rattle trap

Ninth Christmas

the series is as follows so far:

FirstSecond ThirdFourthFifthFifth Christmas, Part 2SixthSeventhEighthNinthTenthEleventhTwelfthThirteenthFourteenthFifteenthSixteenthSeventeenthEighteenthNineteenthTwentiethTwenty-firstTwenty-secondTwenty-third

———————–

He didn’t mention anything about Christmas. He tried to keep her away from the decorated stores and any hint of cold, taking them to the southern part of the country in early October and deciding not to go north again until at least March so there wouldn’t be snow to remind her of it. He made sure to find radio stations without Christmas music on them, he steered them clear of big towns, small towns, medium size town, hoping to avoid accidently running into large celebrations, tree-lighting ceremonies, holiday parades.

But it all went to hell on December 19. The rattle-trap car they were using wheezed its death knell and sagged instantly into rigor mortis, never to be saved again, even under the skilled hands of Tom ‘The Fixer’ Pendleton, resident mechanical guru of Crankton, Texas, a place that looked like it took a page right out of Dickens or Norman Rockwell with its wreaths and garland and town square Christmas tree and Salvation Army bell ringers.

Scully, to her credit, was not stupid. She may not be a badged investigator anymore but for all Mulder’s perceived sneakiness, she saw right through it all. She wasn’t angry with him for his ineptitudes, his lovably pathetic attempts to keep Christmas from her, giving him eye-rolling credit where credit was due but she finally had enough, looking at him after he received the news of the car’s demise, “we’ll find another car after the holidays, all right?”

“We can probably find one now. I mean, there’s got to be at least one shitty car in this God-forsaken nightmare of a town that’ll get us out of here by dark.”

Taking him out onto the sidewalk in front of the repair place, “this God-forsaken nightmare of a town is anything but a God-forsaken nightmare of a town. Please, Mulder, we haven’t stopped moving in months and it’s Christmas and this looks like a nice place to spend some time.”

Mulder looked down at her, her hollow cheeks and sallow eyes, “I was trying to outrun Christmas. I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

He hadn’t seen her smile in weeks so he was surprised to see her lips turn up slightly, “you made a very good effort, though and I thank you but right now, I’d just like to take a shower and lie down. Can we find someplace to stay?”

&&&&&&&&&&

She tried to fight it but the closer it got to Christmas, the heavier the depression weighed on her. Mulder did his best and she loved him for it but this would be her first Christmas since Will and her first without her family. Granted, she did have Mulder but even his warm arms couldn’t fight off her sadness.

Christmas Eve arrived with a windstorm to beat all, windows rattling, tree branches breaking, power lines snapping them into pitch darkness. The instant the light disappeared, Scully called over to him, panic clear in her voice, “Mulder? You still there?”

Getting up, he made his way to her side on the bed, sitting down after running into the edge of the mattress with his knees, “I’m right here. Where would I have gone to in that two seconds?”

Scully groped across the sheets until she found his leg, then wrapping her hand tightly around his upper thigh, “I don’t know but I’m not taking the chance that you disappeared.”

The heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows and even after a time, his eyes weren’t adjusting to the dark. Sliding down to the floor to rest on his knees so his face was mere inches from hers, “I’m not going to disappear again. I swear to you.”

Her now empty hand drifted up towards his voice, her fingers gently knocking into his cheekbone, then tracing to his eyebrows, “promise.”

“I promise, Scully. I won’t go anywhere again without you.” Climbing up beside her, he nestled his head into her neck, “you have no idea how terrible I feel that I left you the first time. I should have taken you and Will with me. I should have hidden us away somewhere quiet and let the world pass right on by. I should have been so much better to both of you but I’m trying now and I swear on our son, I’m not going anywhere again.”

Her tears spilled out, soaking both Mulder and the pillow within seconds, “I miss him so much, Mulder, you have absolutely no idea how much it takes to get out of bed in the morning and keep moving and keep running when the only thing I want to do is curl up and wither away.”

