#Writingtag

[pinknatural]

Pick out the biggest, reddest, juiciest strawberries. Wash ‘em real good. Lay them out on a tray covered in parchment paper. Pat them dry, and leave them out. Put some chocolate chips in a bowl, and microwave in 30 second intervals. After the chocolate is good and melted, pick up the strawberries by the stem and dip them in, coating them thoroughly before putting them back on the tray. 

Dean’s never made chocolate-covered strawberries before. Never had a reason to. It’s kinda nice, to dedicate all his focus to making sure the chocolate is covering up the berries evenly. To try not to get them to drip. 

Since moving into the Bunker, Dean’s found that baking is fun. He likes putting a bunch of stuff together and seeing delicious results. And chocolate-covered strawberries aren’t exactly rocket science, but he knows they’ll taste good and make Sammy happy and that’s all he really wants, right?

Plus, he thinks, gently placing another strawberry back on the parchment paper. He doesn’t think Jack has ever had a chocolate-covered strawberry before, and he can just picture the kid’s excited eyebrows at the taste. 

He picks up another strawberry, pinching all the leaves between his fingers so they don’t get chocolatey. He dips it nice and slow into the glass bowl, turning it gently as he brings it out of the chocolate.

“What are you doing?” 

Dean yelps, nearly dropping his strawberry. 

“Jesus christ, Cas, you snuck up on me!” he says, turning to glare over his shoulder. Cas is standing just behind him, staring curiously. He could’ve been there for two minutes or twenty. Dean didn’t even know he was in the Bunker, let alone the kitchen. “I’m not kidding about that bell, dude.”

“Apologies,” Cas says. He doesn’t sound a bit sorry at all. Dean rolls his eyes and turns back to his strawberry, putting it on the tray next to the other completed ones. Cas moves in closer. “What is the purpose of this exercise?”

“Chocolate-covered strawberries,” Dean says. 

“I see that,” Cas says. He sniffs, as if the smell disagrees with him. “But why are you covering the strawberries in the chocolate? Is it for a spell?”

“No, it’s a dessert. Like a candy, I guess,” Dean says. “For Valentine’s Day.”

“Ah, yes,” Cas says. “Unattached drifter Christmas.”

Something in Dean’s heart stabs, at that. He hates that Cas has heard him say that, or heard Sam reference it, or whatever. 

“Yeah,” he says, looking away from Cas’ eyes. The strawberries are safer to look at. “I guess.”

Cas’ big hands enter Dean’s field of view, and he plucks up a strawberry. Not one with chocolate on it. A naked one. Despite himself, Dean looks back up at Cas. It’s hard to not look at him. He has a very nice face.

“What does chocolate strawberries have to with the patron saint of bees?” 

“Bees?”

“And epilepsy,” Cas says, squinting at the strawberry. “And the mentally ill. And happy marriages.”

“Uh, it’s more about the happy marriages thing,” Dean says. “Valentine’s Day is about love and shit.”

“And strawberries,” Cas says, nodding wisely, as if he understands everything. He sets the strawberry back on the tray. Dean’s not sure if he’s fucking with him or not. Surely after all this time on earth, Cas knows what fucking Valentine’s Day is. 

“You give the strawberries to your Valentine,” Dean says. “Or chocolate or whatever. Or those fucking disgusting chalky heart things. But Eileen loves chocolate-covered strawberries and so these are for Sam. To give to her.”

Dean told Sam to make his own chocolate-covered strawberries, but Sam said that either Dean could make them or he would buy some from the store. And Dean does not trust fucking Hy-Vee to have quality chocolate-covered strawberries. He picks up Cas’ naked strawberry--the last one--and dips it into the chocolate. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Cas says, watching him. “To help Sam out.”

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, holding the strawberry up so the excess chocolate can drip back into the bowl. “I wanted Jack to try some, too.”

“You say that like it will make me think you less kind,” Cas says. Dean is tempted to throw him out of the kitchen. But goddamnit, he likes Cas and likes when Cas hangs out with him and asks stupid questions about Valentine’s Day. But knows that Saint Valentine is the patron saint of epilepsy, or whatever. Ugh. 

Dean never knows when Cas is leaving, anyway, so he’s gotta take all the time he can get. He leaves his strawberries behind and fetches another glass bowl. The white chocolate chips are already out, beside the opened bag of regular chocolate chips. 

“I thought you said white chocolate was an abomination,” Cas says, watching Dean pour some into the bowl. 

“It is,” Dean says. “But it will look fancier this way, trust me.” He puts the bowl in the microwave, punches in a 3-0-enter then turns around to look at Cas. He’s inspecting the neat line of chocolate-covered strawberries. They’re a little messier than Dean wants, but hell, it’s his very first try. 

“I don’t understand why you would put the chocolate on the strawberries,” Cas says. “My understanding is that strawberries are perfectly good on their own.”

“Dude, bacon is perfectly good on its own and we put chocolate on that,” Dean says. He crosses back to the counter and picks up a strawberry by the stem, holds it out to Cas. “Go on, try it.”

He expects Cas to take the strawberry from him--chocolate end first, and then he’ll get chocolate all over his fingers and Dean will die a million deaths watching him lick the chocolate off. Instead, Cas does something a thousand times worse and leans forward, biting into the strawberry without taking it, like Dean’s feeding it to him or some shit. 

Dean has a vision of a picnic somewhere, red and white checkered blanket and all. The sky is blue and the grass is soft and Cas’ head is in Dean’s lap and Dean’s feeding him strawberries and kissing him between each one. 

But instead Cas just--doesn’t break eye contact. Just stares, as he bites into the strawberry, chews and swallows. 

“Good?” Dean says, mouth dry. 

Cas closes his eyes, licking his lips. “Mmm, very.” He straightens back up. Even though he licked his lips, he missed a little--has a chocolate mustache. Dean has the insane urge to lick it right off his face. 

“Uh, you got some--chocolate,” Dean croaks instead. He mimes with his own thumb. Cas swipes the chocolate and succeeds in smearing it everywhere. 

“Did I get it?” he asks, and his wide blue eyes hypnotize Dean into reaching forward and wiping the chocolate off Cas’ face with his own fingers. Then Dean licks the chocolate off his thumb. 

Then Dean realizes that the microwave is beeping and the white chocolate’s first 30 seconds have been up for a long time, and he should probably go get that, and he escapes across the kitchen. 

“The strawberry molecules and chocolate molecules are very pleasing together,” Cas says. “Do humans put chocolate on other fruits?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, stirring the white chocolate frantically. If he doesn’t look at Cas maybe Cas will think that what just happened was normal, and that Dean isn’t fucking insane. “Uh, apples, bananas, pineapples. I think I saw it on kiwi once. Uh, maybe orange slices.”

“Fascinating,” Cas says. Dean puts the white chocolate back into the microwave. “Yes, I think Jack would like that very much.”

“Good,” Dean says. He goes to the fridge, gets a beer. Opens it on the side of the counter and takes a big swig. The microwave beeps.

It’s all melted. Dean grabs a spoon and goes over to the berries. He is not confident about this part at all, but crazyforcrust.com said to use a spoon. And hopefully he can get, like four or five good-looking ones for Sam, and the rest can be for him to pig out on on the fourteenth alone in his room while he tries not to wonder where Cas is. 

He dips the spoon into the white chocolate and covers it, then raises it over a strawberry and zig-zags over it, letting the white chocolate drip and drizzle overtop.

“See?” Dean says to Cas, who he knows is watching. “You can hardly taste the white chocolate this way but it looks good.” Well, it doesn’t look bad. Dean’s sure they’ll look better as he goes.

“I see,” Cas says. He points to the drizzled strawberry. “Are you giving that one to Sam?”

“No,” Dean says. “That one was just a practice one.”

“Good,” Cas says, and he picks up the strawberry by the stem. Dean’s never, ever seen him go for seconds before, but he makes a mental note of it. But then Cas turns the strawberry around, unmistakably offering it to Dean. “You should have one. You made them.”

