#praying to the heavens above that these tags work!

[dollerinna]

WOULD YOU LIKE AN ALMOND JOY .ᐣ

( black noir x gn!crime analyst reader )

summary: after a long day of work, you try to unwind by watching your comfort show, but your solitude is interrupted by yet another visit from noir, who seems to be finding more and more excuses to spend time with you… (includes a C.AI bot as part 2 below!)

wordcount: 2k

tags: brief mention of NSFW pop-up ads, nerdy n’ socially awkward reader, noir’s disdain for almond joys but he makes up for it at the end <3

It had been a long day at the crime analytics office in Vought. As the sun began to set, exhaustion crept over you after reviewing incident report after report. Your eyes strained from the blue glare of your computer screen. You knew you had promised your boss you would organize the ever-growing database, but the tiny voice of procrastination was pleading for rest before your overworked brain turned into a pile of mush.

Rather than more paperwork—you, being the slacker of all slackers in this department, decided a well-deserved break was in order. And what better way to recharge than turning off the noggin and filling it with good ol’ fashioned mindless entertainment?

With a few tired clicks of your mouse, you booted up your go-to streaming site, which was none other than 123movies. Scrolling through the options, your cursor hovered over the play button of your favorite trashy drama. The kind of cheesy, perfectly predictable melodrama spun from the worst of amateur YA plots. It was practically comfort food for your fatigued mind, just what you needed to loosen up after the mental marathon that was this long day.

As the opening credits began to roll, your computer began to whir and hiss like an overtaxed engine, emitting gusts of unusually hot air from the vents. Suddenly, its screen slowed to a sluggish crawl, cluttered with a barrage of not-so-savory pop-up ads. Barely a minute in, the pixels already scrambled to form images better to left unseen—half naked women in risqué yet tacky mermaid-like attire, claiming they were ‘just around the corner and ready for a good aquatic fuck.’

First of all, what the absolute living hell is an “aquatic fuck”??

Did you even want to know? And most importantly, what happened to the ad blocker you installed just the other day? Judging by the contents, you had a sneaking suspicion that slimy, sea-dwelling degenerate, The Deep, had tampered with your computer… yet again.

“For the love of-… what’s with all these pop-up ads?” you muttered under your breath as excessively explicit ads crowded out the episode. Your eyes darted furtively around the room to check for wandering glances, hoping against hope that none of your coworkers had noticed the unwanted filth invading your screen. Heart pounding, you squeezed your chair closer to your monitor into a makeshift barricade, shielding the display as best you could while hastily clicking away at the intrusive ads.

As you hurriedly closed the remaining windows, an ominous shadow fell across the screen. Dreading what—or who—might be behind you, you slowly swiveled your chair around to find Black Noir's stoic stare boring into your own.

You stifled a yelp as you instinctively clutched the armrests, catching yourself on the edge of your seat before an ungainly spill to the floor. Noir had a way of materializing without warning, and it never failed to unnerve.

“N-Noir!” you managed, inwardly cringing as your voice broke on his name. “Fancy seeing you in these parts. I was just taking a quick break and y’know- stretching ‘em brain cells.” You tried for a lighthearted chuckle, but it emerged as more of a strained squeak that faded into an anxious hum.

With a jerky flurry of clicks and the browser minimized from view, whatever dignity you still retained disappearing along with it. All that did remain was you praying to the heavens above that he hadn't noticed its questionable contents (even if he most definitely had and simply chose not to comment)

When Noir offered no response, you of course charmingly barreled ahead in your frazzled daze. “But anyways, s-sorry about that… how uh, can I help you today?” your words tumbled out in a breathless rush, punctuated by a shrill laugh you hoped disguised the mortification simmering beneath.

Noir cocked his head, observing you with that same silent intensity. You fidgeted, hands twisting in knotted discomfort, the heat in your ears now engulfing your entire face. Was it the invasive pop-ups that had you squirming in your seat? Or the fact he could snuff out your existence faster than you can say “workers’ comp”?

Either way, beneath the weight of his stare, you already felt as if you were some peculiar, freakish creature pinned for study, rather than some bumbling employee just trying to unwind and watch their comfort show.

And to him, you indeed were a fascinating, bizarre little human.

Mercifully, Noir chose to extend a folder toward you, putting an end to your somewhat pathetic withering. You accepted it with a wordless nod, nearly sagging in your chair as tension drained from your shoulders.

Whirling towards the familiar clutter of your desk once more, you pretended absorption in the folder’s material, hoping this signaled Noir’s leave. After all, has anyone seen the state of you? It certainly wasn’t a flattering one. Yet from the corner of your eye, you detected no movement, no receding footsteps—his shadowy form remained statuesquely in place.

Believe it or not, this has been becoming a thing, a growing habit of late—and a suspicious one at that. Lately his breaks had grown longer, minutes lengthening to quarters of an hour, all spent hovering at your desk as you worked. However, his focus was solely on watching and observing you. He never exhibited a hint of thought or motive for his reason there, only leaving you with questions that seemed to multiply by each and every visit.

Noir, on the other hand, was somehow utterly convinced that you and him were two peas in a tightly-knit pod. He swore you two were best of buds for life—even if "life" so far had only amounted to the past two weeks' worth of half-hour stretches where he silently observed your work from the corner.

Ironically, you didn’t have the slightest inkling of how he really felt. Instead, you always assumed that he, like most supes, regarded you as little more than a puny mortal—a fragile, near-useless sack of flesh and bones whose skull he was one misstep away from caving in with bare hands.

But nope, Noir was simply here to bless you, the nerdy but cute crime analyst, with his presence—his rather… unsettling presence.

The familiar hush settled as you reluctantly returned focus to the task at hand. Hocus-pocus-focus, you chanted mentally, peeling away the last shreds of stray thoughts to tap into the zone of productivity. Unfurling the dossier Noir provided, you began sifting through documents for insight on his purpose in approaching you. Meanwhile, a flick of movement in the edge of your vision revealed Noir's attention veer off course, the almond joy perched beside your keyboard capturing his notice.

You tensed, hocus-pocus-focus breaking, all too aware of past disappearances of snacks in these briefings. Sure enough, his hand drifted noiselessly toward the candy bar, no doubt spurred by ingrained impulse to dispose of it per his usual custom. But you'd grown wise to his methods by now.

Not again, you sighed inwardly, snatching the almond joy and cradling it protectively as if it were your dear, beloved child.

Noir made no move to withdraw, palm outstretched expectantly. You frowned, struggling to keep frustration at bay. "Please, come on- not this time!.. It's my last one for the day." Brows pinching, your tone threatened to rise before steadying with a slow and calm inhale. No use losing composure over candy, no matter the principle. So all you could do was peer beseechingly at Noir in silent appeal, legs jittering restlessly under your desk in building apprehension.

Unfortunately, you found no signs of leniency in his obscured face—only his hand beckoning relentlessly for the almond joy. You plea was once again met with stony resolve, as if he was internally distressed by the mere presence of it. What was he? Deathly allergic to almond joys or something?

With a resigned breath, you delivered the almond joy towards Noir's waiting glove, unable to hide the disappointment dimming your features. Your lips curled into a slight pout, gaze sinking heavy into your lap at being parted from the treat. Though Noir was never one for words, it really didn’t take a rocket scientist to see you felt bullied into submission by his demands. At the end of the day, what power did a measly analyst like yourself hold against one of the Seven? As your fingers uncurled, releasing the candy into Noir's grasp, you couldn't help but feel a bit put upon, even if that wasn’t his intention at all.

Noir was well aware of the upset feelings his request had caused, so in an attempt to remedy the situation, his arm was sent in a backwards reach for the notepad he often used to communicate. However, he found himself at a loss as words eluded him, his thoughts swirling in frustrating circles of “What should I even say?”—muddled and incoherent. For a moment he stared at you, mask betraying no emotion as he grappled to find the right words, despite the prick of guilt nibbling at his conscience. Then, lacking any better option, he simply tossed the offending candy into the trash, perhaps with more force than intended.

Clearly, socializing was not Noir’s strong suit.

With no further acknowledgment, Noir spun on his heel and marched away. You watched his retreating, rigid form with discomfort clenching your insides, eyes falling onto the lonely candy discarded in the trash, its colorful wrapper mocking your current disheartened state.

Wearily, you turned away from the almond joy, redirecting your attention toward the computer as a means to divert your now soured mood. Maximizing the browser, you hoped that your planned show may have had time to load during the interaction. But upon inspecting the screen, you found the video remained stubbornly stalled, stuck on buffering dots and refusing to roll despite the minutes passed.

Just. Peachy.

One (super)human encounter had sucked the very life source out of your dog-tired body, and now this. It was really shaping up to be one of those days.

Thoroughly worn out, you gently laid your head down onto the desk, pillowing it against the crook of your folded arms as eyelids slid shut. All you craved was to simply sleep away the remaining time until you could finally escape this wretched shift and retreat to the sanctuary of your home sweet home.

─────────────────

As your shift wound down to its end, you were finally stirring from your slumber. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes, your blurred vision sharpened to show your colleagues had long since departed while you were snoozing away.

Rising and squaring your shoulders, you began to gather your belongings in preparation to leave as well. Once you had collected everything and lifted to your feet, something in the far corner of your desk caught your eye. Approaching for a closer look in the dim lighting, the fuzzy outline gradually came into focus—a cluttered collection of Hershey's Kisses, their jumbled placement grouped to form the shape of a heart.

You blinked in bewilderment, rubbing your eyes once more to ensure you weren't imagining things. Stepping closer, you spotted a sticky note nestled within the heart of chocolates, scrawled upon in a crude, blocky hand. At first, you assumed it was some silly prank from one of your coworkers, but you knew you recognized the handwriting anywhere—it was Noir's.

Gingerly, you plucked the sticky note from the desk, lifting it to your line of sight to read the message. “Kisses taste better than almond joys…Sorry.” you read softly, your voice trailing off as confusion crept in.

Designed as a very apparent flirty gesture, the intent behind the note and chocolates still managed to whoosh straight over your head. As always seemed the case, even the most painfully obvious social cues could so easily evade your understanding—this proving no exception.

You slipped the sticky note into your pocket, then selected a foil-wrapped Kiss from the pile. Gently rolling the chocolate between your fingers, you unwrapped it and popped one into your mouth. You took time to savor its light cream filling beneath a smooth outer shell, face crinkling in thought and head tilting as you considered your verdict. “Eh… I’d beg to differ.” you mused with a shrug, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you took your leave from the office.

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Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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a C.AI bot as your very own part 2 where you thank Noir the following day:

a/n: saw somewhere that kisses don’t contain nuts but then I also saw someone else say they actually do??? So let’s just pretend the kisses Noir chose are completely nut-free for the sake of the plot 😭

also, the reader is very much based off Anika if it wasn’t obvious enough haha! She’s so y/n coded 😤💗

♡ divider credits: @/ianrkives

[stesierra]

Find the Word tag! @starbuds-and-rosedust tagged me! My words are hail, wild, and hold. I'm drawing from As Immortality Fades.

I'm leaving an open tag for anyone who's interested, since I just tagged some people on a different post! Your words are mud, weather, and baby.

Trigger warning: death and corpses

Hail

I called for everyone to stop, and they straggled to a halt, looking at me with bleary eyes and drawn faces. I pointed ahead of us to the distant storm.

"It's going to rain," I said, with all the force of desperation. The storm would reach us because we needed it to. There was no other option. "We have to catch it."

"How?" Dagmod demanded. I told him my plan, which was hardly a plan at all, and we set to work.

Dagmod spread all our blankets and clothes out on the sand, everything that might absorb water. Kerda set out our jugs and bucket and costrels, open. Sygbril and I dug a very large depression in the ground and laid the tent in it, without the poles, so that the water-proof canvas would catch any water and make a little pond, and we made another indentation for our tarp. It took us half an hour to prepare for the storm, and the thunder grew louder and sharper the whole time. Whenever I looked up, the black clouds were closer, creeping up on us like spreading fog.

"Will there be a sandstorm?" Dagmod asked me as I dug.

"Not if we're lucky," I said.

When everything was ready, we waited, watching the black clouds. My mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I prayed to my ancestors, who could not help me, that no sandstorm accompanied this thunderstorm. A sandstorm would fill up our jugs and the little ponds we had made. It would cover our blankets and clothing. It would take all hope of water from us. Let it rain, I prayed. Let it just rain.

We sat in the sand, waiting, for another half an hour, watching the blackness spread across the sky. It spread until the first of the clouds were directly above us, and there was no separation been the flashes of lighting and the peals of thunder. I stared up into the sky as day turned into dusk. I was still staring when the skies opened and water poured down onto the desert.

Huge raindrops pounded against my head, my shoulders, so large it felt like I was being beaten with hail. They drenched me in a minute, seeping through my layers, but I welcomed the cold. I sat with my head thrown back, my mouth wide open, collecting every drop I could. It was barely anything, at first, but the water kept falling.

The storm seemed to last forever. My world was a black sky and flashes of light and cracks of thunder. Lightning struck one of the higher dunes in the distance, but it was far enough away that all it did was blind and deafen me. As the storm raged on, I grew bitterly cold, but I did not care. I wanted to soak up all the water in the world.

When the rain finally lightened, pattering gently against my face, I wanted to call the storm back. It rolled off to the west, leaving blue skies in the east. Soon the rain stopped altogether, and I rushed to check our water traps.

When I peeked in, each jug and the bucket and all our costrels had collected an inch of rain at the bottom. I wanted to pour all of it into my mouth, but I went instead to the blankets and clothes Dagmod had laid out. When I picked a blanket up, it was heavy and wet, the wool having absorbed everything that fell upon it. I lifted the blanket above my head, and I wrung water out of its corners and into my mouth. It tasted muddy and stale, but I got a mouthful. It was heaven, and it wasn't enough. Kerda and Dagmod and Sygbril had taken up their own blankets. Because it was winter, and there were once six of us, we had a lot of blankets. I gulped down mouthful after mouthful. And while we worked our way through everything that had soaked up water, Gunnove plodded up to the tent and drank up all the water that had pooled in the indentation. He then drank up the water the tarp had collected. I didn't know how much water it was. Not enough to sustain a mule. But it was better than nothing.

Wild

I found the builders huddled up together under the lean-to, behind the black smear of a burned out fire, and under a single black and white wool blanket. The blanket — and the lean-to — was not big enough for all five of them. Where their limbs stuck out, they were clad in lightweight dresses and shirts with old-fashioned eagles and bears embroidered on the sleeves. Our breath billowed out like gasps of smoke, but no plumes of white puffed from the mouths of these men and women. I approached. Their eyes were closed, and they did not move as sticks snapped under my feet.

"Bira," Kerda said, her voice a warning of something. But there was no danger, only stillness.

I pulled off a wool mitten and then the leather glove underneath, regretting it when the wind nipped my fingers, and leaned down to brush a woman's cheek. I said, "It's all right, Kerda. I've seen the dead before." Many, many times. But my words were not entirely true. It was not all right. I was fine, but these people, my subjects, would never be fine again.

The woman's face was as hard as stone and as cold as ice. I slid my glove and mitten back on. "They must have died before last night, or they wouldn't be so frozen now."

"It was a cold night, Bira," Thorm said. "Maybe cold enough to freeze a live man solid."

"Maybe," I said, but I doubted it.

"We could use the blanket," Kerda said. "If we are to go into the mountains in winter."

Sygbril jerked towards her and growled, "What are you, a vulture? Leave the dead what little they have. It's bad enough that they were chased out to fend for themselves in the icy woods. Now you think of only how to better yourself."

Eysta bulled in between them, her eyes bright with wrath. "You don't get to talk to my sister like that!"

Sygbril's lip curled. "Who's going to stop me? You?"

I stepped back from the bodies, wiping my mittens on my cloak. "Kerda isn't wrong. But neither are you, Sygbril. You're the one who could really use another blanket, since you aren't as well equipped as we are. Are you sure you don't want it?"

Sygbril's mouth turned down into a fierce frown. "I don't want it at the expense of someone else."

"But it isn't, really. They're gone and need it no longer."

She jabbed a finger at me. "You never died. None of you ever did. You never said so, but it's written all over you. You have no idea what it's like to die and have your body left where it fell. To be denied even a burial, much less a funeral, much less yearly offerings." She swept her hand towards the lean-to. "You're not going to bury them, so leave them be."

We couldn't bury them. We had no shovel and the ground was frozen as solid as they were. But that didn't mean there was nothing we could do. I asked Sygbril, "If we give them last rites and pull down this lean-to and layer the logs and branches over the bodies so that the wild animals can't get at them, will you take the blanket?" Because it had been wild beasts that had killed her, and presumably ensured her body was never found.

Hold

In front of us loomed two great trees, giants with trunks too broad for three people to hug together. They stood far apart, but no brush grew on the ground underneath their canopy. Instead, the pink grass had spread like a thick carpet across the hollow between the trees. In that hollow, a body lay supine, arms and legs outstretched as if the owner had been felled in mid-run. Over many years, it had withered, skin shrinking and drying to expose crooked teeth and deform its oval face. The round, human ears were mostly intact, and a full head of auburn and gray hair clung to that paper-dry scalp, spread out like seaweed against a shore. The bones under that skin were delicate and feminine and oddly familiar.

The dead woman's clothes had disintegrated around her, leaving only shreds that might once have been trousers and a coat, and they did nothing to hide the gaping hole below her ribs. Something had ripped out her guts, her liver and stomach and intestines, leaving the interior of her shriveled body cavity empty of even her kidneys.

The pink grass cradled her corpse, long blades wrapping around it like little tentacles. Grass shouldn't behave that way, but this corpse shouldn't still be intact, either. It was out in the open, where rain and sun would fall upon it, rotting it away, and where hungry scavengers should have scattered its bones. But there it lay, a mummy of a long-dead human in a land where humans should not exist.

As I walked towards it, I stepped on something, and I looked down. A rusty sword, its once-sharp edge flaking off, had tried futilely to cut my boot. But it was long past cutting anything.

We formed a half circle around the body, and Gunnove lowered his head to sniff the pink grass. As I stared down at this puzzle, Sygbril let out an immense sigh. She stepped forward, out of the circle, and right up to the body. With a boot under the body's shoulder, she ripped the rigid corpse free of the grass's hold and flipped it over onto its stomach. The back was as mummified as the front, although with a few more shreds of cloth sticking to it, and the hole in its midsection that severed its spine was perfectly clear.

Eysta cried, "What are you doing?"

"Disrespecting the dead," Dagmod said, crossing his arms. "I didn't expect that of someone who wouldn't even take a blanket off a dead family without giving them a half-assed burial. But I suppose you're full of surprises."

Sygbril kicked the mummy, causing one of the arms to wrench out of its stiff position. "It's far too late for anybody to honor this corpse. If you wanted to, you should have come a hundred years ago. Even ten. But now?" She kicked it again. "It doesn't matter now."

"Sygbril," I said, before my companions could explode at this dishonorable behavior, "Why are you beating up a cadaver? It doesn't seem like it will help anything."

She glared at me, reminding me that I was her least favorite person in this group, and spat, "Because it's mine to do with as I please, and I please to destroy it! It's already ruined anyway. And wasted." She shook her head in disgust. "They didn't even eat the whole thing."

"Yours?" I examined the body's auburn, gray-streaked hair, which was starting to detach from its head, and took a second look at the hair that curled out from under Sygbril's hat. It was auburn. Streaked with gray.

Tag for everything

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@palebdot

@macabremoons

@the-dragon-chronicler

@teacupsandstarlight

@vorskra

@wrenofthewords

@amostdelectablescribbler

@savvy-minnow

@mysticstarlightduck

@phantommill

@gracewritesbooks

@aziz-reads

@owlsandwich

@symbioticsimplicity

@squarebracket-trick

@fishythewriter

@koala2all

Just chapters and snippets

@da-na-hae

[tryingtimi]

last line tag

Thank you for the recent tag, @muddshadow and probably some old ones @agrimedena-drax, tags go back at ya, show me some more of your awesome stuff please. ❣ I'm finally, kinda back on track with writing, so here we are. I'm working on a side story for my unwritten fantasy series, so yeah, I'll bring a little from that lol. Also no pressure tagging: @circa-specturgia, @bloodlessheirbyjacques, @the-void-writes, @erensattacktitandick, @friendlyneighborhood-writer, @aschlindartroom, @approximately20blorbos

A side story with Avelyn visiting the religious center of her religion, and discovering some secrets. It's her first dream sequence.

Looming shadows stretched around like a blanket covering the sweet children at night. Formless, familiar figures. Those, who she wouldn’t name without worrying about tasting sand, her tongue turning ash in her mouth.

People, surround her, caging her. 