This was said in one, long, hiccupping, run-on sentence punctuated by snuffling and hitching words. She hadn’t said much about their son since she told him all those months ago in prison that she’d given him up. They’d talked briefly then but this is the most Will had been mentioned since. Knowing he’d never understand her guilt and grief in quite the same way, he silenced the little voice in his head that wanted to scream at her that he’d lost a son, too, having only ever held him for two nights of his life.

He pulled her closer instead, until her storming quieted, her breathing evened out, “are you okay?”

“I’ll never be okay Mulder but I feel a little better than I did ten minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry I can’t give you a better Christmas.”

She felt the guilt settle directly on her chest, a two-ton elephant in the room that if she didn’t address immediately, would follow them around forever, “it’s not your job to give me a better Christmas. It’s my job to realize this is the best Christmas we’ve had this year,” waiting for him to smile at her pathetic joke, which he did, she continued, “but more to realize that I’ve got you back and get to wish you Merry Christmas and know that you’ll be here in the morning when I wake up.”

Meeting her nose with his, “you have no idea how much I cried when I left last year. Nearly gave myself up at the nearest police station; figured I’d just walk in and say, ‘I’m Fox Mulder. Can you just arrest me and give me my phone call so I can talk to Scully again?”

The cold tendrils of depression insistently tapped on her soul demanding entrance but for the first time in several months, she ignored them, emptying her mind as she searched for his hand under the covers, “thank God you didn’t. I hear conjugal visits aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

Moving to kiss her forehead as he felt her relax, knowing he was forgiven for past transgressions, “so, completely off subject, how long do you think the power’s going to be out?”

As she slid her hand along his arm, across his chest, down his belly, she swam her hand under his shirt and back up his bare skin, “hopefully awhile. Like this, I can imagine the hotel away and put us in our bed again, underneath our warm comforter, storm outside and in.” Moving her hand down to the waist of his pajama pants and then inside, “it’s so quiet now, I can almost hear the blood in your veins, moving along, making every part of you so warm, it’s intoxicating.”

Swallowing hard, he prayed for speech or at least the ability to formulate a few syllables, “I love you.”

She said it back without restraint, without resentment, without that dull sense of familiarity and toneless commonality. She said it with fire, with heat, with an edge of something he hadn’t heard from her since before he disappeared the first time, before he entered that damn ship and ruined his life.

The power was out all night.

They didn’t sleep a wink of it.

&&&&&&&&&&

When Scully woke the next morning, naked, warm and liquid, she opened her eyes to find a Gingerbread House Christmas ornament hanging from the edge of the lamp shade and a small wrapped gift below it. Sneaking out of bed and out of his arms, she dug in the far corners of her battered, broken suitcase to find her own hidden gift for him. Placing it beside the one he’d left, she slipped back into his arms, purposely over-moving so he’d begin to wake, to celebrate Christmas morning the only way they could.

Together.

With a single ornament and not a space between them.

Forever At Odds~Comfort

Alright folks well I’m back from HVFF Nashville and somehow I managed to get this weeks prompt done! So this week the amazing @thebookjumper gave us the “Comfort” prompt and I’ll admit I was wondering how that would work in the world I’d created but it looks like comfort works in any reality. So here it is my contribution to the @olicityhiatusficathon 

Read it here or on AO3

Chapter 4: Comfort

She brushed her fingers over his temple softly as her sated body began to fall into the familiar rhythm of mindless sleep.  His ear remained over her thudding heart while his palm remained splayed over her barely rounded stomach. “So are we finally in agreement?” Felicity asked hopefully before the exertions of the day threatened consume her weary mind.  

Oliver’s thumb skirted over her belly button, his chin rubbed along the upper aspect of her left breast while his lips brushed along her tender nipple. Felicity’s body reacted as her stomach stirred but, she’d delayed this conversation for far too long…

Oliver’s nose tickled along her skin when his furrowed brow slipped along her upper chest. “Do you remember the night you had your first nightmare?”

