shithole bar

This one time I attempted to write an Andreil Band AU

“Drinks are on you, remember that.” Andrew says as he follows Kevin into the bar. It’s a small town dive bar in Millport, Arizona. Andrew would rather be anywhere but in this shithole bar which seems to be rather empty. There’s a small stage, whose curtains are currently drawn closed.

Kevin scowls, “Aren’t you even worried about the sake of the band, at all?”

Andrew rolls his eyes as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a long drag before blowing a puff of smoke in Kevin’s face.

“I do believe that’s your job. Not mine.”

“Asshole,” Kevin mumbles as he takes a seat at table that’s a decent amount of distance from the small stage.

“Seth was medicore at best. You’re better. You know it. If you would just — ”

“Fuck off, Kevin.” Andrew turns his attention to  the stage though as a kid quietly fumbles onto the stage.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

i need more dark/evil!sam fanfic please.Sam accepting his role as boyking and making Dean his consort. And bottom!dean only thanks so much for the help ❤

Hi! These are all bottom!Dean since I only read bottom!Dean. :D

Title: And Tell Me, Who Do You Love?
Author: wickedthoughts1
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 20,060
Warnings: dark!fic, dark/boyking!Sam, demon!Dean, unrequited Castiel/Dean, season 1 au spoilers, castration, D/s, dub-con/non-con, torture, choking, blood drinking, jealousy, violence, object insertion, manipulation, gore, voyeurism, possessive!sam, disemboweling rape scene, also blasphemy, probs.
Summary: In order to reclaim Dean from Crowley, Sam accepts his place as King of Hell.


Title: Perfect Slave
Author: Brittayarose
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 16,556
Warnings: soulless!Sam, hurt!dean, tortured!Dean, non-con/rape, graphic depictions of violence, sub!dean, toppy!sam, dark!fic, blood, master/slave, heavy BDSM, dark!Sam, evil!Sam, kidnapped!Dean, begging!Dean, cockslut!Dean, knife play, pretty!Dean
Summary: Soulless Sam takes what he wants, and in this case it’s Dean.


Sweetest Submission by mstrssl-fanfic 
pwp, vulnerable!dean, broken!dean, boyking!sam, toppy!sam

‘Home’ is a small house in a neighborhood that never changes, where the weather is always sunny and there’s no need to buy groceries, mow the grass or pay the bills. ‘Home’ is a place where Sam can return to and be the old Sam, not the King of Hell.‘Home’ is where Dean lives.A place created by Sam, a golden cage in Hell, but their home nonetheless.

I’m About To Go by butwithspikes 
pretty!dean, collar, non-con, possessive!sam, jealous!sam, boyking!sam evil!sam, pwp, consort!dean, dark!fic

He hates the slow slide of honeyed fingers in his hair. He hates the way the longer hairs at the back of his neck brush the leather collar Sam has him wear when they have visitors. He hates being Sam’s little pet. He hates the way the demon Captain watches Sam pet his hair, almost as much as he hates Sam petting his hair in the first place.

Where You Belong (Always By My Side) by majesticduxk 
dark!fic, consort!dean, boyking!sam, evil!sam, possessive!sam, toppy!sam, non-con, humiliation, public, toys, collar, bondage, blood-play, marking

Sam said yes to Lucifer and is now King of Hell. Dean, in an effort to save his brother, made a deal with the angels, which hid him from Sam – for a year. That time is up and Dean is not closer to finding a cure. Sam still wants his brother as much as he ever did. Only now he’s mad: Dean needs to be shown his place, and Sam is more than willing to do that.

The Devil You Know by lightinthehall 
consort!dean, boyking!sam, first time, manhandled!dean, protective!dean

Sam is the King of Hell. Dean is his consort and loyal bodyguard. Crowley is the advisor. Castiel is the diplomat, Meg is the head of the army. 

Unholy by isolde13 
drugged!dean, somnophilia, hurt!dean, hospitalized!dean, non-con/dub-con, evil!sam,  first time

What happens when a brother’s love becomes obsessive.

Animalistic by mekina 
pwp, drugged!dean, vulnerable!dean, soulless!sam, evil!sam, toppy!sam, rough sex, manhandled!dean, somnophilia, non-con, come play, breath play, forced orgasm, marking 

That night, he gets roofies from a guy in the corner of a shithole of a bar. “Your girl will be yours for the taking,” the man promises. Sam thinks that Dean had better be, and doesn’t smile back.

