#they snark and talk and wear things better than the other

[dira333]

Soul-Food - Osamu x Reader

Enemies to lovers - Requested by @notsochillnerd - with Atsumu as a terrible wingman who just wanted to check out his brothers' nemesis...

There is only one thing more annoying than Miya Osamu with his cooking talent, excellent marks, and unfairly good looks: his twin brother Atsumu.

“No.” You say again, arms filled with produce. He’s in your way and he’s not even sorry about it.

“Come oooon!” He whines, draping himself over the railing of the stairs as if this is a photoshoot for some perfume. “I’m so hungry! And Osamu won’t cook for me! I’ll even pay you!”

“Wow, now I want to do it even less, knowing you might not have paid me in the first place.” You snark, patience wearing thin.

“Now get out of my way, I need to get to my room.”

“To do what?” He steps to the side, but his face remains close to yours. You’re not the fastest as it is, even less when carrying that many vegetables. 

“I need to cook.”

“Perfect.” His grin is so wide, it could split his face. “You cook, I’ll eat.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

You hesitate, if only for a second. But Atsumu is like a shark and that was the single drop of blood that he needed.

Half an hour later he’s sitting at the little table in your apartment. 

Your kitchen isn’t spacious, but equipped with everything you could possibly need - there’s a reason this school costs an arm and a leg each year. And Miya Osamu got the scholarship instead of you.

You wouldn’t have any problem with it if not for your father breathing down your neck. He’s got the money to send you here twice if he wanted to, but in his twisted mind, a 100% is barely a passing grade and you should have been able to win the scholarship, monetary status be damned.

“What are you making?” Atsumu asks from behind you.

“Udon.”

“Why is it black?” 

“I’m using Sepia.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.” You snap back, hoping against hope that he will fall quiet. He doesn’t. 

-

You’ve spent almost a year in a class with Osamu.

He might not always get a better mark than you, but he quickly figured out how much you hated it when he did. There’s nothing worse than someone else gloating over your loss.

The teachers love him and tolerate you. 

So far they’ve been kind enough not to put the two of you into a group project, or maybe they just played it safe. The sheer bloodlust you feel when he grins in your direction must have tipped them off.

But this year is going to end soon and your teachers expect you to come up with a dish. Your own creation, not unlike the dish you had to make for your entry exam. This time, however, it’s supposed to showcase what you want to do, going forward.

You can’t bring the same thing you made for your entry exam, even though it was perfect and a delight - you made it roughly one hundred times before. 

Your father has always been a fan of the Kaiseki Ryori and while you had loved taking part in the Haute Cuisine as a child, feeling grown up as you nibbled on tiny bites of expensive food, it has lost its appeal on you.

After all, there’s a set number of times you can eat a meal, even Chawanmushi, before you get sick of it.

“Hello? Are you still listening?” Nuisance number 2 asks behind you and you flinch, staring down at the dough that you kneaded for too long. 

“What’s Osamu doing for his exam?” You ask, feeling a little guilty about your attempt at spying.

“Why do you want to know?”

Nevermind. Now you only feel annoyed.

“Just because. Maybe I want to talk about something other than you.”

You move to throw the dough out, only to be stopped by Atsumu’s voice.

“What are you doing?”

“I messed it up. It’s not going to taste good.”

“So what? I’m hungry.”

“You want to eat gross noodles?” You eye him warily, but he shrugs with a grin.

“It’s definitely going to be better than what I’d produce myself. But since I hate cooking, I’d probably just get takeout pizza anyway.”

“Aren’t you an athlete?”

“Yeah?”

“And they let you eat Pizza?”

“They don’t know. Or they don’t care. Whatever you like better. I mean, they gave me a list of stuff I should keep away from but that’s like, all the food I usually consume.”

“Here.” You pull out a pen and paper. “Write down what you eat in a day. Snacks included. And drinks.”

“Why?”

“If I have to endure your chatting, you might as well get something out of this. Now, shoo!”

You turn, lid of your composter already open when his voice reaches you.

“DON’T THROW AWAY THE DOUGH!”

“Fine!” You snap. “You can eat your disgusting noodles!”

They don’t taste that awful in the end, not with your delicate sauce with mussels and steamed broccoli that turned out so good Atsumu licks his plate clean.

-

You’d been part of the track club in Middle School, switched to Volleyball in High School because they had fewer practice hours per week. Your marks had always been more important than any side activities, your future as a part of Haute Cuisine decided before you could walk. But it had been fun, especially when Coach gathered you after practice to talk about the importance of self-care. How certain foods could make or break you. How important salt and minerals were for your body, how food was more than calories, protein, carbs, and fat.

You’re not even a little bit rusty when you scribble down a meal plan for him. You keep it easy and as cheap as possible, light on the cooking because you figured he must be the opposite of his twin in the kitchen if he came begging for food… You’re not sure if you’re buying his excuse of a brotherly fight, but you’re not ashamed to say that you didn’t mind him praising your food over Osamu’s. Suck that, Miya!

Meanwhile, Atsumu’s brows are pulled so high, they’re hiding behind his bangs.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“Your new meal plan. You follow that, you’ll increase your stamina.”

“But it’s so much work.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Whatever.” You get up, throw the pen down at the table. Your patience has never been the best anyway.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He follows you to the sink but not to help with the dishes.

“You could cook for me.” He offers it like it’s a great deal. You snort.

“I bet there’s something you want. Something I could do for you…” He wiggles his brows now, looks disgustingly like Osamu when he got a better mark then you. And that kickstarts your brain.

“I want Osamu… I mean the recipe…You know, what Osamu made to get the scholarship. If you can get me that dish of him to try, I’ll cook for you.”

Atsumu grins in a way that doesn’t feel good but he nods.

“Alright, it’s a deal. You’ll cook for me and I get you the dish.” He holds out his hand to sign the deal but you’ve been the daughter of a cutthroat banker for too long to fall for that.

“I’ll cook for a week.” You tell him firmly and watch with a sick satisfaction as his face contorts. He looks awful when he’s pissed and there are definitely not enough moments of the Miya twins looking awful.

“Two weeks.

“One week, only dinner.”

“One week, lunch, dinner and snacks.”

“Are you insane?”

“Do you want Osamu’s food?”

There’s a moment of Silence, and you’re eyeing each other, calculating who’s bluffing and who’s not.

“Fine.” You huff eventually, because you feel it in your bones that trying that damned dish will get you a step closer to figuring out what you need to present for your Final.

-

You feel like a drug addict, going down the deep end, when Atsumu appears at your door one week later, carrying a Bento-Box wrapped in the cutest fabric you have ever seen.

“Are those little foxes?” You ask, eyeing the reddish-tinted animals on the grey fabric.

“What if ?” He asks back, nose up in the air.

“Jeez, I was just curious.” You snap back and muster him. He doesn’t look malnourished.

“What did you eat this week?”

“Why do you ask?” He sets the Bento-Box on your table and saunters into your kitchen, peering into the still empty pots and pans.

“You’re an awful liar.”

“Okay, so I told Samu that you cooked for me.” He throws his hands up in the air like you’re the one making a big fuss about things. “Told him it was fingerlickin’ good. Got him all angry and puffy.”

You are not ashamed to say that comment lifts you off your feet just a little bit. Hah!

“So?” You ask cooly, untying the Furoshiki with eager fingers.

“So he insisted that he would cook for me. Everything went according to plan, I pretended it wasn’t as good as your food until I asked for the dish he made for his entry exams.”

“Did you know what it was?” You ask as you lift the lid of the box.

“Maybe.” He says and you can hear in his voice that he knew. He probably didn’t tell you just to experience this.

“He made Onigiri?” You ask, your voice a little shrill.

You had made Chawanmushi, a dish literally to die for, practiced one hundred times, and he beat you with Onigiri?

“Try it.” He reaches for one of the Onigiri in the box and you slap his hand away.

“Mine!” You hiss angrily and his grin is almost feral.

“I’ll take a walk around the block then.” He jokes, moving toward the door. “Leave you alone with it.”

“Leave.” You wave him off. “I’ll make dinner later.”

“Half an hour.”

“Leave!” You huff and the door clicks shut behind him.

-

You bite into the first Onigiri and time stops for a second. 

The rice is cooked to perfection, but you know the different varieties well. He must have splurged on this kind, bought from a boutique farmer of some sorts. 

It’s filled with tuna and spring onion, but it tastes different then all the Tuna Onigiri you’ve had before. You write down all the different things you can taste, compare them to the knowledge you have but still - did he use a spice you don’t know? A combination you’re not familiar with?

The taste lingers, but you cannot put your finger on it. You feel a little weepy too, as if you had just watched your favorite movie from when you were a kid. You sniff and take the other Onigiri, bite into almost cautiously. It’s Tenmusu, your favorite kind of Onigiri.

This time, literal tears run down your cheeks. The shrimp is crisp, the sweet sauce calling you back to childhood, reminding you of the few free afternoons you got to spend with your mother, just the two of you, no work allowed. You only remember to write down the taste and ingredients when the last bite has disappeared and your hands leave the paper stained. 

Well… You’re no closer to figuring out what to make for your finals, but you might be getting your period soon. Why else would you be moved to tears by food?

-

“Onigiri, huh?” You ask Osamu after class the next day. You can’t help yourself.

He looks up from his phone, surprise on his face. It’s ridiculous how good that makes him look.

“What about it?”

“I heard you made Onigiri for your Entry Exam.”

“Ah, yes.” He smiles, the kind of smile that makes you want to slap it off his face. “Tsumu told me he made you try it.”

You can feel your face go slack. WHAT?

“What did you think?” Osamu asks, way too confident for your taste. “Did you like them?”

You can’t decide between a huff and a snort and the sound that does come out reminds you more of a dying walruss.

“They were probably pitying you.” You point out, nose in the air. “I showed up with Kaiseki Ryori. I made Chawanmushi.”

“Ah.” Osamu sounds like he’s not sure what that is. But you’ve gone over that in class, he’s just messing with you.

“Well, when do I get to try it?” 

You blink. “What?” 

“Yeah, it’s only fair, right? After you tried mine.”

You swallow thickly, look around for some help, but you’re the only one’s still in the hallway.

“Fine.” You huff eventually, because he does have a point. “As long as I don’t have to eat it.”

His brows furrow and your mind unhelpfully supplies you with the information that his eyes are a different shade than Atsumu’s. Osamu’s eyes are almost as grey as his hair, reminding you of the sky outside. 

His mouth moves and you blink, try to focus on his voice, but fail. Your collar feels too tight around your neck and you pull at it, too aware of Osamu’s eyes that flicker to your neck and stay there. God, what’s going on?”

“What did you say?” You ask in the most snooty voice you can manage. “I wasn’t listening.”

“Why do you cook something you don’t like?” He asks. “Don’t you enjoy cooking?”

Something snaps inside you like a rubberband that has been pulled taut for too long.

“Why do you care?” You sniff and he rolls his eyes. 

“I was just asking.”

“Sure you were. But you’re psychological warfare doesn’t work on me! You can flutter your long eyelashes at someone else!”

Osamu laughs. “I wasn’t-”

“Neither was I. Well, are you coming or not?”

“Where?” 

“You wanted to try my Chawanmushi!”

“Gesundheit.” You turn, not the least bit surprised to see Atsumu standing there. It’s lunchtime for him, he’s coming to collect his goods. “Or was that a codeword for something naughty?”

“Oh god, you’re awful.” 

-

You know that the Chawanmushi has turned out as perfect as all the other times. You can tell by sight and smell, but you cannot bring yourself to try it.

The thought of it has you swallow back bile but you serve it to the brothers with the biggest smile you can manage.

“Here.” You present it in tiny, elegant bowls.

“Are you in pain?” Osamu asks and you drop the smile.

“Go f-” 

“Why is it so tiny?” Atsumu asks, eyeing the bowl skeptically. “I’m hungry.”

“I made you Curry.” You tell him off. “This is just a tasting. You can’t eat full bowls with Kaiseki Ryori, you’d never manage that amount of food.”

“Don’t underestimate me.” Atsumu digs in, spoon clinking loudly against the bowl to the point you fear for its life.

He’s done with it before Osamu has even tasted his, still smelling the dish carefully, pulling the spoon through as if to check for clumps.

“It was fine.” Atsumu gives his mark as one would comment on an order of KFC. “Now, the Curry?” 

You huff but don’t get up, eyes still trained on Osamu. Then, finally, he brings the spoon to his mouth. If you’re focusing a little too much on his full lips, that’s entirely because he’s the world's slowest eater at the moment and nothing else.

His face remains passive. 

Cold sweat runs down your back as he slowly but surely finishes the dish and nods appraisingly.

“It was good.” Osamu says calmly. “The Curry?”

Breathing is a little hard at the moment, but you manage to get up, collect the bowls - you don’t throw them at the floor in a fit of rage and you’re very proud of yourself for that - and get them safely to the kitchen sink.

Your hands shake a little as you serve the Curry in three different plates, but if the boys notice, they don’t comment on it. 

“I hope you like it.” Your voice is back to normal, your wounded heart tucked safely back into your chest. “It’s packed with protein and healthy vegetables to make sure you have all the necessary nutrients. You could eat this every day and wouldn’t have to worry about losing out on anything.”

Atsumu digs in without another word. He beams around the spoon, curses loudly.

“This is so good.” He says, mouth full.

“Pig.” Osamu announces next to him, puts the first spoon into his mouth and-

You can see it, in the widening of his eyes and the light blush that appears on the height of his unfairly sharp cheekbones. He likes it. He likes it very much.

You should probably feel a bit more upset about the fact that they insult your Chawanmushi but get high on your Curry, but then again, it just feels good to watch Osamu have the same reaction to your Curry that you had with his Onigiri.

“You should make this for the Exam.” Osamu points out in between a groan and another spoonful of Curry. “It’s amazing.”

“No!” Atsumu shakes his head, still speaks with his mouth full. “The Udon you made yesterday. That was crazy good.”

“What Udon?” Osamu’s voice has a tint to it you cannot place. Does he know about the Onigiri you tried but not about the deal itself? Is he jealous he didn’t get to try them?

“Okay, so she makes the Noodles herself, right? This time without the freaky black stuff-”

“Sepia,” you throw in but he ignores you, “But she used pork belly for the sauce and something creamy and mushrooms, I think-”

“Shiitake.” 

“And I tell you, Samu, it was so so good! Like, it reminded me of Mom making that stew, you know? When Dad had that big sale thing and we got to celebrate it?”

Osamu’s eyes light up in a way that has you looking down at your food, heart thrumming in your chest like a hummingbird on speed.

“Can you-” He hesitates for a second. “Can you make me that?”

“I could.” You point out, not at all feeling the upper hand. You feel nervous instead as if this is a test or something worse. You swallow thickly, try to think of something to wager against it. Your mind is unhelpful at best, offering the possibility of a date - as if! 

“If I get your recipe. For the Onigiri.”

Osamu’s mouth clicks shut. He blinks, clearly surprised. Then he grins, the kind of grin that tells you this isn’t going to work in your favor, at all.

“Sure. So, Udon tomorrow?”

“I was going to make Katsudon tomorrow.” You point out, pissed that he’s overthrowing your meal plan. Atsumu looks like he’s gotten a glimpse of heaven.

“Really?”

-

You hate to think about it, but the week is nearing its end and Osamu feels less like the devil and more like the dangerously cute boy from your class now. The dangerously cute boy who’s going to get a better mark than you, take the promised internship at one of Japan's leading five-star restaurants and laugh in your face if you don’t shape up right now.

Your father is as helpful as ever.

He’s currently obsessed with the Yakimono part of Kaiseki Ryori, taking you out to dinner each weekend only to try new variants that you should use for your Final Exam.

The food is good, there’s no denying that, but it lacks the emotional touch you had with the Onigiri.

The same Onigiri that you’ve made three times already. They never taste like Osamu’s.

You’re suspecting that he skipped on one ingredient in the recipe, the one thing you could not put your finger on when you tried them. 

“Hey.” Atsumu’s waiting at your door when you return from coffee with your mother. She had been even less helpful, talking about the new dessert dish she was creating. You might have gotten her cooking skills, but you hate baking almost as much as Chawanmushi.

“I thought we said we would skip the cooking over the weekend.” 

“Yeah, about that.” He lifts a heavy bag. “I wanted to ask for a favor.”

“I’m not setting for you.”

“Why would I- Never mind, I wanted to ask… Could you like, show me… how to cook?”

You blink in surprise.

“Why would I teach you that? Don’t you have your brother?”

“He’s not a good teacher.” Atsumu points out and you snort.

“So you want to learn how to cook? And stop harassing me and Osamu?”

“No, no, I will still harass the two of you for food, but it looked easy when you did it, so I thought you could teach me, maybe?”

“Fine.” 

“I’m even pa- Fine? Oh, wow, that was easy.”

“If I can ask you some questions in turn without you judging me?”

“Me, judging someone? Never.” He puts a hand on his chest, probably aiming for his heart, but he’s now swearing on his left ribcage.

-

You watch like a Hawk as Atsumu prepares the Omurice. He’s got a bad habit of getting distracted, but he’s not a bad student.

“So…” You swallow your nerves. “You and Osamu used to play Volleyball together, right?”

“Yeah. He could have gone Pro, like me. But he said…” He raises his hands to make air quotes and lowers his voice into a deeper pitch to mock Osamu, “Skillswise I'm just as good as you. But I think that, when all's said and done, you love volleyball just a teensy bit more than me.”

“And you were okay with that?” 

“Nah.” Atsumu flips the Omurice onto a plate and hands it over to you. “Try.”

“It’s good.” You hand it back to him. “Eat.”

-

When Atsumu leaves, you’re left with even more questions than before.

What does it mean to love something so much you’re willing to pass up something good?

Atsumu is making good money as a Pro, even now. But Osamu had no idea if he was going to make it into this school until he tried.

And why did he make freaking Onigiri?

Midnight has come and gone when you put a jacket over your sleepshirt and slip out of your apartment in nothing but booty shorts and bunny slippers.

You’re not sure if there’s a nightguard. There might be, this is still a mixed dorm filled with hormonal teens and tweens. 

Even though you’ve never been to Osamu’s place before, you know the route by heart. You had memorized it in a childish fit when you realized his room was just below the fire escape.

You wouldn’t allow him to survive you in case of an emergency.

You knock twice before you can hear movement. The door opens and you almost swallow your tongue.

His hair is in disarray as if he’d dragged his hands through it all night and there’s the imprint of his pillow left on his cheek. He’s topless and you keep your eyes trained on the imprint on his cheek as if you don’t notice his happy trail or his still well-trained abs. 

He blinks slowly and yawns.

“What’s up?” He asks. Something moves over his face, quick like a sparrow. “Shit, are you hurt? Did something happen?!”

“No, no, I… Shit, I don’t know, I-”

“Come in.” He pulls you inside, but he calculates wrong, uses too much force for your quivering body. You end up mushed against his chest, face plant right into the warm skin.

If you die like this, you won’t even be mad about it.

“Shit, sorry.” He grabs you and puts you at a distance again, blush high on his cheeks. 

“Your Onigiri.” You start, before he can realize that you’re flustered too. “You didn’t list all the ingredients.”

“I did.”

“Did not. They don’t taste the same.”

“Ah.” He makes that insufferable sound like he knows everything you don’t. 

You want to poke his abs, but you decide against it, mainly because it would make you look weird. But they do look ni-

“Tea?” He asks and you hold your right hand with your left, just in case it turns sentient. 

“Yes, thank you.”

“Your Onigiri don’t taste like mine, because I make them for someone.”

“What?”

“The Tuna one.” He looks at the kettle instead of you, but his voice is wistful, distant. “I always make that one for Tsumu.”

“And the Tenmusu?”

“It’s my Mom’s favorite.” He says softly and you can’t help it, but you start to cry.

“Your Mom likes Tenmusu too?”

“Ah, shit, don’t tell me- Wait, here, take this…” He hands you a tissue to blow your nose and dry your tears. 

“So you’re saying your secret ingredient is love? You’re really going to stand there and make me believe that you got the scholarship because you put love in your food?”

He shrugs. “You don’t have to believe me. But there’s a reason your Chawanmushi did not taste as good as your Curry.”

“Oh fuck off.”

“Gladly.” He smirks at you and this time your hand is faster than your mind, pointer finger digging into the firm muscle of his right pectoral.

“Don’t mess with me.”

“Why not?” His face moves closer to you, or did you move closer to his? “Isn’t it fun?”

Whoever moved first doesn’t matter now as his breath washes over you. His eyes skip to your lips and you lick them, no thoughts left in your brain.

Behind him, the kettle whistles, signaling that the water’s cooking, but neither of you moves. 

This could end very badly, or very great, however you want to look at it. 

Your mind, helpful as ever, comes up with a sentence that just slips out of your mouth unprompted.

“Atsumu said that you loved Volleyball a little-”

He draws back the moment he hears you speak, face now closed like a window that has let down its shutters. 

