#i just imagine his usual skin crawling around the server with his arm up

[banditblvd]

Hermit a day may day 18-Joe!

I was just having fun with this one because how do you draw a puppet and not have fun

[antler-steve]

No Place Like Home

Hello, readers, and a happy Halloween to you. To mark the occasion, here’s my entry to the BNHarem spooky server collab. I’m looking forward to seeing all the scary stories my friends have written, and you should check them out too. There’s nothing particularly lewd in my horrid tale, but I would like to include a trigger warning for both self-mutilation/self-harm and home invasion. Caveat lector!

"It's all original panelling. Cherry wood." The estate agent smiled at you, glossy and white toothed. "They don't make them like this anymore."

You wrinkled your nose as you stared into the full length mirror in the hallway, even though you'd already made up your mind. "Don't they use that for coffins?"

It was an estate sale- the previous owner had died suddenly and none of the recipients of her will had enough money to pay the tax on the house, so it was up on the market for cheaper than a place like this would usually go for. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms and a big dining room, most of the furniture dragged out, leaving the space empty.

The estate agent warned you that you should act quickly, and you nodded your head. You had already decided.

And then you were alone, in the house, the keys clasped in your right hand as you stood in the doorway, the dark, heavy door shut behind you. It seemed a whole lot smaller now that you were here in the evening, like the walls were closing in. Not that it mattered. You were going to rip this place up, remodel, and make it into something that looked like it had been built in this century. White, and clean, and new.

But first, you were going to sleep.

You trudged up the stairs from the landing to the master bedroom. There was a bed there, or rather a mattress on the floor, still in the plastic wrapping it had been delivered in. The previous owner had died in the big four-poster and so it stood empty, its hardwood slats like the empty ribs of some ancient, fossilised beast. You hesitated a second before ripping the plastic wrap open and dragging the mattress up onto the frame. It creaked, but held.

You'd only be in this house for a few weeks, after all. Might as well make yourself comfortable. You laid your comforter on top of the mattress, your pillows and your blanket, and it started to look almost like home, if you ignored the peeling paint on the door frames and the empty hole in the wall where the power socket had been ripped out.

Turning off the lights, you shed your clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed and crawled into your bedding, the sheets soft and clean against your bare skin. The room was unfamiliar, and so was the smell, but you'd had a long day getting things ready so you soon drifted off to sleep, unconsciousness folding around you like the petals of a great black flower.

You woke in blackness, with the sense that you were being watched. There was a man standing at the end of your bed, you were sure of it. You couldn't see anything but the blackness, and to turn on a light you'd have to get out of bed, but he was there. You could feel it. You swallowed, heart quivering in your chest as you held your breath. You couldn't hear anything, either. No footsteps, no breath. You had to be imagining it, didn't you? That's right. You were in an unfamiliar place, so your brain was just filling in the blanks for what it couldn't see. There wasn't really anyone there. You forced yourself to breathe out, long and slow, eyes peeled against the darkness.

A car passed on the street below, headlights illuminating the room in yellow as it passed. A scream trapped itself in your throat. There was a man standing at the foot of your bed. Pale and muscular, with stringy white hair, a dismembered hand covering his face. He was holding something- your panties- and then the car passed and you were alone in the dark with him.

You froze in dread, arms rigid, legs rigid, your frozen scream painful against your voicebox. Inside you knew you had to do something, had to run, had to call for help, anything. But your body wouldn't obey you, instinct freezing you solid under the blanket, helpless against whatever the intruder wanted to perpetrate on you. Tears trickled from your frozen-open eyes, your panic a pain in the back of your throat. But no hand reached out from the blackness, no footsteps approached the head of the bed.

You watched as grey dawn dragged its fingers through your window, small birds chirping outside. Had it been a dream? You'd only seen him for a moment, the man with a hand on his face. Maybe it had been a trick of the light. Maybe it was stress, playing tricks on your mind- the house had you overextended after all, especially with the costs of remodelling.

With a yawn you crawled from your bed, headache already forming just behind your eyes. You crouched to gather the clothes you'd discarded last night, no sign of the intruder that you'd seen. Except- you frowned- your panties were a few inches to the right of where you'd dropped them. Maybe you were remembering wrong. You reached to grab them too, but a speck of discoloration caught your eye. It wasn't your period already, was it? No, you weren't due for another two weeks at least. You turned the panties over in your hands, an uneasy feeling in your gut. There were four black spots on the fabric, the size of a man's fingers, and your mind went back, unbidden, to what you'd seen in the moment of light last night, the man at the foot of your bed, holding them. What had his face been? Another hand? You rubbed at the spots, swearing as the discoloration came away onto your skin, a familiar mildewy smell.

Black mold. Shit.

The survey you'd had done on this place hadn't turned up anything of the kind. But here it was, growing on the clothes you'd left on the floor. You felt sick as you bundled the clothes together, ready to take them downstairs to the washing machine. You needed to check, see if it was anywhere else that you'd missed.

A quarter of an hour later you were dressed again and on your knees, prying the panelling from the wall under your window. The wood was red tinted, too dark to be fashionable, and cold to the touch. It creaked as you shoved a chisel behind it and pulled, like someone had plastered it to the wall. Grunting, you applied a little more force, and there was a dry, splintering sound as it came away, clattering to the floor. Sure enough the wall behind it was black, covered in a thick, dark layer of mold that coated the wall from the skirting board to the bottom of the window. The stale smell filled your nostrils and you turned away to cough, eyes watering. Damn it. This was meant to be a simple job. An easy turnaround.

Half an hour later and you were back with a bucket of rags and a couple of gallons of white vinegar. Hardly the most effective fungicide but you were on a budget. It wouldn't solve the underlying problem, of course, but you could remove the mold for long enough that someone else would buy the place, and then it wouldn't be your problem anymore. Sure enough your cleaning solution wiped the black stuff away, revealing the wall beneath, and you grinned in triumph as you cleaned the whole area of the panel that you'd torn away. One down, only a few hundred left to go. And they couldn't all have this much mold behind them, right?

The daylight was fading by the time you looked up, your hands bruised and full of cherrywood splinters, your back and knees aching as you sat back, leaning on the pile of panels beside you. It had taken a little longer than you had expected, but you had pulled up and cleaned behind all but three of the panels in the master bedroom, leaving bare plasterboard beneath. A blank canvas. You hauled yourself to your feet, brushing yourself off.

There were black marks on the legs of your trousers. Some of the mold must have gotten on them. You grabbed a vinegar soaked rag from your bucket and wiped at the marks, but only succeeded in making them bigger. It looked like getting black mold out of fabric was harder than getting it off walls. With a sigh, you stretched your tired shoulders and headed downstairs. You wanted takeout, but you were trying to save money right now, so you fetched a dried noodle cup out of the supplies you'd brought with you and set the kettle to boil, pacing the empty rooms as you waited for it. The cherrywood panels seemed endless, lining the walls, and the only real furniture was the stuff you'd brought with you, the ladders and tools and stacks of tiles and plaster for your project. The mirror in the hall that you'd seen during your viewing was still there, though. It was an old-fashioned thing, six foot high, with a baroque gold frame. You stepped up to it, thoughtful. If you could get it out of the house in one piece, maybe you could sell it.

It was then that you caught sight of your reflection in the mirror. You were sweaty and dishevelled from your day of hard work. Your hair was totally out of place. You wrinkled your nose,  pushing a stray hair up from your forehead as you moved closer to get a better look. It was then that you saw something strange about the reflection. A shadow, as if someone was standing at the other end of the hall, beyond the plaster and the ladder.

You turned, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end, but all that you could see behind you were the endless cherrywood panels. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or a distortion in the glass of the mirror. You turned back to the mirror, and in the reflection he was standing a few feet behind you. The man you'd seen in your room last night. White hair, hand over his face. He was dressed in jeans, and barefoot, and he took a step towards you. You froze, feeling just like you had in bed last night, your voice stuck in the back of your throat, arms and legs paralysed. You couldn't even turn your head. The man took another step towards you, his feet making no sound on the wooden floors, now so close that you could see his face over your shoulder, covered by the disembodied hand that clutched at it. You squeezed your eyes shut, dread welling in your chest.

There was no noise, no pain, no sensation of breath on your neck. Ten seconds passed, then thirty, and you heard the kettle whistle from the kitchen. You opened your eyes to find yourself in the hallway alone, only the tiles and tins of paint and bags of plaster for company. There was no-one behind you. And maybe you could tell yourself there never had been, if it wasn't for the black handprint on your shoulder.

Your noodles tasted like shit, tasted like mildew and decay as you tried to slow your breathing down, tried to think rationally. There was a guy in the house with you, in a stupid halloween costume. He was probably a squatter, or some sort of relative of the previous owner. If you were unlucky he had a key to the place. If you called the police he could just leave and come back later to bug you, and you doubted the police would want to post a guard for you. You didn't have any friends nearby either, so you were stuck. You'd just have to deal with the guy yourself.

Grabbing a hammer and nails from your toolbox, you headed back upstairs. The panels you'd removed from the room, all but the four against the headboard of your bed, made good material for a makeshift barricade, and you nailed them across your bedroom door. At very least, getting into your room now would make a lot of noise. The guy wouldn't get to pull off his creepy act in your bedroom again, and if you saw him in your house again, you could give him a stern talking to.

Feeling a bit safer, you undressed and set the shower running in the master bedroom's en-suite. The glass steamed as you put on your shower cap, looking forward to feeling clean again after being sweaty and filthy all day. The house was a bit decrepit, but the boiler still worked, which was a blessing. You stepped under the warm water, swaying under the pressure as you felt the heat open your pores. Grabbing a piece of soap from the side, you lathered yourself up and started to get yourself clean. Slowly, the dirt of the day was washed from your skin. All but one part. The dark handprint that the man had left on your shirt had leached through to your shoulder underneath.

His handprint was a different shade to your skin, like the black mold had grown there. No, that was impossible. It was a trick, like some nasty ink or something. You lathered the soap up and rubbed the area again, the water that ran down your body coming away a dirty grey. It swirled murkily round the drain as you watched, still scrubbing. You willed it to run clear, but it wouldn't. The water stayed grey, the mark on your shoulder as dark as it had been when you'd started, even when the skin started to feel raw from the scrubbing. Frowning with irritation, you scraped  at the area with your fingernails, only to see black under your cuticles, and a pinkish tinge to the water in the drain.

Feeling sick, you turned off the shower, and stood shivering in the cubicle. Red blood beaded slowly round the edges of the handprint, like the sap on a devil's tooth mushroom, mixing with the droplets of warm water on your skin and dribbling over your breast and side. It was wrong, horribly wrong. You needed to cut it out of you. Nausea rounded in your gut, and your head swam. You had the tools in your room- not surgical tools but you had some knives you'd been using, hell, the chisel would do at this point as long as you got this stuff out of you.

You leaned hard against the glass of the shower cubicle, clutching for the towel on the towel rail. You failed to find it and stumbled naked into the bedroom, on your hands and knees as the nausea hit again, like a twist in your stomach that pulled you down. Your tools were in a neat row on the floor, the chisel, the knives and the sanding block. Belly pressed against the hard wood flooring, you half crawled, half slithered towards them. You needed to cut the thing in your shoulder out, cut it away. Bile in your throat, you reached for the sharper of the two knives, your still-wet fingers grasping for the handle.    

You had it in your hand, the cold blade pressed against fungus-infested skin, and you braced yourself for the sting as you cut through the surface at an awkward angle, teeth gripped together as you peel the skin back, the infected piece coiling in on itself like bloodied black latex, the meat underneath red muscle and blood and yellow adipose, mercifully human. You hurl it across the room, and it curls in the corner. It's then that you realise you're bleeding. You're bleeding a lot.     A towel makes a makeshift bandage, trapped like a violin between your chin and your damaged shoulder as you crawl into bed.

At first you thought it was a trick of the light again, your fevered imagination playing tricks on you, but for a moment it seems as if the panels are moving. The bulb above you flickered precariously on and off, and you shivered. But then you saw a long, thin tendril emerge from a remaining cherrywood panel, and touch down gently on the bare wall beside it.

The panels were alive. They creaked as they grew from splinters, roots spreading out to form a patina over the plasterboard, roots merging into roots, their form dendritic before they became a lamina, as flat and bevelled and polished as if they had been made in a factory. You watched their roots move and combine, covering the floor, winding round the four feet of your bed, and curving round from the tops of the walls to cover the ceiling, agglomerating around the single uncovered lightbulb in your ceiling, above your face, winding into a single pointed taproot. The bulb blew with a pop as the roots smothered it, plunging the room into darkness, and you had the sensation of being watched. Like the man was in the room again, standing watching you from the foot of your bed. But he couldn't be. He couldn't be. You'd nailed the door shut, after all.  

"Some people-" he said, in the quiet, in the dark. The only other sound was the creak-creak-creak of the cherrywood panelling as it grew. "You threw away my gift," he said, and his voice was deep and dry. Your mind went to the bloody skin you carved off, now curled in the dark corner of the room. "You didn't like it?"

"N-no-" you said, your voice close and tight with fear.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice soft. "I can give you another."

You froze again as you felt the bed shift under his weight, the night air on your skin as he climbed over you. Your eyes were peeled against the darkness as his hand pressed down over your face, and you felt like you were choking, the mildew filling your mouth, filling your lungs. Like it was taking root inside you, his hand holding you down, holding your mouth open as he violates you.

The lights were out when you came round the next morning. There must have been a power cut. The room's not the inside of a tree like you dreamed it, just the five remaining panels that you didn't get to yesterday. There's no square of skin missing from your shoulder, either, just a small cut, probably an accident with the chisel. You felt tired, hellishly tired as you look at the panels you've nailed over your door. You were worried about an intruder, so you'd trapped yourself in here and had a nightmare. Stupid, really.

You went to the bathroom and wash your face in the basin, no strange men in your reflection. Though there was black mold under your fingernails because of course there was. And a little something on your face, nothing to worry about. If you squint it looked sort of like a handprint. Heading back into the bedroom, you quickly saw the reason for this. Your mattress is entirely covered in the black mold. You must have touched some and got it on your face. Disgusting, maybe, but not supernatural. With a sigh, you dressed yourself and went about unsealing your door.

This mold stuff is a real issue, if it managed to cover your bed so quickly. Maybe you should go out and get some anti-fungal stuff. Or kerosene, a voice in the back of your mind screams. Lots of kerosene. You got your shoes and headed for the door.

"I'm not letting you leave." The man's voice was sweet and dry in your ear, like he had been standing behind you all along. "Maybe you should lie down."

His hand feels heavy, so heavy, on your shoulder.

You wake in your bed again. The mold covers your legs now, not just bedding but your bare flesh, soft and warm and unctuous. You couldn't leave even if you wanted. You wake and sleep like frames in a stop motion animation as the mold creeps up your body. There's no door to the room anymore, just cherrywood panelling, and the white haired man stands over you, dry fingertips ghosting over your bare flesh, the parts of you not already fused to the furniture beneath you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Naughty or nice?

Based on this: “Thor dressed up as Santa for the Avengers Christmas party. Sitting upon a throne of candy canes and gum drops he calls out your name. It was your turn to sit on the God of Thunder's lap. Imagine him whispering in your ear asking if you were going to be naughty or nice for him later that night. Feeling disgusted you excuse yourself from the party to return to your apartment only to find him waiting for you.” requested by anonymous

Warnings: noncon sex (fingers, intercourse)

Note: Okay, so I’ll be working on holiday drabbles over the next few days. I haven’t too many atm but hopefully one or two a day if I can manage!

Hope y’all enjoy. Like and/or reblog!! <3 Reblogs really help especially since I haven’t been getting many.

Tony’s parties were always extravagant. Over the top but elegant. This year’s theme was winter wonderland. Cliche but classy. Wear something sparkly, the invitation said. Of course, sequins were the look for the night but you opted for blue-silver dress with long sleeves and a skirt to your knees. Elegant, like Taylor before Burton. Your sparkle was a silver necklace with a single sapphire.

When you entered, it was a swarm of sheen and shine. Tony wore a dark red suit with a sequined gold tie, Steve had managed a glittery blue tie with his grey suit, and Bucky looked dour amongst the bunch with a string of tinsel around his neck, no doubt forcefully slung over his head. The women were only too content to show off their sequined gowns and bright frills.

Thor stuck out like a sore thumb. A santa hat of sequins and a full-out costume as he sat on the faux-snow throne at the front of the room. Loki frowned as he held a pair of elf ears and argued with his boisterous brother. Tony looked on with amusement as others tried to ignore the bickering.

You neared, hesitant, eager to greet your host before you found a flute of champagne to hide behind. Tony was chuckling as you came closer and you could hear the Asgardians’ voices above the jazzy seasonal tunes and refined din. Loki tossed the ears at Thor’s chest.

“Brother, you demean me!” He accused. “For the last time, I am not your sidekick.”

“Oh, brother, don’t be so dramatic. It is theatre. I am the god of Christmas--”

“Santa Claus,” Tony intoned.

“Yes, this San-ta Cloos,” Thor mimicked, “And you are my loyal helper. The true hero of the night.” Loki fumed and Thor turned to reach over the arm of the chair. “Fine, you don’t have to be an elf. How about...a deer!”

Thor pulled forth a headband with antlers and offered it up. You stopped beside Tony who was shaking in silent laughter. You nudged him and he glanced over at you, his face red with restrained mirth. 

“Who’s idea was this?” You asked.

“Well, I was just going to hire a mall santa but...Thor insisted.” Tony explained. “Though I don’t think he discussed it with his brother first.”

“Clearly,” You eyed the brothers as Loki snatched the antlers and snapped them in half. “Were you intending on keeping this place in one piece?”

“Worse things have occurred here than sibling rivalries.”

“I think you underestimate them,” You shook your head and turned to him. He was still rapt by the scene. “This is really fabulous...for now.”

“Thanks, but it wasn’t me.” He shrugged. “I think if I took credit Pepper may just reenact this little show with me tonight.”

“Well, I’ll let her know--”

Tony raised his hand and pointed to the brothers. Thor had stood and Loki was right before him. Thor reached out and placed the ears over Loki’s and his wrists were seized by the black-haired Asgardian. 

They struggled for a moment, Loki’s dark haired was mussed as he wrestled with his brother, and the scuffle last only a moment before he snaked out and took the ears with him. He whipped them at his brother who caught them with one hand and spun on his heel. Loki cursed under his breath as he stormed away and Thor boomed with laughter.

“Never an occasion without a tantrum,” Thor pronounced as he turned to Tony. His eyes found you beside the billionaire and his smile grew. “Ah, my lady, you’ve arrived.” He sat in the snowy throne, his thick arms draped over it. 

“Thor,” You greeted reticently.

“Santa Close,” He corrected and you squinted at his peculiar pronunciation. Tony chuckled again. “Tony has declared me the king of the party.”

“Alright, I really don’t know where he’s coming up with this stuff but...I’m gonna find Pepper before he drives me crazy, too.” Tony excused himself with a twitch of his brow. “Santa.”

You watched Tony go and wondered if you could slip away with him. Thor was boisterous tonight, more so than his usual fervour, and you were quite ready to contend with it alone. “Um, I should--”

“You should come sit on Santa’s lap!” Thor declared and you looked back to him in shock. “Tell me what you want this year?”

“Okay, Thor,” You laughed, “You’re really taking this seriously.”

“Yes, I have a list,” He tapped his head. “Lady Natasha wants a new knife, she showed me how dull her old one was. And Steve wants a nice pair of shoes, very practical. His friend with the arm wanted me to leave him alone and that was an easy enough gift to give.”

You blinked at him. Wondering at how disastrous this evening had been so far. You weren’t exactly late and it seemed you’d missed all the fun. “Well, Thor, what I want for Christmas--” He shook his head.

“You have to sit in my lap and tell me,” He insisted as he rubbed the red velvet across his thigh. “I understand this is Midgardian tradition.”

“For children,” You scoffed. 

“Well, my lady, we are still young. So sit.” He slapped his thigh and beckoned you close with his other hand. 

You glanced around and saw how so many guests were avoiding Thor’s gaze. Bucky frowned as he peeked over and a glimmer of pity shone in his eyes. Steve looked over in kind and quickly grabbed him to draw back his attention.

“Alright, but then I’ve got to go say hi to everyone, I’ve only just got here.” You relented and stepped closer to the bottom of the chair.

“Very well,” He allowed and held his hand out. “But you cannot start the evening without first greeting Santa.”

He tugged you up onto the step below his throne and between his legs. He guided you as you turned and released you. He swiftly grabbed your waist and swept you up onto his leg. You grabbed his shoulder to steady yourself.

“So, my lady, what do you want for Christmas?” His hand rested on your lower back, tenuously close to your ass.

“Um,” You looked around, suddenly hyper aware of the room full of guests. “Thor, this is silly, I’m gonna--”

You tried to slip out of his lap but he snaked his arm around and clung to your hip. He took your chin with his other hand and made you look at him. “Tell me what you want?”

Your eyes rounded and you felt your skin burning. You stuttered before you could even find your breath. “Uhhhh, um,” You licked your lips as you thought, your mouth suddenly dry. He focused on your tongue and you pressed your mouth shut. Finally you found your voice. “A vacation.”

“Vacation?” He repeated as he tilted his head.

“Yes, I uh, wanna go away for a while. Take a break from work.” You explained nervously as you moved your clutch onto your lap and played with the embroidered flap. 

“Well, my lady, you surely deserve a respite,” His arm fell slightly and his hand returned to your back. He leaned forward and his fingers crawled down until he was cupping your ass. “But are you going to be nice or naughty?” You gasped. “As I understand, only nice girls get what they want.”

You stared at him and trembled just slightly. He squeezed your ass as he felt you waver and you pushed yourself off of him. You nearly stumbled as you landed on your heels painfully and clattered down the step. He let you go without a fight but his fingers longingly trailed your arm as you detached.

“Sorry, I should--” You turned back to him as you righted yourself. “I gotta say hi to Nat before she takes out that knife again, yeah?”

Your feet twisted together clumsily as you fled. Thor said nothing but you could feel him watching you as you dove into the crowd. You were lost at first, Nat’s red head not visibly until you were on the other side of the room. You leaned on the wall as you tried to clear your head. 

Were you being stupid? Did you overreact? You looked across the room to where Thor sat at a vantage across the whole din. He looked back at you and grinned. Was he really looking at you? You peered back to Nat and Wanda and pushed yourself from the wall. 

You grabbed a drink from a server as he passed and wove between the couples and groups that chattered. Forget it. It was done with. All in your head. Nothing. Your own anxiety fueling your fretful imagination. Have a drink with your friends and you wouldn’t care so much.

-

At the end of the night, you barely recalled its beginning. Three glasses of champagne kept you in a festive spirit. Thor remained a speck in your vision, looming in your peripherals. But it grew easier to ignore him. Easy enough to chalk it up to your social awkwardness.

You left with a final goodbye to your hosts and wrapped yourself in your jacket as you headed out onto the chilly city street. Tony had hired cars lined up for guests, both inebriated and not. Always mindful, always thinking a step ahead. 

You slid into one and gave your address, a tip for the comped driver. The drive was relaxing and lulled your champagne hazed mind. You were almost dozing in the backseat as the car pulled up to your building. You thank the driver one last time and were once more awakened by the winter air.

The elevator ride was slow. Or so it seemed. You stepped off and dragged your feet down the hall to your door. You unlocked the door and entered with a yawn. You kicked off your heels with a sigh, happy to be ride of the torturous arches. You just wanted to sleep.

You dug your phone out of your clutch and flicked on the flashlight. You shone it ahead of you as you crept through your dark apartment. You were too lazy, too tired to flip the lights on. You were just going to get out of your clown suit and fall into bed.

Your bedroom was full of shadows. You passed the open door and set your phone on the night table to let it shine up at the ceiling and illuminate the space. You reached back to unzip your dress and struggled to bend your arm at such and angle. As you brought your arms up over your head to push down the zipper, a large hand caught yours.

You tried to scream but another hand clapped over your mouth. A long shush filled your ears as a warm body pressed against your back. “My lady, you needn’t be afraid.” Thor’s voice was low, sultry, “I only mean to help you.”

He parted just slightly, the heat of his body still radiated around you. He tugged down your zipped in a single swipe and the fabric loosened around you. You held it up against your chest as he kept his hand over your mouth. Your voice was smothered by his palm and you pulled at his hand.

“You didn’t answer my question?” He shoved his other hand beneath your chest and snaked around to your stomach. “Have you been naughty or nice?”

His hand slipped down to your neck and you kept yours on it. “Thor, what are you--?”

“I think you’re a naughty girl.” His hand drifted lower, just over the top of your panties. He played with the lacy elastic. “Aren’t you?”

“Thor,” You warned and his other hand slid from under yours and tugged at the top of your dress. “Stop.”

“You said you need a break…” He purred and moved his hips against you. You could feel his arousal through your skirt. “I can help you relax.”

“I think you misunderstood me.” You clung to your dress as he tried to push it down. “Please--”

“Don’t act so innocent,” He snarled as his fingers edged under the top of your panties. 

He turned you, the light of your phone gave a sinister dim to the room. You tried to resist him but he was too strong. He almost had you off your feet as he pressed your legs against the bed. 

“Naughty or nice?” He asked again.

“Get off of me,” You whined. “Thor!”

