#it always feels like things are on a much slower simmer for the hero of kvatch. the dragonborn walks in a room and starts leading a faction

[potatoesandsunshine]

sorry everyone but to me the dark brotherhood is like a weird sitcom family you join midway through their third season. they've all already got established dynamics and relationships and my character is walking in to add a little extra drama to an already-moving plot. we don't even get to the friends stage before whatever climactic awful thing (usually me) happens to them

[shoutogepi]

“Fuck You!””I Just Might.”

Bakugou Katsuki

word count : 7.1k holy hecc

[ ✘ (nsfw!) ]

themes : nasty nasties hehe.. choking, angry sex, dom bakugou (what’s new lmao), lots of sexy vengeful teasing, & almost being caught (? idk what to call that haha)

bio : You and Ground Zero are far from getting along in almost every aspect… except for getting off perhaps.

author’s note : wow another smut whodathunkit !!! This isn’t super romantic (Happy VDay my sweets!!) but goddamn if u thirstin today drink tf up bc the SALOON IS OPEN AND HERE’S THE SPECIAL ON DA HOUSE

side note: (Y/H/N) = your hero name, also the sidekick is 100% out my ass not real bc I didn’t feel like doing legit research heheh. also, all characters are aged up to long past UA-grad in this (so everyone is 18+!!)

tagging: @lordexplosionsextra per request -- hope you enjoy bb :) happy vday!

also available on AO3 here

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🄰rms crossed, chest puffing in defiance, your gaze shoots daggers into his stupid smirk. “I’m not your fucking sidekick, Boom-Boy, so you can crawl back into the putrid swamp you came from and take your damn paperwork with you!”

“H-hey now,” Bakugou’s sidekick laughs nervously, hands waving in front of him as he shakes off the jab you just took at him inadvertently.

Bakugou laces his gloved fingers over his lap and kicks back in his chair, straightening his legs so his boots rest on the table across from you. “Listen, Princess, you know the rules. Whoever gets the final blow doesn’t have to do the nitty-gritty shit,” he answers, shrugging nonchalantly.

“You only got the finisher in ‘cuz I was busy doing everything else! You pop in at the last second and get all the credit and no busywork? Fuck off,” you fume, hooking your foot around the leg of his chair and ripping it toward you. Bakugou’s eyes widen as he falls backwards, tumbling onto the hard floor. He grimaces at you from the floor, vermillion eyes ablaze.

“It’s not my fault you’re too stupid to strategize! Don’t start shit you can’t fucking finish yourself!” He barks, voice spiking with fury. Ouch, that one stung your pride a little.

“You’re such an asshole,” you snarl, shoving the stack of papers off the table. The pages swirl in the air and scatter onto the tiled floor, some landing on the instigator’s lap. Bakugou’s palms crackle as his breath is stolen at your audacity. Your sidekick lets out a startled noise, jumping at the sudden popping. Bakugou’s sidekick has his hand on his temple, attempting to rub out the headache forming at this mess.

Why did you two have to hate each other so much?

The two sidekicks stand stiffly against the wall as you shove by them, Bakugou glaring at your ass as your hips swing around the doorway, out of his sight.

It’s late, the purple sky littered with the lights of the lively city. The villain you— or Bakugou, you suppose— had taken down earlier had been the last job of the day and you’re tired of the stupid bullshit he always serves you when the two of you work together.

Usually your agency kept the two of you on opposite boundaries of the patrol area, but you had begrudgingly needed help with this last offender of the day. Your quirk didn’t do incredibly well against villains with close-combat styles, but you could still manage. Unfortunately, the guy that had been causing mayhem earlier was beyond powerful up close, and he had landed a hit that knocked the wind out of you and made you slower than usual. It wasn’t a major injury or anything, but you’d probably have a nasty bruise on your torso after you took off this goddamn gimp-suit of a costume. Luckily, you had visited the in-house, agency healer in the infirmary upon arrival from the job, and they had sucked the nasty welt off your skin and redirected it somewhere else as their quirk allowed. The pain subsided mostly, just a bit sore where the bruise would’ve been.

You close the door to your office gently, a heavy sigh releasing as you make your way toward the desk. It was almost quitting time, but you still had to finish up the paperwork from the other case you had dealt with this morning. Clicking on the desk lamp, you breathe in to calm your frayed nerves, eyes closing briefly as you try to find the energy to finish your work.

The door bursts open, slamming almost immediately and tearing you out of your attempt at meditation. Bakugou stands in there, steam practically billowing from his nose and scarlet eyes flashing with agitation.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” He snarls, prowling toward you with an accusatory, gloved finger raised.

“Excuse me?” You quip, irritation revitalized almost instantly. “Who do you think you are, storming into my office after the shit you pulled today?”

He stops in front of you, glowering down at you. You turn your face slightly, your eye level meeting his chest and not wanting to look at that. He was kind of muscular up close like this, you’d never noticed because you’d always created the most distance as possible between you two.

“Oh, you mean me saving your ass? Yeah, my bad, woman,” he growls, letting his gaze linger on the way your eyelashes kiss your cheek bones as you scoff, eyes closed in annoyance.

You glare at him, infuriated. “I didn’t need your fucking help! Did I ask you to come?”

He takes his time to reply, stare holding your attention briefly before he licks his lips. “No, but your sidekick did.”

The sentence is like a cold slap to the face, and you push him backwards with newfound anger. “Don’t fucking lie to me Bakugou,” you seethe, hands clenched into fists. “If you’re gonna lie at least come up with something believable!”

“Tch. She did call me, brat, and she begged me to come to your rescue like you were a goddamn damsel in distress,” he grunts, breaking eye contact with you as he hunches slightly, strong hands shoved into his pockets. Bristling at the refreshed anger rippling off of you, he already knows what you’re going to say. “She said that shitty villain got his hands on you, yeah right you had it under control.”

You don’t know what to say. You can’t really refute that the assailant had managed to hurt you, but you still wish Bakugou hadn’t heard that information. The asshole already thinks he’s the hottest shit in the agency, you really don’t want to give him any evidence of your weaknesses. So you sit on the edge of your desk, sighing once again. “I can handle one hit, dipshit,” you mutter. “It’s already healed anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can take care of yourself,” he grumbles, gaze flickering to your grim expression before he looks intently at the picture on your wall.

The silence that ensues is uncomfortable. You had never really talked to Bakugou before-- usually every time the two of you were together you were having a shouting match, throwing insults back and forth relentlessly. You aren’t really sure how to reply, and you absolutely did not want to acknowledge that he had come to your rescue when you actually needed him.

Bakugou is as silent as you are. He wonders where you’d been hit momentarily, before pushing off the thought because god forbid he show emotions. He’d already had his fill of feelings for the day. He sure as hell would never tell a soul, but the second he had seen your sidekick’s name flash across his phone screen this evening, his stomach dropped like he’d been the one to receive the villain's punch, not you. Shoving away the intrusive thought, his trademark scowl surfaces to his face.

“You know, I still haven’t heard a ‘thank you’.”

His irritating voice slices through the tension in the room, and you bristle at his impudence. “Gee, Ground Zero,” he ruffles at his hero name, a frown bending his thin lips,” thanks so much for stealing my job and taking the credit for it too, and really— thank you so much for the paperwork as well. I’m just so grateful.”

“Tch. Don’t be so bitchy, you know I saved your ass today so just fess up and thank me already. You’ll feel better once you spit it out,” he provokes, thick arms crossing over his chest.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, scowling at his smug face. The snarl that breaks his lips is ignored as your eyes turn to slits directed toward him.

He laughs at your malicious look, mouth transforming into a sleazy grin. He can’t stop himself even though he’s a tad hesitant, but his bold and loud nature wins out and he says cooly, “I just might.”

You gape at him, the smile on his mouth escalating your agitation. “W-What?” You choke out meekly, palms pushing you off the desk to stand upright.

He has the gall to grin, taking a step toward you. His heavy boots clunk against the floor, and you move backwards only to bump into the desk again. You cast a futile glare at the desk, and when you look back at him, he’s looming over you. “I think it’s time we acknowledge this thing we have, (Y/H/N).”

Your lips part in surprise, the blush tainting your cheeks slightly. “I have no idea what you’re referring to,” you stammer. Your arms crossing over your chest, he can’t help but notice how your breasts squish upwards, cleavage visible through your skin-tight costume.

“I think you do,” he chuckles with a low voice, gaze regarding the pink pigment gracing your cheeks. He savors it, lips curling into a smirk. His hands meeting the edge of your desk as he leans in, his body brushes against your arms. You rear back, shock evident on your face with lips parted as he tips his head to the side. He cages you in, an unfamiliar look simmering in his crimson irises. “You can feel the tension between us too. I know it, Princess.”

You’re once again at a loss for words. What the hell is happening right now? You think, mind reeling desperately to change the subject. “I hate it when you call me that,” you spit out, looking up to catch his intense stare. It wasn’t dishonest, you hated his pet name for you. Just because you weren’t as careless as him, he’d tacked the snide nickname to you awhile back because he knew it pissed you off. “It’s a stupid name that only your idiot brain could come up with.”

Take the bait, please take the bait.

“The way you treat me like I’m beneath you, what else can I call you?” His breath fans against your cheek and you hate to admit it’s fresh and minty, not at all as nasty and troll-like as you’d convinced yourself it would be. “But I guess that’s ‘cuz you really wouldn’t mind having me under your lap, right?”

You gasp at his crude suggestion, knees smacking together as your thighs clench automatically. “Fuck off, Bakugou,” your voice trembles slightly, your palms hesitantly landing on his chest. Your attempt to push him is less than half-hearted, and he smiles at your crumbling resolve.

His fingers skim along the small of your back, perching his hand on your waist. You can feel its warmth through your costume and his glove, and your body bends into his hold on its own accord, your ass pushing back while your chest grazes his. He exhales harshly, his other hand docking on the top of your stiffened thigh, thumb falling into the curve between your legs. You wish it was higher up, and the recognition of your craving makes your blush a few shades darker.

“What was that?” He snickers, lips brushing your earlobe as his nose pushes away your cascading hair. He didn’t expect you to smell so good after a long day of fighting crime.

Your fingers grab onto his costume, clawing at the material and you’re not sure if it’s in anger or desire. But Bakugou is sure, his fingers rubbing your waist as he glances at your restless hold on his costume. “Oh, bite me,” you spit out, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

His lips touch your jaw, and you can feel the sneer that rests so prominently there. “Manners, Princess… say please,” he chides, tongue poking out to trace the soft skin there.

A quiet moan escapes you and Bakugou groans loudly in response. He draws his face back to lock eyes with you, stare taught with the tension the two of you have built over all this time.

“You gonna tell me you’ve never thought about us fucking?” He inquires, eyes darting to your lips and returning to your gaze. “All those times we riled each other up, every time we pushed each other’s buttons over and over— you gonna say you never thought about getting me to shut the hell up by any means necessary?”

Your eyes roll in your head, from a combination of lust and disbelief. You cannot believe you're letting him hold you like butter in his hot hands, melting you and licking you up. You glare at him, his lips just close enough to distract you. You weren’t going to let him mould you like putty anymore. “I bet you wanna think that I have, Bakugou,” you whisper, and he looks at you with mild surprise adorning his handsome face. Your blush infects him immediately, a flush spreading over his own cheeks and he’s suddenly very glad his costume has a mask. “You think I haven’t noticed you checking me out every second of the day, Boom-Boy?”

He seems at a loss for words as your wrists wrap around the back of his neck, pulling his face down and level to yours. His brow bursts into a sweat as one of your hand curls around his costume’s throat piece, trailing south and following the delicious line between his pecs down his abs. Your fingernails scraping through his costume, his skin prickles as he gasps. Your lips meet his stubbled jaw, mirroring the action he had performed to you a moment ago. His fingers tighten their hold on you, his body jerking almost invisibly at the contact. “You ogle at me much more, little Miss Priss,” he says cockily even though his voice sounds forced.

It was your turn to curl your lips into a sultry smile, half-lidded eyes regarding his shocked, eager stare. “I thought I told you not to tell your phony lies, Bakugou,” your murmur against his jawline, hand curving around his pelvis and to drag down his outer thigh. “It’s a sin to lie, you know.” Your fingers skim the very ridge of the bulge in his pants, teasingly tracing the outline and watching him close his eyes, his grin seeming strained.

“You know a lot about sins, then?” he pants, sliding his hand down from your waist slowly, fingertips stretching eagerly to push into your plush ass.

You nip at his skin playfully, and he shudders in response. Your raise your head to meet his hungry gaze, your coy smile still beaming. “I might… You want me to demonstrate my knowledge?” Your tongue parts your lips, eyes falling to his slightly agape mouth. Your breath tangles, and his eyelids flutter shut as your lips graze.

The hand on your thigh grips your flesh tighter and you whimper, your mouth tingling at the harder contact of the kiss. His other hand slides south and cups your tailbone, calloused fingers bringing your ass toward him. The sudden movement surprises you, and you grab onto his neck, making his chin dip down as your hips slide into his crotch. You clash into him, your lips colliding as sparks fly through the air.

You both moan into each other’s mouths, the kiss desperate and hot. Your tongue pokes out to probe his bottom lip and he gladly receives your wet muscle with his own. Your legs trapped between his shuffle as you wiggle your hips, savoring his fiery hands gliding over your figure.

Bakugou’s hands are firm but warm, caressing your waist and hips and heating them up. He growls as your hips buck against his, rubbing the tent in his baggy pants. One of his hands slides along the smooth fabric of your hero suit, cupping the swell of your breast in his large palm as his thumb runs over your nipple. You throw your head back, and his lips gladly blaze the trail of your throat with a scorching urgency. Your fingers move to his arm pieces, clamoring at the top of the machinery near his elbows. He gladly slides the gadgets off, placing them in one of the chairs facing your desk while he rips off his black gloves. He hastily throws the neck piece onto the seat as well before he turns and captures your lips once more.

When his fingers return to your hips, you can feel the true heat of his burning palms through your bodysuit, making you arch into him wantonly. His tongue battles yours fiercely, both of you fighting for dominance as his hands glide up to your waist and fumble with your belt. You can feel his rigid muscles through his thin tank top, your hands wandering greedily underneath the right material to touch his smooth skin.

Bakugou smirks as your belt falls onto the desk, hands falling and grabbing onto your ass cheeks eagerly, pulling you closer to his body. You take the chance to shove your tongue into his mouth and he groans at the impact, jaw slackening as he allows your tongue to take control. He grinds into you slowly, making your thighs tremble with apprehension. His mouth detaches from yours, and the string of saliva connecting your tongues is sliced as his shirt flies through the air. You drink in the sight of his naked chest, muscles swelling and flexing, tapering down into a delicious V that disappears underneath his belt.

You grab the belt, yanking his body close to yours again and sighing as your lips meet once more. “You’re really man-handling me Princess,” he comments amusedly into your lips as your fingers grapple with his belt, toying with the latch.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snarl, teeth sinking into his bottom lip and harnessing a moan from him,” and touch me already, pussy.”

His vermillion gaze ignites, mouth crashing onto yours as his fingers slide underneath the swell of your ass. He lifts you like you’re but a paperweight, and you moan as your legs wrap around his hips. His tongue crushing yours, his kisses so intense that your head leans back at the sizzling force. You jump slightly as your ass meets the cushion of your desk chair, eyes opening to see he’d rounded the desk and knelt in front of you. His knees on the ground, he looks up at you haughtily, hands coasting slowly down your legs toward your center. “Is this where you want me?” he feigns innocence and you glare down at him. His thumb hooks the crotch of your leotard, and he shoves the material to the side roughly, making you gasp.

The cool office air greets your cunt, making it throb even more in arousal. “Bakugou,” you whine as he watches your face, shifting your hips in a feeble attempt to catch his attention. He slinks down, lips brushing over your panties softly as he watches you squirm. He grins against the black lace, thumb curling around the skinny part of the thong over your asshole, making you shiver.

“You’re right Princess,” he grumbles, tongue gliding over the wet spot that had leaked through the material, inhaling your scent pervertedly as he closes his eyes in triumph. Your bottom lip is prisoner to your teeth again as you watch his teasing movements, unable to tear your eyes away from him. “Sometimes when you’ve got me all riled up, I jerk off thinking about how good your bratty little ass would look bouncing on my dick.” You can’t help but whimper at his confession, rolling your hips against his mouth in desperation.

He smirks up at you, crimson irises glittering with savory mischief. His hands snake around your thighs, clutching onto the junction they meet your hips with vigor. He pushes your body down into the seat so you can’t wriggle any longer, and he feels your cunt clench against his chin when he nips at your panties, teeth dragging along your clit. You wail his name again lowly, harsh breaths ripping through your lungs.

He growls in response, thumb ripping the lace to the side and exhaling at the sight of your swollen cunt, grin broadening at the excessive glaze that he had caused. “Fuck,” he laments, tongue poking out to graze your clit experimentally. Satisfied with the way your hand flies to cover your mouth, he places a teasing kiss there. “You know,” he murmurs against your slick nerve,” More than once I’ve wondered how hot and sweet your cunt must be, hiding underneath this skimpy little leotard.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyebrows cinching as you glower down at him, meeting his pleased gaze. “Why don’t you find out for yourself then?” you hiss, baring your teeth at his infuriatingly proud smirk.

“Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Princess?” Bakugou’s tongue glides along the side of your slit, making you stiffen and shut your eyes tightly. Of course he’s a fucking tease.

A knock sounds at your door to pull you out of your collapsing mind, and you sit up straight, eyes wide as Bakugou’s sidekick peeks into the room.

Bakugou stills, unsure as to who it is, staying hidden behind your desk and still holding your hips harshly.

“Hey Y/N, have you seen Ground Zero possibly? He’s stormed off as usual and I can’t find him anywhere,” the sidekick says, blinking at you with unsuspecting eyes.

“Oh, H-Hikaru,” you gulp, hesitantly placing your hands on your desk. Bakugou is quiet underneath you but you’re preparing yourself for the little shit to pull something stupid.

And he does.

Bakugou’s tongue slips between your folds suddenly, licking a large stripe from the bottom to the top of your slit, sucking in your clit and rolling his tongue around it brazenly.

“Oh my god!” you yell, hand slapping over your mouth too late. Hikaru looks at you incredulously, regarding your pink cheeks and sweaty forehead. “I can’t believe him! W-what an asshole!” you pant as Bakugou sucks harder, your pussy clenching onto itself. “He probably left so you’d do the paper… mmm, paperwork for h-him.” You abs are flexed so hard, straining in order to restrain the mess of moans that Bakugou is summoning.

Hikaru finds your tone a bit peculiar, but he continues anyway. “Uh, probably… Are you okay Y/N? You look kind of… sick,” he comments, head tilting to the left. “Did you get that jab checked out yet? I can take you to the infirmary if you want. If it’s bad I can drop you off at your place, too.”

Bakugou doesn’t like that suggestion. He doesn’t need to lick his fingers, your drenched core welcomes the digits instantly. Your walls accommodate his middle and ring finger eagerly and he smirks as they sink into you, knuckle-deep.

“Yes!” you shriek, quickly shooting a glare down at the blonde, your hair covering your face from his sidekick. “I mean— yes, I had it checked out and I’m f-fine, thank you for the concern, Hikaru,” you explain, a forced smile on your lips as you silently beg him to leave.

Bakugou stretches his fingers inside you, scissoring them to coat them in your essence before he puts them together again. His wrist strained in the forced position, he flicks the digits back and forth, almost laughing in glee as he recognizes that soft velvety spot deep within you.

Hikaru blinks at you again before he nods half-heartedly. “Okay… Well if you need me, I’ll be in the conference room doing Bakugou’s job,” he laughs, tucking out of the door and closing it finally.

“He wishes he could do my job, fucker,” Bakugou grunts, mouth immediately returning to satiating your needy hole.

You sag into the chair, a quiet moan floating out of you as Bakugou continues to finger you, his lips slurping up your clit once more. Shooting a heated look at him, you bare your teeth at him, and choke out a hiss,” Fuck you!”

Bakugou only chuckles, savoring the way your cunt throbs around his digits. “I didn’t think you were so impatient, brat.” He doesn’t slow his actions though, knuckles ramming against your skin. He enjoys the way you gasp as he moves your thigh over his shoulder, his tidy fingernails pressing into your trembling leg. “You taste pretty good, Y/N. I guess it’s just your personality that’s bitter,” he remarks, smiling against your sex as his fingers slide out of you.

You toss him a pointed look as he wipes his chin with the back of his hand. “Excuse you, Boom-Boy,” you chide,” only my friends get to call me that!”

“Tch, I get to eat your pussy but I can’t call you by your name? You really know how to make a guy work for it,” he scoffs, sounding mock-hurt, and now menacing over you.

You frown in response but it quickly melts into a smirk. “Don’t worry, Katsuki,” you observe how he closes his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching as his hand turns into a fist,” I’ll return the favor.” You tentatively place your hands on his belt, undoing the clasp and resting the heel of your palm against his clothed, hard cock. You gently undo the fastenings around his thick thighs, placing the belt with his grenades onto your desk cautiously. You weren’t trying to be blown up just for some dick.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of both his black pants and underwear, annoyed with you taking your sweet ass time. His bare cock springs free, greeting your hungry gaze with an inviting sheen of sticky precum trailing down his hard length. You gawk at the sight, genuinely surprised to find he was so… well equipped.

“So this is why you’re so cocky, huh?” you state, eyes following the protruding vein running the entirety of his full, flushed member.

He barks out a laugh which dies in his throat as you press a chaste kiss to his weeping pink tip. Your tongue flat against your bottom lip, you slide his cock into your mouth and moan at the salty, provocative taste of him. His length almost as thick as your throat itself, you gag gently as you take him whole into your mouth before quickly pulling back. You place your hand around the base of his now-slick cock, your mouth sucking and bobbing on the top half of him as you jerk your fist at the same tempo.

Bakugou is much louder than you expected him to be, and the way his erotic, serrated breath is tearing from his lungs makes your pussy clench in desire. His chest heaves, the bulging muscles on his torso tense underneath his surprisingly smooth skin. Your other hand wanders up his abs, enjoying the way the ridges between them are so defined. He growls as your finger rubs over his nipple, his hand catching your wrist in a tight grasp but not doing anything to stop the action.

You purr on his cock, slippery hand leaving the base to cup his balls, eliciting a hiss from him as he sucks air in between his gnashing teeth. Confidence torrenting through your veins at his reaction, your jaw drops as wide as you can muster, your mouth gliding further down his length.

Bakugou’s empty hand collects the hair falling around your face, holding it for you as you weave back and forth. His jaw falls slack as the head of his dick rubs the back of your throat, summoning a soft gag that makes your mouth vibrate around him. Your wrist hurts a little from his tight grasp, but the way his fingernails dig into your skin makes your core shiver in delight. “Shit, Y/N.”

You don’t bother to correct him this time, thumb running over his balls just hard enough to make him shake a bit, savoring the way he is panting and quaking before you. The hand grasping your hair nimbly shimmies closer to your skull, his fingers twisting almost too tightly onto the roots of your hair. You allow him to coax your mouth closer, his arm guiding your face to take his length deeply. A low growl tears from the bottom of his lungs as you lock eyes with his impassioned stare. His hips nudge smally against your lips, his tongue poking out to run over his lip as he pulls back and glides back inside your sweltering throat.

You moan forcefully, savoring the the strangled noise that slithers from his now gaping mouth. Taking initiative once more, you begin to jerk your neck back and forth quickly, wincing as his grip tightens on your wrist. Bakugou tries his best to repress his moans but the way your bratty throat welcomes his hard cock makes him see tiny, fizzling explosions when he closes his eyes.

His hips rear back, and you almost fall off the chair as you lean in to close the distance. He catches you easily, hot hands landing on your shoulders as his gaze locks with yours, inexplicable desire sizzling between the two of you. His hands fly down to collect your ass cheeks, and he picks you up just to place the apple of your cheeks on the desk behind him. Teetering on the edge of the wooden furniture, your legs wrap around his waist, and his lips slam onto yours again. His fingers frantically running over your super suit, he snarls in frustration when he can’t find the zipper.

You laugh at him mockingly, catching his eye as you pinch the zipper on the side of your neck, the material shrinking away immediately with elasticity. He watches as your breasts pop out of the silky, neoprene-like fabric, bouncing with hardened, pink nipples standing perkily to greet him.

“No bra?” He reprimands but his time sounds more turned on than accusatory. “Princess, you’re so naughty.” His hands fly to your tits, groping the soft and supple flesh with fervor. You unzip the rest of your side, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and carefully angling your hips so you can slide the suit off into a crumpled pile on the ground. In just your tiny little thong now, Bakugou closes the gap, pressing flush against your clothed center and grinding his wet cock against your damp underwear.

