#but it feels nice to have something you can tangibly blame when youre faced with a situation where nobody is at fault

[cantheykillmacbeth]

((I love the people who tag my posts with "The Scottish Play." Like. Macbeth Macbeth Macbeth!!! The play Macbeth!!!! Macbeth by William Shakespeare!!!!! Macbeth (not the character)!!!! Get scared get scared get scared!!!!!!!!! Woe sandbag be upon ye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway happy halloween y'all :) Hope you had a good time tonight))

[kingmagnificoofrosas]

Hello! So I figured I should probably share my two cents on this since you seem pretty open for discussion. I understand a previous anon brought up the fact that this isn’t excusing it’s just explaining and I also understand that Magnifico mainly went all villain when that rat book took control, but I also feel like there may be a slight… I’m not sure how to describe it honestly so I’ll let the rest of my ask speak and see if hopefully my point tangible.

Magnifico did hold a weapon to Amaya’s face to threaten her into agreeing with him, and based on her reaction to seeing him with the evil magic (rapid breathing, shaky speech, flinching, instant fawn + freeze reaction) it’s possible she likely has some form of trauma that I personally believe may have been a abusive relationship.

I should say I am NOT a Magnifico hater, I don’t believe he was a villain at all but I’m not sure about hero. Of course I’m open to hearing others out and I’m entirely open to learning new things and changing my opinions! So this isn’t me saying ‘No you’re wrong I’m right’ it’s just intended as me giving my own personal views and asking for yours in return! Sorry for the three paragraph ask and I hope that you have a great day! 💙

(Also to people who hate on Magnifico that are coming to this account, just why?? Just leave instead of throwing a hissy fit in this persons asks whose just being kind and sharing their personal views, it’s that easy 😒)

Hey anon!

First of all, thank you for being so nice and defending me! Absolutely right! It's beyond me how someone who doesn't like him comes to my blog to nagg at me for loving and defending him, make me a bad person and furthermore accuse me of things .... crazy, anyway! Don't apologize for this long ask! 😆 I appreciate you wanting my opinion! I also wish you a great day! 💙

Now, let's begin this, shall we?

I can actually explain this as well!! 😃 (and no, it doesn't have anything to do with me loving and defending Magnifico. (Well mostly. *Eherm*) this is based on logical observations!

Soo, Amaya's reactions ... I'm absolutely sure they're not because he's been abusive. Magnifico had been nothing but a sweetheart to her. The explanations are much simpler and relatable.

Amaya knew that Magnifico was able to do great magic, she knew he was very powerful. But she also knew the evil book was powerful. She didn't know to what degree but what do you think happens to someone who's already powerful and gets posessed/controlled by an evil force?

Exactly. They become dangerous and unpredictable. The more power someone has the more dangerous they'd be if posessed by evil. Think of the nicest, sweetest dog, who'd never bite, never do anything bad. If this dog was to get posessed by an evil force, it could maul someone to death. It has teeth and a very powerful jaw to begin with.

The other thing is, who wouldn't flinch if someone pointed a weapon at them? This is a natural human reflex. Yes, some people are jumpier than others (I am 🤣, truly! Sometimes my coworker sneaks up on me while I work on a client to whisper something in my ear and I squeal in shock every single time. It's funny for everyone but me.) But we're talking about Amaya here! It's normal for the body to react if threatened. So we have our reasons why she went fawn mode.

Also, one of the first things she says to him is "How could you!" So, he's already in a very bad place, traumatized, suffering and on top posessed by evil now, and the first thing he's confronted with by his "wife" is blame. Nice. Blame! Guilt tripping and cornering him even further! Bravo Amaya 👏🏼

So Amaya being scared is relatable and justified. But does her being afraid justify her dumping and backstabbing Magnifico? No.

Just look at her smirk as she gives the guards the order to put him in the dungeons! I'm fine with Amaya x Magnifico shippers but I personally will never ship them! Poor man was desperate and shocked at how quickly and with how much ease she was writing him off.

If Magnifico had been her soulmate, she would have fought to death to get him back. Just imagine, if she had stood up and defended him, pleading her people to help her, saying something like : "Listen to me! Magnifico isn't evil, he's posessed by evil! I know he's dangerous and unpredictable right now but I know he's still in there somewhere and if we can reach him, we can get him back! I know you're scared, I am too, but together we can make it! Please, stand with me!"

I mean, she's the queen, alright? The people of Rosas are to obey and follow her command right after Magnifico. One right word of her and her people would follow her and not Asha. Btw. She could have also asked Asha and her friends to help her. I don't think they would have disagreed if she'd pleaded with them. She's their queen! Or would Asha have turned against Amaya as well then? 😐

You cannot tell me they wouldn't have been able to reach and save Magnifico by standing together in love and bold compassion! We literally saw how the wishes and (star) were set free from the evil force just by singing and standing together! Only imagine they had done this to free Magnifico! Saying he wasn't savable because the evil book said so is bullcrap.

I don't believe the evil book! A evil book is well, evil! And light will always be more powerful than darkness! Love will always be stronger than hate! Imagine a room full of darkness, then light a match, that tiny speck of light is still glowing! The dark cannot consume it! Because in light there cannot be darkness. And what does a evil book do besides destroy and corrupt?

Also, this looks painful! 🥺☝🏻this is nothing but incredibly tragic and sad!

Also, in the past, every single heroine has managed to break curses by true love and compassion! I was reminded of Moana and Te fiti for this!

Do you guys remember that scene, where Moana realizes that Te Fiti is still inside the posessed evil monster? Was Moana afraid? Sure she was! But did that stop her from reaching out to get her back? No!

Te ka (evil Te Fiti) could have burned Moana to a crisp in the split of 2 seconds but Moana still bravely approached her! She willingly faced death because she knew Te Fiti was still in there and by her immense love and compassion she'd get her back! She went "this is not who you are!" And boom!

There's more!

I also remember a scene from the 2 Maleficent live action! When Maleficent was consumed and controlled by hate, anger and revenge. She was all hiss, roar, I'm evil and Aurora stood up to her and told her "This isn't you! There's another way! I know who you are! I know you!" And Maleficent replies "You do not!" And Aurora in tears, in pain but 100% certain, says "Yes I do! You're my mother!"

And just like that the evil in Maleficent crumbles. True loves overcomes all evil! It's always been that way.

And even if no one would have helped Amaya, we'd still have the (true love breaks every curse!) But she did nothing. Well, she did run to Asha and her friends to sing about how bad he's always been like a pop star. She gave Magnifico up over the course of minutes, didn't even try fighting to get him back and wrote him off with a smile!

Magnifico was deeply hurt, the betrayal stung and he suffered inside. He had so much pain and anger and his anger is justified! Please, put yourself in his shoes for a moment. One doesn't even have to fully understand trauma and the whole complexity of the different forms of ptsd.

He only ever tried his best to have everyone happy and content. He only ever wanted to protect and keep safe. That's always been his goal. He held onto his power because he wanted to be strong enough to keep whats dear to him from harm at all costs! If someone wants to protect that fiercly it only means that person loves immensly 1 and 2 has suffered unbelievable painful loss. He loved his people! He cared for his people immensly. So much so he was willing to get himself posessed by evil even if he never wanted to! He felt forced by his desperation and utter fear.

And what did his people do in the end? Can you imagine how badly it must have hurt to realize you've only been loved for what you can do and give? How used he must have felt? He's been celebrated more for being handsome and a limitless genie than a loving king who established an amazing kingdom and ruled it well! He's bent backwards and all it took his people to turn on him was a teenager who thinks she knows better than anyone with a strange cute looking creature from the sky, they btw. knew just as little about!

Everyone backstabbed and betrayed him. Here he is, at the peak of all his suffering and posessed. His soul surely cried for help, hoped for anyone to reach out to him but no one did. He got kicked into his wound even further. Quite literally, this was the thanks he got.

[obsidiancreates]

Why Bounce Around To The Same Damn Song (Part 1)

(Another Henry Revealed As Asshole fic but Real Psychic Shawn flavored this time)

“Whoa, dude, stop here.”

“What?! Shawn, the Arby’s closes in like, fifteen minutes!”

“What? Since when does Arby’s close in the middle of the day?”

“I don’t know!”

“Just- pull over, man. I’m getting a vibe.”

Gus pulls The Blueberry over, parking in front of a set of small, run-down shops under apartment buildings. He peers around Shawn’s head and reads the sign. Miss Ivana’s Nirvana. “A psychic shop?”

“Yeah.” Shawn tries to look through the curtains of the window. “I feel like I should go in there, man.”

“You’re already psychic, why would you need a reading?”

“I’m not… sure.” Shawn tilts his head, squinting. He’s still not great with figuring out what the feelings-only parts of his abilities are. They’re a lot more complicated than picking out details in a shaky vision, or catching hidden meanings in words, or even catching snippets of another person’s thoughts- which he’s also not great at, yet, but he’s good enough to know Jules is just being nice when she says Buzz’s wife’s homemade tapioca is good. He didn’t know someone could gag so intensely in their mind without it showing on their face.

The feelings-only are different. It’s like when his ADHD acts up and makes him forget why he entered a room, or where he put something he was just holding, or the thing Gus told him was really important to remember before talking to someone he probably shouldn’t be talking to. He knows something is just there, just out of reach of his comprehension, and it’s almost like a physical, tangible blockage that he could potentially push away but he just can’t quite get the right footing.

“Maybe she’s a fraud who needs exposing? You still can’t talk to ghosts, right?”

“Still not even sure if they exist, Gus. All those websites you send me say different things. Plus, I think if spirits really existed and could demand revenge on their behalf there’d be a lot less white people in the world.”

Gus nods. “Alright, but make it fast, or I’m leaving you here.”

“Fast. Got it.”

Shawn steps out of the car and opens the shop door. It’s dimly lit, cluttered, and there’s a section with big velvet curtains and a table covered in classic fortune-telling props. The air smells like incense and sage, making him cough a little.

“Welcome to my Nirvana,” a young blond woman says in a thick non-specific Eastern European accent, sweeping otherwise soundlessly out from behind a shelf cluttered with crystals. “You are looking for something.”

“Yeah. Your real accent.” Shawn angles his head at her with a disappointed look. 

She straightens up, her incredibly numerous amounts of jewelry clanking together like she’s a windchime. “How’d you do that?”

He brings a hand up to his head. “I’m a psychic detective. You can take your pick on which of those told me the accent was fake.”

It was the psychic part.

“So… what? Are you scoping out the competition?” She crosses her arms. “Because I am not packing up shop. This is the first time I’ve made a steady living from this, you know.”

“Look, honestly I don’t know what I’m doing here either. I got a psychic vibe while driving by and now my buddy is about to abandon me so he can go get at least five meat-piled sandwiches for half off, and I can’t even blame him!” Shawn looks around. “It’s not like I don’t have crystals like these, or tried this uh… burning stuff.”

“Incense.” Ivana raises an eyebrow. “What, are you new to being psychic?”

“No! … Maybe. Are you?”

“I’ve had the gift as long as I can remember.” She sits down at the table. “Now are you gonna buy anything, or are you just going to stand there making my shop smell like Axe deodorant?”

“For your information, it’s Axe body spray. And you call yourself psychic.” He scoffs. But that twists something in his gut, his voicing doubt. It feels… bad. 

“You’re the one using his hand to convince me you can hear the spirits.” 

“So there are spirits.”

“Duh? Did you come in here just to learn how to fake it better?”

“Do you think I’m faking?”

“Maybe.”

“No you don’t.”

“If I think you’re real then you should know I am too.”

“... Fair.” Shawn looks out the door to see Gus literally pulling away. “Wh- Gus!”

“I saw that coming.”

“And you didn’t warn me, wh- I was looking forward to those sandwiches! Man… so much for helping a fellow psychic out.”

“You’re like, ten years older than me. You should’ve been able to see it.”

“Okay first of all, there’s no way I’m ten years older than you. Second of all, I… am working on the future-seeing thing, still.”

Ivana leans forward, resting her elbows heavily on her table. “You have a very bright presence, for being so annoying and childish.”

“Thank you. It’s because my hair is a blessing.”

“No… it’s because you carry the gratitude of many.” Her eyes trail over Shawn, unfocused and glassy. “Why’re you here?”

Shawn steps back. That look is really unnerving. He hopes he doesn’t look like that when he’s analyzing people. “Because my partner just drove off without me, and I don’t want to walk anywhere.”

Ivana rolls her eyes. “Come here. I’m going to do a tarot reading for you.”

“Uhhh, no. No, I don’t do that stuff.”

“You’re a psychic who doesn’t do tarot?”

“No, I do not! Or crystal balls, unless I think the client will pay extra for that. Then I have five.”

“Sit down and pick a card.” She says it so forcefully that Shawn just obeys- because a psychic pull told him too, and definitely not because he was intimidated by for a second. Not at all. He goes to pick one- and finds himself picking three, leaving them face-down, knowing how this is meant to go even though he’s never done this before.

She flips the one on Shawn’s left over first. “Do you know the meanings?”

Shawn actually thinks he does. He doesn’t want to. “Uh, no.”

“So that’s why you’re here. You’re denying something that the spirits wish you weren’t. This is The Emperor, reversed. Someone in authority, abusing that authority.”

“No, I don’t think so. The Chief is actually very lenient with us.” He knows it’s not talking about The Chief. Or Lassie. Or even the Psych office landlord who keeps trying to raise their rent before Shawn reminds him that more than half his properties aren’t up to code and Shawn can prove it if he has to.

“This card is showing us something from the past, something already done. What was. The next to are what to do, and what to avoid.” Ivana flips over the middle card. “The Three of Cups.”

“That one’s not so bad.” He sees images of him and Gus getting tacos together, him bringing Jules a smoothie, him breaking into Lassie’s house to restock the man’s peanut butter because he always forgets to and Shawn wants a reliable store of PB in every house he regularly infiltrates, dammit. “It’s uh, quality time, right? With people I care about.”

It doesn’t escape his notice that someone is missing from those visions.

“Now I’m starting to believe you.” Ivana flips the last one over. “The Six of Swords, reversed.”

Shawn laughs, even as something twists in his gut and squeezes in his chest. “That one’s a mistake.”

“It’s advice. You’re being warned not to leave something big in your life unresolved.”

“Yeah, I got that. But uh, it’d sort of ruin… everything, so I think I’m going to leave now.” He gets up. “And I’m-I’m sure yours and the… spirits, intentions are good, but there’s no way in hell I’m following that advice.”

Ivana looks at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“For once, yes.” Shawn turns, sticking his hands in his pockets and walking to the door. He freezes just before opening it, sucking in a sharp breath as his hands fly to his head.

Gus is ten years old, listening to Shawn complain about something Henry did. Gus is nodding, listening, but Shawn hears him think ‘There’s no way it’s that bad.’

Mrs. Guster stands in the doorway, talking to Henry, while five-year-old Shawn and Gus play in the living room. “Now I’ve heard around town about your… unusual way of raising your son, and I want your word right now that you’ll leave mine out of that sort of thing, because if my Burton comes home and tells me that you did anything he says Shawn talks about, I won’t be bringing him around here again.”

More recent, a case- their thirteen year high school reunion. Gus looks at Shawn and says “That’s easy for you to say, Shawn. No-one had any expectations you would amount to greatness.”

Shawn’s whole body feels tingly, and he has to shake himself to get feeling back into his limbs. Ivana is standing next to him, wide-eyed. “What was that?”

“Um.” Shawn looks down at his hands to make sure he’s here, really here. “I don’t-”

“Was that a vision? I’ve never had one that strong.”

“Really? I get those all the time.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yeah, a little.” Shawn shakes himself again. “Not totally.”

“I told you, you’re being warned. Something is blocking you from contacting the spirits who want to speak to you, I can feel it. It’s something emotional, and they’re begging you to resolve it.”

“I thought you said you don’t get strong visions.”

“I’m better at mind-reading and tarot, it’s true. But-” She moves to touch him, and Shawn pulls away. “But I can feel a very strong presence around you while standing this close. Hovering, worrying, desperate.”

“Great. That’s-that’s exactly what I want. Another looming presence in my life pushing me to do stuff.” Shawn huffs. “Awfully hypocritical of them. Can you just, tell me how to avoid that kind of thing happening to me again?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know? You’re clearly a different kind of psychic than I am.”

“What, are we dogs? There’s different breeds?”

“It’s time to leave my shop.”

She shoves him out the door, literally, just as Gus pulls back up. Shawn takes a moment to compose himself, looking anywhere but The Blueberry, before getting in- or trying to.

“Dude, you didn’t leave any room for me to sit down.”

“There’s room right there.”

“I’m not some twig anymore, man, I can’t fit in a seat literally piled with sandwiches.”

“You’re the one who decided to abandon me for a talk with a fraud.”

“She’s not a fraud, Gus.” Shawn tosses all the sandwiches into the backseat, despite Gus’s whine of protest. “She’s the real deal.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I could feel it, which was super freaky. At one point I just mentioned she might be a fraud and it felt like that time I ate those expired mini-tacos from your freezer.”

“Eugh!”

“Point is… apparently I was drawn in there because spirits are real, and… I can’t talk to them. Yet.”

“So… what? They lead you somewhere you could get advice?”

“Sort of. She can’t talk directly either, but she… gave me a tarot reading.”

“I told you we needed to invest in a set.”

“Not until we find one with either all of the Thundercats on each card, or themed around Tears for Fears songs.”

“You can commission custom sets from local artists, Shawn.”

“Really? … Sounds expensive.”

“What’d your reading say, Shawn?”

“Right. That.” Shawn shifts in his seat as Gus pulls away. “I uh… so, weird part first, knew what the cards meant just by looking at them.”

“Which makes sense since you’re psychic.”

“Yeah, yeah. And uh… they were kinda about… my dad.”

Gus waits for Shawn to go on. Shawn licks his lips first, suddenly feeling very, very trapped.

“... Shawn?” Gus glances over, concern starting to seep into his expression. “What’d they say about your dad? … Is he dying?”

“No, no. Nothing that bad.” So, so bad. Henry just- gone. Forever. Shawn can’t even imagine it, and he doesn’t want to imagine it, for all he might fight with his dad. “But uh… Gus, how-how much do you remember, about the uh… training, I did, growing up?”

“What?”

“The cop stuff he made me do.”

“I don’t know. I know I thought it was kinda intense.”

“Yeah, but… what specifically? Do you remember?”

“Well… I remember the stuff when we were scouts, with the rocket and all that.”

“Right.”

“And him using a lot of stories about him and his partners to give us lessons.”

“Yeah.”

“And I guess I remember you talking a lot about him making you earn desserts and stuff.”

“... Yeah.” Shawn leans his head back against the headrest of the seat. “Do you remember the case at our reunion?”

“Of course I remember it, it almost ruined all my hard work!”

“Remember going through the yearbooks?”

“Shawn, I know you’re stalling by trying to make me piece everything together myself. What does this have to do with your dad?”

Shawn sighs, looking out the window and pressing the top of his tongue to the center of his top lip before saying, “You said no-one had any expectations of greatness for me growing up.”

“I did? … I did.” Gus’s concern melts into guilt. “But your dad did, didn’t he? I’m sorry, Shawn, in the moment I just totally forgot.”

“It’s alright, man, I-I didn’t say anything to correct you or anything. … But I guess I’m… trying to get a read on how much I need to tell you, to… I don’t know, unclog my psychic senses or whatever.”

“What?”

“... I’m supposed to open up about, Gus. The spirits want me to tell you, and Jules, and even Lassie about all the stuff from when I was a kid.”

“Wow. … Isn’t that kinda-”

“My personal hell? Yes, it is.” Shawn thumps his head against the window and watches the sidewalks, counting hats. “Which they know, apparently. So I don’t know why they’re asking me to do that. I’m kind of doing just fine without talking to any spirits, anyway.”

But you could be doing better. He’s not sure if the thought is some psychic intuition or just him knowing the truth, and frankly he doesn’t care. It is true. It’s probably always true. It’s a thought that, nine times out of ten, comes into his mind alongside the frowning image of an old man with a rough voice and disappointment just dripping from the words.

“Shawn, did your dad…”

He doesn’t need to be psychic to know where Gus’s train of thought is going. “No, not like that. He never hit me. At most he-he handled me a little rough while booking me for the car thing. But that’s why I don’t wanna do this, man, I just- I know everyone will make it a big thing and it’s… it’s not not a big thing, but it’s a big thing for me, you know? It’s not really anybody’s else's business.”

Even though the spirits disagree.

“... You should probably take some time to think about how you wanna do this, then.” Gus glances over again, Shawn can see it in the reflection in the window. “I know this kind of thing isn’t easy for you.”

“That’s an understatement,” Shawn says with a huffed and bitter chuckle. God, he hates this. These ugly, nasty feelings that bubble up whenever he thinks about it. He drowned in these feelings for years and it was the worst time in his life, and because he couldn’t get his head above the water he started trying to push the water itself below and now it just sits there waiting for him to stop pushing it-

He has to suck in a breath as the feeling of actual water in his lungs passes over him, and he reaches to slap Gus’s hands without looking away from the window. “Stop the car!”

“Wha-”

“I totally just got a vibe, man, I think someone drowned around here, recently!”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re avoiding it.”

Shawn groans, tossing a crumpled paper ball at the trash can without looking. It goes right in. “Gus-”

“It’s been a month, Shawn. I know I said to take some time and think about how you’ll do it, but I know you and I know when you go from taking time to putting something off.”

“Gus, don’t be your coffee mug handle that broke when I picked it up.”

“Shawn, I’m serious. You basically got spiritually kidnapped into a creepy tarot reading specifically because you needed to talk about it, and now you’re not talking about it!”

“I have dinner with my dad in two days, Gus. I don’t really want to churn up all that stuff before I have to go help him prepare a fish or something again, I hate that enough.”

“So cancel.”

“Already tried- stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“I can totally read your mind right now, Gus, it’s like you’re literally shouting at me. Every time I talk about my dad now all your alarm bells go off, and that’s exactly what I don’t want!”

“Since when are you so protective of how people think of him?!”

“I don’t know! I just- I don’t want the three of you going around thinking he’s a monster or something all the time! Even if he kinda is. Man, you know I’m not good at figuring these kinds of complicated feelings out! Stop asking me to!”

“Not until we make some progress.”

“... Fine. Fine, I will… talk to everyone, as a group, here in the office, next week. Happy?”

“As I can be in the situation.”

“It’s not a situation.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I can do this all day, Shawn.”

“Well that is a complete waste of your time, and especially of mine!”

“Yeah, well, suck it.”

“You suck it!”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jules and Lassiter are cleaning up their desks when they both get a text at the same time.

