Tamlin shrugged, twirling his feather pen between his fingers. “Thorns serve a purpose. They protect the petals. Feyre didn’t come here willingly. I will need to be able to endure a few cuts before I can expect her to let her guard down.
“You deserve better than that. Someone who wants you.” Lucien protested.
“Making deals with the devil didn’t exactly leave me that option.” A small smile tilted at Tamlin’s lips over Lucien’s never ending protective streak. “Will you always be so opinionated about what I deserve?”
“As long as I am here, yes.” Lucien pursed his lips. “You have a long record of underestimating your own worth, Tamlin. I’m just hoping to balance the scales. It’s been the two of us against the big bad world for a very long time. I can’t say it’s easy to let that change.”
“It won’t.” Tamlin said softly, glancing up, at the Autumn Fae who languished on the sette, staring out the window. “Perhaps, you are underestimating your value…”
Lucien sat up, slowly.
“I will never take you for granted.” Tamlin’s words were measured — careful. He kept most of himself masked, buried six feet beneath the tender ground of Spring.
Lucien simply nodded. “I know, Tam. I know.”
{Did you like this? Read my rewrite of A Court of Thorns and Roses on Ao3 now.}
Tags: minor injury, mention of past child abuse, anal sex, misunderstandings, mild drug use, idiots in love, mutual pining, first time, love confessions, college AU
Warnings: N/A
Summary:
"It's Dean's third year of college and he's having to adjust to a new roommate when his friend Ash transfers to MIT. The new guy, Castiel, is studying American History and Religious Studies, and Dean is certain the guy must be straight as an arrow. Too bad, 'cause he's kinda cute. But Dean grew up with more lectures about fire and brimstone than anyone wanted to hear thanks to his dad, so he doesn't mention to Castiel that he's bi. Not like it matters, Castiel is heartbroken over the death of Anna, his high school sweetheart. So Dean is determined to just be a good friend.
But...
What if Dean is mistaken, about so very many things?
It takes a fistfight with an interloper to clear the air between them, but then there's no stopping their feelings for each other."
Excerpt under the cut...
"Dean and Castiel mostly ignored each other the first month or so they were rooming together. Then, one day, Castiel came home muttering and tossed his Religious Studies text onto the coffee table before dropping onto the couch next to Dean. Dean glanced at the clock and frowned, continuing to type. He had an English paper due in a few days and needed to wrap it up.
""Don't you have class?"" he asked curiously, tilting his head at his roommate. Castiel was running his fingers through his already wild hair, and his eyes were stormy. From this close, Dean could see their colour clearly, a brilliant, breathtaking blue that rivalled the fall sky outside their apartment window. Get a grip, Winchester. No writing poetry about the straight guy's eyes!
""I dropped it. That… That assbutt Adler is the worst Prof I've ever had, and first year I had Roman for Business 101!"" Dean blinked. That had to be the first time he'd heard Castiel swear, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. Assbutt? He shook his head a little and focused on the topic at hand.
""Don't you need that one to minor? Adler can't be that bad…"" Dean let his comment trail off as Castiel raised an eyebrow at him and gave him a withering look. Dean squirmed a little under that stare.
""I'm reporting him to the Dean. Yes, he’s that bad. He's not teaching Religious Studies, he's proselytising from his pulpit, and that damn textbook is one he wrote! I am not wasting my time. I'm just pissed I can't get my money back from the bookstore for this piece of inarticulate, brain-washed drivel. He's the worst sort of Bible-is-fact, In God We Trust Republican dickwad that I hated back home! I moved here to escape that shit, not smear it around.""
""Says the guy named after an angel…"" Dean teased a little, earning him an eye roll. Castiel dug into his backpack and hauled out a small bag of gummies, the label unmistakably identifying them as pot, then he looked at Dean warily.
""You're not gonna rat me out, right?"" he asked, and Dean stared in disbelief as his nerdy, innocent, apparently not-so-religious roommate popped an edible into his mouth. ""You want one?""
Dean closed his mouth, blinked, and then shook his head. ""Not today, got auto in a couple hours, need to be clear-headed. And you know who I rented with before, he recommended you. You think anyone Ash hung out with and rented with for two years would have a problem with edibles?""
Castiel snorted a laugh, his nose crinkling up adorably, and Dean looked away. Not being a religious whack-job and partaking in a bit of recreational pot were all well and good. Still. Not everyone was cool with a bisexual roommate.
""Fair 'nough. Wish I could get some money back for this damn book, though I'd really rather burn it than put it back into circulation."""
Tags: post season 10 canon divergent, Memory Loss, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff and smut, happy ending.
Summary:
Ten years have passed since Demon! Dean murdered his brother Sam and devastated the land. His footprints have become almost untraceable by the angels, who've lost faith in and defeating the one in possession of the Mark of Cain. Everyone except Castiel, who after incessantly searching for a way to save Dean, finds one last hope.