He stopped pulling at your dress and wrapped his arm around your middle. He lifted you and brought his knee up between your legs. He climbed up onto the bed with you in his grasp and fell onto you, pinning you beneath his body. Your legs hung over the edge as his other hand felt around your vee.

You were crushed beneath him as he kept your legs apart with his knee. He pushed his fingers between your lip and pressed on your clit with his index and middle finger. You squirmed and whimpered. You could barely breathe against his weight. 

He dragged his fingers up and down your folds and circled your clit, over and over. The shame mingled with your unwanted arousal. You grabbed at the blankets, unable to move yourself from beneath him. 

The heat gathered with your juices and he groaned as he felt it. As he spread around your entrance and shoved his fingers inside. They were so thick, it hurt. Even with your bodies response, it was too much. He pulled out and pushed back in. Slow at first, he kept his palm against your bud. 

You quickly unravelled. You whined as you tried to resist the surge within you. You writhed beneath him, unsure if you were working against him or with him. You buried your face in the blanket as your breath picked up and you gasped. He worked his fingers faster and you shuddered as the waves washed over you. 

You went still as you came; ashamed and trapped. He ground his crotch against you as your pussy clenched around his fingers. He slowly drew his fingers out of you and lifted himself slightly to free his arm from under you. He brought his hand around as he grabbed your chin and squeezed your jaw. He forced his fingers past your lips, the taste of your cum sweet on your tongue.

He reached down with his other hand and pulled up your skirt. It wrinkled around your hips as he revealed your skimpy black thong. He tugged on it and groaned. His hand fumbled between you and you grabbed the hand in your mouth as you realized what he was doing. 

You felt the tip of his cock as he pulled it free of his pants. Your fingers clawed at the furry cuff of his jacket, the realization that he still wore the costume chilled you. He brought his other leg between yours and spread them further. He dragged his cock along your ass and down the line of your thong.

He hooked his fingers under the sheer fabric and pulled them aside. He used his thumb to guide himself to your entrance. You slapped his hand desperately and protested around his fingers. You bit down as hard as you could. He flinched but didn’t withdraw his fingers, only pushed them deeper until you gagged.

His tip stretched you as he entered you. He paused as if to let you adjust and you tried to kick your legs around him. The movement coaxed him deeper. He was thick and your walls strained against him. He didn’t stop this time. He slid inside until you were sure you couldn’t take anymore, but there was more. When he bottomed out, you were weak and he held your head in your hand as you lost all strength.

“You are a naughty girl,” He growled as he nuzzled your hair. 

He pulled back and thrust. He jolted your body and wiggled his hips as he splendoured in your warmth. He repeated the motion, each time jerking your body as you gagged noisily on his fingers. His other hand snaked under you and groped your tits, pinching sharply through dress and bra. The velvet of his coat rubbed your bare back and caught on your open zipper.

Soon, the whole bed shook with him. You mewled as you felt your core begin to bloom. You knew he felt it too as he sped up and his cock slid in and out smoothly. He drew his fingers from your mouth and gripped your neck instead. 

He forced your back to arch as he lifted himself to his knees, your legs propped open around them. He slapped your ass with his free hand as he rutted against you, his groans filled the air and he gripped your hip roughly. You latched onto the wrinkled blanket as your thighs buzzed and your climax rose sharply.

You came with a squeak, his hand still at your throat as he contorted your body. The pathetic sound only encouraged him and he fucked you faster and faster. It hurt but felt so good. You orgasmed again with a hiss, ashamed of your reaction to his intrusion.

He let go of your neck and pushed your head down into the mattress. He grabbed the back of your thong and snapped it with a yank. He freed it with another and held you down by your head as he pounded into. His groans grew louder and louder until he was roaring. 

The pleasured cries were muffled as he slammed into you so sharply you yelped. He spasmed and his thrust turned uneven. He slowed and you felt the flood inside of you. He pulled his hand away from your head and leaned back, his cock still in you as he panted. 

You turned your head to peek back at him. He held your thong to his face as he caught his breath, inhaling the scent of it. You closed your eyes and shakily reached up to try to drag yourself off of him. He caught your hips, the thong pressed against your skin.

“Ah ah,” He warned as he pulled you back to your limit. “Naughty girls must learn to be nice.”

[cloudysonder]

Bad Demon (Ineffable Husbands)

Summary: Crowley, in a fit of drunkenness, confesses his feelings for Aziraphale. It doesn’t go down very well. In fact, it goes about as badly as it could’ve gone, and before Aziraphale could even try to process his (already given) response, Crowley is gone; vanished into thin air. So, in a very Aziraphale-like manner, Aziraphale does nothing for a while. And then he panics.

Crowley, purely by definition, was a very bad demon.

Despite how he acted, it was what he truly believed. (As he should, for it was a fact.)

He didn’t ooze the seven deadly sins as he was supposed to, at all times. He wasn’t very comfortable with the idea of death, nor the concept of unjustified violence or horrible misfortune. In fact, he thought these were very stupid concepts; people should get what they bring upon themselves, he thought. There was no need for something to happen to them for no apparent reason.

Well, at least his “evil” habit of questioning authority never changed. (Which made sense, he supposed, to this fucked-up system, which was only Almighty in the way that it was almightily confusing, as the same system threw him down into a vat of sulfur for said habit.)

He spent his angel days making the stars and the sky, falling in love with every one of his creations. He believed in Her with all of his heart, yes, but he asked questions, thinking he also wanted to understand Her with all of his mind.

But that was bad, he was told, and off he went, spiraling into a vat of sulfur, white wings burning until they were black. 

He was a bad angel; years and years of not being one had taught him to accept that. Being a bad angel should’ve meant that he would be a good demon.

They were two sides of one coin, and somehow, Crowley had managed to land on the edge.

Crowley, purely by definition, was a very bad demon.

Except around Aziraphale.

Dishonesty was one of the most sought-after traits in a demon. Lying was fun for Crowley, a good 87.83% of the time, but it was mostly for temptations and “curses” that could usually be considered mild inconveniences at best. Lies that truly hurt somebody, now those were things he didn’t like messing with.

Words were the sharpest sword sometimes, and again, he wasn’t really a fan of stabbing, or slicing, or even just very politely and gently mauling. In front of Aziraphale however, he told lies that slashed like a jagged rusty knife into dry skin and stung like salt and cayenne rubbed into wounds. 

*

“I’m an angel, and you’re a demon, Crawl-- Crowley. We’re not even supposed to be seeing each other, much less, you know, fraternizing.” Aziraphale had whispered the last word, as if genuinely ashamed. “The Arrangement. That’s it, alright? I can’t do anything more.”

“I’m fine with that,” Crowley replied, and the lie dug itself deep into his heart. “Like I’d want to spend time around a holy angel, anyway.”

*

Around Aziraphale, Crowley also tended to indulge in a trick he had learned from the humans: lying to himself. 

Or, more accurately, pretending.

Sometimes, when Aziraphale called him “dear” or “my dear”, he liked to imagine a world where he actually meant it. He liked seeing the people who worked at the Ritz look at them with fondness, liked hearing them whisper about how they were such a good couple, and for a few beautiful moments, he would live in a world where it was true. For a few moments, he pretended that they lived in a simple world, where Zira wasn’t an angel and he wasn’t a demon, and they were a couple.

(It most certainly wasn’t hard, since, by most Earthly standards, they already acted like a married couple.)

He had once told the angel that the two of them weren’t on Heaven’s side or Hell’s side, but their side.

Zira responded that there was no their side and tacked on an “I don’t even like you!” for good measure. Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, this small exchange of words had completely decimated Crowley’s sleeping habits (from once a day to a few times a year), as Crowley would often nightmare, and even when he dreamed, again, of a hypothetical world where they were together, the words would echo through his head.

It wasn’t very pleasant.

But sitting with his angel at the Ritz, lying to himself (even for a few glorious minutes) was very pleasant. Probably the most angelic a demon could feel.

Well, that is, before the server brought a small pride flag with their wine, offering them a meek smile and a gentle compliment.

“Hello, sirs.” They placed the wine and wine glasses on the table. “Thank you for being such loyal regulars. I think it’s adorable how you two come for a date here every week. Happy pride month!”

The server stuck the flag in the vase of flowers that stood between the two.

Crowley reveled in the moment (no, his cheeks were not red, and no, he was not avoiding eye contact with Aziraphale; he was just really interested in the label on the wine bottle is all).

“Oh.” Crowley heard a small sound from the angel across from him. “Oh. Oh, no, no, no, we’re not, uh we’re not together--”

Crowley froze, rudely being pulled out of his “lying to himself” act, and immediately poured himself a full glass of wine.

“Oh?” The server had a poorly hidden look of “no way” on their face but politely smiled anyway.

Crowley downed the wine like a shot, his eyes focused on both nothing and everything except Aziraphale.

“We’ll keep the flag, though. It’s very nice.” Aziraphale added, and if Crowley were paying even the slightest bit of attention to the angel, he would’ve noticed that Aziraphale’s face was flushed and his lips were stiff, as he was trying to stop himself from rambling (as he often did when nervous).

Crowley, however, was instead busy doing something very unmistakably human:

Drowning his sorrows in alcohol.

The demon was done with about 3/4 of the wine bottle before the server even left their field of vision.

“You. Yeah, you. Get me another one of these-- yeah, a white’s good. Have any bigger wine glasses?”

The server glanced at the angel and then him, and nodded sympathetically.

“Right away, sir.”

“What is wrong with you today, dear?” Aziraphale’s eyes crumpled at the edges in genuine worry. It made Crowley taste a cocktail of guilt and bitterness, knowing that Aziraphale truly did care for him, but not nearly the way Crowley cared for him. “You’re just... breathing in this alcohol, like a, like a... what were they called? You know, those lovely clean sucking things that they made last century...”

Crowley flushed. Just Aziraphale saying the word “sucking” was too much for him. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Crowley soon decided that if he was able to think coherently, then he hadn’t drunk enough alcohol. He filled another glass just as Aziraphale gasped and exclaimed,

“Vacuums!” Zira took a moment to appreciate his own genius, involuntarily puffing out his chest. “A vacuum! That’s what it is! You’re acting an awful lot like a vacuum, dear. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replied, more out of habit than actual thought. Hm. His vision was fine, and his words weren’t slurred yet, and more importantly, he could still think. Crowley didn’t appreciate that one bit.

He snapped his fingers, and a small demonic miracle danced around his wine, turning it to something considerably less wine-like, but almost infinitely more likely to turn Crowley into a happier, drunker demon.

In other words, vodka. (Particularly a more demonic sort, with 730.67% alcohol.)

He downed the glass, and promptly fell over, knocked out.

“Crowley?”

He barely registered his angel calling him, voice brimming with concern.

Crowley came to after being hit with the familiar scent of old books and cocoa, and, upon further investigation, realized it was because he was draped over Aziraphale’s shoulder as the angel struggled to drag him home.

Crowley breathed in Aziraphale’s scent before (slightly) uprighting himself. His arm was still wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, but he was partially walking on his own now.

He heard Zira sigh in relief next to him.

“What happened, my dear?”

God, his eyes were so blue.

“You don’t normally... drink like this.”

Sober Crowley would’ve made an excuse well-suited to his personality; something along the lines of “I felt like it” or “it’s national ‘Get Shit-Faced’ day, angel”.

Drunk Crowley, however, couldn’t even process the question.

“Sssssatan, your eyesss are sso blue.” Crowley flicked his tongue out (it had miraculously shifted back to its natural serpentine form sometime between when he drank his not-wine to when he was draped on his angel’s back) to take in more of Aziraphale’s scent. “....’eally niccce.”

Aziraphale chuckled (adorably).

“What was that, Crowley?”

“Really niccce.”

“What is?”

Crowley made eye contact with Aziraphale, and the demon’s yellow snake-slit eyes crinkled at the edges in fondness.

“...Ineffable.” Crowley hiccupped out, tapping on his chest. “Can’t... understand... why.”

“Huh.” Aziraphale didn’t understand at all what Crowley had said, but felt that it was important for whatever reason, shelving it with his old books in his memory library.

“Sssshakessspeare wasss a dick,” Crowley eloquently added, and the conversation moved on, not giving the angel a single second to process whatever Crowley had just said.

It was when they stepped into the bookshop that Crowley’s despair over the 14th century had miraculously lifted, and the demon’s demeanor shifted to one of relief.

“I’m home!” Crowley laughed between hiccups. He had always imagined saying that when he walked into Zira’s bookshop, and the lack of filter between his mouth and head had long since been removed by alcohol.

“Home? We’re at the bookshop, dear.” Aziraphale absentmindedly replied. Crowley had left his side and was beelining towards his usual spot on the sofa: the whole sofa.

“Yeah.” Crowley was sprawled across the couch, tongue flicking out occasionally to gather as much of the bookshop’s smell as he could. “Home issss where you are, angel.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, his head slightly tilted as his serpentine pupils dilated on a yellow background; a tick he had picked up from the humans. His eyes were half-lidded, decidedly not from the drunkenness that resulted from alcohol but the often even stupider drunkenness that resulted from being smitten.

Crowley had looked at Aziraphale many times this way. Just, never when Aziraphale looked back. Drunk Crowley didn’t seem to give very much of a shit for Sober Crowley’s embarrassment.

“I love you.”

Crowley stared straight into Aziraphale’s too-blue eyes.

“So much, angel.” Crowley tacked on. “Since the Beginning. So, ssso much, Aziraphale.”

He watched as a series of emotions flew across Zira’s face. (If it was to be said, it might’ve been that trait of Aziraphale’s that caused Crowley to trust him so easily in the first place. After all, how could an angel who let everything show on his face betray him?)

First, Aziraphale looked touched. Then, embarrassed. Embarrassment morphed to shame as if he had realized something very important.

“No.”

Aziraphale refused to meet the demon’s eyes. Crowley started to sober almost immediately, albeit unconsciously. It was as if someone had poked a small hole in a water balloon and now the alcohol was draining out of him, like water from a leaky faucet.

Drip.

Drip.

“What?” A million shades of hurt flashed through Crowley.

“It’s wrong, dea-- Crowley! You’re a demon, you know, a creature from Hell that’s supposed to be terrorizing all of humanity, and I’m an angel, the exact opposite.”

I was once too, Crowley wanted to say.

“I’m meant to love everything equally, and you’re not meant to love at all; there’s no possible way whatever this is could, could, could be.”

Aziraphale was rambling. Everything out of his mouth meant little to nothing to him, but every word stabbed Crowley in a different weak point he didn’t know he had.

“Romance is, it isn’t, it’s not--” He was stuttering now. “It’s not us.”

Crowley somehow got his mouth to work again, but all he could manage was a broken,

“What are we, then?”

I don’t know.

“Nothing.”

Crowley shattered.

The room had gone silent.

Where is my home, then?

Nowhere.

Nothing, nowhere, nobody.

That’s what Crowley had always been. Not an angel. Not a demon. Belonging nowhere. He had thought and dreamed and hoped of a love that would make him something, but in the end, he stayed the same.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

If only he could stop. He wished he could, he really did, wished he could slow down, wished he could relax enough to find something.

If only he could just disappear.

When Aziraphale blinked, Crowley had vanished, leaving behind nothing.

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

Crowley was currently in a Place.

A Place, because he had no idea where he was.

Not on Earth, because Earth was a place he could get drunk and forget. Now, every drop of alcohol that entered his bloodstream exited twice as quickly, after any, any thought involving Aziraphale passed through. Which was always, since he was the reason Crowley was drinking in the first place. He couldn’t be on Earth, because Aziraphale would always be with him on Earth.

A Place.

Not on Hell, because he had been to Hell, many, many times, and this was so much worse.

A Place.

Heaven?

Well, if he could go to heaven, this whole blessed thing wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

It was because he was a demon, wasn’t it? 

It was, Crowley told himself. But he could have been better. 

He buried his face in his arms, folded on top of himself in the couch he never sat on in his apartment. 

If Crowley was better, maybe he could’ve convinced Aziraphale to stay. Maybe Aziraphale could’ve chosen him over the world, chosen their side. 

Crowley did ask. Once.

The world or him and Alpha Centauri, and Aziraphale, his lovely selfless good angel, had chosen the world without even blinking. 

Even if it meant throwing him away.

“I really should’ve seen this coming.” Crowley chuckled, miserable, and the sound bounced off the walls. “What was I expecting?”

In front of him, a few of his plants had the nerve to droop, and Crowley couldn’t muster anything in him to threaten them. He felt very much like drooping himself. Crowley gently held the leaf of the houseplant that drooped, feeling it tremble for a second under his touch.

He knew it was a coping mechanism. But it helped. It helped him deal with things, accept things enough to...

To do what?

Heeding orders was never a desire of his.

Everything he did was for Aziraphale. To see his face, to smell his coat, to tease him, to love him, Crowley lived. 

He breathed into the terrified leaf of the dracaena. 

He was to the plant as Hell was to him. 

Hell had power over him, was what he had thought. He feared Hell for what they could do to him.

But now?

The fear had vanished.

The worst had happened. He lived for Aziraphale, not Hell, he realized, and fear of the past only existed in the minds of fools.

He mumbled a quiet “’m sorry” into the leaf of his dracaena, and it stopped trembling in his hands. Crowley had only ever cried once before, unsurprisingly over the same angel, over the same problem: leaving him.

He was sobbing now; he clenched the leaf of his houseplant in his hands and cried, knowing that Aziraphale would never mourn like this over him.

Crowley might’ve imagined it, but he swore that he felt another leaf of the dracaena patting his back, comforting him.

****Something that passed through the mind of Crowley around his 30th attempt to drink****

Aziraphale had once told him something along the lines of “one could only be truly good if one had the capacity to be truly evil”, and Crowley could do neither.

*

When he felt shitty, Crowley would’ve normally crashed Aziraphale’s bookshop, lounging on the angel’s couch in the backroom while listening to him rambling about Dante or Dickens, but that wasn’t very much an option now.

Crowley was nothing to the angel, after all, even though friends still wouldn’t have been enough for Crowley.

*

Aziraphale had screwed up. Badly. 

He sat where Crowley had been just a few minutes ago, looking at Aziraphale as if the stars were in his eyes. 

Crowley, a demon: Snake eyes unhidden, snake tongue flicking out once in a while, languishing on his couch.

He had felt so much pride in having Crowley be comfortable around him. Felt fondness for the demon that would barge in and collapse on his couch without warning, who listened to his rambles about books and music for hours without complaint.

He kept seeing Crowley’s hurt expression when he had said that he was just a demon.

That much was true, yes. But not just a demon. Crowley was anything but just. He was beyond that, and Aziraphale had always known that.

He was sure that when Crowley was an angel that hadn’t changed. It was for being more than just an angel that he probably got thrown off the side. 

This was Crowley: a demon that had drove him more places than he could count, the demon that told him that “Another One Bites The Dust” was by Tchaikovsky, the demon that had walked into a church for him, the demon that had saved books from a burning church for him, the demon that loved him.

“What are we, then?” 

His voice was shaking, broken.

“Nothing.”

 Aziraphale saw Crowley’s heart drop. 

Crowley was gone now; probably never coming back. His only ally in the world, the only constant that had stayed, and protected him, and cared. 

“Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? Funny if I did the good thing and you did the bad one, eh?”

He had nudged Aziraphale goodnaturedly and smiled.

Aziraphale put his head in his hands. 

Softly, silently, he cursed.

*

Meanwhile, Heaven and Hell, as both of which had learned their lesson from the last time they left Aziraphale and Crowley completely unmonitored, watched them for about three weeks.

Well, “watched” wasn’t quite the right word. They didn’t “see” very much of anything. Or hear, for that matter. 

(Which was a relief, as Crowley very well would’ve rather stepped into a vat of holy water than have Hastur know that he’d confessed his love for an angel while drunk.)

Hell felt a small bit of Aziraphale’s grace lift up from Crowley’s clothes and furniture.

Heaven felt a tad of Crowley’s demonic presence lift up from Aziraphale’s bookshop (Crowley had intentionally left a bit so no one would walk into the bookshop to buy books for a very long time) and coat(s).

As such, Heaven and Hell were optimistic that both had returned to their proper roles as a demon, terrorizer of humanity, and an angel, bringer of miracles. Thus, they sent representatives to congratulate them. Not because they were truly proud of them, of course, but rather because of a mix of emotions, most of which were elements of fear and hatred of the other side.

For Crowley, Hastur.

For Aziraphale, Gabriel.

*

Gabriel walked into Aziraphale’s bookshop in an extremely Gabriel-like way, that is to say, with perfect posture, hands folded in front of him, a bright smile painted on his face.

“Aziraphale!” He called.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale looked up from the book he was trying, but failing to read, for his mind had been a bit preoccupied with a certain demon’s absence.

“I just wanted to say congratulations!” He slapped Aziraphale on the back. 

“For...?” 

“For dissociating yourself from that demon, of course! What was his name... Crawly?” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale corrected, stern.

“Right! Up There is very happy with you, you know.” Gabriel leaned forward to say the last sentence, as if it was a well-kept secret.

A small part of Aziraphale, one that he now hated, felt a glimmer of pride. 

Said glimmer of pride was stamped out when Gabriel ruffled Zira’s hair and gave him another slap on the back.

The angel felt nauseous. Gabriel’s smile, his mannerisms, the way he looked like he was proud of him... it all felt so fake. 

Gabriel bounced on his feet, refusing to sit down, as if he was ready to leave any second.

Aziraphale thought of a certain demon, who would drape himself over his couch immediately, settling in as if it were his second home.

Gabriel called him terrific, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but think that he would much rather be told “not bad, angel” with a poorly concealed smile.

The glimmer of pride, if it had ever been there at all, quickly turned into guilt.

He had traded Crowley for this?

*

Hastur sauntered into the bar with a slight limp. 

Surprisingly, the bar wasn’t crowded at all, almost as if someone had put a sort of demonic miracle on it. Hastur grumbled approvingly, spotting Crowley as the lone figure at the counter, sipping whiskey directly from the bottle.

(He still couldn’t actually get drunk, of course, but drinking felt better than lying on his bed doing nothing.)

Hastur grabbed his shoulder.

“Crowley.” 

Crowley looked at him.

“Hastur.” Crowley sighed. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Finally gotten free of your angel, eh?” Hastur did something that wasn’t smiling nor smirking, but communicated approval anyhow. 

“Not mine,” Crowley mumbled into the bottle.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Crowley took a swig of whiskey. “You could put it that way. And?”

“Hell approves.” Hastur shrugged. “Everyone does. Angels are stupid asses. Hypocrites, the lot of them.”

“Sure,” Crowley replied.

“Yours in particular though,” Hastur added. “Satan, he was idiotic. Bookshop full of books that he doesn’t want to sell. He might as well be one of ours. Stupid name too, something long, Ezra something--”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley grit out.

“Yeah, him. What a preach. Lecturing about evil and good, as if he knows everything. What does he know? He just stuffs his face all day long like a human. No wonder he’s such a lard-ass--”

Crowley decked him, and Hastur flew across the room.

...

Hastur’s back slammed against a brick wall with a dull satisfying thud, and Crowley’s hands hung at his sides, as if they were sagging with the weight of what he had just done.

To put it simply, Crowley had two things on earth: Aziraphale and Hell, which had already put him into a number of quite strange situations, given that they were almost polar opposites of each other. 

After Aziraphale rejected him, Crowley only had Hell, and logically, should’ve been demon-ing with all his might: knocking over kid’s ice cream cones, slightly nudging the letters on someone’s birthday cake so that they would be just asymmetrical, you know, evil stuff. He should’ve been training a band of mariachi maggots to sing for Hastur, Duke of WhateverTheFuckCrowleyDidn’tReallyCare, not striking him in the face.

But Satan was it satisfying.

The pompous Duke of Hell who had the nerve to insult his angel was lying on the ground before him, a large bruise blooming on his cheek. Anger still pumped through Crowley’s veins as he leered down at Hastur, feeling very much like he’d like to punch him again.

Gripping him by his collar, Crowley lifted Hastur in the air and threw him into the wall again. Just for good measure. He took a deep breath.

After being near Aziraphale for so long, he had forgotten just how woefully inadequate other demons’ company was in comparison. 

On the bright side, Crowley thought to himself as he walked towards the exit. After what happened today, he wouldn’t very much have to worry about “other demons’ company” anymore.

A demonic miracle later, Hastur appeared in front of Crowley again, smug smirk on his face and amusement flickering in and out of his eyes.

To fully understand Hastur’s reaction, one had to understand two very important points.

1: When it was implied before that Hell left Crowley for the most part alone  because of a mix of fear and respect from his holy water spectacle, it would be more accurate to say that it was because of a begrudging respect from fear. Hell respected the art of fear very much, and Crowley had instilled it into every demon who watched him bathe in holy water.

Fear, however, only worked when the one who fears thinks the one who is feared has no weaknesses.

2: Hastur wasn’t stupid.

“This is hilarious.” A maggot crawled out of Hastur’s smile. 

“What is?” 

“You fell in love.” Hastur leaned forward to Crowley’s ear. “With an angel.”

If it must be reiterated, Hastur was not quite the idiot Crowley had always played him to be. He may have seemed so, but that was simply because Crowley was a bit more clever than he played himself to be.

More importantly, Hastur had been demon-ing for far longer than Crowley had.

