#dean-charles chapman fluff

[dean-charleschapman]

The Weight

Dean-Charles Chapman x Reader

Requested: Yes / No

Summary: A sad Dean comes home from filming and you comfort him

Warnings: fluff, slight angst, 1917 spoilers!

Word count: ~1.5

A/N: My first ever fic! Please send me requests/feedback!

Take a load off, Fanny

Take a load for free

You startle at the sound of your phone ringing, an instinctive smile curling at your lips as you hear the familiar tune of The Weight by The Band playing from your pocket.

“Hey, love! How goes the filming?” you answer Dean’s call brightly, smiling into the receiver as you relax against the couch.

“Pretty good, but I feel like I haven’t seen you in days,” he replies, a pout evident in his voice.

“You saw me this morning, silly,” you giggle.

It did feel as if the two of you hardly spent any time together anymore; the preparation for 1917 had taken longer than either of you had thought, and now that filming had begun, you rarely saw Dean during the day.

“I’ll be home early tonight, the weather’s shit so we can’t film much. It’s lovely outside, no clouds for miles. Absolute shit,” Dean chuckles quietly on the other end and you grin in response, forgetting that he can’t see your smile.

“I’ll try to be awake when you get home, but no promises,” you reply, crossing your legs and propping your feet up on the small coffee table in front of the couch.

“No worries, darling. I probably won’t be able to make it five minutes home without passing out,” he says, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

You both pause, just enjoying each other's presence, speaking becoming unnecessary as you sigh into the phone. You hear muffled voices on Dean’s end, and a hushed reply as he tries to convince Sam to give him a few more minutes with you. You smile and wait for his reluctant goodbye. 

“I hate to cut this short, but duty calls...I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye, love. Good luck finding some clouds,” you say, smiling as you hear both Dean and George’s laugh.

“I love you,” he says softly, as if trying to have one last moment with you away from the crew and cast.

“Love you more, D.”

You hang up, leaning your head back against the couch and feeling around for the TV remote. You might as well try to fill the time until Dean gets home. You flick through the channels and settle on an Our Planet special about exotic birds, letting yourself relax completely into the cushions. Before you know it, you’re fast asleep, the soothing voice of David Attenborough clouding your mind as colorful feathers float across the screen.

                                                          …

A quiet shuffling from the front hall causes you to wake up, and you slowly open your eyes to the blue shadows of evening. A warm yellow light filters in from the front door, and you realize that Dean has arrived home. A lazy smile settles over your face as you pull yourself off of the couch and make your way to the hallway to greet him.

“Hey lovie, you’re still up,” he speaks softly as he sees you approaching from the living room, still wrapped in a blanket that you had tangled yourself in during your nap.

“Mmhm,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his torso and closing your eyes, letting his scent wash over you. He exhales into the embrace, placing his chin in the crook of your neck as he sways slightly with you in his arms.

“Missed you all day,” he murmurs into your hair, placing a kiss to your neck.

“Missed you too,” you breathe, pulling him in tighter as you feel his smile against your skin.

“Sorry if I woke you up. You still tired?” he asks, pulling back slightly to look down at you with warm eyes.

“A bit, though I took a nap so I’m not sure how successful I’ll be falling asleep again,” you reply, resting your head against his chest. You can feel his steady heartbeat from under his sweatshirt, and you focus on the lulling sound.

“Well I’m knackered. Feels like I haven’t slept in years,” he groans, letting his arms loosen around you as he makes his way to the kitchen.

“How was shooting? Any clouds?”

“Yes actually, we had a stroke of luck when the wind picked up, so we got to shoot a few scenes. Filmed one of the hardest ones today,” he says with a slight frown that doesn't go unnoticed by you.

“Yeah?” you reply, waiting to see if he’ll elaborate.

“Yeah, it was exhausting. One of the longest takes we’ve ever done, and really emotionally taxing,” he huffs out a laugh to lighten his words, but you can tell that it’s forced.

“Everything ok, love? You seem stressed,” you purse your lips, looking knowingly into his eyes.

He runs a hand through his hair and looks away, leaning against the countertop. “M’fine, just tired,” he brushes you off, his shoulders tense.

“I know you, Dean. I can tell when you’re upset.”

“I'm not upset, just...a little shaken I guess,” he replies, eyes closing as he rubs his face.

“What happened?” you ask with slight concern, coming around the counter to his side.

“Nothing, don't worry love. Blake can be tough sometimes, that’s all,” he turns to you, still leaning against the table as he tries to put on a smile.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to have to be a soldier, even in a movie,” you look into his eyes, trying to pick out his emotions.

Dean stays silent for a moment, just looking back at you with sharp, blue eyes.

“It was Blake’s death scene. We filmed it today,” he finally speaks, his voice low as he continues to fiddle with his hair.

You reach a hand up to stop him, smoothing out his brown curls and giving him a sympathetic look. You know how attached he is to the character, you had seen his reaction when he had first read the script for 1917, and you can tell he doesn’t want to let him go.

“It was odd, you know. We’d all rehearsed everything for months, but at the end of the scene, I just couldn’t stop crying.” He tilts his head to meet your gaze again, emotion swimming in his eyes.

You give him a sad smile, reaching for his hands. He wraps them around yours, his grip firm and soft, and you give his fingers a squeeze.

“That’s understandable, darling. It’s a sad story,” you comfort him. 

“I think I just need a break. I don’t know why this is affecting me so much.” His voice wavers as he furrows his brows, trying to hide the tears welling in his eyes.

You feel your throat tighten up just from his broken expression, and you fight to stay composed so you can comfort him.

“It’s because you love Blake. And dying like he does...I don’t know how you do it,” you shake your head, watching Dean blink back fresh tears.

Dean nods and swallows thickly, stepping closer to you. You open your arms for him and he accepts the hug gratefully.

You stroke his back as he takes deep breaths against you, pressing a kiss to his temple. You hold him like that for a few moments before gathering yourself and breaking the silence.

“It’s ok to be upset about it, you know. I’m sure I’ll be a right mess when I see it,” you say softly, moving your face to rest your lips by his ear.

“Why don’t we go to bed now, alright?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, his breathing steadier as he releases you from the tight hug.

You follow him to the bedroom, watching the heavy drag of his feet as you turn off the hallway lights and let the dark haze of night cast vertical shadows on the walls.

You don’t bother putting on pajamas and climb into bed wearing just your t-shirt, slipping under the comforter next to Dean who is already lying down with his eyes closed.

You turn to face him and he opens his eyes, weary and hooded with sleep. He blinks slowly and smiles at you, using his arm to pull you into him so that your head rests against his shoulder and his arm wraps snugly around your waist.

“Thanks,” he whispers, and you tilt your head up to meet his tired gaze.

“For what?”

“For being you.”

“Anytime,” you grin, your reply almost drowned out by a yawn.

He shakes his head, “I mean it. Thank you for always listening and caring. Most people wouldn’t.” 

“I’ll always listen. And of course I care, I love you,” you murmur against his chest, shuffling your body closer to his so that you are pressed completely against him.

“I love you too,” he says softly, his thumb rubbing your hip gently beneath the covers.

“Goodnight, D,” you yawn again, throwing an arm over his chest and placing your hand over his heart.

“Goodnight,” he breathes out, his hand coming up to rest over yours as he places a kiss on the top of your head.

It feels as if a weight is pulling at your lids as you attempt to take one last loving look at Dean before drifting off to sleep, feeling warm and safe with his arms around you.

That night, you dream of brightly colored birds.

[ditch-witches]

do you think you could write a smut where dean is stressed out so the reader gives him a blowjob to help him out?

pairing: Dean Charles Chapman x reader

warnings: nsfw (18+ but i'm not your mom [unless like,,, you ask nicely]), oral (m. receiving), suggestive language, there’s only so many words for dick im SoRRY, also i'm writing this at 4 in the morning so who knows what else. 

Dean ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the cap off a highlighter with his teeth as he broke down another scene from the script he recently received. For no reason in particular, this character was getting on his nerves and testing his weaknesses as an actor. You wrung your hands as you silently paced in front of his office door, debating whether or not to intrude on him while he was so obviously frustrated. You listened as he shifted in his chair, the plastic creaking as he leaned back and rubbed his eyes. You took a deep breath before rapping your knuckles against the wood of the door frame, pulling his attention towards you as his eyes softened at the sight of you. 

You noticed how his hair was getting almost too long as it curled around his ears and framed his face, dark circles around his light eyes making him look a few years older than he actually was. "How's it going?" You asked, stepping into the room as his eyes followed you to turn on another lamp. 

He sighed tiredly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desktop. "Well," he paused, a small grin tugging at his lips before continuing, "it's going." You moved across the floor to stand behind him. Your hands settled against his shoulders, letting your fingers dig into his skin softly to soothe the knot forming between his shoulder blades. He groaned at the feeling, reclining back into your touch happily. 

"Anything I can do to help?" You inquired softly, stooping down to smooth a kiss to his cheek. He hummed in response, his eyes shutting momentarily as he relaxed as your hands kneaded against his arms. You combed your brain for how to ease his mind as he exhaled. 

And then it hit you. “Fancy a break?” You asked, your hands continuing their motions and he muttered an agreement before swinging out his chair to stand. You stepped in front of him, pushing his chest so he plopped back down. Dean’s eyes flashed up to you with a raised eyebrow and a small grin on his face. He studied your every move as you blatantly pushed your hair out of your face and tied it back into a ponytail as you bent down between his legs. 

His lips parted into an almost shocked expression as if he was waiting for you to back out and tell him it was some kind of a prank. You dragged your nails alongside his thigh as he leaned forward slightly. He smirked at you, settling one of his hands into your hair. You turned your head to press a kiss to his palm and bat your eyes at him suggestively. “You’re doing such a good job. Don’t tire yourself out,” you cooed, coyly. Dean nearly rolled his eyes, knowing what you were up to. 

You sat up on your knees to capture his lips against yours, eliciting a small moan to echo from his throat at the taste of you. Your hand traveled up his thigh and towards his zipper, his other hand moving to assist you as he grabbed your wrist. You allowed his tongue to slip into your mouth as he pulled you into a deeper kiss. Your fingers icked to please him as you began to palm him through his jeans, his body responding quickly to your advances like it was the first time you’d ever touched him. 

As he began to harden beneath your gesture, your lips found their way to his jaw, your teeth skimming across his skin to tease a blush to his cheeks. You coaxed his erection further before you began to unclasp his pants. “Relax, baby,” you murmured against his skin. He moaned softly as your lips traced the divots of his collar bones, your tongue swirling as if to hint at what was in store. You sank back on the balls of your feet, your hand reaching up to push him flat against the chair back. He bit his lip to fight the smile threatening to break across his features as your fingers curled around the base of his cock. He tensed under your grip as you began to pump your hand, drawing out another hushed moan from the man above you. “Does that feel good?” You taunted, looking up at him through your eyelashes. 

He exhaled heavily in response, one of his hands moving to rest on your forearm for some kind of support as you encouraged his further arousal. You let your tongue dart out across your lips before pressing them to the sensitive skin of his tip. You focused on how each of your actions caused his body to relax, a small sense of pride swelling deep inside of you at the fact that it was so easy for you to pleasure him. You eased your mouth around his erection, your tongue swirling around his shaft. As your head began to move in tandem with your hand, you basked in the growing vulgarity of his words. 

You pulled your mouth off of him, continuing to speed your hand motions gradually as your teeth etched into his thigh. You could watch him unravel for you for the rest of your life; his gaze hazy as he avoided your sultry eye contact, his lips red and aggravated from harsh attempts at keeping himself quiet. Some of his curls were tugged back from being pulled at, his blissed-out expression creating a more prominent redness to his cheeks. Your lips slowly traveled back to his cock, an almost pleading look settling into his bright irises as your intentions were now directed on taking him deeper. 

His grip on your arm tightened as you pushed his tip past your lips once again, a strangled groan of pure pleasure hissing through his teeth. As he reached the back of your throat, tears began to brim in the corners of your eyes and his arousal twitched in your mouth. You began to bob your head once again, edging him on further with each of his moans of your name which you knew was a warning that he was close. You alternated the movements of your mouth and hand, making him fight against bucking his hips towards you. His cock tensed and in an instant, hot sticky strands of pleasure were filling your mouth. 

You brushed a hand across your chin and Dean leaned forward, digging his fingers into your hair to capture your lips in a worshiping kiss. He moaned against your mouth, sending a vibration straight to your core. You severed the action and stood, leaving him nearly breathless. “Don’t overwork yourself,” you taunted with a small wink, making him look up at you with an almost submissive undertone as he nodded. 

[strangethings-everywhere]

George Mackay idea where reader is also an actor? Maybe they’re doing a promo tour together, or both at an awards show. Just ideas. I love what you’ve written already!

Here you go anon! I hope you like it!

It’s Golden Globes time and your movie is up for best film (drama) alongside 1917. Because of this, your table is next to the 1917 table and you’ve had to stare at George Mackay for the entire evening. Little did you know, he had also been mesmerized by you.

The entire promo season for your film had involved you and your castmates being asked questions about your ‘rival’ film 1917. Now that it was finally time for the Golden Globes and you weren’t prepared in any way to actually meet the film’s stars. 

You definitely weren’t prepared to see them in suits.

You had been chatting with Florence Pugh, who you had starred alongside in Midsommar when George Mackay entered your line of sight with Dean-Charles Chapman in tow. You slowly began to drift out of the conversation, watching the two boys as they walked to the table right next to yours.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Florence waved her hand in front of your face. “What are you…” She turned and followed your eyeline, smirking wickedly. “Oh. It’s George.”

“Florence!” You hissed. “Shut up!”

She let out a cackle. “Oh come on! You’ve had a crush on him since forever! Now’s your moment!” 

“Yes, he’s absolutely going to want to talk to me after I stare at him for three hours. Great job, Florence.” You rolled your eyes.

“No, go talk to him!” Florence took your drink and shoved you towards where he was sitting, chatting with Dean and his director Sam Mendes. 

Instead of listening to Florence, you quickly took your seat and struck up a conversation with one of your castmates. Out of the corner of your eye, you continued to watch George. 

You had been following his promo tour, which had been happening at the same time as yours, but you couldn’t tear yourself away from the idea of him. Your twitter feed had been full of updates and photos about him and Dean and your tumblr (that no one knew about) was all about George and 1917. You found him captivating. It was as if he was a drug you just couldn’t seem to give up. 

He was definitely handsome, a fact you couldn’t deny. He stood tall next to Dean, running a hand through his blond curls. You wished so desperately that just for a second his blue eyes would land on you, that he would smile because of something you had said.

Fear, however, made sure you stayed rooted to your seat with the people you felt comfortable with.

Florence kept texting you throughout the show, egging you on to talk to George or even Dean during the commercial breaks. You ignored her, rather focusing on either your food or your castmates. 

“Excuse me? You’re Y/N Y/L/N right?”

You slowly looked up. Dean-Charles Chapman was standing in front of you, a mischevious look in his eye. “Yes… why?”

“Well, my friend George over there is a fan of yours and I was hoping, if it weren’t too much trouble, if we could take a picture with you?” 

You furrowed your eyebrows at him. There was definitely some ulterior motive to this request and it was probably the reason that George had come over with him to ask. But you knew that you wouldn’t be able to say no. You took Dean’s outstretched hand and allowed him to lead you over to the 1917 table where George was sitting, sipping a glass of something. 

“Oi, George. Stand up, straighten your tie.” Dean quipped, his smirk ever-growing as you got closer. George shot to his feet, almost dropping his drink as his hand flew to his tie. “This is-”

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You interrupted him, if not for your sake then for George’s. “I’ve seen 1917 maybe three times now and I’ve never been more stunned by a film. You did incredible.” 

You shook hands with the poor Brit, surprised that you hadn’t fainted in his presence yet. His hands were rough, calloused, and yet warm and comforting. You had a sudden urge to lace your fingers with his. 

“It’s a pleasure.” He smiled at you. “You were amazing in your film, positively blew me away. I’ve followed your entire promo tour.”

oh. 

You couldn’t help the furious blush that enflamed your face. “I-I’ve done the same for you.”

Luckily, George began to blush. Hard. His blue eyes lit up, getting those happy smile lines around the corners. “Really?” 

“Yeah, of course.” You couldn’t help but smile back at him. 

George turned back towards his table, grabbing a napkin and a pen. He quickly scribbled something down on the napkin and held it out to you. You took it, your heart racing.

It was his number. 

“If you aren’t leaving so soon, would you like to get together?” George asked as the music began to play. 

“I’d love to.” You beamed up at him. “Good luck tonight George.” Gripping the napkin in your fist, you took your seat. 

As the award show carried on, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. You also couldn’t keep your heart from beating a little faster than usual. No award could compare to the happiness you were feeling in this moment.

I hope you liked it!Also here’s the link to my masterlist! (finally)And I’m sorry if people have been waiting for a tagslist or something, I’ve not been keeping up with it. Please comment on any of my fics if you would like to be put in a tagslist of sorts and I’ll do my very best to make one. Much love!

[daydreamngs]

Call Me Will | William Schofield

requested: Hi! Could you please write a schofield x reader fic where the reader joins schofield and blake to deliver the message? Love your writing btw (send me some requests!)

warnings: Fluff

word count: 1,242

a/n: Back on my writing nonsense! I hope this is alright, I haven’t written in a hot second so this might be a little rough. Also I love this concept and might continue this in more chapters? If anyone would be interested in that! ♡

It was odd, why were they risking a nurse? It wasn’t common for them to send valuable nurses away in a time of need but Y/N was not going to question it. She was told to follow her orders and be good, so that was exactly what she was doing, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t curious and hesitant about said orders. She wasn’t exactly sure as to what was happening, the men in charge were very brief with her only telling her that she was to go with two men to deliver an important message, as to what that message was she did not know. It must have been very important if they were allowing a nurse to go with them. Y/N figured her only use would be to be there in case of a medical emergency, but still, she’d be dead weight to the soldiers. Her life might be at more risk and she would be putting theirs in risk too as she was not the one wielding a gun in order to protect herself. Her life was in the hands of two men she did not know, and if they would bother to protect her was something that truly terrified her. This was just too odd all the way around. 

“Why the hell is she comin’ with us?” It was a shocked, and almost angry whisper that wasn’t so quiet. Her eyes were glued on the ground for a moment before she glanced up to look between the two men. One was a little shorter, and plumper with all the layers compared to the other, not that she cared, and the other man was rather tall and slimmer. Both noticeably handsome. Her eyes couldn’t help but linger on the taller man, despite trying to pull them away. Hadn’t it been under this situation, she might be blushing to be in the company of such handsome men, but this was no situation for such a thing. “I really don’t know.” The taller one responded with a confused and exasperated tone to his voice. The woman couldn’t help but sigh in response to their conversation, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just as confused as both of you. I don’t see the sense in this, as many ways as I look at it I just don’t see it. I may be a nurse and I might be helpful in the scenario that someone gets hurt, but I don’t wield a weapon and I’ll only slow you down in the long run. But, there isn’t anything we can do about it, orders were clear, as much as we may dislike them.” Silence falls around them after that, wide eyes staring at her as she stared back. The taller one was the first to nod his head, sniffing as he rubbed the back of his neck. “M’ Schofield.” He introduced himself, and then the shorter one, “Blake. Tom Blake.” Y/N nods her head, a small smile gracing her lips, “Y/L/N, but I prefer Y/N.” These were the men that her life was in the hands of and vice versa. At least they were nice, unlike some of the men she’s met while being a nurse for the war. “We really ought to get goin’ now, we only have a short time to get there.” The man whose name she now knows as Blake says. Suddenly it felt too real, and dread filled her stomach to the brim and a dark expression drug her features down. There was a bad feeling in her, and she just couldn’t shake it off. 

Much to her surprise, the men in charge had offered her a change in clothing. A uniform just like the soldiers were wearing, they said it was so she wasn’t as noticeable in her nurse uniform. She was grateful for that, the thought of doing everything she’d need to do in her nurse uniform was something that she knew wouldn’t have worked well together. It was a tad big on her form, but that wasn’t something she was going to complain about. It would provide a bit more warmth than her thin dress and some layers, and it would also make it easier to move. Y/N wasn’t really sure as to what she should be doing, so she watched carefully whenever Schofield and Blake made advances. Her hands shook in fear and her stomach churned with nerves, the mud was quick to cling to her skin and clothing, making her body noticeably heavier. At least she didn’t have the heavy bags on her like the two soldiers who she was accompanying, that was another thing she was grateful for. In that moment, for every bad thing that was happening, she tried to find a good thing - there were very few - in an attempt to keep her sane. As she crawled through the mud, trying to stay really as low as possible, her eyes looked around her trying to keep an eye out for anything. It wasn’t until the men slowly stood up that she did too, almost mirroring their actions. She felt the need to stay close behind them just for her own safety, though she didn’t want to be too close in case it’d bother them for any reason. When she signed up to become a nurse in the war, she was not expecting this to happen, not even in the slightest. 

It was eerily quiet, the foul smell that followed them everywhere had made her gag once or twice before she had started to somewhat used to it - not that she ever really would. Her watchful eyes took note of everything, including how close that Schofield was standing to her, how he slowed his long stride in order to allow her to stay close. How he kept glancing back at her, only for a second before he looked back in the front, surveying the land. It seemed as though he was making sure she was okay, that she was safe. The thought made her stomach stir, maybe she could rely on them more than she thought she could. It was comforting, made her feel the slightest bit safer in the war zone where anything could happen. They continued on a few more steps before the sound of an airplane ripped through the air, leaving Y/N terrified and clueless as to what she should do, skin blossoming with goosebumps. Schofield grabbed ahold of her hand quickly and dragged her with him to a part in the dirt that was almost carved out, perfect for hiding. Bodies were pressed tightly against one another in an effort to all squeeze together. “Stay still.” It’s said in a rush, but quietly as they sat stiff, balled together. Y/N held her breath as they passed over, her eyes pricking with tears as she sat as still as she could. It wasn’t until Schofield looked up and announced it was one of there’s that she finally let out her breath and tried to relax her stiff body. She looked down and saw that Schofield and she were still gripped to each other. Hands tightly holding on for dear life, his shoulders overlapping hers in a somewhat protective manner. She smiled softly as they stood, “Thank you, Schofield.” His tired eyes looked into hers and nodded his head. A soft smile graced his lips in return. “Will, call me Will.”

[heathsbitch]

EPHEMERAL - t.b (ii.)

Gold covered every inch of Joffrey's chambers and Freyja couldn't expect anything less from a prince. Light streaked in through the large windows, shadows cascading over the furniture. Freyja's heart still thundered against her chest, scared of what the prince would do. "Come, I want to show you something." Joffrey told the girl as they entered the room.

An ornate crossbow lay on the small table in the center of his chambers. Joffrey swiftly picked it up and held it out towards Frejya, "Your grace..." Her words trailed off, she was truly lost for words. She'd never seen something quite as beautiful. "You like it?" The pair got closer to each other, Freyja's hands running across the bow.

Her lips broadened into a smile as she admired the weapon. Little did she know that Joffrey's eyes scanned over the girl, provocative thoughts racing through his mind along with his plan to bed her. "Freyja, can you show me how to hold it again?" He spun to face the boar head mounted on his wall, getting into a shooting position.

"Of course, your grace." Palms sweaty, she positioned him how she had done earlier that day. Her head was turning, anxious thoughts pounded through it. 'What are Joffrey's intentions?' She wondered. "You can call me Joffrey, Freyja. No need for formalities when we're alone." His voice deepened.

Freyja's hands still rested on his shoulders as Joffrey turned his head. His eyes looked almost like crystals in the low light, but dark intentions lurked behind them. His arms dropped, the crossbow clanking to the floor. "Joffrey..." She tried to warn him but the prince ignored her, his lips met hers anyway, his hands moving to grab her waist.