He must request something extraordinary from Heaven to heal the mark. block the demon, and recover Dean. Dean must reverse the events, bringing Sam back to life.
To do this, he must use the Penitent's Ring, which had once belonged to Cain, and with it, he must defeat the Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit.
Yet is Dean capable of such this? And can Castiel heal the darkness within Dean?
This is a dystopian fic, based on canonverse, post 10x20 episode. Dean had lost his memories and he will be slowly recovering them. This will bring a lot of angst, and sad moments but Castiel will be there to comfort him. It's an angsty story with action, romance and a happy ending.
Posting Date: May 31
Excerpt under the cut
Castiel approached the demon slowly, but even so, he was keeping his distance. It was clear Dean didn't remember him. That revelation was carved in his chest like a sharp knife.
"My name is Castiel."
Dean tilted his head and frowned, "Cas…" he smirked, then he walked two steps towards him, "Did you come to purify me, angel?" the demon was checking him out, licking his lips lustfully.
Castiel stiffened in his place, nervous, "I'm here to make you remember who you are… and save you." There was determination in his voice.
The demon watched him puzzled, "Interesting," he mocked, "No one had proposed that to me before."
Castiel chuckled, lowering his face. All those times when Sam and him saved Dean assaulted his mind.
The demon scowled, "What's so funny, angel?"
The bright light of the Moon outlined Castiel's perfect face, he approached Dean slowly, "Something that I just recalled, and you should remember." Their eyes met.
Major warnings and tags: Graphic Depiction of Violence, noncon, short amnesia
Summary:
Dean Winchester, the leader of the Southern Resistance, makes a decision to stay in the capital keeping his brother alive, meeting his new husband with a promise to never break.
Castiel Novak, a Skywalker, has just returned to Discordia from his trip to outer space. Trained by the best Capacitors from VOLTS, the paramilitary officers, he finds himself with a new mission— to connect with a rebel and transform him into a submissive member of the society.
Can Castiel convince Dean to stay by his side? Or will he turn against the society threatening Dean?
Opening paragraph:
Infinite, endless space hold no threat to Castiel Novak. He learned to embrace this void as part of his mission after far too long. No, the threat was not in this empty, this expanse of nothingness offering only peace. The biggest threat of this age remains to be manmade. His fellow G-sapiens who tampered with everything from genetic aging to nuclear zero and years later this is where they are, still fighting over a piece of plain. By fighting, he bitterly means the hover footage taken from outside the walls of Discordia where Resistors attack the gates. It's nothing short of his expectations. Insurgents formed by outcasts and other outlaws from distant land band together to invade the stronghold but Discordia never fell and it won't, not even with a new ring leader from the Southern Resistor's side.
Blue eyes follow a certain man moving in the front lines. A man donning a dark ragged jacket with slight oddity in his gait. Castiel can't deny how the man has captured his attention since his tactical bombing of the South reservoir. A man whose profile reached him even in the distant outerspace screaming to be known. This man, Dean Winchester.
“She just saw you.” Yuuri frowns, alarm creeping onto his face. “Oh, shit. She’s getting suspicious—she hasn’t recognized you yet, but—”
Before Viktor can respond, Yuuri surges forward and kisses him hard, hard enough that he stumbles back against the wall and gasps as he kisses back. He can taste both the vanilla lipstick and the champagne on Yuuri’s lips, and fuck his hand curving around Yuuri’s waist is brushing bare skin and he can feel the heat of it, and Yuuri is kissing him again, and again, and what is happening—
Just when his knees threaten to buckle, Yuuri pulls back, glancing carelessly over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, and Viktor’s world tilts. “That was just—I needed to make her look away, so.”
“Oh.” Viktor blinks a few times, trying to catch his breath. He’s… disappointed, but exhilarated, too, and…
He shoves those emotions aside. Now isn’t the time.
Yuuri licks his lips, though, and Viktor can’t help but stare for half a second too long. “Okay. Um. Anyway,” he says, and turns back to the dance floor.
what happens next? uncover the full report in @yoispyzine...
this fic is a collaborative effort with absolutely stunning art by @agenderemryspaperart! just about everything in this zine is incredible and i’m very hyped for it. preorders are open now! 👀🕵️
anyways i’ve had this fucking burn notice au lying about half-written for eighty years, so here, enjoy. this a promo fic for @yoispyzine. we are on sale now here!
update: part two here
“My name is Katsuki Yuuri. I used to be a spy, until…”
+
When you’re burned, Yuuri thinks, you have nothing. No cash, no credit, no job history. You’re stuck in whatever city they decide to dump you in. You’re stuck living wherever you can find an unscrupulous landlord who’ll rent you a place without a lease or a background check.
Even if that means living directly over a swinger’s club.