**A Common Misconception (known by Hastur but unknown to Crowley)**

Demons did not indulge in the seven sins; they simply convinced humans to do so. In fact, it was (or should’ve been) impossible for them to do so in the first place, as each sin was rooted in love, and demons could not love.

(Demons could sense the sins just as angels could sense love, and it was Crowley’s bit of wrath that gave him away.)

Crowley stiffened. He fought the (unnecessary) urge to breathe, as panic rose up his throat. Fear was about three hells of a poison, and Crowley was deeply cursing the fact that he didn’t have it in his serpentine fangs.

“You know Picasso?” Hastur looked directly at Crowley.

Crowley didn’t reply.

“One of ours, of course. I got to torture him for a few Hell millennia, and he told me something.” Hastur continued. “He said, ‘Every time I change wives I should burn the last one. That way I'd be rid of them. They wouldn't be around to complicate my existence. You kill the woman and you wipe out the past she represents.’”

“Wait,” Crowley interjected, sounding desperate.

“Now, Aziraphale, was it? Not a woman, but it’s the same either way, really.”  Hastur shrugged. 

“Look, aren’t you being a tad overdramatic? Aziraphale-- he’s, it’s not anything, really, you know. In fact, he told me that myself-- look, I’m sorry for striking you, but we’re mates, aren’t we? Demons of Hell, the lot of us, there’s no need to--”

“Ciao.” Hastur dipped his head a bit, and he was gone.

Shit.

....

Aziraphale got rid of Gabriel by sheer willpower, fake smiles, and a gentle bit of steadily nudging his “brother” to the exit. 

Upon closing the door behind him, the angel savored the sense of relief and tried to ignore the loneliness that swelled beside it.

The empty couch, the crushing silence.

Overwhelming.

However, the small, but already far too long, interaction with Gabriel had led him to a decision. A decision, he realized, in which he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. 

Aziraphale was, generally, a very reckless person. Sometimes, it could be called bravery. Other times, it could be called stupidity.

He was aware of this, and this awareness led him to ultimately decide that this was too important of an action to rush in with.

He had waited six thousand years. What was a few hours more?

Armed with a pen and a couple hundred flashcards, Aziraphale dived into work.

*A List of Things Aziraphale Realized While Writing Out a Series of Memories and Thoughts*

1.) He was an idiot.

2.) Crowley had confessed to him in his own way many times before (burning church, French Revolution, dinner at the Ritz for no reason), and Aziraphale had never noticed (refer to #1).

3.) He loved Crowley. (Well, he actually came up with that one sometime over the three weeks they’d been apart.)

4.) He really didn’t give a flying fuck (Yes, he had wrote that. Yes, he thought that Crowley would be very proud of him.) about Heaven or Hell, so long as he had the Earth and Crowley.

The moment he had firmly decided on the final point, Aziraphale heard the door slam open.

It was followed by a desperate-sounding, “Angel!”, and Aziraphale immediately turned around, making eye contact with a terrified looking Crowley.

He didn’t even have time to take in the demon’s eye bags and sunken face before Crowley beelined towards him.

Cupping Aziraphale’s face in his hands, Crowley rubbed his thumbs over the angel’s cheekbones, as if trying to convince himself that he was there. 

“Alright?” Crowley asked softly.

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, bewildered.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked again, firmer. 

“Yes, of course, what are you talking about--” 

Crowley hugged Aziraphale, crushing the angel’s body against his own (not unlike a snake, in fact). Confused, Aziraphale managed a small, 

“Crowley...?” 

 The demon in question stiffened as if remembering something important. He immediately pulled away, shoving his hands in his pockets, and looking very much like he wanted to jump into a lake of holy water.

“Right. Sorry. Um.” He coughed into his sleeve. “Panicked, a bit. Couldn’t do any demonic miracles. Just a prank, probably, then. Just thought about... some stupid... thing--”

Said “stupid thing” may or may not have been the burning of the bookshop followed by the worst hours of his life.

“--so I just came over without thinking. Sorry. I’ll just-- I’ll just go.” He turned to face the door.

“No!” Aziraphale latched onto his hand. “Wait, just wait right there. I’ll be right back.”

Aziraphale hurried to his desk, gathering his index cards, notes, and sticky notes, among all of the other 5,724 things on there. 

It was the warmest he’d felt in a while. He’d missed the demon, so much more desperately than he thought he would have, and a single word, a single action from him was all it took to make the world feel alright again.

He’d missed being called “angel”. 

Aziraphale flustered at the realization and stumbled, index cards managing to spread across the floor in a matter of seconds.

“What’s all this?” Crowley gestured to Aziraphale’s paper model of the Pacific Ocean on the ground. 

“Oh, just give me a second, I’ll have it all sorted out in a minute.” Aziraphale was bent down on the ground, gathering all the cards into a small horde. “Gosh, where’s the last one?”

“Just use a miracle, angel,” Crowley said, exasperated. 

For a second, things were normal again.

Crowley bent down to pick an index card up.

He glanced at it and flushed an alarming shade of red. Pushing his sunglasses up, Crowley covered his face with his right hand, the other holding the index card between his middle and pointer finger.

“Ah,” Crowley heard Aziraphale from the ground. “You, you picked up the last one.”

“...is it true?” Crowley murmured quietly, as if he was scared of the answer. 

Aziraphale stood up, dragged Crowley up by the arm, and removed his hand from his face. 

He stared directly into Crowley’s eyes and smiled for what felt like the first time in weeks.

“I reckon it’s the truest thing I’ve ever written.” 

Crowley smiled back.

“Lunch at the Ritz?”

“I thought you’d never ask, dear.”

And he meant the “dear” this time, Crowley thought blissfully.

*

“A reservation for two, under Anthony J. Crowley.” 

The server beamed at them.

“Flowers?” The server offered.

“As many as possible, please.” Aziraphale replied.

“Sure, angel.” Crowley sighed.

*

“About goddamn time,” Hastur muttered from a table behind them.

“Were you the one who got them together?” A server asked from beside him. He startled, before relaxing.

“Drastic times called for drastic measures.” Hastur shrugged. 

“Please let me give you some wine on the house.”

“Could you say I stole it? For my reputation.” 

The server paused.

“Sure, sire.”

AN:

Thanks for reading! For earlier updates and other such things, my stories are on AO3 under the name CloudySonder!

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Dead of Night|| Morgan & Matty

There it was: a whole, oof, a whole fuckin’ human leg, oozing, sluggishly, where he slapped it down on what was left of its owner’s chest. “Drumstick, order up. Your server’s been Matty.” With that, he ducked down, trying not to be too eager about cupping a filthy hand to the ruin of this poor bastard’s femoral artery. That was a good one, after all. “You wanna stick with Hungry Girl, or… ?”

Morgan seldom left the house with a clear destination in mind, but often she found herself wading through the overgrown grass and mossy angels of the town cemeteries. She liked Eluria best of all, tracing the footpath she’d walked with Deirdre and weaving around the ghosts that ambled through the shadows. They did not speak to her, nor she to them. Morgan imagined they remembered her visit mere weeks ago and understood there was nothing to say. She walked past all the places they had wandered together, off the gravel path, where the weeds were less tended and the stillness was marked with tiny sounds of life crawling on. Sometimes Morgan would continue walking, tireless, but other times she would release her hold on her balance and let the ground catch her as she collapsed. She was getting better at falling just so that the moment of impact burst through the haze around her and made her want to gasp, to breathe. As she hit the ground, Morgan stared up at the sightless stone eyes around her. She lost herself staring into the granite, picking out the quartz from the feldspar from the micah in its makeup, searching for a place inside her for this knowledge to still belong to. Maybe her own decay, maybe her own stillness. She stayed there as the light started to fade and time slipped away from her mind, slurped up in the quiet of death. Even when a strange new sound rippled through the cemetery, Morgan lay in place, dead eyes open. 

It had been a long fuckin’ week. A long, hungry week. One of many. And they only ever ended in the same place, these days: some creepy, crawly cemetery, ideally the sort where the bodies didn’t always get, you know, a proper burial. Places people were put to disappear. White Crest had, frankly, more than its likely share of that sort of shit, thankfully. Cold at the edges, sallow with aching, awful thirst, Matty had drifted through the graveyard for a while, like another bit of old newspaper caught in the breeze. He could smell it. Somewhere. Fresh, too. Maybe even still warm. His stomach snarled at the thought. 

Or, had snarled. Time got slippery, when he was this starved, when he was feeding, when he was full of blood. Rocking back on his heels, Matty licked his lips, slow, woozy, fingers curling back from the throat he’d chewed open, hidden away in one of the older, lonelier corners of Eluria. They were almost warm. Dead an hour, maybe. His lucky day. Plenty of dinner left in this poor bastard. With a push forward, Matty’s knees hit the dirt, and his hands worked into the gaping hole he’d made. The collarbone snapped forward, horribly - and he had to stop, the sound too damn much to handle. God, he hated this part. In general. All of it. Had to get into the chest, though… with a hard swallow, he kept going, that awful strength rolling back, now that he’d had something to eat. The thinking, too. That came back. Clarity.

Enough to realize that he wasn’t alone. Two ribs in, Matty caught something besides blood on the air. Finally. His head snapped up, and there - there she was. Lady with grass-stained, goosebump-less legs, standing there, staring down into the shallow, abandoned grave he’d found. At the mess he’d made. “Uh -” his throat bobbed, working hard through the aging blood he’d been lapping out. Uh, what? He blinked, squinted. Quiet. Real quiet. Too quiet. No - no heartbeat. Dead lady. He skittered backward, eyes wide. “All yours, man,” Matty cringed, not about to fight another vampire over shit. Not on your unlife, fuck. 

It was the sound of flesh tearing that had drawn Morgan up to her feet. She lingered, wondering if she should run back home and hide, but the sound was--what was it? The novelty of being able to identify the sound from her own death, from her first feeding. Maybe it reminded her of how the meat had fit inside her like nothing else. Maybe she just felt better next to death. So Morgan walked, following the sound and stopped, curious, when she saw where it was coming from. “Uh…hi.” The flesh was new and red and dripping. Morgan’s mouth watered to see the gash where the clavicles had been burst free, the skin dangling down the wound. “Nnnhhh…” She groaned for it. And the vampire--Morgan had only seen Miriam and spawn before, but there was no denying the size of his teeth, stained and peeking over the end of his lips. He skittered back at the sight of her. Morgan tensed her muscles. “You don’t have to,” she stammered, uncertain of the protocol. Was there some species turf war over bodies? She shuffled forwards, unable to look away from the glimpses of muscle, from the thin, tender flesh that went up the skull. Morgan descended on the body and tore a fresh piece away, groaning with relief. It coated her, comforted her in her cotton haze and wet her throat as good as water used to. She drew her head up enough to search for the vampire again. “Hey, you um...you didn’t kill this guy, did you?”

Oh. Oh. Not a vampire. Nope. Going for the meat. Zombie. Matty turned aside, quick, wiping at his blood-slimy cheeks - doing his best not to watch, or listen too closely. Not that she was any worse than he was. Nothing personal. Just - he’d never been great with all the gore of this. This undead shit. That moan, though. Fuck, he knew that. The feeling. Being so starved you didn’t know anything else. He swallowed, forcefully, as the zombie looked his way. Bloody-mouthed, a bit of raw, human meat in her hands. “Hi,” Matty echoed, with a weak, sharp smile. Loosening. Just a bit. More for show than out of anything like real relief. If he didn’t have to fuck off, well. Okay. Okay. Wasn’t a vampire. That - that did help. But zombies would, obviously, totally chow down on anything with flesh attached. So. He kept his distance, not wanting to get between the lady and her meal. Shaking his head, bloody hands up, not looking especially innocent. Even if he sounded it, earnestly so. “Fuck, no. No. Promise. I - I’m just out here trying to, you know, avoid that kinda thing.” Cautious - and still hungry - he came a bit closer, boots sinking in the damp earth. “You too, huh? That’s cool. We’re cool. I, ah… don’t mind sharing, or anything, if you don’t…” 

Morgan felt like she’d been thrown into someone else’s party without knowing the rules. They were both blood splattered and awkward. Did creatures like them share bodies often? Was this a common courtesy thing?  She took another bite, tearing the wound open wider to get a better bite, and gave the vampire another look. “Were, um...were you done or--?” No. She knew that expression. He was afraid of her. She wiped her mouth on her arm to think of something to say. ‘I don’t bite’ was too awful to be funny, not with raw muscle stuck to the corner of her lip. “I’m full, I just...it’s like when there’s three slices of cake on the table. You just gotta…” She shrugged, frowning. Have one. Despite the imagery, she had the ghost feeling of a skin crawl over it. This thing would have made her sick before. This was something to look away from. “I can try to break off a limb if it makes you feel safer. Um...sharing. Or you can break off a drumstick for me. Best part of a chicken, right?” Her hands rummaged in the body as she talked, wrestling more meat away and bringing it up to her mouth. She scooted away, to give the vampire some encouragement but there was only so far her body felt like being away from it. “So...you got a name, or am I gonna keep calling you Hungry Guy in my head?”

Was he finished? “I mean, there’s… dude’s still got some blood in him, right…” Matty winced, hovering nervously. Cake. Sure. Like cake. He sorta laughed, picturing that. “Yeah, yeah. Totally.” Safer. Why did that feel so - weird? Uncomfortable, in a way that wriggled and nibbled. A zombie, asking a vampire what to do so he felt safer. When she looked… well, not scared, no. Not exactly what he was used to, though, when it came to zombies. He’d met a few. Super strong, super badass, generally. (Usually dickheads about it, too.) Or, you know. Super gnarly, super rotten. This woman, she seemed - kinda out of it, just. Dealing. Not enjoying things. 

Relatable. 

He shrugged, and perched a little closer. Pushed that smile a bit closer to something real. “Honestly - who the fuck’s ever safe, around here? This town, man...” Like it was no big deal, like… like he hadn’t meant it. The fear, that is. He got ahold of one of those legs, then, and - guts flopping, in a truly nasty way - snapped, twisted, tugged. Took some work. And a flinch, as the bone cracked. But there it was: a whole, oof, a whole fuckin’ human leg, oozing, sluggishly, where he slapped it down on what was left of its owner’s chest. “Drumstick, order up. Your server’s been Matty.” With that, he ducked down, trying not to be too eager about cupping a filthy hand to the ruin of this poor bastard’s femoral artery. That was a good one, after all. “You wanna stick with Hungry Girl, or… ? Totally confidential, and shit. Cross my heart.” Matty brought his palmful of blood up, and gulped it down. “What happens in the graveyard stays in the graveyard, you know?” 

So his name was matty Matty. Matty was joking with her like they were sharing a pizza or extra rice from a big takeout order in some kind of communal break room. Teasing. Commiserating. Just strangers being friendly. Morgan took the leg and scooted further away, picking back the skin and fat clumsily and gnawing off the muscle tissue. If she kept her eyes up at the stars and less on the mess of flesh before her, she could imagine a giant turkey leg that would’ve made eyes melt at the Ren Faire. But the revulsion was dull and bitter, a feeling over not being able to get anything out of actual takeout. She should feel worse than this, she thought. It was a human body, that thing that supernaturals were measured in proximity to. It’s fine, they don’t eat humans. But there wasn’t any psychosis hiding around the fibula. No sense of humor. No disappointment. He had been a person before, this graveyard guy she was sharing with Marty. But people did things, felt things, wanted things. Death took the person out of you. Morgan understood that too well. “I’m Morgan,” she said. “Is that a real thing? What happens in the graveyard stays in the graveyard? Or are you just like—” ‘Nice vampire’ suddenly seemed offensive, a betrayal, however easy it might be. “A nice kinda guy?” She smirked and gestured at him to get a glob of blood that had fallen into his hair.

The grass around them rustled. Morgan flinched and turned. No one coming, but there was movement. She looked over at Matty, the question penned large over her open face. Did you hear something? Tentatively she went back to the leg, peeling off more skin like a sticky wrapper. She was up to her nose in it when two tiny critter hands leapt out from the shadow and tried to pull it out of her grasp. 

Alright, offering accepted. No fingers lost in the process, so. This could be going worse. Much worse. Morgan. Now everybody had a name, and dinner, and… a mess, between them. Matty winced, catching what she was pointing at. Clot, in his curls. Gnarly. Fussing that out, he flicked it into the dirt with a grimace and tossed his hair, huffing at a few stray ones that tumbled back, wildly, into his face. “Try to be?” Nice. Yeah, he tried. “I don’t know. Seems like a good rule? Do unto others, right? With, uh, some exceptions, obviously, when it comes to...” he waved, vaguely, sheepishly, at the corpse between them. Enough said. Some exceptions when it came to staying fed. With a sniff, and a scrub at his bloody chin, Matty went back to poking around in that ragged thigh. Couldn’t waste a drop, after all. Not that there was much to be had, now that this poor motherfucker had been lying out a while.

Long enough to draw the rest of the scavengers. Rats? They’d twitched together, the zombie and the vampire. Matty’s eyes tracked through the gloom, squinting between the gravestones around them. Hard to smell anything much, besides dinner, and turned earth, and death. There was a breeze, rolling through the morning glory and dandelions; probably nothing. Probably. But he kept watching the dark, lapping a last bit of thick, settled blood from his palm. 

Not nothing. The claws lashed out of the weeds, out of the dark, into the meat Morgan was working on. “Shit -” Matty yelped, mostly, before a couple sharp-boned somethings crashed and tore across his shoulders, pouncing him into the clay and the corpse. 

Morgan had never seen anything like these critters. Their eyes were glazed like misty marbles and their too-wide mouths, large enough to stretch over half their face were stuffed with too many sharp, serrated teeth. Morgan let go of the leg with a scream and scrambled back. “What the hell, what the hell…” She cried. The critter swiped at her leg drawing a deep gash with claws that did not belong on anything so small and strange. “Matty!” She looked to the vampire for help but it was no good. Two had found their way on him, ready to dig in. Morgan reached for one and pulled-- right. No monster strength after feeding. Morgan staggered up and yanked again with both hands. She could feel another one on her leg gnawing (probably more like tearing) at her ankle, but she couldn’t leave Matty in a lurch like this. Not without trying first. The critter came up with a piercing shriek. Morgan dropped it onto the body and tugged on Matty’s shirtsleeve. “Any idea what these things are?” She tried to shake the one off her ankle but beared down harder and to her bewilderment, it was almost hurting. “We should run, right? Running good?”

Sliding in a fuckin’ nasty combination of John Doe’s busted open chest and the blood-soaked earth, Matty tumbled and rolled. About all he could do, with two of those - two alghoul, talons digging, twisting, in the worn-jean of his jacket, and through. Flailing up, he managed, barely, to hold the one off from snatching at his eyes. (One of their favorite fuckin’ snacks, he’d noticed. After way too many run-ins.) The other - was gone, real suddenly. 

Morgan. To the goddamn rescue. 

A wild thrash, vampire-loaded, and that alghoul went from snarling in his face to howling through the air. Matty came up gasping, just in time to jerk away from another wicked-sharp swing. And a few bottle-glass blue, mindlessly hungry stares. And those fangs, Jesus. “Fuck, yeah, yeah - run!” With a frantic kick, Matty punted the little shit who’d got ahold of Morgan’s leg. It ripped loose, warbling awfully. Taking some skin. Tasting bile, and resting blood, he pushed Morgan ahead, out of the half-assed grave they’d been crouching in. “Fuckin’ alghouls, man! Just want the leftovers. Go!”

Morgan didn’t wait for her skin to grow back to start running. She began to sprint, legs wobbling under her lopsided weight as she went. “What-ghouls? What does that even mean?” She turned over her shoulder to see if he was still behind her. The alghouls had descended on the body completely, tearing and spitting with a hunger that made her nauseous with familiarity. She had been like that on the first night, when she barely had enough consciousness to rub together to make a thought, when her hunger wasn’t just in the pit of her dead stomach but in her head, in her muscles. It was the core of her, and the sound, what little of it she could stand to remember, was a lot like that. She kept running until they cleared the cemetery and called over her shoulder again, slowing to a jog. “You run into those things a lot? The--all-ghouls? Are you okay?”

Eluria wasn’t one of Matty’s regular haunts, so to speak. But when it came to terrain to scramble over, a cemetery was a cemetery. Around gravestones and across the paths, they booked it hard, as the undead crow flew. Morgan was shouting; had questions. “Alghouls!” Matty hollered back, skidding down a wet-grassed rise. “I dunno, they just - they eat dead shit, they’re fuckin’ gnarly, that’s it!” Like the both of them, sort of. Finally, the dark iron of the fence loomed ahead. Matty was up and over the spikes like a coked-out squirrel. Brushing at the crusted blood and mud on his hands, his arms, he circled around, pacing. Shook up like a can of soda. And - bleeding. Slowly, darkly, from where those claws had punched through the denim, under his collarbone, and down his ribs, and… his back, somewhere. “Ah, fuck…” At least they’d missed that still-healing mark left by the asanbosam; didn’t feel deep, either. Still hurt. “Yeah, yeah.” Matty tossed his head, getting all that hair out of his face. “They’re like… rats. Big, shitty rats. All over the place, in town. They, uh, they aren’t big on lights, but, you start… flashing shit around, after hours, in a graveyard… chances are, you’re gonna get trouble.” The kind with stakes. And machetes. “Best thing to do’s just fuckin’ haul. You fight them, they’ll all jump in. Then you’re fucked.” He poked at one of the holes in his jacket, huffing at the damage done. Too bad. Glancing at - and away from - that torn up leg, Matty gave Morgan a nod. “How’s the ankle? You heal up pretty good, right?” Most zombies seemed to. And she’d just ate, so. Should be fine, yeah? They should both be fine.  

Morgan didn’t leap so much as topple and fall, rolling in a mess of limbs, over the fence. She hit the ground with a thumb she only half felt. Gnarly. Dead shit. Like them. Well that was a real boost to the self-image. How many degrees of separation were there between her and those things exactly? Did she even want to know? Morgan got to her feet and dusted herself off. “Yeah that light thing sounds like a great way to get hunters up your ass. Ugh, stars, hunters are a real thing now, and not just the odd bitchy one,” she groaned. She checked her ankle. Good as new. “Y-yeah, I’m...I’m fine,” Morgan said. She didn’t feel all that fine, but there was no harm done and she could still make it back home in time. “Are you? Do vampires, like, regrow things too? Or is that just a brain gang thing?” She shifted uncomfortably, looking over her shoulder just in case more were coming. 

Stars? A little, like, outdated, maybe. But, so was he. Matty sighed, with plenty of agreement and a decent amount of aching, really starting to feel those gouges now that things weren’t all helter-skelter. “Yeah, load of fuckin’ psychos. And they’re everywhere, man. You been to the Night Market? They keep eyes on that. Watch out.” Fuck, zombies really did clean up quick. Been a while since he saw that, up close. Kinda grody. Then again, there he was, trying to rub a dead man’s blood off his cheeks. So. “Cool, cool…” Shit, he had to start keeping, like, a bag, or something. A scavenging safety kit. Was too hungry to plan much, when he’d left. His circling swayed, as Morgan got into… that kinda shit. Their kinda shit. 

“Uh - sort of?” Matty pulled a sickly sorta face, at the thought. And another one, as his fangs crunched away. “It’s… messier, more involved, like… real surgery, just. Less blood. Then, a lot of blood. To, you know. Make the magic happen.” Magic, sure. That was a word for it. With a couple jaw-cracks, one, two, Matty shrugged off towards the ragged, distant, dim-lit edges of the Bend. “We should probably fuck off. Not because of them.” He cleared up, catching that glance Morgan threw back the way they’d come. “They’ll stay put, where the food is. But, uh. Never know who else might show up...” Really, he’d only seen the overseer once. An experience Matty would rather never, ever repeat. Dude was terrifying.  

“Oh, yikes. That sounds...not great,” Morgan said apologetically. And neither did Matty’s implication that the hypothetical hunters they had to be careful of might get a lot more literal if they stayed near the graveyard. She nodded and started off in the direction of home. She stopped her slow walk and turned towards Matty again. “Are you gonna be okay?” She asked. “You’ve got like...a home, right? And people?”

“Mm. Mhm. It’s not.” Not great at all. But. She better get used to it, if she was sticking around town. Matty took another wipe at his face, hoping it was more or less unobjectionable. So far as bloodstains went. As for anything else, well. Wasn’t much he’d ever been able to do about that. He’d come to a stop, putting some pressure on the worst of the claw-stabs, when Morgan spoke up through the thickness of another misty after-midnight. A home. People. Right. Even zombies had that, huh? “Totally. Yeah.” Matty threw her a smile, or most of one, anyway. With a sharp, quick clearing of his too-tight throat, he tossed a wave in, too. For good measure. “You, uh. You take care, Morgan. See you around.” 

Morgan stayed to watch him, half swaying on her dead feet in the night air. That didn’t sound very convincing and she had—maybe not a whole feeling but a thought for Matty: the deserved better; that being this way was almost another curse in itself; that they needed more than this to make anything come out fair for them. Then again, maybe they weren’t allowed to have ‘fair’ anymore, maybe the universe was done with all of them, the whole undead mess of them. But what else was there to do? How else were they supposed to cope? Morgan looked at him sorrowfully as he left and worked her way back homeward. She didn’t know what to put in that hole where her balance had been, and she felt all the worse knowing that others like her had felt that ache for longer, but she didn’t know what to do about it. Only that there had to be something.

[marshmallow--3]

Imagine - celebrating Mothering Sunday with Emmett and Jacob Frye.

