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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 1 year

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HONEY, I’M HOME ─── jackson rippner ✧♤

ೃ⁀➷ “You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.” — ‘Letters to Milena’, Franz Kafka

pairing. jackson rippner x assassin!reader

summary. jackson hires a prostitute the night before meeting his target. only thing is, you’re not a prostitute— you’re an assassin hired to kill him. but he catches your eye, and instead, you keep him for yourself.

warnings. swearing, creampie, p in v, unprotected sex, slight housewife kink, kidnapping, drugging, pretty toxic relationship lmao, somnophilia, dubcon, hate-sex kinda, guns, choking, stockholm syndrome, cervix fucking, jackson gets a taste of his own medicine basically😭, SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 6.1k

a/n. OKAY i know i said it was going into the direction of dom!reader but i got possessed and now,,, now we have this hate sex filth🫡

When Jackson comes to, the very first thing his mind registers in your perfume. It’s sweet and vanilla-y and entirely intoxicating, sending his mind whirling back to prehistoric days, childhood days, a vague mother figure he’d long forgotten about pressing sugar cookie dough onto a metal pan.

Instead, as Jackson’s eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the bright, warm lamp-light curling around him and the various furniture in the room, he sees you, sitting in front of him on the floor.

Your knees are pulled up and tucked under your chin, and it seems you’ve fallen asleep, your face peaceful and serene as soft inhales and exhales of breath leave you.

You look like a pure angel, dolled up in a silk lace dress and neat bows so pristinely Jackson swore he could see a halo resting above your soft locks, but he knows you’re someone who can kill — has killed.

Jackson had been staying in a motel, readying himself to meet the target he was stalking the next day — some politico's daughter, y’know, perfect blackmail material — when you’d knocked on his door, dressed in a skanky skintight dress and garter belt, promising some fun for a flimsy fifty.

Prostitution was illegal in this state, but Jackson had some money and time to kill — plus, if he didn’t get something now he’d probably fuck his target, which wasn’t really encouraged considering he could get attached, all that bullshit job professionalism. He wouldn’t, obviously, but his higher-ups didn’t think the same.

So he agreed; you looked stupid enough, and with that nice pair on you, those sweet curves, you were bound to be a good fuck. And you were definitely enough for him to handle— handle killing, he meant. It’d be easy: get you a little tipsy ‘cause it was his “kink” or some shit like that, kill you when you’re coming, dispose of your body, and meet the target in the morning.

But then you’d kissed him, hungry and desperate and rough, and totally, completely, slipping the pill tucked under your tongue down his throat.

Jackson realized immediately, his hands darting to the gun he had tucked in his belt, but you punched him in the stomach and the jaw before he could even undo the safety. And then he’d done it: he’d swallowed the drug, and the effects were instantaneous, the connection between his thoughts and his limbs losing focus, body sluggish like he was wading through water.

So suddenly had the situation had gone from him hiring a prostitute to getting fucking drugged by one, and he felt his composure slipping, the outrage burning in his lungs. Jackson thought himself to be a logical, well-thought out man who planned things to the tee, and this was not fucking following his plan.

“What did you - do t’ me?!” He spat, voice growing slurred, bent over and clutching his stomach.

“Mm,” you considered telling him, pursing your lips and watching him sway back and forth, “just a little something to calm you down. But, honey, I think you better sit down… it's not a mild drug.”

“Answer my fucking—“ Jackson started caustically, then felt that familiar pins and needles sensation appear in his arms, then spread to his legs, before finally falling to the floor.

“See?” You cooed, standing above him. You watched him struggle against the drug for a moment, before grinning and pulling him up off the floor onto the bed.

Jackson listlessly fought your touch, slowly thrashing and kicking at you; his limbs may have grown numb, but his inhibitions had not lowered whatsoever, nor his paranoia. Good paranoia, in this situation, just not so good that it kicked in before you shoved a paralytic down his throat.

You rolled your eyes, sitting down beside him and pushing his head onto your lap, digging your elbow into his chest to make him stay in place.

Jackson choked at the pressure, blinking rapidly. “Who th- the -- fuck are you?”

“I’m an assassin, honey. I’m gonna kill you — or, y’know, I’m supposed to kill you.” You beamed at him, “but I can’t do that, now can I? That’d be a waste of such a pretty face.”

Jackson’s brows knitted exasperatedly, mouth contorting to speak, but nothing came out. In fact, his mouth hadn’t been moving at all— his face had grown numb, now blankly staring up at you.

“There we go,” you said happily. “The drug’s all kicked in now, hasn't it? I’ll speak freely, ‘cause y’can’t answer me anymore, not even scream or cry.”

You sighed, your shoulders slumping like you were finally able to fucking relax, and began petting his hair before continuing. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t you? Stalking that politician’s daughter… were you gonna fuck her? Threaten her dad, have some fun, then kill them both?”

Jackson’s breathing grew more furious, eyes widening— or, they would’ve, if he could move. This was about his job, about the target, not just some fucking freak accident and a crazy prostitute.

You frowned, shaking your head. “You’ve gotta do more research on the people you blackmail, honey— Mr. Politican’ll do anything to keep his little princess safe. Even murder.”

You then got up, and Jackson watched you pull something out of your tights, unable to respond or protest or even fucking move, frozen still on the cheap motel mattress.

“But like I said, you’re too cute to die like that. I think I’ll keep you for myself.” You winked, before pricking him in the neck with the needle that was hidden in your tights.

His breath hitched, but there was no use: black quickly curled into the edges of his vision, and one second passed, then another, then he was out.

That brought him back to now, waking up with his arms handcuffed behind him and his legs tied roughly to a wooden chair. He rustled, pulling against the cuffs as quietly as possible, gaze still obsessively trained on your every micro-movement.

But it didn't matter: your eyes opened the moment you’d heard his breath catch and stutter, and you got up lightly, dreamily, like you were some figment of Jackson’s imagination rather than a psychopathic kidnapping assassin.

“Morning, honey,” you whispered, getting up off the floor, rubbing your eyes and yawning. But he didn’t respond, still pulling at his restraints, eyes thinned and focussed.

“Are you mad at me?” You whined with a frown, circling around his chair and playfully covering his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you, don’t worry. I’ll buy some cute lingerie, give you a little show… do you like lace? Or maybe leather?”

Jackson’s nostrils flared, growing irate and incredulous at your antics, and he snapped. “Do you really think you can keep me here? Make me play fucking house with you?” He shouted groggily, body still feeling the aftereffects of not one, but two, drugs.

You blinked numbly, hand finding his face, and you pressed his cheeks together, making him look up at you. “I won’t make you play house with me, Jackson. But it's the only thing you can do. You’re dead.”

Your tone had gone cold, using his real name instead of your pet-one, expression going blank and completely unfeeling at his words. Then, you fumbled for something on the wooden vanity beside you two before lifting it up to his face.

It read: TERRORIST GROUP LEADER’S REMAINS FOUND IN RED-EYE FLIGHT WRECK.

Jackson’s lips parted, feelings riddled half in shock and half in utter fury, gaze shaky as it flitted back and forth between you and the newspaper you were holding up. “I’m fucking—“

“Alive, I know. That’s kinda the point,” you finished his sentence with a chuckle, shaking your head like any of this was a joking matter. “When a plane goes down and catches fire, burning everybody, they won’t individually check who's who, honey. If there’s a name on the seat, there’s someone in it, and they’re dead… you’re as good as dead.”

Jackson’s eyebrows were still knit, but he suddenly stared straight ahead, listening to you silently and trying to make sure you were still too focussed on explaining theatrically to realize he was about to dislocate his thumb.

He could deal with the stool later — he just needed to get his arms free and escape. What with your grating voice and the fucking pronunciation of death you’d forced upon him, god, his fury was rising quickly, and he wanted nothing more right now than to fucking kill you.

You finished your explanation, peering deeply into his bright blue eyes, and you were about to wrap your arms around his neck and press him comfortingly to your chest when he successfully freed himself, and his hands shot out from behind him to strangle you.

His fingers curled around your neck extremely easily, tightening and contracting around the thing snugly. Jackson was seeing red, the anger accumulated from every little insane fucking thing you did to him bursting.

You struggled against him, your mouth opening and closing pitifully, leaning down into his grip— until your lips tilted upwards, a devilishly cheshire smile digging into your cheeks like it was an expression God never intended you to make.

Jackson only realized you’d taken his gun away from him when he felt the tip of the barrel kiss his temple, cold and clammy. He was still disoriented, and didn’t exactly comprehend all the facts ‘till they fucking punched him in the face. Or, in this case, threatened to shoot him point blank.

“L’mme - l’mme go, h’ney,” you whispered raspily, your eyes stuttering in their socket as he pressed deeper. Simultaneously, completely on instinct, you pressed the gun further into his skin.

“You’re too fucking weak to fire that gun,” he growled, digging his thumbs into the neat notch in the middle of your neck, his fingernails scratching bloody marks into your sensitive skin.

But you frowned weakly, and then Jackson heard that all familiar click, making him blanch. The strength in his hands didn’t falter, however— it got angrier, more desperate, like you wouldn’t automatically shoot him if he just translated his wrath into his grip.

“I d’nt- w’nna k-kill you,” you shook your head a bit, but both your threats remained the same: his hands making you go lightheaded, go blue, and the gun in yours making him sweat, the image of you splattering his brain against the wall clear as day.

Jackson felt your finger twitch, and he closed his eyes, grip going tense then faltering completely: if you shot him now, there was no point holding on. But you did the same— you thought he’d snap your neck right then and there, so you pulled away.

Just as quickly as you two had attacked one another, your resolves’ had crumbled, murderous intent clearing the room like someone had opened a window and let it all out. Silence filled it back up instead, a steady tension permeating with it, and it was fucking suffocating.

“What do you - want from me, exactly?” Jackson questioned first, several long moments later, words slow and collected. He’d try to calm himself and hide his anger away for later, because he now knew that you meant for him to meet only two ends here: forever with you, or forever dead— and neither were ends he was intending to have.

To escape, crawl under your nose and perhaps kill you along the way, he’d need to know the rules— play your little game. This cat and mouse mess could be done in a flash, and he fucking knew you had a weakness. He could feel it in your touch, how you gripped him, the lonely warble in your insane words.

Sure, you kidnapped him and were calling him honey, treating him like he was your plaything, but Jackson had always been good at reading people, even before he’d become an amalgamated mess of an assassin, terrorist and blackmailer: you needed someone in your life— be it a husband or a hostage.

You got down on one knee, looking up at him through your wet lashes, breathing still ragged. One of your hands took his own dislocated one, while the other fished through your silk dress pockets, pulling out a gold band ring identical to the one gleaming prettily on your left hand.

You didn’t answer his question saying for you to marry me or for you to love me— both things Jackson would expect you to say, especially with your oddly profound obsession with him (despite the fact he was positive you’d only known him for a few weeks at most.) No, you’d smiled, a lovely duchenne one, rosy-cheeked like a fucking schoolgirl confessing to her crush, not an assassin who’d kidnapped him, and said, “For you to be mine.”

Your hand curled around his dislocated thumb and quickly snapped it, cruel and rough but perfectly back in place, before you slipped the ring onto his finger shakily, and brought his hand up to your lips to press a kiss to his knuckles.

“You’re mine,” you repeated in a whisper, sounding every bit like a warning rather than a celebration.

ii.

After a few days of living with— or, more accurately, being held captive by you, Jackson thought he had you all figured out. It usually only took a few days for him and a target to become acquainted anyway; mutual acquaintance or not.

He found that the warmer he treated you, the more freedom he’d have. Like, after you slipped the ring on his finger, you undid the ropes tying his legs. A reward, you’d said, for accepting your… unity.

But you still switched out the clinky metal cuffs for zip ties. “I can’t have you doing that nifty little thumb trick anymore, can I?” you explained. “But I still want you to walk around. Take a tour of the rest of your life, honey.”

Then, you told him you had to go to work — to which Jackson rolled his eyes, considering assassination wasn’t exactly what he’d call work, though, he would also have to call himself a hypocrite — and left. Jackson wasn’t shy about roaming about the house, especially to look for a fucking escape, but he was firstly confronted with the sheer size of the place you’d locked him in.

Where he’d first waken up was the master bedroom, long and wide with a king poster bed and canopy, a pair of couples vanities side by side, two walk-in closets and one large ensuite. The rest of the house was the same, being two stories tall and terribly extensive: Jackson ran out of fingers on his hands to count how many rooms were in it.

By the time he’d combed through the entire house — discovering a measly two possible escape routes in the process — it was dark outside, and you entered through a front door Jackson couldn’t find for the fucking life of him.

It was appalling, firstly how spontaneous and carefree you were whilst simultaneously thinking of everything that could go wrong, and secondly, how up to par your skills were to his. He wasn’t one to gloat, but he knew just as well as his coworkers that he was a large step above the rest— and it seemed you were, too, the only equal he’d encountered in his line of work… and the only person who’d bested him.

“Honey, I’m home!” You sing-songed in the hallway, poking your head into each and every room for Jackson’s familiar form.

Jackson had settled back in the master bedroom, sitting on the very chair you’d untied him from that morning, and when you finally found him you cooed. “Aw, baby, you don’t hafta’ stay here all day.” You said, lifting his chin to look up at you.

Jackson grit his teeth, his temper suddenly getting the best of him, and he spat at you. But the effect didn't work nearly as well as intended: you didn’t even wince, merely blinking and bringing two fingers to your cheek and wiping the slick off. You pouted at him for a second, made your eyes real big and pitiful, before kissing him on the cheek… and shoving your spit-slicked fingers into his mouth, making him gag.

It looked like you were enjoying his suffering, before pulling away a moment later. “Well, no matter,” you said, brushing his actions off and regaining your happy mood. “I know you weren’t really here all day, honey.”

Jackson’s lips parted, eyes thinning suspiciously. “What the fuck are you—“

You suddenly pulled out your phone, showing camera angles from all throughout the house… and more startlingly, previous footage of him, scouring the house’s windows and poking through the various furniture and rooms earlier in the day. “You are quite the curious cat.”

“You have a camera?” He asked indignantly. Honestly, he should’ve expected it: it’s like, what do you get when you have a captive itching to escape and an obsessive, head-over-heels captor with plenty of money on her hands?

“Several,” you preened, “so don’t bother escaping.”

Then, you hooked your arm into his and dragged him to one of the (many, many) dining rooms.

“Now, I’ve never exactly had a hostage before,” you offered, pushing him into one of your cushy walnut dining chairs, “so I just realized you haven’t eaten. God, I’m so sorry, honey, you must be starving.”

With that, you ducked into the large kitchen a room away, and then returned holding a steaming plate of something, setting the dish down in front of him. “It’s not exactly, y’know, fine dining,” you said, picking up the spoon hidden in the food and scooping up some peas, “but it’s home-cooked. Not my home cooking, obviously, it is -- was, a target’s. I had a plate earlier, don’t worry, it’s good.”

Jackson stared at you, mind spinning with the information you were nonchalantly throwing at him: you were feeding him, your hand holding the cutlery, his mouth around it like he was fucking six, and the person who had made this food was dead, having had their throat slit or something.

But there was another thing in Jackson’s mind, a tiny, weak voice within him that told him to just shut the hell up and eat the damn food. His survival instinct, probably, but then it went on to think that you weren’t that bad, feeding him and keeping him safe from the police in this nice, grand house— and Jackson squished the voice. No fucking way in hell was he experiencing early stage stockholm syndrome.

At his reluctance, you frowned, and forced the spoonful in his mouth. “Eat,” you scolded, and fed him till the whole plate was finished.

He ate, of course, not because of the little bitch voice in his head, but because of the fact that he actually was really fucking hungry. The gesture seemed to warm your heart, for some fucked up reason, and you later sat in the livingroom with him and loosened his zipties.

There was a brief moment, however, that Jackson felt even an iota of fear: when his hands were slightly free, he immediately reached to grab you— he was taller, stronger, and could certainly defeat you in mere moments.

But your sneaky fingers tightened his restraints at the drop of a hat, your head butting his jaw so he fell back on the couch. “Try anything,” you warned, tone suddenly dark, “and I will break your fucking wrist.”

At his tentative, jaw slightly dropped, shaky nod, a cold sweat beaming down from his temple, you dissolved into a fit of laughter at his expression and undid his ties once more. This time, your hand held his in an intimate death grip, thumb curled sweetly around the wrist, that warning still ringing in his head.

He was learning how to play the game, though. His captor’s behavior. What you liked, what you didn’t. The extent of your mercy.

Jackson cleared his throat, searching for a question that might make you open up. “…What’s your name, anyway?” Yes, he didn’t even know your fucking name, and he doubted that the tacky prostitute name you’d given him initially was your real one.

You looked up at him, surprised he’d speak first, nonetheless to know more about you. So, you indulged, and told him your name, things you liked, didn’t like, your hobbies… all normal people stuff— y’know, first date stuff.