“But--” Dean starts to say, and then Cas brings it up, so it nearly touches Dean’s lips. He looks at him with the same kind of focus he gives to a hunt, or smiting demons. 

“Eat it,” he says, nudging Dean’s lips with the fruit. Dean opens his mouth and bites into it. Maybe Dean would lay his head on Cas’ lap in their picnic, and Cas would feed Dean. 

The strawberry is good, probably. Dean’s not really sure what it tastes like. All he can see are Cas’ eyes, boring into his. 

Dean swallows. 

“You don’t have any chocolate on your face,” Cas says. He sounds disappointed. Dean can’t unpack that. 

“That’s ‘cause the chocolate is less melty,” Dean says, mostly on autopilot. He feels a million miles away. “Cause it’s starting to harden.”

“Okay,” Cas says. “Can I help with the drizzle?”

“Oh,” Dean says, shaken out of some kind of trance. “Sure. Get a spoon.”

Cas fetches one. He holds it like an instrument of war. Dean loves him so fucking much.

They drizzle white chocolate over the strawberries. Cas does it so precisely his drizzles look like they came from the store. Dean’s drizzles improve. He makes a couple decent ones. For Jack, he guesses, ‘cause the ones Cas made should probably go to Sam.

“I gave you a strawberry,” Cas says out of nowhere. “And you gave me one. Does that make us Valentines?”

Dean freezes. 

A moment later, his heart restarts and he looks at Cas, who is solemnly drizzling. Then he looks innocently up at Dean, and Dean realizes that Cas has absolutely been fucking with him this whole time. Absolutely knows about Valentine’s Day, absolutely ate that strawberry out of Dean’s hand on purpose. Dean narrows his eyes at him. Cas tilts his head. 

“You’re a menace,” Dean grumbles. 

“That’s not a no,” Cas says. 

“You’re right,” Dean says. “I guess it does make us Valentines.” Cas smiles, a tiny, private thing, and then looks back down at his drizzling. 

“Good,” he says quietly, and Dean ducks his head, cheeks warm and heart fluttering, and he lifts up his spoon. 

It’s kind of cold in Kansas in February, but Dean imagines him and Cas wrapped in blankets,  feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries in front of the TV. This time, he thinks, he’ll actually taste the strawberry. And you know what? Dean’s sure that those strawberry molecules and those chocolate molecules are gonna be fucking fantastic.

Especially if he gets to kiss them off Cas’ lips. 

(ao3)

[afraidparade]

"A Kinder Reality"

Word count: 3,088 Genre: G/T, Hurt/comfort, Angst Content warnings: Detailed depictions of panic attacks/intrusive thoughts, mentions & allusions to gore, death, and suicide, fearplay, possessive behavior

(PLEASE read the CWs as this one is a bit darker than some of my other stuff! sorry if it gets a bit heavy lolol. i tried to base this off of my own personal experiences, as i often have memory problems as a result of vivid dreams and intrusive thoughts that give me a lot of anxiety. there's also not a ton of hurt/comfort where the giant is the one hurting so i hope this fills that emptiness 👍)

__________________________

Luka’s eyes snapped open, the sudden light he had yet to adjust to making it impossible to differentiate up from down. His fingertips clawed into the sheets around him, as if grasping desperately for purchase on an incomplete thought he held in his hands only a moment prior. What was this? Where had he been until now? It was difficult to recall the details, but the ache of breathlessness in his chest and the icy sweat that saturated his nightclothes was evidence that the experience had been far from pleasant.

He remembered feeling alone, yet surrounded. Helpless, but he wasn’t quite certain of what it was that threatened him. There was a room with chairs and people and…something else. Something that he was desperately terrified of. And it wasn’t that those faceless figures around him refused to respond to his cries and offer him aid, because he didn’t cry at all. He didn’t make a sound. It was a dreadful sensation, sitting in that room and feigning calm, surrounded by those human-shaped husks. There was an overbearing presence behind him: the terrifying thing. Some sort of shadowy monster that sulked in a corner of the ceiling yet simultaneously managed to breathe down his neck. Luka could just feel its predatory anticipation, waiting for him to turn around, or speak, or blink, or any action it deemed unacceptable. He was sure it was there, yet no one else paid it any mind. Could they see it? Could they feel it? Did they even care that it was there? Did they even care that he was there? If the thing lunged down and ripped him apart right in front of their hollow eyes, would anyone even flinch? Perhaps they would feel grateful to the monster for ridding them of such a burden. Perhaps they would all be happier if he weren’t—

Luka pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and swallowed. Dry. Water, he should drink water. Shapes began to form in the fuzzy white void of his vision, and the man soon recognized the wall of his bedroom. Which meant all those vague and terrible memories had just been made-up. A dream. A rasp of air blew through his chapped lips, as if he was attempting to laugh out of spite. What a cruel joke. He already got a pitiful amount of sleep as it was, and now he couldn’t even be afforded the luxury of feeling rested when he woke up? Well, such was life, he supposed. At least now he wasn’t alone.

At least now…he wasn’t…

Luka froze, and his head throbbed. The space on the mattress beside him was unoccupied. He managed to twist his neck to survey the other side of the room, enduring another sharp surge of pain in his skull. Empty. His lips parted, but he stayed silent.

Wasn’t there supposed to be someone else there?

A third, more definitive pulse in his head caused Luka’s eyes to wrench shut. His hands shot upwards to nurse the pain away, but when that didn’t work, his fingers became more frantic, each scratching at his hairline as if they had a mind of their own. There was some sort of vile growth blocking his airway. He didn’t know where it came from. It felt like the same sort of inky malevolence that the carnivorous presence from before was composed of.

Was this…real? Had he actually woken up? 

He coughed, wheezing around the lump in his throat, panic setting in when he realized he couldn’t breathe. His diaphragm spasmed, and nausea followed soon after. His mouth was open, but if Luka was crying or screaming, he couldn’t tell. His sense of hearing had been reduced to a flat, monotone buzz. 

How could he be certain that this wasn’t the dream? That every memory of having someone beside him, someone that actually cared about him, weren’t just artificial fragments of a bright, fuzzy dreamscape his brain made to protect itself? How was he supposed to know which memories to trust?

A dark ring began to close in around the corners of his vision, blotting out his surroundings like the final scene of an old film. Maybe it was from the lack of oxygen. Maybe it was just a trauma response. But Luka couldn’t bear this feeling, not being able to tell whether he was tumbling or stationary, awake or asleep, alive or dead. If he was alone again. 

Again. 

Again, again, again, it always happened, he always ended up like this. As if he was always destined to be an afterthought to everyone around him. As if it really wouldn’t matter if a monster swallowed him whole. And bitterly, with the last scrap of his consciousness that could form coherent thoughts, he wondered which reality was kinder: one where he’d tasted love and fulfillment only to discover it was never his to keep, or one where he’d never experienced such bitter joys, and never knew the severity of losing them.

Maybe he could wake up in the room with the people and the monster. Maybe then, even if it was for a second, someone would spare him a compassionate glance while that shadowy beast tore into his ribcage and—

“…ka?”

There was something warm on Luka’s cheek. Tears? No. Though it was only now that he noticed their presence, those felt chilly and wet. It was a small pressure, but it radiated familiarity. A shaky, sudden inhale — his consciousness felt so faint, he barely registered it as his own — and a question were the first sounds to break through the fuzzy, intangible blockade around his ears.

“What happened?”

It took several deep, uneven breaths and bewildered blinks before Luka could manage to see just past his nose. A humanoid shape finally came into focus, but unlike the figures in the other room, this one had a face. And, upon closer inspection, wasn’t human at all. Deep, glossy pools of black with white pinprick pupils stared wide at him with concern, and from behind a quivering frown, he could make out tiny, pointed teeth. Reddish horns, an absolute rat’s nest of black hair, and an ill-fitting shirt stitched together by his own clumsy hands, all wrapped up in a three-inch package. The details were too intimate to be mistaken for a dream.

It was Faust. His wonderful, impossible, real Faust.