Freyja's hands tensed, grabbing Joffrey's shirt. She pushed him away, his hands still held her body close to his. "Joffrey, this is wrong." He kissed her again, his tongue forcing itself into her mouth. "I want you, Freyja," He pushed the girl towards his bed, his hands coming to undo the strings of her dress.

But before things could progress any further a knock sounded from the door, saving Freyja. Joffrey huffed and Freyja tried to tie her dress up. "How dare you dist-," His words were cut short once he saw who was behind the door, "Mother, Littlefinger." The prince spat. "Your grace," Freyja's father bowed, he stared at the distressed state of his daughter.

"That'll be enough now, Joff," The Queen Mother stated before gesturing for Freyja to leave the room. She did not hesitate, rushing past Cersei and into her father's arms. Her breath was uneven and heavy. "I'll be taking her home," Petyr told Cersei and her son. "You have some explaining to do." He hissed in his daughter's ear, a sob coming from her mouth.

As she was ushered down the stairs, her eyes caught sight of a flash of golden hair. Tommen. His eyes held sorrow for the girl, he saw what had happened. But Freyja couldn't linger on the sight, Littlefinger corralling her back to their home.

"What in the name of the gods were you thinking? Trying to get into the bed of the prince?" Petyr Baelish roared at his daughter once they had made it home. "I wasn't trying anything. I didn't want to, father. Please forgive me." The girl's voice was quiet and timid. "Liar," Littlefinger muttered before making his way over to his daughter. He clutched her small face in his rough hands, "The next time you embarrass me in front of royalty will be the last time you do anything in this city."

His voice was calm, but his next actions were anything but. His hand came crashing down against Freyja's face, his rings cutting her lip in the process. She fell to the floor, hands clutching her face, tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry." She kept repeating although she knew the words meant nothing to her father.

Freyja wanted to run. She wanted to find safety somewhere. Maybe Gendry could provide it, but she would have to spend the night alone, her father watching her like a little bird trapped in a cage.

The next morning Freyja was tasked with cleaning one of her father's brothels as 'punishment' for the actions of the previous night. She found her head filled with thoughts of Tommen. She had taken a liking to the young prince after just the short amount of time they had spent together. She missed his company, his warm smile, the talks they shared at dinner. She realised she had felt safe with him. 'If only he was here now, maybe he could cheer me up.' Freyja thought to herself as she scrubbed the entryway floor of the brothel.

"Excuse me, miss. I was wondering if you know where I can find Freyja Baelish."

It was as if the gods heard the girl's cry. Freyja turned around to face the prince, her lips stretched into a big smile. "Your grace." She bowed, the rag she was using to clean still firmly held in her hands. "Freyja." The prince's face mirrored the girl's, his warm smile was back.

He was clothed in gold, as usual, his hands clasped in front of him, his hair seemingly glinting from the sun that streamed through the windows. "Your grace, I'm sorry for my appearance. If I had known you were coming, I would've made myself look more presentable." She apologised. Her clothes were what she trained in with Gendry, old breaches and one of Gendry's shirts.

"It's alright. You couldn't have known. And please, call me Tommen." Tommen was always so kind, a stark difference he held from his brother and his mother. Silence filled the room before curiosity landed on Freyja. "Your gra-Tommen, if i may ask, why are you here?" She quizzed the prince as he looked around the entryway of the brothel.

"I was looking for you, I wanted to see if you were okay. I saw you leaving my brother's chambers. You looked so scared," His eyebrows were furrowed, concern laced in his voice. He got closer to the girl, his hands held out in front of him. "Your lip," Tommen's voice almost came out as a whisper as he saw the girl's injury. "Did Joffrey do that?" Anger. His cheeks flushed as his body tensed.

"No, no, don't worry about that, or your brother." He relaxed. "I know how harsh he can be at times," Tommen said and Freyja nodded lightly. "He told me what he was going to do," Confusion rang through the girl and he noticed. "Yesterday, when we were training, after you left, Joffrey told me he planned to 'bed you'," A mix of awkwardness and anger echoed in his words. "I was worried for you, I didn't want him to hurt you."

Freyja's heart was touched with the gentleness of Tommen, she had never met anyone quite like him. "He didn't hurt me, he just...scared me a little bit." She told the boy, placing the rag in the bucket next to her. "Did he..." His voice trailed off, too scared to ask if his brother had tried anything with the girl.

"He tried to." Was all she said, she didn't want to go into specifics, tears already brimming in her eyes again. The girl was strong, but Joffrey's actions combined with her father's scared her more than anything that had previously happened. "Freyja, I'm so sorry, I-"

"It's okay, Tommen. It's not your fault," She smiled at the prince, trying to reassure him. Silence fell upon the teens once again. "This is no place for a prince, you should probably go, your grace," Her words hurt to say but it was true, a brothel was no place for a young prince.

He nodded, understanding her words, but disappointment was clear on his face. "Thank you, Tommen, for your concern. It does mean a lot to me." The prince's warm smile returned and it seemed to light up the room, "I know you're strong, I can tell. But everyone needs friends. I just want you to be happy," He replied.

"Friends."

With the prince? The girl's heart skipped a beat.

Tommen turned to leave but before he could exit, he stopped in his tracks and spun back to face the girl, "There was something else I wanted to ask," He took a couple of steps closer to the girl, "You know how to use weapons, right?" She nodded. "I was wondering if you could maybe train me. Please."

Freyja was shocked by his words, "Tommen, to train a prince is a great honour, I would love to," His smile seemed to grow even more, the space between them becoming smaller, "But I shouldn't," The smile on his face dropped, and so did Freyja's heart. "You have knights and real swordsmen to train you. They could teach you far better than I ever could."

"But I can't focus when Joffrey's there. He always shows off and he's so much better than I am. I just want to be strong, like you." Tommen pouted. Her chest ached, she really wanted to train him. But if she got caught with another prince, there would be hell to pay from her father. 'But he's been so kind, it's the least I could do.'

"Okay, I'll do it." Tommen rushed to the girl, his arms wrapped around her, a light laugh coming from the girl as she returned the hug. "Thank you, Freyja," He gradually pulled away, shame in his eyes, "I'm sorry, I should've asked before I hugged you." The girl giggled, "Don't apologise, you're welcome to hug me anytime you want, Tommen,"

She cringed at her own words, feeling like she had overstepped. "Um, but we'll have to train late at night. If I get caught with another prince, my father will have my head," He nodded, accepting the instructions. "Meet me in the training yard at midnight, bring a sword." The prince grinned at her and she returned the favour, excitement running through them both.

"Thank you." He beamed and Freyja bowed. Tommen left the brothel, a spring in his step and his heart pounding against his chest. He wanted to rush to his brother's chambers just to hit him for what he did to Freyja, but he restrained himself, too happy about his plans for later that evening.

Once he was out of the room, the girl let out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding in. 'I have to tell Gendry.' She thought. She rushed through the rest of her chores, eager to speak to her friend. Yet again, she had a lot to tell him about the princes.

"I'm going to murder that twat."

"Gendry, calm down. It's alright. Don't commit regicide because of me." The girl was sat on Gendry's workbench as he worked on some armour for her. She had specifically requested something light and flexible so she would be able to teach Tommen easier.

"Are you okay, though?" Gendry's eyes were filled with concern as he looked up at the girl. "I think so, I'm just slightly shaken up. I'll just avoid Joffrey, which shouldn't be too difficult." Gendry breathed a sigh of relief, happy that his friend was okay. "But if he does try anything again, if anyone tries anything-"

"Yes, I'll come straight to you. My big and brave blacksmith." She squeezed his bicep, teasing her friend. He laughed and shrugged her off. "You said you had good news as well?" She explained her plans with Tommen later that evening to Gendry.

"And that's why you need the armour and the sword?" She nodded. "Teaching someone isn't easy as it seems, Freyja. You have to be patient with him, especially if he's as stubborn as you are," She smacked his arm as a laugh left both of them, "I'm being serious."

"I know." She watched the man work, the way his fingers moved across the leather of the breastplate, the sweat dripping down his brow. "Here, try it on," He handed it across to the girl once he had finished it along with two arm-guards.  

The chest-plate fit like a glove, protecting every vital area just in case Tommen lost control of his sword and decided to stab Freyja. "Perfect," Gendry smiled at the girl, handing her a sword with bird wings engraved into the guard, "I've been working on this for a while, for you. It's not too heavy so your arms shouldn't ache too much after using it, I know what you're like." He chuckled, remembering how much the girl liked to complain.  

"Thank you so much, Gendry. How much do I owe you?" She beamed at the man whilst admiring the sword in her hands. "Don't worry about it, it's a gift. Everything is." He waved his hands in front of him before wiping some sweat off of his dirty neck. "Are you sure?" Gendry nodded and the girl hugged him, squeezing him tightly.

"Remember everything I taught you, and Freyja?" His hands rested on her shoulders as she looked up to him, "Yes?"

"Don't make a fool of yourself in front of the prince." They laughed in tandem, "I won't. And thank you again."

Hours were the only thing seperating Tommen and Freyja. They both counted down the time until they could both see each other again, excitement and nerves running through both of them.

[1917-boys]

Ice Cream (Dean-Charles Chapman Fluff)

Requested: Yes / No

Word count: 1,289

Author’s Note: I finished a book the other day called Death on the Nile by Agatha Christie and it was super good. And then I found out it’s being made into a movie and it’s coming out later this year, and I was thinking maybe I’d put Dean in it? So that’s where I got that idea :) Also I totally suggest reading it if you can, it’s honestly great! Plus, I got a lot of Tom Blake vibes from Simon at the beginning, so that’s who I said Dean would play

You first met Dean when you were 16 years old. You met him at an audition, in which neither of you got the part. As bummed as you were to hear that, your hours waiting for the news had been passed eventfully, chatting with a boy named Dean, who would soon become your best friend.

Now, almost 7 years later, the two of you were still the best of friends. Your acting career was still getting off the ground, compared to Dean’s extremely successful one. He was always so supportive of you, calling you before an audition and wishing you luck. If you got the part, he’d cheer for you and invite you over to his house for a celebratory dinner.

Although you two were still going strong as friends, a part of you wanted more. You knew Dean in and out, and could picture yourself with him for the rest of your life. Waking up next to each other in the morning, cooking dinner together in the evenings, maybe even having a kid to play with and take care of together. You were always quick to suppress these thoughts, though, knowing that if you were to dwell on them you would only be more upset if it didn’t happen.

Unbeknownst to you, though, Dean had been thinking thoughts similar to yours. He wanted to grow old with you, buy a cute house and move in together, having some kids and watching them grow up. But Dean treasured your close friendship, and it was something he feared would be torn apart if he were to tell you of his hopes.

One day, the two of you were walking through London, admiring the fancy shops and restaurants you passed. Dean had recently been cast as Simon Doyle, one of the main characters in a new film, Death on the Nile, and you had decided to take him out for ice cream to celebrate.

As the two of you walked together, you felt Dean brush against your arm. Glancing up at him, he smiled apologetically down at you before shifting himself away from you a bit. If you were being honest, you liked the contact. Feeling Dean against you, in close contact, it excited you. But you weren’t sure how Dean felt about it, so you kept it to yourself.

You two continue walking the streets of London, approaching a stoplight. As you approach the small crowd of people waiting to cross, you slow your pace, coming to a stop. Since the small crowd was packed tightly together, Dean had moved behind you, rather than beside you. When you stopped, Dean hadn’t stopped yet. As a result, he had walked right into you. Thankfully, there hadn’t been too much pressure or you would have pushed into the others standing nearby.

You turn around to face him, smiling slightly. “You’ve got to be careful, Dean,” you reprimand him, although your tone is light. Dean hears the light tone of your voice and plays back at you. “Okay, mum,” he replies, grinning.

You slap his shoulder playfully, stepping back slightly to hit him again. Dean’s smile widens at your actions, laughing at you. Your smile grows as well, and soon the two of you have fallen into a fit of giggles, each laughing happily at the other.

The walk sign is soon lit up, and you and Dean move forward to cross the street along with the now slightly larger walking crowd. When you have successfully crossed the street, Dean is able to move up and walk beside you again. When he’s next to you, your eyes dart to look at him from the side, praying that he doesn’t notice your ogling. Dean’s head doesn’t turn back to look at you, so you continue your appreciative glance over his features.

His eyes, so bright and blue. They’re captivating, you think to yourself. God, I would look into those eyes all day if I could. You move to scan his cheeks and nose, taking in the innocent mounds of his face. If only I could squish his cheeks, just once, you find yourself thinking.

Dean’s head turns suddenly, catching you admiring him. Your face heats up immediately, a deep blush spreading rapidly up your neck and across your face. You can feel the warmth of your cheeks, and you’re sure Dean’s going to say something about it.

“Like what you see?” Dean asks cheekily, wiggling his eyebrows at you. Your blush deepens, but a shy smile makes its way onto your face. In a desperate attempt to shift the attention off of you, you quickly throw your hands out, pushing Dean’s arm.

A chuckle leaves his mouth, a slight rosy tint to his cheeks. “What was that for?” he asks, playfully offended. You bite your lip, struggling to contain a bright smile. “No reason, you’re just cute,” you reply, quickly turning your head to face forward. A few moments of silence pass, the two of you beginning to quicken your pace as you continue to walk. Your eyes don’t leave the street in front of you, though you feel Dean’s gaze boring into you.

As you approach the small ice cream parlor, your eyes flit up to meet Dean’s. His cheeks are still a soft, rosy pink, and you can’t help but think how much you’d like to give them just one little squish.

Dean awkwardly coughs, causing you to turn your full attention to him. “You think I’m cute?” he asks, shyly glancing from your eyes to his feet. You glance down at his feet as well, watching as he shuffles them nervously. You take a deep breath, ready to admit your feelings. All you can do now is hope that Dean reciprocates them.

“I do,” you state confidently, your eyes turning up to look at him squarely. You feel your face heating up, but this time you’re standing your ground. Dean’s face darkens, a much deeper blush painting his face.

“You know, I kinda like you, too,” he manages to admit, struggling and stuttering his way through the words. His hands move from his sides to your arm, guiding you gently to the ice cream parlor entrance. A bright smile is on your lips now, a happy laugh leaving your mouth. Dean’s smile grows, his grip tightening slightly on your arm.

Dean steps back, letting go of your arm to open the door for you, following you into the small shop. Both of you are blushing and smiling and laughing, and the young man working the counter smiles upon seeing you two. Dean follows you up to the counter, each of you ordering before the worker makes your order and hands it to you over the counter. You volunteer to pay, since it was your treat to Dean for his new role, but he quickly shot your idea down.

You roll your eyes, sighing softly as Dean pays and you find a table. You sit across from each other, enjoying your ice cream quietly. The comfortable silence is soon broken by Dean, who says your name to get your attention.

“What now? I mean, we’ve both established that we like each other, so what happens next?” He asks. You hear in his voice that he’s shy and nervous to be asking, but you can’t blame him. I mean, you two had been friends for years. What happens when two best friends suddenly admit that they like each other?

Without warning, you lift yourself slightly off the seat and lean over the table, pressing a sweet kiss to Dean’s cheek. His face is once again painted a light pink, and a soft laugh leaves his mouth. “Well, Y/N, that works just fine.”

[fandom-lover20]

Requests Are OPEN

(I’m happy to do crossovers for anyone who like one)

I’ll do more than just romance ideas as well, if you want a father/daughter or best friends, siblings etc. that’s completely okay. This is also the same masterlist for if anyone wants any Match-ups, gifs, icons basically just anything you want. If it's in italics then it's because those are my favourite or the ones I just find easiest to write. One-shots: Whatever relationship you like, characters included and either writing prompt or small idea of what you want to happen Match-ups: Fandom (as many as you like), gender/pronouns and sexuality, basic description of physical features and some hobbies/interests, style, any extra info if you like

MINORS

⭐  - Headcanon

❤ - Romance

💋 - Smut

💛 - Fluff

🌹 - Angst

----------

MASTERLIST

----------

Requests are open for the following fandoms: 

The Alienist

Cyrus

John Moore

Laszlo Kreisler

Lucius Issacson

Marcus Issacson

Sara Howard

Stevie

The Breakfast Club

Allison Reynolds (the basketcase)

Andrew Clark (the jock)

Brian Johnson (the nerd)

Claire Standish (the princess)

John Bender (the criminal)

Buffy The Vampire Slayer

Angel

Buffy Summers

Rupert Giles

Oz

Spike

Willow Rosenberg

Xander Harris

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner

Alex Blake

David Rossi

Derek Morgan

Elle Greenway

Emily Prentiss

Jennifer Jareau

Kate Callahan

Penelope Garcia

Spencer Reid

DC - (I'm not the biggest fan so the character list for this is short)

(any characters from)

Aquaman

Wonder Woman - I haven't watched 1984, sorry

Divergent

Caleb Prior

Christina

Eric

Peter

Tobias Eaton

Tori

Tris Prior

Will

Doctor Who

10th Doctor

11th Doctor

Amy Pond

Glee

Artie Abrams

Blaine Anderson

Britney Pierce

Finn Hudson

Jake Puckerman

Kurt Hummel

Kitty Wilde

Marley Rose

Mike Chang

Noah Puckerman

Quinn Fabray

Rachel Berry

Santana Lopez

Sam Evans

Tina Cohen-Chang

The Greatest Showman

Anne Wheeler

Charity Barnum

Charles Stratton

Jenny Lind

Lettie Lutz

Phillip Carlyle

P.T Barnum

W.D Wheeler

Grey’s Anatomy (up to the end of season 9)

Addison Montgomery

Alex Karev

Amelia Shepard

April Kepner

Arizona Robbins

Callie Torres

Christina Yang

Denny

Derek Shepard (McDreamy)

Finn Dandridge (McVet)

George O’Malley

Izzie Stevens

Jo Wilson

Lexie Grey

Mark Sloan (McSteamy)

Meredith Grey

Miranda Bailey

Owen Hunt (McSoldier)

Richard Webber

Teddy Altman

Harry Potter

Angelina Johnston

Blaise Zabini

Dean Thomas

Draco Malfoy

Fred Weasley

George Weasley

Ginny Weasley

Harry Potter

Hermione Granger

Katie Bell

Luna Lovegood

Neville Longbottom

Pansy Parkinson

Ron Weasley

Seamus Finnigan

(Young) Tom Riddle

Bellatrix Lestrange

Hagrid

James Potter

Lily Evans

Narcissa Malfoy

Newt Scammander

Nymphadora Tonks

Peter Pettigrew

Remus Lupin

Severus Snape

Sirius Black

The Hunger Games

Beetee

Cato

Cinna

Clove

Effie Trinket

Finnick Odair

Gale Hawthrone

Glimmer

Haymitch Abernethy

Joannah Mason

Katniss Everdeen

Marvel

Peeta Mellark

Primrose Everdeen

Rue

Inkheart

Dustfinger

Farid

Meggie

Mortimer

Knives Out

Benoit Blanc

Marta Cabrera

Ransom Drysdale

Kong: Skull Island

Cole

Houstan Brooks

Jack Chapman

James Conrad

Mason Weaver

Mills

San

Slivko

Lab Rats

Adam Davenport

Bree Davenport

Chase Davenport

Donald Davenport

Douglas Davenport

Leo Dooley

Marcus Davenport

Tasha Davenport

Mamma Mia

Sky

Donna Sheridan

Rosie

Tanya

Sam Carmichael

Bill Anderson

Harry Bright

Sophie Sheridan

Marvel Cinematic Universe (I haven’t watched WandaVision but it’s on my list, I just don’t want to ball my eyes out)

Baron Helmet Zemo

Bruce Banner

Bucky Barnes

Clint Barton

Darcy Lewis

Drax

Gamora

Groot

Jane Foster

Loki Laufeyson

Natasha Romanoff

Nebula

Peggy Carter

Peter Parker

Peter Quill

Rocket

Sam Wilson

Sharon Carter

Shuri

Stephen Strange

Steve Rogers

T’Challa

Thor Odinson

Tony Stark

Vision

Wanda Maximoff

The Mighty Ducks

Adam Banks

Charlie Conway

Connie Monreau

Dean Portman

Dwayne Robertson

Fulton Reed

Gordan Bombay

Greg Goldberg

Guy Germaine

Jesse Hall

Julie Gaffney

Lester Averman

Luiz Mendoza

Russ Tyler

Ted Orion

Terry Hall

NCIS

Eleanor Bishop

Kate Todd

Leroy Jethro Gibbs

Nick Torres

Timothee McGee

Tony Dinozzo

Ziva David

Now You See Me

Daniel Atlas

Dylan Rhodes

Henley Reeves

Jack Wilder

Lula May

Merritt McKinney

One Tree Hill

Brooke Davis

Haley James-Scott

Lukas Scott

Mouth McFadden

Nathan Scott

Peyton Sawyer

The Originals

Aiden

Davina Claire

Elijah Mikaelson

Freya Mikaelson

Hayley Marshall

Joshua (Josh) Rosza

Klaus Mikaelson

Kol Mikaelson

Rebekah Mikaelson

Pitch Perfect

Barden Bellas

Beca Mitchell

Chloe

Emily Junk

Fat Amy

Flo

Stacie

DSM

Kommissar

Pieter Kramer

Treblemakers

Benji

Bumper Allen

Jessie

Rush

James Hunt

Niki Lauda

Scandal (seasons 1-3)

Abby Whelan

Charlie

David Rosen

Fitz Grant

Harrison Wright

Huck

Jake Ballard

Mellie Grant

Olivia Pope

Quinn Perkins

Stephen Finch

Sherlock (RDJ Movies)

Irene Adler

John Watson

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock BBC

Greg Lestrade

Irene Adler

Jim Moriarty

John Watson

Mary Watson

Molly Hooper

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Suits (I'm halfway through S3, just finished thingy oils plotline)

Donna Paulsen

Harvey Spectre

Louis Litt

Mike Ross

Rachel Zane

Supernatural

Castiel

Charlie

Claire Novak

Crowley

Dean Winchester

Gabriel

Rowena

Sam Winchester

Teen Wolf

Adrian Harris

Allison Argent

Bobby Finstock

Chris Argent

Derek Hale

Hayden

Issac Lahey

Jackson Whittemore

Jordan Parrish

Kira Yukimara

Liam Dunbar

Lydia Martin

Malia Tate/Hale

Noah Stilinski

Peter Hale

Scott McCall

Stiles Stilinski

Theo Raeken

Twilight

Alec

Alice Cullen

Bella Swan/Cullen

Carlisle Cullen

Demitri

Edward Cullen

Embry McCall

Emmet Cullen

Esme Cullen

Felix

Jane

Jasper Hale

Leah Clearwater

Paul Lahote

Quill

Rosalie Hale

Sam

Seth Clearwater

The Vampire Diaries

Alaric Saltzman

Bonnie Bennet

Caroline Forbes

Elena Gilbert

Enzo St. John

Damon Salvatore

Jenna Sommers

Jo Laughlin

Kai Parker

Matt Donovan

Stefan Salvatore

Tyler Lockwood

Lexi Branson

Liv Parker

Valerie

Vicki Donovan

X-Men

Charles Xavier

Erik

Kurt Wagner

Logan

Raven

Youngblood

Dean Youngblood

Derek Sutton

Jessie Chadwick

Coach Murray Chadwick

[heffrcns]

going to an art museum with dean-charles chapman would include:

thank you to who requested this, i really needed it🥺 and it was really fun to write!

warnings: none my dudes (fluff)

okay so

he’d wanna hold your hand the entire time

and although he appreciated the art, i feel like he’d get bored of it very quickly

so he’d take to glancing at you as you looked at the framed paintings

because he’d love how your eyes lit up as you admired the painting and the skill behind them (ahhhh deAN)

he’d also keep asking you “who’s this one by?”

even though it literally had the information under them

just so he could hear you talk about it

he loved the enthusiasm in your voice as you explained what you just read, or what you already knew if you had any existing knowledge

as you walked in and out of the rooms and exhibits, you were both just so content and happy in each other’s company

“isn’t this one beautiful!” you’d gasp, looking at the most stunning landscape oil painting

dean, being the cliché and lovesick puppy he is, thought about how you were the beautiful one to him

but he didn’t want to say it out loud and be an absolute cheeseball in the middle of an art museum

so he just agreed with you, listening to you compliment the abstract colours

he’d also want to take some pictures of you

mostly candids, where he tried to capture your face admiring a painting

but if you noticed him, you’d pull a funny face next to the painting and laugh

causing dean’s heart to go 💓💕💘💝💞

and then you’d want some of your own too, with both you and dean in

so you’d both be pulling silly faces in front of some beautiful renaissance paintings, laughing at eachothers goofy-ness

and then he’d be an adorable mans and do one where he’s kissing your cheek

overall, a day out with dean to an art museum would be the cutest!!

it would really relax you both from your busy schedules lives, so you could appreciate the little things in each other’s company <3

thank you for reading!

masterlist

[hozierandco]

G. MacKay x reader / Fluff

Inspired by "Freak in me" sung by Mild Orange. Different timelines attached to this and overall FLUFFY as in VERY FLUFFY. Light cursing. I figured I might as well write the one inspired by Birdy ft. Rhodes that I mentioned earlier.

