#jack is god and in every drop of rain or whatever.

[sunforgrace]

he sat there on the ground and cried. for cas. cas told him he loved him was taken away and he buried his head in his hands and wept

[antigonewinchester]

15x19

Blessed are the meek, for they shall... inherit the earth.

The ending scene, where Sam and Dean and Jack go up against and defeat Chuck, has a lot of echoes to 5x22: Lucifer killing Cas/Bobby for trying to help Dean > Chuck killing Michael for trying to help Sam & Dean; Lucifer wailing on Dean > Chuck wailing on Sam & Dean; Sam taking back control from Lucifer, taking back ‘his power’ over himself and saving Dean/the world > Jack gaining power from Sam & Dean’s beating and then taking Chuck’s power for himself, although instead of Sam jumping into the Cage into Hell, Jack ascends to Godhood/Heaven, so a much happier end. 

CHUCK: This... This... This is why you're my favorites. You know, for the first time, I have no idea what happens next. Is this where you kill me? I mean, I could never think of an ending where I lose. But this, after everything that I've done to you... to die at the hands of Sam Winchester...  Of Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer... It's kind of glorious. DEAN: Sorry, Chuck. CHUCK: What? What? DEAN: See, that's not who I am. That's not who we are. CHUCK: What kind of an ending is this? SAM (to JACK): His power. You sure it won't come back? JACK: It's not his power anymore. SAM (to CHUCK): Then I think it's the ending where you're just like us and like all the other humans you forgot about. DEAN: It's the ending where you grow old, you get sick, and you just die. SAM: And no one cares. And no one remembers you. You're just forgotten.

There’s a poetic justice, in Chuck misusing his power, never really caring about his creations, and thinking himself above humans, then getting turned into one of those weak, powerless humans himself. But it also makes being human into something of a punishment in a way that feels depressing to me, like it’s humiliating for Chuck to be dragged down to humanity’s level.

Buckner & Ross-Lemming really do go back again & again to the “Dean as a killer” idea, huh. I wonder how much it was them who shifted this theme, because there are elements of it in Kripke/Gamble’s seasons but it’s very much connected to Dean’s abusive upbringing as a child hunter in a way that gets lost / downplayed / minimized as the show goes on. Kind of paired with how hunting isn’t the same in later seasons as it is in earlier ones, too.

JACK: Dean, I'm not coming back home. In a way... I'm already there. DEAN: Where? JACK: Everywhere. SAM: So you are Him. JACK: I'm me. But I know what you mean. SAM: What if we want to see you? You know, or have a beer or whatever? JACK: I'm around. I'll be in every drop of falling rain, every speck of dust that the wind blows, and in the sand, in the rocks, and the sea. DEAN: It's a hell of a time to bail. You got a lot of people counting on you, people with questions. They're gonna need answers. JACK: And those answers will be in each of them. Maybe not today, but... someday.  People don't need to pray to me or to sacrifice to me. They just need to know that I'm already a part of them and to trust in that. I won't be hands on. Chuck put himself in the story. That was his mistake. But I learned from you and my mother and Castiel that... when people have to be their best... they can be. And that's what to believe in. Well... I'm really as close as this. (JACK puts his hand over his heart). Goodbye.

Even knowing the Jack becomes God ending, I can understand why some Jackgirls really don’t like it, and it does feel a bit melancholy to me, although I do think it is intended to be bittersweet. It’s Jack coming into his power, and because he’s a good person, he knows how to use it well--healing Sam & Dean, restoring the world. Even though Jack is in ‘everything,’ there’s still a sense of loss, a separation from him and Sam & Dean. Jack saves the world but loses the chance at a normal life, even if the possibility he could have one was pretty slim. (Or maybe I’m just thinking too much abt how Jack’s ending parallels Dean’s, heh.) I don’t care for the baby!Jack fandom trend, but I think I get where it’s coming from, in giving Jack a normal childhood that he never had and never gets (plus Destiel being dads, usually).

There’s also that Jack very much ends up a Christ figure in the story, with the last 4 eps of the season seeing Jack’s “death,” resurrection, and ascension. ...oh, and that actually gives an interesting spin to 15x17 in Dean denying Jack as family right before trying to lead him to his death, huh.

(Although that makes the optics of Jack as a Christ figure defeating Chuck, this cruel & unforgiving ‘older’ God who was also a character created (and sort of representing) an earlier era of the show led by a Jewish showrunner & many Jewish writers look, uh, Very Not Good. I don’t think it was intended, but yikes...)

[whaleofatjme1920]

On the Coffee Table - It’s Not Entirely Comfortable (Eyeless Jack X F!Reader)

[Eyeless Jack X F!Reader]

[Warnings: NSFT, creampie, rough sex, degrading, slight praise, “daddy”, “good girl”, marking - like, biting and love bites, jealous/possessive sex, squirting, slight blood? Nothing major though, also there’s three tongues in here and once again, a knotted dick/knotting. If you are a minor, DNI]

[AN: I started this at 2 am trying to finish it after downing some melatonin and only finished it now. Please tell me if I translated wrong!! I unfortunately only speak English. Doja Cat - Freak. This is 5.3K words.]

Part 1 Part 2

Jack trusts you so, so much. That much is apparent. It’s been about a month or so since he took you away from your old life, and you’ve never been happier. In fact, it’s been nothing but good things!

Why do you say that? Jack is so sweet, caring, and attentive. He knows what you want when you need it, and still, you’ve only ever kissed him.

In a sense, it’s maddening, but at the same time, it’s kinda cute. You like that he’s willing to go at your pace, and you like that he’s so mindful of how you’re feeling at any and every moment. You’re just really, really happy he chose you.

When that man from the grocery store came up to you, trying to speak to you… Well, you thought he just wanted some help! Honest to goodness, you had no idea what he was trying to do. Which is quite odd, considering you’ve been considered a goddess in your own right figuring those tells from miles and continents away.

You stood at the cart, waiting patiently for Jack to come back from the other side of the grocery story because something you’d wanted slipped his mind. So, you familiarized yourself with the fresh produce instead, looking over the pretty colors before that cute little shower system kicked on paired with the little rain noises as they gave water to the vegetables.

You were honestly minding your own business when some man came up to you, a shy smile on his face.

“Uh, hello, ma’am?” He started, a pack of berries in his hand.

You whip around and turn your attention to him, putting down the leaks as you did so. “Yes?”

“Do you know how this is pronounced?” He said. “Is it… A-kai..?”

You motioned for him to come a little closer - close enough for your shoulders to brush up against each other. Your eyes scanned over the words. “Oh! It’s açaí ,” you giggled as you read over the words.

“A-sigh?”

“Açaí,” you repeated with a small smile. “See? Say it with me,” you said, as you watched the man’s face light up.

“Oh, okay, açaí,” he finally said correctly, that same smile bloomed on his face. “Y’know, you’re really good at this,” he smiled.

You lit up. “Thank you!” Beaming, you gave him your full attention.

“It’s nothing, did you take Spanish?” He inquired, still maintaining his close distance to you.

You nodded vigorously. “I took four years of Spanish in high school. Señora Chika always said I had an ear for language,” you said in a semi-serious tone, index finger tapping your right ear lobe in a way that made that man blush.

The man smiled back. “That’s so nice to hear,” he continued, building off your words. “Look, I’m gonna be going to Mexico pretty soon, it’s a work thing,” he brushed off, “and I wanna know if I could get some of your tutoring services?”

You blinked a few times. “Me?”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “I think you would make an excellent-”

“An excellent what?” Jack’s clipped voice cut through, his glamour’s eyes glaring deeply at the man who dares breathing in the same air as you. When he saw the man pause, he waved his hand a bit as if to signal him to hurry it up. “She’d make an excellent what?”

“It’s… It’s nothing,” he mumbled before brushing past you and Jack. “Didn’t know she had a boyfriend, sorry,” he harshly apologized as he disappeared back into the aisles.

You tilted your head as you looked up at Jack. “What about his Spanish lessons?”

Jack sighed in deeply and took hold of the cart, tossing the thing you asked for back into it. “Él no quería clases de español.”

Your eyes widened in response. “Oh.”

Jack was silent to you the entire car ride back home, and you wondered if it was because that man came up to talk with you. You frowned in the seat. You honestly didn’t know that man’s intentions! You didn’t mean to push Jack’s buttons like that, in fact, you didn’t even know that man was flirting with you! He came up asking about pronunciation, not a number!

You pouted all the way until you made it back home, helping him bring the groceries back in as you did so.

“Put this one in the freezer,” he said as that frown continually pulled his lips downwards.

When you opened the fridge, he tsked his tongue.

“The freezer.”

You relented and did as he asked. Once it was in, he nodded at the now empty bags and began balling them up to throw away, maybe reuse and put in the bag drawer before leaving you to yourself.

And that’s how the rest of the day went. Jack looked like such a stick in the mud and you couldn’t stand it. What was eating him up so much?

You decide to confront him after dinner when the two of you are sitting on the sofa, watching some stupid program you don’t really care for. You just know you like being near him.

“Why are you being such a jerk?” You ask out of the blue as the program moves to commercials.

Jack visibly tenses before he relaxes again, raising his eyebrow. “Excuse me?” He deadpans, almost surprised you have the gall to speak to him in such a manner.

You huff and cross your arms over your chest as you turn fully towards him, brows furrowed and face cross with frustration over his behavior. “You heard me the first time,” you reply. When you watch his expression turn from vague amusement to slight anger, you backtrack. “I just - why are you so mad at me?” You finally ask, your eyes dark and stormy. “What on the gods green earth could I have done to offend you so greatly?” You huff, arms still crossed and face determined.

Jack lowers his eyebrows and reclines back, trying to give you the illusion that he’s not interested in your challenge. “You wanna rethink that tone?” He hums. “You’re messing with fire.” There’s a slight tease that laces his words and you catch it ever so slightly.

You’ve heard that tease before. “Maybe… Maybe I wanna feel the heat,” you murmur, voice dipping to something low and sultry. You uncross your arms on your chest and move your hands over to his lap.

Jack watches you carefully as he feels your index and middle fingers walk up his thigh and to his chest. “You’re gonna get burned.” His voice is so much lower and more alluring than whatever he was showing to you before.

Your eyes sparkle as your fingertips walk up to the neck of his hoodie, hooking in it and pulling slightly as if you’re asking him to take it off. “Maybe you’ll just have to kiss it better,” you mumble, bringing your lips closer and closer to his.

Jack doesn’t move and instead, allows you to lean in further and further. He’s got a budding smirk on his lips as you draw closer, his dark sockets watching you with intrigue.

You finally press your lips to his, eyes closing as he invites you further and further into him. You smile through the kiss, and giggle when his hands hook around your waist and sling you onto his lap, your thighs now resting on either side of him, bottom planted firmly on his thighs.

“You’ve been such a bad girl,” he mutters through the kiss as you move more fervently against his lips, his clawed fingertips now digging into the curve of your ass.

“Have I?” You breathe against him before smashing your lips back onto his, your heart rate already picking up and drumming wildly in your chest. You feel it’s harder and harder to breathe as he practically crushes you against his chest.

“You have,” he reaffirms, briefly disconnecting from you. “And that means you’re going to get punished for it.”

You practically squeal in delight as Jack’s sharp claws dig into the hem of your shirt and travel upwards, cutting through the fabric like it’s nothing. The torn fabric drops from beside you like it’s weightless, leaving you just shy of being exposed.

“You want me to break this too?” He hums, his fingers lightly feathering up your back to the clasp on your bra.

“I don’t care,” you giggle, leaning into his warmth.

Jack hums again and decides on unclipping it, briefly cooing in amusement as you lean back on his lap and slip the thing off before tossing it over your shoulder. He whistles deeply as he gazes at your chest. One of his hands plants back down on the curve of your ass before sliding back up to cup your chest, his large hands practically engulfing your breasts in their entirety.

You giggle once more and move your hand upwards to rest on top of his, gripping him gently and pushing him just a bit harder as he fondles you. You feel a rush of excitement every time his claws just barely ghost your nipples.

“No,” he suddenly says, his hand leaving your bottom half to pry you off of him. “You don’t have a right to touch me tonight,” he states as if it was nothing. He gestures to your hands. “Keep them on your thighs or on the back of the couch,” he commands, watching as you pout and settle on gripping your thighs. He smiles devilishly at you. “Good girl.”

You break your pout for a moment before he squeezes your breast, making heat rise to your face. The warmth that he gives off is almost intoxicating. You’re almost lost in it when he suddenly leaves, picking you up and off his lap, almost roughly placing you onto the far end of the sofa. You’re looking up at him with wide eyes as his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants.

He hesitates.

“Well?” You egg him on. “What are you waiting for?”

And just like that, Jack is tearing your pants off, his claws slicing through the material like it’s nothing. You watch as he towers over you, snaking in between your legs as he pries them open. Jack’s face goes dark as he cuts off your underwear, his clawed fingers tracing your already glistening cunt.

Your mind goes blank when you catch him smirking and three long, thick, inky black tongues slip from his mouth, twirling and twisting against each other like snakes as they creep over each other, dripping with clear saliva. The tip of the longest tongue - which you recognize as the middle one - slinks forward and broadly licks you from top to bottom, making your thighs tense on instinct. Then, it takes a few more teasing licks, mostly building you up, wondering to see if you’re getting impatient, testy.

“EJ-” you barely wisp out before the middle tongue finally slips in past your already puffy lips, slowly, dragging against your walls lightly moving back and forth as it slips deeper and deeper in.

You let out a ragged moan at the sudden contact, thighs tensing once more. This action garners Jack’s attention and his arms maneuver under your slightly propped up legs, his claws digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. It’s not hard enough to draw blood, but it’s enough to remind you of your place. You bite your lip in pure ecstasy as his middle tongue wiggles inside of you, thrusting light as it does so, his second tongue lathering your lips up in his saliva and applying delicious pressure to you. His third tongue begins to prod your pearl, and when it finally touches, you hiss in the contact.

You honestly didn’t realize just how warm he was. It gently circles your clit before taking slow, languid kitten licks, working you up to little circles that render his hands free to keep you from bucking him. Your wandering hands, which you had been gripping in vain on the cushions of the couch for support, feel useless under your iron grip. On instinct, your hands fly down to Jack’s head, wanting to push his face in deeper but he pauses.

His middle tongue stops twisting and curling inside of you, it’s no longer hitting that spot that has you seeing stars and his other tongues have retracted entirely.

You pout. “You’re such a meanie!” You exclaim as you throw your head back down onto the arm of the couch.

He shoots you a look as his tongue begins to retreat from your pussy, almost as if he’s asking if you want to rethink that statement.

You feel a heat rush to your cheeks.

He gives you that look again, eyebrows lowering and lids halving. There’s a faint smirk on his lips as he seemingly gestures to your hands, telling you to keep them to yourself. Jack is telling you that you aren’t allowed to touch him right now.

You glance away before he hums against your aching cunt, his tongue retreating from you just a little faster. You relent. “I’m sorry,” you mumble.

His brow raises. ‘What else?’

“I’m sorry, daddy,” you finally say before cutting yourself off with a loud gasp as Jack’s tongues are once again on the assault. His middle tongue is fucking your pussy with a heat you didn’t know possible, and you can barely even think as he rubs and sucks at your clit with his others. You feel his lips lightly graze you every now and then, his shark-like teeth coming dangerously close to nipping you but you don’t care.

In frustration, you ball your hands in fists and throw your arms over your head, struggling in vain to not touch yourself or Jack as he works you closer and closer to the edge. Your pussy feels like an ocean by how hard he’s working you, and the sounds that come out of your mouth are just downright sinful.

Jack’s thumb rubs small circles on your thighs, almost as if he’s complimenting you for not touching him before he works you closer and closer to the edge.

You clamp your eyes shut and arch your back as he removes his second tongue from your lips and wiggles it in with a powerful thrust from his middle tongue, the two intertwining and combining, bringing a new sensation to your overloaded cunt. Sweat beads all over your body as he thrusts a bit harder and flexes, the sudden thickness making your stomach and heart flutter.

His third tongue remains playing with your clit, circling and licking.

You can practically hear Jack goading you to cum.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whine, your thighs threatneing to clamp shut but Jack’s strong grasp holding you wide open and accessible for him. “Fuck!” You cry out again, back arching once more, hands balling so hard into fists you feel like they’re going to fall off and a raw cry of ecstasy pouring from your lips as you release onto his face, coating his tongues and face in nectar.

The white hot pleasure continues to bead and wash over you as his tongues begin to clean you up, the middle still refusing to leave your creamy cunt. It makes you tense, and that gets a soft chuckle rumbling from the back of Jack’s throat.

After he was sure he slurps you clean, Jack slowly, almost teasingly, removes his tongues from your cunt and then licks his lips like the bastard he is. He looks so smug. “That wasn’t very fast,” he notes as his lips begin to press kisses to your slightly bruised thighs, his teeth gracing your flesh every now and then.

You pout as you begin to sit up on shaky legs, body feeling like jell-o. “Give me a chance,” you challenge.

Jack raises a brow before dropping it, his face leaving from in between your legs and drawing closer and closer to yours. “I don’t think whores should get chances.”

You immediately bristle and smash your lips to his, hands angrily grabbing at his still clothed form, almost goading him to take it off. You hide your squeal of delight as he kisses you back just as fervently, his large hand groping aimlessly for yours.

Jack grabs your wrist and brings you down to his pants, allowing you to rub the large bulge that’s grown as he ate your pussy.

You stifle your giggle and unzip hi, after you worked on his belt - it’s not like this is the first time you’ve done something like this - but when you reach in and feel for him, your eyebrows raise slightly.

Jack feels you pause and laughs, effectively breaking the kiss. He pulls away from you to look at your face. “Go ahead. Take it out.”

Gently, your hands peel back his pants as he makes minimal movement to help get them off and easier for you and you are greeted to an absolute monster. He’s not even rock solid but you can tell he’s huge. Interestingly enough, there’s also piercings in it - you recognize the ones on the length of his cock as ladder piercings followed by a ring at his tip. Your face rushes with heat when you see he’s got a thick knot as well, already waiting to fill you up.

“Not what you’re used to?” He teases, his legs open as he rests back on the couch, waiting for you to touch him.

Your fingers gently trail and crawl up his muscular thighs before you wrap your fingers around him, taking note of the texture on his cock. It wasn’t anything like a human man’s, and that made you excited. That same coiling white hot heat began to pool in your lower stomach as you slowly began to pump him.

“Spit on it,” he states in passing.

“Yes, daddy,” you reply, lips pursing as you thickly spit onto his head. Your thumb sneaks it over his dark dock that fades almost beautifully into his actual skin tone - you take notice of the silver specks that look like stars - and begin to grip him just a bit harder. You watch Jack’s expressions for anything of approval or disdain when you realize he’s not going to give you any satisfaction. You’ve been a bad girl. Of course he’s going to make you work for it.

“Use your mouth,” he then cuts through. “If you even think about using your hands, I’ll bite you.” He’s only half teasing. He absolutely would draw blood on your pretty flesh. His large, clawed hand that was gripping the back of the couch slinks upwards and over and buries itself onto your scalp, both soothingly and roughly guiding you down to his precum covered tip.

You open your mouth as wide as you can, mouth salivating as you finally taste him and the metal that decorates him. You’re so careful as he begins to pump your head on him, tongue flatly covering him in your spit as the head of his cock gets closer and closer to hitting the back of your throat. You struggle to breathe through your nose as he pushes you down harder and harder.

Jack hums out deeply as you suck him, your tongue swirling when he finally brings you back up. He switches hands eventually, the hand that had been holding your head now with its fingers trailing down your bare back as he cups the curve of your ass.

‘What on earth is he doing-!’ You moan against him as he twitches in the back of your throat as his ring finger and thumb slowly pull your lips apart just enough for his index and middle finger to slip in, filling you - but not to your limit. You squeeze your legs together and feel slick once again leak down your thighs as he finger fucks you while you still struggle to breathe on his cock as he pushes you down rougher and rougher.

In a way, you become his toy as his fingers make quick work of you. Your mind is lost in a lustful haze and you don’t even recognize he’s practically pulled your mouth off his cock as his fingers thrust into you harder, his nails so close to cutting you but instead, curling upwards in the best ways. Your face rests pathetically on his lap, your ass in the air as he trades his ring finger for his pinky and slips it into your needy, aching cunt.

“What a slut,” he whistles as you breathe raggedly against him. “I haven’t even fucked you properly and you’re rocking against me like a bitch in heat,” he cruelly observes, stifling his amusement at how you buck back in tandem with him. “Would you have treated that man in the store like this?” He asks, his voice dipping down to something sinister.

Your mind peers through the fog and you weakly shake your head as his fingers continue to fuck you. “Of course not,” you manage to squeak out. “N-Never, no one could make me feel like this,” you breathe out before squeezing your eyes shut, clamming your legs even tighter together to attempt to give your swollen clit some pleasure.

“You’re lying,” he states in a sing-song tone, his fingers roughly thrusting into you, curling upwards and rubbing you intimately, making you see stars. “Liars don’t deserve to cum,” and just like that, he’s pulling his long, thick fingers from your greedy cunt.

You gasp and look up at him almost wantonly and certainly pathetically. “EJ,” you begin before his other hand presses to your lips.

“You know better than to call me that,” he chides.

You swallow your pride, gradually composing yourself to a sitting position. “Daddy.”

“Better.”

“Please,” you start, moving off the cough and onto the coffee table. You turn around, planting your hands on the glass, poking your ass up and wiggling it side to side in an attempt to entice him, “please. I’ve been… I’ve been bad.”

“Just bad?” He hums as he stands up, palming his pierced cock for a moment or so, hissing as his precum weeps from the tip and onto the cheeks of your ass.

“I’ve been really, really bad,” you continue, still wiggling your hips and ass, swaying ever so slightly.

His tip just barely ghosts your entrance, hand gripping your hip. You feel his claws on your stomach, just barely poking the skin, ready to draw blood. “I think you’ve forgotten who you belong to,” he murmurs. “Why don’t I show you?”

You glance back over your shoulder and look at him with absolute desire and lust, nodding fervently. “Yes, daddy, please.” Your breath hitches as Jack’s hips sharply dart forward, filling you and stretching you almost painfully as his sheer size envelopes your form entirely. He’s still inching inside of you - you haven’t even reached his knot yet - and your arms almost wobble down on the coffee table as he piles you into it.