She was in the temple. Alone. Lonely. There wasn’t a single soul around, only her and the echoing halls of the Phravani. They were mounting, stretching into heaven, far above the sky. She couldn’t see the ceiling, just like in the Illatheum. 

She couldn’t breathe. 

“Worry not,” a gentle voice called. It was everywhere. 

She trembled, standing in the great hall, letting the wind play with her locks. 

Wind.

Tender, caressing, soothing. 

Merciless, dangerous, deadly. 

She was trembling, searching for the voice in the vast, open space, her toes sinking into soft satin. Pillows for praying, scattered around. She was standing on one, her limbs numb, immovable.  She tried to encourage herself to step, yet never succeeded. 

“It’s alright.” It was the same voice, but where did it come from? 

Shadows were all around, as if idly waiting people. Watching her. Studying her. 

Reading her soul. 

Then, a pathway opened up — an aisle really. Beautiful, rich, decorated. She was walking through it, passing paintings of great philosophers and prophets. Theoden, and his Path. He was among them, the one she recognised immediately. 

She wanted to hide. 

The aisle led to a two-winged door, pearlescent gleaming glittering on its surface. There was no telling where from, but she knew where it opened to. And so she reached for the handle, pushing it gently. 

The door creaked silently.

She peeked in, her heart throbbing in her throat. She found a glimpse of fine praying flyers hanging from the walls discreetly, no paintings drilled into them. A simple carpet stretched across the floor, a similarly humble, carefully made bed and a vanity beside it. No carving ornamented the mirror painted matte obsidian, leaving the place without a lively glisten. Something she always noticed in a place lived in. 

She shuddered, a knot that never left her stomach weighing her down even more. The place held so much in itself, yet she nearly crumbled under its emptiness. 

And she knew it was Amorellan’s. 

Seemingly, the thought brought her out, her eyes catching the other’s regal form blending into the crashing shadows. As if they were coming from her. 

Amorellan was inspecting something, an object, almost as radiatingly hollow as herself. Her back faced her, which let her believe Amorellan was not aware of her presence. 

Amorellan twirled the object in her hand, inspecting it. There was no sign of what it was, or what she intended to do with it. Yet, she had a sickening feeling in her gut, a warning. 

Amorellan held up her hand, and so she caught a little peek of an awfully familiar, yet foreign item. 

A crystal. 

[mistrdctr]

SHARE AT LEAST FIVE SONGS THAT REMIND YOU OF YOUR MUSE, OR THAT YOU ASSOCIATE WITH YOUR MUSE'S CHARACTER ARC. Including lyrics is optional.

Tagged by : @ssolessurvivor ♥

Tagging : @theprice-cffreedcm @suffcring @storyuntrue @sioraiocht @ravarui @forevermuses @kissedbymischief @bloodstainedstar and if you didn't do this yet and read this: You as well! ♥

Rag'N'Bone Man - Human | Take a look in the mirror and what do you see? / Do you see it clearer or are you deceived / In what you believe? / 'Cause I'm only human after all / You're only human after all / Don't put the blame on me / Don't put your blame on me / (Oh-oh) some people got the real problems / (Oh-oh) some people out of luck / (Oh-oh) some people think I can solve them / (Oh-oh) Lord heavens above / I'm only human after all / I'm only human after all / Don't put the blame on me / Don't put the blame on me

Panic! At The Disco - House Of Memories | If you're a lover, you should know / The lonely moments just get lonelier / The longer you're in love than if you were alone / Memories turn into daydreams, become a taboo / I don't want to be afraid / The deeper that I go / It takes my breath away / Soft hearts, electric souls / Heart to heart and eyes to eyes / Is this taboo? / Baby, we built this house on memories / Take my picture now, shake it 'til you see it / And when your fantasies become your legacy / Promise me a place in your house of memories

Imagine Dragons - Bones | I-I-I got this feeling, yeah, you know / Where I'm losing all control / 'Cause there's magic in my bones / I-I-I got this feeling in my soul / Go ahead and throw your stones / 'Cause there's magic in my bones / Playing with a stick of dynamite / There was never gray in black and white / There was never wrong 'til there was right (ooh, oh) / Feeling like a boulder hurtling / Seeing all the vultures circling / Burning in the flames I'm working in / Turning in a bed that's darkening / My patience is waning / Is this entertaining / Our patience is waning / Is this entertaining?

Imagine Dragons - Enemy (Arcane) | I wake up to the sounds of the silence that allows for my mind to run around with my ear up to the ground / I′m searching to behold the stories that are told / When my back is to the world that was smiling when I turned / Tell you you're the greatest / But once you turn, they hate us / Your words up on the wall as you're praying for my fall / And the laughter in the halls, and the names that I've been called / I stack it in my mind, and I′m waiting for the time / When I show you what it′s like to be words spit in a mic / Oh, the misery / Everybody wants to be my enemy / Spare the sympathy / Everybody wants to be my enemy / Look out for yourself! / My enemy / Look out for yourself!

[rustedhearts]

severed lamb: part iii: the sinners (pastor!steve x fem!reader)

summary: you visit the church on a hot summer night to thank pastor steve for his recent gift. you should've known: only the sinners come out at night.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♰ severed lamb masterlist ♰ ♰ main masterlist ♰

tags: religious trauma/imagery, age gap (steve is 35, reader is 19), manipulation, abuse of power, really just insane sexual tension and steve being icky.

♰ Wyndgate, Georgia July 1981 ♰

You hid the shoes from Mama.

Stuffed beneath old boxes in your closet, buried beneath the mess of your youth left over—the pale pink silk came out only when you were alone in the dark. You crept across the prickly carpet with bare knees, the chitter of grasshoppers in the field, and cicadas in the trees filling the lull of night. Your bedroom bathed in inky darkness, beams of moonlight beaconing across the wood panels of your walls—you slithered off your bed, freeing yourself from the stiff and sticky sheets, and inched open your closet.

There, you held them in your hands. You studied their featherlight weight, their soft satin feel, the solid firmness of their toe. You slipped them onto your feet, warm from a half sleep, and wrapped the ribbons around your calves.

And then you prayed.

Elbows pressed into the bed, hands clasped together, knelt against the scratchy rug. Eyes pinched shut, cross necklace delicately resting against your chest, pointe shoes barely tapped together behind you.

But as you murmured to God, you thought only of Steve.

His wide, warm hands with the tough working calluses. Those round, earthy eyes with specks of mud, braced with long lashes that tickled his thick brows. The shape of his lips, bowed and broad, a shade of pink between rose and scarlet. How he smelled—God, that smell. Smoked with musk, sweet with heat, a hint of something woodsy. He didn't smell like the other boys here—like Camels and beer and truck exhaust. He smelled like heaven.

You prayed for God to absolve you of this sin. Because you knew, despite years of your mother's coaxing to find yourself "a hard-working fella with firm hands," that God would punish you for your mindful wanderings. Lust was a sin, after all.

When you fell asleep, God punished you with dreams of Steve. Dreams that had you writhing and squirming beneath the sheets, mewling into the feathers of your pillows. When you awoke, a torturous ache pulsed between your legs.

First, you must suffer for your sins.

♰ ♰

But still, you were a good Southern girl—or at least you tried to be. Georgians valued hospitality above all, and you'd be doing your daddy wrong if you didn't thank Pastor Steve properly.

Saturday afternoon, you scaled the cherry tree in your backyard. Mama was at her friend Patty's, drinking Bloody Marys on her porch and gabbing about town murmurings. You had to be quick while she was away. You made quick work of plucking the ripest, juiciest cherries and washing them in the sink. You mixed up all the fixings for the dough, kneading the floured, squishy material until it was firm. It chilled in the fridge while you cleaned the stove.

A few hours later, when the sun went down and Mama was on her way home, the cherry pie was perfectly golden, crispy, and bleeding tart cherry. You wrapped it in a plastic bag from the grocery store and freshened up. You'd be lying if you said Steve didn't linger in the back of your mind as you pulled on the thin cotton of your favorite sundress—pink and strappy. It matched the color of your new shoes, hidden once again in your closet.

You passed your mother on your way down the drive. Kicking up puffs of dirt behind you, cradling the warm pie in your hands. Mama staggered on the way up, flailing wildly to find her bearings in the open air. The sinking sun cast a creamsicle shadow across her dull eyes. A cackle left her when she spotted you, and you scuffled to a stop on your way down.

"Lilah! Lilah, my sweet girl, give your mama a kiss hello."

Her hands were clammy and warm on your cheeks, squishing them together, pulling you close, teetering you from side to side like rocking a baby. You cringed away from her, clutching the warm pie tight to your stomach. You'd never forgive yourself for giving Pastor Steve a squished pie.

"Mama," you huffed, attempting to yank your face from her hands. "Mama, I'm goin' somewhere."

Your mother skittered back, movements loose and liquid like she'd been flipped upside down and shaken free of inhibition. Her smile was crooked, eyes drooped, wrists limp where her hands dangled near her hips.

"Alright," she drawled, "Lord, you don't wanna spend no more time with your mama. Wha-dI ever do t' you?"

Watching her hike up the driveway toward the house was like watching a calf learn how to walk. You didn't have the energy to play mother and nudge her to her feet. You just watched, clinging to your plastic-wrapped pie dish, as she scuffed up dirt clouds and stumbled around. She went head-first into the house, and a loud clatter came through the open windows seconds after the door closed.

Sighing, you turned around and drifted down the drive, praying the dirt wouldn’t ruin your white sneakers—praying Mama wouldn’t snoop and find your shoes.

But most of all: praying Pastor Steve would be glad to see you.

♰ ♰

Wyndgate went dark by the time you reached the church. A few cars lingered in the lot, stragglers wandering from their after-work prayers in the back pews. The drunken sinners and the half-beat housewives staggered and skittered out like roaches. You tried not to be so judgmental (that was God’s job, after all) but Mama raised you a little brown on the nose.

Straightening your spine and pulling back your shoulders, you fixed your cross, tugged at the hem of your dress, and walked your way through the church doors. The floorboards squeaked beneath your shoes on your way down the aisle, cherry pie still ebbing with warmth in your arms. Pastor Steve was in one of the first pews, collecting pamphlets from the floor and wiping dirt from the shiny soak seats. The plastic-wrapped pie crinkled when you shifted your hands around the porcelain dish.

“Pastor Steve—“

“Oh!”

You jumped, shuffling back against the aisle carpet when Pastor Steve whirled around with a shout. He smacked a hand over his heart when he saw you standing there, pink paper in hand. Chest heaving with heavy breaths, the man’s cheeks grew a colorful shade close to the pamphlet he clutched, and a sheepish smile breezed over his face.

“Delilah,” he sighed, clutching the pew with his other hand. “It’s just you.”

You gnawed on your lip, toes clicking together on the carpet. “S-sorry for scarin’ you, Pastor.”

Steve waved his hand, straightening to a steady posture. He looked at the pamphlet, now crumpled, and placed it as neatly as possible in the pew shelf, tucked between the bible. It looked like an ad for choir singers.

“Not at all, Delilah. You here for a chat?”

Steve shuffled out of the pew, coming to stand with his hands on his hips before you. He smelled real good today. Like strong, sweet coffee, something nutty and buttery beneath it. His hair was freshly-washed: soft and bouncy, hints of caramel brown in the front coil. You wanted to run your fingers through it. The thought made you ache between the thighs. Please Lord, take these sinful thoughts from me.

“Actually, I wanted to thank you. I made a pie,” you admitted quietly, gazing down at the dessert collecting condensation on the plastic wrap.

Steve followed your eyes, delighted at the sight of it. He thought of those cherries in the field that day behind your house, and how graceful you looked scaling the tree. Like some sort of woodland nymph, foraging for berries.

“Thank me for what, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. Your chest blossomed and boomed, tendrils of muscles aching at the sound of that word slipping from his mouth. Sweetheart. Were you his sweetheart? Your cheeks felt sore with heat at the thought. Something deep in your gut pulsed and cried.

“We-well fo-for…for the shoes, Pastor Steve,” you whispered, glancing at the other pews. Few sinners remained on their knees.

Steve, still looming above you with his hands on his hips, followed your drifting eyes. The corner of his lip held the whisper of a smile. “Now I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Delilah.”

A bubble of embarrassment boiled hot behind your navel. You shifted your weight, fidgeting with the loose end of the plastic wrap on the underside of the dish. You dropped your eyes to the floor, the tops of Steve's brown loafers particularly interesting. They were perfectly clean, not even a trace of mud. With the dry heat Georgia's been suffering through, you weren't surprised.

Had you got it wrong? Was it not Steve that gave you the new pointe shoes? Who else could it have been?

"But I think," Pastor Steve spoke up, voice a little high with an amused coo. "I might know who's responsible."

You lifted your gaze just a smidge. "You do?"

"Mhm. C'mon."

Steve headed toward the front of the church, the old door to the office upstairs coming into view. You glanced around once more, finding even fewer people remaining. The hunched woman in the back of the room had her eyes shut so tight, you were certain she was worlds away. No one would notice. Your eyes shifted toward the wooden cross behind the podium at the head of the room—the perfectly-carved depiction of Jesus dripping tears and bleeding from his palms and feet. The thorns striking his head.

He would notice.

"Delilah," Steve called softly, standing in the doorway now. He held it open for you, head tipping when you looked his way. "You comin'?"

Steve had a way of looking at you that made you feel like the prettiest girl in the room, even if you weren't. He had a way of looking at you that made you feel like something rare and precious, something worth taking the time to admire. He had a way of pulling you in.

On your way to Steve, you looked toward the cross again.

You could've sworn the tears of Jesus were gone.

♰ ♰

In the attic, the heat was stifling. Even with the absence of the sun, the heat felt palpable. So stiff and thick you could've chewed on it like rubber. You took a deep breath in as Steve closed the door behind you and turned on a lamp. The white wooden walls collected a faint amber glow, collecting in a halo on the arched ceiling. Steve's shoes thunked across the carpet. You could almost smell the dust.

Turning around toward Steve, you prepared yourself for an earnest apology. "Pastor Steve, I just wanted to—"

"You're welcome."

You paused, lips parted in silence. Steve slipped his hands into the front pocket of his trousers—tight at the hips, loose at the calves, the color of midnight. He wasn't wearing a robe, and his shoulders seemed even more broad stretched beneath that crisp white button down.

"Beg your pardon?"

His shoes thunked again as he passed you, steps slow and meticulous. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. You held your breath in your throat when his elbow brushed your arm. You felt him stop, the size of his heat pushing against your back. You turned to peer at him in the low light. He pulled the rickety wooden chair of his desk back, but didn't sit.

"I said: you're welcome, Delilah."

You closed your mouth, blinking your brows into a frown. "B-but you said—"

Steve eased down into his seat with a sigh, sliding his palms against the arms of the chair until they rested forearms-down. Feet flat on the floor, spine straight against the back, thighs a few inches apart—he looked like a King in his throne.

"I know what I said," he murmured, voice no longer tipping toward a melodic coo. "I just thought we'd speak alone. You know, in private."

You swallowed. "O-okay."

Steve tipped his head, turning his face aside until you could only see his profile. That handsome, princely profile. The heat of the attic gathered on the back of your neck beneath your hair. A pool of sweat collected at the small of your spine beneath your dress. The fabric thinned with the wetness. Steve's shirt grew darker beneath his arms, a glossy shine gleaming over his forehead. Something about that made your mouth water. You imagined what the smell of his heat might be like up close. You wondered how the skin of his throat tasted, coated in sweat.

The silence that festered felt as tangible as the heat. The floor groaned when you teetered.

"Did you like them?"

You nodded meekly, suddenly too small for words. Steve hummed, letting his head loll back in place.

"Hmm. Good."

You swallowed again, throat growing dry in the absence of words and water. The pie in your hands felt a little cooler. You extended it, gripping tight.

"Well, I...I made this for you. S-Since you liked them cherries s' much."

Steve tipped his chin up, but he didn't look at the pie. He kept his eyes steady on you—you: with your meek little eyes that couldn't stand to look at him too long, and your pretty dress with the fabric so thin he could see the shape of your thighs touching under the hem. You: with your shaking fingers and your wobbly knees, and the socks with the frilly lace on the ruffled hems like a girl at communion. You: with your angelic cheeks and your goddess face, and the cross between your breasts that glinted at Steve.

He wanted to devour you. He couldn't wait any longer for a taste of that sinless skin.

"Bring it to me."

You kicked your eyes up, heat lapping at your spine at the sound of his voice commanding you. Tone rigid with demand, crawling up from deep in his throat and appearing with a rasp. But still, no matter what: so gentle. Just a little bit of a salt on the top of a chocolate chip cookie.

You took small steps forward, and Steve was patient. You stopped when your toes touched his, a small stuttered breath echoing from your nose. The pie dish teetered on its way to him. His palms ghosted yours when he collected it. The weight of his touch featherlight, the warmth of his skin scorching. It left the surface of your hands feeling like you'd touched the sun.

Steve placed the dish on the desk. The porcelain clatter sliced through the quiet. With two fingers, he gently peeled the plastic wrap apart. The sweet, tart smell of cherry bled through the heat of the attic. Steve brushed his finger over the firmness of the crust, humming again. You swept your hands behind your back, fingers woven together. You itched for his satisfaction and his unadulterated praise.

His fingers broke the surface, submerging into the gooey warmth inside. He curled them, and they reappeared coated in sticky scarlet jam. A whole cherry chunk sat between his thumb and index, golden crust gathered in his palm. Steve brought it to his mouth, lips closing around the bite ripped from the center of the pie. It was animalistic, it was crude: the way he sucked it down and licked his fingers clean. Each one disappeared into his mouth and returned with a pop, slurped clean of red.

You inhaled, breath catching in stuttered successions. Steve groaned, deep and guttural. The muscles in your stomach squeezed. The apex of your thighs burned hot.

"Glorious, Delilah," he murmured. When his tongue swept his lip, it appeared bright pink.

"Would you like some?" he asked, easing back into the chair again.

The tops of your ears scorched. "O-Oh, um—"

"Come on," he cooed, teeth scraping his reddened lip. "Indulge, Delilah."

Pastor Steve's words from the other day echoed in your mind. Sometimes we have to indulge. Keeps us good.

Weren't you good?

You followed Steve's hand as it approached the pie again. His fingers sank in with an obscene squelch. You squeezed again when he gathered another bite in his hand, this one destined for your mouth.

Steve chuckled, a bounding sound. "I can't reach your mouth up there, sweetheart."

Your attention snapped to his face, the smile gracing it wolfish and all teeth. Your knees gave in easier than you would've liked. You melted like butter in the lamplight, sinking to half your height against the carpet. It scratched your knees and itched your calves, but Steve's thighs pressing against your arms swept any other thought away.

The light was different down here. Darker, shadowed. Pastor Steve's eyes had never seemed so amazed.

His fingers approached and your jaw unhinged, giving way to a wet, writhing tongue and two rows of pearly teeth. Steve's other hand touched your chin, bracing you steady with gentle fingers. Your knees clenched, suctioning together with sticky skin.

You caught his eye as the first biting tang of cherry touched your tongue. They appeared wide and swampy, swimming with colors muddled by the darkness at this height. The air he exhaled smelled fruity. The tartness to the pie clung to your cheeks and made them ache. You closed your lips around his fingers, and your eyes fluttered shut.

The taste of him. Oh God, the taste of him. You licked and lapped, swirling your tongue around to clear away all the pie in search of just him. You gobbled it down, eager for just skin. His hand tightened around your chin, lengthening to cup your jaw. A sting gathered in your jaw from the weight of his hand on your tongue. But you were lost in him.

Steve sat back, watching you inch forward. You followed his lead without thought. You latched around his fingers and sucked them all clean, careful even to clear the crevices. He came away spit soaked and a little sore. He rested his wet hand on his knee, bits of jam and crust gathered on the pleats of his trousers. He gave your jaw a little squeeze.

You heaved for air, chest pumping in time to each desperate breath. The glimmer of your cross met the lamplight with every intake. Steve brought that wet hand, coated in your spit, to the channel of your throat. The pads of his fingers left a trail of cool dampness down the length of your neck and across your collarbones. Breezing down, outlining the shape of you.

Until he found the cross between your breasts. He traced the shape of that next, humming as he made the sign with his index. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Steve placed his mouth just above your nose until you looked at him through your lashes.

"I hope you know," he whispered, words warm and damp. "I prayed for this."

When his mouth met yours, all you tasted was cherry. Tart, muddled, violent cherry. It burst in your mouth, tongue ejecting to deliver the taste. His teeth scraped, nipped; his hands took your face. The chair strained with a creak beneath his weight. The floor groaned under your knees. Your palm thumped to the floor for balance. A pathetic mewl echoed into the cavern of his mouth: full of nothing but you and pie.

