#when i say i have a type is somewhat pathetic men who are maybe fighting for their life

[tired-twili]

Them: what's your sexuality?

Men covered in blood and dirt

[korebringerofded]

Changes- Chapter 1 Reuploaded

Summary- Eddie becomes jealous when rumors around town suggest you and Steve Harrington are sleeping together. After fighting with Eddie events lead to you and Steve Harrington having a 'movie night' to cheer you up

NO CHILDREN ON MY PAGE

Masterlist here

Pairings-Friends to lovers! Steve Harrington X Reader, Established relationship! Eddie Munson X reader

Warnings-Smut, semi-cheating?, fighting, angst, violence, fingering, p in v smut, smoking, drinking

Tags- Mechanic Eddie, eventual Steddie X Reader, smut, eventual poly, somewhat cheating?

A/N-I am working on a new chapter but in the meantime enjoy new scenes and updated stuff to make everything fit together. Will be uploading all of what is written so far just reedited so enjoy! Still the same story as this series. Just some new scenes and better written!

Eddie would have never really considered himself the jealous type, but when it came to you, you were his everything, his sunshine, someone he could really hold and love. He had also never really had a problem with you working alongside Steve, ‘The King’ Harrington at the video store. 

You and Steve had been friends in kindergarten and again after high school, and Eddie didn’t believe he had any right to say anything about who you were or weren't friends with.

Besides, he trusted you more than anything. It was like breathing. 

Despite that he would still try to avoid Steve, maybe it was something about the way you smiled widely at him or maybe it was the way that Dustin looked up at him with stars shimmering in his eyes. It was at times like this Eddie would feel burrowing pangs of jealousy and remember the Steve he knew in high school, the one he loathed that called him a freak. 

When Eddie entered the shop that day he could hardly be bothered by the whispers and glances from each and every person, guest and employee alike. It had been like this for his entire life so it was easy for Eddie to ignore them, the people of Hawkins always gawked at him, even now. He did his best to ignore the whispers and glares and quickly started setting up to work, putting his bulky headphones over his ears.

He was about halfway through the shift, under a car with grease spread on his face and his hair tied up messily. As much as he hated this fucking town when he was working on a car he was truly able to disappear into the problem. It was especially nice when he needed a distraction. 

It was only when he pulled himself up, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a semi-clean rag that he overheard some of the guys talking, apparently not realizing he was there. 

He froze, listening closely as the two men spoke in muddled whispers.

“It just isn’t proper,” 

“Someone should say something, he ought to know.” 

“If someone were fucking my girl I would shoot them dead.” 

“Let alone in the back of the video store!” 

They all broke out into booming echoing laughs that made Eddie’s head spin. He had suspected for weeks that something was happening between you and Steve but now the entire situation was staring him down.

He couldn’t stay silent anymore and after a harsh interrogation of his coworkers he had heard all he needed to for his worst fear to be confirmed. 

There were rumors around town that you and Steve had been fucking in the back of the video store. Your face flashed in his head, toothy grin, your pink cheeks and fluttering eyelashes looking up at Steve as they fell to brush your cheeks and then meet back with Steve’s caramel ones. He kissed you softly, intimately. Like it was only one of hundreds.

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before, that he had been so blind.

He imagined Steve would hold your chin, tongue swirling around your mouth, while he pressed you against the wall of the video store on a rainy day, your whimpers echoing in the empty store while Eddie was at home, pathetically waiting for your return. 

Steve would grip your hips with his muscular thigh pressed between yours and your hot clothed cunt soaks through the thin material of your pants.

“Steve, Steve, Steve.” Your voice echoed in Eddie’s skull.

////////////////////////////////////

Eddie Munson was anything but a ‘safe’ driver on a good day but when he was angry or upset he was reckless. His knuckles were stark white as he gripped the wheel, hair flying wildly as he drove, trying to drown out the images that infiltrated his mind with booming music.

It hardly helped and the thought of Steve towering over you, pressing kisses to your neck and shoulder while your nails scraped down Steve’s perfectly toned back. Your glossy eyes dazed and low as you stared at him, he swore you were right there, he could smell and feel you just inches away. Your broken moans filled his ears, it was all so wrong and intoxicating. He shouldn’t like this, he refused to. 

He felt his face burn red when he noticed his dick had grown rock hard in his pants. 

“Fuck.” He grumbled, leaning his sweat coated forehead against the steering wheel.

/////////////////////////////////////////  

“Tell me the fucking truth, (Y/N)” Eddie growled, his voice rumbling from deep in his throat.

“That is the truth, Eddie.” Your voice was stern, tears welling in your eyes threatening to spill over and onto your flushed cheeks. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” You reached your hands out towards him, trembling like a leaf. 

Eddie stood there for a moment, fighting back tears of his own as he shook his head, throwing his hands up to keep you at a distance. “No no no no, stop” He chewed at his bottom lip, “I just don’t fucking believe you.” He spat, eyebrows furrowed while he refused to look directly at you.

Your heart shattered in your chest as those sharp words slipped from his lips followed by the endless stream of tears that finally poured down your cheeks. 

Eddie’s knuckles were white and his jaw clenched to be as sharp as a blade. His already pale skin was flushed and his pupils enveloped any color that was once there. His hair whipped wildly around him as he threw his arms up and raked his fingers through the thick curls, digging into his scalp as he rambled.

“I just want the truth, I think at the very least you owe me that.” He said through gritted teeth.

 “Then tell me what the ‘truth’ is, Eddie! I don’t know what I’m supposed to say here!” You rambled, stomping your foot as tears stung your eyes, lip quivering. 

It was childish, you knew that but you just couldn’t take it anymore, you hated this. You were genuinely confused and hurt. 

“You...” Eddie took a few steps towards you, his finger pressing against your chest slightly as he pointed, cornering you against the table, his eyes puffy and tear-filled. 

“You are fucking Steve Harrington, aren’t you?.” He crouched down slightly to be eye to eye with you. 

You wanted to laugh, you almost did but the look on his face, the betrayal, the serious look he rarely had and the tears that slid down his cheeks. It tore you apart.

You reached up to him, wiping a tear across his face before he gripped your wrist, eyes meeting briefly. Fear and desperation was written on your face.

“Eddie, you are the only person I have ever loved like this, it’s only you.” You pleaded, voice trembling. “Steve is just a friend.” 

Nothing had happened between you and Steve, honestly. You wouldn’t hurt Eddie like that. 

“I see how he looks at you, and how you look at him. Anyone within a mile of either of you can see it.” His sharp tongue shot venom at you, eyes completely blown and any color left had been burned out like a piece of ash floating down from a roaring flame.

“Eds,” You sniffled. “I promise you, nothing has happened between me and Steve. He’s my friend, that's all.” 

It was the truth, Eddie had always been the one for you.

“Bullshit, it's all bullshit,” Eddie laughed grimly, leaning his head back as he did, his whole body shaking violently before he stopped all at once, his body lurching forward and his fist crashing through the brittle drywall next to you, the white powder spreading over the room as you stood in shock.

You gasped audibly, frozen and trembling as your widened eyes looked back and forth between Eddie, with his now bleeding hand and the hole in your wall. 

He had never done anything like this before. You had known him for a while and while he had never been afraid of fighting an asshole at school or telling someone to fuck off, he was normally an overall soft and kind person. 

“You and me, we are finished.” He used his sleeve to wipe his face before the two of your eyes connected for just a moment, your heart sinking into a cool icy bath of shock. 

His words were muffled over the gnawing static that now filled your ears. You didn’t move from that spot as sobs racked through your body, knocking you onto your knees as you pressed your hands to your face. 

Eddie grabbed his keys off the table and with a slam of the door that left you trembling. The deafening sound of rubber against asphalt as he pulled away from the trailer left a gigantic rot in your chest.

//////////////////////////////////

Four-five weeks had passed in agonizing succession. Eddie had disappeared, he completely stopped showing up at work and he wasn’t hiding out at Wayne’s trailer. 

In all honesty you were losing the last bit of strength and working at the Video Store had done little to help. While the distraction was much appreciated and being around Steve always made you feel better, there was still a burning sense of guilt that crawled its way up. 

It shouldn’t have mattered, Eddie was gone and you were fairly certain he wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Still, you wondered how he would feel about that, about you finding comfort in Steve. 

“You gonna be okay?” Steve asked, pulling you from your thoughts and resting his hand beside you on the counter.

“I’ll be fine.” You sighed, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Maybe we could hang out after work, we can talk or watch movies, whatever you want.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck.

You couldn't help but tilt your head to the side to look up at him, his shimmering chocolate colored eyes freezing you to the spot. You couldn’t deny how absolutely beautiful Steve was, he made the butterflies in your stomach flutter desperately. 

“Yeah-okay.” You nodded. “I’ll be at your place at 9.” You smiled weakly before going back to stocking the horror movies.

Steve watched you closely, mumbling something that sounded like ‘okay’ before attending to one of the customers that glared at him, obviously annoyed.

Steve Harrington had been in love with you since kindergarten, sure he had a short period in highschool where he forgot you existed but now, after fighting interdimensional monsters and escaping an underground russian prison together you two had been reunited as friends, best friends in fact. Steve had (badly) convinced himself he was fine with that, that just friends was plenty for him. 

How horribly wrong he was.

He respected you being with Eddie, Steve had hurt you plenty in the past and felt he didn’t deserve you, nor did he think he ever stood a chance against Eddie. To Steve, you and Eddie were painfully and obviously in love. 

Steve wasn’t sure if anyone would ever love him that much. 

////////////////////////////////////////

The rest of the shift went by quickly and before you knew it you were back in your tiny trailer taking a scalding hot shower, head tilted far back and neck exposed to the unrelenting stream of water. Eddie’s words had been haunting you, burning right through your chest.

 It was all becoming too much to handle and you had to find a distraction to ease the numbing ache.  

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, maybe Steve would be the solution, he was your best friend, it would be good for you to talk to him about everything.

When you arrived at Steve’s apartment you felt a deep sense of regret, that maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea. After all the rumors and the fight with Eddie, it couldn’t end well, right?

“Hey,” Steve opened the door with a big toothy grin on his face, his glowing tan skin knocking the air out of your lungs as he leaned against the doorframe. He was so beautiful, only being comparable to a Greek god, standing proud, muscles pronounced in his shirt.

This was definitely a very bad idea.

“Alright, darlin’.” Steve held up three movies like they were a deck of cards. “Take your pick.” 

He, of course, had picked your top three favorite movies and as you looked them over you couldn’t help the spreading grin over your face. Steve was always very observant, especially when it came to you, he honestly couldn’t help but hold on to each thing you allowed him to know, to be a part of the things you care about. To him, it was the only way he could keep you close.

You decided on one of the movies, tapping your nail against the cover. 

Steve put it in before he plopped right beside you, his leg brushing against yours as the movie started.  You two sat close, a small bit of space between you as Steve got comfortable, stretching his long arms over the back of the couch, his hand dangling right on the other side of you. You hadn’t realized how long you had been sitting there, eyes wide as your heartbeat quickened. It got progressively more difficult to focus on the movie the closer you and Steve got, the couch was soft and plushy and it caused you two to be squished uncomfortably close. 

The light from the tv illuminated the small room as the sun went down and all the sunlight was washed away with a tense darkness. You and Steve had movie nights all the time but this one felt…different. A tension was spread over you both, Steve’s jaw was tight as he avoided glancing at you, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to control himself once his eyes locked with your big glossy ones. 

The movie was long forgotten, you and Steve were pressed together, his arm draped over your shoulder as you partially leaned into his chest. His warmth made you relax a bit, and you burrowed deeper into him, taking in the scent of him. 

Steve’s heart was beating deafeningly in his chest, he could hardly stand the intoxicating scent of your shampoo. He couldn’t deny he had thought about you before but the past few weeks had been absolute torture, everywhere he looked he saw your shimmering eyes looking up at him. 

It was all becoming far too much.

He was ashamed of how much you haunted his dreams, your doe eyes wide and glossy while he massaged your soft skin, bringing his lips down to your sweet, hot core while you mewled desperately, thighs trembling and wrapped around him. 

He wanted to crash his lips into yours but the uncertainty ate him whole. He didn’t know what had happened between you and Eddie, he knew it left you very very sad seeing how you had been acting but he wouldn’t be the one to make the first move, he couldn’t lose you in case he was completely misreading the ever growing tension.

“Steve…” You were breathless, his name sounding oddly foreign and new on your tongue. 

You had called to him hundreds of times before, but your unusually sultry voice sent electricity over Steve’s entire body, making the tiny hairs on his neck stand on edge like he had been shocked by a bolt of lightning. 

“Yes?” Steve gulped, jaw tight and heart echoing in his chest.

You didn’t want to feel lonely anymore. You just wanted to feel something again.

You were painfully aware of Steve’s palm on your back, it sent bolts of lighting down your spine, maybe it was that you hadn’t been laid in a few weeks or the fact that Steve was smelling really, really good right now that made you feel a little woozy. 

Before Steve could process what was happening you were straddling his lap, inches away from his face as you ran your fingers through his hair at the base of his neck. Your touch made Steve go almost love-drunk as he looked up at you, his hands trailing over your hips, his fingertips brushing under your shirt and against your flesh.

Steve leaned forward, connecting your lips with his in which you both melted in, falling into one another as your teeth and tongues brushed against one another. 

Steve could hardly think as his hands felt over your body, cupping your ass to pull you against his chest, his hardening dick in his pants pressing against your hot clothed cunt.

Steve explored your mouth, his tongue tracing over yours and prodigy around in your tongue before trailing down your neck and chest, hands massaging your breasts and pinching your nipples between the thin material of your clothes.

You whimpered, squirming slightly as you grinded against Steve’s dick through his jeans, looking for any relief from the growing tension deep in your core. You threw your head back as Steve pressed soft kisses and nips at your neck, then collarbone. All the way across your chest as he tugged your shirt down further. He wanted to taste every part of you. He was sure this was all a dream and he decided he was fine with that, because it was a damn good one. 

You tugged your shirt off and tossed it aside, fumbling with the back of your bra for a moment as Steve leaned back further into the couch, his glossy blown eyes watching your every move as drool formed in his throat. Something about the way you moved, the slight blush along your cheeks that just left Steve woozy. Your thighs wrapped around him, doughy skin like sweet fucking silk. 

You weren’t thinking, you just wanted to feel good, you were desperate for it. You had spent so much time crying. You just wanted to forget about the heartache. 

You pulled yourself up off of Steve’s lap and tugged off your bra, dropping it beside the couch. 

“Holy shit…” Steve ran a hand through his hair, tugging his shirt off and tossing it next to your pile of clothes. 

You smiled gently, though a look of pain would still linger on your face. Steve leaned forward and cupped your face in his hand.

“Are you okay? We can stop.” Steve spoke gently. “Look, I don’t know what happened with you and-.”

“I want you, Steve.” You cut him off, eyes locked with his own. 

You didn’t want to think about him. It hurt too much.

You tugged your jeans and panties off, kicking them aside, leaving you standing completely nude only inches from Steve HArrington, his hair disheveled and a slight blush across his face.

He practically groaned at the sight of you, the moonlight pouring into the room as he leaned forward to press soft kisses to your hips and thighs and then across your stomach, his hands guiding your hips to sit back on his lap. 

 “So beautiful…” He mumbled, his hands tracing right above your cunt, your legs trembling slightly as the pads of his fingers ran along the puffy folds, the lewd wet sound echoing like music to Steve as he pressed just the tips of his fingers to your core, curling and pressing against you just enough to make you whimper.

He chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. He leaned forward to nip and bite at the spongey part of your neck before pushing his long finger deep into your cunt, the pads on his fingers curling and fucking in and out of you with slow and meticulous patience. Steve held you against him now, still on his lap with one arm supporting you as the other worked into you, pressing his thumb against your swollen clit. 

“S-steve…” You whimpered, tears stinging the edges of your eyes as he inserted another finger into you, his thick long fingers filling you and making the heat pool in your stomach. You could hardly stand it.

“Yes, princess?” 

“Fuck me…” You were practically begging, you could care less. “Please, Steve.” 

His eyes went wide and he pulled his fingers from you and pressed them to his lips, running his tongue over his fingers to taste the sweet juices dripping down his wrist. 

Your face went hot at the lewd act and all Steve could do was grin before tugging off his jeans as well, releasing his uncomfortably hard dick from them. 

You gulped, eyes going wide for a moment. He was…so much bigger than any you had ever been with or seen before. Just the idea of how he would fit made you dizzy. 

He ran his hand over his dick, running over his pink tip already leaking precum. He was beautiful, muscular and thick with a perfect stretching vein down the side. 

“Think you can handle it, princess?” Steve tilted his head, almost mockingly. 

You giggled, face red as crimson as he crashed his lips into yours, his hand cupping your chin as he stood up and swiftly scooped you up, carrying you down the hall. You couldn’t help but squirm and giggle as he pressed light kisses down your throat.

“You have to tell me if this is a dream,” Steve mumbled as he carried you into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him before he sat you down on the bed, standing between your legs as he cradled your face in your hands. “Because I can’t be let down by waking up again, I don’t know if this is real.” He rambled, pressing kisses all over your face as he took in your scent, trying to remember every last detail.

“It’s real, Stevie. I’m real.” You nodded, struggling to ignore the guilt bubbling up in your stomach. 

Steve smiled at that, and he glowed like the sun. 

You couldn’t help but smile back, throwing your arms around his neck as he laid you back gently, aligning his dick with your cunt as he rubbed the tip against your puffy folds, pressing just the head inside at first as your thighs trembled around him, your set cunt tightening around him as he groaned softly. 

“Fuck…fuck…” You whimpered, back arching as Steve slowly fucked you with just the tip as you got used to how far he pushed against your walls. 

Tears formed in the corner of your eyes as he fucked depper into you, your stomach twitching as he filled you up more and more until you were sobbing on his dick as he fucked you at a slow steady beat, his hips grinding against yours as the tip of his dick poked and prodded that hot spongey sweet spot deep in your cunt. It made your eyes roll into the back of your head as he used your hips to pull you down deeper onto him, his breathing getting faster and chest rising and falling.

“S-so…close.” You whimpered, twisting the sheets in your hands as Steve fucked into you, your stomach showing a slight bulge from where he fucked deep inside of you, his eyes glued to the sight as he pressed his thumb to your puffy clit which immediately sent you over the edge, toes curling as the bubbling heat boiled over you and you came with a start, legs trembling as you tightened and oozed around Steve’s throbbing cock as he came deep in you with a groan, his lips connecting with yours as he did before collapsing next to you on the bed.

You glance up at him, a big grin on his face as his fingers trailed over your arm. That was when you realized Eddie was right...you did love Steve. You had for a while. 

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DEBRIS AND MISERY

CURIOUS MINDS THINK ALIKE ; PART 5 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.1k SUMMARY: Through guessing games and walking on eggshells, it’s you and Loki that dance the strange choreography of two curious minds trying to figure out the other. A/N: Slow moving chapter! If any of you speak Norwegian and know that sentence is wrong, please tell me! I took a risk, not sure if it's worth it. Anyways, I promise there’s more stuff coming in the next chapters. Tell me anything about this chapter, what you love, what you hate. Enjoy xo gif from this gifset by@marvelheroes WARNINGS: Swearing? More paperwork. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

The narration of Miss Minutes accompanying the grainy animated graphics of a training video on how, why, and when a branch of a timeline is reset seems to be the source of Loki’s absentmindedness. If he is typically referred to as outrageously and mostly unnecessarily communicative, it is his mind that beats his mouth—the tumult of his thoughts is loud and overwhelming like the people who amass at taverns every evening to drink themselves silly whilst singing jolly drinking songs until the wee hours of the morning. Except, his thoughts are far from jolly. He, mastermind of language and a silver-tongue, has no words of any language to describe the complexity of his mind with accuracy.

Kraftig regn som faller i en fossende elv.

Like heavy rain falling on a cascading river. Water from the sky on water streaming through the ground—thunderous raindrops from above against the river that strikes every rock of every winding turn.

Those were the words of his mother.

Maybe, that’s how his mind should be described.

It’s the mechanical creaks of spinning wheels against the polished floor that pulls him out of his thoughts and finds that he had been staring blankly at a page of men riding jet skis of a magazine he'd nipped from the stack of junk on Mobius’ desk for the last minute or hour. A second or a day? He isn’t sure.

Time works differently at the TVA.

“Hey Casey,” he hears you chime, the cart squeaks as it pulls to a halt. “Do you have a paperweight or something I could use?”

There’s a sound of rummaging as the clerk searches the drawers. Loki restrains the urge to look.

“Uh, yeah...Here.”

“Thanks.”

Probably an infinity stone.

The clerk then wheels by, pushing the evidence cart as he casts a cautious glance his way.

Right. He did threaten to gut him like a fish earlier on although the threat was not as deadly as he intended but proved to be surprisingly effective. Yet, Casey is probably the type to be afraid of his own shadow, he would comply with any sort of threat even if it isn't death.

Pathetic. But amusing.

The training video continues to play in the background, and Miss Minutes’ stupidly charming and cheery voice is starting to sound like gibberish to him. At this rate, it’s white noise to him—attention elsewhere but somewhat listening to a certain extent. He loves multi-tasking and isn’t afraid to admit he’s great at it though it likely plays a huge factor in contributing to the uproar of his brain. It’s why he doesn’t get any sleep for most nights.

There’s just...so much to think about.

And now, it’s filled with the reminder of how you met another version of him. Somewhere. Sometime. An inferior Loki, obviously.

Suddenly, the jet ski magazine becomes less interesting, his mind fleeting.

Discreetly, he spins in his swivel chair and sees you through inked writings and diagrams on the glass partition of your cubicle. Your coat’s discarded, and you have your sleeves rolled up, looking less formal, less tense than before. Yet, still as fierce with that constant scowl of your brows. He watches you bring your fingers to scratch the left side of your cheek and notices a vague resemblance of a fading scar.

He hadn’t seen that before.

The glowing orange hue of the soul stone sits idly on top of a stack of papers beside you.

Loki makes some sort of contemptuous noise in his mind at the sight.

The TVA is a strange place. The thought of a cosmic organization that overlooks all of the time doesn’t make it any less weird and neither do the uniforms—dull color combinations and collars that never seem to end. And the Time-Keepers, well, he isn’t sure what to make of that. Things are a little too straightforward, too simple for handling such a complex matter of the universe—Time. It doesn't make sense.

You spark his curiosity. You had a connection with him. Another Loki trusted you to a certain extent. He wonders what makes you so special, that Mobius was willing to try everything to convince you to help.

He also wonders what your name is.

The clearing of his throat comes off as a sudden and disruptive sound that resonates clearly through the somewhat silent environment of the office floor. A subtle way to gaining your attention although it's proving ineffective. You continue to flip through documents, scribbling notes on a notepad.

He wheels his chair closer to you. For a moment, he catches sight of a white mug amongst the mess. It says, 'Rocket scientist at work.' There’s no way a person as intimidating as you have that kind of mug.

He clears his throat once more.

Still nothing. It’s like he doesn't exist to you.

Then, he notes your vague attempt to fight down a growing smile.

Oh. Oh. You—

Hm.

He scooches closer and taps on the glass partition a little too aggressively.

“I know you can hear me.”

His tone comes out in a sing-song manner. Finally, your eyes turn up to meet his. They are different from when you first saw him emerged into the hallway. Less angry and shocked. Now, you just look unimpressed.

Loki somehow thinks it’s a great idea to charm his way to you.

A grin finds his way to his lips, curving widely with oozing allure.

Or so he thinks.

“Pardon me, but I believe we haven’t properly met and I didn’t catch your name earlier on.”

You don’t say anything, only blink in response.

Tough crowd.

Loki shifts in his seat.

“...What is your name?”

He articulates his words with care, and he doesn’t know why he finds it a need to tread lightly around you. Like with a touch, you will transform into a fiery beast from his childhood nightmares and eat him alive.

You and Mobius are polar opposites—personality-wise. It’s a wonder how the two of you get along.

Do you scare him? No. Definitely not.

Do you intimidate him? Perhaps. But, he will never admit it.

Maybe it’s the way you’re gazing at him with that constant, deafening deadpan look.

Then, you finally give him an answer.

“Agent.”

And with that, you're back to scribbling notes on a notepad.

Agent.

Loki scoffs silently to himself.

Well, that turned out to be completely pointless.

He turns his back to you, returning to scanning through Mobius' jet ski magazine within his grasp.

Loki doesn’t see how you’re now staring at the back of his figure, tapping your pen against the notepad absentmindedly.

Curious minds think alike.

-

You needed a change of scenery.

With all the noise of the muffling narration of the training videos from Mobius’ desk, you began to feel like you forgot how to do your job. The only job you were created for. The disturbance seems to be putting your brain into a frenzy and it’s preventing you from getting your head straight on report protocols. Trying to think of better words to describe the things you’ve seen on Sakaar that weren’t words that meant trash and didn’t end up sounding unintentionally sexual, is where you draw the line.

Times are hard for the variant turned analyst.

The archives are serene amid your solitude. Extensive tables hidden between shelves of identical-looking binders that expanded throughout the hundreds of floors of the building. The spot that overlooks the three looming statues of the Time-Keepers is your favorite. The occasional swish of a passing elevator calms your nerves from all the frustration and pressure ever since you were released from your arrest. You’re just happy to be somewhere familiar although it’s not home.

Although all distractions are gone, you manage to find new ones as you gaze at the glowing ‘357’ signage from across the building as you decide to let your thoughts run for just a little while. You feel like you’re looking through foggy glasses and your brain feels like it’s about to shut down any moment.

Dream away the pain, then.

Then, you hear a voice from afar. Two voices. It’s Mobius; you’ll recognize that quintessential Texan accent anywhere from the times he would rave about a new jet ski magazine he’d found on a mission...something along those lines.

Much to your chagrin, you also hear Loki with that irritatingly posh accent of his.

You should probably move somewhere else. Run and hide before you're being pulled even more into this mess because you know Mobius is trying to get you to spend as much time with the variant turned analyst to gain trust.

You’re still not sure how it’s helping with his case. Loki has better trust in Mobius than you as far as you’re concerned.

Before you could even gather the mess of your files, the two men you’ve been trying to escape are already by the desk you’re sitting at. You suddenly notice the stack of files on the other end of the desk, not remembering seeing the archivist putting that there.

Crap.

“Let me park ya at this desk and don’t be afraid to really lean into this work...”

You look like a deer caught in the headlights, signaling to Mobius that you really don’t want to share a desk with Loki. He continues to speak to him, ignoring your silent plea. Then, he gestures to the seat across from you.

There’s still time to leave.

Mobius addresses you with the stretch of his pointer finger.

“You, keep an eye on him. I’m gonna get a snack.”

Well, too late.

With a turn of a heel, you and Loki watch him walk away and pass neverending shelves of the archives. Once again, the two of you are left alone in the silence and the white noise of the TVA.

You meet each other's eyes at the same time, struck with the thought that you and he will probably be seeing each other a lot until the Loki variant is arrested. Plus, you’re tired of giving him the cold shoulder although you believe he deserves it.

This is a different Loki. The one who’s still power-hungry. The one who still wants to rule.

Time to start fresh.

You notice he now wears a jacket, a color somewhere between green, grey, and brown with a striking image of the TVA’s official badge above his chest. The lapels of his jacket jut out in an attempt to replicate his sense of pride and confidence.

He must have been on a trip with Mobius to the Renaissance Faire in Wisconsin, 1985. Oh, how you would kill to tag along. Everyone who knows you knows about your obsession with Earth’s music pop culture, specifically the 1980s. It explains the cassettes you have lying around. Your apartment has more of it.

Unfortunately, you're grounded. That's reality.

Thus, you decide that Loki deserves a second chance because he’s also somehow looking at you for some kind of approval. You’re starting to wonder if this is the same Loki that was tapping aggressively on your cubicle earlier on.

With an open palm, you gesture to the empty seat surrounded by stacks of binders and folders. It's the first time he has experienced some kind of acknowledgment of his presence that you weren’t ranting or screaming about. Oddly calm. Oddly inviting. Momentarily, he shifts in his stance, eyes darting between a fading figure of Mobius rounding the corner and to the seat, across from you.

The air is tense. However, still breathable.

Loki slides into the seat, legs shifting under the desk as it brushes against your by accident. You shoot him a pointed look, and he responds with a coy expression, blinking at you innocently. It’s mischievous.

Classic Loki.

You turn back to your case file, ignoring the way his gaze seems to burn holes into the side of your face for a fleeting moment before flipping a binder open from the stack to his left.

-

You snore when you sleep.

Loki wouldn’t describe it as a snore; it's more of a wheeze. Soft and subtle but it’s there, cutting through the ambiance of the archives, drifting and resonating in his ears. Through turning pages, uttering words to himself for his amusement, and having an irritating lady shush him for that, he realized how it became a lot quieter. The grazing sound of pen furiously scribbling words onto the yellow notepad has stopped.

