#Knock-Knock-Knocking on Perdition's Door

[sailor-aviator]

Road to Perdition: Chapter One

Road to Perdition: Chapter One

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: The Great Depression wasn't called a depression for nothing. Jobs were scarce, and the price of food and other necessities were rising higher and higher with each passing day. What little money you were able to make went straight to the bank and out of reach from your booze-swilling lech of a brother. It's on one such run that you come face to face with members of the infamous Dagger Gang; a group of, admittedly handsome, men who steal from the banks to hand it back out to the poor. You want nothing to do with them, but that blond-headed devil might just have something to say to the contrary. (1930s!Mobster!AU)

Content Warning: Feelings of inadequacy from reader, Lectures from father figures, Bank robbery, Mentions of guns, Mentions of historical events, Flirting, Cocky Hangman, Forced kissing, Reader gets knocked out, and slight kidnapping. I think that's it, but please let me know if I missed something!

Word Count: 3.2k

Series Masterlist

The heels of your shoes clacked against the pavement, and you made a mental note to replace the worn out pair sooner rather than later. It was an unwanted expense, albeit a necessary one. You’d have to spring for more thread and perhaps another needle too considering you had discovered a rip in your skirt on your way into town.

You let out a heavy sigh, a frown tugging on your lips that could almost be called a pout if it weren’t for your pride. Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag as you narrowly avoided colliding shoulders with a passing stranger, a scowl marring your face as you glanced over your shoulder to glare at him. He paid you no mind, his expensive looking suit tailored to his tall figure, one hand shoved deep into his pocket as the other gripped the rim of his hat. You rolled your eyes at the mustached man before turning back forward. You weren’t personally a fan of the facial hair that had started becoming so popular as of late. You preferred either a full face or nothing at all, not that it really mattered you supposed.

Laughter filtered out of one of the cafes, and the sound send a wave of longing through you. It had been a long time since you had taken the initiative to spend time with your friends, and more and more of them were leaving the small town, looking to bigger cities for more opportunities along with their families. Many of them lamented the fact that you seemed to be the only one who was still single amongst them, most having already settled down over the years or making their way there.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to settle down because you did. You also knew that your current situation wasn’t exactly a healthy one to bring another person into, let alone a helpless child. Jack had developed a wicked temper ever since he started his heavy drinking, and there had been more than one occasion where you had had to make yourself scarce in order to avoid his wrath.

“Well, hey there, Moonie!”

You turned to see Mr. Kerner stepping out of his shop, a beaming smile on his face as he waved at you. His hair had long since grayed, giving him a more distinguished look compared to a decade ago. You used to frequent his shop often when you were younger, your mother stopping by once a week for her essentials and a small treat for you. Your mouth watered at the memory of peanut butter cups that melted on your tongue during those days, and you briefly considered stepping into the shop to allow yourself the rare treat.

“Afternoon, Mr. Kerner,” you smiled back, turning to face him as you shifted on your feet. “Getting much business today?”

“Oh, well, you know,” he chuckled, placing a hand on his hip as he rested against the door frame, “times are tough for everyone right now, so I’m taking each day as she comes.”

You hummed in agreement, your smile shifting into something slightly more sardonic at the comment.

“What about you, Moonie?” He pressed. “Don’t see you ‘round these parts much. Not since…”

He trailed off, and you bit back the urge to sigh. Your parents’ deaths had kept you fairly isolated to your little home on the outskirts, only venturing in to take the occasional job for the paper and to make your weekly deposits. You had tried to make the necessities at home stretch as much as you could, not wanting to spend more money than necessary as you kept saving.

“Don’t really have much of a need to come into town, I suppose,” you offered, tilting your head back to avoid meeting the older man’s gaze. The buildings were beginning to look rundown, one of the many downsides to living during an economic crisis.

“No,” he agreed, but the tone of his voice indicated that he felt differently. “I suppose not. I see your friends around here all the time, though. Comin’ and goin’ and makin’ the best of everything. You should join’em sometime.”

“I’d just be a third wheel,” you snort, kicking at a rock beneath your feet as your eyes continued to look everywhere but at him.

“Maybe,” He nodded, “but it would do you some good to get out of that old house of yours. You should enjoy being young while you still can.”

“It’s not so bad,” you muttered, noticing in your peripheral the cynical look he cast your way. Ron Kerner had always been kind to you, sneaking you an extra sweet when you were younger and looking out for your well-being now that you were older and your parents were gone. You were grateful to him, but it didn’t stop you from letting out a huff of annoyance as he continued to stare you down.

“If I promise to make more of an effort to leave the house, will you stop nagging me like a mother hen?” You asked him, finally meeting his eyes with a challenge. He quirked an eyebrow at you, the subtle twitch of his lips being the only giveaway that a smile lay hidden beneath his stern look.

“Depends,” he hummed, “what do you mean by ‘leave the house?’ I ain’t gonna be duped out of naggin’ ya if all you’re gonna do is go around taking pictures for the paper. You need to go out and have some proper fun.”

The two of you stared one another down. You knew his heart was in the right place, but it still irked you to be scolded like a child.

“Fine,” you mumbled, earning a grin from the man in front of you. “But don’t expect me to be out here giggling like a schoolgirl every day.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he chuckled. You grunted at him, peering over towards the cafe where a group of girls emerged, arms looped through one another’s as they giggled and shrieked their way between the two of you. You took note of their carefully curled hair and ruby red lips, suddenly feeling a little self conscious at the state of yourself. You caught Mr. Kerner’s eye, feeling your cheeks warm at the sight of his sympathetic smile as the girls continued on down the walkway. You didn’t need anyone’s pity.

“Come on in and grab yourself a bottle of coke,” Kerner said with a roll of his shoulders, pushing off from the door frame.

“I shouldn’t,” you muttered, shooting a glance down the street. You still needed to go by the bank, and you were hoping that Mr. Mitchell would have an assignment for you if you swung by the Gazette headquarters early enough.

“Wasn’t a question,” Mr. Kerner snorted, disappearing into his shop. You hesitated for a moment longer before letting out a long sigh, trudging through the doorway after him.

The shop held an air of familiarity, not many of the brands having changed in the long years that it had been open. There had been talk of putting in a soda fountain a few years back, but old Ron Kerner had scowled at the idea, and so it had gone to the drugstore down the street instead.

The pop and hiss of the glass bottle being opened drew your attention to the counter where Mr. Kerner stood, holding out the drink to you.

“How much do I owe you?” You asked, already moving to pull out some of the loose change still nestled in the depths of your bag. He waived you off before setting the bottle down and turning to mess with one of the boxes stacked in the corner.

“For you? Free of charge.”

You let out another sigh, knowing better than to argue with him as you took a sip of the bubbly liquid. It had been God only knows how long since you had allowed yourself a treat like this, and you couldn’t help but to smile as the cool, sweet drink washed over your tastebuds.

The two of you said nothing for a while as you enjoyed your treat and Mr. Kerner worked on his inventory, the day passing on as you enjoyed the peace and quiet. You finished your drink with surprising quickness, letting the bottle clack against the wood of the counter as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder.

“Headed out?” Mr. Kerner asked, glancing up from his logbook as your eyes darted around the shop.

“Yeah,” you said, brow furrowing as you turned to look back at him. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any thread in here by chance, would you?”

A couple of minutes later and a few cents poorer, you found yourself entering the bank. It was a large building, maybe even the largest in town. Very few people of your standing still trusted the banks, not after the stock market crash that took place almost five years ago. It wasn’t until a few months ago when the Roosevelt administration passed an emergency act that people started leaving money with the banks again. You had been one of the first to go back to the banks, and while the clerk had given you a rather disapproving look as he finalized the paperwork. You made sure to avoid him as much as possible after that first day, preferring to interact with the stout, older gentleman who always greeted you with a smile.

The bank itself held an air of prestige, like you weren’t supposed to be there amongst the opulent decorations and well-dressed patrons, several casting you bewildered looks as you paused in the doorway. Conversations were muffled as the clack of typewriters in the back mixed in with the clank of coins being counted, and no matter how many times you found yourself inside the grand room, your heart always began to race, the whispers of self consciousness tugging on the hairs on the back of your neck.

You caught sight of an older woman leaning in to her husband’s side, whispering something in his ear as she gave you a disapproving glare. Your lips tugged into a frown, and with a roll of your shoulders, you held your head high as you made your way towards one of the lines of patrons waiting to make their transactions. A man scribbled away on a piece of paper next to you, the scratch of his pen more pronounced in the echo of the hushed room.

Your fingers played with the strap of your bag, a sense of unease tugging at your gut. You didn’t like being in this space, the stark contract between you and others even more pronounced as you took in the fine clothes of the other patrons. You glanced down furtively at your navy blue skirt, noticing for the first time how worn it looked. You smoothed your hand over the pleats, once again reminding yourself that there were more important things than worrying about one’s fashion.

The line moved forward as the patron at the window finished his business, the next person stepping up to greet the clerk. There were still three people ahead of you, and you let out a sigh, cursing Mr. Kerner’s insistence on you sticking around for a while.

You heard the door to the bank open, several sets of footsteps clacking onto the hardwood behind you.

“Everybody on the ground!”

Several of the people around you exclaimed in fear, a couple of women letting out terrified shrieks as a man bumped into you, nearly sending you crashing to the ground. You caught yourself just in time, placing a steadying hand on the top of the table next to you as you crouched down.

A group of five men stood in the doorway, guns in hand as they took in their surroundings. You recognized the one standing in the middle as the mustached man who nearly crashed into you earlier that morning, dark eyes holding a wild sense of mirth as he strutted further into the room.

“We’ll make this nice and easy for you folks,” he drawled, lips twitching up into a smirk. “Y’all just stay where you are, and we’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

You watched them warily as they dispersed throughout the room, patrons shrugging away in fear whenever one got too close. A darker skinned man strutted his way across the room, grabbing a finely dressed, older gentleman by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to the back room followed by the shortest of the bunch.

You gripped your bag tightly, eyes shifting as you waited for the nightmare to be over. You shied away as one of the men walked near you, a confident swagger to his step. The man stopped just in front of you, and you could feel his eyes on you. You kept your gaze pointed forward, refusing to look at him even as he closed the distance between the two of you. You heard the weight of his gun settle on top of the table as he leaned against it, hand slipping into his pocket.

“Well hey there, Sugar,” he drawled. You could hear the smirk in his voice, the timber causing your heart to skip a beat. You refused to look up at him even as he snickered.

“You don’t gotta be afraid of me, darlin’,” he continued, taking the hand out of his pocket to brush a piece of hair behind your ear. “I don’t bite. Not unless you ask me real nice.”