“I keep forgetting you don’t know a thing about me,” you confessed, leaning your head on his stiff figure, “‘cause I’ve known you for a very long time.”

Jackson’s breath hitched. “How so?” he said, trying not to give away his eagerness; he was going through all the steps he did when first meeting a target, like being kind and sweet, respectful and attentive, really buttering them up and coaxing information from them, before going in for the kill. In Jackson’s current case, the “kill” was a kiss.

It’d be something chaste, nervous, like he was unwittingly slipping into your trap and couldn’t help the warmth bubbling within him toward you, so you would fall into his; hook, line, and sinker… and maybe completely undo his zipties. He’d have to lay low for a few days, obviously, and build up that obsessive trust of yours, before going in for the literal kill.

But then again, Jackson, with that delirious little ego of his, kept forgetting your skills were up to par with his, and you were the first and only person to ever fucking best him.

You grinned thinly, knowing exact what he was doing, noticed the pattern his words went in, trying to shepherd the conversation to get the answers he wanted, and you pulled away from him. “I’ll tell you another day, honey. M’gonna go to bed,” you whispered sleepily, redoing his zipties. “Join me. I don’t like it when you tire yourself out.”

And so you left, and Jackson watched your hips sway, legs carrying you down the long hallway into the master bedroom. As soon as you were out of direct view, he sucked in a sharp breath, seething angrily.

Fuck, he thought, the realization of his predicament settling within in him at last. He’d always been told this: if you didn’t believe you could escape your situation within the first day, you would never escape at all. He thought it a silly mantra, because he’d always devised an escape plan after thinking on it for a few long moments.

Never did he think he’d find himself in a situation where that actually fucking applied, never did he think he’d meet his equal, and never in his entire, terrorizing existence, did he think he’d be helpless.

But Jackson had to persevere. Had to. He had not survived every terrible incident thrown at him in his tired lifetime, just to accept this. And so, he went to bed with you, the zipties rubbing his pale skin raw, and he watched the shadows on the roof shift with every hour that passed.

He did not sleep, certainly not with you by his side, and though it looked like it, you did not either. It was the paranoia of two terribly similar people; gaze dancing in the dark and never finding each others, waiting for the moment one of you snapped and you had to attack or defend.

The next day, and the next day after that, he went to bed beside you. Just like that, turned into weeks turned into months turned into seasons changing, and the zipties became cloth became your hand holding his.

It was a culmination of feigned loving, fake vulnerability, and pretending he’d gotten Stockholm syndrome that got him to this point. Every “honey, i’m home,” or kiss or hug or pet-name you stabbed into him, he returned with a “welcome home, honey”, a peck on the cheek, a hand holding yours, his venomous tone switched like a light into something sweet, soft.

One night, with his newly ziptie-free arms wrapping around you, your back nestling sweetly against his torso, he has to remind himself that it is not real. None of it was real: he was not your husband, you were not his wife, you did not love each other, you were not normal fucking people— you were the captive and the captor.

Jackson had to remind himself he didn’t actually love you, because that night he thought: if you used him, he would use you. He would take you whenever he wanted, like how you used him. A man has needs, he thought, and being trapped in this house with you meant those needs could be met.

It reminded him of when you first met— not the kidnapping part, of course, but of the kissing and the touching, your tits pressing softly against his chest, his hands following the swell of your ass.

With a start, he realized he’d had some kind of unintentional celibacy enacted upon him: he couldn’t fuck anyone other than you, obviously, having been trapped in that house, but he never entertained the idea of fucking you because he hated you. You don’t fuck the bitch you’re planning to kill any day now.

But your warm body against his awoke something in him, his forced celibacy unable to survive against the pure lust he felt filling him now. You were beautiful, undeniably, with pliant thighs and delicate curves he could see himself getting between animalistically, roughly, a kind of morbid sexual revenge against your captivity of him. It helped entirely that this was the most vulnerable he’d seen you, completely without any weapons, curled warmly into his side.

After studying your breathing for a few seconds, ensuring you were still asleep, Jackson carefully slipped away from you to kneel in front of you in the middle of the bed. He admired your night getup: those silk dresses you adored to wear at home, and absolutely no underwear.

He then pried your soft thighs open slightly, dipping his head between them and losing himself in the sweet scent of your cunt, before chancing a stripe up to your clit. He flattened his tongue, wanting to collect your taste on it completely, and you merely sighed, turning over slightly and widening your legs in your sleep, like you somehow knew what he was doing and wanted it.

He pressed his mouth up to your cunt fully now, his nose hitting your mound as he devoured you, tongue filling every crevice and fold you had like he was starving. Your small whimpers and breathy sighs grew louder now, more frequent, and then Jackson suddenly pulled away, satisfied with how he readied your hole.

Jackson shimmed himself out of his boxer shorts, a pair with silly little hearts he’d never seriously buy for himself— you bought them, as soon as you’d captured him, clearly having fun with the utter control you could display on him, down to his fucking undergarments.

He shook himself slightly, refocussing on the matter at hand: fucking into your glistening cunt. There was something oddly empowering about doing this to you when you couldn’t protest, regaining some control over his own fucking life by terrorizing yours.

But he wasn’t sure you’d fucking care anyway: he knew you liked to peek around the corner when he was showering, “accidentally” walking in when he was in the middle of changing, not-so subtly bending down and pressing your ass to his crotch.

He sighed slightly, rubbing his hand up and down on his hard length in the dark, before lining it up with your entrance. Jackson muffled the groan that curdled in his throat with his large hand, breathing shakily and finally pushing past your slick folds. You were soaking, and he didn’t know if it was because of his previous foreplay or if you were just naturally like this, all horny because he slept beside you at night. He wouldn’t put it past you if that was the case: your obsession with him was clear in every single way.

You made a noise in your sleep, and Jackson froze, hands instinctively coming up to press lightly against your throat — an unconscious thing on his part, formed when his hands had been zip tied and the only thing he could do was choke you, unable to grip any weapon properly. But you didn’t wake up; your face merely screwed together, before smoothing out and returning to blissful unconsciousness.

Jackson let out a sigh of pleasure and relief, your walls clenching around his pulsing cock. He gripped the sheets beside your head and began thrusting in and out of you: at first gently, afraid to wake you up, but as the minutes dripped past, Jackson grew desperate, fucking into your cunt roughly. He wanted to abuse your tight little pussy, stretch you wide open and take you for everything you had.

“Fuck,” he grunted under his breath, snapping his hips harder against yours, “Fuck!”

His exclamation of sexual satisfaction startled you awake, but he didn’t notice how your eyes moved behind your eyelids, too focussed on pounding his rock-hard cock into you. For all the insanity and behavioral issues God gave you, he certainly made up for it in the way he crafted your cunt: extremely warm and easily wet, a sticky hole that sucked him in but was still cramped, like it was begging him to force your walls open.

“Honey?” you murmured foggily, wrapping your arms around his neck. You were about to speak again, when Jackson suddenly found your g-spot, and rammed continually into it, making a filthy mewl leave your lips.

“Fuck, you woke up?” Jackson cursed, looking at you for the first time. His thrusts were unrelenting, though, now not caring if you’d woken up and just wanting to feel your hole squeeze around him again.

“Jackson, I was - sleeping,” you squeaked out, hands moving to his back and digging your nails into the skin.

“That’s kinda the point,” Jackson mocked, tone sarcastic and peeved like you were interrupting him. “And don’t fucking fight it,” he warned angrily, hand leaving the mattress and roughly squeezing one of your tits through the fabric of your nightdress, “‘cause I’m not stopping ‘till I come.”

You pouted fake-sadly at his words, but your back arching gave you away, keening when he kneaded your tit too meanly and made a shock of pain run up your body. “Feels so good,” you grinned sweatily, but he just rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” he sighed, throwing his head back, “didn’t fucking ask what you thought.”

He pushed your face to the side so he was looking at your jaw, more content with treating you like just some hole, but you didn’t care: he, your darling, was fucking you. He wanted you so bad he fucked you when you weren’t even awake. God, you could’ve kissed him right then and there, but he probably would’ve hit you. (Not that you would mind… but you wanted your honey to take control, have it his way for a bit.)

Jackson rutted into you fast and selfish, your eyes rolling to the back of your head at the violent way he fucked you: your sick pleasure came at the expense of your weeping cunt, which was trembling in the stinging pain he was inflicting, cockhead stretching you wide.

Then, Jackson’s hands slid down to your hips, so he could shove his cock deeper into your cunt, pressing his weight so heavily onto your chest you could barely breathe. He groaned; you were clearly affected by the action, bearing down on his cock suddenly, and he reveled in the ecstacy.

He fucked you slightly and slower, and you only realized what he’d been doing when he leaned down to get a better angle, bullying the head of his cock against your cervix: he was trying to fuck into you further, push his dick so close, so snug against your womb that there was no doubt in hell his load would impregnate you. His actions were dictated not by any sense of reason, but by a crude, carnal desire, wanting nothing more but to make you scream.

And you did scream alright, a breathy, brutal scream; a mix of whimpering pain at the way his head pushed against you, and of shameful, drooling pleasure, his delicious length making you feel fucking bloated, you were so full.

One of Jackson’s hands reached up to your head to pull your hair, making you whine at the pain of the tug, and he growled out a string of curse words, before thrusting his cock so angrily it was like a punishment, surely bruising your cervix, and releasing his thick load deep inside. His come flooded your cunt, pumping you full of his salty cream, fucking you still.

Jackson then panted raggedly, feeling your gummy walls tense at the pain of him pulling out, flopping down beside you. “Does it hurt?” he asked you absently, pulling his boxer shorts back up to his hips.

You bit your lip as you clenched your thighs together, whining slightly at the pain blooming deep within your abused cunt, and at the loss of pleasure— you hadn’t come after all, Jackson being entirely selfish in his fucking. “Uh-huh,” you murmured weakly, feeling the strength in your body leave you completely. “You’re a mean one, honey.”

“Good,” Jackson said, chuckling darkly. It was the first laugh you’d heard rumble out of him the entire time you’d held him captive, and you drank it in: it was pleasant and breezy, like cold water on a hot day. It was certainly out of place, such a gleeful laugh after savagely fucking you, but you welcomed it anyway.

Jackson suddenly grabbed you by the waist, pulling you flush to his chest. “M’gonna use your hole whenever I want, and you’re gonna take my cock no matter what, ‘till you’re begging me to stop,” he growled in your ear, making goosebumps break out on your clammy skin. “Least you can do for fuckin’ kidnapping me, you psychotic bitch.”

“Oh,” you purred, batting your lashes up at him, “it’d be my pleasure to be your fucktoy.”

Jackson grinned, at you, for you, and you thought to yourself that kidnapping him was the best thing you ever fucking did.

iii.

Somewhere, muddled between you kidnapping him, the two of you almost killing eachother, and him fucking you dumb, Jackson caved, and he started to believe he actually loved you. His mind didn’t have any qualms accepting that you were his new life— living in your house, only knowing you, and only ever talking to you.

Maybe it was stockholm syndrome, or those delicious fantasies you’d whisper in his ear at night (“Y’know, honey, it’s really you who should be saying you’re home. What do you think, huh? You coming home from a long day of work to me, in my panties and an apron, no bra and a sweet, home-cooked meal on the table. Dessert’ll be, of course, me,”) or maybe it was just you.

You, despite your terrible job and seriously obvious insanity, being the epitome of fuckable: horny when he was, a talented, needy mouth, able to take anything he gave you to while always going back to being tight as fuck, and intensely eager to have him.

You, who controlled his life, and he, who controlled you. The way you treated each other was probably illegal somewhere, but in that house not even the fucking law mattered. (You still remember when Jackson got his gun back, and he teased your clit with the cold tip till you creamed down the barrel… a terribly memorable story that always made you groan.)

Jackson was extremely well aware that there was something strange about your relationship, and not just the fact it occurred in the strangest way possible, but that he was essentially giving up to you— losing his inhibitions, at least against you. Something about… putting his well being in your hands. His needs. His wants. His life. Spending the rest of his life with you; in this house, accepting life and no escape.

But still, for a man like Jackson, who had long since accepted that he wasn’t cut out for a life of normalcy, a life of love, this certainly wasn’t a bad way of living. He had a house nicer than anything he’d ever lived in, didn’t have to work, could do whatever he wanted all day, and got to pound his cock into your perfect little pussy every single night.

#wowee this has a lot of words and a lot of warnings #this is filthy i apologize #cillian murphy smut #jackson rippner smut #jackson rippner x reader #jackson rippner x reader smut #red eye #jackson rippner

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thefablefoxart · 2 years

Text

REDACTED CHARACTER HEADCANONS

Have a collection of random headcanons I’ve been collecting for a while :)

Sam

- He flat out refuses to drive any small car

- I feel like he owns a cowboy hat (like he inherited it from a family member or something) but he never wears it cause he’s just not a hat kinda guy

- He genuinely believes he dresses well

Vincent

- He has this fun little game where he tries to get into college house parties without anyone realising (and he’s usually successful since he still looks really young and can talk his way into anything)

- He definitely make those hand thirst trap pics (y’know the photos of men gripping their steering wheel with waaayy too many rings on, yeah those)

- He doesn’t wanna admit that he loves bats cause he doesn’t wanna feed into the vamp stereotype but he thinks they’re adorable (he probably saved one once and absolutely fell in love with it)

David

- Is absolutely scared shitless by horror movies (he’d take extra caution when locking the house the night after watching one, checking the doors like 5 times)

- If/when he and Angel get married, he would wear his ring on a chain rather than on his finger

Asher

- Looooves sharks

- Used to have really bad acne as a teen and he still has bad break outs every now and again

- He drinks milk straight from the carton

- Be probably eats butter too

Milo

- Used to have a crush on Tank which has become an inside joke between them

- His guilty pleasure is singing in the shower (and Sweetheart endlessly makes fun of him for it

Geordi

- He can NOT sit on a chair probably

- Has a mountain of pillows and plushies on his bed

- Absolutely loves Bluey

Gavin

- He’s almost always wearing pink

- His favourite party trick is being able to tie the cherry stem with his tongue

- He knows flower language

Lasko

- He’s fluent in sign language

- He has one really lovely neat bullet journal that he puts max effort into (the rest of his notes are a mess)

- Has so many lip balms and hand creams

Damien

- He has reading glasses but is too embarrassed to wear them in front of anyone but Hux

- He hates movies. He really can’t sit still for that long without feeling like he could be doing something more productive (me too babes)

- Has very small neat handwriting but he writes in capitals all the time

Huxley

- Plant dad because of course he is

- He never drinks anything other than water

- Has dabbled a bit into painting. He doesn’t do it often but he finds it relaxing (I imagine he probably works kinds loose and abstract, just making random shapes and textures)

- He actually prefers cats over dogs

Caelum

- He sits on the kitchen counter all the time

- His favourite animal is a bunny rabbit (he begs freelancer to get one on a weekly basis but the closest they’ve given him to a bunny is a plushie one (which he loves dearly but it’s still not a really rabbit))

- Has seen every Studio Ghibli movie

Cam

- He has blankets and plushies for his clients to cuddle during his sessions

- He always looks tired (in a relaxed kinda way)

- Loves watercolour painting

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted sam #redacted vincent #redacted david #redacted asher #redacted milo #redacted geordi #redacted gavin #redacted lasko #redacted damien #redacted huxley #redacted caelum #redacted camelopardalis #redacted headcanons

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unsleepingtales · 8 months

Text

Fhjy e2 reactions this episode is batshit and I love them but also I’m so sad

I’ll be so real gang I am stressed and have been in a downwards thought spiral so we’ll see how this goes yeah?

I love Adaine making her mage hand look like Riz’s ringed hand that’s so fun and lovely

Also the mage hand mini is so cool

Don’t patronize me, it’s bad 😔

Goddamn they’re good

Would you be interested in healing us?? Spare healing o cleric??

I love that they could heal the hangvan

The night yorb’s art is SO cute I need a plushie of it. I’m gonna just buy galaxy patterned fleece and make one.

It feels like a stretch???

It’s gonna bite!

I just thought if I acted excited it would be good

Naur 💀

Armor of ayda!!!

Go sit on a whisky bottle you punk bitch !

Duggan and Balthazar definitely explored each others bodies we’re all agreed on this right. In my mind they had something like the cowboy and the roman soldier from night at the museum had.

“This is hot” Emily I agreeeee

Perfect example of gambler’s fallacy but y’know what this did just reinforce it

Nothing I can do! Brennan. Brennan come on.

That’s a feat I took in LIFE

They THREW that that die TRAVELLED

“You know I’m always rooting for you”

Oh GOD

No more probability smashing ok murph?

Y’know what for being fully run over by a van? 22 points of damage is not bad.

Was last episode really only two rounds of combat

He is So defeated

I’m hurting 😡

ALSO the portal is so cool. This battle set is amazing.

The blood on the windshield I can’t

Oooooof

Can she resummon Baby?? Has he died before I can’t remember?