Then, he hears it. Your pathetic snores. Your cheek is unceremoniously pressed against the back of your hand while the other holds the orange pen that’s still pinned down on the paper, mid-scrawl. The tip of the ballpoint pen sits idly, halfway through the curved stroke of the last letter of the word, ‘debris.’ He cranes his neck, face tilting in an attempt to read the chicken scratchings of your handwriting.

0132: L1190 hauls me through the time door and I miserably land on Sakaar, the planet of wastelands and debris.

You are quite...miserable. In a comical way. And he knows how much you hated your time on Sakaar—Mobius warned him of your apparent irritation in reminiscent of being stranded and then having to resume paperwork immediately. He wonders if he, too, is the reason for another boiling rage.

Apparently, you were pardoned on behalf of not only Mobius but the Time-Keepers as well.

You, an agent, are recognized by the holy and almighty Time-Keepers.

You, an agent, who sleeps with your mouth agape.

The statues of the TVA’s creators loom over him like they’re watching his every step. Every movement. Every lingering thought. Right now, he has the urge to uncover, perhaps deduce, the holes within this whole mess. In a carefully calculated and discrete movement, he reaches to prod you on the forearm. You don’t move.

He prods you again.

You still don’t move.

Now, Loki is trying to chat up the archivist who watches him through narrowed eyes, glasses framing the austere and rigid structure of her face, in favor of files that turn out to be classified.

Classified, classified, classified. Only able to gain access to his own file.

His journey from the desk proved to be useless and unproductive although the much-needed stretch somehow made it a little worthwhile.

When he returns, you're surprisingly still asleep, brow twitching and lips still parted.

Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on him?

The pen you held has now left your grasp, rolled over to his stack of binders. He notices the words inscribed on it, ‘Mars is there, waiting to be reached.'

Through your fury and chaos, he knows there’s a part of you that feels, a part of you that loves. And you love everything about the Midgardians’ space program. It's shown in the way you cling to collected memorabilia.

There are dark circles that adorn your shut eyes, barely hidden under your lashes. You’re exhausted, fractured.

Loki is having a difficult time trying to suppress how he likes the way the frizz of your hair glows against the glowing table lamps from the desk behind you. You’re raw, flaws presented on a silver platter for everyone to see. Maybe, that’s the reason why you entice him the way you do.

He’s staring. Right. Back to work.

Loki returns to running through neverending case files, engrossed in the pixelated monochrome images that accompany the monospace typeface of endless reports.

Then, he sees it.

‘Destruction of Asgard’ in big, bold, and red letters. It glares at him sharply, images of his once divine home of Asgard, crumbling at the feet of Surtur. Buildings, people, engulfed in the flames of the fire demon. The prophecy of the end, Ragnarok—it was meant to be.

His home, it still was. Although an untrue Asgardian.

He knows how it ends. He knows he dies. He wishes his true self, the one on the Sacred Timeline, could have done more.

He doesn’t realize the forming tears that linger. He doesn’t realize that in the sense of premonition, you’ve awakened. He doesn’t realize that even with sleepy eyes, you notice the grief that glints in his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

With three words, you’ve struck him with those eyes that seemed all-knowing. You see through the facade he has created, sealing the true nature of what is truly a child that is afraid of his destiny and to lose all he had ever known. His mother, father, and brother. His people. You see through it all.

You know that face. You’d seen it on Sakaar when he sat at the doorstep of your makeshift home, watching the splintered moon drift through the star-lit sky. You’d seen it in yourself through the dusty reflection of the screen of the tempad.

He longs for home. He longs for family.

For a moment, Loki sees Frigga in your eyes.

Then, his world shifts, hauling him back to reality. It’s you who’s across his way, not his mother. Loki blinks, partly to get his head straight with the excuse to blink away the sting in his eye. He shifts in his seat, rolling his neck and squares his shoulders.

“Yes. I’m alright. It’s just...”

Trailing off, he clears his throat. You follow his gaze and from your spot, you catch sight of those deafening crimson letters. Maybe, it was the spur of the moment. You blame your drowsy state, but there’s a growing warmth that spreads across your chest from the pit of your stomach. It’s subtle, a spark, but evident. Before you know it, you’re uttering words that leave your lips faster than your brain could perceive.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know when was the last time you said those words and meant it. Loki doesn’t know when was the last time he’d ever heard those words addressed to him, spoken from the lips of a stranger. Until now.

You mean it. He sees it in the curve of your brows.

Loki swallows, nodding curtly. For the first time, he has nothing to say. And as quickly as the moment comes, he brushes it off and so do you. Whatever is reminiscent of a residing unknown feeling, bubbling within, has disappeared.

He sees your hand reach for the pen and for a while, he thinks you’re about to reach for his arm.

But no, you’re back to scrawling notes on the paper and he’s back to studying useless documents.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into your normal antics as you find yourself chasing after Loki, who abruptly left the desk with wide eyes.

Curious minds think alike. Mostly.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

@the-maroon-panda

[burnedbyshoto]

I wanted to make myself like the ravine

— There are plenty of things that Hawks knows about, but there are few he knows none about. A journey of how Hawks navigates the meaning of the word love. 

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pairing: hawks (takami keigo) x fem!reader

warnings: recent manga spoilers, future!au, alcohol consumption, fem!reader

word count: 6,819

a/n: this is for the pocuties valentines day collab! rhank you for letting me join! inspired by the poem to the title of this fic!

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A G A P E

—

Hawks is one of the fastest men in the world.

It’s not a brag; it’s the truth.

A cold, hard, damning truth.

Hawks is a Pro Hero with the power, skill, and finesse required to take the fall for the entire country. He is someone who is loved by all, who thrives off of the appreciation and the cheers, but he knows — he understands — he’s expendable. He’s a tool—an object seconds from being put to rest.

There are many things that Hawks knows; he’s been training to be a hero since he was in his very childhood. Blindfolded, tested and conditioned to be the ideal hero, the perfect pawn.

Hawks is no idiot, and he will never deny that often times that he isn’t sure what he is feeling.

Emotions are weird for him. Feelings are oversimplified in everything he was taught, yet disgustingly really and oddly interfering the second he had set foot into the spotlight. He was used to the cold, the people who would view him as a specimen, experiment 20493, codenamed: Fierce Winged Hawks. The only emotions he understood was apathy, seriousness, anger, resentment, bitterness, disappointment, and relief. When finally, finally, the Hero Commission broke his wings, his spine, and his mind, the small boy so eager to be a Hero ultimately nothing but a soldier, ready to follow commands to the T.

Hawks has only heard of love from the blurry, unclear memories of his childhood. His mother muttering how she had no love for him to be taking care of him as he did, or his father saying he could never love him. Love was foreign, strange, alien to him. Even when he was eighteen and finally given a bit of freedom from the chains the Hero Commission bound him in was expressed out of love. But he was put into the cage that granted him the ability to spread his stiff wings; love made no sense.

He saw lovers making out in alleyways, and he furrowed his eyebrows, wondering just why anyone would want to kiss in the smelly, dark, virus-infected areas. He saw his colleagues come in looking dazed, refreshed, reborn, yelling loudly, and singing poetry about their love for some other person they met just yesterday. He also couldn’t ignore the days, weeks, months later when they would rearrive with red-rimmed eyes, swollen eyes, and a tremor to their voice.

Love seemed… awful to Hawks.

Love was a deception of brain chemicals. Nothing more than your mind bending, flipping, and twisting to make something that made absolutely no sense make sense. 

Hawks had expressed that one day to a sidekick of his, his barriers and walls crumbling away because he had been on a stakeout for five days straight now. The world that could never keep up with him was numbing his brain.

“Well, that’s romantic and flirtatious love for ya,” his sidekick explained with a halfhearted shrug. It seemed that he both agreed and disagreed with what Hawks had to say. “They’re amazing loves, don’t get it wrong, and they definitely don’t make sense, but they’re loves not meant to last.”

Hawks blinked.

“What?”

His sidekick chuckled, hands rubbing at his eyes as he peered out the window again, his sullen eyes looking even more tired.

“Have you never learned the different types of love before, Hawks?” the sidekick teased as much as he was curious. “I figured a pro as popular and smart as you are would know the different types of love.”

Hawks feathers fluttered in his inability to keep his lack of knowledge to himself.

“I don’t.”

“Wow, finally something Hawks isn’t aware of!” the sidekick laughed, and his hand opened his phone, fingers hitting the screen before shoving the device into Hawks’ chest. “I’m sure you’ll find that you can understand at least one love.”

Hawks grabbed the phone, head cocking to the side in his curiosity as he scrolled down through the phone.

There were eight different types.

Eight different ones that he could have experienced within his then twenty-one years, and he found himself unable to look away from one.

Agape: universal, selfless love

“Hawks, they’re moving!” the sidekick squawked, and Hawks handed over the phone, and with nothing on his mind, burst out the window, ready to take down this organization.

Hawks had to admit that later that night, when he was finally able to sleep in his own bed, he felt selfless love. It was for the people of Japan. The many citizens who needed his help and the heroes of the country who rose to the demands of the job. Maybe it wasn’t the type of love depicted in anything he’s ever read or watched before, but that was okay. It was love.

The love he has for the citizens is enough to keep his head afloat.

This is the only love he needs in his life right now, the only love that matters.

But he’s no longer twenty-one, he’s twenty-five, and the wings on his back that feel practically invisible to him, are hurting. His back is in pain, his quirk almost gone, save for the smallest, insignificant feathers perching from the stumps of what was his beginnings of a wingspan. It still burns, phantom singes and phantom heat whenever he thinks about his nearly gone, never to be grown again, wings.

“Well, Hawks, you already know that this is going to happen,” comes the cold voice of one of the board members of the Hero Commission. A man who had practically raised (see managed) him. 

Today was the end of Hawks life, more or less.

“AFO, Shigaraki Tomura, and the well-known former members of the League of Villains were finally stopped,” Hawks speaks with a nod. He knows, even though he could not be a soldier, he had been around to see the young UA students, Endeavors Interns, bring them to justice.

The biggest names of evil were dead, and Hawks already knew he was over.

To be fair, he was glad it was over.

But still, it hurt to hear the indifference in his voice, the apathy, the tedium.

“Operation: Fierce Wings - Hawks is officially over.”

“I could’ve figured that one out pretty easily,” Hawks jests, unable to show the way his heart twisted and withered under the knowledge that he was no longer a hero. His love, his agape, for the people were still there. Still, just as he recognized in his colleagues who were experiencing the different forms of love, it didn’t matter how much love you held for someone, something, for the innocent, helpless people…

Life takes, it destroys, and love doesn’t seem to have a chance.

“Thank you for your twenty years of service. I hope you find the freedom you had been looking for.”

P H I L A U T I A

It’s been a week.

Seven days, twenty-one hours, sixteen minutes, and thirty-four seconds since Hawks was fired (see Honorably Discharged) as a Pro Hero.

Hawks has always felt that the world moved oh so slowly behind him. It had been his wish that heroes be able to relax, laze around because society had evolved enough that criminals knew better, were treated better, and could integrate into a truly peaceful society.

It had been his dream.

But right now, he was bored.

B o r e d.

“Fuck, I don’t care,” Hawks grumbled, face smooshing into a pillow as he watched the Netflix Series Bridgerton drone on the screen. “Dump his ass.”

His apartment, it was safe to say, was a mess. There were cups, bowls, plates, and chopsticks everywhere. His hair was ruffled, stringy, held back by a hair clip he had stolen from Miruko. His beard was nearly fully grown in, and there were bags under his eyes despite the fact he was sleeping for more hours of the day than staying awake. He was sore, tired, bored.

So bored.

He didn’t think being bored was going to suck this much, going to hurt him like this.

Fuck.

“Open the damn door, bird boy!” came a sharp scream and powerful kick from the front door.

Hawks glared at the door, the tiniest of feathers he had been able to regrow, trying to pathetically open the lock on the door. A sheen layer of sweat pushed against his forehead, and Hawks grunted, trying to lift the heavy lock.

BAM.

The door swung open, forcefully kicked open by none other than Pro Hero Miruko.

“Yo!” Miruko waved, lips pulled in a fierce grin as she entered through the broken doorway with nothing but a bag of unknown items. “I figured you were here!”

“...you broke my door,” Hawks pointed out, eyes narrowed as dust and destruction danced within the air.

“You took too long,” Miruko breezed, slamming her plastic bag on the kitchen island. “It’s a fucking rats nest in here, birdbrain; I thought you were somewhat organized?”

Hawks groaned loudly, sinking further into his couch as Miruko began reorganizing his kitchen area — dumping the dirty dishes into the sink and throwing things away in fast, practiced skill. “Life is too boring, and I’m too bored to do anything about all of the mess,” Hawks exaggerates partially, hand twisting and dancing as he speaks. “Thanks for cleaning up the mess.”

“I’m not cleaning up your damn mess, birdbrain,” Miruko barks out a laugh, her hands slamming against the now, somehow, clean surface. “I’m just making my life easier!”

Hawks looked over the top of the couch with a semi impressed, semi uncaring look and shrugged.

“You seem to have a great handle over those robot limbs now,” he points out.

Sure enough, Miruko had two bionic limbs, limbs that she had finally managed to work into a fighting career. After spending two years on the sideline, relearning how to walk and then fight, she was back on the field.

She was a hero again, despite it all, unlike him.

“Damn right, I’m amazing!” Miruko preened, chest puffed, and bunny tail wagging excitedly. “But anyway, I figured your dumbass would be depressed, so I brought you some shit.”

Hawks watched with a curious gaze as Miruko quickly hopped once from where she was in the kitchen to a place on his couch, landing on Hawks' legs unintentionally.

“OW!”

“Look at what Rumi brought you,” Miruko laughed, slapping Hawks on the back as he cradled his legs. “And yes, I just referred to myself in the third person, so shush.”

Hawks grumbled, lips in a half pout, half frown.

Taking the opaque bag from Miruko, Hawks pulled out the many items in the bag.

Carrots, a KFC gift card, Korean skincare products, a movie about Miruko’s recovery process, and a 1001 Things to Do (A Book on Finding Self Love).

Hawks stares at the book.

“The perfect items for a self-care, self-love spa day,” Miruko nods, once again slapping Hawks on the back. “Some old sidekick of yours told me that you don’t know what love is, so I figured that I would help teach you the most important one! Self-love! Truly the hardest one to master, in my opinion, but damn if it isn’t a good one.”

Hawks feels transfixed almost, unable to look away from the book as Miruko slaps him on the back yet again as she moves to leave. He hears her yelling about forwarding the bill to fix his door to her, her agency would pay for the damage, and how she’s off to train with some bunny hopping boy from UA.

Opening the book, Hawks looked at the number one thing to do on the book and sighed.

#1: Look in a mirror and name five things you LOVE about yourself.

Well, it’s not like he has anything better to do.

-

Hawks is on number thirteen (Stand at a bridge and scream into the void about the things you love at dusk) when he realizes that maybe… he doesn’t love himself. 

It is without saying that he loves people; agape, after all, is the only love type that made sense to him, but philautia, self-love, was way lost on him. Objectives 2 - 12 on the book were entertaining to do! They had Hawks going outside of his house much more than his week trapped indoors, and for the first time since the day his wings had been burnt off, his house was spotless.

But it was clear to Hawks that he didn’t feel love for himself.

Whenever he tried to convince himself that he should love himself, that there were terrific qualities in himself, he thought back to the dirty, burnt room. 

“I still gotta protect their happiness!” the phantom in his mind screamed, the broken sob collected in his throat.

Hawks shivered, unable to let himself recognize the pain and hurt in the phantom's eyes, or the way that he now wished he had never done that… why had he done that?

What a mess…

The small chirping of Hawks phone interrupts his morose thoughts. He looks at the screen, eyebrows raising in slight mirth and caution as none other than his former intern was currently calling him.

“Tsukuyomi-kun!” Hawks laughs into the receiver, the weight of his past for a moment forgotten. “How are ya?!”

“Hello, Hawks-sensei,” Tokoyami’s calm tone fills Hawks' ears. “I was calling because I have a request to make.”

“Name it,” Hawks spoke immediately, slouching against the cold bars of the bridge, eyes closing as he tried to relax. “You need a letter of rec or something?”

“Nothing of the sort, actually,” Tokoyami says. “We third-year students are graduating in a few days; I was inquiring if you would attend on my behalf.”

“Wow, Tsukuyomi-kun, no need to be so formal with me!” Hawks laughed delightedly, his hands carting through his feather-like hair, “I’d love to come and watch you guys graduate! Is it true that the finger-smashing boy is the valedictorian?”

“That would be false, Midoriya-kun has nothing on Yaoyorozu-san.”

“What a bummer, you’d think he’d be first after how he helped win the war for us, huh?”

“You’ll find that Yaoyorozu-san is highly gifted and undeterred by most things,” Tokoyami sighed. For a moment, Hawks chuckled at the melancholy tone to his old intern's voice. It sounded as if he had been striving with great difficulty to reach the highest marks as well. 

Hawks began speaking to his rather odd ex-intern with great curiosity with the blanket of the night surrounding him. His defenses and thoughts whittling away the more they spoke, the later it got in the morning.

“Ne, Tokoyami-kun, I have a question?”

“Concerning what?”

Hawks pauses, his brows furrowing as he looks up into the still dark sky, “Do you know how to love yourself?”

Silence.

Had it been anyone else, Hawks would have panicked at the lack of noise. Still, his already less than chatty intern typically took to not speaking much to begin with.

“Self-love is difficult,” Tokoyami finally spoke, his words slow, carefully chosen. “We humans are flawed; we all have demons. Most of the time, we only recognize and see our demons, oftentimes forgetting that being human also means being weak and at times immoral. Loving oneself is a hard task because we know ourselves better than any other. It’s a work in progress for everyone to love oneself, it's a type of love by the Ancient Greeks, but it’s not always everpresent. One must accept all flaws to love oneself, and remember that flaws don’t make you less, even if you believe otherwise.”

“...wow, I asked for a sentence answer, and you gave me a speech. Who would’ve known you were so in check with your emotions, Tokoyami!”

“You knew, I’ve already revealed this side of me before. You laughed last time too.”

Hawks finds himself home thirty minutes later, and he stares up at the ceiling, fingers drumming against his chest.

Self-love… it seems like an ever-evolving type of love, but it’s there. He knows that even if he has regrets and hardships and things he hates about himself, deep down, self-love exists and that it will exist. 

Patience.

Even the fastest man in the world could demonstrate patience.

L U D U S

“What can I get for ya?”

“I have no idea honestly, do you have any recommendations?”

Hawks could say with complete honesty that he felt entirely out of place.

He was at a local bar. The bar was semi-busy today. Most young adults dressed in an arrangement of clothes, each on a different level of soberness as they cheered to this and that. 

Why was he at a bar even though he was slightly uncomfortable? Well, you can blame #73 in the book for that.

(#73: Enter the first bar you find, order a drink, and flirt!)

“What type of liquor do you like? Hard or soft?”

Hawks blinked; he didn’t know.

“Hard?”

The bartender looked a bit unsure of him for a bit before nodding and turning his back to him.

Did hard liquor mean he was going to get an iced drink? He’s never consumed alcohol before.

“Here you go!” the bartender sang, slamming two shot glasses before him. “Two shots of Bacardi.”

“Oh, thank you?” Hawks tilted his head as a small cup of OJ was placed in front of him (“That’s your chaser,” the bartender had laughed). Bringing the small glass shot glass up, Hawks looked around at the throngs of people surrounding the bar and looked at you. You were cheering loudly as you raised your own shot glass in the air with a whoop and, in a fast, fluid motion, brought the shot glass to your mouth and took the liquid down easily. Hawks was definitely unimpressed now; that looked entirely too easy. “Here we go, cheers to me.”

Imitating your own actions, Hawks shot back the liquid in his shot glass, and immediately his entire body tensed.

EW.

NO.

EW.

OH GOD, NO!

Spitting out the sour, bitter, disgusting — dear god, how do you even describe this taste?! — liquid, Hawks, chugged the OJ, his lungs and throat and tongue burning from the shot.

“That was disgusting!” Hawks spat to absolutely no one, his hands covering his mouth as he stared at the other awaiting shot of ‘Bacardi.’ “Why would anyone drink that?!”

“Only madmen drink Bacardi while sober,” a voice joined in on Hawks' one-sided conversation. “Or bitches who are self-sabotagers. Never trust a hoe who says Bacardi is their favorite drink.”

Hawks turned around to see you, the girl he had regrettably underestimated for taking the shot, smiling at him with a not entirely sober look to your face. 

“You look like neither. That and the way you took the shot obviously means that you had no idea what you were drinking.” Hawks continued to stare at you, completely perplexed by your casual conversation, the dress on your body that was twisted a bit, screaming wonders about your level of sobriety. You took to the empty barstool beside him with a grin and a calculating look, “You’re Hawks, right?”

“Yeah, Hawks,” he spoke, his tongue feeling weird in his mouth as he bowed stiffly in his chair. You were beautiful, fuck.

“I’m y/l/n, nice to meet you!” you speak easily, fingers grabbing at his other filled shot glass with a concerned look. “I have a feeling you shouldn’t try to take this other shot.”

“Dying of alcohol definitely isn’t in my vision of ways to go out,” Hawks grins. Pushing through his haze of awkwardness as you shift in the barstool so that you’re now facing him entirely, knees pressed to his thigh. “I’ve never actually drunk before?”

You inhale sharply, your eyes going wide as you break all levels of personal contact that’s acceptable of strangers in Japan and grab his cheeks.

“Alcohol virgin?!” you gasp, the sweet smell of some liquid drafting from your breath. “I’ll teach you everything that I know, don’t worry!”

You let go of his face, neck turning away from him, looking for the bartender to flag him down.

“Don’t you have—?”

“They can wait,” you wave at the bartender before turning back to Hawks with a confident grin on your face. “I have my favorite Pro Hero right beside me; I think they’ll understand.”

“Alright, what is it that I need to know?”

“My full name,” you breeze with a wink. “Y/l/n y/n.”

“A beautiful name.”

“I am a beautiful woman.”

Hawks chuckled good-naturedly, his head nodding in agreement, “I think we were talking about the alcohol, though, not your attraction as a female.”

“All in good time, all in good time,” you laugh, taking to the bartender and ordering two drinks, both of which were entirely foreign to Hawks.

Hawks would not consider himself to be an expert at flirting. He was attractive, a great conversationalist, and did have a type of edge to his words that often seemed playful or a warning, depending on how you looked at it. But it appeared that his natural way of speaking was more than enough to make him flirtatious enough to match the way you spoke to him.

You had introduced him to a single mixed drink, telling him that getting drunk by yourself at a bar typically wasn’t a smart thing, so keep to something with a low alcohol percentage. Just enough to make you loosen up, but not enough that you were incapable of getting home. Hawks liked the way your hand rested on his forearm. How you smiled and laughed at something to show your interest but not at everything to show that you weren’t faking your amusement at what he was saying.

You matched his every word, not backing down from his bluffs. Soon enough, Hawks felt his cheeks warm when he finally looked directly at your smiling face (he wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or not). 

Eventually, though, the night ended, and you shimmied off the bar stool as your friends had come to collect you to leave.

“Can I get your number?” you ask, eyes mostly entirely sober as you handed him your phone. “I know you were the man who was just a bit too fast, but I think I can handle that.”

Hawks snorts, his eyes rolling in his amusement, “That was horrible.”

“I’m drunk, I have an excuse!” you exclaim with a pout that quickly turns into a giddy smile as Hawks enters his number to your phone. “Don’t worry though, once I’m sober, I’ll flirt your eyebrows clean off!”

“That sounds painful!” Hawks yells as you wave goodbye, your arms linked with a line of other girls as you leave the bar with teasing laughter and undecipherable words.

It was with you that Hawks realized that he had come to find a new type of love.

Ludus, the love of flirtation and playfulness.

Damn, who would’ve known.

P H I L I A

Hawks was having a pretty bad day.

It wasn’t anything super terrible happening, all things considered. It was a lovely day out; the sun was warm, the sky so blue, and the birds chirping. Nothing on the news to be concerned about and all his precious people were safe.

But it was still a bad day because instead of being out and about with you, his now borderline best friend/girlfriend, who he was stupidly having a crush on, he was stuck at home.

Hawks was sick.

Deliriously, stuffy nose, goopy eyed, chapped lips, and feverish sick.

You: Are you sure you’re fine????

Hawks: Im perfectly okay. Ill go with you to the park next time sorry

You: Thats not what im concerned about stupid!!!!!

Hawks: Bye have fun!

You: I knoW YOURE SICK ASSHOLE

Hawks chuckled, rereading his messages with you.

Blowing his nose for what felt like the umpteenth time, Hawks resumed the movie on the screen that you had recommended him to watch — Disney’s Chicken Little — because it reminded you of him, or something like that. The TV droned on with the movie, and Hawks found it hard to keep focused as the Sandman danced on his head and whispered in his ear.

He hadn’t noticed he had fallen asleep until a loud banging was heard on his door.

Shuffling towards the door, Hawks opened the still slightly broken door with bleary eyes and a stuffy nose.

In front of him was none other than you.

You… with a basket full of things.

“Hi!” you greeted him, pushing past Hawks easily and walking into his apartment. “You look worse than I thought you would be!”

“That's hurtful,” Hawks pouted, closing the door behind you, sneezing, then following after you. “Why are you here? I thought you w-were — achoo — going to the park?”

“I was, but we were supposed to go together to check off number 184, and I wasn’t about to go alone to complete a list meant for you!” you exclaimed, dumping the overfilled basket on the kitchen counter.

“Mm,” Hawks hummed, his voice dry and cracking as he pulled the blanket closer around him. “What’s this?”

“A get well care basket,” you say in an unmistakable like tone; you glance at him, smiling widely, and gesture dramatically to the basket. “Follow along, if you can.”

“Pfft.”

“So first, I have some sleepytime tea; I swear to the gods and back that this tea will cure you and knock you the fuck out,” you say, pulling out the thing on top of the basket and putting it to the side. “Next, we have some tissues because you obviously need them.”

“Hey!”

Hawks watched through red-rimmed eyes as you carefully and thoroughly explained what and why you had brought him. Fuzzy socks, a blanket, his favorite snacks and drinks, medicine, DVD’s to more movies you told him he had to watch, an embarrassing childhood picture of you that he had been wanting and swore he would never expose least he wants to die, more oils for his diffuser, and a signed Endeavor poster he had been wanting.

Safe to say that after he had been drugged up, eating some soup and drinking some tea on the couch, wrapped up in the blanket you had bought him, laying between your legs, Hawks was feeling much, much better. It had been hours since Hawks had coughed or sneezed, and he was talking with you about how Disney movies were being produced less and getting sort of worse with each one. The movie titan slowly losing its ground.

“Okay, it’s almost eleven pm; I have work tomorrow, you are still sick, let's pack it up!” you eventually say during a moment of comfortable silence.

“I can’t believe you have to work,” Hawks sniffled, standing up off the couch so that you could get up. “Seems like a crime.”

“It’s not so bad! Being a celebrity PR manager is a million times easier than a hero PR manager. At least we can help decide what's seen!” you laugh, helping to clean up his living room of the bags of chips and drinks.

“Sure, sure,” Hawks grins, keeping the trashcan open for you so that you could place the trash in. “Thank you.”

Walking you towards the front door, Hawks comes to the sudden and almost alarming realization that he doesn’t want you to leave. He wants you to stay. He thought this was a friendship, and it was one, a good one at that! For about a month now, he had known that there was a type of love he had for you, one of friendship.

It was called philia. 

So why did he want to keep you wrapped up in a hug, to pull you close and press a gentle kiss to your forehead, to your cheek, to your lips?

“—I’ll be back tomorrow to check up on you during my lunch break,” you say, slipping on your shoes as you pull on your jacket. “If you need anything at all, call or text—”

The words on your tongue die immediately when Hawks still slightly chapped lips press against yours. The sick must that was present earlier on the day is no longer there, and you can feel heat and fire bursting from your cells as Hawks pulls away from you.

“I’m sorry,” Hawks breathes out, a small smile on his face, a daze in his eyes that tells you he definitely was not completely sorry. “I couldn’t resist anymore?”

“W-We will talk about that later!” your voice squeaks, your heart hammering in your throat because fucking Hawks kissed you. “If I-I get sick, I’ll rip out your eyebrows!”

“Will you go out with me? On a date?” Hawks continues on, leaning on the doorframe you’ve yet to pass.

“...I hate you, yes,” you warble, hands pressing against your burning face as Hawks grin grows.

“Perfect, I’ll text you,” he allows you to pass through the doorway where you feel both entirely light and giddy yet awkward and mechanical.

“Hawks, I swear, if your stupid kiss got me sick!”

“You’ll rip out my eyebrows,” Hawks laughs, waving a hand. “If you rip out my eyebrows, I demand a kiss for every hair you pluck out.”

He laughs at how he can basically see the heat rising from your ears as you squawk and run away.

Looking at #184 of his book, Hawks smiles as he crosses it out (#184: Ask out your crush!) and sighs. Philia was love between friends, but it was also, if he remembered correctly, one of affection. And it was without saying that he held a deep affection for you.