“Silly girl,” he tuts as he loosely backs up his hips and shallowly thrusts in again, making you gasp and squeeze your eyes shut in both pain and pleasure. “You’re always gonna be mine.”

You’re not even able to challenge the notion because he begins to absolutely ravage you. You feel like you’re stretched almost impossibly wide as he fucks you against the table, his breath picking up and becoming something more feral as you become a toy, an object, as he uses you. Your tongue lolls out of your mouth as you rest your cheek against the cool glass, chest pushing against it and leaving marks as you grip as tightly as you can onto the opposite edge of the table.

Jack begins to grit things in a language you don’t understand under his breath as he thrusts into you harder, his veiny cock pulsing inside of you as he drives in deeper and deeper. His balls slap against your clit, bringing you that much closer as he ruthlessly uses you. Judging by his tone, you assume he’s insulting you. “Fucking whore,” he seethes as he pulls you harder and harder against him, muscles tensing and all cares of breaking the coffee table being thrown out the window.

The tall, muscular, grey skinned man leans over you and begins to harshly breathe in your ear, his teeth nipping at the shell as he rolls his hips into you harder. The sound makes thick, meaty claps, almost sending you flying forward from the sheer force but him holding you back anchored you. “I can’t believe you’d even look at another man this way,” he continues in that same language, his lips and teeth leaving your ear and to your neck, nibbling before finally roughly biting down and sucking. It’s going to bruise. When he detaches, he harshly whispers to you again. “Wanton and waiting for someone else other than me, what the fuck were you thinking?” Jack harshly questions before biting yet again into your neck, his claws drawing the faintest of blood that drips like rubies down your skin.

You cry out in that same pleasurable and painful ecstasy and weakly meet his thrusts, barely able to think through the sheer force of him. “I-I-I’m sorry!” You cry out as one of his hands reaches your clit, fingering it as his balls continue to slap against it, making your legs wobble. “I’m sorry for making you mad, daddy!” You exclaim, finding yourself cut off with how his hand leaves your clit and snakes back up to your mouth. His fingers are coated in your juices and his - and he forces your mouth open.

“Lick them clean,” he harshly demands, hips still smacking against you. His length twitches every now and then, and the drag of his piercings feels so delicious against your stretched out walls.

You mumble against his fingers and lick your tongue on him, careful not to cut yourself on his talons as he shoves them deeper into your mouth. You suck on them, closing your eyes once more and feel tears well within them simply from the overload of pleasure.

When Jack pops his now clean fingers out of your mouth, he lifts you like you’re weightless and pops you off his cock, thoroughly amused at your bewildered expression before he plops you back down onto the coffee table, your legs still spread wide open from him, cunt still aching and hungry, absolutely needy for him to fill you to your brim.

The glass feels cool against your back as you realize he’s flipped you over. Your chest doesn’t feel as cramped anymore, so that’s nice. You’re barely afforded a moment with your thoughts before Jack is planting his hands on your left side and the other cups under your ass, lifting you slightly before pushing his thick, veiny cock back inside of you.

And you see it.

He’s building your lower abdomen out just from hsi size alone, and the thought, the image, the feeling, it makes you moan out again. Heat spreads over your entire body as Jack roughly works you up again, his cock bulging your stomach and weeping precum as you tighten your legs around his waist in vain, attempting to grasp onto something - anything to anchor yourself.

Your heart rate is flying, racing and your breaths are just picking up. You almost forget to breathe when Jack is back at the crook of your neck, biting, nipping and sucking, his tongues traveling over your slightly salty sweet skin like salt water taffy as you come closer and closer to breaking.

“Come on,” he hisses, hips roughly thrusting into you, making you gasp each time. “Squirt for me. Make daddy happy,” he continues, accenting each word with an even harsher thrust, stealing your breath each time. He grabs your wrist when you attempt to play with your clit and chides you with a snarl before finally rubbing you in a way that brings you over your edge.

You scream as his knot finally pushes past your bruised, puffy lips and practically becomes swallowed whole. The pain turns to pleasure as tears well in your eyes as you release all over him, sweet fluid splashing all over you and Jack as you vice grip his knot.

Jack pants out as he ruts into you as you squirt all over him, his knot still pushing into you with such hunger, filling you so much further than what you think is possible before he curls against you, his large form wrapping around you as he roars, releasing thick, creamy, white hot liquid into your needy cunt.

“Fuck, Reader, fuck,” he sneers like a mantra, hips weakly bucking against you, still very much connected by the knot as he continues to unload oceans of the warm, creamy liquid into you.

You feel tears roll down your cheeks from the sheer pleasure as you wrap your legs around his waist even tighter, nails raking against his back as you mumble his name and take in his deep scent. He’s otherworldly. You don’t even mind that Jack is still lighty rutting into you as he continues releasing, teeth bared and eyes shut in the pleasure your body is giving him.

When he finally empties himself fully into you, he breathes out deeply and rests his forehead against you, gently, tenderly, sweetly.

You feel hot, much too hot, and the only thing keeping you cool is the glass of the coffee table. You attempt to move off of him, to somewhere more comfortable when you wince in pain. “Ow! What is that?” You grumble as your eyes glance down to where Jack still remains buried inside of you.

He sighs out and follows your gaze. “Knot,” he states simply. “It’s gonna hurt-” He’s barely able to even get the words out as you’re already working on getting him out of you, wincing and hissing at the pain as you remove yourself off the thick, bulbous knot. Tears once again well in your eyes from the overwhelming stimulation, and Jack’s shaking his head as if to say ‘what did you expect?’

“I swear,” he mumbles as his thumbs gently wipe away your tears, not even noticing how his creamy cum pools down your legs and practically creates a waterfall onto the coffee table and onto his once immaculately clean floor. “Don’t force it out next time,” he grumbles as he slowly stands up, stretching slightly.

“Sorry,” you apologize, mind still hazy from the pleasure.

Jack relents and picks you up like you weigh nothing, already subtly checking if you’re hurt in any way from him and the rough coffee table. “It’s whatever,” he hums, holding you in his arms, simultaneously pleased and displeased with how harsh he was. But at least you smell like him. “C’mon, let me take care of this,” he offers, gesturing to the scrapes, cuts and bruises that are blooming on your body due to him.

Not wanting to say anything, you sleepily smile up at him and burrow into his chest. You look up at him.

“What?”

You yawn slightly. “Was I a good girl?” You ask playfully, resting your head on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat pick up.

Jack chuckles quietly. “You sure were.”

“Did I make daddy happy?”

Jack purrs slightly as your fingers brush against his cheek. “Without a shadow of a doubt.”

[quillquiver]

and it’s good

DeanCas coda to 15x19: ‘Inherit the Hearth’

He hasn’t stopped praying.

From an empty world to one filled with people, Dean has gone to his knees every night—on the floor, the gravel, the dirt—and prayed. Head down. Face pressed to his knuckles. Dear Cas…

From each failed plan to their eventual, anti-climactic victory, Dean shares it all. And when it’s all over, when they wake up the morning after with no Jack, no Cas and no world to save, it’s bittersweet. Confusing. Like being released into the wild after living in a cage.

Where does he go from here? What does he do?

What does he want?

Sam doesn’t have a problem finding his own answers, but then again, he never has; he was the one with the life outside The Life: the college boy, the dreamer. Dean… Dean needs some time to adjust. Regroup. Grieve, maybe—whatever the hell that looks like. So, he serves himself a bottle of Jack, grabs a box of Pop Tarts, and makes his way to his recliner. First day of freedom? Dr. Sexy and sweet oblivion sound awesome.

“Hey, uh, what’re you—” Sam cuts himself off, skidding to a halt in the doorway of the Dean Cave. He’s got that pinched look on his face, the one that means: inevitable bitch face, concerned edition. Dean waves him off.

“Chilling out,” he mutters, taking a long pull from the bottle. “Figure I deserve a vacation.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “A vacation.”

“Yeah, genius. A vacation. You know, a little me time?” Dean takes another pull. “You got a problem with that?”

Sam shifts his weight. Frowns at the floor. It’s weird to see him like this; he’s so big, now, but that move is straight out of his teen years—when he’d been gangly and awkward and angry and unsure. He looks up, resolved, and Dean heaves an internal sigh. Whatever the fuck Sam is trying to do, he doesn’t want any part in it.

“What if you come with me?”

“Nope.”

“Dean—”

“Look, Sammy, we fought the big fight, we won, there ain’t nothing left to do,” Dean says reasonably, bitterly, turning back to the DVD menu. “So I don’t wanna go into town, or to the store, or wherever else you’re planning on gallivanting to today. I’m gonna watch my show, drown myself in booze and pass the fuck out, because that is what I’m owed. Capiche?”

“Eileen texted. I’m… I’m going to go get her.”

It’s weird, Dean thinks, how many times a heart can break. He clenches his jaw and swallows the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly. Allows himself a second—one second—of envy and jealousy before he slaps a smile on his face and nods. “Good,” he says. He means it. “You should.”

“So…” Sam trails off.

“So…” Dean echoes.

“…Come with.”

“Sam, I’m not gonna crash your romantic reunion okay? That’s weird.”

“Dean—”

“Sam.” And there’s more that comes out in that word than he ever intended. It hangs heavy in the air between them before dropping to the ground like a stone. Loud. Shattering on impact. Dean thinks his voice might have cracked and his vision is blurring because this pity? This is fucking worse. Shoving a Pop Tart in his mouth, Dean chews with his mouth open in the vain hope that his table manners will prove an adequate distraction, but that shit hasn’t worked for a long time.

It tastes like sawdust.

“Just go,” he says. “You have to go, man.”

It’s as much a plea for his brother as it is for himself, and for one long, terrifying moment Dean thinks Sam’s going to refuse. That he’s gonna be dragged across the country to witness his brother find happiness in a way he will never be able to have.

…But Sam is kind, not cruel, and when those big eyes of his fill with tears, Dean has never been so happy to have given himself up. He watches as his little brother’s shoulders slump. As he readjusts his duffle.

“I’ll be home in two days,” Sam says. “If you’re dead, I’m gonna pissed.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean replies, forcing himself to tease. To be excited. He deserves this. “Go sing in the rain or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Sam volleys back, a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. He looks so happy, and Dean can’t stop himself from mirroring the expression. It hits him all at once, then—a sucker punch to the gut, the heart—that no matter what, he did right by his little brother. That he’s grown up to be smart, and kind and caring, and now he can be happy. And Dean—Dean’ll figure it out. But Sam’s taken care of and that’s… good. That’s a lot.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Mm.”

“I love you,” Sam says. He’s seven and thirty-seven and Dean feels something inside himself ease and break all at once.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I love you, too.”

Sam grins.

***

There’s no more frozen pizza.

It’s already a fucking travesty that the pizza place doesn’t deliver to their secret underground bunker, but Jack polished off the last two pies—and while it’s a little bit hilarious to think of the ‘New God’ (his kid) scarfing down shitty plain cheese in his pjs, it’s also awful, and painful. So Dean slips on his shoes, grabs his keys, and shoulders on the jacket with Cas’s handprint over his hole-y sleep shirt.

It’s not like he’s sober, but he’s done worse.

It feels like a shitty pizza day, so Dean makes a beeline for the Wal-Mart and its frozen section, stocking up on two of every topping from the cheapest brand they’ve got. He grabs popcorn, chips, twizzlers and margarita mix, because fuck it, and smiles at the cashier. It’s not an epic romantic reunion, but this is what normal people do, right? They take an entire day and wallow without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Dean’s cradling his spoils, twizzler hanging out of his mouth, shuffling out of the garage when—

He freezes.

The kitchen. There’s someone banging around in the kitchen.

Not like aggressively banging—one quick sweep around the area confirms no signs of forced entry—but just like… moving shit. Washing the dishes from this morning, or getting ready to make something new. Dean’s heart is caught between hope and heartbreak and he forces himself towards the latter. It’s probably Charlie, or Bobby or Jody or Donna or, hell, even Jack or Claire. No one else can get in. And if it’s something dangerous… well, Dean doesn’t have a weapon on him, and his damn pizza’s thawing.

But it’s not Charlie or Bobby or Jody or Donna. It’s not Jack. It’s not Claire.

…It’s Cas; freshly showered, dressed in Dean’s fucking clothes, making himself a sandwich.

He’s beautiful. Dean’s shirt—AC/DC, the one with the mustard stain on the collar—is just a little small on him, and he’s humming, and Dean has to blink once twice three times to make sure he’s not a goddamn mirage but no he’s still there, still scooping grape jelly onto the good bread and then putting the dirty spoon on the counter like a friggin’ heathen and—

“Are you gonna wash that?”

It’s sure as fuck not what he’d meant to say, but it gets the job done. Cas drops the spoon—the spoon—and whirls around like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Dean,” he breathes, like Dean’s name is some kind of benediction. Like it’s important.

Dean clutches his groceries tighter to his chest. “A-Are you…?” he asks. Steps forward. Steps back. Stares because he can’t, he can’t— “Are you real?”

Cas is barefoot. He’s quiet when he steps across the linoleum. His hair is turning fluffy where it’s drying and his eyes are blue and bright and he’s a miracle. “I’m real,” he confirms quietly. His hand twitches by his side, and Dean thinks that’s fair. Thinks that he gets that Cas has reservations because of—because.

But they’re unfounded. 

Dean drops his spoils because they’re an afterthought; nothing is more important than knowing, than reaching out to touch his fingertips to Cas’s shoulder. To his jaw. He can’t stop the tears from springing to his eyes like he can’t stop himself from laughing. Smiling. And suddenly he has Cas in his arms and he smells like Dean’s soap and Sam’s fancy shampoo, and they’re holding—clutching each other, and Dean turns his head because it has to be now he has to say it now: “Cas, I—”

“I know,” Cas interrupts. “You don’t have to—I know.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, voice high with something like hysteria. The whole thing is so absurd, so insane, so fucked, that it’s all he can do to bury his face in Cas’s neck. To squeeze his eyes shut. To talk. “Well, you’re a friggin’ moron,” he says. “And you got no goddamn idea what you’re talking about, because—because you changed me, too, you dick.” Cas’s fingers dig into Dean’s waist and Dean’s heart pounds like it’s trying to escape and his throat is dry and he’s sweating and he’s gonna be sick, he’s gonna die— “A-And I love you.”

He wrenches himself away, then, glaring like he dares Cas to take the words away from him. “Okay?” he asks, rhetorically. Menacingly. It’s a declaration and a confession and a challenge. And Cas meets his stare unflinchingly. He reaches up to thumb at the wetness on the apple of Dean’s cheek. “Okay,” he says. He nods. Leans in. “Okay.” Their mouths brush. “Good.”

It’s not even a real kiss, so Dean can’t be blamed for how he chases; how he breathes good, in faint agreement like a lovesick fool, and moves until they’re kissing good and proper—slow and sweet and then deep and wet and it’s good, it’s so good, he’s so good.

Later, they’ll have to make every thawed pizza. They’ll drink the margarita mix and share the same popcorn bowl and pay no attention to Dr. Sexy playing in the background. They’ll talk about Chuck and Jack and Sam. They’ll stare. They’ll tease. They’ll flirt.

But for now, Cas twists his hands in Dean’s shirt and Dean buries his hands in dark hair. They pause for breath only to come together, again and again and again.

And it’s good.

[whoacanada]

‘Wishful Thinking‘

Summary: Every NHL champion gets a single brush with ice magic. When Jack takes his first cup with the Falconers, he accidentally undoes the wish that brought him back from the brink of death in 2009, and Bitty becomes hell-bent on lifting the cup himself for a chance to set things right.

A/N: Finally posting some concepts I’ve played around with that aren’t 100% complete massive fics, but still pretty solid, just little things that might be enjoyed. Yet another cup-wish-gone-wrong-au with monkey-paw components. Also inspired by discord convos about canon!Jack meeting an older, veteran NHL!Bitty and having a lot of feelings. Also mentor/father-in-law!Bob trying to help Bitty navigate the NHL. There’s more to this floating around but this is the meat of it

____________

____________

Bob can sense when it happens. A shift of something monumental that he’s only felt on a handful of occasions his entire life. A quick glance across the ice finds a number of the celebrating Falconers looking around curiously, unsure of the sensation; for so many, it’s their first brush with ice magic. A pleasant novelty. The vets, though, they look to each other.

Bob turns and doesn’t have to look far to find his son, one hand clasped around the cup, the other around Eric Bittle’s waist, smiling from ear to ear. Something about the moment is wrong, but Bob can’t quite determine why as he’s overcome with a wave of nausea. The stadium lights are too bright and he blinks hard, face scrunching, trying to force whatever wrongness he’s feeling out of himself.

Someone’s made a wish.

The moment passes. Bob’s vision clears. There, veiled in a shower of blue and gold confetti, is Eric; alone at center ice, face twisted in confusion as he looks around for the man who only moments earlier had been in his arms.

“You take the cup, you get one real wish,” the decades old, bourbon-lacquered voice of his first coach reminds him. “But only the one. Can be something small, like an empty cab in the rain, or it can be something big. World changing, even. The one thing, the most important thing — ”

“No,” Bob breathes. “Please, no.”

“— You never use your wish on another player.”

____________

____________

____________

They don’t know exactly what Jack wished for, but the next time Bitty’s blades touch the ice, it’s as if he’s stepped into the body of a new man. No more slurs. No more targeted chirps. He’s just one of the boys.

He plays. He wins. Then, the offers start to come.

NHL teams looking for fast wingers, team players, leadership material; not one of them mentions diversity, or Eric’s status as the first out NCAA hockey captain. No one cares. No one remembers Jack, and no one cares about Eric.

The best and worst case scenarios rolled into one. If this is the reality Jack unknowingly traded his existence for, Bitty has no choice but to walk through the door his partner opened.

Bitty swallows, trying to force the words out on one of his now nightly calls with the man who would have been his father-in-law in another world, if the shared connection between them hadn’t been interred in a Montréal cemetery almost a decade prior.

“I think . . . I think he wished for acceptance.”

___________

___________

___________

“No one remembers anymore.”

Eric scuffs his skate against this ice, building up a small pile of shavings before scattering them again, focusing on the soft white as if somehow he’ll be able to transport himself bodily to somewhere cool and quiet. Jackson Hole. Banff. Tremblant. Anywhere but here. Anywhen but now.

“Saw Tater last week at a press junket. Blank stares all around. Some days, most days, I wake up and I don’t know how I got here. I can go without thinking of him.”

Weeks. Eric doesn’t say aloud. Months. Those hideous mornings when he wakes up beside a warm body and forgets they aren’t him. They aren’t supposed to be him. Was there ever even a him.

Jack. Eric mouths silently, just to remind himself. His name is Jack.

The details always slip. The universe constantly trying to correct the fallacy of Eric Bittle remembering a man who died before they technically ever met. Faded photographs and corrupted memory cards. Selfies that used to have two people in frame. Vlog posts with cosmic ADR, swapping Jack’s name for someone else’s like a hastily rewritten script. Eventually, even Eric’s memories turn traitor. First times lost to reshoots and post-production magic. Blue eyes are brown. Black hair is blonde. Jack becomes Phillip. Eric’s first love recast. In desperation, he pulls a page from Memento, finds a tattoo parlor and has ‘Jack Laurent Zimmermann’ inked in dark, unmistakable letters on his inner thigh. Adds a cup, the Falconers’ crest, and the date they lost everything. It works well enough until the name fades; there are still days where a hook up will ask why Eric has a championship tattoo for a team he never played with.

Now, all he has is Bob.

“That’s why I’m here.” Bob reminds. “That’s why we talk.”

“But what happens if we don’t.”

Bob’s familiar assurances rumble through the phone. Constant. Refusing to acknowledge the harsh realities of the passing of time. The ever-present doomsday clock moving them both toward disaster — Bob aging, Eric aging out. He’s good, but he isn’t great, and the only offers coming his way are single-season contracts with teams that haven’t sniffed a championship in years. One day very soon, there will be no more chances for Eric to undo what’s been done. No more favors to ask of teammates that have long since forgotten a world where Jack Zimmermann was a college graduate and a rookie MVP. Not just an addict. Not just dead at nineteen.

Eric listens to Bob ramble, asks him to tell him a story, to tell him about the Jack that Eric never really got to know. The Jack he can barely remember. A man that Eric has dedicated his entire life to honoring, to bringing back — from where he cannot fathom — and Bob obliges in a soft tone Eric imagines is not dissimilar from how he must have spoken to his son as a child.

Eric ignores his teammates rushing around him — tossing chirps and gentle insults about his ‘Sugar Daddy’ — and focuses on the accented voice in his ear; grasping desperately at the memory of a man who doesn’t exist. Pretending. Hoping.

__________

__________

Across the ice, Eric sees Kent Parson watching him. When they lock eyes, the aging star glides toward him, under a guise of one amicable captain greeting another. He’s pushing 37, and while the years of competitive play are starting to show, he’s just as viciously handsome as the day they first met. At least, Eric thinks he is. He can’t imagine a life where Kent Parson strolled onto a college campus and played beer pong at a frat party, but there’s a folder of old photos on Eric’s computer. Jack is in none of them, but there’s one of himself and Kent. Smiling.

Eric can’t recall why the image bothers him so much.

Parson used his wish years ago on something that he’s never bothered to share — and Eric’s far too much a gentleman to ask a man who was once a rival what he wasted his golden ticket on — but now, he’s slowing down, and this is supposed to be his farewell season. Going out with a bang, riding the high of his fifth cup win. He’s worked hard, and he deserves to shove the Penguins back down into obscurity for another season. Deserves it far more than Eric, with his selfish, single-mindedness that’s ruined god knows how many careers in the last decade between his own ruthlessness and Bob’s meddling.

Except. . . this is also likely Eric’s last season. His last chance to undo the great tragedy of his life, and Parson knows it.

“How you feeling, Peaches? You ready?”

Eric hates the nickname in the same way he hates when his father calls him ‘Champ’.

Eric fights his own shame because he wants to be honest, say, ‘No, I’m not ready, I’ll never be ready,’ but Eric can’t ask for what he wants, anymore. He wants the Aces to balk on a power play. He wants Parson to flub a pass and throw the game —  he even knows the man would probably do it, too — but Eric needs to come by a win honestly. They learned the hard way in 2022 when Eric hands were wrapped around the cup, wishing, praying, crying, pleading . . .

Clear eyes, full hearts, or some such bullshit.

Cheaters don’t get wishes.