Felicity’s fingertips tickled along his hairline gently. “Baby we really have to make this decision before she storms the damn castle and, you’re talking about bad dreams? “ she laughed ruefully.

Oliver’s lips curved along her areola. Felicity’s stomach slipped through a series of frantic motions as the space between her thighs grew wet. “I’m trying to explain my choice,” he replied as his palm slipped over her small bump.

Felicity growled, “And how does that wretched night explain your reasoning exactly?”

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Thunder

Castiel x Reader

Originally posted by rainycitynights

Lightning shot through the sky, illuminating the desolate highway ahead of you. You sat quietly in the passenger seat of Cas’ jalopy, fiddling with your fingers in your lap. The two of you were at least a few hours from the bunker, having just crossed over the Kansas state line. And you just prayed that you would make it without drowning in the torrential downpour.

Another clap of thunder erupted through the air, shaking you. A flash of lightning followed almost immediately. “We’re in the thick of it.” You murmured to Cas as you watched the rain pelt the windshield. “It’s getting hard to see.” Not that you were worried about the angel’s driving ability. It was the rickety car you were worried about. The poor think looked like it would shatter into a million pieces if a pebble hit it.

“We will be fine,” Cas reassured you. You knew that if Cas hadn’t been cut off from Heaven, he would have transported you both back to the bunker, avoiding this storm altogether. But, that wasn’t an option. So, you decided to make the best of it.

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Fic Prompts: Strange Magic Monday

It was not the most welcoming of places. To begin with, the road through the forest was a treacherous one, nearly sloughing off into a bog at several turns, and the trees hung in close and thick. The horse was uneasy as the trap rattled and bounced along the path, which was little more than dirt and loose stones. When at last they came to a clearing, the House was visible even through the gloom of the clouds.

It rose above the trees in sharp, forbidding angles, with black gables and a mismatched tower twisted round each other. The bricks seemed to have been stained as black as the gables, even at this distance, and there were no lights in the windows.

“It has electricity,” the solicitor spoke quietly, as though he feared drawing attention to them. “It was installed only about ten years ago, so the fixtures should work well enough.”

The new master of the house had sat silently enough through the ride. Now he turned in his seat to face a small, wizened woman in the back of the trap.
“Awful looking place, Mother,” he said with a touch of amusement, “Who lived here, vampires? Have I got the bones of past relatives’ enemies bricked up in the wine cellar?”

“It was your father’s kin that left it to us,” Griselda sniffed, “How should I know?”

Their late relative’s solicitor looked distinctly discomfited by this turn of conversation and, fishing a limp handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow.
“Mr. King,” he said faintly, “I do advise, meaning no offense of course, that such talk is not spread among the locals. They’re a superstitious bunch, I’m afraid, and the house – well, how shall I put this – the house has got some history to hear it from the neighboring town.”

“That’s alright,” said the man called Bog, “I like a bit of history in a place.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said the solicitor, mopping his brow ever more fervently, “I expect you’ll get along well enough.”
The trap pulled to a stop and the solicitor rather hastily handed over a bundle of keys and a satchel of documents to Bog. He did not exit the trap with Mr. King and his mother.

“I wish you the best of luck here,” he said with a false sort if cheer, “I’ll just go and send a man round with your luggage. Everything should be in order, though mind you the will did stipulate that the door beneath the servants’ stairway is to remain locked at all times.”
Then, without a word of explanation, he turned the horse and disappeared into the dark forest.

Bog King examined the house and pulled his coat a little tighter around him. “Well,” he said, “It’s as good a place as any.”