E R O S

As much as Hawks claimed he knew about the world, he was as clueless as a newborn baby when it came to the topic of love. Reasoning? Well, today marked a year of being together. It had been a year since Hawks had kissed you when he was snot-nosed kissed (you did get sick, by the way, and while you didn’t rip out his eyebrows, Hawks had kissed you plenty in apology), and then took you on a date where you went to a trampoline palace.

He was clumsily romantic. More often than not, he wasn’t actually romantic. Still, the sincere thought and emotions he put into it made his actions seem so thoughtful and sweet.

You’re not sure why you actually believed that on your year anniversary, he was going to plan something for the two of you. So the reaction he had when you showed up on the year anniversary, armed with a bouquet of flowers and a small personal gift for him, Hawks looked deeply confused.

“This is still not bad!” you exclaim, watching as Hawks attempts to redecorate his apartment from the messy bachelor vibe into something of romance. It was easier said than done, especially as your boyfriend had no decorations in his house that wasn’t fanboy or bird material.

“I didn’t realize that one year anniversaries were meant to be out and about!” Hawks yelled back, failing to nail the fairy lights onto the ceilings. “I knew you wanted to do something, but I thought it was going to be like ‘let’s go get some KFC!’ sort of thing!”

“Definitely not,” you laugh, sitting on his couch with the take out food sitting on the table. It had just arrived, and Hawks was still not accepting the lack of romance in his apartment. “But it’s okay, really Hawks! I didn’t tell you, which is entirely my fault! Come on, let's watch something together, eat, and relax!”

Hawks sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

He should have known that one year anniversaries were a big thing in dating too. They sure were in businesses; what a rookie mistake. Not satisfied with the lack of romance in his apartment but also unable to do anything more to it, Hawks sulked over to the couch and sat beside you, grabbing his dinner plate.

“Thanks, dove.”

“You’re most welcome, baby vulture. Thank you for the food!” you grin, breaking the chopsticks and digging in.

The food is eaten with a mirthful conversation, the TV playing the 100 Funniest Hero Fails playing on Youtube. Eventually, the purples and pinks of the sky became dark.

Night is here.

Hawks went from sitting right beside you to lying on the couch and having you snuggled into his stomach at some point in the night. YouTube is no longer playing Hero Compilation videos. Still, it is now instead showing a chef with a giraffe quirk demonstrating how to make your very own pancake treehouse, no clickbait!

Hawks is transfixed on you, watching the way your eyes sparkle and shine as you stare up at the screen, your lips moving as you give your side commentary, but he can’t hear a thing.

Five weeks ago, on this day, was the day that Hawks realized that the philia love he had for you had evolved once again. It had become one of eros. Romantic, passionate love. He loved you; he loves you. Anything you wanted or needed in the world, Hawks would do anything to give it to you. He had yet to tell you said realization; after all, he needed to make sure it wasn’t some fluke but found himself chickening out each time he wanted to confess.

Gliding his thumb against your cheekbone, Hawks stared adoringly at you, head tilted as you laughed at the video before glancing up at him. It was evident that you hadn’t been expecting him to be staring at you so intensely. As soon as you glanced back at the TV, you snapped right back, curiosity blazing off your gaze.

“What’s up?” you asked, hands pressing to his chest as you lift up a bit. “Do I have something on my face?”

“I love you,” Hawks whispered, the words coming out so much easier than he thought it would. “Y/l/n y/n, I love you.”

Your eyes widen significantly, your jaw dropping as your eyes grow just a bit watery.

Hawks smiles softly, knowing that for so long you had told him you loved him without a single moment where he returned the affection. It hadn’t bothered you. Obviously, you knew why he didn’t say it, but finally hearing him say it seemed to break you just a bit in the best of ways. He kisses you softly, fingers wiping away the single tear that fell.

“I love you,” he repeats.

“I love you too, Hawks,” you blubber, your smile so bright yet wobbling with your heartfelt emotions.

“Takami Keigo,” Hawks corrects. “My name is Takami Keigo.”

Hawks watches as you process his name, and a wet laugh bubbles from your throat as you nod your head, hands reaching behind his neck to pull him close for the first soul-consuming, fiery kiss of the night.

“I love you, Keigo.”

If this wasn’t eros, well, then, Hawks didn’t know what it was.

P R A G M A

two years later, valentines day

Keigo sits on the bed, fingers adjusting the tie around his neck as he stares at you doing your makeup in the bathroom. Your eyes intensely concentrated on your reflection as you painted dark red lips on yourself.

To sum up the last two years in a single, simple phrase, Keigo would say that love now made even less sense to him.

It wasn’t precisely that it made perfect sense before. Some days he still argued and wondered about how love could exist in specific scenarios. Or why, after you stole his final KFC chicken leg he was saving, he could always love you after such betrayal. It made no sense to him, but also made perfect sense, hence the complete confusion.

But it was without saying that as you twirled in your outfit in front of him, a grin plastered so large and lovingly on your features, that it made sense.

How could he not love when he had someone like you.

The walk to the restaurant was perfect; he had even taken a moment to slow dance with you when you came across some performers. Your sweet smile meant just for him made Keigo hum contently as he kissed you gently.

Dinner was amazing. The food rich and luscious, entirely to die for that had the both of you moaning about how great it was before laughing because the waitress definitely heard that. After dinner was over, you and Keigo were now waiting on desserts when he simply grabbed your left hand and slid a simple ring over a very important finger before placing a kiss on your palm.

“I know I was at one point too fast, and maybe I think I was too slow to ask this, but would you like to wake up and have chicken with me every day?” Keigo asked, watching as your face went through a million stages of understanding, processing, internalizing, accepting, and pure emotions.

The kiss was sloppy and wet, the tears streaming down your face beautifully, like diamonds in the dark sky.

It was today that Keigo unlocked the last love he ever thought he would have.

Pragma: committed, enduring love.

[generallypo]

in all sincerity, kim dokja makes me happy and he deserves to be so too :^(

incoherent yelling and sobbing under the cut. these fEELINGS will not be contained aaauuunnghhh. 

------

anyway i binge-read all 500+ chapters of ORV this week and i honest to god feel bad for this -- completely! fictional! aghhhh -- guy. in case you haven’t figured it out, the following is some spoilerly shit

i went in expecting a fun, brainless power trip fantasy for dudes with an isekai addiction. instead, it turns out ORV is actually a gigantic, self-deprecating prank on the entire genre itself. kdj plays more into the sad -- if high-functioning-- clown trope than the sexy, edgy, chuuni bastard type i was prepared to laugh at. there were -- gasp! -- female characters with personalities! parents (aka ADULTS who act like ADULTS) who actually survive and feature prominently! adorable children! a real sexy, edgy bastard! a power trio with amazing fashion! sexual tension and bickering! friendship! life and death bonding! 

*breathes in deeply* fouND FAMILYYYYYYY.

like, yeah, the plot around the first few arcs seems a little aimless, but the buildup is worth. the world-building is pretty decent. there’s discernible effort put into the fight scenes, and i can appreciate that. but -- but! what i stayed for were the characters -- namely, the fantastic OT3 of KDJ, HSY, and YJH -- who come together despite their initial rivalries and end up saving each other’s asses, like, every other day. granted, the other characters don’t get as much focus, and they do fall into certain character tropes.. 

but a trope done well is nothing i would gripe about. every significant character in ORV has a coherent, and more importantly, respectful take on their respective trope. maybe it’s because sing-shong is actually a married couple, but all the interactions between even minor characters are a convincing blend of awkward rambling, suggestive humor, sharp remarks, and casual banter. in other words, this cast of mostly working adults (plus a teen and two kids) talks like working adults. the relationships built throughout the story are, frankly, some of most realistic of its genre. sing-shong has managed to craft a dynamic that undoubtedly brims with fluffy fondness all around, but also drips with sarcastic tension, with unspoken urgency, with a wariness that softens into sincerity over the course of many, many chapters. it’s the kind of progression that makes even stock characters read like more than just the 2-bit villain or comrade or love interest. here, we have relationships both straightforward and not, strained or otherwise, romantically-oriented as well as decidedly the opposite -- and then numerous others scattered along the spectrum with the freedom to shift either way. 

it’s also an interesting point of note that our MC kdj actually does not end up with a stated romantic partner, much less a conventional heteroromantic harem. he gets teased about that fact from time to time, but it’s with less of the sleazy shonen locker room humor one would expect and more of the good-natured ribbing you’d find among friends or that one especially nosy auntie at the yearly family reunion. kdj is a grown ass man. in the background, i applaud his maturity, and he handles all the prodding like a champ. 

so instead of finding and fulfilling his horny, he builds himself a wealth of loving family. yeah, there are beautiful men and women around him. yeah, they unequivocally adore him. but they’re also adults, and they have priorities, too -- which are not so much finding a way to bang kdj’s brains out and more so simply keeping the damn guy alive. this is truly not ‘oblivious mc with his thirsty, sex kitten harem’. it just so happens that a guy proves himself to be unflinchingly gentle and capable in an apocalyptic setting despite his broken self-esteem, and lots of people find that attractive, romantically and platonically. 

it.. kinda makes sense? he’s a hard worker, thoughtful, and good with kids. kdj is the kind of guy you know would make a reliable partner, and anybody with eyes can plainly see and appreciate that. 

and it’s not that our MC’s a total brick wall. in fact, it’s likely the opposite, and he’s just too darned repressed to admit it. from what has been implied, kdj does indeed recognize and accept love, or at least a primitive concept of it. i like to imagine that the kind of love that he ends up seeking out simply manifests itself more easily as acceptance and safety, as warmth and a home of people to return to every day. even better, the people who surround him know this, and they give him exactly that. it’s refreshing, and honestly, really sweet.

(as a side note, i really, really do appreciate the cosmic bi energy radiating off of kdj, who canonically earns the title of being loved by all and is all but in name married to yjh and hsy. he also respects women and small children and honestly anyone who isn’t total scum to him or his family. i respect that.)

but the happy stuff aside, you know it it just ain’t ORV without the generous screaming dollop of angst. admittedly, there’s self-sacrifice, injury, lonesome wandering, more sacrifice, some epic fighting, reunion and confrontation. all of it is a lot to digest, sure, but never does it feel entirely hopeless, or truly, truly heart-clenching. ORV, up until the final act, is a mostly light read. you relax in your chair, thinking that nothing beyond this point can disturb you. 

yeah fucking right.

------

and then the beginning of the end arrives. when the squad finally break through to their ‘ending’, the scene that kind of breaks me is the reveal of the Most Ancient Dream. it ties so much thematically into the little tidbits that we get of kdj’s past, and it though it feels like almost a joke that the source of the goddamn apocalypse is a kid with bruises smeared across his skinny ass body -- it’s such a pathetic picture that it’s kinda poetic, actually. you’re left mystified but somewhat convinced, like a math problem explained halfway through. this.. child.. is a villain somehow, isn’t he?

and then 999th turn uriel speaks up, and she. just. hugs him. 

[[You are this universe’s most powerless existence, aren’t you.]] 

that. that gets me. kdj’s reaction immediately upon this revelation? absolute murder. seeing him essentially self-destruct upon realizing that all these people he’s surrounded himself with -- some who continuously proclaim their loyalty and affection for him throughout their journey, some who suffered eons of war and loss and trauma because of his existence -- not only forgive his younger self but smother him with unconditional acceptance and love is stifling, is too vulnerable and exposed and he simply can’t cope -- it’s so telling of his true mentality, of his crippling insecurity and crumpled sense of self-worth. kim dokja is a liar, through and through, so much that he fails, or perhaps refuses, to comprehend the veracity of others’ kindness and love towards himself. 

by some miracle, the events at the end of the world somehow resolve.. or so it seems. there is a departing train, a liberated team of ex-gods, and a child rousing from his slumber. in the aftermath, i am left shaking. somehow, despite the ending having been (happily?) reached, there’s still another chapter ahead. what is this witchcraft?

------

and then ah, yes -- the epilogue arc. i teetered on the edge of being critical for a little bit there -- is that display of deus ex machina, of sad, self-sacrificing nobility a bit too egregious to be acceptable? is this some wild last let-me-yank-this-outta-my-ass plot twist to drag out the chapter count? i sincerely thought that the arc before it would have been the finale. i was wrong. thank god.

anyways, as an answer to the above: no, and no. i stake my firm claim on the belief that the epilogue arc was meticulously planned out well in advance of its release, confusing and time-warpy as it is. i liked it. tremendously. even if it entirely invalidates all of kdj’s supposed development (”haha lol yeah sure i won’t sacrifice myself or anything anymore guys don’t worry about me” -- KDJ, at some point because he’s a lying rat bastard). actually, our beloved MC disappears for a large chunk of this arc, and i think it’s great. in his absence, the other characters not only go absolutely fucking nuts, but they have to figure out this new problem on their own, even if the lure of peaceful complacency in the newly saved Korea might convince them otherwise. 

and then the whole time paradox thing comes around. yjh goes to space, hsy saves the only life she can, and kdj grows up. the crew waits, holding onto their hope even if it bleeds them dry. sing-shong does a damn good job of illustrating their fraying calm, their lurking madness, the unseen but pervasive depression that seeps in from kdj’s absence. the kids lose their father, lhs and jhw lose their reliable leader figure, ysa loses a best friend and confidant, lsk -- as distant as she pretends to be from her son -- loses her only child. and then there’s hsy and yjh , who are essentially bereft of the other half of their existences. their pain is palpable, is grounded in the hopeless, gnawing frustration of an utterly meaningless victory. emotionally, ORV hits all the right -- if agonizing -- beats.

however, a story can’t sustain itself just through its pathos. i’m happy to say that ORV doesn’t drop the ball after the first milestone, and after all the hurt, the characters do leap straight back into action. even better, the plot holes actually do get patches, and the poetic cycle of writer, protagonist, and reader comes full circle by making use of all those supposedly throwaway characters from the myriad world lines. 

at the end of the road, there is a distinct sense of unity, of a delicate but undeniable cohesion to the world lines and their origins. sing-shong lets us guess a little here at the finish, but there’s just enough information to feel hopeful. maybe there never had been a definite start -- or finish -- to the story of kdj company, and... that’s okay. everybody ends up where they were meant to be, where they fought and struggled to reach. it’s.. almost like a happily ever after, if we’re allowed to dream of that.

------

now, i realize, this was all an orchestrated maneuver.

i’ll take it.

to me, all of this work sounds like someone put some serious thought into this behemoth of a plot. it cements the entire original premise of the story. it suggests -- but never explicitly confirms! -- the possibility that breaking free of the cycle is possible through the exact same system that sustains it. it’s terribly interesting -- and inspirational! with all the dramatic revelations and life-threatening scenarios  and the cast’s resigned acceptance of them that essentially make up ORV’s entire mood, there’s still that last hint of rebellious and righteous anger that lights up the whole damn nebula. it’s like the kdj company blasting away at the heavens just to yell into the nether: we’re not looking for the happy end, but the free one. stay alive.

it’s subtle, and yet it’s such an emotional gut punch. i came away with the most ruinous, frustrating, bittersweet sense of longing in ages. i pined. for these fictional darlings. god, i am weak.

so. yeah. ORV is pretty good. flawed, but ambitious and impressively thought out.  i’m stoked that the webtoon is making pretty good progress, even if it’ll take an eternity and a half to meet that monstrous chapter count. i’m still gonna follow it. hell yeah. 

------

(by the way the idea that secretive plotter and co are literally gonna take care of and raise baby kdj and spoil him and be the best friggin family a kid could ever want does things to me. protect him. he’s suffered too much. let at least one worldline’s version of him know happiness. and actually, aLL OF THEM DESERVE DOMESTIC BLISS TOGETHER IN A BIG OL MANSION WITH SUN AND FRESH AIR AND TENDER FAMILY MOMENTS UGH)

------

and there you have it, folks. you made it to the end. in the far, far distance, i’m cheering you on and crying my eyes out in gratitude. thanks for tuning in!

[donutloverxo]

So sorry

Summary- You max out Steve's credit card. Will you be able to make upto him?

Warnings- smut, daddy kink, deep throating, spanking

Pairing- Steve Rogers x brat!reader

Word count- 2k

Masterlist

You took a deep breathe, sipping from your champagne flute, scrunching your nose at the bitter taste of it. Why people liked alcohol you’ll never understand. In your opinion if something isn’t sweet then it doesn’t taste good.

You smiled stealing glances at the huge diamond chandelier above you. You tried your best to conceal your amazement, you didn’t want to seem as if you didn’t belong there. Until now you had only seen other people own designer bags and brands. You were from a simple middle class family and still a student who never really had any money of her own.

You figured you’ll never own a chanel bag or a cartier love bracelet, they were ridiculously overpriced anyway and totally not worth it, but you still felt drawn to them. They were always out of reach. Until Steve that is.

When you started dating him you never expected to have him buy you such amazing presents. He seemed like a simple minimalistic guy. But judging from your big fat tiffanys engagement ring, and many other things he has bought for you, being an avenger apparently paid well.

He gave you his credit card for your expenses and ‘some fun' like three months into your relationship. You never really used it. You didn’t want to take advantage of him, he already did so much for you and took such good care of you. But now that you were practically married, his money was your money. So maybe you can buy that Hermes bag which costs more than your rent? He asked you to ‘don’t go too crazy with it’ Would four thousand dollars really be that crazy?

“Look at the material on this. It’s made of lamb skin” Stacey gushed feeling the baby pink bag on her fingers.

She was the root cause of your crazy shopping spree. She practically forced you to spend so much money, you’re not even sure how much damage you’ve done in total but you know it’s pretty bad. She was a victorias secret model who had legs that went on for days and brown skin as clear as crystal. She was also Tony's new flame, unlike you she didn’t really have to worry about the bill.

“It goes so well with your hair!” she raved clapping her hands and looking at you as if you’re the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.

“I can’t” You whined resisting the urge to pout, that only works on Steve. “I’ve already spent so much. Maybe next month” You tried to reason more with yourself than her.

“Oh girl” She tsked you moving closer to you to whisper “I’m sure you can find some way to make up to Steve. He’s too whipped for you to care anyway”

You grinned at that. He was a lovestruck fool. It was so warming to know that you inspired that kind of passion in him. “how would I take care of him?” You frowned. You don’t really make any money. You will after you get a job but it still wouldn’t be nearly as much as Steve. You looked at her deadpanned face and then it dawned on you “oh” you breathed.

“Yeah” She nodded “now put your money where your mouth is. Men are easy to control, you’ll learn soon enough” She winked as you handed over Steve’s credit card to the cashier. You were happy to have such a beautiful bag, but you couldn’t ignore that nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach. Were you nervous or excited? You couldn’t decide.

You hurriedly punched in the code for yours and Steve’s suite in the Avengers tower, your birth year, opening and closing the door with your foot, your hands were too occupied carrying the loads of bags. You planned to hide your clothes and bags but you were too late.

There he was, the love of your life, the apple of your eye, your future husband, sitting on the couch, his left leg crossed over the right one. He looked at you as you gave him a nervous smile, pathetically trying to hide the bags under the dining table.

You slipped over to him kneeling to his side on the couch, it was time to butter him up “I missed you so much Stevie” You squealed hugging his bicep and nuzzling your nose into his cheek. He opened his mouth to say something, but you captured his lips in a bruising kiss. You slipped your tongue into his mouth, massaging his tongue with yours. You moaned into his mouth, knowing how much he liked it when you made those sinful amazing noises. You straddled his lap pressing your titts onto his chest chest as you trailed kisses down his jaw and neck. He pulled you closer to him, if that was even possible, by your waist.

“Wait” He said but didn’t stop you from sucking on his earlobe. He sternly said your name which made you freeze. You could be cute with Steve all you like but when the captain comes out, you know you’re in trouble.

You pulled away looking into his bright blue eyes and fluttering your new eyelash extensions. “Looks like you had fun” He said looking at your bags which were somewhat visible from the couch.

You grabbed his chin to make him look at you, oh how much you wanted to kiss that frown away but you can’t be too obvious. “I did daddy” you rolled your hips against his, pleased with the way his breathe hitched.

He held onto your hips to stop your ministrations “I got a call from the bank. You maxed out my credit card princess”

You whined wanting to stomp your foot but you can’t, not from this angle “But you said I could buy whatever I want”

“I also told you to be responsible with it. Just because we have money doesn’t mean we should be so careless with it” He reasoned.

You had to really fight the urge to roll your eyes. He was probably right but you weren’t going to admit that, not right away anyway. Instead you rolled your hips one more time, ignoring the way he called your name again.

You smirked when you felt his erection poking your thigh. You remembered the first time you felt it, after a heavy make out session, you hadn’t seen it but were so ridiculously afraid to fit him inside you.

You knelt before him as he stared at you, stalking your every move. You spread his knees making room for yourself between them and went to work on unzipping him.

“You can’t just get on your knees whenever you want to get your way” He sighed putting his hand over yours.

“Do you want to see my new bra?” You wondered. You unzipped your dress pushing the straps down to reveal your pale blue satin push up bra with a little bow in the middle, as if you were a present to be unwrapped. You could see him swallow, his fists clenching so hard, his knuckles turned white

You smirked at the small victory taking him out of his briefs and kissing the tip “Hello there little soilder. Did you miss me?” you pressed an open mouth kiss to his tip.

He bucked his hips up hissing at you “You played with him just last night” He said and cringed at his own words. You laughed covering your mouth with your hand. You had successfully infected him with your ridiculousness.

“Ooh” You cooed lapping up his precome before swallowing him whole, fitting whatever you could in your mouth. Over your relationship you had gotten better at taking him in your mouth but you still couldn’t fit all of him. He never really let you spend too much time on your knees anyway.

He bunched your hair up into a ponytail, probably to get a better look at your face. “No” You said pulling him out of your mouth, pushing his hand away from your hair “I just got it blow dried” you complained, his cum and your lipgloss smeared all over your lips and his cock.

“You’re such a brat” He grumbled “off with this” he bent over to unhook your bra slipping it off and exposing your titts to him. You should’ve known, modern lingerie didn’t really interest Steve, he liked seeing you in simple comfortable nightgowns. He sucked one into his mouth as you tried to hold in a moan. You gasped as he bit it, releasing it with a pop as he sat back against the couch, watching you with glossy lust-filled eyes.

You sucked his ball pulling it with your lip as he massaged your titt. You pumped him with your hand as more of his come came out of his tip. You couldn’t resist, you had to get a taste so you placed him back in your mouth.

You could feel how close he was by the way his cock twitched in your mouth. Usually, you’d swallow him whole or make him come on your face or titts. It depends on his or your mood. But today you had a purpose. You pulled him out of your mouth, looking at him with your best puppy dog eyes “My jaw hurts, I need a break” You made of show of massaging your jaw. It did somewhat hurt but not enough to stop.

He made a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a cry. You looked at his angry red tip, looking as if it was about to burst. “It must be painful?” You asked stroking his length with your hand. He groaned desperately nodding his head “It is doll. Please”

“Well I can’t keep my daddy waiting” With that he was back in your mouth so deep that your nose almost touched his blonde curls. You swallowed around him as your tongue licked stripes up his slit. “Jesus Christ” He sweared holding onto your neck. Even if he was upset with you he wouldn’t mess with your hair. Not when it looked so pretty.

Abruptly he pushed your mouth off him. You looked at his red flushed face and neck as he rigorously stroked himself, spurts of his come landing on your titts. He groaned and moaned and cursed, holding onto your shoulder.

Finally he sat back against the cushions looking into your eyes as you gathered some of his cummies on your fingers before sucking on them. “So yummy” You moaned.

“What am I gonna do with you” He shook his head.

You smirked feeling as if you had won. You pulled a few tissue papers out of the box from the coffee table cleaning him up and pressing a kiss to his cock before tucking it back in his pants. “Just love me and spoil me. You wanna see what I bought? I could put on a show for your” You perked up at the opportunity of trying on your dresses for him. You knew you couldn’t get past the second dress, with the type of clothing you had bought, you were bound to get your pussy fucked raw at the end of it.

He hummed “Sure – but before that” Before you knew it he hauled you up, manhandling you and placing you over his knees. “you have to be punished” He stroked your ass over your panties warming you up “How much do you think you deserve? How about fifteen for every grand you spent” He delivered a slap over your panties before pulling them down.

It would be a long night and you would love every second of it.

Tags- @patzammit @onetwo3000 @peaceinourtime82 @stargazingfangirl18 @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @navybrat817 @what-just-happened-bro @thehumanistsdiary @cheeseburgersstuff

Super cute pink divided by @whimsicalrogers

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[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 39)

This part was typed mostly on mobile. Sorry for any typos.

She remembers the first time she had seen snow. The feeling...it was bizarre. If she were to be completely honest, she would best compare it to the sensation of her worst days--the days when her mind is slipping and everything feels off and nothing feels real. But instead of fear, she feels awe. Instead of dread, she feels an almost childlike sense of delight.

And perhaps, in some sense, she is a child again; she has something new to discover. Something curious and strange.

"Hajime,look." She points out the window. "It's everywhere." And perhaps it is a silly thing to ask but she inquires anyhow, "how do we walk through it?"

"Like you walk anywhere else?" He quirks a brow.

"But in the Water Tribes...I've heard that there is special equipment used to navigate the snow."

He laughs, "the snow isn't that deep here!" He opens the door and gestures for her to exit.

"It's cold." She complains. Even under her winter wools, she finds herself shivering. And here Atsu goes, dashing out into the winter with no coat at all.

"Git back in here!" Hajime calls. "I tol' you last year 'bout going outside without a coat!"

Atsu comes to a halt, the magic of the morning coming to an abrupt pause with him. " But dad!"

"You need to help Rikka get dressed, she never had to wear a winter clothes before."

This seems to allure the boy and with a wide and gleeful grin he darts back into the house. "Hurry up and put your coat and gloves on, Rikka! We have to build snow people and throw balls of snow at each other and…" he chucks a coat and a pair of gloves at her--Hajime's she assumes based upon the size of them.

Azula stuffs her fingers into the gloves. Only one layer doesn't seem sufficient but another layer or two seems to aggravatingly restrict her finger movements and if she is going to destroy Hajime and Atsu at this snowball war, she is going to need a full range of movement from her fingers.

She steps out into the snow, she hears it sift beneath her weight. So far everything is going accordingly, there is no ice to land her on the ground.she deduces that, in most places, the snow only reaches up to her ankles which is, though an inconvenience, manageable enough. But she can't imagine that running from enemy fire will be as easy. She supposes that if she needs a speedy getaway she can just melt some of the snow and listen to Atsu screech about her cheating. Perhaps she would feel more guilty over it if Atsu weren't a merciless little brute. He does not wait for her to assemble her protective mound of snow before bombarding her with an onslaught of tightly packed snow.

"Gotcha!" He whoops with each hit that she fails to evade. It would seem that while she was assessing her surroundings he hand been stockpiling an extensive artillery.

"Geez, Atsu, show mercy, this is her first snowball fight." Hajime chuckles from his spot on the porch.

It is a nice thought but Atsu, the feral beast, knows nothing of mercy. He tosses snowball after snowball. She manages to create only one but before she can throw it, Atsu fires another shot. And this one sails directly down the front of her shirt. She feels it slide from her chest to her belly leaving her with a full body shudder as itself away. She had dropped her snowball. Never in her life has she felt anything quite like it; uncomfortable and somewhat biting but I'm a way that wasn't exactly painful.

She tosses a pathetically pleading glance to Hajime who throws his head back in a howling laugh. "Alright, alright." He gets to his feet and steps out into the battlefield.

"Uh oh…" Atsu mumbles, he is now we'll aware that he should have built himself a snow fortress. Azula gives him a smug smile as she lifts a new snowball.

"Uh oh." He repeats as her very second snowball sails right into his face.

Maybe she should feel guilty over it but he isn't crying and he brushes it right off. And besides, she is certain that he was aiming for her face the whole time anyways, he simply didn't have the arm strength to land any hits higher than chest level.

And by the end of the hour she is almost embarrassed by how satisfied she feels to have beaten a child at a children's game. Any tickles of shame are washed away by Atsus delightful giggles. His enthusiastic, "wait until Caihong and Kim get here! We'll kick yer butts until you don't have butts no more!"

People have bestowed upon her many threats. But none have been quite like that.

That day she learns that Atsu is very much a little shit and that, likely, she will never truly shake her competitive nature.

.oOo.

She has been to plenty of awkward dinners but the silence of this one is so thick that it is dizzying. She can’t help but notice the way that Sokka twiddles his thumbs and looks in every direction but his father’s and Katara’s. It occurs to her that he is ashamed of her. Is embarrassed to be seen with her. She supposes that it is a good thing that the snow storm has picked up too strongly to go for a stroll through the village. She can only imagine what sort of looks she will get from everyone else. A firebender...the princess among people who the Fire Nation has displaced and nearly destroyed. She is everything that they detest and she supposes that Sokka has every right to be embarrassed by that. Embarrassed in the same way that she had been to parade him around the Fire Nation at first.

“Aren’t you going to say anything, dad?”