Luka couldn’t muster the coherence to form words. Aside from the fogginess he felt after finally, truly waking up, he was still parched, and his throat felt bruised from his battle for breath. A hand retracted from his face, the palm damp from the tears it had inadvertently smeared around, and slowly reached towards the confused demon. Faust reached out for it without a moment’s hesitation, causing Luka’s fingers to twitch in surprise. He was real. It was miraculous. He was real.

But that looming dread from before still gripped at his chest unyieldingly. What if one day Luka woke up and he really was gone? How would he be able to bear being thrown from one cruel reality to the next without the reprieve of someone else to comfort him? No, not just anyone else, but Faust. There was no one else. It had to be Faust.

What would he do if he lost Faust?

Luka didn’t know what he was doing. His body moved almost robotically, stuttering every now and then as his brain tried to process how to proceed, all while his unblinking gaze lost focus and bore forward into the same nothingness. His fingers curled around Faust’s body rigidly, and while the demon didn’t protest, he began to shift uncomfortably. The human’s hand pulled back towards his body, his grip unconsciously tightening as it moved, only stopping when his companion was held flush against his chest and there was no space left for his hand to retreat to. 

“Luka, this is— it’s kind of hard to breathe.”

Luka could hear him, so why couldn’t he stop? He didn’t want to hurt Faust. He would never do something like that. But he was so small. Even if daily life with a tiny imp had become routine, it didn’t change the fact that he was so very vulnerable. Ultimately powerless in the grand scheme of things. Beautifully unique, terrifyingly unique. There was no one else in the entire world like Faust. The big, dangerous, lonely world. Yes, it was so easy to keep him in place. It hardly took any effort at all. This was simply a reassurance that he had the means to keep Faust safe. To keep him close. To make him stay.

“Y-your heartbeat is crazy fast right now. Seriously, are you okay? I need you to respond to me, Luka!”

Luka’s chin lowered to brush against the hand trapping Faust in place, and without realizing it, his entire body had begun to curl around that point as well. It felt as though Faust was the very core of his entire person. This was beyond normal love, wasn’t it? This was obsession. Sick dependency. It disgusted him so, and yet his body refused to do anything but curl tighter. Like a boa constrictor wrapping around its next meal. Would he end up squeezing Faust until he stopped moving, too? It would be easy, Luka thought. Not that he wanted to. But it chilled him to know that he could.

“Don’t make me do this, Luka. I really don’t want to do this.”

Ah, this was what it felt like when they first met. The knowledge that he held this impossibly small being’s life in the literal palm of his hand, the understanding that he could take advantage of that, and the searing hatred Luka felt for himself when he did. It was horrible, but it was intoxicating, and he didn’t want it back, but a wretched part of him missed it. When exactly did he manage to overcome this feeling, Luka pondered? Somewhere along the way of falling for Faust? Realizing he’d need to change if he ever wanted Faust to reciprocate? Well, what did it truly matter if Faust reciprocated? Faust didn’t have to love him. He just needed to be here. He just needed to stay. Luka needed him to stay.

“…So be it, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

God, he was rotten. And delusional, too, to think he had actually changed. People don’t change. At least not people like Luka. Destined to be alone, again and again and again and again. He hated being alone. He hated himself. He hated this feeling. He hated that goddamn room from that goddamn dream. What was even the point? Why did he bother trying to fix something shattered beyond repair? What was stopping him from—

“Ca-li-for-nia girls, we’re unforgettable! Daisy dukes, bikinis on top!”

…

What?

“Sun-kissed skin so hot, we’ll melt your popsicle — wa-oohhh-ah-oohhh-oh, wa-oohhh-ah-oohhh-oh…”

Faust’s muffled voice faded after the last vocalization, possibly waiting to see if there was a response. Or possibly due to being out of breath. After that, total stillness descended on the scene. Almost as if someone had merely pushed the power button on a remote and turned off all the static in Luka’s brain. It took a moment for him to process what in the hell had just happened, but after rewiring itself, his brain recalled a certain fact he knew he could always rely on:

Faust was a terrible singer.

Once his lungs finally remembered how to inhale, his body relaxed from its tensed and coiled state, releasing the small demon from his desperate grasp. As his vision slowly came into focus again, Luka inspected Faust’s state worriedly, suddenly horrified that he may have actually inflicted harm on his roommate. He was flushed red from a combination of the larger man’s overwhelming body heat and the intense pressure that likely inhibited his breathing, but other than a few gasps and coughs, he seemed surprisingly unbothered. Which was relieving first and foremost, but upsetting in its own right. He deserved to be upset. He deserved to resent Luka. The man swallowed as he attempted to regain his voice. 

“...I hate that song,” he rasped plainly. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah. I know,” Faust replied, still panting as he glanced upward, “I was sorta hoping that the hate and the shock would overpower…whatever it was you were feeling.”

Luka’s mouth hung agape. Had Faust really hinged both the wellbeing of himself and Luka on…an annoying pop song? And that actually worked? He couldn’t tell if the demon was an idiot or a genius. It was so ridiculous on so many layers that he simply couldn’t think about anything else. Those overbearing thoughts from mere moments prior vanished in a puff of smoke, just like that. Eventually he closed his mouth and allowed a small, warm grin to replace the anguish from before. He never smiled like this before meeting Faust. Funny, Luka thought, how very different his inner demons looked from the miniscule demon that stood before him.

 “It did. Thank you.”

“God, you sound like shit,” the imp grumbled. Luka took the not-so-subtle hint and slowly sat himself upright, fumbling for the bottle of water that he kept on his bedside table. “What even happened? I had only just left to find myself something to snack on, but I turned back when I heard you making weird noises. Next thing I know, you’re suffocating me.”

Luka hesitated as he brought the bottle to his lips. An intense feeling of shame weighed down on his body as he recalled his actions, as well as the thoughts that accompanied them. It was probably better that Faust didn’t know every last detail of what brought his panic attack on…specifically, the thoughts concerning him. Sure, they had roots in the anxieties that Luka harbored in the back of his mind, but in that feverish state they had been amplified a hundred fold. They weren’t his true feelings. Or so he hoped, anyways

“I just…had a nightmare,” he answered simply, taking a swig from the container. Faust’s eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced that there was no other trigger for such an extreme episode, but he held his tongue. After all, he was in no place to doubt the impact of nightmares. Luka, not wanting to dwell in the uncomfortable silence any longer, continued, “I’m so sorry for putting you through that. It must’ve been scary. Are you hurt?”

The smaller shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s fine. I’ve been through a lot worse.”

Luka wiped at a trail of water that trickled out of the corner of his mouth before capping the bottle. That was right — they had both trudged through hell just to make it to that very morning together, hadn’t they? Faust’s trophy was a back full of scars. Luka’s was a drawer full of pill bottles. It was difficult to liken his own traumatic experiences to Faust’s – especially when the other’s past was still largely a mystery to him – but there was comfort in knowing they could relate to each other on a basic level. That they…weren’t alone. Maybe all the trouble up until then was worth it just to share each other’s company. Of course, it was possible Faust didn’t feel the same way. But he didn’t need to feel the same way. It was enough that he was there. 

Luka sighed and turned to Faust again. Given his state from a few minutes ago, it was remarkable how calm he felt now. Maybe that, too, was thanks to his companion’s presence.

“Did you ever get your snack?” he asked softly.

“No,” Faust huffed with a sharp thrash of his tail. After a pause, the small imp folded his arms and turned his pouting face away, adding with a grumble, “I can’t exactly get to the kitchen in just a few steps like you can.”

Cute, Luka cooed inwardly. It was a thought that he would verbalize on any other day just to watch the resulting adorable tantrum, but for now he figured he’d put Faust through enough.

 “Well then, would you allow me to make a nice breakfast as an apology for earlier? I think there’s enough pancake mix left for one more serving.”

The other’s scowl dissipated instantly, clearly more interested in food than maintaining appearances. “Hell yes! Apology accepted! Put some whipped cream on top and it’s apology double accepted!”