TW: pregnancy, children, marriage

A few things I want to apologise for in advance:

If you feel there's gender roles here of a female nurturer & a male breadwinner. That's not my intention, the Reader does everything with her child because she wants to, not because she's expected to. And Jacob does do his share, it's just not shown in this particular story. He goes away during the day because y'know he's a gang leader and he has a city to check up on, so that's why it has that "Father is going to work and coming home when dinner is ready" feel. Again, no negative intentions.

If the mention of children and pregnancy upsets you in any way, or if it suggests that all the Reader exists for is making Jacob's babies, or that life only has meaning if you have children. I promise that's not the intention, but it's a Mother's Day piece, so she kind of has to be a mother.

***

"Now, lad, what do we say when we open that door?"

Jacob smooths down the creases in his son's shirt, crouched to the four-year-old's height as he preens his appearance.

"We say, um we say, 'Happy Birfday!'"

"No, Emmett. We say 'Happy Mothering Sunday.'"

The child blinks, bamboozled. He eyes up the breakfast and flowers that are typically reserved for his mother's birthday.

"Happy Birfday," he maintains.

Jacob sighs. Having been at it for the past twenty minutes, he surrenders with a chuckle and a pinch at his son's ruddy cheek. Passing Emmett the bouquet of flowers, definitely not trusting the child with a tray full of fine China; barely trusting himself with it, if he's honest, he knocks on the bedroom door and nudges it open, retrieving the tray of food and following Emmett close behind.

"Happy Birfday, Mummy!"

You stretch in bed with a yawn, just managing to shuffle into an upright position as you cradle the bump at your stomach. You raise your eyebrow at your husband quizzically, whose expression simply reads don't ask, I tried.

Emmett crawls onto the bed and passes you the beautiful bouquet of yellow tulips; you smile sincerely as they're your firm favourite, not just for their bold colour or exquisite honey smell, but for their meaning too - there's sunshine in your smile. It was the first thing Jacob noticed about you when you two first met, and he never fails to bring it up whenever possible.

You gush your thanks, taking the flowers from your son and resting them in one arm as your other is instantly tackled with cuddles. He kisses your cheek once then presses his cheek against your bump, greeting his unborn sibling.

"Happy 'Birthday', I suppose, love," Jacob chuckles, approaching you with breakfast.

The salty smell of poached kippers tantalises your nostrils, making you inwardly urge your partner to cross the room quicker so you can tuck in. Accompanying the fish is a few slices of buttered bread and a shiny apple, a mug of fruit juice at the side, none of which particularly appeal to your queer tastebuds now you're with child. But you're thankful Jacob supposed as much, as there's a mountain of fish compared to the few slices of bread.

In the early hours of the afternoon, Jacob kisses you both on the cheek and leaves for duty. Usually it's without a timeframe of when he'd be back, but he promises to be back around dinner time.

Emmett crawls onto your lap and curls around your bump, getting comfortable for the story he picked out for you to read, The Princess and the Goblin. You had began reading it to him a few nights ago, and are approaching the end of the book. One scene is admittedly terrifying, and the way he drapes his arm around your bump and buries his face in your side has you questioning if he'd like you to stop.

Shaking his head, he declares, "I'm not frightened, Mummy. But the baby might be."

Chuckling, you pat your hand over his, realising his action was one of protection as opposed to fear.

Upon reading the final word, you close the book with a deep breath and glance down at your son to gauge his response. His face is swimming with emotion, opening his mouth and closing it soon after, rendered speechless by the ending of the story.

You gently press him closer, rocking him in your arms as you ask him what he'd like to do next.

"Another!"

"Another? What would you like to read next?"

His face scrunches up in contemplation, before answering, "Your book."

"My-- oh."

You don't know how he found out about that.

For the past few months, you've been working on a picture book to gift to him on his fifth birthday, the age his Assassin education would formally begin. Colluding with Henry Green, a good friend, in-law and uncle to your offspring, you whittled the history of the Brotherhood down to the basic facts so that it might be comprehended by a child. Your skills as an artist helped make it even more accessible, decorating the pages with watercolour paintings of famous figures and eagles, one of the symbols of the Assassins.

Emmett waits patiently for your answer. Realising there's no point in hiding it since he already knows about it, and reasoning he's almost five years old anyway, you agree and fish it out from its hiding spot in a nearby bookshelf.

Returning to your previous position, you open the book and begin reading a page about an Italian brother, "Ezio Auditore."

"Essio?"

"Ezio, darling."

"So that's Essio," his finger points lightly at the sketch of the hooded man with olive skin, skimming across the page to another drawing of his beret-sporting friend.

"Who's that?"

"That's Leonardo da Vinci."

He whoas and absorbs the information you relay to him, his eyes as wide as saucers. He sits in silence for a while as you read, before fidgeting in your lap and looking up at you.

"Mummy?" You hum in response, turning the page to a hidden blade. "Can I be like Daddy some day?"

You pause, mulling over the best way to word it. It's a topic that has cropped up often between you and Jacob, and you eventually came to an agreement that it will ultimately be Emmett's choice once he's old enough to make such a huge decision.

"You can be whatever you want to be, darling. If you want to do what Daddy does, then you can. But you must know that no one is forcing you."

He seems satisfied with your answer, staring into space with a pensive gleam in his eyes.

The final grains of sand trickle down the hourglass on the table next to you, indicating it's time to finish prepping dinner. Dismissing your son for play with a gentle nudge on his shoulder, you rise and busy yourself in the kitchen.

Having inherited your creativity, Emmett sets his eyes on fixing up his very own gauntlet, scrambling through his drawers for the right materials. Finding a wooden ruler, he measures it next to his forearm and grins, tying it to his arm with several socks. The end of the ruler just sticks out past his wrist, which he flexes, testing the security of the ties.

Scanning the room for his first target, his eyes land on a teddy bear propped up on his pillows.

"Prepare to die, Teddy!"

Stone-faced, he charges at the stuffed toy and pokes its squishy belly with the tip of his pseudo-blade, his composure soon breaking as he erupts into a fit of giggles.

Emmett continues for a time, leaping and pretending to eliminate his toys, until the familiar clip-clop of hoofs halt outside the house. Peering out of the window to catch sight of his father dismounting the horse-drawn carriage, he rejoices at his safe return, bounding down the stairs and waiting eagerly in the hall with his gauntleted arm behind his back.

Opening the door, Jacob beams at the welcoming party, carefully pulling him in for a hug. He feels something press against his stomach, the vibration of his son snickering before pulling away to flaunt his hidden blade.

"You're dead now!"

Jacob clutches his gut where he was poked, his jaw dropping as his eyes grow wide. Coughing melodramatically, he slumps on the floor and fakes groans of pain, exclaiming just how much agony he's in. Emmett stands over him, his childlike chortles contagious.

Jacob adopts a weak voice, spluttering, "You may have taken my life... But you will never have my dinner!"

"Daddy, no! Don't leave me alone with Mummy!"

"Charming!" You scoff playfully, having watched the scene unfold from the doorway. Both boys look up at you, your arms crossed and your eyebrows raised.

"Come along, now, children." You stress the final word while smiling sweetly at Jacob, a veritable child in disguise if ever you met one. "Dinner's nearly ready."

After a delicious beef dinner, admittedly not as exquisite as usual with the cook at home for the day, Emmett excuses himself, tugging on his father's sleeve and silently giving him a look which has him exiting the room with him. Glancing at his plate, you're surprised to see he's eaten all his vegetables, pondering what he's up to disappearing so abruptly. Your brooding is cut short when he reappears, carrying a sponge cake in his steady hands.

You're lost for words, suspiciously eyeing up Jacob as he lays dessert plates down on the table with a cake server, helping your son lift the cake onto the table too.

"Did Daddy make this with you?"

Emmett bursts out laughing, perhaps aware even at his young age of how preposterous that idea is. Jacob pouts, feeling somewhat picked on.

"No, Auntie and Uncle helped me."

You tilt your head, absorbing the details of the cake and smiling at the indulgently sweet smell of vanilla and jam filling your nostrils with every inhale. Though you originally found yourself craving nothing but salt since you first came to learn of your expectancy, your stomach has seemingly just changed teams, growling and demanding all the sugar it can get. Powdered sugar has been sieved over the top of the cake, most likely through a stencil as the crystals form the shape of flowers in a ring.

You make a mental note to thank your dear in-laws later, quite eager for now to tuck in and sate your sugar-hungry stomach.

The staff return a few hours later, a fresh glow noticeable in their cheeks. Clearly the day off has done them the world of good, though they're quite eager to return to their work. Your maid even offers to bathe Emmett and let you relax for the evening, but you politely decline her offer, happy to oversee his bedtime routine yourself.

After fighting with him over the removal of his gauntlet, he's soon bathed, dressed and tucked in to bed. You sit at his side, stroking his hair and singing him to sleep, pressing your lips against his forehead upon hearing the pace of his breathing change. Rising, you linger at the doorway, thankful for such a good and sweet child. He's out like a light, letting you close the door behind you and turn to face your husband.

Jacob smiles and holds his arms out, wrapping them around you once you've closed the gap, resting your cheek on his shoulder. He enjoys the peace of holding you for a few beats before breaking the silence, telling you to meet him in the bedroom for his gift.

"More gifts? Jacob, darling, you've spoiled me enough for one day."

He falls silent.

You lift your head to face him, noting his dark eyes and seductive expression.

"Oh..." You mumble, blushing from the naïvety of missing his euphemism. "That kind of present."

He winks now that you've caught on.

"Yep," he whispers against your ear, his whiskers scratching the side of your cheek. His voice is low and purring, "That kind of present."

@sassenach-on-the-rocks @katbernoulli @winterwriter8845 @thank-god-its-fryeday @yourchepazworld @iceboundstar @the-purple-rook @lcvingvincent @balladofthesadcat @assassins-and-hidden-blades @ladye11e

If you spot any mistakes, feedback is always welcome ♥️

[blackwatchbastard]

Not Alone On Christmas

(A lil dad!Gabe and Jesse ft some r76 for @principles for the little SS we did for the lore server. Ilu Orla, hope you had a great holiday time and you enjoy my little semi-late gift for it! <3)

At first, Jesse hadn’t even considered accepting the offer. Spending the holidays with his boss and his husband hardly seemed, well, at all appealing. He hadn’t really enjoyed Christmas before, much less actually celebrated it, but he couldn’t imagine spending it in such odd company. His resistance, however, waned a little when Reyes gave some incentive. “It’s a free dinner, kid,” he reasoned, leaning on the door frame of Jesse’s base quarters. “Just come have some ham, watch tv, and give me a little piece of mind that you’re not spending Christmas alone in HQ.” Jesse sighed and rolled over in his bunk to face him. Gabriel cocked a brow at him. “Why you so worried about me anyway, boss?” he asked, sighing as he sat up in bed. Gabriel shrugged at him. “Just think you shouldn’t be spending so much time alone.” That… wasn’t wrong. He certainly did spend most of his time not being assigned various tasks around the base by himself. But it was far easier than trying to rub elbows with any of the military types that stuck around the place. Overwatch made his skin crawl even if he’d been told he was largely free to do as he pleased around there… “Is there booze?” Gabriel made a face. “When you’re an adult,” he drawled. Jesse huffed out a sigh but finally got to his feet anyway. “You drive a hard bargain, boss,” he said, grabbing his hat off the side table as he headed toward the door. “You two do anything fun at all for Christmas?” Gabriel waved him by, closing the door as he tailed Jesse down the hall. “Sometimes Jack bakes,” he replied. Jesse stopped in the middle of the hall, Gabriel almost running into him, and snapped his head back to look at him in disbelief. The commander laughed at him. “What?” “Strike-Commander No-Fun-Morrison bakes?” “He only makes like 2 things a year but yeah, sometimes. Mainly for me.” Jesse snorted. “Now I gotta go,” he said, “just so I can see that shit.” “Not like anyone will ever believe you,” Gabriel replied, grinning as he stepped past him and continued down the hall. That… was likely. But if Jesse had nothing but his own piece of mind it was enough. So he vouched to follow Reyes the rest of the way to his car. The trip there was quick enough. Off-base housing wasn’t much but Gabriel seemed to relax the instant they got there anyway. And, really, Jesse could understand the appeal. It was nice having a calm space away from the place he worked and lived 24-7 most weeks. Not that he could remember the last time he’d had an actual home. Stepping inside Jesse shucked off his coat and watched Gabriel toe his boots off and step into a pair of fuzzy slippers with some entertainment. He peeled his own boots off and padded after the commander, for the first time noticing the smell in the house. “What smells so damn good, boss?” Gabriel laughed and motioned for Jesse to follow him. Down the hall, they filed into a small kitchen and found the source; a fresh pan of what looked like coffee cake sitting on the counter. Gabriel stole a glance around, held a finger to his lips at Jesse, and crept over to it less like he was the leader of a black ops outfit and more like he was a cartoon character merely attempting to sneak around. Once he got close enough he reached out and pulled the drawer below it open, stealing a fork out of it and sliding the drawer closed before reaching forward to stab it into the fresh cake-- “It’s not cool enough yet, Gabe.” The voice, rough and gravely as usually but not holding the same bite and bark Jesse usually heard in it, nearly scared the both of them out of their skin. Gabriel jumped, dropping the fork on the counter, and whipped around to grin meekly at the man in the doorway. Jesse turned, too, and raised a brow at the utterly calm and almost teasing grin on Jack’s face. Gabriel did his best to try and smooth past the subject, stepping around Jesse in the tiny kitchen to throw an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Heeey, babe,” he cooed, pressing a kiss to Jack’s cheek. The other man leaned into it as if he were less trained soldier and more overly affectionate cat but still seemed rather stern about the whole situation. “Thanks for making my favorite.” “Yeah, yeah,” Jack mumbled, nudging Gabriel’s hip with his own. “Don’t cut it yet. You burnt yourself last time.” Jesse muffled a laugh into his fist at that and Morrison seemed to note him for the first time. He glanced at Gabriel, brows pulled together skeptically, and the other man grinned at him. “I invited him for the leave,” he explained, “so he just doesn’t sit and stew for the next few days.” It occured to Jesse that this might… feel a bit awkward. He knew Gabriel well enough, the older man had already taken up a solid mentor position in his life whether or not he liked it, but he’d hardly spent any time at all around Jack Morrison. The man was a) busy and b) not very social. This was arguably the first time Jesse had seen him smile at all in 6 months. But Gabriel didn’t seem concerned about it at all. And for his part, Jack seemed to relax well enough when things were explained. “You just have to bring home strays all the time, don’t you?” Jack teased, nudging Gabriel’s side again before releasing him and stepping over to the counter. “You’re lucky we usually have a ton of leftovers you know.” Gabriel grinned after him. “I’m lucky for a lot of reasons.” The later comment, however, would be what Jesse truly keyed in on. Blinking, he glanced over at Reyes. “Strays?” he asked, “You got more than one punk kid you saved?” Gabriel laughed and shook his head. “Uh, no,” he said, “mainly… dogs.” Dogs? Jesse hadn’t seen any dogs around the base before. He’d find out about that later, when Gabriel set up the couch for him after dinner and Jesse ended up with 3 oversized pit mixes piled on top of him for the night. One snored, one farted, and one was intent on sleeping with her head in his armpit. Still, he’d slept in worse conditions… Besides, it was rather nice seeing the more ‘human’ side of his bosses. They had, he found, quite a bit more than he realized. As such, he hadn’t really expected anything at all from the day other than free food. So the feeling of a box being set on his chest that morning, after the dogs had piled off while Gabriel made breakfast, wasn’t one he’d been expected. “Whuzzis?” Jesse sat up, barely catching the box as it fell off his chest, and rubbed at his eyes. Across from him, Gabriel had plopped down in a chair with a mug of coffee. “Merry Christmas, punk.” Jesse looked down at the box again, blinking, and finally pulled the lid off. Inside, he found a small assortment of snacks from various countries. They all looked relatively good, account taken for Jesse’s unique tastes, and he found himself lingering over the items for longer than one usually needed as he took in the relatively small gesture. “I… haven’t gotten a Christmas gift since I was a kid, boss,” he mumbled, poking his finger through the various treats. “Uh… I dunno what to…” “You’re welcome, Jesse,” Gabriel said, grinning and getting to his feet. He ruffled a hand through Jesse’s hair as he passed, headed back toward the kitchen. “Come get breakfast before it’s cold.” Jesse glanced into the box one more time, lingering over such a simple thing, then set it aside (sure to keep it out of reach of the dogs) and hopped over the back of the couch headed for the kitchen. It wasn’t his first choice to spend Christmas with his bosses, no, but Reyes was right--it was better than sulking by himself another year.

[justanotherloveaffair]

Hungry (T’Challa x Reader One Shot)

BY @captainsordersfic 

Summary: You have been brought to Wakanda as the King’s personal chef and you find him in your kitchen in the middle of the night. 

Warnings: literally just smut. 

Word Count: 6,539

Author’s Note: ****Posting this on behalf of @captainsordersfic my amazing writer friend. I bow to you. Thanks for ruining me forever. This is exactly the kind of T’Challa fantasy I walked out of the theatre having. 

Your name: Submit (what is this?)

My Masterlist

Taglist: @afraiddreamingandloving, @stevesthot, @kumkaniudaku, @nah-imjustfeelinit, @tchallaholla, @a-heretic-child, @simplyyamberr, @wildaboutchrisevans, @fullonfrenzy, @h-challa, @theunsweetenedtruth, @ljstraightnochaser, @90sinspiredgirl, @maverickabull, @big3gocandykahn, @sarahboseman, @airis-paris14, @tacohead13           ***sorry if you didn’t want to be tagged lol, just ignore.

Another mostly untouched dish sailed across the metal bench in the kitchen as the king’s server returned the dish from the dinner serving.

You sighed and leaned your weight onto one leg, folding your arms across your chest and scowling at the mess of food.

Another rejected meal.

Another plate of food that you had poured your heart and soul into, sacrificed sleep, eating and your downtime to perfect, came back pushed and scattered carelessly across the plate with little more than a few bites taken from any one element.

Realization weighed heavier on you more and more each day that you were failing at your job as the king’s personal chef. In the month that you had been in Wakanda, you had lost count of the number of plates that come back to your kitchen dishevelled but largely uneaten.

You had even taken to tasting the leftovers to see if you sent out something below your usual uncompromising standard. Everything was fine, but nothing got touched. 

You had begun to wonder more than a week ago why you had agreed to take on the one-year contract as the king’s personal chef, and more importantly, why he’d chosen you. And sought you out specifically.

You had made a name for yourself in New York as one of the best and most talented chefs, so when an e-mail came through from the ambassador of Wakanda asking you to take on a job as the king’s chef, you thought it was a phishing email from a distant relative of the Nigerian Prince who needed money.

The difference was that they were offering you money. A lot of it. Like a real lot of it.

After some research on Wakanda, and a talk with some of your peers who told you you’d be a fool to not respond to the offer, you emailed the ambassador back, thinking nothing would come of the correspondence.

The very next night, while the dinner rush was beginning to calm, a strong looking woman in breathtaking armour showed up in your kitchen with two beautiful, but intimidating women wearing matching armour and carrying spears.

You’d barely batted an eye. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to have occurred in a New York kitchen after all.

You looked around wondering if some customers in fancy dress had taken it upon themselves to invite themselves back to the kitchen, half expecting someone to come and escort them out.

When nobody but you seemed to notice them, you approached them.

When the woman introduced herself to you as the general to the king, realization dawned on you that it was all true. The offer, the money, the chance to leave the suffocating bustle of New York and experience a cultural and technological marvel such as Wakanda.

She promised you everything short of the moon and stars if you agreed to take on the one-year secondment.

When you asked the king’s general what kind of food the king liked, she shrugged, which you though was odd, but didn’t read too much into at the time.

“He is not fussy, but he is bored. He has travelled many places and his palate has expanded beyond the traditional offerings of Wakandan cuisine. After much research, the king has chosen you.” She said to you, placing emphasis on the last word as though to illustrate how honoured you should feel that of all the chef’s in the world, he’d chosen you.

You supposed you did feel honoured, but you knew so little about Wakanda and its King that you couldn’t fully appreciate the sentiment. 

Still, your questions were answered with patience and you were promised every resource imaginable in order to carry out your royal duties.  No ingredient would be out of reach, no piece of equipment would be denied, and you would have access to a kitchen that made the one you were standing in look like a civilian’s home setup.

As your conversation went on, you began to feel as though this would be an opportunity you simply couldn’t pass up.

You were granted a couple of days to think about the offer and if you agreed, you would need to begin immediately. You had already made up your mind to accept the offer when they left your kitchen, but you took the two days to tie up loose ends and arrange for your restaurant to be taken care of in your absence.

You accepted the offer on Tuesday, and by Thursday you’d arrived in Wakanda.

Now, almost a month in, never having met the king, but knowing you weren’t succeeding to please him, you were at a loss.  You didn’t know what to do.

The king wasn’t eating. At least not anything you had prepared. You were beginning to obsess about it.

You were testing recipes every spare moment, including when you should have been sleeping.

You’d tried every iteration of French Cuisine, Italian, Greek, and Spanish. When they were met with a lukewarm response, you brought it back closer to the King’s home and tried several regional African dishes which were received with even less enthusiasm.

You tried Japanese, Chinese and South-East Asian. British, North American (Native and Modern), South American, and Eastern European cuisines also failed to impress, regardless of being dressed up or dressed down.

They all ended up being boxed and distributed to the king’s staff instead of being eaten by the king himself.

Now as you looked at a plate of Lebanese food that you had prepared with traditional methods, but modernized to be more pleasing to the eye, in its mish-mashed state across the slate plate you’d sent it out on, you lost your temper.

You threw the plate in the industrial style sink, breaking the plate and sending an almighty clang echoing around your vast kitchen. 

You wanted to give up and go home. It was clear that both the king and you had made a mistake in this arrangement though his general assured you you’d been specifically requested.

You didn’t care anymore.  You wanted to go back to your restaurant where you knew you were nailing it, and customers were booking months in advance to come and experience your food.

You started becoming increasingly irate about it until finally, you came to the conclusion that the King of Wakanda must be some kind of spoiled, pampered man-child who would never be pleased with anything you did.

You retired to your quarters for a rest, falling into a much needed but fitful sleep. When you woke up, you felt like you’d been hit by a truck. When the anger subsided, you were left existing in a husk of exhaustion, homesickness and dejectedness.

It was early in the morning, around 2 am when you crawled out of bed and shuffled half clothed towards your kitchen, looking like a boxer who was down for the count, but refused to stay down. You planned on air swinging through this experience until your lack of enthusiasm eventually got you fired or the king’s staff took pity on you and convinced him to send you back home.

As you approached the kitchen, you saw two of the Dora Milaje standing on either side of the entrance.

This was not unusual as the younger sister of the king often came in search of midnight snacks to provide sustenance to her obsessive all-night experimentation sessions.

Thinking nothing of it, you passed between the warriors and crossed the threshold into the kitchen.

The lights were off, but the glow from the fridge illuminated a tall, solid figure wearing little more than a pair of long, silk black pyjama bottoms.

His skin under the harsh, blue light of the refrigerator rippled and pulsed with the movements of his muscles as he scavenged inside the industrial refrigerator.

You stopped and watched as he emerged with a container of passionfruit coulis that you had prepared as part of a dessert that you had come in to try and perfect, turning to find you watching him.

You froze when you saw who it was.

T’Challa. The King of Wakanda and he was breath taking.

Immediately your state of undress had you panicking. You were wearing a tank top with no bra and a pair of Nike running shorts. That was it.

Do I bow? Do I salute? Do I speak or wait to be spoken to? You didn’t know how to react, you’d never even seen him in person, let alone talked to him, so you stood there, still as a tree not moving or talking.

He, on the other hand, didn’t seem nearly quite so frazzled by your unexpected crossing of paths. He simply turned, taking the container over to the metal bench and placing it down on the surface beside an array of other containers of things you were working on.

You watched him for just a moment longer, because more than his status, his beauty and the graceful languidness of the way his body moved, his presence was consuming and paralyzing.

You felt bound in place, unable to move as he affixed a plate of food, turning to regard you every now and then as you stood like an idiot watching him.

“You do not sleep either?” He asked you finally and for a few seconds, it took you a moment to work out that he was directing the question at you.

You didn’t know how to respond. What was the right answer?

“I…I…” you began lamely, “I used to.”

He nodded as though he understood, though you doubted very strongly your lack of sleep had a similar cause.

“Me too,” he said simply, his voice tired and grave like he’d not slept in an age.

You remained in place, visualizing yourself turning around and leaving the kitchen to leave the king be, but your body would not respond to follow suit.

Suddenly, King T’Challa stopped what he was doing and turned to you. He gestured with his hand towards the space he was standing in, inviting you to join him.

You peered over your shoulder, where you couldn’t see the Dora Milaje outside the kitchen, but knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were there.

You stepped towards him slowly and uncertainly, feeling him watching you, but not able to meet his eyes. You stopped about seven feet away, not daring to get any closer.

He kept his eyes on you the whole time and though it was dark, you could see his expression was one of curiosity laced with something else that you couldn’t put your finger on.

His eyes were sweeping over you until you began to feel naked under his intense scrutiny. You crossed your hands front of you and looked around the room to distract yourself.