Just had a major psychic feeling, guys, come by the office ASAP. Bring good snacks. <3

“Aw.” Jules smiles as she tucks her phone into her pocket. “Carlton, did you also get-”

“Yeah, I got it.” Lassiter sighs and swings his jacket on. “I’m not stopping for any snacks.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shawn is sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together resting against his lips, one leg shaking up and down and making a fast taptaptaptaptap sound against the floor as he waits. Gus sits next to him on the couch, and gives Shawn a pat on the shoulder.

“It’s going to be good for you in the long run,” Gus says for the millionth time that day.

“Man, you know I’d rather have things be good for me in the short run.”

They hear the door open, and both look up as Jules and Lassiter enter the office. Jules looks immediately concerned, while Lassiter looks more annoyed than anything.

“Shawn? What’s wrong, you look nervous. Is this is about a case?”

“Not uh, not quite.” Shawn gestures for Jules and Lassiter to sit in the armchairs set up across from the couch. They do, with Lassiter rolling his eyes as he sits. Shawn is kind of grateful for the irritation- it’s more comfortable than the way Gus and Jules are looking at him. More familiar.

“What is this about, Spencer?”

“Well, I uh…” Shawn opens his mouth to continue, but he just can’t. He just… can’t.

Gus, as always, is there to put together the missing pieces and fill in the gaps. “Shawn recently had a… metaphysical revelation,” Gus says. “He’s been dabbling in new ways to hone his abilities, and he was given the advice to unblock some parts of his mind by sharing some things.”

Shawn points at Gus to confirm it.

“What, like group therapy? This is ridiculous.”

“Believe me Lassie, I’m not happy about it either.” Shawn laughs, hollow, and his leg starts shaking faster. “But uh, every time I think about not doing this, preferably ever, I get a real kick in the ass by the spirits.” Mostly visions of people defending his dad, or his dad making all those claims about how he’s not responsible for why Shawn is the way he is, and god does the reoccuring vision of his dad claiming “A good cop trusts his gut, his instincts,” make Shawn just… mad.

“Shawn… what is this about?” Jules reaches out and puts a hand on his leg, stilling it. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Maybe. … I-I don’t…” Shawn takes a deep breath. “So it’s uh… about my dad.”

Lassiter scoffs.

“You know, with him… getting involved in cases as much as he does, and uh… Gus, I-I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can. I believe in you.”

“Spit it out, Spencer, after a shift I want to go home, not hang out in a fire hazard.”

“The spirits want me to tell you guys about my dad and how he raised me,” Shawn forces out. “Apparently keeping it to myself is ‘bad for me’ or something. And I uh… I don’t really know where to begin, so just… bear with me here.”

Lassiter eyes Shawn suspiciously. “Raised you how?”

“... I guess I’ll start with us, with this.” Shawn lets out a deep breath. “Lassie, you remember when my mom did your psych eval?”

“Unfortunately.”

“She told you she has an eidetic, tonal, memory.”

“How did you kn-”

“My dad, has an eidetic visual memory. I… have both.” Shawn pulls his hands apart and puts his hands to his temples and plasters on a grin that’s probably the least convincing fake smile he’s ever given. “And he knew it, real early on, before I can even remember.”

Jules gasps softly. “Oh, Shawn, but the things we see on the job-”

“It’s not that bad,” he says quickly. “Trust me Jules, I’m fine with all that. But uh, on top of that, when I was really young my mom diagnosed me as also being hyperobservant.”

Lassiter stands up and points to Shawn. “Aha! That’s it! I knew it, I knew you had some secret-”

“Lassie, sit down, I’m also genuinely psychic.”

“Yeah, right-”

“You’re excited to have caught me but you’re also thinking about how many arrests will be overturned or reexamined if you turn me in. You went to a bar on Saturday and ran into someone you liked in highschool, but h- uh, she-” Shawn glances at Jules and squints for a second, then nods. She knows, Lassie told her, good for him. “He, was already married so you went back home and looked into getting a dog for the rest of the night.”

That wipes the triumph off Lassiter’s face, and gets his ass back in the chair.

Shawn rides the high of that for just a moment before Gus clears his throat and Shawn remembers why they’re all here. He looks back down at his knees. “So uh… yes, I have a lot going on up here is what I’m trying to say.” He gestures at his head, waving his hand in a circle around his skull. “And pretty much from birth my dad figured, hey, I’ll train the kid to be the ultimate detective. The job was everything to him, and uh… he made sure it was everything to me, too.”

“That’s a pretty heavy expectation for a kid to carry,” Jules says in sympathy. “Especially with your dad having such a high-standing reputation.”

“No kidding,” Shawn laughs the same empty laugh. “So a uh… a lot, oh my childhood, was training. Stuff like uh… like even when Gus and I would play hide-and-seek, you know? He’d turn it into a lesson about how to keep a perp from seeing or hearing me if I was sneaking up on them, or-or blindfolding me, and telling me to figure out what he was doing around me just by the sounds, stuff like that.”

“Sounds fun to me,” Lassiter says.

“It was, usually. And I did really, really want to be a cop, just like him, but it was still pretty…” Shawn claps his hands back together and purses his lips, searching for the words, the feeling. “Pretty overkill, a lot of times. I mean, come on, teaching me to-to forge stuff in case I ever went undercover? I was six. I didn’t even know that kind of thing wasn’t normal until I started going over to Gus’s house. And then I started wanting to explore more things, and… started kind of… thinking about how Gus and my lives were different…”

Shawn takes another deep breath. “Like, his parents didn’t bury his Easter eggs underground and leave broken glass and a tarp over it and expect him to dig them up on his own.”

Lassiter sits up straighter, and Jules pales. Gus lets out a soft “Oh my god.”

Shawn grips his hands together. He hates this, he hates it, he doesn’t want them look at him like this, he doesn’t want them to know about this-

“Spencer, that’s a serious allegation of mistreatment and child endangerment,” Lassiter warns.

“I’m not- this isn’t a case, Lassie. I’m not trying to get my dad in trouble, and certainly not trying to get him arrested, alright? I’m just… trying to get a few things off my chest, out into the open.” Shawn clears his throat. “So, yeah. At Gus’s house he didn’t have to do that, or-or get locked in a car trunk in the afternoon to learn how to kick out a taillight, or have to hear about kids spatter brains on driveways when he brought a comic book home.”

Jules makes a sound like she might vomit. “And he knew you’d always remember all of that, perfectly?”

“... Yeah. And it uh… didn’t make me love my whole… deal.” Shawn flicks a hand up at his head again. “He never believed in psychics, so that was fine, but the other stuff… I dunno. I guess he thought it meant I just shouldn’t have been a kid or something, but I know he still thinks of me as a kid anyway.”

“Can’t always blame him.” But Lassiter’s words are as hollow as Shawn’s previous laughs, an understanding dawning in his eyes. “So he spent your life training you to be a cop, and never let you consider anything else.”

Shawn nods. “Got upset if I even mentioned it. Ever. But he also wouldn’t let me do stuff like take karate, which is weird, because I think a cop who knows martial arts seems super dope but I guess he thought a gun would be enough.”

“Did he train you in firearms too?”

“Oh, yeah. And it turns out being psychic gives you crazy good long-distance vision, which is neat, so I got really good really fast. He always freaked out when he thought I was in danger, still does, but he wanted me to be in the middle of shootouts someday at the same time. He’d have me run away from him in the middle of the woods to teach me avoidance tactics, and then lecture me for doing the same thing because I didn’t want to kill fish with him.”

Jules and Lassiter share a look, and both lean forward at the same time.

“That wasn’t okay, Shawn. Any of it,” Jules says firmly. “And if talking about this is helping you clear something up with your powers, we’ll listen to every example you’ve got.”

Shawn leans away from them a bit, mouth parting, and looks over at Gus. 

Gus is crying. Not in the full-face-scrunch whistling tea kettle way he usually does. Just quiet, horrified tears over all the things he just missed during their shared childhood.

“Hey, stop that.” Shawn shakes Gus by the shoulder. “Don’t you dare feel guilty, Gus.”

“I can’t help it,” Gus sniffles. Jules reaches behind her for Gus’s desk and passes some tissues over. “Thank you.”

“I’m not- I’m not looking for guilt or pity.” Shawn looks each one of them in the eyes. “I’m not looking for anything, just for the spirits to leave me alone about this, okay?”

“We understand,” Jules assures. “Right, Carlton?”

“Right.” Lassiter is looking at Shawn in a way Shawn isn’t used to. He tries to reach out, just a little, to get a glimpse of what Lassie is actually thinking about him right now. It’s like trying to reach for something in a dream, where your arms don’t really exist and neither does what you’re trying to grab, and focusing too hard wakes you up before you can grab it but focusing too little sweeps you back into nonsense. Shawn can’t quite get a grip.

Shawn sniffs a little, and then nods, and then nods again harder to make his whole body move with the motion. “So uh… just, telling you guys everything, then? Because that could take a while, with the whole… memory, thing.”

“As much as you need to tell us. No more, no less.” Jules offers him her hand to hold. “And Shawn, I just want to say that I’m really, really honored that you came to us with this. That you’re trusting us, even though this is hard for you.”

“Of course, I trust you guys. I’d trust you both with my life, literally. If we got body-swapped I’d be completely relaxed knowing you’re probably treating it even better than I do.”

“That’s not really a high bar, Spencer.”

“Even my hair? It’s a high bar to trust you with styling my hair, Lassie.”

Lassiter considers this, and then nods in agreement.

Shawn takes one more second, and then looks up fully. “Time to get into the details, I guess.”

And he does.

And it turns out to be a long, long night.

Everyone wishes Lassie had stopped for snacks.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Shawn wakes up the next morning, groggy and sleep deprived and feeling wrung-out like a hand towel in an industrial kitchen, he hears his grandpa’s voice.

“I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Henry Spencer walks into the SBPD the next morning, Juliet O’Hara elbows him hard in the gut as she walks by, and while Henry is still leaning against the front desk corner catching his breath Carlton Lassiter walks up and yanks him away from the desk to throw him out the door.

“What the hell-!”

“For your sake, we better not see you around this station for at least a week. Any sooner and I can’t guarantee you leaving it without O’Hara pumping you full of lead.”

“Wh-”

“I mean it, Henry. Stay out. Or else.” Henry learns what Or else entails a week later when he follows Shawn into the station and hell breaks loose.

[turtle-steverogers]

Pre serum Steve once fell of a balcony and Bucky caught him. Bucky reminds him every chance he gets.

anon, you have inspired me... i saw this. thought "YES", then scurried to my google drive

and so here is a fic, wholly based on this ask

-

“Steve, what the hell are you doing?”

Steve twists around from where he’s perched on the fire escape rail, back against the cool brick wall of their shitty tenement. It’s nearly April and the weather’s getting warmer, a soft breeze keeping it just cool enough for long pants. Steve has always preferred warmer weather, though, and he thought he’d take advantage of the first truly nice day that Spring. His sketchbook lies open on his lap, propped against his knee. A light, but detailed sketch of the other tenement buildings that spanned out in front of him fills the page.

“Drawing,” Steve says, glancing at Bucky where his head is poking out the window. He looks concerned and his eyes keep flicking to where Steve’s holding himself stable with his free leg. “Why are you already home? What time is it?”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow and Steve wants to stick his thumb on the little divot to smooth it out. He always thought Bucky would get a permanent wrinkle there if he kept frowning so much.

“Nearly 6:00,” Bucky says, and Steve realizes he must have let time get away from him. That tends to happen, when he draws, his mind blessedly quiet for a few hours as he loses himself in the methodical scratch of his charcoal pencils. Still, he had gotten home from his work restocking shelves at the local grocer around 3:00. He didn’t think it had been that long.

“Oh,” he says.

Bucky climbs out onto the escape. He’s wearing his work clothes still-- an oily white shirt tucked into heavy denim pants. His hair's hanging down in his eyes. Steve knows he’ll want him to cut it soon.

He wants to reach out to him, but he can’t. Not out here where anyone could see. It’s torture, not being able to touch anywhere but in the confines of their bed, hidden under the covers where prying eyes can’t strip away their privacy-- their God given right to love each other as wholly as human nature could allow. Steve purses his lips and forces himself to look back down at his sketch.

“I don’t like you sitting up there,” Bucky says.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Just because you’re afraid of heights doesn’t mean that everyone else is, Buck. Besides, we’re only three stories up.”

Bucky huffs, stepping closer. “That’s still far,” he says. “You fall, you’ll splatter all over the sidewalk and scar Miss Maggie downstairs for life. I’d have to pay for her heart failure and your funeral.”

Steve snorts and closes his sketchbook, thoroughly distracted now. The sun’s starting to set anyway, and it’s bound to get cold soon.

“You’re so dramatic,” Steve says. “I’m holding myself up just fine. See? I can even reach for my other charcoals and there ain’t no problem.”

To prove himself, Steve closes his sketchbook and tosses it onto the fire escape, sticking the charcoal he was using in the binding. He twists around after that and leans over to grab another pencil from where he’d left his spares on a ledge to his right, his thigh muscles flexing as he holds himself in place. The pencils are farther away than he last remembers them, though, because he feels himself reaching further and further until his balance is tipping and he’s tumbling over the side.

“Stevie!” Bucky’s frantic voice shouts, but Steve can barely hear him, too busy gasping in surprise.

There’s a suspended moment of terror as the world seems to go quiet, his ears ringing in alarm as he feels himself starting to fall and oh god, Bucky was right, he really shouldn’t have tried to reach out for his pencils and now he really was going to fall to his death and Miss Maggie was going to see him break his neck on the sidewalk or he’ll kill an alleycat on impact or--

--A strong hand closes around his bicep, catching him before he can fully go over the side of the fire escape. He’s shaking with adrenaline as Bucky lifts him back to safety. He’s speaking, Steve realizes belatedly.

“--Such a fucking idiot, I swear to god, you’re gonna be the death of me, Rogers.”

“You say that, like, once a week,” Steve says weakly, and he notices then that he’s shaking. His teeth are chattering, adrenaline coursing through him. He must look as freaked out as he feels, because Bucky takes one look at his face and softens.

He glances around, then braces a hand on the back of Steve’s neck, grounding him. A moment later, Steve is being pulled into his chest. He’s sweaty and smells like the docks, but Steve presses closer, inhaling deeply in time with Bucky.

“You okay, kid?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods against his chest, hiding. “Sorry. Spooked.”

“I don’t blame you,” Bucky says, pulling away after sneaking a soft kiss on Steve’s head. He swoops down to collect Steve’s sketchbook. “C’mon, let’s go inside.” He straightens and points an accusing finger at Steve. “I told you so, by the way.”

Steve just rolls his eyes.

-

“No! Not without you!”

“Aw, hell…”

Steve’s going to die.

He’s thought that a lot, in his 25 years of life. But now, as he sizes up the impossible jump between him and Bucky, he really truly believes it.

Bucky made it across, if only barely, and Steve wishes he would just go. There’s a deep pain in his eyes now-- one Steve noticed as soon as he lifted Bucky off that goddamn experiment table. If anyone deserves to get out of this fiery hell, it’s him. But Steve knows that he really won’t leave without him. He’d damn himself to die by the burning hands of war right alongside Steve.

Steve knows this, because he would do the same.

He takes the jump running, giving himself one moment to falter before he’s soaring through the air. It burns, and he knows he’s breathing in so much smoke. Fire licks at his heels and singes his clothes, melting the soles of his boots and mottling his skin.

It feels like he’s caught in midair, flying forever without falling as the other side gets closer and closer and holy shit, he’s going to make it-- he’s really going to--

He manages to grab hold of the railing on the other side, screaming as it breaks and bends, leaving him dangling. The metal is smoltering and he gasps, letting go on instinct as it burns the skin of his palms and shit, he’s such an idiot, but before he can fall, Bucky’s leaning over and grabbing him by the forearm.

He hauls him up onto the platform and they collapse onto the ground, panting as they claw at each other, needing something tangible-- real-- to keep them sane and then they’re kissing, teeth clacking together and noses bumping. Bucky’s sobbing, Steve notices and he pulls back to reassure him, only to realize he’s doing the same. They kiss until the air in their lungs turns to ash and they pull away to breathe, foreheads resting together.

“You’re such a fucking dumbass,” Bucky pants.

“Fuck you,” Steve answers. He kisses him again, hungry for more-- yearning to crawl under Bucky’s skin and hide there. “Thanks for catching me.” And it’s horribly insufficient. There’s so much to say to each other, so many bases to cover and things that can’t go unsaid, but Bucky must understand, because he guides Steve’s head down to his chest. A position Steve never thought he’d have the privilege of falling into again.

“Always gonna catch you,” he says. It’s quiet for a long time, nothing but their heavy breathing and the roaring fire to fill the spaces between them. Steve opens his mouth to say something; anything. He needs to ask if Bucky’s okay-- what they were doing to him-- and he knows Bucky has questions. Ones that he deserves answers to more than anyone, but the words get caught in his throat. It doesn’t matter, though, because Bucky laughs wetly. “Like-- like that fuckin’ time you almost fell off the fire escape and--”

Steve groans, shoving at Bucky before gathering him close and breathing him in, because if Bucky can find it in him to tease, then things have to be okay.

“You ain’t ever letting that go, are you?”

“Never.”

-

thanks for reading, chiefs

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Frigid.

Pairing: Yandere!Rosaria/Reader (Genshin Impact).

Word Count: 2.5k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Modern AU, Non-Con, Semi-Public Sex, Drug Use, Toxic Relationships, Victim-Blaming, Implied Past Assult, Dissociation.

Touching Rosaria was like touching ice.

Or, like having ice touch you, at least. She didn’t like it when you touched her – if she did, she wouldn’t have her hand clamped around your wrist, right now, there wouldn’t be a chill washing over your skin, inching towards your chest, making your heart beat a little faster every time the threat of frostbite began to seem more like a strong possibility than a distant fantasy. It was jarring, really, compared to the heat of the bodies around you, dancing and moving and sweltering, despite how crowded the club felt, despite how much you wished they would stop. You’d been the one who wanted to come, you were the one who usually liked this kind of thing, but suddenly, the music was too loud, everyone was too close, you could still feel your last drink burning at the back of your throat. It was all too much. It was all too hot.

Except Rosaria, of course. Never Rosaria.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt warm, around her.

She was sticking close to the walls, thankfully. You were glad you’d chosen a smaller club, easier for Rosaria to navigate as she dragged you across the cramped space. It was too dark to see where she was going, darker than it usually was, but you didn’t mind letting her pull you along. You were used to it, the graceless way she pushed through couples and groups and inebriated patrons, the quiet apologies you let out as you followed her, how easy your own feet were to trip over as the bright, flashing lights and the sour flavor coating your tongue made it more and more difficult to think. It was almost a relief when she found what she was looking for – the side exit, the one you liked to use whenever you got too overwhelmed. It was sweet that she’d thought to use it tonight, too, even if you couldn’t remember telling her about your little escape route.

The alleyway it opened into was narrow, just as dark and just as stifling as the club, but the music wasn’t as loud, the air wasn’t as choking, and more importantly, you were able to collapse into Rosaria, burying your head in your chest as she caught you by the shoulders, begrudgingly accepting your clumsy affection. She didn’t like being touched, but you really liked touching her. It made sense that she’d make an exception for you, in the moment, at least. She always made an exception for you.

“Rosey,” You started, slurring the nickname into something near-incomprehensible. There was a tap to your shoulder, a row of blunt nails skirting across bare skin. In the back of your mind, you wondered if she was mad at you. “I can’t… It’s too warm, Rosey. My head hurts.”

“Obviously.” Her tone was lighter than it usually was, more playful. Not quite patient, not yet, but more sympathetic than she usually bothered to be. Like she was talking to a child, rather than a friend. Like the two of you hadn’t already done this a hundred times. “You overdid it, princess. You’re drunk.”

You shook your head, absent-mindedly. You didn’t feel drunk. You felt… dizzy. Out of it. Disoriented in such a way that meant trying to find out why you were struggling to keep your balance only made you more likely to fall. “You had more than I did,” You mumbled, because it was true. You knew how Rosaria could be. You’d wanted to be good, tonight, even if she claimed to be content nursing her third glass of wine. “’s not fair. I’m don’t even feel that—”

“You’re always so careless, too,” She said, cutting you off. Speaking over you, like you’d never said anything at all. Her grip tightened, and you backed away, pressing yourself against the nearest wall. Rosaria didn’t let go. “Drinking so much, staying out so late… It’s a miracle you haven’t learned your lesson, yet. I’m a little surprised no one’s ever taken advantage of you.”

Your heart dropped in your chest. The wall was unpainted, uneven, bare cement and little else. It hurt to touch, to lean against, especially with Rosaria resting her weight on you. It hurt to move, when you finally thought to fidget. “You're being mean,” You whispered, and her hand fell to your hip. Your dress was too thin, too tight. It felt like you were bleeding out in a snowbank. “Would someone really do that?”

“I would.” She was too close. She was too cold. You didn’t find the constant chill comforting, anymore. “In a heartbeat. Especially after you start acting like such a fucking tease.”

You wanted to go home. There was something pounding in the back of your skull, now, throbbing, blocking out whatever Rosaria might’ve said, making it impossible to process anything but the black dots fraying at the edges of your vision and Rosaria’s lips, chapped and painted red and on your neck, the corner of your jaw, only lingering for a moment before her teeth dug into your jugular and you screamed, the shrill sound immediately cut short by a palm against your mouth, keeping you quiet despite the little whimpers you let out as she pulled back, allowing something warm to run over your skin and pool near your collarbone. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it would get on your dress, if it would leave a stain. You wondered if she would apologize, when it did.

“Spoiled little brat,” She growled, nearly under her breath. Her grip loosened, Rosaria shifting, but any reprieve was short-lived, quickly replaced by two fingers pressed into your tongue and a row of nails clawing at your waist, pulling at your skirt, leaving you to gag and whimper as ice-cold fingertips dug into your thigh, cold enough to leave you trembling. She wasn’t holding you, not really, not tightly enough to call it restraint, but your body felt weak, your legs were shaking, and you couldn’t imagine trying to run. You couldn’t imagine trying to stand. You were almost thankful for the knee she forced between your thighs, for the trace of stability she thought to offer. You wanted to be thankful. You were trying to be thankful. “No talking, alright? I need you to keep quiet. Can you do that for me?”

Right. Obviously. Rosaria was so smart. She always knew what to do, so she must’ve been right, and she was so kind, too, letting her fingers slip out of your mouth as soon as you offered her the small, eager nod she was looking for. You were glad she was wearing leather, a jacket a size too big and pants that clung to her like a second skin – it gave you something tangible to hold onto, something to hide your face in, even if you hated the texture, the sound, the way it felt under you as she cupped your pussy and some thin piece of fabric tore, forcing you to shy into her just a little more. You almost asked why. If she didn't like your dress, she could’ve just told you. If she didn’t like you, she could’ve said so in a way that didn’t make you feel so…

So bad.