Luka laughed warmly and, after brushing away the last of the moisture that clung to his cheeks, gently extended a hand for Faust to climb onto willingly. Despite him being the one to prompt the action, though, he faltered when his smaller counterpart did just that. Even though he’d been forgiven, this simple act of trust didn’t feel earned. It was only a moment ago that he’d hurt Faust, after all. What right did he have to hold him now?

Seemingly picking up on Luka’s uncertainty (or just becoming impatient after being promised pancakes), Faust craned his neck to shoot an inquisitive glare upwards. “What?” he demanded.

“Aren’t you… I don’t know, a bit too trusting of me right now?” the brunette asked, unable to meet the other’s eyes. “Are you not even the least bit afraid that it might happen again?”

Faust scoffed. “Don’t be stupid. Of course it’ll happen again, idiot.”

Well, Luka hadn’t been sure as to what sort of answer he expected, but it certainly was not that.

“It might not be today or tomorrow, but sure, yeah, it’ll come back. Stuff like that doesn’t disappear overnight. But what kind of demon would I be if I was afraid of one measly human?” he pointed out, flashing a toothy smirk. “I trust you, Luka. And besides, I’ll always be around to knock some sense into you.”

Had Luka not spent all his tears earlier, he was certain there would be some welling in his eyes right then. He gave an earnest smile, a quiet chuckle, and asked, “So singing cringey pop music is your definition of knocking sense into someone?”

“It’s not cringey. You’re just a hardass.”

How fortunate Luka felt now to have woken up. Because truly, how could there be any reality kinder than this one he shared with Faust?

As they walked, Luka hummed a few notes between the pauses of their aimless chattering, before eventually groaning and cursing under his breath.

“Fuck,” he muttered,  “You got that stupid song stuck in my head.”

“Heh heh! You’re welcome.”

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

[dol-dee]

Lazy scribbling quiets through the early morning of the library. The light still muted and sleepy. Books lining the shelves. Everything blissfully calm.

Dee yawns, leans heavily on the library counter and continues to chip away at the last of her homework. 

Impeded only by the heady moans, pathetic gasps and friction against her back as Sydney grinds into Dee's ass. Greedy for the stimulation it provides. Lost in the pleasure of her frantic humping.

.

.

When Dee met Sydney for the first time she hadn’t been particularly interested in the girl.

Had felt a somewhat lukewarm, detached sort of neutrality towards her. 

Only a step above most other people, in her mind, because Sydney was polite, nice enough to talk to (despite the religious bullshit) and didn’t grope or assault her. As everyone else in this shithole of a town liked to do.

Unfortunately those feelings of neutrality were quickly replaced with something else, once Dee got to know the reserved blonde a bit more.

Not only was Sirris her parent; kind, patient Sirris who taught science and was laid back enough that even the rowdiest delinquents begrudgingly tolerated them. But it also meant that most people, or students - not to mention, Whitney and Headmaster Leighton -  didn’t fuck with her. 

Or- At least not to the extent that they like to do with her.

It also became apparent that Sydney actually was as innocent and chaste as she behaved. Like the churches fucking holy figure incarnate. Oblivious towards any of the advances and comments made towards her. Unblemished to a degree she could never hope to be. Not in her circumstances. In short, it meant she was treasured.

“Treasured”. 

A word, so unattainable, Dee could only hungrily salivate over the thought of it. 

Jealousy simmering in her chest, as she shivered in her shitty, orphanage issued bed. As she choked down the cheap, bland food the orphanage provided. 

As she had to steal, fight and whore herself out to stay afloat. As she had to waste more money on bandages, than necessities, green and blue as she was from another run in with would be rapists, kidnappers, bullies and so on. At this point they all started to blend together. 

As another week's pay disappeared into Bailey's bottomless pockets. Another week of freedom, for now at least. An incessant cycle.

Yes. Dees' feelings of neutrality had quickly soured into resentment, for someone who wasn’t even aware of how good they had it.

So the next few times they had crossed paths, Dee had been curt, snappy, maybe even a little cruel; stealing one of the books, knowing Sydney would be the one getting in trouble for it. Despite her best attempts to not let her jealousy boil over.

It had left the Librarian visibly confused and uncertain but annoyingly polite despite it all. 

For the sake of her own sanity, morals as well as a Detention free life, Dee had taken to avoiding Sydney altogether and that had almost been the end of things. 

Until an Idea started to creep in. A gross, sickly little thing that would make her no better than the rest of the fucks in this town. 

But the thought didn't leave her, slowly grew with each passing day instead; like mold or.. lichen she supposed.

She wanted to ruin Sydney. Wanted to drag her down to her level, in the only way she knew. . .

Which is how we find ourselves back in the present. Sydney fervently, desperately dry-humping Dee's ass. Her surprisingly massive girlcock soaking precum into both of their skirts. 

Dee couldn’t even lie to herself; just thinking about Sydney’s pretty, meaty cock had her salivating. Who would've thought someone so cute could hide something so massive under their skirt?

But right now was not the time for that, she had her homework to finish.

Besides- hearing Sydney’s whorish, unabashed moans as the blondes whole body pressed into her back, hands desperately groping and pawing her tits and waist and her cock grinding into her with an almost religious fervor - was exactly the kind of ego boost she needed right now.

[festival-of-pudding]

What're your plans for Kinktober this year?

anon, October is my favorite month because not only is it kinktober but it's also spooky season! in the past I've done spooky stuff and not officially participated in kinktober, but i'm down to clown either way if inspiration strikes. (and it often does when summer turns to fall - the end of summer is exhausting down here)

[snailmusic]

I FFUCKING WROTE??? HELLO???? AND ITS NOT SMUT?????

[tazdrgaoneyetagain]

yall whats a synonym for horny where i want to lay in someones lap and wrap my arms around their waist and have them just pet me all over and say everything i want to hear in that perfect voice of theirs and just be their dog for a little bit. whats a synonym for horny that isnt inherently sexual but essentially intimate. i want to just be their dog. only theirs and nothing else. i want to just lay there and feel their skin on mine and their hands running through my fur and i want to not have to think or talk or do anything but what they tell me to do. i want to turn my brain off and focus on nothing but their touch and their voice i want to be their dog why cant i just be their dog

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[whataboutfractions]

also got that one hige thing up on ao3 for the hell of it since it's for the most part better than anyone interested in fic having to dig through my blog

[astorytotellyourfriends]

5 things you never get tired of writing

tagged by @viharker love u

rules: list five things you never get tired of writing. it can be tropes, themes, characters, phrases, whatever brings you joy. then tag five people!

having one character call another “darlin’”. not “darling”, “darlin’” the lack of a g is very important. i don’t know why i love it so much but i do, okay???

little nervous tics like fidgeting, twisting fingers together, playing with hair, idk everything. i do it a lot irl and i just feel like it makes characters feel more real on the page.

miscommunication!!!! two idiots who are so obviously in love but refuse to admit it!!!!! that’s my shit!!!!!!!

honestly, mechanic au. i’ve only done it twice but i could happily write a thousand mechanic au’s and i would never fucking tire of it. (no pun intended)

and lastly (but certainly not least...ly), admissions of love via outburst. fucking nothing is better than a good ol fashioned “BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, IDIOT!!!” or something similar. fucking looooove that.

tagging @cunnninghams, @hangon-silvergirl, @modernvintage, @romantiquesnouvelles, and @gorgeousgreymatter-x (no pressure to any of u)

[storyknitter]

Five Things You Never Get Tired of Writing

tagged by @queen-scribbles​

Rules: list five things you never get tired of writing. It can be tropes, themes, characters, phrases, whatever brings you joy. then tag five people!

My list:

ANGST

hurt/comfort

lips being “a hair’s breadth” away

the italicized oh

Sanna/Theron (i love them a completely reasonable amount okay?)