The man gives something between a hum and a sigh, “I’m trying to figure out what to say.” Hakoda looks at her. His face isn’t as steely with stubbornness as Katara’s.

Azula stares at her palms. She should take her mittens off. But any little motion will draw too much attention. Not that Katara's resentful gaze has left her since she got to the table. She wants to have a taste of her seaweed stew but she is already mildly nauseous with nervousness and the scent of the stew doesn't exactly kindle her appetite.

"Just talk to her for a bit, dad, you'll like her." Sokka promises.

The flutters in her tummy intensify that much more. She wishes that he wouldn't make promises that even he isn't certain of.

"She likes history and strategizing just like you do and…"

"And she used it to foil our invasion and get him sent to the Boiling Rock." Katara folds her arms across her chest.

Azula cringes to herself, truth be told, she had forgotten about that. Comparatively speaking, it seemed much less profound than some of her other misdeeds.

"Yeah well she's done a lot of changing since then." Sokka insists. “See, she even has the redemption haircut!”

“The what?” Azula finally speaks up.

“Yeah, Zuko said he cut his hair before joining us and now look at him, he’s happy--but in a grumpy old man sort of way, he’s a good friend, and he’s got long flowing tresses.”

Azula rolls her eyes. She isn’t sure if she wants to slug the man to death right in front of his father and sister or if she finds his recant amusing. She supposes that it would ruin her chances to make amends of she murdered Sokka now. “It wasn’t a redemption haircut I had matted hair and, maybe, lice.” Ji-Zhang had only mentioned it being matted. She supposes if she had lice that they would have shaved…

“Azula.” Sokka manages to cut through her comfort musings. Granted her musings weren’t at all pleasant but her inner monologue very much beats the external alternative.

She realizes that Hakoda has extended his hand. It is far less formal than a bow but she will take what she can get. He gives her hand a shake. “I’m Hakoda.”

“Sokka told me that, already. And he has already told you my name.”

Sokka flushes, “you’re supposed to introduce yourselves to each other.” And then he turns to his father, “she’s still working on the whole having a normal conversation thing. It runs in the family.”

“I can have a normal conversation just fine.” She folds her arms and holds her head high.

“Well it’s...interesting to formally meet you, Azula.”

“Dad!” Katara says sharply. “She’s not a part of this family. I don’t care how much Sokka likes her.”

“Come on Katara.”

“Don’t ‘come on Katara’ me! You’re the one trying to welcome her into the Water Tribe.”

“I get it, this is for the whole Jet thing isn’t it.”

This time Katara blushes.

“Who is Jet?” Azula furrows her brows.

“Yes, who is Jet?” Hakoda agrees.

“You don’t know about Jet?” Sokka asks at the same time as Katara says, “you weren’t supposed to tell him about Jet!”

“Jet’s just some jerk that flooded a whole village full of kids. To drive out some Fire Nation soldiers.”

“Gaipan?”

“Yeah.” Sokka nods. “You know about that.”

Azula returns the nod. “We lost a few soldiers there. There were noble men and women.” She pauses. “Stubborn too. They might have been alright if they fled with the rest of the village but…”

“Firebenders and their pride.” Hakoda clicks his tongue.

She wants to call the man on his generalization but frankly she hasn’t met a firebender yet who didn’t value pride. And maybe that is why it is so hard for her to apologize to Katara and Hakoda. Though she isn’t certain that she particularly needs to apologize to Hakoda--he had led an invasion to defeat her father. He had encroached on her land. It was her duty to see those plans foiled. Though pointing that out probably won’t serve her too well.

“Can you give her a chance, Katara? I gave Jet a chance.”

“No you didn’t. You were protesting and whining the whole time.”

“And I ended up being right.”

“So will I.” With those three words, she storms out into the snow.

“That went flawlessly.” Azula grumbles.

“Just give her some time, she’ll come around when she realizes that you’re actually kind of a really sweet person.”

“I will set everything you love on fire…”

“You just like to pretend that you aren’t.” And to Hakoda he mutters, “It’s part of the firebender pride thing. You can’t let anyone know that you’re nice.” He slings an arm over her shoulder and pulls her in closer.

Azula sighs, it is going to be a long, long vacation or whatever in the spirits’ name she could call this.

[giorno-plays-piano]

Run, Hide, Leave behind

Pairing: warlock!Bucky Barnes x Reader  Warnings: yandere, obsession, swearing, stalking, mentions of kidnapping, death of minor characters.  Words: 2354  Summary: He was following you with such persistence as if you had mortally offended him once. It had hardly been a week, but you felt like you had spent an eternity lurking in the shadows, expecting the warlock to appear right in front of you any second.  P.S. Oh, Nasuverse magic system... One day I’ll make a better story about it.  _____________________________________  This place gave you creeps: abandoned medical facilities looked scary even on TV, but hiding in one of them at night by yourself was much more frightening. You would never come here if you had a choice. However, the one hunting you down did not particularly care for your fears, chasing you like a true police dog. The only reason why you came to an abandoned hospital at the outskirts of the city was because Wanda sent you here, saying that your shielding magic might work better in this particular location. Since you had no more places to hide – he destroyed every one of them, leaving dead bodies behind – it was your last refuge.

As you walked down the empty corridor, your sneaked into one of large rooms with several steel beds and no mattresses. The old creaky floor was dusty and bubbling, one of the windows boarded up, the others so dirty you could hardly see anything but silhouettes of the huge pine trees surrounding the hospital. Sighing, you took out a piece of chalk and got on your knees, drawing an uneven circle and started scribbling around it. You doubted it would really work when everything else didn’t.

The medallion on your chest got heavier with every word you whispered, and you thought how stupid it would be to die for just some old artifact. Sure, it carried the magic of the ancient, such power a mage like you could hardly imagine, but it was also the reason it was completely useless to you. Only the most talented and experienced magicians were to enjoy its power, while your pathetic charms could not even activate the medallion. You only kept it because it was your family’s heirloom, the one thing that was left to you by your parents. If you had ever known that it could nearly destroy your life, you would give it up the first time you saw Bucky.

Yes, he was the very same mage who was chasing you now, the legendary Winter Warlock who could cover the whole city in snow and ice in the middle of summer. You could still hear Wanda’s screams once he literally blew the door along with the half of a hallway with his magic.

Why was the medallion so important to him? He was above all the sorcerers you had ever known. He probably had tons of magical artifacts like this, the silver glove he wore on his left hand being a much more powerful item. Moreover, since Bucky Barnes was a well-known outlaw of the magic world who had been in hiding for years, it was odd he came out now. He was following you with such persistence as if you had mortally offended him once. It had hardly been a week, but you felt like you had spent an eternity lurking in the shadows, expecting the warlock to appear right in front of you any second.

The sacred symbols were glowing with gentle golden light as you finished creating your shield, probably the only thing you were more or less good at. It was a great pity your shields were just the means of protection, nothing else. You saw once how Pietro’s Bounded Fields cut an arm of a mage who wanted to break through, but you were so repulsed by the sight of blood and someone’s suffering that you have never tried to learn this type of magecraft.

Nonetheless, even Pietro’s charms were not good enough against someone like Winter Warlock. He was amongst the few ones who could use True Magic. They said he even knew the spatial warping spells.

You heard a loud bang and felt your skin crawling. Warlock was here, in the corridor on your right, you could see his massive distorted form through the open door – a dark cloud was slowly turning into a tall beefy figure. Apparently, Barnes was keen on keeping himself in a good physical condition.

You swallowed, your heart pounding wildly. It was the end of you. Quickly removing the medallion from your chest, you looked at it and bit down on your lower lip. You asked your ancestors to forgive you for not being able to keep your heirloom safe and stood up. When Tony, the head wizard of your coven, had given up on helping you, you knew you will die in a matter of few days.

“It’s nice to see you waiting for me.” Warlock said in a low voice, and you shivered: he had always been silent every time you saw him. Something was different today.

You could not utter a single word in return, watching him entering the dark room and smirking at the sight of your pathetic golden shield. He raised his right arm, and the chalk was immediately erased from the dirty floor, living you with no protection against his magic whatsoever. Well, it was worth a try.

As he advanced towards you, his black cloak almost reaching the floor, you suddenly reached out for him, having a medallion in your hand. Maybe he could give you an easy death then, you thought. Maybe he would not, but now there was nothing you could do about it. For some reason you were unable to end your own life – three days ago you tried to drink the poison but dropped the bottle once your lips touched its top.

“Why?”

Warlock narrowed his icy blue eyes, and you gasped for air. Did he expect you to fight him? Was he thinking you had to die an honorable death for your heirloom? Surely, he knew your pathetic sorcery couldn’t even reach him through his own magic circle.

“You wanted to have it. Take it then.” You managed to say meekly, watching the red star on his shoulder, a symbol of deadly blood magic user. “Anyway, there’s nothing I can do to protect it.”

“The medallion?” Bucky chuckled, coming closer to you with each step and watching your body tremble. “You think I’ve been following you the whole fucking week for this?”

Despite his harsh tone, he carefully took the artifact in his flesh hand and then touched the dull metal with his silver fingers, making the medallion shine all of a sudden. Ah, his power activated it.

“I… I thought… you reached out for it when you came the first time.” You mumbled, confused. “I have nothing except it. Nothing valuable.”

Suddenly, he tilted his head back and laughed loudly, still carrying the medallion in his hand. You were taken aback by his response and just froze on the spot – what the hell was happening here? He tried to snatch this little piece of metal from your chest once he spotted you. If he wasn’t coming for it, what else could he possibly want from you, a low mage who had only discovered her powers a year ago?

The corners of his eyes crinkled once he grinned at you, coming so close that you could feel his breath on your skin. He didn’t punch you, though, or hurt you in any other way. Bucky simply put the medallion back on you again.

“Look at me closely, little girl.” He demanded, and you stared at him like a rabbit in front of a snake.

Before you could realize what was happening, his face features started to change, the magic making him look younger, healthier as his dark circles and pale skin were transforming slowly. His dark long hair became much shorter, his smile less threatening, and in a few seconds, you were looking into the face of a young soldier James you had met something like a month ago in an amusement park. In fact, you started going out with him - he was probably the sweetest men you had ever encountered, gentle and caring. James was one of a few people who could make you laugh to tears with his jokes, too.

But a sudden appearance of Winter Warlock ruined everything. You had to hide, and since James knew nothing of your magic powers, it was very unclever to get him involved in all this. So, you simply stopped calling him and then dumped your phone shortly, afraid for both his life and your own. You were scared Warlock could do something to him once he learnt James was important to you, but, thankfully, it had never happened.

Then it suddenly occurred to you that you saw those icy blue eyes before. It’s just that time you thought they were the same color as the winter sky, and you told James a few times how unusual they looked. He was both proud and somewhat shy about it.

Clenching the medallion in your hand, you felt tears filling your eyes and stepped back from Warlock as he reversed his magic, and his hair grew back again, his face tired and aged up.

“Is this how you entertain yourself?” You barked at him and wiped the wet tracks with you shaking hands, but tears kept streaming, nonetheless. “Pretending to be someone you’re not and having fun with a mage who can’t win against you? Do you enjoy hunting people down that much?”

“No, I don’t.” He said sternly and made a step towards you while you kept going back. “You brought it upon yourself, don’t you think?”

“And what have I done?” You tried to fight back the tears, thinking of all the times you spent together, talking nonsense, having fun, laughing. It stung. It only made you cry harder, and you turned your reddened face away from his. “What didn’t you like? Didn’t my kisses feel nice? Or was it the way I dressed? Were you mad at me because you didn’t get into my skirts?”

“Oh, I could get there pretty fast if I wanted to, love.” Bucky smirked, and you sent him a glare. How could this bastard be your James, the man who spent all his money to win you a teddy bear in an amusement park? How could he play his role to perfection, making you never even once doubt his intentions? Did he use a love potion or charms of some kind to draw you to him? With his level of skill, it would be easy. Maybe it explained why you fell in love with him so goddamn fast.

“Then what the hell do you want from me?”

You realized he had cornered you only when your back was pressed into the cold wall beside you. Although you were ready to die just mere minutes ago, now you wanted to fight. Regardless whether you could use magic or not, you were ready to make everything a bit harder for Warlock rather than silently submitting to him.

“Why didn’t you come to the cinema that night, little girl? I was waiting.” His smug smile faded, and you felt fear rising up in your gut again. “I’ve been waiting for a damn hour for you to show up or send me a message. When you didn’t, I went to see you only to find a pretty blond guy taking care of you in bed.”

The color drained out of your face when you remembered the night when you didn’t come to see the movie you two chose. Warlock was right. You weren’t there for James because you had a migraine, and Pietro and Wanda came to put some soothing charms and help you relieve the pain. It was Pietro who had casted a sleeping spell when his sister was in the kitchen doing her herb potion.

When Warlock came to ruin your house in the middle of the night, you chose to run, completely forgetting about apologizing to James. You had no time for it. You fled immediately and never thought of the night when you were supposed to meet him in the cinema, instead thinking of keeping him away from the mess you got yourself into. It was impossible to link these two events in your head as Bucky had never said why he was following you in the first place. Of course, for you the only logical reason was the artifact.

But in the end, he didn’t want to grab to your medallion. He was reaching out to touch you.

Well, at least it explained why he was trying to tear Pietro apart, almost chopping his arm. If not the Bounding Fields and Wanda’s teleportation spell, he would be dead for sure.

“I was unwell.” You forced the words out of your mouth. “Pietro and Wanda were there to heal me.”

“Did they, truly?” His cool silver hand gently touched your wet cheek.

“Give me the Truth Potion then.” You almost spat in his face, clenching your hands into fists. “Go inside my head, see the truth for yourself. You blame me for something I have never done when you made me believe you’re a nice man, used me, manipulated my feelings, and then hunt me down like an animal. God, you had almost killed the man who only tried to help me! You murdered several trespassers who weren’t ever wizards at all!”

When you finished, you felt your hands going limp as you could no longer control your own body. You felt like you were floating in the air, your legs too weak to keep you standing, and you let out a small sob. Did you forget in your rage that you were talking to one of the most powerful dark magicians? He could kill you with his thumb.

“If what you’re saying is true, you’ll get your sweet soldier back, love.” A dark smile slid across his lips. “Or would you prefer me, the mage? I bet I could give you much more as a sorcerer. I could teach you to use your medallion, give you the power you’d never even dreamt of. Believe me, you’re going to like it.”

“I want you to leave me alone.” You said under your breath, frightened and distressed, but his hand was already on your chest leaving a bloody star on your grey jacket.

“Too late, dear. You’ve made your choice a month ago.”

[ramblinganthropologist]

N7 challenge 18 and 19 - Blue and Substance

Yep, doubling up prompts again... it’s Nano, I’m only human. 

Summary: Extra, extra... Commander Shepard’s gotta engage in some mild censhorship after a tabloid leaks a photo of him imbibing a mysterious substance. Just what is it... and why does it smell like blue raspberry? The hell is the Alliance up to these days? 

---

…

Why did he get the feeling he was being watched by more than just hamsters?

It was probably just a feeling, but Alistair couldn't shake it as he entered Citadel Critters that afternoon.  Normally this was his favorite place on the station, but... well, the walk over from the docks had been unnerving to say the least. If anyone caught sight of him, they stared. A few even whispered, but it was all too low for him to pick up.

Great, who was he fucking now according to the media?

“Good to see you, Al.”

At least Mike looked normal and happy to see him. Alistair was glad for that as he raised his hand in a friendly greeting. That was of course a mistake – from the wrist almost to his elbow he was still bandaged up like a mummy. At least the bandages had stopped bleeding.

Normally medigel would be the thing for this, but the wound type needed healing the old fashioned way. As a medic he understood it... but as a twitchy biotic, it was itchy as hell and he hated every moment of it.

The shopkeeper winced at the sight of him. “Am I allowed to ask what happened there, or is it secret Spectre shit?”

“I got too close to a krogan on Tuchanka and we traded paint. Their bacteria is pretty toxic, so I can't seal it up with medigel.” He shrugged. “Least I didn't break anything. Then that would have to heal the old fashioned way too.”

He was kind of glad that krogan was dead, all things considered. Not just because he tried to kill him, but he tried to kill his nephew during his Proving. Nobody messed with Grunt and got away with it; didn't matter what it was. Shit, he'd taken on a thresher maw for the kid and he still had to go to therapy considering them. If that wasn't proof he liked the guy, nothing was.

But anyway, he was glad that fucker was dead. Asshole.

“Now you're fighting krogan hand to hand? Maybe there's something to that tabloid story after all.” Mike winced as he seemed to bite his tongue. “Shit, I said I wasn't going to ask you about that, it's clearly bullshit...”

…

What was clearly bullshit?

Alistair frowned as he checked his omni-tool, going to a site he knew fairly well. It had been a while since he had checked in with Citadel Daily, but it looked like for the most part they were still behaving. Sure, he wound up there – but they weren't mentioning who he was fucking or anything.

The answer was nobody, by the way, because the universe hated him.

“Well... it's not from Citadel Daily, so I think you're going to have to fill me in.”

The shopkeeper looked uncomfortable as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It's from some smaller paper, but it's kind of gone viral. They ran it in last week's Spec-Check.”

Ah, he'd heard of that. Hell, he'd been in it once or twice. Half the time it was getting censored by the Council for accidentally falling ass first into the truth, and the rest of their stories were so obviously fake that they provided excellent cover. The ones about him had all been fake... but maybe it would explain the stares.

Mike grabbed his datapad from a nearby table and tabbed over to an article he had clearly read a couple times. He wasn't looking Alistair in the eye as he handed it over, and his hand trembled a bit. Clearly, someone was feeling a little guilty...

“What the hell?”

There, in bright font, screamed out “Commander Shepard: Under the Influence of Biotic Boosting Substances?” with a picture of him in armor. His eyebrow zoomed to his hairline as he realized it was taken on Tuchanka. How had he missed a krogan taking a picture of him?

More importantly, who had sold him out and why did he need to tan their hide?

“So this story...” he flicked through. “Implies that I'm on some illicit substance to boost my biotics. They know red sand is a thing, right?”

The shopkeep shrugged. “Keep reading, they imply it's some purified Alliance version they're testing on you. The paper called it blue moon...”

Alistair's vein throbbed as he flipped to the picture. Clear as day, there was a picture of him opening a tube of a obnoxiously colored, bright blue powdery substance and swallowing it down. Judging by the scenery... he had gone after a thresher maw not long after it was taken.

Ok... he could kind of see the hook there, but come the fuck on.

“I told people it was bullshit, the Alliance isn't going to risk its first Spectre on shit like that...” Mike's voice wavered. “But then more pictures showed up.”

Now he really had to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Mind telling me where I can find these guys? I think I need to give them the Citadel Daily special.”

“Is that the part where you toss them out a window?”

No, it was the part where he let Bo threaten someone with defenestration. Problem was that his XO was still back on the Normandy with her adoptive son. They were having a bonding moment after what had gone down on Tuchanka. He was eventually supposed to bring them back snacks, but... well it looked like he had to make a pit stop first.

“We'll see. Now, I gotta get to tracking them down...”

---

Unlike Citadel Daily, the office of Eye on the Citadel was much smaller and in a more run down part of the Wards. Some might have called it seedy, but Alistair didn't care as he got out of the cab and checked his omni-tool. On it flashed the details he needed and had acquired from EDI when he had informed the Normandy where he was going.

“You packing your blue moon, Commander?”

Alistair rolled his eyes as he touched the piece in his ear. “Joker...”

“Sorry, Commander. I know you're touchy about it and all. Just don't throw anyone out a window with your mind.”

Yes, yes he was. Regardless, the Spectre sighed as he approached the front door. The sign said to knock, which he did. He even stepped back, waiting. For a long while, he wasn't sure if anyone was home.

Then he heard the skittering in the background.

“Shit, it's Shepard!”

Someone wasn't very subtle. They were also looking through the peep hole directly at him. Despite himself, he gave a little wave as he waited for the door to open. Whoever was there squeaked, and it sounded like they fell down.

Hopefully they hadn't broken anything before he got the chance to try.

“Hello, are you alright in there? It sounded like you took a nasty fall. I'm a medic if you need some first aid.”

Someone was sniffling behind the door. It was so damn pathetic that Alistair sighed and reached for the doorknob. In a few seconds, his picking program had made short work of the lock. That allowed him to gently twist the handle and open the door.

Just like he thought, there was a person on the floor, holding their ankle with big tears in their eyes. From where he was standing, it just looked like a bad sprain. It was nothing a little medigel and some rest couldn't handle, and luckily he had the first ingredient on hand.

Problem was, the person who had just entered the hallway looked as though he had murdered someone.

“So Commander Shepard breaks and enters on top of consuming illicit drugs.” Their camera was out. “Eli, did he hurt you?”

Alistair's tone was as dry as Tuchanka as he motion to the prone human. “I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure they sprained their ankle falling.”

The man with the camera looked from his partner to his subject a few times. He still took a few pictures before he put it away – note to self, blast that late. A few seconds later, he was helping Eli to his feet – somewhat unsuccessfully. He was way off balance.

“If you do it that way...” He winced as both men went tumbling. “... that's going to happen. Did you break something too?”

Camera man wasn't amused as he tried to free himself from underneath his prone friend. “I'm fucking fine, what the hell are you doing here? You broke in!”

Alistair gestured to the fact he was still on the other side of the door. “I haven't even entered the house yet, good luck proving that.”

Clearly, he was dealing with a real genius. He doubted this was the man who had written the article about him – not enough imagination. Maybe it was his photos, but definitely not his words. That he attributed to Mr. Sprained Ankle, who was still trying to get up on his own power. With his luck, he probably sprained the other one...

Just what he needed, a rescue mission when he was trying to be intimidating.

He sighed and let his anger trickle out. “May I enter so I can administer first aid? You've followed me enough to know I'm a medic.”

“Yeah, a medic tripping balls on blue moon!” Camera man pointed at him. “I saw you take it twice on the Citadel, once with your fucking niece! You have a problem, and I'm going to expose you so people know not to-”

The beeping from Alistair's wrist drew the Spectre's attention. He frowned and flipped it over. A familiar program was warning him that his sugar was currently in the low 60's. If this kept up, he was going to risk really becoming a space cadet.

Talk about appropriate though.

“You're about to see another dose, actually.” He pulled the paper tube from his jacket pocket and ripped off the top. A few seconds later, down his throat it went. All he tasted was sour blue raspberry as it traveled down his throat.

He really hated blue flavors... green apple was where it was at.

On the floor, Eli sniffed. “Is... that candy?”

“Homemade pixie stick mix. It's cheaper than buying the individual tubes.” He tossed Camera Man a packet. “Test it if you don't believe me. Mine's a little more sour than the commercial mix, but it's still basically sugar, citric acid, a little bit of flavor with the color.”

Somewhere, he was pretty sure a thousand 'don't do drugs, kids' infomercials went through both men's heads as they examined the packet. The vein continued to throb as he waited for his sugar to creep back to normal levels. At least it wouldn't take long – he had caught the low fairly early.

It was Eli who took the packet, giving a little bit of the powder a cautionary lick despite his coworker's protests. When his face contorted in the classic sign of sour, the Spectre sighed in relief. Still, it was hard to resist pinching the bridge of his nose.

“He's telling the truth, Sam. It's like a high powered pixie stick.” And then the man wasn't looking at him. “Shit... you've been eating these the whole time, haven't you?”

Alistair held up his wrist, showing the blood meter reading. “Have to or I go into hypoglycemia. It's part of being a biotic for me. So I guess we can say you were kind of right about it being a biotic booster. However, I don't think anyone outside an elementary school classroom is going to call it illicit.”

He at least allowed a smile. “So, you going to let me in now to help with that ankle, or are you just going to live on the floor from now on?”

---

“So, did you throw him out a window?”

“No, and did you want the Cheetos too?”

Alistair could hear Bo groaning on the other end of the line as he picked out snacks for his trip back. He had quite a few – enough to fill the basket. That was understandable, given he was helping to feed a krogan and a high powered biotic. Between the two of them, he wasn't sure who could eat more. Some days it was a toss up.

So he added the Cheetos anyway. If she didn't want them, he'd eat them later.

“You're such a fucking boy scout sometimes, Al. You could've at least fucked with him a little bit.”

The Spectre shrugged his shoulders as he added a few more things to his basket before heading for the self check out. Given the time of day, the store was pretty packed. He still felt eyes on the back of his neck, but not as many as before.

The blog post had gone out while he was checking Eli's ankle. He had been right on the credits about who wrote for that duo...

“I got my retraction, and he learned not to stand on things while you're spying on a Spectre. Everyone walks away happy.”

“Yeah, except the people who bet you'd throw them out the window.”

Well, that was their mistake. After all, he WAS known for being the boy scout. She had said it herself. Though, he knew she hadn't bet on him, though not because she knew him well. Bo wasn't allowed to bet on anything involving him, due to the fact she was usually involved. This was a rare technicality that had kept her out of the pool.

Too bad, she could've cleaned up.

“Who managed to take the pot home?”

“Garrus. He better be taking you on some kind of date with that money when this is over.”

The thought of it made Alistair's face heat as he started scanning things through the self checkout. “Come on... we're not...”

“Not with that attitude. Also, did you get the nuggets? We were going to watch Jurassic Park next, they'd be a good theme snack.”

He sent her a picture of the massive sized bag of dinosaur-shaped nuggets before finishing up. Soon, he was out the door and blending into the crowd as he put his hood up to avoid the lingering gazes. Hopefully with time, it would settle down.

As he headed back to the Normandy, Alistair was glad for one thing... that he hadn't told anyone the thought of throwing someone out a window had crossed his mind more than once as he healed Eli's ankle. That would've probably lost the pool for Garrus, and maybe he was hoping for that date sometime this century.

Well, that and being cleared of being on weird Alliance drugs like a guinea pig. That was good too. But seriously, how the hell had they come up with that? Anyone with a brain in their head knew as a Spectre he technically wasn't part of the Alliance anymore. If they had any neat substances to test out, it would be on people they actually held marching orders for.

Oh well... at least he'd been able to get the green color this time. No more blue moon for him. Maybe he'd keep the name for the blend, though... it was kind of catchy.

[phantomphangphucker]

Phango - Not So Strangers In The Night

(Swagger Bishie + Identity Reveal + Ghost King)

Dash wants many things but there’s two he’s sure he just can’t have, Danny meanwhile, doesn’t think ‘can’t’ is an actual word.

Dash sighs mentally, eyeballing Danny out of the corner of his eye. There had always just been something about how lithe the guy’s body was, the way his clothing would occasionally cling or hang off him giving away the skinnier body underneath. Personally, he would never wear oversized clothing himself, but it was more than a little attractive on people with petite frames.

Watching Danny stretch his arms over his head and yawn in a way that was almost cat-like. He doesn’t know when Danny’d gotten his teeth done like that, the fangs, but they added an even more slender and sharp edge to his face. Moving his gaze up the other teens' jawline to mentally trace out a sharp line all the way past the tapered ears. Everything about Danny’s face was sharp, defined...and incredibly attractive.

Glancing back to Danny’s arms just before he lowers them, the oversized sweater just thin enough and just heavy enough to give away the ever so slight hint of defined muscles underneath. Dash has no clue how that happened and he was honestly a bit hurt and dismayed when he noticed Danny bulking up. How could he not notice? It was so very obvious every time he grabbed around the now practically rock hard biceps to drag the kid off for his daily beating. Or when he snuck a peek down Danny’s shirt, as he always did, when pinning him up against some locker. He knows attacking Danny is pretty stupid, but Dash knows he’s not a smart guy. And really? A jock with a loser? A freak? Never. He’d be a social pariah. So he gets his hands on his secret little crush the only way he knows how. With rough hands and a strong dose of aggression. He does relish the closeness too though with that strange muscle Danny’s built, he does wonder why Danny never truly fights back. He honestly wouldn’t mind getting rough up by the lithe teen. That was half the reason he loved football after all, and working out. The bruises, the cuts, the sore muscles. Pain was a pleasure and carried a feeling of power. Knowing just what your body could do and take. And he’ll admit to testing Danny’s limits sometimes. Seeing just how much pain he could take, which honestly just left him feeling very impressed...and attracted.

But back to why Danny’s muscle growth had bugged him. In the beginning, it did anyway. See Danny had always been skinny, there was a daintiness to him, yet lithe. It’s not like Danny never had muscle, no, it had just been muscle potential hidden away. And wondering just what he could do if that potential developed was a bit exhilarating. Just like getting a new teammate on the field. But his fellow jocks were all rather brutish in their muscle and psyche, which Dash firmly did not have an interest in. And sure, maybe he had gone a little blind, thinking that the only real options were skinny, beefy, or fat.

So imagine his hidden horror with that mindset, when Danny -with the perfect femboy bod, with all the sharpness needed to have a somewhat pixie look- seemed to be transitioning into the beefy category? Over time that worry was quelled, Danny’s muscle was so different. He never seen such a lean tight kind of musculature, Danny even seemed to become more sharp; sharper jaw, the ears, even his eyes had a sharpness. It was, dare he say, exotic. Which if anything, only added to the femboy pixie look. Which okay, sue him, he liked cutesy shit; definitely explained his taste in men. Not that anyone actually knew that. Dash Baxter, number one football star and the example of masculinity, being interested in anything ‘cute’? Never. He had an image he had to keep.