You stiffened at the insinuation, lips pressed firmly together as you willed him to leave you alone. Your silence only seemed to egg him on though, and the hand that lingered by your hair moved forward to ghost over the apple of your cheek, nearly brushing your lips.

“I got a way to pass the time, you know,” he purred, “all you gotta do is use that pretty little mouth of yours.”

You head shot up at his words, anger coursing through you as you glared at him, and for a second, the man looked taken aback by your sudden fury. He was handsome, you had to give him that, aggravatingly so even. Green eyes stared down at you, squared jaw slack as he took you in. A beat passed before his shock turned into a look of pure delight. Lips curving into a salacious smirk, his hand cradled your jaw as he leaned forward, so close that the tip of his nose brushed yours.

“Aren’t you a little spitfire?” He crooned. You jerked your head back out of his grasp, baring your teeth at him. He let out another snicker as his smirk widened into a full-blown grin.

“That’s enough, Hangman,” the mustached man chided, scowling at the man in front of you. Green eyes glanced your way once more before he let out a huff, straightening back up. He took off his hat, running his hand through blond locks before settling it back on top of his head.

“What’s taking them so long?” Hangman groused, turning to look towards the door his companions had disappeared behind not too long before. Just then, the door burst open, revealing the small group of men in question. The taller of the two robbers still had his hand on the back of the older man’s neck as he dragged him across the room. The smaller of the two held several bags in his hands, tossing one to the man on the other side of the room.

You heard sirens off in the distance, head turning towards the noise along with the man in front of you. The smaller man cursed under his breath, and the mustached one pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Looks like we’re not making a clean getaway after all, boys,” he frowned, dark eyes fixed on the men in front of him. “Payback, Fanboy, we’re taking Mr. Jennings with us.”

He glanced over at Hangman, and a second later, a firm hand wrapped around your bicep, hauling you up on your feet.

“Looks like you’re comin’ with us, Sweets,” he murmured, pressing tight against your back as he marched you forward. The crowd murmured in fear as they allowed the men to pass, and bright contrast of the sun compared to the shaded room of the bank lobby left you momentarily blind. You moved to shield your eyes, but stumbled instead as Hangman dragged you down the steps toward the sidewalk. A hand rested on your waist, steadying you.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” he murmured into your ear as he made his way briskly down the street, the sound of the sirens growing louder as the pace quickened. Your heart hammered away in your chest, your breath coming out in quick pants as your group rounded the street corner. You took two more quick turns before being led down a back alley. You could hear shouting from a couple of streets down, and you moved to look over your shoulder before the hand on your arm jerked you.

“Eyes forward, Sugar,” Hangman warned, green eyes boring into you. You clenched your jaw, nostrils flaring as you stared him down. His lips twitched into the hint of a smile before pulling you further into the alley. You watched as the mustached man and the black man whose name you still didn’t know moved to open one of the rusted garage doors, revealing a shiny, black car and a bespectacled man leaning against the hood.

“It’s about time,” he groused, pushing off of the hood and rounding to the driver side door. The mustached man rolled his eyes before jerking his head, watching as Payback and Fanboy rounded the back with the bags. The sound of a crack along with a grunt and thud drew your attention back towards the remaining man. Mr. Jennings was on the ground, still breathing but clearly unconscious. The man looked up at Hangman before gesturing towards you, and your body stiffened in his hold. Hangman whirled you around, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against him, your hands trapped between your bodies as he smirked down at you.

“Well, Doll,” he sighed, leaning into you once more, “this is where we part, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, though. I’ll leave you something to remember me by.”

Before the words could register, his lips were on yours. You gasped at the suddenness of it, eyes wide and body unmoving as he pressed further into you. His lips were surprisingly soft, and you felt your cheeks warm at the realization that you enjoyed the sensation. As quickly as he kissed you, he pulled away, grinning from ear to ear. He pulled away just a hair before letting out a forlorn sigh.

“Let’s go, Casanova,” his companion called from his position by the garage door, an exasperated look on his face as he mounted a motorbike. A hand brushed against your cheek, drawing your attention back to the man in front of you.

“Sorry about this, dollface,” he muttered. Your lips had just begun to form a question before a sharp pain radiated from the blow to your temple, the world falling into oblivion around you.

A/N: Y'all, this was a doozy to write. Words cannot express how fucking excited I am to write this fic!!!

If you would like to receive notifications on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @sailoraviator-library ) and turn on post notifications! As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. You can find all of my works on AO3 under the username sailor_aviator. Until next time!

[eldritch-spouse]

If I enlist the help of all the icons, could I acquire an angel for Kaly's birthday?

They won't agree to such a thing.

See, angels stick together, especially the warrior casts. You deliberately fuck with a power, you're getting all the powers, virtues and dominions knocking at your door (unless there's more pressing matters).

It's a lot safer to simply wait for one of them to stray too far, preferably into Perdition, but the chances of that happening are very low. An ambush for one angel isn't just extremely risky business, they have no real reason to do this- It being Kalymir's birthday is not persuasive enough.

There's nothing to guarantee that they won't eventually have to deal with Mother's rage too. So you might want to think a bit smarter, or devise a plan to get an angel into Hell, where killing them is less likely to incur the wrath of a siadar, since said celestial is invading an annex that does not welcome their kind.

[ishomieokay]

Masks We Wear (Chapter 2)

Teen and Up. 3.1k, canon-typical violence, ptsd, mental health issues, depression, mentions of torture, unethical experimentation, morally grey!john, anger issues, kidnapping, implied child abuse. part 2/44. AO3 link. part 1, part 3.

Right before turning eighteen, John Vogelbaum escapes the clutches of Vought. Always under the radar, he manages to live as a regular Joe for the next couple of years. Until one day, trouble comes knocking at his door in the shape of Grace Mallory. What does the CIA want to do with him, anyway?

Or, the one where Homelander is never born. A traumatized, socially-awkward John wanders through life trying to work out what to do with himself, and somehow becomes a member of The Boys.

Taglist: @discowizard88 Let me know if you want to be tagged!

After her visit, John found his thoughts drifting towards Grace Mallory on a regular basis. It would be a lie to say that he hadn’t been intrigued by her proposal. Shortly after his escape from the lab, he was often plagued by violent thoughts regarding his handlers, and particularly his surrogate father, Jonah Vogelbaum. 

Back then, he’d still been struggling to adjust to life in the outside world, which presented quite a challenge for someone with no practical knowledge on how to conduct himself in society as an adult. He’d never received a proper education, at least not in the traditional sense. His tutors prioritised lessons in speech, acting and for a short period of time, dancing. It was the late 90s, and the growing popularity of New Kids on the Block and Backstreet Boys made them consider the idea of giving a Boy Band approach to Homelander’s debut. Unbeknown to them, that decision had greatly motivated his final escape.

As far as academic pursuits went, he'd often been exposed to oversimplified media about American history, and white-washed stories loosely based on Greek Mythology. At times, John could still feel the pain of having his eyelids forcefully held open during screenings. Any other subject was deemed unnecessary and potentially harmful by his handlers. Therefore it comes as no surprise that in his first days out in the real world, he didn’t know how to pay taxes, manage money or even open a bank account. To say he’d been having a bit of a rough time was an understatement. 

John kept himself busy, though. He needed a roof over his head first, as well as a decent enough income if he wanted to survive on his own. Above all, he needed a new identity. No one was going to hand those to him on a silver plate. The small comforts that a Vought-sponsored lifestyle had offered were a thing of the past, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

So, he pulled himself up by his own bootstraps (which is something he’d only heard people say in movies, but it seemed like sound advice to him) and went out looking for a job. He found odd gigs here and there, usually involving heavy-lifting and body-guarding, but it was enough to go by. Once or twice, when the payment was tempting enough, he accepted jobs on the wrong side of the law. John knew just how mortified Vogelbaum would be, if he knew that the boy he’d raised to become America’s perfect hero was out there doing the dirty work for gangsters and cartel lords. It made the whole ordeal oddly satisfying. 

By the time John managed to settle, that initial raw anger he’d experienced was somewhat appeased, and it had been easy to find excuses, time and again, to not go through with his plans. He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on the matter. Back at the lab, thinking things through had never done anything for him but sent him spiralling down. John figured out early on that self-absorption would be his perdition, if he let it. So, he took actions instead, never questioning, just moving forward to wherever his feet would take him.  

It’s normal for you to be afraid of them, after what they did to you. 

There wasn’t anywhere to run now, though, and perhaps that’s why Grace Mallory’s words kept coming back to him. Being so transparent in the eyes of a perfect stranger did not sit well with him. The fact that such observation came from a human woman, plain and brittle in appearance, irked John even more. It didn’t take long for one of his neighbours to notice the downturn in his mood. 

“You ought to find yourself a woman,” she informed him, leaning against the doorframe while John went to fetch the cup of sugar she’d asked to burrow. “I know what it looks like. Loneliness, I mean. I was just the same when Annie’s father left. And you’re nearing that age, you know? When a man should start a family.”

“Oh, you betcha, Mrs. January!” John replied, forcing a smile that looked a little too sharp. “All this quiet gets real unnerving sometimes. Can’t wait to have a couple rascals running around the place! Ahm just waiting for the right gal.” 

“Well, you sure ain’t gonna find her holed up in her all day,” Mrs. January replied, wrinkling her nose as she looked around the cabin. “She’s not just gonna fall from the sky and land on your porch, John. You gotta put yourself out there!”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Donna January was a bit of an oddball. She was usually on the road, trailing behind Capes for Christ during their national tours and taking her daughter to pageants all over the country. Whenever she was home, she would call for him at the slightest inconvenience. Whether she needed her tires changed or a titillating lightbulb had to be fixed in her attic, he always lent her a hand. It was the neighbourly thing to do. At least, that’s what he always saw good neighbours do on television, growing up. 

Besides, John knew that her husband had recently left her. He figured she just wasn’t used to not having a man around the house. 

“Appreciate the pointers,” he said, handing over the sugar cup. Then he winked at her, knowing it would leave her flustered and unwilling to further discuss his love life. “I’ll remember them, for sure!”

It occurred to him while laying awake that night that Mrs. January may be right. He had found the stability he was looking for. That one heist he carried out for the Sinaloa cartel had paid in full for the cabin, as well as a Chevrolet Duramax that he was slowly but surely learning how to drive. The suitcases full of cash hidden under a loose floorboard in the basement were certainly enough to maintain a family. A rather large one, in fact. Even if it didn’t, John had an innate talent for violence that would always be well remunerated in certain sectors of society. Money would never be an issue for him. 