Bonus: Ellie’s snark

tagging: @starknstarwars @keldae @joiedecombat @commanderlurker @captainderyn

[hummingbird-games]

Five Things You Never Get Tired of Writing

Tagged by @crescencestudio your answers were GOLD!!! now I gotta string  some words together and hope they make sense lol 🤧

sibling relationships - I’m sorry, but as someone who is a sibling and grew UP with siblings, I can smell a fake interaction a mile away LOL. It’s always been a pet peeve of mine to read books or watch movies and it’s painfully obvious that the writer has no idea what a real sibling interaction looks like oh my goodness. So I’ve taken it upon myself to write good rep LOL and now it’s in everything I make.

teenagers! (the drama, the mundane, the absurd, all of it!!) - Teens can be terrifying, confusing, immature, a hassle, etc. etc. But I feel like on top of the general disrespect and neglect demonstrated, (American) society just doesn’t give a shit about its kids and not-quite-yet-adults?? And in many instances there’s this huge rush to for kids to grow up mature? It’s disgusting. YA as a genre is still ridiculed in a lot of spaces, there’s a serious decline in teen movies being made right now (though there’s a few that cropped up recently, that doesn’t account for how many more could be made), and I personally feel like there’s quite a few experiences I missed out on just for being a Black girl 🤷🏾‍♀️. I love this age group and writing about it because it’s a period of firsts: all the things and experiences that adults have already done or have no interest in revisiting are such a Big Deal for those 13-19 year olds in my opinion and it’s just fun. 

 high maintenance girlies aka “Why do you do the most???” 💅🏾 I actually read this more than I write it, but when I DO write it??? I feel so powerful lol. Maybe it’s cause most people in my real life see me one way, but 90% of the time I’m just harboring gremlin energy and I get a special vindication when I see women/girls/femme who are stubborn beyond belief, angry, or type A personalities. The problem is most people don’t like reading about these type of characters so most times I’m writing for myself aha...

dialogue (specifically conversations) - I love any kind of banter, I love goofy, random conversations, I love quoting cartoons and movies unironically, and I gobble that ish up when others do it!! I feel like you learn a lot of about characters through their dialogue, especially with what they don’t say sometimes. 

grief - So I was running out of things for the list and decided to pull out my old wips and completed stuff, and this was a common thing that came up???? Like a lot of writers, I have to put the words to paper to process what’s going on, and the thing about grief is that you can process it all you want, but a lot of times it doesn’t make sense?? And it’s treated as something to ‘get over’ when the reality it grief this natural thing. And it doesn’t even have to be the physical death of a loved one (though it’s a thing I write about) but it can be the death of a situation, the end of a non-romantic relationship, whatever. It’s painful but I find myself exploring it anyway. 

(tagging @tuffmallowinteractive @jaunefleurwrites @jelpiparade @robobarbie @lovebirdgames @velvetfoxgames @rieindiegames @twincovesgame but feel free to ignore!!)

[pinknatural]

After googling “what to take to a stranger’s birthday party” and reading the top five articles thoroughly, the first two more than once, Castiel has determined that he should either bring candles, wine, or baked goods. 

A candle seems like a good, safe option, but the Walmart candle aisle is overwhelming. How is he supposed to know if Anna’s-friend-Dean likes oaky, woodsy smells versus lavender-linen smells? Castiel likes the one that smells like a waxy apple pie, but who’s to say that opinion is shared? What if he prefers pine, or something called Deep Twilight Mist? Castiel removes the lid for Deep Twilight Mist and smells the cream-colored wax curiously. It smells like the perfume Hael used to spray everywhere when she was eleven. He puts it back on the shelf. 

There’s a candle that smells like cupcakes. It is a birthday party, so perhaps he would like that. Castiel puts it in the blue plastic basket dangling from his arm, then puts it back on the shelf, tilting it so the label is facing perfectly outward. Maybe Anna’s-friend-Dean doesn’t like candles at all. 

Wine. Everyone likes wine. Well, unless Anna’s-friend-Dean is one of those guys who thinks wine is too feminine. Or if he doesn’t drink at all. Or if he drinks too much. Or, perhaps even worse, if he’s some kind of wine connoisseur and will mock Castiel for buying reasonably-priced wine from Walmart and then blacklist Castiel so thoroughly that he will never find a friend in this town. 

Wine and candles are too complex. But everyone likes baked goods. 

Castiel is stopped in the middle of the road, turn signal blinking to indicate that he would like to turn left into his apartment complex, when he realizes that Anna’s-friend-Dean could be diabetic. But the party is at a restaurant that specializes in hamburgers, so probably not. Hopefully not. All Castiel has to do is successfully implement chocolate chip cookies and then melt into the walls at the party. Be pleasant enough company that next time someone has a large event they allow Anna to invite him again. Go to enough social functions that he can claim to have friends and get Anna off his back. Live quietly, working at the Gas-N-Sip and writing papers about the science of Theology and perhaps even going to the library and reading secular fiction.

Castiel has no expectations of finding actual friendship at Anna’s-friend-Dean’s birthday party. Or ever, really. If he ever gets lonely, he can get a cat.

Anna thinks that Castiel and Dean will get along very well. Castiel thinks that living outside of their mother’s influence has made Anna believe in fairytales. Anna has known Castiel his entire life. She knows full well that he has never gotten along very well with anyone. 

Castiel cracks an egg over the batter. Maybe this whole baking thing will impress Anna so much that she’ll stop bothering him about making friends. 

Who knows, maybe these cookies will unlock something else to add to Castiel’s quiet life. He quite likes the idea of baking.

--

The firefighter is very beautiful. Maybe even the most beautiful person Castiel has ever seen, besides models on the sides of buildings who look so perfect they’re fake.

“You the guy who started the fire?” the beautiful firefighter asks. He puts his hands in his pockets. Castiel’s cheeks burn. Not from any fire. 

“They were just burnt cookies,” he says. “I didn’t know they would set off the smoke alarm.” In the entire building. The other firefighters are by the doors, writing things down, talking to other residents of Castiel’s building. How come the beautiful firefighter was the one who had to talk to Castiel? He sneaks a peek at the man’s arms, but they’re sadly covered by his coat. 

“You burned the cookies on purpose, then?” the firefighter raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course I didn’t,” Castiel says. The firefighter has green eyes and freckles splashed across his nose. Castiel wants him to take off his helmet so he can see what his hair looks like. 

“Right,” the firefighter says. 

“Am I in trouble?” Castiel asks. 

“No,” the firefighter says. He winks. Castiel feels his heart literally skip a beat. “Not a crime to burn cookies. Losing out on the cookies is punishment enough.”

“They weren’t for me,” Castiel says. “They were for a birthday party. Tonight.” For some reason, he wants the firefighter to know that he has a social life. Never mind if the social life was enforced upon him by his older sister.

“A birthday party? Today? Who’s hosting? I gotta fight for my honor.”

Castiel is baffled. What honor? What fight?

“What?”

“Everyone will come,” the firefighter says. He makes a pose, as if he’s flexing. “To see me and this other guy fight to see who’s the Supreme Birthday Boy.” He stretches one arm out, pointing it to the sky, then he opens his fist. “Pow! It’ll be me, of course.” He turns to look back at Castiel. His mouth is very pink. Castiel wishes he understood what words were coming out of it. 

“It’s my birthday, too,” the firefighter says after a moment, when Castiel doesn’t react.

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I dunno. Trying to be funny, I guess.”

“Oh,” Castiel says again. Behind the firefighter, he sees that the other residents of his apartment building are filing back inside. For some reason, despite the January chill, Castiel doesn’t want to go back in. Not yet. 

“You know, usually this is the part where people say happy birthday,” the firefighter says. 

“Happy birthday,” Castiel repeats. 

“Thanks!” the firefighter beams. “So do you think I should crash your friend’s party tonight?”

“No,” Castiel says, alarmed at the thought. A firefighter, and probably a bunch of other firefighters, crashing Castiel’s opportunity to stand beside the wall, holding a cup of sprite? When Castiel shows up with store-bought baked goods? And this beautiful firefighter will point right at him and say that Castiel invited them and then Anna’s-friend-Dean will hate him forever, and probably Anna will too? “Also, he’s not my friend.”

“He’s not? Then why are you going to his party?”

“He’s my sister’s friend,” Castiel explains. “I’ve never met him. She thinks I need to leave the house more.” Too late, Castiel remembers that he was supposed to pretend he had a flourishing social life. Oops. 