Steve pulled away with a smack, lips detaching and expelling air. His thumbs rubbed your cheeks, tenderizing them with his callused skin. He huffed once, wiped at the sweat on his brow with his sleeve, and sat back again. He swept a finger across your lip lazily, heavy and soaked in spit.

“Oh yeah,” Steve sighed. “I prayed real hard for that.”

[galatariel]

hi!! it’s me, zaynab ♡ popping in to make this little post. i recently reached a follower milestone that i am so grateful for 😭 like it means so much that there are so many lovely people who like seeing my content and it makes me feel 💗💗💗 this post kinda has a lot going on so i might divide it up a bit to spare u all!!

because i wanted to do something to celebrate this (and because i like making things) - i thought i’d do a little thing where you can request — a music video set — an idol in particular (during an era or a colour!) — headers/icons or anything like the gif i used in this post 😭 — a film/television set!

that being said - i track #userzaynab and i would love to be tagged in anything that yall make because i love losing my mind over the insane talent of the content creators on this site 🤪

and now for the sappy bit...because i cannot help myself. a small message for u guys and an appreciation for my fav blogs and besties 💎

i had a blog on here (hansjisung) from like 2019-early 2020 before i left for a bit and i came back around nov 2020 with a new blog (dk-s) and i met some of the most amazing people in caratland and i cannot express how much u all mean to me!! some of the funniest, most talented and unhinged ppl who deserve all the adoration in the world!! 

now i ended up moving here (jeonwonwoo) and i LOVE seeing all the incredible things that ppl make on this site (from kpop to music in general to film and television!!) so thanku for making this site so fun to be on :D

i’m placing the blogs that i love under the cut to save the scrolling time thru ur dash </3

CARATLAND 💎

@woozi​ @soonhoonsol​ @hwiyoungies​ @ohoshi​ @injunnies​ @joshuahong​ @seoksgyu​ @joshuas​ @leedinos​ @soonwnu​ @mangogyu​ @coupsnim​ @mingyuskim​ @xuboowoo-remade​ @wonublr​ @beaniegyu​ @myungho​ @moriiyun​ @kimgyu​ @anyhao​ @carat-cakes​ @chogiwapadada​ @jeonwonswoo​ @dokyeomblr​ @onlyboos​ @beyoonce​ @xuseokgyu​ @sapphichui​ @horanghui​ @sannie-hannie​ @kimsmingyu​ @miingyuu​ @redcarat​​ @chanz​ @junmail​​ @carat​​ @scoups​ @wabisaba​ @scoupsy​ 

MORE KPOP 🪐

@pinkmatters​ @boyswthluv​ @pjmsdior​ @heetonin​ @jaywon​ @jaeyunsim​ @heeseunq​ @jaehyukkies​ @yunaevis​ @wjsnlogy​ @zofias​ @kihyuun​​ @ljaebeom​ @seonghwaminho​ @dejune​ @pansy-mp3​​ @saerom​ @nct127s​ @usertae​​ @97choi​ @hueningkai​ @saereom​​ @inhypen​ @heejakewon​ @yonghaz​ @hy2ka​ @yoonqiful​ @beomgyus​​ @heartriki​ @kimsunoo​ @yxxna​ @hooned​ @hybed​ @ambivartence​​ @hyunpic​ @bisexualhobi​ @seunievrse​ @woodzm​ @flops​ @jakehoon​ @baekonbaek​ @mandus​ @gayforpinks​ @cchuu​ @namjon​ @orbitzones 

OTHER BLOGS 🌻

@jadethirwall​ @zenibas​ @emailclub​ @kibumkim​ @yonceknowles​ @desification​ @eternallys​ @tomhollandd​ @jarruss​ @amarakaran​ @mehendi​ @malafvma​ @pakistanis​ @tiredyouths​ @melkors-4th-silmaril​ @yuesgirlfriend​ @bamyan​ @megantheestallion​ @clouds​ @badmode​ @joppin​ @namjoohyuk​ @capitals​ @wlwrising​ @fruitys​ @lexi-howards​ @benbbarnes​ @scweeties​ @userdarthvader​ @khazdith​ @patels​ @feanor​ @arvinrussel​ @helmes-deep​ @suyins​ @juliettecai​ @ertugrulgifs-sideblog​​ @russingon​​ @icarusgf​​

[roach-works]

im aware im about to bust open a can of very intense worms but i passed a church the other day and the sign said "praying for the dead is an act of supreme charity" and i'm jewish and this has been baffling me for days. like. i can't get my head around it. the words involved must mean something else and i want to know what the fuck.

like, to me, charity is something you do to help people. it meets their needs and improves their circumstances. i'm aware the christian concept of charity is more about voluntarily earning enough Good Person Points to go to heaven, while the jewish concept is a non-negotiable responsibility god laid on you to address injustice. so the whole christian concept of charity seems a little iffy and haphazard and sanctimonious to me.

that being said, what is the point of praying for the dead at all. what's that do. if someone dies, doesn't god handle whether they go to heaven or not? isn't that on their actions in life? isn't it already sorted out at the time of death, except maybe for cases of ghosts and saints? are you just praying to make sure they don't get lost on the way to judgement?

if someone is stuck in hell or purgatory, because they weren't themselves a good person, is there really an exemption for if they get enough Go To Heaven Anyway prayers? can i just put in my will that i want a thousand christians to pray for me and they'll just veto me getting sent to hell? do i get to not believe in jesus my whole life and just tag along to heaven anyway because apparently divine judgement has this Phone A Friend option? or is it like, dead people hear your prayers for them whether they're in heaven or hell, and it's just sort of like getting a nice email? like hey, so a demon is flattening your dick with an enormous flaming scorpion, but sarah h. greene of denver colorado sincerely hopes that isn't happening! thanks!

and if none of the above is how it works, if prayers don't actually change the fate of the dead, then what's the point? how is it charity, let alone supreme charity? if praying for the dead only makes you, the person doing it, a better person, then isn't that just acting in your own self-interest and therefore not charity at all? if charity doesn't help anyone but you it's like giving yourself a dollar and calling it a donation. can you really just do morally good things that don't actually take any effort or help anyone and still have them improve your soul situation because you meant well? how is heaven not chock-full of lazy douchebags if this is the case.

i'm baffled and i want answers. if you're christian please weigh in on this. also please be nice to each other in the comments or i'll see you in hell.

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection | Day 1 | Canon Divergent

Dean Winchester’s Guide to Learning Spanish | RogueTranslator (AO3)

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,050 Main Tags/Warnings: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, College | University Student Dean Winchester, Post-Canon, Rimming, Spanking, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Tutor Castiel Summary: It’s a few months after Jack ascended and Castiel came back from the Empty. The time since has been a golden hour for the Winchesters and their found family: Sam and Eileen’s relationship is going from strength to strength; Jack’s plans to improve Heaven are proceeding apace; and Castiel is able to split his time evenly between the two most important people in his life, working in Heaven by day and returning to Dean for the night. As for Dean, he’s trying civilian life on for size, and it’s going well so far—he’s the top student in both of his courses at the community college. His Spanish instructor is so impressed, in fact, that she wants to know if he has any study tips he could share with the class. If only she knew.

Heavenly Connection | @magickastiel

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 4,562 Main Tags/Warnings: Pining, fluff, angst, canon, post-canon Summary: Dean discovers Spotify and, more specifically, the playlists about him. And Cas.

Halo | @ellis-park

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 4,595 Main Tags/Warnings: Temporary character death, angst with a happy ending Summary: “What in the Sam Hill was that thing?” Bobby spits, livid and confused. His eyes aren’t quite focused yet. A side effect of being knocked out with one simple touch, Dean guesses. “It, uh...” He pauses, glancing around the old, abandoned barn at the blown out lights and busted door. If he stares at the back wall, he can picture the vaguest impression of shadowy wings. “It said it was an angel.” Bobby’s eyes snap up to meet his. “Well,” he says eloquently, “fuck." Or, an ant falls in love with a comet.

the space between | @kingdumbass

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 5,503 Main Tags/Warnings: Purgatory, Dream Walking, Memory Alteration, Hell Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts Summary: He'd always wondered, before: what happened to a monster that died in its own afterlife? Where did it go? He supposed that must have been the “capricious” part. And yet, above all else, above the symphony of death flooding his senses and the sound of his erratically human heartbeat drumming in his ears, the voice that rang clear above the din, the spark that kept him going through the thick of it all wasn’t the voice of God or any other divine revelation. It was Dean Winchester’s. Sometimes just the sound floating through the aether, the certainty that Dean was still out there fighting, praying, was the only thing that kept Castiel fighting too.

insi(de an)d outside | @thisisapaige

Rating: Mature Word Count: 6,688 Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel as God, Angst, Sexual Tension, Dark, Canon Divergence, Alternative Season 7 Summary: Castiel smiled. His Dean— His defiant, determined Dean— was ever the hero. Dean never gave in without a fight, without exhausting every plan and trying every angle. It was so human of him. Castiel could not help but love him for it. "Surely you know holy fire cannot hold a God?" Castiel asked. "You know me." The flames flickered across Dean's face, casting shadows over the hollows of his cheeks. "I had to try."

Map to Yesterday | Hiding_Amaranth (AO3)

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 23,007 Main Tags/Warnings: Dean/Cas, Amnesia, Mass Amnesia on TFW (including Rowena), Mystery, Magic, Road Trip, Angst and Romance, Humor, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Recovery of Identity, Angel Wings Summary: Team Free Will wakes up with no memory of where they are, or who they are. Left with nothing but some foggy shreds of their identities, they have to rediscover themselves and each other—and team up to piece together what even happened.

Desideratum and Other Mishaps | @thefandomsinhalor

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 28,072 Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Divergent, Baby Jack Kline, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Fluff and Angst, Fix-it, Protective Dean Winchester, S14E13 Lebanon Summary: In an unexpected turn of events, Castiel and the Winchesters find themselves with a toddler on their hands, when Jack, intending to regain his grace, makes a wish with the Baozhu—the wish-granting pearl—instead of Dean and gets transformed into a young child. Unsure how to fix the situation, and with Mary and Sam aiding the hunters from the other world on a hunt, Dean and Castiel are left alone at the bunker to care for baby Jack, where more than one revelation will unfold.

The Dream's the Thing (Wherein He’ll Catch the Subconscious of Our Dean) | @li-izumi

Rating: Mature Word Count: 30,073 Main Tags/Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Season/Series 05 Canon Divergence, Dreams, Cupid Marks, God Ships It, Dean in Denial, Internalized Homophobia, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Temporarily Female Castiel (Supernatural), References to Croatoan/Endverse, POV Dean Winchester, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2017 Summary: Dean finds himself in a crowded ballroom with only the sense that he needs to choose someone. In between this and other strange visions, Dean remembers that the Apocalypse is over. Sam, Bobby, and Cas are alive but going their separate ways. Dean’s dying. But if his supernatural death flu is the price for the return of his family, why does Dean get better around Cas? [Canon compliant through season 5 before diverging with the end of Swan Song. Contains references/Easter eggs for scenes from season 6]

A Different Kind of Monster | @lastoryx

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 89,495 Main Tags/Warnings: Case Fic, Gay Dean Winchester, Homophobia, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Adult Language, Minor Character Death, Homophobic Language, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Internalized Homophobia, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon Divergent, Canon Adjacent Timeline, Closeted Dean Winchester, Fast burn?, Gay Panic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Stanford Era (Supernatural) Summary: Something in Bodie, California is luring truckers to their deaths and Dean’s on his way to take it out. It’s the first time Bobby’s given him a case and, with Sam at Stanford and his dad off chasing demons, he's finally hunting monsters on his own. When an accidental encounter puts an as-of-yet-unknown monster in the passenger seat of his car, Dean decides to ice him, taking his dad's old adage to heart: a monster is always a monster. Unfortunately, Dean can’t seem to figure out what kind of monster "Castiel" is and he certainly can’t shake him.

Edging | @niche-pastiche & @wisteria-lodge

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 129,712 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Slow Burn, Castiel and Jimmy Novak share a body, Angel Vessel Consent Issues, Sleep Deprived Dean Winchester, Dissociation, Dean Winchester Has PTSD, Past Alastair/Dean Winchester, Past Sexual Assault, Dean Winchester's First Time With a Man Since Hell, Sexual Dysfunction, Kink Negotiation, discussions of daddy kink, discussions of consent, subspace, Angel & Vessel Interactions (Supernatural), Wing Kink, Dean Winchester Wears Panties, Rimming, Polyamory, Two Minds One Body, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Angelic Possession (Supernatural), everyone is a switch Summary: Spooked by his vision of a drug-taking, orgy-having, post-apocalyptic Cas, Dean is doing everything he can to keep a semi-brainwashed angel (and a cute but clueless vessel) in one mostly-functional piece. It would just be so much easier if he could forget that crap with Alastair.

[aziraphales-library]

I’m really not sure how to word this, but can you list me some fics with like... a gimmick? Or a trope? As the basis of the plot? That’s not the best way to word it because it doesn’t have to be gimmickey or tropey, but just... You know, a plot that’s interesting... that starts out with a situation... unusual circumstances?? Am I making any sense? Like I’ve read the stuff that’s easily tagged like spells, fake relationship, soul mates, ect, but just fun, different stuff like that?? Sorry...

First of all, I want to apologise for the super later reply to this ask. I found it sitting unanswered in our drafts. To make up for it, here is an extra long list of gimmicky, tropey fics that i absolutely love!...

i've found a way (a way to make you smile) by curtaincall (T)

Crowley worked in Sales. He had never intended to work in Sales. It had just sort of happened. One moment, there he’d been, a newly minted university graduate off to change the world, exquisitely useless Philosophy degree in hand, and now here he was, having sauntered vaguely downwards into a Hell that consisted mainly of cold-calling new customers and sucking up to existing ones. AU based on The Office.

A (not quite) tinder date by NohaIjiachi (M)

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry—“ A man said, breathless, plopping himself down in the chair. He sounded like he ran a marathon. “Got held up at work— I couldn’t even check my phone! I’m so terribly sorry!”

Aziraphale would’ve beamed, at that. He would’ve immediately declared that it was no problem, these things happened, so no worries at all— Except the guy currently catching his breath in the chair in front of him was definitely not his missing date. That was unless he’d decided to shave his beard, make his hair grow magically, and dye it red.

“I—“ Aziraphale croaked, confused. The man tipped his chin down, glancing at Aziraphale above the rim of his darkened glasses with a surprising set of honey-coloured eyes, and winked at him. Aziraphale closed his mouth. “I— It’s quite alright. I’m glad you, huh— Could make it—“

Win a Date With Anthony J. Crowley! by Caedmon (E)

Crowley is a world-famous rock star who sells out arenas. His name is synonymous with 'rock-n-roll', and he thrives on the spotlight. When he agrees to raffle off a date with himself for charity, he's expecting to meet an overzealous fan that wants to wear his skin and very well might try to roofie him. What he's not expecting is to be instantly attracted to the quiet man with the unusual name who shows up for the date at the Ritz... and he's certainly not expecting for Aziraphale to have no clue who he is...

You’ve Got Kudos by curtaincall (M)

Aziraphale and Crowley both write fanfiction. As it happens, they both write Good Omens fanfiction.

Of course, neither of them would ever admit this to the other.

(A love story told primarily in AO3 comments)

The Best Laid Plans by hope_in_the_dark (T)

Ezra Fell has sworn off romance forever and is perfectly content with his books and his tea and his ugly wardrobe. At least, he is until a handsome stranger hits him with a car.

it’s a new craze by attheborder (T)

CROWLEY: I try not to make a habit of gratitude, but I must give our appreciation to everyone out there who’s been listening and subscribing to The Ineffable Plan. AZIRAPHALE: Ooh, yes, we’ve become quite popular, haven’t we? CROWLEY: Yeah, just hit number eight on the advice charts … No advertising at all. AZIRAPHALE: Mm. How … miraculous. CROWLEY: … Aziraphale. You did not.

***

Crowley and Aziraphale are very possibly the people least qualified, on the entire planet, to start up an advice podcast.

But what else is there to do when the world isn’t ending anytime soon, you’re technically on indefinite sabbatical from your lifelong careers, and you need a plausible excuse to spend more time with your best friend who you’re definitely not, absolutely not, maybe just a little, actually maybe overwhelmingly in love with?

happiness, more or less by TheKnittingJedi (M)

Renting a flat is all fun and games until you fall in love with the ghost haunting it.

An adaptation of the 2005 romcom Just Like Heaven.

on the same page by Chekhov (E)

Aziraphale Z. Fell is a rising star of the spiritual literary genre - the next Eat Pray Love guy - and his version of Chicken Soup For the Christian Soul is flying off the shelves. It's not that he's not grateful, but it's one thing to enjoy a career in writing and another completely to be pigeonholed into a specific genre, so much so that you are almost forbidden from writing anything else. So yes, maybe he has a bit of a secret. An outlet for his less... appropriate urges. And yes, if his typical readership got word of the sort of paragraphs he could put out on a particularly inspired night, they might suffer some form of heart attack typical for their age. But all of that is well hidden, and there is absolutely no way anyone would ever find out about his Arrangement with A.J. Crowley - the most debaucherous romantic fiction author of the decade. That is... until they have to pretend to be married to each other.

The Whole Damn World Seemed Upside Down by WyvernQuill (M)

"I just wish things were different," Crowley says... and the universe happily obliges.

Stuck - perhaps forever - in a reality in which Shadwell is the first Wiccan MP, Pepper's only aspiration in life is to be a dutiful wife to someone, and his beloved Bentley is a rusty VW bus, Crowley is slowly learning that "different" doesn't necessarily mean better...

But how long can he bear to live* in a world where Aziraphale hates him?

*Not that he has any other option. The Death of this world can't see blood...

The Annual Tadfield Cheese-Rolling Festival by summerofspock (T)

Disgruntled newscaster Anthony Crowley is forced to cover the annual Tadfield Cheese Rolling Festival...again. Only this year he's accompanied by a new producer who he can't seem to get his mind off of even though he's swiftly realizing he has far bigger problems. Namely, the fact that the Tadfield Cheese Rolling Festival refuses to end.

- Mod D

[justanobsessedfangirl]

The Sacrifice Part 1 - The Maze Runner Minho Imagine

Request from @elizabeth-brown hey when your requests will be open can you do 'the maze runner' one with minho. where one day when new greenie was coming up he had letter with him. on it there was written that if they sacrificed y/n they would let everyone out. so keepers decided to vote. most of them voted 'yes' so without any emotions Alby kick y/n into the maze. then minho realized his feelings. y/n survived the maze and WCKED took her. after one year she escaped WCKED and ran into the scorch. Minho missed her miserably. y/n searched the safe heaven. and when Group A searched safe heaven they saw y/n and she was so mad. you can end it however you want either she forgives them or not. and please tag me

Masterlist

Part 2

Warning: Some mature language

Author’s Note: Thanks for waiting! I changed up the request a little (I think?) but there will probably be a part 2 so I can do the stuff outside the Glade. Hope you like it! Also, I know it seems like my requests aren’t open because I take forever to post, but I swear they are. :)

Word Count: 4.6k

The Box came up every month like clockwork. Half an hour before its arrival, a blaring alarm would sound. Gladers would trickle in from the Gardens, the Med-jack Hut, the Homestead, and gather around the hole. Those who had requested items would push their way to the front. Others lingered around the edges, hoping for a glimpse of the new Greenie.

“Maybe it’ll be another girl,” they’d whisper.

“Maybe it’ll be another shank,” their friends would whisper back, and the boys would shove each other and laugh and make jokes until the Box slotted into place and the roof slid away, revealing the Glade’s next victim.

You were an unnatural fit to the routine. You’d disrupted it right from the beginning, with your arrival as the first female Glader. Now, months later, you still hadn’t formed many strong bonds. It was hard when you were rarely in the Glade during the day, spending most of your hours mapping the Maze. No one was directly cruel when you had a day off, but it was clear that this was a brotherhood, and you did not meet the requirements. You were an “other.” You were a girl. You were something to be looked at and talked about but you weren’t necessarily someone.

You didn’t feel like an outsider when you ran with Minho. He treated you like a person. Like a friend. So did Newt, although your time with him was limited to bonfires, where you drank Gally’s moonshine and talked.

Just the memories of those nights made you feel warm, even as you stood apart from the boys around the Box and prayed for another girl to appear. You stood on your tiptoes and tried to peer over the crowd. Through gaps and over heads, you caught a glimpse of a boy in the Box. He was younger than you, probably younger than most of the people in the Glade, with curly brown hair, round pink cheeks, and wide, fear-filled eyes. 

Alby jumped down into the Box. Laughter rose from the crowd as the young Greenie backpedaled so wildly that he tripped over his feet and slammed onto his butt. Next to you, a group of Gladers jeered. You frowned at them, watching their smiles slip into sneers. They looked away from you. Inside the Box, the Greenie cried, “Please don’t hurt me!” His already high, youthful voice was pitched even higher with terror.