“Right, Atsumu.” He says, interrupting you. “You should get back to the bed.”

“But the tea…”

“I forgot.” He takes the kettle off the stove. “I was going to make a hot water bottle for myself. Sorry.” 

-

Somehow, somewhere, you took a wrong turn.

Maybe it was when you started liking Osamu, in this weird way that has you enjoy the bickering and the competitiveness. Maybe it was even before that, when you let Atsumu get away with his needling, fed him Udon instead of throwing him out.

Or maybe it was even before that, when you didn’t put up a fight everytime your father decided for you, when your mother put work before spending time with you. 

It’s a good thing that Finals are right around the corner.

You can’t focus in most classes, left staring holes into Osamu’s back. 

Atsumu’s stopped showing up himself, probably now a master in cooking for himself. Or he’s gone back to Osamu, to fantastic Onigiri and whatever else he knows how to make.

-

Four days before the Final, someone bangs on your door.

“Jeez, I’m coming.” You pull the door open to reveal Atsumu, soaked and clearly pissed..

“You okay?” You ask. “Or do you need a towel?”

“Why are you not a couple?” He asks back. “Like, the tension was there, you were practically undressing each other at the table - in front of me, might I add - and yet you’re not even speaking to each other? I even cooked all my meals these past weeks in the hopes of hearing good news but Samu’s acting like a bug crawled up his ass and died.”

“What are you even talking abou-”

“Oh, don’t fool me.” He steps inside and moves toward your bathroom without asking. “I just ran here because all I get from Samu are cryptic messages. Did you say something?”

“No, I-”

“Spill.” Atsumu points at the kitchentable, hesitates for a second, then he points at the kitchen itself. “Make some food while your at it. Also, can I have some change of clothes?”

You make Okayu with ginger and honey, the rice porridge a comfort to your heart and a boost to Atsumu’s immune system.

It’s not a long tale. It could be, probably, but you refuse to go into more detail than necessary. Atsumu might be kind of a friend, in his weird, annoying way, but he’s still Osamu’s twin brother.

“I’m gonna go talk to him.” He grabs the bag with his clothes and stalks off, dressed in one of your oversized hoodies and bright pink pajama pants, both things slightly too short on him.

“Give him a chance when he comes back,” are his parting words.

But Osamu does not show up.

Neither does he the next morning in class.

-

One of the teachers calls you over after class.

“You and Miya-san are pretty close, right?” She starts, speaks on while you’re still trying not to choke on your spit. “Could you bring him the notes from today? He called in sick. Tell him to take care and rest, so that he can take part in the Final.”

“I-I will.”

You end up in your own room instead, debating if you should just leave everything in front of his door and run. If he’s not at the final, you automatically win. But that’s not a win you’d feel good about, if you’re being honest to yourself.

Before you know it, you find yourself making Oyaku again, with Ginger and Honey, the one food that always gives you comfort and boosts your health. The process is simple, but it still calms you down every time. When it’s done, you look down at two portions and know what to do.

-

“Osamu?” The door is closed, but you can hear faint shuffling behind it. “I made you Oyaku. I heard you’re sick and got your notes from the teachers. I didn’t tell them that I’m a friend of yours, but she was convinced of it and didn’t let me change her mind. But I… we kinda are friends, right?” You feel so weird talking to the closed door. 

“Even if you don’t like me, we got to keep up the reputation. Eat the Oyaku, okay? Winning doesn’t feel the same if you kick yourself out of the game.”

You put everything in front of his door and leave, lingering at the end of the hallway, just out of sight, until you hear his door. When you look back, the Oyaku is gone and all you have to do is wait.

-

Osamu is already outside when you step out of the classroom. 

“Already finished?”

“Onigiri doesn’t take that long to make.” 

“Ah, right.” You nod, don’t know if you should avoid his gaze or follow your instinct and look a bit more closely. He sounds healthy at least.

“What did you make?” His voice is gruff when he asks.

“Ginger Honey Oyaku.” You answer, voice soft. “Which might confuse the teachers because I had all the ingredients ready for honey-glazed pork belly but I decided against it at the last second.”

“I’d have loved to try that pork belly.” Osamu sighs dreamily. “But that Oyaku was so good. I could eat that everyday and never get tired of it.”

“Same.” You smile but it falters when you feel his eyes on you and you know you’ve got to say it. “I made it for you.”

“Yeah, I know-”

“No, what you said… about the Entry Exam.” You can feel your heartbeat, like the fluttering of hummingbird wings. If you’re going to pass out during your confession, you’re going to kill Osamu for it.

Behind you, the door opens and two more students step out. Osamu looks at them and back at you and you nod, point down the hallway. “Let’s take a walk?”

There’s a broom closet not far down and you slip inside only to regret it seconds later. There’s barely enough space for the two of you, his breath washing over you as you try to focus on the words you need to say. Out loud, so he can hear them too.

“I want to beat you.” You can hear him snort, but you keep your gaze on your hands. You won’t be able to speak if you look into his eyes. “But you’re also really funny and caring and cute, in a way. I could see myself, I mean, I already, you know-”

“What about Tsumu?” He asks, voice strangely hoarse.

“What about him?”

“Don’t you like him more? You don’t feel the need to beat him every two seconds, right?”

You roll your eyes and groan.

“Seriously? The best thing about Atsumu is that he looks kinda like you.”

If you had wanted to say more - you didn’t, but you hate letting anyone else have the last word - it leaves your mind the second his lips press onto yours. 

Your mind’s not yet caught up, but your body is, hands dragging through his hair to pull him closer, to marvel at the softness of it - what conditioner is he using? - to have him a little closer.

His hands are on your hip, your back, roam over your shoulders, leaving warm trails and goosebumps behind.

Then there’s bright light and a shrill shriek and you burst away from each other only to face one of your teachers.

“What? The indecency! During an exam no less! Detention! Detention!” Her garbled words don’t make much sense, but the last word you understand.

Osamu sends you a look, his eyes speaking of little guilt and a promise to continue this latter. You can’t help but feel the same.

-

As it turns out, Detention automatically overrules your exceptional Exam marks. Neither of you wins the internship. Neither of you cares. 

Osamu had applied to an Onigiri shop not far from the school as a second option and with your last name you have no trouble securing an internship with a well-known nutritionist for Pro Athletes. 

Your father is not happy about your change in dreams, but when you explain the earning capacity of this position, and the business plan you’re already halfway through making, your excitement swaps over.

Your mother, as usual, barely listens. But you take it in stride, her usual droning on about a recipe she’s working on, by thinking about how in less than an hour, you’ll see Osamu again.

-

“You guys owe me.” Atsumu declares during Movie night. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, the last piece of the Pizza in his hands. “I’m talking about food for life.”

“We could have done it without you,” Osamu insists, arm around you, face nuzzled into your hair. He pretends he’s watching the movie, but you know better. He’s been thinking about the cheese crackers in your pantry for hours.

“If I hadn’t pulled you out in the rain to talk things through, you wouldn’t have gotten sick and your girlfriend wouldn’t have made Oyaku for you! That’s enough reason for you to love me forever!”

“If you hadn’t interfered he wouldn’t have had to think we were dating instead.” You point out and dig your hands into Osamu’s grip on your arms, moving away from him.

“Babe, what-” He starts but you nod in the direction of your pantry. “Get the crackers. I can’t watch you any longer.”

“Really?” His face lights up like a child in front of a Christmas tree. It’s worth the ridiculous price you paid for the crackers.

“Really.”

He kisses you and the moment could be perfect. But there’s still Atsumu, fake gagging in the background.

My Kofi if you want to tip me

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober: Day 7 (Stuck in a Wall)

Kink: Stuck in a Wall

Pairing: Male!Satyr x GN!Reader

Other Kinks: Creampie

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1098 words

Kinktober Masterlist

“Well, ain’t this funny?”

“Yes, I am aware of the apparent comedy of this situation.” You deadpan, rolling your eyes even though Georgios can’t see you. “Could you help?”

“I dunno.” Georgios drawls, the sexy southern accent of his sounding especially snarky at the moment. “Seems awful inappropriate, me grabbing ya by the hips and such.” You hear a thunk, presumably Georgios leaning up against the other side of the wall you are currently stuck in. “Ain’t you the one he said we shouldn’t be fraternizing so much at work?”

“Considering I am currently stuck halfway through the barn window, I think an exception can be made here.” You knew telling Georgios, that horn dog, that you couldn’t fuck in the hay whenever you fell like would come to bite you in the butt. It's not that you didn’t want to, but considering how many “breaks” you guys had been taking these past few weeks, your daily productivity had gone way down.

Georgios, in rebellion of your suggestion, had gone out of his way not to touch you these past couple days. It's what had made you so cantankerous, what had made you distracted, and what made you accidentally knock off the lock keeping the slide open as you leaned in to get something through the window.

“If you say so. But I better not hear about how I distracted you from your chores.”

“Me being stuck seems to be the most distracting thing at the moment. Now, just pull up-”

You gasp as Georgios yanks at the gem of your jeans, revealing the top of your underwear

“Georgios!”

“What?” He asks, voice reeking of mischief. “I’m trying to help, not my fault you ain’t wearing a belt.” Georgios yanks again, not even trying to actually grab your hips, and your pants fly down, revealing your tight underwear. You hear a muttered “Damn, what an ass.” Through the window pane.

“That's clearly not helping.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about. It seems you’re a whole lot looser than before.” A calloused, working man's hand prods at your hole, making you jerk. “In more ways than one.”

You shamefully admit that the past few days of no sex has made your body extra sensitive, Georgios thumb enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your abdomen tightens, craving something to fill it.

Trying to fight your wandering mind, you don’t even feel Georgios trying to pull at the hems of your underwear until he does, cold air brushing against your ass. You want to yell at him, tell him to get his mind out the gutter and watch himself, but all you get is a breathy moan as Georgios slips two fingers into your sensitive entrance. So smooth too, almost like-

You hear the squirt of a bottle.

Did that rat bastard bring lube with him?

You curse, wondering if maybe that thing you needed, so tantalizingly set in front of the busted window, was just ‘misplaced’ afterall.

But your snark is cut off by more moans, Georgios scissoring his fingers in and out of you. Thighs clenching, knees beginning to shake, dammit, it feels good.

“See? This is nice.” Georgios purrs, drawl purring deeper and deeper. “Why we gotta fight it so hard anyway? It’s our farm after all.”

“Yeah, but-” Breath catches in your throat, the familiar head of Georgios cock pressing against your tight hole. The fur of goat legs brush against the back of your thighs, goosebumps running up your thighs. “Oooh.” You pant, like a dog in heat.

Even through the window you know Georgios smirking, always knowing how to push your buttons. Damn Satyrs and their irresistible charm.

“That’s right, sugar, just relax.” Gerogios rubs his calloused hand along your backside, delighted in the way you squeak when he hits it. “Lemme treat my baby right.”

Losing all pretense to fight it, you let your body sink into the pleasure. You don’t bite back your moans as Georgios sinks into you, letting the pleasant burning stretch ripple through your hips. His moan is kore guttural, probably tossing his head back as he finally sinks into you, balls deep.

These 3 days have been the longest you’ve gone without having sex, and Georgios is starving.

His ball slap against your underside as he fucks you, too horny to slowly undo you like he usually does, setting a hard and heavy pace. You can't complain, not with the way it stirs something deep in your huts, hitting the right spots inside of you.

“Georgios!” You keen, voice high and whiny. The position you're stuck in means you can’t throw your hips backwards as you usually do, left at the mercy of your husband to set the pace.

Georgios is kind, thankfully, using your hips like handles to yank on to his dick. The slick sounds of lube and precum ring out as his pelvis knocks against your ass cheeks, his fur getting damp with your juices.

“Fuck, baby, how am I supposed to resist this?” Georigos slaps your ass, having you squeal like a pig. “Walking around in these jeans, all hot and sweaty, not being able to touch ya’.” Georgios thrusts extra hard, swiveling his hips to press up against the deepest part of you. “It’s downright cruel.”

He makes a compelling point. Why did you even suggest such a rule?

You’re left with no proper arguments against him as the tingly sensation spreads down to your toad, that delicious high coming nearer and nearer. The hot and stuffy barn interior has sweat dripping down the side of your face, tongue lolled out like a proper cum-dump.

“That's it, baby. Cum for daddy.” Georgios purrs, slapping your ass against his hips starts to get more frantic. “I’ll give you a treat if you do, fill you up for being so good.”

Your thighs close together, knees beginning to tremble as that buzzing moves up your chest, all the way to your face. Your head feels stuffed with cotton, so close, so close-

“Aah!”

“Oooh shit.” Georgios stutters as you spasm around him. He’s able to ride out a couple more thrusts before shooting deep inside you, a heavy load from 3 days of blue balls.

You hear a thud against the window pane, just able to contort enough to see Georgios head resting against the window, dick softening inside you. Drips of cum leak out of you, making even more of a mess.

Whelp, guess you’d have to accept your new rule as a lost cause. Gods know you could never give up this.

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Five-Finger Discount (Dean/Reader)

Title: Five-Finger Discount

Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dean x Female Reader

Summary: It's supposed to be a simple case. A little undercover. A little burglary. A little spell. Dash of salt and burn. No muss, no fuss. So, why the hell are you getting these uncontrollable thoughts about Dean's... hands?

Word Count: 10,300

Tags: Hand & Finger Kink, Dean Winchester is a Scoundrel, Dean gets a Manicure, Fluff and Humor, Shameless Smut of the Finger Variety, Dean Winchester Talks Dirty

Notes: Because Jensen just can’t keep his hands to himself. See notes on AO3 for the offender/crime in question.

A persistent tapping on your bedroom door awakens you. It could be late evening or early morning in the windowless bunker.

Before you can check your phone for the actual time, Dean’s voice calls your name from the other side of the door.

You groan. Whatever time it is, it’s not ‘wakey wakey eggs and bakey’ time. “What?”

“Got word from Sam. He’s figured out what’s been killing the inmates in NSP.”

You sit up and feel for the lamp switch. After a turn and snick , you mumble, “Let there be light.” Your voice raises in answer to Dean. “That’s great.”

“Well, not that great.” The conversation is still happening through the closed door. “Sam figures it’s a ghost of a prisoner that died behind bars in 1870.”

“Why not great? Did you want more of a challenge? Ghosts are a milk run.”

You can hear the dramatic sigh, picture the tilt back and forth of his head, and the way his mouth mimics either you or Sam when the sarcasm leans on the excessive. Which is kind of ironic coming from the King of Snark. “Can I come in? You decent?”

“Yes.”

It’s definitely the middle of the night when you get a look at him. Dean’s hair is mussed. There are cheek and chin creases from scuba pillow diving when he sleeps on his stomach. “You got something formal to wear?”

“Huh?”

“A gown, dress, something promish or wedding worthy?”

“Promish?” That question reply to his question earns you a broad stance with hands on hips like a superhero as Dean stares you down. You twirl both hands around to remind him of the non-existent storage space in the bunker. Which should not be a thing in such a huge fortress where men dressed in three piece suits on the daily. “Sure. I have a whole rack of them hanging in my walk-in closet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, smart ass. Well, we’re gonna have to go do this thing in less than twenty-four hours that needs you in a dress and me in a tux.”

You suck in your lips and try not to laugh at how pissed Dean appears at the thought.

“It’s a charity fundraiser in Lincoln,” he continues. “We have to act like a couple of out-of-state spenders with deep pockets to get our hands on the Hand of Glory that belonged to this ghost.”

“What about Sam? I bet he’d look much better in a dress than I would.”

Dean shrugs. “He’s got the hair for it. But we can’t risk somebody making him.”

Of course. The one time Sam goes investigating on his own. He posed as an FBI agent and poked around too many people. 

You and Dean are going to have to go shopping. The all-out kind. Max out a stolen credit card at the mall kind.

Dean is gonna be miserable. You can’t wait. Grumpy Dean, for some reason, is very entertaining.

“How about you in the dress and me in the tux?” you offer.

“I don’t have the legs for it.” Dean shakes his head. “Get a few more hours of sleep. Gonna be a busy day.”

You’ve been around Sam and Dean for a long time. Long enough to have gotten a little numb and even blase regarding certain things.

The dangers of a hunt. The stench of death. The amount of blood a beheaded vamp body can ooze.

As you tick the tasks off for the heist with a trip to a dress shop earlier and currently helping Dean pick out a tux, another thing you’ve become indifferent to smacks you right in the goddamn face.

The hotness of the Winchester brothers.

You were talking with the owner of the suit store when Dean parted the curtains of the fitting booth he’d been in for five minutes.

And there it was, dressed to the nines, cutting a fine figure in a black tuxedo. 

The plain as day fact of how unfucking-believably gorgeous Dean Winchester is.

Stephen, well-dressed and highly animated, claps hands in front of his face. “Oh. Wow, that is, it’s like you stepped right off the cover of GQ magazine,” he gushes at Dean. “Turn around, turn around.”

Dean blushes, spins on his heels, and averts your and Stephen’s gaze. You’re glad because you can feel the warmth racing over your own cheeks.

“Sir, that is screaming perfection. I don’t even think it needs to be taken in. It’s like a second skin.” You’d think Stephen was buttering him up for a sale if he was overexaggerating. But, he wasn’t.

“Well, good, cause it’s not like we’ve got time for a tailor,” Dean huffs. Then, you hear, “You’re awfully quiet. What do you think?”

“I-yeah-it’ll do.”

After Dean swipes the key card, he steps aside and lets you pass the threshold first.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

The suite is swanky. No motels for you on this trip. You’ve got to keep up appearances, after all.

Windows that meet the ceiling give you a sweet view of downtown Lincoln. It’s not the New York skyline, but everything looks impressive from a higher vantage.

Dean pushes the squeaky luggage cart. The door clicks closed solidly behind him. “Alright. We got a few hours to get ourselves presentable. Then we head on over to the Sheldon Museum of Art.” He hangs the garment bags containing his tux and your dress in the closet. The duffle bags each get a chuck onto the king-size bed.

You nod at the reminder. Sam will be at the fundraiser as well. Between the ruse of you and Dean as the wealthy Mitchums from Kansas and Sam’s Agent Dion, you’re confident the case will be resolved before another not-so-innocent victim dies. “Too bad we can’t really enjoy a stay at a place like this.”

“Eh, overpriced. I can’t wait to get home to the bunker. It’s a lot nicer.” He rolls the cart back toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before you can quibble with Dean over your and his idea of luxury. But yours does have windows, excessive amounts of pillows, and room service.

Dean returns to find you’ve commandeered the entire vanity counter with makeup. He chuckles. “Never seen you put any of this crap on before. Do you even know how?”

“Asshole.” You thwack his tummy, but clenched stomach muscles anticipated the retaliation. “I’ll wear makeup for this case out of necessity. I don’t believe in going into debt to keep up with the latest beauty trend. This stuff costs a fortune.”

Dean picks up a packet of press-on nails and looks at the price tag. “Well, hopefully, it’s all worth it.”

As Dean inspects your haul, you notice the dirt under his own nails. “Your hands,” you state.

“Huh?” Dean’s brow furrows. He puts down the box and stares at his fingers.

“Those aren’t the hands of a millionaire.”

He smiles. “I’ve got a great rags to riches story I can use. You see, one day I was shootin’ at some food, and up for the ground came a bubblin’...”

“Ooor, you can look the part.” You cut off his recounting of how the Beverly Hillbillies came to be and sweep a hand in his direction. “Hurry up and shower. I’ll do your nails.”

His eyes bug out. “Do my nails?”

“Relax. Just gonna tidy them up. No polish. Although there’s nothing wrong with a little color on a guy’s nails. But maybe not for this event. We don’t need you to stand out too much.” You think about how he looked in that tux and realize how much he will stand out already at least in your mind. He’s still blinking at you, processing what’s about to happen. “Well, hurry up, Jeb. That oil ain’t gonna find itself.”

You gulp at the sight of a freshly scrubbed, washed, towel-dried Dean. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this. You’ve seen him just out of a shower with his white t-shirt and sweatpants when you’ve been hunting on the road.

Maybe it’s the change of scenery. No motel. No mildew smells. No obnoxiously loud wallpaper to mask the soot and stains. No revving engines or wheels peeling right outside the door. None of the things that usually overwhelm and distract your senses.

His entire face is scrunched up in confused awe. Tools are neatly lined atop a towel on the small island by the kitchenette. Not the usual gun-cleaning ones, though. You clear your throat and pat the breakfast stool beside your seated frame.

“Is this gonna hurt?” he asks.

“Just a little detailing is all.”

He sits and eyes you warily.

A gimme gesture requests his left hand. He provides it, resting his fingers over the bridge of support yours creates. You try not to flinch in surprise at the warmth and weight. It’s not like you’ve never touched him before. But, you’ve never had the opportunity for contact to linger.