Still, he chose to live his life in solitude. He rarely went downtown and when he did, it was always to get groceries and sit on his own at overpriced coffee shops, unwillingly and sometimes willingly listening in on private conversations. The rare times he was approached by strangers, John was polite enough. Once he ran out of the well-rehearsed social niceties he'd learned by studying other people's interactions and watching television, his oddities started to show, though. Usually, it didn't take long for them to figure out that there was something wrong.  

It would be easier, he mused, if he had been the type to venture into dimly lit bars in search of female company. John wasn’t a drinker, though. Never had been and probably never would be. He was still underage by the time he escaped Vought's laboratories, and even if he hadn't been, his handlers would have never taken the risk of leaving him unsupervised around alcohol. John wasn’t sure if would trust himself drunk, either. There had been accidents serious enough while he was in full control of his mind for him to ever consider it.

The few times he’d dared to explore Des Moines’ rather underwhelming nightlife, the disconnection he felt from the boisterous, drunken crowd never failed to sour his mood. He had the nagging suspicion that had little to do with his sobriety, though.  

John kept the Colonel’s card in the wooden box of his living room, and pulled it out in moments of quiet contemplation. Eventually, the numbers became engraved into his memory. Had he felt sure enough that it wasn’t part of an elaborate ruse to imprison him again, he probably would have called. He was distrustful by nature, though, and that character trait had been reinforced time and again due to the circumstances of his upbringing. Even the promise of revenge was not tempting enough for him to risk facing the bars of another cage. 

In the end, it was not Mallory’s proposal that pulled him out of his quiet little life at the edge of Brown’s woods, though, but a distressed calm from Donna January. It was a Saturday afternoon. John had been going through a weight lifting routine with a sequoia tree when he heard the phone ring. “Annie’s gone,” Mrs. January said, her voice watery but steady. John’s surprise was such that he lost focus and the glass of water he was holding broke into pieces. 

“What do you mean, gone?” He asked, grimacing as he shook the water off his arm. It wasn’t the first time that happened and it probably wouldn’t be the last. 

“They came in the morning,” Mrs. January said, hiccupping. On the other side of the line, John could hear the sound of bottles being knocked over and then glass breaking. He wondered if she’d been drinking. “Wanted to see the Compound’s effects. They’ve been bugging me ‘bout it for some time, but I thought she wasn’t ready. You know how Annie is, she’s never liked using her powers. Not for show. One of them raised his voice at her and she… they took her.” 

“What are you talking about? Who’s they?” John asked, despite knowing the answer already. He felt strangely calm.

“Vought,” Miss January said helplessly. “The men from Vought came. She blasted one of them down. They said if she was old enough to attack a grown man, then she was ready to receive more rigorous training.”

John’s hands twitched. No one knew better than him what Vought’s definition of rigorous training was. Of course, he’d been aware of the fact that Annie January had been injected with Compound V in her infancy. Despite what the public had been told, supes were not a gift from divine providence but rather a multi-million investment in the pharmaceutical industry. They were not born but made, and that process of transmutation was at times traumatic and beyond painful. He was the living proof. It never occurred to him that his neighbour’s ten year old daughter would ever have to endure such an ordeal, though. 

There were thousands of supes all over the country, after all. John learned early on that most of them could spend an entire lifetime without ever being contacted by Vought, especially if their looks and talents were deemed too plain to be marketable. He’d never actually heard of a Supe being taken from their families, though. What had he missed? Was that quirky little girl truly as strong as to attract the attention of his former handlers? 

“What you’re describin’ sounds an awful lot like kid snatching, ma’am,” John said, feeling his face twitching as he struggled to stay in character, “I think you oughtta pay the sheriff a little visit.” 

“I can’t, I signed a contract when they gave her the V. A custody arrangement, they-” Mrs. January cut herself off, then let out a quiet sob, “oh, they said it was just a formality! I never thought they would actually take her.”

Oh, Donna, John thought with a grimace, you stupid old hag. 

“Mrs. January,” he said, speaking with a deliberate emphasis that seemed to ask for silence. “Stay home. Read a book, watch some TV, whatever it is single moms do when their daughters are at school. And for fuck’s sake, stop drinking, would ya? Good ol’ John will go look for your kid, and she’ll be back home by dinner’s time. Everything’s gonna be a-okay!”

Mrs. January kept quiet for a long while, and he could almost hear her frown through the phone when she said in a weepy voice, “you’re a very strange young man, John.”

“Yeah,” he replied, lips turning downwards, “I’ve been told that before.”

When John walked out of the cabin, there was a man sitting on his porch. He reeked of cheap brandy and tobacco, and was dressed in a dazzling Hawaiian shirt under a thick black coat that seemed wildly impractical for Des Moines’ usually humid weather. The stranger took a long drag out of his cigar, then offered him a wide, rather off-putting smile. 

“Hey there, mate,” he said, with a thick cockney accent, “where you off to?”

John openly glared at the Englishman. This was getting out of hand. One time was a curious little incident, but a second time was already a pattern worth examining.

“Okay, whoever the fuck you are, this really isn’t the time,” he said, an edge to his voice, “so shoo, get outta my property before I fuckin’ shoot you.”

“Is that right?” The Englishman said, putting off the cigar on the sole of his shoe, then spitting shamelessly on the floorboard. John’s nose wrinkled at the sight. “Wuldn’t ya rather laser me fuckin’ brains out? I ‘eard that one’s a fave of yours.” 

John tilted his head to the side, making a quick second assessment of the intruder. It took him a moment to place his face. Once he finally did his annoyment increased tenfold, but this time he was quicker to conceal it. He’d seen him around town quite often, but after the Colonel’s visit, there was no trace left of him. Now he reappeared, for reasons John couldn’t fathom but wasn’t particularly intrigued by either.   

“Uh, a friend of Mallory’s, I take it?” he said. As a response he only received a quick grunt that was probably meant to be taken as an affirmation. “I reckon I made it pretty fucking clear I’m not interested in her proposal.” 

“You sure did,” the Englishman said, narrowing his eyes, “‘had to take ‘er to the hospital, make sure nothin’ was broken.” 

John blinked and could almost see her there, laying on the floor of his kitchen, glaring up at him with those sharp hazel eyes of hers, red welts already blooming around her neck. There was a sour taste in his mouth. 

“She would’ve been fine, if she’d just minded her own business,” he replied, struggling very hard to appear unaffected, but his quick, defensive response did him no favours. The Englishman arched his eyebrows at him, and something in the intent of his gaze, in the grim amusement of dark brown eyes, made John’s skin prickle. He turned around and made his way down the stairs of his porch, muttering, “I’ve not fucking time for this,” under his breath.

“You really going after ‘em?” The Englishman asked, making him stop dead in his tracks. “That ain’t the smartest move if ya wanna keep ‘em off yer scent, Johnny.”

“It’s John,” he corrected, sharply. 

“Right, wotever.”

Something occurred to John, then, and he turned around. “You saw them take her,” he said, not a question but a statement of fact. The Englishman averted his eyes, saying nothing, but that was all the answer he needed. John let out a dry, humourless laugh. “And you- what? You just let them? Knowing what you do?”

“That ain’t ‘ow this works, mate,” the Englishman replied. “We’re bangin’ out a case against Vought. We ain’t s’posed to stick our oars in, we’re just gatherin’ evidence.”

“But she’s just a child. Don’t you know what they’ll do to her?” John said, and he could feel it very clearly then. That old simmering anger rising to the surface. A part of him knew that he wasn’t only thinking about the girl.

“Aye,” the Englishman replied airily, like a surgeon making a cut in a sedated patient. All business and no hard feelings. “Exactly what they did to you.”

John stared, then revealed a row of sharp, pearly white teeth in the mockery of a smile. 

“You’re just like ‘em, you know? My handlers,” he said, placidly. “Before, when I was a kid, I never even questioned it. The experiments, the needles and the hurt. It was just the way things were. Always had been, since I could remember. It was later, when I grew up, that I realised how messed up the dang thing was. That someone would do those things to a kid, just ‘cause they could. That folks would just stand there ‘n let it happen.” 

John climbed the stairs back up. His right hand was working open and closed with the urge to clamp around flesh. As he stared into his eyes, he noticed that the Englishman was quiet and appeared cautious in a way he hadn’t been before. 

“It wasn’t personal for them, though,” John said, “for the doctors, and Jonah, for Madelyn - it was just a day’s work. But for me? For me, it was my life. You understand what I’m trying to say?”

“I understand,” the Englishman replied, and John had to give him credit for being able to maintain his gaze. Most couldn’t, when the lasers were powering up. 

“Good.”

John turned around then, heading towards a secluded clearing in the forest where he knew no one would see him take off. If he managed to catch a sniff of Annie's scent, that would be enough to track them down. 

“Oi, cunt!” The Englishman called, just as he was about to disappear into the edge of the wilderness. John turned his head to the side, just enough to have him in his field of vision.

“Name’s Billy Butcher, ‘was a pleasure,” he said, and despite the reproaches, the scorn and the unspoken threats, in his eyes there was a look of begrudging respect. John didn’t care for it one bit. 

“Not to me,” he replied drily. “Don’t care what the fuck your name is, either.”

Rather than offended, Butcher appeared amused by his rebuttal. John cursed him under his breath before going on his way. 

[akindofmagictoo]

DRAGONSONG: draft 2 update: 08/01

previous word count: 13,072

current word count: 14,919 (1,847 added)

notes: Isi has now encountered More Consequences for talking back to the king. notably getting whipped. not a fun time. next stop is to figure out what to do with her life ... and she figures if she's already in a load of trouble, she might as well keep going.

snippet:

A knock sounded on her door. It might have been minutes later; it might have been hours. Isi didn’t know how long she had sat there, the unused bandages still in her hands, tears streaming down her face. She was in no good state to be seen. But what else could she do? She wiped her eyes and stood, a little unsteadily, to answer it. When she opened the door to see Meg, her first instinct was to shut it again. But before she could do so, Meg was already moving forward. “Give me your medical kit.” “What?” Isi instinctively backed up a step. “So I can clean you up.” “I can do it—” Isi protested. Meg cut her off. “But you’re not doing it. Sit.” Isi was too stunned to object, and too tired to think. Meg shut the door behind her, collected Isi’s medical kit from her bed, and pointed to Isi’s dining room chairs. “Sit.” Isi sat.