“From when you ran me over” as if Fabian is not Solely responsible for the choices he’s made. Riz didn’t intentionally run you over babe you fell out of the van.

This is. Not great!

What hell!

Oh nooooo

Cmon Murph please

SHIT

Oh god

Oh my god you are about to kill your healer

She had 23!!

Aaaaaaaaa oh god

:( I feel bad for the cute manta ray

Ally’s gonna sue you if they hit you

With my wizarding powers and my absolutely fucked van ! Gorgug thistlespring the man that you are

OH SHIIIIIIT

Yessss

Ok yeah that makes sense that was on the bingo

Ok so the van now holds the night yorb sealed in its roof and an angel in the engine. Fantastic.

That mural is beautiful

They’re so exhausted guys. School starts tomorrow.

(What an episode to air the week I go back to class and have Such A Bad Time Guys)

Eeeeeeeeeesh

Don’t menace me!

It means something to me emotionally. Gorgug Car Guy Thistlespring <3

You wanted to do a bit so now we’re doing a bit. Suffer for your bit.

Does the back door of the van mini open?? Bc that’s sick

Ooooh Ally has custom spell cards with the d20 logo on them. Those are neat

He’s gonna stab these guys but it’s not with any of the normal zeal 😔

Jesus

Just to try and feel something

JESUS

Why do you guys careee you’re bugssss

Brennan.

Zac oh god

‘Guys I think Fig’s getting hit with the ballista right now’

She doesn’t even cutting words she just takes it 😭😭

It’s that era, The Ball 😭😭

Oh my fucking god

The noises of defeat they’re all making

I want an ice cream. Like the old days.

Just like that ART oh I’m gonna reblog that art of them at basrar’s so bloody after a fight

I love them. I missed the bad kids guys.

I think we’ve gotta go to sleep.

Wooooo

Love an aso callback

Love wins 💅

We’re done doing this!!

ARE YOU KIDDING ME

What kind of BULLSHIT

God this is so unhinged

No bonus action healing or anything Kristen?

Brennaaaaaan

So tactical. So late. So dead.

The slowest and saddest three point turn

The least enthusiastic stab

You didn’t! Have! To do it! You could! Have had! Ice cream! I! Want! To go! Home!!!

Oooooof

OOOOOF

That Turncoat 😢

This is so fucking sad.

What the fuck man

I don’t know why anything happened. Why did any of that happened.

The shard of the day yorb

Fig why would you ask that.

Riz desperately trying to keep the group together is so heartbreaking

The fucking dry guys

BY MEPHITS FOR MEPHITS

Gotta stay awake in the dome motherfuckers

Oh my GOD

They’re gonna cry man

Dome art!

Brennan what are you about to do

Daisy Cubby!!!!

Fig. What.

I’M gonna cry.

Everyone’s gonna cry.

Is it fun man. Is it really.

Map!!!

It says fuck you zac ☺️ in beautiful writing!

Emily Axford the woman you are……….

What the fuck is happening right now.

Oh god oh no

This is so horrifying

Kristen. Kristen No.

I love the map!

Oh god.

Oh the Hallariel art is FANTASTIC

Are they going on their honeymoon. I have paused the episode to write this are hallariel and Gilear going on a honeymoon did they get married and not invite their kids because they were saving the world I’m gonna be so pissed

Oh the Gilear art is cursed

Okay they’re going on a cruise.

Gilear’s voice has dropped

Oh SHIT okay so I wasn’t that far off

This is just. So fucking sad. I know that it’s gonna get happier because it’s fantasy high but right now this is so fucking sad

They’re newlyweds??? So they did fucking get married?????

Leaving for MONTHS after your only child gets back from saving the world and you got married to one of his best friends’ dad without your child or your new spouse’s child there is so horrible oh my god. I am real life mad about this.

Ok interesting things happening with Gilear and luck. Is Gilear not gonna go see Fig at Mordred before he leaves for a year???

Guys there is still almost an hour left in this episode is it all gonna be this fucking sad

Oh my god he inherited the singing barrel pirates

Good for them being unionized

Sklondaaaaaa

She’s got her own boarddddd

I love her

God they’re powerful this season

SKLONDA ART FUCKS

Oh thank god a loving mother.

It was… ssso tactical

That summer before junior year growth spurt/style shift combo is so real

Oh shit. The single mother struggling to pay for college storyline is gonna fuck me up monumentally I think. Fuck.

Scholarships are gonna be really important 🥲 line taken from my real life

Setting up a board is to riz gukgak what a spreadsheet is to me. I am him he is me.

Please god I need the thistlesprings to not make me sad

They’re so cute!!!!

Zac looks fucking near tears

Oh god any time Brennan’s face gets a little more serious and the music kicks in my heart just sinks

GORGUG AND ZELDA BROKE UP? 😭😭

That does not make any sort of sense

Staying tight with your ex’s parents is also so real lmaooo

He had a toothbrush at her house??????

The bad girls are so important to me

Awwwwwwwww

They’re aaaall crying

ZAYN THE RETURN OF ZAYN MY BEST FRIEND ZAYN DARKSHADOW

And Ragh and Lydia!! Yay!!

SANDRA LYNN FAETH THE WOMAN THAT YOU ARE. I WOULD BE SO GOOD TO YOU YOU DONT’ EVEN KNOW.

Brb printing out the new Sandra Lynn art to hang on my wall

They’re so tired guys

Squeem is alive? Ok

Jawbone man.

Oh god. Literally.

Sobbing this is literally the high school mentality

Guys. Guys.

It’s a real crapshoot for me finishing things. Yep.

Babe that is not a measurement of classes.

Yes that is a thing you can do. You can take time off for extreme circumstances.

LOVE the Aguefort art. Slay.

Also love that the way Brennan gets into the Aguefort voice is to do the peace hands

He’s going on vacation with ayda?????

Ayda looks great

Oh God No

How could this possibly go wrong?

What is the quangle and why is it going to cause so many problems

Oh nooooooo

That’s so fucking sad christ alive

Oh god

Emily.

PEOPLE LOVE SKITS ON ALBUMS

“Does nobody respect the fact that it takes time to save the world” feels like the thesis of the season

Trackerbees breakup about to be confirmed??

ZAYN ART ZAYN ART ZAYN ART

Look at my best friend in the whole wide world and his pet rat. He’s so fucking pretty.

Aelwyn moved out??

Augh.

Oh that’s lovely actually

Oh aelwyn looks GOOD.

And she’s got cats and is teaching middle school??? Good for herrrr

Awww that’s sweet

Oh right somehow I completely forgot that Fig did a fucked up devil deal

Oh god fig’s spilling on her shirt. Did she somehow swap fates with Gilear or something.

Sandra lynnnnnnnn

That is a good way to think about classes :)

What??

Nooooooooooooo

Sometimes you really do just have to give Nothing constructive in an improv scene sometimes it’s better

Trackerbees breakup confirmed. Tracker’s doing great.

Still interested in the retcon or whatever happened with Tracker originally being a cleric of Lida and then switching to Galicea

Cassandra I’m sorry you and Kristen are both struggling so much

Oh Whatttt no

If Cassandra dies and goes to the astral plane I will be so sad.

Holy SHIT guys.

#fantasy high junior year #reactions #verbal component #zayn

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inkandpaintleopard · 5 months

Note

I think this is just Corrupted Boyfriend in a nutshell I DIDN'T REALIZE HE WAS FLIPPING THEM OFF-

But also like. He's SO done. He doesn't know what it is about them and their antics but a pair of children have so far been the hardest things to drag way deeper down, and he's SICK OF IT

Also clearer view for Boyfriend's tail and the heart health bar. Seems to be specifically designed off a ribcage, which is neat

Something I also noticed is that the regular health bar isn't going down anymore: which makes sense, sense all parties are corrupted, there'd be no reason for it to

WAIT SKID'S PUPILS ARE CHANGING COLORS HERE TOO

It's like flashes and tiny but they ARE!!

And Pump's not having it!!! And this point he just wants Boyfriend to leave them ALONE. He won the song. He corrupted them. Why can't he just leave them be?

And Skid is just. Shocked. He's still reeling from everything but despite it all, despite what they've both been through, despite Skid probably blaming himself at this point, Pump is STILL THERE TO DEFEND HIM.

And then the two just. Talk to each other, sing together, so loud they DROWN BOYFRIEND OUT. It doesn't matter anymore, they're here, they have each other, and NOTHING is going to change that. Not demons, not angels, not corruption.

And in the final moments of the song, the camera doesn't even give Boyfriend a cursory zoom. Beautiful.

I had to google some images in attempt to express my thoughts

I can’t even scream. I love this mod bro.

Something I REALLY love it that when they start out singing, they both are just

Y’know?

But then it’s like Skid sort of hits a breaking point and then they both

And it’s only then that Pump decides to get up and let loose on Boyfriend

And Skid just sort of watches in awe

And then he too stands up, only after watching Pump

And then just. I’m out of ways to emote I just can’t with these guys They’re holding hands

#friday night funkin #fnf #fnf mods #fnf hellbeats corruption #skid and pump #spooky month skid #spooky month pump #sm skid #sm pump #crossover-enthusiast

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spiinsparks · 2 years

Text

UNPROMPTED / anon / ALWAYS ACCEPTING !

↳ hey hey,, so i saw that one post you rb’d and it got my gears turning — && im sure youve thought about this before but like - rmb when ames & sonic were up against rough & tumble??? what if she switched places with sonic and prior to their knowledge on the virus those goofballs released — she put herself in harms way. yk,,, if she was infected . do you think if sonic knew then how to keep it at bay— from consuming her — would he … would he have traveled with her — in order to keep it from eating at her?? im sure tails would have made something for her — learning that his speed yk can act as a cure ??

||. ............... now thinking about an entire au where metal virus is mostly the same except sonic and amy get infected together in that first altercation with the infected.... gosh. i think he would keep such a close eye on her. on all of them, if his friends got infected. and he’s push himself so, so far and so hard... to keep their infection at bay.

especially amy - who’s now the lead of the restoration - they can’t lose her okay. ( the restoration can’t lose EITHER of them, but without knuckles... she’s all they’ve got. there’s not an established chain of command beneath her. it was knuckles, and then amy with the resistance and he would be so keenly aware of that.)

anyways so this prompts the idea that tails can manage to have sonic’s speed transfer to the both of them while sonic is out on the road evacuating as many people as he can. and. yeah, i think he would have traveled with her for sure! and that would be a good thing and a bad thing. A GOOD THING, because he wouldn’t be alone, like he is in canon, suffering the effects of the virus and pushing himself well beyond his limit with nobody to really... bounce off of but his own thoughts. and it’s AMY so he’d be able to keep his spirits up a little bit easier ... because that’s his best friend. with her at his side he can push through anything, y’know? that’s how sonic rolls.

it’d also be a BAD THING because no doubt, he would continue to blame himself for the whole Incident as he also does in canon, but to a different degree. because i doubt his speed would work on amy with the exact same... effectiveness it does on the source. and eventually, as gemerl states, his speed starts to fail, which means amy’s infection would speed up WAY more. and sonic - he wouldn’t SAY anything but. i mean. he apologizes to the victims of the virus. he’s constantly weighing the pros and cons of what he has to do vs. what he wants to do to keep everyone else safe. he’s running out of time and he acknowledges it. he’s running on fumes and he acknowledges that too. (i think about that panel where he nearly gives in to the virus full-stop before heading back to tails and amy... before they all 3 head to angel island)

uh. yeah. it’d be SO NEAT to explore that !!! because there are pros and cons to it... and ultimately i think it’d be such a neat way to have those 2 bond and rely on each other !!! (but also sonic would internalize that for a long time)

#⸨ * OOC ⸩ — he was never actually called a rodent in the games but yknow .#⸨ * OOC ANSWERS ⸩ — don’t look at me and my 5 tins of mints .#(ty for the question !!!)#(imma be turning this in my head for 5ever)

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youreyeslookliketheocean · 3 years

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youreyeslookliketheocean’s DSMP Fic Recs!!

Figured it was about time for one of these... :)

Mostly SBI-centric because they’re my favorite dynamic. I’ll probably add to this list as time goes on, and I also want to go back through my ao3 history and find some lesser-known fics I really enjoyed to rec them all. But for now...

* oneshot ** unfinished work

** the lights go out (my heart goes still) by curseworm

With his old home unwelcoming and his new one gone, Tommy is alone. After hours of staggering through the freezing snow, he finds a cabin.

Technoblade’s cabin.

He hides himself away in the deepest corner he can find, taking only what he needs to survive, wasting away in the cold and the dark. He’s petrified at the thought of being found out, terrified of what he thinks Techno would do to him.

When Techno finds his injured teenage brother huddled in a filthy little cave beneath his basement, the rage he feels is immeasurable. The voices demand blood, and blood he will give them. Dream won’t be getting away with this one.

(On the other side of the world, in a country that floats on a man-made lake, Philza gets himself in a bit of a pickle.)

** The hearth down under by Crystalquill

A tiny change gives Tommy the courage to flee to the Nether instead of the cold tundra, finding an unlikely ally in the midst of a fiery hellscape.

But tiny changes can alter the course of history. The SMP will never be the same.

(Lots of cool Nether worldbuilding in this one!!)

to be a wanderer, wandering by hydrangeasheart

Tommy's feet drag in the snow.

It's so, so cold. He's so cold. His toes are freezing. His exposed shins feel like they’ve been cut open-- even the one that’s bandaged. His wings have gone numb, which is almost, almost good, because now he can’t feel the shifting, broken bones inside of the left one, just under feathers and muscle.

He doesn’t know why he’s still walking.

Or, Tommy leaves the exploded ruins of Logstedshire behind, and walks until he finds somewhere safe.

And things keep going from there.

(A canon-divergent AU, splitting off somewhere around when Tommy started hiding out below Techno's house.)

that’s, like, a hundred miles by No_one_you_know (and then “as long as i’m here”, and “he’s my brother, i just raise him”)

Dream would kill him. Dream was going to kill him- he was going to- no, he wouldn’t. Dream was his friend- friends don’t hit each other- Dream was supposed to take care of him- Dream /was/ taking care of him.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. He couldn’t clear his thoughts as he stumbled to the family computer, pulling up a tab on google and frantically typing the name into the search bar.

The words Technoblade Watson stared back at him, the little black bar at the end of the letters blinking slowly, mocking him.

Why, of all people, did it have to be Technoblade?

in short: the one where dream sucks as a parental figure, tommy runs away, and visits his least favorite family member technoblade.

passerine by thcscus(blujamas)

Do I really need to put the summary here? Pretty much everyone knows this fic. Also, though, if you enjoy this one you should totally read thcscus’ connected fic, “shrike”!! It’s only at 2 chapters right now but it’s already really good and has this dark, foresty aesthetic I love...

not with a bang but with a whimper by dip_dyed_ghost

He knows Tubbo doesn’t care about him anymore. He knows that. He’s been shown that. But it doesn’t stop Tommy from caring about him. He brushes the pads of his fingers over the compass’s glass and wonders how he’s doing, if he’s tired of it all yet, if he needs help. He watches the way it points strongly in the direction over the ocean. He hopes he’s alright.

Even after everything, he hopes he’s alright.

During his exile, Tommy finds a drugged and hurt Tubbo on his doorstep. He can’t not help him.

(This one has a neat take on potions, in my opinion. Also it’s only 4 chapters so it’s a quick read!)

take this compass, follow it home by lightning_anon

Tommy's a fuck up, he can't pay attention, and never sits still. He taps his hands, pushes people away, and has never had a best friend. He's a screwed up, forgotten kid lost in the foster system. He's also just been placed with a new family. Tommy knows how this goes, he never ends up staying long. After all, no one wants a fuck up like him.

Why would this house be any different?

Or: the obligatory sleepy bois foster fic, but with a focus on the neurodivergent kids that inevitably get lost in the system.

(Genuinely want to see more books like this in original fiction. It’s part of what inspired my newest og wip, “To Build a Home.” So sweet and I feel like I had my eyes opened to some neurodivergent tendencies I never knew existed. I read this in a day and can’t rec it enough.)

bloodlines by youreyeslookliketheocean

Tommy’s an orphan on the run from his previous guardian. Philza’s a king who prides himself on keeping his kingdom in an era of peace. Wilbur’s the crown prince, and Techno’s right beside him as his adopted brother. When Phil’s kingdom of Pogtopia is threatened by the bloodvines—a strange, brainwashing plant infecting many of the surrounding kingdoms—the four must work together to keep the kingdom, and their family, safe. --- A royal au sbi fic... + the bloodvines, for spice.

(Yes I’m self-promoting. But, in my defense, I’m very proud of it. If you checked it out it would mean the world to me :’))

Heat Waves by tbhyourelame

Dream has always held a gentle admiration for George, but when their nuanced friendship trickles into his sleeping mind, he awakens to a new world of conflicting emotions and longing. Lost in the midst of a heat wave, he continuously listens to a song that works itself in to the very core of his heartache. Floridian nights, unsent messages, spiraling infatuation, and terrible, terrible weather.