You lean down and in, lifting his fingers in inspection and deciding your plan of attack. Damn. They’re, well, you wonder how you haven’t noticed how big they are. His entire hand dwarfs yours in comparison. Dean’s a big dude. He is not as tall as Sam, but considering they’re both over six feet, you shouldn’t be surprised that his digits are substantial. You picture Sam’s hands in your mind’s eye in the usual situations. Tapping away on a keyboard. Flipping through their dad’s journal pages or some gigantic volume of lore in the bunker. Those fingers are long, but their slender and taut, proportionate to Sam’s body type and size. Jolly Green Giant size.

Dean’s? Well, it’s not that they don’t match Dean. They’re beefy, thick, and solid. All the things Dean is. But they’re more like a jumbo sausage sandwich than a hot dog that’s a little too big for the bun. Even the width of his palm seems way above average.

“What’s wrong?” Dean’s question calls out and you wonder how long you’ve been staring at his freaking hands.

“Nothing,” you mumble.

You get to work, using a nail brush that’s been soaking in a bowl of warm, sudsy water. A sturdy grip wraps around two of Dean’s fingers - it’s all you can comfortably manage - and the bristles scrub back and forth in quick passes.

Dean chortles. His fingers pull back slightly. The look on his face is one of surprise. You grin and ask, “Did that tickle?”

He snorts. “What? No. I’m not ticklish.”

“Mm-hmm.” You tug his fingers toward the brush. “Hold still then.” You continue the process. Dip the brush in the water bowl. Play Dean’s fingers like a washboard. And you delight in how his jaw clenches and body squirms. He does an adorable shimmy shake that starts at the shoulders and ends with an ass cha-cha. But you only let the torture go on for a minute or two. “Okay. Give them another wash. Then we’ll clip ‘em, file and buff, and these nails will scream private prep school and ivy league polo.”

He rises. “As long as there’s no more brushing.” He punctuates how serious he is about that with one of those fingers right at your mouth.

You swallow the urge to bite that finger.

For someone who was uncertain about the thought of a manicure earlier, Dean is back in a hurry to continue the process. You exaggeratedly shake the nail brush out of the soapy water bowl and softball it into the stainless steel sink a yard away. It clangs about like a noon bell. You raise both hands, “I’m unarmed.”

He snickers, “Not so sure.” He skirts his gaze over the remaining items. “Sharp and stabby things.”

“You have used clippers before. You’re not an actual Cro-Magnon that drags knuckles on the ground and runs nails along some flint.” You grab one stool and carry it to the other side of the island, settling into position for the next step. “Sit and stop acting like a baby.”

“Damn,” he murmurs, following orders and taking his seat from before.

“Hands,” you request.

He harrumphs and splays his fingers atop the terry towel, like a cat stretching and digging in with their claws. His hands are creamy colored and speckled pink from the washing and scrubbing. Ten digits tap along the cloth in wait. And you stare, longer than you should.

What in the holy hell is going on? They’re fingers for chrissakes. The same fingers you’ve seen on Dean all the time, day after day in the bunker or in the car or on a hunt. It’s not like he got a hand transplant or something.

“Come on, Madge.” Dean snaps two of those fingers together. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me I was soaking in it.”

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes. “Softens hands while you do the dishes?” He adds to the dramatics and unhinges his jaw. “Come on, we’re the same age. You gotta remember that commercial? Palmolive?”

“Oh, right.” You feign recollection, inhale to steady yourself and grab his left hand. It’s down to business time. “I’ve only lost five of my last six clients. Nothing to worry about.”

“Quite the comedian,” he razzes back.

“I am. Apparently you could learn a thing or two from me. The first? A punchline isn’t funny if you have to explain it.”

“Yeah, well…” He begins.

“Maybe come at me with ‘your face is a punchline’?” you suggest.

His lids blink in confusion. “It’s not, though.”

For some reason that shuts you both up.

You spend the next minutes manipulating each of Dean’s fingers, one by one in your palm as you clip. Tick, tick, tick. You give the nails a nice straight edge and round out the sides. His nails are stumpy, boxy and twice the width of yours. His skin is calloused, toughened in the spots you expect. From the thousands of hours he’s gripped Baby’s steering wheel, handled a shotgun, cranked a wrench, slid into the trigger of his Colt. But they are soft in other spots. The patterns of lines criss crossing and connecting like a terrain map enthrall you.

He’s quiet. Watching you work. You’ve forgotten to be mouthy for this bit. It’s hard to focus on anything but this and his breathing. You’ve forgotten the basic steps of inhaling and exhaling.

It’s when you’ve moved on to filing that Dean remembers how to word. “You’re good at this.”

“I should be,” you croak out then clear your throat. “I did my older sister’s nails all the time growing up.”

“Hm, I guess Sammy didn’t get the little brother memo about doing my nails.”

I grin up at him. “Maybe you should have had him watch that Palmolive commercial.”

His laugh is soft. His eyes gleam with that hint of mischief he dons when there is no imminent threat. When life is as close to normal as possible. You wonder what it would be like to take those hands and place them around your waist. Guide him to hold you steady, secure.

He opens his mouth, stops to lick his top lip.

It’s taking everything in your power to not catapult over the island and slam your lips against his.

He finally speaks. “We should get ready.”

And your daydreaming dissipates just like that.   

Two hours later, you and Sam wait outside the St. Charbel Chapel in Calvary Catholic Cemetery. It’s the closest church and holy ground from the museum Sam had found in his research.

A fire truck zooms down a nearby street, siren wailing.

You wait for Dean. 

Things had not gone according to plan.

At the fundraiser, Sam got cornered near the crudités by a Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office deputy. From what you overheard, Sam’s cover had been blown. He was in imminent danger of being arrested by Deputy Dickens for impersonating a federal agent. Dean was off in one of the acquisition storage rooms searching for the Hand of Glory.

You all were SOL.

You did what any hunter interested in self-preservation would do. Walked over to the nearest fire alarm and inconspicuously pulled the lever. Alarms went off. In the chaos of disgruntled partygoers filing out of the building, Sam dropped the deputy to the ground with a combo shoulder check and leg sweep. You were down on the floor in a flash, asking the lawman if he was alright. Before he could reply, you held a handkerchief doused with your travel-size bottle of chloroform to his mouth and nose. A clutch could only hold so much—such an inconvenience.

Sam pushed the passed-out deputy under the appetizer station’s floor-length tablecloth. You both did a hurried power walk past the crowd gathered in front of the museum. Sam tried his best to slow down his stride enough for you to keep up wearing heels. At least you only had four blocks to cover to end up at the cemetery, the agreed-upon meetup location.

You pace in wait. “He’ll be here,” Sam states with conviction.

You never want to leave a man behind. Especially not Dean.

Sure enough, Dean’s shadowed figure jogs up the cemetery walk in the dark minutes later. You recognize his panting first.

Sam shines a light in Dean’s direction. He’s a bit disheveled from whatever he had to do to skip out of the museum undetected. The hair, styled in a neat part earlier, is now askew.

“Guessing I have you two to thank for having to hop out a bathroom window and into thorny rose bushes.”

You shrug. “Sam was about to get handcuffed.”

Dean ponders for a moment. “Context is important to determine whether that’s good or bad for Sam.”

“Dean, come on, did you get it?” Sam asks with an impatient wave of his hand.

Dean pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and flaps it open with a wrist snap. He pulls out a gnarled, desiccated object under his jacket's lapel. “I did get it, using my five-finger discount.”

The burning ritual had at least gone smoother than the rest of the evening. Sam dropped the two of you around the back of the hotel in his rental car. You both had left Baby in the connected garage and taken a cab to the museum. 

“See you all at the bunker.” He smiles, energized, and pumped from a successful hunt. He’s glowing and adorable. You realize you have gotta dial back the internal ogling of your hunting partners and quick or it’s gonna get all kinds of uncomfortable in your head.

“See ya, Sammy.” Dean grins and salutes.

“Don’t take too long to get out of town.” Sam advises, flicks his bangs out of his eye line with a shampoo commercial head whip, then peels off with a wave.

The key card lets you sneak in through the poolside.

The ride up the elevator starts quiet. You spend the time zoning out and staring at the tapered triangle of shoulder and back that makes up Dean’s tuxedo jacket.

So, dialing back the ogling is going great.

“You looked really good tonight,” Dean murmurs. You catch his gaze in the door’s reflective surface. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “you still look really good. I never got the chance to tell ya earlier.”

The attention straightens your posture. You adjust the spaghetti strap of your little black dress. “Thanks.” It’s all you can think of to respond. You tear your focus away from the eye crinkles, now the newest sexy thing you’ve failed to notice. It’s safer to inspect the corners of the floor for dust. The small enclosed space heats due to Dean Winchester occupying it.

The elevator dings and you hold in a sigh of relief. You exit first, then halt so he leads. You trail behind him in silence to the room. He opens the door. Your steps scoot past his body.

“Got time to change?” Hopeful, you’re already rifling through your duffel for your jeans and flannel.

“Sam’s right. We should probably bolt.”

You groan.

“Let’s put some miles between us and Lincoln.” It’s not really a suggestion.

“Fine.” You give in, knowing he’s right.

You aren’t tired on the drive back. The sense of accomplishment after a successful case turns most hunters into live wires, you included. 

You and Dean have been chatting about the hunt. The lackluster food at the fundraiser. Sam’s impressive Latin skills. An apparent millionaire whose breath stunk like a month old convenience store burrito. And you knew what one of those smelled like from unfortunate firsthand experience. The conversation switches to some repairs that need to be done around the bunker. A casserole recipe on Pinterest you want to try. Who’s going to get the treat of washing all the MOL classic cars in the garage. The topics pogo all over the place. You love these moments with the brothers. 

You’re an hour and some change out from Lincoln, halfway to Lebanon, when Dean has an idea.

His finger wags at a mile marker. “There’s a decent bar in Bruning. Wanna grab a drink to celebrate?”

You stare at his unbuttoned tux jacket, then your dress. “Like this?”

“Sure. Why not?” It’s not really a question as he takes the exit.

You drew the line at wearing heels in the bar. Dean grabbed your worn cowboy boots from Baby’s trunk. He leaned against the car beside your open passenger door. You tugged on boots, leaned forward, giving any passersby a free show down the front of your dress. Arms folded, Dean scowled and puffed out his chest to any male who dared to glance in your direction.

A minute later you both entered the bar and did the usual routine without speaking. Head to respective bathrooms. Clean up and make yourselves respectable looking. But as you blotted your foundation and appreciated the staying power of your makeup in the mirror - okay, maybe that setting spray was worth the price - you considered who you were making yourself respectable for?

It’s not like either one of you were expecting to get lucky tonight. The bunker was less than two hours away. No one was gonna pick up a local and take them back to their motel room.

You applied a fresh coat of red berry lipstick.

So, that left only you and Dean freshening up for… each other?

You scoffed at the ridiculous idea, ran fingers through your hair.

A drink. One drink. To celebrate a job well done.

“That’s all it is,” you mumble.

You’ve played darts for an hour. Dean’s on his third whiskey. You’ve downed four fruity rum concoctions, mainly because you loved hearing Dean order the drink. 

Entertainment was the least he could do after beating you for the sixth time.

The waitress stops at your high top and grabs the empty plates and glasses. “What else can I get you two?”

Dean clutches a dart, deep in focus, squinting at the target board. “You wanna nother Bahama Mama?”

You suppress a giggle and smile at the waitress. “Just more water. Thanks.”

“We should probably load up on the grease before we head home.” Dean peers at the waitress over a shoulder. “Maybe some fries, darlin’, to go along with one last shot of whiskey?”

“Sure thing, sugar.” She smiles, then waits for Dean to turn around before eyeing his backside in approval. With a grin, she taps your bare forearm. “Lucky you,” she whispers.

You are lucky. But not for the reason the waitress thinks. Being around Sam and Dean means safety and security. The eye candy is merely a bonus. One you are debating if you should indulge in more often or continue to restrict your caloric intake.

After all, there’s nothing wrong with appreciating a work of art.

Dean had flung his necktie in Baby’s backseat and unbuttoned his collar during the drive. The casual way he now wore the tux was even more attractive. “Probably a good idea if you lay off the alcohol. It’s definitely affecting your game tonight.” He grins.

You lean your heavy weighted head against a palm for support. “Yeah, must b’it,” you slur, more than you like. Your gaze zones in on his fingers gripping the dart. Those damn fingers have been a distraction all night. He has to be unaware he’s sabotaging any ability to focus. Dean is an outright flirt with his targets. You’ve seen him lay on the charm thick and sticky the same way he slaps peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Subtlety has never been his thing.

Speaking of targets. The dart launches out of his hand and lands dead center. “That’s what I’m talkin’ bout.” Dean performs the ka-ching motion for what feels like the hundredth time that night. Normally, it’s annoying, but you battle your lids open to stare at his clenched fist in awe. Again. He slides onto the bar stool and inspects you with a concerned smile. “You usually drink me under the table. Sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” You hum. 

The waitress whizzes by and deposits Dean’s shot and a basket of fries. Dean’s voice floats in the air expressing his thanks to, you think he says, Linda. Then a pointed order hits you right in the face. “Hey, eat something. I ain’t carrying you to the car like some swoony duchess on those shows you binge.”

“They’ve got carriages, not cars.” You blink over and over and straighten up. A handful of fries fill your mouth. Your brain hasn’t caught up in time to tell you to shut up and chew. “Yud make a ghood ake.”

“What?” Dean smiles at you like he’s happened across his favorite Scooby-Doo episode while channel surfing.

You gulp down the gluey mashed goodness. “You’d make a good rake.”

“What’s that? Some kind of man servant? I was a handmaiden once.” He indulges in some of the fries before you eat them all. Those fingers push them past his lips.

“No. A rake’s-” You huff at the gall when he attentively licks the grease off his thumb. His tongue is quite, um, “Nimble.”

He frowns, obviously confused. “A rake’s nimble?”

You shake out the cobwebs in your brain, tripping you up with a collision of thoughts. “A rake’s a ladies’ man,” you mutter.

His spine stiffens, shoulders pop back in pride. “I do try to please the ladies every chance I get.”

“We are all well aware.” More fries thankfully save you from saying anything that may humiliate.

“Guess those aren’t your favorite characters. You probably like the stuffy types that are all serious, with their noses up in the air or stuck in a book.”

You shrug. “Nah, I go for the rogues.”

One of Dean’s brows quirk up. “The dangerous type?” One side of his mouth lifts as well.

“Yeah, a scoundrel. You know, the one you can’t quite figure out. They’ve got this bad reputation or some sordid past. But, they go after what they want. Take what they want.” You hum again and close your eyes. You can still see Dean’s grin in your mind’s eye.

“Too bad I don’t fit the bill.”

You freeze. Eyes still closed. He didn’t just… did he?

“I mean. It’d be all kinds of wrong. Me going for something I wanted, damn the consequences.”

You inhale and grip the curve of the table top. You open your eyes to find him sipping at his whiskey. “Don’t fuck with me,” you whisper.

He gives you a toe curling smile now. The glass clinks onto the table. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m not your type.”

“I-wh-” It’s too late. You’ve never been on the receiving end of what is most definitely Dean Winchester flirting. “What makes you think that?”

He leans in. His breath meets your inhale and you take in all the spice and warmth. “I wouldn’t do a thing to mess this up. Not unless, you know, I knew.”

You nod, dumbstruck. “Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, yeah.” A whoosh of fatigue makes your head spin.

Dean smiles. “We live together, hunt together. Packed like sardines together twenty-four seven sometimes. Wouldn’t want to mess any of that up. Unless I knew, you know?”

“Knew what?” Your chin drops to your chest despite your best efforts. The weight of your body gets ready to do a face plant on the table top. You squish your lids shut tight and groan in horror at the inevitable.

But, Dean is there to save you. Again. His fingers swoop in to cradle your jaw and lift up your head. The embarrassment and alcohol finally overtake you. As you fade, you hear, “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’ll remember the answer.”

You woke up in your bed, back at the bunker. Again, with no idea if it was morning or night. No idea how much time had passed since…

You spring upright to sit. And, yeah, that was a mistake. Your head pounds. Your mouth is dry and tacky. Your stomach feels like it got turned upside down. Not that much time has passed since…

You groan and lay back down, slow and gentle. You piece the last snippets of memory together.

You stare up at the ceiling, grateful for the darkness. You want it to suck you up whole.

Did you pass out in the middle of Dean hitting on you? Did Dean end up swooping you up and putting you in the Impala? Driving you home passed out in the back seat - or God forbid the front passenger seat with you lolling about, mouth probably open and drooling - then carrying you throughout the bunker to your bedroom? Did he…?

You pat your chest and feel the spaghetti straps and silky fabric of your little black dress. You sigh. He had taken pity on you and only stripped you of your cowboy boots.

There’s a soft tap on your bedroom door.

“Oh no.” You pull the blanket over your head, mortified. You don’t think you can face him.

But it’s not Dean that says your name. It’s Sam.

“You alright? I heard you… uh… moaning.”

“Yeah,” you squeak. “Hungover.”

You think you hear Sam snicker. “Dean said you outpaced him by a mile. In darts and drinks.”

That makes you pause to recall. No, you definitely don’t think any of that’s accurate.

“He made some breakfast before he went out, if you’re hungry.”

Great, he can’t bear to face you, either. “Thanks, Sam.”

“If you’re up for it later, I could use some assistance researching.”

You take a measured breath to quell the nausea. “I’ll let you know.”

You’d chewed some aspirin and drank glass after glass of water from the sink in your room and somehow passed out for a few more hours.

You drag yourself out of bed around noon and shower in an effort to resemble something close to human. The stomach growls lead you to the bunker kitchen. At first, you smile at the plate of pancakes Dean covered with a clean kitchen towel for you. A frown follows at the odd shape of them. They aren’t his usual silver dollar pancakes stacked six high.

You tilt your head, attempting to figure out what Buttermilk Banksy was trying to create. The two pancakes, side by side on a large plate, obviously started out as circles. But then, four long tendrils were added along the top of each and a little offshoot one on the side. A turkey? Why the hell would Dean make turkeys? It wasn’t anywhere near Thanksgiving time.

“‘Bout time, sleepy head.” Dean’s voice wafts in from the doorway. He strolls in without a care in the world. There’s no hesitancy to lock eyes with you. Which is good. That has to mean you didn’t make more of a fool of yourself than you remember. He tugs on the fridge door. “Do you want something else or those pancakes enough?” He’s asking the interior of the refrigerator more than you, his head circling the shelves. “Was gonna pile on the grease but thought you might need to take it easy after last night.”

“No, this is great. Thank you.” You keep your voice low, hoping he’ll get the hint and not make too much noise.

He seems to, clicking the door shut softly after grabbing a cold slice of pizza. “Oh, I thought we’d do a movie night in the Dean cave. I bought angus ground beef for burgers. I’ll make some potato wedges. Grabbed your favorite microwave popcorn, movie theater butter.”

The menu, miraculously, doesn’t make your stomach lurch into panicked somersaults. “None of that sounds Sam approved.”

“He’s got that author signing book store thing in Stockton tonight.”

Oh, right. You’d forgotten for a moment how excited Sam was to listen to some guy read a chapter from his book on the evils of the Federalist Society.

“Think you’ll be up for it?” Dean asks, brows raised hopeful.

You smile. “I think I will.”

“Good.” He captures a third of the pizza slice in one bite. After four chews and a swallow he finishes with, “I’ll go easy on you.” The grin he flashes catches you off guard. It’s that one that if Sam saw it, he’d suspect you and Dean had a secret.

Problem was, you didn’t know what the secret was.

“We got weapons to clean in an hour. No matter what Sam says about research.” Dean taps the door sill on the way out of the kitchen. “Meet you in the library. Don’t be late.” He disappears.

You stare down at your breakfast, which is now technically lunch, and a queasy feeling erupts. But not from the hangover or the thought of eating.

The pancakes Dean made. You think you know what the shapes are now.

A pair of hands.

Time in the library with Sam and Dean is pure torture. 

You’re sat equidistant between the two of them, in the middle of one of the long massive wooden tables. Sam is on one end, flipping through page after page of a volume on corporal punishment. He’s trying to work out an easy cheat sheet - a work flow chart - that you all can use in the future. If you can identify what crime someone was charged with committing way back when, you’d have a better idea of the dismembered mummified appendage to track.

Dean occupies the other head of the table. A worn cloth laid out in front of him, all manner of weapons lined in a neat row atop it, awaiting his hands.

His hands. God, you hope the pancakes were merely a cheeky, inside joke on Dean’s part. Maybe it was a reminder about your insistence on the manicure. Or the friggin’ Palmolive commercial that, thanks Dean, you can’t get out of your head either. Because now all you can think about is Dean’s massive fingers dipped in a teeny tiny glass bowl filled with sudsy dish detergent. 

Between Sam’s page turns and Dean’s clink of weapons your brain can’t settle or calm down. You’re also trying to appease both hunters. You’re reading through a book on your right and sharpening a machete on your left. 