“Y/N,” he said, bringing your eyes back to him, “please be at ease. There is no need to be nervous.”

You tried to relax your shoulders, but it was impossible, so you figured if you couldn’t look relaxed, then you could at least make an attempt to sound relaxed.

“I suppose you feel as though you made an error in judgement bringing me here.”

He turned fully to face you then, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

“And why do you say that?” He asked, his eyes narrowing with curiosity and perhaps a touch of offence at the implication that he’d done something wrong.

Seriously, you thought to yourself, though you would never have said that.

“Well, you don’t seem to have...” you paused trying to find a gentle way of expressing your doubts, “taken to my style of food.”

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes still narrowed as he regarded you with cool authority.

“I am the King of the most powerful and technologically advanced nation on Earth. I do not have the luxury of making errors in judgement,” he said finally, and every cell in your body froze as a rash of fear that you’d offended him broke out all over.

“I’m sorry your—” you stopped, wondering if “majesty” was the correct address, “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I did not make a mistake, you are right where I want you to be,” he interrupted, effectively shutting down your ability to function with the assured, confident way he said it.

You couldn’t understand though.  “Then why aren’t you eating my food?” you blurted, allowing more of your frustration and desperation to seep out than you had intended, then quickly tried to right yourself.

T’Challa was silent for another spell, standing with a casual lean, but emanating a kind of energy that was anything but.

You couldn’t help but think how Black Panther like he really was, standing in the dark, prowling around your kitchen and making you feel stalked and unsettled.

“How many hours a day do you spend developing, preparing and cooking your recipes?”

You knew the answer easily.

“I work twenty hours a day. I get four hours of sleep on a couch in my office if I am lucky.”

“And in that time. How much do you actually eat?”

“Well,” you began uncertainly, wondering what he was getting at while coming up with a response, “I taste food all day…but…I guess I don’t often have meals. Not in the traditional sense.”

“You are responsible for one restaurant in New York and yet you seldom do more than merely taste food and work twenty hours a day,” he began, and you saw his point immediately. “How much time do you think I have for the same?”

His response landed like a punch in your gut as you felt your feet slip several rungs from the height of the self-righteous ladder you’d placed yourself on.

He’d not meant it condescendingly, but you were nevertheless humbled. Your eyes lowered to the floor between you.

“Why do you continue to cook? Always choosing to create instead of sleep? What is your motivation, Y/N?”

Your name from his lips caused a reaction in your body that you immediately worked to suppress. 

Once again, your response required no thought. “Food gives pleasure…I like to please.”

You watched as his lips pulled into a scarce smile, his cheekbones sharpening attractively as he regarded you like your response pleased him.

“It’s true that I have not had the luxury of a full meal since you have arrived in Wakanda, for which I am regretful. But I assure you that you have succeeded in giving me pleasure,” he responded in such a way that made you wonder if you were talking about food anymore.

Your body tensed, his gaze on you giving you every reason to believe it was a possibility and you started to panic internally.

You were being seduced by one of the world’s most powerful men.

Every outcome, ranging from whimsical fairy tale, to a nightmare of a life lived out for the rest of your days in servitude to a madman went through your mind.

You didn’t know him, and yet your body was responding to him and his words as though you knew each other very intimately.

“For example,” he said turning slightly to his right and collecting the container of passionfruit coulis from the kitchen bench, “were I not called away to tend to an urgent matter involving hostages, I would have licked clean the smear of this that lay on the plate beneath the dessert you prepared for me this evening,” he said bringing the container as he walked towards you, causing heat to rush all around your body in a cyclonic, swirling torrent.

“Passionfruit is my very favourite fruit.”

It was abundantly clear to you that he was not talking about passionfruit.

He dipped his finger into the container and covered the tip in coulis, before bringing it to his lips to suck off the sharp, slightly sweet sauce.

Your eyes were transfixed, watching as his finger pressed to his tongue before his beautiful, full lips closed around his finger.

You knew the pace of your breathing had changed, but you couldn’t regulate it. You knew where this was going, you just didn’t know if you should run a mile or stay and…

“It is very good, but it is missing something.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

Saying your food was “missing something”, to you, was akin to you having underestimated his kingly responsibilities and you bristled at the implication.

Before you could defend your passionfruit coulis, he covered his finger again and held it to your lips.

“Here,” he said softly, and you hesitated.

When the moment started to drag on for too long, you averted your eyes from his, trying to make the moment feel less intimate as you opened your mouth and tentatively took as restrained a taste from his finger as you could.

Your body felt anything but collected as the sourness of the passionfruit made your mouth instantly water, but in the background was the taste of his skin, and when he removed his finger he brushed it across your bottom lip, leaving a trail of coulis there.

The moment seemed to build and culminate to the instant where he leaned down towards you and smoothly and confidently took your bottom lip into his mouth and sucked away the passionfruit sauce.

You made a sound. Not of protest but of pleasure and then forced yourself back, placing your hand over your mouth.

You looked over your shoulder where you knew the Dora Milaje were standing on guard, but then you felt his hand at your cheek, turning you to look at him.

He peered down at you, his eyes soulful, almost pleading, but you knew he didn’t need to plead. 

He could take.

You were on edge from the lingering taste of him in your mouth and faint tingle left behind from the contact. You could be knocked over with a feather.

He regarded you carefully, gaging your reticence. When your eyes lowered to his lips, it was all he needed, and he once again leaned down to you, but you turned your head back towards the hallway.

“You do not need to concern yourself with them, they have been dismissed. We are alone.”

How? When? you wondered confused as you turned to look up at him again.

Then, for the first time, he smiled, lowering his chin and raising his eyebrows in a playful expression that did not befit a king, but was powerfully disarming nonetheless.

“I think I found the missing element from your passionfruit coulis.”

His hand that had warmed your cheek, lowered and hooked around your waist pulling you up against his body and your hands raised to his chest instinctively. The planes of his pectorals were hard under your hands and you gasped as you watched your breasts press and flatten against him.

He lay the container of coulis on the bench next to you and pressed his large, strong palms against your barely covered ass, squeezing the handfuls of flesh and pressing you tightly to where the thin layer of his silken pyjamas hid none of the stirring that was going on beneath them.

Your cheeks heated at the swell of his developing erection. You felt helpless in his hold, yet powerful at the same time from his response to you.

With one step backwards, he pressed you against the industrial stainless-steel refrigerator and you gasped at the shock of the cold steel on your warm back.

His hands came away from your ass and with a swift, hasty tug, your shorts were around your thighs and you marched in place to get them to slide down the rest of your legs, having no hope of getting him to back off enough for you to lean forwards and use your hands to do it. The fates were in your favour as you felt the slide of the nylon shorts down your thighs, calves and then ankles.

As his hands gathered the hem of your tank top, your mind went wild.

You were being undressed by a King. You were going to have sex with the famed Black Panther.

Was it a one-night stand? You didn’t mind, you were too far in now to even contemplate not taking what you could get of him.

His body felt like hot granite against you and you couldn’t help but think how a statue of this man should replace the David statue in Italy.

This was the benchmark. This should be the standard. The yardstick by which all other men should be measured, and you wanted him. You needed him, now.

Suddenly you were naked, and all he had to do was slightly flex his arms and you were in the air, pressed against the fridge, with his hands underneath your thighs.

He reached to the right and took the container of coulis, tipping it carefully towards your neck.

You felt the cool, sticky liquid make contact with you, pouring onto your naked skin. It slid down your neck and over your chest, and he moved the container to ensure your breasts also got covered in the sticky, bright yellow syrup.

He hastily discarded the container and then his mouth was on your neck, sucking, licking and moaning as he hungrily cleaned you off.

You closed your eyes, willing away any distant thoughts cautioning you against what was happening right there and then. His silken tongue was all you cared about as you gripped his shoulders, feeling heat and a delicious ache you’d all but forgotten forming between your legs.

He was devouring you, coulis transferring onto his skin from yours and you had to restrain yourself from trying to contort your upper body to reach down and taste him in return.

You’d have to wait for your turn.

His mouth was inching down your chest and you braced as he began kissing, licking and nibbling down over the curve of your breast, towards your nipple.

Oh God, you thought as you felt his mouth approaching the hard tip at the centre of your breast. Your mouth opened, and you gasped as his tongue flickered over the sensitive bud, your body bracing and pushing instinctively away as your nails dug into his shoulders.

You couldn’t get away if you tried. His strength was equal parts alarming and arousing as he held you in place with almost no effort.

Your hand came to the back of his head as your hips instinctively pressed forwards, feeling the long ridge of hot, hard flesh beneath the surface of his pyjamas. Your hands raced for the waistband and you shoved them down his hips, anxious to be given unfettered access to him, skin to skin.

You were rewarded as his cock came to rest right against the seam of soft, slippery flesh between your legs and pressed there while he continued to lick you clean of passionfruit.

You began to crave his mouth, licking your own lips for traces he’d left earlier but being left wanting. 

You cupped his jaw and angled his face upwards and he pulled away reluctantly with your nipple between his teeth.

You arched into him and he let go, allowing you to guide him to your mouth where you met in a deeply ravenous, searching kiss. You moaned as your tongues slid around one another, hungry for each other like the two starved people you were.

You could taste passionfruit and lust and you never wanted it to end, unable to stop the pleasured sounds from sailing out as he drank them down greedily and returned them back to you.

You were dangerously hot and becoming slippery in his grasp though you had no fear of him dropping you. He was too commanding and in control for such clumsy earthly fumblings.

You smiled when you felt his hips flex against you, rubbing his cock against your warm, wet centre, searching for relief from the ache he was undoubtedly experiencing.

You immediately became overcome with the need to become better acquainted with his kingly cock.

You unclasped your legs from around his waist and let yourself slide naturally down his body until you landed gently of the pads of your feet, pulling your mouth out of reach from his. 

You smiled and placed your hands on his pectorals again, bringing your lips and tongue to his chest where the coulis had rubbed off onto him, tasting the spiky, sour fruit against the warmth and salt of his dewy skin. You felt his hands come to the back of your head and hold you there as you licked all around and slowly worked your way down his chest.

He made a sound when he realised where you were going, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall back towards the ceiling.

You were anxious to reach your final destination, but you forced yourself to take it slow, enjoying the journey down the line of his hard stomach, over the undulating planes of his abs and the retreating line of his pelvis where you came to your knees and followed the veins that fanned out there with the tip of your tongue.

He was so hard and thick, and the extent of his arousal was apparent from the way his perfect, beautiful, tempting tower of a shaft stood upright and proud despite its impressive size and weight.

You had never been tempted by any food as much as you were tempted by being face to face with King T’Challa’s cock right then.

You closed your eyes and pressed a soft, slow, open mouthed kiss against the tip and he immediately groaned at the contact. You did it again, this time pressing your tongue to the flesh there before closing your lips over the edge of the crown of his cock, feeling his whole body respond to what you were doing.

Your hand instinctively came up to curve around the base of his shaft and hold him in place while you opened your mouth and closed your lips around the entire tip of his hot, hard cock, moaning as you began sucking it slowly, sliding your tongue in a circle around the head.

You were enjoying this with more relish than any meal you’d ever eaten and with more pride than anything you had ever created.

His body was responding in waves as his hips moved restlessly while you slowly worked him deeper into your mouth.

You wanted to give him permission to fuck your mouth, but weren’t sure how to make such a request eloquent enough to deliver to a King. You couldn’t forget, no matter how intimately you were engaged that you were in the company of royalty.

You cupped his balls in your hand and closed your fingers around them, squeezing gently and then loosening your grip while you slid your mouth in a rhythmic glide up and down his cock.

“You must stop now,” he commanded, his voice strained and breathless and you obeyed him, albeit reluctantly. You could have given that cock head all night, never waning in enthusiasm for it.

His hands gripped your upper arms, once again shocking you with his strength by not only pulling you to your feet, but off them, and you gasped as you flew weightlessly through the air and came down hard against one of the stainless-steel benches.

You yelped from the shock of the cold metal on your ass but had no time to adjust as he hooked his hands behind your knees and yanked you hard to edge of the bench.

Your thighs spread before him and he placed a hand at your sternum, pushing you gently until you were laid out flat on your back. You looked down the line of your own body and watched as he took your ankles and lifted your legs so that your feet were resting on the edge of the bench.

Then he took his cock in one hand and began to stroke himself while he leaned over and covered your pussy with his mouth.

“Oh God! Oh God!” you cried out, arching up off the bench at the contact of his tongue and lips between your legs. 

He was growling while he licked, sucked and used his free hand to rub every surface of your pussy and the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath the protective folds of flesh.

Your hips began to lift towards his face, grinding a rhythm against his tongue while he sucked around your most sensitive place. You pressed your hands to the back of his head, only distantly wondering with irony if that was allowed or inappropriate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you felt the coiling heat between your legs drawing inwards and making your whole body tense.

You imagined him stroking himself, because you couldn’t see it happening from the position you were in and it only made you ache more as you moaned and writhed beneath him. He lapped at you greedily, and you could see the sheen of your arousal glistening on his lips and through his beard.

Then you felt the press of his fingers at your opening and your feet lifted off the bench welcoming the entry of any part of him.

Two fingers slid inside, slowly and he stopped licking you when he felt the press of your resistive walls around his fingers even though you were wildly aroused.

“Oh, so tight,” he whispered, and you knew what he was thinking, and it wasn’t about his fingers.

He brought his mouth back to your clit and slowly began working his fingers in and out of your pussy, moaning as your hips rolled up and down in time with his touch.

You opened your eyes and saw the sheen that had formed along the beautiful curve of his back, watching as the muscles there gathered and pulsated with his smooth movements and you felt yourself getting close to coming.

“Don’t stop, please,” you begged mindless with the desperation to climax, writhing beneath him until you were so close you began bucking against his mouth.

You were one lick away from orgasm when he pulled his fingers and mouth away from you, and you were about to voice your displeasure when he took himself by the base of his cock and guided it to your entrance.

The tip slipped tentatively between your folds where he slid it up and down, alternating between massaging your clit and teasing you with a slight press of his head at your entrance.

You couldn’t decide which you wanted more, so you grabbed for him restlessly, only just able to grab his hips.

“We need to be careful Y/N,” you heard him rasp, as he drew his tip in a circle around your clit.

“I’m on birth control,” you assured him which made his body jerk with a breathless laugh.

“Western medicines are not strong enough to protect against the genetically superior strength of the Black Panther,” he explained, “I won’t risk impregnating you, so I will need to finish…elsewhere,” he said, his words making your mind explode and your body bubble over.

“Wherever you want, my King,” you murmured unsure if the address was appropriate, but it felt natural to say and his body reacted positively to it as he smiled down at you pleased.

Suddenly you felt him press forwards with his hips, and your entrance was immediately stretched, just from the head of his cock. You gasped and braced yourself as he halted his movement for a moment, giving you time to adjust.

Reaching down between you, you took his shaft in your hands and guided his pace. He was too big to push inside all at once and you needed time to force your muscles to relax so you could accommodate him.

He was patient and stroked your thighs gently while he waited for you to inch him inside slowly.

He was only half way in when you requested that he slowly thrust in and out to loosen you up. “Please fuck me slowly.”

He pressed his fingers into the crease of your thighs, holding you in place as he withdrew his hips a couple of inches and then slid back in slowly. His brow was laced with sweat and he bit his lip as he fought against the urge to go deeper than you were ready for.

He groaned with effort as he worked the first half of his shaft in and out of your tight pussy and you reached down between you to massage your clit while he did it, doing everything you could think of to force your body to relax.

Slowly, and through the grace of his patience, you felt your walls begin to yield. He smiled as he felt it too, watching as more of his cock slipped inside and came out glistening, coated with your arousal which aided his descent deep inside your throbbing pussy.

When he finally made it all the way inside and his balls were pressed right up against your inner thighs and ass, he groaned with satisfaction and you sighed with relief, feeling him pressed so deep inside that you imagined his shaft behind your belly.

He leaned forwards over you, his spine curving downwards until his chest was pressed to yours as his hands guided your legs to come around his back. When your ankles were locked around him, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as his hands gripped your sides.

He stared into your eyes and it was overwhelming and somehow more intimate than that fact that he was buried balls deep inside your pussy.

He kissed you then, soft and adoring and once again it felt like too much.

You clenched around him and he closed his eyes, his lips hovering over yours.

“This was the kind of pleasure I needed. This is what I have been searching for.”

His breath was intoxicating, and you felt heat springing to your eyes, realising that this mighty king in your arms was not starving of food, but intimacy.

A rush of empathy and a sense of duty flooded your body then as you lifted your head and kissed him until his body relaxed against yours.

You rolled your hips upwards against him, eliciting a soft moan from his lips.

“Let me feed you my king,” you whispered on his lips and lifted your hips again, “let me give you pleasure and fill you the way you’re filling me.”

His body began to move involuntarily, like he couldn’t stop it if he wanted to. “Yes, my king,” you moaned, your voice tight from the feeling of fullness inside you as he began slowly rocking in and out of your body, “yes, yes like that,” you whimpered, feeling his movement coming firmer and more fully formed as you gripped each other tightly.

Slickness coated your thighs as your arousal overflowed and between moans of pleasure from the press of him deep from within you, you continued to murmur whispers of pleasure and encouragement.

Your hands roamed, searching for purchase along his back and shoulders, feeling the tightness of his muscles working beneath the palms of your hands.

You clawed as he began thrusting with enough force to make the steel bench buckle under your back, but neither of you could focus on the structural integrity of the bench he was fucking you on right now.

You already felt like you were falling through the floor, so you supposed it wouldn’t matter if you actually did.

Over his shoulder you relished the sight of his strong back twisting and working while he fucked you. The visual of it, sparking a fire deep inside where his cock was buried, and you felt your body start winding tightly inwards towards it’s inevitable release.

“Oh God, T’Challa, I’m close, I’m going to come,” you announced grasping his shoulders and anchoring your nails into his flesh as he fucked you relentlessly.

He was working on heading off his own release and his face clenched with effort as he bucked up into you, hard and commandingly.

“Now, please. You must—” he begged as you immediately sailed right over the edge and came hard while he pounded away, the steel surface of the bench warping beneath your back as you arched upwards towards him while your entire body reeled from the force of the climax he’d given you.

The room filled with the sounds of your cries and his groans of effort until finally, he pulled out of you and took himself in his hands, jerking his length while hot spurts of his come sprayed out onto your outer pussy, thighs and stomach.

The sounds he made were primal and animal as you rubbed your clit chasing the high of your orgasm while his body seized over yours in the throes of his own.

It was erotic and consuming and when your orgasm abated, and your clit became too sensitive to touch, you drew your fingers through the streaks of pearlescent wetness on your body, unable to suppress the satisfied smile on your face as you rubbed it into your skin and then brought to your lips to taste as he watched.

You moaned at the flavour of salt and sex and closed your eyes as he hovered over you while you tried to catch your breath.

When you could finally move, T’Challa pulled you upright into a sitting position and you were immediately aware of the state of your appearance. Your hair was wild and dishevelled and you were covered in a sticky cocktail of passionfruit, sugar, sex and sweat.

“I’m a mess,” you commented looking down at yourself as you felt his hands come to rest on your thighs.

“I have never been more tempted,” he said lustfully, pressing his lips to your neck and you closed your eyes and sighed.

He drew backwards and looked in your eyes.

“Come. Spend the night in the King’s quarters with me.”

It was a weighted request that you were not naïve enough to fail to see that you needed to consider this request before mindlessly responding.

Reading the cloud of hesitance come over your face, he pressed his palm to your cheek, stilling your whirring mind.

“I only had a taste. I need so much more.”

Well Goddamn, how am I supposed to say no to that? you wondered, unsure if it was wise to push aside all the practicalities of getting tangled up with a King and all that it entailed.

As you looked into his eyes and admired the impossible curl of his eyelashes though, you didn’t have enough fight in you to deny him.

“What will everyone think if they see me in your quarters?”

“Their job is not to think, it is to serve their King,” he replied, reminding you once again with the firmness in his tone that his wishes were not to be questioned and were the only ones that ultimately mattered in Wakanda.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly at you and he lowered his chin.

“Will you accompany me?”

You leaned forwards to hover your lips over his and whispered, “As you wish, my King.”

[ladywinchester1967]

Off The Beaten Path I Reign

Chapter 2: Red

Characters: Dean Winchester, Katlynn “Kat” Roberts, Sam Winchester.

Pairing: Dean x Katlynn

Warnings: Language, angst, smut ( unprotected P in V, also wrap it before you tap it), dirty talk....I’m reasonably certain that’s it. 

A/N: Here’s chapter 2 of my baby! I hope you guys enjoy this! It takes place during the season 9 episode “Dog Dean Afternoon”. As usual, unbeta’d, all mistakes are mine, pics are NOT.

“Remembering him comes in flash backs, and echos. Tell myself it's time now, gotta let go. But, moving on from him is impossible when I still see it all in my head; in burning red.” - Taylor Swift

“Deeeeaaannnnnn,” a soft breathy voice sounded “Deeeeeaaaaannnnn”

Dean got up from his bed and stuck his head out of his room, not seeing anyone.

“Hello?” He called, looking for the source of the voice. He stepped out of his room and walked down the hallways. He felt hands grab his waist and he jumped a little before he turned around.

Kat stood there laughing, wearing a simple black dress and black ballet flats.

“What’re you doing here?!” He exclaimed

“I came to surprise you silly.” she told him and hugged him. It felt so real, her small frame wrapped in his arms, he could even smell her perfume. She pulled back and planted a kiss on his mouth. When the kiss ended, she held his face in her hands, the warmth from her hands on his cheeks was soothing. She gave him an easy smile and kissed him again.

Dean did his best to put Kat out of his mind; absorbing himself into hunts. No way would some waitress in Waco, Texas get under his skin. He and Sam took case after case, ganking every evil son of bitch that came their way. However, every night without fail, overly large green eyes and long hair filled his dreams. She always just seemed to be out of reach in his dreams. They’d be walking and he could catch her hand. Or he’d reach for her, only for her to walk away with a coy grin on her face.

“Come on,” he said “let me hold you”

Dream Kat shook her head

“Not until you give me what I want.” she teased

“What do you want?” He asked

She gently tapped his chest, right above his heart

“This.” she told him

This woke him up out of a dead sleep. One night, unable to go back to sleep after such a dream, he picked up his phone and opened the message app. He tapped on Kat’s name he typed out a message and his finger hovered over the “send” button. He sighed, deleted the whole thing and got up to take a shower.

“Katlynn.” she heard a deep, familiar voice call. Kat looked up and smiled.

“Hiya handsome!” she greeted Dean and went over to him. He wrapped her in a hug and kissed her cheek. She pulled back from him and moved her hands up his chest and around the back of his neck.

“Miss me?” She asked him

He kissed the tip of her nose

“You know it.” He said, giving her a heart stopping grin.

Kat’s alarm went off and she squinted at her phone, annoyed that it had woken her from such a nice dream.

Kat got up and went about her day; taking a shower and then running some errands. She wondered if she should text Dean but decided against it. When she clocked in for work, she was off her game and she knew it, but something kept bringing her back to the scruffy, brown haired, green eyed hunter with a heart stopping, boyish grin.

“Snap out of it,” she scolded herself “if he wanted to talk to you or see you, he would call. You had a good time with him and that’s where it ends.”

Even as the words left her mouth, it made her terribly sad. He was fun, warm, sweet and sexy as hell. For a dorky girl like herself, even getting one night with him should have been seen as some kind of life achievement. But, something in her heart chimed in

“You got attached”

She bit her lip, finally admitting it to herself. She WAS attached and she wanted him, other than another case popping up, she couldn’t see any reason for him to come back to Waco. She pulled her phone out and hovered over Dean’s name in her contacts. She stared at it for a solid five seconds and then shoved her phone back into her pocket.

Kat threw herself into work, picking up as many shifts as she possibly could to try and keep her mind occupied. However, every night, there was Dean; waiting for her in her dreams. She replayed their night together more times than she cared to count, imagined laying on the couch with his head in her lap, running her fingers through his thick hair and him smiling up at her. Each morning, she woke up sad, knowing that wouldn’t happen for the two of them. She powered through, forcing herself to be consumed by work and even tried going out of a few dates with guys she met via a dating app. She went, she laughed and had a good time, but none of them made her feel anything. They didn’t make her feel special or like she was anything other than a notch in their belt. For two months, she kept up the charade of being a hard working, not attached to Dean Winchester, hunter slash waitress. When Kat came to work one day, Cliff pulled her to the side

“Hey, I know you’re picking up extra shifts, and I really appreciate it, but Johnathon is crawling my ass about hours.” Cliff told her

“So what does that mean?” Kat asked

“I have to take you off the schedule for a couple of days so I can balance the hours out among the other servers.” Cliff told her

“Starting when?” Kat asked

“Today and tomorrow,” Cliff said “go on home and relax.”

Annoyed, Kat nodded and left the restaurant. As she walked back to her apartment, she grumbled to herself; swearing every word in the book under her breath as she stomped up the stairs to her apartment door.

The next day, Kat got wind of a case in Oklahoma, not too far from her. It looked like a taxidermist had been crushed to death in unusual circumstances. Since she'd been taken off the schedule at work, she decided to take on the case.

When she arrived, she spoke to the local sheriff.

“Agent Daisy Buchanan,” she said, flashing him her badge “FBI.”

“Wow, the FBI must be bored to send out three agents to deal with this case.” the sheriff said. Kat raised an eyebrow.