Prodigal by sammessiah
boyking!sam, John finds out, consort!dean, evil!sam, apocalypse

John’s ‘retirement’ is interrupted by a call from someone he wouldn’t have expected to hear from…the Boy King of Hell.

This is Not an Exit by portraitofafool
animal cruelty, dark!fic, disturbing theme, gore, graphic violence, murder, s&m 

What is important to Sam is Dean—or rather the memory and idea of Dean. He’s not really sure. Dean though, he’s been the one glaring constant throughout Sam’s life. Dean, who sometimes looks at him like he thinks about cutting his head off—he’s said as much anyway. Dean who looks at him like he’s… he’s… hmm. Sam has to pause in his thoughts to think of the correct word. There it is: Dean looks at him like he’s sad to see Sam the way he is now.

Seduction Of Gravity by Bridget McKennitt 
pregnant!dean, consort!dean, boyking!sam, dad!winchesters, mpreg, dub-con 

“What does every King want? His Consort and a family.”

You’re welcome! 


I woke up in my neighbor’s bed with a head wound, yesterday’s paper, and an empty bottle of sleeping pills, and my nightmare in that putrid shithole of a bar, Paddy’s Pub, finally, mercifully came to an end. The owners all deserve to rot in jail, though having to spend every day with each other in that vile establishment is a decidedly greater punishment. That is why I decided to not press charges, leaving them to live in the hell on earth that they’ve created for themselves for the rest of their pathetic and miserable lives.

Ten Toes Down: (1/10) Gray Scenario AU

Ten Toes Down


‘Sunghwa,“ A voice calls out as the figure approaches him.

He recognizes her and walks toward her. He stretches out his arm to reach her. Before he could touch her, he hears gunshot being fired – bang, bang, bang. She goes falling down blood covering her chest.

‘Sunghwa!’ He hears her scream, ‘Sunghwa!’

With that, Sunghwa jolts up from his nightmare, sweat soaking through his shirt as he breaths heavily. He rubs his face and touches his wet tears – however, he feels numb to all of his surroundings. He falls back onto his bed, closing his eyes but images of her keeps on coming.

He wonders when the heavens will forgive him for all the sins he committed. But who was he kidding? How many lives have died at his hands?


It’s too late to beg the gods to pardon him now.  


Many people dubs New York as the city that never sleeps – clearly, they haven’t been to Seoul.

You arrived in Seoul, Korea three years ago as a lost soul and an outsider. It was a struggle to find a place to live and a job but you somehow managed to survive. Till this day, you don’t know exactly what captivated you to this city.

Perhaps it’s because of your mom. Your mom always spoke of Seoul as a beautiful place – and the people as kind as they can be. You do not doubt any of that. However, you do not find Seoul to be as beautiful as how your mom described it.

Nonetheless, you feel closer to her here than ever – and that’s why you came to Seoul, right? You want to find a place to call home again.

Look around at the flashing lights; you realize that you can never get tired of this sight. Flipping your wrist up to glance at the time, five minutes till 9pm and at this rate you will probably be late.

You hurriedly walk pass the flashing neon signs that caught your attention earlier as if they didn’t catch your interest at all in the first place.


“Boss, where to?” The driver asks, looking into the rear mirror.

“Just drive.” Sunghwa commands as he stares out the window.

The street of Seoul has changed a lot through the years –he should know, he grew up on these streets. Sure, Seoul has become a modern city – and every modern city has its model citizens to distract from the unruly underworld.

Sunghwa wishes he’s a part of the latter but he chose this life long ago.

As the car drives on, Sunghwa watches the streetlights dance passes him through his window. Every now and then, he’ll lock his gaze on a figure walking, talking on their phone perhaps, and laughing with friends perhaps. His gaze would not last long as he losses interest in them quickly.

When the car comes to a standstill at a red light, Sunghwa watches the people on the crosswalk but focusing on no one in particular. As the crowd on the crosswalk dies down, a female figure quickly jogs cross –and Sunghwa just happens to catch a glance of her face.

His eyes follow her figure until he could no longer do so as she disappears into the crowd. It’s like he just saw a ghost of his past.

“Turn.” He barks at the driver.