“That jugglin’ act might leave you with more than a paper cut if you aren’t careful,” Dean chides.

You swallow down the urge to quip something back. It’s only when the whetstone clears the curve of the machete and halts at the tip that you tear your gaze from the task and stare at Dean. “I can handle it.”

He smirks. “Oh, I’m sure you can HANDle it.” He shrugs. “Just wouldn’t want you to lose a FINGER.”

“How about you quit distracting her? She’s doing you a favor.” Sam’s brows lift pointedly at Dean. “And besides, why do you insist on cleaning weapons here when you could literally be doing it anywhere else in the bunker?”

Dean curls up the fakest smile at Sam. “Cause I love your company.” 

The boys settle after a few more grunts and scoffs at each other. You plunge nose deep into lore and wish the pages were waves pulling you out to sea. 

There’s no way Dean’s emphasis on “hand” and “finger” were accidental. Dean’s pretty intuitive. But you are a pretty good actor in your own right when you need to be. However, there’s still a chance that you said or did something when you were too intoxicated to remember.

It’s not helping that Dean’s performing his weapon cleaning like a goddamn seduction. Mr. Hand Model takes apart the sawed off, cleans the inside of and around the barrel, reassembles, and clicks all the pieces back into place. His nails look perfect, shiny and slick with the gun oil. His beefy fingers curl around the wood and steel in a way that makes you want to trade places with the firearm.

You somehow endure for 45 minutes. Last night’s indulgences are blamed in an excuse to head back to your bedroom. As you preemptively wish Sam an enjoyable outing later, Dean reminds you to rest up for dinner and a movie.

Ugh. You know how Dean gets when he won’t let something go that he finds hilarious. This could go on for a while.

It’s a trap. It’s gotta be.

Dean’s lowering your defenses with good food and good company.

It all started in the kitchen where dinner was served. He wasn’t kidding about the burgers. He made quarter pound medium rare works of art with cheese and all the toppings. The bun was Texas Toasted out. The guy even used the air fryer to produce ridiculously addicting potato wedges with a spicy paprika and chili powder coating.

Then, it was Dean cave time. No beer in sight, you were given pop to drink, with an offhanded “no repeat performance of last night” remark. You slid down the couch, groaning, pulling the hoodie over your face for dramatic effect. He grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting between you on the couch and added, “You know, so you don’t pass out midway through the movie.”

You inhale the buttery goodness beside you and relax, popping back up in your seat. A swig of sugar wakes up your lethargic post-meal brain and settles the nerves that Dean is up to something. “So, what masterpiece do you have for us tonight?” you query.

He presses a button on one remote and the lights dim. Another remote in hand, another button press, and the television screen blares with an all too familiar soundtrack.

“The Empire Strikes Back.” You nod. “Good choice.”

“It’s your favorite one,” Dean reminds you.

“Yeah. Yoda. Duh.”

Dean chuckles.

Things fall into that easy going movie commentary that you and Dean are so fond of doing. It drives Sam crazy when he's watching stuff with the two of you. You’re spouting behind the scenes facts you know you’ve told Dean a half a dozen times already (like how the puppeteer who’s voicing Yoda also voices your favorite muppet, Fozzie Bear). Dean adds his own sound effects when the AT-ATs are firing, points out every Wilhelm scream, and helps Harrison Ford out by quoting all of Solo’s lines.

Leia is fixing some equipment on the Falcon and you comment, “I like the braid updo more than the cinnamon rolls.”

“Eh, I don’t know. The combo of beauty and baked goods is pretty hard to beat.”

Solo walks in and tries to help. Leia pushes him away. You sigh. “Here they go.”

Dean turns to you and raises an eyebrow. In perfect sync with Solo’s dialogue he utters, “Hey Your Worship, I’m only trying to help.”

You eye roll. “Would you please stop calling me that?” If it's a quote battle Dean wants, it’s on. If Sam were here, he’d be so done with the both of you right now.

“Sure, Leia.”

A huff for good measure. “You make it so difficult sometimes.”

Dean leans in. “I do, I really do. You could be a little nicer, though. Come on, admit it. Sometimes you think I’m all right.”

Wait. Wait. Oh no. You don’t have to be looking at the screen to know what happens next. Leia hurts her HAND trying to turn a lever. You clam up at all the fucking context this scene now holds for you and Dean. You can’t say the next lines. Because you know that Solo grabs Leia’s HAND as she says, “Occasionally, maybe… when you aren’t acting like a scoundrel.”

That’s when last night’s rum-infested confessions cut to the front of the memory queue. You adore scoundrels, rogues.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, though. He even gazes down at one of your HANDS. He continues the performance. “Scoundrel?” Face half cast in shadow, his lids widen, irises still manage to catch the light and entrance you. “Scoundrel?” A huge grin emerges. “I like the sound of that.”

Solo is massaging Leia’s HAND the whole time.

Leia whispers, “Stop that.”

Dean replies, “Stop what?” Though he’s not questioning the screen. He’s locked eyes with you. Daring you to break away first.

Leia answers, even softer. “Stop that. My hands are dirty.”

Dean tilts his head, uncaring. “My hands are dirty, too. What are you afraid of?”

“Afraid?” Oh, Leia, Don’t egg him on.

“You’re trembling,” Dean’s voice is softer. He’s edging closer, but there’s only so much distance he can cover with the popcorn bowl in the way.

You decide now’s as good a time as any to try and act your way out of a paper bag. “I’m not trembling.” You coat your response with steel.

Dean is only encouraged by your participation. “You like me because I’m a scoundrel. There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

You ponder for a moment. “I happen to like nice men.”

“I’m nice men.” Dean offers with complete sincerity.

You scoff. “No, you’re not. You’re…”

The music swells. Solo and Leia kiss.

But, you and Dean just stare at each other, for what feels like an eternity. You know C3PO is gonna interrupt the lovebirds at any moment. It’s the only lifeline you have, so you wait for the robot with the worst timing in history to save you from embarrassment.

“Guys?” Sam’s voice calls from the hallway.

You snap, stick straight, your back pressed against the seat. Sam must have come in through the garage.

Dean sighs. “Yeah, Sammy. Come on in. Back so soon?”

The door flings open. Warm ceiling lights from the hall halo Sam’s figure. “You know how they say, never meet your heroes? Totally valid advice tonight.” Sam stumbles into the room, all lanky limbs, and sinks into the cushy side chair. He runs fingers through his hair, his profile scrutinizing the screen. “Jedi?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously, dude, how are we related?”

The three of you watch the rest of the movie without much commentary.

And you and Dean do not quote any other lines.

You cleaned up the dinner mess, alone, in the kitchen. You insisted it was the least you could do and Dean didn’t put up much resistance.

You find Dean’s bedroom door open on your way to your own for the night. You stop in the doorway to thank him again.

He’s putting away some shirts in his dresser, back turned. He looks comfy, cozy, showered, and perfect. You compose yourself in a split second when he senses you and cocks his head to the door. “Hey, everything okay?”

It’s his usual question, always assuming something needs fixing or solving. But, you sense extra concern in the tone this time.

You nod, wanting to ease the tide of Dean Winchester’s worry. “Thank you. Tonight was fun.”

“Yeah, even with Chewbacca?”

You chuckle. “Be nice.”

He waves you in as he wraps up his laundry. You oblige and sit by the tiny corner table. “Yeah, you’re right. Solo actually wouldn’t mind Chewy hanging out with him and Leia.”

You smile. Apparently, it’s Star Wars character dissection time. “So, if Sam’s not Chewbacca…”

The drawer squeaks closed. “Luke.”

“Han doesn’t mind Luke. Annoyed, sometimes. But, everyone annoys Han at one point or another.”

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, facing you. He stretches, hands entwined and arms raised overhead. A white t-shirt hugs his form here and there. You get a glimpse of perky nipples pressing against fabric. “Luke was competition. Before the brother-sister bombshell,” Dean states.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“But, the three of them, they made a good team,” Dean continues.

You nod, deliberate and slow.

“It only takes one person to start getting feelings for another one in the trio and then the whole galaxy is in jeopardy.” Dean taps the pads of his fingers together.

You sigh. You didn’t want to have to rat yourself out. But, Dean’s got a point. So, how do you go about telling him you’re finding him unbelievably attractive all of a sudden? And how do you ease his apparent worry? What, you’ll do your best to keep it in check? It won’t interfere with the work you do?

“We’re a good team, right? You, me, Sammy?” Dean cuts through the silence with the questions. He scrubs at the nape of his neck.

“I-I’d like to think so. But, you’re right, Dean. It can throw the whole balance off in a good working relationship if someone starts to catch feelings that aren’t reciprocated.”

His eyebrows form a distraught mountain peak. “So, it’s true?”

He looks so unhappy at the possibility, but you’ve gotta be an adult about it. “It just started happening during the last case.” You shrug. “But, I don’t have any intention of acting on them.” A hand raises. “Don’t worry.”

His lips purse tight. Nostrils flare. He’s deep in thought. Finally, he says, “But, you won’t know if you don’t act on it.” He nods more to convince himself now. “You should talk to Sam about how you feel.”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

“Hey, I gave it a ‘good ole high school dropout that earned his GED’ try. We have established that I am not your type.”

“Wha-?”

“I’ll be fine with the two of you being a thing. I want to see you and Sam happy. If that means you both, together, that’s great.”

Your hands circle in front of you. “Whoa, whoa. Back up a minute.” Suddenly, your heart is racing.

“What?” He’s got that vacant puppy dog expression, every muscle in his face relaxed, wide open eyes.

You steady your breathing. “What made you think you were my type?” You can’t help the question. You only hope it doesn’t sound belittling or sarcastic. Right now, it’s your last defense of self-protection and attempt at fact finding. You gotta know if you are misinterpreting the revelation that Dean may in fact be upset if you and Sam were an item. Because… he wants you two to be an item?!

“You were acting… weird… ever since Lincoln and the manicure.” He twiddles his fingers. “I was picking up signals that weren’t there, I guess.” He shakes his head and mumbles. “Or, I probably was looking too hard to find something that wasn’t there. Like those times you tell me I’m sniffing around the wrong dog’s butt.”

You squish your lids at how crass you can be. It’s giving you less reasons to think he could find you attractive in any capacity. “Okay, but why was that so important to know?”

His arms extend from side to side. He’s getting riled up and more than a little miffed. But, you know that might work in your favor. His mouth tends to run on autopilot and the truth comes flying out. “Our, I don’t know, petri dish of co-existing in this jack-in-the-box wouldn’t get fucked up. I wouldn’t go off half-cocked and do something I’ve been wanting to do for a while unless I knew, for sure, that you felt the same way I did.” His hands retract and fall in his lap. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at his socked feet. “But, you don’t.”

You’ve got actual fucking butterflies beating their wings like bongo drums in your stomach. “What have you wanted to do for a while?”

His eyes track up to you. He’s inspecting you, hard. That’s doing nothing to quell the excitement inside. “What’s the point in telling you that now?”

“Because, maybe… you’re wrong and… you are my type.”

Dean’s lids lift a quarter of an inch. It’s a minute, micro reaction. But you catch it.

“Maybe I’ve been ignoring it for a while, because, like you. I didn’t want to mess things up. I love Sam.” You swallow, ready to bare all. “But, I haven’t been thinking about what his hands could do to me,” you whisper.

Dean inhales, sharp and quick through his nose at that confession. He exhales, adding, “Don’t fuck with me.”

You can’t do anything but grin in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a goddamn idiot. “I should have said that to you numerous times today. The pancakes. The gun cleaning. Freakin’ Han massaging Leia’s HAND!”

His lids widen. “Hey, it was me testing my theory. Like when we gotta douse someone with holy water to make sure they aren’t possessed. All but the movie, though. Swear I did not remember that scene until a few seconds before it started happening.” He sits up, rubs palms on his sweatpant clad thighs. “Well, okay, I didn’t remember the hand thing, but I wanted to see how you reacted to like THE best scoundrel ever.” Now, he’s grinning. “Been thinkin’ about my hands, huh?”

You roll your eyes merely to play along. “Alright, don’t get a big head.”

He cocks his head like a devilish rogue. “No need for a big head when I’ve got big hands.”

The giggle escapes before you can lasso it.

Dean slides his gaze up your seated frame. It’s a filthy, seedy expression. And hot as fuck. He stops to stare at your mouth, then licks his own. When his eyes meet yours, he commands, “Come on over and show me what you’ve been thinking of.” He pats his thighs. “I’ve got a nice warm seat for ya.”

He’s kidding, right? He wants you to sit on his lap. As if you’d even consider it.

And, yeah, you aren’t considering it. There’s no time for consideration when your legs have already propelled you out of the seat. You give his bedroom door a swing in a passing thought about closing it for privacy.

You can see the look of surprise on Dean’s face as you march over to the bed. But it’s mixed with want and eagerness. He opens his arms in welcome.

Warmth prickles your cheeks at the forwardness you display in accepting the invitation. One knee props up on the bed beside him. You anchor hands onto his shoulders, feel those fingers fan and lock onto your waist, and you bring the rest of your body up to straddle his lap.

You sigh, staring down at that kid in a candy store grin of his, and marvel at how very right it all feels. You settle, your ass firmly atop his thighs. The heat of him is immediate.

“Been wanting you like this,” he whispers, his nose brushing the skin exposed around your collar. A hand molds to the side of your neck, holding you in place. You shiver at the lips skirting upwards along the channel of your throat. “Now who’s ticklish?” It’s meant to tease, but his voice has lost that hint of mirth. It’s deeper, daring you to deny his observation as anything other than fact. “Maybe you aren’t ready for my hands. All.” A kiss at the juncture where your lobe meets your jaw. “Over.” A peck at the tip of your chin. He threads his fingers into the base of your hairline. He eases your head with a smooth tilt down. You lock eyes with his green ones once again. “You.”

The only response you can give is to connect your lips to his. Feeling the pliant, soft give of his mouth against yours. Then his insistent lean up and forward, forcing you to stand your ground while seated on his lap. You have to demonstrate your want is equal to his.

And you want. You so want.

Whatever you’re doing, his approving moan eggs you to continue. With each swipe and dip and dive of your lips, your mouth opens a bit more. The access encourages Dean’s tongue to taste. He laps at you gently, swirls around just enough that your core begins to ache. He pulls away and you groan. You’re drunk with desire, heavy and heady. 

Your lids blink open slow and sleepy. Thankfully you find Dean’s looking as blissed out as you feel. He’s inspecting your reaction through a hazy gaze. His hand captures the side of your face. Five pressure points sink into your skin. His eyes flicker to your mouth to watch his thumb outline the curve of your lip. The pad tugs and drags at your skin.

It’s only a second of wordless communication between the two of you. He asks with a lifting of his lids. You agree with an affirmative blink.

His thumb delves into your mouth, up to the first knuckle. You wrap your lips around. Suck with the gentlest of pressure.

His mouth lifts into a slight smile. “Good girl,” he whispers.

And, fuck if that doesn’t open your floodgates. You’re slick and ready.

Dean’s other hand runs along the waistband of your yoga pants. “You been thinking about my hands all over you…” His thumb glides under the fabric of your panties. “Taking you apart, piece by piece.” He delves farther down, until he taps the top of your mound. His jaw clenches at your gasp of anticipation. His thumb hooks under your tongue against the floor of your mouth to express just how in command he is right now. “You gonna do what I say, Your Worship?”

You nod. You’ll don a pair of cinnamon buns if he tells you to right now.

He smirks, cocky and full of confidence. “The better I make you feel down here...” He works his thumb between your folds and presses against your clit. You squirm in his lap. “The better you suck with that beautiful mouth, yeah?”

You nod again. He releases the pressure in your mouth, circles your bundle of nerves. He slips and slides while his fingers splay over your stomach to anchor in place. You latch onto his thumb again and suck on it like a straw

“Pretty sure this isn’t as wet as you’re gonna get,” he comments like a fucking weatherman. After only a few seconds, he sighs and shakes his head. “Too many fucking clothes.”

You’ve only sparred with Dean a handful of times. Every time, he’s bested you with graceful movements and quick action. He disengages from you for what must have only been seconds, spinning you around in his grasp and pinning your back to the mattress. He’s whipping off your t-shirt, pants, and underwear. Leaving you in only your bra.

He leers over you, hands running up the underside of your thighs. He kneels onto the bed, all of his clothes still on, to wedge against your ass. All of you is on proper display for him. And he takes it all in.

“Right, Gorgeous. Where were we?” One hand rides its way up your chest back to your mouth. You accept his index finger between your lips this time. His other hand resumes playing with your clit. “Hm. Much better.” 

A gasp escapes from your mouth. Your tongue ejects his finger so you can point out, “Who’s the one with too many fucking clothes on now?”

“All good things come to those who wait, darlin’.” He settles further, criss crossing over top of your flesh. His legs sandwich your right thigh while he strums your pussy. The hope of what else is to come pokes into your side through his sweatpants. He doesn’t give you a chance to reply, slipping his finger into your mouth again. The pull of his left hand guides you to lean your head toward the right. He settles his beefy forearm onto the mattress above your shoulder.

His chest pins you down in a kinky wrestling move. Teeth snag your ear lobe. He applies pressure to the swollen flesh over a ridge of bone, then uses a flicking motion that makes your thigh twitch in delight.

You're sloppy with your technique of licks and sucks as he feeds you another digit. But, really, how is any gal supposed to mind their manners with Dean Winchester fingering her? You groan, helpless, as he explores your folds, finds your entrance with two tips. “I know you got a thing for my hands,” his hot breath tunnels into your ear canal, “but, if you want, I can fill you up real good with something else.”

You can’t reply with any actual words, only moans of agreement. The erection pressing into your hip bone sure does feel substantial. If it’s anything like his fingers - two fingers are currently surfing around your tongue and rubbing against your palate - he’ll have no problem filling you up.

To ground yourself in the reality of the situation, you snatch at the hem of his shirt and tug. Your pelvis tilts up at the slow insertion of one of his other fingers down below. “Damn,” he pants into your ear. “How long’s it been since someone took care of you, all nice and proper? So- so tight and wet.” He hums. “And warm.” A languid slide out with one finger, only to be accompanied with another when he pushes back inside. “Feel so good. Gonna feel even better around my cock after I make you come… Princess.”

You will not ever admit to the fact that you squealed with Dean’s fingers in your mouth. That you convulsed after only seconds of him playing with your clit and stretching open your hole.

Fireworks continue to skyrocket in your head. Your body tipped into the oversensitive zone. You’re aware of every bit of him plastered against you. He’s made you slick with arousal and sweat. Layers of fabric cling to skin. You should be suffocating with him laying atop you, but he feels like a weighted blanket. Warm, secure. Dean’s fingers don’t retract from your mouth or pussy. They are frozen in place. Your teeth nibble one set. Your muscles spasm around the other. 

He hasn’t moved. Hot breath huffs hard into the crook of your neck with an occasional sharp inhale and hold. You close your eyes. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that you could fall asleep like this.

“Was that… too much?” He deep-throat whispers in your ear now. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“N-mph-,” you chortle around his fingers.

“Shit, sorry.” He pulls his hand away from your mouth, the other slowly out of your hot core. Matching sighs release from you both.

“No,” you heave, and his chest rises up and off. “It was… awesome.”

He’s in your face now, all green eyes and pink lips, a veil of freckles along the bridge of his nose and forehead. “Yeah?”

You squint, trying to focus on all the glorious aspects. He’s studying you. You get the feeling he’s really not sure. “Why is the ladies man doubting himself all of sudden?” you tease, rocking to shuffle him out of the daze.

A shrug. “It’s you. I don’t always read you right.”

You lean your head back into his memory foam in an attempt to make full eye contact. “I don’t know how many ways you can misread giving me a mindblowing orgasm.”

He blinks, cautious. “Is what I did going to… you know… change things between us?”

“Oh.” You stop, dart your gaze to the ceiling past his shoulder for dramatic effect. “Oh, absolutely. I mean,” you pause, “how could it not?” You shake your head and feel his entire body go rigid. “It’s gonna be so awkward and uncomfortable around here.” 

When you dare to look at him, there’s a hint of something you don’t see often on Dean’s face. You think it might be fear.

You can’t bear it any longer. “I mean, I can already imagine the disgusted look on Sam’s face when we start making out right in front of him.”

Within seconds, the expression turns to one of relief and amusement, accompanied by the charming cockiness that’s gonna turn you to goo at the most inopportune moments from here on out. “Well, we don’t have to tell him right away. It might be fun to, you know, sneak around right under his nose.” He relaxes, sinks into you again. “I could have you all sorts of ways, in all sorts of places, doing our best not to get caught.”

You smile. “Don’t want to tell your brother you’ve stolen my heart with that five-finger discount of yours?”

He chuckles, rolls his eyes, then cups the heat of your folds again. “I mean, I sucked at Biology, but pretty sure this ain’t your heart, darlin’.”

“You’re wrong, you know?”