“You wanna run that by me one more time?” she asked

“We just got two agents in town yesterday,” he informed her. He reached in his pocket and pulled out two cards “two guys; Agent Michaels and Agent DeVille.”

Kat didn't let the shock she felt register on her face, she simply smirked.

“Let me guess,” she said “one is built like a tree, mop of brown hair. The other looks like a Ken doll with green eyes? Driving an older model Chevy?”

The sheriff nodded

“You know them?” he asked

Kat could barely contain herself; Sam and Dean were in town.

“Oh yeah, I know them.” she said. The sheriff gave her a look and she said “There must be some kind of mix up at the bureau, which I'll have to report to my supervisor. Until then, if you wouldn't mind, could I look into this as well?”

“Well, I don't know about that ma'am,” the sheriff said “too many cooks in the kitchen as it is.”

As much as she hated to do it, Kat turned the charm on.

“I get that, but could you throw me a bone here? I go where I'm told and until I can get a hold of my boss to figure this out, wasting tax dollars is gonna get me in A LOT of trouble.” she said, giving him a sweet smile and flipping her hair over her shoulder.

The sheriff melted like butter

“Well, can't be wasting tax payer dollars, now can we?” he asked “right this way.”

Once Kat had copies of the crime scene pictures, the evidence reports and statements, she checked into a motel and started to read. The case, on the surface, didn't make sense. The taxidermist had been crushed to death with no forced signs of entry or robbery.

“Sounds like he ended up on the wrong end of a wrestling move, poor guy.” she mumbled to herself and looked over the photos. Her phone suddenly went off and she looked at the caller ID, it was the sheriff.

“Agent Buchanan.” Kat said when she answered the phone

“Ma'am, I think I've got something for you, can you get over to the animal shelter asap?” he asked

“Sure, you okay sheriff?” she asked him

“I'm fine, this is just weird,” he paused “please Ms. Buchanan?”

“I'm on my way.” Kat said and hung up. She put her suit jacket and heels back on and headed for the car.

When she arrived at the shelter, she didn't see Sam and Dean, but the sheriff informed her that he had called them shortly after he'd spoken with her. They walked into the shelter and he walked her to where the dogs were; in the middle of the floor was a young guy with his throat slashed open, a look of horror on his face. Kat squatted down and looked at the four claw marks on the guy's neck.

“Any idea what could've made those?” the sheriff asked, looking nervous.

“Something big and pissed off,” Kat said “I mean, these have to be at LEAST an inch wide.” she looked around at the dogs “None of these guys have claws like this, these are more cat like. But that would have to be a big fucking cat. This guy is, what; five feet six inches and two hundred pounds?”

“Give or take.” the sheriff said “How big are we talking?” the sheriff asked.

“Anything big enough to make these marks wouldn't have been in the shelter in the first place,” Kat said “this would be something like a bob cat or a cougar.”

The sheriff seemed to grow more and more nervous as her words sank into him.

“I need a second.” he said and headed for the exit.

“Take your time.” Kat told him as a shelter worker came over to her with a list of the missing animals from the night before, they were all cats. Puzzled, Kat read over the list again as the door adjacent to her opened and she looked up.

Looking as handsome as ever, Dean strode through the door, oozing confidence, until he made eye contact with her. His heart jumped into his throat, and his breath hitched. He looked surprised and enthralled to see her as Sam bumped into him from behind. He looked to see what the hold up was and his eyes fell on Kat, looking relieved.

“Agent Michaels, Agent DeVille.” she greeted them with a smile. They walked over to her and Sam said

“Good to see you again Agent.”

She raised an eyebrow at him

“Buchanan, remember?” she asked “Daisy Buchanan.”

“Ah, yeah,” Sam said with a knowing smirk “Yeah, I remember now.”

“You changed your hair.” Dean commented

She twisted a lock of her newly auburn hair in her fingers and said

“Yeah, it was time for a change.” she filled them in on what she'd found so far.

“Did you get a chance to look at all the crime scene photos?” Sam asked her

“I was in the middle of it when the sheriff called me.” she told him.

“In one of the pictures,” Sam said “someone tagged the building with spray paint. They wrote “die scum” and drew this symbol into the paint.” he showed her a picture of a triangle with a paw print in the middle. “It's a local animal rights group called S.N.A.R.T, like small town PETA.”

“And I'm guessing you already talked to them?” Kat asked

“They were a couple,” Dean said “that run a vegan bakery.”

Kat made a face

“What's the point then? No eggs or diary? You may as well eat dirt.” she said and Dean laughed while Sam gave them both a bitchy look.

“What?” Dean asked “She's right.”

Sam rolled his eyes and continued

“They spray painted the death threat, got spooked by a hissing noise and had sprayed mace in their eyes. Or so they said, they were wearing sunglasses inside.”

“Douche bags.” Kat mumbled and Dean snickered.

“Their eyes were REALLY messed up,” Dean told her “all red and gross.”

“Yeah, mace will do that to you.” Kat said

“It couldn't have been mace,” Sam told her “it was premature death of tissue. It's caused by venom.”

“So,” Kat said “the taxidermist gets crushed to death and the vegan, PETA folks heard hissing and got poison in their eyes? What're we dealing with, a giant snake?”

“According to Steve Irwin here,” Dean said, motioning to Sam “snakes constrict or use venom. No snake does both.”

“What if it's a basilisk?” Kat asked

“Something THAT big would've been seen,” Sam said “plus last time I checked, snakes don't have claws.” and looked at the body.

“Look at this,” Kat said and showed them the ledger of missing animals “all the cats are missing from the shelter.”

Sam and Dean looked it over and Dean said

“So yesterday it's some freaky, snake monster, now we're looking for Cheetara?”

“More like Cheetah from Wonder Woman.” Kat quipped.

“To-mato, ta-mato.” Dean answered with a smirk and she stifled a laugh as Dean looked around. His eyes fell on a dog in the cage closest to them. “Why does that mutt look familiar?” he asked Sam.

Kat snorted

“That's no mutt,” she said as Sam stepped forward “That's a purebred German Shepherd. Some people will pay through the nose for one of them.”

Sam looked at the clipboard attached to the dog's cage

“It's the Colonel, the taxidermist's dog.” Sam said

“He's been at both crime scenes?” Dean asked

“Wait, the only witness to the first crime was the dog?” Kat asked “The report didn't mention that.”

“Yeah.” Sam said “And why would it? He's a dog.”

“Could be a suspect,” Dean said “a shape shifter or a skin walker.”

“Doesn't really fit the profile,” Sam said “and he doesn't really look like a monster to me.”

“Nope, not at all,” Kat said with a smile “I'll test him.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean asked “He could bite your hand off.”

“This big sweetheart? No way.” Kat said and reached in her pocket and pulled out a silver coin. She crouched down to the Colonel's level and he wagged his tail. “Hey there big boy,” she cooed to him and he licked her hand “this isn't gonna hurt you at all.”

“Unless it does.” Dean said and Kat pressed the coin to the dog's ear.

Nothing happened and Dean made his “not bad” face.

“Nothing,” she said “this isn't our killer guys.” she moved to stand and Dean offered her a hand, helping her up, his thumb grazing over her knuckles. They exchanged warm smiles as the Colonel began to bark like crazy. Kat furrowed her eyebrows and looked behind them as the sheriff walked up to them.

“Did you agents need any further assistance?” the sheriff asked as he took his cowboy hat off. Much to Kat's surprise, the Colonel quit barking. She looked up at Dean, who seemed to have the same thought she did.

“No, I think we're okay, thanks.” Sam said

“Hey, can I borrow your hat?” Dean asked. The sheriff reluctantly handed it over to Dean. He let go of Kat's hand and put the hat on. Again, the dog went berserk, but quieted as soon as Dean removed the hat. Dean handed it back to the sheriff who sneered at the Colonel.

“Good luck getting adopted.” the sheriff said and walked away as Kat's jaw hit the floor.

“Jackass.” she mumbled under her breath.

“If the Colonel isn't a suspect,” Sam started

“He's a witness.” Dean finished the sentence and looked at the Colonel “Hey buddy, you speak sign language?”

“That's monkeys!” Sam exclaimed

“Hm?” Dean asked and Sam rolled his eyes while Kat laughed as an idea came to her.

“Wait, I watched this documentary once,” she said “about this guy. He tried to teach his dog to speak after it witnessed a murder.”

“I remember that,” Sam said “I read the book.”

“Well did it work?” Dean asked them.

“No.” they answered in unison.

“He wrote a book AND made a movie about it?” Dean asked and Kat shrugged

“Maybe he had a good publicist.” she said

“But that guy didn't have what we have.” Sam said and nodded to Kat.

“What?” she asked

“You told us you have a grimoire.” Sam said

“Yeah, and?” Kat asked

“There has to be a spell in there somewhere.” Sam said and the realization dawned on Kat.

“If I don't have one, Shannon sure as hell does. Lucky for you two, I never leave home without my witch box.”

“Which motel are you in?” Sam asked

“Something about a Pink Flamingo?” Kat questioned “I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention.”

“We'll spring the Colonel,” Dean said “met us at Diamond Tim's Motor Inn, that's where we're staying. Bring your witch stuff.”

“You got it.” she said and gave Dean a wink as she walked away. Dean watched her go, admiring her ass and legs in the skirt and heels combination she was wearing. Dean let out an audible growl and looked at Sam, who had his eyebrows raised practically into his hairline “What?” Dean asked “I can't appreciate a smart, beautiful woman?”

“That's not what I'm asking,” Sam said and opened the Colonel's cage “I'm asking how on Earth did YOU hook HER? She's way out of our league Dean.”

Dean smirked and shrugged

“Well, maybe yours,” Dean said “she's WAY above my pay grade, but she seems to like me so I'm going with it.”

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed the leash that was by the Colonel's cage.

An hour later; Kat met Sam, Dean and the Colonel at the boy's hotel room. She even brought a bag of doggy treats for the Colonel, which he seemed to appreciate.

“I didn't have a spell,” she told the boys as she put her bag down “but I called Shannon and she did. It's an Inuit spell and I have the ingredients.”

“Okay, so let's get to mixing.” Dean said. Kat opened up her bag and started to set up everything she needed on the table. “How does it work?” Dean asked

“Shannon said it's like a human and animal mind meld,” she told him as she sat down and began measuring out the ingredients “so if it works, we'll be able to read the Colonel's thoughts.”

Once everything was correctly measured and poured into the bowl in front of her, Kat grabbed some hair off of the Colonel's back, dropped it into the bowl and stirred. She then poured the rust colored liquid into a glass as Sam and Dean took a seat at the table.

“I'll do it.” Dean said and reached for the glass

“Wait, what about me?” Sam asked

“You got enough on your plate.” Dean told him as Sam's gaze drifted from Dean to Kat.

“Hey, don't rope me into this, duke it out among yourselves.” she said as she got up and washed her hands.

“Uh, like, you're tired,” Dean said “and you're on the mend. Plus, you have a sensitive stomach okay? Last thing we need is you chucking this stuff up.”

Kat stifled a laugh as Sam rolled his eyes and Dean swirled the liquid in the glass.

“This doesn't look so bad.” he said

“Pretend it's a Bloody Mary.” Kat told him and he smirked before chugging the liquid in one go. He smacked his lips together and said

“I was wrong.” before pulling a face and coughing. He made a hand motion and said “Give me the spell.”

Kat handed him the piece of paper and he read off the spell while Sam and Kat looked at the Colonel. When Dean finished the spell, he looked at the dog and said

“Okay, let's get this party started. Tell me everything you know.”

The German Shepherd simply yawned and looked away from Dean.

“What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?” Dean asked and laughed. Kat chuckled and snorted while Sam gave them the bitch face. Dean chest puffed out a little bit, at least he had made Kat laugh. The Colonel barked, Kat and Sam looked at Dean, who shook his head.

“Nothing.” he said.

Another hour passed and they had gotten some lunch before they saw any results and Dean was able to question the Colonel. Kat watched as Sam threw away his burger wrapper and Dean went to get it while he scratched himself behind his ear.

“I don't want this.” Sam said, holding up the burger wrapper. Dean could suddenly smell something amazing and it wasn't the burger in front of Kat.

“Jesus, do you have dandruff or something?” Kat asked as Dean scratched behind his ear again.

“No,” he insisted “it just itches and I can't get a good scratch.” he said, trying to figure out where the amazing smell was coming from. It was like summertime; freshly cut grass, suntan lotion and something floral.

Kat rolled her eyes, reached over and used her nails to lightly scratch behind his ear.

“Oh yeah,” he said “perfect, thank you” his leg began to shake. He suddenly realized the smell was coming from Kat's skin; SHE was the amazing smell. Dean could hear the Colonel laughing and Dean asked him

“What?”

“I smell it too Hoss,” the Colonel said “she gives good ear scratches.”

“Yeah, you got that right.” Dean said and looked at Kat.

“What's he saying?” she asked, as she smiled.

“He says you smell nice.” Dean told her “and you give good ear scratches.”

Kat blushed and said

“Thanks big fella.” as she looked at the Colonel, who moved his head up and down.

“That's the smell of good people,” the Colonel told Dean “keep that one close.”

The Colonel was suddenly alert and started to bark. He and Dean both got up and rushed over to the window as Dean yanked the curtain to the side. Kat looked out the window as Dean pounded on the glass, there stood the mailman.

“HEY!” Dean yelled “HEY! You! YOU!! YOU!”

Kat started to laugh as Dean growled and Sam said

“Dean, I think the spell is working.”

“A little too well, he's barking at the mailman!” Kat said through her laughter.

“Huh?” Dean asked and sat back down

“I think you might actually be a dog.” Sam said as Kat kept laughing

“What makes you say that?!” Dean asked

“You're scratching your head,” Sam said “sorry, Kat is scratching your head. You're playing fetch and barking at the mailman.” Sam threw the wrapper into the trash again and Dean turned to get it, before resisting the urge and audibly whining.

“Ruh roh” he said.

Once Kat had worked through her fit of giggles, she called Shannon and spoke to her.

“Okay, thanks Shay, appreciate it. Love you too.” she said and hung up. “So, apparently the spell has side effects.”

“Well that would've been nice to know before it went down the hatch!” Dean said irritably “What kind of side effects?”

“When you mind meld with an animal, you can exhibit some if its behavior.” she said

“Well, how long am I gonna have the urge to?” Dean asked

“Sniff butts?” the Colonel asked, tilting his head.

“Whoa, WHOA!” Dean said “I do not have the urge to sniff butts!”

“Yet.” the Colonel told him

Kat raised her eyebrows and fought off another fit of giggles while Sam asked

“Do you have the urge to sniff butts?”

“NO!” Dean said, outraged “Come on!”

“Shannon doesn't know how long it's gonna last, hopefully when the spell wears off, so will the side effects.” Kat said, with tears of laughter brimming in her eyes.

“Terrific.” Dean said.

“Well at least we have a lead,” Sam said “You said the guy smell like red meat, dish soap and old lady cream right?”

“Yeah, and?” Dean asked

“Hey, maybe one of the other dogs saw something at the shelter.” Kat said “Since you're Doctor Dolittle for a while, let's ask them.”

They went back to the shelter and Dean asked around to see if the other dogs saw something. He wasn't having any luck, but Kat was in heaven, petting all the dogs through the cages. An intense wave of jealousy washed over him as he watched a mutt lick her cheek, making her laugh.

“Aw, aren't you just a sweetheart?” she asked

“That's right pretty lady,” the dog said “love me, adopt me! Please!”

“Hoss, you alright?” the Colonel asked

“She's petting other dogs and I don't like it.” Dean grumbled “She's mine.”

The Colonel chuckled

“Now you know why us dogs get all bent out of shape when you pet other people's dogs.” he said.

“Katlynn!” Dean hissed and she looked up.

“What?” she asked “He just wants to play!”

“And hump the crap out of her leg.” the dog added with a laugh. Dean crossed over to where Kat was and moved her away from the dog as she pouted.

“She's mine, back off.” Dean growled at the dog, who audibly whined and submitted to Dean, showing him his belly.

“Sorry man! Jeeze, she was nice to me and she smells good!” he said.

“Going alpha,” the Colonel said “you sure you weren't a dog in a previous life?”

After finding out the real killer was a guy that was eating animal parts to gain their abilities to stave off his cancer ridden body; he was quickly disposed of by the pack of dogs Dean had released from the shelter. Once the spell wore off; Dean, Sam and Kat made their way to their cars.

“Where you headed?” Dean asked Kat as they stood outside her car.

“Back to my motel room,” she said “I have it for another night and I'm not exactly in a hurry to get back to Texas.”

“Don't you have to work?” He asked and she shook her head

“Nope,” she said “I'm off the schedule for a few days because I'm getting too much over time.”

Dean scoffed and said

“God forbid they have someone that actually wants to come to work.” He said

“Right?” Kat asked.

She stood with her back against the Mustang's doors, Dean standing in front of her. Their breath mingled in the cold air, creating clouds of vapor.

“I really appreciate your help,” Dean said “more than I can say.”

“I know you do,” she told him “any time you guys need help, I'm a phone call away.”

Dean nodded

“I know.” He said and cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs running over the apples of her cheeks. He gently placed a kiss on her lips, his stomach doing a flip as her lips moved over his. Kat's system kicked into over drive as his taste mingled in her mouth. She placed her hands over his, kissing him again. His tongue wound its way into her mouth, flicking over hers and making her shudder. They came up for air, her hands still on his. He stared deep into her eyes, there was so much he wanted to say to her, but he couldn't force the words out.

“I'll be in my motel room all night,” she told him “if you wanna stop by, just text. No pressure.” she told him and he nodded. He released her and made sure she got into her car safely before walking back to the Impala and Sam. Dean climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine as Kat's Mustang took off into the night.

“Please don't tell me you're blowing her off.” Sam said

“I'm not,” Dean said and watched as she turned out of the alley, the Mustang's taillights disappearing from view. “I just, I don't know.”

“You know,” Sam said “I can tell. You're scared.”

“Because when has anything good ever worked out for either one of us?” Dean asked as he put the Impala into gear “In the short term, you and Amelia, me and Lisa? Yes, totally. Long term? Well, you see where we are.” He back out of the spot he was in and went on “I can't do that to her Sam. She deserves more, but I can't fucking leave her alone and I don't know why.”

“Because you care about her,” Sam said “you don't want to, but you do.”

Dean grunted and drove them back to their motel room. When they arrived, Sam got out of the Impala and said

“Don't let a good woman get away just because you're scared Dean.” and the shut the passenger side door before walking into the motel room. Dean chewed on his fingernails, torn between staying and leaving for a very long time. This poor girl had no idea what she was walking into; if she did and had any sense, she'd run away screaming and never look back.

But his heart, his stupid heart, couldn't let her go. He quickly texted her, hoping she hadn't changed her mind.

“You awake?” he asked

bubbles appeared and she answered

“Yep, you coming over?”

“On my way.” He answered and slammed the Impala into gear before taking off.

When he arrived at her motel room, he knocked on the door and waited. When she answered, she was wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt, yoga pants and Batman socks. She smiled and let him in, he walked past her and she shut the door behind him.

“Gotta admit,” she said as he turned around “I didn’t think you’d take me up on my offer.”

He placed a hand on her cheek, she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

“You were amazing today,” he told her “and a bigger help than we could’ve asked for, given the circumstances.”

She opened her eyes and said

“I don’t mind helping,” she told him “but I have to wonder, if you were so close, why didn’t you call me?”

“I was going to,” he said “once the hunt was over.”

She searched his face, looking for even a hint of a lie, all she saw was sincerity in his expression. She nodded and he stepped even closer to her.

“Can I tell you something without it being weird?” He asked.

“Try me.” She said. He told her about the other dog at the shelter and she smiled. “Do you mean to tell me that you were jealous?”

He nodded

“I was.” He admitted “Hate me, call me stupid; but I care about you and hearing even an animal thinking those things about you made me angry.”

“Listen, if the shoe were on the other foot, I’d feel the same way.” She said “it’s bad enough I had to watch that one girl damn near eye fuck you in the bakery.”

“When did that happen?” He asked

“When we dropped off the Colonel,” she told him “that’s why I had to leave otherwise I felt like I was going to rip her eyes out.”

He leaned down and kissed her, his lips strong and possessive over hers. He gripped her hair and kissed her again as she looped her fingers through his belt loops and pulled his body close to hers. His hardened erection pressed into her belly as she tightened her grip on his pants.

“Dean,” she breathed between kisses “mh, Dean.”

“Tell me,” he said as he pulled back, still holding her face “tell me what you want.”

Their eyes met and she bit her lower lip as he grazed his tongue over his lips.

“Fuck, you’re driving me insane.” He told her.

He had been the best lay she’d ever gotten and she was curious as to what else he could do. Surprising even herself, she opened her mouth

“I want you.” She told him and gave him a feather light kiss on his lips.

He smiled down at her and then kissed her before pushing her shoulder into the door. He ground his hips into her before nipping her lip and making her moan.

“You want me pretty girl?” He asked as he kissed his way down her neck.

“Yes,” she breathed, tightening her grip on his pants “please Dean.”

He slid his hands down her body, gripping her behind her knees and picking her up. Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist as he carried her over to the bed. He crawled on to the mattress and pressed her into the pillows. He raked his hands through her hair as they kissed themselves breathless. When they came up for air, they quickly removed their shirts and jackets before getting tangled in each other’s arms again. Dean pressed his chest against hers, craving the feel of her skin against his. Her tongue wound into his mouth, massaging over his tongue as he gripped her hair. She pressed her nails into his shoulders, making a low moan come from him. He rolled on to his back, bringing her on top of him where she laid on top of him, kissing him. He slid his hands up her back an quickly unhooked her bra, sliding it down her shoulders and off of her. Her bare torso against his felt like coming home; a comfort in an otherwise harsh world. She sat up, grinding her covered heat into his denim covered erection.

“Mh, look at you.” He said, gripping her hips tightly. She gave him an innocent look and asked

“What? I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?” He asked.

She bit her lip and continued to grind on him.

“I want you in me so badly.”

He sat up and slammed her back into the bed, pinning her down with his weight. They furiously kissed, practically tearing off their remaining layers, leaving both of them naked. She pushed the top of his head down and he chuckled as he kissed her throat and collar bone. He stopped at her nipple, taking it into his mouth and sucking on it. She squirmed under him as he flicked his tongue over the nipple and came off of it with a wet “POP”. He did the same thing to the other one as she moaned loudly, his hardened length brushing her inner thigh.

“Mhhh,” she whined “I wanted you to go down on me.”

He chuckled

“I know,” he said, brushing up against her entrance “but I had something else in mind.”

Their eyes met and she nodded as he thrust into her, sheathing himself inside her in one go. He set a steady, torturous pace; pressing her knees to her chest as she gripped the sheets, crying out. In this position, she was totally at his mercy, the only thing she could move where her hands and her head. He pushed into her sweet spot, making a high pitched whine come from her.

“God, Dean!” She cried out “right there!”

She tried to move, to arch her back, anything to spur him on so she could get the release that she was craving. He took notice but didn’t let up on his pace.

“Be patient,” he told her “I’ll make it worth the wait.”

With that, he unrolled her and spread her legs on either side of his hips; she was completely bared to him, her body twisting in a mix of pleasure and need as he drank it in.

“Oh god,” she yelled as he dipped his head down, kissing up her sternum and to her chest where he took her left nipple into his mouth. “God, god, oh fuck!” She cried out as he cupped her breast in his hand and flicked his tongue over the nipple.

Coherent sentences and crying out actual words were replaced by yelling, strings of expletives and his name. She squirmed under him as she tipped over the edge, crying out as she finished.

“Mh, fuck you feel good when you come around me.” Dean said, holding her legs open “I’m not done with you, not even close.”

He wrapped her legs around his waist, hooked his hand behind her neck and pulled her up so that she was straddling his lap. With her brain fogged from her last orgasm, she relied on her body to do the work. She instinctively thrust into him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as his hands gripped her hips. He dug his fingertips into the small of her back as they moved together. He kissed her deeply, her hands running through the short hair on the back of his head.

“Dean!” she called out, loud enough for him to hear but no one else. His name fell from her lips over and over in the same fashion; he relished in it. He kept one hand on the small of her back while the other held the back of her head as he heatedly kissed her. He opened his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers. Her eyes slowly opened and met his; their hips still meeting thrust for thrust. Dean felt a change between them in that moment; something about the way she was looking at him, made a feeling he couldn’t register blossom in his chest. Their lips met again and he poured everything he was feeling into that kiss.

Kat felt a flicker in her; this wasn’t a feeling she was familiar with. Dean pulled her lower lip into his mouth and gave it a playful nip, making her moan.

“Jesus Dean.” she said softly as he tried to lay back on the bed. She caught him by the back of his neck and said in a breathy voice “No, no. Don't move.”

“Why?” he asked his hands sliding down to hold on to her hips.

She bit her lip and then said

“I want to come like this, please?”

He nodded and kissed her as she began to move, their grunts and groans filled the room as he bit his lip, watching her move.