He feels a sense of relief when he catches sight of her again. She looks like her –the woman that still haunts his dreams. He watches her take a turn to a one way street and the panic of losing her sets in.

“Stop,” Sunghwa commands and before the car could arrive to a complete stop he’s already out of the door. He feels the blood pumping through his veins as he runs down the street toward the direction where he last saw her.  

His eyes focus hard, trying to pick her out from the crowd. When he spots hers, he sees her entering a bar.


“Don’t look but someone’s checking you out.” The bartender whispers conspicuously while still wiping off a glass. “The last booth, on the left.” He says.

You wish to have the nerve to confidently snap your head back to take a look, but really, this is the last thing you need right now – to have some drunkard ogling at you in this shithole. But curiosity always kill the cat so you just submissively turned around in the pointed direction.

The guy is, well, dark, because the lights are dimmed and it’s his only clearly visible trait. A comb over, with a face smooth like a baby’s bottom. To your surprise, the guy is a total babe and could ogle at you all he wants, shithole or not.

The man catches your eyes with his smoldering orbs and that is when you become aware of the fact that you’re staring –straight at the shadowed stranger.

Shaking your head and flushing up, you return to your beer and gulps it down in one swing. You put your bottle so that it reflects what is happening in the left booth and resume eating and talking at a leisure pace with the bartender.

The bartender shouts something at the man and he stands up. You turn your head, just a millimeter so that you could follow the man’s movements.

He is tall, jackpot you think to yourself. He’s wearing dark trousers and a white shirt that accentuated his form. And the way the guy moves! He’s obviously completely out of his element in this shithole bar, yet he manages to appear absolutely at ease, despite the manner in which his eyes darts from one corner to another. You would never even dream of looking that self-confident.

Then the man somehow escapes from your field of vision. You, desperate not to lose him, whips your head around to scan the other side of the bar for him. Suddenly, you heard a flat, “Fuck!”

You spin around only to see the dark stranger just next to you and the bartender eyeing the peanuts rolling on the floor. The guy is just trying to take his peanuts and clearly planning on sitting next to you when you knocked a plate of peanuts out of his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” You mumble out your most frequently used line but this time you truly wish with all your heart to be forgiven, “I didn’t see you.”

“You’ve got a good aim then,” the stranger says.

You grin, hoping to warm him up to yourself.

“I’m really sorry,” it takes every ounce of your control not to openly gape at the man. Up close he’s even more handsome.

“I’m ___,” you blurt out, extending your hand.

The man smirks as he takes your hand. You blushes.

“Sunghwa.” The man says.

“Sunghwa,” You repeat after the man.

“No one calls me by my given name.” The comment makes you tilt your head to look at the not-so-strange stranger. Not his eyes, mind you, but his chest. His subtly rising and falling chest, mirroring the beats of your heart.

“Wh-what do they call you?” You licked your lips and all but squeaked at the sight of a small crystal stud in the man’s ear.

“Gray,” the name comes out emphatically as the man watches your reaction carefully. When you give him no reaction in particular, he continues, “My… coworkers, you could say, calls me that. However, you can call me Sunghwa if you like.”

“Well, I’m not your co-worker,” you smile a little, “That is, I work at The Reds so unless they’ve done some employing since this morning…”

“The Reds?”

You couldn’t read the weird tone.

“It’s a café, I mean, I’m a waitress here…”

The man laughs. You turn red.

“A café? God, you’ve had me here for a moment,” the man shakes his head.

“Excuse me?” You asks.

“I thought you actually worked at The Reds,” You display no recognition still so he adds, more forcefully, “Soccer team.”

“Oh-oh,” you pretend to understand what he’s saying, “No. It’s a café.”

Then, to avoid further questioning that would lead to sure embarrassment and losing all your chances with the man, you blurt, “What do you do?”

Another shrug. “Nothing fascinating,” He motions to the bartender to give him another drink, “I make people buy stuff they couldn’t possibly ever need.”

“You’re a sales agent?” You say quickly. The man glares at you as if you suggested something completely outrageous.

“I work at an ad agency,” he snaps, “But then, I guess it’s hardly different.”

You try to appear apologetic for causing such a great offense, suddenly deciding that the man is like a dog with more bark than bite. You suddenly feel a welcoming warmth in your chest.

“You know,” the ad guy begins, “Before you destroyed my peanuts and completely threw me off, I was going to walk up to you and say something like ‘I’ve never seen you around here’.”