He blinks, all sass and spectacle, “This IS your heart?” He squeezes.

You peck his lips, roll your eyes, and curl arms around his waist. “No. Solo’s got nothing on you. YOU are the best scoundrel.”

A breathtaking kiss makes you all lightheaded. When he finally pulls away and allows you to exhale, he lifts one side of his mouth into a confident grin. “I know.”

THE END

[duskandcobalt]

Comfort Crowd

hi! this is my contribution to day one of #azrielappreciationweek2023 (cc: @azrielappreciationweek)

the prompt is "The Family You Make" so I wrote a little one-shot about Az and Nesta, my favourite little bestie pairing 💕

1.3k words - no warnings other than slight language :) just two friends notorious for not talking about their emotions, talking about emotions!

ENJOY XX

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Azriel struggles to hold back his grin when Nesta waddles into the library at the House of Wind where he’s reclined on a sofa in front of the fireplace, flipping through yet another report in preparation for a meeting with Rhys in the morning. She’s wearing a simple oversized nightgown in the colour of cream, one of her hands rests on her swollen belly while the other is pressed against the small of her back.

Nesta is only a few weeks from giving birth to his very first niece and while she’d only become more beautiful over the past few months, the scowl on her face tells him that she is more than ready for this pregnancy to be over.

Azriel quickly swings his long legs off the sofa, shuffling around and sitting up to make room for her.

“Oh, yes. Please. Go ahead and laugh at me.” She glares at him as he chuckles, watching as she carefully lowers herself onto the seat he’d left free for her. He knows better than to offer help but a few of his shadows gather around her just in case. “If you had been a better chaperone, maybe I wouldn’t be in this fucking predicament.”

“Right.” Azriel snorts. “As if my presence has ever deterred you two from…” He trails off, making vague gestures with his hands to convey his thoughts instead of using the obscenities that came to mind. 

She only rolls her eyes in response and he knows that she knows that he’s right. 

Nesta and Cassian had never been particularly shy about making sure their needs were met and as ravenous as the two of them were, Azriel’s ears had unintentionally been made witness to their activities more times than he cared to admit. Even the enchanted ear plugs Elain gave him for Solstice one year hadn’t been enough to drown out the sound some nights.

Azriel pats his leather covered thigh and Nesta’s lips tilt upwards at the corners as she turns to the side and lifts her legs. He reaches down and meets her halfway, grasping her calves to help her lay on the sofa with her feet in his lap. Nesta sighs with relief at the feeling of his thumb pressing into the sole of her foot.

“Oh you’re so wonderful to me, Shadowsinger. So good with those hands of yours.” She smirks. There’s a suspicious lilt to her voice. “I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you with you-know-who.” 

Azriel’s hands pause as he fixes her with a stern look. 

“Sorry, sorry!” Nesta apologises, laughing in a way that tells Azriel she isn’t sorry at all. “Please keep going, I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

They spend most of their evenings together like this whenever Azriel is home from an assignment, whether Cassian is around or not. Most of the time, the three of them gather together in the library or the living room, chatting until the early hours of the morning. But sometimes it’s just him and Nesta, sitting in the comfort of each other’s presence, passing sweets back and forth while she reads a book and he reads his reports.

It was rare for Azriel to befriend new people but Nesta had seamlessly become a significant part of his life because they had understood each other so intrinsically from the very beginning.

Azriel had seen right through her abrasiveness. He knew that behind her snark and cutting remarks, there was a female that was so wounded that she’d rather push people away than let someone in close enough to hurt her. He understood that she was frightened to allow herself the things she wanted for fear that they would be taken from her.

Likewise, he had caught Nesta watching him with eyes that noticed too much on multiple occasions. He was aware that she saw the way he yearned for something or someone he couldn’t or wouldn’t allow himself to pursue. Azriel also had utter confidence that she would never say anything about it to anyone, or even to him, unless he brought it up first. 

Nesta would always keep his unspoken secrets just as he kept hers. 

It’s quiet in the library for a long while, only the quiet crackle of the fire and the sighs coming from Nesta as Azriel relieves the agonsing tension in her feet, when she breaks the silence. 

“Az?” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft in a way that makes her seem so small. When he glances over at her, Nesta’s eyelids are shut and there’s a tiny, sad frown on her face. 

“What is it, Nes?”

“I’m so scared.” Her words are shaky and barely above a whisper. “What if I’m not a good mother?”

Azriel’s eyebrows furrow together, his fingers stopping for half a second as he contemplates what to say.

“Why would you think that?” 

“I just…” She takes a deep breath. “I never had a good relationship with my own mother and I’m worried that I’ll end up being just like her.” 

Azriel opens his mouth to respond but stops when she continues.

“Cassian is so good. He has so much love and he gives it so freely.” Nesta swallows. “It’s harder for me. What if I screw her up?” 

“I think that being worried that you’ll be like your mother is proof enough that you won’t be anything like her. Bad parents don’t tend to worry about how they’ll treat their children.” Azriel says gently. “You love so deeply, Nesta. Just because you show it in a different way than Cass, it doesn’t mean that you’re any less capable of raising and caring for a child than he is.” 

Nesta exhales and Azriel can tell that her mind is still racing. 

“You practically raised, Elain.” He rotates her ankles. “I know how much you love your sisters and I know how much they love you. Besides, you’re already wonderful with Nyx. He adores you. He’s always babbling about his Aunt Nesta.”

Azriel smiles when he hears her laugh quietly. She knows that what he said is true. Because while Rhysand and Feyre’s son was often attached by the hip to Elain, Nesta was the only person he’d leave her to go running to the second he heard her voice or she entered his line of vision. 

Cassian, Azriel, and Rhys had all burned with jealousy that the winged boy they had waited centuries for had seemingly taken an immediate liking to the females of the family but with any luck, they’d get their revenge once Cassian and Nesta’s daughter entered the picture.

“You’ll be an incredible mother.” Azriel pats her calf in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “You and Cass will be brilliant parents and that little girl will be so loved. You know I can’t wait to meet her.”

“You’re a great friend, Az.” She reaches a hand out to him and he takes it in his. Warmth floods him as she squeezes his fingers gently. “Cass and I are lucky to have you. She’ll be so  lucky to have you, too.” Nesta rubs her other hand over her bump and Azriel watches in amazement as her movement is met with a small but powerful kick from the babe inside her womb. 

“She agrees.” One of Nesta’s eyebrows lifts in amusement and she gives him her first proper smile of the night. 

His heart swells as he returns her bright smile with a soft one of his own. It swells even more when he looks up to see Cassian leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching him and Nesta with a fond smile and eyes shimmering with tears.

Azriel couldn’t possibly think of anyone better suited to be his best friend’s Mate. Nesta was strong willed and stubborn but she loved so fiercely even if she couldn’t admit it to herself. She would lay her life on the line for Cassian over and over again, as she had done once before. It was the tough, relentless type of love that his kind hearted friend deserved and Azriel was proud that over time, she had slowly but surely become someone that he could not only call his friend, but his sister.

[getvalentined]

1, 4, 8, 15 for the ask game - SEPHESIS

1. Which one is the better cook:

Genesis, hands-down, but only because Sephiroth was never given the opportunity to do much of his own cooking. His diet was strictly regimented by Hojo for basically Sephiroth's entire life, so while he was "home" his meals were delivered in carefully marked packages that he kept in the fridge, and while he was in the field he mostly had MREs like everyone else. Meanwhile, Genesis' biggest contribution to the planet is related to food processing, so he definitely knows his way around a kitchen.

In a better world, where they get their slice-of-life epilogue at some point, Sephiroth helps Genesis in the kitchen often enough that he eventually more or less catches up—although he plays a little fast and loose with measurements and ingredient substitutions, so Genesis will always be better at baking.

4. What they do on date night:

Sephiroth and Genesis are really into movies, although they have to be a bit careful in preparation because of issues with volume—they both have enhanced senses, so they have little specialized earplugs that they wear when they go to the theater. Live shows are easier on both of them, so they go see stage plays when there's something interesting going on. Sephiroth finds it's much easier to suspend his disbelief with a film than a play, though, so they tend to lean more for movies.

They also both like watching competitive fighting, specifically live, never professional, expressly to snark at each other about the poor form in competitors of the amateur scene. Lots of wincing and "Oh, that could have been handled better." They basically never refer to this activity as a date, but they do always go out to dinner after—even if it's just dropping in at some hole in the wall local restaurant and sharing an appetizer—so it is undeniably a date.

8. What they argue about:

While I could say "what don't they argue about?" the fact of the matter is that they actually get along really well. Genesis' snarkiness rarely breeds any kind of argument, and Sephiroth is quite agreeable when it all comes down to it—he's been brought up to do what he's told, and doesn't have a particularly dominating personality when he's himself.

The thing they do tend to argue about, which they've always argued about, is the other's willingness to advocate for himself. Lots of "I can't believe you let them talk to you that way!" and "You know better than to agree to something like that!" and "What possessed you to do something so dangerous?!" The response is generally something along the lines of "What choice did I have?" and that turns it into an argument. They've done this since they were teenagers.

15. What they would change about each other:

There is nothing about Sephiroth that Genesis would change. Nothing. Even the things that annoy him, even the things that break his heart, there's nothing about him that Genesis would want to be any other way—he'd like to change the world around him to keep the worse things from happening, to him, but Sephiroth himself is untouchable. It's not even that Genesis sees him as perfect, either, it's that he loves him completely, flaws and all.

There's one thing that Sephiroth would change about Genesis, but only one. When they were in their mid-teens, not long after they'd first met, Genesis realized that Sephiroth getting into any kind of trouble or engaging in any misbehavior for which he got "caught" would lead him to getting pretty fucked over by Hojo in response, with the Professor attempting to condition the poor behavior out of him by any means necessary. Hollander was never as hard on Genesis as Hojo was on Sephiroth, so Genesis took to making sure of two things:

If Sephiroth ever got into trouble, Genesis would get into trouble with him;

Any trouble they got into would be very clearly indicated to be Genesis' fault in its entirety.

So whenever they got caught being the menaces that they were, Genesis would talk himself into taking the fall, and thereby talk Sephiroth out of it. This eventually led to Sephiroth receiving praise for ostensibly always being there to try to keep Genesis out of trouble, even if he could be caught in the crossfire. What a noble young man! Such a sense of responsibility! Truly, a leader in the making!

This continued on into adulthood, clear up until the point that Genesis defected in Wutai, and Sephiroth hated it. Not because he didn't appreciate being literally tortured in Hojo's lab less often, mind you, and not because he didn't realize that Genesis was protecting him; because there was nothing he could do to make him stop, no way to pay him back, and no way to explain to anyone that Genesis wasn't the only loose cannon in the firsts, he wasn't the bad seed everyone thought he was. Even if he tried to tell the truth, which he did on multiple occasions, the assumption was always that the heroic Sephiroth was just trying to fall on the sword for his horrible friend's sake, and it never amounted to anything.

If Sephiroth could change anything about Genesis, it would be to make him stop that.

(For the ship asks game.)

[itsthecherryontop]

Adrenaline Rush (Billy Hargrove)

Scene from Chapter Two of my Billy Hargrove Slowburn Enemies to Lovers Fic

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Henderson OC (Halle)

Chapters Posted: 23/49 UPDATES WEEKLY

Sighing in relief, I turned out of the study room and gathered my things. There were ten minutes of lunch left and I needed fresh air. I walked my way to the bleachers lining the football field and took a deep breath of the cold air. I should have listened to Dustin and stayed home. I was too tired to deal with any more Upside Down shit today. Every muscle in my body was aching to get on my bike and ride away from there, but I knew I couldn’t leave Steve alone in class after what just happened. 

Sitting on the cold metal I pulled out the sandwich I had packet. I wasn’t even very hungry, but it was better than sitting there with shaking hands. Slipping my headphones back on I laid down, watching the clouds pass. Maybe I could just sleep through the next period. If I didn’t show up Steve would leave to search for me and we could both skip. 

The smell of a burning cigarette wafted through the air, instantly causing me further disinterest in my food. Sitting up on my elbows I looked for the sources. Leaning against the wall at the far of the school were Billy Hargrove and Tina smoking. Hearing Tina force a loud laugh at something the blond said through my headphones was the deciding factor that it was my cue to head inside. 

Finding my seat next to Steve, he looked over at me like he wanted to talk about the scene at the library, but knew he couldn’t. Placing a forced smile on my face that I hoped was reassuring I addressed him, “It will be fine. Nancy’s smart she won’t do anything. Especially not if it puts people she cares about in danger.”

“I know. I’m just worried about her,” he confessed with a heavy sigh. 

“I am too, but like you said. We are gonna go to that party and have a good time. We will be stupid normal teenagers.”

“Yeah, stupid teenagers. I can do that. Am I still driving you?”

“Well, I don’t plan on biking there.”

As I exited the building, I grabbed my bike and rode over to the middle school. As the younger students rushed out of the door, I searched the faces for my brother and his friends while I approached the bike racks. After the crowd had thinned out slightly, four boys emerged in Ghostbusters costumes. 

“Hey, you guys ready to go trick or treating?” I asked as they approached. 

“We were the only ones dressed up today,” Dustin complained as he reached for his bike. 

“Last year everyone dressed up,” Lucas added. 

“There is nothing wrong with that. It just means everyone else is a loser,” I replied trying to make them feel better. “I don’t even have to see anyone else's costumes to know that you guys had the best costumes. I mean you guys are the fucking Ghostbusters what is cooler than that?”

“My mom’s here. I’ll see you guys later,” Will stated before walking off as we called our goodbyes.

“No, everyone made fun of our costumes,” Mike snarked and we started pedaling home. 

“Yeah, even the new girl,” Dustin commented. 

“Well fuck them! It doesn’t matter what they say cause it’s not true. I bet all those other kids wanted to wear their costumes today too, but you know why they didn’t? Cause they were scared. Scared of what other people would think of them. And when they get older they are going to regret living for what other people want and not doing what makes them happy. You got that? But you guys did what you wanted and that makes you braver than all those other shitheads,” I ranted. “Who cares if they think you are weird or a freak?! Do you think a normal person could have fought literal monsters? I mean look at you, you are the bravest kids I have ever met. And if they can’t see that then they can go fuck themselves. You guys are badass fucking monster killers!”

The boys laughed as we made our way down the road, passing trees of changing colors. Spread out across the right lane the boys discussed why everything changed that Halloween. At the sound of an engine, I turned to see a car speeding toward us. 

“Guys?” I called, trying to get the boys' attention. Seeing that the car wasn’t slowing down I tried again screaming, “GUYS! GET OFF THE ROAD!” The boys started frantically pedaling faster. “TO THE SIDE!”

One by one the boys crashed into the side of the road with shouts. Seeing as I was behind them I had to pedal faster so I would land further up than where they landed not wanting to hit them. Lord knew running into them at that speed would cause some serious injuries. My bike skitted out from under me as I reached the shoulder just before the car passed. Landing hard I slammed into the ground rolling until I hit a tree trunk. Looking down the road I saw the car speeding away.  Even at just a glimpse, I knew that car, a blue Camaro, belonging to none other than Billy Hargrove. 

Pushing my palms against the ground I lifted myself off the ground. My eyes watered at the sting of pain I felt. 

“Shit,” I cursed sitting up. “Are you guys okay?” 

Looking over at them they all looked fine. It didn’t look like they had a scratch on them. They seemed busy discussing MadMax who was probably siblings with that mullet-headed psycho.  Looking down I could see all the damage done. My jeans were completely torn open on my right leg revealing scraps covering most of my leg. I could already tell I would bruise on my arm from where I landed on my bike, which also happened to leave a cut. Lastly, I could feel my face was fairly beaten up from hitting the ground. 

“Holy shit!” Dustin shouted as he ran toward me, followed by Mike and Lucas. 

“Are you okay?” Mike asked. 

“Will you be able to walk? Your bike is wrecked,” Lucas exclaimed. 

“I swear to god I am going to take Steve’s bat to that car. That psychotic asshole should have his fucking license revoked,” I seethed trying to stand up. 

“So that must be Max’s brother driving then,” Dustin suggested. 

“Are you sure you can walk the rest of the way home? You don’t look okay,” Lucas worried inspecting each of my injuries. 

“I’m sure it looks worse than it is. Plus, I am not letting you leave me alone out here.”

“We will walk with you and you can hop on the back of my bike if you need. We still have a few miles to go,” Mike offered, picking up my bike to hand it to me. 

“Thanks. You guys are good kids.”

The walk home was extremely tedious. Just the two miles left took an hour and 20 minutes versus the normal 15-minute bike ride. As soon as we entered the door Dustin rushed me to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. I was glad my mom wasn’t here to fuss over every scratch. Deciding it would be easier to shower before treating the wounds, Dustin left for his room. 

Stripping my clothes off ended up being far more painful than I had initially thought. The blood had started to dry on my leg and arm causing the fabric to stick to my skin. After one of the worst showers of my life, I inspected the extent of my injuries in the mirror. There were traces of redness along most of the right side of my body. One of the worst consequences of fair skin: bruising easily. My torso survived pretty much unscathed, with my legs taking the worst of the heat. My face had scraps along my cheek temple and jaw, which was going to bruise. 

Reaching for the rubbing alcohol, I tried to mentally prepare myself for the pain I was about to cause myself, knowing I would likely cry either way. Eventually, I just gave up and called Dustin in to pour the bottle over my leg. It would take too long to use a rag and I couldn’t bring myself to dump the bottle over the open cuts even after much self-convincing. Thank god, Dustin didn’t have the same reservations as he emptied half the bottle over my thigh. He did apologize profusely after I spent the next minute and a half cursing with watering eyes. 

After covering any open wound as best as I could. By the time I departed the bathroom, it was already 6. Steve would be picking me up in 45 minutes. Changing into my costume, I made my way to the kitchen. 

“You’re still going?” Dustin asked getting ready to leave to meet his friends.

“I already told Steve and Nancy I would go. It’s a big deal for them. They need a night to be normal teenagers,” I responded grabbing leftover pasta from the fridge. “And as you can see I am still standing. It takes a lot more to kill me than some dumb teenage boy.” 

“Are you sure you will be okay? You were pretty hurt. The adrenaline might not have worn off yet.”

“It’s been two hours. I am pretty positive the adrenaline has worn off. I bandaged it all myself and you helped me disinfect it so there is nothing to worry about. Plus, I will be with Steve and Nancy, so go have fun and bring me back some candy.”

“Okay. Just be careful.”

“I always am. Love you,” I shouted as he closed the door. 

Finishing up the rest of my reheated pasta, I cleaned my plate finishing just as I heard the horn of Steve’s car. Climbing into the backseat, both passengers turned to me in concern. 

“Halle, what happened are you okay?” Nancy frantically asked.

“Teenage boys suck at driving so I fell off my bike racing to get out of the way, but I’m fine. It is all surface wounds. I’m patched up and good to go,” I explained. 

“Are you sure you don’t just want to stay home? I’ve been in enough fights to know your face is going to bruise,” Steve tried to soothe. 

“Look I iced my face already. There is nothing else I can do right now and I would rather not sit at home alone until my mother comes home and helicopters over me because I got a little scraped up.  Plus I think it adds to my costume don’t you think? Dead or tortured Indiana Jones is way more original.”

“Okay, but if it starts hurting a lot tell me and I will take you home. Deal?” Steve negotiated. 

“Yeah, that sounds fair,” I agreed as he turned, leaving only Nancy facing me with a tight-lipped smile. 

There were already cars lining Tina’s driveway as pulled up to her house. I was already starting to dread my decision to come. Slowly exiting the car I followed the couple inside. The party had barely started and the inside of the house was crowded and hot. 

Hanging around the edges of the party we talked, well more like Nancy and Steve talked while I played the third wheel. Glancing around I decided I would never host a party. There was toilet paper in the fan and empty cups and other trash abandoned on the floor. Tina had signed herself up for a serious clean-up tomorrow. 

“I invited Jonathan,” Nancy announced to me. 

“I doubt he will come. He doesn’t like parties and he is in charge of watching Will tonight,” was all I responded. 

I was far more social than Jonathan and even I didn’t normally show up to parties. I would rather be with my brother and his friends than here as lame as that seemed. I just didn’t do well with small talk. I didn’t have any interest in a hangover tomorrow. Nor did I want some moron’s beer breath in my face or his hands on my body. I had no reason to be here other than for my friends and the fact I like dancing. 

“Do you guys want to dance?” I asked hoping I would be spared from dancing without them. When they shook their heads no, I realized I was either going to have to solo it or suffer alone all night. “Okay, well come find me when you plan on leaving I guess.”

Making my way to the kitchen I grab a small amount of what I have no doubt is a strongly spiked punch. Downing the near-pure alcohol substance I make my way around the room until I find someone I know well enough. Before I could get far I heard someone call my name. Turning around I came face to face with Tina.

“Halle? Is that you?” She asked looking over me. 

“Yeah, the one and only,” I responded. 