Carbon White

Hakyeon/Taekwoon | PG-13 | wc. 8118

Summary: At seven years old, Taekwoon was already a very mature boy with a fascination for machines and all things science. So Hakyeon wasn’t surprised when Taekwoon started spending less time playing with him— imaginary friends are meant to move on in the end anyway. The Jung family’s move to a brand new house into the quiet suburbs felt like a good time to let Taekwoon transition away from childish thoughts and move on with his life, so Hakyeon makes one last visit to his favourite companion, just to make sure he’s settled in nicely.

Except, Taekwoon doesn’t, and nineteen years later, Hakyeon is still with him, but now as Taekwoon’s official companion in the sinister business of ghost-hunting.  

Notes: for @kyaappucino, I’m sorry for the delay in writing this fic; I hope you enjoy the story!

the premise of this fic is taken from this prompt:

imaginary friends usually move on to a new child when their child stops believing in them. This imaginary friend, however, stays because he has a feeling things are about to go very, very wrong for his child.

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Guard Down

Second installment of the “Warden” series, requested by anon, edited for reposting. I no longer have the request, but the gist of it is as follows: “Sam confronts the reader after learning of her secret, and they discuss the complications.” Hope you like it!

All continuations for this series can be found on the “The Story Continues…” page.

Your breath fogged in the chilled night air, a veil of mist shivering before your eyes as if to guard you against the bite in the room, struggling in vain to envelop you in the warmth of your own breath before fading, failed, into nothingness. The occasional flake of snow drifted through the Devil’s Trap ceiling fan, spiraling downward only to melt against the slick iron walls of your cell. Your only glimpse of freedom was seen through the iron cut-out of the starry sky, the fan’s blades chopping through your fantasies, a rigid reminder of your painful reality in the impromptu prison cell. Dean had spray-painted angel warding on the walls wherever he found space. After ten minutes of draining out, Castiel arrived in your humble abode to speed the process along, mirroring Dean’s actions as he emblazoned ancient sigils on the floor, the framework of your meager cot, everywhere he saw fit, effectively leeching every perk of your hybrid genetics. Their quick artwork left only your predominantly human half tugging aimlessly on the half of you that was struggling to flee, resulting in the crumbling of your usually vice-tight composure. You had been reduced to a trembling, heaving, seizing mess in little under an hour of imprisonment. What the warding lacked in power, the cold accomplished easily, and even your comfort was stolen from you.

In truth, you didn’t even have a chance to struggle for your freedom. It was never within reach. As you argued with the more aggressive Winchester brother, Castiel had taken advantage of your lack of focus and your half-angel blood, painting the walls in scarlet while your attention was otherwise occupied. You saw him turn to face you in your peripheral vision, saw the shock of vibrancy now staining the wall beside him, and before you could call out a warning, he had you on the floor, consciousness fading. He had run his test successfully. The Enochian blood sigil tore your halves apart, and you were out for the better part of ten minutes. Not long enough for them to do much besides transport you to their little laboratory beneath the ground floor, where you woke, your ankles bound to your bed, a man and an angel locking you inside with paint. That did not conclude their experiments, no matter how much you wished for their departure. Dean had approached you with an angel blade, stopping only when you explained that slicing someone open with something pointy and sharp serviced to kill humans alongside angels. After that sass, he sheathed the blade, and thankfully. You knew what little grace that ran through your veins would come leaking out faster than your blood as soon as the blade tore into you. You’d never seen it happen, of course (though there were other Nephilim like you, it was nowhere near as common as you would have hoped. Tracking down cousins last seen in Mesopotamia was impossible), but you went off of the images of angels cut with the swords, how their grace had shown through their wounds like blinding starlight… and you were not as sturdy as your holier relatives. Dean and Castiel had taken their leave hours ago. You were left with no one. Castiel, your own uncle… or father, if he had the balls (highly doubted, of course. He was all but Heaven’s bitch before the Winchesters got to him), had requested your imprisonment, one of your best friends shackled your feet to the foot of the cot, and your lover (if you could even call him that after he allowed this to happen) had stood aside as you were carted, limp and unresponsive, down the cellar stairs to your prison. You twisted the ring on your finger, this meaningless gift, this false advertisement, this stomach-lurching punchline of finally getting a bite of the happiness you deserved before everything you knew was torn down like aged wallpaper.