You work up the courage to meet his eyes. They were sparkling with amusement.

“But I bet it’s for the better I didn’t get the chance. It’s probably the lamest pick-up line ever.”

You inwardly agreed. It’s a line that always made those romantic comedy characters walk out.

“Besides,” the man says, some of the amusement creeping into his voice, “It would be the fattest lie, too. It’s exactly the first time I’ve been here and you must get people hitting on you every night.”

Talk about burning up. God, did the man just imply you’re hot, attractive and get a lot of offers? More compliments in one sentence than imaginable.

“Actually,” you just have to clear up some misconceptions before he makes a fool of himself, “You would be right saying it.”

“Oh, I assumed…”

“No, I just was stood up by my friend and ended up here alone,” you spot a barely-hidden frown forming on the man’s face, “He probably went out with her other friends, because, truthfully, we’re not that close friends,” you desperately want the man to understand you’re not in a relationship.

It couldn’t have been the best way to put it, but the man seems to be pleased with the news.

“He’s a jerk,” the man says, “Feel free to inform him of that.”

You couldn’t help but snicker at that. You would be definitely ‘informing’ Elo of everything that had happened.

“So, a beer?”

You laugh and soon the man snickers too. The ice is broken.

It turns out that ‘Sunghwa’ is a great guy, just as you had thought from the very beginning. You even feel at ease enough with him to confess why you decided to come to Korea with no plans and just $1,000 to your name.

The sorest spot of the whole conversation is when Sunghwa calls you an idiot and demand to know what you would have done if you couldn’t find a job or a place to stay. You never even entertained the possibility in your head, so you gape, splutter, realizes that Sunghwa may think you lack any common sense as a human being and finally admits to him that you hadn’t envision such a scenario.

Sunghwa gives it a rest then, shrugging, which seems to be his favorite gesture, but didn’t apologize for being crude.  

After those few hours in his company you come to a conclusion that Sunghwa simply didn’t do apologizing, no matter what he says. And he keeps on saying a lot. Not in many words, but in spot-on phrases. Half of which a normal person would classify as down-right offensive. But you’re not a normal person but a person with a half-develop crush of the size of Asia.

Sometime later, after Sunghwa had somehow managed to move his barstool so that his knee is touching your thigh, a wave of panic hit you so hard you almost run away. Sunghwa’s idea of a personal space is a bit flawed from the start, if you take into consideration how often he pats, pets or just fleetingly graze his fingers on different parts of your body.

It’s a Friday night and he’s a handsome guy –you’re pretty sure he may be expecting something more than a sappy conversation.

You shut your eyes. God, did you truly believed that a gorgeous ad exec would want to play a high school crush with you?  

You jerk away from Sunghwa’s touch as if he burns. Sunghwa leans back too, apparently confused and irritated.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s past midnight,” You whisper, trying to get off your own stool.

“Yes, and what?” Sunghwa pins you down with his hard glare.

“I have work tomorrow. I start at eight, and it takes me ages to get home and to get to The Reds and I really don’t want to take a half-deserted train…” you babbles on, feeling torn between a heartfelt desire to stay with Sunghwa and your voice of reason suggesting you should get out before things get messy.

Sunghwa shocks the hell out of you when he simply glance down at his watch.

“I guess you’re right,” he admits, “But the trains won’t be that empty yet.”

You slump forward in relief, congratulating yourself for jumping to conclusions yet again. Then, you quickly stands up from the stool because you just declared you had to leave. You begin buttoning up your jacket with clumsy fingers under Sunghwa’s stare.

“Why don’t you give the gentleman your number?” The bartender suggests, making you put the button into a wrong hole.

“Why don’t you stay the hell out of our business?” Sunghwa spats at the bartender before you look up.

You watch the bartender raises up his hands in mock-surrender and fervently wishes you thought of that. You could try giving Sunghwa your number, because what harm could be in it? The worst would be if he never calls, but that wouldn’t be surprising.

Sunghwa’s arm breaks your train of thoughts.

“What?” You look up to see Sunghwa smirking.

“Here,” Sunghwa carefully puts a rolled napkin into your pocket, “Call me.”


As soon as the girl is out of sight, a man approaches Sunghwa and takes a seat right next to him. Sunghwa takes no notice of him and signal for the bartender to get him another drink.