“I’m surprised you came. You aren’t really known for your appearance at parties.”

“What can I say I heard it was going to be a great party. I love your Madonna costume by the way. You look amazing.”

“Thank you. I went all the way to the outlet mall a few towns over to get the right pieces for it. You certainly went all out with your costume. Indiana Jones right? The facial makeup for the injuries is incredible. How long did that take you?” she asked lifting her cup to her mouth. 

“The scraps I got falling off my bike earlier but the bruises and blood are all fake. You’d be surprised with how far a little eyeshadow and food coloring can get you in the fake injury world,” I joked.  

After a few songs, which luckily Tina joined in on, I went back over to Steve and Nancy, who were still near the wall. As I approached them I started regretting leaving the dancefloor as Shout at the Devil came on. 

“Are you guys gonna dance or mope? It’s a party. Stupid teenagers remember?” I encouraged. 

“Dancing sounds like a great idea,” Steve began to say, as chanting began outside. Steve’s eyes narrowed in on something across the room and I followed his gaze. “For fuck’s sake.” I heard Steve mutter as Billy set his eyes on Steve and made his way over. 

“I am too sober to deal with this,” I declared walking back to the kitchen with Nancy in tow. 

“What’s in this?” She asked a boy in a toga standing next to the punch bowl. 

“Pure fuel!” He yelled. 

I simply shrugged as Nancy grabbed a plastic cup. Grabbing my own I placed a small amount within it and downed it trying to ignore the burn of my esophagus. Nancy however always ambitious, downed half a cupful. As Steve suddenly appeared suggesting she slowed down. She quickly brushed him off and pulled me towards the dancefloor.

 Looking at the interaction between Steve and Nancy, I had a feeling I was missing something. Either way, something was going to give and it was not going to end well. 

Nancy and Steve seemed to ignore whatever it was, so I decided to not bring it up. Whatever it was could wait for tomorrow. Tonight was for normalcy. Feeling the light buzz and the Blondie song blaring through the speakers, I spun and swayed to the beat singing the words. It didn’t matter who was watching, the lights were bright, and the house loud enough to muffle the fears that whispered in my mind. For the first time in what felt like months, I didn’t have to worry. 

Throwing my head back I laughed, feeling free. Why didn’t I attend parties more often? I felt like a bird spreading its wings for the first time after living in a cage. The desert getting its first rain of the year. The sun finally peeking through the clouds after a harsh winter. 

After Nancy downed her third drink, I needed some fresh air. Excusing myself I stepped into the backyard, which had calmed down since Hargrove’s keg stand. Sitting down on an empty chair with a glass of water I leaned back and looked at the stars. At the edge of Hawkins, the stars were always easier to see, being farther away from the town lights. My mind stilled like ripples in a pond as I caught my breath, still riding the after-dancing high. 

Finishing my water I headed back inside looking for a bathroom. Making my way back to the dancefloor, I searched for Nancy and Steve. Figuring they would join me I entered the mass of bodies, turning my body to the rhythm, dancing with random people. 

After a few songs, I pardoned myself from the boy I was dancing with in search of my friends. When I didn’t find them outside or anywhere in the house I started asking random people. 

“Harrington? He left with Wheeler after a fight, well more like he left alone and Wheeler left with the Byers Perv,” Tommy bragged overhearing me ask Nicole. 

I could feel my face drop as I absorbed his statement. They wouldn’t just leave me, would they? They know I don’t have any other way home. 

“Wow, Henderson. Why the long face? Don’t tell me they were your ride?” Tommy teased. When I didn’t answer he laughed. “Oh shit! Did they really leave you? Bummer. Knarly costume though.”

“Thanks, Tommy,” I said as I walked away. 

Looking at my watch it was already eleven. Heading upstairs to where I saw a phone, I pushed past the stumbling bodies. Grabbing the phone I dialed Steve’s number knowing his parents weren’t home. When he didn’t answer I tried again. On the third call, I heard the phone connect. 

“Steve-” I began before I heard him disconnect the phone. Knowing he left the phone off the receiver so it wouldn’t ring again, I slammed the phone down releasing a strangled scream.

 Almost everyone in this house was far too intoxicated to drive, so I would have to walk the 5 miles. Downing another serving of punch, I grabbed a water bottle and practically shoved my way out the door ramming into anyone in my way. Sure enough, Tommy was right. Steve’s burgundy BMW was nowhere to be seen. 

The road was dark as I walked on its edge. The further I walked the more I realized how tired I was. My body started aching the further I walked and being surrounded by the woods didn’t help my mentality. Every ounce of freedom I had felt at Tina’s vanished. I could practically hear the scraping of my self-created cage bars as they rose from the ground locking me in. 

If I died out here I would spend the rest of eternity haunting the shit out of those two. I don’t care what happened, I would never have deserted them at a party without a ride home. Especially after the events of last year. 

Is this how Barb felt? No, I mean I only left her to get snacks. I mean I was unaware of the Upside Down and less than 100 yards away. She was alone for five minutes tops. They left me alone for five miles. I mean did they not care about me? Sure I felt like an afterthought sometimes, but they at least tried to include me. God, being the third wheel sucked. I mean even Jonathan didn’t try to make sure I had a ride, but then again he likely thought Steve would take me home. This has got to be one of the shittiest days of my life. 

I wish I at least had my Walkman, then I could overwhelm the eerie noises in the woods. Taking off my hat I swung it at my side. My feet were already starting to hurt, these combat boots were not broken in enough for this. Looking down at my watch, it showed I hadn’t even been walking for half an hour. I wasn’t even walking fast enough for my normal pace due to the aching in the right side of my body. Headlights shined behind me as I turned. Stepping off the road to avoid dying from drunk drivers, I watched as the car sped past me at an illegal speed. In fact, every car that passed was speeding far too fast.

I was going to kill Steve Harrington when I saw him tomorrow. Who leaves a teenage girl to walk home alone in the dark in the middle of nowhere? This is how I end up dead in a ditch and on the news for some vicious crime. I did not want to be the next victim of a Black Dahlia type of murder. 

The more I thought about it the angrier I got. I mean what kinds of friends do that? I just wanted to punch something. Stopping my march, I released a scream until my lungs were empty and my throat was raw. Collapsing on a patch of grass to the side of the road a sob escaped my lips. 

“Was I not worth caring for?” my mind whispered. “Would they even miss you?”

Dustin would. Dustin would always miss me. He was probably worried, I thought peeling my shoes from my feet to reveal bloody blisters on my heels. Tying my boots together I placed them over my shoulder as I stood whipping tears from my eyes. My socks scruffed against the cold pavement as I shuffled along. 

Maybe I should have asked Tommy for a ride. Sure he was a little drunk, but he would have driven me. Even if he didn’t want to Carol would have made him. At least then I had a chance of making it to town before sunrise. Hell, I should have just gone to Tina and asked her if I could just crash in a spare room for the night. She would have understood. I would have offered to help clean tomorrow if I needed to. 

 Drinking a sip of my water I checked the time again. It was nearly one in the morning and I still had at least another two miles. 

At the snap of a stick in the woods to my right, I froze, heart pounding, desperately looking for whatever was lurking in the shadows. Straining my eyes I couldn’t make out anything. Rationally I knew it was probably a mouse or raccoon maybe even a coyote, but my mind was already set on a Demogorgon lunging at me. When the leaves shuffled I bolted and my mind collapsed. 

I was right back in Hawkins Middle School running from the Demogorgon while carrying El. I could hear the screams of the Hawkings Lab employees behind me. The tearing of their flesh, breaking of bones as it caught them. Lured by the smell of blood from dead bodies, the monster’s calling card. The echos of their useless gunfire bombarded my eardrums leaving a ringing. The lights flickered as the air chilled. Digging my heels deeper I pushed faster. I could feel my socks tearing, the soles of my feet being shredded by the rough pavement. The shoes falling off my shoulders, forgotten in my wake. The hat and water bottle slid from my grasp as they fell to the ground behind me. 

My lungs screaming for the air I couldn’t breathe fast enough. Tears streamed from my face filling my eyes until I couldn’t see. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t stop. 

I could feel my steps get slower no matter how hard I screamed for them to keep up. My knees weakened until they buckled and I collided with the pavement. Automatically I clenched my eyes shut and curled upon myself as I hit the ground. Sobbing, a scream erupted from my throat as I prepared for razor teeth to rip into my skin. When the impact never came I opened my eyes to find myself alone in the middle of the road. There was no sign of a Demogorgon anywhere. What was wrong with me?

Unable to pick myself up I wept until I threw up, continuing to dry heave until I thought I was gonna pass out. I was so tired I wanted to lay down right there. I didn’t even care if someone ran me over. Maybe whoever came would see me and take me to the hospital. Everything hurt. 

I nearly fell over again when I eventually tried to stand. My feet were so scrapped I was leaving bloody footprints. My scrapes had reopened and I could already tell I created new ones. At an even slower pace, I dragged myself home. I thought about simply giving up and curling onto the grass or against a tree for the night, but Dustin would be worried. Mom would be furious if I was out all night. 

By the time I made it to the house, it was almost three. The streets were completely empty, which is probably a good thing as I looked like I had stepped out of a horror film.  Reaching the front door it was locked, and the key under the mat wasn’t there. I knew I didn’t leave my window open, so I knocked on Dustin’s. After a good five minutes of hard banging, he appeared. 

“Why the hell are you back so late? Where were you?” He hissed in the dim shine of his nightlight. 

“The door is locked and the key is gone,” I forced out as my as I could with the little remnants of my voice. 

“Well come in,” he ordered pulling his window open further open. 

Placing my hands on the window seal I tried to haul myself up, only to cry out. “I can’t. You’ve gotta open the front door.” 

“Are you drunk?”

“No, I barely had anything and it was hours ago.”

“Fine, I’ll open the door,” he grumbled leaving his room. 

As he opened the door he followed me back into the house announcing he was going back to bed. Entering the bathroom I bathed for the second time that day and cleaned my wounds. We would have to buy more rubbing alcohol at this rate. 

I was noticeably far worse than I had been earlier that day. The bruises had begun to develop color along my legs, arms, and face. As soon as I crawled into my bed, after downing a cup of water and ibuprofen I was out. 

I woke up that morning to a scream from my mother. Pushing myself out of bed I limped out into the entryway where my mother was yelling at Dustin 

“Is that blood? Do you think it is funny to scare me like this? You are gonna clean this up before you go see your friends,” she shrieked pointing at the trail of bloody footprints I had forgotten to clean up last night. 

“No, I didn’t do that. It’s pretty genius I have to hand that to Hal-” Dustin cut off as he saw me there. The color slightly draining from his face. 

“Sorry, that is my fault. I forgot to clean them up, ” I lulled too sore and tired to say much else. As soon as my mother's eyes caught on me she stopped with widened eyes, slowly approaching me with outstretched arms as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. 

“Oh, my god. My baby. What happened to you? Who did this? You know you can tell me. Oh, my poor baby. How could someone do this to you?” she cried hovering her hands over my arms afraid to hurt me. 

“I crashed on my bike, Mom. I’m fine.” 

“Oh honey why don’t you get in the car and I will take you to the hospital to get you looked at.”

“I already disinfected them and covered them. I was extra careful. I really just want to sleep. I am so tired, Mom.”

“Are you sure?” She asked. When I nodded she sighed, “Okay, I will make you your favorite for breakfast. How about that? I will head to the store right now. Dustin watch your sister please.”

Frantically she gathered her purse and keys. She was definitely going to come home with lots of snacks and first aid materials. As the door closed behind her Dustin stared at me until we heard her car pull out of the driveway. 

“What happened? Don’t even try to pull that shit that it was only a bike crash that you pulled with Mom. I know you didn’t look this bad after you crashed,” Dustin demanded more seriously than I had ever heard him. 

“I fell,” I stated as I began returning to my room. I could hear Dustin follow me as I entered my room. He stood at my door as I struggled to lie in my bed. “I’m tired and I had a really shitty night can you please let me sleep?”

“Do you promise to tell me later?” He bargained. 

“Yes. If anyone calls tell them I am sick.” With that, he left me to fall into a dreamless sleep in the safety of my room. 

“Halle. Halle, baby. You gotta wake up,” Mom instructed presenting a plate of eggs benedict. 

“Thank you,” I smiled with heavy eyes taking the warm plate.

“I was thinking that I want you to take the old Volkswagen when you are ready to go to school again. Taking you and Dustin, okay? I don’t want you riding your bike when you are still healing. If you are responsible, you can continue to drive it once you are better. That means no more instances like before. If Hopper even mentions you speeding you will lose car privileges again, understood?”

“Yes.”

That night I couldn’t sleep despite being tired. My mind kept flashing back to how I was positive a Demogorgon was chasing me. There had been nothing there, my brain simply decided it would play a Halloween prank on me and got lost in it. It felt like I was losing my mind. My brain lost the line between reality and fiction. 

Slowly I made my way to Dustin’s room, who was asleep at this time. Making my way to his bed I gently shook him awake. 

“What?” he replied half asleep. 

“Can I sleep in here? I’ll sleep on the floor. I just really don’t want to be alone right now,” my voice was still rough from the previous night breaking off at random places. 

“You can’t sleep on the floor. You won’t be able to get up. We will just sleep in your room,” he offered standing up and grabbing his pillow and blankets. 

Silently he settled onto the floor next to my bed. I stared at the ceiling as Mews jumped on my bed and curled up against my legs.

“I think there is something wrong with me. I’m losing it. I can’t tell what is real anymore,” I confessed. “I thought I was being chased by a Demogorgon last night, but there was nothing there. It was like I was right back in the middle school that night. I could hear those people from the lab, their screams, and their bullets. The sound of the Demogorgon. But I was all alone… there was nothing there.”

“Maybe it was your mind trying to protect you. Maybe there was something even if it wasn’t from the Upside Down.”

“But what if there wasn’t? What if it happens again, and this time in front of others? What if I am going crazy?”

“Then the rest of us will go crazy with you,” he stated like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I suppose he was right. We had all been through the same event. It would only make sense that we all suffered lingering effects the same.  “I found a new species yesterday.”

“You did? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I named him D'Artagnan. I call him Dart for short. I think he is some kind of terrestrial pollywog. I’ll show you him tomorrow and maybe we can get some books from the library.”

...

Dart was the most disgusting creature I had ever seen. It wasn’t the fact that he didn’t have eyes or that he looked like a slug, but the slime. The mucus coating was cold, sticky, and smelt bizarre.  I am all for animal protection, but if Dustin wasn’t obsessed with Dart I would have flushed him down the toilet. So I went along with it.

Continue Reading: archiveofourown.org

[gliyerabaa]

‘Corvid’s are friends’

Okay but doesn’t Elphaba keep crows? I feel like that’s how they meet, somehow. She comes out into the yard one day and there’s just a guy trying to talk to her birds

Took me a good ten minutes to realize the “corvids are friends” thing you mentioned is from the werewolf instincts post

Ok but this is SUCH a good idea. I envision this gliyeraba werewolf/vampire au taking place in a modern setting— even modern au elphaba would befriend crows though. Leaving out food for them and they bring her trinkets in return.

One day she goes out to feed the crows and there’s a guy just standing there trying to talk to them. The birds don’t mind— they’ve grown used to human interaction— but Elphaba approaches the situation with a fair amount of snark.

-

Elphaba steps out onto the porch, morning coffee and biscuits in hand. She had heard the crows making a ruckus outside and decided to take her breakfast outdoors. It’s a beautiful morning, no sense wasting it inside.

She’s caught off guard by a man leaning over the fence of her yard, seemingly trying to talk to the crows. He’s a scruffy man with shaggy hair and blue diamond tattoos covering his dark skin. He’s wearing a flannel that’s a slightly different shade of blue than his tattoos. It’s an annoying clash, further aggravating Elphaba, as if the presence of a stranger on her property wasn’t annoying enough.

“Hey man, go find your own murder to befriend— these crows are mine.”

“Oh, sorry” the scruffy man looks up, “Just trying to see if these birds have any intel on the mailman. Can’t stand the guy.”

“The mailm- Boq? What do you have against him?”

“Nothing. I just like chasing him. I mean— my dog. My dog likes chasing him. Not me. That would be weird.”

“Right.” Elphaba sighs. It was too early in the morning to be dealing with a weirdo like this.

“Those biscuits look good.” The man leaps over the fence effortlessly and lands on all fours. “Can I have one?”

Elphaba’s first instinct is to reach for her phone and call the police— but her phone is inside and even if it weren’t, she knows better than to call the cops on what she assumes to be a homeless man. As off-putting as the stranger’s presence is, she casts aside her reservations and hands him a biscuit.

“Thank you!” He accepts the food and devours it quickly, “My name is Fiyero, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Fiyero. What exactly brings you to the neighborhood, aside from hunting down poor Boq?”

“Y’know, I’m still not too sure. I’ve been a bit of a lone wolf for a while, I’m still trying to figure out where I want to go and who I want to be.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Though maybe you should refrain from inviting yourself into other people’s property.”

“Ah, yeah…” Fiyero smiles sheepishly, “Still haven’t quite figured that one out.”

Elphaba offers him another biscuit. It’s strange, she thinks, how Glinda had to be invited into Elphaba’s home, but now this man practically invites himself in. Two mysterious encounters in the span of only a few months…

“Elphie, what’s going on out here?” Glinda steps outside, making sure she stays in the shade of the porch. She looks at the man sitting on the porch and smiles, a rare grin that shows off her pointed fangs. “Fiyero!”

“Glinda!” Fiyero leaps up and practically tackles her in a hug.

Elphaba raises an eyebrow, “You two know each other?”

“Of course we do— we went to the Academy together. Didn’t see each other much, considering I was in the Vamp dorm and he was in the Lycan dorm, but..”

Oh. All of Fiyero’s odd mannerisms made sense now— he was a werewolf!

[humanoidtyphoons]

answer me, my prince-esque hitsukarin would be so cute tho.

set during the timeskip, where toushirou and karin haven't met and become friends.

but essentially, urahara gives both toushirou and karin a box, telling them to write in them and a miracle might happen. this box allows them to write letters to each other, and it goes undetected by soul society security. the catch: it has to be handwritten!

and so, they unknowingly become penpals, and get to know each other intimately that way. revealing thoughts to each other that they wouldn't have said otherwise, at least at first.

maybe it's more gen/friendshippy, so it's an outlet for their stress at the start. this is how it begins, toushirou wishing he could confide in someone while he tries to repair his friendship with momo, and how to handle his guilt in stabbing her. karin deciding to close herself off, now that she's taken on ichigo's duties, but still wishing she could have a rukia like ichigo, so she feels less alone, bc she doesn't have a friend group like her big brother does, who can see supernatural things, and they don't want her in their fights against hollows. but she finds herself wishing she could talk to someone about these ghosts/hollows she talks to.

and in these letters, unfolds the snark and teasing, the gentle advice, and miscommunication from not understanding tone. the worry in being like. why aren't they responding tonight? did something happen? the looking forward to receiving the responses, the wishing that they could see the expression on each other's faces. to feeling understood, and laughing quietly at in-jokes. the almost writing i wish i could see you in person, and toushirou planning booked holiday leave eventually so he can visit her. the way they start off guarded, before realizing how it's freeing to open up to a stranger-turned-friend. to realize, belately, that they've fallen for each other when they haven't even seen each other.

there's a moment, they think, when they could exchange numbers, and hear each other's voices, and then, bc they're young and foolish, they resist that instinct, bc they've build up such a good letter writing rapport, that prefer they stick to the old fashioned format instead.

(and maybe matsumoto and yuzu sneak in and write some mischievous letters as well, hoping for some matchmaking to happen, bc whoever is on the other side of the box, well -- they're definitely making the person on this side happier. and they're curious!)

there's an awkward pause, when they finally meet, months after their first letter to each other, and things are... better for them. less of a issue. hinamori has recovered, and their friendship has healed; karin's come to terms with talking to ghosts, feels less burdened by taking up the mantle ichigo left for her. and they've told each other what they look like, said they'd wear specific items so it's impossible not to recognize each other. but then karin, says, jeez, there's no way you're a captain when you look like an elementary student! and toushirou snarks right back at her, you're a lot shorter than i expected too! and then suddenly, they're smiling and laughing, bc it's comfortable and familiar, everything sliding into place, and they just wonder why they didn't do this sooner?

so what was the miracle?, karin and toushirou ask urahara later, eating ice cream bc they only meant to stop by for a minute. miracle? urahara echoes, playing coy. what miracle? you two are a date, why are you asking me useless questions? go enjoy yourselves and be happy!

(we're not on a date! they reply, blushing, but they're not fooling anybody.)

[denimbex1986]

'Since only recently opting to have a new host each year, the BAFTA Film Awards have had various big names on master of ceremonies duties including Joanna Lumley, Graham Norton, Rebel Wilson and Richard E. Grant. While all popular figures, none managed to get the public reaction of this year’s host: David Tennant.