TAGLIST

@isherwoodj @metanoiamorii @lilmissravingwriter @weekofwednesdays @the-unwrittenwriter @talesofsorrowandofruin @little-boats-on-a-lake @teriwrites @magicalwriting @magic-is-something-we-create @writingbyjillian @waysofink @perditism @thehellinsideyourhead @calicowrites @vellichor-virgo @google-plexed @therecouldbecolorsandlove @the-orangeauthor @ellatholmes @happyorogeny @ladywithalamp @ashen-crest @authortango @strangerays @moononherwings @nikkywrites @ambersky0319 @ambsthom @talesfromgringolandia @wickerring @wizardfromthesea @diphthongsfordays @e-lisard @enchanted-lightning-aes @emscribblings @teardropsandtherain @lowslore @fablewritten @copper-dragon-in-disguise @dirtybarkshark

[whiteshipnightjar]

Marie At The Mill

by Joanna Newsom

(HORNS)

I see you coming down in your cherry wool coat bare to the throat like Marie at the Mill. Where might you go from your lowly amour where they hoard you like gold in the hill.

Sent from my side to the cold riverbed, Marie, you go ahead; I will follow in time. The work keeps me here with a few pioneers magnetizing a permanent line. Save for the coat, there was nothing to bring. It was found you could sing, you were sent to the Bay. At Seminary, you passed and were buried; I rose there the very next day.

For if you weren’t born at the right time, my dear, just keep trying and trying and trying again. As for the end, it is not what you fear, you’re just slipping a glove from your hand.

Like this: down, down, down, down your wrist down, down; the list of lives, husbands and wives, dozens of times around again and then,

out of all of the girls, heartbroke, alone, and to rot, and called me the heir of Melba and myth. I crossed the Atlantic, from Boston to Nantes on the hand of my dear Mr. Smith.

Then came his talk of perdition and sin like a cold winter wind come to blow me away. I was impatient and sought education on stage and the Champs-Élysées. I left on my own with the clothes on my back and my old name intact, and my own bills to pay. I left him in debt with his feathered grisette; alouette, je te plumerai. I had the honor to sing Mendelssohn on the Ternary lawn for the brave and the few. But it was my joy to be called to Bayreuth from who toiled a slave comes anew.

They prance for gentler worthiness and everyone who ruled a king may wander in rags for things done and undone and done and undone.

I wed Mr Russak, a fan, and producer of amateur music. All embedded in pearls, held court in Newport, amused myself before I threw off the veil of the world. And when in time he sank under the sea, what he deeded to me was enough to begin as secretary and past emissary; I rose through the ranks from within.

My carnelian snuff bottle carved as a peach and a small sterling wagon — well, that was part of the set — consigned to the waters of Elliot Beach, left behind with your Pall Mall Gazette.

And it was not luck, put me there by his side when the old Colonel died, and the adepts appeared, and all* what they share, well, you had to be there but I’ll tell you if you wanna hear.

Henry, your work here is done, Annie will carry it on, Marie, write it all down, ‘til the keynote is found. You run it up and down and round and round and round and

so I filled as I could all the gaps as a pilfer for good and only good, through some lapse that I’ve long forgot I wanna write to King and only transcribe the thoughts of the boy from the beach with his pervious soul. Poor little teacher got you, do it as you’re told. And even so there is danger here in the sun. Honey, tell me what has Sirius done? I hear it all but I cannot assume none may I follow to the Octagon Room; the boy from the beach beckoned and called, Lord, he’ll leave and unhand it all.

I see the clock on the wall, I hear the knock on the door but that is all.

(HORNS)

And when my work here is through, Henry, will you find me anew a little stranger, my old friend, hold me and win me again and again and again, all over again, all over again, all over again.

There’s a lodger in me larger than me saw the cross in the garden where your process came to be and cut you free, though your father tried to reunite with you and yet* he was allowed to die. Despite the lies, we are grist in the mill.

On the list I am Helios still, Sun-Wielder, Brunhilde, spun in shields, running round, and round, and round, and round, and round, and round, and round.

[xandersrailcrash]

here's what i recovered from Play To Win from RTC (i made the lyrics a little less....... ableist) (i have the lyrics for the og ver. too but i'm not gonna post those) i'm not sure if i recovered all of it, but its about a minute and a half of singing time, i can link Kholby's ver. and the OG in another post!!

The art to win an argument

Ain’t changed much over time

You read and rule your public first

And then you change their mind

If the judge seems like a hippie

Then your foe’s a right-wing nut

If your judge seems like a holy hostile Pentecostal

Then your foe’s a godless hedonistic slut

Demonise your opponents

With personal attacks

Quote some fake authorities

And unrelated facts

Create a false dilemma

Like you’re with us or ya ain’t

Ask the putz a loaded question

How could you say H--ler was a saint

In this world there’s just one sin

Don’t play the game unless you play to win

You gotta be defile

When the game is over

You’re knocking on heaven’s door

It’s only your soul, your soul alone

That’s keeping score

You wanna kick out the crutches from the injured?(Oh no!)

Push an old lady down the stairs? (Dear lord!)

Steal a piece of candy from a crying little baby?

As long as you’re winning, who cares? (Who cares?)

Take out a screamin’ toddler

That’s the road to perdition

Soon you’re gonna wind up

A backstabbing, ass grabbing

Rubber necked politician

When you wrestle with poop (Win or lose!)

Oh listen to me child (Win or lose!)

It’s gonna get on your shoe (Win or lose!)

It’s gonna be defile!

Now when the game is over

Heavens door

It’s only your soul, your soul alone

That’s keeping score

I said it’s only your soul (Who’s keeping score)

It’s only your soul, your soul alone

That’s keeping score

[offmykelter]

Need Kelter calling Endrust out for not using the nickname he's been assigned ;)

The room is almost silent in the night, except for the smallest of sniffles and shaking sighs, and the slow breeze that sometimes ruffles the curtains. One wouldn't have been bothered by the sound if they passed the closed door, and it's true. It had been several nights that had passed, and no one had heard the soft crying beyond the wood. Endrust had made sure to keep his break downs quiet, as to not have to explain that he's crying over his sisters again. Laid on his side, with a small photograph of himself and his family clutched in his hand. His fingers trailing over the figures of the main source of his tears.

The picture was old, well kept except for the new creases it had been folded in. Of Endrust with his family before he faked his kidnapping, before he was able to fully transition. His long hair pulled up like his mother's, and his sisters all sporting hairstyles appropriate for their age at the time. His mom wears a scarf over her head, and it flows almost seamlessly through her horns. Her jewled hand rests apon Endrust's shoulder, and she smiles at the camera fondly. His sisters each wear their own smiles, each with a more forced smile, but beautiful all the same. They all stick to a theme in the photo, as per his father's request. Sticking to what looks like formal royal wear, as they all wear some delicate fabrics, and tiaras or headpieces of the sort. His father is smiling brightly, proudly, like he's proud of the gorgeous family he's produced.

Endrust cries, not because he sees himself playing a character, of what he wears, the forced and practice smile he wears. No, he cries because he wishes he could have played that character again. He wishes to have stayed with his family. Keep the childish ignorance he once held about how great Theramore was, the entire world flipped as he found our the true horrors its caused. Had experienced its terror face to face, before fleeing. Unable to face his father head on, terrified of the man he didn't recognize. Tears over running away, instead of being there to protect, to save his sisters. He left again, turning heel and running away at the sight of a challenge. There's a deep set of regret, and disappointment as Endrust realizes he's not as strong as he wanted to be, that he's letting himself- no, his entire family down.

He cries for nights over this. Spiraling as he continues his self deprecation.

It had only been less than a week, since Endrust had gotten back go Vitrea. Kelter had already been dealing with his own realizations about his father and the desert called Perdition. The night Endrust had returned, and the two put in close proximity, they were cuddled ontop of one another as a form of comfort.

Kelter was appreciative of this, though he wasn't sure what Endrust was going through, he had felt somewhat relaxed under the pressure of his boyfriend husband. He had hoped Endrust had felt the same, relaxed and soothed. But after that night, and as the days followed, he had seen a bit less of the tiefling. He was sure it was more of a ghost of his husband, than the actual man himself, and ontop of that he wasn't being asked to sleep in the same room. Kelter had spent the first few nights confused as to what he was missing before it hit him, that he wasn't being pestered about sharing a bed, and that worried him.

Usually, Kelter felt confident enough to just walk into Endrust's room unannounced, no knock or shout before he slipped past the door. There was no issue with this, Kelter was always a welcome distraction, an honored gift, Endrust would say. So without any knocks, Kelter had opened the door a crack, just enough for his body to slip through. "Endrust? Haven't seen you all night, was wondering if you wanted to come down stairs with me to get something to eat-?" He notices the curled up position of Endrust, his hand slipping something underneath the pillow, other hand clenched and trembling. At first, he thinks Endrust is mad at him for not knocking, so an apology sits at the tip of his tounge, but then he hears a shuttering sighing sound. The forced inhale that tries to hide the sniffling. Kelter knows the signs of crying, and though he's not sure what to do, he moves closer to kneel on the bed. "Endrust, what's the matter?" He places a hand on Endrust's shoulder, leaning over him to get a better look.

Endrust looks up at him, and blinks when Kelter moves to wipe away the tears, thumb swiping under his eye. "Nothing, Kelter, I'm just-" he winces when Kelter interrupts, yellow thumb pressing into his cheek. "Like hell. I'd have belived you, if you had used my actual name." Endrust narrows his eyes, and pulls Kelters hand off his face. He looks up at his husband, head tilted, and eyes still watering. "I did use your name, what are you-"

"You didn't call me Duckie." Kelter says sternly. Endrust knows he isn't actually angry or upset, but he does know he's been caught in his lie about being alright. Kelter continues. "You always call me Duckie, unless you're upset or angry at me." Endrust sighs, releasing Kelter's hand, which lands right back on his cheek. He leans into the touch. "I could never be angry at you, you know that- and I'm not not okay, I just... I miss a lot of things. That's all."

Endrust believes thats going to be the end of it, that the topic would be dropped. Maybe he'd get cleaned up, and accept the offer of getting something to eat downstairs. Forget about this and lay in bed until they got tired. But instead, Kelter rolls ontop and off of Endrust, laying on his side. He scooches in close, hands holding Endrust, and eyes peering at him expectantly. He juts his chin, silently telling him to continue his thought. With a roll of his eyes, and a kiss to Kelter's cheek, he continues.

[sarah-dipitous]

Hellsite Nostalgia Tour 2023 Day 350

Despair

“Despair”

Plot Description: Sam, Dean, and Castiel get unexpected help as they try to save Jack, then rush to stop a series of vanishings. But their efforts come at a big price.