January 2020

Y/N was a friend of Dean-Charles Chapman for the longest time since they had attended the same primary school. She had decided to change her habits by going out for once as did George. That in itself should have raised doubts about the chance that there was a star up there helping the two of them. They had known enough about love to be careful about it. Misfortune seemed to be printed on their skin by now. Surprisingly, they did not give up on it though. Which turned out pretty well.

"Hey, you made it!", Dean greeted Y/N with a pint in his hand.

"The chance of seeing you getting hammered, come on, I would not have missed it for the world! And it's been ages anyway"

Dean nodded as he gave George a small hug before introducing him to his long-time friend. It was in the very first seconds his eyes crossed Y/N's that he knew she would change his life, whether for good or for bad. He was willing to find out. She had only rarely gotten this feeling that her life could take a hard left, being a game-changer permanently. Of course, she had felt that pulse beating under her skin seeing her friend and his co-star in 1917 but now was different. In a very good way. Dean had probably seen this coming, probably even set up the whole thing as he was perfectly able to. Y/N for once paid no heed for what the next day could bring. She was to celebrate as if it was the last night.

Once again, a sign came in the way as "Freak in me" started resonating in the bar. For days it was the only song Y/N could listen to (or more like, the only song she would willingly listen to on repeat) and now she had a chance to actually dance on it without looking like a maniac in her living-room. After all, Y/N was a hopeless romantic and an indie band would make no exception to it. For a couple of hours before that George and her had talked whereas Dean was getting closer with a waitress. It was all naturally that the actor had an epiphany by gazing at Y/N's angelic features were prancing about with more and more energy to it. He had to make a move.

Lately, I think of you lots 'Cause my mind's in circles for you Please connect the dots

"Would you consider dancing with me?", he innocently asked looking straight into her eyes with all the confidence he could pull.

Y/N looked around at the unshaken crowd glued to the counter. That bar was not famous for being a popular dance hall. Suddenly, self-consciousness kicked in. Her brain could only process questions starting by "What if?" or "What will people think?". Y/N did not even know how to dance and would most probably make a fool out of her, she thought.

"Trust me on that one?", George kindly muttered. Fuck it. What ifs never lead anywhere and that song was way too good not to be danced on. Y/N applied to George's suggestion with a huge smile on her face.

For a moment of bliss, time had stopped. It was just him and her against the rest of the world. Fire and water could get in the way, their bodies close to one another was all that mattered. George went full on with a courtship ritual that he had no power over. It was as if his body lived independantly from his free will, like a magnet, it could not stay too long far from Y/N's.

And bring me, bring me to you 'Cause you bring out the freak in me It's only for you Just you

The parting was as inexorable as violent. Another song soon replaced what they just had experimented as a holy experience, like dying only to knock on Heaven's doors. It was difficult to get back to a proper conversation right after but then again, hours with such a company appeared like seconds to George.

June 2020

George and Y/N had quickly moved in together. Ever since their odd encounter, there was not a single day without them dancing on the song that had made them fall for one another. When George was away, he would call Y/N to sing it to her, whether as she would be on her way to sleep or she had just awoken. Although they had not actually shared their feelings, it was getting obvious that it was more than just another rebound relationship. Their family and friends were the collateral damages of this blooming love as any moment was a good occasion to show the world just how much they cared for each other.

So kiss me There's something in the air And whether it's love or lust Should we care?

In spite of George being prone to grandiloquent acts to show his feelings as he could easily get bashful and needed the whole package not to chicken out, him confessing his love for his beautiful girlfriend came to him as naturally as when he had asked her to dance with him.

Y/N and him had been teasing one another for minutes when Y/N was out of the blue having George right under her body. It would often happen that Y/N and George just teased themselves until arousal would take over. But the angle George was now facing ignited a new feeling. Was it the moon in the sky, was it his thoughts wandering in his brain, he grabbed Y/N by her hand that was carelessly laying on his chest.

"Do you remember when we talked about love a few weeks back?", George seriously stated. Y/N was now all ears. Of course she remembered. She also remembered that she had felt stupid right after for not taking the chance to confess her love.

"Well, I've been thinking about it again lately and love to me is just what I feel every morning when I realize a star struck me by allowing me to wake up besides you. Love is what makes me wonder why on Earth you chose me out of all men and just to enjoy every minute. Love is going to bed at night with you on my mind and what the next day could bring us"

Y/N could now swore her heart was being rejected by her body. Cause of death: an abnormal heart rate increase. She could not express it any different way than by kissing George. Which she religiously proceeded to.

"I love you too, George", she whispered in between two kisses.

December 2020

Well, it was to happen someday. George and Y/N were soulmates despite the fact that they actually banished that kind of vocabulary. But sometimes, stars shine too bright. Or the planets are simply not aligned. They barely argued and in nearly a year, it had never damaged their relationship. Except for this one time.

It was a silly question of schedules. George had forgotten to show up at a date they had planned and when Y/N would most of the time feel no resent, she did not feel like it this time. Things had gone so messy that for the first time since they shared beds, George had found shelter on the couch. He knew he had fucked up but at the same time could not get his mind to make amends. In fact, it had been a whole terrible week  during they could simply not find common grounds. That night was just the apex of a hill they had been climbing up all week.

Both of them could not find sleep as anger was inevitably taking over them.

As minutes became hours, George decided to call for some truce. Besides, he could not bear to know that Y/N would be mad at him when it was possibly the very last thing he wanted. He thought that Y/N would be asleep when he came near the threshold leading to their bedroom. He just had to make sure she was doing fine. Not only was he quite surprised to see that Y/N was awake but if he was even more assured that he was doing the right thing. 'Cause you bring out the freak in me It's only for you Just you' Cause you, you bring out the freak in me A side that only you could see

his phone sang the lyrics to their song when he knew he would fail talking for now. He then sat on the edge of the bed and talked the two last lines through, before apologizing.

"You're an arse, George"

"I know"

"But man, do I love you"

"Yeah, I know that too"

June 2026

The house was suspiciously still when Y/N came back from work. It had not been this quiet for quite a long time so it could only lead to further investigation. Little did she know that a gathering was going on in the other side of the house.

"Dancing on that song, aren't you?", she heard George who was now her husband say through the door. "Do you know that's how mom and dad met?"

His husband only had eyes for the tiny human being that was painfully standing on his two feet so it was fairly easy for Y/N to get in without being detected. Their son was trying his best to dance on his own to one very familiar song but for the moment had to rely on his father's help to do so. He was awkwardly moving on his father's feet who occasionally lifted him in the air.

After a few seconds, babblings from their son replaced George's voice singing the lyrics as the baby was now pointing at his mother. George turned around as he took his child in his arms. Making his way towards the woman of his dreams and the mother of his son, he kept on singing:

Lately, I think of you lots' Cause my mind's in circles for you Please connect the dots

[1917-ao3feed]

Only So Long

by Anonymous

George has nightmares whilst filming 1917, Dean comforts him through them.

Words: 755, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: 1917 (Movie 2019), 1917 (Movie 2019) Actor RPF

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen, M/M

Characters: George MacKay, Dean-Charles Chapman

Relationships: George MacKay/Dean-Charles Chapman

Additional Tags: Sleepy Cuddles, Nightmares, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Crying, True Love

source http://archiveofourown.org/works/23192014

[dean-charleschapman]

The Cut That Always Bleeds

Castor x reader

Requested: Yes / No

Summary: You are one of Pilgrim’s Acolytes alongside Castor and Nix. This fic takes place during the end of season two and covers some of the events of season three, but has an alternative ending and many added scenes. Sorry about the occasional use of direct dialogue from the show, but in some cases it was unavoidable (I tweaked a lot of it to include the reader)

Warnings: lots of angst, language, violence, self-harm (you know how The Gift works). It's also fluffy if you can believe it

Word count: ~18.7k (I’m so sorry)

A/N: No one else was going to do it, so I took it upon myself to write a Castor fanfic. God himself tasked me with this, I had no choice so here we are. Also Castor doesn't die in this and I refuse to accept that he isn't alive and happy and cured :))) This is way longer and way darker than I had planned, but I wanted to feed the masses.

*To skip some of the violence, start on the third paragraph  

     Out of the corner of your eye you see another flash of tarnished silver, barely missing your cheek as you dodge the blade. You spin around and impale your attacker, immediately moving on to the next as their body slides off your sword onto the blood-stained ground. Everything around you is a blur of crimson and black, your mind clouded by the heat of battle as you slice through body after body, letting the Gift control your actions and allowing the power pulsing through your veins to fill you to the brim. Intermingled with the scent of blood and sweat is the stench of the muddy riverbed you are fighting on, the soft brown earth now pitted with deep score marks and pools of blood as more and more die at the hands of you and the other Dark Ones. The mud makes fighting more difficult, causing your feet to slip trying to find stability as you twist and leap among the slashing weapons, but it is not nearly as much of an inconvenience to you as it is to your opponents. Your Gift makes you stronger and more agile than them, so you use the slippery terrain to your advantage, only touching the ground for a moment before leaping up again and slashing through the armor of the fighters surrounding you as they clumsily attempt to reach you with their swords.

     You are battling a group of pirates who you had unfortunately crossed paths with at a bend in the river on your journey to find Azra, and despite you being vastly outnumbered, they are already on the verge of surrender. You quickly scan your surroundings to count the number of remaining pirates, and feel a wave of triumph as you see that there are only about twelve still on their feet. This is going to be easy, you think to yourself as you watch Nix slit the throat of a bearded man wielding a studded club. Your eyes flash to Castor as he throws off a large, heavily armored pirate who had lunged at him from behind and sinks his blade deep into the man’s chest, killing him instantly. He looks back at you and you meet his gaze, twitching an eyebrow upwards in a silent question. He responds with a small nod and is again swept up into battle with a lithe woman wearing a cape made of various skins. After the silent confirmation that he doesn’t need your help, you move to join Nix in extinguishing the surviving pirates. The two of you easily overpower them, and in no more than 30 seconds you stand in the center of a ring of dead bodies, fresh blood spattered across your skin. You can feel it dripping like sweat from your forehead and arms, and you blink it away from your eyes with a grimace. Fighting comes naturally to you, and you aren't bothered by the violence, but you will never enjoy the lingering scent and taste of blood on your skin. No matter how much you scrub yourself down, you doubt you will ever feel truly clean again.

     You turn your head at the sound of footsteps approaching and see Pilgrim slowly walking towards the three of you from the roadside where he had stopped the convoy of vehicles. Nix and Castor stand at either side of you as Pilgrim sweeps his gaze over the battle scene. 

     “Well done, my children. You have protected the lives of hundreds of our followers today, and the route of this river will lead our people to better lands. Now go inside, you must rest. We have a long journey ahead of us,” he speaks in a low, rumbling voice.

     The three of you dip your heads respectfully and follow him back to the road, leaving behind the bodies of the pirates to enrich the soil and soak the earth with their blood.

     You feel Castor’s arm brush against yours and you catch his eye again, shooting him a soft smile. It falters however when you notice the blood trickling from the side of his face. The fresh cut on his cheek from activating his Gift is still bleeding, and you have to fight the urge to wipe it off. You glance down at your own cut, already healed and blending with the hundreds of other scars across your arms. This only deepens your concern, and you look back up at Castor, checking for other injuries. He gives you a questioning smile and you shake your head, not wanting to reveal your worries.

     In the past few weeks you had noticed Castor faltering more often during fights, his Gift disappearing for a moment and his eyes clearing to reveal the striking blue that belonged to his gentler side. That side didn't belong in battle, and you never missed the flash of panic that swept through them as he realized what was happening. It scared you more than you wanted to admit, and you could tell he was trying hard to hide his own fear. He would never confess to being injured; he was always so stubborn and strong, and you knew that pity from you or Nix would only anger him.

     You reach the front of the convoy and climb into the back of Pilgrim’s car, immediately feeling comforted by the colorful fabrics that surround you on all sides and wrap your mind in a calming blend of blue and purple. Castor brushes past you through the curtains enveloping the mouth of your makeshift room and you sit on the cushioned bench, running your hands over the beads woven into the pillows. Sunlight filters into the otherwise dark room from the single window at the back of the car, staining your faces yellow through the strips of colored glass adorning the opening. 

     Nix stays beside Pilgrim at the front of the car to keep watch, and you shift in your seat to face Castor. He has taken his usual spot on the bench nearest to the window and is staring out the glass with a tense expression, watching the hundreds of other cars trailing after you. You furrow your brows, trying to pick up on any obvious signs of pain and promising to yourself that you will keep a better eye on him in future battles whether he likes it or not.

     Castor blinks and turns his head to look back at you, awoken from his daze by the feeling of your eyes on him. You don’t look away, instead meeting his piercing blue stare with a knowing expression. He frowns and you take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the harsh words that will likely follow you voicing your concerns over him.

     “I can tell when you’re hurt, Castor,” you say pointedly, your eyes holding him frozen in place on the bench.

     “I’m fine,” his frown deepens, the crease between his brows becoming more prominent.

     “No, you’re not. Your cut should have healed by now, and I’ve never seen you this tired after a battle,” you press, moving to sit beside him so he can’t ignore you.

     “I must’ve just cut myself deeper than usual by accident. It’s nothing,” he brushes you off, wiping at his cheek. His hand does nothing but smear more red streaks across his face, and you gently grab his wrist, stopping him.

     “Y/N-” he gives you a warning look as you bring your hand to his cheek, pressing a finger to the cut and closing your eyes. You search inside you for the healing energy that the Gift has blessed you with, and you focus on drawing it out and spreading it to the tips of your fingers. You feel it climb to the surface, glowing beneath your skin and burning the pads of your fingers as you brush them against his face and close the angry red line that mars his pale features. You feel your own life energy seeping from your hand into him and filling his muscles with a rejuvenating strength. You breathe out a deep sigh and open your eyes, suddenly feeling tired and lightheaded. The effects of using the Gift to heal someone else dampen your senses and your hand falls from Castor’s cheek to your lap.

     Castor is looking at you with a mixture of anger and concern, and you reach out a hand to search for his, your fingers trembling from the effort of using your powers. 

     “Promise me you won’t do that again,” he says sharply, but his tone is contradicted by the softness in which he allows you to hold his hand, his palm warm underneath yours.

     “I’ll do it as many times as I have to,” you reply, eyelids fluttering as you fight the darkness that creeps into the corners of your vision, your ears ringing slightly as you try to focus on your surroundings.

     “Please, Y/N. You can’t use your Gift to heal others, it takes too much of your energy. Azra is still a long ways away and I’m not going there without you,” his glare softens and he tightens his grip on your hand, causing you to blink up at him in surprise.

     “What do you mean? I’m stronger than I look, Cass. There’s no way I’m letting you see Azra without me,” you tease, your heart warming as his mouth twitches into a smile at the nickname.

     “I know you are, but I don’t need you wasting your Gift on me. I’m fine, really,” his mouth returns to the serious frown that you had grown used to over the past few months.

     “You don’t have to lie to me, Cass, I can help you, I-,” your voice raises, and he turns to you and takes both of your hands, his firm expression making you stop mid sentence.

     “I’m telling the truth. I’ve spoken with Pilgrim and he said that as long as I don't overuse my Gift, I’ll be okay. You worry too much, Y/N. Not everything is as bad as it seems.”

     “Alright...but Pilgrim doesn't know everything about the Gift, even if he can control ours. He doesn't have it, and as long as I do I’m going to use it to help people,” you concede after a pause, your limbs growing heavy against the cushions as your body begins to succumb to the fatigue of overexerting your powers.

     Castor smiles softly, “I know, you’ve never been a selfish person. But don’t doubt Pilgrim, if he hears you saying things like that he won’t be very forgiving.”

     You nod and rest your head on his shoulder, letting your eyes close as sleep washes over you and clouds your mind. As if you lived on another plane of existence, you feel your body being moved and pillows placed under you in the fog of your unconsciousness. A hand brushes across your forehead and you drift even further into your dreams, the low rumble of the engine below you easing you into a world where there is nothing but a vast, welcoming darkness.

     You are awakened by a loud hissing coming from the vehicle, and you struggle to sit up, your head bumping against the wall of the car as it lurches across the uneven landscape. A whisper of angry, hushed voices drifts into your ears from the front of the car, and you glance around the interior, realizing that you are alone in the small room. 

     “Castor, you must listen to me. You, Nix, and Y/N were given the Gift by the power of the Gods, and your life is not your own anymore. We must all serve a greater purpose; even I have no control over what I do, it simply must be done. We cannot have any distractions, do you understand, my boy?” you recognize the deep voice of Pilgrim, and you strain to hear what he is talking about.

     “...Yes, Pilgrim.” A quiet response from Castor.

     What did Pilgrim mean by that? you think to yourself, a seed of worry planting inside your gut and wedging itself between your ribs like a burr.

     The car releases another strident hiss and you feel the engine shudder violently, the vehicle crawling to a stop. You get up and lean out of the threshold, casting a confused glance towards Castor, who is now standing outside the car beside Nix and Pilgrim. He shrugs in response and walks to the rear of the automobile to find the source of the hissing, and you hop off of the stalled machine, following him.

     As you pass you feel Pilgrim’s eyes boring into you, and when you meet them, you are greeted with an emotion that makes the doubt in your stomach grow and twist painfully. You push it back down and focus on the task at hand, kneeling beside Castor to inspect the wheels.

     “What was that about?” you whisper to him, glancing back towards Pilgrim.

     “What? Oh, nothing important. He was just reminding me to keep a lookout for more pirates, they run their boats all along this river,” he doesn't meet your eyes and you bite back an angry retort. 

     Bullshit. Why is he lying to me all of a sudden? You shift your weight on your heels and frown as you continue to examine the car, angry at Castor for hiding things from you. He used to tell you everything; you were closer with him than any of the other members of Pilgrim’s group. The two of you had been together since you could hardly lift a sword, with Nix joining shortly after you began training. You could read him better than anyone, but he had been shutting you out at every mention of the Gift, and as much as you wanted to, you couldn't force him to talk if he wasn't willing. 

     Your hand runs over a large tear in the front left tire, and you can feel a steady stream of air coming from the opening. “I found what caused the car to stop,” you call back to Castor, standing and brushing the dirt from your legs.

     “What is it?” he calls back, getting the box of tools from inside.

     “We’ve torn one of the tires. We’re going to have to patch it up unless we find a spare in this wasteland.”

     “There’s tape in here somewhere, show me the hole,” he leans down next to you, repeating your action of running a hand over the rough wheel. He digs around in the toolkit for a few moments before pulling out a thick roll of black tape. You leave him to fix the tire and approach Pilgrim, contemplating how to ask him about his earlier conversation with Castor.

     “How are you, Dear One?” he greets you, his deep, commanding voice filling your head and reminding you of why Castor had warned you not to question him.

     “I’m fine, Pilgrim, although I can’t say the same about Castor. I know he talked to you, but are you sure that nothing is wrong?” His gaze hardens at your inquiry, and you swallow your next breath.

     “Are you questioning my knowledge of the Gift, child?”

     “Of course not, Pilgrim. I’m only worried for Castor’s health.”

     “Then you must believe what he has told you. Nothing is amiss, and the more you use your energy for others the less likely you will be to rise to a higher power when the time comes. Do not worry about Castor, Fate will ensure his recovery in time. We must all place our focus on reaching Azra,” he turns away, leaving you to try and make sense of what he had said. 

     Castor must have told him you had used your Gift to heal him, otherwise why would Pilgrim have mentioned it? You feel your frustration bubbling up inside you as you try to understand why Castor is acting so strange. As if you had summoned it, his voice cuts through your thoughts, “The tires’ fixed, we should leave before someone catches up to us.”

     Pilgrim nods and thanks him for fixing the wheel, and you follow Nix back into the car. Castor sits across from you rather than at his usual place near the window and forces you to look at him, a look of confusion written across his features.

     “What’s wrong?” he asks softly, his large blue eyes filled with so much concern that you have to suppress the shudder that accompanies the increase in your heart rate.

     “Nothing,” you respond shortly, not wanting to discuss your feelings in front of Nix.

     “You grumpy ‘cause you’re hungry?” he smirks slightly, kicking your foot from where he is sitting. You can’t help but grin in return, raising your legs to rest your feet opposite you on the bench.

     “Feels like I haven’t eaten in weeks,” he groans, grabbing your ankles and placing your feet on top of his lap. You poke out a toe and prod his stomach, earning a snort of laughter from the boy.

     “Yeah, well rabbit stew must not be as filling as Cressida claims it to be,” you retort, feeling a twinge of hunger in your own stomach at the thought of food.

     “Since you two are complaining so much, why don’t you ask Pilgrim to let us hunt at the next stop?” Nix speaks up from her spot in the corner, smiling at Castor’s antics.

     “I will, but that won’t be till dark, and we haven’t got many torches left,” Castor complains, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the strip of bare skin above your ankle.

     Your body relaxes at the gentle touch, but a sudden and intense wave of emotion sparks inside your heart, and the path of his fingertip burns where it meets your skin. You hate when this happens. You hate how much he affects you; you don’t want to recognize just how strongly you wish you could run away from the Badlands and live a peaceful, quiet life with him. A life without blood caked beneath your nails and new scars every day, one without killing innocent people just to protect the dreams of Gods you have never even seen. Castor would do something so small, a simple gesture of kindness or even a smile, and it would leave you feeling as if you had run a marathon given the speed of your heartbeat and the heat in your cheeks.

     You need to distract yourself from your own thoughts, so you reinsert yourself into Nix and Castor’s conversation about food. “We could catch fish in the river,” you suggest, leaning back into the soft velvet of the bench. Castor perks up at the idea, and Nix murmurs in agreement. You don’t have poles or nets, but the three of you are well trained with swords and you figure you could easily stab them from the water.

                                                             ...

     “It’s fucking freezing!” Castor shouts from the water, knee deep in the lazily moving river.

     “If you can handle an entire army, you should be able to survive some cold water,” you laugh, pulling your socks off from where you stand at the edge of the riverbank.

     “Just wait till you feel it, I’d take an army any day,” he mutters, retreating to the shore to fetch his sword.

     You test the temperature with the tip of your foot, grimacing as the icy water slides between your toes and sends shocks to the core of your body. It feels like fresh snow-melt, and you wish you had a fishing pole instead of a sword. You peel off your faded tights, noticing the blood that had crept beneath the thin fabric and left streaks along your legs, and begin unbuckling the many straps of your armor. Soon you are wearing only your underwear and a thin undershirt, balling up the rest of your layers and leaving them beside your shoes to wash later. You hadn't realized how much blood you had picked up during battle, but now all you can think about is washing it off, wanting desperately to see the clean, smooth skin that hid beneath the spatters of red.