According to sources at the British Academy, the announcement that David Tennant would be overseeing the U.K.’s biggest night for film on Feb. 18 was met with an overwhelmingly positive response that even they weren’t expecting. Whatever the “Doctor Who” legend’s fanbase may be called (even he says he’s not sure and is “open to suggestions”), they certainly took the news well, and he says he’s “grateful for anyone who thinks it’s a good idea.” But he admits that he’s still somewhat “bewildered” by BAFTA’s decision.

Speaking to Variety ahead of the ceremony, Tennant discusses keeping things friendly on stage, how the interest in what he’s going to wear has matched the excitement about his first “Doctor Who” outfit and why he won’t be aiming any jokes at the biggest name in pop (whether she’s in the room or not).

Are you excited about hosting the BAFTAs?

I am! But I’m a bit bewildered. I don’t know what to expect, if I’m honest with you. The whole thing just feels like one of those experiences you say “yes” to because it would be churlish not to. But what an amazing thing to be asked to do. What a privilege.

What’s your approach going to be when it comes to hosting? Warm and cuddly, nice with a little bit of snark or all-out Ricky Gervais?

I think the BAFTA mood is supportive and friendly. Ricky Gervais is brilliant at what he does, but that wouldn’t be my style. I don’t think I’ve quite got that sort of approach, so I think you just have to kind of be who you are, really. But we’ve got some good material that won’t leave anyone feeling got at.

I imagine you’ve been to a few in your time, but do you enjoy awards ceremonies?

On one level, they’re dazzling and exciting and giddy-making and then the other version is rather dull and rather repetitive. So it’s about trying to edge toward the former rather than the latter. But there are some fantastic films in the running. It’s a competitive year. So I think that will give the awards company itself a bit of pep, because I think it’s quite unpredictable. Very often, by the time you get to this stage of awards season, you kind of know who’s going to win what. But I when I look at the categories, I can’t actually guess many of them. I think they’re all quite wide open. And there’s a lot of incredibly talented people doing incredibly remarkable things in each category. So I think that, more than anything else, actually is the engine to a good awards show.

At the recent Golden Globes ceremony, one of the main talking points from the evening was how host Jo Koy bombed on stage. Did this spark any fear of jokes falling flat or you being met with a silent room?

Not being a comic I feel gives me slight cover. I’m not really expected to be good at any of that stuff. I’m just there to hold it all together. And don’t diss Tay Tay, I think is the lesson to be learned. I live in a house of Taylor Swift fans, so I know better.

The BAFTA stage has often been used as a platform to let off a bit of comic steam about some of the issues of the day, especially politics. Are you going to be using this opportunity to raise any thoughts about the government or current affairs or Scottish independence?

I think it will probably focus on the evening. There’s so much going on in the world that one could talk about. But think it would be probably a hostage to fortune to try and use that platform. Obviously, we live in a world where there’s all sorts of awful things going on and we’re all deeply moved by it. But probably the purpose of an award show at this moment in time is to have a moment away from all that.

Have you managed to watch all of the nominated films?

I made a decision very early on that as the host, I had to remain entirely neutral and not pass comment on any of the films. I’m not talking about any of this. I’m removing myself from it. I don’t want it to look like there’s any sort of favoritism going on. So that’s has been my policy, which I’m going to continue very vigilantly until after the awards show. And then I will post all my opinions about who was robbed.

Yes, you have to be the living embodiment of neutrality on stage.

Exactly. I have to be Switzerland.

Have you settled on an outfit for the evening? Have you got a glam squad and team of stylists hard at work?

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a world where people aren’t quite so interested in what I’m going to be wearing. Maybe when I had to reveal my “Doctor Who” outfit for the first time, that probably had a similar level of interest.'

[horsegirlalexkralie]

yEAH

They totally get off with the sneaking around, too. tim tells alex he'd love to keep this up, but only bc alex seemed to really enjoy himself and definitely not bc he's absolutely addicted to his cock at this point (nothing has been enough, he suddenly stops hooking up with random assholes bc none of them are good enough and he sends them off still needy and frustrated) and alex agrees bc he likes being able to finally break tim down and make him a mess

I say this idea gets 100 times better if tim and alex sneak off during filming and get caught fucking by brian and jay

real. so real. tim and alex still tsundereing at each other while theyre literally constantly sneaking away from work to fuck? so fucking real. constantly snipping at each other on set like everyone else cant see whats happening. 'calling for five' when they just got on set- like jay and brian won't notice. like they haven't seen alex taking tim aside night after night, the two of them arriving to rehearsal together, late, with flimsy excuses for why.

jay and brian cracking jokes every time the two of them are stuck alone on set abt what alex and tim must be up to that slowly turns into wondering and theorizing abt how hey, what if they are? they sure have been gone a while. wouldnt that be funny. it kinda works when you think about it, huh. h uh.

and theyre both Thinking About It (maybe sorta kinda talking abt it in a liiiittle too much detail to just be guys being dudes making jokes being bros and giving each other kinda sorta little bro handjobs and dudely manly kisses on the lips abt it) and then theyre on set and tims wearing what jay keeps calling his slut jeans and theyve been running the same goddamn scene for like an hour (six lines tim has six entire lines and hes said them more than brians gotten to open his mouth at all alex has to be banging him or doing weird psychosexual director shit with him this is like objectively silly) and jay sneaks out from behind the camera to whisper twenty bucks says alex tells us to take five in the next minute in brians ear and hes right.

and tim says hes going out for a cigarette all bitchy and huffy and alex snarks at him and stomps out the front door like it doesnt also lead outside and jays 👁👁 at brian w his big stupid eyes the entire time (not a subtle bone in that boys body bless his fucking heart) and he goes so we're gonna go after them right you wanna see if theyre actually doing it right . alex fucks guys in his car a lot cuz of the hatchback i bet theyre out there . like if theyre fucking . and brian caves "but only if we're not weird about it" just for them to stand there staring for a couple minutes too long and be obviously hard when brian (red, hands in his hoodie pocket so it hangs lower, averting his eyes) knocks on the window and coughs and goes uh, my neighbors are uh. home? and like up? and opening their bli- and they both scramble out and alex tries to ?? lecture them ?? like he has any right ?? (hes ?? hard ??? too ???? he blew off filming first ?????? is brian in the fucking twilight zone ????????) until somebody tim probably pipes up that maybe they do this conversation inside?

ends up being the right decision seeing as jay cant stop telling alex hes kind of hot and jay wasnt expecting him to top and does he still keep condoms in his car or was that like a slut era thing and he didnt know tim was his type man jays kinda jealous honestly are they like exclusive bc jay was totally thinking abt hitting th- alex shoves him against the wall when they get inside and asks if hes fucking kidding or what bc he doesnt have any right to be a shit abt this and jay just looks down at his dick and then back up like :3? and brian thinks ur cute together. just sayin lol. and alex short circuits when he puts all of that together at once

didnt mean for this to get like fic length whoops

[pink-strawberry-kissess]

Ok ok, Rambling Anon again, glad I cleared that up first. Now for the rambling!

So I mean we always knew it but man Capcom making it REALLY obvious Ada has morals and isn't this irredeemable mustache-twirling villain some of the fandom paint her as. Like seriously they're practically quoting Umbrella Chronicles at this point. it's the same exact situation as with the G-virus: Ada is sent after a bioweapon, Ada then questions the destructive capabilities of the weapon, Ada betrays her employer. Rinse and repeat.

And to get back to my other point in my previous ask, re: getting in Ada's head. I love the little remarks you can read if you interact with stuff in OG Separate Ways, but if they keep playing up Ada's tendency to think aloud, we're going to get so much more on what she's thinking every step of the way and I am so here for it! I hope they keep some of her snark from the OG, it was funny reading her decor critiques and lightened the situation a bit.

And now Ada's infected!? That'll be interesting. I imagine it gets taken care of fairly quickly because she doesn't show any signs of that in base RE4R. We don't see her a lot, but even in the video calls her face looks perfectly non-infected.

OKAY HI AGAIN

oh yes yes okay i did read some of this last night but fell asleep lol

YES i feel like they're being so much clearer that ada does have morals but she's willing to cut a bitch if she feels like she's doing the better thing. there's no morality in re universe. it's true that killing one person might save 100 people or whatever. she chooses the lesser evil BECAUSE SHE CAN AND I FIND THAT SO MUCH MORE INTERESTING THAT JUST A PLAIN MORALLY GOOD CHARACTER

SHE HAS CHOICES AND DECISIONS SHE CAN MAKE

YES!!!! IM so excited to hear her inner thoughts and to get more characterization for her. re4 separate ways and re6 had the most for understanding her character and you can always tell whenever you talk to someone who's never played it and purposely misunderstands her character. i think that she'll be snarky! and sassy! but a bit cold and reserved at times. i think she'll try to be light hearted sometimes but feel like she wants to do what she can to ultimately save herself. someone mentioned that ada is always there to save leon- who's there to save ada other than herself?

i think the addition of ada's infection wasn't SUPER like. we kinda knew that it was a possibility. but to see it in the trailer and real makes it like WOAH okay she's actually infected. it's going to be an interesting change and it's going to affect the timeline a lot because we're free to speculate when she's infected and when she's cured. i think that ashley and leon both don't show signs of infection until a lot further in the game, so we also gotta think about that.

and ada wearing a fully covered outfit also hides her infection. we also have to consider that it's possible she's infected with a different strain. but YES SO MUCH TO EXPLORE AND DISCUSS AND IT'S COMING SO SOON OMG

[enruiinas]

🪀 How do OOC posts make you feel? Do they affect your IC writing or flow, to know other muns better?

🔦 Connect the dots between you and your muse. Ways that you're the same, different, last time you thought about them, etc.

Mun Communication Preferences based meme // accepting! (I love these!)

🪀 OOC Posts: I don't think OOC posts necessarily affect my writing flow one way or the other. For the most part, I think I'm largely OOC-post neutral: I often enjoy seeing snippets of fellow muns' day to day lives or thoughts behind their writing process, things like that. OOC posts about their fandoms/muses in particular even frequently send me into peoples' DMs like "OH ON THAT NOTE HERE'S A THOUGHT-", so I enjoy those to some extent. And I always love ooc stuff that's still "roleplay related"/talking about relatable RP things.

I think the only OOC things I tend to really tune out are like... play-by-plays of fandom or real life events (so like the "read with me"/"watch with me" journeys?) - but I only get to that point when there's a ton of them. If that happens and there's a relevant tag for it I'll usually just hide it. I keep my following pretty small so like... if I'm following someone it generally means I'm interested in most if not all of their content!

🔦 Oh man, this is a fun one! For similarities, I'll start with the obvious: we're bday twins! I will never get over how excited I am about this. I think we're both the quiet/introverted type, enjoy learning about a wide variety of subjects in general, and are socially awkward/possibly both have RBF vibes. I think we both need to surround ourselves with people we love & mean something to. Differences: Law is much better at strategizing, he's obviously way smarter than I am, he's a good leader where I am definitely not, umm... he's not squeamish where I often am. We are both socially awkward but I think he's better at witty retorts and snark than I am, so that's a thing I struggle with a lot in RPs (especially lighthearted/fun stuff). I am very much the person that like... if you're insulting or teasing you pretty much have to let me know outright that you're doing it, or you're going to say something "funny" or "rude" or whatever and I'm going to blink and it's going to go right over my head. This can be funny when it manifests in my writing of Law sometimes, but it also wears me out because there are a lot of things where I'm like "I know he's have something cool and funny to retort with and I just... do not because I don't have a clever or funny bone in my body."

As for the last time I thought about Law? I'm always thinking about Law. I think it's fair to say @climatact can attest to this now that we've hung out in person but there's very little I see or hear or think about that doesn't turn into "how would Law respond, think, feel, etc" about this, "how would this look if it was law and [muse] -- that kind of thing. If I'm reading or watching a fandom and I see a good shutdoown/emotional breakdown happen I'm like "ah yes what would bring Law to this and do I need to go post a wishlist about this now that it's on my mind..." He's really just always there in my head on some level.

[raitrolling]

One Week

[Easy reading version on Toyhou.se]

(Note: This drabble takes place between the events of Cracking Up and Velour's Statement.)

The first night after Velour’s hiatus announcement, Aiolos didn’t think too much about what he had done. He tried to shove it to the back of his mind - the look on his friend’s face when he realised the tweet had been sent, the cacophony of notification tones that filled the apartment from all his electronic devices, the knowledge that Aiolos had done a grave misstep. It was bad, yes, but it was necessary.

After all, what else was he meant to do when his friend started babbling about being a mage but stage some form of intervention? Velour wouldn’t start coming up with fantastical stories like that and say them with such earnestness if there wasn’t something wrong. 

So, he ignored the cuspblood for the time being, and spent the night playing video games with his moirail over Discord. The two of them had set up a survival multiplayer Minecraft server that they’d play on stream with their friends, but unlike the other survival multiplayer sessions that were popular on Twitch and YouTube, theirs was a much more casual thing. No lore or plotlines, no dramatic gimmicks for viewers to obsess over, just a group of guys shooting the shit while building up their virtual city. 

Aiolos had been flying over to the group’s new froglight farm to grab materials for his current project, when he heard Poludi’s voice crackle into his headphones.

“So, Velour, huh. Never saw that one coming.” 

The blueblood shrugged, despite not being on camera. “Oh, yeah, I had to be the one to make him do that. Trust me, he’s been due a break for sweeps, guy was going on about some dumb shit before I intervened.”

“Huh.” The redblood hummed. “How’d you get him to do it?”

Aiolos paused both verbally and in-game, watching his avatar smack into the ground and take a couple hearts of damage, and suppressed a sigh. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he couldn’t lie to Poludi.

“So, I maaay… Have stolen his phone because he wasn’t listening to reason,” He said as casually as possible, and one could easily picture the joking grin on his face through his tone. Then he huffed, acknowledging that being casual wasn’t going to cut it this time. “You’ve heard what he’s like, he literally doesn’t know better so it was the only way.”

There was a long pause on Poludi’s end, before finally the buffalo-salamander troll spoke up.

“Dude, that’s fucked up.”

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

The second night, Aiolos decided to visit Velour again to check up on him, only to be met with a strange interaction.

Velour had a friend over, apparently, but no one he knew. Some scrawny-looking nerdy blueblood on crutches, presumably because his very-punchable personality had gotten exactly what he deserved. At first, Aiolos had assumed that some fan of Velour’s had tried to take this moment as a chance to cosy up to him, so he reacted with the usual amounts of snark he gives to those losers. Predictably, the blueblood lost his temper, but less predictably, Velour got upset as well.

So, Velour was making friends with angry curly-haired bluebloods who wear glasses again. Who would’ve thought. But, the kitsune troll didn’t like Aiolos making jokes about replacing Mikiel, and the other troll threatened bloody murder should he open his mouth again. Sensing there was no winning here, he made an excuse to leave the room. 

It seemed to him that there was more to the original story than what he had assumed.

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

The third night, Aiolos visited Liiore. Even more suspiciously, that friend of Velour’s had tipped him off to say that he should check up on the anonblood, and sure enough, he was correct. 

Liiore was a wreck, despondent, not even his ridiculous amount of plushies and talking to his Pokemon on his Switch could cheer him up. Aiolos sighed at the sight of his friend and neighbour looking even more pathetic than usual, putting his hands on his hips as he stared the other troll down.

“Liiore, tell me what happened.” 

Liiore flinched at the seriousness of Aiolos’ tone, and looked up from his game. He bit his lip, and averted his gaze, knowing that if he said it out loud he’d likely start crying, and that Aiolos had little patience for whenever he got over-emotional.

“My, um… Lusus was killed.” Sure enough, the anonblood began to sniffle. “Um… Sorry.”

Aiolos’ expression softened for a moment, then he shook his head with another sigh. As Liiore set down his Switch and curled up on the couch to try and hide his tears, Aiolos moved to sit next to him. Without looking at him (as if any sort of acknowledgement of vulnerability would cause him physical pain), he put his arm around the younger troll, and Liiore then chose to cuddle up to him. Something that Aiolos would have told him off for if anyone else was around, but this time he allowed it.

“No.” Aiolos paused. He wanted to be annoyed on Liiore’s behalf, and wanted to needle him for answers as to who did it and why Velour’s new friend knew about it before he did, but… Now wasn’t the time. And he’d kick himself if he made things worse with both Velour and Liiore within a couple nights of each other.

He gazed out the window, staring at the twinkling lights of the city peeking through the pastel pink, blue, and green sheer curtains that decorated the balcony side of the hive. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Liiore didn’t think he’d ever heard Aiolos apologise before.

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

The fourth night, Aiolos visited one of the local shopping complexes.

He hated these kinds of stores - too cutesy, too fluffy, too many plushies staring at him and too many wrigglers screaming about wanting them. But they were the kinds of stores Liiore frequented, and the least he could do was buy him a little pick-me-up. 

He perused the shelves, trying to recall which Squishmallow and Jellycat the anonblood already owned. He’s definitely seen all those rabbits before, anything pastel pink or mint green or baby blue would be out of the question because those were Liiore’s favourite colours, the weird-looking lionfish or the goofy scorpion would be way too scary in Liiore’s eyes…

Then he paused in front of a display advertising the new foxes that were back in stock.

Aiolos remembered how happy Velour was when he told him that he found out what kind of animal his lusus was. A friend of his had managed to track down the records from the cavern he was hatched in, which had listed the kitsune who had taken him home to Block 136. A friend who was supposedly really good at computers, and maybe seemed like a rude person on the outside, but they do get along…

… Goddammit, they’re the same troll, aren’t they. No wonder Velour got so upset.

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

The fifth night, Aiolos went for a run to clear his head. 

He took off through the park, into the lower caste districts of the city, and kept going until he was well out of town. It was entirely normal for him to run such long distances, it came with his job as a courier, and his own personal desire to keep going no matter what. He hated staying still for so long, and while he could stream for hours on end, he always reached a point where he could no longer be confined to his computer desk or couch and just needed to run. 

In that regard, he and Velour were very similar. Neither of them knew when to quit. 

It made him think about how Velour was probably feeling right now. He’d get over it, Aiolos was sure about that, but what would he be doing to preoccupy his time? He doesn’t have hobbies outside of his own work. He can’t just go outside for a jog without being stopped by someone wanting an autograph, or potentially getting an unflattering photo taken of him. Which sounds absolutely inane, but it’s the kinds of things that he’s always stressing over. Aiolos could keep up an ordinary job and then return hive to start putting together a video for his modest fanbase. Velour was trapped, literally and metaphorically. 

He slowed down to a halt, taking the time to catch his breath. God, he really was stupid. He thought he was doing the right thing by forcing Velour to slow down and take some time for himself, but he really did do it in the worst way possible. If someone did that to him, he’d be as livid as that other blueblood Velour has gotten chummy with.

Not that he cares if Velour has other friends, but he just doesn’t like the vibe of that guy. But that’s not his problem, if Velour wants to keep hanging out with trolls who’ll inevitably break his heart when he even more inevitably hurts their feelings, so be it. Aiolos isn’t his moirail, he shouldn’t have tried to control him.

… Which means he really did fuck up as badly as he feared, and he really does have to apologise somehow. Goddammit, he’d rather eat glass than admit he was wrong. 

After taking the time to rest, he turned around and ran back towards the city. He has some more shopping to do before he heads home.

…

After the detour, he dropped off the plush harp seal he bought yesterday at Liiore’s doorstep, knocked on the door, and fled back into his own apartment before the anonblood could see him. But he would know exactly who it was from. 

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

The sixth night, Aiolos stood in his lounge room, staring at the pile of gifts he had collected from Velour’s PO Box.

The fashion designer's fans were, quite frankly, insane. Piles upon piles of get well soon cards, arts and crafts, bouquets of flowers, teddy bears, chocolates, and various wrapped gifts were spread out on his floor. He was lucky that his modus can hold so many packages, otherwise he would have had to have made multiple trips to and from the post office. What is Velour even going to do with all these? Who hears that their favourite celebrity is going on hiatus and thinks sending him all this crap is going to make him feel better? The majority of this stuff is going to end up straight in the garbage, and Velour is going to feel obligated to make a video thanking everyone for these gifts when he’s supposed to be on break. 

But, this pile of parasocial paraphernalia is the perfect place to hide his own present.

He began sorting all the gifts for ease of delivering to his neighbour. All the letters and cards were stacked into a single pile that could then be captchalogued as one object, he tied bouquets together as it’s not like it mattered who they came from, and all the crafts and fanart were shoved into an empty box he had lying around. Not all chocolates returned to his modus as some would make perfect snacks for later, and any particularly cute teddies would be set aside for Liiore. 

The gift boxes unfortunately could not be collated, but he could still sneak in his own gift while he’s handing over the modus cards to Velour. 