“You said you were hot.” Rosaria was talking before you could, though, explaining herself. Why was she allowed to talk? Part of you wavered, flickered, realized that she wasn’t being fair, that she wasn’t being nice, but Rosaria was good at this kind of thing. She must’ve known something you didn’t. That’d make sense. She knew a lot of stuff, compared to the handful of foggy ideas that separated your mind from total oblivion. “I’m just helping you out. You’re not stupid enough to turn down help, are you?”

You shook your head. You weren’t, even if she chuckled at your meek response, even if you couldn’t see how grinding her hand into your cunt could help you feel anything but hot, like you’d been in the sun for an hour too long. Like you were being burnt alive, and Rosaria was the one stoking the flames.

Your thoughts were spinning, now, twisting, spiraling, the need to shut your eyes and make it stop almost overshadowing the slick building up between your legs, that awful, sticky feeling that made you squirm, holding Rosaria tighter and attempting to weakly push her away at the same time. The embarrassment was palpable, that nagging sense of shame, only made worse by Rosaria’s huff of a laugh, by the lingering sensation of her teeth ghosting over your skin and the way you jolted into her, anything intelligent you might’ve said replaced by a small, submissive whimper. It was embarrassing. You wanted it to stop. You wanted her to stop.

But, she didn’t. She wouldn't. You couldn't force her to.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to ask.

It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like much of anything, honestly, as her fingers slipped below the black lace of your panties, as she toyed with your clit and drank in those pathetic sounds you might’ve thought someone else was making, if your own voice hadn’t been so recognizable. Your body was too numb, your nerves already too burnt, Rosaria’s chest too cold where it pressed against yours, like your life depended on little more than ice and sleet. It didn’t feel good, but your face must’ve been flushed, your pupils blown out, your scrunched expression littered with hints that you were in anything but agony. Rosaria sounded smug. She wouldn’t sound like that, not unless you gave her a reason to. She wouldn’t do that to you, not unless she thought you deserved it.

“For fuck’s sake,” She drawled, slowly, like she didn’t have anywhere better to be. She didn’t have anywhere better to be. She wouldn’t have bothered to spend time with you, otherwise. “You’re already so damn wet. If I’d known you’d be this needy, I wouldn't have bothered with the fucking pills.”

You opened your mouth, but you were barely able to get out a strangled cry before something was inside of you, your panties pushed to the side and two long fingers scissoring you open, too quickly, too suddenly, too violently. It was like she’d broken a dam, like some necessary barrier had been crossed and crushed, like everything you’d lacked, earlier, everything your mind had been merciful enough to block out came flooding in for the first time. There was the sting, tight and tearing and impatient, but there was pleasure, too, something beyond awareness, something beyond discomfort. It was a fire, smoldering and invasive, and you didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way your hips bucked to meet her hand, or the new weight behind your eyes, or her smirk, her smile, her self-satisfied sneer. You didn’t like that she was happy. You didn’t like that you were in pain, and she was happy. If you were being honest with yourself, you might’ve been able to admit you didn’t like Rosaria at all, right now.

“S-Stop, Rosey, it hurts—” She had a pattern, now, a tangible pace, a vengeance you wished you'd never provoked. She must’ve hated you. She must’ve. You couldn’t think of another reason she’d curl her fingers like that, another reason she’d abuse every sensitive spot that made you whine and tremble and tense-up, another reason she’d be so mean, especially to you, especially now, especially here. It wouldn’t even matter if you made noise, if you cried out, if you screamed. It couldn’t be louder than your rapid heartbeat, your racing pulse, the wet clicks that only got worse as Rosaria slipped a third finger in and left you to clench around her, too humiliated to care about the slight pain. “Please, I don’t wanna—”

“What did I say about talking?” She was being cold again, ruthless, but it was a playful sort of cruelness, her tone just lilted enough to make you feel guilty for trying to convince yourself she was such a monster. “You don’t want to what? Sit pretty and let me do all the work? Stand there and cum?” There was a laugh, a flick of her wrist, and the heel of her hand came up to grind against your clit. Instantly, you wished you’d never said anything at all. “Do it. Make yourself useful, for once. Cum.”

You didn’t want to. You really, really, really didn’t want to, but there was nothing you could do to stave it off, to get away from it, to keep your knees from buckling or your body from going rigid or Rosaria from kissing you, stifling the breathy moan that threatened to spill out between choked sobs and quiet pleas for her to stop. At least she was gentle about it, as gentle as she could be, pointed canines barely cutting at your lips, a cloud of lingering cigarette smoke barely choking you, her touch barely forceful enough to bruise, as she cupped your cheek with her free hand, tilting your head back and encouraging you to lean into the gesture.

It was almost sweet, how she lingered, how she didn’t pull away until after the aftershocks had faded, until you’d stopped trying to resist, until you were too tired to do anything but collapse into her when she let you go, catching you the moment you threatened to fold into yourself. It was a small mercy. You didn’t want to spend the rest of the night on the ground, sobbing yourself to sleep in some dark, claustrophobic alley. You didn’t want to do that. You didn’t want to be here.

You just wanted to be with Rosaria. You just wanted to be anywhere else, with her.

“Rosey,” you tried, testing the waters. You tried to blink, to stand up on your own, but your eyelids felt heavy, you felt heavy. Rosaria only hummed, in response, snaking an arm around your waist. Already, you were struggling to remember why you couldn’t stand. You were struggling to remember why it hurt so much, when you tried to. “I… I’m not having fun, anymore. Can we go home?”

“You’re lucky I like you, princess.” You were. She was such a good friend, and she always came out drinking with you, and she always took care of you the day afterward, too, when you were sore and hungover and, more often than not, too bruised and battered to get out of bed. Even if the kiss she pressed into the top of your head made you shiver, even if the ghost of her icy breath made your skin crawl, even if a part of you was still begging to keep her at a distance, you were lucky to have her. You were thankful you had her, thankful enough to ignore how low her hands dipped as she held you up, thankful enough to stop yourself from thinking about the slick dripping down your thighs, and the cut on the side of your neck, and the chalk coating your tongue, tasteless and unremarkable, but not completely unfamiliar.

Thankful enough to look up at her and smile, as she finally sapped away the last of your warmth.

“Let’s go home.”

[thestarrynightslover]

Babe, huh?

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Voight!Reader

Word count: 2,097

Warnings: A little angst (but more in a comical way, I think).

Summary: Jay and the reader have been going out for some time when he spots her happily chatting with Sergeant Platt at the district's front desk. He's happily surprised to see her there, but there's one thing she had been holding back from telling him: who her dad is.

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the One Chicago shows, or its characters, also not associated with it in any way or know anyone involved with it.

A/N: I think that this could have turned out a lot better than it did. But I think it isn't too bad either.

Also, I wanna thank y’all for the amount support that I’ve been getting on my fics! That really means the world to me, guys!! 💕

(y/n) = (your name) (y/l/n) = (your last name) (y/n/n) = (your nickname)

| masterlist |

It was an unusually sunny day in Chicago when you left work that noon. You didn’t always go out on your lunch breaks, preferring to just grab something on the machines scattered across the office, but on that Wednesday you’d told your dad that you two would meet for a father-daughter date. And that really was all you were thinking about, as you walked up the steps of the small staircase in front of the 21st District.

“Hey, Trudy!” You greeted the desk sergeant, who had been a friend of your family for as long as you could remember.

“Hi, (y/n/n)! What a surprise to see you here!” She told you, a huge smile on her face. “A nice surprise, for a change!” Platt stated, looking sharply at a younger woman who was standing at the corner of the counter, probably filling out some paperwork.

“Ah, Trudy! You flatter me!” You said innocently, looking at her through your lashes, the face you always used with the trio: Your dad, Trudy, and Al.

“Ha! Always so cute!” The sergeant spoke again, like she was talking to a baby, as the other woman just stared at the scene in shock. “But what are you doing here, anyway? Came to surprise your dad? Because I’m sure he’ll love that!”

“No, it’s not exactly a surprise! We’d previously agreed on a lunch-date for today...” You trailed off.

“Oh! Then that’s why he came back from the raid they just made pacing like a deer in headlights!” Hearing that comment, you couldn’t help but laugh, as you imagined your father acting like that. “Hey, Burgess!” She shouted at the woman near to you. “Are you finishing that already? Because, when you do, you need to go back upstairs and let your sergeant know that his date’s here.” Trudy said simply, winking at you, to which you just responded with a smile.

“Oh, c’mon, sarge! Really? Why can’t you just call or text him?” The woman, Burgess, questioned, poutingly.

“Because I don’t want to? And tell me, again, since when did I start needing to give you a reason to follow my orders, huh, officer? Because I don’t recall getting the memo!” The sergeant barked, practically biting the younger officer’s head off.

“Geez, sarge-” Officer Burgess started answering, as reality finally began to hit her. “Wait,” she breathed out, turning to face you this time, “you’re Voight’s dau-” Burgess stopped in the middle of her sentence, now being cut off by another voice that was very familiar to you.

“Baby?” Shit, you thought. “What are you doing here?” Your boyfriend asked you, with a bright smile on his face.

How could have you possibly forgotten that Jay worked here? At your dad’s district? Of course, you still hoped that they somehow wouldn’t know each other. But you weren’t prepared for that introduction just yet. And it would happen, taking that he wasn’t shy at all about kissing you that passionately right in front of Trudy Platt. One of your dad’s best friends, Trudy Platt. You knew you couldn’t blame him, though. After all, you were the one who kept him in the dark about who your dad was.

“H- hi, Jay.” You managed to mumble whilst catching your breath.

“Hey,” he started, giving you those cute love eyes of his, “I’m surprised to see you here, but not complaining!” He said, raising his hands and smiling at you. “You wanna grab lunch?”

“Uh, I, uh-”

“I’m afraid she’s already taken for lunch, Halstead.” None other than your dad huffed out, from the top of Intelligence’s stairs. Of course, he would have to see that entire scene, and, of course, he would have to know your boyfriend.

Hearing that, Jay turned his head between you and your dad, and, then, looked at Trudy and Burgess, more confused than anything. “Babe?” He decided on asking you about it. To which your dad just gave a side-smile.

“Babe, huh?” He mocked, walking closer to where you were standing. “Something you wanna tell me, honey?”

“I-” You barely started when someone interrupted.

“Please, don’t tell me you’re shacking up with him, (y/n)?!?!?” Trudy cut you off, half-asking, half-begging while you started feeling the heat coming to your cheeks.

"So, (y/n), you gonna explain this? We're all here waiting." Your father told you, no more sense of humor in his features.

"Look, guys… " You started, not really knowing how to move from there. You didn't think you'd have to have the conversations with both your father and your boyfriend at the same time, and in front of Trudy (not to mention the other cops passing by). So you went for the easy way out, maybe it was a bit of a childish choice, but still. "You know what? No, I'm not gonna explain anything to anyone right now," you spoke, making clear that that was meant for all of them, "and, I don’t think that I’m in the mood for lunch anymore, dad." At that, the three cops just kept staring at you, Jay being the first to speak up.

"Uh, dad? (y/n), baby, just tell me what's going on." He pleaded with you, eyes already showing some hurt, which made you feel like the worst person ever. But you just knew that you wouldn’t be able to properly explain anything to anyone at that moment, not in that kind of circumstance anyway, so you decided to get the hell out of there before you buried yourself even deeper.

After you fleed the building, leaving a bunch of stunned police officers behind, Trudy took it upon herself to figure out why on Earth you’d be kissing the stupid Detective Jay Chuckles Halstead: “So, how’s it gonna be, Halstead? Why the hell were you kissing our (y/n/n), hum?” She asked, bluntly, while motioning between herself and Hank.

“Your (y/n/n)?” Jay shot back, completely confused by the whole situation.

“Actually, she’s mine. My daughter.” Voight finally spoke again, fulminating the younger man with his eyes.

“Okay… I think this is my cue to leave." Burgess finally decided to say 𑁋 as she was feeling very awkward 𑁋, sliding off towards the back exit.

“Uh, yeah, um, I’m gonna- I’m gonna go, grab some lunch outside too.” Jay ranted a little, running his hand over the back of his neck and moving towards the exit, right on Kim’s track.

The rest of the day went by tensely at the police district: Jay avoiding both his superiors, as you ducked his calls, and Hank and Trudy sending almost tangible hate waves on his way. It wasn’t like your time at work gone too well either, with the mess you’d made always in the back of your mind.

So 𑁋 after you got back home 𑁋, knowing it was the right, mature, thing to do, you called Jay and, then, your dad, telling them both to come by your place for dinner. Yes, you were about to ambush them. Because you’re a mature person.

“Hey, babe!” You cheerfully greeted your boyfriend, perking up to kiss him, as you opened the apartment door more.

“Hey.” Jay answered coldly while dodging your kiss, at which you frowned in confusion.

“So, um,” you decided to start again, tucking a string of hair behind your ear, “I called you here because I needed to talk to you-”

“Yeah, we definitely need to talk.” He said, cutting you off with a stern look on his face.

At the exact moment you were about to open your mouth to say something, the doorbell rang again and you knew it was your dad. Okay, maybe that whole ambush thing wasn’t a good idea after all. You gave Jay an apologetic look in advance, as you walked back towards the door, only to open it and reveal a, still, very pissed off Hank Voight.

“What’s he doing here?” Your dad barked out, not wasting a second, as he pointed a finger at the man standing behind you.

“You called him too?” This time it was Jay asking. “I thought it was gonna be just the two of us…” He then added quietly.

“Just the two of us! Who the hell do you think you are, huh, Halstead?!”

“Sarge, I’m just trying to-”

“I don’t care what you’re trying to do, you need to get out of here right now so I can talk to my daughter. That’s what you need to do!”

“Enough!” You yelled, finally getting both men’s attention. “Dad, you need to stop talking to Jay like that.”

“But-”

“But, nothing! He is my boyfriend and I love him!” You blurted out, Jay giving you a small smile in response. “So… Now that that’s out of the way… Jay, this is my dad.” You added, motioning for where your father stood by the door. “And, before any of you asks, no, I didn’t know that you two worked together! I thought that maybe you knew each other, but wasn’t ready to make the introductions just yet. And I’m sorry if that caused a, um, situation.”

“Baby… Why didn’t you ever tell me that your father was a cop?”

“I- I just, I was just afraid that’d push you away from me. You know, before we even had a chance.” You admitted shyly.

“Why- why would that push him away from you, (y/n/n)?” That was your dad’s turn to ask.

“Well, I know that you have a reputation, dad. So I figured that maybe he wouldn’t wanna get involved with your daughter of all people. Wouldn’t want the trouble.” You confessed one more time. “Besides, we all saw how, um, fiercely Trudy was willing to “protect me”.” You added, making them both giggle a little.

“Alright, there’s just one more thing that still doesn’t add up.” Your boyfriend started again, still serious but more relaxed this time. “Why isn’t your last name Voight?” He asked, still unsure of what was going on, as you and your dad traded knowing looks with each other.

“Ah, that... After my mom died, I started using her maiden last name. You know, as a way to remember her. It’s been so long now that I actually forget that the Voight’s even there.” You explained. “Sorry, dad.”

“Nah, it’s okay. You know I like the idea.” Hank replied, a soft smile on his lips.

“Ah, okay. That makes sense.” Jay said nervously and started scratching the back of his neck, like he always did when he was getting anxious. “Just- just so you know, princess, I wouldn’t have backed out of our relationship, then. And I’m not going to, now, either.” The anger in your father’s eyes relit but you didn’t really care, not when all you wanted to do was jump your handsome detective and not let him out of your apartment until, at least, the next morning.

“Dad,” you began saying, after deciding to go for a more conciliatory version of it, “don’t be like that, okay? I know that you wanna protect me and everything, but I’m happy with Jay. I really am.”

“And I promise I’ll never, ever, do anything to hurt her, sarge. But, if I do, you should definitely hurt me back with all you got.”

“Oh, I will! And I think you’ve been working with me long enough to know that I don’t need your ‘go ahead’, or anyone else’s, for those matters, Halstead.” Your dad cheerfully stated while shooting a typical Hank Voight fake smile in Jay’s direction. “Now, if my daughter says she’s happy with you…” He started, turning to look at you, as if trying to confirm the information.

“Yes! I am!”

“Then… I suppose I could accept this.” You didn’t give him a single chance to second guess, pulling him in for a tight hug while Jay watched the scene smiling.

“Now let's have dinner! That way you guys can finish talking this whole macho tension out and we can all make a plan to appease Trudy." You told them, moving to heat the takeout you’d ordered earlier in your kitchen, Jay coming to help you in tow.

Many other times you, Jay, and your dad met for dinner, lunch, or even breakfast like that. If you and your boyfriend ever went a little overboard on the PDA, the infamous Hank Voight huff would definitely be heard. But, overall, you knew he was happy for you and Jay. Just like you knew that the detective liked hanging out with you and your dad.

[melo-yello]

💤Can’t Sleep💤 w/ 💥🪨KiriBaku🪨💥 HeadCanons

Pairing(s): KiriBaku X black!reader, Eijirou Kirishima X Katsuki Bakugou X black!reader

A/N: fluff and ANGST. Like lots of ANGST. I had a rough week and honestly not very much sleep. What can I say. Sue me, I wanna hug and somebody to watch a movie with.

💤💥🪨 Lay on your stomach opening and closing your eyes as you try and convince yourself to sleep. Kirishima snores softly with an arm around Bakugou’s waist. He’s been pretty stressed lately so he gets to be middle spoon. Baku in turn has an arm draped over your shoulders.

💤💥🪨 The soft and peaceful looks on the boys’ faces are nothing but safe and warm and reassuring . Yet here you are unavailable to close your eyes long enough to drift off to sleep. Each time you close your eyes your heart attempts to tear a whole through your chest. The dim red light of the clock reads 2:56 as you slip out of Baku’s embrace for a glass of water

💤💥🪨 You settle on Jasmine tea instead. Quietly pulling a the kettle from the cabinet and turning on the tap just before placing it on the stove. You busy yourself in your phone in order to banish any form of thought from your head. Soon just blankly browsing through TikToks as you wait for the water to boil

💤💥🪨 The hair on the back of your neck stands at attention as you hear heavy footsteps and the creaking of the bedroom door. Short angry grumbles are traded with deep groggy grunts as the footsteps close in on your position. You glance up to see the time is now 3:22 and you hear the kettle whistling for the first. Mostly likely what woke your boyfriends to begin with. You scowl at the kettle.

💤💥🪨 “fuck you.” you curse under your breath snatching up the kettle to quiet it’s shouting as the two set of red eyes fix on you in the dim light of kitchen. Kiri’s long red hair pulled back into a messy plat, and Baku’s fluffy ash blonde sticking out in all directions except for the right side flatten to the side of his skull

💤💥🪨 “Oí, Chuchu Soul, do you have any idea what time it is?!!” Baku squints tiredly placing a hand on his hip. “That’s actually a good one.” You giggle surprised by his creativity. “I know right?! And they used to call him uncreative.” Kirishima smirks between a yawn. “ Well?” Bakugou’s features don’t change. More likely mad that he’s awake at this ungodly hour than anything else. “Was it another panic attack, Pebble?” Kiri questions walking to rest his hand on your lower back. You don’t acknowledge his soft gesture and busy yourself with pouring the newly hot water into your large mug with it’s awaiting tea bag.

💤💥🪨 “Run that shit back, Eiji?!? When was this?” Bakugou’s foggy apathetic sleepiness raises to concerned confusion . You curse under your breath for the third time tonight. Kiri racks his tired brain for an explanations as he trades tired glances between the temperamental blonde and the vaguely suspicious one blowing at tea. “Pebble you didn’t tell him about Friday Night?” He frowns looking down at you. “...i forgot...” you whisper sipping the overly hot tea and burning your tongue. Hell you wouldn’t have told him either, but he was right beside you when it happened.

💤💥🪨 That Friday night. You couldn’t speak. You stood in a dark room. Small and cramped. No windows. No doors. Just glowing ink on one wall in barely legiable font. Prove It. As soon as you touched the lettering it went blood red and the water began to pool at your feet. You begin to lose your composure trying to find an exit. In seconds the water is at your waist. Then your neck. Then the ceiling. Like that you’re choking and sputtering trying to find. The walls go translucent. Larger than life figures with unmistakable silhouettes and Pro hero customs hold your box in each hand. You bang tight fists to gain their attention. Your blood mixes with the water and you could barely breath. You thrashed across the sheets desperately trying to snatch yourself from your current nightmare. Suddenly Kiri shaking you awake and he’s coaching you into breathing again.

💤💥🪨 The memory of utter helplessness washes over you all over again. You sigh in frustration as tears pool at the corner of your eyes. “Come here, Pebs.”

💤💥🪨 Without another word, Kiri scoops you up bridal style and takes a seat on the couch placing you in his lap. Baku takes the seat next to him gently taking the hot tea from your trembling hands. You hadn’t even realized they were shaking until you touched his steady ones. “Babes, we hafta talk about this. Including Friday, this makes 3 days of shitty sleep. That’s not good or sustainable, Knucklehead.” Bakugou sighs placing the mug on the coffee table before wiping away a tear rolling down your cheek.

💤💥🪨 “It’s not like I don’t wanna do better, Kats. Eiji. I’m just...” you trail off mid explanation. You clasp fingers over your soft lips. Opening twice to speak, but only croaks come out. You try very hard to find a tangible reason for your reluctance to sleep, but there were none. Kiri squeezes your shoulders reassuringly and plants a gentle kiss on the top of your bonnet.

💤💥🪨 “We know you’re trying, love. It’s ok to be scared sometimes. Even the resident hardass, Katsuki still gets nightmares.” Kiri offers doing his best to let you ride these feelings out while comforting you as well. “Yea.”Baku’s grip tightens at the mention of his own nightmares before leaning his head on your legs

💤💥🪨 “I just can’t trust it ok! It’s scary. I’m panicking in sleep now?!! I’m only getting worse and now I crying about. FUCK! I’m just a scared bitchy crybaby who can’t sleep.” You sigh overwhelmed by all the physical closeness and their consistent and unwavering support. You mentally kick yourself for the not realizing sooner that you trusted them enough to hurt like this in front of them. There’s something that unnerves you about that. Tears streaming at full force at this piont

💤💥🪨Kiri holds you firmly to chest tucking your shaking form under his chin. Baku moves to wrap an embrace overlapping Kiri’s arms. “Just let it all out, Babygirl.” He hums leaning his head on your shoulder. Your chest tightens and your fingers curl into angry fists. Suddenly your frighteningly fierce temper rears it’s ugly head.