Your body convulsed, your organs twisting beyond layers of skin and muscle and bone, warmth pooling on the inside of your cheek as you curled inward on yourself, a desperate attempt to minimize the spread of pain. You probed an unsteady, shivering finger between your cracking lips, wincing both at the frigid flesh and the open wound you found in your mouth, retracting your digit to find it covered in blood. Underneath the wary starlight and nestled in a room mostly void of colour, the colour seemed particularly garish. You sighed, cursing your captors under your breath as you curled around yourself further. The tremors began to fade from your bones, leaving your muscles aching like rusted door hinges. The sigils were tearing you in two, and after your extended exposure, your body was beginning to react more violently than before. You had one thin cotton blanket draped over your shoulders to ward off the cold ravaging your very human fragility, but any warmth you managed to harvest was immediately seeped away by the thick metal cuff encircling your ankle, chilling your bones, a leaden temperature thief anchoring you to your poor excuse of a bed. You gulped down your blood, a ragged tremble racking your frame as the thought of your body deteriorating stuck in your mind like a dart to cork-board. The metallic tang remained to taint your mouth even after most of the blood had gone. You didn’t know how much longer you could stand the very illegal standards of your holding cell, so when the door behind you creaked open, you sighed with relief. You didn’t expect a notice of freedom, but torture sounded less… pathetic than withering away on a metal bed frame. Who would have thought that the overly-aggressive Dean Winchester would end up as your savior?You tilted your face to welcome your warden, but you were met with the wrong brother. Sam’s face was poking out from behind the panic room’s vault door, his fingers gingerly grasping the salted iron. His sunkissed skin looked especially warm when outlined by the timid dusting of snow over the room’s furnishings, against the frost of the night air. Your features warped as you remembered how little those hands did to prevent your current predicament, how those hands had smoothed over your cheeks, how they had protected you from every danger… protected, that is, until they felt they had been betrayed. You registered shock, defeat, longing, and finally that sickening betrayal in his eyes, and before you could compose yourself, your face twisting in spiteful rage.

“What in the Devil’s Hell are you doing down here?” You spat your every word, hoping some of your blood would pollute your already raging temper with a more grotesque punch. Sam ignored your inquiry, stepping silently through the doorway and into your makeshift home, his torso twisting to reveal a bundle tucked beneath his arm. Before your curiosity could get the better of your anger, he let the bundle drop to his open hand, holding the blankets outward, though not so much towards you. He held the bundle to show you. He was keeping his distance. Because he didn’t trust you anymore. Because you were suddenly the enemy. How raw was your heart to become before it shriveled?

“I brought blankets. I didn’t know if you’d be cold in here,” he whispered, his eyes scanning the little bunker’s icy landscape, his jawline hardening whenever his gaze fell upon the new warding covering the walls. Yeah, he’d come all the way down here, but he still wasn’t over it. Hunters. How typical. You allowed a flicker of the fire scorching your heart into your eyes, feigning the most profound relief you could manage in your tattered state.

“Wow, Sam, thank you! I’m ready to brave the oncoming blizzard with my brand new cotton sheets!” His face dropped to one of irritation, though his eyes portrayed his disappointment. “What, did you think I’d jump into your arms and thank him for delivering some shitty, motel-standard, over-starched sheets? Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I can’t make it farther than a foot outside of the bed. Dean made sure I couldn’t move.” Sam’s face twisted in brief confusion, but you wouldn’t give him time to conjure his breath and rally. “I’m fucking freezing, Sam. You could bring me the whole mattress, and it still wouldn’t stop the snow,” you hissed, your voice fueled by rage and lifeless disappointment, watching his sorrowful eyes acknowledge the sprinkling of flakes dancing through the vent in the ceiling. He bowed his head, eyes closed, his lips a taut line. He was aggravated. Good.