That was one thing he was insanely jealous of Danny over. Danny’s freaky family made it so that it didn’t damn matter what he did or how he acted. Nothing was unexpected behaviour from a Fenton. And he was already a social pariah. Danny could literally transform into a dog or some shit and no one would really be all that surprised. He might get a few new insults hurled at him but that’s it. But Dash? The slight wrong move and goodbye scholarships or dealing with a furious father. ‘Cause don’t let it fool you, regardless of what the colleague heads said publicly, they absolutely did discriminate. Especially in sports. And bi in football? Bi and hocked up with a cute little thing who was a social outcast of the lowest most mocked kind? Surely his life and future would explode right in front of his face.

And of course there was the issue of if Danny would even be interested. Because finally owning up only to get rejected? By said lowest of the low twink? That would beyond worse. So yeah, the risk wasn’t worth it. And he wasn’t quite dull enough to not realise that Danny probably did not like him, the ‘bullying’ and all that. So even if Danny did swing that way, well, Dash’s chances were pretty well nothing.

Making a damn point to jeer mockingly and with a level of intimidation at the weirdo trio as he passes them on his way to class, firmly making a point to not react to picking up on Danny clearly not being fearful and even smirking slightly. It honestly pleased him immensely that Danny didn’t seem to actually fear him. Again, it was something like hidden strength. That was one thing that had always separated Danny from the other skinny kids, he wasn’t fearful. He was bold and loud. Even if that only really showed if you looked for it or caught him on more of his more mirth filled days. Simply put, Danny had never been pathetic. Never been weak. Even back when he was physically very much weak -Dash had to give him fitness training for peats sake- he had never been mentally weak.

Sitting at the back of the class next to Kwan, sneaking glances at Danny here and there. This was something he liked to do in the less important and boring classes, recently anyway. Sure he had always admired Danny with glances here and there but another one of Danny’s changes was just too intriguing not to watch.

Danny often slept in classes, that was boring and honestly made him worry some which is why he went easier on the guy on the days he seemed to be napping more often than not, but when he didn’t and it was one of these more useless classes? He’d go between looked over the other students and scanning the town through the window next to him. The sharpness to his eyes was most noticeable then and there was something about the way he looked over the rest of their classmates. It reminded Dash of how people talked about how gods and angels would gaze upon humans. Like they were impossibly and unimaginably above them yet fond and even protective. It really added to that pixie aesthetic Danny had, made him seem just that more ethereal. ‘Ethereal’ that’s a new one, maybe he got more out of Lancer’s crappy poetry babble than he thought. That thought makes him wonder if Danny would like fancy words and that poetry stuff. All the fae in his moms' romance novels -which yes he did secretly read- seemed to love that kind of stuff.  And sure, he’s pretty sure Danny’s human, ethereal aspects aside, but a guy can imagine can’t he? Dash quickly brings his attention back to the teacher as Danny’s watchful yet distant gaze travels to him. At least he isn’t a blusher, Dash is more than a little thankful for that.

Dash is laying on his bed, quickly turning his head to the side as an explosion sounds. Promptly springing up and sticking his head out the window at spotting Phantom zip by, “WOOOO! Go get him Phantom!”, he can’t help but beam as Phantom glances back and sends him a little wave with a cocky smile.

Dash sighs and flops back against his bed, his crush on Phantom was another dirty little secret. Sure he may pass himself off as ‘his biggest fan’ and he certainly wasn’t nearly as bad -or delusional if he’s blunt- as Paulina, but he definitely was a part of the Phantom Crush Club in spirit. Since of course no one knew about this crush either. Queer thing aside, Phantom was a ghost. Which yes, was part of the attraction so sue him, again the whole ethereal thing. Man that word’s becoming a personal favourite.

Phantom’s glow combined with the white of his hair and skin, that definitely qualified as ethereal. The powers were whatever really, cool and probably really fun but not where Dash’s attraction is based. And really, if anything made Dash’s type clear it was his two crushes. Both of them had the lithe pixie feel to them. Sharp in all the right places and brimming with hidden strength. Though Phantom’s might be much more literal. But honestly, Dash preferred Danny’s less showy nature. Phantom demanded attention, the skin-tight jumpsuit definitely did not help reduce that, and he was loud in a way that could border on obnoxious. Danny was a sleek black cat with piercing knowing eyes, Phantom was a mighty dragon always coiled for a fight.

Blinking at the ceiling, “I’m getting all fancy, man I really need to sleep”. Turning over in his bed only for his hand to brush against the corner of a book, “hurgh?”, pulling it out towards his face and squinting. Staring at the little scrap paper used as a bookmark, “probably a bad idea”, but flicking the book open anyway; a bit curious where he left off.

“I wondered if my head and heart would ever reconcile, or whether I'd just cursed myself to relive this moment for the rest of my years, half assured I'd made the only choice available to me, half always whispering if only, the whole of me filled with bitter regret“ ~ An Enchantment Of Ravens

Dash blinks and grumbles, “you didn’t have to call me out like that”. Deciding to flip around to a random page.

“Are you in love with me?" I blurted out.

A terrible silence followed. Rook didn't turn around.

"Please say something."

He rounded on me. "Is that so terrible? You say it as though it's the most awful thing you can imagine. It isn't as though I've done it on purpose. Somehow I've even grown fond of your - your irritating questions, and your short legs, and your accidental attempts to kill me."

I recoiled. "That's the worst declaration of love I've ever heard!” ~ An Enchantment Of Ravens

Dash chuckles but sighs, “fate hates me”. Deciding to try once more, flipping closer to the beginning.

“My cheeks warmed, and a wistful pang plucked a sweet, sad chord in my stomach. It was simple, really. He didn’t want me to forget him once he’d gone” ~ An Enchantment Of Ravens

Dash blinks, he did always rather like seeing the slight busies he left on Danny. Which now that he thinks about it, they didn’t seem to form anymore or stay for long. Which, okay yes, bugged him, not like he knew why really. Guess it was kind of obvious now. Maybe Danny would See those bruises and remember him. Was that stupid? Likely. Snapping the book shut and sticking it more securely under the mattress, before making a point to force himself to settle down to sleep.

He finds himself waking up way too early for a school day, turning his head to look at the little football-shaped clock, it’s red light glare at him reading ‘3:42’. If non-ghostly objects could be malicious, he’s sure every alarm clock would be. The early morning leading to him thinking back on his current book, the story of a fae royal and human falling in love. Forbidden love that would cost the fae his reputation. Sounded a little familiar huh?

Twenty minutes later and his mind’s still on that damn book, so he throws the blankets off and decides to get dressed. Thankfully sneaking out was relatively easy in his house, normally everyone was so loud that quiet noises went completely unnoticed. So just walking out the front door was a perfectly fine thing to do.

Five minutes later finds him wandering the sidewalks of Amity. If he’s being totally honest, even if Danny wasn’t some social peasant or whatever, he still wouldn’t go for it; even if he was a girl. Why? Hitting on girls like Paulina was easy, expected even. There was no risk. Even if girls like we rejected him, that’s what they were expected to do most of the time. But someone he was actually interested in? That was risky. The thought of trying to take it was thrilling, attractive, fun. Actually trying? Nope.

Kicking a rock down the gravel as he enters the park, eventually bumping into to something or someone. Snapping his head up and cursing his luck -or maybe he should be thanking it?- at seeing it was Danny he ran into...literally. Watching as Danny steadies himself quickly, his hood fällig down in the process. Dash has to make a damn point to not stare and change his face to a scowl when the moonlight practically glows of Danny’s pale skin. Why did he have to be so, um, right, ethereal? “Watch it loser”.

Danny squints at him, then throws Dash through a loop by responding with, “no one wanders around at four am for good reasons”.

Dash blinks a bit at those watchful blue-eyes, losing a bit of the fake bite that Danny hopefully passes off as tiredness, “then why are you here?”.

“Why would I tell you why?”, with that Danny turns back to look over the rest of the park from the little bridge thingy they’re on.

Dash scoffs, “whatever Fentwerp”, joining in looking over the park. The two settle into silence, though it doesn’t take long for Dash to glance at Danny’s back; the dark grey hoodie was arguably in horrible condition but it just looked like a style choice on Danny. Everything probably looked good on him. Flicking his eyes away to avoid Danny possibly noticing, because really, there was no one else here so any staring from him would be rather obvious. That gets him thinking though, when had he ever been just one on one with Danny? With neither of their friends around or teachers? Never. It had never happened. Dash didn’t do lonely, he also didn’t do silence for that matter, and Danny’s friends were practically attached to him. Honestly, he’s pretty sure both of them are crushing on Danny; Valerie definitely still had a thing for him, everyone knew the goth did and the techno-geek had a thing for everyone. And yet none of them were going for him...why? They didn’t really have anything to lose and Valerie already had once. Right, even Paulina had dated him; even if she claimed it was to piss off the goth. Maybe there was just something about Danny that made him easy to crush on but impossible to love? Maybe it had something to do with how he was, what was that word? How could he have forgotten it already?....oh right, ethereal. Or maybe it was because he was ethereal. It was pretty obvious people are, um, put-off? -That sounds right- by things that seem inhuman. What with all the horror movies about such people, and that was a pretty common theme with human/non-human romances. Personally, he didn’t get it. Sharp, predatory, the thrum of potential power or danger, the otherworldliness -he’s pretty sure he’s read it described with that word once- he liked that.

Flicking his eyes back to Danny watching as he opens his mouth to sigh almost soundlessly, fangs dragging across his lips. Yeah, shit like that is going to be the death of Dash. With the silence officially be too much for the jock, Dash mutters, “four am is a stupid time”.

Danny snorts, “perfect for you then”, before pushing off the railing and eyeballing Dash. Smirking slightly, “you still keep a collection of teddy bears?”.

“Oh screw y-”, Dash cuts himself off, there’s not really anyone here to play pretend for. “Yeah, so what I like cute shit, what’s it to ya Fenton”. Including cute shit like you, being left unsaid.

Dash doesn’t miss how Danny’s eyes seem to glint while Danny tilts his head at him before those eyes glance around a little. Dash isn’t sure what he sees or is looking for, while Danny hums before speaking, “so often you aren’t quite what you seem, huh Dash?”. Then walking a bit to stand side to side with Dash, hands in his pockets, “you allow those around you to dictate who you are. Stop that, it’s stupid. You’ll never find what you want or who you fit with that way”.

Dash turns and watches Danny walk off. In some way it almost feels like Danny was never actually here.  Looking back tot the bridge and touch where Danny’s hand had been to find it cold. Was he tired enough to actually be imagining Danny being, well, Danny? He’s not sure he’d even be able to imagine the sharpness of Danny’s eyes. Sighing a bit and not sure if he wished the maybe Danny had stuck around or not. Before deciding to walk some more, the air smelled nice at least and no one was around to give a damn how he acted.

Turning and walking off the bridge only to nearly shriek from some blonde-haired guy just suddenly being there. He doesn’t look friendly and the scar over his face doesn’t help that, yet Dash finds himself frozen in spot. He knew he could move, kinda wants to, but something just feels like he shouldn’t. Maybe it was the piercing blue eyes, how even with the strong moonlight he had no shadow, or the cruel-looking smile that somehow felt kind.

Swallowing a bit thickly as the man approaches, the clicking of his purple walking stick being the only sound. The stranger looks up at him slightly, “restless soul, looking for something in another land. The kind heroes and villains dance upon. You think you know your path best, and yet, are just a vagabond too fearful of quicksand to walk from the desert dunes to find an oasis of blues and greens. You are parched dry from your ways, yet refuse to chase waters deeper than you know”.

Dash blinks, catching the moonlight glint off the strange gear cog collar pins, “what?”.

The man chuckles, “you hold tears of the potential of judgment. A soul of man, whose fading light will one day be at its end. Seeking to paint your existences canvas with the lord of graves. One who you’ll grant find in time, one way or another. Painted soot or painted snow. Regardless. Would you not rather run your hands through the textures while you can enjoy it and endeavour it while having a pulse to half match under your skin?”.

Dash’s brain is pretty well mud right now, “who are you?”.

He shrugs, “I’m a tale of time, that history has lost. I see, I guide, I exist. And you, you are a bird that thinks it’s a boar”.

One thing Dash can always do is pick up on insults, and that was an insult, even if he has no clue what that was supposed to mean, “I’m not a meathead”.

The stranger holds up a finger and smiles, his eyes have an oldness to them that is honestly unpleasant, “precisely. You fear not the dark nor the monster with in, you fear the light and things far weaker than you. The boar charges and fights the bull, the bird lives alongside it. You feign your charges, act the boar, even as your flyer eyes see that the target is something to walk with, not against. You do this so others think you are a boar, why would you want to? boars die foolish. Be glad your bull is more of a lording cat, one that won’t strike you down”.

Dash blinks and steps back a little bit, “er, whatever you weird old man”. To make a point, Dash walls forward and around the stranger, but not too close because seriously, what the fuck?

The stranger doesn’t move but follows Dash with his eyes, speaking again just as Dash walks past, “you may find your lithe cat will enjoy your feathers quite fine. And one more thing”, Dash glances back and the stranger winks with a grin, “it’s not time that’s stupid, it’s what you do with that time”.

To say Dash is confused, as he walks the gravel path feeling slightly paranoid, would be an understatement. Lancer’s weird poetry crap made more sense than that. But the weirdos' last words sounding so much like Danny’s is giving him a weird gut feeling that the guy was somehow talking about Danny. Officially deciding he needs to back to sleep, he must be having awake fever dreams or something.

Dash walks through the school doors, firmly glad he got more sleep. Part of him wants to confirm seeing Danny wasn’t some weird fever dream, the other part is a bit distracted when, in his taking in of Danny’s lithe form, he notices the small gear cog charm hanging off his chain belt. It looked exactly the same as the weird guys' pins, has Dash just walked into some strange fantasy story or something?

Looking away and storming through the halls like he owns them, which he does, when Danny looks to him. Catching Danny’s eyes seemingly becoming sharper for a second and his hand brushing the charm on his belt. Why did he feel like Danny noticing where he was staring was somehow...what was that word? Some that started with a ‘c’?whatever, it was somehow a strong play.

Danny just suddenly appearing and stepping out of a bathroom stall, that Dash is sure was empty, during lunch rather confirms his thoughts. Looking Danny over through the mirror, his head was titled and he quickly locks gazed with Dash through the mirror. This was that sharp edge really showing through, and god damn if that wasn’t stupidly attractive. Snapping at him, “what you being creepy for, you freaky weirdo”.

Danny scoffs and rolls his eyes, “it seemed rather timely”.

Dash blinks a bit at Danny almost jarringly quickly snapping his gaze back to Dash’s face in the mirror. The first thought to worm into his head is that this seemed like a cat stalking after a bird. Then basically getting dropped kicked in the brain by Deja Vu. Muttering at the mirror, “what is it with that bird shit”.

“What, someone give you a weird birds and the bees talk?”, Danny snickers, “thought you were too old for that”.

Dash squints at the mirror, was that what that guy was going off about? Honestly anything seems possible. Looking Danny over, if there was one thing everyone knew it was how used to strange he was. How part of it he was, because of his family. But Dash knows there’s more to it than that, that he was something different and strange all on his own. He’s also sure that’s not just his interest in the ethereal boy talking. Deciding to go out on a limb, not like anyone would judge him for using a Fenton to figure out some weird shit, “maybe? Who knows what’s up with weirdos”, turning around and looking more directly at Danny, who’s looking at him with critical sharp eyes, “some guy going off about drinking ‘oasis’ of blue and green. That my cat will like my feathers”.

Danny smirks knowingly and moves to wash his hands in the sink, “sounds like a riddle if I’ve ever heard one. Maybe think of who you associate with blue and who with green”, chuckling and shaking his head a little, locking eyes with Dash in the mirror again, “and who you think of as a ‘cat’. Otherwise, sounds like someone’s telling you to stop holding yourself back and chase after what you want”. Danny walks out leaving Dash just kind of staring at the sink.

Dash spends the rest of the day casting glances at Danny a fair bit more often than he usually does. Pretty well sure the boy knew what the strange guy meant but was just letting Dash figure it out himself. He finds he can respect that a bit, even if he’s definitely annoyed. The fact that Danny is seemingly brushing up against him in the hallways doesn’t help, or maybe it does. Because fine, yes he likes it. The fantasy of Danny being forward towards him in an attracted way won’t stop circling in his head. But it isn’t until the second to last class that something clicks. Watching Danny suddenly stiffening, like he often did before running off to the bathroom mysteriously, Dash could have sworn Danny’s face twisted in anger and eyes flashed green for a second as he stands and speed walks out of the classroom. Leaving Dash blinking and getting slapped by Deja Vu again. ‘Blue and green’, blinking more at that making other things click in place. Everything about Danny was lithe, he’d even described him as cat-like. Was weird dude telling him to get with Danny? The hell? How did weird guy even know that?

He guesses that’s one way for the universe or whatever to say something’s fate or some bullshit. But real life doesn’t work like that...right? Well okay, ghosts are real so there is some make-believe that’s real. But then Dash, Hell no one, would ever describe Danny as a bull. A bull that’s a cat, that doesn’t even make sense. Shaking his head as class ends.

Walking out thinking of soot and snow, and didn’t that guy also say something about heroes? Soot was black right? Googling away to find that yes it was, as he makes it to his next class. Of course snow was white. So black and white. Well shit, that was Danny and Phantom’s hair colours; and Phantom was a hero. Danny had organised that rescue mission, so could he be labelled ‘hero’ too. Not really, it was a one-time thing after all.

Groaning and hitting his head into the desk only for the teacher to snap at him about paying attention. Mentally shoving all this crap away, basically mentally screaming at it to sort itself out.

Seeing Danny after last class across the hall and walking towards Danny with a glare, because he absolutely needs to take out his romantically frustrated aggression and, if he’s honest, mentally frustrated aggression -because thoughts of that weirdo just will not leave him alone- on someone.

Dash grabs him and slams him into the lockers, speaking without a whole lot of power behind his worlds, because he’s more than a little preoccupied and Danny’s eyes glittering with mirth and knowing does not help, “you know, I kinda feel like making you eat locker, weirdo”.  

Danny speaks with a smirk, “weirdly cute you mean”. Dash sputters and promptly drops Danny, turning on his heel and speed walking off. Though he does throw a glance over his shoulder back at Danny, who looks more smug than anything he’s ever seen before; making Dash blush furiously and then feeling annoyed at blushing.

Dash decides that night that if his head’s just gonna be stuck in a pit of ‘just ask him, you know you want to’ and weird mutterings about painting with the lord of graves -whatever the heck that means- then he might as well finish his book. Well, his mom’s book but still. It seems suiting enough.

He flat-out drops the book when he gets to the point where Gadfly -an ageless fae who can see the future and all the twists and turns it might or might not take- functionally admits to setting up Isobel with Rook. The mortal with the inhuman prince, who -as Dash finishes the book with a fair amount of shock- comes to stand as the King of all fae. The lord of fae. The lord of graves? Was Danny some kind of ethereal prince? King? Or something? And heck! Gadfly was even blonde too! The Hell? And didn’t weird guy go off about Dash painting or something? Isobel’s a painter. Officially finding this a little too weird, Dash closes the book and tucks it away. Looking out the window and deciding that another -not really early enough to be morning but too early to be night- walk might get him more answers.

Somehow, Dash thinks as he watches Danny fiddling with a dandelion puff from afar on the same bridge as before, this isn’t surprising. Shaking himself off and making a point to shove down all the weird stupid feelings, before walking over with his hands in his pockets. “So you’re out here again”

Danny speaks without looking to him, “so are you”.

Dash scoffs and looks at his shoes a little, something tells him Danny wouldn’t be out wandering the night because of a book and some weird guy. The boy would probably handle it without being fazed much at all, “what? do you just wander around in the dead of night for fun?”.

Danny chuckles and side-eyes him, “maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Under the moonlight seems like a great place to be, don’t it?”.

Dash leans against the bridge railing, “it is ethereal I guess”.

Danny laughs and it’s a bit loud, “ethereal, that’s a big word for you. Now I wonder what could make you learn a word like that. Something so applicable to the strange and otherworldly”.

Dash bites his lip slightly at that, feeling incredibly called out, though ha! ‘Otherworldly’ was a word used for it. For people like Danny. Dash scoffs, “whatever, it’s got it’s uses”.

They stand in silence, both looking in opposite directions for a while. Until Dash blushes slightly at Danny humming, recognising the tune as Strangers In The Night.

Now Dash isn’t that much of an idiot, he’s not smart but he’s not dumb. He can recognise a blatant call out when he sees one. Danny knew. And...wasn’t being a dick about it, much. Wasn’t brushing him off. Dash isn’t sure if he’s confused by that or not.

Turning his head slightly to look at where the strange man had been last night before blurting out, “you’re mean”.

Danny laughs loudly at that and looks at Dash, who firmly avoids turning his head further to meet the gaze, “oh yes, says the bully. But you know what they say, ‘he only hits you ‘cause he likes you’”.

Dash jerks a bit and gapes, maybe he underestimated the boldness of Danny. While Danny sighs after a while of furthered silence, “it’s a darker night out hmmm? The darkness always holds something, a secretiveness to it. Where you can watch without being seen or act without being watched. In every story it crawls with monsters, things of depravity. Things people think are wrong, shouldn’t see the light of day. But those things are free in a sense that those who secluded themselves to daylight can never be. Monsters and those who hide, yet even they need to be brought into the sun sometimes. Wouldn’t you say?”.

Dash’s brain had stalled on the monster comment. That weird guy had gone off about monsters too. The whole him not fearing monsters or something? Danny was clearly weird, different. Didn’t people get called monsters in all those mutant movies over being different? And Phantom, well, the Fenton’s literally shouted that he was a monster. This was turning into some beauty and the beast shit. That makes him practically pitch forwards and face-plant into the ground.

Danny catches him and mutters, “geez, are you so repressed that the idea of not being so makes you want to eat the ground you walk upon?”.

Dash just blinks at him as he stands in front of him, because the whole thing with beauty and the beast was the beast transformed. Could look two different ways. And Danny’s eyes were green. Phantoms eyes were green. Danny raises his eyebrows at Dash sputtering at him, “that’s, it’s not, that ain’t”, Dash blinks, this explained a lot and Phantom was so bold, he took what he wanted, yet here he? -They? However it works- was seemingly waiting for Dash to make some kind of decisions thingy. Muttering, “have my cake and eat it too”.

Danny scrunches his face up and laughs, “I never imagined Dash would genuinely confuse me-”, getting cut off by Dash just saying screw it and kissing him, hard.

Dash pulling back but promptly hugging the weird ethereal creature, “I am so many levels of confused”. Danny just chuckles and pats his back, “yet maybe less in some way. Though you know, you really should ask first”.

Dash jerks and basically holds Danny by the shoulders away from him, Dash wasn’t that dumb of a guy but he was definitely a little stupid.

Danny rolls his eyes but smirks, batting off Dash hands before grabbing his shirt collar and kissing back, “you’re an idiot”.

Dash mutters, “you’re a weirdo”, as Danny backs off. After a bit of silence Dash looks at his feet and sticks his hands in his pockets, “so, uh, now what?”.

Danny shrugs and goes back to leaning on the railing, “I dunno, you work through your confusion I guess”, glancing at Dash, “just know that I am never a confused person anymore”.

Dash looks out across the park, well that was as blunt as anything. Why though? “I’ve literally beat the crap out of you for years. And,”, Dash worries his lip a little, blushing slightly from the unusual coldness on them, a coldness from Danny, “and you could have fought back anytime”.

Danny gives him a knowing look before smirking a little, “so you figured that out too huh?”.

Dash doesn’t give him a chance to say anything more, “as of two seconds or whatever ago. My head is mud”, Dash barely cuts himself off from saying ‘congrats’ or ‘thanks’. Who the Hell says that to some who just kissed them?

Danny screws up his face and it honestly looks like something out of a bad movie where the characters make some great discovery. When he chuckles and shakes his head, “so that’s what you meant by the cake thing”, squinting at Dash a little, “now you know I have to ask this, but knowing isn’t why you did that, is it?”.

Dash doesn’t know whether to nod or shake his head because both would be a lie, “I just figured out my two, um, interests, were smashed into one. Excuse me for not being myself, or whatever, enough and pleased, to have some self-control”.

Danny smiles at that, shoving Dash’s shoulder lightly, “lucky you I guess. Who’d you like more?”.

Dash sputters, Danny was a little much, always was, but that’s part of what he liked about him. The fearlessness, the hard sharpness, and he was cutting Dash the Hell up, “you”, Dash keeps talking as Danny raises his eyebrows, “Danny”, continuing when Danny raises his brows further, “Fenton. The weird lithe kid with sharp edges and the whole pixie thing going on”. Dash looks around some, ignoring the slight smirk on Danny’s face.  

Danny bumping shoulders with him, “oh fancy words Dash. You know I love words with meanings, that I love to give out nicknames. Maybe you should be Teddy Bear”. Dash blushes more than a bit furiously at that which just makes Danny laugh, “oh yes, that will do wonderfully”. Danny sighing after a while of Dash blushing and staring defiantly into the distance, “not that we have to be public about... whatever this is”.

Dash looks back to him at that, nodding slightly, “that is...why I never would have tried normally. Weird dude threw me through a loop”, smiling a little and shoving Danny lightly, “I think I’m glad he did though”.

Danny nods, “if there’s anyone who can understand secrets Dash, especially for safety’s sake, it’s me”, gesturing around, “night seems to suit us. It’s always been something of mine. There’s not really anything wrong with hiding in the night, if you care to join me in that anyway”.

Dash gapes a little, that felt like a stupid question. Why would he question if Dash wanted this to be a ‘thing’. Dash should be the one worried about that, “yes. That is- why would you even ask that?”.

Danny chuckles and gives him a smile that’s got a sadness to it, which Dash is officially having none of and feeling more like his rather brazen self, just kisses him again before he can respond. Dash then saying, “it doesn’t matter”.

Danny chuckles and shakes his head a little, “you sure watch me a lot huh. Like what you see?”, Dash forced down his blush this time while Danny smirks and glances around with that searching look before looking back to him, “care to see how I own my night?”.

Dash just nods a little before going slightly slack-jawed at the near blinding ring of light and Danny suddenly being Phantom and just floating around to be away from the bridge slightly, holding a hand out to Dash, “well? I could rip off superman and say I promise not to drop you or you can stop holding yourself back”.

Dash barely wastes a second before grabbing Danny’s hand and letting him pull him up off the ground. Dash asking the only other question he really has or that’s still bugging him as Danny wraps his arms around him and just...goes up, “so weird guy also said something about king of graves?”.

Danny laughs and shakes his head a little, “that cheeky bastard”, before looking down at Dash’s face, “Ghost King, Dash. Something beyond what any ghost or mortal could be”.

Dash again feels slapped by Deja Vu, he’s never going to be able to look at that damn book the same again, “you know, I was reading a book where...”.

Dash winds up explaining his ‘girly’ book interests as they fly around, oddly unfazed and comfortable with the whole fly thing. While Danny simply exists as the strange ethereal being he is, face glowing brightly against the night sky; leaving Dash feeling like he just caught a star in a wishing bottle and think that maybe poetry might be a good idea.

End.

[huntertales]

Part Four: All I Got Is All I Need. (Devil May Care S09E02)

Episode Summary: In the aftermath of the fall, Sam and the reader are taken by surprise when they learn Crowley is still alive–and stuffed in the trunk of the Impala. A temporary situation before the reader and the Winchesters relocate him to the Men of Letters dungeon. Kevin is anything but enthusiastic about seeing the king of hell under the same roof as him. However the three hunters want the demon close, hoping Crowley will provide useful information about others of his kind. Meanwhile, Abaddon re-emerges and plans to take over hell. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 3,406.

Previous Part | Supernatural Rewrite Masterlist

Heading back to the bunker after a long hunt like the one you and the boys had endured over the past few days was always a good feeling after dealing with all the stress you were put under. Dean made sure to drop Tracy off somewhere safe so she could continue hunting on her own. She left knowing a little more about how to slow down a demon if they tried to rear their ugly head in her direction, and maybe even a bit more at peace with herself from the things in her past that lead her here. You and the boys decided to celebrate the victory against the knight of hell by grabbing some dinner along the way home, and some prune juice for Kevin. Dean mentioned the reason why, but you stopped him before he could go into further detail about the kid's bathroom issues. You were worried about his well being, yet there were some things that didn’t personally need to know about the kid. 