     Castor and Nix finish changing and follow you to the widest section of the river, swords in hand. Nix wears the same thing as you, her lean muscles more prominent without her armor covering them, and Castor has taken off his shirt and armor, leaving him in only his tight pants that have been rolled up to the knee. The three of you don't have many clothes, so you take good care of what you do own, and hope that Pilgrim’s promise of Azra will also lead to a more comfortable life where you won't need to wear the same bloodstained armor for months.

     You stand waist deep in the water, your body shivering in retaliation to the freezing current. You glance back at Castor, who hisses as the water reaches his thighs. Nix wades past you to the deepest area, holding her sword above the murky water in preparation. You glance down, searching for flashes of life among the mud and algae that surround your feet. You feel something brush against your calf and you let out a surprised yelp at the sudden contact. Castor’s head whips up to look at you, making sure the noise was not one of pain. You laugh at your own outburst, and the tension in his shoulders releases at the sound. 

     You hear a loud splash and a satisfied grunt as Nix pulls her sword from the water, a large fish dangling from the blade. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you lean down in the abutting water to try and catch a glimpse of fins. A small movement catches your eye and you follow it, noticing the familiar shape of a tail. You hold your breath and slowly move your sword below the current, trying not to disrupt the surface of the water. The shape moves again, this time revealing just how large the creature you are standing over is. You motion for Castor to come towards you, pressing a finger to your lips in a silent warning to stay quiet. He obliges, moving slowly through the water to your side, sword poised above him.

     “We’ll have a feast if we catch this one,” you whisper, lowering yourself slowly into the water and closing the distance between you and the scaled creature below.

     “Be careful, Y/N. We don’t know what else might be down there,” he whispers in return, following your lead and creeping closer to the animal.

     “Now who’s worrying too much?” you smirk, your blade inches from the large fish.

     Castor doesn't respond, and you take the opportunity to stab swiftly down at the creature, feeling a solid impact as your sword sinks into flesh. Castor brings his own blade down, and the creature begins to writhe beneath you, attempting to escape your grasp.

     “Watch the head, I don't know if this thing’s got teeth,” you growl to Castor against the thrashing body, trying to dislodge your sword from the thick scales. A sharp pain suddenly invades your lower half and you look down, your gaze greeted by two menacing yellow eyes. The face of the creature stares up at you, it’s needle-like fangs sinking into your ankle and instantly drawing blood.

     “Shit, never mind, it definitely has teeth,” you fight back a pained groan as the animal releases you from it’s mouth, bringing it’s head back to strike again.

     “Y/N? Are you okay, did it bite you?” Castor’s eyes are immediately searching your face for signs of pain, and he watches as your returning gaze goes black.

     Your Gift is activated by the small injury, and your mind goes blank as your body stiffens and your muscles tighten in preparation for battle.

     You block out everything else around you, your only intent being to kill the serpent-like creature at the end of your sword. You hear a muffled protest from someone at your side, but you ignore it and lash out at the animal, your sword striking the fish’s long body over and over. You lose sight of which end is the head and continue striking blindly at the creature, stopping only when you notice the water turning a dull red. You look down, but find only mossy gravel and broken scales. Your head slowly clears and your eyes return to their normal color, and you look around in confusion for the large fish. That’s when you hear a low groan from beside you and you find the true source of the blood that billows out into the water.

     Castor is bent over, clutching onto a distraught Nix as he fumbles in the water. His bare shoulder seeps blood, a bite mark distinctly circling his chest and arm. You stare in shock and confusion, his heavy breaths hanging in the air as you feel guilt swell in your chest.

     “C-Cass, what happened? I thought I killed it, how-” you stumble, rushing to his side.

     “The damn thing escaped, but not before taking a chunk of my shoulder,” he grinds out, his lips twitching into a sarcastic smile but his face growing pale.

     “We need to stop the bleeding,” Nix says forcefully, taking his arm and guiding him to the bank of the river.

     You follow, your heart in your throat and your mind spinning. You had only looked away for a few seconds during the time that your Gift had activated, how had you not noticed Castor getting hurt? You can't shake the feeling of guilt that weighs on you as you watch Castor gingerly lower himself onto the grass beside the water. You had promised yourself you would protect him, and you had just been the reason he got hurt. Nix’s voice cuts through your thoughts, ordering you to get a bandage from her pack. You rush to where her things are piled beside yours and shakily dig out a long strip of gauze.

     You quietly sit next to Castor, watching as Nix cleans the blood from his shoulder using her water canteen. You realize with a start that despite Castor being injured, his eyes are still a clear blue.

     “Castor, your Gift...why hasn't it activated?” you look at him with worry, seeing the same fear reflected in his watery eyes.

     “I-I don't know,” he says softly, wincing at the end of the sentence as Nix presses the gauze to his wound.

     “I’m going to fetch Cressida, she’ll give you something to help,” Nix offers, passing you the bandage. You wrap it around his arm, feeling him tense under your touch. You ease the gauze around his neck to secure it and tie a knot in the back, your hands lingering on his bare skin. You can feel the warmth of it beneath the droplets of icy water that run down his back, and you watch as goosebumps break out across his pale skin.

     “Thanks,” he mutters, flexing his arm and breathing out a small sigh.

     “You shouldn't be thanking me, it’s my fault you got hurt,” you say quietly, not meeting his eyes.

     “What do you mean? Y/N, this wasn’t your fault, you couldn't control it,” he says, reaching out to touch the scabs forming on your ankle where you had been bitten.

     “I should have- Castor, if I can’t heal you, I need to make sure you don't get hurt. You’re sick, just admit it,” you plead, looking back up at him. The emotion in his eyes startles you, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

     “Look, I don't know why my Gift isn’t working, but I promise I’ll be fine. I’m already feeling better, I just need to rest,” he says, exhaustion evident in his gaze. Knowing better than to begin another argument, you nod reluctantly and help him up, retrieving both of your clothes and leading him back to the car. Nix stands waiting for you at the door, dressed and holding the fish she had caught earlier. You help Castor climb into the back, holding onto his side so he doesn't have to use his injured arm. Nix brings out a small pouch from her pocket, handing it to Castor as he lies down on the cushions.

     “Cressida says this will help fight infection,” she tells him as he pulls the strings of the bag, letting it fall open in his shaky palm.

     You watch him swallow whatever the High Priestess had given him and notice how the veins running along his wrists and neck have become more prominent. Your chest tightens at the signs of sickness, and you instinctively place a hand on his forehead to feel for a fever. He stares at you in slight surprise, and you retract your hand abruptly, heat crawling to your cheeks at the realization of what you had done.

     “Sorry, you just looked pale, I thought you might have a fever,” you scramble as your cheeks burn in embarrassment, but he gives you a soft look and you go quiet. The sun reflecting into the small room from the tinted window provides a halo around him, warming his features and making his pale blue irises morph into the cerulean calmness of the ocean. His hand reaches for yours again, and you allow him to bring it back up to his face.

     He presses your palm to his cheek, his eyes fluttering shut as you stroke your thumb across the raised scars. Your body is completely still as you trace his jawbone with your fingertips, but inside your heart feels like it is beating out of your chest as flames lick at your skin and heat your blood. Castor breathes out a sigh, letting his hand drop from your wrist but leaning into your warm touch.

     “I’m sorry,” he says, so quiet that you almost don't hear him.

     “What for?” you breathe, stopping your hand’s gentle movements and resting it where his uninjured shoulder meets his neck.

     He swallows. “For lying. I hate feeling weak, and I couldn’t admit that I was... especially not to you,” his breath trembles slightly, eyes cracking open to greet yours.

     “You are not weak. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, being sick doesn't change that,” you reassure him, squeezing his other hand in yours. He blinks at you, appearing to be on the verge of saying something but holding back.

     “Let me take care of you, Cass. You shouldn't work yourself too hard, or you’ll never get better,” you murmur, hoping that he won't try to prove his strength and push himself too far.

     He stays silent for a moment, his eyes hooded and unblinking. “Just rest with me, I’m so tired,” he exhales, his hand in yours loosening as he lets sleep soften his edges.

     “Of course,” you smile, letting go of his hand as he moves to get comfortable on the padded bench.

     You take a spare pillow from the bench parallel to you and place it next to Castor’s head. The makeshift bed is hardly big enough for two people, but Castor shifts his body closer to the wall of the car to make room for you and you lower yourself down next to him.

     He opens his eyes again to look at you, and you marvel at how beautiful he is despite the scars that run in patterns across his cheeks and the dirt permanently etched into his skin. His lips curl into a lazy smile and he goes to move his arm, but before he can place it where he wants to his face contorts into a pained grimace, having forgotten the injury to his shoulder. You frown in sympathy and put a hand on his arm to stop him from moving it.

     “Stay still, you shouldn’t be moving this arm too much,” you chide him, letting out a breathy laugh when he pouts.

     “Just wanted a cuddle,” he complains, eyes closed and voice slurred with exhaustion.

     You smile and are relieved that he can't see the crimson blush that tints your cheeks at his request. Making sure not to jostle his injured arm, you move yourself closer to him, wrapping an arm over his torso and feeling his heartbeat beneath your hand. He immediately turns his head to rest it in the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin and sending a tingling feeling down to your toes. You stay completely still as he drifts off to sleep, not allowing yourself even the twitch of a finger in fear of disturbing him. You are surprised that the pounding of your heart doesn't keep him awake, especially when it almost stops altogether as he shifts and his lips brush against your shoulder.

     You hold him close, savoring the moment as best you can and trying not to focus on how badly you want to stay like this and never let go. You start to feel hot and clammy, and you move your hand to check Castor’s temperature again, frowning when it comes in contact with his forehead. The skin feels like fire to the touch, and it glistens in the dimming sunlight, creating the illusion of a glowing sheen of gold across his resting features. You delicately brush his tangled bangs away from his eyes and let your fingers dance softly over his face, wishing you could rub away the dark shadows under his eyes and bring back some of the color to his pale cheeks. He looks so fragile and vulnerable in that moment that you have to rest your hand over his heart to ensure that it is still beating.

     You don't remember falling asleep, but at some point your mind is swept away and your eyelids drop, whisking you off to another life. There is a small farmhouse, and birds are calling your name somewhere in the distance as a child with bright blue eyes smiles at you. The eyes are so familiar that you almost believe all of it is real for a moment, and you allow yourself to live in your fantasy for the time being. The dream feels like a warm embrace, as if the open sky is wrapping its arms around you and promising that all will be well when you wake.

                                                             …

     Three months had passed since that day at the river, and you filled the long hours of traveling miles across barren, unknown lands with weaving stories about what you would do when you reached Azra and patiently letting Castor heal, watching the light return to his eyes and the veins under his skin become fainter. His wound had long since closed and all that remained to show for the river creature’s attack was a cluster of small scars dotted across his shoulder. He grew happier and more energetic in the time spent lazing in the small car watching the hills and trees fly by outside the window, and you fell deeper into your own miserable, ill-fated love.

     You had found a deck of cards at one of the stops, and Pilgrim had taught you how to play a number of the games he claims originated in the Old World. You currently sit cross-legged on the floor, playing a heated round of what Pilgrim had called “Speed”. You’ve already beaten Castor three times in a row, leaving him to sit pouting by the window having been replaced by Nix, who you know will offer more competition. You can tell that he sometimes lets you win on purpose, because he never hides his hand of cards and you always catch the pleased smile that graces his face whenever you slap your hands down on the pile in victory. So you purposefully let him win sometimes as well, smiling innocently when he shoots you suspicious glances. He might be better in combat, but you have always been the born strategist.

     His Gift had slowly returned as his injury healed, and if there was a skirmish during your journey he fought alongside you, his eyes never once flickering back to the gentle blue that you vowed to defend. You are relieved that you don't have to worry about him being sick anymore, but you still have terrifying thoughts of him losing his powers during battle and being unable to reach him in time to protect him.

     Nix’s shout of victory draws you back to the game in front of you, and you let out a defeated huff, throwing down your hand. You had been playing for hours, so you stand up and stretch your limbs, leaving Nix to play a game of solitaire by herself. She knows more games than you and Castor do, and you are too tired at the moment to have her teach you another.

     “Any news on how far we are from the next stop?” you ask to no one in particular. 

     Nix is too wrapped up in her game to answer and Castor simply shrugs, “Go ask Pilgrim.”

     You leave the small room and poke your head through the drapery covering the doorway, “Are we almost to the next stop?” you ask him, scanning the rough landscape as it flies past you.

     Pilgrim remains staring ahead but answers, “Yes, Dear One. We are nearing the Bladland’s walls, so we must stop on the outskirts of the border in order to evade the barons’ checkpoints.”

     “They shouldn't be a problem, you've got us,” you scoff. You could fight off a small army in your sleep, especially with Nix and Castor beside you.

     “I know my child, but we must stay cautious. We do not know the Badlands like they do. We are strangers to these territories and will be treated as such both by both its inhabitants and the land itself,” his deep voice carries over the wind and you nod, taking one last glance at the rolling hills and returning to the car.

     “What did Pilgrim say?” Castor looks up as you reenter the small room.

     “We’re almost there, but we might meet trouble at a checkpoint if we aren't careful,” you relay what Pilgrim had told you, sitting beside Castor at the window.

     “I’ll be glad for some action, we’ve been sitting around in this car for weeks,” Castor sulks, leaning his head back against the car’s wall with a bored groan.

     “I just can’t believe we’re almost there. Azra has to be close, I can feel it,” you look longingly past him out the window at the fading sky, watching the clouds shift slowly across the horizon.

     “Me too,” he sighs, his eyes flickering from the skyline to you, lingering on your face as you close your eyes against the sunset’s bright orange rays.

                                                             …

     “Finally, the promised land is at hand.”

     You stand with Nix and Castor in front of the convoy under a canopy of green, the crisp forest air that breathes against your bare arms making you shiver. Pilgrim stops in front of you, holding up a compass and staring out at the open road. 

     You have entered the Badlands.

     It doesn't seem real after the years you’ve spent learning about Azra and preparing for the journey, and now that you’ve finally completed the first step, you are surprised to find that the feeling of overwhelming fulfillment is accompanied by a tight ball of apprehension that lingers in your chest at the realization of what this means for your future. Your entire life has been leading up to this moment, and despite how happy you thought you would be, you can't help but feel as if you are even more trapped than before, this time there being no escape from the fate that Pilgrim has set out for you. You watch the small log cabin and farm disappear into the fog of the Badlands, and you are powerless to stop it, even as the azure eyes of the child beg you to follow them away from the dusty road and away from Pilgrim.

     After walking a few miles down the dirt trail and leaving the convoy behind you, the trees thin out to reveal a large structure marked with a flowing silver flag that depicts the head of a fox. You recognize it from Pilgrim’s lessons as the symbol of Baron Chao. Archers stand atop the checkpoint, pointing their bows down at you and awaiting the orders to fire.

     “I’ve come to offer salvation. Lay down your arms and submit to your messiah,” you hear Pilgrim project to the clippers, and you prepare your swords for the inevitable combat.

     “On my command….” a clipper speaks from above you, and you take that as your signal to draw a thin cut across your arm, Castor and Nix following suit. “Fire!” you leap into action, your Gift giving you the ability to fly high into the air and deflect the arrows spitting in flurries towards Pilgrim.

     The three of you move to opposite sides of the checkpoint, easily slicing your way through each clipper and jumping to the next level to continue the massacre. You turn your head just in time to watch as Castor barrels down to the lower floor, hunched over a bloodstained white suit. His eyebrows pull together in sudden confusion and he glances up towards you, the black fog that had been swallowing his eyes dissipating to reveal white. He looks at you with a wide, fearful stare, and before you can jump down to him, a flash of white and the glint of a blade behind his lowered back catch your eye. You swiftly launch your sword at the clipper before he can touch Castor, anxiety gripping your heart even as he stumbles back and falls off the tower. Castor nods at you gratefully, tightening his fists and setting his jaw as the Gift washes over him again. You watch him cautiously for a moment before returning to help Nix fight off the last of the archers, but you are distracted by the unshakable fear that Castor’s sickness had come back.

     You pull yourself onto the front of the car with a blanket of dread draped heavily across your shoulders, stealing a glance at Castor as he limps past you and disappears into the dark interior of the vehicle. You catch Nix’s eye and she gives you a concerned look before leaping across the side of the moving car to where Pilgrim sits beside Cressida. You slowly approach the curtained opening and look past it to where Castor is sitting on the floor between the benches with his head between his knees. Pilgrim appears at your side with Nix standing behind him wearing the same fearful expression that you can feel spreading across your own features.

     Pilgrim pushes past you and kneels in front of Castor, lifting his face with a gentle hand.

     “I-I told you, I’m fine,” he stammers, pulling his legs closer.

     “Look at me child.”

     Castor tilts his head to the side and reluctantly meets Pilgrim’s eyes, his face weary.

     “The fight took a little more out of me this time, that’s all,” he mutters, eyes flitting back to his feet.

     You hold your breath and Nix speaks up, “admit it, you’re getting worse.”

     “I… I just need some rest, okay?” he looks back up at Pilgrim as if his gaze will validate his words.

     “You don’t have to prove how strong you are to me, I already know. I understand how hard this burden is on you. All of you. But I promise your Gift is for the greater good. Do you realize how special that makes you? How proud I am?” Pilgrim’s voice echoes softly inside the small room, and Castor looks down, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

     “Are we almost there?” he asks, avoiding answering Pilgrim’s words.

     “Soon. I promise,” Pilgrim gives Castor one last reassuring look before standing up and exiting the small car.

     You cast Nix a nervous glance before stepping towards Castor, taking a deep breath. He looks up at you, something shifting in his eyes, and he drops his arms from his knees. You don't know what to say, so you settle yourself next to him and lay your head on his shoulder, feeling his hair tickle your cheek. His breath catches in his throat but he doesn't speak, simply letting his head fall to rest on top of yours, his eyes closing as he breathes in your comforting scent. The moment only lasts a few minutes before Nix returns with an excited look on her face.

     “Cass, Y/N...we’re getting off. Pilgrim has stopped the convoy, he says there’s an island,” she speaks breathlessly, eyes wide in anticipation.

     You lift your head from Castor’s shoulder with surprise and he looks at you with brows raised, his mouth parted slightly as if he was going to speak before Nix came in.

     “...Are we really here?” he breathes, standing shakily from the tight space between the seats. You follow Nix to the front of the car, looking for Pilgrim for confirmation. He is standing in the distance in a meadow that runs along the road, across from a vast lake. An island with a small castle rising from it’s center sits a few hundred yards out, the building jagged and tall against the open sky.

     You gasp at the sight, your imagination turning the stone bricks into gleaming towers of silver to match the image of Azra that is burned into your mind.

     “We made it. After all this time...I can’t believe it,” you marvel.

     Castor smiles, mesmerized as he stares out across the glistening water at the island. “It’s real,” his whisper floats on the soft breeze that comes from the lake, the air around him absorbing the quiet sound.

     You share a look of hope and excitement as you follow Pilgrim towards the shore.

     As your hastily fashioned raft skims across the lake’s rippling surface, you watch the castle grow larger with each stroke of the paddle, your heart thundering in your chest as you dream about what you will find inside the ancient building. Castor and Nix are staring awestruck at your sides, and Pilgrim and Cressida stand poised on the raft in front of you, leading the hundreds of people who joined your journey across the water’s surface.

     “Do you think we’ll find remnants of the Old World here?” Castor asks from beside you, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him.

     “Possibly. It looks as if it’s been abandoned for centuries,” you reply, chest fluttering at the prospect of finding a piece of history from when Azra existed.

     As you reach the shore of the lake, Castor brushes his fingers against yours, looking away from the edifice to meet your wide-eyed gaze.

     “Stay close, just in case,” he tells you, his face conveying slight unease beneath his rapture.

     “Always,” you smile, taking his hand and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

     You stand in front of the towering wooden doors to the castle, lighting your torch and giving Castor’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and watching as Pilgrim pushes them open with a deafening creak.

     The floor is littered with dead leaves and the air smells musty, your torch casting a hazy orange glow over the stone walls. The gaping room is hauntingly dark, spare the pale yellow light filtering in from the stained windows above you, matching that of the windows in Pilgrim’s car. Large skeletal structures stand on the sides, held up by metal rods that force their bodies to reenact the shapes of a once living form. Cobwebs shroud every surface, and you brush them away as you slowly enter the room.

     “Let us give thanks, and behold the wonders of our new home. Please, go. Explore,” Pilgrim’s voice echoes throughout the tall chambers. Castor shoots you a reminding glance, and you nod, staying by his side.

     You follow him through a maze of artifacts, stone faces staring blankly up at you, pieces of history long forgotten and hidden away for centuries. Your torch casts long shadows over the shelves of unfamiliar objects, the strange heads of animals leering at you from where they hang on the walls.

     “Is this really the sacred ground of our ancestors?” Nix speaks as she surveys the tallest skeleton, it’s white bones reflecting the light of your torches.

     Cressida appears from the shadows behind the boned giant, “Don’t be deceived by appearances. Just as your body has meridians of hidden energy, so does the Earth itself. This place sits on a nexus of great power.” Her hand strokes Nix’s cheek and she smiles back at the High Priestess, but Castor looks on with a doubtful expression.

     A man speaks up from behind Cressida, “I can’t believe we journeyed thousands of miles, just for this ruin.”

     “Your leap of faith will be rewarded, but you must be patient,” Cressida assures him, and Castor meets your eyes worriedly, his hand moving slowly to the hilt of his knife. 

     “This place is a tomb,” the man snarls, walking away to rejoin a group of Pilgrim’s followers.

     You put a hand on Castors shoulder and turn him away from the man. “Pilgrim will prove to him that Azra is more than a fairy tale. We have to start somewhere,” you blink assuredly at him, and he nods, turning his head to face the staircase at the sound of Pilgrim’s commanding voice.

     “Brethren,” Pilgrim booms, slowly descending the steps.

     “Now, finally, we stand on Fate’s own doorstep, where we will build a new Azra. But instead of rejoicing, I sense remorse, demurral, and doubt,” he pauses, letting his audience fill in around him before continuing. 

     “I am the one to blame for failing you.” The man that had previously spoken stares at Pilgrim with a dubious frown, others in the assembly echoing his expression.

     “If I have led you to a place of doubt, then it is my own conviction that needs testing.” You look worriedly at Castor as the man approaches Pilgrim, a few of the other suspicious men following his movements.

     Pilgrim wraps a blindfold over his eyes and tells the men to draw their weapons, gesturing towards you and Castor to stay put as he senses your concern. You bite the inside of your cheek anxiously and wait, sword in hand in case you need to defend your leader. Castor and Nix do the same, standing stiffly beside you with their weapons drawn.

     “All I have is blind faith to protect me. Fate will decide if this is enough. I challenge you, strike me down if you can.”

     The men circle Pilgrim, leaves rustling beneath their feet. As soon as the first makes a move, Pilgrim springs into action, easily deflecting the blow despite being unable to see. He strikes down each man that comes forward using only his hands, leaving their bodies strewn across the stone floor. He looks up at the man who had spoken first to where he stands alone, his comrades now lying dead on the fortress’s dusty ground.

     He drops his weapons and stutters, “Please. I...I believe.” 

     Pilgrim approaches him slowly, the man shaking in fear. “Then you are already saved,” he speaks, embracing him. You allow your muscles to relax, your nerves calming as Pilgrim proves the undeniable power that Azra holds and subdues the reservations among his followers.

     “Remember, a man is only ever as strong as his faith.”

     The line stands out in your mind, and you try to ignore the tug of worry in your gut caused by his words. You don't want to think about it, but you can't help but wonder if they could have any relation to Castor’s recent sickness. What if it was caused by his faith in Azra weakening? 