Would I Survive the First Five Minutes??: Jack exploded in the Empty, and I sure as hell would not survive being him or being in that blast radius

You know…I believe Billie had her reasons

Fuck…both Jack and the Empty survived. And she’s PISSSSSSSSED

They used to put sound effects into cosmic beings disappearing

Fuck. Charlie’s gonna go away, isn’t she?? Not her girlfriend firrrrrrst

I’m procrastinating on this episode, but luckily Megumi has come over to her favorite nap spot to keep me company and comfort me

I feel like Billie wants to make this hurt. It’s what I would do in her position. Start with some randos to scare them but definitely take out the ones that’ll hurt BAD

Yeah. Sure LOOKS like Billie took Eileen. I’m sorry, Sam

You’re gonna try to kill Death AGAIN?! I’m just so…..I hate that Dean and Cas are going off on their own

God….what if Billie takes everyone else all at once in front of Sam and Jack

Why are things dying in at Jack’s ALMOST touch??

No, this was different than before. They disappeared differently than Charlie’s gf. This is MUCH more Chuck’s style…and that… doesn’t matter if they were from this world or another, if they came back from the dead or if they never died

Billie on the verge of death determined to kill Dean is not NOT hot, ESPECIALLY scraping her scythe against the walls of the bunker

MEGUMI HAS RETURNED TO ME IN MY TIME OF NEED. There are five-ish minutes left, Death is knocking at the warded door, but it won’t hold forever. Dean and Cas are already saying their goodbyes and regretting not being with Sam and Jack right now, aaaaaaaaaaaaaand Meg left

OMG CASTIEL IS GOING TO SUMMON THE EMPTY HIMSELF?!?!?

I am LOSING MY SHIT!!!!! Of COURSE this out trended the presidential election

I can’t do this

I’M SOBBING. MISHA COLLINS, ARE YOU HAPPY?!?!

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?! THE BLOODY HAND PRINT FROM CAS’S HAND ON DEAN’S SHOULDER OK HIS WAY TO SACRIFICE HIMSELF FOR DEAN’S SAKE LIKE THE MARK HE LEFT RAISING HIM FROM PERDITION?!?!

IS EVERYONE BUT SAM AND DEAN AND JACK GONE??????

Jesus, it ends with Dean sobbing on the floor???

[koopzilla]

@garlculean

The koopas had been blessed. Fresh water ran down the walls of their grand pyramid, filling every basin to bursting. Fruits juicy, ripe, and fatter than their palms sprouted from vines running down the walls, and fresh vegetables guarded its perimeter. Fauna flocked the edge of their perfectly propped city: providing food and marvel to their once barren home. Their skies, so often shrouded by Dark Land's corrosion, had beat back the pollution and offered warmth and light. After a millenium, their land had finally seen prosperity. Thanks to the Golden King and his magic jewel.

Yet, prosperity was not enough for that golden-shelled koopa. As the years went on, his wishes began to change. His kind gifts to his people became selfcentered. He wished their blocks would sprout endless coins, robbing the land of all other power-ups. He enforced taxes on his people: burdening their paradise to inflate his bloated pockets. Their grand pyramid grew larger and larger, crushing the farmlands, until its tip threatened to puncture the sun...

Then one day, the Gods had seen enough...

"I DEMAND ABSOLUTE CONTROL! I WISH ALL THE COINS IN THE LAND BELONGED TO ME!! OBEYED ME! BRING THEM HERE."

The koopa scarred the jewel as he frantically rubbed its edge, his eyes beaming with a greed demons would covet. As always, his wish was granted. However, it no longer spared the koopa the consequences of his avarice. Coins spawning infinitely from blocks swarmed his temple all at once. They ravaged the walls, they pushed in from the ground - from pipes, plants, faucets, and eventually his own wallet. Shimmering gold rained from the heavens like meteors and promised the kingdom the very same end of days. Wealth destroyed their homes, killed the plants, and polluted their rivers. For days...

Until nothing remained. For the coins rusted into nothingness and the blocks ran dry. The people had fled. The temple, made too heavy to stand, sank into the Earth.

It is said the koopa's jewel lost its harmony that day. What was once a blessing had been reduced to a curse like all the others on their land. A curse better left buried, forever lost to...

--

"Perdition Peaks."

A forgotten wasteland in the armpit of the Koopa Kingdom. Too far away from the castle to be acknowledged by its king, and yet buried in the same darkness as the rest of the abandoned land. Dirty dried riverbeds plague useless soil. Emptied blocks had been knocked from the air, left to lay worthlessly along the floor. The earth sank inward at the border: all roads lead inward towards a seemingly bottomless pit.

However, it is not bottomless... and Bowser knows it. An artifact granting infinite wishes lays within! Or, that's what the legend says! That, and an endless sea of coins.

In enter Wario. The man's name had become synonymous with coinage. His reputation for hunting treasure had reached even the Koopa King's ears. His own minions feared the superstition of the lost city. But, he was sure this corrupt coinpurse of a man wouldn't. Who better to sniff out a vault of coin!? Their deal: Wario helps him sniff out the treasure vault and gets to keep all of it... except for one trinket Bowser wants.

So, the king stood as the path's guardian, arms folded as he looked back towards the jagged spires of his castle. Until his accomplice finally arrived. "You're late. Butt get stuck in your door, Garlic Breath!?"

[authorsofparadiseroleplay]

James and Wynter: Knock-Knock-Knocking on Perdition’s Door

Thread transfer for @lxvingdeadgxrl

James

“I don’t believe any being is inherently evil, Wynter,” James said. “The choices we make determine our fate.”

___________________________________

Wynter

  She ran her finger around the lip of her glass, pale eyes focused on some random spot on the table. “I’ve been telling myself that for years, you know…Tried to believe it, but I think some of us are damned regardless.”

___________________________________

James

Nursing his glass of bourbon, he watched her for a moment, noting the far-off look in her eyes that veiled a wound that had long ago taken root. “Tell me.” The words were softly spoken, an invitation rather than a command.

___________________________________

Wynter

  Tell him? Christ, where to even start…

   She lifted her glass, taking a slow, thoughtful sip. “Have you ever had a nightmare so vivid, so real, and it happens so often that you can’t help but know that it’s not actually a dream, but a vision?” she asked him simply.

___________________________________

James

Dragons as a species, as well as hybrids like James, were tapped deeply into the web of reality, and had varying degrees of prescience. Some were more attuned than others and served as augers who Saw into the complicated weave of potential and probable futures. James himself had never had much talent for prescience, but even so, when events loomed that shaped fate on a global scale, his dreams would dip into that stream and send back echoes that lingered relentlessly until fate either anchored to that potential or shifted to a different branch altogether.

“At times. Not often.” He studied her. “What do you see in these dreams?”

___________________________________

Wynter

See, at least he had insight like that. Wyn on the other hand, she didn’t have that. People like her? They weren’t exactly keen on sharing tips or tricks, and didn’t really live or stay sane long enough to pass on their information. There was no manual, no nifty little instructional booklet…

  “Hell.” she replied rather frankly. “Damnation…eternal agony, call it what you want.”

___________________________________

James

“I see.” He was quiet for a minute, sipping his drink while he thought. The Christian concept of Hell was quite modern, all things considered, and was only one cosmological model in a vast history of mythologies and cultural beliefs– however, that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. He had seen reality bend and shift and fold in upon itself, layer after layer of potential pasts, presents, and futures swirling together like a kaleidoscope, and a seemingly static world that appeared to be set in stone could be swept away in an instant, replaced by something new, with very few noticing.

Some noticed, he had found. Entire internet forums were dedicated to what had been termed Mandela Effects and Glitches in the Matrix, where bewildered humans swapped stories of their worlds inexplicably changing in the blink of an eye.

He couldn’t write anything off as altogether impossible, and wouldn’t show Wynter the disrespect of dismissing her fears and visions. “And do you see in your visions what brings you to that place? Why are you there? What are the circumstances surrounding these images?”

___________________________________

Wynter

It was as real as any realm if existence, and Wynter knew that there were many of them. She’d seen too many things, experienced far too much throughout her life to be silly enough to believe that there was only one.

  The young woman let out a short, bitter laugh. What brought her there? Why she was there? Wasn’t it obvious?

  “Unclean souls go to Hell, James. What is a necromancer if not an unclean soul?” she asked. “Doesn’t matter what I do with it, or how much of myself I wall up and block from the world, the vision never changes.”

___________________________________

James

“Now, hold up a minute,” James interjected, raising a hand. “I mean no offense, but that is a steaming pile of bullshit.” He well knew how one’s beliefs could color perception, and if she believed she was damned already simply because of some mistakes she had made in her past, because of her natural proclivities, seeing visions of a place that seemed hellish would serve only to support that belief. Confirmation bias was a bitch sometimes. That wasn’t to say it wasn’t the mythical Hell, but the amount of cultural baggage attached to that particular belief could twist anyone’s view on the matter.

He turned on his barstool to look at her directly, and reached out to touch her hand. “Wynter, listen to me. You do not deserve that fate. Whatever you may have seen. Whatever other people may have told you. You are not unclean, and damn anyone who says different to the very Hellfire they wish to condemn you to.” That wasn’t to say she would never encounter such a place in her future– he knew better than to dismiss any possibility in this world– but resigning herself to it with the idea that it was somehow just or right would serve only to defeat her before she even got started.

One thing was for certain, if she did find herself in that place, he would move heaven, earth, and the underworld to get her out. No friend of his would be bound to eternal torment while he was still alive to do something about it.

___________________________________

Wynter

Oh…Well, shit, she hadn’t expected an outburst like that from him.

 Her expression betrayed her surprise, pale eyes widened ever so slightly. He…He said that it was bullshit, but that was exactly what she’d been led to believe for the duration of her life. Sure, she’d fought it, did what she could to prove herself more than her abilities, but it just never seemed to help things.

  The nightmares and visions remained the same.

 He kept her gaze, his hand resting upon her own as he spoke once more, insisted that she was mistaken in her thinking. He told her that she wasn’t damned, that she was destined for more than that hellfire, but it certainly felt as if she was.

 “Just because I don’t deserve it, doesn’t mean that it won’t happen. I…I-I’d love to say that there was a way to change that, but again, what more can I do?” she asked him seriously. “How do you win redemption when you haven’t intentionally done anything wrong?”