You felt a stab in your chest. He sounded so young, so alone, so scared. Taking a step forward, you came to the edge of a thick knot of Gladers. They catcalled and hollered and cackled, slapping each other on the backs. One noticed you and quickly jerked away like you were contagious.

Cheeks burning, you stepped back again. You gave the crowd one last look, heard the Greenie blubber one last time, and headed for the Homestead, where there was no one to make you feel unwelcome or weak for feeling sympathy for the new Greenie.

Besides, you thought bitterly, they might make fun of him now, but he’ll still be one of them.

A few Gladers saw you go; most were focused on the Greenie, who Alby was trying to coax to his side of the Box, where someone had dropped a length of rope. 

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Alby said. Impatience wore thin on his voice. “Just come over here.”

The Greenie stayed curled in a ball in the middle of the Box.

Alby shook his head. Turning to the pair of boys above him, he lowered his voice and said, “Do you think Y/N could try to get him out?”

The Gladers looked at each other.

“Isn’t she running today?” one asked.

“I haven’t seen her all day,” the other added.

Alby frowned. “Fine,” he sighed, “we’ll do it the hard way.”

At that, the two Gladers joined Alby in the Box. The Greenie’s eyes bulged as they approached. He tried to scoot back. In seconds, the pair was on him, lifting him as easily as if he weighed nothing. They toted him to the rope.

The Greenie gasped. “Wait! Wait! I dropped it!”

Alby waved the boys on before they could stop. “I’ll get it.” While the Gladers hoisted the Greenie out, Alby walked to the center of the Box. Laying on the metal floor was a card of paper, pristinely white save for the 10 grimy fingerprints of the crying Greenie. Alby knelt, picked it up, flipped it over, and froze.

It seemed like an eternity before he stood again. Around him, the Gladers still talked and laughed. Around him, the Gladers still thought they were following their routine.

Holding the note in his hand, Alby commanded, “Gathering in the Homestead. Now.” After a beat of silence, he added, “If Y/N’s here, bring her.”

The Glade burst into a flurry of activity. Boys scrambled, yelling the news. Their Keepers chastised them and handed out work orders like candy. Feeling brave and uninhibited and a little frenzied, Gladers complained and groaned and manhandled each other and ran. The new Greenie was handed off to a Builder, then a Slicer, then rescued by a Gardener. A pack of Gladers took off for the Homestead.

You’d barely made it inside before your moment of alone time was shattered. The boys whooped and hollered and shouted as they sprinted toward you.

“Gathering!”

“You have to go!”

“Alby called for a Gathering!

Their voices came at you like bullets, one after another after another. Your questions fell on deaf ears. “Why a Gathering? Now? Did you say I have to go?”

They kept talking to each other, ignoring you even as they pushed you farther inside, pushed you toward the meeting room, pushed you like you couldn’t even walk by yourself. You shoved away from them and entered the room on your own two shaky feet. Only a few of the Gladers followed, taking their seats as Keepers.

With a sick sludge of anxiety swirling in your stomach, you looked around the room. You’d never been to a Gathering before, although you’d listened to Minho complain about how boring they were many times. The room was small, the only furniture a crudely made table surrounded by twelve seats, one for each Keeper plus Alby and Newt. There was no seat for you. You were not supposed to be here.

“Clint, what’s going on?”

The Keeper of the Med-jacks looked up at the sound of your voice. He’d been staring at the tabletop, tracing his finger along the wood grain. His hands were thin, his fingers long, and they held a delicate strength, accustomed to wrapping wounds and sewing stitches. “Alby called a Gathering,” Clint said.

“Yeah, I figured that part out. Why? And why am I here?” You tried to keep your emotions under control. Clint didn’t need to know you were a little annoyed, a little angry, a little worried. Clint and the growing mob of Keepers filing into the room didn’t need to know you were scared.

Clint looked to the head of the table. Two empty chairs sat waiting. “Alby didn’t explain much. I think it was something to do with the Greenie.”

“The Greenie?” you asked, just as someone gave you a harsh nudge to the side. You whipped around and found yourself staring up at Gally.

“Don’t block the doorway,” he snapped. Before you could reply, Gally was walking past you, settling into the seat closest to the head of the table.

Most of the chairs were filled now. Some Keepers looked at you, others talked with their neighbors, and a few, like Clint, seemed like they’d rather be anywhere else but here. You lingered by the door. After a couple of minutes, Alby and Newt entered together.

You knew something was wrong immediately. Alby’s face, stoic at the best of times, was downright grim, like he’d just witnessed a terrible crime against humanity. Newt wouldn’t even lift his eyes to yours. His skin had taken on a pallor, pale white tinged with sickly green.

“Alby-”

Alby interrupted you. “Where’s Minho?”

You weren’t sure if he was asking you or the Keepers, but you answered anyway. “He’s running. What’s going-”

Cursing under his breath, Alby strode to the head of the table. “Someone got the schedules mixed up,” he fumed. “They thought you were running today. Minho is supposed to be here.”

“Maybe we should wait-”

“This can’t wait, Newt. You know that.” Alby shot Newt’s suggestion down before it even had time to breathe. “Y/N, take Minho’s seat. And someone shut the door.”

You didn’t like the way Alby was barking out orders or the way Newt had slumped into his seat like an admonished puppy. The whole world was off-kilter, just slightly, but enough that you felt nauseous and hyper-aware. Clint was still picking at the table. Winston was sitting next to Gally, who was staring daggers at you, and Zart, who had his arms crossed and was sitting straight in his chair, looked disgusted at something Doug, the Keeper of the Sloppers, had just said. Frypan was the one to get up and close the door, giving you a reassuring smile as he walked. You slowly made your way around the table to the only empty chair. It was across from Gally, right next to the side that Alby and Newt sat behind. 

Newt flinched away from you as you sat. Alby eyed you, waiting, waiting, waiting, and, finally, with the door closed and you perched on Minho’s chair, ready to bolt, he said, “We’re holding a Gathering because of this.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “The new Greenie was holding it.”

Down the table, Winston smirked. “Is that why he was crying? Poor thing can’t read?”

You frowned. One of the Keepers, Billy, chuckled lightly.

Alby ignored them and continued, “It’s a note from the Creators.” A few murmurs arose; Alby didn’t speak until it was silent again. “It says,” he cleared his throat and, next to him, Newt looked as if he might puke. “It says, ‘The Glade is failing. Show you can follow instructions and you will be released.’” Alby paused.

Unlike before, the Keepers stayed quiet. You were on the edge of your seat, listening with bated breath, like all of the others. Maybe the instructions involved finding something in the Maze? You knew you could help with that, and maybe Alby knew it too, and that’s why he’d made you attend the Gathering. You could nearly taste the freedom on your lips. Under the table, your legs shook with excitement, energy, adrenaline -- everything that made you feel alive. What would life be like outside the Glade? 

“Tell them the instructions, Alby,” Newt whispered, voice strained.

Your hopeful heartbeat faltered.

Alby’s eyes flicked up from the paper, met yours, and shot back down.

Something like dread filled your chest.

“‘Show you can follow instructions and you will be released,’” Alby repeated. He drew a deep breath before continuing. “Sacrifice Y/N to the Maze. Tonight.’”

One second passed. Inside that second, there was an eternity, an infinity, a lifetime. Your lifetime. Every limb of your body became paralyzed. You felt liquid. You felt insubstantial and invisible, only you were the farthest thing from invisible, because every single person in the room, all ten Keepers and Alby and Newt, even Newt, who wouldn’t meet your eyes before because he’d already condemned you to death, was staring.

And then the room roared.

“They’re lying!”

“That’s insane!”

“They can’t ask us to do that!”

“We can’t trust them!”

“I’m not doing that!”

“What if it’s true?”

The last voice, soft, barely audible, silenced everyone.

You stared at Gally, jaw dropped. “What?” You could barely speak above a whisper. Your vocal cords were constricting, choking you. Every breath felt like your last.

Gally’s gaze stayed on the letter in Alby’s hands. His eyes were glazed and his whole demeanor, normally stubborn and stand-offish, had shifted into quiet contemplation. “What if it’s true?” he murmured. “What if this is our way out? What if this is what we’ve been waiting for?”

The other Keepers began to speak. Instead of ardent protestations, you heard questions. So many questions and no definitive answers, except for Gally’s. The room spun around you, swirling, swirling, swirling. Your skin was flushed and cold and sweating and freezing all at the same time.

“He might be right,” you heard.

In an instant, you shot to your feet. The chair that Minho should have been sitting in clattered to the floor, silencing the Keepers. “Guys, this-this is insane,” you pleaded. Every face was a blur, a smear, no distinguishable people anywhere. You didn’t know a single boy in this room. “The Creators have never asked us to do something like this. They locked us in here! They-they...they put monsters in the Maze to kill us!”

“Maybe not to kill us.” Billy, the Keeper of the Baggers, was a boy of few words. He never seemed to have much to say, maybe because he’d gotten used to such solitary work. Most of the time, the only Gladers he was around were dead. “Maybe the monsters are there to kill you.”

Panicked tears burned in the corners of your eyes. Gally was nodding. So was Winston. Too many of them were nodding or looking down, pretending they didn’t have a say, hope gleaming in their eyes and betraying their thoughts.

You turned to your leaders. “Alby, this can’t--we can’t--”

“We’re going to vote on it.”

You switched tactics. “Newt. Newt, please, please look at me. This is crazy. We can get out without doing this, we can--I’ll run more and we’ll...we’ll figure something out, just, please, don’t--please just look at me.”

Newt slowly lifted his head. In the background, the Keepers talked, rising from their seats, growing more animated, more determined. Unshed tears glimmered in Newt’s eyes. “Y/N,” he said, and in your name you heard an apology. “This could be our only chance.”

“It can’t be.” You moved forward, desperate. “It can’t be our only chance, we’ll figure something out, I know we can, we just need to--” You were babbling and stepping closer and your hands reached out to grab his arms, to shake him, to knock some sense into all of them, and then Alby’s low, commanding voice rang out, ordering everyone to sit, and you were left standing, crying, terrified, and so, so, so alone.

“If anyone wants to see the note, there.” Alby dropped it onto the table. Across from you, Gally picked it up, scanned it, and passed it to the boy next to him, Winston. From Winston to Billy to Clint to Frypan to Ozzy to Doug to Zart to Leon. To you. With trembling hands, you held the note, saw the words, tried to read them and make sense of them, only nothing made sense at all.

Sacrifice Y/N to the Maze. Sacrifice Y/N. Sacrifice sacrifice sacrifice.

The more you repeated it in your head, the less real it sounded. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be happening.

“We have to make a decision,” Alby said.

Lungs squeezing painfully, you tried to speak. No words came out.

“I think it’s obvious,” Gally said. “Everything changed as soon as she got here. Now the Creators want us to do something, so we should do it.” He sounded more certain the more he spoke, his voice and words building to a persuasive, powerful crescendo.

“We could get out,” Winston added eagerly.

Clint pushed back his chair and slowly rose to his feet. He looked uncomfortable being the center of attention. One of his hands stayed on the table, scrambling for support. “I think it’s important,” he said, “that we think this through and give it the weight it deserves. This is someone’s life we’re talking about.”

It’s my life, you wanted to scream. I’ve tried to be a part of your group! I’m a Glader!

Clint continued. “But we also have to think about everyone else, too. I’m sorry, Y/N, I really am. But your sacrifice could mean that everyone else here can live.” Clint sunk back into his seat. “My vote is to obey the Creators.”

“Clint--” You were drowned out by Gally and Winston and Billy agreeing, formally voting to kill you. Gally nodded down at Ozzy, the Keeper of the Bricknicks, and then Ozzy said, “I vote to obey the Creators too.”

Leon agreed next. Leon, the Keeper of the Maps, who you’d spoken to nearly every day since becoming a Runner. Leon, who you’d sometimes traded jokes with and complimented for his drawing skills. Leon, who, after voting, said, “I’ve spent all of my time in the Glade trying to get out,” like it was an explanation you wanted to hear. Like it would mean it was okay for them to throw your life away. He wouldn’t look at you, still standing, half-slumped against the table as your legs wobbled with each vote that damned you to being ripped apart by Grievers.

“Guys, please,” you said, or you thought you said, but maybe they didn’t hear because now Frypan was standing up.

“I haven’t seen a Griever up close, I don’t know what it’s like in the Maze, and I don’t know what it’s like to patch up people who have done all of that. I know that Y/N’s a Glader. That’s all I need. I vote no.” Frypan nodded at you and sat back down, his normally easy-going face creased in deep thought.

One voice. One against six. But one was all you needed; one gave you a shot of strength, enough for you to straighten up, to open your mouth, to instead hear Doug say, “I haven’t done any of that either but I know that I don’t want to spend another goddamn minute in this Glade. I vote yes.”

The room spun. You looked down at your hands, found them in your lap, realized you were sitting but couldn’t remember ever doing so. Everything was slipping through your fingers so fast, too fast, impossibly fast.

Seven.

“My vote doesn’t matter much now,” Zart began, his words ponderous and slow. “But I vote no.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, as if daring anyone to question him.

Gally turned his attention to Alby and Newt instead. “So we’re doing it?”

Alby frowned. Newt buried his face in his hands. You thought you might pass out.

“Seven is a majority. It doesn’t matter our votes,” Alby said. “Or Minho’s.”

“Or mine.” The table turned to you. “I don’t get a say in any of this? It’s my life.” You knew your voice was too high-pitched, too warbled, too girlish to be taken seriously. You swallowed and it came out even more panicked. “You can’t just kill me with a one-vote difference, you can’t just--”

“It wouldn’t be a one-vote difference. I vote to obey the Creators.” Alby stared unwaveringly at you. “Newt agreed before the Gathering. That makes it nine to four, assuming Minho would vote not to obey.”

“Why?” It came out strangled and mangled and desperate.

“For the Glade,” Alby responded.

Newt suddenly looked up, shaking his head. “No, no, I take my vote back. I vote no. We can’t do this, Alby.”

“Eight to five. The majority says to obey. It happens tonight.”

“Alby--” “Alby, please,” You and Newt protested together, but Alby’s voice boomed over both of yours. “Gathering over. Gally, Winston, take Y/N to the Pit until tonight.”

Newt stood up too fast and stumbled, nearly crashing into the table. “We can’t put her in the Pit!”

The sound of arguing and chairs being pushed back washed over you, filling your ears with white noise. Chills raced up and down your spine, sending a clamminess to your hands and feet. You were going to die. You were going to be torn apart by Grievers, the very monsters you’d spent so much time running away from. It was almost ironic, really, and you almost laughed until you realized it was a sob, until you realized there were tears streaming down your face and there were two sets of hands grabbing you by the arms and hoisting you up and leading you out of the room and down the hall, practically dragging you for all of the good your feet did. And then you were in the doorway of a dark, windowless room, and Newt was standing in front of you. He enveloped you in a hug, spewing apologies about the vote and the room and your fate. All too soon, he pulled away. You saw his brown eyes and tear-streaked face. You saw the door close. You saw darkness.

You sagged to the floor and cried.

Hours passed. The room had no windows for you to watch the sun move across the sky, silently counting down to the end of your life. You had tried a few times to shove the door open,  but you only succeeded in bursting out between two strong Gladers. After the first time, they were ready for any attempt of yours to sprint past. Sometimes their voices would seep through the cracks in the wood. Apologies and excuses and pleas for you to please, just please, do this one thing for the Glade and help them all survive.

Part of you thought they were right. What if your sole purpose was to be a sacrifice? But then you thought of Minho and running and laughing and the few flickering memories you had from before the Glade, of an older couple smiling at you or the warm feeling of being loved, and you remembered how it felt to be alive. And you knew that it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, for anyone but you to get to decide your death.

Your time alone helped you think. It helped you settle yourself, calm your mind, and dry your tears. But as soon as the door opened and you saw the sunlight fading from the hallway, all of your carefully planned entreaties faded from your lips. Your throat went dry with impending doom.

“It’s time. Alby’s waiting by the Maze,” one of the Gladers said. You didn’t even know who he was. Why hadn’t you gotten closer to him? To all of them? Maybe if you hadn’t been so solitary, maybe you could have...or they could have...or maybe...

“What’s your name?” you heard yourself ask as the guards flanked you down the hall.

He gave you a look of confusion. “Rob.”

“Rob,” you repeated. Rob led the way outside. You glanced over your shoulder at the other Glader. “What about you?”

“I’m David,” the one behind you answered. He hastened to walk beside you. David had stubby legs, two of his steps matching one of yours. You picked up your pace. Rob matched it easily; David lagged.

Over the Glade, the sun was nearly below the horizon. Gladers milled about but kept their distance from you, trying not to stare at the doomed prisoner. It was like you were already dead. And no one cared.

The wall loomed high above you, growing as your entourage got closer and closer. Huddled near one of the entrances was a group of Gladers. When you neared a hundred feet away from them, you slowed. David followed suit immediately. Rob’s lengthy strides shortened.

“David, Rob,” you addressed them by name, not looking at either even as they faced you. “Thanks for walking with me.” Then you bolted for the Maze.

David had no chance of catching up to you, Rob was just stunned enough to give you the head start you needed, and the group of Gladers only shouted as you closed the distance to the door.

My choice, the pounding of your feet seemed to shout. My choice. My life. You may have been minutes away from death, but you had never felt so alive. Adrenaline flooded your body. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. All of the cold fear had been replaced by the warmth of energy. One last choice, you thought. The open door called to you. 20 feet. 5 feet. You’d just crossed the entrance when one voice made itself known above the crowd.

“Y/N!”

Every muscle tensed, you spun around to see Minho sprinting after you, the group of Gladers following, none as fast as your partner. He crashed into you with the tightest hug of your life. Your body reacted before your mind knew how; you hugged him back.

“I couldn’t let you go without seeing you,” Minho blurted, his lips an inch from your ear. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t…” he trailed off. Loosening his hold, he pulled back enough to see your face. He stared at you like he wanted to memorize you. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am, Y/N, I can’t let you do this yourself. With two of us we could--”

“Die. We’d both die.” You pulled him close again, burying your head back in the crook of his neck, hating the fear in his eyes. You’d wanted your last memory of him to be a smile, not this.

He spoke more softly now. “If we had supplies, I bet we could do it. I’ll raid the kitchen, the Med-jack Hut, bring us weapons. We could find the way out. You don’t have to die. You can’t die.”

You wanted him to stop talking, because you couldn’t extinguish the little flame of hope blooming in your chest if he kept feeding it. “Minho-”

Minho cut you off. “You can do this, Y/N. You’re fast, faster than me, and a hell of a lot smarter than all of these shanks combined. Survive the night. Survive the night and I can bring you supplies tomorrow.” His voice had an edge to it, a fierce desperation you’d never heard from Minho. Inside his encouragement, he was pleading with you. “Fuck, Y/N, please survive the night. Meet me at the intersection past the west door when the sun rises. I fell there the first time we ran together, remember? I said it was because you ran funny and it made me lose concentration but it was actually because you looked so beautiful in the sunrise that I couldn’t think.” He took a deep breath. Your heart beat too quickly, running on hope and support and maybe a little bit of love. When Minho spoke again, his voice was solemn, “I’ll find you, I swear to God. We’ll figure it out together. We’ll get out together.”

“I’ll survive.” You were lying. “I’ll try.” Was that another lie? Everything was moving too quickly.

Alby’s voice stopped you from thinking any further. “It’s time,” he intoned. 

From your place in Minho’s arms, you saw that the group of Gladers, composed mostly of Keepers, had surrounded you in a semicircle. The way forward was blocked; your only way out was the Maze.

You and Minho separated slowly. Behind you, the Maze rumbled. Still, Minho held your hand in his, looking physically pained. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, hoping, desperate, pleading. 

You nodded.

Minho shook his head. “Please say it back, Y/N. Please.”

You glanced at the door starting to close, then at Alby, who stared hard-eyed at you and motioned for the Gladers to press in. You couldn’t find Newt in the crowd. Minho’s hand was heavy and warm in yours. Comforting.

With your last moments in the Glade, you darted close to Minho, pressed your lips to his cheek, and then slipped away from him, entering the Maze. The door thudded closed behind you. The sun had set. You were alone.

[lilac-mushroom]

Above the Clouds

(Logan x Reader) - EXPLICIT (3.4k)

Flying over to Atlanta for a mission with the X-Men, you sat next to Logan on the plane. But when his hand sneaked to caress the top of your thigh, you were faced with having to decide between sneaking off with him to the bathroom and leaving Logan painfully hard for rest of the flight. Maybe if you tried to be quiet...