Your head tilts back and you whine, gasping as his mouth slides along your throat, hot tongue caressing the tender skin. “Please, Bakugou,” you wail, his thumbs rubbing your sensitive nipples hastily.

“God, you must be tight if you’re this high-strung,” he purrs next to your ear, enjoying the way your cunt clenches noticeably underneath your panties. Speaking of those… his fingers snatch the delicate lace to the side, his other hand grabbing his dick and running his swollen tip over your slit. He dips the head into your hole but recedes instantly, brushing it over your glistening trove before repeating the action. The teasing has your head spinning, harsh pants falling from you both and mingling in the thin divide between you. He can’t take it any longer, his hips snapping into yours as his dick easily disappears halfway into your steamy, aching cunt. “I fucking knew it,” he grunts, jaw clenching as your velvety walls embrace his girth, your cry of pleasure music to his ears. “Your cunt is so snug around my cock.”

His hips push into your thighs further, only stopping once he’s balls-deep, sunk completely in your flittering sex. Hand leaving your thong to the side of your cunt, he grabs your hip and pulls your ass close. You groan at his cock nestling even deeper into your sopping hole, and your hips jerk against his as his hand curls around your lower back, securing itself so his fingers coil snugly around your waist. You choke on a sob as he thrusts into you again, his thick member prodding you in a very private place.

“You better fuck me already,” you growl at his pace that was testing your nerves, ready to be fucked into submission. Not that you were going to go down without a fight.

He chuckles cockily, a sly grin on his lips. “Your wish is my command.” His hips slam against yours and your teeth sink into his shoulder, muffling a scream of desire. He ruts into you with ease, your arousal making it almost effortless for his cock to spread the tense walls of your desperate pussy. His free hand claps against the swell of your ass, the noise slicing through the air and you scowl at him. It’s like he wants to be caught.

Ragged breaths tumble from the both of you, your saliva trickling down his chest as your teeth are still fastened into his broad shoulder. “F-Fuck, Bakugou,” you keen, each time his pelvis pressing against you tightly forcing your vision to shake.

“Katsuki,” he huffs, his left hand pushing your chin up to capture your half-lidded gaze. “Say it, Princess— fuck, tell me who’s making you feel so good,” he demands, eager to hear his name leave your lips in such an intimate way once more. His hips change tempo from his fast and hard pace to a slower, more sensual rolling motion, milking the desired reaction out of you.

The novel movement pressing deliciously against your clit, your unabashed whimpers fall onto his eager ears.  Your fingers raise to pinch the top of his black eye mask, pushing the material up over his forehead so it tucks his ash blonde hair back. Looking into his eyes and admiring his uncovered, handsome features, you shoot him a sinful pout. “Ka— ah! Oh, Katsuki,” you gasp, your hands flying up to claw desperately at his muscular back.

Bakugou relishes in your lewd reply, eyes rolling back into his skull in delight. He lets out a gravely groan, increasing the tempo to a needy, impatient pace. The extra stimulation on your clit makes your legs shiver around him, your heels digging into the plush top of his ass. His hand slides back to grip around the back of your neck, leaning in to take the side of your ear between his teeth. His fingers on your throat press into your skin, his thumb pushed into your racing pulse. Hand squeezing just the right amount, it becomes pleasurably harder to breathe and you pant, tongue poking out as you wanton gaze meets his. “I’m gonna make you cum so hard Y/N,” he growls, almost snarling at you as your body bounces against his, watching your hair dance and shake around the erotic expression on your face.

“Eat shit,” your nose twitches in annoyance,” You’re gonna burst any minute now.” Your cheeks are dusted in a telling flush, your body feeling heat spread throughout. His hand tightens on your throat and you moan, loving the way your breath tears slightly.

“You’ve been clenched down on me this whole time,” he reasons, lips close enough so you can feel his ragged breath. “You can’t deny how your body reacts to me, even if you don’t want it to.”

You roll your eyes. Even buried between your legs at a time like this, he insists on pushing your buttons. “Oh, you want me to clench, Katsuki?” you inquire, tone confident in contrast to the wanton shake of your body. 

He shivers as his name leaves your sinful lips, and the breath in his lungs is sucked out of him as you clamp your pussy as tight as you can around him. His hips stutter and you revel in the lustful way his face contorts, his eyes screwing shut temporarily.

When his vermillion eyes open again, his predatory gaze adding wood to the fire between your legs. “Bad girl,” he admonishes, an unruly grin lifting the corners of his mouth. His hips slam against yours, railing into you at an unimaginable speed and harshness. “That’s a cute try, Princess, but you’re gonna cum before me no matter what.”

You can’t even respond as he thrusts into you, your pants ripping through the air and mingling with the quick slapping noise echoing through the room. You hate to let him win but you can’t hold yourself off from your impending orgasm, the pressure in your core multiplying at an alarming rate as each thrust deliciously stimulates your deepest, most secret place.

“Katsuki,” you whimper, your spine arching into his touch while his hand keeps its hold on your throat. “I’m so close, please,” you beg, your toes curling forcefully as your eyes roll back.

Bakugou smiles at your submissive tone, purring out, “That’s better.” His hand leaving your throat to rub his finger on your clit, your body trembles in his hands. He leans into you and his lips conquer yours passionately, tongue darting in between your lips to caress with yours. His tongue pulls back as he takes your bottom lip between his teeth, his wolfish stare daring you to follow his ensuing command. “Cum for me, Y/N.”

Your body tenses as you reach your climax, but Bakugou continues to assault your g-spot mercilessly. Your arms shake in euphoria, nails pressing in to form desperate scratches on his skin. It feels like he is snapping you in two, and you absolutely love it. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you wail out, relief washing over your limbs feeling like ice cold lemonade on a torrid summer day.

Pussy fluttering around his cock so deliciously, Bakugou moans at the new intensity. He swears as he keeps going, despite his own orgasm approaching. The image of you squirming in ecstasy underneath him makes him gasp immodestly. His hands clasp down on your hips roughly, making it even easier for him to pound into your soaked cunt as his teeth release your reddened lip. “Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he huffs, sweat glistening on his built chest as he thrusts into you particularly hard. “So much better than I could’ve ever imagined, holy shit, Princess.” He moans a little loudly, not holding anything back anymore. He is so fucking close.

“Katsuki, please,” you sob, your g-spot still being pummeled relentlessly, never getting a break from his assault and dragging your orgasm out longer than you thought possible. “I want your cum on me so bad!”

Bakugou throws his chin into the air, harsh breaths floating out as the flesh of your hips turns white under his oppressive grip. He grunts as he pulls out, his searing streaks of cum spurting out forcefully, shooting up to lace over your tits and down your stomach. His thighs tremble as he snarls, his first immediately jerking his cock as more of his cum gushes out of the tip. He gasps for breath, and he groans as your lips press to his captivatingly. He leans into your kiss, savoring the feeling of your sweet lips against his.

You shift in his hands, the once-rough palms now sliding over your skin carefully, fondling your body as his lips nibble at your own. You entertain it for a moment, nails trailing down his chest, thumbs rubbing into the ample muscles beneath his skin.

He pulls back, a lazy grin and satisfied eyes regarding you. “Well, that was hot,” he admits, eyebrow quirking upwards as he tries to even his choppy breath. You pull a handful of tissues out of the box on the corner of your desk, handing him a few which he gladly wipes over his drenched member. You sigh in content, head leaning back as you regulate your own breathing.

Bakugou makes you jump in surprise as he runs a new tissue along your torso, cleaning up his mess. You eye him playfully, secretly relishing in the way he is so considerate. He shuffles back a step like he can feel you appreciating his uncharacteristically caring actions, tugging up his underwear and tucking himself in with a smug grin on his lips.

“It was pretty good,” you say casually, sliding off the desk and pausing as your still-tingling core shifts, making you realize how tender you already are.

Bakugou rolls his eyes, handing you your costume from the floor. You snatch it out of his grasp condescendingly, glaring at him as you step into the leotard with quivering legs. “Pretty good?” he barks, eyeing your slow movements. “You’re still shaking, Princess.”

You shoot a glare at him, arms slipping into your costume and tucking your breasts away from his lingering eyes. “Fuck you.”

“You just did.” He replies smugly, and you ponder relieving the sudden urge you have to slap the look off his face.

“Whatever, Boom-Boy,” you quip, zipping up the side of your suit.

Bakugou chortles as he pulls on his shirt, fastening the loops around his thighs. “By the way,” he looks sideways at you with a smirk. “You came first, so I won.”

“You were, like, ten seconds behind me,” you scoff.

“After you, nonetheless,” he almost chirps, savoring in the irritation visibly building in you. He slips on his gloves, sliding his arms into his grenade-looking arm pieces. “Do I get a prize, Princess?”

You glance at his suggestive crimson eyes, pondering the idea of it. “You can choose the place next time,” you wink at him, clipping the belt on your waist with finality.

He seems pleased with the answer, his smirk widening as he steps closer to you. Your fingers pinch the bottom of his mask, dragging the material down to its correct location over his eyes. He shamelessly allows his gaze to rove over your body, recalling how tight and needy you’d been just minutes ago.

“Next time, I’m gonna make you beg,” he warns, opening the door and slipping through, seductive gaze locking with yours. “Can’t wait ‘til then, Y/H/N.”

And after that, working together became a whole lot easier.

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

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make sure to shoot me a comment/ask/reblog if you enjoyed ♥︎ I’d love to receive any feedback!!!

thank you so much for reading!! Happy Valentine’s Day sweethearts :)

➥ masterlist

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

[shorkbrian]

Would love to see some Yan-Toshinori Lovings. Maybe his little captive comes to terms it's easier to just give Toshi what he wants and try to enjoy it instead of fighting him. Maybe she is waiting for him in a big bathtub when he gets home? NSFW is most welcomed ;)

I see Toshinori as being very very gentle. He’s spent so much time as the Number One Hero and he’s tired of violence, tired of hurting. He just wants the best for you, wants to shower you in love and soft kisses. Yagi’s into slow, romantic sex, so much so that sometimes you wish he’d get a little rough, spice it up yanno? I mean, if he’s frickin’ you then at least make it pleasant dude. Like, I get it, he’s scared of hurting you accidentally because he’s so big, even in his smaller form he’s still like seven feet tall or something. A misplaced thrust or snapping his hips too quick could result in something getting torn or broken. Ouch. His life is always go go go and so he doesn’t mind slowling down with his darling, content to sit beside them and read together, make cookies in the kitchen and he’ll dance around goofily while they bake, smiling down at them. He’s a giant sweetheart really, just wants reader to be safe from the world because he loves them so much.

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It all seemed so futile.

The sound of keys rattling in the door took your attention away from the water swirling around your knees. That sound signified Yagi was home, and your mind sank just as your body did, encasing yourself further in the hot bathwater as you slipped down.  You know Yagi would want to join you, relax with his little pet.

You were a quick learner, and you had learned not to upset the man. Even in his smaller, scrawny form, Yagi Toshinori was terrifying. His love for you was calm, gentle, but intense. You had the option of submitting to him, acquiescing to his requests or else. He was so smitten with you, so enamored by the way you interacted with the world; but Yagi knew how cruel the world could, no, would be to someone as lovely as you. It had only been a few months since he had kidnapped you under the pretense of keeping you safe, but you wished you could be safe from him, from his constant presence, loving touches, kind words.

Yagi detested punishments. He much preferred doting upon you, giving chaste kisses in the morning, giant, crushing bear hugs when he got home from running errands, soft cuddles and soothing back rubs as the two of you waited for sleep. But he knew when to have a firm hand, how to teach someone like you to listen. His punishments were quick; fast and horrible. The second week you had been trapped in his home, you had succeeded in wiggling half of your body through a second story window before Yagi had caught you, giant hands yanking around your ankles. You had shrieked, cursing and hitting at the man as he pulled you close to him, burying his face in your hair.  

He had been firm, unrelenting in his task as he tugged you after him. He seated himself in the nearest chair, pulling your smaller body onto his lap so he could look you in the eye - holding your thrashing body steady with one hand, the other hand wrapped around your ankle. The man had apologized, expressing how awful he thought punishments were, but you couldn’t be exposed to the world, let it tear you apart and beat you down. This was for the best, Yagi had told you, before cleanly snapping your ankle with a flick of his wrist.

Recovery had been agonizing. A broken ankle gave Yagi even more reason to force himself into your daily routine, refusing to allow you crutches. Instead, he insisted on carrying you everywhere, helping bathe you, taking you outside for an hour or so every day because he knew you wouldn’t be able to get far before he’d find you. The retired hero took great pleasure in your forced reliance on him. Yes, he detested punishments, making them as quick as possible. But he loved the aftermath, when you’d be crying and needed someone to comfort you. He was always there.

It was easier to lose yourself than fight him. Resisting only brought disappointed gazes and broken bones, and Yagi would still get what he wanted in the first place - your submission. It was easier to roll over, show your belly and let the man have what he wanted, no matter how much it tore you up inside.

That’s why you were here, sitting in hot, soapy water in his giant bathtub. Even though he was retired, Yagi still was a topic of public interest, and was regularly contacted for interviews, photoshoots, and signing events. Today had been some event, either a radio interview or some sort of advertisement deal, you didn’t know and really didn’t care. But you knew that Yagi was always hurting, the firework-shaped scar on his side constantly bothering him. Baths seemed to help, and you were constantly being pulled into one with him. You had learned not to fight.

“Hi darling.”

He stood in the door, shirt already off, large hands working at the belt of his jeans. You could tell that he was pleased to find you already waiting in the bathtub, waiting for him to join you.

You stayed silent, staring blankly at the wall as Yagi finished undressing, moving to slide down into the tub facing you.

“I missed you…… Did you miss me?”

He was always so gentle, so soft when he spoke to you. You gave a timid, forced smile in lieu of a verbal response. 

Yagi didn’t mind, he never did. He simply smiled back, leaning forward so he could lightly press his lips to yours, sighing as he did so. You let him.

“The radio advertisement went well, a bit slower than expected.” A soft, wheezing laugh filled the large bathroom,  Yagi remembering some funny thing that had happened during the advertisement. He always told you about his day whenever he left you at home, locked up in his room. You always tuned him out.

You kept getting lost in your thoughts, jerked back to the present by long fingers circling around your waist, pulling you into Yagi’s lap. The man smiled up at you, love in his eyes as he dipped to press his lips against your own.

“Oh, (Y/N)……… You’re so good to me.”

You felt his knees come up behind your back, the man slipping lower in the tub so he was positioned more horizontally, cock already hard and pressing against your slit. You grimaced as he slowly began rocking against you, pressing kisses to your neck and chest. One hand at your waist, his other anchored in the plush flesh of your thigh.  A sudden, sharp thrust had you clutching at Yagi’s shoulders, unprepared for the sweet friction over the outside of your opening. 

“I love you so much, you have no idea to what limits I’d go to prove that to you.”

“Yagi.......” You knew what he wanted to hear, you just didn’t want to say it. “I-I love you too.”

It felt better if you gave him what he wanted.

The large man sighed softly, pressing one last kiss to your collarbone before he reached down, lifting you up slightly so he could line his length up against you. He pressed in slowly, watching as your mouth dropped and eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t super thick, but he was /long/ and hit deep inside you, making your entire body seize with pleasure.

A slow, languid pace was his favorite. It didn’t stress out his injured side, and he got to bask in your needy moans and whines.  The bath water was sloshing against the side of the tub, Yagi holding you firm as you began to move on your own, tired of the unhurried roll of his hips. You needed more.

He was content to sit back, groan low in his throat as you chased your release on his length. You swirled your hips, your pace much quicker than it had been. Yagi didn’t hesitate to slide a hand down to your core, pressing a calloused thumb over your clit in practiced circles. He knew how to play you like a fiddle, and at this point, you didn’t mind. He wasn’t hurting you, so why not enjoy it?

You could wait until after, watching the cloudy bathwater drain as Yagi dried you off carefully, to feel the disgust simmering in your stomach.

[stillness-in-green]

Spinaraki Week, Day 3: Emptiness | Harmony

Hope it’s closer, hope it’s somewhere When it’s over, hope we don’t care I’ll be there, too, there when it comes true So take me down with you

A fan soundtrack — with accompanying fanfic shorts, if desired  — for Shigaraki and Spinner, from Gigantomachia, to Jaku, and beyond.   

(google drive  |  youtube playlist)

Below the cut, the fanfic shorts and links to the lyrics.

forever or never  — cinema bizarre  //  take me under  — man with a mission  //  so cold  — breaking benjamin  //  silver lining  — hurts  //  all i need is love  — sakai mikio  //  stay alive  — may’n  //  fake wings ~ bitter sweet ver.  — kajiura yuki  //  roads untraveled  — linkin park  //  all of my days  — alexi murdoch  //  shØut  — sawano hiroyuki

                                                 ———–

Track 1 |   Forever or Never

They were two weeks into fighting Machia and Spinner right in the middle of another series of complaints about what kind of food Shigaraki was eating—as if he could even make time for anything more complicated than supplements and protein drinks when getting enough sleep was way harder to manage—when Shigaraki made up his mind, leaned forward, and kissed him.  

“S’nice that you’re worried about me,” he said to Spinner’s gawping.  “But if you’ve got something to say, you should come out and say it.”  He was floating on sleep deprivation, the world too many colors, too bright and too fuzzy, and Spinner sitting right in front of him, the most colorful splotch of green on the smudgy brown woods, pink eyes staring—they’d been staring a lot lately.

“Machia could break me in half tomorrow.  Tonight, even.”  He laughed raggedly.  The knowledge felt like his family’s hands—too heavy, nausea-inducing, but still offering an endless freedom.  “I don’t want your last words to me to be, ‘Shigaraki, you need more carbs.’”

“…Well, you do!” Spinner sputtered, but he set the latest round of pills and juice packs down roughly in front of Shigaraki and beat a hasty retreat. Shigaraki watched him flee; a lazy grin sat on his face with alien comfort.

  Track 2 |   Take Me Under

Somehow, even though he looked like he was about to pass out mid-stride, Shigaraki was still pulling away from him.  Everything he touched dissolved into flecks of ash, while the zealots on the bad end of Spinner’s blades remained doggedly fleshy, snarling and wrathful, all shouting voices and grasping, tearing hands and maybe Shigaraki had nightmares like this, maybe he was used to them and that was why he cut through it all so easy.  

Spinner dragged his arm through another vicious slice, dragged his legs through another step, focusing on Shigaraki’s narrow shoulders.  Don’t go without me, he willed.  Bring me with you!  I wanna see it too!

  Track 3 |   So Cold

“Not gonna talk about Stain-sama anymore?” Shigaraki asked, an edge of challenge leaking into his voice.  Spinner had been weird since Deika, hanging on Shigaraki’s words with a hushed air of attentiveness that made Shigaraki too aware of the sound of his own voice when he’d hardly ever worried about that kind of thing before, and definitely not among allies.

Spinner flushed, the suffusion of red across his scales suggesting he had a bit of chameleon in there somewhere, but not a very cooperative bit.  He rubbed his neck, looking away at the common room the League had requisitioned for their private meetings.

“….Maybe now and then?” he hedged.  “I mean, he was the reason I got out.  I’m grateful to him for that.  But it's like I said back at the shack.  I joined the League to find a purpose.  It wasn’t—it wasn’t ever about Stain himself, exactly.”

“You find something better?” Shigaraki tipped his head on one side. There was a vague itch in his chest, a wiggling little need to hear about this new purpose—it was a leader thing, probably; he got Mr. Compress his sushi, and Toga was never shy about what she wanted, and now here was Spinner ready to spill his big goal.  Like getting a 100% complete, taking stock of what it was going to take for his allies to get what they wanted.

Spinner looked back up, expression weird—eyes a little wide, vulnerable, like he’d just been hit or he was bracing for it, but the set of his mouth around his beak firm.  He looked at Shigaraki like he was trying to stare a hole through him, but he nodded.

“Gonna tell me what it is?” Shigaraki pressed.

“It’s…  You don’t need to worry about what it is.”  Cagey asshole.  “We just gotta keep going.”

Shigaraki drew his nails down his neck almost idly, a simmer of dissatisfaction in his skin, holding Spinner’s gaze long enough for him to go through both awkward shifting and a stubborn bounce back.  His eyes were clear—too clear, Shigaraki thought, and it hit him.  

The horizon.

He folded forward, struck to laughter, though the annoying feeling in his chest worsens.  Spinner had showed up all enamored with Stain’s ideas about a purge this, a cleansing that.  Or course he could see the appeal of emptiness.

“Who’d have thought you were fucked up enough to want that?” he murmured, snorting when Spinner stiffened in offense.  “Okay. We’ll keep going, then.”

  Track 4 |   Silver Lining

Shigaraki after the first stage of the surgery looked pale—even more so than usual—and drained in ways even Gigantomachia hadn’t left him.  He didn’t want to talk about how it went.  He pressed an unselfconscious kiss to the corner of Spinner’s mouth and leaned against him, listening and nodding to Spinner’s faltering report on how things are going with the Front, chipping in now and again with an opinion or an order. To Spinner’s immense relief, he even managed a few sarcastic comments.  

When Ujiko came for him, Spinner almost couldn’t breathe, didn’t even really try until the black gunk welled up in his throat to send him back to the villa.  He wiped his mouth after coughing it all up and straightened.  

There was work to do.  

  Track 5 |   All I Need Is Love

Endeavor hit him with another blast of fire and the meaninglessness of it all pulled laughter out of Shigaraki like broken teeth.  He let himself fall back from the force of it, landed on feet that seemed to know what to do with only minimal guidance from him.

His body hurt—hurt in ways he’d really thought he was past feeling, but then, fire had always been a particular brand of all-over pain—and the feeling in his chest was worse.  The awareness floated at the back of his mind, a list of cold facts pinned up in his brain under a spotlight, cognition in the style of lepidopterology.

Heroes had found the lab. 

The Doc had kept that lab hidden for longer than Shigaraki’d been alive.  The heroes had to have gotten new intel somehow.

All the possible sources for new intel were holed up in the mountain villa.

Flying heroes were rare, but not so rare that there wouldn’t be more fighting him here (Majestic alone would be doing a better job playing keep-away with Eraser Head) if they weren’t occupied elsewhere.

The conclusion sat at the bottom of the list: Machia was on his way, but Shigaraki wouldn’t know who he’d lost until the moment the big gorilla got here.

Still, there was just the barest trace of comfort there—Machia was on the way, and either the others had made it or they hadn’t, and soon he’d find out whether Spinner meant it or not, about wanting to see this horizon.

   Track 6 |   Stay Alive

Earlier than expected, Toga had said.  Spinner clung onto Gigantomachia for all he was worth, eyes on the horizon as the chaos of the battle at the villa finally receded behind them.  His heart pounded so hard it hurt, throbbing with the memory of Shigaraki at the bottom of that crater in Deika, his tangled hair and bare shoulders all but glowing, pearl white, in the shafts of pale sunlight filtering back down through the scattering debris.  Shigaraki tucked up against him in the cheap bed Ujiko kept in the lab, tracing his fingers along Spinner’s scales with unthinking abstraction, not afraid, not disgusted, not even paying all that much attention.  

Spinner had been helpless then and he was no better now, terror thick in his throat as he watched the horizon for anything—the hospital, a telltale cloud of dust, a sign, just—just anything to give him a bit of hope.  

  Track 7 |   Fake Wings ~ bitter sweet ver.

Shigaraki hadn’t regained consciousness yet.  His burns had healed, but the deep, dry fissures in his skin wee slower to close.  They corkscrewed down his arms and speared out viciously over his chest, cicada shell cracks, and who knew what had been trying to pull itself out of that body when Spinner and the others had finally made it to him?

Two crevices ran up either side of his spine in eerie symmetry, each branching once before continuing up, angling along the inside edges of his shoulder-blades.  Spinner tried not to look at them more than he had to—every time he did, he’d get horrible mental images of wings shuddering their way free, sticky and wet with blood and enzymes.  

He smiled.  Spinner reminded himself of that every time he sat down to reapply hydrocortisone and calamine.  When he saw us on Machia, he looked at us and he smiled.  

It had looked pretty ghoulish, but a lot of Shigaraki’s smiles did.  More importantly, though, he’d looked at them with recognition.  Whatever had been brewing in him to make him look like some kind of haggard, slough-skinned revenant, Spinner had watched it recede when Shigaraki’s red eyes fell on them, on him.  

He dared to run one hand over Shigaraki’s hair, rinsed painstakingly clean by Spinner and Mr. Compress as soon as they’d gotten settled in the tiny, two-road hamlet Skeptic had directed them to.  They were laying low for now, hoping to meet up with stragglers from the villa, Re-Destro and the rest, but Spinner couldn’t make himself think about it with any clarity.  Not when Shigaraki was still out and they didn’t have Ujiko around to tell them what was wrong.