“Look, Y/n, you can cut the dramatics. It’s not my fault you’re down here-”

“It’s mine then, right? I brought this on myself? You’re right, Sam. You’ve done it. You’ve figured me out. My entire life has been an elaborate lie leading up to this very moment,” you remarked snidely, Sam’s features twisting somewhere between dutiful professionalism and a heartfelt apology resting behind his teeth, just out of reach and guarded against the breath that would send it to the air between you. “And you know what, Sam? I distinctly remember asking for bigger chains, but your brother insisted on this clunk of metal,” you wiggled your ankle, chains rattling like bones trapped in ice. Sam’s eyes dropped to your shackles, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the sight of the heavy contraption snapped tight around your leg. “And I thought the snow would be a nice touch, so I requested they keep the vent open. It’s every girl’s fairy tale come true. Jewelry,” you jingled your bindings once more, “A tower, and a couple of dragons guarding my door. All I’m missing is my knight in shining armour, but the last I saw him, he didn’t seem the least bit inclined to save me.” His face darkened in guilt, and the flames lapping at your heart made up for what they lacked in heat (which was everything) with intensity. “And all this because he thinks I had complete control over who my father was. Some knight.” Sam sighed, exasperated already. If you hadn’t been wasting away, you might have found this verbal battle amusing, considering every word from between your lips was dripping with fact.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he grumbled, his eyes hard on yours, his face matching the icy interior of your cell. “You didn’t think it was appropriate to tell us that you’re a monster? It must have slipped your mind right? God, Y/n, you didn’t tell us!” He was working himself up, but his volume remained breathy, whispered. It wasn’t until you saw the frustration on his face to contrast the intensity of his emotions that you realized how you, too, had been maintaining this near-silent debate. There was only one reason behind his whispers, only one reason why he’d be cautious when he was obviously so upset.

They didn’t know he was down here.

“You want to talk monsters, Sammy? Let’s talk Castiel. Let’s talk Ruby. Let’s talk Crowley and Meg and Anna and Benny and Death and Gabriel and all the other monsters you’ve held-hands with without half the trouble you’ve put me through, and I’m not even full-blooded!” His eyes were cast in shadow as you spoke, his mind turning over each name that fell from your lips. “Speaking of blood, you think you’re one to argue about monsters? If I’m half Heavenly Host and you’re half Hell-spawn, I take it you came all this way to shackle yourself to the other bedpost, huh?” you snapped, jingling your icy chains as you moved, your organs tightening as you did so. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Sam. I’m as human as you are.” He contemplated the accuracy of your statement, his jaw hard, toying with your practiced argument. Paranoia was always the best motivator. Like caffeine, it is. “I’m just the same, if not better than you… but you stood aside and you let them take me.”

“It’s different, Y/n, you know it is. You’re… Nephilim, yeah, but you never told us that you weren’t human. Castiel and Crowley and Ruby, they all came out with it. Hell, we didn’t even know you existed after Cas…” Your heart clenched at the memory. Castiel had hand-delivered your cousin’s heart to Metatron, who was, in fact, another monster they had worked with. “We thought Nephilim were gone. I mean, we thought there was only the one, and Cas got rid of her, and now…” he stopped, his eyes taking in your likely shaken visage. He paused, his hands on his hips. "How is it that you… exist? Cas told us that Nephilim are illegal?” He probed, changing the subject. You rolled your eyes, grinding your teeth together. Always the scholar, this one. Of course you’d end up as his subject.

“So is burglary, and identity theft, impersonating a police officer, waltzing around crime scenes, pretending to be federal agents, and murder, but… wait a second, isn’t that what you do? Like, every day of your life?” You flashed him a sarcastic smile, batting your eyelashes. You saw his expression change, and not in the direction you were hoping. A flicker concern tainted the perfect irritation you were hoping to summon, and in that concern, a sliver of your Sam returned to his hazel eyes.