“That’s it,” he told her as she built him up. “Yes, god Katlynn, keep going.” He moaned as he tilted his head back, her hand slid up through the short hairs on the back of his head and tugged on them, his breath catching in his throat. She watched him, entranced by the sight in front of her; a man she truly adored coming undone because of her, the rush of power she felt made her feel intoxicated and sexier than she had ever felt in her life. His head tilted up right, their gazes meeting as he pressed his mouth to hers, moaning against her lips. She moved faster, his fingers digging into her hips as he quickened his pace to match hers. Their kisses grew hotter and heavier as their moans became louder, earning them a pounding on the wall from their next door neighbor. They both grinned at one another, not letting up on one another. The coil in Kat's stomach threatened to snap as Dean's pace began to falter.

“I'm close,” she said in his ear “oh fuck, I'm so close”

Dean slid one hand up into her hair and gripped it tightly, making her look at him.

“Come for me sweetheart,” he said “look at me.”

She whined as the coil wound tighter and finally broke as she shuddered and came around him. He kissed her hard, his hips snapping into hers and gasped as he finished deep inside her. They fell on their sides, laying on the bed and breathing hard, their legs still tangled together. Dean pulled out of her, but didn't move far, his hand still tangled in her hair.

Once they'd caught their breath, they pulled on their shirts and underwear, meeting under the covers to cuddle. Dean laid on his back while Kat lay on her side, her head on his chest. She could hear his steady heartbeat; he had one arm wrapped around her shoulder and the other hand resting on her hip while her fingertips traced patterns over his chest.

“If I tell you something,” he said “do you promise not to judge me?”

“Well, that's a weird question,” she stated and looked up at him “but go ahead.”

He was biting his lower lip as he thought of the best way to say whatever it was that he was thinking.

“You'd do anything for your siblings right?” he asked

“I don't have any,” she told him “but yes, if I did, I would.”

“Well, after the trials,” Dean said, chewing on his lip “Sammy was,” he trailed off and swallowed before continuing “Sammy was in bad shape.”

“How bad are we talking?” she asked him

“Hanging on by a thread,” he told her “the doctors said he wasn't going to make it.”

Kat propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him.

“You two must have more than one guardian angel,” she responded “he looks perfectly fine.”

Dean's eyes met hers and he said

“He's fine because he's possessed by an angel, Ezekiel.”

Her eyes went wide in shock but then her brows furrowed

“So, he's sharing a body with an angel?” she questioned “That's gotta be weird.”

“I guess it would be,” Dean said, raking a hand through his hair “if he knew about it.”

Her jaw dropped

“Wait, what? How does he not know?” she asked, firing the questions at him rapidly.

“This is the part where I'm asking you not to judge me,” he explained as he sat up “Sam is more than just my brother. He's my number one priority; I've been looking out for him for so long that it's just automatic. Keep Sam alive and ask questions later,” she nodded and he went on “So, I tricked Sam into letting Ezekiel possess him.”

“So, what happens if Sam finds out?” she asked

“Knowing Sam, he'll eject Zeke; that's what I've been calling him, and he'll die.” Dean told her. “Zeke is healing him slowly, which is why Sam hasn't noticed.”

His eyes searched her face, looking for an indication that she was mad or disgusted with him. He braced himself for her to yell at him as she sat up, crossing her legs under herself as she chewed on her lower lip; processing all of this information.

“I can't say I agree with the method,” she told him “but I can understand why you did what you did.”

He raised an eyebrow

“That doesn't weird you out?” he asked “At all?”

“Like I said,” she went on “I don't agree with the “how”, I mean would YOU want to be possessed and have no say in it?”

“No,” he answered “but-”

“Yeah, she interrupted “but I get the “why”, I really do. He's your brother and that's what family does. Goes to the ends of the earth for one another.”

He stared at her for a few seconds before snapping her up into his arms and hugging her tightly. He breathed in the scent of her hair as she wrapped her arms around him, he could feel a smile forming on her face. He pulled back and held her at arm's length.

“Thank you,” he told her “I mean it.”

She nodded and they kissed before laying back down, resuming the position they had previously been in.

“Will you stay with me?” she asked with a yawn

“Is that an invitation or a command?” he asked with a smirk.

“Invitation.” she told him and looked up at him

“Yeah,” he said, his gaze meeting hers “I'll stay.”

When Kat woke up, she felt Dean moving beside her. She ascertained that they were laying back to back and she rolled to face him. Sure enough, she was facing his back as she sat up and looked over his tense shoulders. His face was broken out in a sweat and his hand was clenched tightly at his side.

“Nightmare.” she thought as she settled down close to him, the clock on his side of the bed reading 3:00 in the morning. She pressed her chest against his back and slid her hand down to his wrist, she could feel his pulse pounding beneath her hand. She laid her forehead against his shoulder blade and kissed the back of his neck. He tensed for a second and then seemed to relax. Without warning, he rolled over; his long arms snaking around her body, one around her shoulder and the other around her waist. She slipped one arm under his head and the other under his arm, her hand running through his hair.

“It's okay,” she told him softly as she kissed his forehead “you're okay.”

His grip didn't let up, nor did the tension in his shoulders as he breathed rapidly, his breath fanning over her shirt. She held on to him, quietly talking to him and scratching his head.

“It's okay Dean,” she told him soothingly “I'm here for you.”

She felt him bury his head into her chest as his shoulders started to shake, his grip tightening on her. She shushed him, holding him a little tighter as her eyes started to get heavy.

“You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now,” she said with a yawn “I'll protect you.” and closed her eyes.

Little did she know, Dean had woken up when she started scratching his head. He had heard every word she said. His shoulders had started to shake, not from fear; but from relief. Her words replayed in his head has he held her tighter.

“It's okay Dean, I'm here for you. You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now. I'll protect you.” her sleepy, yet soothing voice echoed in his mind. With a sigh, he relaxed in her arms and dozed off.

Sun coming through the thin motel curtains rudely awoke Kat the next morning. She cracked her eyes open, realizing she was laying on her stomach and a hand was drawing patterns on the exposed skin on the small of her back. She groaned and turned her head to the opposite side of the bed to see Dean, his head propped up on his other arm, his eyes half opened.

“Morning.” he said with a sleepy smile. She mirrored his sleepy smile and grunted, closing her eyes again. “Sleep okay?” he asked and she nodded without opening her eyes.

“Feels good.” she said and yawned, his fingertips running over the dimples in her back at the bottom of her spine.

“I know.” he said and kissed her forehead, his hand wandering up her shirt, touching her bare back.

“You're gentle.” she told him and opened her eyes all the way for the first time.

“Are you surprised?” he asked and she nodded

“A little,” she said “for being a big dude, I thought you'd be a little rougher.”

A crooked grin crossed his face

“I can be, if you want me to.” he said and she chuckled sleepily

“What time is it?” she asked

“After eight,” he said “Sam already called and checked on me.”

“That's nice of him.” she said “Breakfast?” she added as her stomach grumbled.

He nodded

“A few more minutes,” he said “I'm enjoying this.”

“Me too.” she agreed.

After laying in bed for another thirty minutes, Dean and Kat got dressed. They each checked out of their motel rooms and decided to get some breakfast before going their separate ways.

“So you'll call me if you need help right?” Kat asked both of them.

“Correction,” Sam said “I WILL call you if we need help, since mister stubborn here refuses to ask for help.”

Kat grinned as Dean rolled his eyes, she hugged Sam who said

“Thank you again for your help, we really appreciate it.”

“Any time,” she said and patted his shoulder “I'm only a phone call away.”

They separated and Sam went to go sit in the Impala to give Dean and Kat a few minutes. Dean placed a hand on her hip and the other on the back of her neck.

“Thank you for last night, and the day before,” he said “I really-” he stopped, biting his lip. The words were there, he just couldn't force them out.

“I know,” she said, cupping his cheek in her hand and they kissed. He smiled through the kiss and then pulled back. “I'm picking up what you're putting down.” she told him. They kissed again and he released her. “Remember, CALL ME.” she emphasized the last two words as she started to walk away.

“I will,” he said with a playful roll of his eyes “I promise.”

“I'm holding you to that.” she said, pointing at him.

The corners of his mouth turned upward and he winked at her. She laughed and winked back before walking to her car. Dean turned, shaking his head as he grinned and got in the Impala.

Four days later; Kat's phone rang while she was brushing her teeth, it was Sam.

“Sam, long time no chat.” she said as she spit out toothpaste “What's up?”

“So, remember how you said to call you if we needed help?” Sam asked

“Yeah,” Kat said as she rinsed out her mouth “you need help don't you?”

“Big time,” Sam said “when can you get to Hartford, South Dakota?”

“Hold on.” Kat said and turned off the water. She quickly pulled up the GPS on her phone and typed in the destination, seeing that it was nearly a fourteen hour drive, she relayed this information to Sam, who said

“I wouldn't call if this wasn't important.”

“I know,” Kat said “I'll be there, don't worry about a thing.” she paused and asked “Dean doesn't know you're calling me, does he?”

“Nope,” Sam quipped “he said we need back up and you're the first person I thought of.”

Kat smiled and rolled her eyes

“Okay,” she said “see you guys tomorrow.”

“And hey, bring your witch stuff and,” Sam paused “maybe an engagement ring?”

Kat pulled the phone away from her ear, stared at it for a few seconds and then put it back up to her ear.

“Exactly what the hell are you roping me in to?” she asked

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!! I’m editing chapter 3 as we speak!!! Again, kind feedback is always welcomed. Like and share with your followers, ever so gently caress that “follow” button if you want to see more content from me! Don’t forget, my masterlist at at the VERY top of my page if you wanna catch up on this series or read any of the other ones I have! Also, the tag list for this series is WIDE open! See you guys for the next one!

The Squidimus Squad:

@waywardbaby​​​​ @waywardnerd67​​​​ @familybusinesswritingbro​​​​ @ain-t-bovvered​​​​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​​​​ @girlborninstorms​​​​ @dacleverfox​​​​ @emoryhemsworth​​​​ @bobasheebaby​​​​ @deanscarlett​​​​ @myinconnelly1​​​​ @mogaruke​​​​ @imma-winchester-addict​​​​ @purpleskiesandcherrypies​ @dean-winchesters-bacon​​​​ @animerose96​​​​ @l8nit-l0vr​​​​ @drakelover78​​​​​ @curly-haired-disaster​​​​​ @roonyxx​​​​ @snffbeebee​​​​ @ezilyamuzed​​​​ @mirandaaustin93​​​​ @srsllydunnodoncare​​​​ @latetothewinchesterparty​​ @emilyshurley​​​ @atc74​​ @midnightsilverafterdark​​ @adoptdontshoppets​ @spnbaby-67

Off the Beaten Path I Reign:

@biawol

[endless-vall]

Can’t imagine it any other way - Drake x Olivia fanfic

Summary: Drake seeks Liam’s advice about asking Olivia to marry him. He knows he loves Olivia and he wants to marry her, but with what it could mean to the duchy of Lythikos, it seems there’s a lot at hand to consider before taking such a step. 

Author’s note: anon requested a Dralivia proposal fic, and I obliged! Sorry it took a while, at first I had an idea but kinda lost it mid-way, only to get back to it today. Hahahaha oops. 

Hope you’ll like it! Enjoy 😊

“Hey, what’s up?” Liam asked as he sat down beside Drake, a drink in each hand - one for Drake and one for himself.

They were sitting in a small, local cafe in Cordonia, one that the press probably never heard of, and by the time word got out both Liam and Drake would be gone already.

Liam handed Drake his drink, while leaning over in his chair.

“I’m fine I guess, how about you?” Drake asks, while taking the first sip of his warm beverage.

Liam was king now for a couple of years, and he and Amber had two kids but he still made time for Drake. He cherished all of his friends and even in his busiest times, he still could send a warm smile or an encouraging word.

Drake sometimes couldn’t believe how he’d doubted his best friend, since here he was - king of Cordonia, making time to go for a cup of coffee with a commoner like Drake.

“I’m good,” Liam nods, and Drake can tell his answer in genuine. Then, Liam leans in, gaze considerate. “But I asked about you, y’know?”

Drake watches him for a long moment, with a mixture of shock and amazement, before chuckling and rolling his eyes. Of course Liam would catch up on something that was weighting over Drake, even if he didn’t say a word about it.

“I should’ve known you’d see right through it,” Drake commented, preparing himself mentally to come clean.

“Of course,” Liam smiled, reassuringly, before letting his face turn into a serious expression once again.

“Is it about Olivia?” He asked, referring to Drake and Olivia’s growing relationship.

“Something like that.”

It took them a while to finally announce it, but he and Olivia were dating for a while now. Two years - Officially. Even the media already knew all about it

(The tabloids exploded when they’d just found out, but Drake and Olivia were sure enough of their relationship and were ready to take the blow).

Unofficially? Three years, give or take.

Drake life... Turned very different than what he thought it would be. But... For the better, he realized.

He loved Olivia. He truly did. Deeply, passionately, contently.

“Is something wrong?” Liam’s concerned tone cut off Drake’s line of thought.

“Oh,” Drake realized he was too deep in thought and didn’t exactly answer Liam’s question.

After all, Drake did want to talk about Olivia with Liam. He just didn’t know how to do that.

“Nothing like that, actually.” Drake said, comfortingly. Fortunately, everything was okay between them. More than okay, even.

“Quite the opposite, actually.” He admitted, and let that sink in.

He and Liam continued drinking their coffee, but apparently Liam didn’t quite take the hint.

“So?” Liam finally asked, the anticipation crawling on him.

Drake lowered his glass, now almost empty, to the wooden table.

He non-audibly sighed, before starting.

“I love her, you know?” He said, looking at his best friend.

“I know.” Liam nodded. Something soft forming behind his eyes.

Drake knew he’d have to say more than that, to make his point clear.

“I... Wanna spend my life with her, Liam.” He finally breathed out.

Liam nodded, at first, before the words made sense.

Drake stared him down, waiting for something - Anything - To happen.

“Oh.” The realization finally downed at him, as he studied Drake’s face.

The side of Drake’s lips curled just the slightest upwards. “Yeah.”

“I think she’d like that,” Liam said, in a considerate tone.

Olivia loved Drake too, there was no doubt in that.

She also never made him feel like he wasn’t enough, that he wasn’t good enough to be dating her.

But dating was one thing... And marriage?

Could he... Could they really?

Drake’s mind was a whirlwind of questioning, doubts and emotions ever since the first thought of proposing crept to his head.

“You think so?” Drake’s voice broke a little, not as sure-of-himself and confident as always. It was just a tone higher than his usual voice, but enough for someone who knew him that well to notice.

His eyebrows arched upwards, into a somewhat frown. His plumped his shoulder.

“We’re in such a good place right now. I don’t wanna ruin it. What if she doesn’t want to marry me? I mean yeah our relationship is great, but I’d be no good in running a duchy. Especially one such as Lythikos.” Now Drake’s barrier was finally burst through and the words came spilling.

Liam signed for the barista to bring a couple of more coffee cups, before turning to face Drake again.

He put a strong, reassuring hand over Drake’s shoulder. “Hey, calm down.” His voice was soothing.

“You really think she wouldn’t want that?” He asked, only half rhetorically, before continuing.

“Yes the Olivia we knew as kids probably wouldn’t,” He commented. “But she’s not that Olivia anymore. She’s proved so countless times. She stood by my side even when I broke her heart, even when I chose Amber over her, and she stood by your side, too. Even when her aunt conspired to make her queen, she chose us over the crown. You think someone like that would care that you’re not a nobleman?” He said. Drake wanted to counter that it wasn’t about that part, but Liam continued before he even had a chance.

“And anyway. You’d become a nobleman, once you marry her.” Liam noted.

“But can you imagine me being one, though?” Drake asked, voice more firm now, interrupting Liam.

“Honestly? Yes.”

Drake blinked at Liam for a few seconds, hazed in shock.

“You’re just saying that to-”

“No, I’m not.” Liam assured.

“You’re loyal, you’re brave. You’re confident and you have a strong word. A strong sense of duty, and a lot of love for Olivia. What more can she want, need from a match in marriage?”

Drake considered for a long moment.

He wanted to marry Olivia because they loved each other. And under different circumstances, that’d been all.

But in their current circumstances, was he really everything she needed? Could he really be a duke?

A quick shiver ran down his spine. He spent most of his life hating nobles (Except for Liam, of course), and now he was considering becoming one?

And that would only be true if Olivia would choose to marry him, to accept his proposal, that is.

He was still cautious when he raised his gaze back to Liam, but with more resolution than before. 

“Thank you,” He said, reaching for his shoulder. He gave Liam’s shoulder a tight squeeze before downing the rest of his drink.

“Any time, pal.” Liam flashed him a bright grin and they headed back to the palace.

The next few weeks flew by.

Olivia was on some business abroad, and by the time she was back in Lythikos Drake was aching to be with her.

Really be with her, wholeheartedly. 

Or, at least he’ll offer himself up, and leave it up to her whether to accept his proposal or not.

He was waiting for her in the gates to her duchy, a fancy white button-down under a warm winter coat decorating his features.

He wasn’t really someone who cared about fashion, but even the Drake Walker knew when to dress up.

“Drake!” She exclaimed, clearly pleasantly surprised, when she reached the top of the stairs and threw her hands around him. “What are you doing here?” She asked, only half seriously, while beaming.

She pulled her into his embrace and his hands immediately reacted on pure instinct, wrapping around her lovingly.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” He whispered the question in her ear, noting the way it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“Of course i’m glad,” Olivia pulled away, still smiling and only a bit flushed.

Maybe it was the cold, she’d definitely accuse that, rather than admit she was blushing because of him.

“But you usually tell me before you decide to pay me a visit.” She explains, and Drake takes her bags from the maid that’s carrying them inside the duchy, motioning for Olivia to enter with him.

“You don’t have to do that,” Olivia noted.

All of her servers were fully-qualified and hand-picked, and even the most fragile-looking maid could kill a man in his sleep, so carrying a few bags wasn’t a problem.

“I know,” Drake nodded, shrugging. “But I want to.” They walked together, almost in silence. But the comfortable kind.

A content feeling surrounded the both of them, and they only walked a little faster when Olivia’s room was in sight.

“You can leave the bags here,” Olivia noted, before entering. “The staff will know what to do with that.” She explained.

Drake dropped the bags where she showed him to, and followed her inside.

Once the door closed behind them, they were in each other’s arms.

Warm kisses and longing touches, their skin burning from the desire to experience the most they can from one another.

It was no secret, that they were together, and they’ve kissed murmurous times in front of Olivia’s servants and even the media.

But those kind of kisses were all pg-rated, whilst this one was less family-friendly.

Olivia clung to his shirt, and Drake’s hands explored her body.

By the time they broke apart, they were both panting and out of breath.

This time, undoubtedly, Olivia was blushing. Because of him.

He smirked, and she knew exactly why, and she let her eyes drift somewhere, anywhere - to change the subject.

Her hand traveled from his neck, down his shirt. Her long nails playing with the buttons of the white undershirt. “Drake Walker, I have to admit. You clean up good.” Olivia noted, a smile forming on her lips.

“What’s the occasion?” She continued further, teasing him.

Her lips copied his, witty and sly and just a glint in her eyes, pleased with herself.

But Drake’s smirk wavered just for a moment, because there was an occasion, after all.

Just for a moment before he caught himself, and truthfully admitted. “You.”

Olivia seemed pleased with his answer, as she pulled him in for another quick kiss.

They were having a private dinner, at one of the duchy’s balconies. 

‘Candle-lit and everything.’ As Drake asked the staff to arrange. Admittedly he could’ve been more specific, or at least more helpful, but they didn’t complain and came up with everything he’d hoped for.

Olivia didn’t seem to suspect his attention. Drake loved doing those kinds of things for her. Carrying her bags was also a part of it.

It let him feel like he was dating just Olivia, the person - and not Olivia, the duchess.

Even though, he didn’t hate the idea of dating Olivia the duchess. He loved all the sides Olivia had to offer. All the layers of her.

They finished their dinner, making small talk and letting Olivia go on and on about her business trip, Drake listening to every word and looking at her like she’s the most beautiful person in the world.

To him - she was.

A waiter came out, carrying a fine red wine. Dark, and bitter, fit for Lykithos’ winter, but with a sweet, savory undertone to it, perfect for the occasion.

Hell, even Drake couldn’t complain it wasn’t whiskey.

He poured two full glasses for them, before placing the bottle on the table and disappearing.

“What to?” Olivia asked, raising her glass towards Drake. She loved letting him come up with the toasts, since he always had a new line, a new toast that either made her snark, raise an eyebrow, or sigh in content. Basically? It always made her fall in love with him further.

“Actually,” Drake noted, standing up and circling the table, to her side. “I think we should wait a moment before we drink.

“Oh?” Olivia didn’t oppose to the idea, but was intrigued what Drake had up his sleeve.

Not up his sleeve, though, but in his inside pocket - Drake had his late grandmother’s ring. A beautiful diamond ring, that he hung to dear life. He never before thought he’d actually use it, let along on Olivia - whom he’d known his entire life, but right now he couldn’t imagine using it on anyone else but her.

“Olivia,” He started. She listened carefully, placing her glass back on the table. Her eyes were tingling in the moonlight, and she had something innocent flash in them. Something vulnerable, as Drake stood before her with a just as vulnerable expression as well.

“There’s something I've been meaning to ask you, for a while now.” He confessed.

“And the longer I wait, the more I can’t resist doing it.” He added.

“It’s like this question’s burning holes in the back of my head, and I have to say it out loud, at last.” 

“I love you, more than anything in the world. More than I could ever imagine. I fell for you and suddenly it’s like the world makes sense. And at the same time, when you’re not here, it doesn’t.” He didn’t really have an emotional speech prepared, but he just started talking and the words came out by themselves.

He said what felt right and by the look on Olivia’s face, it was right.

“I want to love you for the end of my days. I want to be with you and for you to be mine.

I know I can’t offer you the world and maybe we weren’t meant to be but I can’t help but hope that we were. So Olivia Vanderwall Nevrakis, will you-”

His proposal was interrupted by Olivia standing up, almost bumping into him while taking his hands in hers. “Will you marry me, Drake Walker?” She asked, taking the words right out of his mouth.

He stared at her, wide-eyed for a long moment. 

His mind taking a long moment to wrap around what just happened.

“I -- Yes.” He finally breathed out, when he found his words again.

Olivia beamed at him, raising to her tip-toes and planting a kiss on his lips. 

Their hands were still intertwined. They broke away, just a moment later.

“You’re sure? You really want that?” He asked, making sure he wasn’t dreaming, or making it up.

“Yes.” Olivia assured him, and they shared another kiss.

Then, Drake took a step back, dropping to one knee. He took out the ring-box out of his jacket pocket and presented it in front of Olivia.

“I know I took my time with the speech but you didn’t have to steal the spotlight,” He teased, opening the box and showcasing the beautiful ring to Olivia’s eyes.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, clearly in awe. 

She couldn’t even come up with a witty comeback, since she was so delighted with the gesture.

“Olivia, will you marry me?” Drake asked once again.

“Yes, yes yes!!!” Her smile reached her eyes, and Drake swore he wanted to make her that happy for the rest of his life.

He slid the ring over her ring-finger, and the rose up to his feet and captured her in a passionate kiss.

The Drake Walker that knew Olivia as a kid never intended to grow up and fall in love with her, but right now where they were standing? He couldn’t imagine any different outcome ever.

[onyxfyrefly]

Recuderme

By the time Tony noticed the slight tremor in his hands it was too late.

It seemed like every wannabe super villain had conspired to strike within days of each other. The team was run ragged. It didn't matter if you were a demigod, a super soldier or a mere human with a specialized skill set; eventually you had to rest. Unfortunately rest was in short supply.

The one upside, if you could call it an upside, was the constant attacks put an end to Fury's never-ending briefings. The director would collect their statements and send them on their way to get patched up and to attempt to get some sleep before the next call to assemble.

Tony was plastered on the floor of the penthouse, the cold tiles a relief to his aching joints. He was considering spending the night in his current position when a crash startled him out of his thoughts.

Craning his neck he spotted Loki kneeling on the kitchen floor. "Everything alright, babe?"

The mage swore and swiped a cloth through the mess. "A mere accident."

Tony frowned and slowly rolled over, hissing when his inflamed shoulder was jostled by the movement. He suddenly realized that Loki had not healed him after the battle. No matter how exhausted the mage was he always appeared at Tony's side the moment the armor was removed, healing various wounds while muttering about his foolish mortal.

Deciding that walking was out of the question, he began to crawl in the mage's direction. Dignity was highly overrated and it wasn't the first time he'd been in this position with Loki either.

Something wasn't sitting right with the genius. Loki did everything with grace. Whether he was fighting, cooking or just tying his shoelaces, not one movement was wasted. He did make mistakes from time to time but this incident set Tony on edge.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Loki growled and swept up the broken pieces of the mug before grabbing another from the cabinet with unnecessary force. "It was an accident. I cannot believe that you've never knocked something off of this counter before."

It took a few tries but eventually Tony managed to drag himself to his feet. He was about to make a smart remark when Loki's hands caught his attention. The elegant appendages, steady in even the most intense situation, were shaking.

Reaching across the counter, Tony caught one of the trembling hands in his own. "You're shaking. I'm going to ask this one more time: are you alright?"

The mage sighed and he seemed to deflate. His head bowed and his shoulders sank. It made him look so old yet so young at the same time."I am merely weary. I used too much energy today and am feeling the effects." The battle that day had been brutal and would have been much more bloody if Loki hadn't teleported across the battlefield like a man possessed, projecting force fields that kept both the Avengers as well as the bystanders out of harm's way.