[kongrisu]

missing some 0 characters, i’ll get them later 2 / 2

[imbiowaresbitch]

Wrap Your Hands Around Me

When Castiel rebuilt Dean after raising him from Perdition, he left traces of his grace behind to bind the scattered pieces of Dean’s soul together. Now he can feel it when Dean wields his angel blade, another piece of his grace. He was never prepared for the touch of Dean's hand against his very self. But he likes it very much. * The first time it happened, it was completely accidental. Castiel was low on juice, as Dean called it, and a demon got the drop on him as they investigated the supposedly empty warehouse, knocking his angel blade from his hands. It hit the concrete floor with a clatter and tumbled away. He could sense it, a displaced piece of his grace behind him and to his left, but he was too busy burning out the demon with the dregs of his strength to retrieve it.

As he climbed quickly to his feet and spun, looking for more demons, he saw Dean knocked sprawling right next to his blade. Dean was too good a hunter to pass up a perfectly serviceable weapon and scooped up Castiel's angel blade to dispatch the last demon. 

Castiel was not prepared to feel the touch of that competent, callused palm as though it were pressing intimately against his grace, and his knees buckled as a previously unknown pleasure threatened to swamp him. Dean immediately rushed to his side, dropping the blade in the process, and Castiel was able to recover his senses, passing off his weakness as being entirely due to the fight. 

Dean pulled him to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder, peering at him in concern. Castiel straightened, feeling the pull of his grace before him, only to realise with a shock it was Dean he was sensing. Infinitesimal pieces of Castiel's grace were scattered through Dean's body and positively hummed with tension. Castiel knew that he'd given part of himself to rebuild Dean after retrieving him from Hell, but this was the first time he'd felt such a resonance with him. He stared into Dean's soul, watching as his grace thrummed with energy, a steady pull that made him want to be closer. As he watched, Dean's soul brightened, warm and welcoming, even as Dean nervously licked his lips and his green eyes dropped to Castiel's mouth.

Castiel felt an unfamiliar swell of desire, and he stepped closer. Personal space, a small voice inside him warned, but Dean's soul called to him like his very own siren, promising everything he could ever want. "Cas?" Dean asked softly, his breath coming faster. His cheeks were flushed with exertion from the fight, his eyes wide and dark.

The slam of a door snapped Dean's head around, and Castiel shook his head, breaking the strange tension between them. He stepped past Dean to stoop and collect his blade. Tucking it away into the ether where his wings stayed when he wasn't flying, Castiel straightened his shoulders.

"We need to keep moving." *** Read the rest on AO3. Timestamp written and will be posted soon. Thanks to @nickelkeep for the beta!

[feirceangel]

Imagine | Panic (Castiel)

Imagine meeting Castiel for the first time and having a panic attack.

Word Count: 1041

~

Shock tore you open when you saw Dean alive, breathing, and knocking on Bobby's door. You didn't believe that it was him. Dean was dead and buried. You and Sam had done everything to bring him back, but nothing worked. There was no way that he could be back.

And yet here he was.

He passed all the tests that you and Bobby threw at him, confirming that he was the real deal.

Your big brother, back from the dead.

And now here you are, trying to find out what brought him back.

Bobby's been busy drawing all sorts of traps and signs on the warehouse, while you and Dean set out all the weapons that you brought onto the tables.

"Let me see it again," you say, snatching Dean's arm and lifting his shirt sleeve to reveal the hand-shaped welt on his arm.

"Hey! You've looked at it a million times already."

You trace your fingers gently over his red skin, "I know. Last time, I swear."

He scoffs, "That's what you said last time."

"Well, suck it up Dean-o."

Drawing back your hand, you go back to examining a sharp wooden stake. Bobby grumbles something about 'annoying kids', causing you to chuckle.

He finishes with the signs and goes to the table to perform the summoning ritual. You watch with uncertainty. "Are you sure we should do this? I mean, the psychic's eyes exploded because she looked at it."

Dean clenches his jaw in determination, "We're doing this. I understand if you want to go-"

"Don't start that Dean, I'm staying. It's just that this is probably insane. Like, insaner than usual, even for us."

Your brother chuckles, "Yeah this is crazy."

Bobby starts chanting in latin and begins the ritual. You watch, anxiety blooming in the pit of your stomach. Dean also looks worried, but he masks it better than you.

You clench the demon-killing knife and wait. Bobby finishes and steps back.

Nothing happens.

Patience is not your strong suit, but you try to relax and focus on sharpening the knives and the stakes as you wait. Bobby whistles idly while you sharpen the knife and Dean plays with a different one.

Dean breaks the silence after thirty minutes, "Did you do it right Bobby?"

Bobby fixes a fierce frown upon Dean.

Hastily, Dean looks at the ground, "Sorry. Touchy touchy."

You roll your eyes, "Maybe something else went wrong?"

Suddenly, vicious sounds attack your ears. The roof starts shaking violently above you.

"Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind," Dean says after you all stand up and look around.

The lights explode above your heads and you flinch and protect your head from the shattered glass.

Bobby and Dean get their shotguns ready, and you follow suit. The far doors open slowly just as the roof stops quaking. You hold your breath.

A man, clad in a tan trench-coat, who looks to be a bit shorter than Dean, saunters in. Sparks from the busted lights rain down as he makes his approach.

Bobby and Dean waste no time and start shooting. You shake out of your stupor and fire at the man.

He doesn't slow down. Heck, he doesn't even flinch as the rounds hit him in the chest.

Bobby and Sam share a look of horror as they realize the guns are useless.

Fear claws your chest and rises with each step the stranger takes. You grab Ruby's knife from the table and throw away the empty shotgun. Dean and Bobby stop shooting.

"Who are you?" Dean asks as the man comes to stand in front of him.

"I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." He replies in a low, rough voice.

"Yeah, thanks for that." Is Dean's reply.

The man turns to look at you as you walk up to face him. Without warning, you thrust the knife into his chest with all your might.

His icy blue eyes meet yours as you take a step back in fright. He keeps eye contact as he slowly pulls out the bloodied knife with a faint smile gracing his lips. He drops it to the ground as you stare at him in panic.

Bobby swings the crowbar, but the man blocks it easily and touches two fingers to Bobby's forehead. Bobby's eyes close as he slumps to the ground.

The man turns back to look at you and your brother, "We need to talk."

Cautiously, you go to where Bobby lies and check his pulse.

"Your friend is alive."

Dean glares at him, "Who are you?"

"Castiel," he replies without looking away from you.

"I figured that much. I mean, what are you?"

"I'm an angel of the Lord." He answers with a completely serious face.

You can't help but scoff, "Angel? There's no such thing."

He tilts his head and smirks a bit, "This is your problem. You have no faith."

With a clash of thunder and a blinding blast of light, Castiel reveals the shadow of his wings. Gasping, you stare at the space where the shadowy outline was.

"Some angel you are. You burned that poor woman's eyes out." Dean accuses as you try to get over the fact that an actual angel is in front of you.

Castiel sighs, "I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be overwhelming to humans."

In disbelief, you back away from them.

Your breathing is becoming rapid, your heart rate accelerating, your palms growing sweaty. You recognize the symptoms of a panic attack and try to calm down, but it doesn't work. Dizzy, you lean against the table.

Castiel's eyes go to you again, causing Dean to look at you in concern.

"What did you do to her?" Dean glares at the angel.

"She's having a panic attack. I did not do this." He explains, walking towards you.

Dean steps in the way, "Leave her alone!"

"I can help."

Dean looks at him uncertainly. You struggle to breathe as your heart beats furiously in your breast. Castiel steps around Dean and makes his way to where you lean against the table.

At his approach, chills crawl down your spine.

"It's okay, I won't hurt you." His low voice assures you.

Tentatively, he raises two fingers and presses them against your forehead. Without warning, your eyes close and you fall asleep.

[softgrungeprophet]

🌹 sure!

hmmm

here is a snippet from the au where harry and flash own a roller rink...

i like the idea of it a lot but i just haven't gotten anywhere with it, so i haven't really worked on it recently cause idk where to go with it

it would probably help if i read the comics where they own a roller disco as research lol

–––

"Welcome… to Perdition!"

Red lights, disco ball throwing flashes all over the floor, the booth onstage glowing as the fog machine poured out heavy billows of low-hanging clouds to drift down to the dancefloor-slash-skate rink. All that, and Harry in the DJ's seat, devil horns on his head as he adjusted the levels, wearing a red suit that almost glowed under the stage-lighting. All-too-at home both in the spotlight and yet not the focus at all.

"He's never gonna get tired of that, is he?" MJ nudged Flash, arm-in-arm with him.

Her jumpsuit glittered with sequins in the colorful shadows, and Flash grinned.

"Well, he's got the hairline for it!" Interrupted by none other than Peter Parker himself; skating backwards in a circle around them with so little effort it made Flash want to roll his eyes.

"What happened to 'I don't know how to skate'?!" He gestured at Peter, incredulous.

MJ laughed beside him.

Peter shrugged, and put his hands behind his head, swaying his feet with the rhythm of the music. Didn't even have to look to avoid the couple behind him, smoothly curving himself around them in an arc unimpeded by the quality of the rental skates.

Then he smirked.

Showoff.

MJ poked Flash's side. "Hey, stud."

He tilted his head quizzically toward her.

"Slingshot me?" Her expression playful, false lashes glittering under the red lights.

Flash smiled at her, and obliged.

When he let her go, she zoomed after Peter, crouching low over her skates—she did this all the time, and you could tell.

If it had been anyone else, she probably would have knocked her target flat on his ass, but Peter just opened his arms and caught her. The two of them spun in a tight circle together, arms around each other…

Flash watched them a moment, skating slowly himself, then sighed.

Seemed nice, what they had.

Over the speakers, Harry spoke—lowered his voice, all drama (and maybe a hint of sultry if one could be so generous) as he said, "It's early in the night, so let's take it slow. Ladies, fellas, and everyone else…"

Flash tuned him out and headed toward the curtained doorways that led out into the front.

It was cold outside, the sun long-since set.

In the summer, when the college-goers left the city and the younger kids went on break with all those long hot days to kill and nothing better to do, Perdition opened during the day; but summer was over and the kids in school, so the hours had shortened and shifted later—8 pm to 1 am until the heat rolled around again, barring event-bookings.

Nightclub hours, as Harry liked to call it.

Maybe it was a weird business model, but it worked for them. The venue was too small for large crowds anyway, so the little pockets of college kids and aging queens and whoever else happened to wander in during the cooler months suited them just fine.

Flash leaned against the wall beside the front doors and sighed, his breath clouding the air around his face.

Someone must have been smoking out on the sidewalk recently, and the residual smell made him curl his nose.

He could just hear the music coming from inside, loud enough to escape through the flimsy front doors. Persistent driving bass, and the pavement lit up by their marquee; the big neon letters spelling out one more word for their eternal damnation.

Perdition.