“Is that… blood on your teeth?” You swiped your tongue over your front teeth and sure enough, metallic notes ambushed your taste buds. You cursed under your breath, swiping at your mouth with the backside of your shivering hand. You saw him glance at the symbols on the wall, making rapid connections as you hastily struggled to hide your fading health. “The sigils are hurting you,” he concluded, more statement than question. He saw your pain, and yet something held him at bay, held him away from your side. He let out a jagged breath, running an agitated hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Y/n. I know this isn’t your fault, but I was just… so shocked that you’re… I mean, I’m sure it was on the top of your list to tell us about everything, but I don’t understand why you hid it for so long. And from me?” he sighed, moving to your side and sitting on the edge of your cot, the blankets he delivered resting at your feet. Everything about the situation was pitiful and tempting all at once. “I thought you trusted me more than this. After all we’ve been through, you still couldn’t tell me. I sure as Hell trusted you.” There was some finality to the tone in his voice, some pang of torment you couldn’t place… except you could. You exhaled slowly, inching further away from him, much to your body’s displeasure.

“You want the ring back, don’t you?” You began to wrench the band from your popsicle of a finger when two deliciously warm hands closed around your own, halting your actions as a kinder fire spread across your skin. You lifted your eyes from your hands to find Sam’s face inches from yours.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he breathed, the misty white clouds of your intermingling breath twirling into one as his face drew nearer, his lips gravitating towards yours until they finally met, heat trickling through your body like a slow-moving stream. Sam’s lips pulled on yours, sucking your body closer as his head tilted, his hands sliding to cup your face, more heat tickling against your skin. His fingers tangled in your hair, securing your lips together. His arms wound around your back, holding you against his chest, sunlight on all sides of your icy body. You tried to move closer to him, but the chains around your ankle restricted your movement. Suddenly, your lips were abandoned, and the chains clattered to the floor. Sam’s eyes were on yours once again, a lock pick gleaming in his hand, capturing the moonlight on the metal pin. He stood, working the bent metal over the painted warding, scratching through the detailed sigils until, piece by agonizing piece, your lungs were filling fully again. He bent to the floor beside your bed, retrieving his bundle from the floor, and swaddled you in blankets before inching his hands beneath your legs. “You really thought I came down here to interrogate you? You could’ve been out of here in five minutes, but you had to throw punches,” he smiled, pressing his lips to your forehead as he hefted you into his arms, your knight in shining armour once more. He carried you up the cellar stairs like a ghost, his footsteps silent against the unfinished flooring, carting you to freedom. He carried you into his newly reconstructed bedroom, leaving for only a moment to retrieve medical equipment and much-needed nourishment, trating your minor scrapes and bruises while you watered and fed yourself. You spent the remaining hours wrapped in the silence of midnight, having the heat cuddled back into your body by Sam’s unyielding embrace as you slept, hidden, in his bed; the half angel and half demon coexisting in harmony.

Just Like The Fairytales

Fic Requests:

  • A fic where stiles was actually in eichen house during riddled with his leg caught in the trap and Lydia finds him and saves him
  • Could you please find a fic about Stiles and Lydia when their trapped in Eichen House and one of them brings up their kiss from 3×11

Rating: T

Genre: Thriller, Canon Divergence, Angst, Comfort

Author: themightygladerss 

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I haven’t put anything out  in some time so I wanted to make something before I move to Hawaii (Find me at UH Manoa!) and for all of you to enjoy. As it is an end of the year mix I tried to put songs that had emotional connections to me this year as well as the top bangers but it was a freestyled mix so I had no preset song list or anything.  From start to finish i’m sure you’ll love and enjoy!

Lastly, from me to you, Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year! To those who listened to me since April Showers or even before that, I LOVE YALL! and to everyone that took the time to listen to me, thanks it means the world!