Another fic I think pretty much everyone knows about. Listen, listen... I was once an idiot who said “Oh no, I’ll never read Heat Waves. It’s irl, not characters, and it’s probably cringe”... No. I was so wrong. This fic is wonderfully written, with a pretty quick moving plot and great characterizations. You do need an ao3 account to access it, though. Just to let you know. (Also read “Helium”, unfinished and hasn’t updated in awhile, but it’s the continuation).

Guitar Strings and Keyrings are What it Takes to Build a Home by Anonymous

Techno was adopted by Phil when he was 12 years old.

He'd been enjoying his morning before Phil came to him asking if he would mind them taking in another kid. Against his better judgement, Techno agrees and ends up with two new foster brothers who he was determined to not get attached to, no matter what.

Tommyinnit’s unbeatable method of avoiding sudden death by eneliii

“I uh,” Tommy starts, not knowing how to break this to the hero lightly. He hates to be the bearer of bad news. “I think your powers are broken? It’s not a bad thing of course, but like, I swear you tried to mind control me and it like, totally failed. Which is fine, honestly, don’t feel insecure. Everyone’s power stop working sometimes… I think.”

Sheesh, this is very awkward. Why is no one else talking? Why is Philza looking at him like he grew three heads? Why is the Blade staring at him so intensely? Why is Willow still frozen?

“Did I, did I hit a nerve? Yikes,” Tommy hisses, “Well um,” He steps back, bracing his legs and bending his knees, “This was like super fun, but I’m - I’mma head out.”

or,

in which Tommy manages to annoy the hell out of Phil, Techno and Wilbur by being both impossible to catch and irritatingly endearing.

or or,

a crack fic where Tommy is a vigilante and Phil, Techno and Wilbur are the heroes hunting him down.

(Feel like I am obligated to say how incredibly funny this fic is. Seriously. I have a distinct memory of sitting on my neighborhood park’s swing, giggling hysterically, while reading this. Well...until the end... but we won’t get into that...)

** bones in the ocean by bunflower

“Your reputation precedes you, y’know.”

“Does it, now?” Philza watches him coyly from where he’s now leaning against the wall, arms folded around his chains and gaze half-lidded, his lips curled in an arrogant, cat-like smirk.

“The Angel of Death, the ferryman of the Styx, the terror of the western seas. One of the most feared captains ever to sail, and yet, I have to wonder… how did a man like you end up all on his own? We searched the area where you were found—not another soul in sight. So,” He fixes him with a long look, allowing the silence to hover like a dark cloud, the words rolling off of his tongue with all the venom and smugness he can muster, “—tell me, Philza. Where is your crew?”

OR: Technoblade is a naval captain, and Phil his unwilling prisoner. Somehow, they manage to come out of it as friends in the end.

(Is this fic considered popular like passerine/Heat Waves now? Cause I feel like it’s reputation precedes itself, at this point... Pirate au.)

****

Okay! That’s it for now. Like I said, though, I want to add to this over time and also dig back for some older things I’ve read. Also, if you have any recs feel free to send them in! I’m about to go back to school and therefore might not have time for reading fun stuff, but whenever I get the chance I’d love to check them out!!!

Happy Reading!!

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vargaslovinghours · 3 years

Text

It’s September again, you know what that means (1 | 2 | 3)

Tear down that fourth wall lol, this was intended to be a meme format. Still could be :3c

Man I’m just giving away bad moods lol. What could he be climbing over, maybe he fell over the edge and that got him in a bad mood

He did something, how unlike him

Missing features

Always so flippant

Tiny Diaryfic hugs

Nail polish adventures! Gave Scriabin some classic silver mirror chrome to match his glasses with an optional ice blue jelly topcoat, very poppy and cute. Edgar got silver linear holo with a nude French tip as an accent nail, a fun little mix of boring as sin and this side of salacious, as far as nails go lol. Fun fact: Linear holo looks flat grey under certain lighting, but if you shine a light directly onto it-

-the flame of the holo gives it an extremely vibrant rainbow effect, and it’s very beautiful and eye-catching. A flashlight is perfect for showing it off very brightly ✨

And of course everyone else gets some neat nails too! It was actually seeing nails that I thought would be fun for Jake that made me want to do this whole thing - pierced nails are so silly but they can look so cool! They’d have to be at least slightly built up to not damage the natural nail but beyond that, the piercing can go pretty much anywhere, and there’s a bunch of jewels that can look like nose or tongue piercings. Nny was pretty easy too, black and red splatter nails either on a built up stiletto acrylic or just on his natural nails since they’re almost that shape anyway lol. Devi got watercolour nails on a white base with a matching palette splatter overtop, with a simple rounded tip for ease of use. Nothing’s worse than going to punch someone and injuring yourself instead. And Todd got kid polish in colour block creams, simple shapes, and stickers, all stuff you can find in those cheap kid polish sets lol. They’re still very cute, too bad Shmee doesn’t have nails to paint. Drawing different shaped hands was fun too :D

*flop*

Amused Lady Scriabin is laughing at your misfortune

A followup idea I had immediately after making the first set - Like my Christmas minicomic but more so, it’s all over the place lol. There actually is a logic, this is on the right side of my page and I tend to draw from bottom to top but still left to right, so it starts at the bottom left and ends at the top(ish) right lol, like a reverse typewriter. If you can’t read it, yell at me to finish it so I’ll typeset it lol

Bonus sketch closeup ‘cause it cute ♪

I had the opportunity to watch Frozen 2 for the first time (ahh ♥) while I was deep in the Ladyverse mindset and Into the Unknown struck me very quickly, I was beating away the thoughts with a stick while I watched and I still ended up drawing Lady Edgar singing it lol, it’s such a good song!!

More, “walls” being her heart since she doesn’t live with anyone :(

Back to classic and I’m rather happy with how this kiss turned out :D A heart-shaped sketch really works wonders. I’ll learn to draw noses someday

Staring contest doodles just after Watch Me, Scriabin has an unfair advantage haha ♪

Pronoun differences, and thinking about the OVA again; I’m pretty sure only Nny gets a clarification on how to pronounce his name, but I liked the idea of Edgar explaining what characters to use to spell his name haha. Alternately, Scriabin’s name could be spelled with really obscure kanji to reflect his pretentious-movie roots lol

Toy Scriabin ♥ I think it was the first time drawing his toy version with any real detail, I really like his articulated limbs :D

Plastic squeaky creaky hinges

I thought there was something playful about Scriabin telling one of the Holos to shut up considering, y’know

And fighting with Holo Scriabin over Holo Edgar haha How much posturing can you really do when you’re the same size as the thing you made

Holo hugs ♥

Slightly alt style Edgar

Oh Edgar (affectionate (manipulative))

“You haven’t seen your boyfriend in while.” “He’s not my boyfriend.” “Lover, then.” “No!”

A silly idea of Demon Scriabin running around au natural and Angel Edgar covering him up with his wings and averting his gaze(s)

If you get close enough to cover him up, he’s close enough to flirt! I really like drawing Scriabin with his arms around Edgar’s shoulders (it tends to be him more so, huh), it’s one of my favourite kinds of poses to doodle ♪

Comfort snuggles ♥ Can’t be too spooked if hugging and soft touches are close by

And that’s June through September once more! I’ve said so before, but I kinda can’t believe I’ve had enough doodles to post a year-and-change’s worth of sketchdumps on top of everything else haha

#💟#Doodles #Art #Sketchdump #Blood #Scriabin #Edgar #Todd #Shmee #Devi #Nny #Jake #Btw all the previous sketchdumps have a tag now and they're all compiled on the tag page so have at it ✨#Made it just under the wire with this one lol #I wanted to see how many I could pile into one sketchdump it is not nearly as long as the last one lol #About on par with the second one tho so hey maybe it's like the ebb and flow of the seasons or some silliness lol #This one's theme is ''I wanted to finish these but'' haha :')#I still want to!! There's still a bunch of things I want to finish hgg #When I figure out how to unlock the part of my brain that's good at backlogs I will be actually unstoppable #Uhh let's see no warning other than a tiny Diaryfic doodle and some implied nudity but nothing shown - and the usual Edgar/Scriabin ♪#Pretty good spread this time around I think :) Even if I didn't finish all of it I did get my thoughts out pretty well haha #It's funny to think in blocks of text instead of the tags but it works too #And even if I'm not getting them quite to the place I want I am still getting them down to paper! >:3c That's something for sure!#It does make me happy to express :D

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adhdeancas · 4 years

Text

12x01 Rewrite with Trans Dean

trigger warnings for minor mention of dysphoria. Also minor/negligent transphobia.

“Mom?” His heart is stopped in his chest, staring at the face he’s kept in his head for all of his life, the face he’s thought of as the only real home he’s ever had. She looks the same, exactly the same. “I… uh, are you really… real?”

He reaches out without thinking, needing to just make sure that Amara didn’t bring back a fantasy or a ghost or a sick joke. She proves it without him touching her, flipping him in a neat trick he recognizes from his own training and ending up with her foot on his neck, pressing him into the dirt. “Where am I? Who the hell are you?”

She looks so scared. Dean swallows, his Adam’s apple bouncing against the bottom of her foot. He needs to make her trust him, preferably before she does something rash like snap his neck. “I’m Dean Winchester. I’m your son. I’m… Sam’s brother”

The pressure lets up on Dean’s neck even though Mary’s shaking her head. “No. No, I don’t have two boys. They’re- they’re just kids.”

Dean winces, breathing heavily. This is gonna be a motherfucker for her to understand. Still, Mary lets him up, and he stands and rubs his neck, trying desperately to recall every bit of information he’s stored away about his mom. “Mom. Listen to me. Your name- your name is Mary Sandra Campbell, okay? You were born December 5, 1954, to Samuel and Deanna Campbell. Your father, he bounced around a lot for, uh, work, and you bounced right along with him, and you ended up in Lawrence, Kansas.”

Mary flinches, the facts hitting straight-on. “How do you know all that?”

“Dad told me.” Dean tells her. He doesn’t tell her that he had to gather the story from slurred words, drunken tears in between stories about the perfect wife. That he recited them in his head like a prayer so he wouldn’t forget her. “March 23, 1972, you walked out of a movie theater - Slaughterhouse-Five. You loved it, and you bumped into a big Marine and you knocked him flat on his ass. You were embarrassed, and he laughed it off, said you could make it up to him with a cup of coffee. So, you went to, uh,” God, what was the name of that stupid place? “Mulroney’s, and you talked and he was cute and he knew the words to every Zeppelin song,” A memory of a smiling young alive Mary comes to mind, and he pushes it away because it hurts. She’s right there. “So when he asked you for your number, you gave it to him, even though you knew your dad would be pissed. That was the night that -” You fell in love with- “that you met -”

“John Winchester.”

“August 19, 1975, you were married… in Reno. Your idea.”Dean had always thought that was hilarious. He looks her in the eyes again, pleading with her to not dispute the next part. “A few years later, I came along, then Sammy.”

“No, no. My oldest was a girl, Deanna.” Mary looks Dean up and down, taking in his short hair, wide shoulders, and flat chest. He crosses his arms over that now, uncomfortable, hoping she isn’t looking at his long eyelashes or his delicate cheekbones or his hips. All the places he’s insecure about.

“Yeah, um… that’s me.” He looks up at her, his jaw clenching, waiting for the ball to drop. “I shortened the name a little, and the- uh- hair.” He tries for the old charming smile as he runs a hand through the spiky hair he hasn’t let grow out in 20 years. It doesn’t quite get there, settling at a more delicate need for approval. Mary doesn’t give it to him. “Do you believe me?”

She bypasses the question, turning her eyes away from him to look at the car behind him. Something changes in her eyes. “I burned.” She says quietly, like she’s remembering the heat. Dean swallows. He remembers the heat too. “How long have I been gone?”

“33 years.” His voice cracks.

Mary looks back to him, and she moves forward, putting two gentle fingers to his cheek, to the freckles sprayed across soft skin. He’s had them forever, even when he was little. “Dee?” She calls him by his old nickname; Dean’s doubly thankful that he doesn’t use his deadname.

“Hi, mom.” There are tears in his eyes.

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

“How did he die?”

Dean bows his head. He’s really not selling himself too good here, is he? First the trans thing, now- “He gave himself up for me.” He’ll be surprised if Mary wants anything to do with him. Surprisingly, she chuckles and sniffles.

“That does sound like John.” He looks over, and she’s smiling. His brow furrows. Killing himself to save Dean’s ass does sound like John, but not in a way that makes him want to smile. “And he was a hunter? And he raised-” She stutters now, looking at him again and looking away just as quickly. “You and Sam to be-”

“Yeah, he did.” A cold weight is settling in Dean’s stomach, and he tries and fails to not let it seep into his words.

“And you said we’ve met before, when you traveled through time,”

Dean nods. It had been horrible and amazing to see Mary and have her see him, just as some guy. A guy, at all. “Twice. Your memory got wiped, so…” So you don’t remember me telling you I was your kid, and you not believing me. I do.

“And you’re… my daughter-”

Dean coughs. He hasn’t been called a daughter in a long-ass time. “No, I’m- I mean. I was. I know it’s a lot. And I’ll explain everything. I will. But right now, let’s get out of here. Let’s get you home. Come on, Mom.”

She doesn’t correct him, which means she must believe, at least a little bit, that she is his mom.

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

“You live here?” She looks around the cavernous space and he smiles, looking around too. It really is awesome.

“Yeah, when we’re not on the road. It’s an old Men of Letters bunker.”

“Men of Letters?” She scoffs. Dean grins a bit and looks at her. He thinks he likes her. “They’re a myth. An old hunter’s story.”

He tilts his head. He’s just gonna keep blowing her mind today, apparently. “Not so much. New duds look good.” He gestures to her clothes. He’d lent her some extra clothes he’d had in the trunk, and he tries not to fixate on how they weren’t that big on her. He’s not much taller than her, and he knows part of that even is the heeled boots he’s wearing.

“Well, thanks. It’s better than walking around in that nightgown the rest-” Dean’s nodding, about to say something extremely awkward like ‘Yeah, nightgowns are a bitch,’ when he finally looks at what she’s staring at, spattered on the floor of the bunker. “That’s blood.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s heart leaps into his throat, but he goes into autopilot before he can think about freaking out. He takes his gun out from his pants and cocks it, clearing the immediate area. A blurred sigil on the wall puts another bolt of fear through his chest. “Sammy? Cas?” He winces at how high his voice goes.

He takes the Map Table’s gun out from its hiding place and hands it to Mary. She was a hunter too, and he’s not about to leave her unarmed to clear the place. “Take this. Stay here.” Dean takes off immediately. It isn’t until he’s moving on to check the kitchen that he hears the voice. Mary’s clear as a bell, saying,

“Hands, now,”

Dean’s in the room before he can think about it. His heart practically comes undone when he sees that dumb familiar trench coat. He puts his body between Cas and his mom’s gun immediately, hoping she will trust him enough not to shoot through him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa! It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s a friend, all right?” He meets Cas’s eyes and sees the utter relief in his eyes, and a surge of warmth fills his chest. “Hey, Cas.”

It’s a lackluster greeting when they both thought they’d never see each other again, and Cas shows it when he steps forward quickly and pulls Dean into a tight hug. “Dean!”

Dean grins and pats his back. “Hey, okay. All right,” He comforts him quietly.

“Dean, you’re alive?” Cas pulls away and looks him over, like he’s afraid Dean might disappear. Dean nods, understanding; he had done the same thing to Mary, after all.

“Yeah.”

“What about the bomb and the Darkness? What happened?”

“I’ll tell you everything. Where is Sam?”

“He’s not here.” Obviously. Dean could smack him, but his face wants to break into a fond smile instead. He represses both urges.

“Are you a hunter?”

“No, I’m an angel.”

“He’s an angel.” Dean says over Cas. They look at each other and then back at Mary.

“Come again?”

“An angel, with a capital A,” Dean clarifies. He feels, ridiculously, a little bit like he’s showing off. Showing Cas off. “You know, wings, harp.”

“No, I don’t have a harp.”

Dean laughs. “This is Castiel. Cas, this is… Mary. Winchester.”

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

“It’s been kinda weird, here. You know, with mom being back?” And learning that her baby girl is now a full grown man? “It’s like we don’t know how to act around each other, so we just kinda make this small talk, and act like it’s normal, but it’s- it’s so not normal.” Dean can hear the pleading in his voice.

“What has she said to you?” Cas asks quickly. Dean bites his lip to hide the smile he’s trying to get from hearing Cas get all angry and protective on his behalf. He’s reminded of the time Cas looked him directly in the face and said, ‘Dean Winchester, if anyone is ever transphobic to you, I will smite them immediately and without any remorse.’ And before Dean could make a quip about internalized transphobia, Cas added, ‘Do not make me do that to you.’