The man holds up a box of cigarettes –offering one to Sunghwa and he takes one without saying a word in return. The man takes out a lighter from his back pocket –lighting up the cigarette for Sunghwa.

“Not every day does the all mighty Gray show up at my bar.” The man begins. Sunghwa remains quiet as he continues to pay the man no attention.

It didn’t seem to offend the man in the least, “I don’t think Jay would be please to know that his right hand-man is going around dropping his identity to a girl.” The man says.

“And I don’t think Jay will be please to know that his left-hand man is fucking around in this shithole of a bar,” Sunghwa retorts back, blowing out a cloud of smoke as he answers.

The man by the name of Simon simply laughs, unaffected by Sunghwa’s ill-mannered behavior towards him.


cruellasdarling  asked:

Hi this is your amazing German friend who sends you amazing German chocolate and wants to ask for amazing Chelsea fanfiction. Will you please continue the 'time stops when you meet the love of your life' thing? Though I know it'll only leave me longing for more. Love you. Pretty please with cherries on top

Here you go…forgive me for the crappiness


Working in a shithole bar is bad enough but when the love of your life - I really need to stop thinking of him as that - walks into said bar and sends you into a goddamn anxiety attack, leaving you dry heaving over the rim of toilets in need of a good clean, you’ve just about hit rock bottom.

Add to that the fact that Robin - the boy, no, man, I have spent the last ten years thinking and fantasising about - is standing outside the door, asking if I’m okay and if he can come in. My day has most certainly taken a turn for the fucking terrible.

He’s aged well. Really well and here’s me, tinged green and absolutely mortified, trying not to cry and to breathe all at the same time.

I’ve thought about this moment so many times, of what he’d look like - he looks far better than I’d ever remembered or even imagined - and what he’d say - he’d sweep me off my feet and accept Henry with open arms, never questioning why I didn’t call and tell him about his son - and never once had I pictured this scene.

I still have three hours left of my shift. Ruby can only cover for me for so long before Zelena casts her eyes over the CCTV in the office and finds I’m not where I should be and that is a headache I don’t need. I’m already on my final warning as it is.

So, despite the nausea still rolling in my stomach - I’m swallowing the saliva pooling in my mouth as rapidly as I can, praying that I won’t vomit again - I force my shaky legs to hold my weight and stumble over to the basin to swill my mouth with the coppery tanged water and stare resignedly at my pitiful reflection in the mirror.

Time to face the music, I suppose.

i hope every single one of these people unknowingly contracted dysentery at whatever shithole bar they’ve just stumbled out of and it quietly brews and burbles all night while they’re blacked out and they wake up hungover in a puddle of their own hot diarrhea that soaked clean through the mattress 

swingandswirl  asked:

Why does this kriffing site not have replies? But aaah yes that's perfect and what if Ben, after he completes his training, decides he's going to explore the galaxy for a bit, takes the name Kylo Ren bc he's really sick of everyone and their dog knowing who he is, maybe even uses the Force so no-one recognises him. and he's in this shithole bar when this fucking uptight redhead shows up and Mom would kill him if she found out but it's totally, totally worth it (contd)

(contd from part 1) and then, some indeterminate amount of time later, when his mother has guilted, I mean talked, him into coming home and taking up his responsibilities - because you know he’s going to be a much better Senator from actually having LIVED all over the galaxy - there’s suddenly this stupid diplomatic thing because apparently they’re negotiating with the First Order now? And Ben’s looking through files and prepping and oh shit, he remembers those green eyes.

Dude your headcanons are seriously the best like omg and sorry about the reply thing but like feel free to just message me instead if it’s easier (this goes for anyone I guess)

  • Anyway just imagine Ben completing his training (does it make you cry bc it makes me)
  • And all his life he’s heard everyone comparing him to his mother, father, uncle, grandmother and grandfather and he loves them all but he just wants the chance to be his own person 
  • So he just up and leaves, with an apology/goodbye letter for his mother and a whole heap of credits for his travels
  • Literally going from planet to planet to planet and just experiencing the culture (bc his parents seem to know everything about everything and he wants to be like that)
  • At some hellhole bar he bumps into someone with bright eyes and fiery hair and a resting bitch face that tops his own. They argue. This man is awful and wretched and Ben wants to punch him (and kiss him)
  • He does both
  • The time they spend together is short but so wild and carefree. Ben has never had so much sex with one person in his life and it’s great. They fight over every little possible thing and fuck in every position they know
  • But he knows he can’t stay and when Leia does one of her monthly check up calls on him, he tells her he’s going to come home and join both the New Jedi Council and take his seat in the Senate by her side
  • And then–negotiating with the First Order bc thats gonna end well right? Anyway he’s heard about this young new General that’s like a complete ass and hella dedicated and then Ben sees an image of Hux and his heart skips a beat
  • His telltale outer rim lover
  • Oh stars what fun this will be

asparkoflight  asked:

Angel's ten favorite pieces of modern technology?