💤💥🪨 “No no no NO! Stop It! STOP ACTING SO NICE! STOP ACTING LIKE I DESRVE THIS! BE DISAPPOINTED! BE UPSET!! TELL ME TO TRY HARDER! TELL ME TO TAKE BETTER CARE OF MYSELF! TELL ME IT’S EASY! REALLY EASY! BE ANGRY I’M FUCKING IT ALL UP! BLAME ME! I BLAME ME! I blame me... I blame me for not being...better.” You fume trying to push them away. You do your best to squirm out of their gentle comfort and tender embrace your lovers have you wrapped in. Neither one of your boys moves. “No way, Pebs.” Kirishima says resolutely. “Not a fucking chance, Teddy.” Bakugou nods with the same unchanging confidence. The rage in your chest melts as fat tears and roll down your brown cheeks.

💤💥🪨 A heaving and broken sob racks your entire body as you fall apart in their arms. Anger subsides into terrified uncertainty and overwhelming futility settles in its place. Tears and mucus flood down your face and soak Kiri’s t-shirt. Sniffles from above draws you out of the dark thoughts swarming around you. Surely enough tears drip slowly down Kiri’s cheeks. Instinctively you cup his face with trembling hands. “...Sorry.. I’ll be strong...just gimme a sec” he mutters as his broad shoulders slump and he moves to bat away the falling droplets. Bakugou grabs his hand and kisses it while wiping the red head’s face. “Eijirou, you don’t have to. Not right now” You sputter between choppy breaths.

💤💥🪨 His usually unwavering features muddy with insecurity. A fairly uncommon expression for someone so death defyingly optimistic and confident. “But it’s what I’m good at. If I can’t be strong for the people I love most then what good am I?” He retorts apathetically tightening his grip as the tears still trickle. You slink an arm around his hips, and place your face to his chest. “Bullshit. You’re plenty strong enough for us, Eijirou. Stop being so hard headed!” Bakugou raves putting a hand behind his neck and his forehead against his for emphasis before continuing, “You’re allowed to feel more than one thing. You are complex and unique and fearless and fearful all in one. You’re human, Eiji. It’s ok.”

💤💥🪨 “Katsuki, you’re so compassionate and kind.” You hum softly and absentmindedly almost. You don’t know why this observation came but it just feels right. Eiji smiles leaning in the blonde’s embrace. “Honestly Kats, you love remarkably deep and painfully unselfishly. Thank you.” Kiri hums kissing his cheek and you do the same. Hot little tears rest at the corners of his dark red eyes. Most of the public thinks he’s some kind of angry asshole devoid of any softer emotions. Comments on your relationship often criticized Katsuki for snagging partners ‘much nicer than he deserved’. And just like that you are scooting over to make room for Bakugou in Kiri’s lap. 

💤💥🪨 “Such a shitty little week.” Baku sighs with misty eyes. There’s a small comfort in the collective collapse washing over the three of you. All of you holding the hurt from the others in hopes it would just fizzle away like a bad dream. It didn’t. You sob, Kiri sniffles, and Baku lets two hot tear slip from his glassy eyes. None of you break contact with each other. Your fingers linked with Kiri and Baku’s in the opposite hand. A head glued affectionately onto the red head’s broad shoulder. After what seems like a lifetime and you can’t cry anymore and feeling a surprising amount of relief sinks onto you, you clear your throat.

💤💥🪨 “Wanna watch How to Train a Dragon?” You rasp with tired and strained vocal chords. “I’ll get the popcorn.” Kiri sighs kissing each of you on the cheek as he ushers you both out of his lap. He sashays into the kitchen to find a bowl and the popcorn. Baku stands handing you your cool tea as he grabs the remote. Flipping decisively through Amazon Prime, he queues up the movie as he settles onto the far side of the couch to lay out fully. You sip contently tucking your knees to your chest so you can press the soles of your feet into his. “That tickles.” Bakugou deadpans wiggling his own toes. Soft giggles flutter out of your chest.

💤💥🪨 Kiri strolls back in the room with two large bowls of popcorn and a blanket on each arm. He bows presenting them to their proper owners. Movie theater butter for Baku and kettle corn for you two to share. You sit your now empty mug on the coffee table as Kiri retakes his original spot and you settle comfortably into his lap cocooning you both in a cozy weighted blanket. Baku draped in a light throw typically the first to complain about being hot. The DreamWorks title sequence floats across the screen, and wave of peacefulness falls over the tired trio. Less then five minutes in, you and Bakugou snore quietly as Kiri’s heavy eyelids fight to watch the next couple scenes

[atlabeth]

everything happens for a reason part 5 - zuko x fem!reader

I can go anywhere I want, I can go anywhere just not home

part 4 | masterlist | part 6

a/n: this was hard to get going but once i got to the end the words just flowed. ive come to the conclusion that writing dialogue with katara is my favorite thing to do

warning(s): nightmare at the beginning, survivor's guilt from y/n, some internalized homophobia :-( but aside from that its mostly fluff

wc: 3.6k

chapter title comes from my tears ricochet by taylor swift!

She was trapped.

It was a prison of never ending hallways in some kind of infinite void, complete with the rank stench of death and an innate feeling of hopelessness.

Y/N knew this place. It had been the subject of her nightmares on countless occasions, because it was where she was supposed to be. She had no choice but to start down the pathway of cracked stone — she knew what awaited her, but it was the only way out. She had developed some sick sense of awareness in this nightmare and it didn’t do her any favors.

She began to walk hastily down the path, the itch of paranoia already plaguing the back of her mind. Countless times she had been here, and yet it never got better.

Before Y/N knew it, she had reached her unwanted destination. The first tangible thing in what felt like miles was a prison cell, and she pushed forward despite knowing what awaited her. It was the only way.

“It wasn’t the only way.”

She froze, inhaling sharply as the dreamscape seemed to pull her thoughts out of her mind, and she forced herself to take another step closer, the inhabitant of the cell now visible.

“You did this to me.”

It was her mother, but… not quite her. Her voice strained and stiff, a gaunt appearance with cruel eyes, hunched over in a prison cell. Any sign of the woman Y/N knew her as was gone, and it was her fault. She was the reason Kura was gone — a mother’s ultimate sacrifice because her daughter was too stuck in her head.

“How could you do this to me?” she asked. “How could you be so selfish?”

Y/N tried to respond, but she couldn’t. It was no use anyway — her words would’ve come out in broken, pleading rambles to someone who couldn’t hear a thing. She knew it was fake, she knew this was a nightmare, but it still hurt all the same.

She had imagined her mother saying those words to her so many times they had found their way into her nightmares despite knowing that Kura would never utter a single syllable true to her fears. She had all but killed her mother, and instead of remembering her for what she had done for Y/N, she appeared in her nightmares.

She was a horrible daughter.

She heard footsteps and whirled around, instinctively taking a step back and wincing as her back slammed into the bars. A tall, dark figure creeped towards her and her breath caught in her throat — as it came into the light, she recognized him as the Fire Lord.

He chuckled coldly as he neared ever closer, the path he walked turning to flames behind him. Her eyes darted around for an escape only to find that everything was on fire. It was suffocating, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think, and when she turned to look for her mother she was gone. Everything was gone, her dark void now a prison of flames.

She turned around once more and Ozai was right in front of her, the fire in his hands glowing red hot and a cruel smile on his lips.

“Did you really think you could get away that easily?”

-

She shot up in her bed, a scream on the edge of her lips but just barely managing to hold it back. Ragged breaths were ripped from her chest, her eyes shooting around wildly as she attempted to find anything at all to ground her. It took a few minutes, but with repeated mantras of it was just a dream and you are safe, she was able to calm down.

She pulled her knees to her chest and exhaled long and deep before pulling herself out of bed. It seemed that her day was going to be starting much earlier than planned.

Four years had passed since her arrival at the Northern Water Tribe, but the nightmares never ceased. It didn’t matter how many times she told herself she had done the right thing, that it was what her mother wanted, that if she stayed she would’ve died — she was constantly haunted by her past actions and memories of the Fire Nation.

She hasn’t taken off the necklace since her mother gave it to her, no matter what she does. It’s almost become a part of her now — a memory of Kura and her selflessness that knew no bounds, as well as a grim reminder of what it cost to get her here.

The Northern Water Tribe itself held countless memories of her mother — after all, it was where she had spent the first eighteen years of her life. Her name was well known throughout the tribe with nobles and elders alike, and it amazed Y/N to no end the impact that her mother left everywhere she went. She loved hearing stories about her mother and what she was like as a child, but it was always bittersweet.

She always carried an inherent sense of guilt with her because of who she lived with — her mother hadn’t been lying when she said that the necklace would get them to help her. Kura’s parents still lived in the tribe, and they had taken Y/N in after she revealed who she was. They loved her unconditionally and never made her feel like a burden, but Y/N would be lying to herself if she didn’t think they blamed her for the fate that befell her mother.

After all, she did.

She had never told anyone the full story of why she ran though. It was one thing to leave her mother behind for certain death because of the Fire Lord’s rage, it was another thing to admit that it was wholly her fault because she had fallen for a prince.

Zuko.

Not a day went by where she didn’t think of him. She still held the hope that she would see him again someday, but in lieu of travel she turned to letters.

Y/N had a shelf full of unmailed letters addressed to both Zuko and her mother — it was a way to get out her emotions whenever she was feeling particularly homesick or hopeless, and it did help at first, but after four years it had become something born out of habit rather than necessity.

She still wrote them though — Y/N had learned to hold onto any form of hope she could muster up, no matter how small, and in this moment she needed some.

She opened her shelf and rifled through piles upon piles of letters, some finished, some hardly started, and some crumpled from fits of rage, and her breath caught in her throat when her fingers brushed something different. Y/N pulled the material out and nearly started crying right then and there.

It was an unbelievably simple patch of fabric, but it meant the world to her — something that she had bought during her last night with Zuko, and one of the only pieces of material to have survived her journey to the Northern Water Tribe. She was forced to sell the rest of the fabric she had brought with her in order to make some easy money while on the run, but she had kept this as a memento. She could almost be brought back to the final sunset they shared if she looked at it for long enough.

Y/N bit down hard on her lip to stop the tears and shoved it back into the drawer before closing it and leaving her room in a haste. Sometimes she wasn’t strong enough to handle the memories.

She made her way to the living room and let out a sigh of relief when she noticed the silence. Y/N had never told her grandparents about the nightmares, and right now she just needed some time to herself. Never before was she so thankful for her grandmother’s gossiping nature and her grandfather’s work than she was in the mornings where she just wanted to be alone.

She sat down on the floor, not even bothering to get a cushion, and stared at her hands. Once smooth and untouched by the world, they were now rough and calloused with wrapped bandages resting just below her wrist. Permanent memories of what it took to get here. The ever present reminder that nothing came without a cost.

This morning seemed to be one full of yearning for the past. Y/N tried to shake her feelings off and got up once more, contemplating some steamed sea prunes before deeming it fruitless. Her appetite was lacking after her trip down memory lane.

She walked back to her room and got dressed hastily then ran out the door, but not before plucking a gift from her shelf. Today marked the birthday of a certain princess, and Y/N had to go fast if she was going to get it to her before class.

She was immediately hit by the frigid air of the North, pulling her anorak tighter around her frame as she began to run to the canals — one could always find Princess Yue there in the mornings — doing her best to avoid anyone else walking.

Y/N saw Yue just about to board one of the boats and sped up, waving one of her arms as a signal. “Yue, wait!”

She turned and her face immediately brightened up at the sight of Y/N, raising her open palm so the boatman would hold up. “Y/N! Would you like to join me?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

Yue’s nod prompted a shrug as she dropped down carefully into the gondola, taking extra care not to drop her gift, and took a seat next to her friend.

“This is a nice surprise,” Yue smiled as the boatman began to waterbend, effectively moving their gondola through the canal. “But if I might ask, what brought you here so early?”

Y/N laughed, thinking her reason for coming here obvious. “It’s your birthday, princess! What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t come to wish you well in person?”

Her smile grew even brighter, the corners of her eyes creasing up in the way that made some kind of warmth blossom in Y/N’s chest. “Thank you! That’s so sweet — I’m especially honored that you woke up early just for me.”

“Of course.” Y/N brandished the gift she had been doing her best to hide, unable to do the same for her own smile. “And here’s your gift! I sewed it all myself.”

Yue gasped as she took the creation, giving it a slight squeeze and a thorough investigation before absolutely beaming. “You made me an otter penguin— oh, you know how much I love these!”

She wrapped Y/N in a tight hug before pulling away, but it was just long enough for the heat to rush to her cheeks. “Thank you so much, really. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Y/N beamed at the praise and nodded, shifting a little in her seat. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m glad you like it so much.”

The two girls grinned at each other then turned their gaze to the horizon, content to spend the rest of the ride together in comfortable silence.

Her friendship with the princess of the Northern Water Tribe was something that Y/N cherished with all her heart. She could confidently say that Princess Yue was her best friend, and she hoped it was a notion that Yue shared. As beautiful as she was kind, the princess always had a way of making her feel better on the hardest days — Yue was the only one who knew the whole truth of what happened in the Fire Nation, and she offered nothing but sympathy.

Y/N honestly didn’t know what she would do without Yue. She had been her rock during the whole process of getting situated in the tribe, always lending a helping hand when she stumbled in class or was completely oblivious to something in their culture, and she never made her feel stupid, or unwanted, or less-than for what she had come from.

The only thing that confused her about Yue was the feeling she got whenever Y/N was around her. The rushes of heat to her cheeks, the warmth blossoming in her chest, and the unusual happiness she felt anytime Yue smiled at her. The most peculiar of it all was the strange tug of jealousy any time a noble boy tried to flirt with the princess, and nothing but disinterest whenever they tried an angle on her instead.

She didn’t know what any of it meant, but she had the sneaking suspicion that it was wrong. So Y/N did the only thing she could and suppressed it.

Soon enough, though much to their chagrin, Y/N had to leave. After some exchanged hugs and one last wish of happy birthday, Y/N took off for her morning healing class. But as she hurried down the icy paths, she caught sight of the most peculiar thing.

A giant flying bison was being led through the canals with a team of waterbenders, three kids that couldn’t be any older than her on its back. One had an arrow on his head and sported orange and yellow robes, while the other two looked to be of Water Tribe descent.

Her interest was irrefutably piqued, but she didn’t have any more time to waste with gawking. So she began to run once again, apologies spilling from her lips as she maneuvered through the groups of people all just as awestruck by the strange arrival as she was. Y/N made a mental note to ask Yue about it later, but for now she was running very late to her healing class.

-

Sure enough, a few hours later, Y/N was able to get the answers she had been craving. She met up with Yue outside of the palace, and during a short walk, she learned that the boy was the Avatar. He had come to the Northern Water Tribe to master waterbending, and the two kids with him were his companions from the Southern Tribe — much to her excitement, the girl was a waterbender.

Needless to say, Y/N was even more enthusiastic than before, and Yue made her day by confirming that they would be coming to her birthday celebration that night as honored guests. She had already talked to her father about allowing Y/N to sit with her and he had said yes, which meant that she would get to meet him and his friends in person — it just served as a reminder that Y/N had no idea what she would do without Yue.

After what felt like hours of passing the time with lost games of Pai Sho against her grandfather and failed attempts at finishing her homework, it was finally time for the banquet. Once she arrived at the front of the palace she bid goodbye to her grandparents and went to find the seat that Yue had secured for her.

She settled down in the empty spot next to what she assumed was Yue’s — it was her birthday after all, so a dramatic entrance wasn’t out of the question — and nervously glanced at the three visitors, trying to figure out how to introduce herself.

Thankfully, she was saved when the girl met her eyes and waved, offering a friendly smile. “Hi! I’m Katara; this is my brother Sokka, and that’s Aang.” She gestured in their direction with her head when she said their names and they both smiled and gave her polite nods.

She returned the sentiment gratefully. “I’m Y/N— I’m one of Princess Yue’s friends. Welcome to the Northern Water Tribe!”

“Thanks!” Aang said. “We’re here to find a master so Katara and I can master waterbending.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Master Pakku is one of the best there is, and even though he’s a total jerk, he’ll be able to teach you everything you need to know. And Katara, we have some amazing healing teachers— I can bring you along to my class tomorrow if you’re interested!”

Katara’s eyes lit up. “You’re a waterbender too?” When Y/N nodded, her smile grew even bigger, though slightly wistful.

“I’d really appreciate that,” she admitted, though her brows knit together. “But I’d like to learn from Master Pakku as well.”

Y/N frowned, about to correct her, when the distinct sound of drums began to echo throughout the hall. Her displeasure immediately disappeared as she grinned at them all excitedly, gesturing with her head towards the action.

Chief Arnook stood up from his spot and their table, his low voice booming. “Tonight, we celebrate the arrival of our brother and sister from the Southern Tribe. And they have brought with them someone very special, someone whom many of us believed disappeared from the world until now… the Avatar!”

Y/N’s own applause joined a symphony of others clapping and cheering as Aang waved bashfully, and once it died down, Arnook continued. “We also celebrate my daughter’s sixteenth birthday. Princess Yue is now of marrying age!”

She grinned as Yue walked out alongside her attendants — she would never get used to her beauty. Y/N noticed the way that Sokka’s eyes widened as he stared at her, and her stomach twisted at the act for some unknown reason.

“Thank you, Father,” she said. “May the great Ocean and Moon Spirits watch over us during these troubled times!”

Arnook smiled at his daughter and directed his attention back to his people. “Now, Master Pakku and his students will perform!”

She could tell that Katara and Aang were enraptured by the bending, while Sokka’s attention was already on Yue as she walked over to sit between Sokka and Y/N.

“I’m so glad you could make it!” Yue exclaimed, greeting her friend with a short embrace.

Y/N gave her a sideways smile. “If you think that I would miss your birthday and a banquet, then I’m afraid you’re out of practice on Y/N trivia.”

The princess laughed and nodded amiably then turned her attention to Sokka, ever the diplomat.

“Hi there,” he grinned. “Sokka, Southern Water Tribe.”

Yue returned the sentiment and gave him a slight bow. “Very nice to meet you.”

As their conversation went on, Y/N found herself tuning out a bit. For whatever reason, she had to actively stop herself from rolling her eyes at Sokka’s flirting, that same feeling in her stomach coming back. She made a mental note to see a healer about her issues.

“Hey, Y/N!” She snapped out of her self-imposed trance at the sound of Katara calling her name as she gestured for her to come over. It looked like Aang had gotten up to converse with Master Pakku and Chief Arnook, so she took the invitation and switched seats.

“I can’t tell you how nice it is to finally be here,” Katara said once Y/N had settled next to her. “Back home, I’m the only waterbender. Here… it’s like paradise. It almost feels too good to be true. I mean, even seeing you is crazy — I’ve never met a waterbender my age.”

Y/N smiled, though not without a hint of sadness. “I’m sorry that it’s taken so long for you to be able to experience this. How are you the only bender left down there?”

Katara was silent for a moment, a flurry of emotions warring on her face, before she answered. “The Southern Tribe hasn’t fared half as well as the Northern Tribe during the war. We don’t have one big, huge capital like this, we’re all split up into small villages. The Fire Nation has just been relentless with their raids, and without support from the North and a lack of communication between our sister tribes in the South, they were able to wipe us all out. Except for me.”

“Spirits, Katara…” Y/N set an amiable hand on her shoulder and squeezed, hoping that her softened expression could say what her words couldn’t. “My village was invaded when I was young, too. I’m so sorry that you had to go through that.”

She nodded pensively but managed to meet her eyes with an appreciative smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry about your village as well.” Her gaze drifted off, once again taking in the view around them, and when Katara met her eyes again she seemed better. “But we’re here now, and I’m planning to take advantage of everything I can, starting with all this food. Which one of these is your favorite?”

Y/N grinned as Katara pointed at the platter of various dishes in front of them. “Oh, you’ve got to try this. See that giant crab up there? That’s what this is, and you have not lived until you have tried Northern crab.”

Conversation flowed just as easily through the rest of the night between the two girls, occasionally switching to include Sokka and Yue and eventually Aang once he returned. Between the swells of pride whenever they laughed at her jokes, getting to learn about all three of them, and the almost palpable euphoria in the air, Y/N was sure of one thing:

This was the happiest she had felt in a long time. She could only hope it would last.

-

perm tag list: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77

ehfar: @chandies-sideblog @persica27 @anzanity @randomthingssss @escapingthoughtsandsecrets @shanksfav @shephard17895

atla: @marianne1806

[marvellovegalore]

Breaking You

Chris Evans

Parte Deux - Hurting You

Synopsis: You begin to feel the true consequences of you hurting Chris and it's beginning to overwhelm you - and him.

Word Count: 2,483

Author's Note: I listened to quite a few songs to truly get into the vibe of this but The Cinematic Orchestra - To build a home (slowed) really got me into the energy I want to be delivered from this write-up. Happy Reading! Feel free to let me know how you feel!

Warning: Explicit Language, Mention of Mental Illness, Sexual Content

You’ve rarely had to consider yourself as someone who runs from her problems. You’d probably proudly tell anyone that asked that you quite confidently tackle your problems head-on.

However, you’ve created quite a serious problem for yourself. A broken heart.

What you have periled numerous men with, is now afflicting you. The odd thing is, is that you are exulting in it. It’s an oddly familiar sensation; it drowns your body in an intangible sickness that paralyses and asphyxiates you.

You sit at your piano, watching the silent and unmoving countryside. The fields of Portofino showered with golden sunlight, the brio reflecting into your room.

You haven’t pushed aside the sheer curtains since you arrived four days ago. You’ve taken your first shower this morning, the water sinking you into its comforting, warm embrace. You don’t really want to tell yourself aloud why you chose to come back to your grandparents’ old house, when stuff is going wrong. You’ve decided that playing the piano and smoking your days away is better than confronting yourself in the mirror - good thing all the furniture is covered with sheets. The sorry state of your face would make you plunder even deeper into your melancholy.

You will yourself to forget him and try to forget his existence.

But it’s virtually impossible, with him promoting a new film three towns over.

Good thing is you feel physically incapable of stepping outside of the confines of the house. The ladies that tend to the house scurry around the town buying food for the house and maintain its upkeep, they attempt to feed you three meals a day or four. You refuse most of the time, and they regard you with concerned gazes.

How could you begin to explain that with breaking a man’s heart, you subsequently had broken your own? His words blistered with bitterness bit you and dragged you down to the same pits of sadness that you plunged him into. You can probably say that you loved him, but you’ll probably truly never grasp why you can’t stay in something that requires such cemented commitment.

“Signora?” Your house governess interrupts your train of thought, you pull your cigarette away from your lips. “Sí?” She presents you with a letter addressed to you. The handwriting vaguely familiar to you. You thank her and dismiss her, the cigarette back in between your lips.

The letter doesn’t inform you of who it is from, but you hope, in the depths of your ribs that it’s from him, but you couldn’t possibly understand why he would ask to meet with you. He left you wordlessly two months ago and hasn’t been in contact since, not even through subliminal messages on social media. You can wager that you’re probably dead to him. It was made clear to you when you stood at the beach outside of your friend’s Malibu compound. He would rather die than get back with you; you don’t blame him.