It had no tag to denote who it was from, but the blue ribbon and the wrapping paper decorated in sneakers should be enough for Velour to figure out the sender. And inside would be an assortment of decorative sewing trims, some patterns for doll clothes he had bought and downloaded online, and a plush fox, its fur pure white with teal-blue markings drawn under its eyes using a fabric marker. 

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

The seventh night, Aiolos knocked on Velour’s door.

“It’s me, I’ve got your mail.” 

The cuspblood was a little hesitant to answer at first, but opened the door with a sheepish smile.

“Oh! Sorry, you’ve come at a bad time, my friend is still visiting.” 

Aiolos raised an eyebrow. Did that friend even leave to begin with? For ‘just a friend’, he’s been hanging around for an awful time…

Velour caught that strange look, and waved his hand.

“Don’t worry, he has been in and out! I guess it’s just never been when you’re also home? Which would explain why, well, you’ve likely never heard the door.” He says with a smile that is clearly trying to obscure the truth, but by now Aiolos knows better than to question him.

“Yeah, alright, whatever. I’m just not gonna ask, and I’m glad we’re diagonally opposite neighbours so I don’t have to hear-”

“Aiolos! You know I’m not- You know!” Velour spluttered, blushing slightly.

The antelope troll cackled.

“Alright, alright, that was too easy. Anyway, onto the important thing. I know you’re not leaving your hive at the moment, so I did the honours of collecting your mail for you. With the amount of shit I picked up you would have thought you announced your death or some shit. Like, look at this.”

He pulled out the captchalogue cards from his trusty messenger bag, handing them to Velour one by one. Much like a clown car, the bag holds a lot more than it seems, and soon the kitsune troll has to start tucking the cards under his arm just so he can hold onto all of them.

“Ah- Oh my. They… Really just keep coming, don’t they.” He says, bewildered. Aiolos kept handing out cards.

“Aaaand there’s the last of them. You know the drill, give those cards back to me when you’re done with them, unless you’re planning on getting me fired as revenge,” The blueblood replied, ending that sentence with a smug grin.  

Velour knew he was joking, and smiled at that.

“Well, if you hadn’t been fired for all the times you stole people’s packages yet, I’d say you’re quite immune!” 

At that moment, Aiolos wanted to slap himself for thinking he was ever in trouble with him, and going through all that effort for his stupid apology gift. Of course Velour would forgive him, he always had such a high tolerance for his bullshit, and knew that Aiolos wasn’t the type to give up on friendships so easily either. Ultimately, they were both idiots. He shook his head with a smile.

“Yeah, it’s hard to get rid of me that easily, so you’ll just have to deal with it.” Aiolos shrugged theatrically. “But, I’ll leave you be. Good luck with all those gifts, your fans clearly miss you. I would’ve thought they’d have gotten over it by now, but you’ve really cultivated an audience.”

He then turned to leave, and Velour waved him goodbye. At the same time, the kitsune troll wondered if Aiolos actually sounded somewhat apologetic about being the cause for his fans’ worry, but figured he was probably reading too much into it. 

It wasn’t until he found the blue-ribboned present in the stack of captcha cards that he figured out he was correct. 

[auspex]

2, 29, 38 for porphyria and 13, 40, 50 for mark!

Let;s goooooo these were sooo fun

Do they wear perfume/cologne? If so what scents do they prefer?

Followers correct me if I’m wrong but I imagine perfume was a little bit of a luxury item back then? But Porphyria was middle class so I imagine she could afford it sometimes :) I think she would keep it simple, as most perfume was back then, with floral scents. She's on the trail right now so actually wears it more often cause its hard to bathe.

If they were real would you be friends with them?

I’m not, for better or worse, friends with people who are older than me often. Or many friends in general. Cause I talk about my interests a lot and . yeah. Let’s say she was not a mage and just happened to work in my office or something. In which case I think we would get along great. Because I love to work with positive people. I still rarely hang out with people outside of work but I could definitely see it. 

If she was just like, transported here with time shenanigans and she identified me as someone closely connected to her fate (cause i imagine I would look SOOO weird to her, she'd be like why the fuck is my fate connected to this random future person) and so wanted to get to know me, I would be nice to her oc because like. I do know she is a positive helpful person though I would be wary of her trying to look into my mind and stuff cause I know she would : ( but then she would read my mind and jesus it would get complicated there. That would be a whole story. Existential crisis on her part. And mine.

What are their dreams like? Do they have any recurring dreams/nightmares?

Loaded question because her cabal now has shared dreams when they dream and we are figuring out how the fuck those work. I think they have seen visions of Atlantis, which is a time where everyone could do magic and was a much better world. So I guess her dreams are very very vivid. She’s had prophetic dreams before too : ) I don’t think she has nightmares but if she did I bet they would be signs. Sorry this was a short answer. We are just still learning about her dreams :)

For Mark..

Do they enjoy poetry?

Answered, but as a bonus I looked at some Roman poems and picked one I think he would like but would rather Die than tell anyone he liked it. It's about unattainable women but I think Mark would relate it to getting a crush on a straight guy lol.

Thus it will be; slender arrows are lodged in my heart, and Love vexes the chest that it has seized Shall I surrender or stir up the sudden flame by fighting it? I will surrender – a burden becomes light when it is carried willingly.

sic erit; haeserunt tenues in corde sagittae, et possessa ferus pectora versat Amor. Cedimus, an subitum luctando accendimus ignem? cedamus! leve fit, quod bene fertur, onus.

Mark is sooo silly <3

If they found a sword in a stone would they try to pull it out? How would they react to being able to pull it out or not?

He's way too paranoid and so is his coterie to just pull it out. He would prob have a coterie member w sense the unseen, Rose, look at it, and tell him if its magic. If its not magic, I think he'd let another coterie member take it cause he isn't good at melee combat and would think he'd hurt himself. If it WAS magic, ough another sidequest to figure out wtf that is before anyone touches it....

What is your favorite thing about them?

I LOVEEEE how he loves humanity but is SOOOO secret with it. Deep Mark lore. I do love how he is gay too and that's the angst in the story i am the most Normal about but if we are talking personality traits that's definetely it. I do like his stupid snark too though. And that he still wears glasses despite not needing htem. And his utter devotion to sampson that he's not even fully aware of. ough. ok let me stop Ranting about things I like.

So to focus on that yeah I love that he isn't human and doesn't have any other kindred he feels like he could talk to about this but it bothers him a LOT how even the nicer kindred don't respect humanity at all. he has no outlet for this. Its not a big deal for now but could totally become an important thing at any point. <3 Monster loving humanity <3 monster not accepting he isnt part of humanity <3 ough.

[camaro-and-smokes]

Pretty (wo)man

Chapter 5: Dinner is served

Tags for this chapter: flirting, causing general mayhem. See rating, warnings and tags for the whole fic on AO3. General warning: This work as a whole includes themes related to and mentions of prostitution, sex work, and sexual abuse. I will add tags with every new chapter and notes when anything particularly nasty is being depicted, but if this kind of content isn't your cup of tea to begin with, please move on. Now, consider yourself warned. Please, proceed.

Other chapters on tumblr >>

Chapter summary: Causing mayhem was why Billy was with Steve on the Nero and, well, mission definitely got a good start.

::::::::::

Billy and Steve were the last to arrive at the dinner. Some guests turned to look, and Billy could feel the surprised gazes on him. He was wearing his hair in a high bun, one of the cocktail dresses he’d bought with Cassie - a black tight one that modestly covered most of his thighs - and a long earring dangling in his left ear. He knew he’d hear about the makeup later as well, and it made him smile.

An older, gray-haired man in great shape—and in a very expensive suit—got up to greet them, extending his hand for Steve for a shake. “Steve! Nice to see you!” “Nice to see you again too, sir.” “Nah, don’t call me that,” the man said, smiling and shaking his head. “It’s Charles. And this is...?” he asked, extending his hand to Billy, seemingly unphased of Billy’s unconventional appearance. “I’m Charles Hamlin, Amanda’s father.” Then he pointed at an older woman, who measured Billy from head to toe – and clearly didn’t fully approve. “This is Charlotte Hamlin, my wife and Amanda’s mother.” “Uh, this is William. William...” Steve started to introduce Billy and realized to his horror that they hadn’t agreed upon a last name. “William Harcove,” Billy said, smiling, and shook the older man’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” Steve glanced at Billy, surprised, but quickly returned the polite smile on his face. “Nice to meet you, William,” Charles said and pointed his hand at the end of the table, right across from Amanda and her husband-to-be. “Steve, William, please, have a seat.”

Charles clinked his knife to his champagne glass. “So, now that we’re all here, I’d like to welcome you all. Thank you for coming and taking part in this week long celebration for Amanda and Tom. We have familiar faces and some new ones here, but I hope to get to know you all over this week. It’s going to pass all too quickly, I’m know it, so let’s make every moment count. Now, a toast for Amanda and Tom.”

After toasting the room filled with chatter as the waiter poured wine and everyone was waiting for the first course to arrive. On one side of Billy, there was a heated discussion going on about the latest polo match and very well made ponies. Billy didn’t have any idea what they talked about except that it must’ve been about horses. On the other side of the table, two women were comparing their very expensive jewelry and how Bulgari was indeed better with Swarovski’s chrystals.

Billy had never felt so out of place before. He leaned on Steve’s shoulder. “So, who are all these people?” he whispered. “Well, you know Amanda. Next to her is her snobby boyfriend, Tom. He’s old money from England, and I’m sure Amanda is more than thrilled about it. I bet she is already dreaming of living in England.” “Not sour at all, are you?” “Not now that you’re here,” Steve smiled.

Billy chuckled. “So, what’s the thing with the old man? You two get along still?” “We do some business together. He’s a shark, though. Keep snark to a minimum when you talk with him. He smells the tiniest drop of blood from afar and bites hard.” “Duly noted. What about the mom?” “As you can see, she already has a glass of wine. Probably not the first one today, either. She’s a bored housewife. They really fit to each other though. Both equally unfaithful, and yet she’s unwilling to divorce him because she wouldn’t have anything if they’d split. How tragic.” “You really don’t sound sorry at all for not marrying to that family,” Billy chuckled.

“That’s because I’m not,” Steve smiled. “Ok, so then there’s Tom’s parents. I know nothing of them, which is probably a good thing. Then there’s Amanda’s best friends, Carol and Heather. Heather and I actually got along well when me and Amanda dated. I’m sure you two get along as well. Ok, so then there’s Amanda’s aunt and her husband, and these people around us I don’t know. Maybe they’re Tom’s friends.”

Billy shook his head. “Why on earth were you invited to this? I mean, I would’ve understood if it was a massive wedding, but there’s barely anyone here.” “To rub it in, remember? Ok, I know Charles was sorry about my and Amanda’s break-up, so maybe he wanted to invite me at least to get to have an enjoyable week on a very nice boat at his expense. When he told me that I was welcomed to join, he didn’t tell me why and I didn’t ask.”

“You could’ve just said no?” “Maybe,” Steve said, and took Billy’s hand in his. “But then you showed up and opened my eyes and...I just couldn’t pass the opportunity. You’ve already taken everyone by surprise, including Amanda.” Billy smiled. “Which was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Steve nodded. “Mission well on the way, then.”

The food was finally served. When the waiter set an odd looking plate with filled holes in front of Billy, he looked at it, frowning. “What is this?” he asked Steve, poking the filling in one hole. “Escargot,” Steve said. Billy was about to ask how he should eat them, but the man next to Steve asked something from him, and he got engrossed in the discussion.

Billy glanced around the room, trying to see if anyone else was eating already, but everyone was more interested in talking. He was hungry and looked back at the odd plate with holes filled with...some green herby stuff. From outside towards the plate, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath, and took the outermost tool, a funny-looking fork, in his hand.

He poked at one filling with the fork, and startled when it rolled around in the hole, revealing a shell. He froze as his first thought was that the food was still alive. But when the shell didn’t move, he poked another filling, and that remained in its place.

The shells seemed to be filled with something; the holes were over-poured, and he tried to catch the whatever was inside the shell with the fork, but then this shell too rolled around.

He cursed under his breath and looked around him again, making sure no one was paying attention. He pushed the fork between the shell and the hole in the plate and gently tried to pry it out. It worked, but the shell popped out of the hole with such force that it landed on the table, bouncing away from him like a ping-pong ball. He tried to grab it in mid-flight after the first bounce but missed, and he got up quickly, finally catching it on the third bounce. He sat down fast, frozen in place and squeezing the shell so tightly in his fist that it broke.

Steve turned to look at him. “Everything alright?” “Uh-huh,” Billy replied, nodding hastily, trying his best to hold back a laughter as he wiped his hand into his napkin. Steve looked at him curiously. “You sure?” “Yeah,” Billy replied, biting his tongue to force the laughter down his throat. “Sorry, I have to visit the bathroom.” “Alright,” Steve said, amused. “Ask the head waiter for directions. They’ll show you where it is.”

Billy got to the bathroom and had the door barely closed behind him when he started laughing uncontrollably until to the point of having tears in his eyes. When the laughter finally eased, he washed his hands and returned to the dinner table.

This time, Steve was paying attention. “You saw it, didn’t you?” Billy asked quietly as Steve showed him how to carve the meat out of the shell with the odd fork. “Yeah. It was a good catch though,” he chuckled, making Billy let out a laugh. “Don’t worry, it happens. They’re slippery sometimes.” Steve got the meat out of the shell and offered the fork to Billy.

Billy smirked and instead of taking the fork, he leaned in and sucked the meat slowly off of it, his eyes locked on Steve’s, enjoying the view of Steve’s mouth slowly opening ajar. Billy licked his lips with a lopsided grin when he let go of the fork. Steve raised his eyebrow, hunted another snail from its shell, and offered it again to Billy, who repeated the act with a smirk. “Oh, you’re such a bad boy,” Steve whispered, shaking his head slightly. Billy leaned into Steve’s shoulder. “Just the way you like it, don’t you?” he whispered directly at Steve’s ear, and placed his hand on Steve’s thigh, brushing the inner side slowly. Steve shivered at the hot breath of air in his ear and the hand on his crotch. He turned to look at Billy, whose face was barely an inch away. “If you keep doing that, I have no option but to take you away and punish you a little. And then you’ll end up going to bed hungry. Do you want that?”

Billy couldn’t hide his smile when he felt the tips of his ears heating. If it was anyone else saying him those words without previous agreement, he would’ve walked out the room on the spot. But because it was Steve, so out of character, it made his abdomen tingle pleasurably.

While Steve took the third snail in his fork and fed it, too, to Billy, he glanced over at Amanda. Not that her thoughts mattered to him at all not really—the pleasure he got from feeding Billy not at all subtly in front of her and the whole wedding party was enough as itself—but seeing her staring at them, outraged, it made it all even better.

Billy saw Steve look at Amanda, and turned to look at her too, licking his lips and wiping the corners of his mouth with his finger, finishing the job by sucking it unashamedly to get everything off of it. He smirked and winked at her as he sat up straight and took his own fork in his hand, fishing the snails out of his own plate.

The dinner lasted as long as only a three course meal could. While the rest of the dinner party continued the evening at the bar, Billy opted for a smoke.

Steve led them to the end deck of the ship. “After you,” he said as he opened the door to the deck, letting Billy walk through the doors first. “Wow!” Billy said as he stepped out onto the deck. The sun had just set, an angry slit of red between dark veils of clouds in the horizon as a last echo of its light before darkness would take over. There were no clouds above the ship, though, so when he looked up at the sky, he could see the North star. Steve walked to the railing, leaned his back on it, and looked at Billy. “Gorgeous.” Billy looked at him. “You can say that again.” “Well, the sky is pretty too, but I meant you. Gorgeous and sexy as hell.” Billy smiled a wide smile and walked to Steve. “Got my smokes?”

Steve took the pack from his jacket pocket and gave it to Billy. He held his lighter for Billy to light his smoke and when Billy gave the pack back; he lit one for himself, too. Billy leaned on the railing with his elbows and looked down at the darkening sea, shaking his head slightly. “This is fucking magical.” Steve turned around to lean his elbows on the railing too, taking a drag. “Yeah. It is.” He glanced at Billy. “So, what was that at the dinner table?” Billy smirked. “Don’t deny it. You liked it.” Steve leaned into Billy’s shoulder. “Yes. Very much.” “Amanda was outraged,” Billy laughed. “Mission accomplished.” Billy glanced at Steve. “Aren’t you afraid that she kicks us off the boat first thing tomorrow?” “She won’t. Charles invited me. It would be rude.” “Oh, and we’re not being rude?” Billy asked, raising his other eyebrow. “Now that’s different. We are going to do everything as rudely as possible.” “Don’t ask what you’re not willing to do, lover-boy.” Steve laughed. “I think I’m getting more and more willing to do bad things out in the open just to piss her off.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They stood in silence for a while, smoking. “So...” Billy started, “is this something that happens frequently in Steve Harrington’s life? Cruises in the Caribbean, fancy foods the names of which anyone else can’t pronounce but the French and wine that’s not available in every street corner?” “Food and wine, sometimes,” Steve shrugged. “But never cruises like this. I’m well off, but not this well.” “First time on the Nero then?” “Yes.” Steve leaned on Billy’s shoulder. “What do you think?” “About the ship?” “About everything.” “Why do you need my opinion?” “I don’t need it. But I’m curious about it. I want to know.” Billy could feel warm swelling in his chest. “Well, the food was great. Though the escargot didn’t taste like anything. “ Steve smirked. “They’re actually great. You were just so busy doing bad things that you didn’t pay attention.” Billy chuckled. “Well, okay, granted. But the steak was good, and the wine.” Steve took a drag of his smoke. “Anything else?” “The desert was good?” Steve chuckled. “I hope the company was at least half decent.” Billy leaned up, looking at Steve pursing his lips to hide a smile. “The company was more than okay.”

Steve looked at the burning amber at the end of the cigarette for a while and then took a drag. “So, Harcove?” Billy glanced at him. “What about it?” “Just a name?” Steve asked after a moment of silence. “Just a name.” Steve nodded and looked back at the horizon for a while. Then he leaned up and took a final drag of the smoke. “Want to go mingle a bit?”

[emilythezeldafan]

Just Some Headcanons }:] IDK I was in a bored mood.

Mostly made these with my AU with @graceandtheidiotsquad in mind

Nick noticed Ashley gets self-conscious about her mouth and wrist scars [because you know talking puppet got stitched to hand, figured she'd probably have a scar on her wrist too /lh] sometimes so he taught her how to cover them with makeup [Yes I'm headcanoning he's good at that. I mean, have you seen him?]. She feels comfortable enough to not wear the makeup now, although she sometimes still experiments for fun.

*self projects my hidden self esteem issues, fragile confidence and existential guilt over things I had no control over onto Nick*

You know that one Wanda Maximoff quote from WandaVision? 'Someone better be bleeding, broken or on fire.' Ashley energy sometimes ngl.

Bella is still incredibly dangerous when someone hurts her 'people' [So, the other Handeemen, or as a late addition, her s/o Michael.] She doesn't lose all control of herself but she gets close. Her and Nick are still [platonically] very close and most comfortable sharing a room.

Bella is also more open than she used to be, although she's still mostly more comfortable around 'Father', the other Handeemen and Michael. She also sings more. [maybe because Mortimer isn't around to accuse her of sounding like a dying animal anymore.]

Riley still does science experiments. However, instead of being 'traditionally' dangerous or anyone getting hurt, they turn into Jackass stunts. Heaven help us all if she ever meets Jack Bright.

Riley and Nick still bicker. A lot.

Nick can be kinda attention-seeking. Although I don't mean that in a bad way- More of 'Hey look what I did :] do you like it :]'. Typical victims are Owen, Ashley if he's busy, Bella and Daisy.

Tbh they all have ✨mental and emotional scarring✨ but who doesn't by now- Their responses to it are different. Nick accidentally dumps on anyone who is even the slightest bit nice to him [this is practically canon], it's almost impossible to get Riley to talk about it unless she's already on the verge of a breakdown, and Bella goes quiet again if she's asked about everything that happened back at the studio.

Riley runs off coffee and spite. She pulled two all-nighters in a row once before passing out in her makeshift 'lab'. Straight-up faceplanted onto a desk. [More self projection]

Tbh I feel like despite hating each other in canon letting Scout loose in Riley's lab would cause them BOTH to create chaos.

the first time Riley and Bella had that time of month was...certainly interesting. [They knew about it from vague interactions with human women but actually having them now was something else]

Riley still has anger issues. She once hit Handiunit [Yes, the Sister Location AI] with a wrench. ["Welcome, Eggs Benedict." "*Deep Inhale* Everyone stand back, I'm going to kill it."

Ashley is the only one of these four in particular who can cook. Nick usually ends up creating some horrible concoction B Dylan Hollis style and setting the kitchen on fire, Riley accidentally causes things to explode, and Bella just isn't good at it.

Ashley will call Owen out if she thinks he's internalizing again. She'll try to help, of course, but she can't help a little snark. "Remember what happened last time you internalized all your trauma and shut other people out?"