[Warnings: Sex on a bathroom, oral sex (f receiving), light choking, plane sex]

-- Requested by @litsis87

Read on Ao3:

"Don't you even think about that, Logan" your voice came out in a hurried whisper as you swatted Logan's hand away from your thigh.

The X-Men had been assigned a mission that required flying over to Atlanta, and being one of Xavier's helpers, and, conveniently, Logan's partner, you tagged along. The plane was quite packed for its small size, yet Logan couldn't keep his hands away from you.

"Too late for that, baby" he purred in your ear, making you shift on your seat as his hand traveled back up your leg, resting now on the top of your thigh.

Fortunately, you had landed the window seat, Logan taking the middle, with nobody next to him. But given that you were still surrounded by the other guys, you didn't want to risk it.

You could feel his thumb drawing circles on your exposed skin, and you damned wearing a summer dress. His touch felt comfortable but enticing, and you moved your leg to the side to move away from his touch.

"Oh c'mon" Logan protested, his low voice sending a small shiver up your spine.

Giving him a warning look, you look at the window, trying to get him to calm down. Although he wasn't touching you anymore, you could still feel the sensation of his hand lingering on the sensitive skin of your thigh.

Looking at him again, you let your eyes drop to his lap, widening as you noticed the way his jeans bulged out. It was normal for Logan to walk around with a noticeable bulge, he was quite big after all, but this one had to hurt. You hadn't noticed how worked up he was, but the sight had you licking your lips.

"Fuck" his curse dragged your eyes from his lap up to his eyes. They were hooded with desire, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he looked at you expectantly.

You could feel a tingling sensation between your legs, your thighs squeezing together unconsciously. Logan's hand traveled slowly from where it rested to hover over his bulge, his gaze still holding yours.

Unable to resist, you tore your eyes from his to watch his movements, sucking in a breath when his hand cupped the tented jeans. Closing his eyes for a few seconds, Logan squeezed himself lightly, breathing through his nose as his teeth sank down on his lip.

Your thighs squeezed together again, now voluntarily, but not enough to relieve the warm pressure on your pussy. Logan noticed, his hand fondling his bulge again. God, you wish you could feel him up.

Grinning, Logan leaned to the side, his lips giving the shell of your ear a teasing lick.

"Are you needy, baby girl?" his voice was low and quiet, a blush rising up your cheeks at the nickname.

"Are your panties soaked?" widening your eyes at his words, you looked around quickly, relieved to find that nobody was looking at you.

A dark chuckle left his lips, and you cursed his lack of shame. His head leaned a bit backwards and you relaxed on your seat; his closeness always had you tensed up in excitement. Sighing quietly, you looked at him again, but his eyes were focusing between your legs.

Letting go of his bulge, Logan's hand was quick to find your lap, his rough fingers disappearing beneath your dress before you could stop him.

"Wait-" your whisper got caught in your throat when his fingers touched your panties, your thighs tensing up as he felt you around.

"So fucking wet" his voice came out in almost a growl, and you prayed to the high heavens that nobody would turn to follow the voice.

His thumb was quick to find your prominent clit, massaging it slowly. You knew you were soaking wet: Logan always had that effect on you. As much as your tried to resist it, your body always gave in.

Gathering all the courage you had, you grabbed his wrist to stop his motions. One of his eyebrows rose at you, his lips still up in a teasing smirk.

"I said no, Logan" you tried to whisper clearly, but your throat was dry due to his ministrations, so it came out raspy.

All you wanted was for him to continue, but that wouldn't be right. It'd be disrespectful to the others.

"You smell so good, kitten. Please. You know I can't stand it" his pleading caught you off guard, your eyes finding his again.

Logan never begged. In the bedroom, he was the alpha, the one that teased you mercilessly until you cried. The one that spanked you when you misbehaved and fucked your throat when you were bratty. But never the one who begged. You were aware of his heightened senses, and you could only imagine how it'd be like to have them while being trapped in a small plane, no real ventilation allowed. If Logan was begging, it had to be serious.

His eyes bored into yours, his hand finding your thigh again to give it a squeeze.

"I can't stand this, Y/N. I need something, anything. I need to be inside you, baby, so bad" his fingers caressed the skin of your thigh gently, voice just above a whisper.

Shivering as his lips licked around your neck, you sucked in a sharp breath, looking around. His words felt warm between your legs, and you grabbed his hair to pull him back gently.

"What do you need, baby?" you knew it was risky, but the way his rough hands felt you up desperately clouded your ability to think straight.

"Need you to meet me in the bathroom, baby. Quickly" biting your lip at his words, you watched as he tried to get up without getting too much attention. Successfully, Logan entered the small bathroom, looking back at you while licking his lips before closing the door quietly.

You let a few minutes pass before getting up, trying your best to not make any noise. Looking around, you found Ciclope looking towards you, and though you weren't sure if he was really looking at you, you turned away quickly. But not in time to miss the knowing smirk that took over his features.

Walking to the bathroom, you opened the door slowly, stepping inside and locking it behind you. Before you could turn around to look at Logan, you felt a pair of strong hands grab your waist, followed by his body pressing against your back.

A surprised sound left your lips at the sudden movement, your mouth pressing shut at the feel of his length against the small of your back.

"Took you long enough. You smell amazing" his lips were dangerously close to your neck, pressing down to suck on it hurriedly.

His hips pressed even harder against your ass, and you whimpered when you noticed his pants were pooling around his ankles. Quiet grunts left his lips as his hands found the hem of your dress, pulling it up roughly to bunch at your waist.

"Oh yes" Logan growled quietly when his dick met the skin of your ass, his length thrusting between your butt cheeks. One of his arms hooked around your waist as his hips humped you desperately.

"Fuck, Logan, slow down a bit" your voice sounded breathless, the feel of his cock rubbing on your ass making you dizzy.

"I need to be inside you, kitten" one of his hands grabbed your jaw, turning your head to the side to catch your lips in his. The kiss was messy and hurried, and Logan's hips slowed down, only the tip of his dick slowly fucking between your cheeks.

"Yeah, baby, I know. But I need to be prepped first" kissing him back, you turned around in his arms slowly, wrapping your arms around his neck.

His tongue explored your mouth teasingly, and you moaned when he squeezed your ass. Kissing your neck, Logan made his way down your body until he was on his knees, face in front of your sex. Gasping, you watched as he inhaled your scent, his nose so very close to your mound. Grunting, his fingers hooked on your underwear, pulling it down to pool at your feet.

Pushing your body roughly against the bathroom door, he pulled one of your legs up to rest on his shoulder, grinning dangerously when you whimpered.

"Be a good girl and spread your pussy for me" his voice sounded altered, much lower than usual and tied with arousal.

Obeying, you let a shaky hand travel to your navel to spread your lips for him. A wave of embarrassment brought a faint blush to your cheeks and you took a deep breath when he looked at you, pleased.

"Such a good girl, exposing yourself to me. Look how fucking wet you are" his focus shifted back to your mound, touching you to let your wetness coat the tips of his fingers.

A whimper left you lips at his ministrations, and your hips chased his fingers in an attempt to get some real contact.

"Naughty girl" you wanted to wipe out the smirk that took over his features, but instead you grabbed his wrist with your other hand and pressed his fingers harder against you, grinding on them.

"Please, Logan. Touch me" your voice came out in a strangled whisper, sucking in a sharp breath when his thumb pressed hard against your clit.

"Finally, baby girl. Was convinced you forgot how to beg" his mouth ghosted over your mound, his nose inhaling a deep breath.

Logan adjusted your leg on his shoulder, angling you just right so that his tongue could run a wet stripe up your pussy. Shivering, you flexed the leg you were standing on, your hips pressing against his mouth as he sucked on your clit.

"Oh my god" throwing your head back against the door, you combed your fingers through his hair as he ate you out.

Logan was getting impatient. You could feel it in the way he lapped roughly at your pussy, two fingers finding their way to slip through your entrance with no time to waste. Picking up the pace, he thrust his fingers in and out of you, his tongue licking at your clit.

Bringing a hand to cover your mouth, you moaned his name quietly, your thigh that was on his shoulder pushing his head closer between your legs. One of his hands flew to your ass, squeezing it aggressively.

Adding one more finger, he pulled his head back to look up at you, finding you red faced, a hand covering your mouth while the other grabbed your dress so that it wouldn't fall to cover Logan's head.

"Fuck, kitten, I need you now. I need you right now" deciding you were prepared, he thrust his fingers into you one last time and slid them off, pushing your leg off his shoulder and getting up from the ground.

Startled by his quick movement and protesting the loss of contact, you cursed quietly, running a hand through your hair. Looking at him, you noticed the way his chin glistened with your arousal, and you couldn't help but slam your lips on his in a messy kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a heated moan slipping into his mouth.

Feeling one of Logan's hands wrap around your neck, you pulled away to look him in the eyes, your lips parted with want. His hand squeezed lightly, pulling you with him to push you against the bathroom's sink.

Moaning at the sharp pain on the small of your back, you brought a hand to your mouth, licking the skin of your palm. Looking down between your bodies, Logan watched as you grabbed his hard cock, pulling his foreskin back to reveal the angry tip. You jerked him slowly for a few moments, your bottom lip catching between your teeth at the sight of a drop of precome leaking from his slit.

A small groan left Logan's lips, his hand releasing your neck. You could see his pupils were blown wide due to the pleasure of your hand tight around his cock, his eyes dark. Running a hand through his slit, you slowed down, teasing him a bit to see his reaction.

Looking at you with a dangerous sparkle to his eyes, he was quick to rip your hand from his dick, his fingers wrapping around your wrist tight enough to bruise.

The space was very small, but the counter in which the sink was built in had enough room for Logan to turn you around aggressively and bend you over.

A surprised squeal left your lips as your hands flew to the surface of the counter, your palms sweaty against it.

"If we had more time I'd fucking punish you for trying to tease me, kitten" he whispered into your ear, his hand giving your hair a fair tug.

Whispering a messy apology, you bit your lip as Logan sank his teeth into the side of your neck. Letting go of your hair, Logan pulled your dress up, running his palms over your butt cheeks.

"Need to fuck you" you heard him whisper to himself, before grabbing your hip with one hand and searching for your entrance with the other.

Aligning his tip with your pussy, Logan was quick to thrust into you. The feel of your walls finally wrapped around him dragged a long growl from his throat that mixed with your whimper.

"Oh yeah, that's it" the way Logan hissed in pure pleasure had you biting your lip to keep quiet.

Pulling out, he fucked into you again, his hips chasing yours desperately. You could feel how needy he was for release, his nails digging into the soft skin of your hips as low curses escaped his mouth.

"Fuck, Logan. So good" your head hung low as his strong thrusts pushed your body against the counter repeatedly.

"You take my cock so well" leaning forward, his clothed chest glued to your back, his mouth ghosting over your neck. "Such a good girl" he added, sucking messily on your skin.

Changing the pace of his hips, Logan grabbed one of your legs, changing the angle. With deep strokes, you could feel his length twitching inside you, your mind clouded with need.

Reaching between your legs, you let your fingers touch the spot where your bodies connected, feeling his hardness slam in and out of your pussy, your arousal pooling at the base of his length. His rhythm was almost too much, your eyes rolling back, and you couldn't help but mewl.

Stopping for a brief second, Logan wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you up against him. Fucking up into you, he let his other hand travel to massage your clothed breast, feeling the way your chest rose up and down in quick pants.

Taking a step back, he slipped out of you, only to turn you around quickly. The way he manhandled you like you weighted nothing sent a tingling sensation to your pussy, and you bit your lip as he positioned you as he wished.

"On the counter, kitten" placing your hands on the small unoccupied space, you jumped up, wrapping your legs around his waist after sitting down.

Giving you a dirty smirk, Logan was quick to pull you closer to him, your legs spreading wider to accommodate him. Before you could register, he wrapped his hand around your throat and slammed back inside you, pushing the small of your back towards him to bury his dick deep inside.

Your lips parted in a gasp, hands flying to hold onto his shoulders. He stayed like that for a moment, sighing as you clenched around him. Cursing, his hips resumed their quick thrusting, and you cried out desperately.

"Quiet, baby girl. Don't want them to hear us, do you?" he rasped against your lips, giving them a hungry kiss.

Shaking your head to the sides to answer him, you tried to keep your lips pressed together to keep yourself from moaning. Logan rolled his hips into yours, his hands gripping your cheeks under your dress to help you meet his thrusts at a fast pace.

Fucking into you, Logan buried his head on the crook of your neck, biting on the soft skin as he groaned. Your eyes could no longer focus so you slammed them shut, your hands slipping under Logan's white shirt to find his scarred chest. Grazing your nails through the skin of his waist, you moaned his name at a particularly hard thrust, the tension in your belly tightening.

"I'm close, baby" warning him, you sighed as he answered you with a praise, his head leaving the crook of your neck to look at you, your eyes still closed.

"Me too, kitten. Wanna cum inside you" the words left his mouth slowly and his breath was quick.

You felt a shiver run up your spine at Logan's words, your hand shooting up to his head to pull on the soft hair. You were getting so close to your release, and you wanted to come with him, to feel him cum deep inside you.

Opening your eyes, you moaned out loud at Logan's face, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and cheeks red. Logan widened his eyes at the loud curse that left your mouth, and he was quick to bring his hand to your face to push his fingers past your lips.

"You're gonna cum, baby? Such a good girl" his cock brushed spots deep inside you and your legs shook with all the stimulation.

You sucked his fingers in and out of your mouth slowly, nodding quickly and moaning around them as the pressure on your belly grew tighter. You could feel some drool dripping down the corners of your mouth, but you were too close to climaxing to care.

Slamming into you even faster, Logan took his fingers from your mouth, his hands now gripping onto your hips as his body started to shake. Searching between your bodies, you rubbed your clit quickly, feeling the blinding pleasure right around the corner.

"Fuck baby, so close" he groaned deeply, hips thrusting at an irregular pace.

The way his dick twitched inside you threw you over the edge, your hips moving to meet his on their own accord, thighs shaking. Throwing your head back, you moaned and cursed his name, waves of pleasure washing over you.

The feel of your walls clenching around his cock was enough to make him cum, his thrusts coming to a full stop as he shot his load deep inside you, his teeth sinking into the skin between your shoulder and neck.

Trying to catch your breaths, you stayed close together for a while, your hand rubbing the back of his neck soothingly. His arms wrapped around your waist in a tight hug, and you breathed in his scent.

"That was amazing" whispering into his ear, you watched as he pulled back enough to slip out of you, hissing.

Grabbing your chin gently between two fingers, he pressed a deep kiss to your lips, followed by a kiss to your forehead.

"I love you, baby girl" smiling at his words, you looked down at him from where you sat, saying it back.

Taking a step back, he helped you get back to your feet, patting your hair down to make it look presentable. Giggling, you straightened your dress as he pulled his pants up, doing his belt.

Looking around, you spotted your panties laying on a corner. But before you could reach them, Logan grabbed them and stuffed them in his back pocket, grinning at you cheekily.

"Don't you fucking dare" grabbing his wrist, you tried to reach his back pocket, but he winked at you and walked to the door, unlocking it and getting back to his seat.

Cursing under your breath, you took your time to use the bathroom and clean up as best as you could, finally walking out and praying that nobody would acknowledge what you had done.

But as you walked back to your seat, Ciclope stood up and shook his head to the sides as he paced past you. Grabbing his arm discretely, you shot daggers at him with your eyes.

"Why couldn't you keep your mouth shut?" cursing at him, you felt a blush creep up your cheeks, noticing the knowing smiles plastered on the other guys' faces.

"Oh Y/N, I didn't have to tell them anything. You took care of that yourself" giggling, he freed his wrist from your grip and kept walking.

Stomping back to your seat with a red face, you sat next to Logan, pouting at him. But before you could say anything, Xavier called for both of you to go to his seat, to "discuss things that shouldn't have to be talked about". Fuck.

// Hope you liked it!!

[tchallasbabymama]

All For Us Chapter 6

Here it is, enjoy 😘

Check out my masterlist to catch up on this story or read my other ones, and let me know if you want to be tagged.

Word count: 5686

“Daddy’s here!” Imani yelled in excitement before hopping down off the kitchen stool and running to the door as soon as she heard it open. 

Erik had only been back with them for about a week, but in that short amount of time, he and his Cupcake had become attached at the hip. He read her bedtime stories every night, and he took her to school in the mornings so the two of them could have daddy-daughter bonding time. Erik and Mira would pick her up together at the end of the day, and it had become such a habit over the few short days they stayed in the palace that when Mira showed up to pick Imani up from school by herself, the little girl was crushed. She instantly became worried that Erik was gone again and burst into tears, but Mira was able to calm her down and remind her of their conversation the night before about his new job.

“Baby girl, we have to talk to you about something,” Mira said as she and Erik entered their daughter’s room.

“What is it?” Imani put her crayons down and looked up at her parents as they came and sat on the floor across from her. 

“The three of us are going on an adventure around Wakanda!” exclaimed Mira.

“Really?!” Imani perked up. “What kind of adventure?” 

“Well, we can’t really get to know Wakanda well without exploring it, right?” Erik chimed in.

“Right!”

“So we’re gonna spend the next couple months living in the different provinces. You’ll still get to go to your same school with your friends, but you’ll get to make even more friends all over Wakanda.”

“I know how much you like being here with Auntie, and Lala, and Shuri-” Mira began before her child corrected her.

“And Okoye, and A’Kidi, and Ayo,” Imani said with a smile.

“Yes, them too,” Mira chuckled. “You’ll still get to come visit, and the adventure is only for a few months. We’ll be right back here in no time. What do you think?”

“II like it! Where are we going?”

“Well, you know how it snowed back home a few months ago, and you got to play outside in it?”

“Mhm.” Imani nodded furiously.

“First, we’re going someplace where it’s like that every day! It’s called Jabariland,” Mira said with a flourish.

“Jabariland?”

“Mhm, and then we’ll be out in the countryside for a while. We’ll be close to Shuri’s lab, and she said you could come visit her whenever.”

“After that, we’ll be out near the rhinos. Mommy told me how much you love feeding them,” Erik smiled down at her.

“Their tongues tickle,” Imani giggled.

“Then, we’re gonna go live on the river, and then we’ll be back here.”

“I still get to see my friends at school?”

“Absolutely,” Erik answered.

“And our family?”

“At least once a week for Sunday dinner, but knowing them, we’ll see them more than that,” Mira smirked and started tickling Imani. “I don’t think Lala can go more than a couple of days without spoiling his favorite girl.”

Imani’s giggles filled the room and brought a smile to Erik’s face. Mira let her go, and as Imani came down from her giggle fit, she could see that her daughter had more to say.

“What are you gonna do on our adventure when I’m at school?”

“We’ll be going to work and making friends of our own.”

Imani nodded as she took in the information and processed it. Her newly-snaggletoothed smile slowly took over her face and pushed her dimples deep into her cheeks. “When can we go?”

“We start tomorrow,” Mira said with a smile on her face, pleased with how the conversation went. She should have known Imani would be excited about their little “adventure,” but hearing the words quelled her anxieties. She had been worried about how Imani would adjust to the changes, but the little girl seemed down for the ride.

When they got back to their new home in Jabariland, Imani was amazed by the soft blanket of white that covered their corner of Wakanda. Mira wrapped her up in her furs before sliding into her own, both provided by the king, of course, and they spent some time outdoors playing in the snow. Mira knew she had a couple more hours until Erik got home, so once the cold had seeped into their bones enough, they went inside, and she started a yam stew on the stove.

When Erik walked in he was dog tired. His body had been worn down by his day of firefighter training. Despite having the heart-shaped herb in his system, he was in much worse shape than he thought after having laid dormant for two years. He wanted nothing more than to soak in the tub and climb into bed, but when he heard Imani’s voice, he forgot all about his exhaustion.

He kicked off his boots and scooped her up into his arms, leaving smooches all over her face. “How was school today?”

“Good! We started learning addition and subtraction. Mommy was just helping me with it.”

“Addition and subtraction already?” Erik asked Mira as he moseyed into the kitchen. “She’s four.”

“And a half,” Imani corrected.

“Excuse me, she’s four and a half, and they already have them doing that?”

“Mhm, and doing it well. Look at her homework,” Mira gestured to the projection coming from the holopad on the counter. Sure enough, he saw her work going all the way up to 10+10.

“Wow, good job, Cupcake!” He high-fived her and set her back down on the same stool she hopped off of moments earlier. 

“So, how was work today?” Mira asked as she stirred the simmering stew, and Erik fought the urge to stare at her bubble butt in those red bicycle shorts. Her cropped adinkra symbol t-shirt dusted right above her navel, and he could see she was wearing her favorite strand of waistbeads. 

He tore his eyes away from her and double-checked Imani’s homework for errors as he sighed, “I’m out of shape. They’re probably gonna put me on communications, and I can’t say I’m mad at it.”