You turn back to your piano, the keys feeling like lead beneath your shaky fingers. You play out a melancholic tune, your fingers feeling like they’re losing blood, you play clumsily, your eyes welling with tears.

You do have to admit, you feel extremely guilty for leaving him.

Life was beautiful with him.

He would have served you the sun on a platter if it meant making you smile - but you’re meant to destroy beautiful things.

It was what your father told you. You ruined his marriage to your mother; your sheer existence drove her to the brink of insanity. Since you were conceived you were a parasite that took the love your mother had for your father and you guzzled it out of her, taking all of her focus and affection. When you were born your parents refused the diagnosis of postpartum psychosis. Your mother believed you were an angel sent from heaven and doctors were trying to take you from her; so, she slowly succumbed to the madness and your father eventually was forced to send her away. The resentment he felt towards you all but scented the house, you were a poisonous leech, and you were treated as such.

You take the last drag of your cigarette and drag yourself to your walk-in closet, you decide on taking another shower - scrubbing away the odour of tar and smoke. You ready yourself for your strange and mysterious encounter. You dress yourself and half an hour later rush out to your car. The sun is low in the sky by the time you start driving away from the house, the countryside hugging you from all sides.

The drive is long into the town centre. The sky is blushed with pink and tinges of orange. You park your car and take a slow walk to the Splendido Mare; you enter the hotel’s restaurant and are led to a table. Your order a glass of wine and wait. After ten minutes you take out the letter, you read it from start to finish and confirm that the invitation was not a figment of your imagination; you were indeed summoned here by a mystery writer. Whom you hope is him.

You sit for half an hour at your table, you sip your anxiety away through two glasses of wine, you step outside and smoke two cigarettes and yet you’re still waiting. You flit through your phone notifications; you decide against your better judgement to type his name into the Goggle search bar. You fleetingly glance around the sparsely attended restaurant. You lock your phone without looking at the updates about him.

The thought of him makes your chest ache, harshly. The pain is tangible, you place your hands over your chest and wince. Something is not right.

You’re not aware of his slow approach, his hands wringing around each other, his cheeks red with nervous energy. He wishes he had had a shot of something - anything before getting here. He doesn’t recall what filled him the mad inspiration to send you a stamped letter to meet him at his hotel restaurant. He doesn’t know whether he wishes he had just called the brunette and spoken to her tonight; but he misses you. Madly.

He pulls out the chair in front of you. You can both tell that you’re holding in your breath.

Every time you see him it feels like the first time, all over again.

And he feels the same, but for either of you to admit it would be succumbing to defeat. You’re engaged in a silent and unspoken battle of wills.

“You sent me a letter?” You show him the letter. He nods, you sigh. “What is it you want to talk about?” You’re afraid to look into his eyes, they’re huge lakes filled with your dreams and deepest desires.

He hesitates, a ghostly sentence is formed on his tongue – he decides against materialising it. “I heard you were nearby; thought we could catch up.” He motions for the waiter. You narrow your eyes in - almost offence. What does he think, that you’re old pals?

He wants to catch up, but you want to do everything. Mostly profess your adoration for him and make love to him.

You despise the feeling; you’ve never felt like this for anyone. The alien feeling makes you heat up, your chest rises and falls quickly; agony filling your body as if you were a vessel to claim. “Right,” is all you can utter.

“What have you been up to?” He’s ordered two martinis, his eyes connecting to yours. You wince as the pain in your chest returns. How can he be so close yet so far?

“I was filming a fragrance campaign recently.” You speak quickly, an itch to smoke tickling your fingers. He nods, his eyebrows raised high.

“Nice.” He sighs and extends his clasped hands further onto the table. You look even more beautiful than in his thoughts, which he can’t expel you from. It seems your haunting presence is with him to stay, and his imagination can’t do any justice to your face and your intoxicating smell.

The conversation you have over your first drinks is dry, emotionless and full of hidden desires.

After each of you have three cocktails you let out the first laugh. He’s released himself a bit from the shackles of wanting to one-up you, his joke about his dog’s stubbornness reminding you of the good days of domesticity with Christopher and his dog. You move out to the terrace, candles flickering in the wind; you share more laughs. Memories being shared between you about life together.

There’s a clear shared emotion - longing. You crave the late summer nights sharing the dance floor with his friends or yours; him undressing you slowly in your pool; the nights watching the fire pit in your Santa Barbara home; the dinners enclosed in brick walled Italian restaurants with candles illuminating your elated faces.

“Come up with me.” His suggestion is quiet, his lips edging closer to yours. You nod, overcome with emotion. He grips on to your hand, the grip of a man thanking his lucky stars. He leads you to his room, on the top floor. A paradisiacal view of the sea and hills greeting you. The sun has set completely, and the moon casts a pale light over the buildings across the water.

Chris closes the door, and no sooner is he clutching at your lips with his. His hands smother you onto him and you meet him with the same desperation. Your hands slip under his shirt and moan into his mouth, your lipstick smearing over his lips. You feel him inhale your smell; he sighs desperately as he pulls you closer to him. You fall onto the chaise lounge in front of the open doors leading onto his balcony. The wind whispers sweet nothings onto your skins as you meld together, your bodies wanting desperately to be combined. He removes your clothes with familiar precision and your fingers touch him where you know he likes it.

The grooves of his skin are familiar, his dick entering you slowly as your fingers caress his tanned skin. He looks spectacular underneath you, his skin illuminated by the moonlight. You ride him slowly, you lips adventuring each other, like your bodies are each other’s long lost home territory. Your lips touch again, but it feels like the first time all over again. You feel yourself melting, your brain feels high, your limbs terribly relaxed. You guess this is what true love feels like. There’s nowhere else you’d want to be.

You love him. Only him.

He turns you over, on all fours, one hand gripping your throat and the other around your hair. He thrusts into you - with passion, his lips ghost over your shoulder. You feel your eyes close, the strength to fight the sedation unable to be found. It goes on for a while, and he flattens you onto your stomach. He lays on top of you, his hips gyrating against your skin, his arms encircling your torso. You feel safe, his head laying to rest in between you shoulder and jawline. He inhales your scent and kisses your shoulder, his lips printing their mark on your skin.

He turns you over and takes a deep breath, his eyes hold your entire world. They’ve trapped you into his universe and you have no desire to leave. He’s your whole world and you gave him away on a silver platter - but he’s here. He accommodates himself in between your legs and gives you a hug, his lips find yours in the darkness. The moonlight bathes you generously and he nestles himself inside you again. His lips refuse to leave yours; his thrusts grow in fervour; he wants to bury himself inside you and never leave.

He’s so deeply, and madly in love with you.

He can’t believe you hurt him. He hates you for it.

He pulls away from your kiss, his breathing heavy and slightly laboured.

His hides his face in the nook under your head. You feel like crumpling when you feel tears run over your shoulder, you hug him tighter. You want to stitch his wounds closed, tightly with your bare fingers and your lips. You want to mould your bodies together and live forever in this moment. His fingers reach for your clitoris and he makes love to you in two different ways. Your head lolls back and you feel ecstatic, currents washing over you slowly and you orgasm.

Chris kisses you desperately, swallowing your moans. He thrusts into you, complementing your orgasm. He releases himself into you, slowly moaning into your mouth.

After a few moments he stands up from the lounge chair and heads to the shower, as he walks through the door, he turns to you. He smiles in a way that you understand is an invitation to join him in the shower. You stand slowly, your legs feeling like jelly. You join him for a warm shower, peppered with tender kisses and saccharine touches.

Your bodies unconsciously refuse to part until you’re lying in his bed. He turns off the lamp and lays facing you.

A sweet look embalms his irises. His hand lifts itself to nestle under your cheekbone. He regards you softly.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice shaky.

You smile sleepily, “I love you too.”

You’re hypnotised to sleep by his soft breaths.

—

The sunlight reflected on the lake wakes you out of you slumber, the first dreamless one you’ve had in months. You turn to the side where Chris is and find nothing but empty air. You sit up quickly; the room is deadly silent. Nothing but your movements on the bed make noise. You scramble out of the bed and look for him.

There’s no trace of him in the room. You let out small wail of desperation. What if it was all a dream?

You pace the room, an uneasy feeling setting itself in your chest. You feel the space between your ribs tighten and your head feel faint. Your legs feel weak and unsteady, you crumple into a heap near the chaise lounge. Your breath feels constricted, massively so. The world begins to spin, and you fall onto your back.

It feels like a heart attack.

You can barely feel your heart.

You drag yourself to the counsel table, desperate to reach the phone. Your hand misses it massively, instead a hotel branded paper flickers down next to you. You pick it up, the tightness in your chest limiting your movement.

I guess this is goodbye, I can’t get over the fact that I’ll never be able to trust you. No matter how much I want to.

I hate you for ruining us

I’ll miss you, forever.

With all my love,

C

--

Parte Quatre -

Tags -

@chvntelle-99, @krispy-toes, @hampass, @calimoi, @saltyflowermakertaco

[thatsdoctorlindsaytoyou]

Reddie Masterlist (how have I not already done this??)

Series: But we’re the greatest, they’ll hang us in the Louvre 

Our days and nights are filled with obsession - Rated E, contains smut

Summary: If you had told Richie fifteen years ago that one day he would be the type of man who goes to BDSM clubs… well, he’d probably shrug, say “sounds plausible” and down another shot. However, if you had told him that Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, the boy who used to wear a fanny pack and whine about germs in between puffs of his inhaler, would be the type of man to one day go to BDSM clubs, he probably would have choked on that shot and done a spit take. And if you’d told him that he, Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier, would be the one who would get to accompany him to these clubs, often pulling Eddie around on a leash while his hands were bound and his mouth was gagged… well, Richie could have only hoped for so much, even in his younger days.

Status: Complete

A rush at the beginning - Rated E, contains smut

Summary: He’d always known; for him, it was Eddie, it would always be Eddie, it would only ever be Eddie. And when the feelings didn’t go away when they got older and transitioned into adulthood, when the feelings only took more solid shape and became more tangible, that was how he knew. What he felt for Eddie was real. It was a part of him. A part of his identity. They’re in their early 20s and fresh out of college and Richie is hopelessly in love with Eddie. This is basically how they got together in this universe and includes their first time.

Status: Complete

And I will sit close to you - Rated T

Summary: “I missed you too,” Richie set his own glasses down on his nightstand before turning back towards Eddie and wrapping him up in his arms. It had only been two weeks, but he had missed having Eddie in his arms like this. He would just hold him all day, every day if he could. “I wish I could have gone with you. Maybe next time.” Richie nodded eagerly. He’d actually had a quite nice time in London during the brief moments when he had a minute to just explore and enjoy himself, but even the parts that were good he knew would have been improved with Eddie there. He supposed that’s how he knew he was really in love. Nothing in his life really felt complete unless he was with Eddie.

Another little fic set in the universe of But We're the Greatest, They'll Hang Us in the Louvre, it's meant to take place after Our Days and Nights are Perfumed with Obsession, but that's not really relevant and it can also stand on its own. Unfortunately there's no smut in this one, just a bunch of fluff and domestic stuff and a little dash of angst and hurt/comfort, but of course with a happy ending (duh).

Status: Complete

But lover, you’re the one to blame - Rated E, contains smut

Eddie’s big eyes were wider than Richie had ever seen them before. “You mean… like double penetration?” Richie bit his lip and nodded.

Status: Complete

Come home to my heart - Rated E, contains smut

Remember way back in Our Days and Nights when it was briefly mentioned that Richie and Eddie once had a huuuuge fight? No? Oh well, this is about that fight. Well, 50% the fight, and 50% them having mind-blowing makeup sex, obviously.

Status: Complete

Drink up your movements, still I can’t get enough - Rated E, contains smut

“Mmmm… someone’s feeling a bit frisky,” Richie tightened his arm around Eddie’s waist, pulling him flush up against his body. “Should we take this upstairs?” To his surprise, Eddie pulled away and looked up at him, his eyes cloudy with lust but his face serious. “I was thinking we could… uh, can we try something new tonight? If you don’t like it, just say something, and we can stop.” Richie raised his eyebrows in surprise, suddenly feeling much more drunk than he was.

Status: Complete

Perfect places - Rated E, contains smut

“Ugghhh… come on, babe. People are waiting for us. This is not the time for one of your spontaneous road trips.”

“I just want to show you something,” Richie laid a hand on Eddie’s knee, but kept his eyes trained ahead on the road. “It’ll be really fast, I promise.”

(Engagement fic)

Status: Complete

Doing this for the thrill of it - Rated E, contains smut

The famous waxing fic.

Status: Complete

A good man for someone else - Rated T

Just a quick fluff piece in which Eddie and Richie run into a surprise person from their past while out at a coffee shop!

Status: Complete

Meet somebody, take ‘em home - Rated E, contains smut

It's Richie and Eddie's anniversary, and they decide to have fun with some roleplay.

Status: Complete

Care for myself the way I used to care about you - Rated M

After Eddie's mom died, he thought the nightmares would stop. But he realizes he needs to find a way to get closure, and Richie is going to help him every step of the way.

Status: Complete

Got fucked up and possessive - Rated E, contains smut

One of Eddie's coworkers is retiring and they have to go to the party. They're afraid it will be boring, but they find a way to make it... interesting, to say the least.

Status: Complete

Other series:

Piece by piece - Rated E, contains smut

Richie is doing just fine. Really, he is. He's nearing forty, he's got a decently successful career, he's got a non-existent love life, but who has the time for such things, anyway? He's doing absolutely fine, right up until the night he's on tour in New York and his manager decides to send a prostitute to his room. Richie expected he'd just turn the kid away, maybe give him $100 for his time. He did not expect his entire life to get turned upside down.

Status: In progress

To be updated as I write more! Also a reminder that I am now doing commissions, send me a message if you’re interested. Also consider supporting me on Ko-Fi or V enmo (Final-Girl-Barbie) if you like my work.

[magickastiel]

Somewhere Off in the Dark (Dean/Cas) 7.3k

It’s easier to be with Cas in the dark.

Dean hasn’t got to see those eyes at full brightness, boring into his soul. Instead he can just talk and not worry about the embarrassment scalding his face or the discomfort twisting his spine.

It’s dangerous being with Cas in the dark.

Gift for @jackttwist for the @starrynightdeancas gift exchange! ✨

mild warning for a scene during early s13 so dean is very self-destructive and doesn't care about his own life. It's along the same times as the show but if you're triggered by that, skip from: 'Dean is sick' and pick up again at: "The Empty?" Dean whispers, feeling cold' for the cute stuff!

a03 or keep reading 💖

_

Dean will never get used to waking up and seeing eyes peering back at him.

He starts awake, half-reaching for the gun tucked under his pillow before he can pull himself back. He glares and throws the blanket off his lap, immediately regretting it when the cool night air hits his legs.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel says, voice dry and face impassive. He watches without shame as Dean clambers to his feet, eyes skimming over his legs, his rucked up t-shirt, the scowl on his face.

A chill shoots up Dean’s back and, not for the first time, he wonders how many pairs of eyes Castiel really has. He walks from the couch to Bobby’s kitchen for something to do with his overly observed body.

“I’ll shoot you one day.” He says over his shoulder. “That’ll show you.”

“What will that show me?”

Dean wants to be annoyed but instead he snorts with laughter. Castiel seems to have this affect on him.

“Nothin’. Forget it.” His eyes itch with fatigue and he rubs them with the back of his hand. “You want coffee?”

“I have no need for - ”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean turns to lean his back against the counter and almost jumps again when he sees that Castiel has silently followed him to the kitchen. He can count the number of worn tiles between his bare feet and Castiel’s shoes. He has to swallow before he speaks. “Didn’t ask if you needed it. You want some?”

The angel’s eyes travel over him again and Dean feels like an ant under the hot glare of a magnifying glass on a sticky summer’s day.

“Yes.” He says eventually.

“Right.” Coffee.

He potters about, feeling eyes on him wherever he goes. He doesn’t let his hand shake.

By the time they’re sat back on the couch with two half-empty mugs, Dean’s body has loosened as he becomes accustom to the silent scrutiny. There’s no looming threat and no harsh judgement because Castiel is as he always is – curious. Every movement is apparently fascinating to him, every sentence Dean says is worth contemplation and every sip of coffee is a new experience to mull over. Again, Dean is surprised how little it annoys him.

“You remember the first time you woke me up here?” He says after a long pause. “You threatened to throw me back into Hell. Real nice of you.”

In the dark, Dean has to rely on Castiel’s voice to judge his expression. “Yes.” The word sounds solemn, like he’s disappointed that Dean remembers it. “I did say that.”

Dean takes the last glug of coffee to think. There’s an obvious question that’s been lingering between them for the last ten minutes.

“Why did you come here tonight?” He asks and doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be.

Even though he can’t see him properly, he’s sure Castiel is staring straight at him even as he ponders his answer. It’s another reminder of how alien he is. He doesn’t have that need to look away, to hide his face as his mind races to find the right way to say the right thing. Dean envies him that.

“I wanted to apologise.”

“Apologise for what?”

When he speaks again, his tone is unnervingly soft. “Your friends.”

Ellen. Jo.

Dean’s heart clenches and he feels the urge to move, unable to sit still in his grief. His knee knocks against Castiel’s solid thigh but the angel stays perfectly still.

“I should have been with them.” Castiel continues his voice low and smooth. If it wasn’t for the subject matter, Dean might think he was being read to sleep like a troubled child. “I should have protected them.”

“Not your fault.” He mumbles and means it. It never occurred to him to blame Castiel. He’s been too busy blaming himself to consider anyone else’s actions.

“I arrived with them and I should have stayed with them. I let them down. I – I let...”

Castiel is hesitating. This is new behaviour for him and it’s dangerously human.

“I...let you down.”

Dean feels like he’s been doused with cold water. He doesn’t blame Castiel for not wanting to say that. It’s so ridiculously untrue and so goddamn weird to say that he let Dean down specifically. It’s too much focus on him, on them.

“You didn’t let us down, man.”

“You are being kind.” Castiel says in neither admonishment nor gratefulness. He just states it like it’s a sure fact. “Thank you. But I shall endeavour to make it up to you.”

“Oh.” Dean says feeling dumb and strangely warm. “Right. But like I said, nothing to make up for.”

“You are not sleeping.”

He almost gets whiplash at the sudden change in conversation. “Uh well, no, not right now. You did wake me up.”

“Allow me to clarify: you do not sleep enough.” The still air is disturbed by the rustle of his trenchcoat and the sharp clack of the ceramic mug being placed on the table.

“Kind of a lot going on, dude.” Dean says, trying to protest as Castiel pulls his mug from his hands and places that on the table too. “Uhhh, what are you doing?”

“Lie back down.”

Dean does as he’s told but frowns too. He tells himself it’s a good compromise. “You gonna stare at me until I fall asleep or something?”

“I could but I believe that will be unnecessary.” He stands and looms over the couch. He looks intimidating from down here – tall as a skyscraper and dark as a void. Dean clutches at the blanket for something tangible to hold on to. “Your body still hasn’t recovered from the physical and emotional trauma of the last week. And when you sleep you have nightmares thus reliving the pain. You must rest completely to correct this and regain your full strength.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, yeah? So what you gonna do – zap me to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Wait – ”

Two fingertips brush his forehead and he sleeps.

_

Dean can’t stop looking.

Even as Benny regales them with some batshit story, even as he eats his handful of berries, even as he wanders the perimeter of their little camp.

Cas is here.

Like, actually here.

He hadn’t let himself lose hope but it had been slipping. Just around the corner, he’d think. One more fight and he’ll be there. On and on.

And then there he was, alive and washing his face like he’d just woken up after a bad night’s sleep at a motel.

Dean’s eyes flit over to him again. He isn’t used to it yet. They only found him a few hours ago. Man’s gotta bask in having his best friend back.

“Dean? You hear me?”

He sighs and turns back to Benny who, to his credit, doesn’t even look annoyed. “Yeah, yeah. Sleeping, shifts, food.”

He snorts. “Got the gist, at least.”

“I’ll take the first shift. Gotta...” He glances over his shoulder at Cas again. He isn’t quite sure what he’s got to do, but he knows it involves Cas.

“Like that, huh?” Benny says, a slight smirk on his face.

“What do you mean?” He mutters, grabbing a stick and poking the meagre fire for something else to focus on.

“Nothin’, nothin’.” He waves a hand, but the smirk hasn’t left his face. “Just startin’ to feel like a third wheel, is all.”

Dean’s face heats unpleasantly. He knows it’s not like that but he can’t quite bring himself to argue about it. Instead he stares into the fire as Benny wanders off to rest. He feels horribly cracked open. He’s gotten used to his hardened shell – Purgatory took all the resilience he had and coated him in it. But the first sight of Cas had split him apart and now his usual racing thoughts have come rushing back with the force of a ten tonne truck. He almost wishes he could go back to how he was yesterday, pure focus and drive.

Now he feels small next to the fire, between a vampire and an angel.

He’s just one slightly shitty human lost in Purgatory.

“Dean?”

Cas joins him suddenly, with that eerie angelic stealth. Dean only just manages to stop himself from jumping like a kid. Cas sits on his left, watching him intently.

Everything is kind of colourless in Purgatory. It drove Dean insane for the first few days; everything seemed slightly off and unreal. Then he got used to it – the lacklustre trees, the blank water, even the fire looked kind of grey.

Cas’ eyes are still very blue.

It’s the first real colour he’s seen in months.

“Dean?” He says again, sounding slightly alarmed. “Are you alright?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Just...weird to see you, I guess.”

“Oh.” Cas blinks. “I...I suppose it is strange to see you too. I have seen you from a distance a few times. If several leviathans caught me at once, it would take me a while to kill all of them. Each time, I was very aware of how you were likely closing in on my location. Then I would catch a glimpse of you through the trees and that was when I knew I needed to get ahead again.”

“You what?!” Dean hisses, only keeping his voice down for Benny’s sake. “You mean you’ve been in spitting distance before and you didn’t say anything?! You could have...” He thinks about the sleepless nights, the desperation to find him alive. “I was afraid you were dead.”

“I am sorry, Dean.” Cas squints and tilts his head a little. Dean feels his anger dissipate. “I wanted nothing more than to join you. Together, I am sure we can conquer almost anything.” Right. That’s a total normal thing to say to someone. “But I was the one who released the leviathans. It was my responsibility to deal with them. If they got to you I would never be able to forgive myself.” His gaze drops to the fire. “I will never be able to forgive myself.”