Angelus’s favorite invention had been the flintlock pistol. A bit messy, perhaps, if you hit an artery directly, and yes, it wasn’t very sporting (the cat lets the mice run, Dru sing-songed, or else it spoils the soup)

…but since when were they sporting?

Just like tapping a tree, my love, he’d tell Darla, and fire.

Angel had liked gas lamps, the forgiving light of them, the shadows they cast, the lamplighters of New York, who kept the same hours and called him by name.

Electricity didn’t smell of anything.

He rode the Overland Route so many times that the rocking of it was lodged somewhere in his bones, mountains emblazoned on the back of his eyelids. At night he would climb onto the roof of the car and lay there, wind tugging at his shirt-tails, looking up at the stars.

The first time he heard a Victrola played, his soul (twenty years in and still raw, aching, ill-fitted under his skin) had burned, overwhelming and brutal as death. Angel had panicked, he had thought this some fresh twist of the curse—

It wasn’t until he saw the woman beside him smiling so beatifically that he remembered—joy.

There’s a shoebox somewhere around of the Polaroids he took—chorus girls smiling over the rim of their champagne flutes, Bugsy Siegel with his tie askew, the main street lit like daylight (though it looks dinky, hokey compared to the sprawling behemoth Las Vegas became.) There are flashy cars in the artificial light, smiles, cowboy hats and hills.

There are a few of him, mixed in there—when someone wrenched the camera from his hands, forced him to sit still. Don’t you want to be immortalized? they’d always ask, laughing, before the shutter clicked.

In those few photographs at the bottom of that shoebox, Angel looks suddenly fully of grief.

He was two hundred and fifty, crowded around a television in the back room of some shithole bar with more than a few half-drunk demons and one mildly disapproving bartender. They had watched the grainy footage silently, everyone holding their breath as a man in white stepped out, onto the grey surface of another world, and said for mankind.

Damn, one of the demons breathed softly. Look at that. Nothing but fire and a tin can, and the little monkeys actually did it. They did it.

Angel was silent, thinking of those two men, millions of miles from the earth, defying the cold silence of eternity just by breathing. Just with hope.

Buffy gave him a Tamagotchi once, because—well. Buffy.

It was inexplicably still in his pocket the day he was resurrected from Hell; it was still there the day he finally said goodbye to her. But he lost it somehow, moving to Los Angeles, or it got left behind, or—

He hoped its new owner was feeding it properly.

Search engines. He might still type with his pointer fingers and get confused about which buttons do what, but the day he realized that someone had scanned most of the really important 17th century grimoires and made them keyword-searchable was the day he surrendered to the computer age.

The day he stumbles onto Cordy’s audition reel, it’s like—

He’d forgotten how bright her smile was.

He really likes his rolodex, okay? So everyone can just stop with the 80s jokes.

foxesmouth  asked:


I remember everything.

Niall listens. It’s why he’s good at his job. Listens. Doesn’t run his fuckin’ mouth. Not like Tommo does. He keeps his ear to the ground instead, makes clean notes when he needs to in his ledger with his Dixon Ticonderoga, reports back what he thinks is useful, hoards what he doesn’t. He’s what you would call an asset.

Tommo’s an asset too, don’t get him wrong, whip-smart, resilient. It’s just when he gets a few in him after a fight, his mouth’s like a leaking faucet. That’s why they keep him at their bar after a job, so he’ll only leak to people who are already in the know.

He’s cornered a fresh one today, some kid Brez picked up off the street, nursing a blackened eye and a cut to his lip. He doesn’t look like he belongs, sticks out like a sore thumb in a sea of demin-clad gangsters in training. He’s still got his leather jacket on, like he’s trying to prove a point. Niall knows in the winter they keep this shithole bar a fuckin’ sauna. So yeah, he’s trying to prove a point.