Tony gently tugged on Loki's arm. "Come on, let's get some rest."

Loki shook his head. "I have to analyze that artifact from yesterday's battle. I didn't have time to get to it today."

"You've been with me too long, my bad habits are beginning to rub off on you."

A small smile twisted one corner of Loki's mouth. "Usually I'm the one dragging you out of the lab."

The engineer held a finger to his lips. "I can be a responsible adult when I choose. Don't tell anyone though."

The light mood faded as they entered the bedroom. Loki was too exhausted to magic away his clothing but his hands would not cooperate. After nearly ripping a clasp off in frustration he finally allowed Tony to assist him.

Typically Tony would have taken his time, kissing each piece of skin as it was bared, but tonight he undressed Loki methodically, assisted him in pulling on a worn pair of sleep pants and tucking him in to bed. Before Tony could slide beneath the sheets himself Loki was already asleep.

"JARVIS?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Perform a full body scan on Loki."

"Is there anything in particular that I am looking for?"

Tony looked down at the sleeping mage and felt something sharp twist in his gut. "Anything, everything. Send the results to my private server, the one he doesn't know about."

"What shall I name the file?"

"Please let me be wrong."

---------

JARVIS' results were frustratingly inconclusive. There was an anomaly in Loki's energy causing it to fluctuate but aside from that nothing could be found. Tony was attempting to devise a way to obtain a blood sample without Loki blowing up the tower in a fit of rage when yet another call to assemble blared.

Tony was first on the scene and scanned the area. "Where's Loki?"

"He is still at the tower, sir," replied JARVIS.

"What the hell is he doing? We need him here!" Tony twisted out of the way of a flaming projectile.

"It appears that he fell asleep in his lab and I'm having difficulty rousing him." The genius swore and dove back in to the fray.

It seemed like hours before Loki appeared looking as pale and weak as he had when Thor rescued him from Asgard's dungeons and brought him to the Avengers for safekeeping. His appearance startled Tony enough that he missed the orb flying in his direction. He slammed hard into a building and only JARVIS' intervention kept him from hitting the ground.

In an instant Loki was at his side, daggers in hand, protecting Tony until his armor recalibrated. As soon as he could stand the mage disappeared and Tony didn't have time to worry about his lover.

The battle was nearing a close when a sight made Tony's blood run cold. He watched as Loki took several staggering steps before falling to his knees. It was Tony's turn to stand guard, blasting anything that strayed too close.

As soon as Steve signaled the all clear Tony left the suit in sentry mode and knelt at Loki's side. The mage was deathly pale and shaking, barely able to support himself. "Talk to me, Lokes, what's going on?"

"I believe I am ill, Anthony. I have never felt like this before." No sooner were the words out of his mouth when he was violently sick. Tony brushed the hair back from the mage's face and held him tightly as he retched.

"Thor, get over here now! It's Loki."

The words were barely out of his mouth when the god appeared. "What ails you brother?"

Loki couldn't reply, he appeared to be on the brink of passing out.

"Get him back to the tower immediately." Thor nodded and scooped his brother in to his arms as gently as possible. In a moment he was gone and Tony only paused long enough for the armor to wrap around him before following suit. "As soon as Bruce is awake send him to the medical floor, we have a situation."

Tony had never been a patient man but he was going to go crazy while waiting on Loki's test results. He sat down gently on the edge of the bed and took the still trembling hand in his own. It felt warm, too warm, and Tony tried to ease the knot in his gut.

Finally Bruce walked in to the room and Tony wanted to be sick, he'd never seen such a despondent look on the doctor's face. Bruce pulled up a chair and let out a slow breath.

"Just spit it out."

"Tony, he's dying."

It was a good thing that Tony was sitting down because the floor suddenly fell from beneath him. He had been told that he was dying before, he knew what that felt like. But to hear that someone close to him, someone that he loved, was dying was almost too much.

"How do we fix it?"

Bruce's forehead furrowed. "Fix it?"

"I built an arc reactor and a flying suit in a cave in Afghanistan. You not only created the Hulk but you've learned to control him. We're two of the most brilliant people on the planet. If anyone can solve this problem it's us."

The scientist shook his head. "Tony, it's not like that. I've never seen anything like this. There's something attacking his cells, eating away at them. It's resistant to every antiserum I can think of." He took off his glasses and wearily rubbed at his eyes. "I'll keep working, of course, but I don't think I can stop this."

For once in his life Tony didn't have a smart reply. Bruce squeezed his shoulder and left the two in peace. How could this happen? Loki was damn near indestructible. He'd laughed off hits that would have killed a man twice over. He'd held a conversation while pulling shards of glass from his torso. He'd swallowed poison like it was candy and even asked for seconds. Now some microscopic foe was going to be his downfall? Not on Tony's watch.

Before he could stand Loki made a sound and weakly pulled on his arm. Tony twisted and tucked an errant lock of hair back. "What is it?"

Loki's eyes were glassy and unfocused when he looked up. "I'm cold."

Those two words sent Tony into a freefall. Loki was never cold, his Juton heritage saw to that. In this moment Loki's sickness became real. The love of his life was dying.

"Let's warm you up then."

Tony squeezed into the narrow bed and pulled his lover close. Loki gratefully curled in to his warmth and closed his eyes once more.

"I am not afraid."

The soft words startled Tony. "What?"

"I heard what Doctor Banner said. I have known something was not right for several days but I did not know the severity." Loki's too warm hand gently brushed Tony's cheek. "I am not afraid of dying but I do wish that I could have spent more time with you."

"Stop it. You are not going to die. You are going to live then you're going to take me to Asgard and I'm going to eat the golden apple that you've been whispering to Thor about." Tony didn't realize he was crying until a tear splashed onto Loki's cheek. "Then we're going to have the most cheesy, over the top wedding just because we can and we're going to live forever, just the two of us. We're going to travel to realms I can't pronounce and see wonders that I can't imagine and we're going to live, okay? You're going to live. You are not going to die, understand? I will fix this."

Loki nodded and weakly pulled Tony down for a kiss, tasting salt when their lips met. The mage knew his time was near but a tiny part of him hoped that he was wrong, that this wondrous man who changed his life could save it as well.

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

As soon as Thor learned of Loki's condition he disappeared, returning a few hours later with a beautiful woman in tow. Tony knew without asking that this was his mother.

Loki had been moved to their bedroom and was curled up in his favorite wing-backed chair near the window. Tony headed down to the lab to escape but his concentration was shot. He tinkered with one design or another until JARVIS announced that Frigga was asking for him.

The moment their eyes met Tony knew it was over. The queen didn't hide the fact that she had been crying and Tony could only imagine her pain.

This was the second time that she had lost her son but this time it was for good.

"You are my son's lover?"

For the first time in a long time Tony blushed. "Yes ma'am."

Her face softened slightly. "It has been centuries since I have seen my Loki so happy. Thank you."

Tony scratched the back of his neck nervously. "I never thought...I mean...I love him. I've never loved anyone like him and I doubt I ever will again." He paused to chew on his lip before plunging forward. "What's wrong with him?"

Frigga twisted her hands together in a very familiar gesture. "I haven't seen this malady since the war. Some of the Jotuns in the dungeons suddenly started falling ill and dying yet whatever affected them did not spread to the other prisoners. Our healers did what they could but they were unable to stop the disease. For a time a feared that Loki would catch it, he was so small, but it seemed to surpass him. Until now."

"What causes it?"

"We never discovered it's origins but it ravages the body until there is nothing left. Neither magic nor medicine can help. I am so sorry, Anthony."

"Why? He's your son."

"And it's you he loves. Loki does not give his love away freely. You must be someone very special to have captured his heart."

Tony nodded and swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I guess I should start packing his things. Do you know what he'll need to take with him?"

Frigga frowned. "What do you mean? Where is he going?"

"You're not taking him back to Asgard?"

"No. Why would I take him there?"

"It's his home and you're his mother. I just thought that he would like to spend the rest of his time there...with you."

The queen's smile was heartbreaking. "Loki's home is here, with you. I have said goodbye to my son and I can only pray that the fates will be kind enough to allow us to meet again in the afterlife. I have made my peace with the fact that today will be the last time I will see my son alive."

"How...uh...how long does he have?"

"Days, weeks...perhaps a month at the most. Loki is strong but I..."

Even though Tony had only known Frigga for a few hours it was natural for him to pull her in to his arms. They stood together, each attempting to soothe the other's pain, for several long minutes.

"Asgard will always be open to you, Anthony Stark. If you ever need anything do not hesitate to ask."

"Same to you, you will always be welcome in my home."

Tony watched Frigga depart and envied her strength. He wondered how she could just walk away knowing that she would never see Loki again. It was nearly impossible to leave Loki's side for a few minutes, terrified that each moment could be his last.

"Are you going to stand there all day?"

Loki's words snapped him back to reality. Tony crossed the room and sat at the mage's feet, pillowing his head on his lap. He felt fingers begin to card though his hair and against his will tears began to fall. He tried to keep silent but Loki knew he was crying. Loki always knew.

"I'm so sorry, Anthony."

"Why are you sorry?"

"Because I'm bringing you pain."

Tony angrily scrubbed at his eyes. "It's not fair. I can fix anything, why can't I fix this?"

"My love, it is time for you to realize that there are forces greater than you and I at work. It is time for my journey to end and I have made my peace with that. It is your turn to do the same."

"I'm not going to stop searching for a cure. I've never seen Bruce throw himself into his work like this before. And your mom is going to work with the healers on Asgard. It's been over a thousand years since they last studied this bug, maybe they'll have a breakthrough."

"Perhaps." Loki's tone was flat. As much as be wanted to believe that a cure might be discovered he knew that he was nearing his end.

"I would have said yes, you know."

Loki tilted Tony's head up. "What?"

"I asked Thor about the golden apples. He said it is basically a marriage proposal, asking someone to spend eternity with you. I would have said yes."

"Oh, Anthony."

A dozen emotions flashed through Loki's eyes at that moment as he pulled Tony towards him. The kiss was sweet but tasted of death.

"Let's do it anyway," said Tony while scrambling to his feet.

"Do what?"

"Let's get married."

It was almost comical the way Loki's eyes widened. "You are mad. I'm dying. Why would you want to marry me with the knowledge that you're going to lose me?"

"Because I love you. Because I want to call you my husband even if it is only for one day. Because I want to show the world that you're mine and I'm yours."

Loki brushed a tear from his cheek. "When did you get so sentimental?"

Tony knelt down once more. "When I met you. I know this isn't the orchard on Asgard or the rooftop restaurant that I was going to rent out but it'll have to do. Loki Friggason, will you do me the greatest honor and marry me?"

Though his throat was tight, Loki managed an answer. "Of course, you fool."

For the first time in days Tony's smile was brilliant. He kissed Loki until they were both breathless and brushed the mage's tears away. 

Carefully he settled himself on Loki's lap and the two watched the bustling of the city until the sun was low in the sky.

-----------

The two were married the next day. One of the many special skills that agent Coulson possessed was that he was an ordained minister.

Only a handful of people were invited and that was exactly the way they wanted it. Despite his exhaustion, Loki was determined to stand through the ceremony. Aside from the fact that he had lost an alarming amount of weight in just a few days, he looked joyous as he exchanged rings with his new husband.

That night they made love for what they both knew was the last time. Loki was exhausted but Tony was patient and soon the two were crying out their pleasure.

Tony lay with his head on Loki's chest, listening to each precious heartbeat. His husband's ring gleamed in the dim light and he smiled despite his pain.

The chest beneath his ear rumbled and he began to relax when he realized Loki was humming. It was a tune that seemed familiar but Tony couldn't place it. The sound was comforting and for the first time since Loki's diagnosis he allowed himself to sleep.

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

 The newlywed couple traveled from one side of the world to the other. Exploring other worlds was out of the question but Tony was determined to show Loki all of the wonders that Earth possessed.

Loki was stubborn and refused any assistance at first but soon it was apparent that his strength was fading. Tony had designed a wheelchair specifically for Loki using his tech so instead of rolling it hovered above the ground.

Despite the touching gesture, the wheelchair seemed to break something inside of Loki. His head sank in to his hands and he sobbed until he was sick. He wouldn't allow Tony to touch him and the genius swallowed his own sorrow as he watched his love, his husband, fall apart.

It was three days before Loki got out of bed and he was too ashamed to meet Tony's eyes as they boarded his private jet. He had composed himself by the time they landed, slipping his pain behind a mask of indifference.

Loki loved India. The sights, the culture and the wickedly spicy food eased his spirits. Tony spun wheels, gathered flags and pleaded to entities he did not believe in for a miracle.

Each day Loki was getting thinner and weaker. When he did have an appetite, which was not often, the food tended to make him sick. They both tried to hide their pain from the other but they knew each other too well.

In Sydney he began to cough. A deep, bone-wrenching cough that left his lips stained crimson as he gasped for air. The sound immediately woke Tony who rubbed his back in an attempt at comfort.

The engineer sat behind him, arms wrapped around his narrow frame, and urged him to breathe. "Just like that, babe. Can you feel my chest? Breathe with me. In and out, in and out. Just like that."

Several long minutes passed before Loki's breathing evened out and he sank weakly into Tony's embrace. Tony gently wiped his lips and brushed the lingering tears away. "Do you want me to call Bruce? Maybe he's found something."

Weakly, Loki twisted to meet his husband's eyes. "No. No more of this. I'm tired of being treated like some kind of experiment." He cupped Tony's cheek in a trembling hand. "I am dying. There is no cure, I've accepted that. I would rather spend my last days with you exploring this world, not being poked and prodded by doctor Banner."

"But...what am I supposed to do? I can't just sit around and watch you die."

"Then don't watch me die, watch me live."

--------

Tony promised that they were going to live and live they did. It was impossible to ignore Loki's condition but they both did their best to push it to the back of their minds.

Every other day there was a new sight to behold. Towering mountains, endless oceans, bustling cities...Loki drank each scene in with wonder. He spent hours weaving stories of his youth and doing his best to describe locations that Tony would never see.

He loved the sound of the ocean and often fell asleep to the lull of its roar. Tony would kiss his salt stained lips and watch him sleep, too afraid to close his eyes in case this breath was the last.

Loki was strong but even he could not out run death. Against all odds he had survived an astonishing four months. Each day he was growing thinner and weaker and he softly admitted that he was tired of fighting. They both knew that the end was close and Tony had saved the best for last.

As soon as Loki had expressed a desire to see the world Tony had commissioned cabin to be built in Svalbard, Norway. It had cost him a small fortune to have it completed in time but the look on Loki's weary face was worth it.

Most of the cabin was a specially designed glass that could withstand the extreme temperatures without cracking or fogging up. It would provide a perfect view for the night's entertainment.

"This place is beautiful but barren, why have you brought me here?"

"Just you wait, snowflake. Let's get you settled." With as much weight as he had lost, it was fairly easy to maneuver Loki out of the CAT he had rented.

Each step in the snow was agony and they had to stop twice before they even made it to the door. Inside it was blissfully warm but no matter what he tried Tony could not raise Loki's temperature. He bundled the two of them up on the couch so they had a perfect view of the sky above.

"Thank you, Anthony, for everything. I could never..."

"Hush." Tony pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "The show is about to start."

As the meager sunlight faded the sky came alive. Loki sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed Tony's hand as tightly as he could manage. "It's beautiful."

The couple watched as the sky bled from green to blue to pink and back again, the colors twisting in a hypnotic ballet. Tony felt the weak rumble of Loki's chest and smiled when he heard the familiar tune. "You never told me the name of that song."

It took Loki a long time to answer. "Recuderme. It means...it..."

Suddenly his breath was gone. He gasped and choked as he fought for air. Tony rubbed his back and urged him to breathe but he knew it was useless. Loki collapsed against him and Tony held him tightly. Part if him wanted to close his eyes until it was over while part of him was terrified to miss a single second.

He didn't have to wait long. Loki let out a sigh and that was it. He was gone.

Tony knew the exact moment that Loki died. The sky exploded in the brightest and most brilliant aurora on record that would leave scientists puzzling for decades to come. It was Loki's way of spreading a last bit of mischief as he left this world.

Tony pressed a kiss to Loki's forehead and touched his still warm cheek. He leaned close, as if sharing a final secret. "It means 'Remember Me.'"

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Crackverse 9: Old Soldiers

For dear waifu @drift-ed that bugged me about crack enough. The ugly-ass sweaters are mentioned only in passing, Jack and Sombra bond over, and there is a mention of Smurf tits and weaponized tennis tables. Masterlist:  Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5Part 6 Part 7 Xmas New Year Part 8 Soulmate AU

It was all peachy and dandy until the goon decided to pull a gun on Jack. Jack didn’t like having guns pointed at him.

“Grumps, uh…” Sombra switched to a private-private channel. “Shouldn’t we, like, call an ambulance, or something?”

“Anonymous tip-off. Done five minutes ago.”

“But… he just went up to him five minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

“Madre de Dios, does that happen that often!?”

“Have I ever told you about the Paris Table Incident? That one got recorded.”

“You’re an evil, evil man. I know I shouldn’t, I will regret it, but I’m going to look that up right now.”

*

“It was like watching a beautiful hyper-train wreck. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t take my eyes off. It wasn’t a publicity stunt?”

“No.”

“That was real?”

“We tried to pull it off the web.”

“Whoever titled it ‘Five easy steps to disable bastion unit with a tennis table’ was a goddamn marketing genius.”

“Yep.”

“Why the tennis table though?”

“It was on hand.”

“And, grumps, you willingly share the bed with that thing? Respeto.”

“As long as I don’t cheat on him.”

“Good abuelo doesn’t know about your boyfriends then.”

“…shit.” To be perfectly frank, Gabriel admitted, he had forgotten that little detail himself.

“Are you both done fucking around? I’m fucking boiling,” pinged at the other private channel.

*

Keeping Hakim occupied enough to not notice a human bulldozer going through his ‘security’ wasn’t that hard. Keeping himself from snorting out loud when Sombra sent him a picture of an almost literal pile of bodies of said ‘security’ was a challenge.

“Well…” And that poor bastard who just lost half of his teeth on the other side of the wall. “Keep at it. Once you set a trap you never know what will fall into it.”

“Hilarious,” Jack grumbled on the line. “Your plans fucking suck. Where the fuck are you?”

“Of which we have a perfect example just now,” Gabriel rolled his eyes behind his mask and when Sombra finally let the feed go through he ghosted away to the sound of Hakim’s indignant squawk at the sight of his ‘security’ properly disposed of. Or virtually annihilated. It was time to start the show. “Right here, Jack.”

The following scream of pain was indisputably deserving of an Oscar, Gabriel thought.

*

Winston harrumphed lightly at the sight of D.Va and Tracer dancing to the song Lucio was in the act of composing at the moment. Was that Beethoven he heard in the background?

“Winston, luv, watcha want?” Lena giggled at him, waving her hands erratically in the air.

“Oh, yes, did Soldier tell you anything about, hm, a trip to Egypt?”

“Sure, luv, he’s getting his mum.”

Winston’s left eyelid twitched nervously when he thought about exactly what potential female specimen could have spawned the man in question. Sure, he was capable and useful, certainly resourceful and knowledgeable about combat operations, but the temper. God, the temper and the mouth on him…

“His mother?”

“To be exact,” Lucio nodded, “he was more like ‘mommy won’t be hiding for much longer now’.”

“Our own grandma, imagine that!” Hana high-fived Tracer.

“Holy shit,” Jesse let the camera fall to the couch beside him, eyes wide, meeting the questioning gaze of the other three people and one genetically modified gorilla in the room. “I just, uh, remembered, I was supposed to buy Genji the return ticket. Be right back!”

*

“You motherfucking arsehole! You fucking shot me!”

“Jackie, baby, we agreed on that,” Gabriel had a creeping feeling of suspicion tugging at the back of his mind that maybe, maybe, he, unbeknownst to himself, did manage to botch something up.

“We fucking agreed on the fucking lower back!”

“That’s not much of a difference, baby?”

“Gabriel,” it was the full name now and the warning edge he hadn’t heard since forever in Jack’s voice. He… was definitely in serious trouble here. “I’m not fucking wearing fucking armor on my ass!”

Shit. There it was.

“Jackie…”

“Well, you should, anciano,” Sombra yet again invaded the ‘private’ channel, she was worse than Pharaoh’s ants. “To protect your assets.”

The deafening silence on the other side of the comm could have only meant one of the two outcomes possible �� and neither of them was any good, honestly. Gabriel readied for screams, or to duck behind a cover under a barrage of pulse fire because, if the universe worked properly – and it usually did regarding its capability to screw him over – Jack was somewhere with a good vantage point. And just behind Gabriel’s position.

“You know, that was actually pretty good, chica,” Jack chuckled.

“I know, I was sitting on it for days, abuelo.”

Well, Gabriel certainly had not expected that, and neither had he expected the silent dread welling up in his gut at the sudden realization that if they teamed up… No, he was better off not even trying to think about it.

*

“Genji, code red, y’all not going to fucking believe it!” Jesse almost screamed into the phone while pacing on the roof of the watchpoint.

“I’m not believing it already because I’m looking right now at a pair of Smurf tits.”

Jesse stopped and reconsidered.

“What?”

“Smurf tits.”

“…why?” This was a question Jesse was almost afraid to ask.

“Check your mail, I forwarded it.”

“…dude, answer me first, are these Smurf tits of the Papa Smurf banging Smurfette variety, or just regular Smurf tits variety?” Jesse formulated his words with some modicum of care while propping the phone on his arm and navigating the datapad’s menu awkwardly.

“Regular Smurf tits variety,” Genji confirmed with the accompaniment of a baby crying in the background.

“Huh. I got two.” Few fast swipes and Jesse had to sit down. “Okay, one, what’s with the ankle biter? Two, did she really write out the accent? Three, why did she mailbomb our server?”

“One, I’m flying coach, because someone forgot to buy me a ticket. Two, yes. Three, heck if I know.”

“Dude, I’m sorry, my condolences. I’m coming to pick ya up.”

*

Kicking in doors was never regarded as a subtle method of an entrance to a safehouse, but, considering, Gabriel had nothing in particular against it at that very moment, not when the whole 'lower back' dispute just blew over miraculously. The privacy thing notwithstanding, he should thank Sombra for her horrific puns she and Jack seemed to bond over - even if the very idea of that happening made his skin crawl uncomfortably. Maybe another of those atrocious sweaters would do, and getting Jack out of one shouldn't be a problem at all.

“I'm taking it out of your fucking ass,” the man in question mumbled in between the kisses and generous groping.

“Of course, Jackie,” Gabriel went for another kiss when a strange whistling sound caught his attention, along with a pinprick in his neck. He swatted at it dislodging something metallic.

“Haven't I told you, boys, not to ever try to trick the trickster?”

Jack's eyes rolled back and he went down like a literal sack of bricks.

“...fuck,” Gabriel managed to mutter before he joined him on the floor.

*

Gabriel had to honestly admit he felt properly and thoroughly chastised for being an unreasonable melodramatic moron with no imagination whatsoever, and he couldn’t fault Ana for quietly announcing the whole list of reasons why she was so, so disappointed with both of them. The mention of her having to remove the buckshot by hand had him wincing, really.

But now, they sat with the tea slowly getting cold, mesmerized by the spectacle taking place on the opposite side of the table.

Said spectacle laid sprawled on the couch and giggled menacingly while slapping his own face. Gabriel was thankful for the nanite metabolism that got rid of the cocktail fast and painless.

“Remind me that if there ever is a choice between sedating him, and shooting this stupid head of his off, there is no choice.” Ana shuddered.

“Yeah. This is easily the second scariest thing I’ve seen in my life,” Gabriel agreed. Jack mumbled something while almost putting two fingers in his eye and drifted away into the realm of sleep, again.

“I’m afraid to ask what was actually the scariest one,” Ana took a sip.

“I…” Gabriel faltered, returning for a second to the gut-wrenching horror when… No, it was better to leave it in the past. “I’d rather not say,” he added sourly.

“I see,” Ana patted his arm calmly, sighing. “At least now you are both all right. More or less.”

“So, how did you figure it out?”

“Gabe,” she rolled her eye, “you’re both bad enough on your own, but together, you are two biggest dramatic fucks I’ve ever known in my life. ‘I know your every move before you even think it’? I might even feel a little bit insulted.”

“Fair point.” Gabriel almost dropped the cup when Jack chose this exact moment to jerk awake, laugh manically, and then roll off the couch and land with a loud thud on the floor. One pale hand slowly rose in the air.

“Papi…!” Jack whined from under the table.

*

“…and conzidering ze dating-zess-pool of Talon has ze collaborative iq of pond zcum…” Lucio suspended his dramatic reading of Widowmaker’s e-mail to wave at Jesse and Genji. “…I turn to you in ze hope of alleviating zis issue…”

“What the fuck y’all doing?”

“Cowboy, good you’re here,” Hana zeroed on Jesse, her smile putting most of the known species of shark to shame. “We’ve reached a group decision you are going to take one for the team. If she gets laid, maybe she’s going to be less of a bitch to deal with!”

“Are y’all fucking daft!? Genji?”

“Oh. No, you’re on your own, McCree,” the cyborg took a step back. “After all, you forgot to buy me the return ticket.”

“You’re going bowling Saturday night, luv, the lane’s booked!” Tracer gleefully declared while handing him reservation details.