“You were asleep for two years. I’m sure that affected your body in some way.”

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be faster and stronger...I need to talk to T’Challa about it,” he mumbled with a crease in his brow.

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Yeah...what you cooking over there?” Erik hopped up and joined Mira by the stove, breathing in whatever delicious concoction she had whipped up.

“A nice, hearty stew. I wanted to play around with some flavors, so I hope you like it.”

“Girl, every time you experiment in the kitchen, that shit comes out tasting like heaven. I trust you.”

“Thank you,” Mira hid her face so he couldn’t see the slight deepening of her skin tone at his words, but he noticed. She quickly changed the subject to distract him, waving the wooden spoon in his face, “And don’t curse around Imani.”

Erik put his hands up in surrender as he backed away, “Yes, ma’am.”

He kissed the top of Imani’s head before going down the hall to his room to change out of his heavy clothing. 

It was the first time just the three of them had sat down together for dinner in years, and Mira’s appetite almost left her entirely as her emotions started to take over. She pushed them down deep and forced some stew into her system before getting up to clean the kitchen. Erik could tell something was wrong, so when Imani went to her room to play with her dolls, he took the opportunity to investigate.

He brought the empty bowls over to the sink and scooted her out of the way.

“You cooked, so I’ll handle the dishes,” he said, and she nodded, leaning against the counter. “So, did you talk to M’Baku about your job?”

“Yeah, a few wardogs are teaching different language classes across the provinces now, and the ones here need some afterschool help. So...you’re looking at Jabariland’s newest English tutor!” she announced as she struck a pose. 

“Alright, I see you, Mira. Getting your educator on,” he joked as he scrubbed the dishes, making her smile as she went to wipe down the table. He turned around to say something, but he was met with the sight of her bending over to reach across the kitchen table. He had missed seeing her from that angle and loudly cleared his throat. He turned around quicker than she did and knew he had to come up with a quick answer in three, two, one…

“What’s up? You only do that when there’s something big on your mind.” 

“Do what?”

“Clear your throat like that.”

“I do not,” he said incredulously.

“Nigga, I’ve known you for almost a decade. I know when something’s on your mind, so talk.”

The way she spoke to him warmed his heart. He had missed her attitude, and it reminded him of their past. He fought a smile from creeping up his cheeks as he spoke, “T told you about the Golden Jaguar, right?”

“Yeah, he said you’re like another Black Panther.”

“I’m supposed to be, but nothing seems to be working.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was king for a day, my vision was sharper, and my hearing and sense of smell were stronger...I felt like I could run a mile a minute, but right now, I can’t even walk up ten flights of stairs-”

“That’s a lot of stairs, Erik.”

“Not for me,” he sighed. 

“Maybe you need another dosage?”

“Nah, they got to me before my heart stopped, so it should still be in there.”

Mira leaned up against the back of the couch and crossed her arms over her chest as she watched his shoulders move while he scrubbed the bottom of the stew pot. It was difficult for her to imagine Erik with superhuman powers, but the idea intrigued her.

“You and T’Challa both describe it as a spiritual experience, so maybe it’s a spiritual blockage or something?”

Erik finished rinsing the pot out and placed it on the rack to drip dry before turning around and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I tried praying to Bast, but nothing happens. I don't hear her the way I did when I first took the herb.”

“You could hear her?”

He nodded, “Clear as day.”

They stood there in silence until Erik let out a sigh, “Well, I, uh, need to go soak these old bones in some Epsom salt-”

“You’re not even thirty,” Mira laughed, making him crack a tiny smile that barely reached his dimples as he lumbered down the hall to his bedroom.

--------

Over the next month, Erik and Mira settled into a nice groove. Mira handled breakfast and getting Imani to school in the mornings. She spent the rest of the day running errands, brushing up on her language skills, or pouring over her curriculum. She went to work around the time Imani got out of school, so Erik picked her up on his way home from work. Erik got placed on communications at the station, so he wasn’t as worn out by the end of the day, which left him time to get dinner ready before Mira got home from her tutoring job. The three of them would clean the kitchen after dinner, dancing around and making it fun to keep Imani engaged. Then they’d spend some time together as a family, either playing with Imani’s toys or with her curled up on the couch between them as they watched whatever movie they had agreed on for the night.

Erik liked the routine, but things had to change a little when they moved to live with the Mining tribe. Erik switched to taking Imani to school in the mornings since he was too worn out by the end of the day to pick her up. The shifts in the mines were short to prevent burnout, but even after just a couple of hours of mining Erik’s body wanted to crash.  Mira, however, was loving the changes. She spent her days in Shuri’s lab learning Wakandan coding languages. They weren't too different from what she used to do for work, but she was a little rusty. She had started to miss her days as a software engineer, even though she wouldn’t trade her current life for the world. 

That is until one day, while she was cooking dinner, Imani moseyed into the kitchen when it was almost done and started asking her questions that she wished she could avoid. 

“Mommy, why don’t you and daddy have the same room? A’Kidi said when his parents were together, they only had one room, and that’s how it is on tv, too.”

Mira stilled, and her eyes widened. She took a second to fix her face before turning to look at her inquisitive child.

“Well, baby, some people just do things a little differently.”

“But Kofi and Sanaa said that when their parents slept in two rooms, they got dehorsed,” Imani said with the saddest look on her face.

“Divorced, sweetie,” Mira corrected her as she heard the door unlock, thankful for the distraction. “Yay, daddy’s home.”

“Daddy!” Imani ran to him and jumped in his arms, completely unaware of how sore they were. He’d never say anything because he cared more about having his baby girl close than the pain that was rippling through his upper body. 

“Hey, Cupcake!” He peppered kisses all over her face like he did every day, but this time her giggles seemed a little uninspired. He pulled back to look at her questioningly as he carried her into the kitchen and set her on her favorite stool. “What’s up with you today?”

Mira shot him a look, but it was too late. He had opened the floodgates.

“Are you and mommy getting dehorsed?”

“Divorced,” Mira said with a deep sigh. 

“Divorced?!” Erik panicked.

“I’m just correcting her,” she reassured him as she turned off the stove. “And the answer is no, sweetie.”

“Where’s this coming from?” His voice had gone up an octave and refused to come down.

“Kofi and Sanaa’s parents just got divorced, and it has her a little spooked.”

“They said their mama and baba slept in two rooms like you, but everyone else with two parents said theirs have one room.”

The tension that had started growing in Erik’s jaw and shoulders when he heard the word divorce slowly slipped away, and he released a deep breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding. Mira’s eyes traveled over his form, watching his body language change as the conversation progressed, and her stomach lightly turned at the thought of ever divorcing him.

“Baby girl, you don’t have to worry about that, ok?” Mira said, trying her best to ignore the way Erik’s soft eyes zeroed in on her. She gave in, and they locked eyes across the kitchen island. She couldn’t hold his gaze for long, but it was enough to make his heart skip a beat. 

“Yeah, you’re stuck with us. Both of us,” Erik tickled her, but her giggles still weren’t as full as they could be. “Aight, what is it?”

“You and mommy always say you love me, but you don’t say it to each other.”

Their gazes met again, each one recognizing the emotion in the other’s deep brown eyes. 

“Listen to me, Cupcake,” Erik turned her stool so that she was fully facing him. “I love you and your mommy more than anything else in this world.”

Mira quickly turned back around to hide the tears she was so desperately fighting and busied herself with stirring the spaghetti sauce.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah, baby?” Mira’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. Erik smirked at her attempt to hide her emotions.

“Do you love daddy?”

Mira froze and closed her eyes. 

“Of course I do,” she breathed out before changing the subject, “Now go wash your hands for dinner.”

Imani hopped down off the stool at her mother’s request and made her way to the bathroom to wash her hands. 

“Stop staring at me,” Mira grumbled with her back still turned.

“I wasn’t even looking at you,” Erik lied, making her chuckle. “You still love me?”

Mira turned off the stovetop and turned around.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Sounds like a ‘but’ coming…”

“I do still love you, but-”

“There it is.”

“Erik!”

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“I love you, but that doesn’t change anything.”

“You don’t want to divorce me?”

“No, but-”

“Then that’s all that matters. We’ll figure the rest out,” he winked as he got up to change out of his work clothes.

--------

A key part of Erik’s recovery involved him making good memories for himself. Every moment with his family formed a new good memory, and everyone could see the bliss on his face when they all came together. He smiled more, and not just with Imani and Mira, but with the Udakus as well. He and T’Challa had grown close over the last couple of months, and Shuri had started to come around, too. During their time in Jabariland, Erik and M’Baku became friends and regularly hung out on playdates with their kids. M’Baku’s two daughters, A’Sami and Ade, were a year older and younger than Imani, respectively. The girls got along great, and Erik made his first genuine friend he had in years. Mira was so proud of him.

He was building a support system, and he wanted to keep up the good momentum. So early one beautiful Saturday morning, Erik woke up with an idea, and a few hours later, found himself sweating over a grill while his family and friends congregated in his backyard. He was all smiles every time Mira looked up at him from her conversation with Okoye and Ayo. The three of them sat on blankets in the grass, watching the kids play tag in the large grassy area, and the happy couple noticed Mira’s fleeting glances towards her husband.

“How are things with Erik?” Ayo inquired.

“They’re ok. Nothing has changed, really. Except-” Mira cut herself off with a sigh.

“Except?” Okoye prodded.

She looked around and lowered her voice, “The other day, Imani was asking questions about our relationship, and we both said we love each other.”

“That is it?”

“That and I know I don’t want to divorce him,” Mira shrugged.

Ayo and Okoye smirked at each other, making Mira roll her eyes and take a sip of her cocktail.

Meanwhile, over by the grill, M’Baku and Erik were discussing last night’s televised dambe fight when Erik looked up and almost dropped the tongs in the hot coals. M’Baku turned around and saw the Udaku clan, fashionably late, as usual, joined by a gorgeous woman he had never seen before.

“Holy shit.”

“Umtshana!”

“Sorry Auntie, but...how do you know her?”

T’Challa chuckled and pulled her close to him by her waist.

“We go way back,” he smiled down at her. “Ororo, meet my cousin, Erik.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Erik. You have a lovely home.”

“Thanks, it’s a rental,” he said in awe before calling out to Mira. When she turned around, her drink fell out of her hand, and she could barely move. Was this how Imani felt when she saw T’Challa in his suit? Because she was absolutely starstruck. There was Storm, her all-time favorite superhero and literal goddess, in her backyard of all places. Okoye and Ayo jumped up on alert but calmed back down when they saw what the fuss was about.

“I am glad she is back,” Okoye smiled.

“He looks so happy.”

“Wait, she’s been here before?”

“Yes, Ororo is his ex. Go say hi; she is a lovely woman,” Ayo shooed her off. 

Mira made her way up the slight incline of their backyard, and the closer she got to Ororo, the more her legs felt like jelly.

“H-hi,” she barely breathed out, making Shuri cackle as she and Ramonda passed them to go mingle. 

“Hi,” Ororo chuckled. “You must be Mira. I was just telling Erik here how much I love your home.”

“Thanks, it’s a rental.” The other three laughed, confusing Mira. “So, um, can I get you anything?”

“I’ll take whatever you just dropped. Actually, let’s make it two. You need a refill,” Ororo said as she linked her arm in Mira’s and walked her towards the drinks table. 

“That went well,” T’Challa commented as he popped open a beer. 

“Oh, she loooooves Storm. You just made her day. Her entire life,” Erik chuckled as he flipped the chicken quarters over. “So, how’d that happen?”

“I am sorry, is she supposed to be a big deal?” M’Baku cut in, making the other two stare at him with their mouths open.

“Bruh, that’s Storm...of the X-Men...controls the weather...nothing’s ringing a bell?”

“No. Is she one of the Gifted?”

“Oh, she’s like the most gifted. This nigga bagged a goddess.”

M’Baku raised his cup to cheers T’Challa for his choice of a partner when the sound of his daughters arguing caught his attention.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he excused himself to go break up the fight before it got out of hand. His little warriors could get vicious with each other when they wanted to. Erik shook his head and smiled at the thought of Imani having a younger sibling. The thought didn’t last long before another, much more important one entered his mind.

“Hey, so, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

“What is it, umzala?”

He lowered his voice, knowing his cousin could still hear him over the music.

“I’ve been having this...problem-”

“Ah. It’s ok. It happens to the best of us. Or so I’ve heard,” T’Challa winked. 

“No, I wish that was the problem, but you gotta get some for that to happen, so…”

“Understood. So what is it?” 

“The heart-shaped herb...are you sure it’s still in my system?”

“Shuri did bloodwork on you to check after she stabilized you. It’s still in there. Why?”

“I don’t feel it anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I first took it, my senses were sharper, and I was stronger and faster...and I could hear Bast. Now all I get is dreams of the garden burning.”

“Do you have those often?”

“Almost every night now.”

“It seems like she is trying to tell you something.”

“I wish she’d just tell me instead of doing all this,” Erik grumbled.

T’Challa laughed and put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder, “That is not how goddesses work.”

“So, what should I do?”

“Try talking to her in your dreams. She is sending them for a reason.”

Erik nodded and started pulling the first batch of food off the grill.

That night, as he climbed into bed and reflected on his day, he was all smiles until he remembered what he had to do. He closed his eyes tentatively as he waited for sleep to take him.

When Erik opened his eyes, he was in the garden of the heart-shaped herb. The beautiful purple flowers glowed in the cavernous temple, but when he took a step forward, his bare feet charred the ground beneath him. He stepped back in shock, but everywhere his feet landed, he scorched the earth. He tried to stomp out the fire, but the flames grew with every movement, and pretty soon, he was surrounded by them. He watched with horror as the heart-shaped herbs were burned to a crisp, but instead of waking up at that moment the way he usually did, he walked towards the statue of Bast at the center of the temple and knelt at her feet as the flames surrounded him. He closed his eyes and prayed to her as the fire inched closer, and when it reached him, he was surprised to find himself unscathed.

“Did you really think you would die in a fire in a dream?” a strong, soothing voice bounced off the walls as the flames subsided, leaving the scorched land in its wake.

Erik’s gaze traveled up the panther statue and landed on Bast’s surprisingly soft eyes.

“Is this real?” 

Bast rolled her eyes and stepped down from the platform she had been standing on and walked closer to Erik so that he could feel her breath on his skin.

“What do you think?”

Erik fell to his knees and stared up at her, in awe of the actual deity before him.

“My goddess, I-”

“Save it,” she grumbled, making Erik’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I allowed you to become the Golden Jaguar, and you spat in my face in return. Your child is the only reason I allow you to still walk the earthly plane.”

Erik hung his head in shame, and she growled down at him, “Look at me when I am speaking to you.”

His eyes darted back upwards, and she could see the tears he was willing not to fall.

“Now, I understand why you did what you did, but that does not make up for the fact that you forced my priestesses to burn their life’s work. I gave your people the heart-shaped herb once, and now I have to do it again...because of you. And now you come to me crying about your lack of powers? Tell me, why do you deserve them?” She sat down, and her tail twitched left and right as she awaited his answer. Just as she was beginning to grow impatient, he spoke up.

“I don’t,” his voice cracked. 

“That’s right, you don’t,” said, making Erik nod his head as he took in her words. They stung, but he knew they weren’t without truth. “But...I have been watching you over the last few months, and I will make you a deal.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“I know you will.”

--------

When Erik first started working at the Border tribe, he was on patrol duty. They had placed him at the Nigandan border, but he was quickly reassigned when he confided in T’Challa that it gave him flashbacks to his time in the military. Instead, he was placed on air traffic control. Erik took to it like white on rice and enjoyed messing with T’Challa on his frequent departures and arrivals.

One day, right when Erik started his lunch break, he looked up to see his wife and child heading in his direction. He lit up at seeing their beautiful faces, but his smile promptly fell flat when he noticed their expressions. 

“Well, hello, ladies,” Omari, Erik’s boss, greeted Mira and Imani as they entered the building. His eyes lingered on Mira a little too long, and Erik’s anger flared in his chest. 

“Hey baby,” Erik stood and kissed Mira on the cheek before pulling Imani into his arms. Mira was stunned by his actions, but she didn’t want to say anything in front of Erik’s coworkers.

“H-hey,” she stuttered back.

“It’s just noon. Why isn’t she in school?”

Mira jerked her head towards a less crowded area of the break room, and they relocated away from prying ears. Imani got settled on Erik’s lap and tried to avoid her mother’s gaze.

“Tell daddy what happened,” Mira said softly.

Imani nodded and looked up at Erik with sad puppy dog eyes and a quivering lip.

“I got in a fight at school.”

“A fight?” Erik said a little too loudly, making Omari and his other coworkers look up at the family. He lowered his voice and continued, “What happened Cupcake?”

“Danika said that her mommy said that you’re evil and she’s going to a new school to get away from me because you killed her auntie. Then she pushed me, and I pushed her back, then Mr. Omi came over and stopped it.”

Erik and Mira were both too shocked by the first part of her statement to focus on some rugrat putting her hands on their baby girl. They had hoped to avoid having to talk about Killmonger until she was much older. They knew they wouldn’t be able to hide it from her, especially if they stayed in Wakanda. They were shaken from their stupors by Imani asking the worst question possible.

“Why does she think you’re evil, daddy?” The innocent look on Imani’s face broke her parents, and Mira cleared her throat to change the subject but couldn’t get the words to come out.

Erik wasn’t any better. He didn’t think he’d have to lay his sins out for his daughter so soon. He knew if the kids at school were talking about him, then they had to tell her. She’d probably learn about it in school one day, anyway. Erik tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. He looked to Mira for help and cleared his throat, making her look up at him. 

“Um, baby girl, it’s time for daddy to get back to work-”

“Hold up, let me talk to Omari real quick.”

Mira nodded while Erik moved Imani from his lap and went to see if his boss would let him off early for the day. Imani wandered over to her mom, and Mira could see the furrow in her brow as she thought about the conversation or lack thereof. Erik came jogging back and ushered the two of them out of the building. 

The ride home was eerily silent. Mira kept trying to catch Erik’s eye, but he seemed to be in a daze. He was mentally preparing for the conversation ahead. He knew they wouldn’t be able to hide much from their inquisitive child since vague answers just made her dig deeper. He had to figure out how to sanitize the story to make it appropriate for children. And not just any children, his child. The child of a man who used to be a monster. He knew he’d have to look her in the eye and tell her what he did one day, but so soon? He wasn’t ready; neither of them was.

Not a word was spoken until they entered the house.

“Imani, go play in your room for a little while. We’ll be in there in a little bit.”

“Ok, mommy,” she said softly, already making her way down the hall. 

Her parents watched her every step, and the second she cracked the door behind her, their eyes met in a panic.

“What do we say to her? She’s four!” 

“You don’t have to say anything...I do,” Erik sighed. 

Mira nodded in understanding. This was something he needed to do on his own.

“I need to be there, though. For both of you,” Mira said, grabbing his hand in hers. Erik pulled her hand to his lips for a kiss and looked down into her big brown eyes. She could see the fear and sadness in his, so she kissed his cheek in return. “You can do this. I know you can.”

“What do I even say?”

“I don’t know,” Mira shrugged her shoulders and saw Imani peek out of her room, “but you’re gonna have to improv. She’s getting impatient.”

Erik turned around and saw Imani’s head duck back into her room with a quickness. He took in a deep breath that reached all the way down into his abdomen, just like Naomi had taught him, and released it through his mouth. He nodded to Mira, and they made their way down the hallway to Imani’s room. That walk had never felt so tedious.

“Hey, Cupcake.”

“What’s wrong?”

Erik sat on Imani’s bed and pulled her into his lap while Mira sat crosslegged on the floor in front of them. 

“I need to tell you a story.”

“Ok…” she said, already nervously playing with her dad’s bracelet as he spoke.

“It’s a sad one, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Once, there was this little boy named N’Jadaka. He and his mommy and daddy lived in this far off place called Oakland-”

“Oakland. Where’s that?”

“It’s in California, sweetie. Let daddy finish.”

Imani nodded and went back to playing with his beads.

“And they were happy as they could be. Until one day, bad people came and took his mommy away. Then another bad person took his daddy away. He had a hard life growing up, but one day he met an angel, and that angel gifted him with a tiny angel...but the whole time, he kept plotting about getting revenge. He did a lot of bad things and hurt a lot of people out of anger, but all he wanted was to get to the man who killed his baba. The mean man died one day, so N’Jadaka hurt his son instead. His son fought N’Jadaka and won, but he understood why he was angry and took him in. So now, N’Jadaka and his angels have a new family.”

“Ok...what does that have to do with you?”

Erik looked down at Mira and turned Imani around in his lap so she could face him.