“Don’t.” Frustration pushes at Dean’s skull, making his eyes water. “Yeah, ok. You did something pretty dumb. But you did it because you were trying to save the world. I should have...if I hadn’t been so damn caught up with other stuff. If I had just been there more - ”

“Dean, you cannot blame yourself.” Cas sounds genuinely horrified at the thought. “It was my decision and the consequences are mine to bear. All I can hope is that you can find a way to forgive me. And Sam - ”

“Sam’s good now.” Dean says quickly, half to reassure himself. “You screwed him over, not gonna lie. But at least you fixed it.”

Neither of them speaks for a while. Cas seems intent on watching the fire while Dean’s shell shatters a little more. Had he really had forgiven Cas just like that? He thought of what John Winchester would say about that. To say Cas had ‘screwed Sam over’ was a bit of an understatement. He had totally destroyed his mind. And here Dean was, casually forgiving him like it was no big thing.

It isn’t just words either. Dean really doesn’t feel any animosity towards the angel at all. Look out for Sammy. That had been drummed into him since he was four years old, when he carried his baby brother from their burning home. He still lives by it too. So it’s unnerving to forgive someone who hurt Sam. He’d been angry at first, sure. Upset, if he was being honest. He’d been hit with the double whammy of worrying about Sam and being betrayed by the only real friend he’d ever had. The only one that sticks around.

Well, that isn’t quite true. Cas always leaves but he always comes back too.

Now Dean just feels happy. And tired. He’s pretty tired too.

“You should sleep.” Cas says, softly. “I can watch over you.”

His knee jerk reaction is to tell the angel that’s weird. In any other situation it is weird. But here, he really does need someone looking out for him.

“’Angels are watching over you.’” He says, thinking of soft blonde hair and a warm smile. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “That’s what my mom used to tell me every night when she put me to bed. Guess that’s true tonight, huh?”

“I suspect she did not imagine that to come true in Purgatory while you are travelling with an angel and vampire, but the sentiment is lovely nonetheless.”

Dean can’t stop himself from grinning as he settles down, wedging his jacket under his head like Benny did.

“Do we have to travel with the vampire?” Cas grumbles beside him, sounding wonderfully like himself.

Dean raises his eyebrows against his makeshift pillow. “What, you don’t like Benny?”

“I don’t like the way he acts.” His eyes narrow, glaring at the sleeping figure the other side of the fire. “He looks at you like he wants to...consume you.”

Dean laughs and, for a moment, the clearing rings with it. “Dude trust me: Benny ain’t gonna eat me. He’s got plenty of food around.”

But Cas still looks unsure. “That’s not...” He sighs. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” He gives Dean one of those rare, small smiles as he looks down at him. “Sleep.”

Dean does as he’s told for once, letting his aching limbs stretch out next to the warmth of the fire and under his best friend’s watchful gaze.

But after a few moments, he can’t resist another look, even as his body succumbs.

“You can sleep, Dean.” Cas says, almost chastising. “I’ll watch over you.”

“Ain’t that. Just...” His tongue feels too big for his mouth and his heart feels too heavy for his chest. “Just checkin’ you’re still there, is all.”

As he falls asleep, he hears his voice one more time.

“I’m still here. I’ll always be here.”

_

When Dean asks Cas where he can drop him, the ex-angel avoids his eyes and says something about being ‘between places’.

Yeah, Dean’s the worst friend in the world.

He drives them to a motel because that’s the least he can do.

He mentally berates himself on the drive there while Cas is quiet in the passenger seat. This really is the least he can do. He should be driving Cas home to the Bunker, buying him dinner on the way back. He should be apologising for throwing him out. But if he starts apologising that means he’s got to start explainingand that’s something he really can’t do. Not yet.

So he drives his awesome best friend to a shitty motel and books them a shitty twin room and orders a shitty pizza.

Once they’ve eaten in relative silence, Cas perches on the edge of one of the beds staring wide-eyed and blank faced at the television. Unfortunately, it’s not Dr. Sexy. Just some grim drama about murders and family betrayals. Like they don’t have enough of that to deal with already.

He looks small and Dean has the sudden urge to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Dude,” He says, busying his restless hands with clearing up the greasy napkins and tossing them into the bin. “Don’t sit that close to the TV. You’ll get square eyes.”

For what seems like the first time in an hour, Cas blinks. “Is that possible?”

Dean chuckles and settles back on his bed, kicking off his boots with a groan. “Nah, just somethin’ parents tell their kids. Dad used to say it to me all the time.” His smile slips as John Winchester’s dark eyes narrow in his mind. “Used to watch so much Scooby Doo it drove him mad. ‘Turn that TV off and do something useful! Ain’t got no use for a son with square eyes!’” He fidgets on the bed, fighting the urge to pull a blanket over himself.

“Oh.” Cas half turns away from the TV. “That seems unnecessarily harsh.”

Dean shrugs. “Just watched it when he was gone.” Had plenty of time.

“I assume you had plenty of time to watch it then.”

Huh.

Dean’s stunned into silence long enough for Cas to look over. Something on his face makes Cas look guilty.

“I’m sorry. It isn’t my place to comment on your father.”

“No.” Dean says but isn’t sure if he means it.

Cas stands, flicking off the TV and sitting against the pillows of his own bed. The quiet makes Dean realise that he’s alone with Cas in a motel room. He isn’t sure why it sets his teeth on edge – it shouldn’t be any different from sharing with Sam. So why does he feel a bit too hot under his shirt?

“Family is a complicated thing.” Cas continues, oblivious to Dean’s discomfort.

“Y-yeah.” The word sticks in his throat. “You miss ‘em? The other angels?”

In the soft lamplight, Cas’ profile looks striking as he thinks. “Yes and no. I miss the simplicity of being with them.”

“Simplicity? Can’t imagine Heaven ever being simple.”

“Oh, it’s not, not really. But I knew my place and I knew what I required to do. And I was known. Understood.”

“You think I don’t get you?” Dean asks before he can stop himself.

Cas leans back further, turning slightly to rest his head on the pillow. His eyes look almost velvet in the soft light. Dean finds himself turning a little too, cheek brushing the cotton pillowcase.

“I think you understand me more than I could have ever hoped for.”

“Oh.” Dean feels struck dumb and something inside his chest clunks. “That...that’s what friends are for, I guess.”

“Yes.” Cas smiles, gummy and a little crooked where he’s resting his head. “It is.”

Dean rolls onto his back, heart hammering as he stares at the ceiling. Cas’ eyes are still on him – he knows the feel of that gaze like a dangerous coastline knows the relentless glare of a lighthouse.

The silence drags and his fingers itch to switch the TV back on.

“Coulda got you your own room.” He mutters, almost to himself. Least I could do. “Give you some privacy.”

“No.” Cas says firmly. “This is...this is good. Thank you.” He sounds so earnestly grateful Dean almost cringes in shame. “I spend quite a lot of time alone. It’s good to have company.”

“Right, yeah. Of course.”

“But if you’d rather - ”

“Nah, it’s all good.” He says and is surprised that he means it. He’s counted the stains on the ceiling three times and his heart is slowing to its normal pace again.

“Dean?” Cas sounds a little slower now. “Tell me something?”

“Uh, sure. What?”

“Anything.”

“Like a story?” Dean frowns and looks over to see Cas’ eyes are already half-closed.

“Hmm.”

“Uhhh...” He flounders. He hasn’t done this since he was a kid, making up stories for Sammy to fall asleep to in the back of the Impala. “Ok. Once, this guy woke up. Let’s call him...Dan. He woke up and realised he was underground, being suffocated. So after he panicked a bit, he dug his way out and almost goddamn blinded himself ‘cos it was a sunny day, right? He walks to this old gas station and keeps thinking ‘how am I alive?’ ‘cos he’s pretty sure he was dead.”

He knows he isn’t telling it well but it doesn’t seem to matter because Cas hums again, sounding pleased this time. Dean feels his own body melting like hot wax into the bed as he watches Cas’ eyes close.

“Then he looks in the mirror and sees he’s got this mark on his shoulder. A handprint. So he’s like, ‘who the hell left that there?’”

Cas chuckles, mouth thick with sleep. Dean pulls a blanket over himself and wraps an arm around one of the pillows.

“Turns out, his best friend left it there. But here’s the thing: he ain’t met him yet.”

Dean smiles as Cas’ breathing gets even and heavy. He watches for a moment and squeezes the pillow tight against his chest before turning out the light.

He dreams of Hell but when he wakes, all he can remember are dark wings beating hard against fire.

_

Dean is sick.

He throws up until his body is shaking, until his throat is raw and his eyes are bloodshot.

He slumps down next to the toilet and takes in breaths he doesn’t really want. The cool title presses against his burning back and he closes eyes. Which is a horrific mistake.

A beam of light streaming from his mouth, from his eyes, from the hole in his chest -

His body jerks and his foot knocks the empty whiskey bottle with a jarring clatter. Yeah, that’s rule one, buddy. Don’t close your fucking eyes.

He stands on shaking legs, picks up the empty bottle and goes back to his room where he’s stashed another. Thankfully, he doesn’t pass Sam on the way. He can’t deal with the pity, he can’t deal with the logic and he can’t deal with his stupid, childish hope. Mom’s gone. Ain’t no sense in pretending otherwise. Gone just like –

Nope.

He opens his door and chucks the empty bottle down again, letting it roll off to some dark corner of his room. He scoops up the next one and cracks open the top, taking a deep swig. It hits him hard; neat alcohol on his turbulent stomach makes him gag but he perseveres. He’s exhausted but he can’t close his eyes.

So he’s aiming for blackout.

It can’t be too far away – he can’t remember when he last ate. He’s aching all over, boiling hot and he’s...

Sobbing.

“You...you son of a bitch...” He sways a little when he looks up at the dingy ceiling but he’s trying to talk beyond that. “Whydya hav’ ta...fuck!” He rushes over to the sink and throws up the whiskey he just swallowed. It burns even more on the way up.

Once he’s stopped retching, he tries to take another swig but his body won’t let him do it. He collapses onto the floor again, legs too weak to stand. The bottle clangs in the sink, probably spilling all of its contents down the drain. He makes a weak sound of protest but doesn’t move.

His eyes feel tight and dry against the salty wetness on his face. He wonders how far above him Heaven is. If he’s even there. Something tells him he isn’t. If he is, surely he would have found a way to get back.

Dean whispers his name, a private prayer of desperation. There’s still some dumb part of him that thinks he might just appear again, slightly dishevelled and annoyed at Dean for not looking after himself.

But he doesn’t.

The silence stretches and Dean contemplates hitting his head on the floor. If he does it hard enough, there’s a good chance it’ll knock him out for a while, maybe a few days if he’s lucky.

He tries to lift his head but it’s too heavy. A wave of panic rushes over him as he starts to feel paralyzed – trapped in his own body and smothered with grief.

“Cas?” He chokes, a fresh wave of tears rushing down his face. “You...you’re meant to come back. You always come back. You gotta...you gotta come back, man. Please. Please, I can’t - ”

I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to. Don’t make me.

With all his might, he rolls onto his side before he’s suffocated completely. His head spins as he turns, his stomach churns and his eyes roll back. When he finally passes out, he doesn’t see anything at all.

_

“The Empty?” Dean whispers, feeling cold.

“Yes.” Cas whispers back. He’s only whispering because Dean is. Dean feels completely normal about that and not giddy at all.

“What was it like?” He doesn’t want to know but has to ask all the same.

“Empty.” Cas says, deadpan.

“Oh ok, smartass – thanks for clearing that up!” Dean huffs good-naturedly and has to grip the railing until his knuckles turn white. He’s got so much happiness in him his body doesn’t know what to do with it. He feels energy thrumming through him and he has the sudden urge to start sprinting and laughing.

They’ve stopped at a motel on the drive back from Colorado to the Bunker. Sam is already asleep, hair all splayed out on his pillow like Sleeping Beauty. But Dean...well, Dean was dead for a couple of minutes today so he figures he’ll enjoy being alive for a bit longer. He leans on the rail overlooking the parking lot and lets the cool air fill his lungs.

He’s got company.

“How is Jack?” Cas asks, obviously expecting a better answer than the quick reassurance they’d given him earlier.

“He’s doing ok. I was...” Dean trails off, his good mood momentarily dipping into guilt. “I was kind of a dick to him at first - ”

“What a surprise.” Cas sighs, world-weary and affectionately irritated. Dean wants to make him sound like that every day.

“- but we’ve gotten better.” He knocks Cas’ shoulder with his. “I’ve gotten better.”

“Good.” Cas smiles at him and he has to grip the railing again.

Dean watches him stare up at the moon, the pearly light making him look as otherworldly as he is. Dean is reminded there are wings somewhere behind Cas. Broken, yes, but still there. It’s weirdly exciting that Cas isn’t human. A strange thrill shoots through him when he really thinks about it. He feels like one of those people who inadvertently tame some dangerous beast and have their photos taken with the thing sat on their couch with them. It’s that precious feeling that you’ve been chosen, that something that would normally kill you with a snap of jaws or a click of its fingers saw you and thought you were special. So it decided that it wanted you to live. That it wanted to spend time with you. That he wanted –

“Dean? You’re staring.” Cas turns back to him with a raised eyebrow and a slightly smug expression. “You usually tell me off for that.”

“Right.” Dean doesn’t stop looking. “It’s just...you’re back.You came back again.”

Cas’s expressions softens and he edges a little closer. Suddenly – wildly – Dean thinks if Cas kissed him now he’d be fine with it.

He doesn’t.

“It was suffocating.” He says instead. “The black emptiness was...all encompassing. Like no matter what I did or where I went, I would never escape the feeling of total despair. Of being painfully alone. It was like - ”

“Choking.” Dean says and swallows hard against his healing throat.

“Yes.” Cas’ fingers twitch on the railing and Dean thinks that if he moved his left pinkie, he could feel his skin. Cas’ hand drops before he can really contemplate doing it. “But I did escape.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s full of energy again, happiness buzzing around his body like a swarm of bumblebees. “You got out, man.”

“I was afraid that feeling would follow me. That I would still feel that fear no matter how far I ran.”

“And?”

“I don’t.” Cas turns to the moon again, bathed in pure light, eyes shining as bright as his grace. “I don’t feel scared at all.”

Dean blinks back the sting in his eyes and smiles. “Me neither.”

_

Dean pushes open the door with a sweaty palm.

Cas stands next to him, staring into the room with his lips slightly parted. Dean’s gaze lingers on them for moment before he drags his eyes away.

Just because Cas...said what he said, doesn’t mean he wants that. Maybe he didn’t really mean it. Or maybe he did mean it but like...friends. Best friends love each other. Of course they do. Sure, it did seemlike a momentous romantic confession made by a guy madly in love with his best friend before he sacrificed himself to save said best friend but maybe...maybe it wasn’t really like that.

“You did this for me?” Cas sounds almost tearful and Dean can’t look at him like that. It reminds too much of –

“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. “Well, Sam helped too. Turns out he’s kinda nerdy about plants too. But I bought ‘em all and watered ‘em and...Jack got you that stuffed bee, by the way.”

Cas steps inside the room and Dean can finally look up from his feet. His eyes go straight to Cas’ broad back, casually dressed in one of Sam’s sweaters. The sleeves are too long but Cas says he likes it. He’s wearing a pair of joggers that Dean kept aside for him and a pair of socks with a hole in the toe.

“I love it.”

Dean’s heart literally skips a beat. Great, he loves it. Loves it in the way he loves –

“Wanted you to have something to come back to, you know? I know this was always kinda your room but there was nothing in here and I thought...after what you said before about the Empty...thought you’d want something good to come back to. Bright and full of life...or whatever, I dunno. Just thought you might like it.”

“It’s incredible.”

Dean thinks that’s over stating it. It’s not that good. Not nearly enough to repay his debts. Not anywhere near what Cas deserves. He deserves a real home, a huge garden, a fucking mansion with butlers and people who bow to him and call him ‘sir’. Instead Dean has given him his old room back. Sure, it’s got a few shelves up, a new rug, bedding that Jack picked out called ‘jungle dreams’, a load of plants and a tall lamp that gives everything a nice glow but it’s still the same room.

Dean has never felt more pathetic.

Castiel is an angel. Ok, barely an angel now (and whose fault it that?) but still a celestial being. He might get tired sometimes, he might get hungry and he might be able to get drunk but he’s still an angel.

He’s still better.

Better than this stupid room, better than this miserable Bunker. Better than Dean.

“Is this your blanket?” Cas asks suddenly, plucking the Scooby-Doo fleece blanket from the bed.

Oh, that. “Uh, yeah. Thought you might get cold now. Don’t want you to get numb toes or nothin’.”

“That’s...” Dean isn’t prepared for the open, raw joy on Cas’ face when he looks up. It almost sends him reeling backwards out of the door. “That’s very kind of you. You didn’t have to do all of this. It’s...”

Stupid. Stupid plants, stupid lamp, stupid goddamn blanket.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s stupid.” Dean blurts, feeling awkward and childish. “Shoulda done something more. Shoulda got you - ”

“You got me.” Cas says firmly. “You got me out, Dean. You and Sam and Jack...I will never be able to thank you enough. And then to come back to this room that you worked so hard on, that you filled with things you knew I would like...there is nothing better than that in the whole world. The whole of creation. To be known and to be wanted is the best thing there is.”

Fuck.

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. What can he say to that? What can he say that would ever compare to what Cas said? What he said before –

“Right. Ok. Great. That’s...good. I’ll just...” He gestures over his shoulder to the door. Being in here with Cas is too intense, like staring at the sun or holding your hand over an open flame. “You probably want to rest.”

Cas hesitates before saying, “Yes. I suppose I should. Thank you again for this. I really love it.”

“Yeah, man.” Dean almost winces. “No worries. I’ll just...leave you to it.”

He steps back into the open doorway, unwilling to take his eyes away from Cas because he’s here, in the room Dean has imagined him in for weeks. It’s kind of annoying that Cas doesn’t have the same trouble. He turns his back, wandering towards the plants on the shelves and gently touching the leaves.

Dean lingers, like a moth perched on a lightshade.

“Are you - ” Just leave. “Are you gonna be ok by yourself? I mean, you said before that it was lonely being in the Empty. Thought maybe you’d want company?”

Cas seems surprised when he faces Dean again. “Oh. Well, yes, of course. I would enjoy you staying for a while. But please don’t feel like you have to.”

The idea of Cas thinking he’s keeping Dean against his will is laughable.

“So, er - ” He sits on the bed, fingers clutching at his blanket. “What do you wanna do? I could get my laptop and we could watch a movie? Or we could watch one of those nature documentaries that kinda send me to sleep? You know the ones with the British guy with smooth voice - ”

“Actually, I should rest. I am quite tired.”

“Oh.” Dean tries to not look crushingly disappointed. “Right, yeah.”

“You could rest with me.” Cas says, just like that. Like it’s not a big deal at all. Like guy friends just clamber into bed with each other all the time and die for each other and confess their love for each other...

“Sure.” Dean’s mouth decides for him. “We could – we could do that.”

So they get into bed together.

Cas slides in as though this is his regular night time routine, looking totally at ease in his new ‘jungle dreams’ bedding and borrowed blanket. Dean’s hands shake as he lifts up the covers and slides in too. He waits for it to be weird, waits for discomfort and his father’s face swimming in front of eyes.

Instead, he just feels warm.

They’re led next to each other, unmoving and flat on their backs. Dean’s right leg is about to fall off the bed and Cas’ shoulder looks like it’s digging into the nightstand. Maybe this bed wasn’t made to fit two fully grown men too afraid to touch.

“Dean, are you comfortable? I am not.”

He laughs and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, this isn’t great. Maybe if we...uh - ”

“What about if we do this?”

Cas’ hands are suddenly everywhere, manhandling him in a way that Dean has never experienced before but wouldn’t mind experiencing again. He ends up with his head resting on Cas’ chest, forehead pressed against his neck. His right leg has nowhere to go but to hook around Cas’ legs, entwining them together.

And Cas is holding him.

His arms are wrapped around him and not just because they haven’t got anywhere else to go. Because he wants them to go there. Because he wantsto hold Dean. Possibly all night.

Dean starts to panic.

Led like this, his ear is pressed against Cas’ chest – his heartbeat the loudest thing he can hear. What if someone breaks into the Bunker without him knowing? What if something is happening to Sam? To Jack? And he hasn’t even brought a gun with him. He squirms a little, debating on popping back to his room to get one when Cas says,

“Are you thinking about getting a weapon, Dean? I promise you, you won’t need it.”

Cas’ deep voice rumbles through his body, rocking him out of his spiralling worry so quickly Dean briefly wonders if he used some of his remaining slither of grace to do it.

“I would never let anything happen to you.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“An intruder? Judging by our current position, I assume I am the being most visible from the door.”

Dean’s fingers curl in Cas’ borrowed sweater. “You mean you’d be shot first?”

“Yes.” Dean feels his arms tighten around him for a moment. “And I believe my body would shield you from the vast majority of attacks.” He sighs and his breath tickles Dean’s hair. “Of course, if someone were to gain access to the Bunker, it’s likely they would be a supremely powerful being. That would reduce our chance of survival by quite a lot. However, if you really insist on being armed, I am confident that in the few seconds I could shield you, you could at least reach for a makeshift weapon. Whatever good it would do.”

“Right. But...” Dean doesn’t really feel comforted. “I don’t want you to...” He can’t quite say the word.

“Die?” Cas finishes for him as his fingers begin to move, leaving warm trails over Dean’s back. “No, I cannot say that I am enthused by the idea either. I have no desire to leave you again.”

“Not ever?” Dean asks and despises himself for the needy edge in his voice.

“Not ever.” His hands are moving now, big and slow in soothing motions against Dean’s back. He can’t remember the last time he was held like this. Mom, he thinks. When he was a kid. He knows he must look pathetic – six foot plus guy that’s been to hell and back being held like a baby. He should move, should pull away, wipe his eyes and tell Cas it’s time he went back to his own room.

He doesn’t want to.

“You love me.” He says instead, face burning and mouth dry.

He feels Cas smile against the crown of his head. “Yes.”

“You’re like...in love with me.”

One of Cas’ hands moves higher, fingertips trailing over the back of his neck leaving goose bumps in their wake. “Yes.”

Dean will never admit to the half moan, half whine he lets out. He buries his face in Cas’ chest and breathes him in. The smell of him fills Dean’s lungs and Cas’ arms start to feel like a weighted blanket, pressing gently on his body. It makes his eyes soft and his limbs heavy.

As he drifts off, he feels Cas’ lips brushing against his temple.

Dean wakes slowly.

He’s cocooned in softness and warmth and he has no desire to rush anything anymore – least of all to the leave the comfort of his (new) memory foam and his angel. He shifts a little, nuzzling his nose against stubble.

“I thought you were making breakfast.” Cas’ voice rolls over him slow and sweet like honey.

“Hmm.” A murmur, breathed into Cas’ neck, is all Dean can manage.