A few people drifted past here and there, but for the most part the evening was quiet.

Flash almost wished something would happen.

Almost.

It was that self-destructive streak in him, trying to push its way out through his chest, mouth, hands, wherever it could get out. Looking for anything—some kind of confrontation, some kind of disaster, whatever would get him into survival mode, feed him adrenaline, keep him occupied instead of fidgeting outside under the city lights waiting for something to drop while his thoughts ate at him like Prometheus' eagle.

(And sure, maybe he needed therapy.)

Flash took a deep breath, counted to ten with his fingers tapping at his thighs for each number, one at a time… Back inside.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Worship

Chapter I - No way back

06/04/2021

Pairing: Hades (August Walker/Geralt of Rivia) x Eliza (OFC)

Word Count: 2,234

Warnings: mentions of death (this will be a permanent warning throughout the story - we're talking about the God of the Underworld after all), psychological torture (if you are sensitive)

Summary: Hades gets informed that one of the souls has tried to escape from the Underworld. He is not amused.

A/N: Here we go, everyone. This is the first chapter of my Greek Mythology AU. Just in case you might get confused along the way, Hades looks like black eyed Geralt in his divine form while he chooses to resemble August whenever he enters the mortal realm.

Gif by @thejingshi

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

Perdition - he could feel it coming long before the familiar knock on his office door echoed through the room. With a sigh, he bade her come in.

“It must be terribly bad news if they send you, my dear friend.” He didn’t need to turn around to know who had disturbed his solitude.

“The worst, I’m afraid, my lord.”

He huffed, but he still refused to leave his favourite spot by the window, overlooking the meadows. “Oh, they surely must be if you even choose to use my title.” He sighed again in view of the grave message she was about to deliver, his head sinking, before he finally turned around to face the goddess. “Please, just tell me, Hecate. We’ve been friends long enough for you to know how much I despise superfluous suspension.”

“I know, my lord, but - “

“And will you skip that ‘my lord’-nonsense?” his voice thundered through the office, more aggravated than he had wanted it to and he wished he hadn’t spoken at all as he registered her flinch. Instantly his fingers flew up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t hate on the messenger. Do go on, please.”

“As long as you will only shout at me after what I have to tell you, I’m more than grateful.”

The unusual worry and reluctance in her voice pained him. Did she really think he would punish her for the faults of others? He had been called many things before - harsh, brutal, cruel, callous, grim were only some of the words that people usually chose to describe him with - but unjust had never been one of the attributes they assigned to him.

“I promise I won’t even do that. And now continue, my friend.”

But to his great dismay, his words had done little to appease her and she still hesitated to finally tell him what she had come here for. Instead, she dropped her gaze, looking down onto her fingers that had started fidgeting.

“Tell me, Hecate,” he pressed out through gritted teeth, trying very hard to keep his promise as his patience slowly dissipated. “Or would you rather have me read it from your mind?”

“No.” Her head whipped up to meet his gaze, and he could see a seldom flicker of fear in her golden eyes. “It’s one of the souls, Hades. Cerberus caught them as they were trying to escape the Underworld.”

“I already anticipated as much,” he stated blankly, but behind his calm eyes, pitch-black as the night, she could see the turmoil her message had stirred up. “Bring them to the throne room.”

Indicating a bow, she nodded, and without turning her back, she left the office of the God of the Underworld.

As soon as the heavy doors fell shut, Hades slumped down into his leather chair, resting his forehead against his palm in utter defeat. It were moments like these in which he felt the ever pressing weight of the world on his shoulders. Of the Underworld, to be precise.

When the realm of the dead had first been assigned to him, he had thought it would be an easy task ahead of him. After all, how hard could it be to judge and chaperone the souls? He had felt like a mere administrator in the beginning, but time had taught him better.

He wasn’t absolutely sure, but maybe it was the lack of understanding that made it increasingly hard for him to fulfil his task. It wasn’t that he hadn’t honestly tried, but somehow it didn’t make sense to him why the souls couldn’t just accept that there was no way back.

Hades couldn't help but feel a little personally slighted whenever the wish to escape the Underworld grew strong enough in one of his subjects to make them reckless. He just couldn't fathom why they would even think about leaving from here after all. Apart from those who had brought it upon themselves to reside in Tartarus, of course. Hadn’t he done everything in his power to ensure they wouldn’t want for anything?

And why did they still care for the mortal realm in the first place? They were dead, after all, the world of the living no more of any concern to them. And yet, every now and then, one of them tried to flee their new home.

It was pointless though, only half-hearted, pitiful attempts at best, no real challenge for Cerberus. And Hades made sure that the other souls knew what awaited them should they ever try to follow in the footsteps of those who attempted an escape. As he would have to do now.

“You will kneel before the God of the Underworld. You will neither look at him nor speak to him, unless you are told otherwise. If so, you will address him as ‘my lord’. Is that understood?”

The soul refused to look at her, showing no sign whatsoever that they had even heard a single one of her words.

“I asked you a question.” Hecate’s snarl was accompanied by a jingle of the chains that bound their hands and feet. Only after another harsh pull, they finally raised their eyes and what Hecate found there didn’t make her very optimistic that this hearing would end well for them.

“Yes,” the soul hissed, the voice spiteful and venomous.

“Yes what?” The goddess gave a yank on their chains again and she would keep doing so, until they finally realised who they were facing. But it seemed that they had decided to comply after all.

“Yes, Lady Hecate.”

“Oh, good. Does this mean you’re actually beginning to fathom what you have brought upon yourself by trying to escape Lord Hades’ realm?”

They didn’t, that much was clear, but she enjoyed teasing the souls a little, riling them up, making them tremble with fear before they finally met their king in all his furious glory. This one didn’t even flinch though, effectively ruining all her fun.

“No, wait. Don’t answer that. Some things are better felt than spoken about, aren’t they?”

She chuckled deeply before she halted in front of the colossal doors that would lead them into the throne room. Nodding to the guards, they hurried to push the black marble aside and reveal the gigantic room in which the God of the Underworld already awaited them.

As she had anticipated, he had exchanged the black shirt and jeans he had worn a few minutes ago for his godly attire. And as always, he looked enticing and feral at the same time. His white hair fell across his metal clad shoulders like the untamed mane of a lion, the leather of his raiment clutching his firm body tightly to give the viewer an impression of his inhumane strength, while the long black cloak made him look even taler than he was. Giving his outfit the necessary touch of regality, it was topped off with some fur trimmings along his massive shoulders, and a very prominent belt, a gift of his brother’s Zeus and Poseidon that displayed various scenes which symbolised different landmarks of the Underworld.

It was a shame, Hecate thought, that the soul wasn’t allowed to take in their lord and master in all his divine splendour unless Hades chose to grant them that privilege, for it would surely have done the proud rebel some good. But as she had told them, the soul had fallen to their knees, chin dropped to their chest as they awaited the things that were yet to come.

Deliberately, Hades waited a seemingly never-ending moment before he moved. He took his time, treading down the stairs that separated his throne from the rest of the hall in an agonisingly slow pace, the echo of every step he took rumbling through the air like thunder.

When he had finally reached the foot of the steps, he signalled with a mere nod of his head that it was time for the goddess to leave them alone and she did, eager to get away from the scene before Hades would unleash his fury upon the soul. Patiently he waited until the doors had closed behind her with a loud booming sound before he began to circle the disobedient subject, his eyes never leaving their crouching form.

“I assume you know why you have been brought here?”

“Yes, my lord.” Hades could feel the strength it cost them to hold back the disdain in their voice, and if they hadn’t failed so miserably, he might actually have found some admiration in himself.

“So you confess to committing the act of high treason.”

“If by high treason you mean trying to escape this place, I do, my lord.”

“I have to admit your courage honours you. Not many find it in themselves to speak the self-incriminating truth when they are faced with the God of the Underworld. But I’m afraid it won’t lessen the consequences you will have to endure due to the serious nature of your crime.”

“Go ahead, my lord, I’m not - “

The soul choked on their words as they felt a strong hand wrap around their neck and squeeze it with fervour. Only that there was no hand there. Hades was still a few steps away as he watched the soul struggle for air. He didn’t really hurt them, yet, for he was merely taking advantage of the tiny rest of humanity that was still left inside of them. If they wanted, they could easily overcome the needless impulse to breathe.

“Not afraid of me, you meant to say?” the god uttered with an amused smile on his face as he drew closer, coming to a halt a few feet away from the straining soul. “Well, then you’re either even more venturous than I assumed or you’re nothing but a fool.” And with that he released his invisible grip on them. The soul slumped forward, their face meeting the ground mere inches away from Hades’ black leather boots. But he didn’t give them even the slightest chance to compose themselves, before his magic pulled them back by their hair, making them look up at his towering form from his feet. “For I am Hades, God of the Underworld, Ruler of the Souls, Master of Tartarus, and it is never a wise idea to incur my wrath.”

His black eyes shone malefically in the dim light of the throne room while he summoned a file out of thin air. Opening it up, Hades began to study it carefully, all the while never loosening his grip on the soul.

“Hmmm,” he hummed while his gaze was glued to the pages, “it says here that your name is Alex. And you have been sent to the Elysian Fields at your arrival. It’s the third time already, and I take it you have been informed that you are therefore excluded from the circle of rebirth and have earned your permanent stay.” The soul didn’t answer, but there was no need to. It was all written down in his file. “Tell me, Alex,” the god continued in his velvety tone without looking up, “what made you take the risk of losing the comforts of Elysium and facing an eternity of torture in the depths of Tartarus?”

“Well, my lord,” Alex spat, obviously still unimpressed, “unless that is written in my file as well, you won’t find out because I’m not gonna tell you.”

If he wasn't already dead, talking back to a god like this might have easily cost him his head. But instead of rising to his unseemly behaviour, Hades just released an amused chuckle.

“And you think that will stop me from finding out? How naive.”

Unfazed he registered the triumphant look in Alex’s eyes before he went back to studying his file.

“It says here you have a sister, Eliza.”

Hades had been careful to hold the soul’s gaze as he recited the information and he was rewarded instantly as for the first time he could see a hint of fear in Alex’s eyes, telling him unmistakably that he had found what he had been looking for.

“Interesting,” he mused as he closed the file audibly. And without paying the growing worry in the soul’s eyes anymore attention, he whipped around, his cloak missing Alex’s face by mere inches as it swished through the air. “Well, since you refuse to give me an acceptable explanation for your crime, it seems I will have to identify the root of your motivation myself.” Nonchalantly, he ascended the stairs to his throne, and he waited until he had taken his rightful place before he fixed his gaze on the soul again. “And I will start by paying your sister a visit.”