“Wait,” the firefighter says. His eyes sparkle. “Are you Anna’s brother? Cas-something?”

“Castiel,” he says, with the patience of someone who has had to explain his name a million times. He narrows his eyes. “How did you know that?”

“Dude,” the firefighter says, laughing. “I’m Dean.”

Anna’s-friend-Dean is a beautiful firefighter, with green eyes and freckles? Anna’s-friend-Dean is the Supreme Birthday Boy? Anna’s-friend-Dean probably has very muscular arms, under his uniform?

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” the firefighter says. 

“Winchester! Wrap it up!” one of the firemen calls from the truck. Castiel realizes that all the firefighters are about to leave, and everyone from his building is already back inside. When did that happen?

“Be there in a minute!” Dean hollers over his shoulder. When he looks back at Castiel, he grins almost shyly. “You were gonna make me cookies?”

“Yes, I--I thought it would be an appropriate thing to bring.” Castiel wonders again if Dean could be diabetic. Or perhaps allergic to something in chocolate chip cookies. Are chocolate chips made in a peanut-free facility? Maybe Castiel should’ve bought wine, after all.

“Hell yeah,” Dean says. “Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach was dead-fuckin’-on. But, uh.”

“But?” Castiel is sure, suddenly, that Dean is about to reject him and tell him not to come to his birthday party after all. Which would be a shame, because all of a sudden Castiel wanted to go.

“My favorite dessert is pie,” Dean says like a confession. 

“Oh,” Castiel says, eyes widening. Maybe he can swing by the bakery--maybe he can look up a bakery, and then swing by it--on the way to the party. Assuming he’s still going. 

“And, uh, not to toot my own horn, but I make a pretty mean one. I actually made myself a birthday pie, and I was gonna eat it alone, but maybe…I mean…”

“Yes?” Castiel asks. Dean is slightly taller than him, so he tilts his head back to meet his eyes. Dean swallows. Castiel watches his adam’s apple bob.

“Well, I could swing by after my shift is done,” Dean says. “Bring it with me. We could share. Before we go to the Roadhouse, I mean. If you want.”

“I want,” Castiel says before he can think about it. He snaps his mouth shut. Dean brightens. 

“Great,” he says. “I’ll be back. After my shift.”

“When does it end?” Castiel asks. Dean looks at his watch. He grins at Castiel, tongue poking between his teeth.

“Twenty minutes,” he says. 

“Okay,” Castiel says. “I will you soon, then.”

“Yep,” Dean says. “Gimme about an hour, okay? And then we’ll have pie.” 

“Okay,” Castiel says. Dean turns to head back to the firetruck. “What kind of pie?” Cas calls after him. Dean turns. 

“Apple!” he calls. Castiel stands outside, in the January chill without his coat, for a long while after the truck leaves. What a strange man, making his own birthday pie. What a lovely man, sharing it with a stranger. Supreme Birthday Boy, indeed.

--

When Dean returns, in a soft flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing his magnificent forearms, his hair a spiky mess that Castiel wants to run his fingers through, he has, as promised, an apple pie. And Castiel has a present for him. 

When Dean opens it, he laughs until he almost cries. He lights it right away, and the lingering aroma of burnt chocolate chip cookies is chased away by the apple pie candle from Walmart, a bright, steady little flame flickering between them.

(ao3)

[afraidparade]

Fluff is great and all but I wanted to make a request for some Lufa hurt/comfort. No pressure the ofc.

i hope you will accept some in the form of writing 🙏

(faust gets injured, luka's the one who's hurting. BIG juicy faust lore in this one)

"High Pain Tolerance"

Word count: 3650

Content warnings: physical injury, scars, trauma, mentions of abuse, mentions of death

_____________

“Yup. That’s dislocated.”

Luka’s face froze in expressionlessness. He tended to be a rather stone-faced individual, but there were notable dissimilarities between his usual calm and whatever it was that he felt in that moment. Namely the way his lips parted slightly (despite the fact that he wasn’t breathing), and the pale, sickly complexion his skin took on when he realized what he’d done. 

It had happened before — neither of them were particularly clumsy, it was just a risk that came with cohabitating alongside someone of a vastly different size — where Luka hadn’t been paying attention and accidentally knocked Faust off the surface of his desk with a casual, careless movement. He’d love to say that his protective instincts frequently sprung him into action, that he could flawlessly and heroically catch the falling demon in his palm whenever he was in danger, but truthfully, his reflexes weren’t all that fast. The only thing he could do was hiss out a curse and keep himself from toppling out of his own chair while he assessed the state of his roommate. 

To Faust’s credit, Luka had noticed on numerous occasions just how sturdy he was for his size. The handful of times he’d fallen before, he ended up a little disoriented and sore, sure, but aside from him barking at the human for being so oafishly careless, the tumble didn’t seem to result in much else. So Luka wasn’t sure what was different about this time. Maybe the angle at which he hit the ground? Or perhaps he’d blindly shoved the little imp with more force than he realized? Either way, Faust’s shoulder was clearly swollen and quickly turning a dark reddish hue.

“How—“ Luka had to pause and close his mouth and swallow, since his throat had gone bone dry, “How do you know it’s not broken?” His mind began to race at the possibility. What would he even do if it was broken? It’s not like he could check a three-inch demon into a hospital, and Google could only help with so much. 

Faust stared at the joint for a few seconds in thought, tapped it lightly, then winced as he attempted to move it. “It’s just not,” he concluded, his eyes flicking back upwards to meet Luka’s. Upon seeing that his companion didn’t seem fully satisfied with that answer, he huffed a sigh and added, “Look, let’s just say I have a lot of experience with this. It’s just dislocated, trust me.”

Just dislocated. Just dislocated. As if that diffused the situation entirely! As far as Luka could tell, this was the worst injury he’d been witness to in their time together. And he caused it. It was sinking in now. Slowly, more noticeable signs of distress became evident on Luka’s features. His brows furrowed and his eyes began to widen, and while he’d managed to resume breathing, all of his inhales were shallow. 

“W-what do we do? How do we treat it?” he asked in a trembling voice. For every bit as panicked as Luka seemed, though, Faust seemed wholly unbothered. Mildly annoyed, if anything.

“What do you think, genius? We just pop it back into place. It’s a pain in the ass to do it myself, but luckily you’re here to help me out. Just don’t be too rough with it, or it’ll actually end up broken.”

No way. The thought alone nearly made Luka black out. 

“I can’t do that!” Luka quickly rejected, his voice cracking with anxiety. Faust actually seemed surprised by this sudden outburst, as if his request had been as inconsequential as fetching a bandage to put over a tiny scrape. The demon had experienced Luka’s nonchalant whims plenty of times in the past, so maybe that bewilderment was justified. But this was just something Luka couldn’t do. “I’m– I’m too big, and I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t risk hurting you.”

Faust scoffed. “A little late for that, don’t you think?”

Luka felt nauseous. He knew it was meant as a playful jab, but it made the reality all too clear in his mind. He hurt Faust. This happened because of him. Faust acknowledged that. He said it out loud. He blamed him. Was that it? Had he destroyed nearly a year’s worth of trust? Would Faust forgive him? Would Faust leave him?

“Alright, whatever. You’re clearly too much of a wimp for this sort of thing, so I’ll just…” the imp’s voice trailed off as he straightened his back and brought his good hand to the wrist of his limp arm, then bit down on his lip with disquieting anticipation. 

Luka’s blood went cold. But once again, his reflexes were far too slow. “Wai—“

Faust yanked the arm up and pushed back, then with a strained yelp and sickening pop, he stumbled forward a bit before dropping to his knees. “Fuck!” he hissed, gripping the wound that was now stained with an even angrier red. He took a moment to catch his breath, wincing every now and then as he tested the limits of how much he could move his arm in its current state. All in all, it was a marked improvement from how it had been a moment ago, but would certainly take several weeks to heal fully. Once he settled down again, Faust appeared no different than his usual, crabby self. “Shit, that hurt more than I was expecting. But maybe if a certain someone hadn’t thrown a fucking crybaby tantrum, I’d—“

Upon looking back up, Faust nearly bit his tongue from how quickly he forced his mouth shut. He knew Luka could get moody every now and then, but even still, the amount of times he’d actually seen the man cry could be counted with just one hand. Evidently, he could now add another finger to that count.