     You look back to Castor and plaster on a smile, “Lets see what else this place is hiding,” you suggest, hoping that exploring your new home will take your mind off of things. He follows you down one of the dark halls to a smaller room where there are tables of mementos from the Old World.

     You let your hand drift over the foreign objects, wiping away the dust that had collected in the absence of people. Castor reaches out and takes a small piece of paper from a metal stand, an image of a statue pictured on its front, clouded by spiderwebs. Nix holds up a small box-shaped toy to her face, peering through a lens at the top.

     “This is incredible,” she breathes, letting out a small laugh.

     “What is it?” Castor sets down the small paper, taking it from Nix’s outstretched hand.

     You watch as he brings it to his eyes, squinting in the dimly lit room. “The Old World,” he whispers in awe, his finger resting on a small button at it’s side. The box must somehow hold pictures in it, you realize.

     You pick up a small plastic animal, it’s green skin rough beneath your fingers. You’ve never seen anything like it, and you wonder how many other animals existed before you had the chance to know them. 

     “What do you think happened to these people?” Castor asks, handing the box to you.

     “Pilgrim says they ignored the signs of their destruction, so Fate decided to punish them,” Nix answers matter-of-factly, picking up the small plastic creature you had set down next to you.

     You peer into the old device, pushing down on the button to change the images that materialize in front of your eyes. There is a rushing waterfall, and a tall green statue of a woman holding a torch. You press the button again and gasp, the next picture bringing goosebumps to your skin.

     “It’s Azra.”

     Nix whips her head up to look at you and Castor’s eyes widen, reaching out for the device.

     “It’s Azra!” you repeat, handing Castor the box so he can see for himself.

     He looks into the lens, speechless at the image of the sparkling tower. Nix takes it from him and stares at the picture, “It’s so beautiful. Do you think it’s close?” she asks in excitement, looking back up at you and Castor.

     Castor’s mouth parts and he stares silently at her for a moment before blinking and dropping his gaze. Your heart leaps in your chest, noticing the despairing look in his eyes. You walk closer to him as he brings a hand up to his ear, and you gently place your palm over his, removing it from his face. You examine the side of his head, your breath catching in your throat as you notice the blood dripping from inside his ear while he looks away indignantly.

     “Your ear…” you murmur, wiping off the blood and trying to meet his gaze. He turns his head away and frowns, eyes pooling with unshed tears.

     “It’s fine. It’s nothing,” he mutters, focusing on the air in front of you and avoiding your concerned gaze.

     “You’re a bad liar,” Nix speaks up softly from behind you, looking at him with a troubled frown. “It’s getting worse,” you agree, taking the hand that dangles at his side in yours and rubbing your thumb across the calloused skin.

     “Don't tell Pilgrim,” he looks up at you sharply, rubbing away the last of the blood. Nix bites back a retort and you frown, watching as he searches for words, his eyes glistening.

     “What if I don't live to see it?” he speaks shakily and finally meets your eyes, his hand in yours tightening.

     “We made a promise that we’d walk through the gates of Azra together,” you whisper to him, placing a warm palm on his chest.

     “Pilgrim won't let us down,” Nix harmonizes, her expression firm.

     Castor’s lips tremble and he looks away again, and you feel a piece of your heart break away in your chest. He gives a small nod and you press forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your chin on his shoulder in a tight hug. He brings his arms around your waist without hesitation and you sigh into the embrace. You can feel his rattled breaths under your chest as you place a soothing kiss to his shoulder, and he burrows his face against your neck, breathing into your hair and closing his eyes. You tighten your grip on him and try not to let the tears threatening to spill from your eyes show. You look at Nix from over his shoulder and shake your head, seeing the way she shifts on her feet to leave and tell Pilgrim. Her eyes plead to you from across the room, but you furrow your brows, setting your mouth in a tight line. You swear to yourself in that moment never to leave Castor’s side again. I won't let anything bad happen to you as long as I’m here, you silently promise him. 

     However much power Pilgrim has proclaimed to hold, you won't let him put Castor in a dangerous situation, even if it means disobeying his orders.

                                                            …

     It only takes a few days to clean out the castle and rid it’s floors of the cobwebs and dried leaves that infest every corner, and you work quickly to tidy one of the small chambers on the second floor that the three of you have claimed. You stand outside the tower, getting some fresh air after having spent hours sweeping away the debris from inside your new room. You take one last deep inhale of the motionless fog that wraps in tendrils around you before reentering the yawning mouth of the castle’s doors and climbing the stairs to check on Castor, who you had left to rest on a makeshift bed in your room. The familiar rasping of a blade from inside makes you stiffen and pause before entering, your hand moving instinctively to the hilt of your sword. You take a slow step forward, waiting apprehensively just outside the door. Suddenly, you hear a broken cry of anger and you jolt, rushing into the dim quarters and drawing your sword. You are greeted with a sight that makes your heart plummet to your feet like a brick and your lungs stop pumping oxygen to your brain. 

     Castor is standing in the center of the room, his face streaked in red, his hand shaking as he hovers a bloody knife next to his cheek. He glances up as you enter, his eyes widening as he notices your presence. You make a choking sound, running towards him and tearing the knife from his hand, your heart shattering into a thousand pieces at the overwhelming desperation on his face. He lets out a frustrated sob and drops to the floor, taking you with him as you hold onto him for dear life.

     He cries silently into your shoulder, his hands grasping at nothing as you cradle him, your throat turning to sandpaper when you try to swallow. It’s as if his tears wash away the Gift from his eyes, and you finally recognize just how hard it is for him to fight while never knowing if his powers will suddenly disappear for good. 

     “I-I’m sorry, I couldn't- it wasn’t working, I was just trying to-,” his voice cracks, face crumpling as he stares at his bloodied hands. 

     His whole body trembles against yours as you wipe away the tears mingling with the blood on his cheeks, feeling a wetness slipping past the barrier of your own lashes and onto your skin as you fight to stay collected.

     “Castor, look at me,” your voice shakes as you pull away slightly.

     He wipes his nose and stares at you through watery eyes, his tears leaving trails of pale skin beneath the blood that drips from his cuts.

     “Cass, I need you here, I-I can’t survive without you, so please...don’t try to fix anything by yourself. Cutting yourself won't make your Gift come back, you need to let your body heal,” you feel your own voice breaking as he curls his fists into the fabric of your cape.

     His breaths come in rattling, unsteady bursts, and he lets out a choked whimper, desperately holding back his loud sobs. You gently lift his head, and without giving it much thought, you place delicate kisses across his cheeks, following the map of raw slashes that bestrew his soft skin. He takes deep, labored breaths and closes his eyes, his lashes tickling your cheek as you rest your forehead against his.

     “...I love you, Cass” you whisper to him, trying hard not to look at his lips and focusing on his closed lids. He shivers and parts his mouth slightly, the blood that has dried on his face cracking with the minute action. His eyes slowly open, revealing the melancholy blue orbs that cause your world to spin on its axis. You’ve said it to him before, always platonically or in softer moments when one of you needed comforting, but this time feels different to you. You aren't sure if he notices the change, but you wouldn't have been able to see his blush anyway underneath the blood.

     You gather yourself, peeling away from Castor and helping him stand, leading him back to the bed in the far corner of the room. He still hasn't said anything, and you bite your lip anxiously, wondering if you had crossed a line. He sits upright on the small bed and you kneel beside him, bringing a hand back up to his face.

     “Cass, let me heal you,” you whisper, your voice pleading.

     He doesn't respond, his eyes flickering up to yours as he sucks in a breath. You close your eyes, drawing on the power within your body to allow it to flow into him again, feeling the cuts on his face closing beneath your glowing fingertips. You try not to use too much energy, remembering the effect it had on you last time you healed him. You open your eyes and feel the hot energy inside you return to your core as the power leaves your hands. Castor’s breathing is steadier and the wounds on his face are now only faint scars, but blood still lingers on his features, drying on the soft skin of his cheeks. You drop your hands and give Castor a wavering smile as you stand up slowly to get a towel to clean his face.

     Before you can leave, he grabs hold of your hand, an urgent look on his face. “I love you too,” he whispers faintly.

     It’s almost inaudible, but your heart melts at his voice, and you smile softly before giving his hand a gentle tug to free yourself from his grasp and leaving the small room to find medical supplies. 

     As you pass a larger room with a low ceiling, you hear familiar voices drifting from inside. “It’s a hard lesson,” Cressida’s low murmur sounds from behind the door. “Some must die, so that others can live. Castor’s final journey may come sooner than any of us hoped, but God will not allow that void to go unfilled,” your blood runs cold at the mention of Castor, and you press your ear to the window to find out who the High Priestess is speaking to.

     “A new Dark One has emerged. You must go and find them, and bring them back to join our fold,” Cressida finishes. Another voice answers, and your nails dig harshly into your palms as you hear Nix.

     “I can't leave Castor alone,” she replies softly, and you force your legs to move, wanting to be as far from their voices as possible. Your head feels stuffy and you ignore the rest of their conversation, too shocked by how unaffected Cressida seemed by Castor’s sickness. How could they so easily just replace him like that? How could Nix agree to do that to him? Your mind spins with confusion, your feet carrying you to the edge of the lake without you realizing.

     The peaceful forest surrounding the castle helps clear your head, and you remember what you came to do. Taking the small towel you had grabbed from one of the rooms, you dip it into the cool lake, soaking it under the crystal clear water. You stare down at the ripples caused by your movement, lost in thought, and fail to hear the quiet splash a few yards in front of you. As you twirl your fingers absentmindedly in the water, a dark shadow falls across the surface. You blink, glancing up and expecting to find one of Pilgrim’s guards, but are instead met by a fleeting glimpse of black armor and pale skin before you feel a heavy blow to the back of your head and your vision fades to nothing.

                                                          …

     Your head throbs as the reoccurring dream of the small farm and blue eyed boy dissipates, leaving behind only the darkness of your eyelids. The throbbing increases, and you blink open your eyes to a harsh light filtering into your room. You raise a stiff arm to touch your injury, your fingers grazing over a large bump on the back of your skull. You wince and pull back, sitting up on the makeshift bed that you are laying on. You glance around the room, noticing for the first time Castor’s sleeping form beside you on his own bed. You tense as you realize that you hadn't gone back to him after you had left to get water to clean the blood from his face. Who had attacked the castle? Had Castor been hurt in your absence? You fight the urge to wake him and question him about what had happened, leaving him to rest and gingerly easing yourself out of bed, holding onto the wall for stability as dizziness washes over you. You blink away the fuzziness in your eyes and search the surrounding rooms for Pilgrim or Nix, wanting answers.

     You catch sight of Pilgrim standing in the center of the main floor, speaking quietly to Cressida, and you make your way carefully down the stairs towards him. He looks up as you enter the large room, his solemn face morphing into a smile as he greets you.

     “Dear One, you’re awake. Is your head feeling any better?” he asks as he cups your face in one of his large hands.

     “Yes, Pilgrim...What happened? Is everyone alright?” you ask, looking around the room for signs of damage. There is blood spattered across the ground and walls, and shards of stone broken from the castle littering the floor.

     “Baron Chao sent her clippers here to kill me. She was angry with us for enlightening her people and helping guide them to the faith,” he spoke gravely, gesturing to the destruction.

     “Where is Nix?” you notice her absence, suddenly worried that something had happened to her during the attack.

     “She has been sent on a mission to find one of your siblings. Another Dark One has arisen, and she has been tasked with bringing them here to join our ranks,” Pilgrim explains, and your stomach clenches, remembering Cressida’s previous conversation with Nix.

     “Pilgrim...Will Castor be okay?” you ask hesitantly, fearing his answer.

     “Castor is sick, Dear One. He must rest and strengthen himself for what is to come. I sense tensions rising among the Barons, and war is more likely than some may think. We have made an alliance with The Widow, but an enemy with Chao. An enemy we must be well prepared to face again,” he narrates, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

     “Do not fear, my child. Castor’s Gift may be failing, but his faith will keep him strong,” he pronounces. You nod and leave him to continue his hushed conversation with Cressida, returning to your chambers.

     When you reenter the room Castor is sitting up in his bed, sharpening his knives with a small stone. You sit down beside him and watch him work for a moment before speaking.

     “Are you feeling better?” you ask as he looks up from the tedious task.

     “I should be the one asking you that,” he puts on a small, teasing smile and sets down the blade.

     “It’s just a small bump, I can hardly feel it. But Cass...do you want to talk about what happened earlier?” you pull your eyebrows together, watching his smile drop.

     “...Not really. I was upset, Y/N. Don't worry about it,” his lips draw into a thin line, and he turns away from you.

     “How can you say that? Of course I’m going to worry about you! Especially when you do something like- like that, and I can't do anything to help you. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to watch you do that to yourself? You’re my other half, Cass. If you’re not here, I don't know what I’ll do with myself,” your voice begins to shake again and you curse yourself for letting your emotions get the best of you.

     “Hard for you? You're not the one who’s Gift won't work properly, you aren't being treated like a helpless child by everyone you care about! Hasn't Pilgrim told you by now? I’m dying, Y/N. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about it,” he shouts, turning to look at you with fury blazing behind his gaze. You stare at him, eyes wide and glistening, his words entering one ear and leaving the other like an arrow splitting your skull.

     “W-what? Castor, you aren’t- that can't be. Pilgrim told me everything was fine, he promised us we would see Azra together,” you all but whimper, and his face softens, the anger evaporating and being replaced by a mournful stare.

“You’re my other half too, Y/N. I just can’t sit around waiting for death. It’s cowardly, and Pilgrim says a war is coming, so I have to get my Gift back by then,” he leans towards you, his beautiful eyes piercing through your veil of grief. You look up at him and he wipes away the single tear that has fallen onto your cheek.

     “I’m sorry for scaring you, Y/N. I just- I had to try something.”

     “You can’t bring it back through force, Cass. You have to be patient with yourself,” you murmur, letting him play with the tips of your hair as he watches you anxiously.

     “I know that now. I’m sorry,” he says again, letting his hands drop to yours.

     You play with his fingers, the feeling of his skin surprisingly soft against yours despite his hands’ constant use of weapons. He intertwines his hands with yours, your heart fluttering at how perfectly they fit together. You sit there silently, enjoying each other’s presence and letting the rest of the world fall away from you as the sun circles the Earth slowly, lighting up your small room and making your faces glow beneath it’s cleansing rays. It is a flickering second of peace within a lifetime of horror and violence, and you engrave the moment into your mind, saving it for times when there is only blood and death and you need to wash it all away with memories of kinder things.

                                                           …

     You are sitting alone by the stairs resting after helping clean up the damage done by Chao’s clippers when Nix returns. She enters the towering front doors of the castle with one of Pilgrim’s guards, carrying the body of a boy about your age. His arms hang limply at his sides and his dark hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat as they drag him into the dimly lit tower. You stand up quickly, catching her eye and setting your mouth in a tight-lipped frown. She had found the other Dark One. You watch her from a distance as she lays him on a pile of blankets in a nearby room and sits beside him, bringing a wet towel to his face. The gentle act makes your stomach clench, anger boiling inside you. How could she already treat him as if he were her brother? Had she forgotten about Castor?

     As curious as you are, you can't bear to watch her doctor the mysterious boy, too upset with her for ignoring Castor and leaving him while he was sick to find his replacement. You walk up the stairs towards your room, ignoring Pilgrim and Cressida as they move past you to meet the boy who had apparently regained consciousness. As you reach the top you hear an unfamiliar voice speaking aggressively to Pilgrim, and you turn back, glancing down uneasily and wondering if the newcomer would cause trouble. The dark haired boy was standing now, angrily approaching Pilgrim and trying to push past him. You watch in shock as his eyes go black, his Gift activating with no help from a blade. Pilgrim raises a hand and his voice reverberates as he speaks in the ancient language of his people, using his power to control the Gift and force the boy back to his natural state. You faintly hear Pilgrim order Nix to get food and wine for the stranger, and watch from the balcony as she hurriedly leaves, your jaw clenching in frustration. 

     Why is this boy being treated like an esteemed guest? He could be an enemy for all we know, you seethe, your nails digging into your palms. Pilgrim turns back to the boy and you hear him ask his name, and you strain your ears to catch his reply. 

     “M.K.” answers the boy quietly.

     Their voices grow too quiet to be overheard and you turn to walk back towards your room, but movement from the other side of the balcony catches your eye and you pause, noticing Castor in the dark lighting. He is standing stiffly beside a pillar with his arms at his sides, looking down at Pilgrim and the boy with glazed eyes, his breathing rapid as he watches Pilgrim help the boy across the room with a hand on his arm. You feel your throat tighten at his broken expression, your heart clenching as he blinks away tears and sets his mouth in grim determination. You wish you could tell him that everything would be okay, but even you are having trouble believing that. Castor’s condition seemed to be getting worse with each passing day, and you couldn't lie to him or yourself when both of you knew what it could eventually lead to if you didn’t find a cure. 

     You stand beside the table of ancient artifacts, the small room a living time capsule of the Old World. Everything around you is still preserved in a thin layer of dust, the only things lacking the grey filter being the small plastic animal that you now fiddle with in one hand and the box of pictures that rests on the table beside you. This room is the only place in the castle where you feel safe, and you use it as an escape from the real world. You are flipping through a small booklet you found detailing the flora and fauna of a time from before the Badlands existed when you hear voices approaching. You look up as Nix and M.K. enter your small safe haven, casting a dubious glance at the tall boy and setting the book down.

     “Y/N, this is M.K., I was hoping you could help me show him around,” Nix smiles at you, gesturing for him to come forward. He glances at her quickly before looking at you, nodding politely. He seems oddly nonthreatening, a drastic change from before, and you manage a half-smile of agreement.

     “Of course,” you say, picking up the toy box and sliding in the wheel of pictures. Nix’s face brightens as you bring out the small device and M.K. looks at it in confusion. You laugh softly and walk to stand behind him, bringing the toy up to his eyes and pressing the button on the side to show him how it works.

     He brings his hands up slowly, in awe of the images held in the small box, and you smile at the innocence of the activity.

     “Beautiful, isn't it?” you say as you hear a small gasp from the dark-haired boy. He chuckles lightly, turning around to face you.

     “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” his eyes are filled with childish wonder, and you smile genuinely for the first time in days. Maybe he isn't as bad as I thought, you muse as Nix takes the toy from him.

     M.K. opens his mouth to speak, but an angry voice from behind you interrupts, Castor entering the room wearing a threatening expression.

     “Get away from her,” he growls, breathing heavily as he halts a few feet behind you. Nix looks on nervously and M.K. tenses next to you, shooting you a questioning glance.

     “You go out without me one time...and you've already found my replacement?” He looks at Nix with hurt in his eyes, taking slow, deliberate steps forward. 

     “Replacement?” M.K. asks hesitantly. 

     Castor approaches him, his eyes wild. “I saw you with Pilgrim. You don't have to cut yourself, you're not like us,” he snarls, face inches away from the taller boy. Sweat drips from his forehead, his fever making his eyes glassy and his skin pale, and you feel a wave of panic wash over you. You couldn't let him start a fight, not in this state.

     You step between them, pushing Castor back, “Cass, calm down, it’s not what you think-”.

     “Then what is it? Is he going to share your bed too then, huh?” Castor shouts, pointing an accusing finger at M.K., his breathing rough as he stands inches from you. You stare silently into his eyes, startled by the bitter pain sheathed behind his blue irises.

     “Hey, don't talk to her like that-,” M.K. steps forward defensively, and you look at Nix in dismay, her eyes wide as they flit between Castor and M.K.

     “Why don't you stop me!” Castor shoves him backwards and you let out an alarmed cry, blocking him from M.K.

     “Get out of my way,” he looks at you, anger clouding his eyes. Blood drips from his nose and you reach up to wipe it off, but he pushes you away, rubbing it off aggressively with a shaky hand.

     “Castor…” Nix speaks from beside M.K., her eyes wide and sympathetic.

     “I don't need your pity,” he says roughly, his eyes burning with angry tears as he gives you one last look before storming out of the small room. You shoot Nix an apologetic glance before following him, not bothering to ask M.K. if he was alright. You are too focused on Castor, his outburst a sure sign that his fever was worsening.

     You find him sitting on his bed in your shared room, his fists clenched and his knees drawn close to his chest. You approach him slowly, his eyes focused intently on his feet as he sucks in heavy breaths.

     “He doesn't belong here,” he growls, his face flushed.

     “Give him a chance, he seems to get along well with Nix,” you speak softly, standing a few feet away from him.

     “He seemed to get along just fine with you as well,” Castor scoffs bitterly, and you are surprised by the hint of jealousy in his voice.

     “You're being childish, Castor. I was trying to be welcoming, I wasn't abandoning you for a stranger,” you reply sharply, tired of arguing with him over such trivial things.

     “He can't stay.”

     “Castor-”

     “If he stays, I become useless, don't you understand? I’m just extra baggage that's going to get thrown off the ship when you no longer need me!” he shouts, glaring up at you from where he sits. “If I can't fight, then what’s the point, Y/N? I cant stand being a fucking burden anymore. He’ll replace me, and you’ll forget I ever existed. Pilgrim’s already forgotten,” his voice grows quiet at the end, his fists clenching and unclenching as he stares at you.

     “I would never forget you,” you whisper, hurt swelling in your chest. “And the point is that you'll be alive. Isn't that enough?” your eyes brim with tears, and you squeeze them shut in an attempt to stop yourself from crying again.

     “I’m not going to get better,” he mutters, wiping his nose as more blood drips from it.

     “Yes, you will,” you fix your gaze on him, steadfast and hard. 

     He looks up at you miserably, sniffing and giving up on wiping the blood away.

     “Please Cass. For me,” you speak softly, your stern gaze evaporating into a look of pure desperation.

     “...Okay,” he murmurs, closing his eyes in defeat.

                                                          …

     When Castor doesn't return from the refugee camp, you immediately assume the worst. You blame yourself; he had gone without telling you or Nix, but you should have been there with him. You never would have let him go alone, he should be sitting beside you playing cards, not being held prisoner by The Widow. You hadn't even known he had left until Pilgrim told you what had happened when Cressida had sent him to ensure that Chau followed through on her promise of providing workers. You would trade anything just to know that he was safe, and you were angry with Cressida for sending him to fight when he was sick.

     Grief takes control, leaving you inconsolable. You can't bring yourself to eat, no matter how much food Nix sneaks into your room, and sleep escapes you, your head filled with horrifying images of Castor lying bleeding somewhere, left for dead. His empty bed next to yours only makes things worse, and you resort to sleeping on a blanket in the room of ancient artifacts, the solitude finally allowing you to cry without being seen by Nix or M.K..

     You are utterly helpless, unable to rescue him from The Widow and unable to bury the guilt and grief inside you. Worst of all, you are unable to tell him how much you love him, and the thought that he may never know causes your world to come crashing down around you, everything you had ever cared about being ripped from your hands and tearing a gaping hole in your heart.

     Two days pass before Pilgrim has any news of Castor, and when he does, the relief of hearing that he is alive makes you dizzy, the hole in your heart closing ever so slightly. But the grief that has been lifted from you is replaced with an overwhelming fear. He is still being held captive by The Widow, and before you could see him and prove that he is alive and breathing, he wasn't safe.

     You sit with Nix and M.K. in your room, watching absentmindedly as she teaches him a card game. You drift off, allowing your imagination to take you away, your dreams being much better than your reality. You can finally see why the eyes of the boy from your dreams are so familiar. They are Castor’s. You can tell by the way they glint mischievously when he smiles, and by the flecks of green and brown hidden under the icy blue that you know so well. How they reflect the sunlight and glow under the moon. You extend a hand, trying to touch the child, but he is just out of reach and your fingers grasp only air.