“Dean, you did promise them.” Cas says, with barely a hint of firmness. His voice is a little husky, like he’s still battling the urge to sleep.

“Oh, yeah? When?” Dean’s lips brush over warm skin.

“Last night.”

He pretends to forget. “Can’t take anything I said last night serious, Cas.”

“Oh?” He sounds a bit more awake now – that familiar dry, teasing tone creeping in.

Dean feels a pang of something in his chest so intense he almost squirms. “Alright, maybe some things were serious.”

“Hmm.” One of Cas’ hands rubs languid strokes up and down his back. “I should hope so.”

The memories come back easy and bright, playing like a dream behind Dean’s heavy eyelids. The stillness of their bedroom is punctuated by the sound of quiet voices in the living room. He grins at that, relishing waking up with the love of his life and his family just in the next room. Happy. Safe.

“Screw ‘em.” Dean says, more to himself than Cas and rubs his foot along his leg a few times, settling down again.

Cas doesn’t seem to have any objections. His hand strokes higher, fingers brushing through Dean’s hair and his blunt nails lightly graze his scalp.

Dean almost whines, his head lifting to follow the touch. He half opens his eyes again and sees a smile, unhurried and adoring. Cas leans down a little and kisses him, stubble rough and lips soft. Dean’s fingers curl against skin and his legs squeeze a muscled thigh beneath the blankets.

They stay that way for a while – bodies warm and entwined, gently greeting each other as the new day dawns. The rising sun has drenched the room in rich yellow light, soft and muffled through the curtains.

Cas’ hand is just caressing his hip and his tongue is getting hotter and more demanding in Dean’s very willing mouth when there’s a knock at the door.

“I know you’re both awake.” Sam’s voice rumbles through the door, amused and still a little sleep rough. “And don’t think we forgot about breakfast either. Eileen wants pancakes and she says I don’t make them right.”

“Not unhealthy enough!” Eileen voice calls out, a little further away.

Dean laughs against Cas’ lips.

“Alright, alright! Gimme five.”

As they slowly detangle, he catches a glimpse of silver as Cas stretches. Dean’s hand feels heavy and warm, like someone’s been holding it for hours. Dean yawns and dangles one leg out of bed, then another. He’s easing himself into the day, taking it a bit at a time.

He can do that now.

He laughs as Cas drags him in for one last kiss before he slides away, shoving his feet into his slippers and tugging on his trusty robe. His ties it around him and wanders, a little stiff-legged, to the window. He pulls back the curtains and from the bed Cas both grumbles and raises his face to meet the sunrise.

Dean watches the sun bathe him in bright light and remembers seeing him like this before. But then it was moonlight and he and Cas were at some shitty motel just out of Colorado. Not in their own house, not in theirbedroom. Dean has his first unbearably intense wave of wild happiness. It won’t be the last one today.

“I like having a window.”

“I liked having eyesight.” Cas mutters, burying himself into the covers.

Dean laughs and thwacks him on the thigh as he passes out the door. Cas’ll be up in his own time.

Four steps and Dean’s in the kitchen.

His brother is perched on one of the chairs at the little island separating the kitchen from the living room. Eileen is signing at him and he’s watching, completely enraptured, with a look of total adoration on his face. Dean would have laughed at him for that once. Now, he knows what it’s like when someone looks at him like that. Now he knows what it’s like to look at someone like that.

But he might still laugh a bit. That’s a big brother’s right.

“Mornin’!” He calls cheerily, rummaging in the fridge for eggs and milk. He emerges triumphant, plopping them onto the counter with a grin. “If the lady wants pancakes, the lady gets pancakes.”

“Best brother in law ever.” Eileen says and Sam almost falls off his seat. She just shrugs cheekily. “Unofficially.”

“For now.” Dean winks and Sam splutters.

“Right, well. Once you’ve finished marrying me off, can we get some breakfast?”

“Alright, alright!” Dean glares but he’s itching to get started. “Goddamn demanding baby. Eileen you could do so much better. Sadly, I’m already taken - ”

She laughs and so does Sam. He wraps an arm around Eileen’s waist and she plays with his hair as they all talk. They talk about Jack getting hyperactive on sugared almonds, about Claire and Kaia wearing matching suits, about Jody and Donna getting drunk and singing karaoke until they were booed off the stage.

Then Cas stumbles out of their soft-lit room; hair wild and face crumpled. He bids them all good morning in a slightly rough tone before shuffling over for coffee. He cradles his mug in both hands as he leans against the corner counter, basking in the sun with his eyes closed.

Dean watches him, aching with joy.

Being in the dark with Cas is easy. But being with him in the light is better.

He twirls the whisk in his hand and it knocks against the ring on his left hand, so new it glows against his skin. Cas kisses his neck as he passes into the living room and Dean grins, looking up at his family.

“Hey, Eileen. What’s the sign for ‘husband’?”

[kinglazrus]

Not Your Danny – Ch 1. Moving Day

Phic Phight | Next | FFN | AO3

Submitted by @ecto-american: After Danny’s untimely death, his family and friends turn to Dani for comfort. She was so much like him in every single way. And she never felt more like a clone. A replacement for the “real” thing.

Summary: Maddie and Jack learn a lot of things about their son after his death: his powers, his secret life as the local hero, the truth behind his accident three years ago. And his clone who is so much like their boy. When Dani gets the offer to join their home, she thinks it's too good to be true. And she just might be right.

Word count: 2761

Two weeks after Danny dies, Danielle moves into his bedroom. It's a lacklustre affair. Dani has no belongings to bring with her, except the few trinkets stuffed in the pockets of her shorts. She only owns one pair of clothes, two of you want to be technically and count her ghost form. But that's tenuous at best when you consider the circumstances of her creation, and that her clothes were created withher, not given to her. She doesn't like to think about that too much, though.

Neither of Danny's parents are home for the occasion. Dani doesn't blame them. Her face time with Maddie and Jack Fenton over the past three years equals an hour at most—hour and a half if she really pushes it. And most of that time was with an ectogun between them. If she counts the times where she hasn't been staring down a glowing green barrel, then it's probably only five minutes, maybe less. And that only happened a few days ago.

Suffice to say, Dani and the Fentons don't have a good relationship, or a relationship of any kind. So she doesn't blame them for being out of the house when their dead son's clone, who they only recently found out about, takes over his bedroom. Although take over might be too strong of a phrase.

Dani floats next to Jazz, hovering in front of Danny's open bedroom door.

"Is it... okay?" Jazz asks.

Dani drifts inside, turning her head from side to side as she looks around. She likes the blue walls, and the open brick on the outer wall is kind of cool. The bed, covered in a purple bead spread, topped with a fluffy pillow, looks softer than anything she's ever slept on. The room is nice, if a bit messy with Danny's stuff still inside. Posters decorate the wall, some about space, others from some band called Dumpty Humpy. The shelves are stuffed full of books and model spaceships. His dirty clothes lie next to an open hamper in the corner of the room.

The sight surprises Dani more than anything.

"What are you gonna do with his stuff?" she asks. "Do people usually just," she gestures toward the room, "leave it like this?"

"What? No." Jazz shakes her head and quickly wipe her hand across her eyes. "When someone dies, their family or friends eventually pack their stuff away. Not always right away, though."

"Two weeks isn't long enough?"

Jazz's breath hitches. "Don't– don't say that. It's inconsiderate."

Dani's cheeks go hot at Jazz's admonishing tone. "Oh. Sorry." She floats further into the room, if only to escape the awkward air settling between them.

If Dani didn't know any better, she would guess that Danny had just stepped outside for a second and would be back any moment. Lowering herself to the floor, Dani settles on the carpet and walks toward the desk. A controller of some kind sits on the desk chair, its cord tangled with a headset. Dani picks the controller up and turns it over in her hand. She only vaguely recognizes the X logo in the middle of it; her travels over the past couple of years haven't exactly involved a lot of gaming. Or any.

There was a small handheld system she picked up at a garage sale once. She carried it for a few months but lost it somewhere along the way.

Dani tosses the controller onto the chair and turns back to Jazz. "So, now what?"

"Well, if you're not comfortable with Danny's things still being in here, we can get some boxes and start packing. I think we have some in the basement. If you want." Jazz tacks on the last three words with a soft voice.

"No, it's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, course." It's just stuff, after all. Dani doesn't quite get it, which also means she doesn't care. If the Fentons don't want to move Danny's stuff yet, then it can stay. He was their son before he was Dani's cousin/DNA source.

"Okay. I guess I'll just... let you get settled, then. I have to work on some plans for the memorial, but Mom and Dad should be home in a couple hours. They said they wouldn't be gone long," Jazz says.

Dani nods. A few seconds of silence pass, and once it's obvious that neither of them is going to say anything more, Jazz turns and walks down the hall. Finally alone, Dani lets her ghost form fall away. The transformation rings prickle as their bright light ghosts over her skin, and when it fades, she's left in her typical shorts and hoodie. Dani rubs her arms until the prickling fades, then flops onto the bed.

Damn. It really is the softest thing she's ever lain on. And the blankets are warm. They smell like Danny, too. That's something Dani never thought she would think. She didn't even realize Danny had a smell, but it's hard to ignore now. It's not the most tangible smell. The best word Dani can find to describe it is crisp, like a cold day. She would bet her beanie that it was because of his ice powers, an ability they had never shared.

Dani shakes her head. Everything is weird enough right now. The last thing she needs to be contemplating is how Danny used to smell. It's also, like, a super creepy line of thought, yeah? Yeah.

As she stares up at the ceiling, a blur of movement catches her eye. Her gaze jumps toward it, in the corner of the bedroom closest to the door. A small brown lump clings to the ceiling. A bug, no doubt. Dani can't tell what kind, and she doesn’t care enough to find out. It's not too surprising, considering how messy Danny's room is. There's probably some old pizza hiding under his bed or something.

Dani rolls onto her side and closes her eyes. A little bug doesn't bother her, not after the places she's slept. And if the Fentons won't be home for a while, and Jazz is busy, she might as well take advantage of her new bed and the next few hours to get some shuteye. God knows she needs it.

—

Maddie feels sorry for Vlad's receptionist. She bears a striking resemblance to Maddie herself, with short auburn hair just a touch redder than Maddie's own, a curvy frame, and a sharp, pointed chin. She's even wearing blue, bless her heart. The girl is pretty, and young, and kind. Can't be too far out of high school, and hoping a job at the mayor's office will look good on her resume. Maddie hopes it pays off. The girl deserves it for putting up with Vlad daily. Working for him seems to be taking a toll on her, judging by the distressed look in her eyes when she looks up from Vlad's appointment book.

"I'm sorry, there's no appointment for you. I don't know if I can let you in," she says.

Maddie sighs. "Mr. Masters left me a message"—or several—"asking me to come in."

"I'm really sorry, but he didn't mention expecting you... oh no." The receptionist's eyes widen and she starts digging through papers on her desk. "Did I forget to write it down again? He got so upset last time."

Maddie reaches out and touches her shoulder, stopping the frantic search. "It's all right, dear. It's not your fault."

She suspected, when Vlad left numerous messages on her cellphone rather than calling the house, that something more was up. How Vlad even got her cellphone number she doesn't want to know. She will also be changing it very soon thanks to this incident.

"He's particular about his meetings," the receptionist says. "I really can't let you in."

"Just let him know I'm here, and I'll take care of the rest."

The receptionist nods. While she goes for the phone, Maddie steps away from the desk and turns back to the waiting area. It's empty besides her and the receptionist—not surprising this early on a Monday, and all the better for Maddie. She pulls her cellphone from her purse and checks the time; It's just after eight. Dani is due at Fenton Works soon, but Maddie and Jack won't be back until noon, at least. The reminder makes her wince.

Missing half of Dani's first day at home isn't ideal, but Maddie wants to get this meeting over with as fast as possible. They had other plans in the city, anyway, made before they invited Dani into their home. Better to get everything done at once.

Maddie eyes plush waiting room armchairs, wondering if there's any point in sitting down, when the receptionist calls out, "Mrs. Fenton?"

Maddie opens her mouth to answer, but her phone—still in her hand—buzzes at that moment. Jack's name stretches across the screen. "Excuse me." She steps toward the elevators on the far side of the room and turns her back to the receptionist, the closest semblance of privacy she can get, before answering her phone. "Hey, Jack. Is your meeting done already?"

"Not even close! How goes the shopping?"

"Fine so far. I forgot we didn't ask...." She tenses, feeling the receptionist's stare at her back. "We didn't ask what she might need, so I'm just grabbing the basics. Do you want me to pick something up for you? Are you waiting on the park board?"

"About that... I'm with them now, and—what day did we settle on for the memorial, again?"

Maddie shakes her head, but not out of annoyance. Jack forgetting the day hardly surprises her. He tends to forget the little details. If anything, it makes her feel grounded. The past two weeks have been a lot, to put it lightly. A lot of changes. A lot of revelations. But she can always rely on Jack to be his usual self.

"A month from today," she says.

"Thanks, baby! You're the best! See you later." The phone beeps as Jack hangs up. Maddie sighs while the corner of her lip twitches upwards. It's the closest she's come to smiling since Danny died. She holds like that for a moment, caught between the ache choking her heart and the desire for things to get better. They won't, not for a long time. She won't fool herself into thinking otherwise. But it's nice, for a moment, to pretend things might be okay.

"Leaving Jack alone with the DPR? I feel sorry for them." Vlad's slimy voice ruins the moment after the first syllable.

Maddie tenses, clutching her phone tighter, and turns to face him. "Vlad. It's bad business to ask for a meeting, then make your guest wait."

When Vlad smiles, his whitened teeth cut a bright slash across his cheeks. It's too wide, too sharp. Never reaches his eyes. Maddie remembers, long ago, when Vlad had a soft smile. He used it sparingly, doling it out to only the most deserved. She can't imagine him smiling like that now.

"Well, I don't mean to be presumptive, but when I phone a friend hoping for a visit, I expect them to stop by my house, not my work."

"Your mistake, then."

The receptionist's typing falters. Her have yet to stray from her screen, but Maddie already knows she's listening in. Vlad probably does, too.

"Natalie!" he snaps.

The receptionist jerks upright. "Yes, sir?"

Vlad rests a hand on Maddie's back and pushes her forward. She moves, if only to step out of his reach, and heads toward his office. Vlad reaches into his suit jacket as he walks. He pulls out his wallet and pinches a few random bills, tugging them out without looking. "Take a break. I'm sure you could use a coffee to perk you up."

He leans in front of Maddie to drop the bills on Natalie's desk. The contact makes Maddie grimace, and she hurries ahead into his office. When she turns, Vlad is already closing the door. The last thing Maddie sees of the waiting room is Natalie's frown as she glances at a paper cup sitting in plain view on her desk.

"Now, Maddie." Vlad turns. Rather than heading to his desk, he steps toward Maddie and touches her arm. "How are you doing?"

"You left me seven messages just so you could ask that?" Maddie brushes Vlad's hand off. In three long strides, she cuts across his office and takes one of the visitor's chairs. While the waiting room had plush armchairs, these are made of dark wood, armless, with firm leather cushions and straight backs. A deliberate choice, no doubt.

Vlad comes up beside her, his hand on the second chair. Before he can sit, Maddie swings her purse off her shoulder and drops it on the empty cushion. Vlad pauses, glances between her and the bag, but relents and takes his seat at the desk instead.

His chair sits considerably higher than Maddie's.

"I can imagine the pain you're going through right now," he says.

Maddie's fists clench. "Can you really?"

"Believe it or not, yes, I can." He pauses, giving her a chance to respond. But whatever question he wants her to ask, whatever game he wants to play, Maddie refuses to give in. She might have put up with him once, but after what he's done, he will be lucky if she willingly suffers his presence ever again after today.

She waits for Vlad to elaborate.

"I'm sure you've wondered, all this time, where Danny went whenever he disappeared for hours. Being our city's young hero explains a lot of it, yes, but to be honest, that wasn't everything." Vlad stops to take a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment. It's quite the performance. "To tell you the truth, he was often with me."

Bullshit! Maddie wants to shout, but she bites it back. Her jaw aches from how hard she clenches her teeth.

"I discovered his secret a long time ago and gave him a safe place away from home. You know, when conversation at the dinner table got to be too much." Vlad pauses again, letting his words sink in.

Maddie hates that she knows exactly what he means. All those times she and Jack discussed their inventions, their plans for when they finally captured the ghost boy. Most of what Vlad is saying might be a lie, but the truth within it cuts her deeply. "Really?"

Vlad might think himself a great actor, but he's apparently ignorant to Maddie's own deception. He nods at her questioning tone, eyes low and mouth pressed into a grim line. "I understand this is hard to hear. I did my best to make him feel safe, and we actually became close. Over the years, I came to think of him as something of a son. And his death has affected me deeply."

He stands, trailing his hand along his desk as he walks around toward Maddie. His shoulders droop, as if Danny's absence weighs on him. It really is a good performance. Peering closer, Maddie sees that he even looks pallid, and purple bags rest under his eyes. A look easily accomplished with some pale foundation and smudged eyeshadow.

"It's like a piece of me is missing without him. I'm sure you feel the same. We need each other, Maddie. To make us whole again."

Vlad reaches toward her, but she ducks away from him, slipping out of her chair. His hand falls through the empty air and he stumbles, nearly falling into the chair.

Now he's being ridiculous, Maddie thinks. She could have fallen for the makeup and the sob story if she didn't know better, but the off balance act? The distressed look in his eye when she pulls away? She's insulted that he thinks she would fall for it.

"You're right Vlad. I'm in pain. Danny is gone and it feels like he took a piece of me with him when he died. But I have my family to help me through it." She grabs her purse off the other chair and heads for the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be."

"Madeline, please—"

"Vladimir!" Her shout tears at her throat. She turns on him, blinking to fight back the burn in her eyes. He stands frozen where she left him, crumpled pathetically against her empty chair, one hand still outstretched. Maddie swallows the lump in her throat. "Enough."

She leaves without another word.

Next

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Hold On

Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~2220

Warnings: Some Maeve-related angst, but unlike the CM writers, I believe in allowing Spencer Reid to be happy. 

A/N: Quoted lyric, title, and thematic inspiration from “Hold On” by Tom Waits, which you can listen to over here. Encouragement and/or blame (depends on your POV) from @stunudo​ and @katwillrise​. Speedy beta from @fangirlxwritesx67​. 

  For a long time, Spencer didn’t understand other peoples’ need to touch. He avoided it whenever possible. 

It was partly about germs, of course, but partly just that he didn’t like the sensation. He’s never liked the intimacy of it, the closeness, and even as a child, unexpected hugs made him go stiff and uncomfortable, like he was holding his breath until the foreign stimulus was gone. 

There were a few people he made an exception for, people he trusted, people whose arms made him feel protected or comforted instead of threatened, but it was only a handful: his mom, Morgan, JJ, occasionally Penelope or Emily. 

He’d see couples walking down the street hand in hand, or with their arms wrapped around each other, and he wondered what the appeal was. He imagined sleeping next to someone, waking up with their body wrapped around his, their skin sweaty and their breath damp, and he imagined it would feel more like a stranglehold than an embrace. 

Then there was Maeve. 

He wanted to meet her in person, of course, but it wasn’t her physical body that he fell in love with. It was almost a relief, being able to have a relationship without worrying about the sensory minefield of having another human in his space.  

When he daydreamed about meeting her (and he daydreamed a lot) he mostly tried to imagine her face. He knew what it sounded like when she was smiling or laughing, but he wanted to see; he wanted to watch the way she lit up when they had those long joyful arguments about poetry. He wanted to learn her mannerisms, her expressions, wanted to learn her until he could read her like a book. 

He rarely thought about touching her, but then Maeve died, and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

He’d never been able to hold her hand. He wondered what her fingers had looked like, how they’d fit with his own, whether her palms were rough with callouses or soft and smooth, whether she bit her nails. 

He’d never been able to kiss her, and he wondered how her lips would feel. Would their first kiss have been shy and sweet, or deep and passionate? Who would initiate it? Would they be in the middle of a conversation when he decided he couldn’t wait, or would she take the lead? 

He’d never slept next to her, never felt her breathing slow in the dark, never held her. He’d never run his fingers through her hair, or wiped away her tears, or danced with her. 

He missed her. 

He could remember her laugh, her voice, the barely-there crackle of her breath over the line when she paused to think. He held tight to those memories. He never wanted to let them go. 

It shouldn’t have been possible, but he missed her body, too. His skin felt strange and bare for the longest time, every inch of him feeling the lack of her. Every nerve and cell felt the ghost of her imagined touch. He dreamed about it all the time, dreamed that she was there, arms wrapped around him, body pressed close to his. 

He dreamed about trying to hold on: feeling her slip away, the way his throat went tight with panic… gunshots. Those dreams always ended in a gunshot, and when he woke up, he was terrified and crying out for her, reaching out in the dark, feeling only emptiness where she should’ve been. 

He just wants to apologize, and to say goodbye. He wishes he’d had a chance to hold her, just once. 

It never really stops hurting. Spencer knows he'll be hearing that gunshot in his dreams for the rest of his life, and he knows he’ll never get a chance to say goodbye. He knows he’ll never get a chance to touch her. Spencer meets someone new, one Sunday morning, in his favorite coffee shop. She’s curled up in an armchair, reading a book, and he’s so distracted by the way she’s smiling as her eyes whiz across the page that he trips over his feet and spills his fresh mug of coffee on her. He stammers an apology, painfully embarrassed. He grabs a handful of napkins and offers them to her, but all he can do is stand there uselessly as she dabs at the stain. 

She’s humming something. It takes a second for Spencer to place it. 

“Tom Waits,” he blurts out, and she looks up at him, grinning. 

“Go ahead and call the cops…” she sings quietly. 

“You don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops,” he finishes. “Tom Waits doesn’t know what he’s talking about, apparently.” 

She laughs. “Depends on your definition of nice, I guess.” 

“Can I take you out to dinner sometime?” he asks, almost choking on the words. She says yes, for some reason.  

At the end of their first date, he walks her to her door and panics. He doesn’t know how to bridge the gap between their bodies, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he’s utterly captivated by her. It’s been so long since he wanted to reach out and touch someone. 

So he steps back and raises a hand in a wave. She smiles like she understands, but he kicks himself as soon as the door closes behind her. 

That night, he dreams about the goodbye. He dreams about walking her to her building, watching her step inside, but this time when the door closes behind her, he hears a gunshot. He wakes up gasping, terrified that he’ll never get to kiss her goodnight. 

He calls her, first thing in the morning, and asks for a second chance. 

On their second date, he takes her to lunch. He watches her hands as she fidgets, and his fingers itch with the desire to reach out. He watches her lick a drop of water from her lip, and he gets lost, imagining what it would be like to kiss her. 