“I can’t remember, anymore,” Eric admits as they square up across the face-off circle, the resigned terror of an inescapable end creeping upon him like the burn of an old injury ignored for far too long. “Kent. Please.” Parson leans down, rests his stick against the ice, and holds Eric’s gaze as if to say, I’m here. Trust me. Just play.

The puck drops.

________

________

________

There’s someone watching him, young, handsome with dark hair and the kind of bright blue eyes that scream ‘notice me’ with all of the biological bluntness of neon plumage and a mating dance. The man weaves through the crowd, unnoticed by Eric’s teammates, and comes close enough that Eric can’t help but assume familiarity. He must be a fan, the way he’s flushed and excitable.

Eric’s drunk enough on the moment that he’s happy to indulge his baser instincts. He also literally can’t remember the last time he brought company home and if there’s ever been a night to get laid, it’s this one.

“Crisse, look at you, Bits.”

The man is caught between being awestruck and simply struck, reaching out to touch Eric’s arm but not quite making contact, like his depth perception is the tiniest bit off. He drops Eric’s old nickname so easily, so earnestly, that for a moment Eric thinks they might already know each other — but that’s impossible. Eric would remember someone so handsome, so very much his type.

“Only my friends call me ‘Bitty’.” Eric cautions, raising his half-empty champagne bottle in a mock toast and flashing his best ‘you’re coming home with me tonight’ smile. “But I’m more than happy to to get acquainted with you, Sugar.”

Eric isn’t usually this forward, this unrestrained. Tonight, it doesn’t matter, he’s celebrating: another championship, the end of a career, a life well lived. It’s to be expected. What isn’t expected is how the man’s relieved smile falters; as if Eric’s unbridled joy is somehow misplaced.

“Bitty? It’s me.”

“And ‘me’ is called . . . ?”

On very few occasions in Eric’s life has he been able to witness true devastation first-hand; and those instances were related to deaths, hockey losses, or blackout morning afters.

“Jack.” The man says softly, face slack with surprise. “It’s. . . Jack. Bitty, you know me.”

“If we’ve met before, I’m sorry,” Eric apologizes, hating to see the kid look so defeated. “I meet so many people — ”

Over Jack’s shoulder, Eric catches sight of Bob Zimmermann and waves, delighting in the way Bob’s face lights up when he catches sight of Eric, practically going supernova when he notices Jack as well, crossing the ice like a man possessed; Bob moves to pull them both into a hug but Eric’s new friend holds up a defensive hand and Bob stops mid-gesture.

It’s extremely apparent something is off, and between the reporters, the confetti, the champagne, and the fans, Eric is missing all of the context clues.

“Just won my last cup,” Eric singsongs, gesturing with the bottle between his mentor and the man Eric would very much like to fuck — who look very similar now that Eric can see them side by side. “Everyone’s super excited, right? Yeah? So, what’s going on. Did someone die?”

“No.” Bob says quickly, eyes flicking between Jack and Eric warily. “No. Not . . . that.”

“Severely injured?”

“. . . Non.”

“Okay, then, we should be celebrating!” Eric throws his arms wide and nearly clocks a passing teammate. “No more party pooping, Bobbert. Speaking, this is my new friend, Jack. Jack, Bob, Bob, Jack. Though, I’m getting the feeling you two might know each other. Or might be . . . related.” Eric gasps and smacks his free palm against his forehead. “Oh my god, the Tremblant retreat? Is that where I know you from? Listen, I was fucked up on pain meds that whole weekend, I am so sorry if we’ve already met.”

Despite Eric’s continued attempts at clarifying their shared mystery past, Jack keeps looking at Bob with that same wounded expression and it’s really killing Eric’s buzz.

“Bob.” Eric redirects. “Help me, here. Cutie’s nervous.”

“Eric, this is my, ah, well,” Bob’s smile is so forced, so tense, it looks more like a grimace. “Well, this is my son, Jack.”

There is only one ‘Jack’ Eric has ever known in relation to Bob Zimmermann, and he is not someone to be mentioned in polite conversation.

“Your son?” Eric echoes slowly. “Your son, Jack.”

Bob realizes what Eric’s tiptoeing around and casts a furtive glance toward the younger man, lifting two fingers to his cheek conspiratorially to imply ‘it’s a long story, not meant for public ears’. Eric knows how to play along.

“Wow, okay, did not expect that, but now that you’re saying it, I can one-hundred-percent tell. You have the same, well, everything.”

Eric takes Jack’s hand for an obligatory shake, not missing the way Jack’s features twist up into something caught between flattery and misery, before staring down his pseudo-mentor.

“My question is this, where have you’ve been hiding him — because how long have I know you, Bobby? Shame.”

“I’ve been . . . away.”

Jack’s tone is weighted with context Eric absolutely does not possess, but can definitely read into. Given the age difference and Alicia’s conspicuous lack of attendance this evening, Jack’s definitely a love child from some 90s Zimmergroupie. Or, original Jack didn’t actually OD and Bob spirited away his kid to keep away the prying eyes of the public; but that wouldn’t explain the age difference or the shared name.

Oh, Bobbert.

“Couldn’t wheel him out too soon,” Bob jokes, but Eric can tell the man’s heart isn’t in it, reinforcing Eric’s suspicion.

“Well, I’m happy you did,” Eric says graciously, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “He’s very handsome, when he isn’t doing this Eeyore impression.”

“Just like his father,” Bob says reflexively —  defensively —  as Jack goes pink. “Eric, will you excuse us for a moment? Back in five minutes, tops.”

Eric offers a gracious wave, gaze lingering on Jack’s retreating back — and backside, bless — watching Bob rest a firm hand on his son’s neck, gripping tightly to lean in and furiously whisper something. As Eric watches, Jack looks back over his shoulder; it’s not the fond glance of a potential paramour. Regret, maybe? Grief, definitely.

He must be as disappointed to be cock-blocked by his father as Eric is.

Across the ice, Kent Parson has rushed Jack, gathering him into a crushing embrace that the younger man returns easily —  burying his face against Parson’s pads; pulling back only when Parson grabs Jack’s shoulders to push him away, taking a long look at him, holding his face between his hands briefly before pulling Jack back into his arms.

They don’t just look like old friends, it’s a reunion of desperation, like the videos his mother sends of soldiers coming home from war, but before Eric can think better of it, a teammate fists a hand in the collar of Eric’s sweater and pulls — away from Bob’s forlorn love child and forgotten first meetings — and the night goes on.  

Bob doesn’t return. Neither does Jack.

Eric doesn’t even notice.

__________

__________

[yespolkadotkitty]

Take What You Need

A special treat for the lovely @keeper0fthestars - a flimsy excuse to get railed into next week by Francisco Morales.

Warnings: SMUT. Porn with a flimsy nod to plot. Word count: 2300

Thanking @alwaysbethewest and @songsformonkeys​ for the beta!!

“All right! You heard the man, wheels up in thirty!” Redfly shouted across the small airfield. “Catch some sleep, eat, do whatever, but I want us all in that helo, in thirty.”

“Copy that,” Pope shouted back, heading off towards the thick bushes surrounding the hangar and aircraft. Ironhead followed, probably to try and talk some sense into him. Ironhead had always been the most sensible of you all.

In fact, it was William who had spoken up for you when Pope suggested you come along.

“She’s good with a rifle,” Ironhead said calmly. “And her Spanish is decent. Way better’n mine and Benny’s, anyways.”

Redfly - the infuriatingly traditional conservative middle-class American man - had ummed and aahed, and you knew it was because you had a vagina. 

But here you were, and you’d taken out two of Lorea’s guys from the roof with your rifle, so Redfly could suck your metaphorical dick.

The man in question loped back to the other side of the airfield, towards Pope’s informant, and started to talk to her about something.

“This is a clusterfuck of epic proportions.”

You turned at that voice. A little raspy, a little husky-edged, it sent a shiver up your spine. Always had, and probably always would.

Francisco Morales shook his head when you turned to look at him. His ballcap - dirty, soft - was pulled down low over his head. Hair the colour of milk chocolate curled out from underneath it. He met your gaze, and his own hazelnut eyes were so, so tired.

“It could’ve gone better,” you agreed, letting your eyes trail down his long, lean frame - a little soft in the middle, but you’d always liked his tummy.

Francisco - Catfish to you all, because during special ops training, he’d caught one almost the size of himself - was an enigma of a man. Soft, sometimes. Hard, sometimes.

You’d known him five years now, and during that time you’d seen him pull the trigger a foot from a man’s head without wincing, and you’d seen him comfort a three year old girl left homeless in a war zone, his voice soft, his touch gentle. The yin and yang of him fit, somehow.

Catfish scoffed. “Not sure how it could’ve gone any fucking worse.” He ripped off his cap, and your eyes were drawn to a deep cut on his cheek.

“What’s this?” You automatically reached up to touch his face. His tanned skin was rough under your fingers as you traced the edges of the healing wound. “It might scar.”

Francisco grunted. “Like that’s a concern right now.”

You grinned, dropped your hand. “It’ll be sexy. The scar, I mean.”

“You think?” He laughed without humour, wrung his cap in his hand, and you saw how drawn his starkly handsome face was, the patchy scruff around his jawline grey in places. God, had you thought about kissing that almost-beard, stroking your fingers over his bristly chin. “I wish being sexy was what worried me most. I’m fuckin’ losing my shit here. The scales are off the charts, the helo will never make it to the ocean-” he swore a stream in Spanish, and stuffed his hat back on. The frustration steamed off him in waves.

“Fish.” You braced your hands on his shoulders, looked up into his face, twisted with anger and fear. “We’ll be okay. We’ve had worse than this.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never had worse with you,” he bit off, shrugging off your touch and pacing away, shoving his cap back on, his hair curling at the edges. “Jesus fucking Christ, if anything happens to you, I’ll-”

“Fish!” You shout to be heard over the noise of the aircraft prep, the wind, the sound of Redfly and Pope’s informant arguing. “Nothing will happen to me. You saw me take out Lorea’s guys. And I saved your ass on that mission in Istanbul.”

Francisco shifted, adopting that hands-on-hips stance he always did when he was thinking. “I know.”

“Then what? I’m not a porcelain doll, Francisco.”

And you saw it. His eyes went hot when you used his full name. Hot and sort of.. Dark. Like he wanted to drag you into that hangar and bend you against the corrugated metal wall and rail you into next week.

And boy, you’d let him.

“What?” you challenged. He needed this release. Whether it was shouting at you or whether you wrestled until the fight had gone out of him, he could not fly that helo with your lives and that money at stake in such a state.

He muttered something in Spanish. Your command of the language was very good but his voice was pitched too low for you to make out the syllables.

“Oh, you wanna go?” You lifted your fists in a mock fighting stance. “You ever hit a girl, Morales?”

“There’s always a first time,” he gritted out humourlessly.

You danced around, goading him. “Maybe you’re afraid I’d kick your ass.”

Fish scoffed, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, in the line of his back. He was a loaded powder keg, seconds from a bloody explosion from the heat, the stress, the shooting. “Stop it.”

“Make me.”

You saw the moment his eyes changed - went dark again, and you turned, running for the hangar.

You heard him bark out a laugh as he pursued you, his long legs eating up the terrain. You ran flat out, reaching the hangar in under a minute, Fish hot on your heels. The minute he barrelled through the door you slammed it behind him.

“What the fuck?” he asked, confusion parading over his face - somehow even more alluring when he was dirty, tired, stressed.

You yanked him close and kissed him. It was the first time, and all the times you’d thought about kissing him, an inaurgural kiss, it was never like this. It was in your shitty home town, under some trees, or under the bleachers of the old high school, or by moonlight at the drive-in.

It took a second, and then Francisco was kissing you back, his lips fierce, hard, the kiss almost painful in its intensity. He tasted of terrible coffee and the beef jerky you’d all forced down, and you licked into his mouth, tangling your tongue with his, and the flavour of his little groan was divine.

“We don’t have long,” he whispered harshly. “What - what do you want?”

Your breath was coming in pants. He smelled of clean sweat, the outdoors, and the spring rain, and you were wetter than you’d ever been. This close to Catfish, you couldn’t cope with the well of desire, too long ignored. “You can’t fly us like this, Fish. In this state.”

His hands clenched on your hips. “What?”

“Relieve the pressure.” You slid a hand down his body, cupped him, felt his erection like steel in velvet. Your blood fired. “For us both.”

“Shit.” Francisco leaned down, rested his forehead against yours. “I’ve fucking dreamed of this. But not… not like this, like you’re a cheap fuck. You’re not. You’re… everything.”

The words shook you, and you pressed your lips to his, drinking him in, loving him, like you’d loved him nearly five years, and always been afraid to rock the boat.

Well, now the boat had run aground and it was time.

“You can show me that when we’re safely back on American soil, soldier. For now…” you yanked him close again, pressed your palm to his cock. “Take what you need. Give me what I need.”

“Fuck,” he bit off, and then he was kissing you like a starving man falling upon a banquet, all tongues and teeth and Frankie, and you pressed as close to him as you could.

“How long do we have?” you panted out.

He shot his cuffs, checked his watch. “Quarter hour.”

“Then make every minute count, Morales.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. And he got on his knees in front of you, pulling at your jeans.

Your heart leapt into your chest at the first brush of his breath on your bare legs. Frankie rolled the denim down, ghosted a kiss over your underwear.

“You would not believe, baby, how often I’ve jacked off to the thought of having you,” he whispered.

“Fish, if you don’t do something, I swear to God…”

He took off his cap, passed it to you. “Wear this for me.” After you slapped it on your head, he pulled your hand back down, thrust it into his hair. You tugged him close as he yanked your underwear down and proceeded to fucking feast on you.

You’d never experienced Frankie like this. Near feral, his tongue licking at you like you were his last meal, his favourite food, a longed-for treat. He used his hands - hands you’ve wished were on you, inside you - to spread you so he could spear his tongue inside you, nip at your clit, write his name with his tongue, whatever the fuck he was doing, it felt like Heaven. 

“Stop. Stop,” you whined, pushing at his hair. “Want to come with you inside me.”

He looked up, those cocoa eyes dark and hot and irresistible, and then he was on his feet in a hot second, and he spun you around to face the wall.

“Hold on to something, baby,” he muttered against your neck before he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin at your pulse point, the tiny hurt only making you wetter.

The sound of his belt buckle being undone and the shove of the denim down his thighs was loud to your ears.

“Please,” you gritted out, arching your back.

Frankie slid a palm down your naked butt, and you heard the growl in his voice when he said, “Sweet girl. When we get back on US soil….” And then he positioned himself and slid home in one smooth, hard thrust, and you gripped the hangar wall hard and cried out at the pleasure and the stretch. He kept going until he bottomed out, curses in English and Spanish falling from his lips in that husky baritone made for pure sin, and then as you groaned in satisfaction, he curled a hand around to your front and rubbed you in maddening circles.

“We don’t have long,” you warned, muscles already fluttering.

“Fuck. Won’t take long. You feel too good. You’re so fucking tight. How - how do you-”

“Fast and hard,” you instructed, and you felt him twitch inside you at your words, heard his moan. “I wanna feel you tomorrow, Francisco.”

“Oh fuck,” he grated out, and then he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. The force was just what you needed, and you cried out at the wonderful pressure, the push of him inside you, the texture and shape of him. Better, harder, larger than you had imagined.

You spread your legs as much as you could given the  denim around your calves, and Frankie fucks you hard, keeping one hand on your hip and the other at the apex of your body, strumming you expertly.

“Wish we had more fucking time,” he rasped into your hair, pressing a frantic kiss there. “Sweet girl. You feel like heaven. Always.. Knew.. you would.”

“The things I’m gonna to do you when we get home,” you shot back, and pressed your hips into him. “Oh God, more, please.”

He upped the tempo, and the sound of your bodies slapping together was obscene. His fingers circled your clit once, twice more, and you flew off that sweet cliff edge, crying out his name and burying your face in your elbow to muffle the sound.

Frankie’s hips faltered as he gave you all he had, thrusting into you at a punishing pace before his hips stuttered.

“Two minute warning!” Ironhead yelled from outside.

“I want to feel you come inside me, Fish,” you whispered over your shoulder.

“Fuck.” And he tumbled over the precipice too, hips shaking. You felt him jerk inside you, felt the hot surge of his climax, and he pressed down hard on your clit, triggering another little orgasm for you, too.

“Jesus. Fuck.” Frankie leant his forehead on your back, panting. “Christ.”

“You gotta get some more swear words, Morales,” you said, but your breath hitched too, and you wiggled your hips, making him shiver.

He pulled out, zipped up, and then took care putting your clothes in order. When he tugged you close for a kiss, you tasted yourself.

“First fucking chance I get,” Frankie rasped, his lips in your hair, “I’m gonna take my sweet time doing everything I want to you. With you.”

“Then get us over those mountains, Francisco, and I’m yours.” You nip at his bottom lip, then sprang apart when Redfly yanked open the hangar door.

“Fuck’s sake, Fish, we thought you’d gone AWOL. It’s go time.”

“Copy that,” Frankie shot back. You let him leave first, glanced down to admire his ass in those jeans. 

And you thought, with single-minded determination: We just need to get over these mountains. Then Francisco Morales would be all yours.

Redfly looked at his departing back and then turned to you, eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing Fish’s hat?”

****

Tagging the Pedro pals: @emmy-dandiliom918​ @thirstworldproblemss @cinewhore @poenariuniverse​ @keeper0fthestars​ @scarlettvonsass​ @casually-introverted​ @knittingqueen13​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @10-96dispatcher @buckstaposition​ @agirllovespasta​ @songsformonkeys​  @gamingaquarius​ @mstgsmy​  @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​ @dornish-queen​ @maxphillipswasright @winters-buck​ @mourningbirds1​ @pascalitomorales​ @mrsparknuts​ @alldatalost​ @abuttoncalledsmalls​ @mrschiltoncat​ @auty-ren​ @heatherbel​

it’s 10.45pm my brain has failed if I left you off I apologize!!

[jjksblackgf]

domestic!bts headcanon

kim seokjin

you felt an urge to eat a cake

so, naturally, you went to the kitchen to bake some

30 minutes later, your cake was in the oven

but the kitchen... oh…. the kitchen…...

“what happened here?” seokjin asked with wide eyes as he came home from practice

“I felt like eating cake,” you said without looking at him “I will clean everything as soon as I finish mixing the frosting”

he didn’t say anything after that, just dropped his bag on the sofa, and grabbed a few dishes so he could help you clean

he reached for a few bowls in front of you, his lips very close to your ears

“you could’ve just gone to the bakery store” he said

you leaned back a little bit, to feel his chest to your back, and said “I was bored.”

min yoongi

your ladder was quite short, so you could see a bit of his belly as he reached to the ceiling to change the light bulb

“what else you got?” he said as he came down

“there’s a screw that’s loose at my bedroom door handle,” you said with an apologetic tone “can you help me with that?”

“that’s kinda easy, you sure you need my help?” he smirked as he crossed his arms

“the damsel in distress didn’t help me today, did it?”

“babe, I am literally your boyfriend,” he said as he hugged you, knowing this act very well, as it was played before “you could’ve just come to the studio or called me if you missed me that much”

“but I don’t want to interrupt you, or be a distraction, or anything” you pouted

“You’re not a distraction, baby,” he took your chin to make you look in at his eyes “you’re my muse”

jung hoseok

Barry White was blasting on the Spotify you set on the tv

you were about to use the broom as a microphone and sing to him

you know, like in a cutesy rom-com, or whatever

but he was really concentrated on cleaning the stove

so you had no choice but to start singing with a very deep voice

“if feels so good, you lying here next to me” you sang

that was enough for him to pay attention to you, with his eyebrows arched and a playful grin on his lips

“oh, what a groove, you have no idea how it feels”

he was about to start filming your antics, but your body roll on the broom just made him burst laughing

but it was not long until he joined you, forgetting all about the cleaning

“why do you always put some weird playlist to clean the house” he said as he grabbed your waist and dipped you

“I don’t know, but I know that you like it” you were now back on your feet as he swirled you into his arms

easy to say the cleaning was on pause until the song was finished

kim namjoon

he was chilling on the porch, taking care of his bonsai trees

you were at the garden watering the flowers

he put on a new playlist he created just for moments like this

starting with Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson

he loved watching you just be yourself in his garden

he rested his chin on his hands and smiled at you, his heart Doing Things™ when you looked at him

you smiled at each other, but you couldn’t see him clearly because of the bright sun

he decided to join you with the flowers, but you had already finished

“help me with the lemons at the yard” you said dragging him by the hand

you were holding a small basket as he picked up the lemons

“this is such a nice summer day” he noticed with a smile on his face

“I know, right?” you agreed

just to spite him, God sent a summer rain

and just like a movie, you two ran towards the house, giggling

“Good thing you’re not a weatherman on local news” you teased him as you reached the porch

“I would, legit, starve” he humored with you as you entered the house.

park jimin

you were missing some home cooking meals with your busy week, and you also wanted to cook something for Jimin

so you two went to the grocery store to grab a few things

but you could tell that he wasn’t in his best mood

he was distracted, not really paying attention to the day and bumping the shopping cart into others a lot

“babe?” you asked

“yes, honey” he answered unlocking his phone, only to lock again, without looking at anything

“can you grab me that blue box?” you pointed to one of the high shelves

you didn’t really need that, but this little thing always made him laugh a little, and you wanted to see if it would work again

he grabbed it easily, and after putting the box in the cart, he kissed your cheek and grinned “thanks”

“what was that for?” you asked, already knowing the answer

“I just love when you make me feel tall” he laughed

you joined him with a playful slap to his shoulder

kim taehyung

“nah uh, babe, you’re throwing this away” he said with command in his voice over a dress you didn’t remember buying

“why?” you screeched, taking the dress from his hands

“we’ve been dating for a whole year and I never saw you wear this” he said and went back to look at clothes to throw away

you mentioned that you had no space in your closet anymore and asked for his help to clean it up and judge a few of your outfits

“this has to go too” he said with a disgusted tone in his voice

“but I look so good in these…” your voice lowered as you placed the tube top in front of your body

he looked at you up and down with an expression of disbelief, but his face changed as an idea popped up in his head

“I think you can make a case for these clothes” he smirked as he traced his index finger on his chin, wiggling his eyebrows, “model them for me”

and after that, you gave him a whole fashion show with clothes he never saw you in, accompanied by Madonna on the speakers and a grinning boy as the audience

jeon jungkook

“why can’t you believe that they had chemistry?” he asked as he went to the side of the bed

“they did have chemistry, but only as friends” you said taking your place by the other side

“so you’re saying they could end up boyfriend and girlfriend if they were given the opportunity?” he questioned as he placed his hand under his side of the mattress

flipping mattresses was the worse job at the house

so Jungkook always liked to start some sort of “controversial” topic to get the adrenaline going

why? to forget about the most boring chore

“eww, of course not” you replied catching the edge that was now upright

he helped you put the mattress and the bottom sheet in place and then jumped on the bed

“I can’t believe I am dating a kataang shipper” he huffed as he grabbed your arm to join him in bed

“they work because it’s canon” you clapped as you said every word, only to be silenced by a kiss

[rotworld]

The Truth in Masquerade

usurpers part 7. previous | next

derek gives in. izsák reaps the rewards.