“I’m N’Jadaka…”

Imani’s eyebrows scrunched together as she looked away and tried to understand what he had just told her. “So you hurt people because someone hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“But Danika said you killed her auntie…”

Erik shifted uncomfortably.

“Sometimes people do really bad things, but that doesn’t make them bad people,” Mira chimed in from the floor.

“Cupcake,” he said, softly turning her face towards him. “I need you to know I’ve changed. T’Challa believed in me, and-”

“What does Lala have to do with it?”

“He helped me get better.”

“So...you tried to hurt him?” They could see the wheels turning in her head, and she started squirming.

“Yes.”

“Like you hurt Danika’s auntie?” she looked up at her daddy with tears in her eyes as she slid off his lap and into Mira’s. 

“Cupcake-” Erik reached for her, and she shrunk away, breaking his heart into a million pieces.  Next Chapter

Taglist:  @ladymac82 , @kitesatforestp, @harleycativy​, @raysunshine78​, @maddeningmayhem​, @theblulife​, @motheroffae​, @love-mesome-me​, @toni9​, 

[ao3feed-crimeboys]

To Gain the Favour of a God

by f_ckingraw

Wilbur was raised as a child. Not particularly well, but not badly either. Sure, sometimes he felt as if his father was against him- other times he felt smothered with love and affection. In other words, he was a Normal child with a Normal family.

Key Word - WAS.

His life turned upside-down when his father passed away. He was thrown viciously into orphanages, tossed back and forth like an mouldy, unwanted ragdoll. Every night, he would pray to the heavens above- each night, he would pray to a different God. But the gods were too prideful to heed his cry.

"What Good is a Tiny, Malleable Orphan to our Legions of Dedicated Followers?", They would bellow, sneering at the young child from their crowned thrones, plated with riches untold, sipping from their glasses of Ecstacy.

Eventually, he grew desperate enough to beg the God of Sorrow and Misery, befittingly named Mellohi, for help. "Anything," he adjured, "would be better than a life full of nothing but misfortune like mine. If my life is the affliction itself, then pray tell, oh God of Gods, that you cure the hollow emptiness of mine-- if not take unto you my being."

And, against all odds, the God would reply in kind.

Words: 1352, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Dream SMP

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot, Phil Watson | Philza, Kristen Rosales | Mumza

Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Phil Watson | Phil Watson & Kristen Rosales | Kristen Rosales

Additional Tags: Deity TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Mortal Wilbur Soot, Immortal TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Light Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Morally Ambiguous Character, Oneshot, Oneshit, oh my god what is this, Dead Philza, dead Mumza

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/40046088

[scuttling]

California

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina OFC Sophie Cortes Word Count: 4,547 Tags: SFW, Making out, Phone calls, Getting to know each other, Mentions of sex Summary: Monday, the first full day they spend on the case in Los Angeles, after vacation, is tough. The week gets better, and gets worse, as cases like these do, but there are moments of light in the darkness. Collection: Sophie Cortes timeline, 1 year-1 year 3 Months at the BAU (See Masterlist for reading order) Link to AO3 or read below! Monday, the first full day they spend on the case in Los Angeles, after vacation, is tough. The unsub they are looking for brutally tortures his victims—his teenage victims—and he’s escalating, kidnapping the third child just 72 hours after the second, so everyone is on edge, working themselves to the bone.

They don’t get back to the hotel until well after eleven, and Sophie plans to take a quick shower and then crash pretty hard after such a draining day, but something makes her head for Aaron’s room after her shower instead.

“Hey,” she says softly when he opens the door, and he smiles, looking as exhausted as she feels. “I just wanted to check in with you really quick. I’m sure you’re tired.”

“Yes, but I always have time for you.” He steps back and lets her into the room, and she fidgets nervously—why, she’s not entirely sure. Maybe because this is their first face-to-face in the real world, no hazy, happy vacation feelings making everything softer and easier? She’s not certain, and when he closes the door they just stand there, looking at each other for a moment.

Whether she or he or they both bridge the distance, Sophie can’t say, but one moment they are staring at each other with an electrically-charged foot of space between them and the next they are kissing hot, slow, sultry. One arm wraps around her waist, the other touching her face, her wet hair, and she moans softly against his lips.

Kissing him is everything she thought it would be and more: his hands are strong, but gentle, his lips soft but firm, his body as she presses against him big and solid and delicious, and if he expects her to break the kiss first, he’s going to be waiting a while.

When he eventually pulls back, he rests his forehead gently against hers, smiling down at her like there is some sort of inside joke between them. “Coconut,” he murmurs, and when he presses his nose to the hair at her temple, she understands, smiles back.

“Didn’t realize you like it quite that much,” she teases, still a bit breathless, and he chuckles softly, pulling back a little and putting space between them.

“It’s not just the shampoo I like. I think you’re an incredible woman.” She smiles, maybe a little shy about such a direct complement, and he touches her cheek gently. “I knew that from the moment I met you, but working so closely l got to know you as a person, and I really like who you are.”

“I really like you, too. I like how, in front of outsiders you’re tough, impervious, unmoved, but when it comes to the people you care about you’re just a marshmallow.”

“A marshmallow?” he says, pretending to be offended, and he leans down for another kiss, this one less heated but more indulgent: to Sophie, it feels like the first one, he just needed to get out of his system, but the second is all about tasting her, feeling her. It makes her knees weak, honestly, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders so he can support them both.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs into her ear when they break apart. “Of what I would do if you came into my room, in your little pajama shorts,” he emphasizes by squeezing her butt affectionately, “and told me that you wanted me.” She leans back at that—because he’s hot, so hot, and she gets to look openly now, to touch—and presses her hands against his chest.

“Hmm. What’s your plan, in this situation? When I tell you that I want you?”

“I give you what you want, of course. Anything you want.” She bites at her bottom lip, because she could get really used to hearing that, and takes a few steps back, pulling him with her; she lays down on the bed, guides him so that he hovers over her, and his eyes are dark and wide. When she tugs him closer for a kiss, his hands find her waist again, pushing up the bottom of her shirt.

It feels so good to be under him, another taste of making out like they did on the couch at the beach house. He is a solid line of heat along her body, though he keeps himself from fully dropping his weight onto her, and his hands are deliciously rough on her skin, his teeth perfectly sharp as he nips at her ear. It’s heaven after months of wanting him, absolute heaven.

“Anything I want, you said,” she murmurs, looking up at him when he pulls away, and she brushes a hand through his hair. “Because I want a lot more of that, maybe even a little of this?” His tie is already off, the top button of his shirt unbuttoned, and she slips the next two free, eyes on his face to make sure it’s okay.

“I did say anything,” he confirms, voice low, and he’s breathing hard above her, and that makes her think deeply dirty thoughts...

Someone raps on the door, and Aaron jumps up like she burned him, and she slides off the bed and into a heap on the floor.

They exchange a look, and Sophie hurries to the desk chair across the room. She smooths the front of her clothes, and he buttons his shirt, exhales long, and then opens the door.

“Hey, Hotch; sorry, I know it’s late, but I saw the light on.” He swings the door wide, letting Morgan in, and he looks apologetic when he sees her sitting at the desk. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were here, Cortes. I can come back.”

“No, that’s okay, I got what I came for. It’s getting late, anyway.” She stands and makes for the door, briefly pausing between the two men. “Thank you, Hotch. We can finish that discussion tomorrow, if you like.” She tries to convey a few different things with her eyes, and judging by the gleam in his, he understands them all.

“Absolutely. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Night, Morgan,” she says with a nod, and she smiles softly as she ducks out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, when she’s lying awake thinking of the feel of his hands on her face, her phone chimes.

AH: I’m sorry our discussion ended so abruptly. I was enjoying it very much.

SC: Me too. So was I.

SC: I have high hopes for the future, though.

AH: So do I. I’ll be hard at work coming up with a plan for our first date.

SC: Mmm, I love it when you talk plans.

AH: Now now. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.

SC: Goodnight, Aaron.

AH: Goodnight, Sophie. Tuesday doesn’t go any better, is spent canvassing the neighborhoods and schools and parks near the dump site and basically praying they don’t find another victim. Sophie stares at the crime scene photos, truly some of the most gruesome she’s ever seen, for so long that she’s not even sure how she falls asleep that night, but she’s out as soon as her head hits the pillow. Wednesday is better, in a way. A fourth child is taken, but the unsub makes a mistake, and they get a partial plate which leads them right to him. The third and fourth victims are found alive, if a little worse for wear, but they’re reunited with their families by the afternoon.

Sophie plans on having some pizza and a couple of beers, maybe a bubble bath, to celebrate the victory, but they are all gathered in the lobby of the hotel when JJ’s phone rings, and by the look on her face, it’s not time to celebrate just yet.

“An acquaintance of Strauss’s is asking for our help in San Diego. She wants us to head there right away, since we’re already in California.” Aaron looks a little irritated at the case coming from above him, but he nods—what can he say, no?

“Alright, change of plans, then. Sorry everyone.” There is a chorus of groans—clearly Sophie wasn’t the only one with a different idea of how her evening would go—and they board the jet for a new destination.

Sophie doesn’t even register it’s San Diego until Aaron takes a seat next to her on the flight.

“Hey,” she says quietly, looking around them. It’s suspicious as hell, she knows, but it’s instinct.

“Hi. I used to sit here and talk to you all the time, before; don’t make it weird,” he says with a half smile, and she matches it fully.

“Sorry, have you met me? I make everything weird.”

“I know. I like that about you.” She wants to grin, and keep on grinning, but she knows she looks smitten and tries to tamp it down. “I was coming to ask if you planned to let your brother know you’d be in town.” Realization must dawn on her face, because he frowns. “I take that as a no.”

“Well, I hadn’t planned on it. I didn’t even really put two and two together. And I’m not sure if I should, anyway.”

“I don’t know if I’ve earned the right to weigh in on something like this, yet,” he begins, and she tilts her head, surprised.

“You earned the right a long time ago. I’ve trusted you with some of the most guarded, tender parts of me. I would have thought you knew that already.” He looks into her eyes, nods.

“Yes, I did know that. I just don’t want to overstep.”

“Weigh in all you like,” she says with a soft smile. “If you overstep, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay, well. I think you should at least make an attempt to contact your brother while we’re here. If he doesn’t want to see you—that's his loss, but at least you know you tried.”

“What’s the point, though, if I’m 99% sure he’s going to say no? Why put myself through the heartache?” She may hide it well most of the time, but not staying close with her brother after their father’s death is one of her biggest regrets in life. It hurts deeply, and often.

“I don’t know about you, but I’d hold onto hope for the 1% if it meant one more day with someone I love.” She exhales deeply, wills the sudden rush of tears to leave her eyes so she doesn’t cry on the plane, nods.

“You’re completely right. I should at least try. Nada arriesgado, nada ganado. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” His face is soft, and she can tell he wants to touch her, comfort her, maybe kiss her, but there are too many eyes on them. Even Reid is watching their interaction curiously.

“I just want you to be happy, and it’s clear that losing your brother like this has hurt you. This could be your chance to patch things up.” She swallows, puts her hand on his arm; she’s done it before, in front of the others, and it’s painfully obvious they’re having a heart to heart, so it shouldn’t be too unexpected.

“Thank you. Really. I appreciate you.”

“I know. And I appreciate you. Let me know if you need a couple hours, we’ll make it work.” She agrees, and picks up her case file; he does the same, and doesn’t leave.

That night, she can’t sleep, and when a text to Aaron confirms he’s still awake, she presses 'call’, sinks back against the pillows while it rings.

“Hi,” he greets, his voice deep and quiet, and she closes her eyes, soaking it up. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I thought it might get suspicious if I ended up in your room every night, but I wanted to talk to you. Is this okay?”

“This is great. It’s funny how I can miss your voice even after being around you all day.”

“Yeah, for me too. I miss hearing you say my name. My first name.”

“Sophie,” he whispers, low, and she licks her lips.

“Hmm, that’s better. Is there anything in particular you want to talk about?”

“Anything is alright with me. Did your brother ever text you back?”

“Yeah, he said he’ll call me when he wakes up tomorrow—so, around noon, probably,” she says with a laugh, and he chuckles too.

“Well that’s something, at least. A good start.”

“Yeah, it is. Thank you.” She feels herself getting emotional again, and hates that vulnerability, so she forces herself to brighten up. “Maybe we should talk about our previous relationships.”

“Okay. I can go first. You know Haley was my high school sweetheart. We met when we were 15, went to college together, got married at 25. Divorced at 37.”

“Because of your work,” she recalls sadly.

“That’s right. I tried to be very present when I wasn’t working, but it wasn’t enough, of course. We grew apart.” He sighs. “Honestly, she put up with me longer than she should have.”

“It’s the nature of our job, and our personalities. We obsess. It’s not an excuse, but I get it.” She turns onto her side, curls up against her pillow. “What was your favorite thing about her?”

“I always liked how optimistic she was, and ambitious. She was with me every step of the way as I became a prosecutor, then an agent, unit chief, and she became a teacher, then vice principal, principal. For a long time, I thought we were growing together.”

“And for her to encourage you to join the FBI, to do the job you love, and then leave you over it… that must have been hard, even if she had legitimate reasons for wanting to end things.”

“It was hard for me to reconcile for a while. It made more sense when I found out she fell in love with someone else.” Her heart sinks.

“Oh, Aaron.”

“She didn’t cheat on me, but I gave her the time to fall in love with him by not being there. They’re married now, with two kids.”

“Do you still see her?”

“We meet up once a year for coffee, to go over what’s been happening in our lives. I always talk about work, and you can see it makes her feel like she did the right thing. And I’ve started to think that maybe she did.”

“I’m a little biased, so no comment. But I am sorry your heart was broken. Did you date much after?”

“I dated one woman for about 4 months, but we broke up because I wasn’t available.”

“This job makes it hard to be available for anything else. In a way, I’m glad I don’t have much family, that my brother doesn’t want to see me often.”

“I think that’s why we come together the way we do. Found family. It’s almost necessary.” He sighs, and she can tell that’s it for him. “So I know you have said you don’t date much.”

“Yeah, my last real relationship was back in Chicago. Taylor. He works Fire and Rescue.”

“What did you like the most about him?”

“He had a way of making people feel comfortable that I’ve always admired. He makes friends easily, and it translates well to his work, when people are scared or hurt.”

“How long were you together?”

“A year. Doesn’t exactly compare to 22 years, but it’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had. I was busy with school and didn’t really have time to date. Then work got in the way.”

“So you’ve been alone for a while. No family here, no boyfriend.” It makes her sound kind of pathetic, and she laughs lightly.

“Yeah, I guess, but I get by.”

“I know you do. What did you like least about Taylor?”

“He wasn’t like this at first, but before we broke up he… I’m not trying to take this down a sexual path, but the story involves sex, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

“Okay, so you know that a lot of women need direct clitoral stimulation to have an orgasm. I don’t, particularly—I like it, but I don’t need it, I can have an orgasm from intercourse. Well he would just batter my clit, all the time, to the point that it hurt. And when I told him it hurt, he basically mansplained my own body to me, and how that couldn’t be true because he knows ‘the clitoris is one of the most sensitive erogenous zones due to its high concentration of nerve endings’, like he was reading it out of a textbook when a living, breathing woman is sitting there telling him it’s too much. It was the first time I ever cried during sex, and when I can’t trust you with my body, I lose all emotional regard. Things just kind of fell apart from there.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. That he broke your trust that way.”

“Thank you. I think that’s another reason I don’t date. It’s hard for me to fully give myself to another person, to trust, sometimes.”

“I promise I will listen when you’re telling me how you feel, physically or otherwise. I would never do what he did.”

“I know. I trust you. I don’t think we’d be doing this if I didn’t.” She takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly. “Okay, let’s lighten it up. Um… If you could only eat one meal for the rest of your life, what would it be?” He hums thoughtfully.

“What a question. I’m assuming this is strictly based on what I want to eat forever, without taking nutrition into account.”

“Of course. What would make Aaron Hotchner smile every time he takes a bite?”

“Okay,” he begins, and she can hear the smile already. “I’m sorry, vegetarian, but it would be a big, juicy cheeseburger, with lettuce and tomato and extra pickles, the skinny French fries, and a cherry Coke.”

“How All-American of you. That’s cute.”

“And what meal would you eat for the rest of your life?”

“So, my instinct is to say tacos, but there’s this jalapeno popper pizza at the shop by my house… If it were legal for me to marry this pizza, I would have done it already.”

“Wow. That must be some pizza. I’m a little jealous.” She laughs softly.

“You probably should be, it’s amazing. It has jalapenos, obviously, but two other types of peppers too, and three kinds of cheese, and ranch sauce. So I’ll make a commitment and say, that pizza. For the rest of my life.”

They talk a little more before heading to bed, and she’s so happy it makes even the prospect of meeting up with her brother seem a little bit less daunting. Thursday is a blur of interviewing witnesses who worked with the victim, but she’s able to sneak away at two to meet her brother Leo for lunch. He looks taller, somehow, more like 6’2” than 6’0”, and darker, from all that good California sun; she grins when she sees him. “Hola, broki. Creciste!” she says, marveling at his height, and he pulls her into a hug, smiles the same goofy, charming smile as always.

“I haven’t grown, I think you shrunk. And you’re so pale.”

“That’s life on the East Coast for you,” she explains as they pull apart, and they take their seats.

“That’s office life, hermana. You need to get out more. I bet your lungs are tired of all that recycled air.”

“I get out when I can. Been soaking up your sun and air the last few days working on this case.” The waitress approaches, and they order drinks; Leo’s a regular, knows what he wants to eat right away, and she orders the same to make things easy.

“The murder of that financial guy, right? Stockbroker, or something?” She raises her eyebrows, surprised he knows that much. “I heard on the news the FBI was on the case, figured that meant you, when you texted.”

“You watch the news?” she teases, because he has always been type to avoid real life at all costs, and the news is about as real as it gets.

“It was on at the DMV; don’t get too excited.” She laughs, because some things never change, and they chat a little more about the case, about what’s going on in his life—girlfriends, boyfriends, parties, surfing—as they eat.

“Actually, I wanted to tell you,” she says after a tale about a tall, dark, and handsome guy named Daunte, setting down her fork, “I have a boyfriend.” His brows shoot up his forehead.

“A boyfriend, ‘mana. I never thought I’d see the day. You’re such a lone wolf anymore.”

“Not by choice, by necessity,” she mutters, stabbing at her salad. “But yes, I have a boyfriend now. It’s really new—like, less than a week new—but it’s been a long time coming.” He takes a sip of his lemonade, smiles softly.

“He’s a Fed like you?” She must appear surprised by his astuteness, because it morphs into a grin. “You’re at work 24/7, Sophia, where else would you meet him?”

“Oh, for a minute I thought you were taking after your profiler sister there, buddy.” He frowns down at his plate.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I hate how you can get into people’s heads.”

“I do it to catch bad people, Leo. Rapists, murderers. I don’t do it to you, and you know it.” She sighs. “I didn’t want to talk about this today, anyway. I just wanted to come see you, catch up. It’s been nice.”

“Yeah, it has,” he agrees easily, and they steer away from the topic of her work, onto safer things. He pays for their meal—she almost falls out of her seat just to get a laugh out of him, and it works—and she has to get back to the precinct, but they make a pact to talk more often, so she considers the whole thing a success.

When she walks into the conference room they are using, she catches Aaron’s eye, points down the hall. “Can I borrow you for a sec?” she asks, and he excuses himself, follows her to the other end of the station; he presses his palm to her lower back when they are out of eyesight.

“Did everything go alright?” he asks seriously, and she pulls him in for a hug. His arms wrap around her easily despite their location, and he sighs, rests his cheek on the top of her head.

“It was really great, Aaron. It was hardly tense at all, and I… I would never have done it if it weren’t for you. So thank you.” When she pulls back, she tries to show him how grateful she is with her gaze, and he can tell, she knows it.

“You’re welcome. I just want you to be happy.” Their people aren’t around, but other cops are, so this is already bordering on too much PDA; she wants to kiss him, but restrains herself, takes a deep breath.

“What can I do to help?” she asks instead, and he fills her in on the new details of the case.

“So what’s your favorite movie of all time?” she asks that night, over the phone again. They’re all hoping it’s their last night in California, that the lead they have will pan out so they can finally go home, but no one more than Sophie and Aaron.

“A Few Good Men.”

“Oh, that’s so lawyerly of you. I probably would have guessed between that and… Witness for the Prosecution.”

“That movie is older than you. It’s older than me.”

“I like old movies. My mama always watched the classics in black and white, so I find it soothing.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Oh, that’s such a hard question. Maybe… The Maltese Falcon? I love the drama of noir films, but I also like romances like Roman Holiday. Or anything with James Stewart.”

“Now I know why you’re attracted to me; you’re an old soul,” he teases, and she laughs softly.