“Well, nothing. That’s- that’s the whole point.” It’s the kind of thing most people usually wanna go over, what the fuck gender their kid is? He’s pretty sure no news does not mean good news in this context.

“Okay, what have you said to her?”

“Well, nothing. I’m- I don’t know what to say to her, y’know? It’s like it’s all too much, and I don’t wanna overwhelm her.”

“Dean, your identity is not ‘too much.’” Cas says immediately. Dean sighs. That wasn’t what he meant, even though he has said something similar before. Something when he was lonely and sad and feeling like explaining his dick to a one night stand was too complicated for him to do to even assuage it that way.

“No- I know. It’s not that. It’s… everything.”

Now it’s Cas’s turn to sigh. “Don’t make things unnecessarily complicated, as you humans tend to do. I’ll call you.” He hangs up.

Dean lets the phone fall with his arm limp to his side. “Yeah. Great. That’s helpful.” He says to the empty air. “That’s helpful.” Asshole.

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

They’re in the car, and Dean is driving, and there is too much going on. He’s not sure whether he’s happy that Cas is in the backseat for this conversation or not. “So you’re… my Deanna.”

Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel. He looks at them and ignores the voice in his head that says they are petite. Womanly. “Uh, yeah. I was born Deanna Jane Winchester.” He clears his throat and meets Cas’s eyes in the rearview. He gives him a little nod, and Dean continues. “I’m… It’s called trans.”

Dean risks a look over at Mary, and she’s playing with her ring. “So you… wanted to be a boy.”

Dean clears his throat again. He’s pretty sure he does it every time before he talks, and he’s also pretty sure his voice gets lower every time he talks, too. He swears it’s an automatic reflex.

“Dean’s soul is- that of a human man.” Cas interrupts, saying it like that clarifies things. The corner of Dean’s mouth tilts up a little bit. Cas did tell him that he could see his soul, and also told him that it was, and he quotes ‘A color more similar to that of a men than women.’ Which, yeah, that tracks. He guesses Cas leaves off the ‘more similar’ part to make things simpler for Mary.

“And so you…” Mary trails off, a finger pointing toward his chest aborting its mission when she realizes it might be rude.

Dean raises an eyebrow with amusement. “Cut my tits off? Yeah.” He takes a hand off the wheel to raise his shirt, proudly showing off his top surgery scars. Mary trails a hand along them, feeling the raised skin. “After Sammy went to college. It was a bitch of a few weeks, but it was worth it.”

Mary takes her hand away and nods, brows furrowed like she’s trying to wrap her head around it. Dean grins. The grin freezes awkwardly, the edges tilting down, when Mary opens her mouth again. “So you have a-”

Cas coughs loudly in the back seat. Dean meets his wide eyes with a similar expression, and Mary cuts off the question, catching onto the fact she said something wrong. “Don’t think we really need to go there, do we, mom?”

That was a question for him and whatever lucky son of a bitch (gender neutral) ended up in his bed at the end of the night. “Right.” Mary says quickly. She turns her whole body then, asking, “Is that why you like men?”

Dean only swerves a little, he swears. The car coming the opposite direction doesn’t seem to agree, holding its horn long and hard. Luckily, it gives him a moment to stutter less obviously.

“Sorry, I just meant- since you two are-” Mary gestures between Cas and Dean, and Dean blinks his eyes solidly, trying to convince himself this is really happening.

“No! I mean, we-” Dean doesn’t have the balls (hehe) to look at Cas in the back seat, but he can see the trench coat shifting out of his peripheral. “I’m not-”

“Was John okay with this?”

Dean laughs. It comes out bitter and dark. “Dad didn’t much give a fuck what I did with my body. He’d given up on grandkids about the time he saw how decent I was at hunting, so my long hair wasn’t a personal loss.” He knew I wasn’t gonna live long enough to give him grandkids, not without some self-sacrifice on John’s part.

Mary looks a little shocked at his outburst, and Dean almost feels bad for being so blunt and crass. But then he remembers growing up with John as his male role model, and he tightens his jaw. No, the bluntness and crassness was accurate. “Oh.”

“... Yeah.” Dean bites his lip and risks another glance at his mom.

“So, you’re okay with this?” He waves a hand at himself. Asking if she was okay with him was just too pathetic, even for him. She looks at him uncertainly, a frown he recognizes as his own on her face.

“I don’t think I’m okay with any of this, Dean. But… I guess I’ll adjust.”

#tw: dysphoria #trans dean #destiel #deancas #ftm dean #transmasc dean #fanfic #dean is trans #my writing #mine

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topaziraphale · 4 years

Note

Love to imagine that there were a few close calls with Gabriel where aziraphale had to pretend to smite crowley, which involved a lot of aziraphale pinning him down and a lot of sword bearing. Crowley very quickly finds out he has one hell of a kink ;)

“Of course I’m letting you win,” Crowley answers, banishing the dirt and wrinkles from both his and Aziraphale’s clothes with a snap of his fingers. Then, on a whim, he clears off any lingering sweat beading on his skin. He can’t do anything about the flush on his face and neck, or the way his legs are still wobbling. “Can’t have you losing in front of your own lot, can we? They might try and help you out, y’know. Might be worse for me in the long run, ‘s only selfish.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepens at the implication. “Oh. I assume this means I’ll have to let you overtake me when your people show up, then?”

“Er, you won’t. Have to. Do that, I mean.” Crowley stammers. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “They won’t crawl all the way up here to talk to me,” he elaborates, “they’ve got the radio and telly for that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, fumbling with the lowest button on his waistcoat for a moment. “Yes, quite right.” He smiles nervously. “Erm...” Crowley pretends he doesn’t notice the blush subtly rising on Aziraphale’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Well, knowing that, I must say that is very—”

“—no—” Crowley groans in annoyance, knowing exactly where that sentence is going, throwing his head back and grimacing.

“—kind of you to do, to let me win even though it’s all a ruse,” Aziraphale continues, his smile changing from nervous to irritatingly fond and knowing. “Rather considerate.”

“Fantastic,” Crowley grumbles, his face burning brighter for a different reason now. “Really made my day with that one, you did.”

In the short silence that follows, Crowley sniffs and looks down at his shoes, pretending to inspect them for any clumps of dirt. He realizes, belatedly, that neither of them cared to fix the messy state of the greenery and soil beneath them. It clashes with the rest of the neat, freshly mown blades of grass in this conveniently empty section of the park — a stark reminder of what just happened. The sight of it makes Crowley shiver. Suddenly his resolve to stay cool and collected vanishes into thin air. He hastily looks back up to find Aziraphale fiddling with the chain of his pocket watch, and he gulps.

“Er,” he starts awkwardly, nearly freezing when Aziraphale makes eye contact with him. “Right, anyway, I just remembered I have something to do. It’s important. I’ll pick you up later, shall I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He spins on his heel, turning his back on Aziraphale and shoving his hands in his pockets, making his smoothest attempt at nonchalance as he starts walking away. “I’ll meet you in the front of the bookshop.”

“What? Wait,” Aziraphale calls. “You’re leaving already?”

Crowley stops in his tracks, shock still, his breath hitching in his chest. He couldn’t have been found out. He wasn’t that loud, was he? Aziraphale doesn’t know, can’t know. If he knew…

“Won’t be long,” says Crowley, gritting his teeth, hoping he doesn’t have to outright lie, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t push. “An hour, at most. We won’t miss our reservation.”

“I… er, very well,” Aziraphale eventually says, sounding confused and a little hurt. “But, before you go, I need to ask you about… just now.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, and Crowley holds his breath, chills cold as ice sliding from the back of his neck down along the knobs of his spine as fear builds in his lower gut. When Aziraphale speaks up again, his voice is slightly deeper than normal.

“I hurt you this time, didn’t I?”

Crowley blesses under his breath. It takes all he has in him not to react outwardly, to lose his carefully constructed neutrality right then and there. Instantly, his mind plays back the stunt Aziraphale pulled only minutes ago.

It’s practically routine for them at this point, really; it’s a way for them to get out of a damning situation in a pinch. If someone from work unexpectedly shows up, they pretend to be mortal enemies, doing what mortal enemies are obliged to do should they ever cross paths: fighting to the death. (Discorporation, in these cases — and even then, they only need to make the viewer think that a discorporation has taken place, should it ever go that far.) It’ll be seen as two adversaries busy with work, and whoever it was that checked in will usually leave within a minute or two to let them get back to it.

They were taking a leisurely walk and having a (slightly heated, in the angel’s case) conversation about some of the menu changes at the Criterion, when Aziraphale suddenly kicked Crowley’s feet out from under him, pinning him face-down into the ground with his knee pressed onto his back. He had yanked his hair, forcing his head up, and swiftly brought the edge of a sword — having manifested the weapon from thin air — onto Crowley’s exposed neck. Crowley was hard in his trousers before he even realized what was happening, before he could even guess that Gabriel or any other one of those wankers was probably nearby, watching, and that Aziraphale was faking the attack like he had done many times before to keep them both safe.

But for a moment, Crowley didn’t know that.

As Crowley had grabbed fistfuls of dirt and grass and writhed under the perfect weight of Aziraphale’s body, he had thought it was real, and that Aziraphale really was going to smite him this time, and that he was truly at his mercy, finally getting everything he wanted. It was too much, the ringing in his head from falling to the ground, the pain in his spine, the white-hot burn in his scalp. Crowley couldn’t move and the sword was cold and sharp on the delicate skin of his neck and Aziraphale put his lips to his ear to whisper something and it sounded harsh and commanding and he whimpered—

“Crowley?”

Crowley blinks back to himself, his eyes wide behind dark lenses. He hears Aziraphale’s footsteps approaching him, the soft crunching of the grass beneath two Oxfords deafening amongst the low rumble of blood rushing through his ears.

“No,” he blurts out, his voice thin. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

The footsteps stop. His entire body is trembling now, every inch of skin charged as if with electricity, surely to go off at the slightest touch. He clears his throat, vaguely wondering how much of a disaster it would be if he had to look Aziraphale in the face during all of this.

“I’m fine,” he repeats in a more natural tone. “Don’t make a fuss over it, you didn’t hurt me.” You did. “Same as always, nothing different about it this time.” Hurt me again. And again and again, until my throat is raw from screaming, until my face is wet with tears. Make me beg for it.

“It most certainly was not the same, you had no idea I was even going to attack you,” Aziraphale comments, sounding just this side of stern. Crowley’s stomach curls with something too close to pleasure from the tone of voice. Aziraphale sighs. “Are you quite sure I did not hurt you by accident?” he asks gently, because it’s just like him to have concern for Crowley’s well-being, even at the worst possible times. He takes one step closer, the space separating their bodies no bigger than an arm’s-length. Crowley can feel his stare burning right through his soul, can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “I only ask because, ah, when you cried out, just then, you seemed…”

Alarms blare in Crowley’s racing mind.

Cried out, cried out.

Aziraphale did hear him.

And now he’s asking about it.

Crowley goes from half-hard to fully erect so quickly that it makes him dizzy, his dick throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Aziraphale only has to take a couple steps toward him and circle around to his front, and then he’ll have full view of the state Crowley is in. Then Crowley would have to explain himself, and he would be mortified, he’d be so humiliated, and the fear of it only makes his cock harder. There’s just not enough self-preservation in his current, lust-crazed state of mind to not want anything more than that.

“— truly distressed,” Aziraphale continues, pronouncing the words with the same caution one would use when walking on a tightrope. Crowley hears the faintest of wavers in his voice only because he’s known the bastard for too long. “I was afraid I used too much force this time.”

You could have used more. Used all of it. Put me in my place. Burned me with your light until I’m nothing, until I’m dust at your feet. Please, angel…

Crowley holds his breath again, the muscles in his neck tightening and his jaw aching with the effort it takes to kill the moan forcing its way up into his throat. His legs feel like jelly. The temptation to fall on his knees and admit it is palpable. He might as well come clean. Even if nothing happens now, Aziraphale will bring it up again later. That’s just how he is. Better to get it over with…

“No,” he croaks. He’s blushing so hard that the skin on his face and scalp itches furiously. “I wasn’t, I didn’t…”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale, I told you I’m alright,” Crowley snaps. More than alright. Crowley knows he’s going to revel in the ache for days, but he also knows, acutely, that he’s only jeopardizing himself more the longer he stays in this blasted park. He’s sure he wouldn’t be able to survive another round of questions; he can already feel his admittedly weak resolve slipping in the face of those warm, seaglass eyes, beckoning him to spill his guts and spew the awful, contemptible fantasies of being taken right there in the dirt, like he deserves, with a sword trained on his back and the angel’s name in his mouth. The only thing keeping him from doing it is his knowing how said angel would react — with an upturned nose and a look of disgust only reserved for the lowest of scum. He can’t do that to him, can’t be that to him.

“Oh, right then, that’s good,” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly pulls him out of his reverie, sounding disappointed, “that’s a relief.”

Crowley then hears the telltale rustle of clothes as Aziraphale fidgets, probably adjusting his waistcoat, before he calls out, “Well then, don’t let me keep you, dear fellow. Do mind how you go.”

“Same to you,” he says back, feeling moderately guilty.

He snaps his fingers, bringing himself to his flat. He lands on his back on his luxurious bed. The cool satin sheets do nothing to calm his rapid pulse or the lick of shame that follows as he claws at his belt, the zip’s teeth not daring to catch as he shoves his trousers down and takes himself in hand. The guilt instantly melts away, but the shame stays, however it only proves to spur him on even more.

Aziraphale will forgive him by the time they meet back up for dinner.

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

((I originally meant to use a couple lines of dialogue as an answer to this ask but then it turned into a small little fic, thingy, yeah. Huge thanks to @divinehedonism for beta reading this for me!!))

#SURPRISE I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME #hiiiiii anon your ask has been in my drafts for months but i never forgot about you!!!! i was just nervous to post a little fic lol!#good omens nsft #nsft #bottom crowley #top aziraphale #derpy answers #derpy writes #high chance of me posting this on ao3 later #it literally took me 3 months building up courage to post this now i see why a/c took 6k years to hold hands lol #minors dni #don't think in my absence i won't check new followers i got for ages in bios #if ur a minor here might as well leave and save me the trouble of blocking you if you'd be so kind

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svtskneecaps · 4 years

Text

you mean the world to me

(gender neutral) reader x wonwoo

genre: fluff + angst; words: 7k

(i’ve found i write for wonwoo in times of academic panic and if ever there was a time of academic panic, this is it)

You didn’t see Wonwoo at all on the morning everything changed. His side of the bed was empty when you got out of the shower, and your keys were missing from the hook. Maybe that was your first clue that something was up. His set still hung there innocently, the tiny bear charm you’d gotten him on your two year anniversary swinging lightly on the breeze from the AC unit.

You shrugged and picked up the keys. This wasn’t the first time he’d grabbed the wrong set, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

(your second clue was that the door was unlocked)

You called him on your lunch break to tease him about the keys, but it went to voicemail. That in itself wasn’t odd; usually if he was in a frenzy working on some idea he’d forget to check his phone, but it was sort of odd that it didn’t even ring.

You shrugged that off too. Maybe he forgot it at the apartment, and it died. He’d never forgotten it before, but there was a first time for everything.

You finally accepted something was wrong when you stopped by the bookstore with coffee and it was closed. And dark.

He always had the front light on when he was inside.

Hours later, as you paced around the apartment trying to work out whether or not to call the police, you heard the jangle of your keys in the lock. You swung the door open before he’d even unlocked it, heart in your throat.

“There you are! I was worried, where have you been, why weren’t you answering your phone?”

Your questions died in your throat as you looked him over. He looked exhausted.

“Wonwoo,” you said, softly, “are you okay?”

He visibly forced a smile. “Yeah,” he said.

You opened the door wider, and he hesitated before he came in. He hovered in the entryway, like a stranger in his own apartment (the one you picked out together).

You sat down on the couch, and he followed you to the living room, but he sat in the guest chair instead of his usual place beside you. He didn’t speak, just looked around the room as if he’d never been in it before. Finally, you were the one to break the silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He looked at you, appearing to consider his words carefully (as he does, of course, he’s a songwriter).

“If you woke up in a stranger’s bed, in a life you don’t recognize, what would you do?”

You blinked. “Like those Hallmark movies?”

“Hallmark movies?”

“Yeah, it’s a huge trope in like the Christmas movies? Somebody runs into a Santa character and one way or another they make a wish and then Santa slaps them into an alternate universe where usually they’re married with several children or something, and they learn the true meaning of Christmas.” You made jazz hands.

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think Christmas is involved.”

“Are you saying you weren’t some rich businessman in your past life?” you teased. “I could see it, you know.”

“But if you were in that situation,” he pressed. “What would you do?”

You thought about that. “I guess I’d go with it,” you said. “Try to figure out who I am in the new life and make the most of it.”

“You wouldn’t try to go back?”