->derek/oc. explicit; contains d/s dynamics, degradation, biting/blood drinking, descriptions of violence and torture, and the usual derek things.

.

.

.

It takes less than a week for curiosity to eat through Derek’s resolve completely. Izsák speeds things along by bringing up weird shit every chance he gets and then waiting, perfectly poised, for a shift in Derek’s expression. It’s always some off-handed mention when it’s just the two of them. Izsák will help him prepare for another guest appearance at another dreadful party, presenting him with a fresh towel after a shower, tying his tie, and then he’ll sigh in a wistful way and say, “You never have liked these little soirees. It was much easier when Ferenc was here, wasn’t it? He bore the burden of public scrutiny with such ease.”

And what the fuck is Derek supposed to do? Not ask questions? Not think about why Izsák will stare, studying his face expectantly, and then suddenly laugh and mutter, “Pay me no mind, sir.” He tells himself it’s just Izsák being his usual freaky self, but has he always been so strangely in tune with Derek? Did he always stand so close and act so concerned over every little thing? Fussing over him when he bangs his knee on a table, or after a particularly public breakup? It’s fucking weird. Derek tells him it’s weird, and Izsák just smiles peaceably and goes about his business.

Three days after the museum, Izsák is drinking tea at the kitchen table while Derek eats lunch. His father is out with Clarice and the house is blissfully quiet. Derek is texting Emilia, who is hysterical and wants to break up with him again over some new bullshit that Derek can’t remember and doesn’t care to figure out from the vague hints she’s dropping. He’s sure he can talk her into a night out and a quick fuck with the right combination of sweet talking and apology gifts. He wouldn’t bother, but his father chewed him out about how it looks when he brings a new girl to every social function. People notice, his father claimed, and people talk. Derek rolls his eyes just thinking about it. His father keeps a girlfriend for a few months and now he thinks he’s some kind of fucking expert on monogamy.

And then, out of nowhere, Izsák breaks him out of his thoughts. “Are you feeling restless, sir? I had something in mind, if you are interested.”

“Unless it’s something to get Emilia to calm the fuck down, I’m not interested,” Derek says. He only looks up from his phone when he hears the scrape of Izsák’s chair across the table and sees him coming closer. He stands behind Derek, rests a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to peer at the phone screen. His touch, light, weightless, totally innocent, makes Derek burn with desire.

“I see. She’s upset that you have taken other partners.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. Of course it’s that. Nobody can keep a goddamn secret anymore. He wonders which one of them couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Regina? Francine? Couldn’t have been Laney, because Laney...

Derek swallows hard at the thought, the memory. Standing here in the kitchen when Emilia called him sobbing, saying her two-faced bitch of a friend was comatose in the hospital. Car accident. She never woke up. Izsák had looked up from organizing his father’s day and watched as Derek took in the news. There was something knowing in his eyes, and Derek remembered suddenly how Izsák had uncorked a vial of chicken blood and flicked it after Laney.

There’s no way. Derek repeated that in his head like a mantra whenever he caught himself starting to believe it. The blood of a black-feathered hen. No fucking way. He looks over his shoulder at Izsák, at the eyes gazing back at him and awaiting—something. 

“You got a spell for this?” Derek says. He’s perturbed when Izsák smiles, like he’s delighted to be asked.

“Of course, sir,” he says. He retrieves his tea and strides quickly to the kitchen sink, dumping the rest of it down the drain. Derek watches him pluck the damp bag of herbs out of the cup, shaking the rest of the water out, and setting it on a plate. “You may watch if you’d like,” Izsák says.

“I don’t care,” Derek says. And he shouldn’t. But his gaze is drawn back when he sees Izsák pull a lighter from his pocket and flick it until a little wavering flame appears. It looks like he’s trying to light the tea bag on fire, but it’s too damp to catch. Some foul-smelling smoke sizzles to the ceiling. Izsák whispers something, not in English, and Derek just stares.

That’s when Emilia messages him back after a solid ten minutes of the silent treatment. She says she can’t stay mad at him and asks to meet up later that night. Derek stares at the text in disbelief, then looks up and finds Izsák standing there, watching him. Smiling.

“You may ask me questions, if you have any,” Izsák says. “I wonder if you remember this one.”

“Where exactly am I supposed to remember it from? I’ve never seen that shit before.” 

Izsák answers automatically, like he’s been waiting for this. “Csejte, 1578. I performed this spell for you for the first time.” 

Derek doesn’t know how to react, so he doesn’t. “You did not.” 

“I did,” Izsák insists.

“You fucking didn’t. That doesn’t make sense.” Izsák frowns, opening his mouth to disagree, but Derek gets up, leaves the table, and goes out to the pool to soak his feet and avoid whatever it is that’s happening. Izsák knows better than to pursue him and gives him space, but it’s too late. Derek is thinking about chicken blood. He’s thinking about headless girls encased in ice. Which is weird because he’s never seen that before, but something about the statue at the museum, about the things Izsák said, put a distinct image in his head. He’s hungry. He wants to taste somebody’s blood. He feels himself salivating when he remembers biting Izsák’s neck and he wants to feel skin give beneath his teeth.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to nobody. He kicks at the water until dusk, until his erection is gone and his father comes home with Clarice and Izsák is busy with other things so Derek can avoid his eyes and that look that knows too much.

*

Four days after the art museum, Derek wakes up and his dick is so hard it hurts. The dream snaps out of place and tries slipping away before he can remember it, but he holds tight to everything that’s left;

A castle. Stained glass windows. Stone archways. The snow-covered courtyard with its frozen women like grotesque, grasping trees. Long corridors and echoing screams. He stood eclipsed by flickering candlelight and writhing shadow, walking barefoot through puddles of blood. There were bodies dangling from the dungeon ceiling, hung from meathooks and impaled in iron cages. Slit throats. Dangling entrails. They wept and moaned above him, and their blood rained on his skin. These were his kills. He hunted them himself, hung them like trophies. He reveled in their pain. Silhouettes played across the walls, human and beastly shapes that grew and warped and twined together in obscene dance. Derek felt these shades watching, but he didn’t fear their gazes. There was no need to perform for them. 

And Izsák was there, smiling gently. He wore nothing. He was deathly pale, unmarked as though the blood couldn’t touch him. Derek was possessed by the need to dirty him. He reached desperately, his grasp leaving bruises, dragging Izsák through red rain and filth. He was tainted slowly, a splatter across his shoulder, a rivulet dripping down from his scalp. It fell in heavy clots in his lashes. Derek pressed him against the cold stone wall, his wandering hands smearing abstract shapes over Izsák’s skin, and then he licked it off of him with long, slow drags of his tongue.

It was so fucking stupid. He’d never do that in real life. But just thinking about it gets him even harder. Derek palms himself through silk pajama pants, shivering, leaning back against the headboard. He’d never be so tender and gentle. But in the dream, Izsák looked at him with this passion, this reverence, like Derek was God and that castle dungeon was their private, depraved heaven. It was so vivid. The musk of all that flesh and blood was heady and visceral. He slips his hand beneath the waistband of his clothes. It’s pathetic. Jacking off has never been so disappointing. He can see it when he closes his eyes, dreamlike and hazy; bodies and darkness. Izsák beneath him, his hands framing Derek’s face, his eyes glazed with wanting. He twists his palm around the head of his cock and imagines it’s Izsák doing it, Izsák between his legs and covered in blood.

It’s not the first time he’s fantasized about Izsák, but it was always different before. More impersonal. Izsák’s mouth around his cock. Izsák’s hips moving against his. The way Izsák’s back arches and his muscles all go taut while Derek fucks him raw over his father’s desk. But this is so much more heated and detailed. It’s not just the sensation or the view, it’s how Izsák looks at him, how he talks to him. It’s how he knows Derek in intimate and frightening ways, and doesn’t expect anything more of him.

In the dream, Izsák worshiped him. He got to his knees and the sight of Derek’s body, his apparent desire, the hard cock swollen against his abdomen, seemed to mesmerize him. He looked up at Derek as he pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, drool and precum on his lips. His tongue caressed Derek’s length from base to tip and his hands smoothed along his thighs. He moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating against Derek’s flesh as he suckled on the sensitive underside. He mumbled something, unwilling to pull away and cease pleasuring Derek for even a moment, but Derek understood somehow. He knew what he was trying to say; I’m yours.

Derek bites his lip so hard it bleeds, desperately fucking his fist. It’s too hot. He has to throw off the sheets and pull his pants down around his thighs but he’s still sweating, his head pounding. He still feels the stagnant dungeon air, the blood drying to his skin. He remembers the way Izsák bobbed his head, the hot slide of his lips and his tongue at the base of Derek’s cock when he started to deepthroat him. Izsák gagged and squirmed but he didn’t pull off, didn’t even try. Derek wasn’t holding him still because he didn’t have to. They didn’t speak to each other, but he understood in that moment the depths of Izsák’s devotion to him. He knew Izsák would do anything for him. Would kill for him. Would give his own blood, his own body, if it would satisfy Derek.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, panting. Izsák is too hot and wet and perfect around his cock. He thrusts deep, feels his balls slap Izsák’s chin and he grinds against the back of his throat, and Izsák chokes on a moan. His worship becomes even more fervent. His hands grip the back of Derek’s thighs, squeezing his ass, spurring him into more violent movements and keeping them locked together. He wants everything Derek has to give him. He accepts it all, the hunger and brutality, his every whim and desire. When Derek cums down his throat, Izsák gags on it, his hands tightening on Derek’s legs, but he stays. He looks up at Derek through hazy eyes and swallows obediently. He lets Derek soften in his throat, sucking gently as though to milk him of the last of his climax.

Derek lays there, dazed and confused, realizing he’s alone and his sheets are soiled. It takes time to catch his breath. He lies in his own mess, eyes closed. He’s still there, in the castle dungeon. The dreamfog begins to clear. He isn’t standing anymore. He’s reclining, encased in liquid warmth. When he moves his hands, red swirls around them. He licks it off his fingers. It’s hot, metallic, and sickly sweet. It’s so clear, so detailed and real, that Derek is startled to open his eyes to the dark ceiling of his own room again. 

Just a dream, he tells himself. His heart is still racing.

*

Five days after the art museum, Derek’s determination to ignore all the strangeness is shot. Pretending that everything is fine and he isn’t turning into a fucking vampire goes from a chore to a battle of epic proportions against his own body. He’s hungry all the time, his libido is out of control, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from sinking his teeth into anyone else. He takes Emilia out to see a movie and he can’t focus on anything but her neck. The way the light plays across it, the moving shadows, the outline of her muscles every time she swallows or laughs. He imagines himself biting her, his jaw clamping down on her throat like a wild animal. He tells her he has to use the bathroom halfway through and jacks off in a stall fantasizing about tasting her carotid artery.

Asking Izsák is out of the question. His pride won’t allow it. Izsák is already smug as fuck about all of this, sneaking up on Derek constantly and asking very pointed questions about how he’s feeling or whether he’s had enough to drink, all with that fucking smile on his face. He retreats to his room in his father’s house, blessed with a rare moment of privacy, and gets online. The tentative approach doesn’t get him far; a quick online diagnosis gives him two types of cancer. In desperation, he starts trying the things he’s heard Izsák casually mention, names he can’t remember right and places he can’t spell. 

Inevitably, he finds her. Frozen in time, she gazes back at him from her lofty position atop a webpage detailing her atrocities. One hand rests daintily upon a faded red tablecloth, the other holding an embroidered handkerchief. She isn’t smiling and there’s a weariness to her regality, a thinly veiled disdain in her eyes. Derek feels that he knows her, that he recognizes that quiet sneer. He’s seen it in the mirror before. A strange, twisting feeling knots up his stomach, and he doesn’t fully understand it, doesn’t know what all of this means, but he knows something has happened to him. Some change has taken root. 

He skims the page absently, the words washing over him both exhilarating and deeply familiar. Torture. Mutilation. Bloodbaths. The stories are fantastical, too incredible to be true, and yet there is no shortage of them. Derek searches further, needing to find her, needing to know exactly who she was. Elizabeth, Erzsébet, the Bloody Countess—no matter what she’s called, Derek finds kinship in the morbid details. Born into wealth and excess, thrust into the noble’s spotlight, and utterly disinterested in it all. She was on a quest for timelessness, to escape the mundane world. She performed as Derek does, marrying, attending to her courtly duties, wearing the mask of contented civility, but she also indulged and hunted, relishing in the viciousness of it all. Derek looks at her portrait with newfound emotion, something heavy yet freeing.

He almost isn’t surprised when Izsák speaks as though suddenly materialized behind his chair, “Your father sent me, sir. I am to prepare you for this evening.” Derek turns and examines Izsák, searching for things he hasn’t noticed before, or things he didn’t want to notice. His easy, eager submission. His smile. His eyes that know Derek, know what he wants, what he needs before Derek himself is even aware. Eyes that have seen centuries.

“Which one?” Derek asks. 

Izsák tilts his head, silently seeking clarification. He’s smiling very slightly. Did the Blood Countess see this same smile? Did it greet her before grand balls, assuring her of the safety of her secrets? Did it welcome her to the dungeon, her private sanctuary?

“She had accomplices,” Derek says. “Servants who helped her keep things quiet. Some of them were questioned at the trial.” He doesn’t clarify; doesn’t have to. Izsák listens patiently, his smile widening as though this is precisely what he’s been waiting for. How long has he waited? Derek wonders. How much longer was he willing to wait? “There was one man who helped her torture her victims, but the rest were women. One was her old wetnurse, and one was one of her personal servants. The other two were witches or something. Right?” Dorottya and Darvulia. He didn’t bother to learn the rest of the names, but he memorized those. One of them was important. One of them mattered more than all the rest.

Izsák hums thoughtfully. “That is what many people say, yes.” 

Derek stands up and hits him. It’s sudden, impulsive, happening so quickly that he doesn’t realize he’s done it until his hand starts to sting. Izsák touches his reddened cheek with soft, uncertain strokes, as though he’s just as surprised. The way he looks at Derek is wrong. Not disdain. Not disappointment. Elation. The joy of a long-awaited reunion.

“Which one are you?” Derek asks.

Just like in the dream, Izsák sinks to his knees before Derek. The movement is slow and graceful, as though he’s done it a thousand times before. He takes one of Derek’s hands in his and holds it as though it’s something precious. “I am the one who did not betray you,” he says, pressing his lips to the back of Derek’s hand. The gesture is gentle and intimate, stirring something violent within him. He wants to hurt Izsák. He wants to dirty him. He wants to thank him for coming back after all this time, saving him from suffocating in his own constant performance, but he only knows how to lie about gratitude, not show it for real.

The one who didn’t betray him. Derek turns the words over in his mind to admire like precious stones. He remembers—did he read it somewhere, or does the knowledge come from somewhere else?—that the countess’ servants were called to stand trial. Each one confessed to the atrocities, the beatings, the bloodletting. The man. The wetnurse. The servant. Even Dorottya broke her vow of silence and servitude to testify against her mistress. They all betrayed her.

All but loyal Darvulia, her devotion unending. She wasn’t there that day. Already dead, some stories say. It doesn’t matter. Derek knows what became of her now. He threads his fingers through Izsák’s hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admits. “I don’t get how it works. But I believe you. I see pictures of her, and I know we’re the same.” 

Izsák nuzzles against Derek’s palm like an animal, a pet seeking affection. It’s intoxicating, the power he holds, the total submission Izsák gives him, unchanged by the centuries. It feels right. It makes sense the way a dream does in the midst of it. “I couldn’t save you,” Izsák murmurs. “I was not strong enough then. This time will be different.” 

Derek is too caught up in the thick need in Izsák’s voice, the curve of his spine as he leans into Derek’s touch, to understand the words right away. “Save me from what?” he asks, but Izsák is already standing, stepping away from him. Derek isn’t done with him. He yanks him back by the forearm and bites him without warning, leaving the shape of his teeth in his earlobe. “Save. Me. From. What,” Derek growls, each word punctuated with a nip to Izsák’s delicate skin. He bruises so easily. 

“From your family,” Izsák gasps. He holds onto Derek, moves against him shamelessly. Derek feels how hard Izsák is and smirks against the fluttering flesh of his throat. He slides his thigh between Izsák’s legs, giving him the privilege of rutting against it. Izsák is so needy, so desperate to serve and explain as he chases his own pleasure, his words coming in breathless pants and whines. “Just as it was before, your own blood plots against you. Your father, he—oh, sir, please!” 

Derek can’t pay attention to whatever Izsák is trying to tell him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is more important right now than getting inside of Izsák and tasting him. “On the bed,” he demands, and Izsák obeys without question. They’re all over each other. Derek savors the roaming worship of Izsák’s hands down his biceps and across his chest. It feels good. It feels right. He can’t get undressed fast enough, still shedding clothes as he nips and licks at Izsák’s tempting neck, and Izsák is so good and obedient, turning his head to give Derek better access. “You really are mine,” Derek says.

“All yours, sir,” Izsák says. Derek has barely touched him and he looks blissed out already, eyes glazed, a delirious smile on his face as though just being in Derek’s presence is the greatest of pleasures. He unbuttons his shirt further, exposing a tantalizing flash of his collarbones and old, faded marks Derek left days ago. “Take me. Drink from me. Do with me whatever pleases you.” Izsák’s nails sink into his shoulders as he pulls himself up enough to whisper against Derek’s ear, “Please, master. I’ve waited for you.” 

The final, worn string of Derek’s self-control snaps. He bites into Izsák like he’s meat. He hears skin and tissue give beneath his teeth, splitting, squelching open, tastes the tangy burst of Izsák’s lifeblood on his tongue. He ruts against Izsák’s hard, twitching cock, trapped between their bodies, and Izsák’s head falls back in ecstasy. Derek sucks at the wound and tastes Izsák’s tenderness, the sharp sweetness of him. It’s so good, so right and familiar. Izsák was born for this, born for him. He would never belong to anyone the way he belonged to Derek, would never know anyone as deeply, would never want anyone as wholly. Somehow, arched and gasping, Izsák moves himself, grinds slowly against Derek’s achingly hard cock. He reaches between them and guides Derek to his twitching, anticipating hole. Derek slams inside of his welcoming, tight heat and his eyes roll back in his head. Nothing has ever felt so good.

“You’re mine. My loyal little toy. My cockslut,” Derek hisses, unclamping his jaws from Izsák’s neck just to find a new, fresh spot to taste. Izsák shudders around him, beneath him. His legs open wider. Derek hooks Izsák’s ankles over his shoulders and bends him in half. It’s new, doing it like this. He’s fucked Izsák while looking at him a couple times but never staring like this, never pressed chest to chest and sharing breath. Izsák’s lips are right there and he moves without thinking, swooping in, crushing their mouths together. So soft and tender. His teeth crunch through Izsák’s lower lip and blood gushes into his mouth, heady and intoxicating. “Can’t get enough of you,” he moans into Izsák’s mouth.

Izsák’s nails rake down his back hard enough to draw blood. Derek lets him. It’s better that way, more raw, more wonderful. He pulls back to admire the blood and saliva smeared across Izsák’s lips, dripping down his chin. It feels like the desert in his room, the heat, the intensity, a soft body surrendering beneath him. He slams his cock into Izsák’s helpless body over and over again, relishing the sensations, the sounds, the desperate raggedness of Izsák’s breathing. He crushes Izsák against the bed and this time he kisses him. He should’ve done it earlier. Izsák’s mouth is so hot, so soft and slutty and wanting him. He sucks on Izsák’s tongue as he fucks him into the mattress, hips pistoning, cock drilling into his pliant, shaking body.

Izsák has been wanton and shameless before, but this is more than that. This is devotion, Derek thinks. This is what he’s always deserved. Izsák’s thighs quiver as Derek pounds into him, so hard and fast his own legs are straining but he can’t bring himself to stop. The pleasure is blinding, a liquid heat in the pit of his stomach. He’s kissing Izsák in filthy, hungry ways that he’s never done with any of his girlfriends, licking into him, tangling their tongues together, sucking on the bite he left for every bead of blood that bubbles to the surface. He’s going to cum. He’s going to claim Izsák so thoroughly, so completely, that he’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. He’ll worship Derek’s cock just like this with his whole body. He’ll beg for it. He’ll beg for a chance to suck his dick under the table at dinner parties. He’ll thank Derek when he cums down his throat and swallow every drop.

Izsák is his. He might be Derek’s father’s assistant on paper, he might spread his legs for him sometimes, but he’s Derek’s. He’s been Derek’s across centuries, across continents. He’s come all this way just to get on his knees before Derek, where he belongs. Derek squeezes Izsák’s ass, digs his nails in. This is mine, he thinks. This body, this mind, this entire being. He stops kissing Izsák to nose against the other side of his neck, licking and teasing the unbroken skin.

Derek smirks against Izsák’s hammering pulse. He’s close. He’s going to cum. He fucks Izsák deep, grinds against him, feels his balls roll over Izsák’s smooth skin. “Beg me to bite you,” he purrs. 

Izsák clings even more tightly, begs even more sweetly. “Please, give me your bite,” Izsák cries for him. “I need it. I was born to receive it. Please use me, make me yours. I should always belong to you, master.” 

Derek cums hard, buried deep inside of Izsák. Everything whites out, sight and sound and understanding consumed by orgasm. There’s a sharp stinging sensation somewhere on his body, a pain that crests with the pleasure, intermingled too tightly to process on its own. Izsák writhes and whimpers through his own orgasm, his own cum splattering across his chest and Derek fills him. It feels like the aftershocks last forever, heat rushing through him, waves and pulses.