Wake up, Shigaraki. Please.  Please.

  Track 8 |   Roads Untraveled

“Did you see it?”

“Shigaraki!”  Spinner started violently when Shigaraki whispered the words.  “You’re awake!”  

“And you’re loud,” Shigaraki grumbled.  Pain ran a latticework over his body; he wrestled one arm out from under the sheets someone had tucked him into and examined it.  A freshly-healed scar spiraled up his arm, putting him vaguely in mind of narutomaki.  Skimming the injury, his eyes caught on the hole in his palm and it struck him, foggily, that he didn’t actually know if Sensei had always had those or if they came with Air Cannon.  

Sensei.  He thought the name slowly, deliberately, letting the syllables prod at his own mind, seeing if there was any response. Nothing poked back, though he still felt strange, emptied out and scraped back into a new container, all mushed up from the transition.  Weird. Nothing he couldn’t get used to, but still.

Spinner was still talking, he realized belatedly, and tuned back in in time to hear, “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner.  It just got so crazy so fast, we—”

“Spinner,” he interrupted, because there was a ring of shame in Spinner’s voice and Shigaraki wasn’t in the mood for it.  “What’d you think of it?”

“Of what?” Spinner asked. He’d changed clothes, out of his polka dot vest and dark cargo pants and into a plain cotton button-up that fit him too tight around the shoulders.  Not one of his, and not his style, either, so probably a loaner, or stolen, which meant they were in another hideout.

Shigaraki briefly debated whether he was angry about that and immediately decided that anger was much too intense for how empty he was feeling at that moment.  He answered Spinner instead.  

“You know what.”  

It took Spinner a second to put it together.  He might have done better if Shigaraki had stopped staring at him for a minute, but Shigaraki didn’t much feel like doing that, either.  Spinner’s awkwardness was comfortably familiar.

“It…  It was amazing,” he answered finally.  “Practically the whole city was gone.”

“Bigger than in Deika?” Shigaraki asked, more for confirmation than reassurance.

“Way bigger.”

“Papers have a death toll yet?”  

“They’re still just talking about casualties—a few thousand, ‘expected to rise.’  But Skeptic says they’re way underreporting.”  

That’s still too low. They must have figured us out, Shigaraki thought, even as Spinner frowned, somewhere between angry and distraught.

“Hawks got information out somehow,” he went on.  “I’m sorry. We should have—”

“We didn’t.  That’s all.  We’ll just do it better next time.”  Shigaraki tried to lever himself up.  Immediately, Spinner leaned in next to him—not trying to browbeat him into resting, which was a nice change, but hooking an arm around his back and giving him a good sturdy vertical surface to brace against.  Or maybe just rest against.  Fuck, he was tired.  I’m gonna kill the Doc; super-regeneration is supposed to work better than this.

“How’re you feeling?” Spinner asked anxiously.  Spinner was—weirdly comfortable.  Warm.  Solid.  Shigaraki lost whatever his response was going to be, letting himself go lax against Spinner’s side.  “Shigaraki?”

“Feel like I’ve been cold since I got out of the tube,” he answered, too tired to bother with anything but the truth, to which Spinner immediately held him closer.  Heh.  Bonus. “How about you?  Find anything to fill you up while I was away?”

“Not that I’ve got to show you.  The whole villa was—” Spinner paused, frustration giving way to suspicion.  “Was that a dirty joke?”  

Shigaraki snickered and leaned back, pulling Spinner down into the bed with him.  Spinner fell with a muffled yelp.  “Eh.”

“I don’t believe you,” Spinner said, but quietly, and didn’t follow it up.  Slowly, his hands found their way up to Shigaraki’s face, those sharp claws of his infinitely careful as he pushed back Shigaraki’s hair.  “Gonna sleep some more?”

“Gonna make me?”  It didn’t sound like such a bad idea, honestly. Spinner would have told him something by now if wherever they were wasn’t safe.  

“I don’t think I could if I wanted to,” Spinner muttered.  “You got really ripped.”  

The confused, not quite envious tone dissolved Shigaraki into dry cackling.  Of all the shit to focus on.

“Guess I did.”  He decided to let himself have the moment—no telling how long it’d last, after all—and relaxed with a sigh into the circle of Spinner’s arms.

  Track 9 |   All of My Days

Shigaraki slept in his arms.

There were a thousand other things to worry about, things Spinner had sworn he’d start thinking about as soon as Shigaraki woke up, but that boat had obviously sailed, seeing as Spinner’s brain had decided that now was the perfect time get stuck on things like, Thank god he’s still him, and, How did it wind up like this? not to mention a repeating chorus of, I’m so glad he’s alright, and a bunch of fragments like, I never thought I— and, Back then, I—

He exhaled, stirring Shigaraki’s hair.  Splayed lazily on his chest, Shigaraki snored softly, undisturbed, drawn back from hazy-eyed detachment by that last burst of laughter, which had been cutting and mean and perfect—and, judging by how fast he’d dropped back off, had also tired him right back out.  He’d gotten heavier, which Spinner already knew from muscling him around the house for the last two days, but like this, his weight just felt right.  Reassuring.  

Savior and liberator, those were the words Re-Destro used for Shigaraki, and Spinner had always rolled his eyes about it, because it was too much, flowery and over-exposed.  But when he thought back on his life before, just a set of scales stretched thin over a hollow ache, just fitful anger with nowhere to turn but inward…  

He sighed again and tightened his grip, just a little.  There was a lot ahead of them still, bad news to break, temporary separations and permanent losses.  But despite that, just in that moment, Spinner felt—okay.  Like things would be all right.  Like the moment he was in was enough.  And it’d been such a long time since he’d felt that way that he couldn’t even bring himself to feel guilty for it.  

Shigaraki slept in his arms, and Spinner let himself breathe.

  Track 10 |   Shout

The little house they were in—a guest house, the impersonal decor of which had not survived half a week with Toga, Mr. Compress and Skeptic all under one roof—was steadily transforming into their new base of operations.  Gigantomachia had been hollowing out a space below ground, dank and shabby compared to the repurposed flood cisterns beneath the villa, but it was slowly filling up with people—stragglers the old MLA smuggled in, because Hawks might have figured out who the Army’s heroes were, but even he was never going to get a full member list; the Army hadn’t even kept one.  They’d been doing the hide-in-plain-sight operation for generations, and being back in a scenario where they could get raided again mostly just seemed to fire them up.  

Shigaraki was back on his feet again like he’d never been off of them, scars—what was left of them—faded to thin white lines and mostly hidden behind his clothes.  He was right back to black, too, courtesy of a fashion expedition Toga and a few local kids had run to the nearest town over.  

The news was still going crazy; no matter where Spinner went in town, there was always a boxy little TV or an old radio on with people standing around paying keen attention to the complete meltdown happening across the country—the destruction of Jaku City, Shigaraki’s escape, the discovery and capture of Ujiko, Endeavor’s connection to Dabi (which Shigaraki had apparently figured out half a year ago, in the aftermath of that very first Vanguard Action Squad attack), Hawks’ disfigurement, quirk-erasing bullets, the resurgence of the Meta Liberation Army—a 24-news cycle wasn’t enough to cover everything, and while “vindictive glee” wasn’t quite what Spinner had had in mind back when worried about keeping morale up, well, he still wasn’t going to complain.

They had their feet under them now.  Every day, plans were being redrawn, the math being refigured: subtract the element of surprise from the MLA’s operations, but add in the damage done to the Hero Billboard Chart’s precious top ten; take away the Noumu, but wait, actually, maybe don’t, because just how impregnable is Tartarus, exactly?  Shigaraki was free, and if he wasn’t quite at 100%, well, Ujiko wasn’t going to be around to finish the job for a while, so there was nothing for it but to move forward, and the way forward stretched before them unobstructed.

Shigaraki still planned to tear it all down, stone from stone—if anything, his fight with the heroes in Jaku and finding out about Twice afterwards had left him even more determined.  Somehow, no one seemed to mind.  The ordeal had burned their leader clean and sharp, a light burning at the end of the universe, impossible to blot out.

Spinner had never felt more ready to take on the world.

[whitetigerdemoness]

Sooo.....did someone say Holloa sequel?

I give you “Shooting Star”.

Holloa Master Post. A03 link. 

The stars you see at night potentially burned out millions of years ago.  

Lila Rossi left the Dupeng Cheng bakery feeling pretty clever. Her pocket was weighted with the butterfly charm she had stolen from Marinette’s room. She patted her pocket, feeling certain she could get a good amount of cash for it from the pawn shop she prefered. Different products danced in her mind as she thought about what to buy with her dirty money. Some new boots, perhaps? The season was changing, spring right around the corner. 

Yes, she decided, a pair of stylish new boots would be the perfect treat for herself after all the awful trials she had had to endure these past few mon-

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

“ Tiki I just don’t understand that girl!” Marinette huffed in frustration, dropping solidly into her desk chair. “Why in the world would she come here to try to apologize of all things, and expect me to believe her, after everything she has done!” The red kawmi sat on the desk with a thoughtful expression.

“I don’t know Marinette. Lila always seems to have another angle. Are you sure that was all she was here for?” Marinette’s eyes widened at the kwami’s observation. Taking a quick look around her room, she didn’t see anything out of place. Her booby trapped diary box was untouched, none of her clothes looked disturbed, the miracle box on her desk was-

SCREEECH CRUNCH!

“What the?!” Marinette jumped at the sound. 

“That came from outside!” Tiki gasped in alarm.

“An akuma?” The black haired girl asked.

“Only one way to find out.” Tiki replied. Marinette raced to the ladder that led to her rooftop balcony. She leaned over the railing, taking in the shouting people below.

It wasn’t an akuma attack.

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“...Wolfram Berger stands trial today for attempted vehicular manslaughter against Lila Rossi, better known to some as Volpina, three months ago. Ms. Rossi remains in a coma in an undisclosed hospital. Ladybug and Chatnoir are standing as witnesses today against Mr. Berger’s chronic harassment of Ms. Rossi as well as two of her classmates, Nathaniel Kurtzberg and Marc Anciel, who will also be testifying today-”

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Ladybug punched the brick chimney hard enough to leave an imprint of her fist. The trial earlier today had ended with the jury declaring Mr. Berger not guilty. The defense had argued that Mr. Berger had simply lost control of his car and that the fact that Lila had been the victim was merely a coincidence. Chat Noir and Paon were off the side with troubled looks of their own.

“I can’t believe that jury! Four weeks of community service? Not guilty? That awful man could have killed Lila! I might not be her biggest fan but…” Ladybug trailed off with a frustrated growl. 

“The court system is not as straightforward as tv likes to make it dear.” Paon sighed. “If Miss Rossi had actually died the verdict may have been more severe, but she is still alive if only through life support.” The peacock hero rubbed her arms, unhappy with the verdict.

“I don’t know.” Chat noir added, “Berger has a lot of followers. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them managed to sneak onto the jury. I noticed quite a few of them giving Marc and Nathaniel the stink eye, not to mention us.” 

One would think that Hawkmoth being gone for nearly six months now would weaken the Office of Akuma Affairs anti-akuma and anti-hero platforms. The lack of new material didn’t phase the group who were happy to make up new situations to blame on the heroes or skew old ones. Paon especially came under fire often due to Mayura’s past actions, being an easy target due to her public identity. People were unable or unwilling to separate her from her temporary replacement. Being Hawkmoth’s wife hardly helped either. 

“I hate to say it Ladybug, but we have bigger concerns than Mr. Berger walking free. It has been three months and we still haven't found the butterfly miraculous.” Paon gently reminded the steaming hero. Their group, which extended beyond the three on the rooftop, had searched Lila’s belongings and home extensively with no luck. Ladybug had been certain the girl had taken the miraculous having been alone in her room just a day before the jewel had been discovered missing, but it was starting to look like that may not be the case. Lila had been hit with Berger’s car as soon as she left the bakery. The girl would have had no time to hide the miraculous anywhere. Similar searches of Berger’s home and possessions had also been fruitless. The current running theory was one of the many bystanders that day had picked up the broach. The lack of new akumas suggested whomever had discovered it had not been compatible, kwami didn’t show themselves to just anyone, but it was only a matter of time before someone compatible did come along. The miraculous were magic like that, inevitably gravitating towards wielders.

Ladybug groaned. “Yeah, anti-hero sentiment is higher than it has ever been. You would think people would be happy for peace, not calling us useless because we can’t stop every mugging and petty crime.”

“Almost makes you wish Hawkmoth was back.” Chat Noir chuckled. Distantly, an explosion boomed. “uhhh…” The black cat hesitated.

“Let’s move!” Paon commanded, already racing across the rooftops.

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

“Please tell me that is not an akuma. Chaton, if that is an akuma I will personally make your life miserable for the next week.” Ladybug threatened.

“If that’s an akuma, I don’t think you’ll have to work too hard to accomplish that.” Chatnoir gulped, taking in the scene. A girl in a multi colored dress was frolicing in the street below, watering people she managed to catch with a watering pail. People who came into contact with water from the pail began to sprout flowers all over their body, older victims looking to have become plants entirely.

“If that is an akuma, the akuma is likely in the watering can.” Paon commented. “She doesn’t look too dangerous.” The peacock wielder leapt to street level without further ado to confront the akuma.

“Paon wait-dammit.” Ladybug muttered. Paon had become active after Hawkmoth had already been defeated. Despite being the eldest hero, she had never actually faced an akuma before and was making a rookie mistake. Akuma were never as simple as they looked. Ladybug exchanged looks with Chatnoir. She could see he was conflicted. Instinct was telling him to leap to his mother’s side and support her. Training was reminding him that hanging back and watching was the wiser choice.

“Go to her Chat, I’ll hang back to watch for tricks.” Chatnoir nodded and joined Paon, who was trying to knock the watering can from the akuma’s hands with her knives. The akuma laughed as she batted the knives away like pesky flies.

“You showed up! Goody! Let me take care of you!” The akuma chirped, gleefully dancing closer to Paon. “Everything will be so much easier once you’re a plant! You’ll be happier!” 

“I like sunlight as much as the next cat, but I’m not too crazy about water.” Chatnoir quipped, using his baton to try and trip the akuma. The action was in vain. Even the combined efforts of Paon and Chanoir were not enough to make the akuma’s ballerina like grace falter. Further from the battle, Ladybug approached one of the flower covered victims.

“Hold on, I’ll get you out!” The man did not respond at first, his eyes glazed and listless. When Ladybug began to try and tear the vines from his body, he began to scream in pain. Shocked, the heroine recoiled. 

“HEY!” The akuma screamed. “Don’t hurt my plants you naughty bug!” The akuma darted towards Ladybug, free hand outstretched. Jumping backwards, Ladybug felt a small trill of alarm as the movement felt sluggish. Moments before the akuma could pour water on her, Chatnoir kicked her away.

“You okay Ladybug?” 

“Be careful, Chat, Paon, I think the plants are giving off some sort of sedative.” Ladybug winced, holding her head. “Harming the plants seems to also harm the host, don’t touch anyone.”

 “Good little bugs should HELP plants!” The akuma fumed. “Bad bugs will be pruned away by the Gardener.” The akuma attacked with a flurry of graceful kicks and wide sprays of her water. Ladybug and Chatnoir put up their shields to deflect the water, while Paon hung back and attacked from range with her knives.

“We need to pull back, one touch of that water and it’s game over!” Chatnoir said after a particularly close call.

“We need some way to prevent her from pouring water.” Ladybug added, movements slower than she would have liked. Gardener’s supply of water seemed infinite, and dodging the growing puddles around them was becoming harder.

“If only we could find someone unaffected by her powers, I could create a senti-monster. Where are all the civilians? This is a busy street…” Paon groused.

“Parisians are pretty good at getting out of spitting range of these fights by now. The police have probably set up barricades to prevent people from coming this way.” 

“It might be time for a Lucky Charm!” Cried out Ladybug, her yoyo toss taking more effort than it should have due to her lingering sluggishness. A chromatic pocket knife fell into her hands. The hilt was ladybug spotted, but the blade simmered in rainbow colors.

“Looks like it’s time to cut ties with the Gardener.” Chatnoir quipped, using his baton to catapult a nearby trash can at the Gardener. Ladybug huffed at the pun as her eyes darted around the area trying to come up with a plan. Other than the Gardener’s watering pail, nothing else stood out to her. Nothing except...Paon. Ladybug cast an eye around the plant strewn street again. A few of the plants still had twitching human limbs sticking out of them. Perhaps someone still had enough consciousness to produce a sentimonster...the Lucky Charm was never wrong. She had to trust it.

“Paon! Are you sure you can’t feel any strong desires?” The street was getting pretty flooded, the heroes had taken to jumping from cartop, to street stall top, to try and avoid the water. On one hand, it kept them dry. On the other this severely limited their maneuverability. Paon closed her eyes and concentrated.

“There is...one...but I’ll need a moment to focus!” The peacock hero threw another of her feather-knives at the akuma, only for it to clatter uselessly onto the street as the agile girl danced and twirled away.

“Right, let’s give Paon some breathing room kitty. Hit the street!”

“You got it Ladybug. Cataclysm!” Dark energy crackled across the flooded street, causing it to heave and crumble in on itself. Chunks of the asphalt shuddered as their supports eroded, falling into the sewers below. The Gardener stumbled, all of her attention diverted to staying on her feet during the mini earthquake. 

Meanwhile, Paon whispered to the blue feather in her hand before sending it on its journey with a blown kiss. The feather didn’t go as far as Ladybug thought it would, fluttering down to land on a twisted pile of flowers and thorns. An image bubbled and coalesced into reality, settling into the kneeling figure of…

“Penknight?!”

[mooosicaldreamz]

please do a song by song review of lover i beg u

oh......u didn’t have to beg!!!! i’ll give it to you 4 FREE.

I FORGOT THAT YOU EXISTED: what i enjoy about this song is that it is fun and not especially mean, just like, shrug emoji. i think sometimes when ur in a relationship that is not especially amazing and you reach the point where you forget that you dated someone is the funniest thing and its such a strange moment. it’s a good tonesetter for the album, bc its so fun and chill and like, whatever. it has the same energy that i think we are never getting back together wanted to have. i LOVE the “i just forget what they were” breakdown. what a fun, bouncy song. easy listening to start the album. calvin harris rip.

CRUEL SUMMER: i love jack antanoff vERY much and have liked his work with fun. and as bleachers, and i think his production on lorde and taylor’s albums has been so wonderful. this song just reeks of him and it’s so like, ascendent, how it builds up and up into the chorus. i think it’s interesting that she reaches so high on the chorus. “summer’s a knife/i’m always waiting for you to cut to the bone/devils roll the dice/angels roll their eyes.” the breakdown is once again wonderful abt crying in the back of the cab on the way back from the bar - i feel like this album and its concept brings a much more natural version of taylor that i think has largely (and perhaps rightfully, considering the evolution of her fame and craft) been in hiding since probably red but maybe even since speak now. “I LOVE YOU AIN’T THAT THE WORST THING YOU EVER HEARD // HE LOOKS SO PRETTY LIKE A DEVIL” while she’s screaming it is more exuberant than ANYTHING on 1989 or rep (and i love both of those albums). 

LOVER: i love how sleepy soft this song is, i love how simple it is, and it’s made me cry like, six times. the wedding band sound is just, so fun and beautiful. it really makes me feel like i’m drunk, happy, and dancing really slow on an emptying dancefloor. i’m going to assume that was the vibe. it’s so soft. god it feels like a cloud. i enjoy how simple the lyrics are in this song, and how the words get to breathe and simmer. they take on a lot of meaning bc of how much space they’re given by the echo and by pacing. it’s so nice. i’ve gone back and forth on whether i like the wedding vows thing, but i think it might be nice. i love “swear to be overdramatic AND TRUE! to my lover”

THE MAN: the bumpy sound of the bass beat is really fun, and i think the song is a good bop, but it doesn’t say anything i don’t already know - but i think taylor bringing up the back end on the Woke train, trying to reach all those people who still aren’t totally sure about the gays or feminism but also think trump is terrible and are now reconsidering their life choices is a fine enough goal for her social justice initiatives. also i just realized she says “getting bitches and models” which she already does, you don’t have to pretend taylor

THE ARCHER: this song is sonic perfection the rolling synths the dreamy voice, the awful awful breakdown at the end of “they see right thru me / can you see right thru me / i see right thru me” “help me hold onto you” i just ... can’t handle this song. it’s perfect. i like the implication throughout this album that taylor is in Love, the big real kind, and i support her and joe bc i think it’s obvious their relationship has totally like, taken her to a new and good emotional space. anyway i like the implication that taylor fell in real, big Love and realized that love is still a fucking mess, like it doesn’t solve all the problems. “ALL OF MY HEROES DIE ALL ALONE” i mean come on. i hate her

I THINK HE KNOWS: this song is a bop “i think he knows his hands around a cold glass make me wanna know that body like it’s mine” is a stn move. the rumbly noise in the chorus and the synthy breakdown is a beast, it owns itself. there’s a real comfortable self-confidence that i, once again, maintain has been missing from taylor’s music up until now. also that moaning noise distracts me every time. “hand on my thigh/we can follow the sparks/i’ll drive” tAYLOR! inappropriate. i’ve seen some takes on this song that it’s not a fave, but it’s a fun song and people are wrong. there’s not one song on this album that i’m like this is bad in the way that i DO NOT like some songs on rep

MISS AMERICANA AND THE HEARTBREAK PRINCE: the first thing i thought when i heard this song is that it sounds like lana del rey. give it a re-listen, it does. sounds just like idk, “high by the beach” but it also rings a bell for me of electra heart era marina and the diamonds (like “teen idle”). i like this song a lot, even though it’s relatively oblique in my opinion on what it’s.....actually about. “you play stupid games / you win stupid prizes” is a great lyric in masterful taylor swift fashion bc it looks stupid when u write it on paper. i like the shouting breakdown thing that happens on the back end of the song with go/fight/win (OH I JUST GOT that, it’s like cheerleaders shouting). i’m a fan of it, but it’s an oddball on the tracklist.

PAPER RINGS: this song rings with a lot of red’s chaotic energies but with the adult sensibilities that she’s rolling with on this album. i love the sort of down-home shouty stuff happening on the verses, and the “kiss me once / kiss me twice / three times” bridge. it’s a good one. “i hate accidents/except when we went from friends to this” is a fun and good lyric. i LOVE the key change i LOVE the “wrap your arms around me baby boy” for some reason very much. 

CORNELIA STREET: i mean obviously this song is wonderful. i’ve seen much Discourse about this song being related to Kaylor which seems plausible. it’s clear that taylor wrote some of these songs in the present tense when they’re in the past, which i think is really interesting. i LOVE “jacket ‘round my shoulder is yours” what a good inversion of the phrase. i love the way that the phrase cornelia street breaks up the lines in a really weird way, because of how its syllables run. it’s a good song. it’s a soft boi

DEATH BY A THOUSAND CUTS: early frontrunner for my fave song!!!!! love the opening repeating noise, and the simple guitar plucks initially. taylor’s voice takes up front and center bc it isn’t especially altered/layered/echoed like it is in some other spots on the album. it has an amazing rolling pace on its verses that’s followed by the slower pace on the chorus. “i ask the traffic lights if it’ll be okay and they say i don’t know” i am certain that this song is about karlie kloss and i will not accept any other possibilities i know she said it was about a movie but i don’t care. “my hips my heart my body my love / tryna find a part of me you didn’t touch” wow taylor god what a gifted lyricist i hate her

LONDON BOY: this song is fun. “i saw the dimples first / then i heard the accent” i love the rising effect on “walking on the afternoon” resetting with the horns. it’s just a song that makes you bob your head. she does sound like she’s throwing out as many english references as she possibly can which is amusing and i don’t know what the legs are on this song bc of that - it could come across as somewhat kitschy. but! also i’d like to start some discourse bc i think it’s CLEAR that taylor isn’t afraid of using pronouns or even very direct references to who she’s with (this song is basically an I LOVE JOE ALWYN shirt), and it makes it even more clear when she’s avoiding using pronouns or direct description. the two songs before this don’t do that in the same way that this song does. 1989 barely uses pronouns at all. i’m just saying. taylor is bi is what i’m saying.

SOON YOU’LL GET BETTER: obviously this song is sad and it makes me cry i have no further commentary except that it’s a wonderful, simple song that has an excessively odd placement on this album following after london boy

FALSE GOD: this song is sexy! and interesting. the horns come back again, which is good and her voice is lower. honestly the line “the altar is my hips” is just..........a lot for me to compute. “i’m golden when you touch me / hell is when i fight with you” the bridges are really fun, sexy, soft. this song is like when lover ends and a song with a little more of a sultry feel comes on but ur still drunk so its a little sloppy.

YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN: obviously this song ruined my life. it sent me to the heights of elation and then i sort of had a hangover on it but i’m back around on it guys! it’s a fun, fun, summery song. that chorus with the oh-oh is just .... pop perfection. the bumpy synth noise that goes ba-duh-duh-duh like it’s reverberating is absolutely perfect for the pacing of the song. it’s excessively well-crafted to the point of slickness. it should have been the lead single but what do i know about anything

AFTERGLOW: i know that i wasn’t supposed to be into i pinned your hands behind your back but i was so. this is a continuation of the theme of like, i’m in love but i’m still a mess!!! sorry :) i like this song but it does not inspire me. 

ME!: i don’t know why the exclamation point is there and it sounds much more like a brendon urie song than a taylor song, but it’s fun! i don’t hate it! i can see why it was picked as a lead single - to really illustrate the tonal change from rep to here, but still. spelling is fun, tho.

IT’S NICE TO HAVE A FRIEND: this song is simple and so, so so sweet. i love the childhood friends to lovers narrative, and i just. like it. so much. it’s so sweet. and then obviously the horns come back for this one, but don’t overwhelm. this song is a good palette cleanser after the bombast of me!

DAYLIGHT: i tweeted about this but this song reminds me of clean and long live (particularly long live, it for some reason really sounds like that in my head). but i like that it really relates a feeling that i feel sometimes of like, my life was a mess and sometimes still is a mess but bc i’m in a stable and good relationship, things feel approachable, like, if everything goes wrong again, i’ll at least know for sure i have this, and i think this song sort of shows that off with the  “I don’t want to think about anything else.” it’s nice. it’s calm. i read an oral history today about the kanye storming the stage moment at the vma’s because it’s been 10 years since it happened - and i feel like this album and this song, in many ways, are a plateau on the meteoric catapult of taylor’s relationship with fame that really had started to run before that moment but certainly started rolling after that. i think this song is a demonstration of the growth that she’s gone through over the last ten years that we’ve all watched with such close attention. it makes me feel happy for her. i hope she gets to keep this the way it is. i’ve read that she thought for the longest time that this album would be called daylight and i’m honestly? not sure it shouldn’t be. but the vocal note at the end sort of draws it back thru.

it’s a good album. i think the back half of it doesn’t hang as tough all the way thru as the first half, but overall, i think it’s overall quality is better than reputation even though i think reputation, as a concept album, works very well. it’s a great evolution and a real, authentic thing. very impressive that she’s managed to produce four very different albums successively where as many artists don’t change that much from album to album. but i think that’s evidence of the work that’s gone into them, to be honest. death by a thousand cuts is my early fave. 

[harryandmolly]

i could write it better than you ever felt it - three

summary: fuck growing up. this is freedom, this is life, this is youth – 2007 Warped Tour style.

warnings: Language, underage drinking, Merriment (TM)

word count: 3k

Val woke up with a boy on her mind.

She bathes in the feeling of it, the comfort it brings her. She has a crush. After the year she’s had, she wasn’t sure she’d be allowed another. It feels like a little gift.

A little gift in a big, perfect, 6’2” package.

Speaking of package…

Val sinks her orthodontist-perfected front teeth into her bottom lip to tamp down her filthy smile. She closes her eyes and imagines the way he felt underneath her last night when they were rolling around in the dirt. His whole body was hard, and not in the way she’s used to. He clearly takes excellent care of himself, which is always sexy. He was all firm muscle wrapped in strong tendons and ligaments under a curtain of surprisingly soft skin. And, when she got a hand up under his shirt, moaning into his open mouth as she traced the defined lines of his abs, she found a nice dusting of chest hair that got her even a little wetter than she already was.

So yeah, he was hard in more ways than one. And Val can’t stop thinking about it.

She fell asleep in Pomona after a romp with her bounding bunny and woke up in Ventura for another round. It didn’t even occur to her until after her third orgasm of the past 24 hours that this is the first time she’s gotten a full eight hours of sleep in… oh, no, she refuses to think about how long it’s been.

What she’d like to stop thinking about, what she shouldn’t really be so impressed by, is how willing he was to stay put under her and let her explore him, drifting his hands over her body as he liked without demanding, without pushing any limits. I mean, really, how low are her standards that she’s actually charmed by respect and consent? That thinking about it makes her blush?

Well, Val cut her teeth on the boys of Warped Tour. So. Those standards? They’re pretty fuckin’ low.

What a nice thing, though, to have a crush. A nice little summer crush. A boy that makes her heart flutter when he skates by, a face to watch in a crowd when she’s had a few and is simmering for him under the cool June moon. A gift, indeed.

She’s pondering possibilities of flirtation, of stolen kisses, of pink cheeks and bashful glances when her bunk curtain flies open and something crawls inside.

Bea burrows her face into Val’s neck as Val wordlessly scooches further into the bunk to make room. Not that they need much. Bea is the size of a peapod.

“Honey bunch,” Bea greets, nuzzling Val’s hair which still smells faintly of bonfire smoke. It’s so signature Warped, it makes Bea grin.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Bea looks up at Val in wonder. “Did you sleep through the night?”

Val wears a proud smirk and tips an eyebrow at her. “I did.”

“Shit, that’s new. The Mendes kid must’ve really worn you out,” Bea yawns, feigning casual. Val chuckles, bouncing Bea against her side.

“Mmmm, what a man what a man what a man…” Val begins.

“What a mighty good mannnnnn,” Bea finishes, laughing.

The girls giggle together until Bea stops, kicking her bare foot at something brushing against it from outside Val’s bunk curtain.

“Guys, it’s Naveen,” a voice calls, making them both smile and settle, “Val, could you… I mean, I’m sorry, I know it’s early…”

Val makes a pitiful face and drags the curtain back, squinting at her friend.

“Naveen, only you could make it sound like you’re inconveniencing me by asking me to do my job. Bless your heart. I’ll be right out.”

Naveen sheepishly stumbles away probably to start unloading Val’s boxes, which she should be doing herself. She just wanted to… bask a little longer.

“No, so really, how was it?” Bea prompts.

Val shrugs. “We made out for almost an hour. I bet my lips are still swollen. It was… in a word, delicious.”

Bea groans and rolls out of the bunk, landing on her feet like a cat somehow. She shoots Val a displeased look. “Seriously? No fucking? You had a body like that at your disposal and you didn’t let him fuck you?”

Val crawls out behind Bea in Soffe shorts and a My Chem shirt that once belonged to an ex-fling. Her joints creak slightly. Maybe she’s getting too old for this touring junk after all.

“I was craving kisses. You ever get that? Where the only thing that will satisfy you is kissing? I’m talking about good, long, hot, full body kisses. The kind that swallow you up and never seem to spit you back out again,” Val muses, leaning back against the wall rattling with the overworked AC unit.

Bea stares at her, deadpan. “I only crave dick.”

Val sighs and nods, seeing her point. She shoos her friend off the bus to change and reluctantly greet the day.

And reluctant she is because it’s 100 in the shade on the second day of Warped in Ventura, California and Jesus Christ, how do people do this for a whole summer? How did she do this living in a van? She’s gone soft. Throughout the morning, she closes her eyes and thinks of England. She imagines sprinkling rain, warm Scottish wool sweaters, mugs of builders tea by the fire in student housing.

Those thoughts don’t make her any cooler though. Neither do the periodical rushes of teenagers flooding her tent to throw their babysitting money at her in exchange for American Apparel tees and hoodies.

Val isn’t Bea, but she’s a damn good merch girl. She stays cool under pressure, she’s well organized, well prepared and knows when to call for back up. Which is why, when it’s 1pm and her line is 20 deep at least and the girl in front of her is insisting she handed Val 20 ones for that beanie hat and Val must’ve just dropped one, she’s never been happier to see her stupid brother.

Raf swings out to greet his minions like he’s Freddy fuckin’ Mercury, doling out cheek kisses and hugs and Sharpied autographs on various body parts. It gives Val a second to breathe, to regroup, to take care of a few straggling merchgoers before his work is done and he can turn back to her triumphantly like a hero or some shit.

She slumps into her chair and makes a face. He imitates it back flawlessly.

“Thanks, or something,” she sighs, tilting her nose up in the air. He falls into the chair next to her, sweaty from their set.

“How’s it been this morning?” he hums, picking at the fraying holes in his jeans. Raf likes to think of himself as old school – he doesn’t buy holey jeans. He buys jeans and lets them get holey by sheer force of rockstar will.

“Fine. It was nice this morning; I started a sing-a-long with the girls in line who knew every word to Yellow Pages.”

Raf looks impressed. Yellow Pages was an unreleased demo, one of the first solo songs Raf ever wrote. Only the Youtubiest Youtubers have hunted it down. They can both respect that hustle.

They’re quiet for a moment, enjoying the lull, when Raf perks up.

“H-hey, look who it is,” he chuckles, nodding across from them to an extraordinarily tall figure behind the Bayside merch tent looking sweaty and a little lost. Val winces.

“Raf, come on—”

“HEY! SHAWN!” Raf barks, holding up one long dark arm to wave him down. Val groans low out of her nose but shows no indication on her face.

Shawn flails for a second as he spins, not terribly graceful on those big feet of his. He spots where he’s needed and goes white as a sheet. Val smacks her lips.

“You know, he probably thinks you’re going to try to fight him for my honor.”

Raf keeps a friendly, welcoming gaze on Shawn, waving more insistently, “That ship has long since sailed. SHAWN!”

Val holds her head high as Shawn walks over, a little slower than what’s normal, looking extremely hesitant. Raf is eating it the fuck up.

“Hey, buddy, how was your first barbecue?” Raf laughs, feigning ignorance.

Val lifts an eyebrow. Shawn’s eyes snap to hers in a panic.

“Uhm, fine—good, yeah, it was good. Great, even.”

“Great!” Raf repeats, too much vigor in his voice. It’s giving Val a headache, “Great, that’s so great. I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself.”

Shawn nods solemnly, eyes wide, waiting to be scolded by one of the Moreno twins. Val sighs.

“I need to pee, come walk with me,” she insists, shooting her brother a look. Raf smirks and holds his hands up in surrender, staying at his post.

Shawn keeps up with Val’s enormous steps quite handily. He doesn’t even seem to notice how fast she walks, but it’s the first thing a lot of people notice about her.

“So… last night…” Shawn begins.

Val tilts her head, looking at him expectantly. He’s clearly waiting for her to step in and make a comment. Whenever boys start a thought like that, it’s what they want.

Maybe Val’s a little more like Raf than she realized. She likes making him squirm.

“Hm?” she prompts, nodding.

He huffs a gentle breath. “Last night was cool.”

She can’t say she’s surprised. Was she expecting song lyrics to come flooding out of his perfect, soft mouth that she knows very intimately now?

“Last night was cool,” she agrees, stepping a little closer to them as they walk back toward the port-o-potties.

“Are you… uhm, do you think you’re going to the one tonight on the beach?”

She drowns in the sweetness of it for a minute, feels like a cute boy is walking her to her locker and asking her if she’s going to the malt shop after school. She should be wearing a poodle skirt and swooning to match the look on her face right now.

“The Ventura barbecue is always one of the best of the year. What happens on the beach stays on the beach,” she teases, elbowing him playfully. He loosens up a little, chuckling.

“Cool, yeah,” Shawn says, “Maybe we can hang out again, then.”

Val tamps down a smile and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. He watches it get hooked away and watches it fall back into place against her cheek. He scrubs the back of his neck with his hand as they arrive by the maze of port-o-potties.

Not the most romantic setting, but…

Shawn suddenly tucks a hand against Val’s neck and kisses her. It’s quick, he only lingers for a split piece of a moment to suck a little at her lower lip before he pulls back. His eyes are dancing and he’s got color in his cheeks that can’t be attributed to the heat of the California morning.

“See you tonight,” he says, walking backwards for a few feet before turning and jogging off toward the Forefront van. She watches him go with an amused chuckle and a glance at the seat of his pants.

+

Val tips back and forth with her arm around Steve from New Found Glory and Bea on her other side. She’s filled to the brim with tequila, salt and lime eagerly fed to her by the NFG boys, some of her oldest scene friends.

“I don’t care what you think, I like that new Hannah Montana song,” Val yells into Steve’s ear over the boppy rhythm of “We’re At the Top Of the World” by the Juliana Theory.

Steve rolls his eyes, feigning disappointment. “You’re better than that, Moreno.”

“I most certainly am not!” she laughs, knocking her Corona against his in a lazy, drunken cheers.

It’s 9pm and it feels like the sun has only just set. It’s a little cool so close to the beach so she’s snuggled into Steve for warmth even if he’s more of a brother to her than her own brother sometimes. Her fuzzy brain reminds her to look for Shawn and the Forefront boys again because they haven’t shown up yet and she finds herself feeling a little girlishly eager.

A raucous behind them makes her turn under Steve’s arm. She feels Bea poking her arm but ignores her, smiling smoothly.

Francis has launched himself onto Shawn’s back as they stride down the hill from the vans and buses in a phalanx of men in women’s jeans. Seth is laughing with his hand on his stomach. The others are ignoring them as though it’s something that happens at this same time every day.

Shawn screams, laughs as he kneels and flips Francis over his head to slam into the ground. The barbecue goers all “oooooooh” in sympathetic pain as Francis coughs and tries to regain his breath. Shawn rolls his eyes and helps him up. As soon as Francis is on his feet, he’s leaping onto Shawn’s back again.

Val licks a drop of beer from the corner of her lips and shrugs out from under Steve’s arm, shivering a little. She stumbles past Bea’s clingy arms and “no, noooooo!”s in favor of walking straight into Shawn’s path as he resigns to his new cling-on.

“Hi,” she blurts with a grin, cocking her head at him. Shawn skids to a stop. Francis bounces against his back with a muffled groan.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tightening his grip around Francis’s knees. Francis drunkenly laughs, cheek resting against Shawn’s shoulder. Val looks over at him with a smirk.

“You boys look a little worse for wear.”

“No one came to our set,” Francis sighs.

“That’s not true,” Shawn argues.

“14 people came to our set,” Francis corrects, wrinkling his nose.

Shawn shrugs. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

“We all play to empty rooms sometimes,” she reminds them, nodding past them to the Streets boys throwing Raf into the ocean. Shawn follows her gaze and laughs.

“Can he swim?”

She shakes her head. “Not when he’s more vodka than boy.”

She looks back at Shawn and smiles. He’s a little sunburnt and doubly flushed from whatever booze they pity-drank after their meager set. He smells like a fresh shower and Val can’t help but wonder if it’s for her.

She thrusts her chin in Francis’s direction. “Ditch your sloth boy and come drink with us.”

Shawn unceremoniously drops Francis, who hangs around his neck for a second before thumping into the sand below them with a groan.

“Us?” Shawn asks.

Val nods to NFG and Bea. Shawn’s eyes go comically wide.

“Oh shit,” he breathes.

“C’mon, celebrities are just like us,” she teases, taking his big, warm hand in hers and tugging him toward her friends.

Shawn wants to protest, wants to dig his heels in and shake his head like a toddler, but he thinks after last night he’d follow this woman straight into a wildfire. He pastes on an anxious smile as she introduces him to everyone. The tiny merch girl, Bea, seems especially interested in him, elbowing Val every chance she got like a middle schooler. It makes Shawn wonder if maybe Val has been talking about him. He shivers at the idea.

Shawn and Val sit together in the sand. As the hours grow later, Shawn gets chattier, bonds with Chad and Jordan while Val watches and occasionally moves curls out of his eyes like a total girlfriend but she doesn’t care because she’s lit. A joint is passed around and everything slows down a little.

Shawn is leaning back on his hands, one of which is behind Val so they’re almost, just ever-so-casually intertwined. She leans into his ear to talk sometimes and he feels the hair on his neck stand up from her hot breath on his skin. Her fingers sneak toward his and brush against each other in the sand. Shawn’s skin prickles with need. He chews on his lower lip until Val nudges him.

“I’m ready to go,” she announces quietly. Her eyes look molten and black in the beach bonfire light. His stomach churns. He nods quickly and stands despite all the liquor in his system. He takes her hands and pulls her up with him.

She loops an arm around his waist as she makes her goodbyes. He feels awkward holding her like this, like they’re wearing a sign together that says “we’re leaving to fuck now, have a good night.” But when she slides her hand in the back pocket of his jeans, the worry is gone. He grows antsy as she waves goodbye. When he finally has her leading away from the barbecue, away from the rushing crash of the Pacific and the dull drone of Good Charlotte on the stereo, he places his lips by her ear to speak.

“Your place or mine?”

He’s a little proud of that line.

Val curls into his body and rests a hand on his stomach through his black t-shirt.

“Yours.”

+

Val blinks. It’s quiet. The bluish tint of dawn comes in through the windows.

She tries to lift her head too quickly and finds her cheek is stuck to his bare chest. She winces as her skin peels away from his. She plants her hands on either side of him to push herself up and take stock of the situation.

It’s early, but buses haven’t started leaving for the next stop in Mountain View yet. She is wearing her t-shirt and skimpy pink panties. Her jeans are pooled on the floor of the van next to her. Shawn is deeply asleep beneath her in a pair of boxer briefs. The Forefront boys have all returned to the bus and have therefore seen her in this state of being, passed out on top of their lead singer. Their tour manager Andrew is elsewhere.

Val looks down at Shawn. He looks younger, somehow, as he sleeps. She sweeps some cherubic curls off his forehead and drags a hand down his chest appreciatively. As quietly as she can, she gathers her shoes and jeans in hand and opens the sliding door to the van.

Like a thief in the night, she steals back to the dark silence of the Streets bus, crawls into her bunk and falls into a fitful sleep.

Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @stillinskislydia @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn​ @alone-in-madness​ @alone-in-madness @singanddreamanyway @accioalena @randi-eve @shawnitsmutual

[today-only-happens-once]

Hero

Summary: When Logan shows up at the front door hurt one night, Roman can’t shake the feeling that he should have been able to prevent it. Platonic Logince (or I guess it could be read romantically if you want to), Platonic LAMP/CALM.

Warnings: Bullying, bruises, blood (not a lot), getting thrown into a lake , nearly drowning, near hypothermia, violence (past), Roman feeling inadequate, protective!Roman, protective!Virgil, and as always let me know if I missed anything.

Prompts: Why not smash FOUR prompts together in one fic? “You’re freezing. Come here.”/ “Man, people are cruel. Who did this? I’ll make sure nobody can ever do it again.” /“Don’t tempt me.”/ “Are you afraid?” “Yes.” ((changed the last one a bit, but its in there.))

A/N: Can Sides get ambushed and hurt in the mindscape? I dunno. Maybe this fic is asking for some suspension of disbelief, haha hope you all don’t mind. Have some more Logan hurt/comfort and some Roman angst, friends, because apparently I am incapable of writing anything but angst/hurt/comfort right now. POV is mostly limited to Roman, though, which is new for me! Hope you like it! ^u^ Oh, and it was edited by yours truly so all mistakes are mine. 

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff, @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @lizaelsparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist (if you want to be tagged at all, let me know!)

…

When Roman opens the door just past midnight, the last thing he expects is to find Logan standing on the front porch.

He’s sopping wet, strands of his hair dripping and plastered to his forehead. His tie is in his hands, the collar of his shirt torn and the top few buttons missing entirely. His glasses are nowhere to be seen. As the light from the house illuminates his face, Roman can see a dark bruise and a small tear in the skin along his cheekbone.

He’s pale. He’s shaking.

“Logan?” Roman asks, but doesn’t wait for the response as he grabs the Logical Side and pulls him back into the house. Virgil—who had been almost asleep on the couch as Hunchback of Notre Dame played quietly on the TV—is on his feet in seconds. He’s wide awake and alert now.

Logan sways slightly and Roman wraps Logan’s arm around his shoulders and places a steadying hand on his chest. Roman can feel the dampness of Logan’s shirt and skin seep into his white suit, but what really has his attention is just how cold Logan is.

“Virge,” Roman says suddenly to the other side, “Go wake up Patton. And stop by Logan’s room and get him some dry clothes.”

Virgil looks at Logan again, and something darkens his expression before he gives Roman a solemn nod and sinking out of the living room.

“R-R-R-R-Roman…..” Logan stutters out, his teeth chattering. “Th-that’s not n-n-n-necessary.”

“Easy, Teach,” Roman says softly, leading him over to the couch. “You can’t stay in this.” Logan doesn’t put up much of a fight—whether because he agrees with Roman or because he simply doesn’t have it in him to argue, Roman isn’t sure—and gingerly sets himself on the couch.

Roman sits beside him, his worried gaze flickering over his form. He isn’t sure what to say, even as he gently pries Logan’s ruined tie out of his hands. Logan doesn’t let go at first, his fingers clenched stiffly around the fabric. It’s not until then that Roman also notices the bruises and split knuckles along both of the other Side’s hands. As Logan uncurls his hands to relinquish the tie, he’s able to see that his palms don’t look much better off.

The Prince tries to look him in the eyes, but Logan’s stare is glazed and distant. Roman takes a breath to ask what exactly happened when Patton’s quiet gasp catches both of their attention.

“Oh, Logan…” Patton says softly before rushing over and kneeling in front of him. He’s still pale and shaking and Roman glances at the stairs. He really needs to get out of his wet clothes. Where is Virgil?

Patton reaches up and brushes some of the wet bangs out of Logan’s face. Patton takes in a sharp breath, his hand stilling for a moment at the icy feel of Logan’s skin. “You’re freezing,” Patton says, his dark eyes worried and searching. Logan says nothing, quietly meeting Patton’s gaze. Patton purses his lips for a moment, then moves to sit on the other side of Logan. “Come here…”

Patton wraps an arm around Logan’s shoulders. Logan closes his eyes for a moment, doubled over on himself slightly. Behind his back, Patton casts a worried look to Roman. The Creative Side clenches his jaw and shakes his head silently at Patton’s unasked questions.

“Kiddo,” Patton says, brushing Logan’s bangs back again as they fall across his face and drip onto his nose. “What happened?”

Logan sucks in a shuddering breath just as Virgil reappears. In his arms is a stack of clothes, towels, blankets, a first aid kit, Logan’s spare glasses, and his unicorn onesie. He shares a glace with Roman before setting the pile in his arms down on the couch beside Patton. He pulls the clothes out of the pile, neatly folded, along with the onesie.

“You really should get out of those clothes,” Virgil says quietly, holding them out to him. Logan looks up at him before nodding silently. Roman watches carefully as the Logical Side stays sitting for a moment, as if working up the strength, and then pushes himself to his feet.

“D’you need help, Lo?” Patton asks gently.

Logan takes the clothes from Virgil’s hands. (He leaves the onesie. All three of the other Sides share another glance.) “N-n-no,” Logan manages softly through still-chattering teeth. “Th-th-thank you, Patton.” He starts to sink out before Virgil grabs his arm.

“Hey,” Virgil says gently. “Come back when you’re done, okay? We’ve gotta clean up your hands.”

Logan looks away, nods again, and sinks back out.

Roman can feel the anger starting to simmer up, hot and thick in his chest. His clenches his jaw, and catches the smoldering look in Virgil’s eyes. Patton sits very, very still.

“Did he say what happened?” Virgil asks, his voice careful and measured.

“Not yet,” Patton says quietly.

Roman uncurls his fingers from the tie he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in a white-knuckled grip ever since pulling it out of Logan’s hands. Now that he can look at it more closely, he sees that there’s no salvaging it; it’s ripped almost completely through, dirt and mud caked and frozen to it. Roman suddenly feels nauseous as all the different potential explanations raced through his head.

Virgil winces. “Roman, could you not?” The Anxious Side rubs his forehead. “I’m having a hard enough time without all of your creative spins on it.”

Roman sighs and tries to push the thoughts out of his head. Virgil couldn’t read his mind, exactly, but during heightened moments of crisis, sometimes the overflow of negative creativity could adversely affect the Anxious Side. Roman did his best to keep it in check, but it was much easier when Logan was there to balance him out.

“Sorry, Virge. Creative Side and all that.”

Virgil gives him an appreciative look and lowers his hand from his head before casting a glance at Patton, whose gaze was still trained on the spot where Logan had sunk out to change.

“Patton?” Virgil asks softly. “You okay?”

The Moral Side takes in a deep breath and looks back at Virgil. The last time Roman had seen that look in his eyes had been when they’d been talking about Thomas’s breakup. Now Roman knew the name for it. Heartbreak. And could Roman blame him? Seeing Logan like that had shaken even the Prince to his core.

“Who would want to hurt him like that?” Patton asks softly.

Roman opens his mouth, hoping for consoling words to come out, but finds empty air instead. He doesn’t know. Virgil just shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and scowls at his feet.

Logan reappears a moment later, rising up slower than normal. He’s still missing a tie. His hair is still wet, the bruises and cuts a stark contrast against his paler-than-normal skin. At least his clothes are dry, Roman thinks. It doesn’t do much to settle the unease in the Prince’s stomach.