It started with a sniffle, a sharp intake of air as his body instinctively attempted to suppress the phenomenon, then when his eyelids quivered and his vision had gone completely blurry, he overflowed. Tears began to fall freely as strained sobs escaped the back of his throat, each one doubling in intensity from the last. His hands wavered and his fingers curled spastically, trapped between the decision of reaching for Faust, wiping his own face, or curling into tight fists on his lap. He stayed there, wobbling and weeping, unable to bring himself to do much else. This messy, desperate, speechless, fragile Luka was unlike anything Faust had experienced before. And the sight of his adoring caretaker shaking from his own bawling — the sheer helplessness he felt in that moment — wrenched something in Faust’s chest that hurt far worse than his shoulder. 

“Wh– why are you crying?” the demon stammered, clueless as to how he should even begin to diffuse the situation, “I’m the one who—“

“I know!” Luka choked in a tone Faust had never heard before. He almost sounded…angry. But somehow, that bitterness didn’t feel as though it was directed towards him at all. Luka took in a shaky breath, forcefully quieting his tone. “I know you’re the one who got hurt. But I’m the one who hurt you. And- and even when I had a chance to make up for it, I couldn’t help you, I just…”

“Luka, for fuck’s sake, I was kidding! I’m not upset over a stupid accident, so calm down,” Faust tried. He didn’t exactly have experience in comforting others, but from the few times his human companion seemed to be in need of a reality check, remaining objective and sticking to his normal, crass self usually worked the best. He hoped the same would hold true this time, because truth be told, he didn’t have a Plan B. “Look, I’ve dealt with a lot worse, so I have a high pain tolerance. I already told you I’m used to this sort of thing, right? So—“

“But you shouldn’t HAVE to be!”

There was a heavy silence after that. Faust didn’t have a response. Truly, he had no idea what to think, let alone say. Sometimes the disparity between the two’s upbringings became all too great. And sometimes it slipped Faust’s mind that Luka didn’t even know the half of what he’d seen in his homeworld. Or what he’d done. As the arrhythmic hiccuping attempted to subside itself, the smaller man could only turn his gaze to the floor and realize he’d dug this grave all on his own. He felt utterly useless. 

To say that Luka calmed down would be a severe overstatement, but at the very least, he managed to get his breathing under control. His eyes were still glassy, bloodshot, and sullen, while his gaze remained unfocused. It took a long time for him to come back from whatever daze he’d become lost in, but when he did, his voice was hoarse and painfully, heartbreakingly small.

“I’ve seen you cry over some really stupid things, Faust. But you never cry for yourself.” 

Faust clenched his teeth. “So what?”

“It’s hard to watch, that’s what,” Luka replied, some of the agitation from earlier returning to his tone, “Why do you treat yourself as if you’re something expendable?”

The small, black claws of his good hand pressed so deep into his palm that Faust wouldn’t be shocked if he ended up breaking the skin there. But his voice stayed uncharacteristically level, almost resembling a convict under interrogation. “It’s what I was taught,” he answered simply.

“Then you should be mad to the point of tears about that, too.” 

This time, there was no response. Sensing that the other had run out of manufactured responses for now, Luka took in a deep breath and continued, “Look, I’m not going to pretend I know what you’ve been through. And I’m not going to ask you about it, either. But I do know there’s something keeping you trapped in the past, and it’s doing something horrible to your mind. And not being able to…to help you, it’s such a scary feeling. I guess what happened just now was a result of not being able to handle that feeling anymore.”

Faust felt both a searing hotness and a hollow emptiness at his core. Was he supposed to apologize? He didn’t know what he’d be saying sorry for, so was there any point? And what did Luka know about fear? Real fear? That was about the only emotion Faust reserved for himself. So why did Luka bother wasting his own fear on such a pathetic cause? What a stupid, naive, all-too-human endeavor.

“I know I’m speaking out of turn here, and I’m sorry about that. I went and made your getting hurt all about me. I’m pretty lame, huh?” At this, the faintest smile pushed past the wet streaks on his face. “Though if you’d allow it, I’d like to make one more selfish request. Do you think you could put a little more trust in me, even if it’s just a fraction? I know I’m not perfect, and I know I’m the stupid idiot that pushed you off the desk in the first place, but until you finally get sick and tired enough to leave, you’re sort of stuck with me. And for as long as it’s the two of us, I want you to feel like it’s just that: the two of us. You’re not as alone in this as you think, okay?”

Ah.

What a miserable hypocrite he was, Faust realized, thinking he wrote the book on fear and being afraid. He didn’t understand it until now, but that burning emptiness inside of him did have a name. It was a new kind of fear to him: a fear built on hope. Without realizing it, that seedling of hope that longed to be happy, to be safe, and to be with this human whom he had grown…mildly attached to, had flourished and now branched into every fiber of his being. For once, Faust felt like he actually had a future. And nothing terrified him more.

He let out a slow, steady breath. One step at a time. Not to mention that during all this, Faust’s shoulder only began to throb more and more. “…For the record, I already thought you were lame,” Faust muttered, not quite smiling, but in a tone far from hostile. “So then, can I ‘trust’ you to help me make a sling?”

———

It didn’t take too long to gather the supplies for a sling, as well as some ice to apply to the injury. Both parties used the time to collect themselves individually, and after Luka had rinsed his face off and Faust pondered the nature of the other’s request, they reconvened at the scene of the incident. The sling was simple enough to craft out of an extra scrap of thin fabric Luka kept from one of his previous sewing attempts, and although the edges were too small for the human’s fingers to work into a knot, Faust made quick work of it using his uninjured hand and his teeth. Yet another display of his frighteningly extensive experience with this sort of scenario, but this time, neither commented on it. 

“Are you able to take off your shirt? It’ll make it easier to see where I should put the ice,” Luka asked as he finished bundling a small lump of crushed ice in more leftover fabric.

The smaller nodded, catching the hem with his fingertips and tugging it upwards. It took quite a bit of wriggling and finessing, but eventually the demon was successful in sliding the garment over his arm and off his body. While Faust casually tossed the shirt to the side, thinking nothing of the motion he’d performed countless times in the human’s presence, Luka’s movements faltered and his stomach tightened. Now that the other’s back was exposed, he was reminded of the countless scars that marred the flesh there. Hundreds of discolored, thin gashes that overlapped each other in straight lines — some short, as if he had just been grazed, and others long, stretching nearly the entire length of his back — that appeared to have never healed quite right. That sinking, spiraling anxiety that sent him over the edge before came back to gnaw at his insides, but Luka reminded himself that he needed to focus on Faust’s wellbeing for the present moment. Unfortunately, it seemed like he had that realization just a second too late.

“Is something wrong?” the smaller asked, looking over his shoulder to see what the hold-up was. Upon seeing Luka bat his eyes in surprise and avert his gaze as he stammered for an answer, Faust sighed and faced forward again. “You’re worried about my scars?”

Luka frowned shamefully, but after collecting himself, he moved to position the makeshift ice bag on the swollen wound. “Sorry,” he apologized softly, pressing the fabric against the bruised flesh with a light touch, “I know that’s off-limits.”

Faust flinched as the stinging cold caused the entirety of his arm to throb, but after the initial shock subsided, he remained still and allowed Luka to apply a bit more pressure. A soothing numbness soon took the pain’s place. “No, it’s…fine.”

In the silence that followed, Faust furrowed his brows. Trust, huh? Well, he was already small, injured, and virtually defenseless. What was just a bit more vulnerability?

“…You know that I was a soldier. Or, that I at least trained to be one,” he began slowly. He didn’t need to turn around to sense Luka’s quiet surprise. “I, um… Actually, maybe this isn’t the best time to—“

“No,” Luka interjected, urgent but soft, “Please. If you’re comfortable with it.”