     Pilgrim’s voice shatters the daydream, bringing you back to your harsh reality. “We must take a trip to the mainland, my children. We are meeting with The Widow. Fate has ensured that Castor remains alive and is to be returned to us,” he speaks gruffly, and Nix looks at you with hope blooming in her eyes. 

     Your hands shake as you stand, your heartbeat increasing tenfold as you leave the small bedroom. When you reach the vast doors of the castle, you shoot Nix a terrified glance, wondering what state Castor would be in when he is returned to you. She takes your hand, squeezing it in reassurance, and you let out a deep breath, giving her a grateful look. 

     “He’ll be ok,” she whispers, staring out past the lake at the fields surrounding you.

     You nod, not trusting your voice, and follow Pilgrim to the rafts that would take you to the mainland.

     You stand beside Nix and M.K. in the large, grassy field opposite the island, watching as The Widow approaches slowly with a group of her clippers. There is nowhere to run, the field extending for miles on either side of you and lined with trees from the outskirts of the forest nearby. She halts in front of Pilgrim, her hand lingering on the sword at her side.

     “Where is my boy?” Pilgrim asks, his voice deep and authoritative.

     The Widow makes no movement, staring at Pilgrim warily as you watch with bated breath. “Where is Castor?” Pilgrim barks, “I won't ask again.”

     Without taking her eyes off of Pilgrim, The Widow gestures for her men to fetch him from the car. You watch in silence as two clippers carry a stretcher across the field, Castor’s red and black armor becoming visible.

     You choke back a cry of horror as they lay him down in front of Pilgrim. He is unconscious, and paler than when you had last seen him, his skin so white that each individual vein could be seen beneath the sweat-glossed surface. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, every intake of air a struggle as his eyes twitch beneath his closed lids. He looks so lifeless and small, and you feel your hand tighten around the hilt of your sword as you drag your eyes away from his body. This was all The Widow’s fault. You fight the urge to drive your blade deep into her chest and make her suffer like Castor, wanting revenge for what she had done to him. She had so quickly gone from being an ally to an enemy, and you were ready for Pilgrim to order you and Nix to attack.

     But her words come as a surprise, and your hand drops from your sword as she speaks. “We treated him as best we could, but his condition is worsening,” she says with sympathy, and you look at Nix in astonishment.

     “And why would you do me this kindness, I wonder,” Pilgrim stares at Castor’s body, his face emotionless and still.

     “Because a father should say goodbye to his son. And because I am not your enemy,” The Widow replies diplomatically.

     Pilgrim stares at her incredulously before turning and nodding towards Nix to take Castor. M.K. moves to help her but you shove past him, taking the front end of the stretcher and biting your lip to stop it from trembling as you look down at his face, his mouth parted as he fights just to get air into his lungs. Nix stares straight ahead, her eyes glossy as she lifts her side of the stretcher and slowly begins to walk towards your raft.

     Pilgrim turns back to The Widow, “Thank you for returning my son,” he says, his voice clipped but holding less anger than before.

     He follows you to the lake-shore, leaving The Widow standing in the field, and you take one last look at the copper-haired woman before gently placing Castor onto the raft and sitting down next to him, feeling the wooden structure sway below you as you are pushed out into the water and back towards the island.

     You sit on the makeshift bed next to Castor, holding a damp towel to his forehead as you watch him try to fight off the sickness that invades his body as he sleeps. The paper tapestry covering the window above you acts as a thin curtain, allowing a pale light to wash over his face and bathe him in patterns reflected from the images on the ancient mural. You brush back the hair on his forehead, every movement you make an act of tenderness that urges him to wake up. His mouth twitches and his eyelids flutter open as he regains consciousness, his blue irises glassy and unfocused as you stroke his cheek. He tries to lift his head, his mouth moving as he attempts to speak but no words come, and you place a hand on his chest, easing him back down.

     “Shhh. You're going to be okay,” you murmur, bringing the cool towel back to his face.

     He sighs and closes his eyes again, “I’m dying,” he rasps, his voice barely detectable.

     You shake your head, tears coming to your eyes, “Don't say that. You promised me, remember?” you beg him. His mouth opens and closes as he takes labored breaths, his chest stuttering beneath your hand.

     “Pilgrim told us we would see Azra together, and we will,” you tell him, trying to convince yourself just as much as you are him.

     “Pilgrim is wrong. And if he’s wrong about that...then maybe he’s wrong about everything else,” his voice is weak as he lets out a shaky breath, opening his eyes to focus on your face. You meet his gaze, your lips trembling.

     “You can't lose faith in Azra, we've already come so far,” you whisper, dipping the towel in a bowl of cold water and returning it to his face.

     “We're never going to find it, Y/N. Azra is gone, it disappeared with the Old World, and maybe that's for the best,” he mutters, turning his head away from your hand as you move the wet towel to his cheek.

     “You're sick, you need to-” you reach out to touch his face but he grabs you by the shoulder and sits up, his face taut with anger.

     “We are not what he says we are!” he shouts, the abrupt movement throwing you off the bed and onto the smooth floor. You stare at him in shock, your eyes wide. He opens his mouth as if to apologize, regret instantly filling his gaze, when M.K.’s voice barks from the doorway.

     “Leave her alone!” he walks swiftly towards Castor’s bed, his lips drawn into a tight frown.

     You stand up, rushing to put yourself between him and Castor, “His fever is getting worse, you need to leave,” you say, your face rigid. You hear Castor moving behind you and you turn, holding M.K. back with one hand. Castor staggers towards a statue of ancient armor and pulls a sword from the figure’s belt, panting heavily as he turns and points it at M.K.. A feral look has clouded his eyes, the sword shaking in his outstretched hand as he glowers at the other boy.

     “You don't belong here,” he growls, taking an unsteady step towards M.K.. The dark-haired boy shoots you a worried glance, stepping backwards.

     “Castor, calm down,” M.K. puts his hands up, slight fear entering his gaze as he stares back at him. Castor takes another step forward and you turn around, making a desperate grab for the blade. He shouts out in pain as you shove him away from M.K., but dodges your attempt at stopping him and swings the blade violently toward the taller boy.

     M.K. ducks the blow easily and leaps away from Castor, but the feverish boy follows him, striking out blindly as he attempts to fight in his weakened state. He lunges forward just as M.K. steps to the side, his sword slicing through one of the armored statues that surround the small room.

     “Castor, stop!” you cry frantically, watching in terror as M.K. moves to defend himself. Castor wouldn't be able to win a fight against the stronger boy, his motions already growing sluggish as his body fights to keep him going through his illness. You rush forwards as M.K. grabs Castor and violently throws him down, pressing his body into the hardwood floor and twisting his arm to hold him in place. Castor moans in pain, his face screwing up as M.K. twists his arm back with more force. You shove M.K. off of him, throwing him to the side as you kneel over Castor and hold him to your chest, your arms wrapping around his waist as he drags in harsh gasps.

     Castor struggles against you, turning his head to M.K., “He’s a liar!” he shouts, blood dripping from his nose as he pants beneath your hold.

     “I know what you are,” he whimpers, “The Widow told me.”

     You look down at him in confusion, then back up at M.K. who is staring at the boy in your arms with shock, a sword dangling from his hand in case Castor tried to attack again.

     “Enough.” A low voice from behind you makes you whip your head around, watching as Pilgrim and Nix enter the room. Nix glances down to Castor, fear flickering across her gaze as she sees the sword in M.K.’s hand. You loosen your arms around Castor and he drops his head, his eyes following Pilgrim.

     “Your brother needs to rest,” Pilgrim commands, looking down at you with piercing eyes.

     You don't move, meeting his gaze in defiance. Nix looks at you with wide eyes, imploring you to stand up, but you glare at Pilgrim, pulling Castor closer.

     Pilgrim begins to speak in the ancient language of Azra, and Nix’s eyes dart back up to him, her hand reaching for M.K.’s. Pilgrim gives another sharp order and Nix slowly retreats from the room, pulling M.K. with her and staring remorsefully at Castor. You watch her go, a feeling of betrayal finally shattering your confidence in Pilgrim’s promises. You make up your mind as the last of your faith in him crumbles: you are going to get out of here, and you are taking Castor with you.

     “Dear One, leave us now. I wish to speak to Castor alone,” Pilgrim’s voice is dangerously quiet as he stares at you, and your heart thuds loudly in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

     “..No.” You are shocked by your own response, but you had noticed a look in Pilgrim’s eyes that scared you more than anything you had ever seen, and you refuse to leave Castor alone with him.

     Castor makes a small noise from under you, and you meet his gaze, your eyes conveying to him a silent promise. I'm here for you. And I’m never leaving again. He looks at you with a mix of pain and redamancy, his face showing a million different emotions at once. It is enough for you to know that he understood, and you untangle yourself from him, standing to face Pilgrim.

     “What did you say, my child?” Pilgrim’s voice is threatening, his eyes glinting with sudden malice.

     Castor gets shakily to his feet, standing beside you and matching Pilgrim’s lour. “She said no,” he speaks, taking your hand in his and gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

     “I will not allow disloyalty into my house,” Pilgrim’s eyes are wild with anger, his nostrils flared.

     Your knees feel weak with fear but you stand your ground, taking a deep breath. 

     “Then we’ll leave,” you say evenly, masking your terror with a calm expression.

     A wave of shock passes over Pilgrim’s face, and his eyes turn cold. “You will do no such thing,” he growls, his broad shoulders filling the doorway and blocking the only way out of your room. Castor’s hand tightens around you even more and you wince, blinking at him. He loosens his grip apologetically and moves toward Pilgrim.

     “I guess you'll have to wait and see,” his voice is gravelly as he stands shoulder to shoulder with your leader, the trembling of his hand in yours the only thing betraying his fear.

     Pilgrim’s eyes flash with outrage, and he makes a guttural noise in the back of his throat.

     “I do not want to hurt you, my Dear Ones. But you leave me little choice,” he threatens. “I am not blind to your feelings, I know what has brought about this sudden breach of faith. You care deeply for each other, and it has distracted you from your duty to Azra. I am no stranger to such emotions. But you must stay focused and not let your childish fantasies cloud your perception.”

     You are taken aback by his words, unaware that he knew of your feelings for Castor, and shocked by his proclamation that Castor returns them. This wasn't how you wanted to tell him you loved him. Everything about it is wrong, and your chest burns with frustration as you meet Pilgrim’s gaze.

     “I will give you one day to choose whether you leave or stay. Think carefully, my children, and do not make the wrong decision. Your disloyalty will not go unpunished,” he slowly backs away from the door, glancing at each of you one last time with an admonitory sweep of his dark eyes.

     You hold your breath until he has gone, standing stiffly beside Castor in front of the empty door frame. You can't bear to look into his eyes, afraid of the rejection you might find in them as he drops your hand. You turn away, taking long strides toward your bed, but Castor grabs your arm and stops you, forcing you to turn and meet his gaze.

     “Y/N-” he starts to speak, but you cut him off.

     “I’m sorry, I should never have put you in a position where you had to disobey Pilgrim. You're in danger now, and it’s my fault,” you croak, your throat tightening as he locks his eyes onto yours.

     “No, that's not what I-” he grabs for your hand again but you pull it away, the pain in your heart blinding you.

     “I don't know what Pilgrim was talking about, I…” you falter, your eyes brimming with tears.

     “Really? Because I do,” he stares at you, his eyes swimming with emotion.

     “What?” your breath catches in your throat, your world freezing in place as he takes a step toward you.

     “Do you really not know how much I love you?” he breathes, closing the distance between your bodies until he is standing directly in front of you, the tips of his fingers brushing your wrists.

     “Castor…?” your voice comes out like a whispered prayer, everything you had ever wanted to say to him escaping your mind as he looks into your eyes.

     “You're the only reason that I’m still living. Everything I do is for you, everything I’ve survived...I can’t tell you how badly I want to leave this place, to take you far away from the Badlands and never look back. And I- I thought that maybe you wanted the same thing,” his breath glides over your nose and your fingers twitch, reaching for him.

     He takes your hands, bringing his face down until his lips hover just above yours, only a sliver of air between you as you exchange breaths.

     “You have no idea how much I want that,” you shiver at his closeness, his eyes so clear and blue that you can count the individual specks of green and brown in them.

     “I’ve loved you for so long that I can't remember not loving you,” your words are swallowed by his sharp intake of breath as he stares hungrily into your eyes.

     “And I can't remember a time when I haven't wanted to kiss you,” he murmurs, finally brushing his lips against yours and cupping your face in his hands, tilting your head to the side as he leans into you.

     It’s as if the Earth melts and mingles with the sky, your mind going numb as you feel his lips caressing yours. All the fear, all the death and destruction you had witnessed falls away from you like an autumn leaf, and you shed your skin as you kiss him back, his lips burning against yours with years of suppressed longing. He curls his fingers into the hair at the base of your neck, urging your faces apart and taking a deep breath as your lips continue to search for his, eyes opening at his sudden pause.

     “Let’s leave. Tonight.” His voice is breathy, his lips a wonderful shade of pink from kissing you and his cheeks finally blossoming with color, giving his face life for the first time in months.

     “...Okay.”

     The dream comes flooding back, and you at last see why your mind had concocted the images of the small farm. It was a beacon of hope. A path leading you towards your future. You smile to yourself, grinning despite everything, and wrap your arms around Castor’s neck.

     “Just give me five more minutes,” you murmur into his skin, kissing up and down his neck. He hums appreciatively, tilting his head back as his eyes flutter shut, his features finally relaxing completely as you place tender kisses along his jaw, tasting the salty sweat on his skin. You move back up to his lips, capturing them in a slow kiss as he wraps his arms around you and presses you into him as close as possible. 

     “We should tell Nix,” Castor whispers against your lips, pausing once again much to your disapproval.

     “What? That we kissed?” you laugh lightly, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek.

     “That we’re leaving.”

     “...We’ll do it once Pilgrim goes to his chambers,” you reply softly, dropping your arms from his shoulders. He nods, resting his hands on your hips and blinking slowly, still caught up in another world.

     “In the meantime, we should gather anything we might need. Food especially,” you begin to map out an escape plan in your head, trying to pinpoint the exact placement of Pilgrim’s guards outside the castle walls. 

     Your room doesn't have any doors leading directly outside, so you would have to sneak out from the lowest floor. Your only consoling thought is the fact that no one but Pilgrim is aware of your situation, so if you ran into any of his followers, they wouldn't question two of his trusted Acolytes if they came across them wandering the castle at night. You had only a few personal belongings each, so packing up your things wouldn't be too hard, but stealing food and a raft would prove more difficult. Your biggest worry however is the fact that Castor is still very sick, and even though your confession seemed to have given him a newfound energy, he looks wobbly on his feet, his breaths remaining unsteady and forced, especially after your kiss.

     “Castor, when you were with The Widow...what did she use to treat you?” you look up from where you are kneeling on the floor, stuffing blankets from your makeshift beds into a small bag that you would take with you.

     Castor looks at you in surprise, his eyes showing a mixture of fear and regret. “I-I’m not sure...I was unconscious for most of the time, but I overheard her say something about medicines from outside the Badlands’ walls,” he sits beside you on one of the stripped beds, visibly relaxing as he finally gets to rest his legs, the effort of standing for so long making him short of breath. You give him a quick glance as you finish packing away the blankets, making sure he’s alright before standing up again.

     “I’m going to check if Pilgrim is still awake. Stay here and get some rest, okay?” you shoot him an affectionate smile, passing him your bag.

     He opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it and simply nods, grateful for not having to get up, his muscles burning as his fever rages on. 

     You leave the small room, scanning the hallways for any signs of Pilgrim or Cressida. Confirming that you are alone, you slowly descend the stairs, the room below you washed in darkness after Pilgrim had retired for the night, the fire in the torches surrounding the floor snuffed out. You know where to find Nix, but you doubt that Castor will want to say goodbye to her if M.K. is with her. You quietly enter the room that holds the toys from the Old World, and pause in front of the doorway as Nix and M.K look up in alarm.

     “Y/N? What are you-” Nix stands quickly, moving towards you.

     “I came to say goodbye. Castor and I are leaving,” you reply, watching with a twinge of guilt as hurt fills her gaze.

     “Leaving? Where will you go? What about Azra?” her voice trembles as you walk closer.

     “Castor needs to heal, and he can't do that here,” you don't tell her about Pilgrim’s threats, not wanting to destroy her faith in him as well.

     “Does Pilgrim know about this?” she looks at you uneasily, and you shake your head.

     “No. We’re going to sneak past the guards, but we have to get off the island by morning,” you look at the floor, afraid that Nix will try to persuade you to stay.

     Instead, you feel her arms wrap around you in a tight hug, and you let out a sigh of relief, returning the embrace.

     “I’m sorry I can't come with you,” she whispers, and you tighten your arms around her.

     “Do you need anything?” she asks, pulling away after a few more seconds.

     “A raft. But there are plenty on shore, we just need to be careful,” you look around the room, your eyes landing on the small box of pictures. Nix follows your gaze, her mouth twitching up as she sees the toy.

     She picks it up and hands it to you, pressing it into your fingers. Surprise fills your gaze, and her eyes twinkle, a bittersweet smile crossing her face.

     “For Castor,” she says, and your heart swells at the kind gesture.

“Thank you,” you smile, looking up, “He’ll love it.”

     M.K. stands in the back, watching you with a guilty expression, and you force yourself not to project your anger at Pilgrim onto him.

     “You should go see Castor before we leave, he’ll want to say goodbye as well,” you direct at Nix, her eyes filling with understanding as you glance back at M.K..

     “Of course,” she replies softly. You give her one last nod of thanks and leave the room, feeling her gaze burning into your back. You take two of the torches hanging from the walls of the castle and begin to make your way towards the room where the food is kept, keeping your footsteps light as you sneak past the guards watching the front doors.

     You grab as much food as will fit into your small bag, taking enough to keep you going for a few days. The bread is stale, and there isn't any fresh meat, but you’ll make do. You catch a glimpse of Nix from the corner of your eye as she ascends the staircase to say goodbye to Castor, and you watch her as she pauses outside the door, collecting herself before entering.

     If we leave from the back of the castle and take one of the rafts that are still in repair, we should be able to evade Pilgrim’s guards, you tell yourself, standing up stiffly and leaving the room before anyone can find you.

     You hurry back up the stairs, carrying the bag that is now heavy with food as you glance around the room to calculate the best escape route. Going out the back door would mean passing Pilgrim’s chambers, and you pray that he will be asleep by the time you leave.

     You return to your shared bedroom, entering just as Nix is standing up to leave. “Good luck,” her eyes fill with an aching sadness as she takes one last look at Castor before exiting the small room.

     “Are you ready?” you look down at Castor, mirroring the pain in his gaze. You understand how difficult this must be for him; Pilgrim was like a father to both of you, but Castor had always had a stronger connection with him, perhaps because he was the first to be brought under Pilgrim’s wing.

     “Yes,” his voice is low and hoarse, and you set down the food to help him up, his teeth clenching as he forces his body to stand. 

     He catches your concerned look, setting his jaw as he straightens, fingers curling around the bag of blankets. “I’m fine, let’s go,” he says forcefully, taking a step towards the door.

     You stop him to place a fleeting kiss on his lips, one last reassurance that everything would be okay before following him out of the room and not looking back.

                                                           …

     You watch the moon slowly fade against the morning sky as you drift across the lake, the sun’s rays peeking up from beyond the fields to wash away the stars with their warm light. You brush your fingers over Castor’s, feeling his hand resting next to yours as you let the island shrink away from you, leaving behind Pilgrim and his empty promises of Gods you no longer believe in.

     The air is chilly, the sun not yet high enough in the sky to have melted the night’s frost, and you watch your breath billow out in front of you, the small clouds of air disappearing into the layer of fog that covers the water’s surface. Castor is lying down next to you, his head resting in your lap as your fingers play with his hair. He looks exhausted, but he is smiling in his somnolence, his breaths even and relaxed. So much had changed in the past few days that it feels as if you are stuck in a dream as you stare down at the boy in your arms. His sickness is still evident on his features, the dark veins running across his cheeks and the fever burning his skin reminding you of the complications you will have to face on your journey, but nothing else could matter to you as you stroke your hands through his hair, massaging his scalp and helping him drift off as your raft rocks gently beneath you. 

     Your eyes raise to the brightening horizon, taking one last look at the ancient castle standing solemnly in the center of the lake, wrapped in fog and climbing towards the sky. As your raft bumps against the shore, the castle fades from view, obscured completely by the palpable mist trapped over the lake. You breathe out a long sigh, feeling your muscles relax as you finally let go of it all, your consciousness wiped clean as you are reborn with the day. This is a fresh start, a new beginning. Tabula Rasa, as Pilgrim would say. Castor’s eyes open, and you see your entire future within them, reflecting back into yours and blinding you from everything else. They are filled with rich possibilities, and for an instant, everything around you is washed clean in unearthly brilliance.

[ditch-witches]

Hey there! I was wondering if you could write about Dean making you breakfast for the first time? I love your Dean content btw and am in the mood for some domestic Dean :)

pairing: Dean Charles Chapman x reader

warnings: suggestive language, cursing, this doesn’t really give off domestic vibes and is a little thin I apologize :/

You groaned slightly and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, stretching your hands towards where you usually kept your phone. You panicked momentarily as you realized your table wasn't there anymore, opening your eyes and finding that you weren't in your room. And then you remembered going out with your friend and not making it home. You knew she had gotten up for work probably hours prior to you waking up. You rolled out of bed and headed for the shower, needing to pull yourself together in some way before you headed back out into the world, grateful you didn't have plans for the day. The shower was hot and soothed your hangover as you let the water roll over your body, your smudged makeup being stripped away like you were shedding a previous life. 

Your friend's clothes were soft and neatly pressed in her drawers, making you smile at her tidiness as you pulled a few articles from their piles, careful not to disrupt anything too drastically. Her hoodie fit you snugly and as you looked into the mirror, you furrowed your brows slightly, debating if you should put makeup on or not. After all, you weren't planning on running into anyone special. As you stepped out of her room, noises from the kitchen startled you. You crept down the stairs quietly and pushed open the kitchen door, the creaking of the hinges revealing a man at her stove. The two of you looked up at each other and jumped, him almost dropping his bowl. 

"Who the fuck are you?" You demanded, grabbing the nearest household item to serve as a weapon. You swore under your breath as you realized it was a remote. 

"I live here. Who the fuck are you?" He mimicked your tone, furrowing his brows at you. You let out a breath of relief. 

"Oh thank God. You're the new roommate?" You asked, setting down the remote and walking into the kitchen. 

"Yeah. I'm Dean…" he hesitated, his eyes watching you pour yourself a cup of coffee. 

"I'm the best friend," you greeted, mumbling your name soon after. 

His eyebrow raised at you. "Want some breakfast?" You looked over him slightly to see what he was making. "There's going to be tons leftover." 

"Alright. Don't poison me, Dean," you jeered, moving to sit on the kitchen island. 

He chuckled, turning back to the stove. "I won't. Just don't hit me with the remote." You giggled slightly at his jest while he smirked. It was now that you fully took in his appearance. You had been too blinded by adrenaline and excitement that you hadn't noticed how broad his shoulders were and how his dark hair was just the right amount of curly. He peered over his shoulder at you before turning to lean against the counter beside the stove while the pan got hotter. His blue eyes were vibrant due to the contrast of his black hoodie. You had to admit, he was cute.

"So, where are you from, Dean?" You asked, swinging your legs and taking a sip of coffee. You studied where his clothes hugged his body and the easiness in his appearance, your eyes trailing down to his grey sweatpants. Nice. 

"Essex," he muttered, searching your face for something. “Romford, Essex.” 

"You're a long way from home then, aren't you?" You asked without skipping a beat.

He smirked. "Sometimes distance is good, don't you think?" 

"Not if you're around the right person," you commented, sending him a mildly flirtatious grin, making the tips of his ears ghost red. 

His eyebrows perked as he grinned. "Cheeky." His eyes raked over you as well, almost like sizing up an opponent. 