You called out Kevin's name when you hit the bottom step of the staircase and looked around the place to see if you might be able to spot him anywhere. You guessed he was working on translating the tablet as some sort of distraction to keep himself busy from the added stress he was under. Having to be under the same roof as the demon who personally tortured him and destroyed his life was a heavy burden you didn't want to force on the kid, but you didn't have much of a choice. You found yourself stopping in your tracks after taking a look into the library to see that it was empty. You tried shouting Kevin’s name one more time when you noticed there was nobody here except for the three of you. All you got in return was silence. You and the boys exchanged a worried look before you bolted for the dungeon. 

An uneasy feeling settled in your stomach when you noticed the makeshift shelf that hid away Crowley was slightly ajared despite the door being closed shut. You turned on the lights and headed inside to somehow see if Crowley made his great escape. However what you saw waiting for you didn't ease your worried mind. Crowley sat in the chair as you left him, handcuffed and no evidence of any sort of attempt to him escaping. However you noticed he was beaten and bloody, like someone had personally taken out their aggression against him. The demon seemed to be unbothered by his new wounds. 

“Who worked you over?” Dean asked the demon. 

“Martin Hayward and Brandon Favors.” Crowley replied with a set of names you’d never heard of before. You furrowed your brow slightly in confusion.

“They did this to you?” Sam guessed. 

“No. They’re demons. You asked for names, I’m giving you names.” Crowley said. You and the boys were taken aback from the piece of information he was willingly giving you without a fuss. “They're underperformers. Spike them, you’re doing me a favor.” 

“Wow.” Dean scoffed at the demon’s cooperation. “You break easy.” 

“Please. Your little plan to have me stew in my own...delicious juices—pathetic. You want intel. I want things, too.” Crowley said. You crossed your arms over your chest and raised your brow slightly from his negotiations he was trying to make with you. “Maybe we can come to some kind of arrangement. Quid pro quo, lady and gentlemen.”

“So, these are what, then? Freebies?” You wondered. “Because you’re not the generous type.”

“You’re right. I’m not at all.” Crowley agreed with you on that point. “You can consider them a fair trade for the enjoyment Kevin gave me.”

You crossed your arms tighter over your chest at the mention of the prophet’s name coming out of the demon’s mouth. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He’s my new favorite toy.” He said. “Wind him up, watch him go.” 

Dean let out a frustrated sigh from hearing the advice he gave to Kevin turn out to be nothing more than wasted breath on his part. Crowley did nothing more than lean back in his seat and smile at the added trauma he added to the kid he loved messing with. Kevin had already been teetering on the edge from all the stress he had endured over the past year. Whatever the demon said to get under the kid's skin might have pushed him over the edge to the point of no return. “Check on the names.” Dean instructed you and his brother. “I’ll go find the kid.” 

You turned your attention back over to the demon when you saw Dean make his way out of the dungeon and back out into the hall to see if he might be able to find Kevin before it was too late. The memory of Crowley in the church crossed your mind. You remembered seeing a human side to Crowley, someone who confessed about wanting to be loved. Who was willing to confess his greatest sins for a chance at being something he hadn't been in a few centuries. What you saw now was the same arrogant, power hungry demon who got off on trying to break people from the inside out. You shook your head slightly from the way his lips dragged further into a smirk and left him in the dungeon with the only company to occupy him was himself. 

Dean managed to make it back up to the main level of the bunker just in time to see the kid he had been searching for, who was trying to make his escape with a backpack of his stuff hanging off his shoulder. There was no way in hell the prophet was going step outside that door. “Where do you think you’re going?” Dean called out to the younger man. Kevin barely glanced in the older Winchester’s direction as he made his way to the staircase. Dean quickly reached out and grabbed the handle to Kevin’s backpack, stopping the kid from going anywhere. “Hey, hey, hey! Whoa, whoa. Talk to me.” 

“You can’t keep me locked in here.” Kevin stated. “I’m leaving.” 

“Like hell.” Dean argued with the kid about his plans. His tone of voice was full of frustration and aggravation from how careless Kevin was acting in the moment. “Man, we told you not to talk to Crowley, okay? He messes with your head.” 

“He said my mom’s alive.” Kevin confessed something the demon told him while he was doing his form of payback. “Crowley said if I let him go, he’d give her back to me.”

Dean couldn’t help himself but scoff at the blatant sounding lie. “And you believed him?”

“He’s still in there, isn’t he?” Kevin questioned the man. 

The older man fell silent for a few seconds before responding, "Crowley's lying." 

“And if he’s not?” Kevin asked him. 

“Well...if she is alive, then she’s dead. In every way that matters, she’s dead, Kevin. I’m sorry.” Dean hated the fact that he had to tell Kevin of another possibility that would make him want to have his mother be dead than having her still breathing and living some kind of torture Crowley cooked up. It was so easy to run from this lifestyle and hold out for that little piece of hope that things might be okay. You fight just to have a chance of something that reminds you of a normal life. Something that makes you feel secure, safe. Dean had been in that position not too long ago. And it never goes the way you want. “I know you’re dying to bolt, man. I get it. But out that door, it’s demons and it’s angels, and they would all love to get their hands on a prophet, so even with Crowley here, this is still the safest place for you. It just is. And we need you, man.” 

“‘Cause I’m useful.” Kevin muttered.

“Because you’re family.” Dean stated the real reason why he wanted him to stay. “After all the crap we’ve been through, after all the good that you’ve done...man, if you don’t think that we would die for you...I don’t know what to tell you. Because you, me, Sam, Cas and Y/N—we are all that we’ve got.” Things might not have been clear enough for the kid to understand where he stood with the four of you, but Dean was going to tell him flat out for the first and final time. “But, hey, if none of that matters to you, then I won’t stop you. Just say goodbye to Sammy and Y/N on your way out. Sure they’re not gonna be heartbroken on your decision. We've already lost one family member, why not one more?"

Dean only realized until the words that came out of his mouth how it might have been a low blow. He didn't want Kevin to leave. He couldn't stomach the idea of something happening to him. Every part of the kid wanted to step outside that door and run away from the people that hadn't abandoned him. Not when he ran around the country, not when he refused to be a part of this lifestyle. They kept pushing, because that's what family does. Kevin slid off the backpack from his shoulder, letting the strap hang low in his hand out of a sign of defeat. Sometimes family is three hunters and an angel. It’s not perfect, but it was all Kevin had. 

Kevin promised to unpack his things in the morning and settle himself into the bunker for a more permanent stay. He grabbed the bottle of prune juice and headed back for a restful night's sleep he had been fighting off for the past several days. Dean felt a little more at ease knowing the kid was going to be somewhat all right. He took the chance to shrug off his jacket and find where you and his brother wandered off too. It was no surprise when he spotted you working diligently in the library with a book open and a pad of paper next you. You scribbled something down before you skimmed the pages of the book, the pen tapping  against the paper. 

“Kevin’s passed out in one of the back rooms. He’s a tough kid. He’ll bounce back.” Dean said, giving up an update on the kid after the scare he put you all through. Dean poured himself a drink out of the fancy glassware that kept the more expensive liquor he enjoyed on occasion with his brother. He made sure to get you one now that you could drink. He glanced up when he noticed you replied with a silent nod. “What’s up with you?” 

“I love you. You know that, right?” Dean smiled slightly at the sudden randomness of your answer to his question and how serious you sounded when you uttered the three words that made his heart beat a little faster. He grabbed the glasses and made his way over to where you were sitting and placed it in front of you. When he saw you staring up at him with a no nonsense kind of expression, almost as if you were making sure of it. He felt his smile slowly falter. "I don't know if I say it too much. Or not enough. I just want to let you know I do. I always have. And I always will." 

"I know, sweetheart. I love you, too." Dean said. He dropped himself into the chair across from you and leaned back in his seat, wondering what had gotten into you to act like this. You looked like you were on the sudden verge of tears, but you were doing everything not to lose it just yet. Dean gestured with an arm for you to come over to him, you got up from your seat and made your way over to his awaiting lap. You wanted to be near him. To feel his embrace around your body. You leaned your head into the crook of his neck and shut your eyes when you felt his arm wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him. "What's wrong, Y/N?"

"It's just...I've been thinking about what Tracy said about me—she's not wrong." You whispered your confession to him about how you were feeling at the moment. Maybe it was how you felt ever since you heard the news a few days ago. You could only bury it for so long before it came rising back to the surface with a vengeance. "I've done things that I regret. I hurt people...people who I was supposed to protect." 

"Hey, look at me." Dean forced you to sit up straight and look at him in the eye, wanting you to hear the truth about the matter. "You have helped a hell of a lot more people than you have hurt. So all of that—that was then. Okay? But I know that's not what's really bothering you. Tell me the truth." Dean reached up and softly brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. You hated how he could read you so well. You let out a sigh. “Are you...doing okay?” 

“I don’t know. I guess.” You shrugged your shoulders from the answer you gave him. If you were being honest, you weren't sure exactly what the proper answer was. “How are you supposed to feel after everything that happened?”

“Whatever you want.” Dean said. “There’s no wrong or right way to handle this.” 

“I...I’m sorry for what happened.” You apologized to him. Dean’s expression softened from the way your tone shifted into a more quieter pitch and how your eyes darted away from him before they would make contact again with his. You let out a frustrated sigh when you felt yourself becoming overwhelmed with your emotions as you turned your head completely away from him. You tried your hardest to fight off the tears that were threatening to fall. He felt his heart drop slightly from the way your voice sounded. It was the same kind of way when you found out the truth if you kept going with the trials. All the things you let yourself believe over the past few months. “If I knew...If I could stop it...It’s all my fault.” 

“Hey.” You slowly turned your gaze back to him and stared into his eyes as he brushed away the few tears that managed to slip out. You looked exactly like how you had when you were given the reality of the situation. So tired, so defeated. There was no amount of lying that he could do to stop you from feeling these kinds of emotions. You had a right to grieve, the both of you did together. “You didn’t know. How could you? This isn’t your fault.” You rolled your eyes and tried to get away from him, but he was quick to keep you pinned down on his lap. He wasn’t finished speaking the truth you needed to hear. “You’re still the woman I love. Nothing will ever change that. And I would never look at you any differently because of this. It breaks my heart thinking that you do.”

“But why do I feel so guilty over it? I mean, I was only six weeks. I know women lose babies way later. Women who want children. We didn’t plan on having one, and let’s be real...I really didn’t want one. But I still feel sad because I lost them. And for some reason it hurts. It hurts so damn bad that I was robbed from that chance. I don’t know why.” You confessed to him. “And I feel so bad for you. I mean, this was yours as it was mine…” 

“I’m sad. I’ll be honest. When you were in the hospital recovering for those two days, I had some time to think about everything. What would life be like if we did have a kid and all that.” Dean said. “I mean, I tried being a father once or twice. Never worked out in my favor.”

“Sammy turned out okay.” You said, jumping to the man’s defense. 

Dean shrugged his shoulders at your example. “He can be a pain in the ass sometimes.” The joke made the slightest smile spread across your lips, but it didn’t last long as he’d hoped for. 

“There’s also another part of me that keeps thinking...could we really be parents? I mean, do you think it would be a good idea to bring a baby into this world with everything going on right now?” You wondered. “The fallen angels. Abaddon. Cas losing his halo. The king of hell in our basement?” 

“It’s not all bad.” Dean said, trying to look on the brighter side of things. “We’ve got a roof over our heads. Enough knowledge between the both of us to keep the kid alive and not totally screw it up. You would stay at home while I went out saving the world with Sammy. Cas could babysit every once in a while. It could be like our very own messed up sitcom.” 

"Right. I could be the next June Cleaver." You felt a smile tugging at the ends of your lips at the thought of you staying at home with a newborn while Dean went out on hunts with his brother. But it disappeared quickly as it came. "It's a nice thought. But…”

“But, what?” Dean asked. 

“It’s gonna be tough before things get back to our kind of normal. I just have to keep reminding myself that I’ve got family and friends who care for me. A prophet who is practically like raising a child full time just trying to keep him happy. It’s gonna be tough. And having to come  to the realization that getting married and having a kid...it’s just a thought. That’s what it’s always gonna be.” You shrugged your shoulders, laughing quietly to yourself about something you thought was going to be your future just a week ago. Now you brushed it off like it was a joke, a situation that you were okay about never being able to achieve. “For the first time in a very long time...the future doesn’t look bleak anymore. Things are gonna be okay. Eventually. But I can deal with that.”

Dean felt his heart sink deeper into his chest at your words and how casual they sounded. Once upon a time you were over the moon about the future you were making for you and him. He remembered the conversation you had with him about wanting a family. The night you found out he had a child of his own and how it all turned out when you were supposedly dead. It was also the night you convinced your own baby. For those six months you thought you were going to have it all; shutting the gates of hell, you and him getting hitched, having a baby. Now all of it was meaningless. Your perspective changed on what you wanted out of life. You were wearing rose tinted glasses to the world around you and the damage done without even realizing it. 

You thought you were given a second chance at doing things right when plans to shut the gates of hell went belly up. The pregnancy you had was barely starting, not enough for one to grieve for long. Angels falling from the sky. Cas human as the three of you. A knight of hell doing who knows what. But for Dean, that wasn’t the worst of it. You didn’t know the truth. About how far along you really were, the angel hitching a ride in your skin that was healing your internal organs and sprucing himself up. To you, everything would slowly go back to the way it was. 

Dean leaned back in his seat when you got up from his lap and made your way back over to your own chair to get back to work. He took another sip of his drink and wondered how the hell he got himself into this situation. A part of him was starting to wonder if it was a good thing you were starting to think like him. Did he rob you from ever wanting to have that chance again if things ever settled down enough for you to propose the question of having a family? Despite knowing the truth about how it would turn out in the end, Dean still wanted to have that comfort. The possibility if things changed. Maybe somewhere in another dimension you could have that family. But in this life, it was never going to happen. And he had to be okay with that. 

[Next Part]

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[malereader-inserts]

Keep It Simple

Fandom: Avengers Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Male!Reader Summary: Bucky is a very complicated man who cannot flirt for the life of him, he just need to keep it simple Word Count: 1,213 Request: @namedbymint  ��reader is a shy boi who just got in The Avengers and scared of Bucky because of his cold stare at him. Prompt: ‘I thought you hate me or something’”

Your team members understood how shy you could be, how timid you were.

Bucky just couldn’t seem to wrap his head around it, after the whole ordeal with Thanos, he was back and has settled in, and like most he was part of the newly reformed Avengers. But, there was just one thing that was bugging him.

You.

The shy boy, from what he heard you were an off and on contact. You wanted no part of the Avengers, you prefer to coop yourself in your home and when you look outside the window The Avengers were perfectly capable of taking care of things. You didn’t want to participate in the signing of the Accords, yet he saw you standing across him at the airport.

However, when you saw the utter chaos that engulfed New York City, you couldn’t sit back.

So, somewhere along the line, you were sucked into the mess. He hadn’t seen you whilst being stuck in this infinity stone, he figured much that you were one of the few survivors. He had seen you fight and when everything became calm, he couldn’t help but turn his gaze towards you. 

So, here you were in front of him, sitting in the living room of the newly refurbished Avengers facility, you couldn’t help but flick your eyes up to him. You flush before quickly turning your attention to the tablet. You felt the heat rise from your neck, as you couldn’t help but feel distracted with his stare.

You sink into the sofa as you could hear Steve and Sam coming down the hall. You pulled your legs up onto the sofa, your knees trying to block Bucky from his staring, only for him to slide down the sofa and continue to stare. You gulped as you let out a shaky breath.

“Hey Jared Leto,” You hear Stark’s voice behind you, snapping his fingers and pointing to Bucky, a soft amused smile crept to your face at the nickname, “You’re scaring little bubs here.”

You rolled your eyes as you let your head fall back and see Tony upside down. He smiles fondly down at you, before noticing Steve and Sam arriving at the living area.

“Hey, cap, tell your friend he’s creeping on (Y/n),” Stark warns as he pats you on the shoulder.

Steve looks at your body language then at his best friend. Bucky looks at the whole conversation in bewilderment as Sam chuckled, his arms over his chest and then shaking his head.

“It’s his stare, isn’t it?” Sam questions as you bit your lip, shrugging your shoulders quite pathetically, “Tell me about it, I had to deal with it when I was stuck in the stone with him - he’s so brooding, and not the worrying type of brooding, the threatening type of brooding.”

You started to laugh as Steve shakes his head, “I’m sure Bucky doesn’t mean it.”

Tony huffs as he moves to sit next to you with Sam sprawling himself the sofa that Bucky sat on. Bucky scoffs, trying to push his friend off him, they may have got off the wrong footing but spending quality time with someone can lead to somewhat respect and utter fondness.

“But, lay off just a bit, Buck, (Y/n) is just....”

“Adorable.”

“Shy.”

You looked at Tony with a confused look as you both answered the ending of Steve’s sentence. Tony smiles as he squeezes your cheek, causing you to look annoyed as Tony continues to grin at you whilst you could hear Steve chuckling under his breath. Bucky had managed to crack a soft smile.

“You are adorable.” 

“Tony, come on,” Steve complains but it was only a teasing tone, sitting in the armchair, “(Y/n) is delightful, just timid.”

“Sorry,” You hummed as you let your legs off the sofa, somewhat inviting to Bucky as he sits up straight, “Can’t help it.”

“And that’s why we love you kid,” Tony bumps his shoulders with you, “What’s it with Barnes anyway, he’s...nice?”

“You hesitated,” Sam pointed out to Tony, who puts his hands up in defence.

“No, it’s fair, Tony and I don’t talk often - hard to make opinions when you rarely interact,” Bucky had reasoned as Tony motions to Bucky whilst giving Sam a sarcastic look.

“See, Wilson, there’s no bad blood between us anymore so don’t start stirring things up. We’re all friends here right?” Tony asked as you huffed.

“Well, except (Y/n) and Bucky,” Steve stated as all eyes were on you, remembering what Tony was asking before.

“I don’t know, it’s your staring, it’s...”

“Off-putting?”

“Distracting?”

“Brooding?”

Bucky looked in disbelief to Steve, who suggested the last one, “I don’t brood!”

“Well-” All four of you started as Bucky sighs, defeated at the argument but offended that Steve would agree with the rest of you that he was broody, as you shake your head, “I was going to say cold. You don’t stare at me, it’s more like glaring.”

“Oh-”

“Yeah,” You scratch the back of your neck, “It’s intimidating, and I just,” You shift in your seat, the four other men noticed how uncomfortable you were.

“I’m sorry, (Y/n), I’m just trying to understand you.”

“Oh-” You bluntly spoke, “I thought you hate me or something.”

Bucky sat up straight, shaking his head as you look down at your nervous hands, your fingers absentmindedly playing with each other - a distraction to this extremely awkward conversation.

“You know, instead of staring. I’m sure (Y/n) can speak and he can answer all your questions about himself,” Steve suggested, motioning his best friend to you as you look up.

“You are a horrible flirt really,” Tony snarked as Sam hummed in agreement.

“Not helping,” Bucky mumbled as the corner of your lips lifts, you were amused as Bucky noticed how the edges of your eyes crinkled a little bit.

“I don’t bite,” You gently smiles at him, standing up, “Though I would love to get to know you just a bit more, Bucky, you seem like a nice brooding guy.”

“I’m not-” Bucky interrupts himself with a sigh, falling back onto the sofa as you chuckle to yourself and leave the room.

Tony flickers his eyes between the door you had exited and to Bucky, “Listen Jon Snow, that was your opportunity to ask him on the date.”

“It was a social cue for you ask him out,” Sam slaps the back on his hand to Bucky’s chest, who looks confused, “But, before you chase after him, we should sort out the problem in your face.”

“Helpful,” Bucky monotonously answers as Steve shakes his head.

“Come on Bucky, we’ll help you get the guy.”

Bucky looks at his teammates, before looking at the door and his shoulder deflate and nods. If he wants to win your affection he had to make sure he came off less intimidating, so whatever his friends suggested he knew it was because of the goodness of their heart.

“You know what, I feel like the only way we get Barnes out of his brooding state is to have someone like (Y/n) to fix it,” Tony suggested.

“You’re a lost cause, Buck, we’ll try our best.” Steve smiles.

Bucky sighs, blinking rapidly before looking bewildered.

Maybe, he’ll ask you out later - he could forget his wingmen on this type of crush.

[oppressiveliberator]

romance headcanons.

→  repost, do not reblog.

((FOREWARNING I do mention a protag ship as well as an incest ship, but aside one or two other implications it only comes up once I think. Also this is a fucking mess so it’s under a cut. Someday I’ll write concisely but today is not that day!))

name: Ghetsis Harmonia Gropius nickname:  Ghetsis; G-Cis; Lord Ghetsis; [Holy] Father gender: Male romantic orientation: Debateable. Gray-Aromantic? May not experience romantic attraction, but enjoys or will get into relationships to some degree. Will definitely indulge someone’s feelings for fun. preferred pet names: Lord. Master. Sir. Father. Basically, if it’s a dominance-expressing petname, he’s good with it. Depending on who it’s from something like ‘dear’ could also be acceptable.

relationship status: Single, but has or has had repeated partners and hookups. May be or have had been married in some verses? favorite canon ship(s): Canon as in officially shown or implied?  The closest we’d have is probably Ghetsis/Zinzolin lmao. . . . favorite non-canon ship(s) so far:  I mean I ship more or less anything as long as it’s interesting/has potential and my muse wants to roll with it but.  I fuckin love me some Ghetsis/Hilda. Ghetsis/Zinzolin, Giovanni/Ghetsis, Lysandre/Ghetsis, a hard to explain one but I like the concept of like Ghetsis/Reader, not in that I’m the ‘reader’ but that the reader is a ‘fan’, grunt, etc, so I guess Ghetsis/ghetsis fandom, and I have a real big ‘guilty’(read: i enjoy it and it’s harmless fiction so i don’t really feel that guilty, but people will definitely be real unhappy to hear it but fuck it it’s not like I’m forcing it on anybody) love for Ghetsis/N or other members of his family.  But Ghetsis goes well with like everybody tbh depending on what you’re after.  opinion on true love: Ghetsis finds that romantic feelings are, in general, for weaker persons.  True love is self-love, and letting yourself love or enjoy as many others as you’d like.  Of course, true love directed at him isn’t shameful or pathetic at all, and if he finds himself attached to somebody. . .well, he’ll admit to feeling weak for them, but it’s not something that makes him in any way less perfect.

opinion on love at first sight: You’ll love him at first sight. How weak do you have to be to just see somebody and be romantically infatuated with them?  You don’t even know anything about them.  Pathetic.  You’re going to get yourself into trouble, silly pet! 

how ‘romantic’ are they?: MMMMMMM Ghetsis is. . .willing to be romantic and would probably enjoy doing so because it makes him feel impressive.  Plus, pleasing a partner or object of affection increases the likelihood they’ll be attached to him, and thus he can benefit off of or use them for longer. . . .  So if you mean like in terms of reasoning, uh, he’s not super prone to thinking about other people more than himself at all. .. but in terms of actions and what he’ll be willing to do, he’s gonna be a big show-off and treat you real nice and spoil you.

ideal physical traits: Smaller and/or physically weaker than him. Feminine, especially with long hair, especially girls with long hair.  Shapely/curvy girls are good.  Healthy, strong, but weaker than him--strong enough to put up a fight, maybe. Expressive--shows a lot of emotion and reacts openly. Traditionally attractive, especially in a feminine way? I imagine he’s oddly attracted to people he can identify as having similar features to himself. . .not sure if that’s narcissism or something else entirely.   But, to be honest, he’s not too picky--he’ll act like he is, and he’ll certainly talk like he is, but. . .so far he isn’t. female: No specifics

male: No specifics ideal personality traits: Intelligent. Submissive.  Expressive.  Eager to please. Interesting. Fighty. Honestly, he’s attracted to people who’re either easy to use or hard to get.  Depends on how hard he wants to work for it.  To an extent, materialistic--being easily won over with expensive things and fancy dates.  Clingy. Loyal. Faithful. Lost. Exploitable.

unattractive physical traits: In general he’s more attracted to traditionally attractive people, so if you’re traditionally unattractive, he’s fairly likely to be offput by it? Unhealthy, unclean, generally not caring about your appearance at all? But he remains not too picky.  If you’re unattractive in some way, it just makes him look better--and gives him something to hold over you.  So he won’t be too bothered by it unless you’re, like, disgusting in some way he doesn’t want to put up with.

unattractive personality traits:  If you aren’t obedient, subservient, willing and/or wanting to see him as your superior, try and dominate him (and not have anything worth him letting you do so for,) etc. . .well, you’ll have lower chances.  Unintelligent(and yet, you’d be so much easier to mess with if you were. . .)  Gossipy, bad at keeping secrets(bragging is okay, telling the world his plans is not--it’s okay if you tell him about what other people do, though, that’s fine.)  Bossy, although he’s willing to put up with some of this. . .it’s hard to say, because he’s interested in people who’re subservient to him or express a lot of interest in him, but also in people he’d have to chase/who he’d have to struggle to have. . .but if you intend to get in the way of his plans or you’re uninteresting(and not physically appealing or you don’t have anything to offer/for him to gain, if you try and, like, overthrow him or take command of him without him seeing benefit to it(for example, RR!Giovanni is allowed to dominate and order him around because Ghetsis wants him to feel in charge to better take advantage of him) then you’re gonna have a harder time getting his interest.

ideal date: He loves to spoil a motherfucker.  Fancy restaurants, shows, trips, whatever you’d like as long as he won’t hate it himself.  Also, spending time at his castle, lavishing him--uh, you in attention and affection, parading you around, evangelizing and liberating Pokémon together, things that mean he gets to show off. . .he’d probably like an escape room if you were competent enough not to infuriate him through the whole process. Although, in his current, fragile, sickly, weakened state. . .the idea of something simple like a walk outside, going to a park, something lowkey seems especially nice. . .but also if you just stay in and hang out, that’s good too.  He’s not so open with it, but since he’s not in his usual position of power, he’s a lot happier than he lets on if you’re just. . .with him.

do they have a type?: Weak-willed men and spunky women.  Or something like that lol.  People he can gain something from. People he can’t have?  He may have incestuous personality disorder????  i have it in my head that he’s somewhat attracted to his own family due to having this understanding of historical royal families intermingling to keep their bloodlines ‘pure’.  But it’s not an active part of the blog character, like you’d probably never find out if I hadn’t said it just now, yeah?  

average relationship length: Until he gets bored or you outlive your usefulness or you break up with him when you realize he’s abusing you.  So, like, hookups are regular, but if they don’t count. . .a few months to a year.  But it’s probably not exclusive.  On his end.  If you’re fucking somebody else and finds out rather than you just telling him. . .he probably won’t be too pleased about it.

preferred non-sexual intimacy:  Worship him. Obey him. Being leaned against. Being held onto. Putting an arm around you or on your lower back or near your neck as if leading you or showing possessiveness of you. Being kissed.  Petting on the hair and back and so on.  Whispering. Leaving marks.  Things that make you respond, especially if they fluster you.

commitment level: You belong to him now. You are his until he's no longer interested.  It likely won’t be an exclusive ordeal, but you’re stuck with him until he decides otherwise.  Even if you leave him, expect him to pursue unless you have reason to believe he’s lost interest.  Then again, choosing to leave may spark his interest in chasing you. . . .

opinion of public affection: Public affection is an expression of his ownership of you and of your affection towards and desire of him.  It’s good shit.  He’s into it.  Expect surprise kisses, his arm around you, holding your hand if he’s able, close proximity and disregard of your personal space, pulling you into his lap, him openly referring to you as being his or with him. . . .

past relationships?: He’s definitely had plenty.  I say he and Zinzolin definitely had some kind of D/s shit going on.  I’m open to other preestablishments too, if they can be explained in some way.

tagged by: everybody’s doing it, so I stole it from everyone tagging: Do things I would do, like steal memes.  But not things that I would do like accidentally use the ‘post’ keyboard shortcut before you even finished clearing the formatting of the post.  Don’t do that.

[wario-where]

WW Meta: character reactions to being “on the outside”

( Never would i ever have imagined myself one day typing “warioware meta”, & i know no one asked for this, but... if you find this kind of stuff as interesting as i do, i hope you enjoy :’) )

It occurred to me that each of the characters in the WarioWare series could be examined separately as a different reaction to being an “outsider”, and so I wanted to write about it and share! As the series is in itself a celebration of the strange, it prides on being different from the rest. But that doesn’t make the developers invulnerable to their own unique circumstances!  This is a long post altogether, but a few short character pieces underneath the readmore. 

This post makes a lot of references to the WarioWare MMG Developer Diaries, which can be found here!

Wario: Selfishness

With his trademark abrasive personality, Wario lives his life with seemingly little regard for his friends -- or for anyone but himself. He refers to himself with the overly grandiose “ore-sama” personal pronoun and continually neglects to pay his employees with every new game in the Ware series. 

But it’s well-established in the Mario universe that, as a child, Wario was jealous of the attention that his better-known counterpart got, thus driving him into the antagonist role of early games in the Mario series. Wario reacts to being othered with greed & a dogged pursuit of self-service, doing most things in furtherance of his own selfish goals... possibly stemming from a belief that if he does not fight for his own wants in life, then no one else will:

“While I was away crusading against the mystery alien Tatanga in Sarasa Land, an evil creep took over my castle and put the people of Mario Land under his control with a magic spell. This intruder goes by the name of Wario. He has been jealous of my popularity ever since we were boys, and has tried to steal my castle many times.”