TRACKLIST:
Bingo Players - Rattle (Zed&Em’s ONE Remake)
Deorro - Yee
Bruno Mars vs. TJR - Whats Up Heaven (MadMax Bootleg)
Joel Fletcher, Will Sparks - Bring It Back
Orkestrated, Big Nab, Fries & Shine - Melbourne Bounce (Deorro Remix)
Deorro - Dechorro
Will Sparks -All Night R3hab - Flight vs Clarity (ju1ced live bootleg)
Showtek & Noisecontrollers - Get Loose (Tiësto Remix)
W&W - Thunder Fight (Morgan Page Mashup)
Hardwell & Dyro Vs Porter Robinson - Never Say Language
Axwell - Center Of The Universe (Blinders Remix)
Calvin Harris & Alesso - Under Control
Kaskade & Project 46 - Last Chance
Madeon vs Zedd, Empire Of The Sun - Technicolor Alive
Krewella - Alive (Hardwell Remix)
Krewella - Live For The Night (W&W Remix)
Nicky Romero, Krewella - Legacy (AathiTroniic Remix)
Martin Garrix - Animals
Calvin Harris - Thinking About You (Laidback Luke Remix)
Calvin Harris - Eat Sleep Rave Repeat (Henry Fong Bootleg)
Hardwell & MAKJ - Countdown
Kenneth G - Rage-aholics
Blasterjaxx - Fifteen (Hardwell Edit)
Daft Punk - One More Time(Serafin Trap Remix)
Chief Keef - Love Sosa (RL Grime Remix)
Bingo Players - Rattle (Luminox Trap Remix)
Bingo Players - Cry Just A Little
Laidback Luke, Angger Dimas feat. Polina - Night Like This

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RIP Paul.

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I can hear the echoes of the engine
rattling through, trapped
behind closed windows. In ten minutes,
I could write your name in the steam.
I am parked awkwardly, crossing the line
on the right and
my hands are shaking.
Inside the store, top forty radio plays
and a man freshly into his thirties
smelling of smoke
tries on plaid and a new coat.
Roll down my window, let the December air
fill your seat beside me. See my breath
and laugh bitterly to myself.
Your clothes are in two bags
in the back seat, sighing
as the breeze wisps by.
I can’t make myself go in.
I just sit
and wait.
—  Jeremy RockThe Last Trip to the Consignment Shop
Five Verbs (Chapter 1/6)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the wonderful, lovely, talented Carrie a/k/a @amagicalship​!!!!This fic was born from a song prompt: “Gravity” by Allison Krauss, and a request from the birthday girl for a modern western.

Emma Swan never stays anywhere very long. Roll into town, get a job, make enough money to move on. She’s not made for settling down and nothing - not her best friend’s eternal optimism and pop psychology, and certainly not her piercing-eyed new boss - could possibly tempt her to change her mind.
Drifter!Emma and Rancher!Killian. Modern Western AU set in the high desert near the Rio Grande.

Read it on AO3 here.

CONTENT WARNING:  Kiddies, this story is going to be smutty (smuttier than I’ve ever written before) and it’s going to get that way quickly. In fact every chapter except this first one will contain some degree of smut. It’s also gonna contain a fair few curse words because… I just like swearing.
There will also be mentions and non-graphic descriptions of minor character death in the past. No one is dead in the fic that isn’t dead in canon, if that helps (sorry, Lena).


Pop Psychology

“Dave, I’m not in the fucking mood for…”

Whatever Emma was expecting to greet her when she rolled up the long dirt drive to the old Victorian-style house, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t him. The house was grand and stately, if a bit worn, the white columns that lined its wrap-around porch showing the occasional chip and the once-yellow trim and navy shutters bleached by the unforgiving desert sun. Three stories tall and topped with a widow’s walk, it stood out in stark contrast to the bleak landscape surrounding it. This was a house with a name, a history.

Where the house was bright and welcoming, the man staggering out the front door onto the porch was dark, disheveled and very clearly drunk. Emma turned her wrist to check her watch. 10:00 a.m. Nice.

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