Virgil gently grabs his upper arm and helps him over to the couch to sit down again. Patton grabs a towel from the pile on the couch and starts gently rubbing it over Logan’s hair. Roman expects the Logical Side to take it from him, or protest, but Logan looks too exhausted to care much. Virgil drapes a blanket over his shoulders.

Roman grabs the first aid kit and kneels in front of Logan, taking his hands in his own. He pulls the bottle of antiseptic out and wets a cotton ball with it.

“You wanna tell us what happened, kiddo?” Patton asks softly.

Logan sighs. It still sounds a bit shaky to Roman. The Logical Side grabs the glasses case off the stack of currently unused towels and blankets and unfolds the black frames. “They a-ambushed me on my way back. Threw me into the lake.”

“They what?” Roman demands, furious. He spills a few drops of the liquid onto his pants as his hand slips.

Patton looks aghast. “Logan, it’s February! It’s been a high of 33 degrees all week. The lake is still mostly frozen over....”

Logan gives him a dry, humorless look as he slides the spare frames onto his face. “Yes, I’m quite aware of that.”

“Man, people are cruel,” Virgil says through gritted teeth. “Who did this? I’ll make sure nobody can ever do it again.”

Logan hisses quietly as Roman dabs the cotton ball on the broken skin along his knuckles. Roman winces in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs before pressing it back to his hands.

“The shock of the cold water could’ve given you a heart attack,” Virgil continues, his eyes darkening even more. “You could’ve drowned. What if you didn’t know how to swim?” Roman looks up in alarm as Virgil’s voice starts to distort. “What if you got pulled under where it had iced over and—“

“I did,” Logan cuts in quietly. It’s all Roman can do to not draw his sword and go hunt down these evil, villainous— “And I believe that drowning was their intention,” Logan continues. He doesn’t meet any of their gazes. “Given their choice to use my tie to bind my hands.”

Everyone freezes for a moment.

“Logan,” Patton says, but his voice sounds uncharacteristically tight and strained. “You could have died.”

The Logical Side takes a breath as if to reply, but something catches in his throat and he swallows instead. As gently as he can, Roman turns Logan’s hands palm-up to get at the cuts and bruises there. They are dark and angry and still bleeding slightly in some places.

“Focusing on what may have happened,” Logan says carefully, “will likely only lead to cognitive distortions. It is better to focus on what has, indeed, happened. I am still alive.”

“You wanna focus on what actually happened?” Virgil hurls at him, angry. Not angry, Roman realizes in the next instant. Scared. “They actually tried to kill you. They left you for dead.”

Roman’s vision blurs suddenly. He can’t help but picture it all; it came with the territory of being the Creative Side. Images of Logan struggling as hands grabbed and shoved and pulled at him, too many for him to fight off even if he tried. Logan nearly making a break for it only to be yanked back by his tie, the top few buttons ripping off as they yanked it loose and held his hands behind his back. Logan shouting for help right before his body plunged into the water, his muscles seizing for a moment from the frigidity. Logan sinking into the dark before trying to kick back up to the surface only to find it iced over. Struggling in the water to get his hands loose, to bang and slam them against the ice to break it to get to the surface, his lungs screaming—

“Roman?”

The Prince blinks, causing a few tears to fall onto Logan’s upturned palms. He can feel Logan watching him closely. Roman shakes his head quickly, doing his best to look casual as he brushes the tears out of his eyes, and reaches for the bandages beside him. “Sorry. Almost done.” He uses his teeth to pull the packaging apart.

“What were their names, Logan?” Virgil asks, his voice low and dangerous but at least it wasn’t distorted anymore.

Logan looks up. Roman chances a quick glance up at him, noticing with surprise—although he knows he probably shouldn’t be—at the deep exhaustion in Logan’s dark eyes as he looks at Virgil. “I am not sure I see a reasonable explanation for why I should give you their names.”

“Kiddo,” Patton tries but Logan shakes his head.

“What would you all do with the names anyway?” Logan asks. “Retaliate with violence?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Virgil growls.

“No.”

“Logan—“

“Virgil, please,” Logan says sharply, his eyes flashing. Roman swallows as he secures the final bandage in place on the Logical Sides’ hands. He reaches for a butterfly band-aid in the box. The rustle of the paper covering seems too loud in the abrupt silence in the room. He reaches up and gently places a hand on his jaw to tilt his head as he secures it over the tear in the skin along his cheekbone. Logan sucks in a small breath at the pressure against his darkening bruise.

“Were you afraid?” Roman asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He feels like he has to know the answer.

Logan’s gaze flickers up to the Prince, but he averts it in the next second. “Yes.”

Roman’s stomach twists. He is the Prince. A knight. It is his duty to protect his kingdom and his friends alike, no matter the odds. He’d failed, and the failure sits heavy and hurting in his chest.

Logan is still curled in on himself slightly, engulfed in the blanket around his shoulders. His hair still hangs in limp, wet strings despite Patton’s attempt to dry it off. Roman can’t remember the last time Logan looked quite so… small.

Patton gives the Logical Side a sad smile, fruitlessly trying to brush the strands of hair out of his face. “You should probably get some sleep, honey. You’re exhausted.”

Logan closes his eyes and leans ever so slightly into Patton’s touch. “Yes,” he murmurs in agreement. “I think that’s probably the best call.”

Roman chews his lip, hating that he couldn’t have done more. That he couldn’t do more. He’s a prince. He’s Creativity. He’s supposed to help people. Surely he could think of something. Surely…

Logan stands up, the blanket falling off his shoulders as he does so. Without thinking, Roman jumps forward and catches it, draping it back over the exhausted Side’s shoulders. It’s then that Roman notices Logan is shaking again. Not as bad, not as hard as when he first showed up, but his shoulders are trembling slightly.

Roman frowns. “Logan?”

“Hm?”

“You… you know you’re safe now, right? All of us… we’ll protect you.” It doesn’t feel like enough to Roman. Saying it after he’d already been hurt didn’t change the fact, did it?  

Logan looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods. “I… I know,” he says, with some hesitation.

Roman’s throat constricts slightly, but he swallows past the growing lump. Could he blame Logan for being doubtful?

…

Roman is staring, unseeing, at the canopy over his bed when he hears a knock on the door. His thoughts already swirling, the sound is just another reminder of everything that had transpired through the night.

And also just like earlier, when Roman gets up and swings the door open, it’s Logan standing on the other side. His hair looks dry now, if still disheveled.

“Logan? What’s wrong?” he asks, worry blossoming in his chest. He steps aside to allow him to enter.

Logan crosses past Roman into the room. “It would appear that as exhausted as I feel, I cannot quite find it within myself to fall asleep,” he’s saying, glancing around the room before looking back to the Prince. “And it also occurred to me that I never thanked you.”

Roman’s confusion only deepens as he quietly closes the door. “Thanked me?”

“Yes,” Logan says simply. He walks over the French doors that lead out to the balcony. Beyond that is a sky full of stars. Roman was able to change the landscape beyond his room to fit whatever he felt like dreaming of. He hadn’t consciously chosen stars, but sometimes the mindscape would fill in blanks based on what Roman was thinking or feeling.

“For what?”

“For helping me tonight.” Logan stares out into the starlit sky.  

“I… I don’t understand…” He hadn’t been able to protect him. So what reason would Logan have for—

“Roman,” Logan says, looking back to the Prince, evidently confused by Roman’s confusion. “You… you saw me on the porch and… and you immediately sprang into action. Even more than that, you gave Virgil some important things to do so that he wouldn’t panic and could instead focus on his assigned tasks. You knew I needed to be in dry clothes, you knew Patton would want to have been woken up. You cleaned some of the… the damage and did a remarkably good job at bandaging them.” He pauses, glancing down at his bandaged hands, and then adds a little softer, “I am very grateful to you for that.”

Roman swallows. He looks at his sword laying forgotten on the desk. “You owe me no such gratitude. I… I should have been there, Logan. To stop it from happening in the first place.”

But the Logical Side is insistent. “You demonstrated great leadership.” Roman looks away, and Logan sighs. “Roman, you cannot always prevent bad things from happening. None of us can. But what we can do is control how we act and react in the aftermath. We can be there to support and take care of ourselves and one another. And you did that tonight. That’s all I can ever ask of you. Of any of you.”

Roman’s hands ball into fists even as the weight of Logan’s words eases some of the tightness in his shoulders. He can feel new tears pressing against his eyes, and the Prince can’t help but be grateful that the bedroom is still pretty dark.

The hurricane of “what ifs” that had been plaguing Roman all night slowly fade back into quiet, white noise in the back of his mind.

“I… Thank you, Logan,” Roman says quietly. He is suddenly aware of just how quiet his room is at this late hour.

Logan is about to say something in response before it’s cut off with a yawn. “I suppose I should try to sleep again,” Logan says instead, stepping away from the French doors and crossing back to the door leading to the hallway.

Roman nods. “Yes, of course. Good night, Logan.”

The Logical Side opens the door but stops for a moment in the doorway. “Roman?”

“Yes?”

“You’re my hero.”

Roman barks out a suddenly watery laugh. He brushes the back of his hands across his eyes. “I didn’t peg you for the sentimental type, Teach,” he says, in hopes that the joke might cover up the emotion that rests just below its surface.

Logan gives him a dry look, but there’s something warm and soft in his eyes.

“I’m not. I mean every word.”

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

35 please? :D

This got really long and really angsty. I don’t know what happened. (also on ao3)

35. “Here, take my hand. Everything is fine, just hold onto me and keep moving.”

Castiel had always been deathly afraid of fire. In any form, no matter how big or small.

It all went back to when he was just a little kid, barely seven years old, the youngest in a ridiculously huge family consisting of an absentee writer of a father and the eldest siblings trying to make sure no one died.

Michael was the oldest. He was the Good Son. The one that sang their father's praises while he was off on a bender god knows where, drowning himself in whiskey as he agonized over his latest book.

He was stern and almost militant in his rearing of the younger siblings, orderly to the point of obsession. In the mornings, he would instruct all of the younger children to brush their teeth, make their beds, and get themselves ready for school.

The younger siblings were his little drones, little soldiers ready to dive into battle the moment he told them to. He barked orders and preached Bible verses from memory, fire and brimstone in his voice.

There was an odd sort of affection he held for his siblings. He had cared for them, but he was ultimately selfish and nothing would ever be more important than himself.

After joining the Air Force when he turned eighteen, he worked as a local police officer. He mostly just wrote parking tickets but the badge gave him power that he so fervently craved.

Raphael was the second eldest. If Michael was the heir, he was the spare. And he seemed to be rather content with his lot in life.

He let the others handle most of the child rearing, occasionally stepping in for discipline purposes. But unlike Michael's punishments of jumping jacks or pushups or scrubbing the bathroom tiles clean with their toothbrushes, Raphael preferred timeouts and corner time.

His favorite game to play was the quiet game. His second favorite was hide and seek though he was often very hard pressed to do any actual seeking.

He chose medicine for his career path. He became a specialist working with terminal patients, easing their pain when he could.

Many thought it was because he was compassionate, even courageous, so wonderful that such a fine young man would devote himself to such a noble cause. But his siblings knew it was only because he preferred the silence of those who were not long for the world, the only sound their breath as it came slower and slower and slower.

Gabriel was the third. The trickster. The one who saw life and their family itself for what it was: a joke.

He would spend his days lounging on the couch watching any television show that aired, from cartoons to cop dramas to country western classics. He liked to compare his siblings to archetypes and tropes, laughing all the while.

He had a predilection for sweets and women, especially those who could crush him in one blow if they so chose. Some speculated it was because the woman he dated for the longest time's name was Candy. In truth, her name was Kali and she would destroy anyone who dared to call her Candy.

He found work as a porn star slash porn director, much to the displeasure of his older siblings. But when they criticized him, he just claimed they were jealous. Not about the sex but about the fact that he could do what they could never dream of: not conform to their father's dreams for them and feel no trace of guilt.

Of all the brothers, he was the real caregiver, a god of mischief more than happy to raise mere mortals. His methods were unorthodox and oftentimes unheard of but so were many grand, amazing things and the time he spent with his younger siblings was the time that they most felt loved.

Then, there was Lucifer. The black sheep of the family. Rebellious to their father's plan.

He did not care about any of his siblings, save for the ones who themselves had raised him. He did not care about many things, adrift in a life of alcoholism and apathy. In that way, he was more like their father than he ever wanted to be.

He barely interacted with the younger children, hating them with an undeserved passion, almost as much as he despised their father. Most believed it was simply an extension of his own self-hatred, like an injured animal lashing out at those that tried to help it.

He moved out shortly after he turned eighteen. On one of the rare occasions their father had been home, he had started an argument which had blossomed like a poisonous flower into a knock down drag out that had lasted all night.

In the morning, both he and their father stormed out of the house, neither to return for a long time. He started a rock band shortly afterward, diving headfirst into a life of drugs and sin.

The younger siblings were too numerous to mention by name with a few notable exceptions.

There was Balthazar, an art dealer who followed in Gabriel's footsteps of hedonism and the pleasures of the flesh. There was Anael, who insisted on being called Anna, a love crazy chef who specialized in aphrodisiac dishes.

There was Muriel, a zookeeper who preferred the company of animals over anyone else. There was a Hannah, a sociologist who investigated what made people tick.

And then there was Castiel. The youngest. The one who became a writer. Like their father in many ways yet vastly different in others.

But before that, before he left their overcrowded house in Pontiac, Illinois and flew to the East Coast to attend Columbia, before he published his own books, before he moved into his cozy little apartment in Kansas, he was just Castiel. The youngest. The one terrified of fire.

When he was seven, already reading at a fifth-grade level and devouring every book he was given, his older brother Nathaniel had found a niche of his own. In a book of matches that Gabriel had left lying around after a night of smoking pot with his girlfriend.

Nathaniel was older, half a decade older than his baby brother yet no wiser for it, and while Castiel preferred solitude to the chaos of their home, Nathaniel reveled in it. He basked in the tension, the anger and resentment, the burning rage that simmered just under the surface.

The matches gave him control of it. That kind of power corrupts quickly. It was no different that time. Castiel just happened to be collateral damage.

Nathaniel was playing with his matches in the long upstairs hallway, flanked on either side with countless doors to countless bedrooms belonging to countless siblings. He smiled widely as the flames sparked at the red phosphorus tip, a buzz igniting within his own body.

With unadulterated delight, he watched as the flames engulfed the rest of the match until they singed his fingers and he dropped them. They went out before they landed on the carpet. Until one didn't.

The smell of burnt carpet filled the air as the fire danced before his eyes, spreading across the floor towards the door of the bedroom at the end of the hall. Castiel's bedroom where he was taking a nap, curled up in bed with his favorite stuffed animal, a gray cat.

The flames crept silently under the door, stalking into Castiel's room like a dragon hunting its prey. It had spread like wildfire, fast and fierce and fatal.

Nathaniel had sat, cross-legged on the hallway floor, and watched. Just watched. But then just watching got boring and he was moved to action.

He lit more matches and, before the fire could travel down the matchstick, he tossed them at Castiel's bedroom door. He had just thrown the last match, dark smoke filling the air, when the screaming had started.

The fire had advanced over the carpet like a legion of soldiers marching onto enemy land, declaring war with no mercy, surrounding Castiel's bed. The edges of his blanket caught fire first and a moment later his entire duvet had been alight and with it, Castiel.

He had always been a heavy sleeper. Dead to the world once his head hit the pillow. He hadn't smelled the smoke, hadn't had enough time to startle awake choking on its fumes. Instead, he awoke to pain.

The most excruciating pain he had ever experienced. Every nerve ending had been in agony, exposed and singed so severely that he didn't even feel the heat. It was cold. A stinging avalanche of gut wrenching, nauseating pain.

The flames had leapt from the comforter to his shirt and the skin lying under the fabric, burning away both without any mercy. He had been burnt alive, roasted like a rotisserie pig, sacrificed for consumption, for the delight of others.

Not knowing what else to do, he had screamed. Thrown his head back and screamed. Screamed for Gabriel, for Balthazar, for Michael, for his father.

He screamed until he was hoarse with it. Until his lungs burned like his skin did. Until he nearly passed out in the fiery ruins of his bedroom, his only sanctuary.

It was Gabriel who came to his rescue, fire extinguisher in hand. Like some kind of Shakespearean, Arthurian hero he had slain the fire breathing dragon with his monoammonium phosphate spewing sword.

But the agony had only begun.

The car ride to the hospital had jostled his fresh injuries as he sobbed into his brother's shoulder, clutching the fabric of Balthazar's shirt in his little fist. Every pothole in the road, every abrupt stop when cars in front of them failed to use their turn signals, every moment they sped down the highway was pure torture.

Luckily, he hadn't had to suffer through a long stay in the waiting room, the only mercy he had received that day. He had been taken directly to the burn unit of Saint Jude's Emergency Hospital where he was subjected to even more pain.

Despite the painkillers they had pumped him full of, he had felt every second of the debridement process as doctors cut away the non-viable skin surrounding the burns. Face buried in his arms, he had cried and wailed and begged for relief from the pain.

They concluded that twenty percent of his body had been burned but they had opted not to perform any skin grafts. They claimed that the burns would just have to heal on their own and with them, Castiel himself.

They had assured him that because some of his nerve endings were dead, he would feel less pain.

He hadn’t believed them.

He was kept at the hospital for three weeks before he was allowed to return home, an IV supplying him with the necessary fluids and electrolytes. Every few hours, a nurse would come in to change his bandages and apply an antibiotic ointment, Castiel wincing in pain.

Only a few of his numerous siblings visited him. Gabriel and Balthazar were his most frequent visitors, smuggling in his favorite candy and telling him jokes that he only half understand yet made him laugh. Hannah visited once or twice, bringing him bouquets of sunflowers and other brightly colored flowers.

He tried to convince himself that his other siblings were too busy to visit him. That Michael was working an important case. That Raphael was developing a cure for some disease that would save millions of lives.

But he had never been a very good liar.

His father had never visited. He had never even called. He was too busy writing the next book in his series. Apparently, Castiel's misfortune had inspired a new character: Claude Maloret.

After his lonely three weeks in the hospital with too rough nurses and food so bland he couldn't taste it enough to really dislike it, Gabriel had driven him back home. Back to the scene of the crime. Back to the burned out husk of what was once his bedroom, the room no longer uninhabitable.

At least not to him.

Michael had cleared out all of the scorched carpet and the burnt remains of most of Castiel's belongings, had scrubbed the ash stains off the walls. He had shoved an air mattress into his room along with a few lumpy pillows and threadbare blankets and declared it ready for Castiel to return to.

But Castiel had been petrified of the mere thought of setting foot in that room. He had cried and begged Gabriel to let him sleep in his room, even if it was just on the floor.

Gabriel, god bless his soul, had readily invited him to share his room, moving the air mattress into his own bedroom. For the next three years, he had bounced between sharing a room with Gabriel and Balthazar, other times sleeping on the couch in the living room.

Then, as he neared his twelfth birthday, he had been forced to return to his bedroom that had laid vacant for years. It was Michael's orders.

It had sparked an argument of epic proportions between Michael and Gabriel. Michael had insisted that enough time had passed, claiming that they weren't paying so much money to live in such a big house with so many rooms for Castiel to not use his room. Gabriel had defended Castiel, pointing out that he was still traumatized by the fact that he had almost been killed in that room.

Unfortunately, in their house Michael's word was law and no matter how vehemently Gabriel argued, he lost the argument and Castiel was moved back into his bedroom.

Every night, he had laid in his new bed, tucked into his new sheets, in his old room where he had almost been burned to death. No matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, he saw the flames. No matter how soft and cool his sheets were, he felt the heat. No matter how many times they repainted, the room still smelled of smoke and burnt flesh.

Nathaniel had never been punished. Apart from Balthazar threatening him if he ever came close to Castiel again and Gabriel smacking him upside the head.

Michael, and Raphael, had never punished him. Had never reprimanded him. Had never even confronted him.

He was more willing to accept that it was a case of spontaneous combustion than admit that he was a bad, negligent older brother. Denial seemed to run in their family.

But Castiel had been punished. He had been punished with his suffering.

He had been punished for taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon when he knew that it meant he wouldn't be able to sleep later. He had been punished for being such a deep sleeper, his siblings always joking that he could sleep through the apocalypse.

He had been punished for not immediately smelling the smoke. For not reminding his older brothers to check the batteries in the smoke detectors. For the fact that Nathaniel had been snooping in Gabriel's bedroom and found the matches.

And he had been left with a gruesome souvenir of all that he had done wrong, of the horrible events of that day: large swathes of burn scars on his back, pale and ugly and slightly contractured.

As he had gotten older, the scars had paled, less red and angry looking as they had been in the beginning. But they never became any less ugly. His siblings and the other kids at school made sure that he knew that.

In junior high and high school, gym class had become the bane of his existence for the sole fact that it meant he had to change in front of the other boys. As if it wasn't bad enough that he often got pushed around because of his big glasses and his awkwardness and the overly formal manner in which he spoke, bigger, stronger kids suddenly had a new reason to pick on him.

They called him awful names that he tried to forget. Shoved him to the ground when they played football or soccer. Threw his clean clothes into the showers so he was stuck in his gym shorts in the middle of the winter.

Once he had been duct taped to a bench in the locker room and left there for hours, none of the gym teachers hearing his cries for help. When his brothers had found out, Balthazar had kicked the kid who did it's ass while Gabriel had raised hell with the principal.

Fortunately, he hadn't been in high school very long. He graduated early and the day before he turned sixteen he was accepted into Columbia on a full scholarship.

With a beacon of hope beckoning to him eastward, he bought a one-way plane ticket with some money Gabriel gave him and fled to New York City. He fled the only home he had ever known, his scores of siblings, and the room that smelled like smoke.

Four years later, he graduated top of his class, summa cum laude, valedictorian with an impeccable GPA. He had even been asked to give a speech at the graduation ceremony, which he had stumbled his way through, falling back on his awkwardness when humor failed.

Gabriel and Balthazar had been the only ones out of all his siblings to bother attending his graduation. They had thoroughly embarrassed him by cheering raucously when his name had been announced and he had accepted his diploma.

He stayed in New York for a couple years, working in a bakery down the block from his tiny apartment and starting his first novel. After those two years, when he found himself lost and lonely in the big city where he was almost painfully anonymous, he decided to take his brothers up on their invitation to move to Lawrence, Kansas where they had both relocated shortly after Castiel had moved out.

Years later, things seemed to be going rather perfectly for him.

He had a decent sized apartment in a residential part of town with all of the amenities he could have ever wished for including a dishwasher, washer and dryer, and central air. Plus, he had a lovely view of the Lawrence skyline, getting to watch the sunrise every morning.

He had already written and published twelve full-length novels, three of which had actually made it onto the bestsellers list. A few bookstores in the area had actually contacted him to inquire about him possibly doing book signings.

He and his brothers had a standing bi-weekly get together where they would either have dinner out at some swanky restaurant Balthazar picked out or play drunk Scrabble at Gabriel's. It was the most normal sibling experience any of them ever had.

His life in Lawrence, for that matter, was the most normal part. He had done some casual dating, casual because the relationships had only lasted a few months but it was dating nonetheless. He had even adopted a cat, a silver tabby Maine Coon he had named Seraph.

Yet at thirty two, over two decades having passed since the incident with the matches, he still suffered from a debilitating fear of fire. And the anxiety, that ever-present dread that another fire was looming just over the horizon, had taken over his life.

It had affected him when he had gone apartment hunting after moving to Lawrence, crashing on Balthazar's couch for a few weeks. He had made a checklist of requirements for an apartment that included hardwood floors instead of carpeting and an electric stove rather than a gas one. Plus, it had to be directly adjacent to the stairwell if it wasn't on the ground floor.

After a few weeks of searching for the perfect place, he finally found it at the Cedarwood Apartments building. A two bedroom, one bathroom apartment had just gone on the market for only six hundred dollars a month.

It had been perfect, with dark hardwood floors and a stainless steel electric stove, nestled right beside the stairwell. He had moved in a few days after finding it, putting down some money as a down payment.

But while the apartment itself was perfect, he still obsessed over fire and the prevention of it.

He checked the batteries in his various smoke detectors every month even when he knew that they were still full of juice, just to ensure that they were still working. He kept fire extinguishers in every room of the apartment, even the bathroom where he kept the extinguisher on the back of the door.

He held his breath every time he pumped his own gas, his palm clammy around the handle of the pump as he toyed with the idea of upgrading to an electric car. But he loved his old Continental too much.

He winced anytime he saw someone smoking, the dark embers making his heart race. He jolted as though he had been smacked whenever he heard the hiss of a lighter or the sound of a match being struck.