And there it finally was, the panic he had been sure he would awaken deep inside of him at some point. “No, no, please. I will tell you everything you want to know.”

Sooner or later, all of them would beg for his mercy. But it was never granted.

“Too late,” he dismissed the offer before he simply snapped his fingers to call in the guards. “Take him to the cells until I return from the mortal realm.”

“No, NO! She’s innocent. Please, don’t hurt her.”

His pathetic screams still echoed through the throne room long after the doors had closed behind him. Everyone had their weak spot, Hades contemplated, and once he had found it, it was almost too easy to break them.

Part 2

***

Tag List: please let me know if you want to be removed or added by either ask or DM - thank you!

@summersong69 @myloveforhenrycavill @dorothea-hwldr @omgkatinka @ashesofblackroses @agniavateira @amberangel112 @madbaddic7ed @icarusblinders @zealoushound @asuni921 @endofalldays01 @nerra75

[turtle-steverogers]

steve getting caught in the rain on the way home from work and barging through the front door bangs dripping and cheeks pink and bucky looking up from his spot on the sofa with alpine and thinking i’m fucked

so it's like 1 am and this was going to be something chaotic and smutty but it ended up being a view of steve's pain from the eyes of bucky

oop anway:

In From the Cold

-

From Stevie: Left my key at home. Can you let me in?

Bucky gets the text right before there’s a knock at the front door, and he presses to his feet, shifting Alpine off his lap. It takes a moment to undo all the latches and locks, and by the time he does, Steve has knocked again-- sharper. Frantic. Bucky frowns and opens the door.

“Shit, Steve,” he says, and steps to the side to let Steve in past him.

He’s soaked, straight through to his skin. His hair is plastered to his forehead, clumped and stiff with sleet. His nose and cheeks are bright against his otherwise pale skin, and his lips are a tad blue.

He’s shaking. Hard.

It’s then that Bucky realizes that sleet is coming down outside, the sky blanketed a gloomy grey. The storm had been on the radar, but somehow he’d forgotten about it. Steve, it seemed, had forgotten as well when he’d left for his meeting that morning.

“Yeah,” Steve says, taking off his jacket. His movements are stiff and Bucky reaches out a hand, taking the soaked jacket from him before he can hang it on its hook. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Go ahead and take off the rest of your clothes. I’ll throw them in the wash. Do you want a bath?”

Steve swallows, a shudder running visibly through him and Bucky doesn’t need a psych degree to guess what’s going on. Between the wet and the cold, this is hardly Steve’s preferred state to be in. There’s a vacancy in his eyes that makes Bucky’s blood run cold.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yes. Please.”

-

Bucky’s blood runs cold as a cough wracks Steve’s body, and he instinctively listens for a rattle in his lungs. The cough is not dry, though. Silver linings.

His hair is plastered to his forehead, and Bucky curses, reaching out to usher Steve inside. His clothes are soaked and sticking to his frame, hugging him in a way that seems to accentuate his size. Make him look even smaller. He coughs again.

“Jesus, you got a death wish?” Bucky hisses, hands working to unbutton Steve’s shirt-- get the wet fabric off, because it’s going to make him sick and Steve just got over his last fucking cold.

Steve bats his hand away, leveling him with a glare.

“No, shut up,” he says, and the harshness is dampened by the chattering of his teeth. He unbuttons his own shirt and tosses it aside, the bruises on his collarbone from a work mishap earlier that week stark and purple. Bucky wants to reach out and soothe his fingers over them-- kiss them away.

Instead, he goes to his closet and pulls out a clean shirt and some boxer shorts that will be too big on Steve, but at least they’re warm.

“I thought you were seeing your ma,” Bucky says, handing Steve the clothes. Steve strips naked right there in their hallway. He’s unabashed and it makes the lithe lines of his body all the more beautiful.

“I was,” Steve says. It’s clipped and Bucky’s gut twinges. Sarah had gotten sick a week or so ago-- an awful, wracking cough. Bucky had hoped, fucking prayed that it wasn’t the worst. But Sarah worked in a TB ward, and life didn’t seem so kind to the Rogers family. “They wouldn’t let me in.”

“Shit,” Bucky says.

Steve is dressed now, Bucky’s boxers barely clinging to his hips. He sits down on Bucky’s bed, and Bucky sits, too.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he’s holding himself so tightly that Bucky’s afraid he might snap.

-

Steve holds himself tightly as he sits on the edge of the tub, his eyes on the rising water level, but mind clearly elsewhere. Bucky watches him for a moment as he returns from the laundry room-- watches his chest heave and hands tremble.

He is naked where he sits, and the way he hunches in on himself makes him look smaller. Bucky’s chest aches and he desperately wishes he could reach out and break the spell-- break the hold Steve’s mind seems to have on him right now. But he knows a thing or two about triggers, and he may not know what happened when Steve crashed that plane-- not details anyhow-- but he knows damn well that Steve still isn’t healed from that particular wound. It will likely follow him to his real grave. The pain. The fear. The damning finality of it.

-

And it seems like a final damnation. One not so beautiful as the perdition that was Steve taking Bucky into his body. But a much starker one. As unforgiving as a son losing his mother can be when he’s already lost his father. Steve says he hadn’t cared much when Joseph finally died-- his own faults pulling him under the current. But there’s a shame there that he can’t seem to quell. Regret that runs in the tightness of his eyes, smoldering and masked by a harshness that doesn’t fit the gentleness that is the skin of Steve Rogers. The soul and bones that are so hurt by a world keen on hurting them.

There’s a grief that wants to rise in Bucky’s own chest. Sarah doesn’t deserve this-- he wishes he could change it. Make it untrue. Make it better.

But he can deal with his own shit later. Right now, Steve is hurting and Bucky needs to coax him out of his shell. Lance some of that pain.

His hair is still dripping from the storm outside and Bucky reaches out, brushes his fingers through the sopping strands. Steve looks at him, eyes hollow and shining-- a strange dichotomy.

“Let me run you a bath?”

-

Steve sinks into the bath water, eyes closed as his chest hitches and stutters. He sinks down until the water covers his chest, stops at his chin. And it would be an endearing sight if he didn’t look so damn troubled.

Bucky hesitates.

“Do you want me here? Or would you rather be alone.”

Please God, he thinks. Please let me in. Let me stay. Let me shoulder some of your pain.

Steve’s jaw shifts, then clenches. He battles with himself, caught between the draw of comfort and his own internal walls telling him to close the gates.

Bucky waits.

“Can you wash my hair?” Steve eventually asks.

Bucky smiles. “Of course, pal.”

-

Bucky takes off his shirt so it won’t get wet and kneels by the edge of the tub. Steve leans back to wet his hair. It seems like instinct more than anything. His hair was already pretty damn wet. Bucky picks up the shampoo-- half empty and a little crusted around the cap-- and squirts some out onto his palm.

Lathering it up, he leans closer.

“Ready?”

“Mhm.”

“Close your eyes, sweetheart.”

Steve closes his eyes and Bucky begins to work the shampoo into his hair, pressing his fingers into his scalp, around his temples. Tension seems to ebb out of Steve in increments and Bucky is hopeful for a moment that he’s leaching out some of the shock.

And he must have taken away the numbness, because then Steve is sobbing, and Bucky is cursing softly as he strips out of the rest of his clothes, climbing into the tub behind Steve. He rinses his hair, and doesn’t bother with soft nothings. Because it isn’t okay. And Steve doesn’t deserve dismissal like that.

Instead, he pulls him close and buries his nose in his hair.

-

With practiced hands, Bucky works his coconut shampoo into Steve’s hair. It’s his favorite even if he won’t admit it and never buys it for himself. That’s alright, though. Bucky doesn’t mind sharing.

He feels Steve’s skin warm up-- rinses his hair with rhythmic and soothing touches, skittering his hands down Steve’s shoulders and across his chest as he goes, aiming to ground him. But Steve is not speaking and he is still shaking.

“Steve?” Bucky prompts gently.

Steve looks at him, gaze darting to his eyes, then his cheek, fixating there. A shudder rolls through him and he goes impossibly more pale.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, alarmed, and then Steve’s chest is heaving as his breaths start to speed up. “Shit.”

Bucky strips off his clothes, and climbs into the tub with Steve, keeping a hand on him as he sinks into the water.

“Can I hold you?” he asks, and Steve manages a nod. He’s going to hyperventilate if they don’t get a hold of this now. Bucky pulls Steve back against his chest and buries his nose in his hair. “Breathe with me. Just feel me, Steve. Just feel me and breathe.”

Steve does.

-

Steve is worn out by the time they’re settling in bed, and Bucky shifts him so his head is on his chest. They’re quiet for a long time, watching the sun set, shadows moving across the ceiling.

“I’m scared,” Steve says, his voice hoarse from crying.

Bucky tenses. “I know.”

“I don’t want to lose her.”

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

There isn’t anything for it. Bucky wants to promise that he won’t leave. That he’ll be there, but Steve knows that and reiterating it will only exacerbate the pain of those who can’t be there for him.

“I’m so tired,” Steve whimpers.

-

“I’m so fucking tired of this,” Steve says as he comes down, voice tight and teeth chattering. At least he’s breathing on his own now.

Then rest, Bucky wants to say. Come in from the cold. Let us help. Let people help.

“I know,” he says instead. “I know, honey. But you did so good just now.”

Steve shrugs. “Can we get out?”

“Sure thing.”

They dry off together, and settle into bed, naked still and wrapped up in each other. Steve settles on his chest, head tucked under Bucky’s chin. An age old position-- Steve will always fit right in Bucky’s arms.

-

Steve falls asleep with his hand clinging to Bucky’s. He usually looks more peaceful when he is resting, but now his mouth is turned down-- the lines of his face seem to deepen. He looks much older than he actually is, but Bucky has always sort of thought that. Steve, he thinks, has had to grow up too fast.

There’s a moment where Steve seems to drift awake, eyes opening then shutting again. He makes a soft noise and shifts closer to Bucky.

Bucky holds him and prays he feels held.

-

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve says. It was worth a shot.

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Can I do anything?”

Steve swallows, arms tightening around Bucky’s middle. “Just hold me?”

“Of course,” Bucky says, and he hitches Steve closer, kisses the top of his head.

“This helps,” Steve whispers, and Bucky holds his breath. “You holding me. It feels safe.”

“I’m so glad,” Bucky says. His throat feels tight and he ducks his head to kiss Steve’s temple. It settles something in him, knowing Steve feels safe in his arms. “I’ll always hold you.”

-

thanks for reading, chiefs!