Derek is trembling when he pulls out of Izsák, watching Izsák’s hole clench obscenely around emptiness as cum leaks out of him. Neither of them speaks for some time, basking in the completion of it all. Derek feels the world swaying as though he’s riding a metronome, the call of sleep smothering and irresistible. He can’t believe how hard he came. There’s still blood on his mouth and he licks his lips, humming at the taste. He feels someone touch him; Izsák, gentle and reverent. Tracing his muscles. Caressing his chest. He doesn’t cuddle, but when he’s this tired, teetering on the edge of oblivion, he can’t complain.

He wonders if they did this before. If Countess Bathory laid with sweet, loyal Darvulia, cuddled like lovers. Just this once, he thinks, he’ll let Izsák get away with it. For old times’ sake.

*

—murmurs. Someone calling him. Calling his name. Softly and distantly, then loud. Close. Not Izsák. Not respectful enough.

“Derek. Get up.” 

A rustling sound, the scrape of curtains rising. Blinding, burning light assaults Derek’s eyes and he groans, rolling over. God, what time is it? Sleep clings stubbornly to his mind, clouding his thoughts. He’s sore, mostly in his legs and back. Right, it’s coming back to him. He and Izsák fucked last night. Izsák, Darvulia, hundred year old Hungarian witch, whatever. It was some of the best sex of his life. But usually, it’d be Izsák who comes and gets him in the morning, so why is his father here, looming over Derek’s bed and refusing to leave? 

“What?” he says, groggy. His father is frowning in that tense, disappointed way that turns Derek’s stomach. He sees it directed at other people mostly, former business partners, overambitious rivals, people who really, really fuck up. Derek’s mouth goes dry. “What?” he says again, struggling to sit up straight. What happened? What did he do? He can’t be mad about Izsák, right, it’s not like they were being subtle. Did he forget something?

Derek looks at the window and fuck, it’s late,he must’ve slept through an event he was supposed to go to or some shit. He rubs his eyes, pushing himself to remember. He thinks, maybe, there was some kind of afternoon social he was supposed to make an appearance at, but the details are foggy. Why is his head pounding like that? It’s like having a hangover. He feels like he slept for decades.

His father paces halfway across the room. Derek follows the movement with his eyes and spots something at the foot of the bed. Is that blood? Dirt? Some kind of ugly stain on the sheets. They really got carried away last night, he thinks, but then he sees an arm.

Just an arm. 

Not Izsák’s. He’s not sure why his mind goes there immediately, but it’s not, he knows it isn’t. Izsák doesn’t wear flaking pink nail enamel with glitter. He just knows there’s a severed human arm on his bed and a bunch of stains around it. Definitely dried blood, but there’s dirt, too, like someone dug up a grave, and.

That’s cum. That’s definitely a cum stain. Derek’s eyes slowly trail up to meet his father’s. His father looks down at him and doesn’t say a word. Derek swallows hard and tries to think of something, anything, that he can say. Nothing comes to mind.

“I’ve had concerns,” his father says. Derek can barely hold his gaze. That judgment, that cold scrutiny—he works tirelessly to escape it, to put on the most convincing performance he can. “You don’t know the first thing about discretion. That’s one thing. It’s another that you think I’ll clean up all of your messes for you.” 

Derek glances at the arm, sprawled grotesquely over his sheets. “I don’t know what that is,” he says hoarsely. Obviously he knows what it is, but he doesn’t know how it got there.

“I’ve been lenient,” his father goes on, as if Derek never spoke. “Too lenient. I’ve turned a blind eye to most of your deviancy. But this? This crosses the line. I should have listened to Izsák sooner.”

Derek’s blood goes cold in his veins. “What does that mean?” he demands. His father turns his back on him. Derek throws himself out of bed, rushing after him. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

“It means you’re cut off,” his father says. He doesn’t even look at him when he speaks. “I want your things out of here by tonight, but don’t go too far. The police want to speak with you. Something about graverobbing and desecration of a corpse.” 

Derek stands there numbly, watching his father walk out and the door slam shut behind him. No. He didn’t do it. He didn’t do any of this. He looks back at the arm hatefully. What the fuck is it doing there, ruining his life? Heat rises to his face, shame, humiliation. Maybe he was getting a little arrogant, brazenly packing his bags for his desert outings, leaving things lying around in plain sight, but it was always so easy to explain away. He’s good at his performance. No one suspected anything. If he’s going to get caught, it’s not going to be for some bullshit he didn’t even do. He wipes angry, helpless tears out of his eyes and storms downstairs. Izsák. He needs to find Izsák.

He runs into other housekeepers who pale and dart out of his way. Derek ignores them. He doesn’t care about any of them, his gaze lingering only if they’re the right height, wearing the right uniform. No sign of Izsák in any of the usual places. No one in the kitchen. Not a soul out by the pool. He scares a gardener when he comes storming through but finds nobody else. His father has retreated elsewhere in the house and Derek finds his office abandoned, paperwork strewn across his desk. Derek sees several financial forms and summaries, land deeds, company assets, stocks and bonds. A copy of his father’s will sits in the corner and Derek’s heart stops.

Under the section for inheritors, his name isn’t listed. Neither are any of his siblings or cousins. Not even Clarice shows up anywhere. But one name does appear, getting absolutely everything his father could possibly leave behind.

Izsák Varga.

There is one moment of silence. A lack of comprehension. Derek reads the name several times before it makes sense. Then comes the storm building, the fire and venom churning inside of him, a tight, clenching pain in his chest. Disbelief. Bitter humor. A hatred so powerful it makes him lightheaded and hot in the face. He goes through the stages of grief in the span of a millisecond, mourning something he didn’t realize he even wanted, and a crazed smile stretches across his face.

Calmly and quietly, he goes upstairs and begins going through his things. He shoves his dresser out of the way and pushes aside a false wall panel concealing a large, musty-smelling duffel bag. He unzips it, checks the contents. Grains of sand trickle from an open compartment. Good. Everything he needs. He’s angry. He can’t remember the last time he was this angry, his hands shaking, his whole body seeming to vibrate with the need to stab and strangle. But there’s an excited edge to it, the sort of anticipation that comes with his vacations.

I’m going to fucking kill him, he thinks. I’m going to make him beg for death.

He’s smiling too big, too honestly. He feels giddy and he can’t hide it. A woman dusting in the hall gives him a wide berth when he passes, plastering herself against the wall. He’s a predator passing, a wolf with better things to do and bigger prey in mind. He licks his lips. His mask fails him. He doesn’t even try to pretend anymore.

[cardest]

London playlist

London - since 43 AD it has to be one of the more fascinating cities on Earth. Such a rich history. From Shakespeare Theatre to the music from there today. I just had to put a London playlist together. From Soho to Brixton, from Highgate to Clapham  what a collection of songs! It’s over 350 songs and it could easily expand to 400. **I have a separate England & Wales playlist coming, so, stay tuned for that**.

To play the songs, hit the link right here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC1_ntP663JhZl-hvn9EwFp9L

ENGLAND & WALES playlist is coming soon! What songs have I left out? Let me know! Add your own songs! Cheers. Pip pip, tally ho!

LONDON 001 Generation X -  Day By Day 002 The Clash - London Calling 003 Austin Powers  - theme song (Soul Bossa? Nova ) 004 The Kinks - Dedicated Follower Of Fashion 005 Killing Joke - Empire Song 006 Black Sabbath - Wicked World 007 The Who - Welcome 008 The Damned - Neat, neat, neat 009 GIRLSCHOOL - LONDON 010 007 theme song 011 Motorhead - Motorhead 012 Wire - Ex Lion Tamer 013 David Bowie - Maid of Bond Street 014 The Misfits - London Dungeon 015 Rolling Stones - 016 The Adverts - Bored Teenagers 017 Siouxsie & The Banshees -  Spellbound 018 Penny Dreadful - Soundtrack - Main Theme 019 Eurythmics - Love Is A Stranger 020 The Cure - Subway Song 021 Adam And The Ants -  Puss 'n' Boots 022 Iron Maiden - 22 Acacia Avenue 023 COIL - Fire of the mind 024 Public Image Ltd - One Drop. 025 LUSH - Breeze 026 Bliss Signal - Surge 027 The Pogues - Misty Morning, Albert Bridge 028 PhD - Won't Let You Down 029 Birthday Party - Hats On Wrong 030 Eddy Grant - Electric Avenue 031 Help Yourself - Reaffirmation 032 Grave Miasma - Gnosis of the summon 033 Roy Ayers - We Live In London Baby 034 Led Zeppelin - The Rover 035 Gang of Four - What we all want 036 Pet Shop Boys - West End Girl                 037 Sleaford Mods - 6 Horsemen (The Brixtons) 038 Paul Young - Love of the Common People 039 The Saint (original) - Theme 040 The Human League - Dont You Want Me 041 Sex Pistols - God Save The Queen 042 The Beatles - A Day In The Life 043 Def Leppard -  Love bites 044 The Stranglers - Another Camden Afternoon 045 The Kinks  - See My Friends 046 Elton John - Bennie and the Jets 047 Suede - Moving 048 Queen - Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy 049 Cliff Richard & the Shadows - She's Gone 050 The Rolling Stones - Start Me Up 051 Loop - Fade Out 052 Jah Wobble's Invaders Of The Heart - A13 053 The Magnetic Fields - All the Umbrellas in London 054 Wendy Carlos - Title Music From A Clockwork Orange (From Purcell's Music For The Funeral Of Queen Mary) 055 The Police - Every Little Thing she does it Magic 056 Cockney Rejects - The Greatest Cockney Rip Off 057 Spandau Ballet - Spandau Ballet Chant No.1 058 The Pretenders - Middle of the Road 059 The Who - Dogs 060 The Jam - London Girl 061 Cradle of Filth - Hurt and Virtue 062 Joy Division - Isolation 063 Nick Drake - At the Chime of a City Clock 064 Sham 69 - Cockney Kids Are Innocent 065 Deep Purple - Mandrake Root 066 Throbbing Gristle - Hit by a rock 067 David Bowie - Rubber Band 068 Roxy Music  - Do The Strand 069 Slaves - Cheer Up London 070 T. Rex - London Boys 071 Kirsty MacColl - Autumngirlsoup 072 New Model Army - Archway Towers 073 Scorpions - Lovedrive 074 Isaac Hayes - Doesnt Rain In London 075 Peter Tosh - Buk-In-Hamm Palace 076 The Slits - Typical Girls 077 Pharaoh Sanders - Midnight In Berkeley Square (Instrumental) 078 Blue Cheer - Girl From London 079 Sex Pistols - Satellite 080 Judas Priest - (The Hellion ) Electric Eye 081 UFO -  Lights Out 082 Joy Division - Digital 083 Muse - Uprising 084 George Harrison - All Things Must Pass 085 Robert Palmer - Addicted To Love 086 Fine Young Cannibals - Blue 087 New Order - Blue Monday 088 Würzel - Midnight In London 089 Rod Stewart - Gasoline Alley 090 The Wildhearts - Down On London 091 Supertramp - Nothing To Show 092 Motörhead - Metropolis 093 Current 93 - Lucifer Over London 094 The Pogues - Dark Streets of London 095 The Cult - All Souls Avenue 096 The Jam - In The City 097 The Undertones - Teenage Kicks 098 Iggy Pop -  Play It Safe 099 Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Jack the Ripper 100 The Cure  - Lets Go To Bed 101 Suede - Animal Nitrate 102 Wire - field day for the sundays 103 Black Books  TV Show - Opening Theme 104 Paul McCartney & Wings - London Town 105 Madness - Primrose Hill 106 The Troggs  - No. 10 Downing Street 107 Iron Maiden -  Gangland 108 PJ Harvey - The Last Living Rose 109 The Rollers - Soho 110 Electric Wizard - Lucifer's Slaves 111 The Buzzcocks -  Just Lust 112 Doctor Who Theme Tune 1980 113 Cathedral - Fountain Of Innocence 114 Pretenders - Swinging London 115 Hanoi Rocks - Tooting Bec Wreck 116 Es - 'Chemical 117 Bee Gees  - Trafalgar 118 The Peddlers    - Under London Lights 119 Cliff Richard - The Young Ones 120 Big Audio Dynamite - Sightsee M.C   121 ABC - Tower of London 122 Accept - London Leatherboys 123 Pitchshifter - Please Sir 124 Portishead -  We Carry On 125 John Lennon - Whatever Gets You Thru The Night 126 The Lurkers - Ain't Got a Clue 127 Iron Maiden - Die with your boots on 128 Siouxsie and the Banshees - Kiss Them For Me 129 Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - From Her to Eternity 130 The Jam - London Traffic 131 The Cranberries - Waiting In Walthamstow 132 The Kinks - Victoria 133 Heads Hands & Feet - Pete Might Spook The Horses 134 Whitesnake -  Long Way From Home 135 Queensryche - London 136 Concrete Blonde - Walking in London 137 Deep Purple - Fireball 138 The Ruts - dope for guns 139 Wham! - Bad Boys 140 Generation X - One Hundred Punks 141 Joe Jackson - Down To London 142 Anti-Nowhere League - Streets of London 143 The Wildhearts - Shandy Bang 144 David Bowie - The London Boys 145 The Human League - Human 146 Cockney Rejects - East end 147 Dire Straits - Eastbound Train 148 Ian Drury - Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick 149 Sepultura -  Filthy rot 150 The Jam - Down In The Tube Station At Midnight 151 Fine Young Cannibals - She Drives Me Crazy 152 Purson -  Electric Landlady 153 Black Sabbath -  Tomorrow's Dream 154 The Clash - Guns of Brixton 155 Blood Ceremony - Lord Of Misrule 156 Monty Pythons The Meaning of Life - Penis Song 157 Gentlemans Pistols -  Hustler's Row 158 Frankie Goes To Hollywood - Relax 159 Jethro Tull - Cross Eyed Mary 160 The Yobs - The Ballad of the Warrington 161 Cradle of Filth - Principle Of Evil Made Flesh 162 Bruce Hornsby - The Black Rats Of London 163 Inspiral Carpets - How It Should Be 164 The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Foxy Lady 165 PETULA CLARK - WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL 166 Lush - Olympia 167 Hunters & Collectors - Blind Eye 168 Thompson Twins - Hold Me Now 169 David Bowie - The Man Who Sold the World 170 UK Subs - C.I.D. 171 Queen - Dont Stop Me Now 172 Bruce Dickinson - Accident of Birth 173 the clash - capital radio one 174 UB40 - Here I Am (Come And Take Me) 175 The Meads Of Asphodel - Guts For Sale 176 Horrible Histories: Savage Songs - Boudicca 177 Swallow the Sun - Labyrinth Of London (Horror Pt. IV) 178 Mad Professor  - Ben Gone Wrong 179 Howard Jones - Things Can Only Get Better 180 Genesis - The Battle Of Epping Forest 181 The Damned -  problem child 182 Squeeze  - Cool For Cats 183 Manfred Mann - Belgravia 184 The Bee Gees - Walking Back to Waterloo 185 Pink Floyd - Waiting For The Worms 186 Madness - Victoria Gardens 187 Paradise Lost - Soul Courageons 188 YES  - Roundabout 189 PJ Harvey - This Is Love 190 The Horrors - Jack The Ripper 191 King Crimson - Red 192 The Smiths - How Soon Is Now 193 Level 42 - Heathrow 194 Intaferon - Get Out Of London 195 Burt Bacharach - Bond street 196 David Bowie - Ziggy Stardust 197 The Clash - Londons Burning 198 Killing Joke - Follow The Leaders 199 Saxon - The Court of the Crimson King 200 Buzzcocks - Harmony in My Head 201 Fairport Convention - Fiddlesticks (Peel Session) 202 Napalm Death - Errors In The Signals 203 Empire  - Hot Seat 204 Anathema - Shroud of Frost 205 Pitchshifter - Condescension 206 The Beatles - Hey Jude 207 Affinity - Highgate 208 KLF - 3 A.M. Eternal (Pure Trance) 209 Warren Zevon - Werewolves of London 210 David Axelrod - London 211 The Wombles - Wellington Goes To Waterloo 212 EastEnders Theme 213 Cathedral - Hypnos 164 214 Tom Jones - It's Not Unusual 215 Alan Moore with Tim Perkins - The Highbury Working A Beat Seance 216 Transvision Vamp - Sex Kick 217 Elton John - Tell Me When The Whistle Blows 218 Firebird - Bow bells 219 The Jam - A' Bomb In Wardour Street 220 Caravan  - Waterloo Lily 221 Lord Sutch & Heavy Friends - Flashing Lights 222 David Bowie - Oh! You Pretty Things 223 Hot Chocolate - West End of Park Lane 224 Thames television ident 1984 225 Newtown Neurotics - Living With Unemployment 226 Peter Murphy - Cuts You Up 227 Suede - Metal Mickey 228 Peter Gabriel - Sledgehammer 229 Killing Joke - The Gathering 230 Rolling Stones - You Can't Always Get What You Want 231 Kate Bush - Babooshka 232 Iron Maiden - The Prophecy 233 The Cure - Disintegration 234 The Damned - I Just Can't Be Happy Today 235 WIRE - Silk Skin Paws 236 Brian Eno - Here Come The Warm Jets 237 Souixee & the Banshees - Cascade 238 Jethro Tull - Jeffrey Goes to Leicester Square 239 AC/DC -  Rising Power 240 Alternative TV - Life After Life 241 Napalm Death - Deceiver (Peel Sessions) 242 Electric Light Orchestra - Last Train To London 243 Bucks Fizz - London Town 244 The Sweet - Blockbuster! 245 999 - Bent Cross 246 The Groundhogs - Split, Pt. 1 247 Bow Wow Wow - Go Wild in the Country 248 Blood Ceremony -  Half Moon Street 249 Ming Tea feat. Austin Powers - BBC One 250 Led Zeppelin - Immigrant Song 251 Big Audio Dynamite - EMC2 252 Crass - Banned from the Roxy 253 Sleaford Mods - Chaos Down In SoHo 254 Big Ben Chimes of Westminster, London 255 PJ Harvey - A Place Called Home 256 The Ruts - Staring at the rude boys 257 The Times - Whatever Happened To Thames Beat 258 Quincy Jones - London Derriere 259 Lush - Hypocrite 260 PIL - Reggie Song 261 The Style Council - You're The Best Thing 262 UK Subs - Dirty Girls 263 COIL - Slur 264 Frank Zappa - Dead girls of London 265 Iron Maiden - Prowler 266 The Slits - Difficult Fun 267 Killing Joke -  Kings and Queens 268 Simple Minds - Chelsea Girl 269 Motorhead - Bomber 270 XTC - Towers Of London 271 Blitzkrieg  - Hell to pay 272 Gryphon - Opening Move 273 The Challengers - The Streets of London 274 Peggy March - In Der Carnaby Street 275 The Damned - Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde 276 The Pogues - London You're a Lady 277 The Lords Of The New Church - Portobello 278 Rolling Stones - Hot Stuff 279 Joe Jackson - The Evil Eye 280 The Deviants - Garbage 281 Benny Hill Show  - Wild Women 282 Suzi Quatro - Crash 283 Madness - day on the town 284 SHAKESPEAR'S SISTER -  I Don't Care 285 Whitesnake - Wine Women An Song 286 Pink Floyd - Astronomy Domine 287 Rick Astley - Whenever You Need Somebody 288 Bauhaus - In the flat field 289 Dead Can Dance - In Power We Entrust The Love Advocated 290 Paul McCartney -  Old Siam, Sir 291 Lush - De-Luxe 292 AC/DC - let's get it up 293 Sophia Loren & Peter Sellers - Bangers and mash 294 Black Sabbath - Childfren of the grave 295 Psychic TV - The orchids 296 Miracle - The Strife Of Love In A Dream 297 Carter USM - Lean On Me I Won't Fall Over 298 Screaming Lord Sutch - Jack the Ripper 299 WIRE - the 15th 300 Mott the Hoople - Honaloochie Boogie 301 Soft Machine - The Camden Tandem 302 Are You Being Served Theme 303 CATHEDRAL - Serpent Eve 304 Booker T. & The MG's - Carnaby Street 305 Culture Club - It's A Miracle 306 Motorhead - Nothing Up My Sleeve 307 Killing Joke - Money is not our God 308 Bronski Beat - Smalltown Boy 309 WIRE - Please take 310 Bananarama - Hey young London 311 The Jam - Carnaby Street 312 Catapilla - Charing Cross   313 The Shadows - Chelsea Boot 314 Ride - Chelsea Girl 315 The Damned  - Grimly Fiendish 316 Marillion - Chelsea Monday 317 Slowdive - Celia's Dream 318 The Clash - Gates of the west 319 Thin Lizzy - Half Caste 320 David Bowie -  I dig everything 321  VUUR - Days Go By - London 322 Elvis Costello - [I Don't Want To Go To] Chelsea 323 Uriah Heep - Walking in your shadow 324 Genesis - Invisible Touch 325 Amy Winehouse - Me & Mr Jones 326 Curve - Fait Accompli   327 Silverfish ‎- Crazy 328 Iron Maiden - Killers 329 Killing Joke -  Ghost Of Ladbroke Grove 330 Sex Pistols - Anarchy In The UK 331 Paradise lost - remembrance 332 The Fall - Leave the Capitol 333 The Kinks - Waterloo Sunset 334 WIRE - Keep exhaling 335 The Peddlers - raining in London 336 Motorhead - damage case 337 10cc - Shock On The Tube (Don't Want Love) 338 Swervedriver - Rave Down 339 Spike Milligan - Tower Bridge 340 Phil Lynott - Solo In Soho 341 Adam and the Ants - Plastic Surgery 342 The Who - Pinball wizard 343 Pulp - Mile end 344 Generation X - Running with the Boss Sound 345 OMD - If You Leave 346 PiL - Public Image 347 Monty Python's Flying Circus TV show - theme song 348 Hall & Oates - London, Luck & Love 349 The Horrors - Three decades 350 Cathedral - Midnight Mountain 351 Killing Joke - glitch 352 Judas Priest - The Ripper 353 Air Raid Siren London Blitz 354 Dragonforce - Fury and the storm 355 Elastica - Connection 356 the Psychedelic Furs - Dumb waiters 357 Samantha Fox - Touch me 358 Wang Chung - Dance hall days 359 Kim Wilde - Water on glass 360 Siouxsie and the Banshees - Overground 361 Atomic Rooster - Tomorrow night 362 Fleetwood Mac - My Heart Beat Like a Hammer 363 Rainbow - Self Portrait 364 Billy Ocean - Love really hurts without you 365 Art of Noise - Beat box (division one) 366 Eurythmics - Never Gonna Cry Again 367 Samson - Grime Crime 368 Go West - we close our eyes 369 Ultravox - Saturday Night In The City Of The Dead 370 King Crimson - 21st Century Schizoid Man 371 Visage - Visage 372 Sandy Denny - Let's Jump The Broomstick 373 Brian Eno - Burning Airlines Give You So Much More 374 Fields Of The Nephilim - Blue water 375 Leftfield - Open Up 376 Blancmange - I've Seen The Word 377 Thomas Dolby - Flying north 378 Sisters of Mercy - Temple of love 379 Royal Orchestra - Royal Entrance Queen Elizabeth II 380 Pink Floyd - Goodbye blue sky 666 David Bowie -  London Bye Ta - Ta 

Play the songs here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC1_ntP663JhZl-hvn9EwFp9L

[serzhantkris]

Hands All Over (XI)

Summary: Zhi Zi Zhi Shou, Yu Zi Xie Lao: To hold hands and grow old together.