- Super Mario Land 2: 6 Golden Coins English manual, pg 3

WarioWare takes place far after this time in his life, as he seems to have settled down in Diamond City & no longer appears to be preoccupied with antagonizing Mario like he used to. Despite this, he has remained greedy and self-serving in most respects.

Mona: Adaptability

Mona is strange. She has an odd sense of humor, an obsession with nose fortune telling, and a fascination with such unsavory characters as Wario. Despite this, she is also a part-time pop star and cheerleader, has an active & healthy social life, and is unafraid of speaking what is on her mind.

As comfortable with herself and outwardly confident as she is, Mona is a perfect example of adaptability. She knows she’s “different”, but she’s versatile enough to blend in with a wide variety of people and social situations and, for all intents and purposes, lead a (somewhat) average teenage life.

Of note about Mona is her tendency to include as many people as she can in things that she finds fun or exciting, especially those in need of friends. One of my favorite illustrations of this is from the Japanese Smooth Moves diaries, where she commiserates with Ashley over not seeing their parents often, and even invites her to hang out:

“My mama is always away from home because of her work, so I sorta understand how Ashley feels. Don’t hesitate to come and visit me when you’re lonely!”

In Gold, she continues this trend by inviting her old friend & classic boss Joe to a party she is hosting with her friends. Those who make a point to include others like Mona does in the things that they do often understand what it’s like to be excluded...

Jimmy: Nostalgia

Jimmy is entirely unique as an “outsider”, because that status is not with respect to society itself, but to the past & his own youth. 

Though Jimmy is generally placed around the same age as his childhood friend, Wario (~25-26), some of his mannerisms suggest that he still views himself as a younger man. He remains as hip on new trends as possible, embracing email and text messaging and enthusiastically encouraging his coworkers to follow suit. His most jealously guarded secret is implied to be that his large, expressive afro is actually a wig, possibly meaning that he is either losing hair or keeps his natural hair short to make way for the more obnoxious blue ‘do. 

His appearance & preferred style of dance are distinctively 70′s, and in his diaries, Jimmy uses the pronoun “boku” to refer to himself, a pronoun usually reserved for use by teenagers and younger men aged ~14 to ~21. He enjoys disco and spends entire days at Club Sugar, dancing away the day with seemingly no other cares in the world, much like a younger, less mature man would. 

Jimmy does a lot to preserve an air of youthful vitality, but while he does it, he lives in the past. In the end, though, he seems happy with this lifestyle... as does his entire family!

Dribble & Spitz: Observation

Both Dribble & Spitz’s stages & developer diaries revolve almost completely around one facet of their lives: their taxi-driving. The people they meet while on their shift, the places they end up, the strange things that happen on the road… on a typical day, the rest of the world passes by their taxi window.

I think the most interesting things come into play when considering the two individually, though. Of the duo, Spitz seems most content with this lifestyle. Symbolically he has a fascination with outer space, where the only action available to do is to observe, to people-watch. And in one of his more illustrative entries, Spitz views the Earth from space for the first time and is so struck by the planet’s beauty -- and the constant movement of the people inhabiting it -- he begins to cry:

From outer space, the Earth looks perfectly round, beautiful… Thinkin’ about how on the Earth, there was always somethin’ somewhere hastily at work, I couldn’t do anything but cry a few tears… What could I say?

A little more restless than his companion, Dribble talks frequently about wanting to take vacations from work to engage with the people around him in social events. Despite this, he finds entertainment in being an observer, particularly from passengers with strange stories, foremost of those being the frequent misadventures of Dr. Crygor.

Dr. Crygor: Independence

Speaking of! The eccentric doctor lives on an island in the middle of the ocean. From there, he does as he wishes, caring little about the opinions of others and pursuing his unconventional scientific endeavors in peace. 

Dr. Crygor is aware that he is a uniquely scientific thinker and has experience with people disbelieving in his out-of-the-box theories and observations,  apparently even from childhood. Nonetheless, he cares very little about what other people think of his lifestyle, choosing instead to trust in his own intellect and find answers by scientific means:

Long ago, yes, when I was a 10-year-old child, I discovered this fact, and I reported it to my friends with excitement, but no one could believe it. However, I studied with various gums, and I remember reporting the research results to my friends, and them finally believing me. From that moment on, I aimed to become a researcher…

On his island, Dr. Crygor is free to be as he is and perform as many scientific experiments as he pleases, free from the constraints of societal norm -- whatever that may be in the WarioWare universe. Though he is aware he is an outsider, he could care less. He takes advantage of his freedom to take his eccentricity to extremes -- because he can, and because it is suitable for his work.

Kat & Ana: Obliviousness

Like most young children, Kat & Ana are much too young to have any conception of the world’s social norms. The vast majority of their diary entries revolve around their interactions with those in their immediate friend circle and with each other, with very little attention to the world beyond that.  They are certainly different from other kids their age, but they are also entirely unaware of it. So, how can one respond to being an outsider if one has no idea that they are one? :’)

Ashley: Self-Sabotage

Of all the characters listed here, it’s Ashley who is the most destructive in her approach to her outsider status -- because she creates it herself. In fact, many of her most common behaviors seem tailor-made to keep people at arm’s-length.

Ashley stands intentionally on the outside of groups, rarely smiles, and struggles to express emotion besides anger and apathy. Her compliments are halfhearted and passive (“I guess”, “maybe”, “not bad”), while her insults towards the player after losing her games are direct and personal (“pathetic! abysmal! lame!”)! She is vain (“Everyone knows that I’m the greatest!”), has a short temper, and is occasionally very cruel towards even her closest friend, Red. She prides herself on others’ fear of her (“You should be afraid of the great Ashley!”) and defines herself by what she is in relation to her own superiority, and by what she is not in relation to other people (“She never plays with dolls and she never combs her hair / Who has time for girly things like that?”).

And yet in her unguarded moments, Ashley is aware of a side of her that desires friends and companionship. She appears to think about, if not miss, her absent parents. She blushes on the implication that she is enjoying her time at the potluck in Gold. And in yet another revealing moment in her Japanese diaries, in which Ashley tasks Red with writing her diary entry...:

“I'm Ashley's close friend, Red. I haven't told this to anyone, but Ashley is actually pretty lonely. While we were experimenting with magic by the riverbed, we saw a friendly family of apes. Then, Ashley seemed to be looking far away. I acted as though I hadn't noticed, but I know very well. She was probably thinking about her parents from her hometown. Ashley has more cuter characteristics than you may think!”

(https://www.mariowiki.com/Talk:Ashley_and_Red)

We see her trending away from this loneliness slowly, but surely!

Orbulon: Insecurity

Ironically, Orbulon sets himself up as an almost-perfect counterpoint to Ashley. While Ashley consciously builds up walls around herself to keep people out, Orbulon is continuously having to take down the walls others build around him.

In his diaries, Orbulon struggles greatly to communicate in earthen language, his writing riddled with syntactical errors. At a company barbecue, he claims to enjoy himself, not because he is having a good time, but because everyone else is. And notably, he mentions enjoying being around Mona, because “she does not treat me like an alien.” 

In other entries, Orbulon is secretly insecure, caring a lot about what others think of him, especially with regards to his intelligence. When he is invited by 9 Volt to a friendly gaming tournament, he spends the entire night practicing playing video games, worried that it will reflect badly on him if he doesn’t win. In another (somewhat depressing) entry, Orbulon, in a bout of loneliness, makes multiple failed attempts to visit each of his coworkers, even at one point seeking out Dribble & Spitz’s taxi. Eventually, he is able to find Kat & Ana... but leaves shortly after, as he quickly becomes self-conscious when he senses that they are “acting strangely” because he is around. In the end, Orbulon ultimately goes back home to sleep instead.

Orbulon of the diaries is constantly thinking about himself in relation to the earth-folk around him, hoping to eventually belong... but it seems he eventually achieves it. :’)

9-Volt: Rebelliousness

9 Volt is known at his school as a troublesome kid.  His name appears on the blackboard for time-out in Twisted, and his teacher even singles him out during 18 Volt’s classroom introduction! He is uninterested in his schoolwork and has to be bribed to complete it. And despite being very close to his mother, he does defy her by staying up late to play video games and hiding from her when she comes to check up on him in the night. 

But outside of school, 9 Volt is not at all a bad kid. In fact, he is actually compassionate, intelligent, and -- like Mona -- also seems to have a tendency to want to include people who he sees on the outside. He is the only one to approach 18 Volt on his first day in class after their teacher scolds him; when he sees Orbulon walking home alone, he invited him over to his house; he frequently invites Kat & Ana over to play video games... and, perhaps sweetest of all, his “pet”, Fronk, is a rescue:

“A year ago, [Fronk] had been abandoned and I picked him up. I made a personal decision to make him my pet. What would I do without him?”

Clearly not a bad kid! 

Baby Wario Screenshot Source: https://www.mariowiki.com/File:YIDS-Wario_Baby_Bowser_Argument.png

[moonandstars1989]

Red As A Rose - Part 1

Living with the Winchesters was never going to be easy, especially for a three-hundred-and-something-year-old vampire. But immortality gets boring. Rosalie D'Angelo is looking for some fun. Two hunters, an angel and a blood-sucking monster equals a whole lot of mayhem. Let's hope not too many people get hurt - THREE PART SHORT STORY

5192 words

WARNINGS: Some violence, language.

------

The moment I heard the bunker door shut I materialised in an instant in front of the hunter, grabbing the rucksack he'd already slung off his shoulder.

"Geez, don't do that!" he snapped at me. I could hear his racing heart thudding against his rib cage and I shot him a smirk, ripping open the ruck sack and pulling out a blood bag. I grimaced at the cold temperature, my tongue itching to taste something warmer. Preferably thirty-seven degrees... "I couldn't get as many as last time." There seemed to be an apologetic edge to his voice, but I let it roll over me as I ripped the corner of the bag open and started to sip on the glorious crimson substance I craved every waking hour.

"Well maybe next time I'll make the blood run," I suggested after swallowing down several mouthfuls. He rolled his eyes at me. I knew he'd never agree.

"You know how I feel about compulsion," he reminded me, referring to my neat ability to make someone do whatever I wanted. Sometimes I wished morals had a physical substance. That way I might've been able to surgically remove his.

"And you know how I feel about O-positive," I shot back, shaking the blood bag at him. "But we can't always get what we want, kiddo." His eyes narrowed at me. He was far from a kid, but compared to my old age, he was still brand new. Plus, I knew the belittling term would annoy him which always made my day moderately better. The hunter always made sure he stole that particular type of blood, the most common type, as if to redeem himself somewhat from stealing from a hospital. It didn't taste bad, but it was nothing like the B-negative I preferred.

"Just be glad I got it in the first place," the hunter said, frowning grimly at the way my eyes flooded red as I gorged myself on the blood. My supply had run out a day or two ago and I'd been climbing the walls, resisting the urge to ask Sam or his brother if I could tap a vein, knowing it would've ended badly. "Dean would've brought you road kill." I swallowed thickly, the thought causing bile to rise in my throat. I suddenly wasn't hungry any more.

"That's true," I said, tilting my head at him as I swung the bag onto one shoulder and pressed the empty blood bag to the hunter's chest. "Thanks, Sammy," I said with a sarcastic smile, watching as he fumbled with the empty blood bag, trying not to let any of the crimson liquid get on his shirt.

"It's Sam," he said, clearly already irritated by me and it was still early in the morning.

"Whatever," I replied flippantly, using my rapid speed to get to the kitchen and load the remaining bags of delicious goodness into the fridge.

My rocky friendship with Sam Winchester was certainly not one to be jealous of. I don't think I'd even call it a friendship. I'd never cared much for humans, seeing them merely as warm bodies waiting to have their necks ripped open, not to mention the fact that Sam was a hunter. That alone told me that I was highly stupid to even converse with him, let alone breathe the same air as the man twenty-four hours a day.

But there was something about him that I liked. No. That was too strong a word. There was something about him that I didn't hate. It was probably the fact that he felt like he owed me which made me feel like I could live in close quarters with him without worrying he'd stake me in my sleep. I had been the one to single handily save his ass from a nest of vampires. Of course, it'd been unintentional at first. I'd gone into that nest with the sole purpose of slaughtering everything inside, not realising there was a pair of hunters already there to complicate things. Needless to say, I'd chopped the heads off of every single pathetic vampire groupie in the place before one could chomp down on poor Sammy's neck.

The hunter had proceeded to stop his older brother from decapitating me after all was said and done. That had made me chuckle. There was no way Dean Winchester could've caused me any damage with the pathetic machete he'd wielded that night. I was far too old. It would take someone with supernatural strength to have enough power to lop my head off.

I liked to think of myself as part of the superior vampire species. I was descended from the Original Family, not some crappy alpha vampire claiming to be the king of all. The two species had been feuding for as long as anyone could remember, which for a vampire, was a long time. The hatred my species had for who we regarded as second class citizens mainly stemmed from their lack of power. They weren't pure vampires like we were. They were weaker, not as fast and most importantly, they didn't possess the useful little ability of compulsion. This meant they were sloppy when it came to feeding and drew attention to themselves, highlighting our existence like a sore thumb. They were reckless, conspicuous and slapdash when it came to disposing of their victims. I hated them.

The Winchesters, on the other hand, I hadn't been able to bring myself to kill when I'd discovered them in the old barn. Sam had been taken and his older brother, Dean, was busy untying him as I hacked off the last of the vampire's heads right in front of them. The younger Winchester was bleeding at the time and I hadn't been able to stop my fangs from sliding down as hunger surged through my veins.

Dean had lunged for his machete and I would've snapped his neck in an instant had it not been for the stench of vervain that filled my nostrils and burned my windpipe like acid. The damn vampires had been burning it for protection, knowing that it was toxic to my species. As I crumpled to my hands and knees, grasping at my throat, Sam had been the one to stop his brother. Although he wouldn't've been strong enough to take off my head, it wouldn't've taken long for the hunter to realise that a wooden stake would do the job.

"Stop!" Sam had yelled to his brother as he rounded on me. "Dean, wait. Don't kill her."

"She's a vampire, Sam!" No shit Sherlock I remembered thinking. I didn't say it though. My lungs were filled with a thick fog of vervain. All I could do was cough as I clawed at my neck.

"She helped us, Dean," Sam had insisted. "She killed the others." Dean had reluctantly stood down at Sam's request and after putting up an impressive fight, he'd finally agreed to bring me to the bunker to recover. That brought me to where I was today, Rosalie D'Angelo, a three hundred and something year old vampire stood in the kitchen of the Men of Letter's bunker roughly six weeks later. It wasn't out of choice that I had stayed this long. Dean had annoyingly slipped my daylight ring off my finger at one point or another, meaning that if I set foot outside the bunker during the day, I was toast. Literally. Of course, I could leave during the night, but daylight rings didn't grow on trees. I was lucky to get my hands on one in the first place. I'd met plenty of other vampires of my kind that confined themselves to the shadows when the sun was up. I couldn't leave the bunker without it. I'd be far too vulnerable on the outside. After finishing loading all of my new blood bags into the fridge, I made my way down the corridor towards the guest room I was staying in, passing the elder Winchester's room on the way. His door was ajar, but I knew he'd still be sleeping. I'd heard the sound of him sipping on a glass of whisky until the early hours of the morning. He'd be out for another hour or so.

A smirk pulled at my lips and I silently pushed his door open and wandered in. It was unlikely that he kept my daylight ring on him at all times, but I'd looked for it everywhere else I could think of.

The beam of light cutting into the room from the open door illuminated the man's features as he lay sprawled on his back, the covers covering half of his bare torso. I took a moment as my eyes roamed his broad chest, his muscles straining under his skin as he breathed in and out. Don't get me wrong, I despised Dean Winchester with every fibre of my being. He was moody, rude and categorically hated my guts. But that didn't mean I didn't enjoy looking at him.

As I silently approached, I found my gaze honing in on his chiselled jaw and perfect cheek bones. I could hear the steady thud of his heart, the sound of his blood rushing though his arteries making my mouth water, though his blood wasn't the only thing I craved. I may have been a vampire, but I was still a girl. The man was bloody beautiful, as was his younger brother. I wouldn't complain if I ever had the fortune of finding myself as the filling of a delicious Winchester sandwich.

I cursed myself for even thinking it. Who did I think I was? Katherine Pierce? No way. I grimaced at the thought of doing something that remotely imitated the psychotic bitch I'd had the misfortune of running into too many times. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts as I stepped closer to the bed. Where would he keep it? Perhaps in a pocket?

I carefully pulled back the sheets that covered him, my keen eyes focused on his grey sweatpants as I reached a finger inside his pocket. Within a moment, my back hit the floor, a warm body pinning me to the ground as something sharp was pressed against my chest. The elder Winchester's heart hammered in his rib cage, his teeth gritted together as he breathed heavily.

"Dean, if you wanted to be on top, all you had to do was ask," I told him with a wicked smirk, keeping an eye on the wooden stake that he was pressing into my skin. He grimaced at the mere suggestion that he could ever want me in that way.

"You shouldn't sneak up on a hunter," he warned and my smirk widened into a grin. I could do whatever the bloody hell I wanted. In less than a second I'd used my speed to push him off of me and had him pressed against his bedroom wall, the wooden stake discarded to the floor. My recent meal had left me buzzing and I was eager for some action. I needed to run. Staying in the bunker all day made me feel like a caged animal.

"You shouldn't think you're powerful enough to intimidate me," I replied calmly as if I hadn't just completely turned the tables on him. "I want my ring." "And I want you dead," he replied. I smirked at him, removing one of my hands from his chest to run my fingers through his hair. I hadn't yet decided whether he was blonde or brunette. Maybe somewhere in the middle. Either way, it felt soft on my cool fingers and I lost myself for a moment.

"You don't mean that," I said, my eyes locking with his as I tried to pull him under my spell. I knew it wouldn't work. He'd been taking vervain every day since I moved into the bunker, much to my annoyance. Dean Winchester under the influence of compulsion was something I was dying to see.

"And why is that?" he asked, pretending not to be intimidated by how much stronger I was than him. His heart gave him away. It was beating erratically. It made me want to sink my teeth into his jugular.

"Because you like me," I said with a smile that I knew would get under his skin. "It's not your fault, Dean," I whispered, backing him further against the wall. "You can't help it. Everything about me is designed to draw you in."

"I don't like you," he said, shoving a hand against my shoulder to push me away. I resisted at first, but when he did it harder I removed my hands from his chest, glaring as he pushed past me. "I tolerate you. For Sam's sake." He flicked the light on and I winced, my eyes stinging at the brightness. "The moment Sam realises you're no different from any of the other monsters we hunt, I'm sending you straight to purgatory."

"You can't send me to purgatory, dumbass," I told him bitterly as he pulled a shirt over his head. I'd had my fun for the morning. He was far more entertaining when he was asleep. "I'm not descended from Eve."

"Right, I forgot," he deadpanned. "You're an entirely different type of freak." I rolled my eyes, finding his sarcastic comments utterly trivial. I had better things I could be doing with my time. If only I had that damn ring.

"Just give me my ring and I'll be out of your hair," I asked, trying to sound as pleasant and polite as possible.

"I think I'd much rather leave you out in the sun without it and watch you burn," Dean spat, bending down to pick the stake from the floor and gripping it in his fist threateningly. "God, you have no idea how much I want to use this."

"Well you have no idea how much I want to rip your vocal chords from your throat, you mother fu-!"

"Guys!" I didn't have to turn to see that Sam had materialised in the doorway, his hands stretched out as he jumped between us. His right hand met Dean's chest and he pushed him back. Luckily for him, he didn't do the same to me. I would've snapped it right off. "Seriously, do we have to go through this every morning?"

"Come on, Sam, she started it," Dean said accusingly, sending me a glare which I returned, only harder.

"I don't care," Sam replied sternly. "I don't care if you hate each other. But you can't kill each other."

"I can try," I mouthed at the man opposite. Sam caught it out of the corner of his eye and sent me an unimpressed look.

"Cut it out, Rose," he chastised and I rolled my eyes, pushing past him and out of the room. "Hey, I'm not done!" he called after me. I didn't care. I certainly was.

"Go to hell," I snapped back, the fact that they'd both actually been to hell giving my comment more weight. I sauntered down the corridor back to the kitchen, grabbing another blood bag from the fridge as a midmorning snack, uncaring that I'd soon run out.

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

The week that followed dragged miserably until Sam popped out to the hospital for a quick supply run. The batch of blood bags included one labelled A-positive. Not my favourite but definitely better than what he'd given me before. When I questioned him on it he'd said it was a treat for good behaviour which made me almost laugh. I'd refrained from tormenting Dean as much as possible since the incident a week ago. Apparently, in Sam's eyes, that warranted a reward.

This, however, left me mind-numbingly bored. I wasn't allowed to leave the bunker under strict instructions from both the boys. They'd made it clear from the start that if I so much as breathed the same air as another human they'd have to put me down. I'd promised I wouldn't, but they didn't seem to take my word for it. If I was honest, I didn't blame them. I craved blood straight from the vein more than anything.

Sam often asked me why I didn't have more control over my urges. I told him I did. I'd perfected the snatch, eat, erase method over two hundred years ago, but then something had gone wrong. A few decades back I'd decided to flick the humanity switch, ditching all emotions and gorging myself on as many humans as I could. When I finally flicked it back on, a deep hunger within me came back with all the other crappy human feelings I'd been void of for so many years. I told Sam it would just take a while before I'd build up my tolerance again, but that didn't satisfy the younger Winchester. He'd taken it upon himself to help me control my urges, and apparently, that meant no feasting on humans, even if I didn't kill anyone.

I found the kid in the bunker's firing range. My enhanced hearing made the shots seem like they were going off inside my head. On physical appearance, I was probably ten years younger than him, but in reality, I was far his superior.

"Hey Sam," I greeted, causing the man to jump as I appeared silently next to him, the breeze my speed created ruffling his shirt. He didn't tell me off for it this time, simply releasing a sigh as he resumed his target practice.

"What do you want?" he asked, and I pouted at him, slightly hurt that he'd think I'd only talk to him when I wanted something, though he was entirely correct. I played it off, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

"Nothing," I replied nonchalantly, watching as he fired twice at the paper figure across the firing range. My excellent vision told me he'd hit the target both times. "You're pretty good at that." He chuckled slightly under his breath.

"Thanks," he replied, lowering the weapon as he squinted at the target. He proceeded to remove the clip from the gun and I watched closely as his deft hands moved against the metal. Sam had tried fruitlessly to try and teach me all the different makes and brands of weapon he and his brother used. I tended to zone out whenever he got all nerdy about stuff. Pretending to be interested was exhausting.

"I'm bored," I said flatly, arching my back and bracing my hands against the metal bench in front of me. Sam hummed in response, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. It was getting rather long, but somehow it suited him. I almost liked it.

"You're always bored," he replied matter of factly, not turning towards me to reply. I listened to his heart beat closely like I always did. It was steady, unlike Dean's which was always erratic whenever I was around. But Sam wasn't stressed at all. He wasn't even remotely terrified by how close I was stood next to him. He may have been bigger, towering at least eight inches above me, but I was far stronger. He knew that, but yet he still didn't seem to fear me. I now had my new game: if I wasn't allowed to tantalize the elder Winchester, Sam would have to be my new target.

"We should do something," I suggested absentmindedly, shuffling a little closer to him as he reloaded his pistol. "Have you ever played murder in the dark?" I asked, locking eyes with the younger Winchester as I licked my smirking lips. "I'm really good at it." There it was. The oh so satisfying sound of his heart beat picking up. I grinned at him wickedly as I moved even closer.

"You know, you're kind of creepy," he commented, shooting me a weary look before stepping away from me. I watched him go, my grin deflating along with my mood as his heart returned to its steady speed.

"Some would say sociopathic," I replied as I glared at the back of his head, my tone flat and icy. He murmured a response that I didn't bother to listen to. I was too angry. Too riled up. We'd been playing house for too long. Now I needed some answers, but most of all, some entertainment.

I shot up beside him just as he turned around, though I was careful not to touch him this time. I wasn't playing games anymore. "Why do you keep me here, Sam?" I asked seriously, my eyes narrowing at the young hunter. I wasn't somebody's pet they could train.

"What do you mean?" he asked. I thought he was faking misunderstanding, but his eyes seemed genuinely confused.

"Is it information you're looking for? More knowledge about my species?" I guessed, watching his eyes carefully. He didn't give anything away. If anything, he only grew more confused. "We're barely friends," I said quietly, shaking my head. "I irritate you, we don't trust each other. Your brother detests me." And I hated him right back. Other than his divinely chiselled features, the only redeeming quality Dean Winchester possessed was his car. The '67 impala was definitely something to be envious of. If I ended up killing both of them in the near future, I'd definitely be nabbing the keys.

"Maybe I wanna help you," Sam said in an equally soft voice, only his lacked the hardness that mine always had. "Like you helped me."

"You don't owe me anything," I told him, shaking my head.

"I know," he said, his eyes so alarmingly kind that I almost had to look away.

"But I know what it's like to crave blood. I've been through it." He paused, swallowing thickly. "I understand." I scoffed.

"You don't understand," I snapped at him, quickly losing my temper, though I wasn't sure I ever had a handle on it anyway. "You were hooked on demon blood for what, a year? I've been hunting humans for over three hundred." He looked alarmed by my admission and took a step back. I was happy he did, but I didn't let my usual smirk pull at my lips. "You can't detox me. You can't make me better." I spat the words at him, watching as he gritted his teeth together. "There's no cure for what I am."

"You don't have to hurt people. Just let me help you," he said, almost pleadingly. I snapped.

"I don't want your help!" I yelled, stepping closer to intimidate him. "I'm not an addict, Sam. I'm a vampire." He needed to get it out of his head that I was a person who could be fixed. This wasn't a phase. This is who I was. "I'm a cold, heartless killer. I don't care about anyone or anything." I enunciated each word carefully, stepping closer with every syllable until I was close enough to practically see his carotid artery pulsating in his neck. He was nervous now. I could feel it.

"You saved my life," he said, his face stubborn as he refused to be intimidated, though I knew he already was. "You didn't kill me."

"I wanted to," I told him, my features schooled as I stared at him "I want to right now." His heart was hammering in his chest just like I'd wanted. He was afraid of me. That was how it should be.

"You won't."

"Why not?" I questioned. "It would be easy. I could snap your neck in a second." He took deep breaths as if to try and calm himself down. I didn't breathe at all. If I took even one breath and inhaled his scent when I was this close to him, it was lights out for Sammy.

"You won't kill me," he repeated. "You would've done it already weeks ago."

"The only thing stopping me is that ring your brother has," I told him bitterly. "If it weren't for that, I'd drain you dry in an instant. I wouldn't even bat an eyelid." Sam supressed a grimace as he shook his head. I knew I was getting to him and I couldn't help the sense of satisfaction that rolled over me at the sight of his distress.

"I don't buy it," he said, trying to sound convincing. "You give off this tough exterior to make people afraid of you, but underneath all that, there's just a lonely Italian girl." I stepped away from him, taken aback by what he'd said. I hadn't told him much of my past. I'd told him nothing of my human years.

"You don't know me, Sam," I told him, trying not to falter as I shook my head. "You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I will do."

"You can change," the younger Winchester insisted. His eyes stared into mine and I couldn't look away. It was as if he was the one with the power of compulsion. "I know you want to. You wouldn't've stuck around this long if there wasn't a part of you that wants to be different. That wants to be good."

"I'm the devil," I whispered, my jaw tight. Sam shook his head.

"I've met the devil," he reminded me. "You don't even come close." He was so near to me now that I could feel his breath. It felt so warm on my cold skin that I wanted him ever closer. I'd never craved him so much until that moment. He raised his hand and for a moment, I thought he was going to stroke his thumb along my cheek. He changed his mind at the last minute, perhaps remembering who I was. What I was.

"I'm no good, Sam," I said quietly before stepping away. I turned, taking maybe three steps before I heard the sound of a knife being unsheathed. The noise of the blade scrapping against the leather rang in my ears, intensified by my heightened senses. "What are you doing?" I asked the boy before me as he held the blade against his palm. "Sam…" It was too late. A small stream of blood had formed where the knife cut into his skin, the crimson substance bubbling at the open wound. I made the fatal mistake of breathing in, the intoxicating scent filling my nostrils and driving me crazy.

"It's okay," he said, taking a step forward. Fear flared in my gut and I rushed backwards, my back colliding with the wall.

"Don't come any closer," I panted as he made his way towards me. He didn't seem afraid at all. I wished I could've said the same about myself. There was literally nothing stopping me from killing him right then and there. I tried to search for a way out but all my mind could process was the blood dripping from Sam Winchester's hand. "Stop," I told him weakly. "Stop!" He wouldn't. He came closer until he was a foot away, standing over me as I cowered on the floor, trying to push myself into the wall and disappear.