“I don’t see how I could figure it out, unless I recognized the Santa character on my initial run to all the places I used to know and talked to them about it.”

He groaned. “Please let’s not call them the Santa.”

You weren’t sure if he was joking until he smiled, and you relaxed.

“Well that’s what they are,” you defended, maybe a little too quickly, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Can they not be wish granters? Or guardian angels or something? Not all of the stories are to do with the true meaning of Christmas.”

You shrugged. “I know you’re the writer here but your storytelling experience pales in comparison to my extensive knowledge of Hallmark movie tropes.”

He leaned forward. “I’m a writer?”

You forced yourself to laugh like he was making a joke even though something in your chest went tight.

(he chose to sleep on the couch that night and even though you were upset that he wasn’t next to you in the bed, some strange part of you was glad for the distance)

You called out of work the next day to walk Wonwoo to the bookstore, citing stress at your significant other going missing for most of a day. Seungcheol was understanding, telling you not to worry, that he’d see you Monday.

Vernon was leaning against the wall by the door when you came up, messing with something on his phone.

“Hey,” he said, glancing at your partner. “I was worried; it’s not like you to be late.”

Wonwoo was quiet for an odd amount of time, long enough that you glanced over at him. He was staring at Vernon with some odd look in his eyes.

“We got a late start,” you finally answered for him. “After yesterday. . .” You coughed. “Anyway, you guys need any help setting up?”

“Probably, yeah, we just got a shipment of that new YA series the other day,” Vernon said. You step to one side, motioning Wonwoo up the steps to unlock the door. “Maybe you shelve those while I blow the dust off the front desk. She’s not used to being unused this long.”

You laughed, too loud. “It was a day.”

“I know, it was ages.”

(you didn’t comment on how Wonwoo had to try three keys from the ring before getting the door open, or how he looked at the inside of his own bookstore like it was a wondrous new place. Vernon didn’t seem to notice)

You dragged the box out to the shelves and started placing the books. Apparently Vernon had forgotten how well voices carried in the quiet space, because you could hear him speaking as if he were next to you when he said, “Hey, man, did you two fight?”

“What?”

You could imagine Vernon’s shrug, heard him fiddling with the crack in his phone case. “I don’t know, it’s just, usually you two are pretty much inseparable, but like, yesterday you totally go off the grid and now today there’s a whole sidewalk between you.” A floorboard creaked. “I know it’s probably not really my business, y’know since I just work the front desk and all, but, I thought I’d ask.”

The pause stretched out so long you found yourself frozen, breath caught in your lungs, hand hovering above the next book, waiting.

“I’m adjusting,” Wonwoo said finally. “I’m a different person than I was two days ago.”

It was an answer and a non-answer all at once and it implied more than it clarified. You picked up the book and slotted it onto its place in the shelf, above the carefully written label. You didn’t mention the conversation when you brought the box back. You made an excuse about going for coffee and bolted out the door.

(usually the bookstore felt welcoming, an extension of your significant other, but the atmosphere was stifling and foreign and you couldn’t stay)

Thankfully, Seokmin had the morning shift, and you arrived during a dead period. He was able to sit with you as you nursed your drink and fretted aloud over everything that happened.

“It’s like I blinked and he was a total stranger,” you said. “I don’t know what I did.”

“Maybe it wasn’t anything you did?” he offered. “Maybe he just changed.”

“It’s just so weird.” You cupped your hands around your drink. “I mean, I know people say that by the end of a long lasting relationship your significant other changes enough to be a bunch of different people, but it happened overnight. Like he went to sleep as a writer, and my--” you choke on boyfriend-- “significant other, and then he woke up and-- I mean aside from him still being named Wonwoo it’s like-- I don’t know who this man is anymore.”

“Maybe not,” Seokmin said agreeably.

“Wow,” you said, sipping your drink. “Stop hanging out with Jeonghan so much, you’re starting to sound like him.”

He laughed and nudged your shoulder. “What I’m saying is, maybe he feels strange and different, but that doesn’t have to matter. What matters is if you’re willing to find the pieces of him that you loved again. He can’t have changed that much underneath.”

He was right, no doubt. The awkward way Wonwoo had held himself the night before reminded you of the first time you’d ever really talked. He wasn’t so different, just undeveloped, like he’d jumped back in time. Like he’d crossed the multiverse from an existence where he’d never met you.

You could handle it. The situation was manageable. You could treat each interaction like you’d just met him for the first time. It could be easy, or it could be the hardest thing you’d ever faced, but you could handle it. Really.

(you texted Wonwoo asking if you should bring anything back for him and Vernon. his coffee order was different than the one you remembered)

You unlocked the door to the apartment that night. Wonwoo lingered in the hallway until you glanced back at him.

“You do anything at work today?” you asked.

He shook his head. “That office is a disaster. How did I ever find anything?”

You laughed, hanging up your keys. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying basically since we bought the place.” You almost nudged his shoulder as you passed him on your way to the kitchen, but stopped the thought before it became a motion. “Keys on the hook,” you directed, “before you forget where you set ‘em.”

It took him two tries to find the right hook, but he got it. “I had to spend most of the morning organizing everything,” he said. “There’s so much stuff in there.”

“Let the record show that I’ve been telling you this was how it was gonna end up for years.”

“That’s the most long-winded way to say ‘I told you so’ I’ve ever heard.”

“What can I say? I like the sound of my own voice.” You pulled ingredients from the cupboards. “You remember where the pans are?”

“No,” he said.

“Neat.”

Making the food was the only easy part. Sitting at the table, you were acutely aware of him, like every one of your senses was waiting for something major to happen. Nothing did, though; you ate dinner in near complete silence. It wasn’t the comfortable silence you were used to. The air between you felt charged like the static balls at a science fair. You wanted to bridge the gap.

Wonwoo wanted to take the couch again, but you refused.

“Your turn in the bed,” you said, shooing him away. “You and I both know that couch doesn’t do the back any favors, and it’s your apartment too.”

“You don’t have to, I can--”

“Mom said it’s my turn on the couch,” you said in a high pitched, nasal tone, and then snickered, halfheartedly throwing a pillow at him. It flopped on the floor halfway between you. “I’ll be fine.”

He hovered in the doorway a few moments more, but relented in the end. “Goodnight,” he said, and made to close the door.

“Goodnight,” you said, and then, “you mean the world to me.”

The door clicked shut. You scooped up the pillow again and dropped it and yourself on the couch.

(it really is back pain in all forms and you woke up with cramps in muscles you didn’t even know you had, but it was worth it. it was always worth it)

You spent the weekend dancing around him, like planets. Like stars. Like if you got too close it would end in catastrophe.

Sometimes you’d slip into a back and forth with him that felt so familiar you could almost forget that you hardly knew him anymore, until you’d reference an old memory and he’d give you a quizzical look. It would sting, except the old memories felt strange to you now too. You didn’t mind not thinking about them, if it meant he didn’t look at you like that. Like a stranger.

The stranger you were.

You returned to work Monday and Seungcheol swung by your desk.

“How’s your boyfriend?” he asked. “He feeling better?”

You ignored the part of your stomach that twisted hearing boyfriend (that was what he was, after all, or what he had been, before Thursday; it shouldn’t feel so strange).

“I think so,” you said, because he’d put his keys on the right hook without you needing to remind him and he knew where all the cooking utensils were without needing to ask you.

Seungcheol rested his arms on the top of your cubicle. “And you? How are you holding up?”

You felt like you were hanging on by a thread. “Fine, I think. Pretty well, all things considered.”

He looked at you with concealed concern, but seemed to understand. You didn’t want to talk about it at work, even if Seungcheol had been one of your closest friends in university.

“Well, give me a call if you ever want to talk about it,” he said, and then left, probably for his own desk.

You bolted the moment time ticked over for your lunch break.

You didn’t know if Wonwoo would want you swinging by. You didn’t know if he’d answer your call. You called anyway, even if your hands shook.

He picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” You wiped your palm on your shirt. “I’m out on lunch break; if you aren’t too busy maybe we could run get Chinese or something?”

There was a pause, and then, “Okay. Just let me make sure Vernon and Chan can handle the store.”

He met you out front, and you walked to the restaurant together.

It wasn’t too cold out, so you got the food to go and found a bench to sit at, watching people as they pass.

“You remember that game, where you pick somebody going by and try to guess what they’re doing?” you asked into the silence.

He hummed. “Maybe. Why, you want to do it now?”

You shrugged. “Might as well.”

Even though he’d seemed apprehensive, he took to the game quickly. He was the one to decide that the woman wearing heels with her paint splattered jeans was a street performer, on her way to meet up with the other members of her busking group. You countered that obviously, the man in the mask waiting impatiently to cross the street was on his way to manage a rambunctious group of idols.

“Can you imagine?” you asked, shaking your head. “Must be rough, having to keep some of those groups under control.”

Something odd tinged the edges of Wonwoo’s expression when you looked back over at him. You couldn’t tell what it was. You hadn’t been able to read his expressions for days. It should have scared you.

It didn’t.

“Must be rough,” he echoed, his voice hollow. You were caught between asking about it and pretending you hadn’t noticed when he pointed across the plaza at the fountain. “Bet that guy’s an idol.”

“Yeah?” You followed his hand to see a man standing by the fountain, staring up at the jets of water, his hands buried in the pockets of the long coat he wore.

“Yeah. He’s taking a break from the practice room to appreciate everything around him,” Wonwoo said. “He’s gonna go home to the other members of his group and they’re going to ask where he’s been and be worried.”

“What’s he going to tell them?”

Wonwoo leans back into the bench, and maybe a little bit into you.

“He’s going to tell them he was getting a new perspective,” he said. “That he’s seen life from a new angle. And. . .”

The silence stretched, but it was comfortable. His arm touched yours, resting there.

“And,” Wonwoo said, and his voice cracked, “that he missed them.”

You tore your gaze from the man at the fountain. Wonwoo stared into nothing, eyes wet.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you as he nodded. Maybe that was for the best. You could feel tears building in your own eyes. You didn’t even know why.

You missed them too.

The alarm on your phone went off.

“Ah,” you said. “I should get back to work.”

You stood, ignoring the chill on your arm where his had been.

“I’ll see you back at the apartment, yeah?” you said.

He looked at you, that time, standing. “Yeah,” he said.

You threw out your trash and offered him your arm gallantly. “Would you allow me to walk you back, sir?”

He laughed and tossed his own trash, taking your arm. “Sure.”

You walked him all the way back to the store, where you swept off an imaginary hat and dipped into a grossly exaggerated bow. You heard him laugh, and when you came back up he was smiling (you would do anything to see him happy).

“Alright, you’ve done your job,” he said.

You place a dramatic hand on your chest. “Are you implying that I did all that out of a sense of moral obligation?”

He snickered. “Well, when you put it that way.”

Whatever expression had made its way onto your face made him laugh, his face lighting up as he reached out for the doorway to steady himself. You broke into a smile, heart beating a little faster.

“Okay, I gotta go before I’m late.” You almost wanted to hug him goodbye, but something stopped you. You settled for a quick wave. “You mean the world to me, okay? I’ll see you after work!”

Friday, Wonwoo came in and barely hung up his keys (on the right hook) before tipping himself over the arm of the couch to flop face first into the cushions with a deep groan. You stared at his limp form from the kitchen, a tiny smile forming on your face.

“So, how was work?” you asked.

He mumbled something into the couch that might’ve been, “Peachy.” He flipped over. “Some woman decided we should be a bookstore and a coffee shop and made sure we knew it.”

You wince. “Yikes.”

“Yeah.” He ground his hands into his eyes. “I spent half my morning making sure she wasn’t taking it out on Vernon or Chan.”

“Well, if she didn’t get the kids then it’s all good.” You set down the spoon and moved into the other room, leaning on the back of the couch. “Shame Seungkwan wasn’t there, he’d have given her a real piece of his mind.”

“I would have let him. Not like I even wanted her to buy anything after she said that.” Wonwoo dropped his hands, one arm falling off the side of the couch. He gazed up at you.

“She can keep her condescending cash to herself,” you agreed, and reached out to mess with his hair.

And drew back just as quickly, your hand hardly brushing his hair before hastily retreating to grip your leg. Why did you do that? It was wrong, it was all wrong. Your face burned. You didn’t know him well enough you’d known him for years he was a stranger you’d played with his hair all the time in university, even before you’d made it official it felt wrong to do it it felt wrong to pull away--

Wonwoo sat up. “Hey, everything okay?”

“--Yeah.” You shook your head. “Just-- head rush.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” You tore yourself away from the couch, making for the counter again and ignoring the sting on your leg where you dug in your nails. You could hear him trailing you.

Wonwoo leaned on the counter as you picked up the spoon. For a moment, you thought he’d press you again.

“So,” he said, “how was work?”

Of course he wouldn’t push. He was Wonwoo.

“Fine,” you said, stirring the ramen in the bowl. “Same old story, really, except everyone was talking about the company dinner party Sunday.”

Wonwoo blinked. “You didn’t tell me there was a dinner Sunday.”

You dashed the spoon through the noodles with perhaps more vigor than strictly necessary. “I didn’t want to bother you. You know, since you haven’t been feeling well this week. It didn’t seem worth adding to your plate and it doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“It doesn’t seem like yours either.”

He was right; it wasn’t your scene. You always found yourself walking on eggshells every time, a glass of wine gripped in your hand that you never dared drink from out of fear of making a fool of yourself.

“It’s my job,” you said. Your next stir sent tiny dots of water into the air and you flinched back.

Wonwoo nudged you out of the way, taking up the spoon even as you pouted at him. “Well,” he said, “need a date?”

You blinked. “Are you volunteering?”

“Maybe,” he said. “You work for one of those fancy companies, right? They probably have all kinds of high society foods.”

“They do cover meal costs,” you admitted.

He scoffed. “And you were going to leave me eating ramen alone on my Sunday night?” He reached up and tousled your hair. “If you need moral support I’ll be there.”

Your heart swelled. “Jeon Wonwoo, you mean the world to me you godsend.”

He ducked his head, turning to the ramen again. “Hey, any guy would count himself lucky to be your plus one.” He nudged your elbow. “How about you grab a couple bowls out and we eat this on the couch? We can watch a movie or something.”

(you found your seat on the couch, your bowl nestled in your lap, and when he came to meet you he sat beside you)

Saturday you spent at the bookstore, shelving books, distracting Vernon, and waiting for Wonwoo to get off. Seungkwan stopped by with a deck of cards and in the spare moments between customers you played poker under the desk. Chan threatened to quit after you inexplicably bluffed him out of three rounds in a row. Vernon swore he wasn’t stacking the deck, you were just that good all of a sudden.

“It’s not possible for you to have gotten good at bluffing in under a week, it’s like you’re a totally different person,” Chan said, and he was joking but the sting and the familiarity of the words drained the blood from your face and you barely managed to play it off. The game continued, but without you.

Seokmin was sitting at a table in the coffeeshop flicking idly through a textbook. You ordered a drink and joined him.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said.

“Really? Because you only come in here alone when it isn’t.”

You huffed. “It’s nothing. I just needed an escape.” The bookstore felt more welcoming again, more like Wonwoo (Wonwoo with his arm touching yours on the bench, Wonwoo pressed against your side as you play fight over who gets to cook dinner, Wonwoo with his head on your shoulder as he sleeps through the emotional climax of Finding Dory, his breathing a steady breeze against your neck) but something in Chan’s words. . .

You’d recoiled.

“I’m not--” you gripped your cup, thinking carefully about your words. “I’m not a different person, am I?”

“As far as I know you’re the same person you’ve always been.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, I mean-- have I changed, like-- my personality, my little ticks. Any of that?”

Seokmin looked at you (he always looked like he knew more than he said; probably it came from being top of his class all through school but still. . .). “Maybe,” he said. “I’d say you’re the same you, but maybe they knew a different you.”

Your head slipped to meet the table before you could catch it. “Seokmin you know I’m not smart enough for riddles.”

“It doesn’t have to be a riddle.” He laughed. “Everybody has a picture in their mind of everybody else, and it’s never the same as what actually exists.”

“Philosophy is ruining you,” you said. “Stop hanging out with Jeonghan, he’s turning you into a paradox.”

“What I’m saying is, just because someone thinks you’re different than you were, that doesn’t mean you actually are. Maybe you’ve just been different this whole time, and now they finally noticed.”

“Maybe.”

He had a point, once you stripped away the philosophic layers. It was just the phrasing.

It’s like you’re a totally different person. In under a week.

Last week, everything had changed.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, but you sipped your coffee anyway. Seokmin asked about the company dinner, and you tried to forget about it.

You went shopping with Wonwoo after he closed up the store, trying to find something business casual for the dinner.

“And nothing in the closet would work for this because?” you asked, flicking through the rack of button ups.

“Because it’s a special occasion,” he said, holding a suit jacket against his chest and then hanging it up again. “We can’t wear anything we’ve already worn.”