You wet your lips, feeling rather bold. Men in domestic situations were always your weakness. Especially when they were as attractive as Dean. "Do you have that right person?" You quizzed. 

He grinned fully, shrugging and turning back to an egg frying. "I don't think I would be living in a flat like this if I did." His sly wink made you smile. 

"Really? Even if you've only dated a girl for like a month, you'd move in with her?" You hopped down from the counter to lean beside him. 

He swallowed, fighting his ever-growing grin before looking back up into your eyes with a mock sincerity on his face. "Oh no, I'm a hopeless romantic, you see. I'd get married within the week if I met that right person." 

You giggled at his comment and he smiled. "How many times have you been married then?"

"In the past year? Four," he shrugged. You laughed a bit harder. "Damn, I could get used to that," he commented, almost too quiet for your own ears, making you bite your lip. 

You crossed your arms. "I could get used to having a man in the kitchen." 

"Good, because usually, I sleep in the kitchen," he quipped.

"Oh yeah?” You crossed your arms to keep from giving in to your temptations. ”Under the kitchen table or on top?" 

"Under. I'm not a heathen," he faked offense. 

You bit back another chuckle, deciding to probe further. "So you like to be on bottom?" 

His face twisted smugly before his eyes turned to yours. The blue in his eyes seemed to have grown darker. "If that's what the table would prefer.” 

"And if the table wants you on top?" He leaned towards you, closing what little distance there was between the two of you. Your heart began to race a mile per minute, as his musky yet woody scent invaded your senses. God, he smelled more enticing than the food he was cooking. 

"So be it," he answered, a sly smirk creeping across his face, as he reached around you to grab a bottle of some kind of spice. You almost reached out and touched him.

"I like you," you uttered and he grinned at what he was doing. 

"Feelings mutual, love," he added keenly. 

"Too bad we're not roommates," you leered, stepping ever so slightly closer to him, your thigh ghosting against his leg.

He leaned towards you again, his beautiful scent once again enveloping you. "Careful, I marry on the first date, remember?" 

You smiled, biting your lip, his attention drawing to your mouth. "I thought you said within the week?" 

"Different circumstances," he threw back, a grin still playing on his plump lips. He moved to hand you a plate of a variety of foods. 

You took it but kept him holding onto the other side. "Would you want to get a drink later?"

He chewed his bottom lip. "You ready for the commitment?" He joked. 

"I'm ready for whatever you want from me, Dean," you commented, taking the plate and nudging his side as you walked out of the kitchen with it, basking in his deep chuckle. 

this is so cheesy bls forgive me

[vernicle]

Every Instrument Song

Each individual instrument I have in 1 tune. 45 in complete.

Patreon: http://ift.tt/1legCiv

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Mixed by Ryan "Fluff" Bruce: https://www.youtube.com/person/Fluff191

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Here is all the devices on display at after: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pycVzXTJFsQ

Online video edit by Jake Jarvi: https://www.youtube.com/pineappleboyfilms/

Song contains 45 devices complete: Electrical drumset Signature eight string Signature eight string prototype Stiletto 5 string bass two string bass 9 string Chowny bass Fender P bass Fretless bass U-bass 7 string Ghost Fret Omen eight Tradition guitar Washburn Double neck Electrical cello Fender Strat Hockey stick Hotrod Chapman Shovel Signature 6 string Theremin Sitar Berimbau Cowbell Idiopan Recorder twelve string acoustic Balalaika Bear Bells Dean Uke Guild acoustic (in recording. Borrowed guitar on display) Harmonica Harp Nylon string Purple cello Slide whistle Upright bass Xylophone Banjo Acoustic electric powered banjo Guitarlele Uke modest Uke medium

This movie was manufactured attainable because of Patreon support from Cody Melcher, Rob Harper, Charles Jones, Jedidiah Silvertooth, Andy "VaultsOfExtoth" Wears, Joe Cseko jr, Walter Zwinger, Risking The Slide, Brandon Ruf, Stefan Gunn, Eric Felton, Hypergnome, Kasper Williams, David Kearney, Quintin Waldner, Rakaus Elama, Damon Burks, Joel Goodwin, Charisse Romero, Pedro Nunes, Daniel Hill, Haroon Rahman, Tyler Fienman, Victor Alexandersen, Nicolette Kawata, James J Moran, Richard Thomas Scott, Jean-Gabriel Labrèche & quite a few other awesome folks on my Patreon web site http://ift.tt/1legCiv Thank you so considerably!

Audio movies go on the primary. All the things and anything at all else is posted on my 2nd Channel: https://www.youtube.com/RobScallon2

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[ditch-witches]

Silhouette (Dean Charles-Chapman x reader)

request: Dean x Kiwi by Harry Styles (idek if this is okay im sorry)

warnings: smoking, drinking, weird au, some adult themes

word count: ~3000 (IM SORRY)

a/n: hey guys! since I’m now on break, I’m going to try and get back to writing. let me know what you think (literally even if it’s like ‘lol this sux’) and---as always---our inbox is open and we love to hear from you. happy reading! ♡

𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓷 𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓶𝓵𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓽 𝓫𝓪𝓻; the buzz of his surroundings vibrating through his bones with the slight nervousness he yielded. His heart skipped a few beats, his mouth drying as he shed his jacket and ran his fingers into his hair. The smoky atmosphere was cut by the strong scent of Acqua di Parma and sweat as he was drawn further into the gentlemen’s club via the deep wine-colored curtains twisting this way and that to cover the bare walls beneath. The accents of gold lights barely illuminated certain corners of the large room, sending a small rush of claustrophobia pulsing through his veins. Girls of various silhouettes seemed to sway between the tables, tending to the desires of sundry men gathered around tables and stationed in lavish, velvet chairs. 

He felt out of place, to say the least. The only time he had ever found himself in such a setting usually occurred when his garrulous boss and his group of kiss-asses wanted to slip away from their loyalties of marriage for a dirty tango with a nameless courtesan. They often disguised these faults of character as “letting off steam after a biting week.” By a simple survey of the room, Dean recognized several of the men from the last times he was dragged to the underground business. Appalling. 

“Chapman!” A husky voice beckoned Dean from one of the prominent tables. His eyes drifted towards the noise after his feet had already begun to carry him away. The man who’d called to him was one of the heirs of the company Dean worked for; a capricious bastard who could and would liquidate Dean’s position at the drop of a hat. He was pinned to his seat beneath a woman no older than Dean yet the years against the outside world painted her face, twisting into the lines framing her eyes and mouth. The Heir held onto the woman a bit tighter as he flung his hand in the air almost like he was trying to wave down Dean in the middle of the Colosseum. 

Dean nodded in acknowledgment and gestured towards the bar, hoping to kill enough time and gain a bit of patience before having to withstand the course of a few hours with the group of heinous Yale alumni. He slumped onto one of the bar stools, pushing his fingers against his temple and mumbling a drink order to the suave bartender. Dean was no prude, but the thought of paying for women to throw themselves at his colleagues seemed like a waste of money. 

She worked her way through a cheap pack of cigarettes / Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect.

As a tumbler of copper-colored courage was set in front of him, Dean chewed the inside of his cheek, glaring at the glass as if it were containing everything distasteful about the position he was seemingly cemented into. Raising the crystal schooner to his lips, his eyes drifted towards the end of the bar as an ick of being watched by smoldering eyes slithered up each of his vertebrae. The dark shade of your lipstick seemed to be cut from the same fabric as the curtains; the hue pressing around the thin paper of the cigarette you were drawing from. The slender elegant swirls of smoke dancing around you gave your appearance an almost ghost-like aura as your eyes analyzed Dean. The corner of your mouth drew up in a small smirk as he tugged his eyes away from you. Dean knew not to let himself look frigid and square under your gaze, plucking as much courage as he could from the depths of his being to ease his mannerisms and seem unbothered. 

And all the boys, they were saying they were into it / Such a pretty face, on a pretty neck.

You seemed familiar to him in a way he couldn’t place, yet as his eyes lifted once more they fell onto the Heir who smoothed his hair back into place, a mission in his eyes like you were an untouched civilization waiting to be colonized. His lasering stare glued to you as he fastened his jacket button and straightened his pant legs. You lazily took another drag from your cigarette, brushing away the slight smear of your lipstick with your pinky and blowing your spiraling clouds directly towards the Heir as he bluntly approached the vacant seat beside you. The acrid expression in your eyes only seemed to beckon him further into your personal space as he leaned towards your ear to whisper a leerish bribe. You tilted your head away from him as his breath fanned over your neck, your eyes kindling a fire deep within Dean as he watched the man practically drape himself over your shoulder. 

The Heir leaned back from you faintly to dig into one of his suit jacket pockets for a fold of money. Your eyes fluttered to the bar in front of you, the ice in your drink decomposing like a forgotten animal as the Heir pressed towards your ear with a brutish attempt at holding your attention. 

She’s driving me crazy, but I’m into it… / It’s getting crazy, I think I’m losing it. 

Dean scorned himself for staring, yet he couldn’t bring himself to jerk his gaze away from you. Your sultry eyes knew what the Heir’s actions and your subtle reactions were doing to Dean as his cheeks warmed with each trailing glance and wordless comment. The air seemed to grow thicker as Dean took another drink, watching the small conversation pass between you and the Heir.

When she’s alone, she goes home to a cactus / In a black dress, she’s such an actress.

It only just hit him that you were one of the popular performers. The Heir had been a regular of yours, something Dean had only mildly been attentive to in his previous visits. You had been the one he had talked about during business dinners, trying to persuade Dean into becoming a regular at the club. You were the one he visited during the “droughts” with his wife. You were the other woman. Dean shook his head in mild disbelief as an almost venomous ache settled in his bones at the realization of just what kind of game he could be getting into with you. 

The Heir settled a hand on the back of your neck, the first graze of his skin against yours under Dean’s scorning eye. You wet your lips, flashing your sights back towards Dean as if commanding him to watch. You held an almost debonair attitude towards the Heir; humoring the snobbish brat like he was a toddler too easily upset with not getting his way. Your graceful figure withdrew from under his grasp, sending a few parting words to the Heir before you vanished from Dean’s peripheral. Dean struggled to finish his drink, knowing he would have to face his colleagues after nearly falling into your maniacal web. 

She sits beside me like a silhouette. 

Dean tilted the glass around its base, your eyes still scorched into the depths of his consciousness. The way you disappeared forced the thought to cross Dean’s mind that maybe you were just a figment of his imagination. He could almost picture the shape of your figure as the Heir twisted his ownership and title around you like a thick, suffocating bow as heavy as the draping curtains. Dean gestured for a top off on his drink, his mind wandering to where you were now, and god-forbid if you were at the mercy of the Heir once again. He scoffed to himself, cursing at how late it must be if he were catching a fit like this over a lady of the night. 

And in an instant, it was as if he had manifested your apparition as you settled into the seat beside him. “Stinger please, Joe,” you hummed, sending a small grin to the bartender and crossing your legs. Dean smirked to himself as you nonchalantly popped open your compact mirror and touched up your lipstick, your leg in danger of grazing his own. He gnawed on his bottom lip, searching for the correct string of words to figure out how cautious he had to be around you. 

He side-eyed you, your features more stunning at close contact than from a distance. He was nearly surprised you hadn’t looked as… tired… as the other woman that had been entertaining the Heir earlier in the night. “Did you take the money?” He asked you, a sharp inhale of pride stinging his lungs as he gave into his curiosity. He noticed your sly smile at his words, hating the way you nearly coaxed his thoughts from the tip of his tongue. He took another sip of his drink, pretending it was a struggle for him to make eye contact with you. 

You seemed to chew on your response, the suspense killing Dean as he hung on a line for you. “No, I told him that he got me pregnant,” you quipped lightly, your words reaching out to backhand Dean. It felt like too much information for him but the way you confidently muttered your response had him wondering whether or not you were serious. “He left to phone his wife. I have a feeling I won’t be seeing him for a while,” you continued, a smile threatening to break past your lips. 

Dean perked an eyebrow at the knots in the wood grain beneath his hands, forcing himself to swallow. “What are you gonna do then?” He chided himself for pursuing the topic even further when the thought of it (you and the Heir) made him ill. He stroked his chin, feeling your eyes dance to him. You were close enough that he could smell the mint in your drink. He could swim in the aroma of your delicate perfume and biting liquid. Your voice was a lulling tone he wanted to live in his ears forever.

You wet your lips slowly. “Celebrate, no?” This time Dean did look at you, nearly falling into a trance at the realization that your eyes were more brilliant and cunning than he had remembered. Your gaze jumped from his own eyes to his lips and then back, making him want to slink away from your observance of him. On the flip side, he wanted to pass your inspection. He wanted you. Your voice dropped into a quieter octave, leaning towards Dean faintly, “Men are so easy to break. Tell one white lie and they run for the hills.” You sent him a sneering grin, making him roll his eyes playfully. He watched your fingers as you popped open your cigarette case, striking your lighter and inhaling deeply. The swiftness of your movements sent his thoughts to dark places. “Who are you? I’ve seen you in here a few times but you never leave with any of the girls.” 

Dean chuckled slightly, “I work with your baby daddy at the firm.” Your face flushed with mock realization. Dean turned back to his glass, his facade of confidence adherently fading under the close proximity to you. You were so intoxicating to him, it reminded him of the first time he had dabbled with absinthe in his early college years. You were probably just as dangerous. 

And now she’s all over me, it’s like I paid for it. 

You turned in your seat, facing the floor as you leaned against the bar and closed in on Dean. He knew what you were doing and didn’t dare object to your actions. “Why don’t you ever pay for one of the girls?” You asked, prying over eggshells as Dean fought not to smile. 

“Doesn’t do it for me,” he answered after a moment's hesitation. Your eyebrow perked at him as if to call his bluff, your interest inflating his ego. He would never admit it, but despite his calm exterior, his heart was beating at an ungodly rate. He swore if consumption didn’t kill him, you definitely would. He struggled to completely withstand the pressure of what he was about to challenge. “I’d rather not mix business and pleasure.”

You smirked slightly, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. “Prove it,” you cooed, reaching into your clutch and flashing a key before Dean’s eyes before you settled it on the table in front of him. He chewed the inside of his cheek, watching as you walked away towards the stairs on the opposite wall of the bar. Dean's mouth grew dry, yet his ego inflated at the fact that he could mumble a few words and an attractive woman such as yourself would be beckoning him to bed. 

It’s like I paid for it...

I’m gonna pay for this.

The music from the parlor drew quiet as Dean climbed the stairs, furthering into the dimly lit hallways with the numbers of your room repeating in his mind. It was almost slow motion as his mind raced with what he could do to you, and more importantly, what you could do to him. 

[ditch-witches]

Farmer’s Son - Dean Charles-Chapman x reader

(PART ONE) - (PART TWO)

Ivanna, I love you. Thank you for always hyping up our stuff and BLESSING us with your amazing artistic talents.

request: (jfc yall)

"I would do literally anything for more farm dean (can we eventually get a cute wedding? Take it slow tho dw)”

“I would kill for farmer's daughter part 3.”

“Okay wow I love Majesty it’s amazing but can you please give us some more farm Dean!! Love y’all!”

“Aight so can we pleaseee get another part for farmer’s daughter cause I never knew I needed farmer Dean in my life prior to that”

“I NEED FARM DEAN TO BE A COMPLETE SERIES WITH MANY HOT SUMMERS AND A WEDDING EVENTUALLY”

“Please give us farm/country Dean part 3 IT MAKES ME SO SOFT🥺🥰 They need to get married at some point sksksk”

“I’m the one who requested farm boy Dean and whew boy you guys did not disappoint! IT WAS SO GOOD."

warnings: ?language? 

word count: ~4000

You furrowed your brows as you looked over the field of workers, tilling the dark earth beneath the hot summer sun. The living room radio was cranked up loud enough that the lulling tones of the singer could be heard from your front porch, mixing in with the calming noise of the wind-chime and cicadas in the trees. The scent of summer wafted through your hair with the same wind swirling through the chime, playing it as if it were a musician. The warmth of the sun settled against your exposed skin as you marched out to the field, throwing your hat over your wild hair. The cooler you were lugging behind you was nearly reminiscent of when your mother forced you to apologize to the men for your manners when now, it seemed that you could be wearing a winter coat and she’d nearly faint in embarrassment. Still, you were greeted with bright smiles and the welcoming of the refreshments. 

You tucked your hands into your back pockets, searching the small crowd of college boys almost too dirty to be recognized. The offset chorus of sentiments and thankfulness blended into the wind in your ears. “He’s not here today,” one of the boys you knew from high school piped up beside you, leaning against his trow and following your eyes towards the horizon over the field. You moved your head to look in his direction, perking an eyebrow as you did so. He ran one of his grimy hands through his sandy hair, taking a deep breath of the summer air you were also admiring a few minutes prior. 

You chuckled lightly. “Well, don’t write a novel, sparky,” you joked, making him snicker, a small gleam in his eyes as he looked at you fully this time. 

“Apologies, ma’am. Dean took up another shift at the station. He needs the money before he heads back soon,” he disclosed, his hand moving to rub at the nape of his neck. You felt your heart drop three stories into hell at his words. 

You wet your lips, searching his eyes. “Soon?” 

He nodded. “Didn’t he tell you? His mom sent him a letter or something.” You shook your head, thanking him for the information and handing him one of the drinks from the cooler, your mind racing at what soon meant. How soon? Next week? In a few days? Tomorrow? What happened to summer? You parted ways with the men, tying your hair back and deciding that waiting for him to get off work would eat you alive before you got the opportunity to figure out what was happening. 

It seemed as if your bike wasn’t quick enough to keep up with your legs and pacing heart. The vast cornfields and wildflowers you regularly would have stopped to enjoy, zipped passed your ankles alongside the gravel road into town. Your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving so soon after you had so much planned for these few precious months you had the opportunity to spend with him. 

The reality of the situation was that you both were getting older. Soon, at least by your mother’s standards, you’d need to be settled and on the road to having children before your life completely passed by your ears. There were only so many summer vacations you could enjoy before you were tied into a job or a family. It was only a matter of time before you’d be looking back on these summers and wishing you could curl back up beneath the large willow trees, pressed against Dean’s side after a long day. When you were old and harsh like your mother, would you regret it if Dean wasn’t the man you were spending the rest of your life with? Did he even feel the same about you, or were you still a summer fling to him? 

Your throat tightened at that thought. Were you becoming too attached when he had his own separate life back home, with no intention of blending you into it? The idea of him with another woman that wasn’t you boiled your blood. Yet, you still skittered on the edge of whether or not your father would even allow the two of you to be together. 

Who were you kidding? You were on your mother’s timeline, it didn’t matter if you wanted to marry him tomorrow. Maybe you could convince yourself that there was still time. Your fears seemed to wash away into the cracks of the sidewalk as you pulled up to the gas station, tucking your bike into the rack beside the front door and greeting the few cars of townspeople you recognized. You were now on a mission, your mind almost blank with everything else. The handful of Cadillacs full of couples in swimsuits that you had familiarized yourself with in school attempted light conversation with you as you vaguely surveyed the station before finally spotting Dean. His dark jumpsuit was, of course, already filthy as he wiped his hands on a towel, in mid-conversation with another mechanic. Your heart felt heavy looking at him again, as if you were seeing him for the first time again. His bright eyes turned to you as if he had sensed your presence, his smile brightening at your appearance as he headed for you.

You fought your blush as you excused yourself from the group and walked to meet him half-way. His usual dapper mood was still prevalent as he stood before you, seemingly pleased that you were there to see him. “Hey, I’d kiss you but-” He began but your impatience and slightly distraught expression sent his brows furrowing. He seemed hesitant to ask you what was wrong, like he knew what you’d chased him down for. He pulled his bottom lip between his gleaming teeth, tucking the towel in his back pocket. 

“I heard you’re leaving soon,” you mumbled, fidgeting with your fingers. You wanted to reach out and touch him despite his begrimed appearance. It was almost your new normal now: not seeing him covered in dirt or grease was almost foreign to you. You fought against begging him to stay with you rather than go back again, or at least take you with him as his curious eyes blueprinted your appearance into his memory. “What kind of soon are we talking?” 

Dean sighed regretfully, looking over his shoulder and gesturing at one of his co-workers before taking one of your hands lightly and stepping into the small station. The one-room business was empty and nearly pristine, evident that only tourists passed in whereas the locals knew not to step foot near it. “I was going to tell you, I just didn’t know how to. This is probably going to be my last summer here.” You inhaled sharply, attempting to keep your noises of upset to yourself as his eyes saddened, the blue hue deepening. Is this how he felt when you left for school? At least there was a promise you’d be back. “My mum’s getting old and I’ll have to take over soon.” Your mind raced at his words. It seemed like he was finally back in your life and now he was leaving. This time for good. 

Despite your fast track mind trying to figure out how to sneak into his trunk and force him to take you with him, you couldn’t think of what to say to him. “When?” Was all you could manage. 

“Next week.” His words were soft and apologetic. You felt guilty for making him feel like this. You understood; if you were in his shoes you would be doing the same. You looked away from him, blinking towards the ceiling in an attempt to hide your blurring vision, misting by your budding tears. You swallowed harshly, stepping away from him and shaking off your sadness. “Hey,” Dean called for you gently, his hand reaching to touch your wrist to turn you towards him. The way you led into his closeness seemed to make him forget about not wanting to dirty your appearance. He settled his hands alongside your jaw, forcing you to make eye contact with him. You relaxed into his touch almost instantly, your eyes fluttering shut against the stinging tears threatening to fall. His calloused thumb brushed against your cheek. “Just because it’s my last summer doesn’t mean I won’t come back for you if you’ll let me,” his words were like a warm embrace of their own. You sighed and locked eyes with him, hoping to keep the memory of their brightness in the back of your mind. He pulled you closer to him, his lips hovering over yours with a softness like you were a rare flower he was struggling not to crush in his fist. You let your eyes drift shut against the blissful feeling of his breath fanning against your cheek before he pressed his lips against yours, the mix of sadness and worry bleeding away from your mind as the gesture seemed to tell you not to fret over the future anymore. 

The bell above the general store rang into the cool air, breaking the silence in the small shop. You untied the scarf around your head as you stepped towards the cashier’s counter, vaguely thinking of back home when you’d usually be greeted by someone you’d grown up with or someone who’d babysat a friend of yours. The man behind the counter stood up straighter, tucking away the magazine he was skimming and attempting to take in your appearance. You felt like a foreigner in the desert as you stood before him. He was rather tall, with clean overalls strapped over his shoulders. “Can I get a fill up?” You asked, gesturing towards your car parked outside. The man raised his eyebrows before nodding and following you outside. “Do you mind if I wait beside you? I’ve been driving all day,” you added as he flipped open your gas lid and began filling your car. You peered around the two of you, taking in the scenery. This part of England wasn’t much different from your hometown, yet it still felt like you had wound up in an alternate reality. 

“What are you doing across the pond, miss?” The man asked, his eyes quizzing your every move. 

You gave him a small smile, slightly nervous. “I’m visiting my boyfriend actually. He lives down the road, or so I think. I’m kind of lost to be honest...” you mumbled the last part more to yourself as you fished the small scrap of paper out of your pocket with Dean’s address scribbled down. The man gestured slightly, asking if he could take a look and you shrugged, flashing the paper to him. His eyes lit up with recognition and a small chuckle. Before you knew it, the two of you were leaning over the truck of your car with your road map spread out beneath you both, the man explaining the twists and turns on how to get to the house, and you scribbling down a few words to get you out of the woods. 

He closed your car door for you after you climbed in. “Remember, left at the fork, two rights, another left-” 

“And around the bend,” you finished with a grin to match his. “Thank you for your help.”