He couldn't bear to be around candles, even when they were unlit and undeniably harmless. Just looking at them flooded his mind with visions of what could go wrong.

He couldn't even listen to songs that had the word 'fire' or anything similar in them. And he had never written a single sentence that had anything to do with heat or fire.

Once a week, he cleaned his apartment, meticulously checking for fire hazards, constantly consulting the Kansas Building Fire Safety Handbook. He unplugged all of his appliances and electronics when they weren't in use and obsessively cleaned the lint trap in his dryer.

He did everything within his power to avoid even the most minor cooking fire so when he woke up in the middle of the night to the shrill blare of his smoke detectors and the taste of ash on his tongue, something in him snapped.

He bolted upright, jumping out of bed and onto his feet, the hardwood floor cool against the soles of his feet. Trying to fight back the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, he yanked the fire extinguisher off the wall by his bed.

He fumbled with it, pulling the pin and crossing his bedroom to the doorway, seeing the warm glow of flames emanating from the hallway. He was dangerously close to freezing at the sight of flames creeping closer down the hallway, covering the stark white walls and turning them black.

Close to being completely paralyzed with fear, he aimed the nozzle at the approaching flames and tried to summon up visions of King Arthur or MacDuff. Then, he squeezed the handle, waiting for the monoammonium phosphate to save the day again.

But nothing happened. Nothing.

He tried again but still, nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

"No," he whimpered, trying again. It didn't work. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

He dropped the fire extinguisher by his feet as he reeled backwards. His breath came in rough pants as he buried his hands in his hair. "No, no, no, no, no."

His mind raced. If the flames were already encroaching on his bedroom that meant the rest of his apartment must already be ablaze. He couldn't get to another fire extinguisher.

He was on the third floor so an escape through the bedroom window wasn't a viable option. There was no fire escape which should have been on his list of requirements for an apartment.

He charged his phone overnight in the living room so he wouldn't be tempted to go on a Wikipedia binge at two a.m. So he couldn't call anyone, not his brothers or the fire department.

He could hear the sirens of a fire engine over the cacophony of the smoke detectors, blue and red lights flashing on the glass of his bedroom window. But the small shred of hope that fact gave him was quickly burnt away as panic settled in, realization along with it.

He was trapped in his deathtrap of an apartment with no way out, no recourse, no hope. The fire was quickly making its way into his bedroom, the heat making him break out in a terrified sweat.

No one would know that he was in his apartment. Not until they found his remains, charred and blackened like a hunk of overcooked meat.

He wondered if anyone would mourn him. Gabriel and Balthazar would but what about their other siblings? Michael? Anna? Uriel? Inias?

What about their estranged aunts and uncles? Zachariah, with his huge company? Joshua, with his sprawling greenhouse? Naomi, with her own enterprise? Amara, with her string of lovers half her age?

What about their father? Would he mourn the loss of his youngest? Would he cry? Visit his grave? Would he even care?

A nasty little voice in the back of his mind growled out the answer that he already knew. No. No. No! No! No!

Resignation took root in his bone marrow, weighing him down until he was doing the only thing he could think of. He pulled his cat into his arms, curled up on the foot of his bed, and started to cry.

When he was younger, his older siblings used to call him cry baby because of how easily tears had come to him, whether he was happy or sad. He spent much of his adult life fighting the habit but now he accepted it wholeheartedly.

As tears rolled down his cheeks, he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight of the orange flames creeping closer and closer and closer. His breath grew faster and more ragged with each passing second, well aware that the life he had built for himself in Kansas was being burned away to nothingness.

He clutched Seraph tight to his chest, stroking a shaky hand down her spine. The weight of her in his arms, mewling miserably in palpable fear, anchored him.

The only mercy that he would be given this time was that he wouldn't be alone. That he wouldn't die alone.

He hoped his brothers would let her be buried with whatever would be left of him. She deserved a headstone of her own.

More tears wetting his cheeks, he prayed. Harder than he ever had before. Harder than the first time he had been engulfed in a hellish inferno.

He prayed for a miracle. For divine intervention. For his father whom he still loved for no other reason than obligation and the longing of a boy who had never even met his father.

He prayed for his brothers to come save him again. For Gabriel to burst in like some sort of white knight and save the day again.

He prayed for God. For an angel.

But his prayers fell on deaf ears and he was left to die of either smoke inhalation or the flames themselves. Either way, there would be pain and he didn’t know whether he should dread it or eagerly await it.

Just as resigned acceptance began to sink in, something made him open his eyes and look up. Through his tears, he saw an angel standing above him.

In the bulky jumpsuit and helmet, a breathing mask obscuring their face, the conflagration in the doorway formed a halo of light around them.

There was a buzzing sound in Castiel's ears, like a hive of bees flitting around with a numbing drone. Spots danced behind his eyelids as his throat tightened, smoke filling his lungs as his tears continued to fall.

As he sight began to blur, tears and smoke threatening to blot out everything else, the ringing in his ears subsided enough for him to make out what the firefighter standing in front of him was saying. "Here, take my hand. Everything's fine, just hold onto me and keep moving. Okay?"

Sniffling, Castiel nodded frantically. Tightening his grip on Seraph, who dug her claws into Castiel's t-shirt, he took the firefighter's proffered hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

The faceless firefighter squeezed his hand reassuringly, the leather of his gloves smooth and cool against his palm. Voice low and urgent, the firefighter instructed, "Stay close to me. I'm gonna get you outta here."

Castiel nodded again, squeezing the firefighter's hand and shifting closer. He took a deep, steeling breath as he was led towards the doorway where the fire was spreading into his bedroom the way it had all those years ago.

He half expected to see Nathaniel sitting cross legged in the hall among the flames, an empty book of matches in his hand. Of course, Nathaniel wasn't there. He was back in Illinois with his wife and kids and his perfect white picket fence life while Castiel faced the fear that had overrun his life because of his older brother.

His breath came faster as saw the bright, flickering flames that were engulfing his apartment. The hallway was rather short so from the doorway of his bedroom he could see the rest of his apartment and the huge fire that was destroying it.

The sight of his living room, full of towering flames that dwarfed him and devoured all of his earthly belongings, choked him up. His apartment, his home, was the only place where he could relax and write and forget about the rest of the world if only for a few hours. It was the only place where he felt completely safe.

And it was all going up in smoke. Again. The most morbid deja-vu in his life.

The couch, an old battered sofa where he ate his dinners and listened to music to unwind, was little more than a pile of flames, the stench of burning upholstery filling the room. The desk in the corner where he wrote all of his novels and short stories was aflame, the dark wood home to bright flames.

But the worst thing, the sight of which nearly made him curl into a ball and give up trying to make it out alive, was his bookshelf. On its shelves was every book he had ever written, every short story, every collection of poetry.

It held all of his life's work. And it was completely enveloped by the blaze.

With a choked sob, he pressed his face against the firefighter's arm, clenching his eyes shut to shield himself from the devastating sight. He was overwhelmed, he was terrified, he was lost.

He heard the firefighter beside him curse, the sound of the expletive making him tense and tighten his grip on the firefighter's hand. Why was the firefighter cursing? Was the floor about to fall away? Was the fire too big, too hot? Were they going to die?

Before he could utter a single question aloud, he was suddenly being hoisted up into the firefighter's arms. He let out a squeak of surprise as he was cradled bridal style, curling his arms more securely around Seraph who let out a shocked mewl of her own.

The next several minutes passed in a blur of panicked fear and searing flames that licked at the exposed soles of his feet as he was carried through the burning ruins his apartment. With quick, precise steps, the firefighter toted him out of his apartment and into a tunnel of heat and fire that was once the hallway.

Castiel was rushed down the stairwell that was mercifully free of any trace of fire. He started coughing as they made their way down the flights of stairs, having the presence of mind to politely turn his head away so he didn't cough on the man who was carrying him to safety.

He was pretty sure he heard a host of angels sing when they burst out of the apartment building, away from the nightmare that had unfolded on the third floor. Out of the inferno and into the cool night air of the parking lot where a crowd of people was gathered. Castiel assumed they were other residents.

Three fire engines were parked as close as possible to the building, their lights flashing as clusters of firefighters aimed hoses at the fire. Castiel found himself sighing in relief when he saw that the fire was only on the third floor, his sigh triggering another fit of coughing.

An ambulance was parked by the large crowd of people in the center of the parking lot, its back doors open as the paramedics talked to a few people in the throng. The firefighter made a beeline to the ambulance, setting Castiel down on the stainless steel footboard at the back of the ambulance.

He desperately clutched at the firefighter's sleeve, nodding his head at the building as he blurted, "You have to go help them! Other people, trapped inside! Need to save them!"

"Whoa, easy there, buddy," the firefighter's voice soothed, a bit muffled by his oxygen mask. He laid a gloved hand on Castiel's shoulder, squeezing gently as he explained, "You were the only one stuck inside. Everyone else is accounted for, I promise."

Castiel let out a sigh then promptly coughed throatily, feeling like he was going to hock up a lung, turning his head to cough into his elbow. The cool night air helped but he knew that he was suffering from smoke inhalation, same as the day of the first fire.

"Yo, Benny! Need some oxygen over here!" The firefighter's gruff voice called, making Castiel jump and jerk his head up. By his side, the firefighter who had rescued him was removing his helmet while waving another firefighter over.

He had already taken off his oxygen mask, revealing a gorgeous face that would have been better suited for a model than a firefighter. His jaw was sharp and well-defined, dusted with just a tiny hint of stubble.

His cheeks, and the bridge of his straight nose for that matter, were scattered with freckles, constellations spread across his skin. His eyes were such a brilliant shade of green that Castiel was momentarily taken aback, wondering how exactly someone could possibly have eyes that green.

The firefighter, who was thus far nameless, set his helmet down beside Castiel's hip and pushed back his black hood to show off his slightly tousled hair. He had an Ivy League haircut but Castiel couldn't tell if his hair was dark blonde or brown.

Castiel was distracted from how beautiful his savior was when another firefighter appeared in front of him with two oxygen tanks. He was a large, broad shouldered man who was a bit intimidating, Castiel nervously leaning closer to the firefighter who had carried him out of the building.

But the bright smile the other man sent him vanquished any apprehension he might have had. He handed the green eyed firefighter one of the oxygen tanks and the attached masks before reaching over to take Seraph out of Castiel's arms, assuring him, "Just gonna give this little lady some oxygen. Make sure she's doin' alright."

Castiel reluctantly loosened his grip enough for the other firefighter to scoop up Seraph. He watched as Seraph was carried over to a nearby stretcher where the firefighter, apparently named Benny, held the oxygen mask up to her sooty muzzle.

"Your turn, dude."

Castiel turned his head, tearing his eyes away from Seraph, to look up at the sandy haired firefighter who was holding out an oxygen mask. Castiel nodded and gratefully accepted the mask, holding it up to his mouth and taking in a deep breath.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the light breeze that chilled the night air and dried the tears on his cheeks. He evened out his breath, trying to remember as many breathing exercises as he could from his Saturday morning yoga class.

"I'm Dean, by the way," a voice that was quickly becoming familiar announced. When he opened his eyes the gorgeous firefighter was beaming at him, the corners of his bright green eyes crinkling. He held out his hand to Castiel who noticed that he had taken off his gloves. "Dean Winchester."

"Castiel," he returned, reaching over shake Dean's hand. "Castiel Novak."

"So, Cas, I kinda doubt they're gonna be letting people back in tonight," Dean claimed with a wince, gesturing to the apartment where the fire was still raging. His eyes sliding back to Castiel, he tipped his head to the side and asked, "So, uh, do you need to call anyone?"

"Oh," he mumbled, his hand going to where his pocket would have been if he wasn't wearing a pair of sweatpants. His brows drew together as he quietly stated the obvious, "I don't have my phone."

It was then that the numb shock ebbed away and realization of the gravity of the situation finally sunk in, for a second time that evening. Biting his lips as his eyes filled with more tears, he softly sobbed, "I don't have anything. Oh, god. I don't have anything. Everything I had...  Everything I've worked for... It's just...gone."

Like a dam bursting, he felt a deluge of tears cascading down his cheeks as he whimpered. He raised his other hand, burying his face in it as he lifted his legs, curling in on himself.

The past sixteen years of his life spent running away from that horrible day, from the dark embers of his past, had ended up culminating in ash and ruin. All the work he had put into building a new life for himself in the town where no one knew him as the weird little burned kid was all for naught.

All of the sleepless nights he had spent hunched over his computer, painstakingly typing out every word of every piece of work he had ever written hadn't meant anything. Every precaution he had made to protect himself from another tragedy had been meaningless.

He couldn't even live out of his car for awhile since he didn't have his car keys.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Dean assured him, taking a seat beside Castiel on the footboard and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He gently tugged Castiel closer, shushing him as he curled his other arm around Castiel's waist. "It's gonna be okay, man."

Castiel tilted his head to the side to hide his face in Dean's chest, too miserable and overwhelmed to be embarrassment by how forward and desperate he was being. He held the oxygen mask to his face as he sniffled, forcing himself to keep his breathing even despite the whirlwind of emotion he was experiencing.

Curiosity that could only be described as morbid goaded him into asking his next question. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his free hand as he inquired, "What caused the fire?"

"Uh, apparently your neighbor fell asleep with a cigarette," Dean explained, giving Castiel's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Set off a whole book of matches."

Castiel couldn't help the watery, bordering on hysterical laugh that bubbled up out of his throat at Dean's words. Of course, it was a book of matches that started the fire.

Mopping at his cheeks, he straightened up with a sniffle, shaking his head at himself. Dean offered him a wide smile, squeezing his shoulder again as he offered, "How 'bout I go grab my phone? You can call whoever you need to."

He nodded, returning Dean's smile with a small one of his own. He waited patiently as Dean dropped his arms from where they were curled around Castiel before standing and jogging over to one of the fire engines.

While waiting, Castiel glanced over at the stretcher where the other firefighter, Benny, was gently stroking his hand down Seraph's back. The Maine Coon seemed perfectly content, lying down on her stomach with her front paws stretched out in front of her.

Dean returned a few minutes later, cell phone in hand and a light flush on his high cheekbones. Plopping back down beside Castiel, he unlocked his phone and pulled up the dial pad to place a call, explaining, "You can just tell me the number. Might be a little hard to understand you through the mask so I'll put it on speaker. That okay?"

Castiel just nodded and rattled off Gabriel's number, infinitely glad that he had memorized it. The phone rang a couple times before Gabriel finally picked up, greeting, "Yo."

It was Dean who spoke first, to Castiel's surprise. Clearing his throat, Dean began, "This is Dean Winchester, I'm with the—"

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," Gabriel asserted, cutting Dean off. Castiel could perfectly envision his brother's eye roll. "So, buh-bye—"

"Gabriel, it's me," Castiel interjected, raising his voice enough so that it wasn't muffled by the oxygen mask.

"Cassie?" Gabriel asked, using the nickname he had saddled Castiel with decades ago. Then, he whistled, following it up with a low chuckle as he teased, "Ooh, did you hook up with someone? Now I'm all jealous."

While Castiel would have liked to have been amused by his older brother's ribbing, he found himself extremely nervous. He chewed his lip before he sighed and blurted, "Gabriel. Dean's a firefighter.There... There was a fire."

"What?!" Gabriel practically screeched over the line, Dean wincing at the loud, stringent squawk. "Are you fucking kidding me?! Again?! Jesus Christ! Are you alright? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

Dean raised a brow at the word 'again', but Castiel ignored it in favor of answering his brother's series of rapid fire questions. "No, I'm not kidding. Yes, again. I'm fine. I don't need to go to the  hospital. But I—"

He was cut off by a hiccuping sob, overwhelmed again by the bleak reality of his situation. His eyes stung but he doubted that he could actually produce any more tears.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to compose himself. With a shaky sigh, he forced himself to continue, "But, Gabriel, everything's gone. Everything. Even my laptop. How am I gonna meet my deadline if my whole novel's gone? I don't have my wallet or my car keys or any of my papers. It's all just gone."

Dean curled a comforting arm around his waist, running his hand up and down Castiel's side. He leaned into the soothing touch, eternally grateful for both the firefighter's presence and his patience.

"Alright, here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna come pick you up, you can stay with me for as long as you need to," Gabriel announced. "We're gonna call your publisher and get a copy of your rough draft. I have a spare for the Continental, we'll pick it up tomorrow. And I'll make some calls, get you a new social security, new birth certificate, whatever you need."

Castiel sniffed and nodded even though he knew that Gabriel couldn't see him. His brother's voice sounded again as he claimed, "I'll be there in a few minutes. Oh, and Castiel?"

"Yeah?" He answered, rubbing a few tears out of his eyes.

"You're alive," Gabriel said simply. "Just remember that, okay? You're alive."

Castiel let out a breathy huff of incredulous laughter as his brother's words sank in. He was alive. Against all odds, in spite of two separate fire that quite possibly could have killed him, he was alive.

A wave of disbelieving relief crashed over him as Gabriel hung up. He wanted to sing and dance and run naked through the streets he was so elated. He felt at least thirty pounds lighter, like he could walk on air, like any minute he was going to sprout wings and take to the cool night sky.

He was alive! And he was giddy with it. So overcome with giddiness that the next thing he knew, he was pulling off his oxygen mask and wrapping his arms around Dean's neck to lay an overjoyed, life-affirming kiss on his plush pink lips.

It was a quick, chaste kiss, little more than a peck really. It only lasted a few blissful moments before Castiel pulled back and gushed, "Thank you, Dean. You saved my life. And Seraph's!"

He set down his oxygen mask and hopped off the ambulance's footboard to greet Benny as he carried Seraph over. Her thunderous purr was audible even at a distance, her yellow eyes narrowed as Benny scratched under her chin.

Buzzing with adrenaline, Castiel bounced on the balls of his feet as Benny handed him Seraph who immediately nuzzled under Castiel's chin. When Castiel raised his head to ask Benny if she was going to be alright, he found the burly firefighter laughing heartily, a huge grin on his face.

"Oh, she'll be fine, brother. Just needs a bath," Benny informed him between laughs. With a wide smirk, he clapped Dean on the shoulder and tacked on, "Looks like she's not the only one who needs to take a cold shower."

Castiel hummed in confirmation as he looked at the blotches of soot on Seraph's silver coat, sure that he himself was probably covered in the black powdery. He wrinkled his nose when he thought about the fact that he would probably be clawed to hell when he gave Seraph her bath, but it was a small price to pay for being alive. "Yes, I suppose I'm a mess as well."

For some reason that sent Benny into a fit of renewed laughter, the firefighter throwing his head back and practically howling. Dean, whose face was suddenly flushed with color, elbowed the other man in the ribs and grumbled, "Shut up, Benny."

Castiel ignored the hushed bickering that ensued between the two firefighters, cuddling Seraph close and peppering kisses over the top of her head. He still couldn't believe they had made it out alive, that the flames hadn't devoured them both.

The elated feeling that had taken root in his chest only seemed to intensify when a pair of headlights cut through the dark of the night and a car pulled up beside the ambulance. Castiel immediately recognized it as Balthazar's sleek silver Porsche, his older brother a fan of the finer things in life whether it be vintage wines or exorbitantly priced sports cars.

The mere sight of the silver paint job made him smile, reminding him that he was still alive to be annoyed by his brother's over-indulgence. That he was still alive to spend the holidays with his brothers and put up with their constant teasing about everything and anything and help settle the prank wars that Gabriel started at least once every few months.

Gabriel burst out of the car and rushed over to Castiel, Balthazar hot on his heels. Before he could say a word, he was being swept up into Gabriel's arms despite the fact that his older brother was four inches shorter than him.

Gabriel actually spun him around a few times, squeezing him so tightly that it almost hurt, Seraph meowing loudly from where she was sandwiched between them. By the time Gabriel set him down, Castiel was a bit, laughing a bit hysterically as his brother leaned up to scatter kisses over his cheeks.

Balthazar hugged him next, letting him keep his feet on the ground as he pressed a single kiss to Castiel's temple. He slipped an arm around Castiel's shoulders, tugging him close with a grin.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Gabriel demanded as he started fussing over Castiel, fiddling with the collar of his t-shirt. He licked the pad of his thumb before rubbing at a spot of soot on Castiel's cheek.

Rolling his eyes, Castiel swatted his brother's hand away. "I'm fine, Gabriel. A little shaken up and more afraid of fire than I was before but I'm fine."

"Is that even possible?" Balthazar inquired with a raised brow. "The being even more afraid of fire part, I mean."

"Well, I'm definitely not more of a fan," Castiel returned with a small smile, shifting to hold Seraph more comfortably. She was growing a bit restless.

Castiel looked back over at Gabriel who was clearly tense, his worry palpable. Voice soft, he assured his older brother, "Gabriel, I'm fine. I promise."

Letting out a long exhale through his nose, Gabriel nodded, mustering up a tiny grin of his own. Nodding his head towards the Porsche, he suggested, "Let's get you back to my place and tucked into bed."

"Just give me a second," Castiel requested, handing Seraph to Balthazar who scratched her behind her right ear until she purred contentedly. "I need to thank Dean."

He ignored the equal parts amused and critical raise of Gabriel's brow in favor of turning back to Dean and Benny. On pure impulse, he looped his arms around Dean's shoulders and hugged him again, murmuring, "Thank you for saving me."

He hugged Benny next, the big burly man returning the embrace with a low chuckle. As Castiel pulled back, he thanked the firefighter, "Thank you, too."

With a final wave to the two firefighters and a glance up at the charred tensions of the third floor, he hurried over to his brothers' side, Gabriel wrapping an arm around him. It wasn't until he was seated in the passenger seat of the Porsche, Balthazar climbing into the backseat with Seraph in his arms, that he abruptly realized he had kissed Dean in his euphoric daze.

As they drove off, Castiel's face flushed hotter than the fire he had been rescued from.

The days following the fire were full of adjustments, of changes to his carefully mapped out routine that left him anxious and itchy.

Gabriel's apartment was on the other side of town, swanky and ostentatious where Castiel's had been cozy and warm. It was a stark contrast, Gabriel's apartment more suited to the life of an eligible bachelor while Castiel's had been perfect for an asocial writer.

Gabriel lived in the penthouse apartment of some luxurious building that catered specifically to the rich and occasionally famous. His many awards for adult entertainment films and the fat paycheck that went with them were enough to qualify Gabriel as both.

Floor to ceiling windows in the living room allowed a fantastic view of the Lawrence skyline, allowing for a semblance of familiarity for Castiel who was extremely glad that he didn't have a fear of heights. At night, the lights from downtown illuminated the room like twinkling Christmas lights.

The kitchen was fit for a professional chef, completely wasted on Gabriel who had the wondrous ability to burn water anytime he tried to cook. Stainless steel appliances and all sorts of other amenities, including a gorgeous electric stove, glistened in the kitchen, practically untouched.

Castiel had taken to cooking for his brother in return for Gabriel letting him stay there. He knew that it wasn't necessary but going through the motions of making French toast or chili helped him feel more like a guest and less like a freeloader.

He had been given Gabriel's guest room which had only been used once or twice before, usually after one of his wild parties ended up with people too inebriated to drive home. It was comfortable enough, the bed firmer than Castiel would have preferred but there were no fire hazards in the room so he couldn't find any cause for complaint.

The day after the fire, Castiel discovered it had made the morning news on several different local stations, residents and rubberneckers alike interviewed by reporters. The news anchors reported on the cause of the fire, Castiel's next door neighbor garnering the ire of the entire apartment building.

Luckily, no one had been injured apart from a few cases of smoke inhalation that hadn't required any more treatment beyond some oxygen. And, as a too-cheery blonde news anchor announced, only one person had been trapped inside the building: none other than Castiel himself.

He had been shocked when a grainy video had appeared on the wide screen of Gabriel's insanely huge television, showing Dean carrying Castiel out of the building. After they had run the short, fifteen second video a few times, the anchor had moved on to talk about Castiel's career, listing off a couple titles of his as a copy of the picture he used on the dust jackets of his books popped up in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

After a miserable attempt at humor from the other anchor who made a comment about the fire potentially igniting some new ideas for a novel, they had moved on to a different story. Beside him on the plush white sofa, Gabriel had nearly spit out his coffee.

"Those fucking bastards," Gabriel had hissed under his breath with all of the righteous indignation of both an overprotective brother and a publicist who hadn't been made aware that his client was going to be given some sort of publicity. Stalking away, he had gotten on his cell phone and started making calls, the hushed growl of his voice echoing through the apartment.

While Gabriel raised hell with the news stations, screeching about invasions of privacy and the legality of the video itself, Castiel decided to call his editor slash publisher.

Fergus 'Crowley' MacLeod was an old associate of Gabriel's, a former publisher of their father's who quit after getting tired of the quote 'mindless drivel' he wrote under his pseudonym, Carver Edlund. He had a reputation for being ruthless, a harsh editor who didn't mince words and wasn't afraid of being brutally honest with his authors.