You snorted. “What are we, movie stars on the red carpet?”

“No,” he said. “I mean, if you wanted, maybe, but no.” He glanced up. “Anytime is an excuse to treat ourselves.”

“Can’t argue with that.” You trailed your arm across a line of ties, letting the material fall over your finger. Your motion halted over a tie. “Oh, this’ll be impressive.” You held it up for him to see.

“Nice,” he said. “The bundles of bills will surely let your boss know you’re in this for what really matters.”

You pointed at him. “Exactly what I was thinking.” You looped it around your head, fingers pinching it together. “Maybe I could wear it like one of those guys in the post apocalyptic movies, that way they know I’m willing to go all the way.”

“Now you’re talking.” He hung up the jackets and came over, taking another tie off the rack, this one a soft coral pink. “Or maybe, you put this one on. . .”

He looped it around your neck and tied it properly.

“Where’d you learn how to tie a tie?” you asked, a laugh bubbling out of you.

“I felt bad making the stylists do it for me all the time,” he said, offhandedly.

The wrongness niggled at you.

You turned to the mirror nearby, playing with the ends of the tie. “I don’t know,” you said.

“What, you don’t like the color?”

“No, pink is a great color.” You surveyed yourself. “I just think I’d want a little more color to my outfit than a tie.”

“Of course,” Wonwoo said, moving to stand behind you, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder as he studied your reflection. “You’re the business one, we want to make sure you pop.” His eyes lit up. “I know.”

He didn’t quite have it the first few times, but finally, after taking over a changing room and trying on enough outfits that the both of you had nearly filled the reject cart, you walked out of the store with your purchases on your arms.

You stopped for takeout on the way back, too tired to cook, and ate dinner in a comfortable silence, leaning against each other and the couch as the TV played the weather forecast. When he dozed off against your neck, you forced yourself up.

“Come on sleepyhead,” you said, pulling him up with you. He made a few affronted noises but didn’t argue as you stole his trash and stowed the leftovers in the fridge and all but carried him into the bedroom.

“Dramatic.” You clicked your tongue, dropping him in the bed and moving to grab your sleepwear and get changed. His hand caught your wrist.

“You don’t have to take the couch tonight,” he said, and his voice was much clearer now.

“Well I’m not about to let you take it,” you said. “It’s my turn.”

“No, I meant--” he cut himself off.

“Oh,” you said.

“If you want,” he said hurriedly. “If it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Um-- if you’re okay with it,” you said, and your face burns and he looks kind of like he’s in the same boat and he drops your wrist.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” you said, and made for the bathroom.

He was changed when you finished in the bathroom and you climbed into bed beside him. It was strange, sharing, even though you knew you’d done it before maybe. There was an ocean of bed between you that you didn’t dare cross.

You closed your eyes. “Goodnight, Wonwoo,” you said, the words echoing off the wall you faced instead of him. Then, quieter, “You mean the world to me.”

(it’s the best rest you’ve gotten in what feels like forever; you wake up in a tangle of limbs but neither of you are in a hurry to pull away)

You idled outside the building, picking at the sleeves of the shirt you’d picked out the day before.

“Ready?” Wonwoo asked, making eye contact. You nodded, eyes slipping down to rest on the pink tie, the same pink as you’d chosen your shirt to be. He held out his arm, like a gentleman, and you took it.

The room rented for the dinner is as stuffy as you expected. You made small talk with coworkers you’d only ever seen for five minutes at the printer, and played the people watching game with Wonwoo in hushed tones whenever you got a spare moment. Seungcheol swung by a few times to check in and spill a bit of corporate gossip in a hushed voice, both with and without Joshua by his side.

“It’s a game we play,” Seungcheol explained when Wonwoo asked about it. “We make small talk together, he sends me to ‘get drinks’ and then talks me up behind my back.” Seungcheol glanced over at Joshua, where he was chatting calmly with two members of the board of directors. “He’s really good at it.”

Your social battery died about halfway through, but you forced yourself to soldier on. It probably wouldn’t look good if you left early. Hopefully no one would notice as your responses grew shorter and your smiles more strained.

Wonwoo took your hand after you laughed a little too loud at a coworker’s joke, and then turned to you when they had said their goodbyes to do another sweep around the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked softly. ��Is it time to go?”

You shook your head. “I shouldn’t leave early.”

“We’ve been here more than half the time, I think we’re allowed.” He folded your hand between his, rubbing it soothingly. “We can use me as an excuse, say I got tired. Please don’t force yourself to stay; I can tell something’s wrong.”

You kind of wanted to cry, and you didn’t know if it was the stress of the evening or what. “I don’t deserve you,” you said.

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and tugged you in. “You deserve the world,” he said softly into your ear.

And then you left the party.

You stopped at the park, instead of going directly home, sitting at the fountain’s edge.

“You remember when we got takeout?” he asked.

You did. “When we first played the people watching game, right?” you asked, and stopped. That hadn’t been the first time; you’d played it all the time before hadn’t you?

“Yeah,” he said. “You dropped me off.”

“You got really into the game,” you said. “That idol guy’s backstory was impressively complex.”

He laughed, soft and fond, and yet also flat. Like there was a layer of irony you hadn’t caught.

“When you dropped me off at the bookstore, you said that-- you said ‘you mean the world to me’. And-- we’re dating, at least according to Vernon, and, this whole time you never said ‘I love you’.” He looked at you. “Why is that?”

You open your mouth, the answer of a shared back and forth you two had used since university sitting on your tongue, but it didn’t come out. You just closed your mouth.

Because it wasn’t. It wasn’t something you’d said since university. You-- hadn’t known him in university.

“I’m not sure,” you said, bewildered because it was true. Why did you say that?

“It’s just stuck with me,” he said. “Ever since that first day, when I didn’t--” he cut himself off. “It was like I’d been dropped into this world from another one,” he said. “I didn’t know anything, and-- you were a total stranger.”

Another world. Total stranger. The words vibrated against the walls of your skull. You’d thought of him like a stranger too, even though you knew him. At least you thought you did. But you didn’t know him in university, you didn’t know him at all.

“But, as time went by, and I got time to know you, I realized something,” he said, and he took your hand in both of his. “And I don’t think we’re strangers anymore.”

Strangers, you were strangers. What had you thought, that first day? How did you even know it as the first day, beyond Wonwoo’s strange actions? You weren’t thinking of it like the first day of Wonwoo. It was the first day at all. You didn’t know him.

“I guess. . .” he trailed off. “I guess what I want to say, is just that I. . .”

He wasn’t your housemate or your boyfriend or the guy you knew from the frat. He wasn’t-- he was--

Oh god.

You tore your hand from his.

Everything went deathly silent.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Seokmin’s voice rang out.

Your head jerked up.

Time had frozen around you. Wonwoo still sat by the fountain, looking in your direction with an expression of distress, his hand reaching after you. You scrambled back. He didn’t move.

“I guess this means you figured it out?” Seokmin asked.

You looked at him. “What have I done?”

“A wish was made,” he said. “I granted it.”

You blinked. A flash, staring up into the sky from the window; “I wish I could tell him what he means,” you said to the stars, “every night. I wish I could tell him, he means the world to me.”

“You’re Santa.”

Seokmin made a face. “I’m with Wonwoo, let’s not call it that.”

“And Wonwoo knew the whole time that this was wrong?” you asked. He nodded. “Why? Why not me? It was my wish.”

He smiled. “Wishes don’t always work the way you expect them to.”

You shook your head. “Send him back now.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why Seokmin, just do it!”

He blinked at you. “For the record, I’m not actually Seokmin. I’m just borrowing his appearance, to keep an eye on you.”

You dug your fingers into the dirt, like a reminder it was still there. “And Seungcheol? Vernon? Chan?”

“Projections. Every person you’ve met here is a projection.”

“At least you didn’t abduct them.” You stopped. “At least I didn’t.” You shook your head. “But it’s done now. You have to send him back. He didn’t ask to be here, he didn’t want to be here!”

“And if he doesn’t want to go back?”

“Of course he wants to go back!” you shout. “Have you not seen the way he cares for the members? You said you were keeping an eye on us, did you miss that day at the park? He misses them! And I dragged him away!” You shoot to your feet, throat beginning to close up. “You have to fix this-- I have to fix this!”

The thing which was not Seokmin looked at you. “Don’t you wonder what he was going to say to you, before everything clicked?”

You swallowed. “Whatever it was, it was built on a lie. And it’s a lie I refuse to keep living.”

Not-Seokmin shrugged. “Then turn and look him in the eyes and wish everything back,” he said.

You did.

(if you cried when you woke up in a single bed you recognized as truly your own, you were the only one to know)

Wonwoo was oddly quiet in broadcasts from that point on. You couldn’t bring yourself to talk about him anymore. Someone asked you on Twitter if you had something against him.

No, you’d responded, he just reminds me of a recent ex. Every time I see him I think about them and it’s just too painful right now. I don’t hate Wonwoo.

Two days later, the Seventeen Twitter account dmed you.

I need to talk to you.

You sent, I’m sorry.

You deactivated.

You almost gave away your concert tickets, but you’d been planning on going with a friend before everything and you wouldn’t let them down. You went despite all your misgivings. With the stage lights on full blast, there was no way he’d be able to see you in the audience. You were safe, with your seats halfway up the concert hall, half a mile from the stage.

And then Seventeen, in the middle of their set, hopped off the stage, into the audience.

You’d wondered why certain aisles had a security detail around them.

If it wasn’t the middle of a song, you’d ask the people farther down the row to switch with you but you didn’t dare move around; it had been drilled into you that doing so during a performance was disrespectful. You were the seat on the aisle, and Wonwoo was on his way up, his eyes scanning the crowd with a sharp determination even as he continued his verse flawlessly.

Would looking away be more conspicuous than staring?

Should you jump to blend with the energy of the crowd, or freeze so he didn’t look?

It didn’t matter.

He’d seen you.

He took the stairs two, three at a time, stopping on the landing beside you, turning to face the rest of the hall again as his verse finished, and then he glanced at you.

The spotlight shone on his face.

“Please don’t leave,” he mouthed, or maybe said, but the combined roar of the crowd and the blood rushing in your ears drowned it out completely.

And then he turned to complete the performance, leaving a few fans looking at you wistfully.

(several of them came up after the concert to congratulate you, to gush about how lucky you were, to speculate about what happened and laugh about it; blessedly no one was openly rude about it)

You sat on the edge of a fountain, in the plaza a block from the back door of the concert hall, fidgeting with your sleeves. You didn’t know if you were crazy. You probably were crazy, waiting for him. He’d be livid. He had to be livid. He’d never forgive you.

But whatever closure would mean for him, you’d give it to him.

Anything.

The back door of the concert hall slammed open and a figure came bolting out towards you. They skidded to a halt at the edge of the fountain, and you could see Wonwoo’s eyes over the mask.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to stay,” he said.

“I wasn’t either.”

“I’m glad you did.” He sat down on the edge of the fountain. “I really need to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, before he could get upset.

He blinked. “For what?”

“For making the stupid wish and dragging you into an alternate universe, and then not even remembering doing it.” You rubbed your arm, staring at the brickwork. “I mean I was basically gaslighting you the entire time.”

“I know you didn’t mean it,” he said.

You toed the crack between two stones. “What all do you know?”

“How that world worked. How I got there. How I got back.” You saw him move, reaching out like he was going to take your hand, and then stopping himself in the middle. “I’m not upset with you.”

“You should be.” The words dropped out of your mouth. “You should hate me. You-- I basically ruined your life.”

“You didn’t ruin my life, you showed me what I was missing,” he said. “You remember when we played that people watching game? What I said about that man?”

You picked at a loose thread in your sleeve. “He. . . he was taking a break from the practice room.”

You saw him nod from the corner of your eye. “And I said he was getting a new perspective.”

“He’s seeing life from a new angle,” you said.

“It was as much my wish as it was yours,” Wonwoo said. “I felt lost. I didn’t know where to go next or what to focus on, and it wasn’t something the members could help with, but it was something you could help with. And you did.”

You felt numb. A wish was made. Not-Seokmin had given one last riddle, one you were finally understanding.

“You add a dimension to my life that I was missing,” he said. “Just, please-- please don’t leave me again.”

You looked at him, finally, sitting there on the edge of the fountain, his hair a mess from the performance.

“I didn’t want to leave,” you said. “I just-- I had to let you go.”

“You don’t have to here,” he said. “I know I don’t run a bookstore, and we didn’t meet in college, but--”

“I didn’t fall for you because you ran a bookstore,” you said. “The bookstore was window dressing. You’re you no matter what career you have.”

On impulse, you reached out. He met you in the middle and you laced your fingers through his.

“I love you,” you said.

He clasped his other hand around yours and lifted it to his lips, his eyes squeezed up in such overwhelming happiness you thought you’d cry.

“I love you too.”

#caratwritersclub #seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen au #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #listen i don't know how to tag and i refuse to learn now on principle #i'll throw words into these bitches with reckless abandon and one day #i'll die

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shyrose57 · 4 years

Text

I?? Saw some soul eater Dream smp aus and honestly, I love those kind of AUs. The bonds between partners, and such is pretty cool, and Madness always makes it so anyone can turn into an opponent. So here’s one of my own.

First of all, all current weapons are Tubbo, Ranboo, Phil, Karl, and Wilbur.

Maybe Fundy and Quackity too, but I’m not sure yet.

I like the idea of Sapnap using both Karl and Quackity, as well as both Quackity and Sapnap sharing Karl, or maybe just Karl and Sapnap being a weapon/meister pair, and Quackity wielding himself but still working with them.

And I’m equally torn between Fundy being a self-wielding weapon, a witch, or a meister.

All current meisters are Eret, Tommy, Dream, Sapnap, and Technoblade.

Tubbo’s dad is Sparklez, because that’s a fun dynamic, and Tubbo was created by Ianite as a sort of gift to her weapon.

Because of this, he’s a special weapon, able to shift between three forms-because, y’know, water is fluid and ever changing, and she’s partially an ocean goddess. I just liked the idea.

Tubbo can transform into a trident like his dad, a halberd, and either a medieval lance, or a greek sword(xiphos maybe? Kinda like Tommy’s knife?). Either of them kind of give of a hero vibe, cause y’know, lances and knights, but the greek sword would also tie into Tommy’s whole Theseus thing. It’d be neat anyway. Tubbo would personally stick as the lance/sword, due to it being Tommy’s preference, but he can switch between them all easily.

Ranboo would be a double bladed scythe, for the whole duality thing.

Phil would either be a scythe himself or a claymore. I’m leaning more towards scythe, since he’s the whole angel of death, and scythes are associated with reapers and all, and Techno can always use normal swords if he wants.

Plus, it would mean Phil could teach Ranboo a bit about how to fight with his blades, which adds more bonding opportunities.

Dunno what Karl would be. I’m considering maybe a lantern, like Jacqueline because A, fire and Sapnap, and B, I dunno, I kind of associate lanterns with libraries, and it’d be kind of a connection to the Inbetween. Plus, his light could change colors like his hoodie.

Now, my personal favorite, Wilbur, who I am incredibly conflicted with. I have three different weapon ideas for him, all of which hurt equally, but in different ways.

The first is pretty much some kind of Razor Floss String. I don’t know the logistics of it, but he can turn himself into really sharp and strong streak manipulated by himself and a meister’s soul energy. This route would probably have the most angst with Tommy, because Wilbur would use his weapon form a lot in their childhood. Putting on shows for Tommy by using his strings to manipulate toys, or catching Tommy and dragging him if he fell from a high spot. And equally, at some point in Pogtopia, Dream suggesting he and Wilbur practice working together, since he’s with them, and Tommy having to witness his older brother get used by the person who’s hurt them so much. For extra angst, maybe Dream even ‘jokingly’ wraps Tommy up in Wilbur’s strings, like a puppet, before Wilbur gets annoyed and transforms back at the ‘games’.

The second would be a scythe, like Philza, which would obviously mean more Phil focused angst, with Tommy and Ranboo on the side. Phil would remember teaching Wilbur how to fight when he’s teaching Ranboo, and perhaps be reminded of him every time either of them transform. Plus, Tommy would also remember Wilbur whenever he saw them, and get mad at Phil for being with Techno more than his own kids(SBI family, of course. Tech’s a family friend though).

Finally, a spear, with more Fundy focused angst. In this AU, Sally would have been some mer-related hybrid or something. Maybe Wilbur got stuck on an island or something, and met her, and the two became partners. Fundy grew up with stories of how his mother wielded Wilbur seamlessly, and how they brought monsters to their knees, and hunted huge beasts. Maybe Wilbur would teach him to wield him, as bonding, but as the two grow closer apart, Fundy doesn’t wield him as much, until Wilbur’s dead and he never can again.

Like I said, they’d all hurt a lot, but in different ways.

As for more hurt...