“Thank me with an invite to the wedding. They’ve been trying to get that boy married off for years!” He jested before sending you on your way. The run-in with the shopkeeper took your mind off the stroke of nervousness that seemed to rattle around in your chest with each turn in the road. You turned up the radio in hopes that your mind would wander away and stay there until you were in front of the man again. After Dean had left, the distance between the two of you was once again agony in a way you’d never have expected it to be on that first day of summer when you met him. You felt like a crazy person as you slowly checked off your list of directions. What were you doing? What if he didn’t want you here? What if he’s moved on? 

You finally made it past the last bend, your hands clammy as your eyes drifted between the road and the scrap of paper once again, looking for the correct numbers. The paper looked about as thin and crumpled as your mental state as you finally spotted a small house surrounded by cherry trees. A school bus sat in front of the driveway and as you grew closer, there he was. Dean stood in front of the door with a young boy clinging to his hand. Dean looked as if he were talking to an old friend, which you weren’t the least bit shocked at. His ability to hold conversations with anyone and everyone was almost annoying to you, but now seeing him like this, it was charming. Then something had been said involving the boy, who shied away, hiding behind one of Dean’s legs. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, attempting to remember who the kid could have been. Surely he wasn’t Dean’s.

Right? 

Dean chuckled and knelt down beside the kid and murmured a few words before the child nodded at him and stepped onto the bus. Dean smiled and waved at whoever the bus driver had been as the vehicle took off. You opened your door and stepped out, catching Dean’s attention. He furrowed his brows as if trying to place you in a setting so far away from what you were used to. He’d cut his hair again, his nose slightly red from the colder air, making his eyes nearly crystal. You wet your lips, unsure of your next move. “Is he yours?” You asked. It seemed like his mind had finally allowed him to recognize that it was indeed you standing at the edge of his yard. 

He shook his head. “My brother’s. First day of year one, you know.” He gestured in the direction the bus had gone with a small smile. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he stated, taking a few steps towards you. You looked at your feet mildly in embarrassment, realizing how out of left field it was to just show up unannounced halfway across the world. He leaned against your car, stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket. A flannel shirt peeked out from beneath his dark coat, you noticed. The yellow and red leaves around the two of you seemed so out of place compared to the summer flowers and bright blue skies. 

You cleared your throat. “I’m sorry for just showing up…” 

He scoffed softly, a smile creeping across his lips. “I’m not.” You forced yourself to make eye contact with him, his excited expression warming your heart and reaching your nearly frozen fingertips. He stood up and wrapped himself around you, digging his face into the crook of your neck and breathing deeply. You let the tension from the last few months evade your body as you tucked your hands around his waist, yearning to touch the softness of his flannel. You weren’t sure how it was possible, but Dean still smelled like the summer sun was settling against his skin. He moved to kiss your cheek, and you met him with a chaste kiss against his lips. You relaxed against his touch. 

“I met your friend at the gas station,” you hummed, turning to look at him. His mouth twisted into a smirk as a flash of disbelief beckoned behind his eyes. “He was very nice.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure he was.” He knotted your fingers with his and pulled you towards the small house, placing a kiss to the back of your hand as you continued up the pathway. The home spelled like apple pie and warmth that only a full house in fall could protrude. “Wait, I just remembered,” he stopped you after you both were in the house, discarding a layer or two to hang on the coat tree in the corner. You gave him a tilted expression of worry. “Are you okay with meeting my mom?” You were taken aback slightly with a grin but before you could answer, a woman’s voice beckoned from another room around the corner. Your smile widened and you nudged him in that direction. 

The woman that had called for Dean was stout, with short hair and a kind face which was furrowed in concentration as she bustled around the stove, nursing a freshly made apple pie. “How’d he do? Did he get on the bus okay?” She asked, her expressions still focused on the task at hand. Dean cleared his throat, making her eyes snap up towards the two of you as Dean stepped out of the way between you and his mother. He put a hand on your shoulder, introducing you to her with a rather proud smile on his face. Her hand was warm and inviting as she greeted you after a moment of hesitation. Her sights flashed between Dean and you, as if asking him to pinch her. She smiled brightly as Dean wrapped an arm around your shoulders, recounting how he found you digging through the trash like a raccoon, making you roll your eyes and shrug his arm off playfully. It seemed like a click of time went by before she was shooing Dean outside to join the rest of the boys gathering leftover cherries. She looped her arm around yours, dragging you towards the back porch and offering you a seat. 

You smiled to yourself, a rush of memories flooding from the back of your mind as Dean caught your eye. He played bashful, smirking at you from his position on a ladder beside a man that looked almost exactly like him. His cheeks were already a deeper red from the cooler temperature. It seemed like just yesterday you were perched on your own rocking chair, hungry to catch a glimpse of the new farmhand with dark curly hair and bright eyes. His smile was a carbon copy from the first time you met him, yet this time it seemed he looked at you with a sense of content as he watched his mother take to you so easily. “I’m not surprised you showed up here finally.” The woman broke the echo of calming silence that had settled between the two of you. You turned to her in your chair, pulling your eyes away from Dean. “He never shuts up about you. His brother thought you were fake to be honest,” she joked, making you chuckle lightly. “I’m glad you’re not,” she winked. You gave her a small smile before looking out towards the orchard again. 

“I’m sorry to impose, really,” you apologized, a pang of worry thundering in your chest. 

She scoffed. “Please! We were bound to meet sometime anyway,” she gestured towards Dean lightly. “Figured he’d ask you at some point.” Her comment was set at an ease you didn’t think your mother could ever have been at. Her welcoming calmness was comforting to you.

Still, you wet your lips cautiously. “Speaking of that, I actually wanted to talk to you,” you chewed. She put her glasses on top of her head, her eyes searching yours much like Dean’s had so many times before. “I was wondering if I could get your blessing. I want to marry Dean.” You held your breath as she blinked at you. Her eyebrow quirked up and she settled back in her chair with a sly smirk painted across her thin lips. 

“I had to ask his father to marry me, you know? Those Chapman boys,” she sighed. “Where would they be without us.” You scoffed, shocked at her statement. She turned to grin at you before answering her own question. “Probably dying alone, right?” You chuckled lightly. She patted your hand, which rested on the edge of your rocker. “From what I’ve heard, you’re perfect for Dean. I don’t think I could have picked better for him.” You sighed in relief, your nervousness and unsettled stress had finally subsided with her words. 

You waited until the sun had set, spending the day getting to know Dean’s family and attempting to understand the cherry farming business when you barely understood your own father’s crops. Dean’s nephew had nearly jumped into the house after he had finally been released from school for the day; the family members around welcomed him like he had been off to war. Members of the small community in town had shown up at the door bearing casseroles and pies, a tradition for fall nights like this one which you figured you could get used to. And before you knew it, you and Dean were perched side-by-side on the back steps, looking out over the orchard to gaze at the stars overhead. You snuggled up against Dean’s side as he looped an arm around yours, his eyes twinkling with the light from the moon. One of his thumbs absent-mindedly slipped into your sleeve to rub against your wrist. You were beat from the events of the day, or maybe just your ridiculous nerves skyrocketing up and down, but finally you could say you were at peace. You were right where you’d want to be, for as long as you could be. 

You cleared your throat mildly. “Dean, will you marry me?” You asked, seemingly into the dark void of the night, rather than to the man braided into you. He shifted slightly to look at you, making you sit up a bit straighter. 

A cocky grin spread across his face. “I thought you’d never ask,” he jested, making you shove his shoulder and send him into a small giggle fit. “I’m joking,” he breathed, pecking your lips gently. “I’ll marry you if you marry me,” he added. 

You shook your head at his petulant jinxing. “All right, then it’s settled,” you responded. 

“Is there some kind of dowry or do I take you for free?” He taunted with another giggle. 

“I take it back,” you groaned sarcastically. He laughed harder, pulling you closer to him to seal the moment in a kiss. 

[ditch-witches]

No Catch: Dean Charles-Chapman x Reader

thank you, beautiful Ivanna, for your excellent work and continued support.

request: “I need me a fallen angel Dean au, complete with black wings and shit (insert that Matthew McConaughey smoking meme)”

warnings: slight cursing, mentions of mugging and cosplaying

word count: 3000+

The bell above the bar door rang overhead, breaking your focus on the cash register in front of you. Your eyes flashed up with an internal groan as you watched four more customers stroll in, the final minutes of your shift ticking by with no sign of emptying out the place. Your co-worker, a man in his late twenties with striking auburn hair and a customary beige jacket with a stain on one of the pockets whether he knew it or not, put a fresh toothpick between his teeth as he filled the glasses of a few regulars. The men occupying the stools glared at the TV screen over your co-worker’s shoulder, not paying much mind to him.

The drawer finally clicked open as a rush of relief washed over you. Taking the money from the people before you, you began to feel the hours of the day weighing on your shoulders. The thought of having to get up in a few hours to start your workday yet again made you feel almost sick. But anything for the financial stability you longed for. Who cares if you’re living in a mansion and driving a fast car? What you wanted was to have enough to get by after paying a major bill, or having the luxury to eat out every few days. Treating yourself to a new pair of shoes wouldn’t hurt either.

But here you were, clocking out of your third shift of the day, dead tired and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and waste away for the few hours of sleep you could afford. You were grateful that your co-worker hadn’t batted an eyelash at the growing crowd and shooed you off for the night. The darkening night sky was almost a sea of black against the bright yellows of the street lamps illuminating the busy crosswalks and shop corners of the city block. You pulled your scarf further up around your nose to combat the dropping temperature as you cut down an alleyway. The biting barks of stray dogs fighting over a scrap of meat mixed with the various sirens echoing in the distance as you trudged along, attempting to remember if your uniform for tomorrow (or later) was clean.

You almost lost yourself deep enough in your thoughts to ignore the footsteps behind you. You willed your heart to mellow as you took a deep breath, your exhales curtaining around your face like smoke from a chimney on a winter day. Your fingers brushed against the metal canister of pepper spray hidden in your jacket pocket. You had been mugged before and swore to yourself you wouldn’t let it happen again. You threw a glance over your shoulder, finding an empty alleyway behind you. You shook your head, turning forward and gluing your eyes to the buildings at the other end of the alley. Count your steps! That’s it, keep calm. You scolded yourself.

The footsteps continued, slow and heavy, almost as if the owner were sauntering playfully towards you. Should I look again? No way, what if it’s just some kid. You pressed on, your palms growing sweaty as the footsteps began to gain on you. What if I let them get close and then whip around and startle them? What if they have a knife? A gun? You swallowed a lump in your throat, looking around to see if anyone would be able to hear you being murdered.

As if by instinct, you planted your feet and turned, eyes wild as you searched for the owner. The city seemed too quiet as you did this, the eerie silence only broken by your labored breaths. What happened to the dogs, the drunk women yelling for taxis? Where were the domestic disputes above you? You chewed the inside of your cheek, tugging your jacket tighter around you. Were you going crazy? Was the lack of sleep finally getting to you? You moved to head back in your original direction and smacked into a wall —- no, a hard chest.

Knocking you back a few steps, your eyes locked with a pair of nearly glowing blue ones. His sharp teeth peeked out from behind his lips as a small smirk drew a line on his face. “Boo!” He joked, sending you into action. You reached for your pepper spray and within a second he was doubled over screaming at you as you shoved past the mystery man and sprinted down the alleyway, ignoring his calls for you to wait. You ran as fast as your feet could carry you, your hair rustling into knots with your movements. Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck. Boo! Boo! What kind of a sicko-

“Stop running, you’re not going to get away,” he hummed as you turned a corner and nearly rammed into him again. You shrieked and took off in the opposite direction. How had he gotten there before you? The alleyway was quickly becoming a never-ending labyrinth of twists and turns with him at every stop. Your lungs felt as if they might burst and you decided to weigh your options. Could you take him? Depends. Were you carrying anything that had value? Did it matter? You stopped, your hands falling to your knees as you attempted to catch your breath. Your joints ached and your whole body screamed for rest. “I can do this all night if you wanna keep showing off how fast you run in those tennis shoes,” the man quipped. You straightened up as he came around your side to stand in front of you. The cold sweat running down your back sent an ick of goosebumps spreading across your body. You peered at him, your chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.

His blue eyes caught the glimmer of the street light as he moved, making the color almost icy. His dark hair curled around his ears ever so slightly, nearly masking the silver charm hanging from one of his ears. His dark suit sat squarely on his shoulders, no thanks to his posture. The more appalling part of him that you could shake from your mind was the pair of wings tucked close to his back. The dark glistening sheer of the feathers made them seem almost real, yet your mind searched for what they were truly connected to. Surely this man hadn’t ruined a suit so expensively tailored for a costume. They almost hung from him naturally, which almost made you question if they really were extensions of him. Just your luck: running into a cosplayer on a Thursday night.

He stepped to face you, your sights now picking up on the redness forming around his eyes as he squinted at you. “I can’t believe you pepper-sprayed me. Psycho,” he sneered, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You scoffed, taking a step back from him. “I’m the psycho? What the fuck was that!” You threw your hand back in the direction which you had come, turning slightly to find the alleyway as it usually was. Where had the dips and turns gone that you had just sprinted through? You really needed a nap.

“Language! What if God hears you?” He nearly bit before snorting to himself like it was a preposterous idea to begin with. He raked a hand through his curls and sighed, looking you over as if he was seeing just what he had been dealt with. “What are we gonna do with you?” He asked, his accent almost husky as he spoke to himself.

You furrowed your brows, tilting your head as you stepped further away from him, making sure to hold your hands up in defense. “Look, buddy, I don’t know what you’re supposed to be but-”

He cut you off with a click of his tongue, his arms falling lazily as his sides as a defeated look settled into his posture. “Are you serious? You don’t know who I am?”

You shook your head slightly. “Uh… The dude from Legion?”

He smiled, his head tilting to match your angle in a soft and almost mocking manner. “No, silly! I’m your guardian angel. Always have been. I thought that was obvious.” He murmured the last part to himself as he searched your questioningly distrustful eyes. He took a few steps to close most of the gap between you and you stretched away from him.

“What do you mean guardian angel?” You bit, throwing your hands on your hips. The man wouldn’t let up his character. You squared up to him, despite his obvious height above yours. He seemed to play along as you did.

“I’m the one that looks out for you,” he grinned as if he were a proud child after finally accomplishing an art project for his mom. You returned his devious expression with a blank stare, wondering what number you should call to reach a mental institution quickest. He fell back on his heel, angling his face downwards slightly to get a better look at your eyes. “Don’t believe me?” You looked at him as if he were crazy. How could you! This man just chased you down an alley and is now claiming to be your guardian angel, as if that’s possible. Your mind wandered to your co-worker. Had he slipped something in your drink when you weren’t looking? Surely, not.

“Those eyes have never been good at hiding your true thoughts, you know?” He jeered, sending you a wink as he watched you search his face. A blush crept onto your face for a reason unbeknownst to you. Embarrassment maybe? His teeth sunk into his bottom lip as if he were biting back a smile as his dark wings began to expand behind him, stretching out to fill what space they could. You stumbled back slightly, tripping on your feet and landing on your butt as you stared up at the man in horror and maybe slight amazement. How had he engineered them to do that? Were they on a pulley system under his jacket? How did he make them do that without flexing a muscle?

You sat in silence, attempting to find words, a thought, anything to diffuse the situation. Finally, your mind clicked back into place and you pushed yourself up, brushing off your pants and sighing. You began to walk around him. “Okay, Metatron, I’m going home. This’s been fun but I have a shift in a few hours and I think I might have had something laced with PCP so-”

“Oh, come on, I’m not Metatron-”

“Fine, I’ll stop guessing. I just know I need sleep, and you’re some crazy dude in an alley I’ve been wasting too much time talking to.” He chuckled at your response. As you walked a few steps, you couldn’t help but turn back to him. “Plus, what kind of guardian angel looks like you. Aren’t you supposed to look like the Hitler youth with angel wings?”

He smirked, angling his chin up slightly as he ran his tongue over his white teeth. “Yeah, I am. Do you want a ride?”

“No, fuck off,” you quipped with a small laugh, heading in your destination’s direction.

The next morning, you woke up groggy and sore. As you pulled yourself together, you avoided looking at your schedule for the day, hoping that someone would need to switch for an earlier time slot so you could get home at a better time. The diner you worked at during the day was already buzzing with its usual customers coming and going. Families treating themselves to breakfast before heading off to work and school seemed to juxtapose those who were using the little spot as a truck stop. The out of state families were always the better tippers, unsurprising to you. Your routine of monotonously waiting tables and working the register seemed to fit you into your usual groove. That was until you spotted an all too familiar pair of blue eyes, making what you pegged as a dream last night come to life.

You stepped towards him cautiously, your mouth growing drier at the possibility that he had found you here, but by what means? Would he start showing up at your next jobs? Your apartment? The wings were gone, just as you had expected, yet that same sly look remained firmly planted on his lips. In place of the dark suit he wore last night was merely a white t-shirt and a leather jacket, which he had thrown lazily to the side of him in the booth. You straightened out the skirt of your uniform, tapping the end of your pen against the small pad of paper you gripped in your hand maybe a bit too tightly. “What can I get you today, sir?” You asked, making him turn his sights up to beam at you.

“Good morning, sunshine. How was your night?” He mocked, a devious sparkle in his eye. You rolled your eyes at his chipper smugness. He seemed less menacing than in the alleyway, but that wasn’t saying much, considering how dimly lit it had been last night. He now reminded you of someone’s AA sponsor rather than a sophisticated angel. “What do you recommend? I don’t eat-”

You leaned against his table slightly. “Would you drop the act already? You’re not an actual angel.”

His smile seemed to widen a touch. “I think that’s a conversation that we need to have actually. Which is partially the reason why I’m here. I know you get off around six-”

“Are you stalking me?”

“Sorry, did you miss the part where I’m your guardian angel? Or is that still lost on you?” His eyebrow perked up at your question. You couldn’t mask the look of disgust ripping through your body.

You wet your lips. “What do you want?”

He gave you a look suggesting it was obvious. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked you. I haven’t-”

“From me. Why are you here, now?”

He nodded. “Yeah, good question.” He grabbed his jacket from beside him and slid out of the booth, standing next to you. You furrowed your brows at him and he gave you a smug grin once again, heading towards the front of the diner with you scrambling after him. You reached for his arm to pull him back, only to get a spark of electricity singeing against your fingertips, making you groan. He stopped walking and turned to you, his eyes a darker shade. “Great, glad that’s over with. Now, relax,” he hissed, continuing straight towards your boss. What the fuck was happening? He started pulling his jacket on as he spoke to her, her eyes seemingly softening at him as she giggled at what he said. Was he charming her? He stepped out of the way so she could see you.

“It’s a wonderful day, why don’t you take some time off?” Your eyes flashed between the man and your boss, feeling like the world was spinning slightly as you attempted to piece together what was happening. You hadn’t realized you were holding the hand that had been shocked until the man grabbed it, pulling to behind him and out of the diner. He slung one of his legs over a motorcycle you assumed he owned and pushed up the kickstand. He nodded for you to climb on back.

“I need the tips from today. I’ll be behind on my rent-”

“I’ll take care of it,” he answered simply, handing you a helmet.

“No, way-”

“Yes, way. Come on,” he stated, kicking on the bike and pulling his own helmet on. You took a deep breath and compiled. Hell, you had the day off right? As you slunk onto the bike seat, the man pulled you closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Try not to fall off. I don’t feel like trying to heal you up today.” As the bike began to move, you clung tighter to him, feeling him chuckle beneath your grasp. You pressed against his back, trying to figure out where his wings had gone and why the hell you were tazed when you touched him for the first time. Why were his eyes so radiant? Unnaturally radiant, that is. Who the fuck was he?

The ride flashed by rather quickly, your thoughts taking up most of the time you would have normally spent sight-seeing or wondering why in the hell you had gotten on the back of a stranger’s bike. To your surprise, you ended up at another restaurant, stationed in a booth opposite of this strange man as he ordered for you, in an attempt to lighten the shock of the situation. “I thought you didn’t know what food tasted good.”

“I was just playing cute. I thought it might make me more approachable for you.” You blinked at his words, feeling more unstable than when you were on the motorcycle. His demeanor had changed, he was almost tense now. “Where would you like me to start?”

You shrugged, your fear now becoming almost unmanageable. “Who are you?”

“My name is Dean. I was assigned to you when you were born.” You nodded slightly, unsure of what to ask next as you located all the exits in the restaurant. It was crowded, so you figured he wasn’t going to kill you at least. “You mentioned my appearance earlier. I don’t have that Aryan look you want because I’m not really an angel angel. I mean, I used to be.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So what you’re saying is…”

“I work for someone else now. If you get what I mean.” He smiled at the waiter as she brought out drinks for the two of you. He rubbed the back of his neck as he seemed to chew on other information in a way of deciding how to break what to you. “Besides, it’s better having my kind as your guardian than one of those halo pricks.”

You scoffed. “So why right now? Why not show up a few years ago or when I was a kid?”

He shrugged. “Your life is so shitty right now, you need me.” You narrowed your eyes. “Before you defend yourself and go all-mighty woman on me, I know you’re working hard and I know what you want. I can give that to you, and whatever else you desire.”

You put your chin in your hand. “For what? My soul?” You joked.

He rolled his eyes with a small chuckle, setting his arms on the table to lean towards you. “Only if you beg,” he winked. “Actually, there’s no catch. You just have to let me.”

…

Dean sat across the long dinner table from his superior, barely able to touch whatever gruel had been pushed his way. For how civilized it seemed they were, the demon appetite was next to animalistic. The cool air in the room was reflexive of the mood the opaque souls passing beside the large windows echoed: hollow and dead. The light in the room was only thanks to the moonlight shining through the barrier between the worlds. Dean let his mind travel to the day he had spent with you and how much you would hate to be dragged to hell beside him. Could he convince you it wouldn’t be so bad? Was it more just to end his own suffering by adding to yours? 

His superior cleared his throat, brushing a napkin over his chin and standing. His chair made no noise as his figure looked almost wispy as he strolled toward the fireplace, breathing into the logs as if he were a dragon. Dean snickered slightly at the obscenity of the action. “It’s nearly time you know. For the Choosing, I mean.” Dean’s stomach tightened with anxiety at his words. The tall man took his place at the table again, his dark, pitted features unintentionally burning further into Dean’s memories. “I know what you’ve been doing in the mortal world. You think playing around with Gabriel’s daughter is a good idea when you should be looking for a mate you don’t have to kill when the time comes?”

Dean let out a sharp breath, the man’s words cutting deeper into Dean than he had expected them to. Dean looked down at his hands to regain his composure. He had almost had a terrible temper, especially when it came to you. “She doesn’t even know who she is. I can convince her-" 

"No. You can’t. Besides, how would the Choosing play out with a demon-like you meddling in her life.” The man’s calm tone was almost more angering than the rules he was conveying. Dean stared blankly at the man, knowing full well he wouldn’t win this argument, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying. “I don’t care who’s son you are or how much you like her, I won’t let it happen.”

Dean swallowed. “She’s not like them.”

“I’ll arrange for the church to find you someone who could actually be a mate. Stay out of the mortal world, or at least hers,” the man stated firmly, nodding that Dean could leave finally. If only he could tell you the whole truth, would you believe him then? He shoved his fists into his pant pockets as he chewed his lip, strolling down the vast hallway from the room. Portraits of the underworld leaders lined the walls in different shapes and sizes. When he was younger, Dean had wanted to be among them, like his father. Now it only made him sick to think of the corruption and mass extinctions that got those men on the wall. Gabriel had been an ally of his father’s before the shit hit the fan.

When Dean found out the angels had been having affairs with mortals, he hadn’t blinked an eye; him having already been guilty of that sin himself. But as soon as he laid eyes on you, he wanted you. The Choosing had loomed over him like a rain cloud until that day. What was the worst that could happen if you were his victim for the Choosing? Well, fuck it right, he was already living in hell.

M A S T E R L I S T.