Fortunately, Crowley agreed to mail him a copy of the chapters he had already finished after Castiel explained the fact that there had been a fire. Crowley may have been nicknamed the 'King of Hell' by those in the publishing profession but he wasn't completely heartless.

The day after that, he begrudgingly returned to the apartment building to pick up his Continental while Gabriel and Balthazar braved the ruins of his apartment to see what they could salvage. They only managed to recover a few things — his wallet, his car keys, his important paperwork, and a bag of clothes — but it was enough to make him feel less destitute.

He had already started looking for a new place to live, this time contemplating investing in a house rather than an apartment. He liked the idea of having a real home, with a backyard and a front porch, maybe even a beehive of his own.

And he had to admit he found it rather attractive that living on his own would make it less likely for him to suffer through a fire caused by someone else.

The only thing left for him to worry about was finishing his next novel. And making it up to Dean for that thoughtless kiss.

Over the past few days, he had been wracked with guilt. He had practically assaulted the firefighter for god's sake!

The incessant teasing from both of his brothers after he had confessed that in his frenzied euphoria he had kissed the man who had saved him didn't help. In true older brother fashion, they constantly teasing him about having the hots for the firefighter, asking him if he used tongue, if Dean had returned the kiss.

Castiel felt like an idiot. Yes, Dean was a gorgeous man and yes, he was definitely attracted to him but he had never been that forward before in his entire life.

His approach to flirting had always been practically nonexistent. Even when drunk and uninhibited, he was shy and somewhat awkward at best and embarrassingly awkward and nearly mute at worst.

How he had ever lost his virginity still baffled his brothers and sometimes even himself.

In total, he had only had three relationships, apart from a few one night stands, and all three had been initiated by the other person. He had a tendency to be attracted to bolder, more assertive people.

In college, he had dated a woman named Daphne. She had been smart and pretty, president of the student government with an impressive GPA of her own.

He had met her in his English Literature class junior year when they had been grouped together for a project. She had flirted with him for weeks before he had finally realized that her odd comments and compliments were flirtations.

They had dated throughout the rest of his junior year and midway through senior year when they'd had an amicable breakup. She had been Castiel's first in many ways: his first kiss, his first date, his first girlfriend, his first time.

She had contacted him a few years back, just to see how he was doing after recognizing his face on the back of one of his books. They had talked for a little bit over an hour, about what they had done after college and their families.

Daphne had gotten married to a nice, religious man named Emmanuel and had two children with another on the way. She had sounded perfectly content as she claimed that they would have to talk again sometime.

During Castiel's last year in New York, he had met a woman named Meg. She had blatantly flirted with him, her eyes running down his body salaciously as she bit her blood red lip.

Their relationship had taken on a distinctively different theme than the one he'd had with Daphne. He and Meg's relationship had been based purely on sex and little more.

They would meet up a few times a week for dinner at Castiel's apartment, followed by sex. He had been too naive to realize that Meg was essentially using him for sex and free food.

They broke up shortly after Castiel decided to move out of the city, Meg simply shrugging. Apparently, as she explained it to him, she had never seen him as anything more than a friend with benefits.

Her words had stung but Castiel hadn't been too broken up about it. After all, Meg had been right. It wasn't as though they had been in love.

A few years after moving to Lawrence, he had met a charming man named Mick at the local bookstore. Mick had struck up a conversation with Castiel in the mystery section, enchanting Castiel with his handsome smirk and Irish brogue.

When Mick had invited him out for drinks later that evening, Castiel had been helpless to refuse. They had spent the night getting to know each other over cocktails, Mick's hand warm on Castiel's knee.

They had taken things slow, Mick extremely supportive after Castiel explained what had happened between him and Meg, sharing only chaste goodnight kisses at the door until after they had been dating for a month.

Castiel had been deliriously happy, Mick a perfect gentleman and an even more perfect boyfriend. He had even invited Mick to dinner with Gabriel and Balthazar so his boyfriend could meet his brothers.

After interrogating him over glasses of expensive champagne, both Gabriel and Balthazar had given Mick their seal of brotherly approval. Castiel had been extremely grateful for that, beaming at Mick after Gabriel sent him a discreet nod.

They had dated for over a year and a half before Mick had sat Castiel down and explained that he had been given a promotion and would have to move back to England. As much as it had hurt Castiel, who was pretty sure that he was following in love with Mick, he hadn't wanted to hold him back, giving Mick his blessing and one last kiss goodbye.

He hadn't been involved with anyone since aside from a few one night stands and even then, he had never been the one to initiate anything. So, his bold, impulsive decision to kiss Dean out of the blue surprised no one more than himself.

He knew that he had only kissed Dean because he had been so overwhelmed with relief that he was alive but he also knew that was no excuse. And he had to make up to Dean somehow.

Which is how he found himself pulling into the Lawrence Fire Department's in his Continental, two trays of cupcakes and a pie in the passenger seat.

He had woken up earlier than usual, itching with the need to make himself useful in some way. After a quick shower, he had wandered into the kitchen to make breakfast.

A towering stack of chocolate chip pancakes and a fed older brother later, Castiel still had the urge to cook. With Gabriel's enthusiastic permission, Castiel had started a batch of vanilla cupcakes.

As he was whipping up some honey buttercream frosting, he realized that he could bring some cupcakes down to the fire station to thank Dean. It was foolproof. Who didn't like receiving baked goods?

Of course, Castiel had then over-thought things and decided to make a second batch of cupcakes, chocolate with a hint of chili. He figured the firefighters would appreciate the joke.

Then, because Castiel almost always got carried away when he baked, he ended up making one of his famous caramel apple pies. Pie was never unwelcome, right?

Before he could lose his nerve, he had packed up all of the food he had made and carried it down to his car, for once opting to take the elevator rather than the stairs. Carrying three trays of baked goods down twenty flights of stairs was not all that appealing to him.

In the ten minutes it took him to drive to the fire station, doubt settled firmly within him. As he put his car into park, he found himself muttering, "What am I doing? This was stupid. I should just send a card or something."

He dropped his forehead down onto the steering wheel and let out a groan, squeezing his eyes shut. But he had made it that far and he would hate to waste perfectly good cupcakes.

Trying to muster up some confidence, Castiel climbed out of his car, rounding the nose of the Lincoln to grab the trays of cupcakes, leaving the pie on the passenger seat. He took a deep, steeling breath before making his way to the front door of the station.

There was a redheaded woman sitting behind the front desk, typing away on a computer. Bobble heads and various other action figures littered the top of the desk, multiple characters that Castiel recognized from Harry Potter and Game of Thrones.

The woman radiated an air of cheerfulness, from the bright smile on her face to the vivid shade of her hair, even the vibrant yellow of her t-shirt. And if he wasn't mistaken, she had a Dungeons and Dragons tattoo on her inner wrist, a line of rainbow colored polyhedrons.

She looked up at Castiel as he walked closer to the desk, offering him an even wider grin in response to his own shy smile. Turning to face him fully, she greeted, "Hey, what can I help you with?"

"Hi. Uh, I'm looking for Dean Winchester," Castiel replied, feeling his cheeks heat with a light blush. He felt ridiculous, the urge to run coursing through him. "Is he here?"

"Yup, he and the others are hanging out upstairs," she relayed, standing up. She walked out from behind the desk and started towards a staircase. She paused and glanced over at Castiel, waving a hand and urging, "C'mon, I'll take you up. I'm Charlie, by the way."

"I'm Castiel." He said shaking himself as he hurried over to join her at the foot of the stairs, obediently following her as she led him upstairs. He was careful not to jostle the trays in his hands too much, making sure none of the cupcakes tipped over.

He wanted them to be perfect for Dean. And if that thought didn't make him feel like a dorky kid with a crush.

The upstairs of the fire station clearly served as a common room for the firefighters when they had nothing else to occupy their time with. It was made up like a typical 'man cave', fitting for the stereotypically masculine setting of a fire station.

There were plush leather recliners arranged in a semi circle around a rather large TV, though not as big as Gabriel's ridiculously large television. Benny was sitting in one beside a petite blonde woman, the two of them animatedly discussing something. A German Shepherd was lying curled up at their feet.

There was a kitchenette in the opposite corner with dark wood cabinets and black soapstone countertops, a line of stools along the kitchen island. A lanky man with messy brown hair was fixing himself a sandwich, a jar of peanut butter on the countertop.

There was a foosball table by one doorway that led into a room full of bunk beds and another that Castiel assumed was to a bathroom. Three men were playing, one had his back to Castiel so he couldn't tell if it was Dean or not, the other two men were older.

One wasn't wearing a uniform, instead wearing a baseball cap and a plaid shirt over an old t-shirt. He had full beard that was gray on the sides, too full for him to be a working firefighter.

The other was younger but looked to be in his early fifties, with jet black hair and five o'clock shadow. There was something almost familiar in his features, as though Castiel had seen him before somewhere though he could not for the life of him figure where that might have been.

Not sure what else to do, Castiel just lingered by Charlie's side, biting the inside of his cheek and keeping his eyes down. He jumped a bit when she whistled loudly and called, "Yo, Dean! You got a visitor!"

Everyone in the room craned their necks to look at Charlie and therefore Castiel who felt himself start to squirm under the weight of their gaze. The third man at the foosball table straightened up and turned around, Castiel's breath catching in his throat.

It was Dean alright, in a black t-shirt that was practically skin-tight, his muscular biceps on glorious display. He was wearing heavy boots and black turnout pants, red leather suspenders holding them up while drawing Castiel's attention to both the wide breadth of Dean's shoulders and the muscles in Dean's chest, defined enough to be noticeable through the fabric of his t-shirt.

His hair, looking more dirty blonde than brown under the incandescent lights, was artfully disheveled, like Dean had been running his hands through it. Even at a distance, Castiel could see the incredible green of Dean's eyes.

The corner of Dean's mouth curled up in a smile as he strode across the room to Castiel, greeting, "Heya, Cas."

"Hello, Dean," Castiel answered, returning Dean's bright smile with a more subdued one of his own. He found himself having some trouble looking Dean in the eye, feeling his cheeks heat even more.

"What's up?" Dean asked, hooking one thumb into the waistband of his pants.

"I, uh... I just wanted to thank you properly," Castiel explained, fidgeting with the tray in his hands. A second later, he rushed to add, "And Benny, too, of course."

"I made cupcakes," he blurted, unnecessarily raising the trays in his hands. Biting his lip and lowering his eyes, he murmured, "Which I realize now is probably weird and unnecessary and stupid..."

"Nah, man," Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "Like I'm gonna turn down cupcakes."

He grabbed one of the trays from Castiel before turning to the side, laying a hand between Castiel's shoulders blades as he guided him further into the room. Castiel was surprised that he wasn't more bothered by the fact that Dean was touching his scars, even if it was just through his button up and the navy cardigan he had thrown on.

He had only let a handful of people even look at his scars and even less had been permitted to touch them. But with Dean, it was oddly easy, though still a little bit disconcerting, a reminder that the scars were there in the first place.

He tried to shake off the feeling as Dean led him to the kitchenette, setting down the tray of chocolate chili cupcakes on the kitchen island. Castiel followed suit as Dean looked over his shoulder to address the others in the room, announcing, "C'mon, guys. Cas made us cupcakes!"

Like a herd of stampeding zebra, the other firefighters quickly flocked to the kitchenette, startling Castiel with their enthusiasm. He was used to just Gabriel and Balthazar bowling him over in a bid to get to whatever he baked for them, not a whole station of firefighters.

Even the German Shepherd who had been content to nap at Benny's feet galloped over with an excited bark, tail wagging vigorously. The dog came to a stop directly in front of Castiel, sniffing his thighs curiously before taking a seat on his right foot, gazing up at him with big innocent eyes.

"So, what d'ya got for us, Cas?" Dean inquired as removed the tops of the cupcake trays. He made a show of rubbing his hands together and licking his lips as he ran his eyes over the display of cupcakes.

"There are vanilla cupcakes with a honey buttercream and honey whiskey filling," Castiel explained, indicating the yellow cupcakes topped with fluffy spires of white buttercream. Then, he pointed at the chocolate cupcakes, "And chocolate chili cupcakes with a chocolate cayenne frosting and chocolate ganache filling."

"I don't care if I get diabetes, I'll die happy," Charlie declared cheerfully as she reached over to grab a chocolate cupcake. Cas noticed that her fingernails were painted pale purple as she carefully removed the cupcake wrapper.

"Chocolate chili?" Benny asked, sounding a little bit skeptical. There was a crease between his brows as he glanced between the two varieties of cupcakes.

"I thought it would be fitting for firefighters," Castiel elaborated lamely, feeling like an idiot the second the words were out of his mouth. "Oh, and I have a pie in my car if you'd like."

"Pie?!" Dean exclaimed, a radiant smile stretching across his face as he beamed over at Cas. Throwing his hands up, narrowly avoiding smacking Benny in the face, he announced, "Aww, Cas, just marry me now!"

Castiel wasn't proud of the swarm of butterflies those words set free in his stomach. He bit his lip hard enough that he was worried he might have drawn blood as he forced himself not to accept Dean's joking proposal.

He was a grown man for god's sake, he should not be blushing like a little ten year old. He was just glad his brothers weren't there to tease him.

"I can run down and grab it," Castiel volunteered. "It should still be warm."

"I'll come with ya," Dean offered, untangling himself from the throng of other firefighters who were looting the trays of cupcakes. He jogged down the stairs beside Castiel, setting his hand on the small of his back, Castiel stiffening the slightest bit at the casual contact.

Castiel fiddled with the sleeve of his cardigan as he led Dean out into the parking lot. His Continental was one of the only cars in the parking lot, the only others a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle, a couple of pickup trucks, and two classic muscle cars.

"This yours?" Dean asked as Castiel pulled his car keys out of his pocket, nodding his head towards the Continental. When Castiel nodded, Dean cocked a brow. "What are you, a pimp?"

Castiel shrugged as he unlocked the car. "I like it."

"That's my baby," Dean proclaimed, his voice brimming with audible pride as he pointed out his car. Castiel raised his head to see which vehicle Dean was pointing at.

It was one of the classic cars, jet black and clearly waxed, its paint job glistening in the morning sunshine. Like some sort of sacred, ancient monument, it sat in the parking lot, emanating an almost holy aura.

"Wow," Castiel found himself murmuring under his breath, eyes wide as he admired the beautiful car. He had never been much of a car guy, always deferring to Gabriel and Balthazar, but there was something about Dean's car that enchanted him, that made him think of home.

"C'mon," Dean said, grabbing Castiel by the hand and dragging him across the parking lot to stand beside his car. Hands on his hips, he recited, "1967 Chevy Impala. Tuxedo black with parchment interior."

"She's beautiful..." Cas whispered, his voice low with awe as he leaned over to look inside at the leather bench seats. He reverently ran the tips of his fingers over the hood, a feather light caress over the cool metal.

"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" Dean hummed. "My dad gave me her on my eighteenth birthday. Best day of my life."

"Gabriel would love her," Castiel commented, straightening up and tipping his head to the side to smile at Dean. "He loves classic cars. He was the one who gave me the Continental."

Dean nodded, dropping his arms to his side. He glanced over at Castiel, venturing, "Yeah, I was gonna ask. No boyfriend today?"

"Boyfriend?" Castiel repeated, wrinkling his nose as he frowned at Dean. He was beyond confused. "What boyfriend?"

Dean blinked at him, staring like he thought Castiel was an idiot. With a frown of his own, he said, "Uh, Gabriel?"

"Dean, Gabriel isn't my boyfriend," Castiel explained slowly, wondering how exactly Dean had come to that conclusion. "Gabriel's my older brother."

"Oh." Dean kept frowning, his eyebrows drawing together. "Then what about the blond guy? The one with the British accent?"

"Balthazar," Castiel provided helpfully. Dean nodded, then gestured for Castiel to continue. "Oh. Balthazar's my older brother, as well."

"Oh," Dean repeated, his frown still in place. He scratched his chin where there was just the tiniest hint of a cleft. Glancing over at Castiel, he asked, "So... No boyfriend?"

Castiel shook his head. Then, on second thought, he tacked on, "Not for over two years now."

Dean just hummed, nodding to himself before striding back over to the Continental where he took the liberty of opening the passenger side door. He pulled the apple pie out with an ear to ear grin, licking his lips at the sight of the brown sugar crumb topping.

After locking the car and closing the door with a slam, Dean turned back to Castiel, brandishing the pie. As he began leading Castiel back into the fire station, he happily chirped, "You were right. It's still warm."

The German Shepherd greeted them when they made it to the top of the stairs, barking joyously and wiggling his entire body. Dean twisted to the side to avoid dropping the pie, nudging the dog aside as he grumbled, "Back off, Colonel."

"Oh my god, Dean!" Charlie called as he carried the pie over to the counter, a few coos greeting the appearance of the delicious looking baked good. Wiping a dollop of buttercream off her upper lip, she raved, "If you don't marry him, I will."

"Switching teams, kiddo?" Dean laughed as he rounded the kitchen island to rifle around in one of the kitchen drawers. Glancing over his shoulder, he commented, "I thought you were strictly team lesbian."

"I can make an exception for food this good," Charlie retorted, taking another bite of her vanilla honey cupcake. Her eyes rolled up into her head as she let out a theatrical moan, lauding, "Seriously, these cupcakes are better than sex."

Dean shook his head as he returned to the island with a knife to cut the pie. Disappointment saturating every word, he admonished Charlie, "Then you must not be having good enough sex."

"I have great sex, thank you very much," Charlie sniffed, taking another bite of her cupcake. Thumbing a crumb off her chin, she challenged, "But you haven't tried one of these cupcakes yet, Dean. They're freaking orgasmic."

"Yeah, man. Are you a baker or something?" The skinny guy asked, a wide smile on his face.

"I'm flattered," Castiel claimed, scratching the back of his neck. Shrugging, he continued, "But, no. I'm a writer."

"Anything we might know?" The blonde woman asked, licking a spot of chocolate frosting off her thumbnail.

"I've made the bestsellers list a few times," Castiel begrudgingly admitted, watching as everyone's eyes widened as they turned to gawk at him. He squirmed under their scrutiny, stuffing his free hand into his pocket to play with his keys, hoping the fidgeting would calm him down a bit.

"That's like big-time money, right?" Charlie demanded, drawing Castiel's attention back to her. She had finished her cupcake, a smudge of buttercream on her cheek. "Like millions of dollars, right?"

Castiel didn't know what else to do, glancing around at all of the firefighters staring at him. He felt like he had been tossed back into the flames, the same panicky feeling threatening to suffocate him.

He really didn't want to discuss his financial situation with them. Sure, they seemed like lovely people but he could barely bring himself to discuss such things with his own brothers and he was closer with them than he ever had been with anyone else.

He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had indeed made over a million dollars in royalties from the last book of his that had made it onto the bestsellers list. He didn't want to discuss that he donated most of it to various charities and sent the rest of it to his less fortunate siblings even though they barely remembered his name.

He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had paid for Lucifer to attend rehab countless times even though his older brother always relapsed. Didn't want to discuss the fact that he had single-handedly paid tuition for five of his cousins so they could go back to college.

Didn't want to discuss that he had helped cover some of his uncle Zachariah's gambling debts. Didn't want to discuss that he had bailed his aunt Naomi out prison after her various DUIs and bought her new cars after she totaled her old ones.

Didn't want to discuss that when his uncle Joshua was evicted from his home, he had bought him a new house with a yard full of flowers. He didn't want to discuss the fact that he had paid for Nathaniel and his wife to go to couples counseling, that he had covered the hospital bills after Nathaniel fell off his roof and broke his leg, that he had helped Nathaniel pay his mortgage after he lost his job.

He didn't want to discuss the fact that years after being treated like shit for years, for being taunted and tormented, burned and nearly killed by his family, he was still a slave to their whims. He didn't want to admit that he had been incapable of severing all ties when all of his siblings, besides Gabriel and Balthazar, would have no problem forgetting about him completely.

He tightened his grip on his keys, debating whether or not he should bolt. Fortunately, Dean stepped in before he could actually commit to making a desperate run for the door.

As he finished dividing the pie into eight even slices, he chastised the others. With a sigh, he pointed out, "C'mon, guys. He doesn't even know half your names. And he brought food! Cut him some slack."

When the others looked suitably chastised, looking down and pursing their lips, Dean clapped his hands together and cheerily announced, "Alright! Time for pie!"

He grabbed a stack of plates from one of the cabinets along with a pile of forks from one of the drawers while Charlie flitted over to grab some napkins. Using the knife to lift the slices of pie and carefully set them down on the plates, Dean lifted his eyes to meet Castiel's and offered, "We can eat and I'll introduce you to everyone."

Castiel waited patiently as Dean doled out the slices of pie, keeping his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cardigans. As they were handed their plates, the other firefighters made their way to the semi circle of recliners, settling down on the plush brown leather.

There weren't enough seats for everyone, the blonde woman taking a seat on the arm of Charlie's recliner while the lanky guy set his hip against the side of Benny's chair. After handing Cas a plate of pie and a fork, Dean claimed the last recliner for himself.

With nowhere else to sit, unless he wanted to plop down on the floor with the dog who was sitting at the oddly familiar man's feet, panting and begging for scraps, Castiel hesitated. He only moved forward when Dean patted the arm of his recliner, gesturing him over with a bob of his head.

Feeling extremely awkward, Castiel carefully perched on Dean's recliner, waiting until everyone else started to eat before he let himself relax. There was a clatter of forks as everybody dug into their slices of still-warm pie, the metallic twang almost immediately followed by a collective moan of appreciation.

Castiel smiled to himself as he took a bite of his own. The caramel was warm and gooey on his tongue, the streusel topping sweet without being saccharine, the apples perfectly tender but not mushy.

"You seriously need to open up a bakery," Charlie informed him with a grave nod. Around a mouthful of pie, she amended, "Or at the very least help us out with the annual bake sale. Jo here can't bake to save her life."

Castiel was just about to ask who Jo was when Dean cleared his throat. "That reminds me. Here, Cas, lemme introduce everyone."

He used his fork to point, caramel and streusel topping still sticking to the stainless steel tines. Using said messy fork, Dean indicated the blonde woman, announcing, "That's Jo Harvelle. She's like the little sister I never wanted. Charlie, too, for that matter."

Jo gave a polite wave as she continued chewing her mouthful of pie. Charlie rolled her eyes at Dean, fondness visible in the gesture.

"Garth Fitzgerald IV," Dean said next, moving his fork to point at the scrawny guy. Garth raised a hand to wave, as well, setting his fork down for a moment.

"You've met Benny," Dean murmured dismissively, moving on to the bearded man in the baseball. He raised his hand in a small wave as Dean declared, "Bobby Singer."

Next, he pointed to the oddly familiar man who was close enough to Castiel to hold his hand out instead of waving. Castiel extended his own hand to shake the other man's as Dean finished, "And this is my dad, John Winchester."

For whatever reason, that little tidbit of information suddenly made Castiel even more nervous than he had been when the others had been asking about how much money he made. After John released his hand, he faltered a bit, fumbling with his fork and nearly dropping it.

A piece of pie crust fell onto the floor along with some streusel. Castiel was reaching down to pick it up when the German Shepherd loped over and eagerly lapped up the crumbs.

"And that's the Colonel," Dean explained as Castiel straightened up. After licking his chops, the German Shepherd set his head down on Castiel's lap, looking up at him with big brown eyes, silently begging for more.

Laying a hand on the top of the dog's muzzle, the bare skin of his arm brushing against Castiel's stomach, warm through the thin fabric of his button, Dean proudly stated, "He's pretty much our mascot."

They fell into companionable silence after that, the only comments a few glowing compliments from Bobby and John. That ended up sparking a lively discussion about what other baked goods were on Castiel's repertoire.

Charlie and Garth were very clearly in awe as he listed off the desserts and pastries he was most well acquainted with. His list ranged from French desserts like croquembouche and mille-feuille to more traditionally American pastries like donuts and all sorts of pies.

Jo insisted that he indeed participate in the fire department's annual bake sale, Benny and John seconding and thirding her announcement. Castiel admitted that he would love to participate, more than willing to burn off some stress by baking all sorts of desserts to benefit the men and women who had saved his life.

When everyone was finished their pie and there were only a few cupcakes left, Benny turning out to be a huge fan of the chocolate chili cupcakes, Castiel announced that he should be on his way. Gathering the empty trays, he had said his goodbyes, letting out a squeak of surprise when Garth and then Benny swept him up in tight hugs.

Dean's friends were much more affectionate than most of Castiel's family altogether. It was a bit jarring, in a good way.

"I'll walk you out," Dean offered, leading Castiel towards the stairs with a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was only once they were outside that Castiel realized how long he had been at the station, the sun hanging directly overhead.