Thirteen times Matt Murdock touched your hand- and the one time he didn’t couldn’t. A drabble series.

A/N: So, I decided I wasn’t done. Sue me? Also, formatting cause I’m on mobile.

It’s raining. Not heavily, not the trodden downpour that turns the earth to mud and churns the smell of decay and soil, so thick, so palpable he can taste it. It’s light, the drops pattering the umbrella in Y/N’s hand to the tune of a church hymn. A funeral march played on the world’s quietest piano.

He thanks God for every sharp breath she inhales, stopping the tears that might fall. He can smell them, such a different tune to the rain, and he thanks God when a small hand grips his sleeve and tugs.

Turning, unseeing but knowing, he squats just enough to get a good grip under the small armpits of the boy, his sniffles a thunderstorm in Matt’s ear, and Matt would give anything for some sunshine. Jackson is getting heavier, taller, every day- more and more a child than a toddler each time Matt hefts him into his arms.

“When’s Grandma coming back?”

Matt hears her breath still from his left and clears his throat. One hand rests on the back of Jack’s neck, letting the boy’s temple press gently against Matt’s collarbone. The other arm holds the three year old against him, and Matt subconsciously listens to the patter of his son’s heart.

“I’m afraid she’s not,” Matt says, careful, his voice low. He doesn’t want to break the quiet, to disrupt the rain’s symphony. “But we’ll always have a part of her with us. Right here,” he taps Jackson’s small chest, right over his heart, and the boy curls his hand around Matt’s finger.

“Is she in Heaven?”

The thrum of the rain has picked up, drops rolling off the vinyl and landing heavy on the ground around them. Her shoulder bumps into Matt’s, so close as the three of them are, crowded under the umbrella. He doesn’t feel the rain (but it smells sweet, almost as sweet as the perfume dotted on her wrist) but he does feel the soft dampness on his collar, the tears of a child experiencing his first death, and it makes the cotton shirt itch.

“I think so,” he says, voice hushed, a sound only for his son. As quiet as the rain.

“Can we visit?”

A dry chuckle and the subtle shake of his head. “No, Jack. I’m sorry.”

A sigh, too heavy to come from such a small child, and Jack wiggles in his father’s arms. Matt swallows, his throat sore.

Attention shifts when he feels the tips of her fingers brush the back of his hand. A subconscious move on her part, but she doesn’t move away either.

“Matthew?”

He catches his breath when she says his name- the name she gave him- and shifts Jackson in his arms. Her fingers stroke his knuckles, slip between his until her cold palm presses against his.

“I’m okay,” he says, not waiting for her to ask, not waiting for anyone to point out that he hasn’t shed any tears, that he’s still clenching his jaw and, Matthew, did you realize the service ended a half hour ago?

Her hand squeezes his, fingers laced between each of his, thumb brushing his skin. Matt takes a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs, feels a tear slip out from under the red tinted glasses. His eyes close, trying to stop whatever is happening from happening- and he listens as she shifts, awkwardly tucking the umbrella handle into her armpit, the umbrella shifting at just the right angle that a few drops of rain kiss the stubble on his jaw. The thumb of her now-free hand skims over the damp spot on his skin, whisking up the teardrop, and he lets the breath seep slowly out of his lungs.

The umbrella shifts again as she takes it back into her hand. He waits, resting his cheek against the top of Jackson’s head, eyes still closed, breaths still short and ragged, until he can squeeze her hand back.

“I’m ready,” Matt says, and she tugs on the hand still clinging to his, guiding him home.

[tardisbadwolfrose]

For the character thing, please do Rose Tyler

Ooo thats fun. I was not expecting a doctor who character. Ok. Lets go.

Why I like them: part of it is just because she was my first companion. I fell in love with Doctor Who through her. But also, theres something to be said for a perfectly normal, ordinary person with flaws and who probably doesnt think much of themselves, who is young and naive and loving, who ends up doing extraordinary things without some preternatural destiny guiding them. The only other companion who really hit on that was Bill. Donna had a bit, but there were elements of s4 that implied that it was all some sort of prophecy coming together. The DoctorDonna and all that. Rose really was so ordinary. Even Bad Wolf was born of something so ordinary, so human, this intense love and desire to protect. Rose was, in so many ways, such a perfect first companion, because from the beginning shes such an every girl. And she has so much compassion for so many. Everytime she interacts with people, especially people who work for other people, she treats them like people and like equals. Theres the mechanic in "the end of the world," gwenyth, etc. I just... Ugh. I love her. Bills still my fave, but rose is a VERY close second.

Why I don't like them: her selfishness. I dont know if its really that I dont like her because of it, because I like that she has a real, human flaw, and its a real reason that people might dislike them. It means shes well written, and feels real and human. But it still bugs me. Especially in s1, but even in parts of s2. She treats Mickey and her mother with this dissmissiveness, which is very immature. Like she thinks they only exist when shes around. She gets called on it though, and pretty early on. She never fixes it fully, especially where Jackie is concerned, but she makes an effort. But you can especially see it in school reunion, with her jealousy of sarah jane. She has a problem with the people she loves fully having lives outside of her, especially when those lives seem like a threat to the one shes creating.

Favorite Episode: the Parting of ways, fear her, turn left, or stolen earth/journeys end. Aka, im a simple girl with simple pleasures, and those pleasures are rose being a badass/saving the day. Special mention for the idiot lantern bc i must have watched it 20 times and they give me LIFE the doctor and rose in that episode.

Favorite season: 2. Shes starting to get more confident and sure of herself, but shes still human and flawed.

Favorite Line: whatever the hell she says during the christmas invasion, when shes trying to get the sycorax to leave. Its utter bull, makes zero sense, and its beautiful.

OTP: Doctor/Rose. Any doctor. Im a little desperate to see rose/thirteen. Also Rose/doctor/river. If ianto didnt exist, id say rose/jack/doctor, but alas, he does.

Favorite outfit: oh god. Either the one in the unquiet dead, the idiot lantern, the long game, or the doctor dances. There are so many more though. Her costuming was brilliant.

BroTP: rose and jack.

Headcanon: you mean besides time lord/immortal Rose? Ok here it goes.

So when Rose dropped out of high school for Jimmy Stone, she ran away. Went off on tour with Stone and his band. While on tour, she got.very close to the other band members, including the lead singer/lyricist, a very cute 20 yr old Welshman going through his rebellious phase named Ianto Jones, who helped her figure out she needed to go home and, in the process realized he needed to stop rebelling and start acting like a mature adult, leading to him eventually signing on with Torchwood. Meanwhile, Rose is stranded all the way in Paris because she won't stay on that tour bus with Jimmy, and she's terrified to call her mum, who had told her she'd never forgive her if she ran off and wasted her life on Jimmy. Penniless and desperate, walking alone in the rain, Rose thinks she's never going to make it back to London when she almost gets run over by a car after forgetting to watch where she's going and wandering into the street. The driver swerves and just barely miss her, and after pulling over, a man hops out of the car and starts admonishing her, when Rose bursts into tears. Feeling badly, the man insists on taking her home. She tells him home is in London, too far away for her to accept, but the man refuses to listen, telling her he was heading to London anyway, and here, why don't you borrow my cell phone and call your mum, I'm sure she wants you home. He's right of course, and Jackie cries from relief at hearing from her and is thrilled she's coming home. The man's name was Rory, she learned on the drive, and he was married to a wonderful woman who he loved named Amy, and they lived in Leeds but he was travelling around from work and he was heading from Paris to London because of it. It took six hours to gt back to London, and once they got there, her mum treated Rory to breakfast and he went on his way and rose never saw him again.

Yes, it was that Rory. He was with Amy and the Doctor and he got stranded in Paris in the early 2000's and he wasn't heading into London at all but he felt very bad about almost hitting the poor girl with his car and he recognized her from an old picture he found while he was wandering the Tardis and he brought it to the doctor to ask him about it and the Doctor got very sad and very quiet and walked very quickly away from the conversation and Rory figured that meant that he used to travel with her and there was a sad story in there somewhere and he was curious about the girl and how she'd inspire that kind of emotion from a man he'd rarely seen care about anything real.

Should I make this a fanfiction? I kind of want to make this an actual fic... Anyway.

Unpopular opinion: ...She is a very much not straight woman. I don't know if that's unpopular, but it isn't popular. Or at least, it isn't talked about.

A wish: That she comes back in S13 and we see a reunion. I am but a simple girl with simple pleasures and I have been WAITING WITH BATED BREATH FOR A ROSE COMEBACK FOR YEARS AND I AM O V E R D U E.

An OMG-Please-Don't-Ever-Happen: For a character that is no longer in the show there isn't much I can say. I'd be very disappointed if they brought Rose back and ruined it but that requires them to bring her back first.

5 words that best describe them: Kind, good, jealous, badass, loving

My nickname for them: I don't really have one

Give me more characters! I love this!

[yami-writes]

Autumn Leaves

(🏷️) paring(s):  Todoroki x reader (🔮) summary:  Class 1-A’s Halloween day, how exciting! (⚠️) warning(s): just sum fluff (🔖) word count: 2.1k (💌) note from Yami: ending off our Seasonal Love Event with somewhat of a bang ;)

Season: Autumn/Fall words: Halloween, Harvested, Cobweb

A gust feathered atop your hair, making it dance in the breeze. You moved your small bag to your left hand to use your right index finger to remove a small strand of hair from your face. You took a quick look around you, admiring the scenery. It looks quite lovely outside. The sky looked as if it was raining leaves of all autumn colours. Yellow, orange, red, brown… it all looked so pleasing. You could practically smell the sweet sap in the oak trees, ready to be harvested. While the breath-taking view in front of you was georges, something- no, someone even better was walking right beside you. You looked up at him, being greeted once again by his seemingly perfect appearance. His red and white hair mashed together as the wind trickled through it, creating a non-symmetrical pattern that was surprisingly pleasing to the eye. His heteomocratic eyes seemed to be admiring the view in front of him as well, as they glicinded with a slight tint of the autumn leaves dancing in the wind. He seemed to be just as mesmerized by the sight as you were.

‘God- why does he have to be so kissable?’

The two of you continued walking, soon to be met with your destination. You both crossed onto a street the two of you knew all too well and, before you knew it, you were in front of a tall building you’ve been living in for the past 3 years, this year surprisingly being your last. The building full of memories to be remembered forever. The classmates you trained with, and will become pro heroes with, Heights Alliance. You excitedly skipped in, your boyfriend following close behind

“Careful, y/n. Remember your carrying a bag.” he warned, closing the door behind him. “It's fine! I won't break the pumpkins, have some trust in me, Shouto!” you replied, carefully setting the delicate bag on a table. “That's not what i meant, i just don't want you to break them-” 

“says the guy he almost didn't even let me hold the bag in the first place” it took you almost 10 minutes to convince him to hold the bag and even after, you felt his missed-matched eyes glance at you every now and then

“Whatever. lets just go do this before you get the chance to destroy one.” “hey!!” Before you were able to contest, you felt his lips line up beautifly with yours. 

Admittedly, this was his sweet way of shutting you up, an overpowered weapon used too often.

The two of you went up to your dorm and prepared for an event class A’s  been planning for what seemed like months. Halloween day! Not the most creative name, sure, but the name wasn't the important part. It consisted of a Jack O'Lantern contest before taking a quick trip to an Amusement park. Simple, yes, but you were looking forward to it non the less. 

“How do we do this?” Your boyfriend asked, as he placed a small, bright pumpkin on the floor in front of him. You reached into your bag and grabbed a small knife you had bought. You then got out your phone and opened a screenshot you had taken of the steps on how to make a jack o lantern “okay, first step is to scrape out the insides of the pumpkin” you read out, as you handed him a knife. You placed your phone down beside you and started slicing around the stem of the pumpkin, and surely enough, todoroki followed your lead. 

Not before long, the room filled with the sweet scent of pumpkin. As if the two of you were baking a pie and just took it out of a steamy oven. You finished slicing the top of your soon to be Jack o’lantern and picked the top off by the stem, chunks of pumpkin coming out along with it. “Oh….” your boyfriend mumbled upon seeing the overwhelming amount of pumpkin coming out “don't worry, just take them off and place them in the bag” you dragged the plastic bag you had been using to carry your stuff beside the two of you before using your knife to cut and rip off the access pumpkin. “Here, do the same to yours” you said, picking up a pair of gloves you had previously put to the side. 

The two of you continued scraping out the insides of your pumpkins. It had been about 10 minutes but you finally scooped out your final piece and placed it in the bag with the rest “done!” you exclaimed, wiping a drop of sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. You could hear classmates downstairs already debating who was going to have the best jack o’lantern, with a few mentions of the haunted house trip. It was clear they were excited. You glanced over at your boyfriend’s pumpkin. Empty. “I was waiting for you to finish yours.” he said, his usual stoic expression on his face, impossible to read. Not even his eyes would give any hints this time. “Why? You could’ve asked me for the next step! My phone is right there!” you pointed towards your phone, it being right in front the two of you, facing upwards and unlocked. “I wanted to do this with you…” you couldn't help but hold back a giggle at his cute answer, but it was no surprise, considering its the most used reason he has for anything.

You picked up your phone and looked for the next step, “okay, now we need to choose our design” you searched through your gallery for some pictures you had previously saved as inspiration. “Ah here they are! Look!” you nudged you boyfriend, somehow catching more of his attention. You slowly scrolled through the photos, all of them being amazingly good. The orange glow coming from inside of the jack O’lantern, lighting up the bitch black atmosphere. For some of them, you could partly see the candle on the inside, lighting up the picture even more. There were bats, faces, ghosts, words, and everything in between. 

It felt like the two of you were scrolling for a while before you came to the end of the photos of inspiration you saved. “Oh, I have an idea!” you said, putting your phone down where it was before “i'm gonna make a cobweb!” your boyfriend looked down at you, looking slightly confused “i didn't see any cobwebs, y/n,” he said. You only now remember who you're doing this with. He’s never celebrated any holidays, let alone participated in Halloween activities, now it's your job to teach and help him enjoy himself. “You don't have to do one of the jack o’lanterns I showed you, those were just for inspiration! You can do whatever you like! Just try to make it Halloween themed.” you watched as the gears turned in his head, despite seeing so many examples he could just copy from, considering he’s so new to this. 

“Can i do a cobweb too?” his heterochromatic eyes met yours in an instant, matched with his usual unreadable expression, but you can usually tell when he’s joking. 

“Why a cobweb? Did I not show you enough examples to choose from? I can find more-” 

“no. i wanna do what you're doing. i already told you this, y/n.” you laughed at his somewhat child-like answer, but there's no denying his answer made your heart flutter. “Okay okay! We can do the cobweb design together!” you watched as todoroki’s usual stoic expression disappeared and was replaced by a sweet smile, something you wished you got to see more often, no matter how many times you've seen it. You did a quick search for cobweb reference, placing your phone back down when you found a simple one to copy from. “Okay, now use this to draw out that shape in your pumpkin.” you handed todoroki a black sharpie before taking out your own, already beginning to start drawing on your own pumpkin. 

The next 30 minutes went by in a blur, filled with silence to the point of being able to hear each other's heartbeat, creating a soothing melody able to lull anybody to sleep. You finished up the last details of your pumpkin before snapping out of what seems to be a dream fuelled by concentration. “Does this look good, y/n?” your boyfriend asks, seemingly in desperate need of your validation. You look over at Todoroki’s pumpkin, only to be met with a masterpiece. His pumpkin looked incredibly similar to the photo and would definitely make a very pleasing jack O’lantern. You stared at the pumpkin in awe, ‘how is he so good at everything?’

“y/n?” your boyfriend gave you a gentile shake, bringing your attention back to his slightly saddened features “does it really look that bad? I thought it was okay...” 

“w-wait no! It looks really good! I just didn't think it would be that good, ‘cause, you know, this is your first time,” every word that came out of your mouth sounded like you mashed it all into a single one, making it slightly difficult to understand, but your boyfriend understood very well. 

He let out a small chuckle, something you were not mentally prepared for, before looking back down at his pumpkin “thank you, y/n.” 

You swear your heart skipped more than a single beat, in fact your entire pulse was gone a second. ‘He-he’s so perfect…’

You grabbed a pack of candles from beside you, ripping open and allowing all the small candles inside to fall to the floor. “I don't think we got any matches,” your boyfriend reminds upon seeing the candles that would need to be lit. “We don't need them, we have you.” you replied, taking out two candles and holding them in front of him with pleading eyes, he couldn't refuse. You watched carefully as he set his index finger ablaze, lighting the two candles in your hand. The flames fluttered, causing the lighting around you to flutter along with it. You placed both the candles inside your pumpkins, now the two of you had your Jack O’lanterns.

You got up to turn off the lights, wanting to get the full Jack O’lantern experience. Your room went dark, black even. The Jack O’lanterns glowed, tinting the area around them a bright orange, just like the flames burning inside. Quite the beautiful sight to see. You heard your phone vibrate before the screen turned on with a message. You picked up your phone, the bright screen slightly blinding you; 

⚡denki⚡: “hey y/n! Come down now! Were gonna see who has the best Jack O'Lantern!!”

You put your phone in your pocket before picking up your newly made Jack’ O lantern “it's time to judge the other Jack O’ Lanterns now, lets go!” Todoroki got up from the floor, taking his Jack O’ Lantern with him and the two of you made your way down.

“Ah, y/n! Todoroki! Come put your Jack O’Lanterns over here!” Mina joyfully gestured to a table that had been previously set up, everyone else's Jack O’Lanterns sitting on top. You and Todoroki placed your Jack O’Lanterns on the table “okay, now c’mon! We're gonna go to the amusement park now! Don't be slow!!” Mina skipped out the door and you followed close behind.

Half the class was already waiting outside.

The next 3 hours went by~ you and the rest of class A enjoying your time. You dragged your boyfriend across the park, making stops at the rides, food stalls, and finally, the Halloween Haunted house. The wait was long, almost 30 minutes. It was cold, the Autumn breezes coming often. Todoroki used his quirk to keep you warm while you wait, allowing you to borrow his sweater since he didn't need it. He kept his arms around you, resting his head on your shoulder. 

He “protected” you from the feared attractions in the Haunted house, as you were hiding behind him as you hear the screams of everyone in front of you. Lights flickered and noises were loud, but after about 10 minutes of walking, you met the end of the haunted house. The winds outside were even more violent than before, yet your boyfriend's sweater battled it off.

You and the rest of class gathered around a big tree behind the Amusement Park. you were able to see everything. The festival lights illuminated the sky, bright yellow, red and orange lights spread everywhere. You lean your head on your boyfriend's shoulder, drowsiness starting to consume you. You could hear Uraraka and Mina’s loud conversation about the Haunted House, pointing out the scariest part of it. 

You made yourself comfy underneath your boyfriend’s arm, feeling the warmth emit from his left side. Before he knew it, you had fallen asleep by his side. He pulled you closer, resting his head on yours

“Thank you, y/n...Happy Halloween.”

[tintentrinkerin]

Harness & Spears

Chapter 5: Father’s Eyes

missed a chapter? Check out my Masterlist or AO3

Researching for a case a year after they quit first feels weird to Sam, he has to get used to all the programs, his usual agenda. Today it’s so much easier with some computer skills. No more libraries, no more grainy scans of articles in local papers. Today, you just have to open a search engine app on your phone or a computer and you will be able to find dozens of cases in an hour or two. Of course, there’s still the work of sorting the wheat from the chaff, but Jack is a big help. They sit in the library together and go search for cases. Cas is really sweet to them, just like a butler he offers hot beverages and sandwiches, even though Sam must really hold him back to go full on “Yes, sir”. They want a case, and there are hundreds of them, but also, after Jack became God he brought all the hunters back that Chuck had banished. Donna and Jody, a couple now, as they announced just months after Jack’s ascend, and her girls, all in the hunter business. They heard from Eileen sporadically, but after all that happened and how uneasy Sam felt about the whole manipulation (and he was absolutely certain Chuck pulled the strings there, even though, when they originally met, Sam was drawn to her - but nothing more), she kept her distance and operated in Ireland and also all over Europe. The hunters from the other universe also just hunted in small groups. Charlie and her girlfriend retired for good. And Sam was still bitter about his own behaviour - projecting ‘his’ Charlie on this woman, who was so much different. He knew she hacked some computers every now and then to prank some potential Dicks. Sam was connected to the hunters, most of them. He has been clear about him and Dean, Cas (and later Jack) not going hunting anymore. But now things changed and Sam needed to check if any other hunters were on the cases him and Jack might find interesting. Running in another couple of hunting buddies is not a problem on a personal level, but the mutual sabotage will happen. It’s Murphy’s Law. That’s why Sam has a plan. They will take cases other hunters wouldn’t like to do. There are several reasons for hunting in the first place and reasons which cases to pursue and which not. Let noble monster hunting and cleansing the world be some hunter’s motivation, revenge, the thrill (some people really were that sick and hunted monsters for the kicks) and of course. The money. Oh yes, the money. But the Winchester conglomerate doesn’t worry about money, that’s why Sam won’t look for cases that have to do with wealthy people or towns announcing rewards. Also, when he knew the kind of monster and that a lot of hunters were after these creatures for killing their kin or loved ones, he better didn’t interfere. You could hunt monsters for their venom or psychic abilities, their blessings or whatever. Something a friend of Dean did not so long ago and got himself killed for it.

It shouldn’t be anything exotic, the New Age brought new monsters, at least that’s what Jack says.