Yuuri has slept in the desert during artillery fire. Yuuri has slept on a college campus during dubstep night. Yuuri has even slept through Minako snoring. But nothing could have prepared him for Viktor Nikiforov’s string of passive aggressive one night stands, all of which seem to end with him and his hapless victim rutting against Yuuri’s front door.
Once might have been an accident; twice might have been coincidence. Seven times is a pattern. A petty, awful, sexy pattern. He’s not even sure what Viktor’s endgame is--if he’s being punished because Viktor is still mad about Yuuri breaking up with him by fleeing the country, or if this is Viktor’s way of seducing him. Both of those are terrible options, because it’s not like Yuuri has gotten over Viktor, and it’s definitely not like he’s not spending his nights hard and aching and longing with the knowledge that Viktor is only ten feet away.
Either way. It has to stop. And not just because Viktor sounds like he’s enjoying himself thoroughly every evening, and Yuuri knows that if he was weak enough to open his front door and interrupt, Viktor would let Yuuri have him. Even a saint’s self control would be tested by Viktor shamelessly begging to be fucked ten feet from Yuuri’s bed.
“Tell me you found something.”
Phichit sighs. Chris sighs even louder. They probably practiced this instead of doing any work. Yuuri counts five empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter, and notes the open Photoshop window on Phichit’s laptop. He’s been sitting outside a noodle shop for six hours, waiting for his old handler to pass by, and so far has had no luck. Eventually, Celestino will have to come by the only place in Hasetsu where decent Italian food is sold. But that still leaves Yuuri unsuccessful, tired, sweaty, out of cold beer, and trapped in a loft apartment situated over an illegal sex club.
An illegal sex club his so-called friends refuse to help him put out of business.
“You know, Yuuri, just because you aren’t getting laid doesn’t mean you have to be bitter,” Chris says. He waggles his eyebrows. “It’s really a nice club. Very comfortable.”
“No,” Yuuri says. He cannot imagine being comfortable anywhere where people are having sex, in pubic, repeatedly. The whole place is probably like a public locker room, but with more semen. It probably smells like sweaty ass. It’s probably profoundly unsexy, like used toilet paper, or puppies, or Yuuri when he’s not pretending to be someone else.
“Just fuck him already,” Phichit says.
Yuuri hates it when he does that. Is he secretly a mind-reader? Can’t he let Yuuri repress in peace?
“I told you. He’s tactical support.”
“Is ‘tactical support’ Japanese for ‘guy I wanna bang’?”
“Phichit!”
“What?”
“Are you going to help me get rid of the club?”
“Who’s getting rid of the club?” Viktor asks. Yuuri turns; he didn’t even hear Viktor come in. “And why?”
Viktor sidles up behind him; his fingers brush across the back of Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri doesn’t shiver, but it’s a near thing. He waits for Viktor to move away, but he doesn’t. His breath is hot against Yuuri’s ear.
“Yuuri,” he says.
“Viktor.”
“I brought you breakfast.”
“It’s two pm.”
“There are hash browns.”
Yuuri glares at the floor. Viktor knows he’s weak for fried potatoes. He accepts the bag Viktor is proffering and opens it. The hash browns smell amazing, and they’re still warm.
“I thought Carlito’s didn’t serve breakfast after eleven,” Chris says.
“Oh, Raul made an exception for me.”
“Is he the one you’re fucking?”
Viktor hums in thought. “…yes?”
“Anyways,” Yuuri says. He shoves a hash brown in his mouth — it’s fluffy inside, crispy outside, dusted with salt — and groans with pleasure. He is supposed to be on a diet. First Viktor ruined sex and now he’s ruining food, too. “There’s no way this club isn’t committing a crime.”
“…about that,” Chris says. He sounds entirely innocent.
Yuuri is suspicious as hell. “What?”
“If you really want to investigate the club, I have an in,” he says. “But you have to promise you’ll take the job.”
“Is this about your bootleg sex toys?”
“They’re not my bootlegs! And it’s a legitimate public health issue!”
“It’ll get me into the club?”
“It’ll let you find out everything you could possibly want to know.”
Yuuri squints at Chris, who grins. Phichit grins, too. Yuuri can’t see Viktor, but he’s probably smiling, too.
Yuuri is so fucked.
“Fine.”
“…you own the club downstairs.”
“That’s right. I’m Shanice.”
“And you want me to help you keep the place open.”
“Look, I’m trying to create a safe space for people to explore their desires without being shamed. I started this place after I moved here with my husband and he then ran off in the middle of the night with all the money. It’s all I have. Hideki and his crew want to turn this place into one of their brothels. Which would you rather live above?”
Yuuri stares at her. If he lived above a brothel, Viktor couldn’t get laid there. On the other hand, Hideki is a human trafficking piece of shit. If Yuuri was a better person, this would be no choice at all.
