even if it's Otto?"

"Especially if it's Otto," he smiled. "Though his tongue won't be my first choice to cut off."

You laughed. "Fine... I guess we're running."

He looked alarmed. "Running? Oh no hon, we're flying."

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

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