Niall wonders what he’s doing here. He knows what’s brought him here, but he can’t figure out what’s kept him here.

Tommo’s blabbering away like everything he says is worth writing down, trading pulls between his cigarette and his sweating bottle of beer, to this poor kid. Malik, Niall thinks he’s called.

“You’re not from Southie,” Tommo says.

“No,” Malik confirms.

“And you sure as fuck ain’t Irish.” He grins.

Malik gives a shrug. “On my mom’s side.”

Tommo’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nah, I’m not Irish,” Malik says, the tips of his lips curling up a little in a grin of his own. It looks good on him, but if his lips stretch any further, Niall’s sure that cut’ll bust open again.

“Good as, though,” Tommo crows, throwing his arm around Malik’s shoulder because Tommo’s good as too.

Keep reading

games we play

He’s out again. In some shithole of a bar, only thing available in this shithole of a town.  There aren’t many worse places we’ve been to so that says enough. Not that he’s looking for something better – cheap beer, cheap whiskey, cheap women, that’s his thing (not that he’s ever had to pay for one, he just likes ‘em that way).

Gotta admit, the first few times he invited me to go with him, but I said no every time so he just stopped with time. I couldn’t possibly say it makes me ill just seeing how they bloom the moment he enters the bar, and how knowing they’re wet for him after the first smile makes me want to see how wet their bodies can really become. It’d be awkward if that serial killers story started making rounds once more, we barely got rid of that one the last time and it wasn’t even true then.

Lately he’s on edge when he comes back, even though he should be more relaxed – it can’t be that bad, not with him as the other partner in bed, he’d make anyone good. So I let him be. I know my Dean. Soon he’ll think about it, find it strange I haven’t yet bugged him about what was going one, and then tell me himself. He needs to tell me stuff even if he’s not aware of that, he walks straighter after that.

While he’s out I’ve got to prepare myself for what’s to come – him snapping on me, trying to make a fight out of nothing, but at the same time spending more time then ever around me, even when he doesn’t have to. The fact that I try to touch him as much as possible in that time has nothing and everything to do with him. Everything because his well being is always in the first place for me and nothing because nothing gives me so much pleasure as knowing only my touch can ground him. It’s grating on my nerves, all this back and forth dance, but it’s got to be done. That’s my Dean, called many different things, but never flawless, and rightly so.

Day one. Before noon he tried to start a fight three times – where will we go for breakfast, which lead to check out first and where the hell did I put his Led Zeppelin IV tape. Keep breathing, Sam. It’s temporary. Don’t shake him, touch him while you’re introducing yourself to the family of the victim. Sit close to him, let your leg warm his and focus on listening to the widow instead of gouging her cheating eyes out, her husband’s not even dead yet and she’s already throwing bedroom looks Dean’s way. Later massage his hangover headache away until he finally stops complaining and falls asleep.

Day two. Tape recovered, no apology. Case in a dead end for now. I’m the grumpy one today since last night I had another one of those fire nightmares, only this soon switched to something worse – Dean  saying I scare him too much, that he’d found a girl he could see himself retiring. Not telling him about that though. Spending the afternoon napping on his bed while he’s watching tv, half curled up against him. He doesn’t protest since I told about fire part. Easier like this. Won’t allow him to leave me anyway, so no need to mention that.  If it comes to it, I’ll tell him one day, but hopefully he’ll spare me that.

Day three. We’re supposed to go hunting tomorrow, some big fuck we haven’t met before, but chopping it usually does the trick. Dean went out once more, but is unexpectedly back in less than an hour. This is something new. I look up from my laptop and suddenly he’s on the floor next to me, just holding my hands.  He looks at me, all confusion and longing and apprehension, and I can’t help but kiss him. In a flash I have him under me, moaning and undulating and perfect. Sex is far from perfect, but I count on this not being the last time, not when I’ve finally got my chance.

Day four. So that’s how he’s gonna play it. Nothing happened, eh? Okay, Dean, fine. we’ll see how long will you be able to keep that going. I think you’re forgetting I’m not some chick you’ll never see again, I’m your Sam, who’s been with you ever since I can remember and I know you. You can’t run from me, Dean, not from me.


part 1 of ’I have this gun. sometimes I think about using it.

part 2

part 3