“I was God, yes, and I knew everything that Chuck knew, but believe it or not, not even Chuck knew all of his creatures. His mind is packed with the stuff he wanted to do or not to do - if you ask me he was a little like George R. R. Martin. Got lost in his own massive universe and all the detail. I tried to give all of it structure, that’s why some things on Earth changed, but after some time I thought my head would explode and I uh, outsourced some good stuff in new universes. Amara is way better in doing all of that, she created way more universes and new forms of life as I did. She and her brother - don’t get me started.”

Jack looks exhausted. “Does it sound weird, Sam? That I wanted to be down here with you, all of you, but especially you, and give Amara all that power?”

Sam smiles about Jack’s outbreak and that he obviously read Game of Thrones. “No, it’s not weird. You were with Amara and I bet she’s very pleasant company but she wasn’t what you longed for. You didn’t want to be God who’s in every drop of rain, and all that. It was noble and pure hearted and generous of you to try, but you were allowed to fail. But, speaking of Game of Thrones, I have a few questions regarding--”

Sam is rudely interrupted in his chatter with Jack when Dean comes into the library and sits down two chairs away from Jack. Jack immediately gets up.

“Uh, Sam, I will -errm, go pack my bags. I think you will find a good case.”

Sam sighs.

“I’ll be with you soon, baby. Just gimme a minute.”

Jack is quick as a flash and out of sight within seconds.

Dean scoffs while thudding his mug on the table. Coffee pours out and stains the wood.

“Easy on the furniture Dean, it’s not your enemy”, Sam says without looking up. He can’t show Dean his face right now or he will just erupt. He feels the heat in his cheeks and a hot tickle up his neck. Since Dean threw a mug after Sam yesterday they haven’t seen each other and to be frank, Sam could totally renounce any other encounter with Dean for a while. Plus, Sam has a hickey, because Jack went a little passionate, clingy and possessive last night, for whatever reason.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you and… baby. ” The last word is like venom. As always. Dean wants to start another fight.

“I remember that I heard you calling Cas ‘daddy’ multiple times. You think that was really soothing for my wild imagination?”

“You call Jack what he is. A baby.”

“Another word, Dean, and you know I’ll knock you out. I have enough of your bullshit. You act like a jealous housewife. No, wait, more like a cuck!”

Dean scoffs and leaves.

“Do whatever you want, but don’t do it when I’m around or I’ll tear him apart.”

Sam sits here in shock. He has heard a lot from Dean about Jack, he has always been nasty to him and yes, even threatened to kill him twice, even was willing to execute him as part of Chuck’s evil plan. Yes, he was bitter about Mary and hell, how bitter Dean has been as Jack brought so many people back. All the ‘others’: Bobby and Charlie with her girlfriend. All these people. He brought Eileen back, and Dean thought it was to make Sam happy (and yes, that has been Jack’s intention, but ultimately it didn’t) and he was resistant to the arguments, that Mary was happy with John, she didn’t want to go back in this world she never felt like she fit in. He couldn’t be comforted by the messages Jack as a medium brought to Dean, that Mary loved him no matter what and that she will be happy when they meet again. Nothing could’ve soothed Dean’s aching. Sam understands that he’s hurt, but now, it just feels like Dean is angry at Jack for simply existing and then being so bold to love Sam.

Jack brought Cas back for Dean. He had risked a feud with the Empty that could only be avoided by Amara and Jack forcefully put the Regent of the Empty asleep. The Empty wasn’t sealed though, Rowena still reigned in hell, and still demons went to the Empty. But there are no angels on Earth anymore, Jack has naphil powers and even Cas regained some faint strength back, but Jack didn’t make new angels.

Jack really built a world in which it was possible for Dean and Cas to be together, he risked being invaded and maybe killed, since no one knows how really powerful the Empty was.

Why is nothing Jack does, no matter how universe shattering, unbelievably cosmic and holy and insane it is, not finally letting Dean the old grudge go?

It seems like everything he does just makes it worse.

Sam hides his face and in the safety of his own palms he allows to cry in fear for his own spiteful brother and soulmate. This will end badly if they don’t find a way to reconcile.

“You have to stop that, Dean” Cas says when Dean is back in the Deancave.

Cas is in his robe, nothing beneath. He looks pale and a little skinny. The last weeks have been hard on him and Dean knows it’s his fault. He makes his angel boyfriend sick. And yet he’s sick himself, and he’s kicking and fighting, with talons and teeth, words and throwing things after his brother. Also, he erupts the second Cas dares to mention it.

“Stop with what?”, he asks.

He picks the remote and wants to turn on the TV, loud metal music blasting but with a snap of a finger, the TV silent and it won’t turn back on.

“Castiel. Don’t fuck with me, I swear, I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re ‘not in the mood’ for weeks, maybe months. Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Why won’t you let me help?”

Dean’s eyes narrow dangerously as he faces the seraph.

“Help? How could you help? My brother fucks a toddler.”

Cas sighs and it sounds so endlessly sad. Defeated. Dean doesn’t want to see it, acknowledge it, that he is indeed very wrong. Jack is no toddler, Jack is no brat, Jack is so mighty he could really smite the whole bunker with a hiccup still, even though he’s not God anymore. Dean should be so damn careful. Dean should see how much Jack begs for his forgiveness and his approval.

But Dean can’t. And Dean won’t.

“Dean.”

Dean is so full of sorrow and fear, it hurts to hear his own name so gentle, so loving yet somehow fatherly. Cas loves him and Dean should be happy. He has been happy. The Empty had taken him away and Jack had fought to get him back. So they could be a family.

But this isn’t family to Dean. He’s around the person he loves the most, the person he loves with a burning, blinding insanity. He will never be happy like this.

Cas dares to come closer, around two steps away, offers Dean a hand. Dean can’t even look at him but he takes Cas’s hand and then pulls him in a desperate embrace.

“Shit, ‘m sorry, Cas. I don’t want to fight with you.”

It’s been a while, actually the last time Dean slept with Cas was the night when Jack asked him if Sam gay. This question is carved under his skin and if you look closely, you can see them shine through like thin red scars.

The streak won’t break today either.

“Will he ever stop hating me?”, Jack asks.

He has his suitcase packed, same as a backpack with snacks, water, headphones, his teddy Marvelous Marvin, a powerbank and, something he’s very proud of - his own angel blade. The only angels on earth are Jack and Castiel but the blade kills monsters just as well. He kneads the bundle of the purple blanket in his lap when he looks up to Sam.

Sam’s still tense from before, his eyes red and narrow, Sam must look like he didn’t sleep much or has been on a bender.

“I don’t know… I wish I knew what’s wrong with him.”

With a deep sigh Sam sinks beside Jack on the mattress. The bed creaks and a spring nudges in Sam’s butt cheek. Either they need a new mattress or they move in a room together, but Sam doesn’t dare to talk about these things yet. So far, he’s happy about the privacy. But he’s also constantly longing for Jack - a stalemate.

Jack leans against Sam’s shoulder and shyly feels for Sam’s hand. Sam is too glad to take it, intertwine their fingers and kiss Jack’s knuckles.

“It makes me sick, Sam. I’m afraid all the time he’s around. I’m afraid he might want to…”

“Hurt you?”

Jack nods, his lips a thin line.

“I won’t let him. And most of all, you won’t let him. Right?”

Another silent nod.

“Don’t worry about it now, our bags are packed and I found a case. I told you about the parameters I used to find a case no one else would investigate, and this one here is especially weird, but not weird enough for us to follow, and a bit boring, but not boring enough for us to NOT follow it. We’ve been to haunted houses before, right?”

“Yes, it’s mostly vengeful spirits or poltergeists, right?”

Sam nods. “Yes, exactly. Sometimes triggered by the plans of tearing the house down, the same can happen with big bodies of water, when they are threatened to be dried out, spirits of people who drowned will start going on a rampage. Haunted houses are like level 1 of every hunter. Rocksalt, shotgun, holy water, fire. Boom, ghost gone.”

Jack frowns a little. “Really, we’re going on a case that any newbie hunter could solve?”

Sam chuckles.

“Yep.”

It’s absolutely a thinly veiled reason to go on a hunt, but it’s the same that Dean and Cas did weeks ago when Jack sneaked out. In the end they also ‘just’ took on a vampire nest with five vamps and their Creator and the rest of the time they had a blast in Vegas, why should Sam not do the same? He wants to be alone with Jack, because Dean definitely ruined the pleasant experience of the tantra massage. Sam had been so happy back then and oh, crap, he was close to do more to Jack than just the massage. He wouldn’t have slept with him on this massage table, that was utterly uncomfortable, but he had been turned on so bad, that didn’t happen very often.

Sam really falls for Jack deeply and seriously. It’s a wonderful and frightening feeling at the same time.

Jack slides on Sam’s lap and straddles him, arms tight around his neck. Jack squints a little when he’s so close, his big blue eyes will never cease to amaze Sam.

“How can you not be Castiel’s son?”, Sam blurts, his hands cupping the naphil’s face and brushing away some strands of hair.

Jack’s mouth opens slightly, his tongue sneaks out to lick his upper lip.

“I am Castiel’s son.”

“I know, I just mean, genetically. You have his eyes. Does that sound stupid, baby?”

Jack shakes his head with a grin, his neck and face turn tenderly pink.

How did the biggest monster of all create this perfect boy?

“No, not stupid. I like the way you look at me”, Jack silently admits and the blush turns berry red.

“How do I look at you?”

Sam kisses Jack’s parted lips, feels the hitched breath and how Jack tightens up his back.

“First you looked at me with fear, when I was born. Then you looked at me in sympathy, in worry… Then gentle, loving. Just now, longing… You see a man, not a child, right? That’s the look in your face how you look at someone beautiful you want to be with…?”

Sam’s big hands creep under Jack’s pullover and Jack sighs, a light shudder down his spine and this tiny, quiet noise of content.

“You are beautiful, and yes, I want to be with you. All the time”, Sam whispers, he sounds rough, feels like he needs to clear his throat.

Jack lays his hands on Sam’s and guides him down his sweatpants. Sam squeezes. A slight gasp.

“We will have a lot of time for fun stuff once we’re out of here.”

That makes Jack jerk up, jump and drag Sam on his feet.

“Come, Sam! I can’t wait to be out of here.”

[shintorikhazumi]

I Have Two Sisters?! Chapter 1: Three Sisters and The Bastard Father (An LWAxRWBYxStarira Crossover)

A/N: What’s crazier than me writing a crossover I can’t get out of my head at 2am while still having multiple wips?

Writing a three-way crossover until 3am!!! (Ended at nearly 5am tho)

GAHHHHH.

Btw, this is a non-magic au. So Diana has no magic, and Weiss has no… semblance. Yes. Because the world of RWBY always goes “???!! OHMG, magic?!” Quite ironically. They become impressed at people turning into birds, but never flinch at Ruby who can separate herself on a molecular level. Sure.

I’ll be updating this sporadically, tbh. The updates will be as random as the coming of this idea. I do like it a lot, so I look forward to working on it. Just have to prioritize the wips.

[DO CHECK OUT THE END NOTES FOR SOME OF THE AU DETAILS AND BACKGROUND]

Still, I couldn’t let the concept pass me by so…

Enjoy?

~Shintori Khazumi

  I Have Two Sisters?! Chapter 1: Three Sisters and The Bastard Father

  The wind blew strong outside, rain water cold against her bleeding cheek. The numbness was her only relief from pain nowadays. She’d lost count of how many bruises she’d gotten this week. If only her mother hadn’t passed… If only she hadn’t had a bastard of a father.

Then maybe Diana’s life would have been much better than the shell that it now was.

He left her and her mother just as she turned three, the only support she got in the form of random gifts and her financial needs. Her father was nothing of a father. The man that… helped make her was never there. He never showed he cared. Everything he gave her felt obligatory. She hated it. Heck, she didn’t even know his last name, much less remember what he looked like. She did try looking it up at some point, but it seemed as if he was some kind of bigshot she couldn’t name.

Neither her mom nor her aunt had divulged his identity, so she had long since drew a blank to the man’s identity. All she knew was that his name was ‘Jack’ or something of the sort. She had long since adopted her mother’s as it didn’t feel right to take the name of a man she never knew.

All she knew was that he was the cause of all her sorrows. That wretched man had left her and her mother to fend for themselves. Even though her mom was of a strong, well-known medical lineage here in Britain, the fact that she had gotten pregnant out of wedlock labelled her as a shame to the Cavendish name, and she had been cast out to a vacation home in the outskirts of the foreign country, Japan.

After her death, however, the women who Diana now saw as practically witches with how cruel and evil they were decided that because their blood ran through her, took over their small land that she and her mother had cried blood and tears to call their own, and exploited the underage girl, believing she might be of some use as a pawn at the very least, for the sake of the Cavendish name.

And she was. For some time, until she had injured her arm, and was no longer capable of becoming the kind of doctor they wanted her to be, her hand slowly losing its immaculate dexterity, becoming constantly shaky, rendering her as only half the worth she originally was, and thus completely useless besides being their punching bag. Quite literally.

Diana Cavendish found herself spending the better part of her life being abused, and hiding in tool sheds, and escaping her dreaded household at every waking moment, just as she was doing right now.

She hardly believed in any religion, but she found herself always praying to get away from this hellish nightmare. She’d hope that even if she only had a jerk of a father, he’d soon realize that she was his flesh and blood that needed saving.

A hard knock came on the wood of her shed’s door. She flinched, no sound escaping. Had they found her?!

“Miss Cavendish? Miss Diana Cavendish? Are you in here?” An unfamiliar voice called for her, bold and confident sounding, but with kindness and worry interlaced. She felt like it was someone she should respond to. The situation felt like it was some kind of divine calling she should answer.

With legs shaking, she stood up, unlatching the bar that held the door closed and stepping out into the now late night that reeked of hot pavement, rain having stopped while she was lost in thought.

A police officer, clad in uniform and raincoat smiled at her in pity. She was both grateful for- and hated- that gaze. She wished it had come sooner, but at the same time, she disliked being thought of as sad and pathetic.

“Your aunt and her family have been arrested, Miss.” Her ears perked up at the voice and the message they conveyed. Looking up from the ground, she stared into the truthful eyes of the cop. “You’re safe now.”

And she truly hoped she was.

  //-//-//-//-//

  “Weiss.”

At the mention of her name from that familiar voice, she rolled her eyes internally, holding in the urge to snap at the man she called ‘father’.

“What.”

Maybe her control wasn’t as good as she thought.

“Don’t give me that tone. I know you hate me, but I am still the one that raised you!”

“You mean, you’re the one that paid for me.” The ex-heiress pointed out. Her father gritted his teeth, frown deepening as he stepped forward in an attempt to exert his dominance.

Weiss only raised a brow in challenge.

“Anyway.” Jacques continued. Weiss would have smirked as he neither acknowledged nor denied her statement, but she felt it wasn’t the best time. “You are yet to turn twenty, and as you aren’t considered an adult yet-“

“But I’m nineteen, father.” Weiss stated, confused, her raised brow now raised in question. “I’m of legal age, to drink even.”

“Not in Japan you aren’t.” He replied with a smirk so evil, Weiss would have loved to slap it right off if her mind wasn’t thrown in a state of emergency, dreading whatever plans her father had. Even if she wanted to do as she pleased, she couldn’t completely go against him as she was at the moment. Their family name was too widespread and known in the business world, and she feared the consequences of running away from her father who currently had her safety- and practically her life- in the palm of his hand.

“What are you planning.” She narrowed her eyes at him, fearing for the worst, but expertly masking that fear.

“I’ll be sending you away, just as you’ve always wanted. I’ve prepared you an apartment close to a school of my choice to pursue the arts as you so strongly desired,” He spoke in a mocking tone. “And I’ll let you have your way there.” He ended with a smile that sent chills down Weiss’ spine. It sounded too good to be true, her dream being accepted like this. It was like a carrot on a stick being waved in front of her, only to always be out of reach.

“What’s the catch?”

“Catch? My, Weiss, my child, are you questioning your father’s benevolent heart?”

“What’s there to question?” Weiss shot back. “You don’t have one, now do you?”

She grinned at her little victory as she watched him gnashing his teeth, clearly seething in anger. Her smile dropped however as he gave her his own.

“I mentioned Japan’s legal age before.”

And Weiss already knew what he meant.

  //-//-//-//-//

  Life in Seishou had been the dream. Her first two years of high school were the peak of her life, she’d proudly say. She had wonderful friends and comrades who battled side-by-side, pushing one another to greater heights, and… she had someone she adored just a little more than friendship allowed. She had never admitted it, though. Then, a school back in Paris, the place where her mother had blossomed as an actress in the past, offered her a scholarship as an exchange student there.

And like she always did, Claudine excelled. So much so that multiple colleges offered her full rides to attend their institutions. Even highly prestigious universities. Her opportunities were broad, her future looking bright-

-And then news came. Her mother had fallen terminally ill.

She had to go back. She had to see her. She had to be by her side as long as possible.

She had to repay her for the love, for the dream she had given Claudine. She had to be the family her mother had been for her in the absence of a biological father she never knew, and the loss of her adoptive Japanese father at an early age. The lack of a male figure in their family was no cripple to Claudine, but she also missed the presence of the man she knew as her papa. She knew her maman missed him too.

So she had to do this for her mother.

She had to… in the event that… she’d lose her soon as well.

God forbid, Claudine prayed.

She had to return to Japan, study and… get a job, find some way to help her mother pay the increasingly expensive hospital bills, their little family’s saved money steadily disappearing.

She wondered if she should just drop school all together and apply for a troupe. Earn both money and experience.

She had enough rapport both in Japan and France. She could probably get enough opportunities, and she would succeed like she always had…

But…

There was something she wanted to see through, going into university.

When she left for Paris, she had gradually lost contact with all her friends, the culture slowly choking her time, eventually disconnecting them from her.

She’d receive and return the occasional message, but… things were different. She knew she’d drifted apart from everyone.

So, when she found out that they would all be attending the same Arts Institute, and when she had decided to return to Japan for her mother’s sake, she believed it wouldn’t all be that bad if she could apply for a scholarship to the same place, and possibly rebuild everything that was slowly crumbling away.

She wanted to be with everyone again.

And though she believed herself capable of attaining what she wanted on her own, she might require a little assistance from a miracle.

…

And a miracle- could she call this monstrosity of a situation that?- came in the form of a letter that had documents that signified she was the daughter of some ‘Jacques Schnee’ currently undergoing some sort of trial, and because of this, some of the accusations led to the revelation that he was neglecting a daughter, not sending support, and now as some form of bribery and compensation or whatever, he had paid the court to shut up about it if he took responsibility for her now.

Claudine scoffed in disbelief and utter disgust.

So this was her damned biological father? Some apparently bigtime tycoon who slept around and left a woman to fight for herself while carrying his- Claudine would suppose she was now an- illegitimate child.

This… was certainly news she’d never have expected in a million years.

She laughed mirthlessly at it all.

Well, at least her financial crisis had been averted. For better or for worse… she hoped it wasn’t the latter.

One upside was that she now had a clear ticket to that university she wanted to get into, it seemed. Her ‘father’ had taken the liberty of enrolling her there coincidentally. At least he could do something right, Claudine guessed.

“Well… I suppose it’s time to pack.” She sighed falling back onto her current apartment bed, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn’t so bad, maybe. Her newfound reality.

“Japan, I’m coming home to you.”

  //-//-//-//-//

  Diana glared at the letter in her hand angrily. There, in neat script, she saw the name of the man who had caused all her misfortune.

‘Jacques Schnee.’

“I want to hate you for as long as I live…” She gripped the paper so hard, creases were forming and the agent currently assigned to her worried she’d rip it into shreds. “What is this garbage? And why am I… Why can’t I… refuse… this ugly form salvation…” She choked on her sobs, a hand sympathetically rubbing her back.

“Let’s get you ready, Miss.”

Diana nodded in agreement.

-----

All her bags now in her hand after being dropped off by the cab driver, she stared in awe at the slightly modest, but clearly high-end house.

What the hell, did her dad just get her a house?!

Regardless of its size, couldn’t he have… like… gotten her an apartment or condo, at least?

How rich was this asshole father of hers? Was money the only good thing about him? Not that even that was necessarily a good thing.

With a groaning sigh, she unlatched the gate, walking up the little pathway. There were small flowerbeds already present around the yard, and decorations were tastefully placed.

It at least looked the part of cozy.

Once she got to the door, however, angry sounds coming from inside made her question that.

-Wait. This was her house, right?

Why would sounds be…

In a panic, she unlocked the front door with the key that came with the letter, bursting through it like a mad man, blue eyes flickering about the room, shocked to see two pairs of eyes, wide and intense, staring back at her with equal surprise.

“Who…”

“Oh, this is just great!!!” One with hair as white as snow exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air in clear exasperation. “Now we have another one!” She began marching around the room, palms rubbing her face aggressively and scratching through her hair. “That little fuck-“

“-Language.”

“Shut up! I don’t even know who you are, and why you were in my house when I arrived. And you say you aren’t a burglar or whatever, but what is up with your sword play? Even if you were using the curtain pole. Are you some kind of spy or assassin the corporation has sent to finally get rid of me?”

“First of all, this is my house, not yours. And you came at me with a rapier!” A silver-gold blonde replied in equal stress. “You could have killed me!”

“I would never!” The first girl gasped with faux emotion. “At most, you’d lose an ear.”

“Umm…” Diana remained awkwardly fidgeting at the door, her usual bravery and confidence lost in the moment of shock.

“What.”

“I- I am simply here because… apparently my father purchased this place for me.”

Two pairs of eyes blinked once. Twice.

Then realization overtook them.

“Did you just say… father?” The golden-haired one stepped closer to her, a lot less hostile, but still aggressive looking.

“I- Um… yes?”

“Father… you say.” The lady with a rapier in her hand now approached Diana too.

These women were frightening, dear Lord. Diana slowly backed up, but stopped as her foot hit the bags she’d dropped in her frantic moments earlier.

“Can you tell me the name of this… ‘father’ of yours?” Rapier lady asked Diana who was beginning to wonder if she should look for a weapon to defend herself with.

“S-sure. His n-name is…”

“…”

“…”

“Is?”

“Fuck.”

Diana was not one to curse, but it surprised her that she did.

But she couldn’t help it, now could she? After all, her mind had been wiped clean as a white slate. A mental block was not what she needed right now, but just about anything involving that man seemed to bring about her misfortune.

At least the hands by which she’d die her early death were from very beautiful women it seemed.

She liked women, at least?