Faust swallowed. It didn’t look like he could back out of this one, so he continued after a brief pause, “You might find this hard to believe, but even in a world that’s…well, more me-sized, I’ve always been kind of small.” There were certainly several things Luka could have said about that. But he didn’t. “I’d always been the smallest demon in my platoon, from my very first memory of enlistment to the time of my, er, departure. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why they didn’t just label me as a runt at birth and kill me then. Maybe I just barely passed the acceptable threshold, or maybe it was someone’s idea of a sick joke. I doubt I’ll ever find out.”

“Anyways, it’s not like I was a pushover just because I was a little short. I trained like hell to catch up with the rest of my platoon, but it’s like my body just had a limit I couldn’t ever push past, no matter how hard I tried. And I fucking tried,” he added with a noticeable bitterness. “Demons are all born at the same level, but once they gain more power, they become bigger and stronger. We call those ‘High Ranks.’ And for every group of ‘Low Ranks’ — that’s what I am — one High Rank acts as their commanding officer and oversees their training. That’s where K… m-my platoon leader comes in.”

Faust swallowed dryly, his posture having gone stiff and his tail coiling in a tight spiral. Luka flashed a concerned frown, then bent forward slightly and gave his companion a light nudge. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, “We can stop if you want.”

Upon hearing his roommate’s voice, Faust allowed himself to breathe and release the tension that had gathered in his muscles. He reminded himself of Luka’s affirmation that he wasn’t alone anymore, and managed to reel his mind back to the present. 

“No, I’m good. It’s just not the greatest memory, y’know?” the tiny imp replied with renewed determination. “So…that High Rank I mentioned, he was pretty strict on everyone, but he had a method of training that relied on the weakest link. With every regiment, we would all train with the knowledge that whoever ‘he’ determined to perform the weakest would, um…” Faust swallowed, briefly weighing his options. He was already sharing an overwhelming amount, so maybe it was best to spare certain details from this story. “...Receive punishment. Brutal punishment.”

He reached to hug himself with the only arm that could manage to do so, grazing the edges of a few scars with his fingertips. Maybe it was the memory, or maybe it was just the cold from the ice pack, but he swore he could feel them aching. 

“I-it wasn’t me every time. Sometimes someone else would fall behind, and I’d be left alone for a while. But…for better or for worse, they wouldn’t last very long, if you know what I mean. I don’t know how I did. Maybe all that extra training was good for something, or maybe he just wanted to keep me alive to…”

He inhaled sharply, cutting off the thought. “So, yeah. That’s basically the long and short of it. Now you know where my scars came from.”

Luka stared forward, speechless. Honestly, he wanted to cry again, but he wouldn’t. Faust didn’t need to deal with that twice in one day. He just didn’t know what else to do. He had wanted to learn the truth so he could help, but now that he knew it, he’d never felt less sure of what to do or say. Just how horrible had things been in Faust’s world? Were they still like that? How many demons like him were experiencing the exact same trauma at that very moment? The questions and uncertainties were maddening, but with the brittle thread of knowledge that Faust had finally been willing to open up to him, Luka kept himself together. 

He opened his mouth to say something, reconsidered, then closed it.

“Don’t tell me ‘I’m sorry’ or some stupid shit like that,” Faust sneered over his shoulder. His sour disposition brought the air of familiarity back to the room, which Luka welcomed readily.

“I wasn’t going to,” he replied.

“You were,” the smaller drawled, waving a hand through the air, “You’ve got that sad, dopey look on your face. I don’t wanna hear it though. None of that has anything to do with you, and pity pisses me off.”

Luka laughed through his nose. While it was frustrating to see Faust dismiss his problems before, this felt different. Not quite dismissal, as much as acknowledgment and acceptance. That was a start. 

Seeing as the ice had turned into more of a slush at this point and began to make quite the mess on his desk, Luka collected the small bundle into his cupped hand and began making motions to stand up. “Alright. How about a ‘thank you’ then?”

Faust looked up, confused frustration evident on his features. “For what? Telling you my sob story? I don’t want to hear that, either.”

The brunette shook his head. “No. I had a feeling that would upset you as well, so not quite. I was thinking more along the lines of a ‘thank you for not giving up,’” he said through a smile, “Maybe you think the reason you’re still alive is due to dumb luck or some sort of cruel conspiracy, but I think it’s because of your own perseverance. You’re just too stubborn to die.”

Luka stood fully and began exiting the room to discard the ice pack and tidy the small mess he’d made in gathering materials, but paused by the doorway to add one more statement to his previous sentiment. “Every choice you made that kept you alive eventually brought you to me. I couldn’t think of anything to be more grateful for.”

Faust couldn’t do much but stare at the empty doorway, even long after Luka had left. He swiped a hand across his face, stared down at the droplets that accumulated there, and huffed a short, incredulous laugh. After all that, this was what made him cry?

[queen-scribbles]

Five Things You Never Get Tired of Writing

tagged by @emeraldgreaves for her new writing game :3

Rules: list five things you never get tired of writing. It can be tropes, themes, characters, phrases, whatever brings you joy. then tag five people!

My list:

Found family

Fluff

BANTER!!!

Male/Female friendships(whether they stay platonic or shift romantic, I love ‘em either way)

The Babies(aka Harvey/Trinne, bc they’re basically all four of the other things rolled up together at different points in their story lol)

tagging @haledamage@storyknitter @yanara126 @valkblue @undyingembers

[festival-of-pudding]

fyi rhink peeps

I'm about to do some housekeeping on my AO3 account, so if you get an alert that I posted new Rhink fic, I didn't, I'm just splitting the old one-word prompts into separate works like I should have done in the first place oops ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[beautifulhigh]

Get to know my writing

Tagged bythe wonderful @chaotictarlos - thank you T!

What is your total posted word count on AO3? 851,294

How often do you write? Not as much as I’d like. I tend to do it in fits and spurts. I’ll have days where I write thousands of words, and then it’ll be weeks before I get anything down again

Do you have a routine for writing? Not really. I sometimes have music on in the background but most of the time it’s just me and the clicking of the keys on the laptop. I think my only routine is in the planning stages: I make notes for the idea, I write it out in full like I’m telling the story, I print that off and annotate, and then I start to write.

What’s your favourite tropes/pairing? My favourite pairing is always the ‘ship I’m on at the time. In terms of tropes, angst with a happy ending.

Do you have a favourite fic of yours? Recently, I’ve been most proud of In the burned house I am eating breakfast, but I think my opus that was Rumours will always be the one I’m most impressed with. I wrote a novel for that!

Your fic with the most kudos? That would be Want with a whopping 372.

Anything you don’t like about your writing? I don’t think I craft cliffhangers well, hence why I’m a one-shot gal these days. Whether it’s 2,000 words or 20,000 words. You get it all because I feel like any chapter ending I craft seems artificial

Now something you do like? I know I plan well, and I draw threads and hints and callbacks through my writing.

Tagging @capseycartwright @bubblesandroses8 @welcometololaland and anyone else who hasn’t been tagged in this

[chroniclesinlacuna]

5 Things You Never Get Tired of Writing

tagged by the wonderful @ejunkiet, and I’m finally home to do it!

1. canon rewrite: that’s my amaryllis au but it’s also literally how I started really writing fic! My leverage stuff started out as canon rewrite to canon divergence, and I still love it! I love taking the stories I already love and tweaking them

2. small domesticity: if I could, 90% of my stuff would be random moments in quiet domestic scenes. I love action sequences, and drama, and angst and all that but...I also just really like what’s typically the ending. Everyone’s happy, or at least, happier.

3. simple voice: moments of untagged speech. I don’t put them in as much as I’d like, but they’re definitely in my outlines, and it’s currently a brewing idea for an original work (or at least, it’s half of the idea) - just how much I can explore with just speech and inflection without full scene work.

4. lighting

5. getting together: for what, it doesn’t matter. dating, heists, as a group - just how did we get here and what does that now mean. definitely feeds into the canon rewrite one too, but it’s a big enough thing to stand on it’s own.