Tubbo’s trident form is enchanted with both Channeling and Riptide(I know they aren’t technically compatible, but I’m just going to say it’s because of Ianite or something). One, because Tubbo should definitely be able to electrocute someone, as a treat, and two, because that scene where Tommy’s exiled and he flies into the air with Dream’s trident? Yeah, that but he’s also remembering all the times he did the same thing with Tubbo and misses him even more.

At some point while Tommy’s stuck in jail, Tubbo and Ranboo decide to work on wielding each other, in case something happens. Tommy’s still Tubbo’s meister, but it’s good to be prepared, y’know? One day while they’re doing this, Ranboo gets stuck in his Enderwalk state(which probably has some connection to Madness in this AU, idk), and Tubbo, who he’s wielding at the time, get’s dragged down with him.

Thus, Techno and Phil end up forced to fight the two while trying not to hurt them too much and snap them out of it, while Ranboo and Tubbo swap between each other and try to kill them.

Meanwhile, in their shared soul space(kind of like that place Maka and Soul found themselves dancing when dealing with the black blood stuff, Idk the term for it), Ranboo and Tubbo sit talking, wandering why they feel a vague sense of wrongness, unable to remember how they got here, or what happened.

Also, Eret wielded Wilbur in the first L’manberg war, which is why he was even more betrayed when Eret left them for his crown.

That’s about it for now, I think.

#dream smp au #dream smp #tubbo #ranboo #Soul Eater AU #philza #technoblade #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #eret #fundy #karl jacobs #quackity #sapnap

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a-deed-without-a-name · 3 years

Note

Can you tell us about the AU in (I feel bad but I forgot the name of the fic, it was the one with Gabriel as a feeder for Sam) because I keep thinking about it- there was a lot of neat stuff there. Do you ever intend on fleshing it out?

The Gravity of Tempered Grace! Don't feel bad about forgetting the name. I forgot it, too.

I am thrilled by this ask. Utterly thrilled. There is a lot of world-building surrounding this particular fic that I wound up leaving out so it wouldn’t get too messy, which I believe I mentioned in the note at the beginning.

I’ve told people before my real kink is worldbuilding/headcanon, and they think I’m joking, but I am absolutely not.

I’m not sure I’ll ever flesh this AU out, but I can sure as shit dump the bits and pieces of the universe I remember here!

This is a “most monsters/magic are public and mundane”-type universe, which is how Gabriel and Castiel are dating people, renting apartments, and working normal jobs with their wings out all the time. No real triggering “everybody found out” event, this is just the way things have always been and society reflects that. Most species, humans included, are able to live comfortably with each other. Negative stereotypes and stigmas exist, but resources do exist for those beings who need to feed on each other

Sam works for the Men of Letters, which is a public, overarching government institution in this universe. Kind of a cross between the FBI, CDC, and a few other agencies. His official job title is Occult Researcher, which means that he studies and refines magic. He specializes in curses and everything surrounding them. He’s mostly home office, but has traveled before to assist field teams.

Sam is a cambion. The term can mean somebody with one human parent and one demonic, but that’s so rare nowadays the definition’s fallen out of use, and it mostly just means a human tainted with infernal magic, usually as a child. It’s rare, but not impossible, and usually happens by accident or opportunity. In Sam’s case, it happened because his mother made a deal with a demon and it tried to claim him (y’know, like...in canon). Sam and Dean are both aware of this.

There are negative stereotypes surrounding cambions, and corresponding legislation meant to prevent discrimination. The Men of Letters, however, consider them highly employable in certain roles, because they tend to have latent psychic and/or magical powers, they’ve got a high tolerance when it comes to curses and infernal magic, and while the demonic taint is a pain in the ass, there are easy workarounds. Sam is offended by any implications he got his job because of the blood in his veins rather than on his merits.

Yes, an angel dating a cambion is unusual. Sam and Gabriel have heard all the jokes. At this point in their relationship, it’s a fact that barely registers anymore.

Modern angels’ ancestors originally immigrated from Heaven. They were divine beings, but generations on Earth has rendered them mostly mortal. A few hallmarks remain: their wings, their divine magical abilities, the fact they don’t need to eat and rarely need to sleep, their psychic connection with all members of their species, the angel blades some are born with, and their communal social behavior. Some angels do still have extradimensional forms, but they’re basically vestigial by this point, and the aspects (extra eyes, flaming haloes, mandorlas) tend to only appear in moments of intense emotion. It’s seen as an embarrassing thing, like blushing or crying when you argue.

Gabriel is a lesser archangel. Castes/breeds used to mean a lot more in his species past, and a lot of angels are still defined behaviorally by their caste (Castiel is). For Gabriel, this basically means only that he has four wings instead of the standard two or the higher-archangel six, that he’s highly powerful in terms of magic, and he’s looking at a lifespan of at least a thousand years.

Many angels still flock, or live in large groups (garrisons, choirs). Even those that don’t, like Castiel and Gabriel, have a communal social mindset, which is a large part of the reason they’re compatible with Sam and Dean: they don’t think it’s weird to spend as much time with your brother as the two of them do, even when you’re adults and live separately. Most flocks have adjusted and integrated well into modern society. Some, however, prefer to live on their own and remain “pure,” and subscribe to outdated ideologies and practices involving the “holiness” of angels. These groups have rigid rules, harshly punish disobedience, strictly isolate their members, and are usually ruled over by a single patriarch. Cults, they’re cults.

Gabriel and Castiel are distant relatives. They were raised in a cultic angel community. Gabriel, who’s older and more powerful, left and took Castiel with him.

Sam and Dean were still raised as hunters in this universe, but because of the way that society and the legal system in general is set up here, their dad was basically the equivalent of a serial killer. He was arrested when they were teenagers. Sam is no longer in contact with him. Dean is low-contact, which Sam isn’t aware of but Castiel is.

Castiel is a beat cop. This is almost a stereotypical job for a seraph, between the advantage of flight, the built-in weapon, the fact they’re a “soldier” caste; the only way he could lean harder into it is if he’d joined the military (which he would have if Gabriel hadn’t talked him out of it).

Dean is in the construction and home improvement industry. Specifically, he’s a warder, which is the blue-collar equivalent of Sam’s job. He puts runic, magical, and mundane protections on homes and other buildings. Some things come standard, but the more you want to be protected from and the rarer it is, the higher the price.

Dean was actually the one to introduce Sam to Gabriel. He was a regular at his bakery and knew him tangentially (though he thought he was obnoxious), and had a meet-cute with Castiel involving doughnuts one morning. When they were serious enough to meet each other’s families, that was when Sam and Gabriel were finally introduced.

There’s probably...more? But I’m gonna let it go for now because holy fuuuuck did I overdo it lmao.

#ask #weight gain #headcanon #worldbuilding #sabriel #destiel #by bits and pieces i mean 1000+ words #rip to anyone who keeps reading under the cut

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

Text

Sunrise (Dean/Cas coda to 15x19 “Inherit the Earth”, 1.7k)

(ao3 link)

Dean and Sam were free. Finally, unequivocally, free.

But this wasn't the happy ending Dean had expected. Maybe in the past, having Sam in the passenger seat tearing across an open stretch of highway as the sunsets, it'd be what he wanted. But that was years ago. He's not that man anymore. Dean's tired of sunsets, of saying goodbye. He yearns for a different ending. One that's less of an ending, and more of a beginning. A sunrise instead of a sunset.

Sam has his. Dean lost his. Despite this setback, he won't stop. He'll live in memory of his sunrise.

Except, what can he do when he feels those rays on his face again?

Early morning sunlight streams through half-closed motel window blinds, striking Dean directly on his face. Stir him from unconsciousness, shuffling Dean out of his dreams. Warm blue and familiar stubble replaced with an ugly, orange patterned wallpaper that makes his stomach unhappily flip. Groaning, he turns. Hopes he can reclaim his quickly fading fantasy. It escapes his grasp, Dean left in the loneliness of reality.

Truly. He checks Sam’s bed, finding it unoccupied. “Figures…”

They crossed paths with Eileen coincidentally. Not like Sam’s pointed questions and giant thumbs hid his intentions. Even his terrible acting (“Eileen? What are the odds of you being here?”) couldn’t throw him off. Dean played along, however, letting them think he was in the dark. Knew exactly why his brother and his brother’s girlfriend hadn’t told Dean about this. Salt only hurts a wound that’s fresh and open. While badly healed, Dean’s grown numb to that missing chunk of his heart. More pained that his sadness made his loved ones go behind his back, act in guilt.

Sam and Eileen don’t deserve shadows because of his pain.

Which is why he’s happy for them. Left the bar so they can chat without his presence. Catch up, let Sam tell her about those kitschy tourist traps they’ve been hopping between since Chuck’s defeat. Show pictures of Dean in an upside-down house, Sam’s head peeking out from corn fields. Hold hands. Sit on the same side of the booth. Kiss, without worrying if Dean is steadily killing his liver at the bar because of them.

Drinking lost its flavor anyhow.

Free from Chuck’s influences, Dean decided he might cut a few more strings. Namely beer. He’ll enjoy a bottle every now and then but, reflecting on it, booze never offered comfort he really needed. Only aggravated a different sort of hurt, distracting him for a while. He abandoned those distractions. Instead of asking their bartender from last night, with his tanned skin and wavy, blond hair, for whiskey, neat, until he dropped, Dean stood from their table and paid his tab. Carried his longing out the exit, drove with it, laid down in his bed and held it close. Hugged it, imagining his arms. Praise whispered in his ear, about choosing a different way. A better way. A healthier way.

Cas would be proud of him. Prouder than he already is. And Dean… felt the same.

Rising, Dean stretches. Winces as a new disc pops and cracks in his back, “Motels ain’t what they used to be…” He throws his legs over the side, scrunching his toes in the shag carpet. Smiling, “But at least some things’ll never change…”

It’s going to be a slow morning. Dean doubts Sam will swing by before noon, meaning he has hours to kill. First, he leisurely showers. Scrubs at his scalp with gentle scratches, humming Zeppelin under his breath. Keening ‘A Whole Lotta Love’s chorus, coming into his hand. Lets that melody fade while water makes his come sluice off his hand, into the drain. He switches tracks, dries himself while softly singing ‘Going to California’. Thinks about their next destination. All those beaches he and Sam plan on visiting. Finally making good on their promise.

Not how he always envisioned it, but…

Dean drapes the towel around his neck, staring at his reflection. Marks new wrinkles he hadn’t noticed, gray hairs where dirty blond were. Sees how small his eyebags shrank.

Sleeping was surprisingly easy. Some days Dean wished it weren’t. Others, it’s his only chance at being with him again.

“Nope,” he says, leaving the bathroom. Jumping out from the mirror. “Not going there… not this early…”

He bides his time dressing, debating where he should get breakfast. Wonders if a diner they passed entering town might serve pie as he hops into his jeans. Waffles between a t-shirt or purple-and-blue plaid while rubbing deodorant on. Then, tugging his tee’s thin fabric over his head, he decides he isn’t that hungry. Can eat later, Sam driving so he can attack snacks he squirrelled away when they last stopped for gas.

Knock Knock Knock

“Sam?” Dean asks, glancing at the door. No one answers. “Sam is that you? You forget your keys or…” He checks his phone. Nothing.

Knock Knock Knock

“Sam, if that’s you – this isn’t funny.” He grabs for his socks, sitting on the end of his bed. “Pulling a poor joke on your brother, leaving your girlfriend alone in bed… shame on you.”

Knock Knock Knock

Dean squeezes his socks, glaring at the door. His irritation fades, weirdly, the longer he stares. Replaced with a different feeling, comforting. Without needing to, Dean guesses it’s not Sam on that other side. Tossing his socks, Dean stands and slowly inches forward. Drawn by gravity, a name perched atop his tongue. Waiting there, scared of being spoken. Of being wrong. He doesn’t feel wrong.

Is this still a dream, he asks himself. Did I actually wake up? Dean waits, hovering near the doorknob. Remembers rushing last time, what waited there then. What he almost threw himself onto. Cycles through who might be waiting now. Something worse, a more terrifying monster. Or maybe mundane, like the motel manager. He’ll never know if he drags it out. Whether that’s motivation or warning, Dean can’t decide. What he does choose is flinging open that door and facing whoever was there.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas -?” Dean gasps, knees buckling. Laughing, he leans his weight on the door. Grins wide enough his cheeks must splinter, twin tracks of tears already spilled over. “Cas, is that…” He coughs, wiping at his mouth. “Is that really you?”

Like nothing happened, Cas crosses the threshold. Dressed spectacularly… normal. Trench coat, suit jacket, and white button-down paired with his crooked blue tie. Dean’s hand drifts close but can’t touch. Not yet. “It is me,” he tells Dean, “you… probably have a lot of questions. About why I’m here, and – and what was said when the Empty…”

Of course, there are questions. None were as important as Dean snatching Cas’s tie, dragging him into a heated embrace. “Later,” he promises, closing the door. Guiding Cas onto his bed. Falling, his angel’s body collapsing atop his. Weight proving further and further how real this is.

He’s back!

“I can’t believe…” Dean kisses along Cas’s neck, threading his fingers through hairs resting at his angel’s nape. Feeds a fire burning across his body, flames roaring with a desire for more. “Can’t believe I could be this lucky…”

Cas chuckles, “Good things do happen, Dean.”

“Never to us.” Pausing, Dean tears his eyes from the dip of Cas’s collarbone and to his face. “I searched, Cas. I did. Back when it was me, and Sam, and Jack, I did everything I could but I… there wasn’t any lore. Nothing about contacting the Empty, breaking through I – how?”

Shifting, Cas rolls off Dean and onto his side. No sooner than it started, those flames eating at Dean’s insides tempered. Became a more manageable heat, containable. Dean tucked himself against Cas’s chest, hearing his heartbeat. Awed from that simple rhythm it gives. Lulls Dean with a gentle song. “Jack,” Cas explains. Rubs Dean’s shoulder, along where his handprint was. Teased the edges of his tee, part of his memorial tattoo revealed. Cas traces his palm outline. “In fixing Chuck’s mistakes, he… he mounted a rescue mission from Heaven.”

“For you?”

“For everyone.” Cas kisses Dean’s crown, continuing his story. Whispers it into his head. “All the angels. Jack rescued us all.”

“Everyone?” Dean asks, “Meaning… Michael? Gabriel?”

“Uriel, Balthazar, Anna, Hannah, Metatron – even Lucifer.”

“What the hell?”

“He was fixing what Chuck wasted. Saved Heaven,” he says, “Gave everyone a second chance, to do right by humanity. Be its guardians like we were supposed to be. And…” Cas lays his hand where it belongs, Dean shivering from contact. Wraps his arms tighter around his angel’s waist. “Jack offered me all my powers back, and then some. Said I could be his archangel… second-in-command, in all of Heaven.”

Dean lifts his head, frowning. Studies Cas with a suspicious wrinkle creasing his brow. He deflates somewhat, disappointment rocking into him like heavy waves. Routine. Expected, since Cas was exactly where he wanted. But then, isn’t that answer enough? Dean asks regardless. “Did you take it?”

“I thanked him for the offer,” Cas says, “however my place was elsewhere, here on Earth… with you.” His hand moves, cupping Dean’s cheek. Thumb brushes his lip. “And when our time comes, I’ll rejoin Heaven at your side.”

Cas’s heartbeat makes sense, now. It never did that before.

“We’ve got a long time before we croak, Cas,” Dean jokes, crawling higher up his bed. Enough that he can press their foreheads together. “You think you can handle it?”

“I waited millennia to meet you, and then years just so I can hold you like this.” Cas closes the distance, capturing Dean’s lips. “I’m hoping our future is excruciatingly slow.”

“Our future…” He relaxes, allowing a few more kisses before he starts again. “Y’know, I… I thought I’d never get to say that. Figured, after Jack took the reigns from Chuck, this was all we’d get and – and having everyone back was nice. But you weren’t there, and I hurt. When you died, I wanted to sit there and let myself waste away and join you. Except if I did, you’d be so angry and – that’s what’s been keeping me going. You loved me so much – and were pained whenever I was… I couldn’t do that to myself. Punishing myself wouldn’t be fair. So I thought about my future, how I can live it for those I loved. Be there… the person I’ve become, and not who I used to be. But now…”

“Now you can be a little selfish,” Cas says. “We can be selfish.” He tickles Dean’s chin, hands roving across his body. “What should we do, for the first day of the rest of our lives?”

Dean doesn’t dawdle. “I want to lay here,” he says, “Lay here the whole day, in your arms, telling you how much I love you.”

“…I don’t see any problems with that.”

Neither did Dean, which is why he suggested it. They fix themselves, first. Cas sheds most of his outer layers, leaving himself only in his boxers. Dean hurls his jeans off fast, jumping under the covers. Giddy as Cas joins him, both men facing each other. Hands joined above their sheets, Cas’s palm fitting perfectly.

“Well?” Cas arches his brow, “How much do you love me?”

Dean kisses him, ruining it by smiling too hard. “I love you too much, and not enough.”

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