After Dean deposited the empty trays in the backseat of the Continental, he turned back to Castiel who was fidgeting with the hem of his cardigan. Chewing on his bottom lip, he glanced between Dean and his shoes, trying to muster up the nerve to apologize.

"Dean?" He murmured questioningly, tilting his head to the side. Dean smiled and nodded patiently, encouraging Castiel to go on. "I just wanted to apologize. For...kissing you the other night. I—"

"Look, Cas, you don't have to apologize," Dean assured him, cutting him off before he could keep rambling on like an idiot. "It's not a big deal."

"Yes, I'm sure it happens all the time," Castiel replied sincerely, meaning every word. He nodded to himself as he said it, still fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.

Dean shook his head with a crooked grin. "Nope. Never."

"Oh..." Castiel whispered, feeling like an even bigger jackass. He rubbed the back of his neck, biting his lip again.

Then, before he could apologize again, there were two rough hands cupping his face and a pair of warm lips on his as Dean kissed him.

He was too shocked to do much else besides lean back against the side of the Continental as Dean deepened the kiss. His lips were smooth and just the tiniest bit wet as Dean swiped his tongue over the seam of Castiel's lips.

Throwing caution to the wind, Castiel looped his arms around Dean's neck, reeling him in even closer until their bodies were molded together from chest to knee. He eagerly returned the kiss, parting his lips to let Dean further deepen the kiss as he dropped one of his hands from Castiel's jaw, curling an arm around his waist instead.

Castiel had shared many kisses in his thirty two years. But this kiss with Dean was completely different.

There had been sweet, innocent, barely there kisses with Daphne. They were the kisses of first love, of naivete and romance.

There had been hungry, hurried, biting kisses with Meg. They were kisses with no purpose beyond progressing to sex, kisses of two young people seeking comfort in the flesh.

There had been comfortable, familiar, warm kisses with Mick. They had been Castiel's favorite up until then.

Dean's kiss was something different altogether. It was gentle and passionate and everything Castiel had ever imagined when he thought about the perfect kiss.

It ignited another fire, this time one that did not frighten Castiel. For this time, the flames flickered inside, somewhere deep in his chest.

He knew, in the back of his mind and the bottom of his heart, as warmth spread throughout every fiber of his being, this was what falling in love felt like. And that was more dangerous than any fire.

Send me Destiel prompts!

[nothingnoteworthy]

Chapter 2: “Home”

Althea did not enjoy sharing her apartment with a demon. She didn’t enjoy many things, but this was high on the list of things she disliked. She did what she could to ignore the presence. Kept to her own spaces. Cooked. Worked. Cooked at work. Work was cooking. It was a steady chopping, peaceful counting, the smoothness of a knife slicing through carrot pieces, even, crunchy, smells nice. Cool round pieces in her hands. Sizzling with the onions and garlic in the pan. Smells sweeter now, better. Celery went next. It was stringy and less pleasant to cut. But it felt nice whole. Althea preferred putting it into a food processor, letting the machine chop it so she wouldn’t have to deal with the strings much. She dropped the chunks into the pan, stepping back and watching everything soften for a few minutes. Kept her eyes on the pan. Refusing to look up. Whenever she did, Caroline would be looking back. With those big, fake eyes. Dead eyes. Cold. They were there now and Althea knew they were. Ruining the light from the window. Tainting the smell coming from her pan. Awful.

There wasn’t much choice to living with her either. If Caroline was allowed to leave than someone would die. Many someones probably. So she had to stay. Althea just wished there were more rules. Maybe they could keep her in a closet. Chain it shut. Throw those prepackaged microwave burritos that she shoved in her face by the dozen through a small hole. Gross unreasonably sticky burritos. Althea could make better ones. Not necessarily authentic, but she could cook meat and put it in a tortilla. And it wouldn’t be sticky. Why were they sticky? The thought made her skin crawl, trying to consider any possible reason why the burritos were sticky. Sweat kept popping into her mind and that wasn’t making it much better. That was grosser than just thinking about them being sticky to begin with. Maybe if you fried them they wouldn’t be sticky but you still knew that they would be if you put them in the microwave. And how could you eat them knowing that? And- 

“Excuse me, Althea? May I get something to drink?”

The sound made her jump and push her back into the corner. She relaxed slowly. Wren. Gentle, sweet Wren. Warm brown skin and warmer brown eyes. Eyes that never forced contact. She kept to her own space. Looked at your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, off into the clouds and the sky and wherever it was that she went when her face went soft and her mind vanished from the space she stood in. Her arms flexed, squeezing her fingers into her elbow, trying to warm her hands. She’s the only one that found herself very cold. Althea disagreed.

“Sure. Careful. Pan’s hot.” Althea cracked the cap of a box of vegetable stock, careful to keep it away from her. Stock always smelled too much. But it was better than making it herself. That would be messy, and she didn’t have much time as it was. Plus she would have to deal with possibly greasy bags and that was, unacceptable. Greasy textures were the worst. Slimy and sticky at the same time. Boxed was easier, better, faster. It flooded over the vegetables, covering their smell for just a moment. Her knife moved again. It was faster with squash, squash was softer, and the thick rings gave the soup a touch of pretty yellow. She watched Wren out of the corner of her eye, pouring cranberry juice into a narrow glass. Sweet but mostly bitter. It bit you, dried you out. Wren flowed too often towards bitter things. Took too much bitterness in. She avoided sugar, sweet, soft and light. Chocolate was sometimes, but only when it too was bitter. Heavy and Strong. She had plenty of sweetness on her own, smiling at Althea with a bright warmth. But still. Althea wanted to bake her cake. Instead, she decided to bake buttery, fluffy biscuits. Sweet was what she wanted, but savory would do.

She finished the soup in a hurry. Squash went in, then broccoli, then chicken that she’d baked and pulled. Done, ready to be alone, simmer and combine. Then flour. Soft and dusty. It got everywhere and cleaning it was a nightmare. But it was lovely when she was working with it. The butter was less fun. Only flour made it doable. And quick choppy movements. Buttermilk in the center. Mixing again. Sticky but not the wrong kind of sticky. Not the right kind either. Neutral, good and neutral. Althea flicked her eyes towards Wren, perched on the edge of the couch, glass loosely clutched between her hands, with the demon just a bit too close. They were talking about the show. About nothing. Too close. Made folding the dough easier. Pressing flat. Cutting. She stopped, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. A laugh too sharp. A quieter snort. The loud echoing noise of the door being opened and closed.

“It’s me!” Eliana tossed her keys onto their hook, stretching her arms and taking a long breath in. “The restaurant’s going to be packed tomorrow, remember. Tourists are going to start pouring in again. It’s the season!“

Eliana matched Althea’s height but always came across as slight and graceful. Her energy pushed her across the room, slamming into her favorite chair with an electric laugh. The woman was as gorgeous, flawless dark skin, luxurious thick curly hair. All goodness and light. A living sunshower chasing the demon back to the corner of the couch. Wren relaxed. Eliana made her feel safe. Althea understood. Their friend was the real hero of the bunch. The kind that you got a poster of to put on your wall. Althea had one, though she had to order hers custom. When Eliana saw it, she laughed for days. Buying the poster was a good idea.

“I stopped at Mom’s afterwork to hang out and watch tv. Mostly that show where they mess up each other’s cooking with crab outfits or firecrackers or somethin, you know the one right, Althea?” A rich voice, smooth. Althea nodded.

“Yeah. That one and the grocery store one are the best” She hummed. The other poster on her wall. She actually learned her biscuit recipe from the host’s other show. She jumped, remembering her biscuits, tearing the pan out of the oven. Still that pretty golden brown. She needed to remember to set timers. When the house was full it became too distracting to cook without the annoying beeping. Shrill, incessant noises were better than burnt biscuits. These were okay. A little smear of butter and they’d be good. Nice, warm, filling. Tumbling into a soft white napkin in a little metal basket with birds decorating the metal rings. Set gently at the center of the table.

“Hell yeah the grocery store one. I left when they made this one chef use top ramen to make spaghetti. I don’t think that ended well.”

Althea pretended not to notice Wren nearly sliding off of the couch, holding herself up by sheer thigh strength alone, watching the table. No one liked bread quite like Wren liked bread. Especially fresh baked, buttered bread. No matter how often Althea baked Wren always looked at it like she was fresh out of the desert again.

Althea checked the soup, waving at Eliana when she was pleased with the consistency. Wren was first up, as always, lingering by the entry to the small galley kitchen, waiting for Althea to serve herself first. Althea grabbed her favorite bowl and carefully spooned in the right ratio of broth and fillings. Too much broth and she’d leave a puddle to splash around the yellow porcelain. To little broth and she’d be left with mushy vegetables. Maybe a string of chicken or two. She rested the bowl on a small plate, carrying it to her corner of the table. The heat pulsed from the bowl, steam twisting up, carrying warmth and humidity and the deep, comforting heaviness of a warm meal.  The best times were always centered around food. Everyone gathered around it. Close. Together. The fastest track to peace.

Althea gingerly picked up a biscuit, shuffling it in half with a butterknife. Wren sat in the chair next to her, using a bowl that was probably meant more as a serving dish than as an eating one. She grinned at Althea, already grabbing a biscuit and dropping it on a napkin. She bit her biscuit whole, smiling, clearly delighted. If only it was that easy to keep the smile there. Just bake and bake and bake until every bad memory was buried in flour and butter. Eliana had a spoon in her mouth before she hit her chair, nodding approvingly at Wren. As long as it was kosher Eliana wasn’t hard to please either. Althea had never had much problem getting either her or Wren to eat anything that she cooked. It was comforting. She didn’t think she would get rid of the nervous prickling when she watched them take that first bite, but it would go away quicker and quicker. Like Wren’s biscuit. She sheepishly wiped the crumbs off her lips before grabbing another. This one she was a little slower with, lightly spreading butter between two halves.

“Thank you Althea. I could eat nothing but biscuits.” Wren hummed.

“You already do eat nothing but biscuits.” Eliana replied. Wren laughed, quieting with the withering look Caroline was sending her. She set her biscuit down, opting for slow sips of the soup from a deep spoon.

“I could totally do it too though if there was enough butter. For the calcium.” Eliana was still grinning, taking careful spoonfuls of veggies visibly trying to keep the spoon from overflowing with broth. “Although, I guess multivitamins could be used for calcium. But that’s less fun. And less delicious.”

“Are you saying my biscuits need butter to be good?”

“Oh No, I- oh wait you’re playing with me. How cruel. Caroline can you believe this?” Eliana dramatically draped herself against Caroline, resting a hand on her heart. “I’ve been betrayed. How will I ever recover?”

Caroline rolled her eyes, but put on a smile anyway. “How could you, Althea. Our poor, sweet Eliana. She may die from this you know. History has a lot of records of young women dying from heart break.”

“Most of those are like. Plays.”

“Hush Eliana, let your death come quietly. The records are official, from hospitals at the time. That certainly were not speaking from ignorance or mind control or any combination of the two.”

“Oh yeah, yes. Very official. So sad. Am dying.” Eliana nodded, stretching her jaw and making loud exaggerated groans. Caroline raised a hand to her own face, as if dabbing tears away from her eyes. Both seemed intent to carry this on as long as possible. Althea narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

“Oh no, that’s sad. And I think, Dead people don’t do whatever it is you’re doing with your face.” Wren chirped, wiping a spot of broth off their face. “Then again, maybe they do if they’re dying of heartbreak. I’ve never seen that happen.”

“Just say the word and I can show you.” Caroline smiled, batting her eyelashes. Elthea shoved herself back up.

“Thanks for being a creep mate. That’s one way to end a joke. Hope you’re ready for an exciting night of not sleeping. I for one am glad that my life is controlled by adhd and thus I would be awake anyway.”

"Yeah, yeah. Can't we just sit here while Wren eats biscuits." Caroline snarked rocking the chair backward. "You don't even use the night properly. What's the point if you're just going to intentionally attract attention. Why not use the daytime."

"We do, when we can. But some of us work during the day." Eliana pushed her chair in, carrying an armful of dishes to the sink.

"Yeah, because they don't want to do things the right way. I mean. Come on. Don't certain people just deserve to lose a few bucks? From my experience, they hardly notice anyway. Don't you agree Wren?" Caroline cooed, standing up and leaning over the table, managing to make herself tower over the others despite being the shortest.

"I, well, No. That wouldn’t be right. We're trying to be the good ones." Wren muttered, getting up to help Eliana clean the kitchen.

Caroline smiled and murmured so softly Althea could barely hear her. “Try harder.”

<- Last Chapter  I  Next Chapter ->

[edgewaterfarmcsa]

CSA WEEK 7

p i c k l i s t

Tomatoes - Carmen Sweet Pepper (big) - Jalapeno Pepper (little) - Purple Pepper - 

Pickling Cucumbers - Parsley - Corn - Garlic - Blueberries

Yall. I unintentionally included two recipes that are far too long to offer field reports from the week (because i limit myself to a one sheet print out per CSAer)- HOWEVER, the following recipes are important (to me) and can be used throughout the Summer in many ways as they are both extremely adaptable with the current influx of cabbage heads and otherwise.  Also, if you have not done so and are curious about fermented foods, the second recipe on sauerkraut is your gateway to filling your house with never enough crocks and never enough cabbage, etc…   And just so I don’t leave you completely hanging on field reports: An amazing amount of hours were spent this week picking blueberries.  

TIPS - TRICKS - RECIPES:

LENTIL, CABBAGE, AND FETA SALAD WITH FRIZZLED ONIONS BY LUKAS VOLGER

JENNY’S NOTE: My house has been eating this once a week since cabbage has been field ready.  We never have all the ingredients.  Many times we’ve made this without the lentils or onion- BUT the main players here are cabbage, feta, toasted almonds and fresh herbs, salt, and dressong.  If you can gather those essential foods then chop on and eat up!  (Also, I use the term “we” incredibly loosely, as my dear friend/housemate Rich, has been doing the cooking here). 

Also, the book this recipe is from, START SIMPLE by Lukas Volger (Copyright © 2020 by Lukas Volger. Published by Harper Wave, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission.) proves to be an excellent Summer eating resource.

INGREDIENTS:

½ cup brown, black or dark green lentils

Salt

½ medium white or yellow onion

Olive oil

5 cups sliced cabbage

¼ teaspoon sugar

2 tablespoons red or white wine vinegar

2 teaspoons dijon mustard

¼ teaspoon honey

½ cup crumbled feta cheese

1.2 cup coarsely chopped toasted almonds

½ cup parsley leaves or dill fronds

Combine the lentils with 1 cup water and ½ teaspoon salt in a small saucepan.  Bring to a simmer, cover, and cook until tender, 12 to 18 minutes, depending on which lentils you use.  Drain off and liquid left in the pan and allow to cool.

(JENNY’S NOTE: SO FAR, WE HAVE NOT DONE THE FOLLOWING BECAUSE THE ONIONS HAVE ONLY RECENTLY STARTED PUTTING ON SIZE, IT SOUNDS DELISH, BUT FEEL FREE TO SKIP IF YOU DON’T HAVE ANY ONIONS)  Meanwhile, slice the onion into paper-thin wasps, preferably using a mandolin, or working carefully with a chef’s knife.  Warm about ¼ inch of the olive oil in a small skillet over medium heat.  Dip a piece of onion into it to ensure it’s properly hot- it should sizzle immediately- then add all the onions.  Cook, stirring often with a fork, untl they get crispy and turn a reddish-brown color, 10 to 20 minutes. Watch carefully for the final few minutes, as they burn easily.  Use a slotted spoon to transfer them to a paper towel- lined plate and sprinkle with salt.  SAVE THE OIL!

When the oil has cooled until it’s safe to handle, strain it through a fine mesh sieve or coffee filter to remove all solids into a glass jar (I use a 3-inch strainer for this task).

Toss the cabbage, ½ teaspoon of salt, and the sugar in a colander and let soften for 15 to 30 minutes, then gentlypress with a spatula to drain off excess liquid.  

Combine the vinegar, mustard, and honey in a jar, along with the 3 tablespoons of the cooled onion-cooking oil.  Shake to emulsify.  

Fold the cabbage, lentils, cheese, almonds, and parsley leaves with most of the dressing in a serving bowl.  Taste and add more dressing if needed.  Pile the frizzled onions on top, tossing them into the salad at the table it’s being served.  

(JENNYS NOTE: The following recipe has actually change my life)

Written by Sandor Katz

Sandor Ellix Katz, the creator of this site, has earned the nickname “Sandorkraut” for his love of sauerkraut. This is Sandorkaut’s easy sauerkraut recipe from his book  Wild Fermentation: The Flavor, Nutrition, and Craft of Live-Culture Foods (Chelsea Green, 2003).

Timeframe: 3 days to 3 months (and beyond) Vessel: 1-quart/1-liter wide-mouth jar, or a larger jar or crock

Ingredients (for 1 quart/1 liter):

2 pounds/1 kilogram of vegetables per quart/liter, any varieties of cabbage alone or in combination, or at least half cabbage and the remainder any combination of radishes, turnips, carrots, beets, kohlrabi, Jerusalem artichokes, onions, shallots, leeks, garlic, greens, peppers, or other vegetables

Approximately 1 tablespoon salt (start with a little less, add if needed after tasting)

Other seasonings as desired, such as caraway seeds (for classic kraut), juniper berries, dill, chili peppers, ginger, turmeric, dried cranberries, or whatever you can conjure in your imagination

 Process:

Prepare the vegetables. Remove the outer leaves of the cabbage and reserve. Scrub the root vegetables but do not peel. Chop or grate all vegetables into a bowl. The purpose of this is to expose surface area in order to pull water out of the vegetables, so that they can be submerged under their own juices. The finer the veggies are shredded, the easier it is to get juices out, but fineness or coarseness can vary with excellent results.

Salt and season. Salt the vegetables lightly and add seasonings as you chop. Sauerkraut does not require heavy salting. Taste after the next step and add more salt or seasonings, if desired. It is always easier to add salt than to remove it. (If you must, cover the veggies with dechlorinated water, let this sit for 5 minutes, then pour off the excess water.)

Squeeze the salted vegetables with your hands for a few minutes (or pound with a blunt tool). This bruises the vegetables, breaking down cell walls and enabling them to release their juices. Squeeze until you can pick up a handful and when you squeeze, juice releases (as from a wet sponge).

Pack the salted and squeezed vegetables into your jar. Press the vegetables down with force, using your fingers or a blunt tool, so that air pockets are expelled and juice rises up and over the vegetables. Fill the jar not quite all the way to the top, leaving a little space for expansion. The vegetables have a tendency to float to the top of the brine, so it’s best to keep them pressed down, using one of the cabbage’s outer leaves, folded to fit inside the jar, or a carved chunk of a root vegetable, or a small glass or ceramic insert. Screw the top on the jar; lactic acid bacteria are anaerobic and do not need oxygen (though they can function in the presence of oxygen). However, be aware that fermentation produces carbon dioxide, so pressure will build up in the jar and needs to be released daily, especially the first few days when fermentation will be most vigorous.

Wait. Be sure to loosen the top to relieve pressure each day for the first few days. The rate of fermentation will be faster in a warm environment, slower in a cool one. Some people prefer their krauts lightly fermented for just a few days; others prefer a stronger, more acidic flavor that develops over weeks or months. Taste after just a few days, then a few days later, and at regular intervals to discover what you prefer. Along with the flavor, the texture changes over time, beginning crunchy and gradually softening. Move to the refrigerator if you wish to stop (or rather slow) the fermentation. In a cool environment, kraut can continue fermenting slowly for months. In the summer or in a heated room, its life cycle is more rapid; eventually it can become soft and mushy.

Surface growth. The most common problem that people encounter in fermenting vegetables is surface growth of yeasts and/or molds, facilitated by oxygen. Many books refer to this as “scum,” but I prefer to think of it as a bloom. It’s a surface phenomenon, a result of contact with the air. If you should encounter surface growth, remove as much of it as you can, along with any discolored or soft kraut from the top layer, and discard. The fermented vegetables beneath will generally look, smell, and taste fine. The surface growth can break up as you remove it, making it impossible to remove all of it. Don’t worry.

Enjoy your kraut! I start eating it when the kraut is young and enjoy its evolving flavor over the course of a few weeks (or months in a large batch). Be sure to try the sauerkraut juice that will be left after the kraut is eaten. Sauerkraut juice packs a strong flavor, and is unparalleled as a digestive tonic or hangover cure.   Develop a rhythm. Start a new batch before the previous one runs out. Get a few different flavors or styles going at once for variety. Experiment!

When you buy fresh parsley, trim the ends off the stems right when you get home, and stick it in a cup (or a pretty little vase!) of water, as you would for cut flowers. If you don’t use it all right away, change the water every day. Don’t let it go to waste! Start putting it on everything. Don’t take the simplest, loveliest things for granted.

1. Put chopped parsley on everything: Don’t chop it too finely — bigger pieces are prettier and have more flavor. Throw it with abandon on top of grilled vegetables, roasted potatoes, a cold green-bean salad, stews, soups, pasta, hot or cold grain dishes like couscous or quinoa or tabbouleh or …

2. Make a super-simple parsley salad: Throw it together along the lines of the Epicurious recipe that involves just a couple-few cups of Italian parsley leaves, a couple tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil, a teaspoon of fresh lemon juice and a little salt (or, to get fancy, substitute umeboshi vinegar for the salt).

3. Make a slightly more complicated parsley salad: Try (or make your own variation on) Alton Brown’s parsley salad recipe, with flat-leaf parsley, lemon juice, lemon zest, walnut and sesame oil, honey and sesame seeds. Find it online, along with a minute-long video in which he declares it’s “perfectly capable of playing first string” — my hero! And he notes that this parsley salad keeps for three weeks (!?) in the refrigerator, though how you wouldn’t eat it all up immediately is a mystery.

4. Make a salad with lots of parsley in it: Tear up any mild lettuce (butter is nice), and mix in plenty of Italian or curly parsley, roughly chopped (a cup or even two!), then dress with a favorite vinaigrette. I know this sounds boring. It is not. Or …

5. Make super-delicious creamy parsley salad dressing, and put it on a salad with lots of parsley in it: It’s just ½ cup plain Greek yogurt (whole milk is best), ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil, ¼ cup (or more!) fresh parsley (either kind), kosher salt and fresh-ground black pepper, all mixed up together — chop the parsley and mix by hand, or use an immersion blender (easiest cleanup), regular blender or food processor. This also makes a great dip for vegetables. Or for chips. Or your life in general. This dressing is really, truly, surprisingly spectacular. (I stole the idea from Amy Pennington’s cookbook “Salad Days,” which has the same recipe but calls for dill. Nobody truly loves dill.)

6. Make tomato-parsley sumac salad:Mehdi Boujrada of local spice-and-oil company Villa Jerada sent me this one, and it is good. Combine 2 tomatoes (roughly diced), ¼ cup white onion (more finely diced) and ½ cup parsley leaves (roughly chopped); drizzle with olive oil; then add sumac, salt and pepper to taste (start slowly, mix, add more, and when it starts to taste marvelous, add yet a little bit more).

7. Put parsley in a smoothie: This comes from Becky Selengut’s “How to Taste,” and she promises it gives “a burst of brightness.” (She also mentions doing this with mint … sure, fine.) Another Selengut parsley hint: Instead of discarding stems, stow them in a bag in the freezer, and throw them in when making stock.

8. Make a super-simple parsley sauce, and put it on everything: Put a half a bunch of parsley (use mostly leaves, about a cup), a clove of garlic (I prefer a smaller one or half a big one), ½ teaspoon of kosher salt and about ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil together, and blend well. You could add lemon juice and zest, and call it gremolata; add toasted nuts and Parmesan, and make it pesto; sub a bit of shallot for the garlic; add a little anchovy paste for a lot more oomph (but less pure parsley taste). Again, an immersion blender is your friend here, though a regular one or a food processor is fine; you also could chop and blend by hand. This sauce is magical on a juicy steak, or a piece of fish (maybe cooked en papillote), or on vegetables, or inside a grilled-cheese sandwich, or drizzled on a soup or stew, or … It also keeps for a long time in the fridge — just let it warm to room temperature to use.

9. Make garlic-parsley butter, and apply with abandon: Called, fancily, “Beurre Maître d’Hôtel” in French, this is just butter (say ½ cup), fresh lemon juice (a tablespoon or so), garlic (optional, a clove or two, minced finely) and finely chopped parsley (¼ cup) creamed together — start with the butter alone, then slowly add the rest in order. Add a little lemon zest for more, well, zestiness. Again, apply to seafood, grilled meat, vegetables, life.

You might think it’s weird to love parsley, but you’ll see!

Bethany Jean Clement is The Seattle Times’ food writer. Reach her at bclement@seattletimes.com or 206-464-2050. On Twitter: @BJeanClement