“There are many reasons I’m attracted to you; I’d list them, but I can’t afford to keep you up all night.”

“Not tonight, anyway,” he murmurs, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, smiles like an idiot.

“Right. Not tonight.” She hums as she thinks of another question to ask him. “If you could only use one of your senses, which would it be?”

“Forever?”

“That seems cruel. Let’s say, just for one day. And you wouldn’t have to work, so don’t take that into consideration.”

“Would I be with you?” he asks, and her heart feels soft.

“If you want to be.”

“Then hearing, I think. The way your voice wraps around me when it’s just the two of us, it feels almost like we’re touching, anyway.” God, she’s such a sap, melting completely at his words. She says nothing for a moment, and he clears his throat. “You?”

“Oh, touch, for me. As much as I love the sound of your voice, I’m very tactile, and I don’t think I could go the day without touch without losing my mind.”

“That’s good to know. Explains why you’re always hitting Morgan.” She laughs.

“Yeah, that’s an easy way to get some touching in for the day. I prefer softness, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“I’ve got a question for you, and then we should probably get some sleep,” he says after a moment. “Which of your personality traits are you the most proud of?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Resiliency, I guess? I’ve always been able to push through hard times and focus on my goals. I’m very fortunate in that way. What about you?”

“I would say rationality, I think. It makes me better at what I do, even if it’s not always appreciated.”

“You know that you’re more than this job, right? I mean, I know we agreed that we obsess over it, that we let it be a part of who we are, but it’s not all you are. I can think of so many great traits you have that make you a good person, Aaron.”

“I don’t often tell myself that I’m a good person. A good agent, sure. A good boss, sometimes.” She frowns, feels for him.

“In that case, I’m happy to be the one to tell you. Often. Loudly.” He breathes a laugh, then yawns. “Yeah, I’m ready for bed, too. Maybe tomorrow we’ll get to go home, and we can work on having one of these conversations in person.”

“I would really like that. Sleep well, Sophie.”

“You too. Goodnight.” Friday morning, they catch the murderer, put him behind bars. It’s high profile, and Sophie’s there when they take him in; she hates having cameras in her face, hates California because there are always cameras, but she feels a rush of satisfaction when she gets the killer in the squad car and shuts the door in his face.

A couple of hours later, when she’s packing her bag, she gets a text from Leo: Nice job, hermana. Te amo.

Maybe some things will change after all.

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 6: “Who Brings a Gun to a Cemetery?”

For Day 6: Cemetery Boys

Rating: General Audiences; Ship: Pre-Destiel; WC: 3,219

POV Outsider (Original Male Character); full tags on AO3 or below the cut.

Summary: Jerry Wallace has seen a lot of satanic rituals. A lot. Candles and daggers, pentagrams, hoods and chanting; you name it, he’s seen it. As the head of security — and only guard — of Sullivan Cemetery, he’s bound to have run into the occasional devil worshipper. It doesn’t even faze him anymore. There’s not much Jerry Wallace hasn’t seen.

In which: Jerry Wallace encounters Dean Winchester, supposed Satanist.

On AO3 Here (or read under the cut!)

Full Tags: POV Outsider, This poor cemetery guard doesn't know what to do about Dean Winchester, Dean seems insane, BAMF Castiel, Early Seasons Dean and Cas, Pre-Relationship Dean and Cas, Pre-Friendship Dean and Cas, somehow they still manage to flirt though, POV Character is briefly threatened by Dean Winchester but it all ends OK,Humor

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jerry Wallace has seen a lot of satanic rituals. A Iot. Candles and daggers, pentagrams, hoods and chanting; you name it, he’s seen it. As the head of security — and only guard — of Sullivan Cemetery, he’s bound to have run into the occasional devil worshipper (and worse. People dig up graves for really unsavory reasons). It doesn’t even faze him anymore. There’s not much Jerry Wallace hasn’t seen.

But tonight, as he sweeps his flashlight back and forth across the dewy grass, making his rounds and sipping on his steaming coffee, something stops him short. He narrows his eyes and cocks his head to listen. There’s a scuffling sound up ahead, from just outside the Bennett mausoleum. It sounds too big to be any of the usual animals. Humans, then. Jerry sighs. He was hoping for a quiet night, so he could make himself comfortable under the lamp at the cemetery entrance and read the book his teenage son, Andrew, had lent him. Cemetery Boys, it’s called. Jerry finds it fitting.

A man’s rough voice rings out from around the corner of the mausoleum. “Dammit, Sam, you can’t give me any hints?”

Jerry blinks at the audacity. Who sneaks into a cemetery at night and doesn’t even try to be quiet about it? He decides to give these particular satanists a little scare, just to teach them a lesson. He switches off his flashlight and gently sets his precious cup of coffee on top of the nearest headstone. Time to have some fun.

He sneaks on silent feet across the grass, clutching his flashlight tight in hand and deciding which tactic he wants to use. The reliable old jump scare? Flashlight beam to the face and an earsplitting yell — it’s worked well on thrill-seeking teenagers in the past. Or the more tricky option, creeping around and making ghostly sounds to unnerve the trespassers so thoroughly that they leave? More time investment, but also more amusing in the long run — Jerry decides on Option Two.

The wall of the mausoleum gives him excellent cover to start his performance. He sidles up along it, to the very edge. The intruders are just around the corner, and it sounds like one of them’s rummaging around in a bag of some sort. Jerry rolls his eyes. Probably some weirdos with spray paint, here to deface the walls of the mausoleum with symbols that take ages to wash off. Jerry opens his mouth and is about to emit his first long, ghostly moan, when the same voice as before pipes up again.

“Picking the lock didn’t work, Sam, I’m telling you, it’s gonna take longer. You gotta hold her off.”

The other person — Sam — doesn’t reply, though. Jerry furrows his brow. Who’s being held off? He decides to get a better picture of the scene before initiating his plan. Very slowly, he pokes just the right side of his face around the corner. The front of the small white building is washed in moonlight, the nearest lamp a ways down the path.

There’s a man crouched outside the mausoleum, maybe in his late twenties, from what Jerry can tell in the low light. He’s wearing an oversized leather jacket over a patterned shirt, with jeans and sturdy-looking boots. His short hair is spiked a bit in the front.

He doesn’t look like a satanist. Jerry stays very still, breathing shallowly and watching.

The man has both hands in a medium-sized duffel bag, rooting around. The contents of the bag are clanging and thudding. With a triumphant exhale, the man stands up, crowbar in hand. Jerry balks. This is already a step beyond chanting and spray paint. Again, nothing he hasn’t seen before, though.

What Jerry couldn’t see while the man was crouched, that now makes itself clear, is that he has a mobile phone pressed between his shoulder and ear. As the man advances on the door with the crowbar, he barks into the phone, “Update, Sammy. You still kicking?”

Jerry can’t make out Sam’s muffled response, but it obviously displeases the man, because he whacks the crowbar against the mausoleum door with a frustrated growl. “Watch your back. Figure out what the hell I’m supposed to burn!” He flips the phone shut and stuffs it into his jacket pocket.

This is getting stranger and stranger. Jerry watches as the man goes to town on the mausoleum door, an offense that Jerry would usually be more inclined to stop from happening. Something about this man, though, about the way he carries himself and the way he talks, is holding Jerry back.

He’s very glad about his decision to stay put about ten seconds later, when the man drops the crowbar to the ground with a clang and pulls a gun out of his jacket. Jerry doesn’t even carry a gun. His heart starts beating and his palms prickle with sweat. He didn’t sign up for this. Who brings a gun to a cemetery?

The man steps back a couple feet, points the handgun at the lock, hunches his shoulders, and fires. Jerry barely has the wherewithal to throw himself back around the corner and press his hands over his ears before the shot goes off. He feels it reverberate through the wall, twice, as the man fires again. Fully out of sight now, Jerry gingerly lowers the zipper on his jacket and reaches into his chest pocket for his radio. He needs to call this in. This is way above his pay grade.

“Dammit!” the man yells. The gun must’ve been ineffective. Jerry mentally pats himself on the shoulder. He requested upgrades to all mausoleum locks after a series of break ins last year, and it looks like the security company came through.

Jerry hears the keypad of the mobile phone beeping as the man punches in a number, then there’s muffled ringing. Jerry uses the sound as cover to pull his radio out and to inch his face around the corner again so he has a visual of the scene.

The man’s phone rings and rings. With another frustrated yell, the man slaps it shut and paces back and forth in front of the door, one hand running through his hair, the other still holding his gun. After a few moments, he stops in his tracks. He’s facing Jerry’s direction, silvery moonlight throwing his cheekbones in sharp relief. He looks like a respectable young man, really. Jerry wonders where he lost his way.

There’s a set of complicated emotions working their way across the man’s face. His eyebrows are pinched in concentration, eyes squeezed shut, lips moving as if he’s talking to himself. This lasts about ten seconds before he throws up his hands and glares at the sky.

“Oh, come on!” he shouts. “Get your harp-toting ass down here! Castiel!”

Jerry, who prides himself on never swearing, thinks: What the fuck.

The man is obviously disturbed. He needs a doctor. Jerry glances down at the radio in his hand, and presses the emergency button. He can’t afford a conversation with dispatch; the man will overhear. This will at least get someone out here.

When Jerry looks back up, he twitches. There are now two men in front of the mausoleum. The newcomer is wearing a long trenchcoat and standing stiffly. He’s facing away from Jerry, looking at the gunman, sensible shoes planted hip-width apart. His messy dark hair blends into the shadows.

Where on earth did he come from? Jerry darts his eyes around. The mausoleum is on a slightly raised part of the cemetery, visibility clear in all directions. Even if the trenchcoat man had approached from the opposite side of the building, Jerry would have seen him.

“Cas,” the gunman says, voice heavy with something like — relief, perhaps? His tense posture relaxes slightly and he claps the trenchcoat man on the shoulder. “You took your time,” he accuses. “Can you open those doors?”

The trenchcoat man, Cas — is this Castiel? Jerry cannot keep up — turns slightly to regard the doors.

“This is why you prayed to me?” Cas’ voice is deeper than the gunman’s, rougher. He speaks like a robot. “Heaven is at war, Dean. You call me to help you break down a door?”

Jerry’s brain is spinning. Are these… actors? Cosplayers? He learned about cosplayers from Andrew. Some of them do have very elaborate costumes. Jerry squints at Cas’ back. This doesn’t look like a costume, though. Cas looks like a tax accountant. Like he should be at home with his family at this time of night.

“Sam’s in trouble,” Dean’s saying, an ever-so-slight pleading edge to the words. “I gotta get in here, Cas, or he’s gonna meet a real bad end. I know you’ve got the mojo, come on!”

“I do not exist to do your bidding,” Cas replies. He strides over to the doors, though, trenchcoat flapping around his calves. “I do not serve you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re a warrior.” Dean’s hovering at Cas’ shoulder. “Can you blast ‘em?”

Cas lays a hand on the doors, long fingers splayed against the metal. Jerry glances down at his radio again. The red button is flashing, indicating that he’d called for help, but he can’t hear any sirens yet. He hopes they send enough officers for two grave-desecrating weirdos.

“Stand back,” Cas says. “And tell the man behind the wall to stand back, too.”

“What?” Dean’s head whips around.

Jerry hastily pulls his head out of sight, heart racing. Oh, no. He’s seen enough. He can ID these two for the cops later. He doesn’t need to be on the scene.

He turns heel to run, but makes it only two steps before a hand grabs his collar and yanks him back. The air is knocked out of him and he yelps, feet scrabbling on the pavement as a strong arm drags him around the corner. He lands on his butt in front of the doors, palms scraping on the ground. He quickly raises one over his head in surrender.

“Please— please, I have a family!” He keeps his eyes averted. Dean’s boots are inches away from his legs. “Don’t hurt me, I won’t say a word, I promise!”

“You the guard?” Dean crouches down in front of him. Oh, lord, the gun is trained on Jerry’s face. He whimpers and nods.

“Great. Give me the keys to the doors. Stat.” A palm appears in front of Jerry’s chest, held out in expectation. He hesitates. Isn’t that aiding and abetting?

No way. He’s at gunpoint. He nods again, fervently, and fumbles in his pocket for his ring of keys. His hand shakes violently as he drops them onto Dean’s outstretched palm. He sneaks a peek up at the men.

“Cas,” Dean says, tossing the keys to the trenchcoat man. “Figure out which one it is. I’ll deal with him.”

Cas catches the keys. “So, you do not want me to break the doors?”

“No— just—” Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, lips pressed together. “Just unlock them.” Cas scowls, but begins slotting the various keys into the mausoleum lock.

Dean turns back to Jerry and waves a hand in front of his face. “Hey,” he snaps. Jerry meets his eyes, conscious that he must look utterly terrified. He hopes it’ll appeal to any sense of humanity in this gun-toting lunatic.

“Whatever you think I am, I’m not,” Dean says, quickly and gruffly. “I’m not some pervert tryin’ to get my rocks off with Sleeping Beauty in there. I haven’t got time to ease you in slow, so here it is: ghosts are real. There’s one after my brother. I can gank it, but I gotta burn some hair or somethin’, something keepin’ it here. That’s all. Once Cas opens the doors, I’ll be in and out. We don’t have to get nasty. I’m even saving your doors from gettin’ blasted, as a favor. ”

Jerry picks and chooses what to process of that. “You have a gun pointed at me.”

Dean glances at the gun, like he’s just now realizing he still has it trained on Jerry. He lowers it. “Sorry. Had to let you know I’m serious. You gonna let me do my thing, or we gonna have a problem?”

The police will be here soon, Jerry thinks. It’s not my responsibility to stop this maniac.

“No problem,” he says. Dean nods once, satisfied, and in that moment, the lock clicks. The doors swing open heavily. Dean springs to his feet and races toward the mausoleum.

“Awesome, Cas!” he shouts, slapping a palm against Cas’ chest as he passes. Cas looks after him, a bemused expression on his face.

“I don’t know what to burn!” Dean hollers from inside.

Jerry is so far past trying to understand any of this. He nurses his scraped palms, huddling on the cold pavement and thinking of the book Andrew gave him. He wanted to finish a few chapters tonight so they could talk about them over breakfast tomorrow. He hopes he gets the chance.

Jerry is tough, but his eyes sting a little as he thinks about it.

“Dean is a good man,” Cas suddenly says, in that mechanical way of his. “Righteous. He won’t harm a human.”

Jerry stares at him in disbelief. There’s nothing he can say to that, beyond “Okay.” Cas just nods, and turns to gaze into the darkness of the mausoleum. There’s a lot of scraping and clattering echoing from the room inside, as if Dean is dismantling the place. He probably is, Jerry thinks miserably as the sound of breaking glass reaches his ears.

Dean comes storming back out of the room, assorted items piled in his arms. Jerry recognizes the doll that’s usually propped up behind the glass of the Bennett daughter’s crypt, and a locket that hangs behind the mother’s. A whole array of other personal effects that Jerry spends his nights guarding also end up on the pavement at Dean’s feet. Dean dives into his duffel bag, pulling out a can of gasoline. He douses the whole pile in the acrid-smelling stuff — Jerry’s nostrils sting and he coughs, scrabbling a little farther away. Dean pulls a lighter out of pocket and flicks it several times, cursing when it doesn’t ignite.

“Allow me,” Cas says, stepping forward. He pauses. “Close your eyes.”

Jerry throws an arm over his eyes without a second thought, just catching sight of Dean doing the same. His jacket sleeve does very little, though, to shield his eyes from the brilliant blue-white light that rips through the darkness. It feels like a bonfire, there one moment and gone the next, leaving the tips of Jerry’s hair singed. He cowers, eyes pressed shut, heaving huge breaths.

“Damn, Cas,” Dean says, voice tinged with awe. “Thanks for the assist.”

Jerry lowers his (slightly smoking) arm and peers at where the pile of belongings once lay. It’s completely gone, reduced to ash, just smoldering dust on the pavement. How on Earth—

In that moment, Dean’s mobile phone rings. He frantically plunges a hand into his jacket and rips it out, flipping it open.

“Sammy?” he asks sharply, pressing the phone to his ear. The voice on the other end mumbles something and Dean sags in relief, dragging a hand over his face. “Close call, huh? Yeah, glad it worked.”

Jerry tunes out the rest of Dean and Sam’s conversation. His eyes travel from the smoking pile of dust, to Cas (who’s standing motionless, staring at Dean), to the open mausoleum door, to his own hands, trembling in his lap. A light catches his eye off to the side and he follows it, realizing it’s his radio, abandoned on the pavement, red emergency light still blinking steadily. He gazes at it like a lifeline.

“Is that— Did you—” Dean’s voice is suddenly closer, right next to Jerry, and he quickly looks up. Dean’s looking at the radio, too. His phone is closed in his hand; he must be done talking to his brother.

“The cops coming?” Dean demands, gesturing at the radio. Jerry doesn’t want to let on, he doesn’t, but faced with this strange, complicated, definitely violent person, he can’t hold out. He nods.

“Dammit,” Dean mutters. Just then, the first siren wails in the distance, growing louder by the second.

Finally.

Dean groans and rushes over to his duffel bag, throwing the can of gasoline back in and grabbing the crowbar off the ground to toss that in, too. “Leave the keys, Cas,” he snaps at the trenchcoat man, who still has Jerry’s key ring dangling from his fingers. Cas drops the keys on the ground.

“Can you zap me to my car?” Dean hoists the duffel over his shoulder and faces Cas. “I won’t make it if I run.”

Cas steps closer to Dean, until he’s right in front of him. Their noses are just a few inches apart. Jerry, with nothing else to do but wait for his rescuers, watches them. Dean takes what looks like a shaky breath. His eyes flick down to Cas’ mouth. “You gonna stare, or you gonna help?” he asks, but it comes out small, a weak attempt at bravado.

Cas reaches out and places his hand over Dean’s left shoulder. “I’ll go with you,” he says, deep and measured, and in the next second, they’re gone. Just gone.

Jerry could swear he heard the flapping of wings. He sits there, numb, staring at the spot where they vanished.

Eventually, the yellow beams of flashlights dart across the front of the mausoleum and voices break through the fog in Jerry’s brain. A hand lands on his shoulder. “Sir, are you all right?”

He’s saved.

There’s a lot of questions from the responding officers, a lot of Jerry having to recount what he saw, picking and choosing details — which of course renders his story utterly implausible — and a lot of nobody believing him; there’s a breathalizer test — humiliating — that of course comes back clean (whether that’s better or worse for him, Jerry’s not so sure), and a round of paperwork, and finally, finally, Jerry is allowed to go.

He stumbles down the cemetery path in a daze, passing his long-cold cup of coffee, still perched on its headstone. He snags it and throws it away in the trash can at the cemetery gates. The officers said they would lock the mausoleum and the security station; Jerry was supposed to go home. He stops briefly at his station, though, to grab Andrew’s book.

He’s not quite ready to go home yet. He’s not sure what to say.

Jerry makes himself comfortable in the front seat of his car, overhead light on, and cracks open his book. He starts to read.

[ao3feed-hawks]

Damnant Quod non Intellegunt

Damnant Quod non Intellegunt by keatsblue

Keigo, they call him. The mighty wings that pierce the heavens, the broad shoulders that cradle the sky above. They pray that he pull apart the clouds to let the sun shine, that he bring them forth once more to allow for rain. It's a mystery to him how they suppose he has anything to do with these things, but their worship is not unwelcome, so he ponders it seldom.

There are others—ancient beings similar to he, for whom the smaller creatures also devote time and resources. The sun god, Yagi, who smiles down upon them all and yet, rarely speaks. He was around on the first day Hawks took to the skies, and would likely remain should Hawks ever truly perish. *** Or, my sky deity!Hawks piece I got to write for the Bird of Prey Zine! Please heed the tags - there are themes of colonization in this work that may be triggering for some.

Words: 3143, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Dabi | Todoroki Touya, Takami Keigo | Hawks, Usagiyama Rumi | Miruko, Todoroki Enji | Endeavor, Yagi Toshinori | All Might

Relationships: Dabi | Todoroki Touya/Takami Keigo | Hawks, Dabi | Todoroki Touya & Takami Keigo | Hawks, Takami Keigo | Hawks & Usagiyama Rumi | Miruko

Additional Tags: Historical Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Sky Deity!Hawks, Death God!Dabi, Gods, Colonization, Imperialism, Canon-Typical Violence, Tragic Romance, Enemies to Lovers, (sort of), BAMF Usagiyama Rumi | Miruko, BAMF Takami Keigo | Hawks, Mystery, Protective Takami Keigo | Hawks, Takami Keigo | Hawks-centric, i'm really proud of this one guys ngl, Deities, Bird Takami Keigo | Hawks, A celebration of Hawks' bird traits, Zine Works

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34167709