After lunch, they go to his favorite used bookstore. It's a labyrinth of a place, with low ceilings and three floors and five old spiral staircases. It feels like you could find anything around the next corner, like the air is thick with magic under the smell of aging paper and ink, and there's something about it that makes Spencer feel like a child again. He leads her up the hidden back staircase, ducking to make it under the lintel, and when she looks around the mazelike loft, her face lights up with childlike joy that mirrors his own. He grabs her hand, then. 

It's the first time they've touched. Her palm feels tiny in his. "Which way?" he asks, and she looks around, bright eyed, weighing the options. She pulls him through a narrow aisle, past the autobiographies, her eyes alight and her lips curled in a smile, her fingers still laced with his. They're in the travel section when he stops short, tugging on her hand to reel her in. He kisses her before he can think too hard. It’s breathless, clumsy, eager, both of them smiling, and it's perfect. She’s solid and warm against him. He slides one hand up to her neck, running his fingers through her hair, and then cups her jaw. The pad of his thumb rests right against her heartbeat where it kicks steadily under the thin skin. He kisses her again. 

The tangible physical evidence of life under his hands feels like a minor miracle. He knows how fragile it is; he knows how easily this could be ripped away from him, how easy it would’ve been for things to go differently, for her heart to stop before he ever got to feel her pulse. 

He holds her hand as he walks her back to her building that afternoon. His hand is slightly sweaty, but she doesn’t seem to mind. He holds on tight, fascinated by the way their fingers slot together and the way he can feel the tiny knobby bones of her knuckles when he brushes his thumb over them. He kisses her outside her apartment and he smiles all the way home. 

The first time he undresses her, he takes his time. He touches every new inch of skin, reverent, presses his lips to every scar and freckle, until she’s flushed, flustered by the attention. 

“What?” she asks, as he stares. 

“You’re incredible,” he mumbles, because she is. Spencer is fascinated by the soft give of her stomach, the rise and fall of her chest, the shifting muscles of her thighs and the lines of tendons in her neck when she arches her back. There’s so much happening under her skin: red blood cells ferrying oxygen as she gasps in a breath, nerve endings firing off wherever he touches her, infinitesimal electric pulses rushing off to her brain to translate the pressure of his fingers into pleasure. 

It’s not just heat and friction. It’s life. She’s warm and breathing and so very alive under his palms, and every sensation is a celebration. 

Spencer falls hard and fast. She fits in his messy little world, slots neatly into spaces that he never realized were empty, filling his life with her warm laugh. It’s easier than he expected, letting her in. 

They have their first fight in Spencer’s kitchen on a Saturday afternoon. Spencer’s not sure what it’s about, afterward. It’s a blur. 

He gets passive-aggressive instead of dealing with things, and she says something sharp in return. Anger rises hot and corrosive in his throat, strangling everything else. He can’t swallow it down so he spits it out instead, snarling something hurtful, and he knows it’s petty, he knows it’s childlike to lash out, but it’s what he does. It’s what he always does. 

Spencer never really learned how to have an argument that doesn’t end with someone storming out the door. 

“You should go,” he snaps. Her eyes are big and hurt, and Spencer turns his back. 

“Spencer.” 

“I said, you should go.” 

There’s a long pause. He hears her grab her purse from the table and head for the door without another word. 

Spencer goes cold all over, because she’s about to walk out before he can say goodbye, and suddenly he’s terrified. He’s terrified, and it feels like he’s choking. The dull thud of the deadbolt sliding open sounds like a gunshot. 

She’s already halfway out the door when he says, “Wait.”  

He moves quickly, slamming the door shut and wrapping his arms around her, clinging tight. She slides her hands up his back and fists them in his shirt, pulling him closer. Spencer squeezes his eyes closed and feels the tears spill over. 

Anger is a waste of time. Why does he do that? 

“It’s okay,” she whispers, before he can even apologize. 

“Please don’t go,” he says, in a small strained voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I — sorry.” 

She takes a big shuddery breath and he realizes she’s crying too. He presses his lips to her temple and wipes her tears away with the pad of his thumb, and he has to bite back the words, because he knows it’s not the right moment, but all he can think is, I love you. 

A couple days later, they’re in his kitchen again, making dinner, and the light is golden where it comes through the window. She’s smiling. He takes the vegetable peeler out of her hand, sets it down on the counter, and tugs her away. 

“Dance with me?” he asks. She doesn’t question it. She slips her hand into his and sways slowly with him in the quiet kitchen, and he tells her: “I love you.”

He still dreams about Maeve sometimes. 

He’s stumbling through a strange unfamiliar house, opening doors and finding one empty echoing room after another, and he can’t find her. He’s so fucking scared he can’t breathe, and he’s choking on it, throat closed up tight. 

Last door. He can’t open it, he’s trying, but the handle is stuck, and then — 

He wakes at the gunshot, wakes with a sob in the back of his throat, reaching out into empty space. 

Except it’s not empty. She’s already there, right there in his arms, sprawled half on top of him with her sweaty skin plastered to his. 

“You okay?” she asks, voice slurred with sleep. 

“I will be,” he whispers. She’s already falling back to sleep, but he says it anyway: “I’m glad you’re here.” 

He still sort of feels like he’s choking. Love feels a lot like fear, sometimes. 

It’s more like a stranglehold than an embrace, but he holds her close and listens to the steady rush of oxygen in her lungs. She shifts, digging a knee into his thigh. He’s getting pins and needles in one arm, and her breath is hot and damp on the side of his neck, tickling his skin with every exhale. Spencer is overheated and uncomfortable. He doesn’t move. 

There are billions of people in this world and trillions of cells in her body, and there are countless tiny miracles that led them to this moment: tangled in the sheets, breathing slowly in the darkness, together, alive. 

Spencer understands, now. He never, ever wants to stop touching her. 

.

.

.

[halfway-happyyy]

I would love something a little angsty with Alex getting annoyed because the reader won't open up to him fully and let him take care of her but he doesn't realise it's because she's independent (yay girl power) and is kind of scared of depending on him incase she loses him and ends up being alone again but it ends all fluffy and cute! 🥺

btw I really love your writing , it always makes me so happy!! 🥰

Thank you for the support my friend! Here ya go, hope you like it 💜

“Your mother did not raise you with a wolf in your chest so you could howl over losing a man.”

As the March sun filtered in through the parted drapes of the penthouse window, you marvelled at the miniscule dust particles dancing in the bright strip of light, how they churned and drifted on in no particular direction. Your lover had yet to wake up and save for the cacophony of the unfamiliar city waking up around you, the only other noise in your room was of his soft snores. You couldn't be sure what time it was; the sunlight pouring in offered little indication. A lingering headache from the night before- a by-product of the alcohol consumed, throbbed incessantly at your temples and you closed your eyes and took a deep breath to centre yourself. When it was quiet like this- when you couldn't spot his impossibly weather-worn suitcase, or the tattered burgundy passport -tangible evidence of the life of a man who greeted aloneness like an old friend- you could almost picture the future you both fantasized so often about. Alexander shifted next to you then, the white cotton sheet falling to rest below his toned abdomen. Turning onto your side, you traced the smattering of freckles adorning the edge of his collarbone like constellations in the sky. Though he was off on a four-month long shoot the next morning, it was not lost on you how wonderful it was to know somebody so intimately, and how extraordinary that of all the people in the world, you got to dream next to him most evenings.

“You’re a million miles away,”

His voice bore the brunt of recent sleep and made you homesick for something you couldn’t put a finger on. “I’m right here sunshine,” You raised the palm of your hand to his cheek, caressed the warm, stubbled skin there, and watched a sleepy grin bloom on his face. “See?” You smiled at him.

“I see you,” He whispered. You regarded each other for a while, neither of you rushing to fill the silence until he traced a fingertip along the line of your jaw. “What were you thinking of just then?”

“I was thinking of how I'll never willingly drink vodka again, as long as I live.”

Nuzzling in to the warm hollow of your neck, his muffled chuckle sent a pleasant shiver through your body. He pressed a kiss to you and asked, “What were you really thinking of, though?”

You sighed softly. “I was thinking of how nice it would be to live in this moment for the rest of my days,” swallowing hard, you continued. “But that's woefully unrealistic so I will be content with however long this lasts.”

Alexander pulled away to gaze at you, his expression dubious. “Why is it unrealistic to think we could have many moments like this one?”

An almost imperceptible shift had occurred in your relationship recently that had become increasingly difficult to ignore. Where he had always been content to let everything in his life take a backseat to his career, he had started actively talking about a life in Sweden that didn't necessarily involve film. You indulged him every single time, of course. Usually, these conversations took place late into the evening, with you both nose-to-nose between the sheets. “Let’s go to Sweden,” He’d whisper. And you’d nod your head and say, “Okay Alex. Take me there…” And you would fall asleep to his voice; to the dreamy lull of his accent as he spoke of the life he knew as a boy, and of the life he wanted with you one day.

“We just live different lives right now, Alex.”

He blanched. “What on earth does that mean?”

You swallowed hard. “It means that when I can swing it with my job- I take two weeks off to visit you in a random city. I pay the plane fare-

“Don’t do that.” He murmured, lowly. “I offered to pay for your trip here, kid. Multiple times. You refused me every single time, so please don’t sit there and tell me that I don’t at least try.”

“How do you think that makes me feel, though? That what- the man that I’m currently seeing makes exponentially more money than I do, and so he should then feel obligated to pay for my every want and need? I’ve done alright for myself my entire life, Alex.”

I’ve done alright without anyone.

“I know you have.”

“I think,” You sighed softly. “That what we have going for us right now works well.”

A humorless laugh exited his mouth in the form of a puff of air and he uttered something under his breath in Swedish. “Of course, it works. It’s no strings attached in the most basic way. We get what we want from one another, and then we head off in different directions until we feel the itch again. It works, but it’s not enough.”

It’s not enough.

Those words rattled around in your brain, and when you repeated them, they tasted bitter on your tongue. “It was enough when we met. It was enough when birthdays and family gatherings were missed. It was enough until three or four months ago, when you suddenly decided that you wanted more. How did that come about, Alex?”

He shifted onto his back; his blue gaze trained on the ceiling above him. “I am so fucking sick of missing out on those things though,” Tossing his hands into the air in frustration, he took a deep breath. “It’s just time, kid. I can feel it in my bones. I want things with you that I’ve never wanted with anyone else before. I want a life with you- more than two or three weeks at a stretch. I want months and years and possibly even decades with you,” He cleared his throat and continued. “But- and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed it before, that I know that something about it scares you. I can feel how tense you become at the slightest mention of a life together and you don’t have to tell me why, I don’t know that I’m owed that, but I certainly do wonder.”

You turned onto your back and clasped your hands over your stomach, the prickle of looming tears behind your eyes suddenly made you angry. “Like a moth to a flame, I am intrinsically drawn to people who make habits out of leaving when they’ve gotten what they wanted and I’ve made the mistake of making homes out of people before, Alex.” You shook your head, could feel the lump rising steadily in the hollow of your throat. “And every single time it happens, I’m left homesick and alone in the end. And I’ve got no one to blame for it but myself. So please forgive me if I’m just not there yet.”

His expression was unreadable as he turned back onto his side to view you fully. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” He murmured. “I know how much it hurts to have your heart broken; I’ve been down that road more times than I’d like to admit, and I know how difficult it is to pick yourself back up from it. So, I can appreciate how well you guard yourself. But I’m laying it all out on the line for you, kid.” He reached for your hand and brought the back of it to his lips. “And if this is something you think that you might genuinely want- take your time. However much of it you may need. I know the days ahead may not be easy, but please know that you aren’t alone. I’m not going anywhere.”

And a weight that you had forgotten was even there dissipated from your chest in that moment. Though trepidation lingered, it was met with a faint light at the end of the tunnel. Alexander- your sunshine boy. You shifted back onto your side so that you were facing him, your foreheads nearly touching. You inhaled deeply and offered him a small, knowing smile. “Alex?”

“Mhm?”

“Take me to Sweden.”

His azure eyes lit up at the mere mention of home. “Right now?”

You nodded, contentedly. “Right this very second.”

He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead and began.  

“There’s something wonderful about the idea of a home on the water…”

[softmary]

I HAVE NO LIFE AND I NEED VALIDATION SO HERE

TW: Cringe. So much cringe. Why did I do this-

How I think I would get along with the slashers if they somehow spared me because of an unfitting reason that only happens on my imagination because irl they would totally destroy me:

Jason Voorhees: in a relationship? If he wanted to, I wouldn't turn him down! I feel like the motherly/housewife is a type he can like. Then again, this might just be me trying to convince myself that I'm worth it- If we were just friends I'd bring stuff he might enjoy, since I don't think there are many things to do on Crystal Lake other than killing horny teenagers-

Thomas Hewitt: MARRY ME I wouldn't mind being in a relatioship with him and I'm hoping he'd like me back 👉🏻👈🏻 As friends we would get along pretty well! I wouldn't yell at him or insult him, so there is a pretty good chance of becoming closer!

Bubba Sawyer: I'm not so sure about a relationship as I see him on a more "I want to care for you as if you were my child" way, ✨but✨ maybe I would accept being his gf because how can I say no to that face 🥺 As friends? Probably besties! He seems to be more sensitive and dependant than the other slashers, so I'd definetly cuddle him when he is feeling sad and would show him my seashell collection. I think he would enjoy it <:

Freddy Krueger: N O. He would be SO mean to me. I just know I would be his laughing stock. I can just hear him calling me "half-pint", "hairball", "round face", etc >:( He teases me because of my height because he is insecure about his own 🙄

Charles Lee Ray (AKA Chucky): a lovable jerk, but I don't see myself in a relationship with him- Would we get along, though? Eeeh... I'm not sure. If anything, he would stand me and I would stand him, but maybe we could get along even if we weren't the closest of friends.

Tiffany Valentine: I'm straight and she gives me mom vibes, so I'm afraid not :( Friends? Probably! She is very sweet and supportive, so I'd love to be adopted by her try to befriend her!

Michael Myers: I'm not sure if I'd accept being on a relationship with him... Don't get me wrong, he is v handsome 😳 it's just that he doesn't seem to be kind of guy to be very affectionate and I feel like he is very easely annoyed, so unless he forces me into a relationship, I'll stay single- Plus, I don't think I'm his type to be perfectly honest, haha... Friends? I don't think so. Again, he would stand me and that's good because that means I survive. Basically: "You are not annoying enough for me to murder you, but don't test your luck." but if he was willing to try, I'd totally give him a chance!

Carrie White: I don't think I'd be in a relationship with her. Not only because I'm straight, but because I think we would be better off as friends. I myself have been bullied back in highschool (though I didn't have it as rough as her) and I like to think that I'm nice, so we could work a friendship! I'm 99% sure that she doesn't enjoy killing people who haven't wronged her, so maybe we could even become besties :D

Bo Sinclair: I... don't think we could be in a relationship. We are polar opposites and while I love that dynamic, we are WAY too different. I don't blame him for being like that because he had a rough life and his shitty parents basically pushed him into those anger issues. A friendship? Again, I'm unsure. If he is willing to try and be nice to me, I'll give him a chance!

Vincent Sinclair: now this is a Sincalir I can get around 😳🕶🤏🏻 If he wants me to be with him, you won't see me turning him down. He is reserved yet a little hot headed if pushed to his limit, just like me, so being in the same room with him without saying anything and just cuddling or observing him while he works is really not problem for me!

Lester Sinclair: just like Bubba, he is my child, a feral one. Seriously, this man is a possum and I love that. We would get along perfectly because even if I'm quiet and well behaved I'm just as weird as he is- We would go to the woods to catch bugs and come back to the town covered in dirt from head to toe and Bo wouldn't let us in so we would end up stargazing on his truck before falling asleep. A relationship with him is tangible! But I'd rather stay as friends.

Pennywise (2017): another lovable jerk who happens to also be feral. I would be in a relationship with him if he wanted to. As friends he would be so chaotic and would tease me by scaring the crap out of me any chance he got, thought he would probably do the same if we were to be bf & gf. No, I don't care that he is actually a giant spider. He is a shape-shifter so it doesn't matter.

Pennywise (1990): He gives me unhealthy grandpa vibes, so I don't think I would be in a relationship with him. I don't think he'd ask me out because I'm probably no this type either, lmao. As friends? Maybe... maybe not... if he spared me it has to be for a reason, so maybe we could work something out.

Yautja (any of them!!): yes. Of course. Absolutely. Please take me away. Boyfriend material right there. I would LOVE to be in a relationship with one of them! Though, if I'm being realistic here I don't think they would like me. I'm way too small, weak and clumsy to be likeable and if I don't meet the human standards, I doubt I'd meet the yautja ones, haha... If I'm lucky I might be able to befriend one.

Brahms: very handsome BOY (wink wink nudge nudge. Please, don't block me 😔) I would accept, basically because he would make me choose between staying or getting murdered in cold blood. He is a stinky rat but I love him anyways. It could work because he is just as touch starved as I am. But I'm afraid he can be a lil' too horny sometimes- I would have to introduce him to the magical world of ✨personal space✨ and ✨consent✨ I've struggled with its meaning before, I know what I'm doing- As a nanny I would be basically the mom to an adult who is twice my size and that would tease me for it and who is unable to say "No" to him after he does that pose where he has both arms behind his back-

[yandere-daydreams]

A birthday one-shot for my favorite pair of twins, if only because they both deserve something nice. Or, Beelzebub deserves something nice, at least. I will tolerate Belphegor for the sake of a very good himbo’s happiness.

TW: Imprisonment, Dehumanization and Non-Consensual Touching.

~

Your legs had gone numb an hour ago.

Belphie was relentless, even if his tenacity was dedicated to a passive effort. You doubted he’d gotten up at all that day, his arms wrapped around your midriff and his legs strategically tangled with yours, the demon’s head resting somewhere between your collarbone and your chest. He weighed you down as much as he held you down, his form splayed out over yours just enough to make a change of position impossible without waking him. But, it didn’t really matter. Even if he wasn’t there, even if you were finally left alone, you still wouldn’t be able to do so much as roll over without his and Beelzebub’s permission.

The cuffs around your wrist made sure of that, strung around the headboard without more than an arm’s length of slack, as tight as they were unbreakable. You were sure of that, the latter alone had been tested more times than you could count.

You sighed, unintentionally, Belphie’s eyes flickering open at the slight noise. For someone who spent so little time awake, he was a horribly light sleeper, always seeming to stir at the sparsest hint of disruption. You wondered if the two were related, sometimes, but you never bothered him about his sleeping habits.

An unconscious Belphie was a harmless Belphie, as far as you were concerned. You didn’t need more of his attention than you already got.

“You’re thinking about me,” He said, drawing you out of your thoughts. You didn’t attempt to deny it, only cringing as he pushed himself up, resting his cheek on your shoulder before continuing. “I can tell, y’know. You get this little scowl whenever you do, then your eyes get all scrunched up and you try to pretend you’re not doing it. Is it one of those violent daydreams, or… are you purposefully fantasizing about me, (Y/n)?” There was a short pause, a soft laugh soon filling the silence. “I can’t blame you. It’s so boring being locked-up all day, but… I’m sure you know that now, don’t you?”

You only tensed, trying to evaluate how serious his threats really were. “Shut up, you incestuous little prick.”

“Not feeling very creative today, I guess.” He sat up fully this time, stretching as he did so, taking a moment to move the hair out of your face and seeming to relish in the way he was able to loom over you. “We’ve talked about that mouth of yours, haven’t we? Apparently, someone needs to learn another lesson about--”

The sound of the bedroom door creaking open cut him off, Belphie falling silent as he cautiously investigated the noise. You could see him go rigid, something awful brewing beneath his skin for the blink of an eye before dissipating, Belphie relaxing as soon as he saw who the intruder happened to be. You followed his line of sight hesitantly, regretting the action as soon as you met Beelzebub’s eyes, his gaze filled with panic and fear and so many horrible things, paranoid things. Even after arriving to the same scene countless times, he still seemed caught off-guard whenever he saw the two of you, surprised but relieved that you hadn’t managed to disappear. Like he didn’t think the two of you would really be here, when he got back.

But, you were, and Beelzebub recognized that. Enough to shake his head and step through the narrow entrance, hardly relaxing despite the renewed confirmation of your safety. He was still tentative as he stepped close to Belphie’s bed, sitting on the edge and kneeling down just enough to kiss your forehead. Despite your… adverse reaction, he smiled after pulling away, greeting his brother with another grin and a small ruffle to his hair, Belphie smoothing it down with a soft groan. “Lucifer’s going to be mad when he finds out your skipped class,” He warned, the worry practically dripping from his tone. “It’s the second time this week, too.”

Belphie pouted in response, abruptly falling back into his pillow. “It’s my birthday, though. He has to let it slide today.”

It was a lighthearted whine, but pure dread still washed over you, the realization hitting you much harder than it should’ve. Without a window or a clock or anything to go off of, you’d managed to close lose track of the date. Hell, you could hardly tell if it was night or day, most of the time. Beelzebub seemed to notice your distress, running a hand over your restraints as he frowned. “I don’t think they remembered...”

“Sure, they didn’t ‘remember’. (Y/n) knows exactly what day it is.” He slotted himself back against you swiftly, nuzzling into the crook of your neck when Beelzebub didn’t seem convinced. “It’s been hell trying to get them to settle down, they wouldn’t stop squirming until you walked in! I had to stop them from saying such terrible things about you, too. It’s almost like the brat was trying to upset us.”

Beelzebub’s expression hardened, falling in disappointment. You jerked away from Belphie reflexively, thrashing and kicking and struggling when you failed to gain distance. “He’s a fucking liar--”

“See? A brat.” His hold on you tightened, and Beelzebub edged a little closer. You attempted to throw your elbow into his twin, but he only grabbed your forearms, pressing them flat into the mattress and squeezing too harshly, a whimper working its way through your lips before you could stifle it. Belphie’s excitement turned tangible, at that. “Probably didn’t get us a present, either, but I think we deserve one after putting up with so much.”

Beelzebub’s eyes brightened, his gaze focusing on you a little more intensely. “A present?”

“Yeah, big guy, a present.” You could feel Belphie’s smirk press into your skin, his teeth suddenly much too close to something vital. “That sounds nice, right? I’m sure our sweetheart here wouldn’t mind, either.”

You did, you minded, but as soon as you opened your mouth, Beelzebub was smothering you, his lips sloppily pushed against yours with a bruising force. You writhed, bucking and attempting to push him away, but it was all you could do to keep him from crushing your arms under his hold, a threat Beelzebub didn’t seem to see an issue with carrying out. Desperately, you looked towards Belphie for help, but he only stared on, a small, lazy smile plastered over his features.

He wouldn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. You could read them as well as they could read you, by now.

Whether or not he said it, Belphie wanted his present just as badly as Beelzebub did. Even if his gift was a little more indirect than his twin’s.