“Excuse me, um… are you alright?” Miss Golden hair was now very safe-looking and welcoming, Diana subconsciously stepped closer towards her.

“What is up with you? I just asked a question.”

“Perhaps, if you placed the sword down, and looked less like you were trying to murder her and look like you were willing to hear her out…”

Diana expected another heated retaliation, so it was a pleasant surprise to see the other woman sheath her weapon, and place it gently on a plastic-covered couch, clearly brand new.

“There. Happy?” She asked, glaring at the woman now gently holding Diana’s hand- and when had that happened?!

With a nod, the girl turned to Diana and asked again. “What is your father’s name. If you could tell us.”

Huh. She was a lot kinder than Diana had initially taken her for.

“I apologize. I can’t… remember at the moment. I- He hasn’t been around… for me until this point. I just… learned his name a few days ago but…” She hung her head in defeat, apologizing all the while. “Sorry I’m of no assistance to you…”

“No, it’s alright. Isn’t it?” The question was clearly not directed at her as she could only hear a grunt from the other side of the room.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Would your father’s name happen to be Jacques?”

At this, Diana lifted her head, another shocker delivered to her, hearing the familiar name, the cogs in her head clicking into place.

“Yes! Yes, that’s it! Jack, or Jacques or whatever. Snee? Shuni? Schee? I don’t quite remember, but something along those lines.” Diana found herself enthusiastic towards the prospect that some of her questions might be answered.

It seemed the other two shared the same sentiment.

“It’s Schnee.” The white-haired lady corrected, eyes furrowing, anger building up once more. “And… THAT BASTARD OLD MAN!” Grabbing her rapier she swung it around, probably to vent her anger. “He set me up! And what’s more…” She whipped her head about to carefully look the other two people over.

“What is it?” Diana said in a voice quite small.

“Seems he had big secrets to hide.” She sighed. Turning to the initial enemy she had, now turned… stranger? She wasn’t sure they were allies at this point, she stated rather than asked. “I guess it’s the same for you?”

The woman beside Diana nodded, expression looking a lot stiffer than her gentle demeanor as she dealt with Diana earlier.

“I see. I can’t believe this situation.”

“What do you me-“

A voice beside Diana delivered her fourth? Fifth? Sixth?- she’d lost count- Shocker of the day.

“Sisters. It seems we’re… sisters.” Turning to Diana, she held out a hand for a shake. “I’m Claudine.”

“I’m Weiss.” Was the grumble from the couch the woman had flopped on top of.

“…O-oh!” Breaking her stare from the hand, she looked into rose-red eyes. “And I’m-“

And the world suddenly turned black.

‘Hello, My Name is…

[Diana Cavendish]

[Weiss Schnee]

[Saijou Claudine]

-And it seems as though…

I have two sisters?!

  A/N: If you’re asking, yes. Yes, Diana fainted.

Here are some details for this AU btw:

I’ve decided to make Jacques a half-Jap, half german.

So all of them have a quarter of that blood.

Diana is half brit, quarter jap, quarter german

Weiss is ¾ german because of her mom, and ¼ jap.

Claudine is half French, ¼ german, ¼ jap.

Also, if you want to know their ages, and their order, I decided it this way, and let me just quote how I typed it out in the raw idea draft.

“Diana April 30 16yro in anime 2017+3yrs (2020) she's 19 too omg jahahahaha (wrote this coz I’m currently 19 and was amused)

Clau august 1, 2001 19 at present

Weiss Currently 19 (in volumes 5-6) may 15th lmao hahsha. Perfect!!

Wtf Diana was the oldest? Hooo boi. I did expect and want Kuro to be youngest tho, tbh.”

Why their ages are pretty much the same will be mentioned next chap.

And that’s how it went. Decided with Weiss being the legitimate child coz Jacques was the only canonically mentioned dad between the three girls as far as I know. Or I just didn’t search enough.

But come on. I wouldn’t pass at the chance to beat up the dude in a fic so… hihi.

Feedback is super appreciated!

Thank you for reading!

~Shintori Khazumi

[carveredlunds]

“I won’t be hands-on”: A meta on Jack becoming the new God

“But if he is out there, what's wrong with him? Where the hell is he while all these decent people are getting torn to shreds? How does he live with himself? You know, why doesn't he help?” -- Dean Winchester, season 4, episode 2 “People pray to you. People build churches for you. They fight wars in your name, and you did nothing.” -- Dean Winchester, season 11, episode 21 “I won’t be hands-on. Chuck put himself in the story. That was his mistake. But I learned from you, and my mother, and Castiel, that when people have to be their best, they can be. And that’s what to believe in.” -- Jack Kline, season 15, episode 19

I’ve still barely processed my anger at the end of the Brothers VS. God storyline. The idea of Jack being a “new God” is ridiculous. Not only does it ignore established lore of the universe by reducing Chuck to a human who was (apparently) just filled with divinity which can be sucked out of him like Daniel Plainview drinking his milkshake (yes, that’s a There Will Be Blood reference!), rob Amara of any agency by making her exist inside her nephew (ew), and make Jack (who has always been an OP character) a super duper Gary Stu, but its final message is an insult to long-held beliefs of both of the brothers, especially Dean.

Let’s break it down, shall we?

Ever since the earliest seasons, Dean has had an issue with the state of the world. In season 2, episode 13, Houses of the Holy, he makes the following pessimistic speech to Sam:

There's no higher power, there's no God. I mean, there's just chaos, and violence, and random unpredictable evil that comes out of nowhere, and rips you to shreds.

There are too many mentions of Dean’s lack of faith in God to go through each one, but it essentially boils down to this -- Dean can’t believe there is a God, because the world is so full of suffering and injustice, and no God would allow that to happen. It’s a classic atheist stance, held by a lot of people. But it goes a little further than that. In season 5, episode 2, Good God, Y’all, Dean says the following to Castiel:

Even if there is a God, he is either dead -- and that's the generous theory -- or he's up and kicking and doesn't give a rat's ass about any of us. I mean, look around you, man.

So, what a lot of atheists point out is that not only do they not believe in God, but they often believe that, if there is a God, he is not worthy of worship or praise, because he made such an unfair, pain-filled, evil, world (for a very eloquent speech on this, check out Stephen Fry talking about it.) I’m not going to get into the Problem of Evil, because I’m not a theologian, and that’s not the point of this meta. But basically, that’s Dean’s stance on the subject of God. At first, Dean doesn’t believe there is a God, and then, when he’s forced to accept that there is, his belief changes to “God must be dead, or evil”.

Enter Chuck Shurley in season 11. At last, Dean is able to actually vent his feelings to God, and they have this exchange:

CHUCK: You're frustrated. I get it. Believe me, I was hands-on. Real hands-on for, wow, ages. I was so sure if I kept stepping in, teaching, punishing, that these beautiful creatures that I created would grow up. But it only stayed the same. And I saw that I needed to step away and let my baby find its way. Being over-involved is no longer parenting. It's enabling. DEAN: But it didn't get better.

Given what we later find out about Chuck, it’s easy to say he’s lying. He was hyper-involved all along, pulling the strings, being the puppet master. This is what Dabb wants us to believe. Even though it literally ignores 14 seasons of established canon which say that God was an absentee father. Even though it ruins the narrative parallel between John Winchester and Chuck. Even though it retcons season 11, episode 20, Don’t Call Me Shurley -- one of the most beloved episodes, adored by fans and cherished by Rob Benedict as his favourite episode.

But sure. Let’s say Chuck is lying. That’s not even the point. The point is that Dean isn’t satisfied with a God who took a backseat, and let humanity stumble along by themselves. He wanted a God who steps in, who is involved, who stops suffering, and helps his creation.

Even Sam Winchester, the one with all the faith, eventually loses his cool with God, and, in season 14, episode 20, Moriah, says the following to Chuck:

Then why don’t you do something? If I had your power, I --

If he had God’s power, he’d... what? Rid the world of suffering and evil? Remove all the monsters? Get involved? Maybe even all of the above, given the context of the whole conversation. But again, the point is that Sam is angry at Chuck’s lack of involvement.

Fast forward to season 15, episode 19, Inherit the Earth, and the conversation between Jack and the brothers.

JACK: I’m already there. DEAN: Where? JACK: Everywhere. SAM: So you are... Him?

This isn’t the first part of the interaction that I take issue with, but I’ll focus on it anyway, otherwise this meta will be 1000 words long. The small gasp Dean gives when Jack says he’s “everywhere”? The almost reverent way Sam says “him”? The wannabe poetic explanation Jack gives to being “in every drop of falling rain, every speck of dust which the wind blows, and in the sand, and the rocks, and the sea”? It’s all supposed to bring the long-since lost mystique back to the character of God. Before he was introduced in the form of Chuck, God was only talked about reverently. Angels talked about his wrath, his power, his Divine Plan. God acted as an offscreen force, putting Sam and Dean on the plane at the beginning of season 5, bringing Castiel back from the dead in Swan Song. He was an unseen force. Yes, he intervened, but the idea of God sitting and playing a guitar? It would’ve been ludicrous in the early seasons of the show. They wanted the mystery of God as an unseen force, working in the world when the plot needed him.

All that to say, obviously that’s what they’re going with now, with Jack. He’s in everything, within everyone. But my question is... was Chuck that way too? If Jack is just God 2.0, if he’s omniscient and omnipresent, then surely, Chuck was too? Heck, we know Chuck was omniscient, because he told Amara he was, just two episodes ago.

Which brings me (in a very roundabout and rambling way) to the double standard here. It is okay for Jack to just “be in everything”, to not answer prayers, to be a “hands-off God”. But it’s not okay for Chuck to do that? It’s okay for Jack to make some speech about how people can find him by looking within, but that they don’t have to pray to him. News flash, kiddo: People are still going to pray to you. So... are you just ignoring those prayers? Jack is doing exactly what Chuck did, but, where Chuck was shown by the narrative to be a villain for stepping back, this is seen as a good thing. Because they played some sad music, and Sam and Dean looked solemn, and Jack talked about the power of human goodness. The show was screaming at us to see this as a good thing, to see Jack as a benevolent force, to be glad that the new Man With A Plan was the three year old son of Lucifer, instead of the ancient deity that’s been doing the job since the dawn of time.

And Sam and Dean do think this is a good thing. They get all teary-eyed, and let their surrogate son walk away in his fancy white suit (which has got to be a call back to both Chuck’s Swan Song appearance, and his final scene in Inherent the Earth, right?)

Everyone is talking about the Death of the Author, and how Chuck had to step aside to allow the boys to be free. But there was no Death of the Author. There was just a change in management. Jack is still fulfilling the role that Chuck once did -- an uninvolved, neutral, God, with all the power in the universe at his disposal, but apparently no intention of using it.

We have no reason to believe that Jack didn’t bring the world back exactly as it was before Chuck vanished everyone. All the murderers, rapists, monsters, abusers, are back. All the evil and suffering which Dean hated so much in the earlier seasons is still happening. The difference now? God is a three year old who looks like he’s in his mid-twenties.

And the most annoying thing? The show itself lampshaded, in season 15, episode 13, Destiny’s Child, how ridiculous it would be if Jack took over the role of God:

DEAN: But if Jack kills her... Kind of a family plan. Then there's no God, there's no Darkness. Nothing out of balance. World saved. SAM: Okay, yeah, but then who takes over? Uh, Jack? [Jack enters, chewing gum. He blows a bubble and pops it, grinning proudly] JACK: I just learned how to do that. DEAN: Probably not.

But now he’s made some saccharine speech about the inherent goodness of humanity, and Sam and Dean have conveniently forgotten how they hated it when God did nothing, and we’re all supposed to be okay with this, because Chuck turned out (over the course of one season) to be nothing like the neutral, distant, God we’d come to know over 14 seasons, but instead, he was a megalomaniacal control freak who apparently sent Kevin to Hell, tortured Sam, and is personally responsible for every bad thing that ever happens in the world, and has happened to the brothers. (Side note: Does this mean that they’ll blame Jack now, when bad things happen to them?)

I could go on about how sapping Chuck of his “powers” doesn’t stop him being God, because being God is more than just being a human filled with God-ness, and Chuck was never canonically said to be possessing a human vessel the way angels and demons do, but this is already long enough. So, sure. Let the Devil’s kid go be the rain, or whatever.

[aspergerasparagus]

Just My Type

Sniper Mask is on lookout before he finds another group of survivors and one of them catches his eye. More so then he would like to admit.

The sun hung low in the sky causing the shadows of the high rises to stretch out before him as Sniper Mask let his eyes slowly roam over the other building tops that surrounded him in every direction. He had offered to take lookout as the girls prepared dinner from some supplies they had managed to scavenge from what must have been a restaurant in the real world. Letting out a long sigh he fished around in his jacket pocket for the cigarette packet he always kept there before slipping one out and bringing it to his lips.

He had just brought the lighter up when a noise suddenly caught his attention. Quickly snapping the lighter closed he brought his rifle up, training the scope on the source of the noise. Footsteps, multiple pairs, and voices, all coming from the exit of one of the lower high rises to the north of him. It seemed they were intending to use the bridge there to cross to the building they had found the supplies in earlier that day.

Scowling slightly the gunman kept his scope centered on the noises location before a child’s voice broke through the early evening calm. A small noise of surprise escaped him as he brought the child into focus, before suddenly shifting to another child that followed quickly to join the previous one. They were not only dressed identically but looked identical and didn’t appear to be more than 7 at most. Obviously twins it seemed. Cursing softly at what type of monster would drop children this old into the world like this he was suddenly pulled from his thoughts by a man’s voice.

Looking towards the voice he felt his body suddenly tense, the forgotten cigarette in his mouth slipping to the ground as he couldn’t stop the small gasp that slipped out of him. An older man, later 30s, early 40s, with a few greying steaks scattered through his auburn hair had joined the girls who eagerly rushed to him, taking his hands as he scolded them for running ahead again. He was dressed in a fine dark blue waistcoat and dress pants, a harness crossing over his broad chest with what appeared to be two pistols situated in the holsters of it. The outfit looked expensive and custom made given how well it fit him and accentuated his figure.

Sniper Mask watched them carefully cross the bridge together, never taking his scope off them the entire time. The older man continued to hold the girls hand the whole way and reassured them they would be okay and would rest soon. It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes before they reached the other side and soon disappeared from view, their voices becoming more distant before they were finally gone.

Letting out a shaky breath he hadn’t even realised he had been holding, Sniper Mask quickly reached for his cigarettes, immediately lighting one up and taking a long drag from it. His heart was jack hammering away in his chest still, it had been since he had laid eyes on the man and he couldn’t get the damn thing to settle down. The fact he couldn’t get the man’s face and body out of his mind certainly wasn’t helping him right now either.

Groaning slightly he watched the smoke from his cigarette curl and disappear into the cooling evening’s air. What the hell was wrong with him?! Why did that guy have such an effect on him? Was he maybe someone closer to god? And it was just a reaction to him being an angel. He knew that wasn’t the reason deep down however. He knew why he was reacting like this. More accurately he knew why his body was reacting like this all of a sudden.

The man had been exactly his type. He was the type of man he had fantasised about being with since he realised he wasn’t exclusively interested in women. Handsome, well dressed, well groomed. All the things that had attracted him to men to begin with. Cursing he buried his masked face into his hands. He could already feel his ears beginning to heat up and probably turning pink as he blushed even harder behind his mask. Shit he had a crush.

After a few more cigarettes, more than he normally would smoke in such a small span of time, he finally decided it was best to just turn in for the night. As he wandered back to his room the girls obviously began to worry about him as he brushed them off saying he wasn’t hungry and they should eat without him. They, of course, all rushed him, Kuon taking the lead as she began to fuss over him asking if Mr Mask was feeling unwell. Had the cigarettes caught up with him finally? Even Yuri, who still seemed to freak out whenever he accidentally creeped up on her, was joining in on the interrogation. Muttering an apology he darted out the room and slammed the door to his own room when he finally reached it.

Catching his breath he slid down his door once he had locked it. Listening he could hear them speaking in worried tones, running over what might be wrong with him. Another bug in his mask coding, maybe he was tired or maybe he had eaten something bad. He’d have to apologise to them tomorrow, probably get another scolding from Kuon for it but it was better than them realising the truth. For once he was thankful for the mask. He really didn’t need them questioning why he was blushing and looking more and more like a tomato right now.

Hanging his head he sighed and mentally kicked himself. All he did was glance at a guy and now he was like this. A complete mess. Maybe he had stronger interests in men then he realised… Shaking his head to dispel the thought he kicked his shoes off as he made his way over to the bed, discarding his jacket onto the nearby chair as he went. Maybe if he just slept it off he’d be okay in the morning. Push this little infatuation somewhere deep down into his brain so he didn’t have to think about it any more.

Placing his hat onto the bedside dresser he slipped under the covers and tried to drift off. He just needed to get some rest and then he’d be as right as rain tomorrow. Go about his day and forget this ever happened. Letting a man distract him wasn’t going to help anyone and could easily get himself or worse someone else killed. Letting his eyes close he tried to not think about the man. He swore he really did try.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before he heard his door creak open slowly, followed by the sound of soft footsteps approaching the other side of his bed. Eyes snapping open Sniper Mask snatched at the rifle that still lay beside the bed and twisted to take aim at the intruder but he felt his heart jump into his throat. The man from before stood there, just as handsome as ever. Opening his mouth to yell at him to explain who he was, Sniper Mask found his voice catching as the stranger simply raised a finger to his lips, silencing him as a devious smile crept onto his lips. Carefully he pushed the barrel of the gun away and slipped onto the bed next to the gunman, Sniper Mask doing nothing to stop him at all. Before he could find his voice again he felt a soft pair of lips against his neck, softly teasing the skin there and he immediately gave in.

The gun slipped from his hands as he brought the other man closer to his yearning body. He didn’t give a damn about why this was happening or frankly how it was. All he knew was that his fantasy man was here and giving him exactly what he wanted more than anything in that moment. Why overthink the details?

Groaning he let his hands quickly begin to explore the other man’s body, pawing at whatever he could grab at it. Sniper could feel the man’s firm muscles flex under the soft satin of his waistcoat as he shifted to nip and suck on his collar, body pushing up even closer to his own so he could feel the obvious bulge that was protruding from his trousers. Sniper could feel himself losing control as they continued to grope and kiss and it didn’t take longer before he flipped them over so he could rock himself against his intruder.

This was playing out exactly like his fantasies, hell it was better than what he could imagine. As he dug his fingers into the man’s hips as he grinded against him, he was greeted with a chorus of pathetic moans and soft pleadings for more. Oh that was working him up like nothing else ever had. He could feel his own cock twitching desperately in his pants as he worked the man up into a frenzy. Neither of them were fussed about keeping their voices down now, and Sniper really didn’t want them to. Knowing he was causing the man such pleasure was a turn on like nothing else.

Letting out a choked moan of his own, Sniper picked up his pace, his hips slamming against the other man’s as he realised he was getting close. He did risk a peak down at the other man and had to bite his lips to try and stop himself finishing right there at the sight that greeted him. Their face was flushed and streaked with sweat as his once perfectly styled hair now lay dishevelled, mouth open wide as he continued to cry out for more as his eyes fluttering closed as he lost himself to ecstasy. It really was a beautiful sight and one that was sure to inhabit any fantasies Sniper had from that point.

Burying his face against the man’s neck, Sniper let go of any remaining control he had and wrapped his arms around the man as he finally climaxed. He came harder than he thought he could and it left him breathless and unable to think for a moment as they both rode out their orgasms together. Bodies twitching and continuing to hump against one another as they tried to ride out their highs for as long as they could. Finally he collapsed, completely exhausted, but satisfied. He let his eyes flutter close for a moment as he savored the post orgasm bliss.

When he finally opened his eyes again he was met with the ceiling of his room, daylight streaming in through the windows across from him. Groggily he scanned his room, his brain still half asleep as he tried to process what had happened and where his late night intruder had gone. Finally after a minute it dawned on him and he let out a low groan. A dream. He had dreamt it all up. Slapping himself he shifted slightly to look at the clock beside him only to grimace as he felt a familiar sticky, wetness in his pants and peaked under the sheets before letting them fall down as he cursed out loud. Of course it had to have turned into a wet dream, and of course he had to have climaxed during his sleep. Burying his face against the pillows he reprimanded himself for having had a wet dream at his age, and worse over a man he had literally only seen once. This was humiliating…

One long, hot shower later, a change of clothes and him sneakily throwing his soiled suit into the washer, Sniper finally headed down to the kitchen area. He could already make out the sound of the girls clattering about with plates and seemingly starting their day off. As he listened he suddenly caught the sound of another voice. A much younger female’s one that chipped in excitedly when Yuri offered them some eggs. Picking up his pace he quickly rounded the corner.

He was immediately met with two little girls slamming into his legs and bouncing off him as they both stumbled back.

“H-hey easier there kid.”

At the sound of his voice their heads shot up to look at him and he felt his stomach plummet. It was the twins from yesterday. The two he had seen on the bridge during his watch, which meant… Unable to speak he watched as the girls immediately turned on their heels and scampered away from him. One ran over to Yuri and buried her face against her skirt while the other darted off to the table yelling for her Uncle.

Swallowing hard, Sniper let his gaze drift upwards before he landed on the other man who sat at the table. He hadn’t realised he was there given it seemed he hadn’t been talking before. Sniper felt his face beginning to burn again as his hands began to shake slightly as the man turned to look at him. It was the man from yesterday. The man who had visited him in his wet dream last night. The damn man he had become so infatuated with all of the sudden.

Scooping up the kid, the man approached him, a soft smile on his face that just made Sniper’s heart beat even faster. His mind was going blank as the man finally walked up to him and stood barely a foot away from him. Fuck was he even better looking then what he had dreamt up last! Sniper barely had time to register the man extending his hand towards him in greeting.

“I apologise about the girls, I’ve been teaching them to run if they ever see a Mask. I-I mean like a dangerous Mask of course! I’m sure they’ll warm up to you soon. My name’s Christopher anyway, and these two are my nieces Akane and Aoi, sorry to get off on the wrong foot there.”

After a moment's hesitation, Sniper tipped his hat to the man and reached out to firmly grasp his hand giving it a shake.

“The name’s Sniper Mask. It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Christopher.”

Another even warmer grin greeted him for that, he could have even sworn he saw the other man's cheeks flush slightly before he went back to the twins who were firing a million questions at him over the new nice mask. Sniper himself could only glance down at his hand before letting a grin spread over his own cheeks. Fucking nailed it Sniper.