My fangs descended, the whites of my eyes flooding red. I was hungry. Too hungry. I wanted it more than anything. I imagined the coppery taste of it as it slipped over my tongue and the rush I would feel from draining the life out of him.

"You're not gonna hurt me," Sam repeated, crouching down beside me. I flailed on the ground, trying to get away.

"There are smarter ways to prove a point," I spat, panic rising inside of me. And that's exactly what he'd done. He knew I'd never hurt him. He wasn't trying to prove it to himself. He was trying to prove it to me. It was all part of his plan to make me realise I wasn't just a heartless killer.

"I knew you wouldn't," he told me. I stopped breathing and forced myself to look away from his hand. This time, Sam did grab my cheek, using his unwounded hand to pull my face back towards him. My teeth were gritted together and I felt my fangs pierce my bottom lip, my mouth filling with the bitter taste of my own blood. The worst part was that I knew he wasn't on vervain. He wore the herb around his wrist to protect him from compulsion, but that wouldn't help him now.

"It's okay," he whispered. I held my breath, my eyes squeezing shut as I tried to block him out. The sound of his heart hammering against his ribcage was deafening. I felt his palm against my face. His touch was scorching on my cold skin. I was frozen still, my jaw clamped shut over my deadly fangs. "You're not gonna hurt me."

"You might not get so lucky next time," I forced out between my lips before pushing him away and sprinting from the firing range. I ran close to my full speed and I didn't stop until I was in my room, the door slammed shut with my back against the dark wood.

My breathing was rapid as I tried to focus on anything other than the younger Winchester's blood. What Sam had done was reckless and stupid, but I'd managed to resist the urge to rip into his skin and drain him dry. For now, Sam was safe. For now.

These Winchesters were going to be the death of me.

[thisloveforyourmom]

Sygyzy: Chapter One

So, I’ve been working on this with @ohnomypeas for a few weeks. Have at it 

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355665/chapters/28105125 

“Steven Suptic is a hooker, and has been for almost a year. He doesn't think anyone or anything can phase him by now--at least, not until a man in a headband takes him home to watch the Hannah Montana movie. Then, suddenly, he's running an ever-growing startup crew, living with the kind of people he never thought he'd even meet, and realizing that, just maybe, it's okay to want more than he's had.”

Chapter One: Fernweh

Steven first meets Cib in a seedy bar in the middle of Los Santos.

He’s really done up that night, more than usual, had scraped together enough money for a black shirt that’s only had one other owner and slicked his hair back with borrowed gel. Made himself all coy grins and dumb conversation that suggested he was waiting for someone smarter than he was to come along, to sweep him away to some shitty motel room.

No one ever does and probably no one ever will. No one smarter than he is--no one even half as smart as he is--takes out some hooker batting their eyes across the bar at every rich-looking stranger doing shots.

When he first sees a dishevelled looking man with a headband on, he ignores him. He’s not the type who’d pay for anything more than a Corona or shot of tequila, and one of the men he’s working on, some Russian blonde, is having a very interesting conversation about a deal with Fakehaus that he assumes Steven doesn’t understand.

(He’s used to that. To these people he’s an object--something you use and are done with, something that can be in your lap and still go completely unnoticed. It’s not weird anymore, that the group he used to be part of is now foreign to him, and he’s used to how pathetic it feels to have accepted that as his reality.)

He changes his mind very quickly when he sees $400 and a wink in his direction.

It isn’t hard to excuse himself. Some other hooker will take his place and he doubts anyone but himself and the new one will notice. It’s easy to weave his way through the crowd, sliding up to the man and whispering a sultry ‘your place?’ in his ear. The leave together, and in the sudden quiet of the street the stranger begins to speak.

“My name’s Cib,” he says, and Steven purrs his approval on autopilot. He doesn’t recoil at the fact that his voice sounds like it isn’t really his the way he used to. He’s played this game before, knows to deflect the question about his own name and let Cib lead him down the road and then upstairs to--

A nice apartment.

A very nice apartment, and really it’s pathetic that his standards are this low but they are. Not a penthouse, but the kind Steven would live in if he could afford more than a furnace room in the basement of some complex meant for people much wealthier than he was. The kind he used to live in. The floor is stained wood and the ceiling isn’t leaking and the window shuts all the way.

It’s the kind of thing he’d be jealous of if he let himself feel that way anymore. He shakes himself back to the present, back to the reality of what he’s here to do. Somehow, it never really gets better. It’s easier, but only because he’s learning how to push it further and further away.

“So, what did you have in mind?” He’s not sure where the bedroom is, but given that Cib is heading towards the couch that doesn’t look like it’ll be a problem. “Did you want something small, or a night, or….” He trails off when he sees Cib pulling a movie off of a small shelf next to the TV. “Is that…?”

“The Hannah Montana movie. A tragedy.” And something about the way he says this, like it’s a fact and not at all weird for a grown man in Los Santos to invite a hooker over and then watch the Hannah Montana movie, makes something in Steven shift. Something cynical, just a little. Just enough to notice that when he goes back to the street he’ll have to shift it back.

(It’s not charm, the fact that someone wants to watch a movie with him first, because to be charmed by that would quite be pathetic.)

God, this is probably just some kink, he thinks, and reality sets back in with the familiar drowning of an additional piece of hope he didn’t even know he still had.

“I charge by the hour. Just so you know.” His voice sounds flat, even to himself, and he winces internally and braces himself for the consequences.

They don’t come. Cib says ‘okay’, offers him the couch, offers him a blanket and then starts popping popcorn in the kitchenette.

He doesn’t relax once through the movie. Cib seems genuinely interested in it, but at one point he moves his arm across the back of the couch and Steven knows, he knows that this is when it begins, and so close he can smell cigarette tar and sweat and Old Spice and the combination is sickening--

Cib’s arm stays on the couch. It doesn’t leave until the movie is over and he gets up to take the disc out. And then, in a sort of non-sequitur way that Steven barely understands, he thinks Cib offers him the guest room.

And then he goes to bed.

Steven takes the offer of the guest bed, after trying to figure out what happened for half an hour in the kitchen. It’s late, and cold, and his own bed is neither warm nor close. He doesn’t sleep--just lies on the bed, awake and confused, the entire night.

***

Cib seems delighted that he stayed. Steven had waited until he heard someone moving in the apartment before getting up in the same clothes he put on for last night and following a trail of objects slightly misplaced to the kitchen. It very quickly becomes obvious that, whoever and whatever else he is, Cib is not a morning person, and Steven takes the offered cup of coffee before sitting on the edge of a dining chair and waiting for him to say something.

“So,” Cib says, “How good are you with your mouth?”

Steven is simultaneously shocked and unsurprised. It always gets to this point--it just usually doesn’t take so long, isn’t predated by gentle treatment. Whatever he is, this is territory he’s familiar with, more so than watching a movie on the couch. If he let himself care, he might have thought that was a little bit pitiful.

“Depends on what you want it to do,” he says, setting the coffee aside and shaking off the confusion at this whole setup.

“Sweet talk.” Cib tilts his head, the same expression on his face as the night before, curious but certain. The request is unusual, but no more so than the rest of the encounter. Some men just want that. He’s been paid for far less than a chat.

“Well,” Steven says, putting his cheek in his hand and softening his features, “that depends on who you ask. Want to see for yourself?” He scoots his chair a little closer to Cib’s, not enough that they’re touching but close enough that the distance between their faces is charged with something.

“I do,” he smiles, clicking his tongue once before standing abruptly, and it’s startling. “One of my guys, see, he keeps fucking shit up. Not selling anything. Something about how vapes aren’t drugs, which is fucking dumb ‘cause nicotine!”

In what seems to be a common theme in his interactions with Cib, Steven is confused.

“I--do you want me to...seduce him into cooperating with you?” He’s done that, too, and he’d worked for a crime boss of some degree multiple times, but…. “Usually people are more…up front about that.”

“You do whatever works best,” Cib shrugs. “I mean, he’s the straightest dude I know. Has like five wifes or something. Thirty kids, ten dogs and a parakeet.”

“Alright, A, it’s ‘wives’,” Steven says, before he can catch himself. He cringes, waits for the reaction that again doesn’t come, before continuing cautiously. “And B, if he’s straight, and you need sweet talk...why find a male hooker? What am I doing here?”

Cib looks somewhat shocked. “You’re a hooker? I thought you were one of those dudes who, like, talked a bunch. Like in the movies!”

He doesn’t bother asking which movies. If last night was any indication, he isn’t sure he’d want to know.

As soon as he’s done with this, he’s going to find a very rich man who will buy him a very stiff drink.

“Yes, I’m a hooker, Jesus, why else would I ask to go to your place after you flashed a couple twenties?”

“I don’t know, idiot, why did you?” Cib asks. Steven fights back a sigh, feeling the headache coming already.

“Because I’m--screw it, jesus. I’ll take the job. It’ll be better than hanging out in some club.” And quite honestly, he’s terrifying himself, because he hasn’t been this brazen with a client since his first few weeks, but something about Cib makes him feel like he can. Like he won’t care, or even...like Cib wants him to be. He leans back in the chair, pushes down that thought and scrubs his hands across his face, weaving himself back into the mask of indifference. “When?”

Cib glances at his wrist. Watchless. “Uh…” Another sigh.

“What am I getting paid?”

“I dunno, half of what I’m supposed to be getting from this guy’s next sale? If he does it.”

God, this is a mess.

A mess that’s getting you a guest room in an apartment with heat, a voice somewhere in the back of his mind says, and he hates that he has to agree.

“I’ll do it,” Steven says. “I’ll be back when I have.” And then he leaves, pulling his coat on and bracing himself for the harsh January cold.

“Have what?” Cib asks. He doesn’t stop to answer, leaving the apartment only to lean for a moment on the closed door, shaking his head for a moment before realizing he’s fighting a smile. However annoying he is, something about Cib is….interesting. Something about Cib makes him feel a little more open than before.

Steven wouldn’t mind, he discovers, seeing him again.

***

It’s been a month, and Steven is living with Cib.

The first job had turned into another, and another, and Cib kept telling him to stay in the guest room “so we can talk, dude, about life”, and when after two weeks Steven had tentatively asked to move in, Cib had just cocked his head and said “you haven’t?”

So he’d told his landlord he was leaving, gathered what little he had, his phone and charger and a bag of outfits he didn’t ever want to wear again, and moved it into Cib’s guest room. Which he guessed was now his room.

Living with Cib felt a lot like living with a small child. Most of the time, the things he said didn’t make sense. He seemed to have trouble doing really much of anything with the degree of competency required to live by yourself. Most of activities he enjoyed were juvenile on some level. He was the kind of person that, in better circumstances, Steven would never have even known existed.

Still.

Something about him was charming, in a way. He’d consider him nice if he didn’t know better. Cib’s annoying, but gentle, and always is trying to help, even if it isn’t readily apparent. It was disgusting, how low Steven’s standards were, how easy it was to make him feel safe, to give him some ghost of feeling wanted for more than just cheap sex, but really anything was safer than before. Anything was better than before, because--

It’s been a month, and Steven hasn’t done any sex work.

Cib’s jobs, if nonsensical, are limitless, and they pay well enough that when Steven’s payed his portion of rent and groceries, he has something left over. It’s not much, but it’s the first time he’s had that in a long time, and that’s enough to make him consider this as a long-term thing, something he can live off of. Something that can get him out of the gutter he’s been stuck in.

With Cib, for some reason he can’t explain, he feels safe. He feels clean in a way that he hasn’t since he before he met with his first client, since he left him filthy and used and abandoned.

It’s too good to last, and he knows it. One day Cib’s going to stop giving him jobs, to tell him he’s done, and then Steven will move out and back into wherever he’d been but with a few more dollars in savings. He can pretend, until then. He needs to.

***

The job seems routine. He’s going to shake down a potential buyer, someone with means of distribution but not acquisition. Steven’s done it before. But when he arrives he recognizes the buyer and from the hungry look in his eyes Steven knows that he’s been recognized, too--

It’s not the first time Steven’s come back with a black eye, but it is since living with Cib, and usually there isn’t an accompanying hickey, and usually it’s from a fist and not a pistol and it hurts.

He opens the door, debates going to his bedroom to avoid Cib finding out, and when did he start calling it his and since when was he afraid of what Cib found out?

The decision is made for him anyway, because Cib was waiting in the kitchen and can see him from here, and Steven can see the surprise cross his face, unguarded.

“Dude, you’re hurt, the fuck?”

Steven doesn’t reply, only goes to collapse on the couch and tilt his head back and press his sleeve to the cut that’s dripping blood down his cheek. He hears Cib moving around in the kitchen before his footsteps come closer and there’s something cold on his face.

“Come on, I’m gonna kiss it better--” And Cib’s leaning in towards his eye, for some reason, and he says ew, gross and pushes him away--

--and then he doesn’t, because Cib has stopped, something dark flashing in his eyes.

Steven drops his hands. He can feel himself stiffening, he shouldn’t have pushed him away, he was trying to help and it’s not his place--

“You’re bleeding,” is all Cib says, and Steven realizes that he’d moved his hand from the cut.

“Yeah,” he says, and Cib doesn’t reply, just leaves for a moment and comes back with a first aid kit from the bathroom.

He doesn’t ask, which is good because Steven doesn’t want to tell him, and his hands are surprisingly gentle even if Steven had to convince him not to wash the cut with spit.

When he’s done, Steven goes to lie down with the ice pack Cib had brought him. It’s cold, but he almost doesn’t feel it, because Cib’s hands were warm and their memory still brushes across his skin. He thinks about that for a long time, that night. Thinks about Cib. Thinks about why he’s thinking about Cib.

He doesn’t hear the buyer’s name again.

***

“All I’m saying is, we need the real deal, a warrior, someone who can blow those fatty c--”

“I agreed until that last part.” Steven sighs, pushing his chair away from the table and scrubbing his face with hands. “Who did you have in mind?”

Cib blows a stream of artificially cinnamon-scented smoke at him, smiling. “Glad you asked.”

It’s been a week since the incident with his old client, and Steven’s black eye is healing at what he assumes is the average rate to heal from being pistol whipped. He wasn’t worried about it, had always known he couldn’t handle violence, but Cib…..

Cib had decided they needed someone who could, for whatever reason. Steven couldn’t say he was wrong, with this and all the jobs he’d been unwilling or unable to do--and that was one of the things he liked, that when he couldn’t, he didn’t have to, but his reluctance and Cib’s total and obvious inability to defend himself left anything even remotely involving intimidation out of the picture.

“He wants to meet us in a bar,” Cib is saying, “in Waterside.” Two red flags already. No one goes to Waterside, not if they could help it, it’s home to too many desperate new gangs and the shady kind of narcotics dealers. Something about meeting in a bar, too, surrounded by people just like them, just like Steven, has him on edge. He thinks for a moment. He doesn’t like this, but Cib is right. They need this guy, whoever he is.

“When?” he says, because he has no sense and knows that Cib will take this as agreeing. Sure enough, his smile stretches even wider, and he takes another drag on the vape before answering.

“Uh, ten minutes ago?”

“Ten--what the hell have we been doing, jesus, let’s go,” Steven stands, not waiting for Cib before leaving. He’s down the stairs at the front of the building by the time Cib catches up and he tells him the name of the bar and all through the train ride there Steven can’t shake the feeling that something’s going to go wrong.

When they arrive at the bar, it’s exactly the kind of dark, seedy place that he knew they’d find in Waterside, with a glowing neon sign and no windows to the outside world. He’s worked here, and he knows there’s a back alley with a door from the kitchen, and this street will take him to a subway station three blocks down--

He’s already planning escape routes, Steven realizes, and shakes himself before following Cib inside.

It’s dimly lit and crowded, but Cib seems to know where he’s going, so he follows him and tries to ignore the smell of alcohol and vomit and the fact that there’s Casey in the corner and Max working the bar like he used to and this doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t feel right.

Cib sits, and he follows before looking up at whoever it is they’re meeting, and--

Oh.

He’s strong looking. Intimidating. The smallest bit familiar. The thin glasses resting on his face do nothing to obscure the look in his eyes, and suddenly Steven can’t miss that he’s sitting in a bar he used to work with the type of man who’d pick him up and he really, really doesn’t want to be here. He may recognize him from somewhere, but if he does it’s from long before, and to get to long before he has to go through immediately before and that’s not the kind of thing he wants to do. Not here.

Cib and the stanger are saying something, something he can’t focus on, he thinks that he’s listing qualifications and something about a water warrior. He spaces out, not entirely on purpose, until Cib turns to him, smiling. They wait for a second, until Cib begins to speak again, and, oh, they’d asked him something, Cib had asked if that was enough for him. They must have been talking for a while, then.

“I--yeah. That, uh, yeah! Fine! It, uh, seems fine.” He keeps the waver out of his voice, not wanting to say yes but not wanting to say no and keenly aware of the person sitting across the table waiting for an answer.

Cib is saying something again and shaking the stranger’s hand--he thought he heard James, at some point--but all he can think about are the split scars on James’ knuckles, the marks of a fistfighter and the muscles to match. For the first time, he’s grateful that Cib’s business screenings and interviews are so informal--the sooner he gets out of there, the better.

Cib is standing, and James is standing, so Steven stands, and the moment it looks like they’re done he grabs Cib’s forearm and pulls him to the door.

The air outside isn’t fresh but it seems to pull him out of the daze he’d been in, everything sharpening so intensely that it seems surreal. Neither of them say anything until they’re halfway back to the apartment, and then it’s Cib who speaks first.

“I think he’ll work. Real Demosthenes figure, ya know?”

And to distract himself from the fact that James is now in a crew with him, Steven replies, “Do you even know who that is?”

“Who who is?” And it makes sense that Cib forgets, with nothing in his head terrifying enough that he might need it later, and Steven wishes with a sharp pang that he could be as carefree.

***

James has been doing jobs for the crew for a while now, and Steven’s been limiting his exposure as much as possible. It’s easy sometimes, given how little their jobs intersect, but he’d accepted this one before Cib told him that he’d need a bodyguard--worrying on its own--and then that said bodyguard would be James.

The job itself goes smoothly enough. Steven can admit that it’s better with James standing behind him. The other guy’s guards are too scared to try anything, and he just wishes that he wasn’t feeling the same way.

They finish with the buyer, Steven signs a contract, and they leave. James is coming back to the apartment to update Cib, and to receive payment, and that means he’s walking with Steven the entire way.

“So. Cib,” James says, breaking the silence between them once they’re about a third of the way back.

“Cib,” Steven agrees, though he’s not sure with what.

“Isn’t he a little…” James doesn’t elaborate, just makes a little hand motion and looks at Steven.

“Yeah.” James seems to be waiting for something with more than one syllable, and the thought of irritating James sends a pang of fear through his chest. “I don’t know how he managed before me.” And at this, James seems surprised.

“Wait, he’s the boss? I thought you were behind all,” James gestures between himself and Steven. “this.”

There’s a concept. Steven supposes that technically, he is, if how often he helped Cib just manage the operation counted for anything.

(He ignores how flattering it is, that a man like James had unquestioningly believed that Steven could run something like this. He can, of course, but it’s been a long, long time since anyone’s acknowledged it, and longer since that someone wasn’t another whore. He tells himself it’s because there’s no way Cib would be able to, and moves on.)

“No. He hired me. Worst decision of my life.” Steven’s voice sounds flat, even to himself, and after a moment he decides that’s good. The less James knows about him, the better, and he seems satisfied, so there’s no reason to give him anything else.

“Weird. So how’d you meet him?”

And Steven stops walking for a moment, stiffens.

He hadn’t thought it would be so hard to answer that question. It may not have been, to anyone else. Back when he was working it was easy to call himself a hooker, a manwhore, a paid slut. A sex worker to more dignified company. Cib knew, and was okay with it. But something about telling James made him feel...scared. Shameful. Dirty. Like there was some hole he was supposed to fit into that he wasn’t the right shape for.

“He kidnapped me and made me watch the Hannah Montana movie,” he says instead, continuing to walk as if he had never stopped, and James waits for a moment to take this in before following.

“That movie is literally the worst,” he says, unquestioning, and Steven is grateful that he’s managed to surround himself with people who don’t need anything to make sense.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” he says, and then they’ve reached the apartment, and Steven unlocks the door, ready to retreat to his room and be somewhere that James isn’t for a little while.

Cib, of course, intercepts him before he has the chance.

“Steve, dude, you can’t leave, it’s movie night!”

And he sighs, because there’s literally no way to say no to Cib. He takes any answer as a yes, and won’t stop pestering until you keep your word.

“We aren’t watching the Hannah Montana movie again.”

And Cib pouts but accepts, pulling a different Blu-Ray off the shelf.

“‘Course not. It’s romance night, idiot! Schindler’s List,” he says, and Steven believes himself to be largely past the point of questioning Cib but this requires some explanation.

And then.

“Schindler’s List, I love that movie!” James pipes up, and Cib smiles that pleading way of his that’s really just smug and drags Steven to the couch. James follows, thankfully sitting on the other side of Cib, and as the movie starts Cib leans on Steven and for the first time in weeks all Steven wants is for him to get off.

About fifteen minutes into the movie, it begins.

“And here we see the dignified Osk-Oyster Spindle, drafting his grocery list…” With the soft yet somehow loud voice reminiscent of an Animal Planet narrator, Cib begins his commentary. Steven’s used to it--Cib does this for every movie--but James is either weirdly invested in Schindler’s List or really hates people talking during movies, because he speaks up quickly.

“Shut up, dude, I’m trying to watch,” he says, and Steven can tell from the look Cib gives him that James is only fueling the fire. He’s reminded of a sibling pair he saw coming back to his old apartment one morning, neither of them making sense but neither of them trying, only wanting to win some imagined victory over the other. Cib continues, louder this time.

“What is it, dude? You don’t like Slinkey’s list?”

“Swear to God, man,” and this is the point where Steven would intervene except that James is looking increasingly annoyed and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he doesn’t want to be in the middle when Cib pushes too far.

Cib ignores James, looking back at the movie.

“The young Oscar has realized that he must fire all the jorts from his factory--”

He’s cut off by James tackling him to the floor, one hand around his neck, straddling his waist. Steven backs up instinctually, wanting to run but scared to get off the couch because James and Cib are right there and suddenly he’s reminded of the very beginning--

--“Take that, you little twink,” says the man twice his size, one hand around Max’s neck and pushing, squeezing tight and he’s gasping--

Cib wrestles with James for a moment, and the rational part of his brain can tell there’s no pressure, Cib can breathe and he’s even laughing, asking something about water warriors and choking technique and why is choking technique even a thing people have--

--and he should be helping, he should be saving him but he can’t, he’s scared, he’s so scared of losing Max, losing the money, being hurt if he intervenes and he’s frozen to the spot--

“--even!” Cib is saying his name and he notices that he and James have stopped, that they’re looking up at him with concern instead of wrestling on the floor.

James has pulled away, with an expression Steven can’t quite recognize, and he’s got his hands up with his palms facing Steven. Cib’s propped himself up on one elbow, the same expression, and suddenly it’s very clear that they’ve seen too much, that Steven’s shown them too much, and he hits himself internally.

Cib opens his mouth to speak. He’s not smiling anymore.

“I’m going to bed,” Steven interrupts, voice barely a whisper. He clears his throat, tries again. “It was--um. A long day.” He steps over them both before trying to walk as casually as he can to the bedroom, giving up the moment he’s out of sight.

He locks his door, doesn’t respond when someone knocks. It could be James or Cib and he doesn’t want to talk to either of them.

***

He doesn’t want to talk to them for the next two days, actually, so he avoids them. If they see each other they’ll talk and if they talk they’ll inevitably ask questions and he doesn’t want to answer them so the best way to avoid that is to avoid them.

It works, until Cib remembers that Steven lives in his apartment, and that he’s got a spare key to the room.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Don’t come in,” Steven says, knowing it works less and less every time he has to say so.

“It’s James,” James says from outside, and that startles him into silence for a moment.

“Double don’t come in.”

He hears a sigh, and suddenly the door’s unlocked and swinging open and James is in the only safe place he’s had in months.

He feels guilty. Exposed. Dirty. Scared. It’s like some hellish cocktail of everything he’s been trying to put off. He pushes all that away, flattens his voice and his expression.

“God, you’re annoying. What do you want?” he huffs, ignoring James’ frustrated sigh and the fact that his own hands are shaking, and turns back to the computer.

“Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you, jeez,” he says before he can stop himself. He doesn’t know if it’s the truth or not, but he knows he doesn’t want James to be mad at him. James steps closer.

“Then why are you avoiding us? Are you mad at Cib?”

“I’m not mad at Cib and I’m not avoidin--”

“Bullshit!” James cuts him off with a yell and Steven can’t stop himself from flinching away, covering his face and turning his head, because James is mad and this is what he didn’t want, he’s upset him, and there are consequences for that--

Nothing happens.

There’s silence as he remembers how to breathe, finds the courage to look back up. When he does, James’ face has softened considerably, and he want to cry of both relief and humiliation. He doesn’t.

“You’re scared of me,” James says, something indescribable in his voice, on his face, and there’s nothing Steven can do but look at the floor and nod. He hears the door shut, and when he looks back up, James is gone, the key to Steven’s room on the floor where he had been.

“Good fucking riddance,” Steven mutters to himself, ignoring how it shakes, but he isn’t sure if he means it.

***

Steven expects things to have changed. When he leaves his room, absolutely more out of a boredom with avoidance than a dread for what happens if James comes to find him again, he finds James and Cib waiting in the kitchen and expects something. Anything.

It doesn’t come.

“Steven!” Cib smiles, smoke pouring out of his mouth already. “You missed the vape-a-thon!”

“I thought James didn’t vape,” Steven says, already taking the vape pen when it’s offered, and if his voice wavers when he says ‘James’, then neither of their faces betray it. James’ face doesn’t show much of anything, actually--no anger, pity, no indication that their encounter in his bedroom had ever happened. It’s a little eerie, but Steven’s thankful. At least it looks like he hasn’t told Cib. At least they’re on the same page.

“Who said anything about James, dude?” Cib shoves the vape pen at him, and against his better judgment Steven takes a drag and immediately starts coughing.

Cib laughs, and James doesn’t, just keeps looking at him with that blank face until he speaks.

“We’re ordering a pizza. What do you want on it?” James’ voice is as even as his face. It’s starting to be a little creepy, until Steven realizes that this is what he must sound like, when he’s not having panic attacks over playfighting.

“Pineapple,” he says after a pause, coughing again and looking away. “And tomatoes?” It comes out as more of a question, and that doesn’t happen when he’s only talking to Cib but he can’t control it now. James, to his credit, only nods, dialing the number and moving to the corner of the kitchen where it’s quieter.

And then Cib’s arm is around his shoulder, and under the guise of helping him straighten up he pulls him just a little closer than normal, and he still doesn’t ask and maybe never will. It’s not pity, or sympathy, or confusion. Steven can’t figure out what it is, and the only options he can think of scare him more than pity would, and so he says ‘gross’ and shoves him off, and when Cib turns to look at him, he doesn't hold eye contact a little longer than necessary.

He didn’t lean into it, when Cib had pulled him close, because, if he had, that means that whatever wall he’s been building so carefully has started to crumble, and he knows what happens when he lets those down.

Then James comes back over, and whatever unspoken conversation they were having ends in favor of moving to the couch to finish Schindler’s List or, in Cib and James’s case, to watch it again. There’s no narration this time, or at least a lot less, and when it happens James only shoves Cib lightly, and Steven doesn’t know what this is about but he can tell it’s for him. Something rises in him, something shamed and angry and humiliated, but a larger part pushes it down because there’s something warm there, too. Something that’s touched James would change for him. Something that says maybe he doesn’t have as much to fear as he thought. Something dumb, some annoying shred of hope that’s come back since Cib hired him, says that maybe they could be closer. Not now, not when he can barely look at James without remembering their conversation and immediately looking away. But maybe.

The end of the movie comes and it was good, but not as good as the fact that the lead weight in his chest seems to have been replaced with helium, and Cib’s fallen asleep on his shoulder again. When he shifts, so does Cib, grabbing his arm and gripping it tightly, and he sighs but can’t fight the small smile spreading on his face.

Maybe it’s James. Maybe it’s the fact that Cib gave him the key to his room, and seems to be concerned even if he won’t ask. But that same thing that drew him to Cib on their first job seems to have intensified, expanded to James, and he doesn’t get it. Steven doesn’t understand what he wants, or what they want, or any of it.

That scares him, more than James ever could.

He leans back a little, looking behind Cib at James. He’s asleep, too, against the back of the couch. Something else mixes with the helium, something that’s…not quite fear, anymore. There’s caution, still, hesitation, but James seems to be making an effort for him, and something about even just that thought makes him a little less afraid. Makes him feel something warm.

He shoves it away. It isn’t important right now and, if Steven has any say, it never will be.

He leaves, then, as quickly as he can, pulling his arm out of Cib’s grasp with a quick jerk, but can’t stop himself from pulling out the blanket so that it covers them both.

He goes to his room and for the first time, the empty bed feels cold instead of safe.