As it is, he can’t stop himself from regretting having moral standards, just for a moment.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “On one condition.”
“I can’t believe you had me banned,” Viktor says. He’s sitting in Yuuri’s favorite chair, bare feet propped up on the coffee table, ankles crossed. He’s wearing jeans and a plain tshirt, and glittery highlighter. The highlighter is tacky. He looks deeply irritated.
Yuuri keeps looking at him, torn: one hand, this is hilarious, and on the other hand, Viktor has a point, Yuuri is being petty as hell. Whatever. Viktor should have expected this. He knows how much Yuuri loves sleep.
“You deserve it.”
“You realize I can get laid elsewhere?”
“I don’t care about you getting laid, I want to sleep for eight hours uninterrupted.”
“You once slept through a volcano erupting.”
“The volcano was in another state and I was drugged.” Yuuri sighs. “Never mind. The job.”
“Mm.” Viktor picks up one of the files sitting on the desk. Phichit and Chris came by earlier with the results of their recon, and now they’re off dealing with one of Phichit’s internet people’s minor blackmail problem. They’d promised to be back in the evening to get the details ironed out.
Which leaves Yuuri with Viktor to figure out the approach. Hideki and his goons generally come by once a week to do their ‘give us your club or we’ll ruin your business’ song and dance, but Hideki himself comes by even more often to enjoy the club’s services. According to Shanice, he’s driving off customers with his bad manners and the way he treats his subs.
“Some of these subs are are probably bodyguards in disguise,” Viktor muses. “He never comes with one?”
“Shanice says he always has a naked woman on a leash with him. And he rents the back room for business meetings, and he provides them with subs, and sometimes they mysteriously wash up on the beach with stab wounds in the groin.”
“A two man job, then. You need someone to play sub for you.”
“I guess.”
“Unless you want to be stabbed in the dick.”
“You in?” Yuuri asks.
Viktor snorts.
“Okay, I’ll just ask Chri—”
“Fine, I’ll do it.” Viktor leans back in his chair, ankles crossed, and taps his lip with his index finger, the way he does when he’s thinking. “Just like old times,” he murmurs, smiling to himself, and Yuuri shivers. That’s the whole problem, he thinks, but he nods.
Taking his ex-boyfriend, who used to actually let Yuuri sexually dominate him, on this mission is a terrible, terrible idea. Either Phichit or Chris would be safer options. Yuuri shouldn’t.
Viktor traces the floor plan of the club, and says, “Tonight?”
“We can plant the bug, yeah. Phichit and Chris can put together my cover.”
“And mine?”
“If anyone asks you anything, play dumb.”
“Tch.” Viktor rolls his eyes, but Yuuri ignores him. Viktor is exceptional at playing dumb. Despite being almost six feet and made mostly of muscle, he always manages to give the impression that he’s soft, harmless, and stupid. Even though he destroyed Yuuri completely within the first minute of their first meeting.
“I’ll meet you here at nine,” Yuuri says. He gets up. “Wait, are you just doing this to get unbanned from the club?”
“You’ve caught me,” Viktor says, laughing, and he’s still chuckling behind his hand as Yuuri slips out of the apartment, the door closing behind him.
Yuuri picks up his dry cleaning so he’ll have clothes for the club tonight, buys some ugly sunglasses as part of his disguise because he doesn’t want his good Armani ones associated with this shitty cover, and scouts out the workplace of a potential government contact for his burn notice for three hours. Then, before he can think better of it, he stops at a pet store and buys a plain black collar and a leash.
A few fun things for World Poetry Day!
Art by: Looveel
Fic by: blooming_ednae
“No, no! You’ve got it all wrong; where’s the feeling, the passion, the intensity?!”
Sorey sighed. It was one thing to make him sit down and write something; it was another thing to make him sit down and write something for his fake wife.
The visit back to Lastonbell was to be a short reprieve from their training; a time to replenish supplies, rest from the battles, and recollect their thoughts as needed. It was in the plan to venture through the rainy fields of Pearloats Pasture and finally to Pendrago, their intended destination.
So when Sorey found himself being dragged in by the oh-so-boisterous Rolance knight, he discovered that he hadn’t realized how much he dreaded his presence at times. He was a good man, pure of heart, and someone extremely loyal to his duties; Sorey couldn’t ignore that.
Sorey could, however, look over the fact that he was being forced to write poetry about his fake wife.
Just as he looked up, said Fake Wife waved at him from across the room and laughed nervously and even more so when she noticed the way Sorey grimaced at her.
“Hey there, uh, husband…! How goes the, uh, writing…?”
As Sorey opened his mouth to respond, his line of vision was immediately blocked by a gloved hand, as Sergei forcibly placed his hand right in front of Sorey’s eyes. Sorey fought the urge to sigh and instead, plastered a bright but nervous smile on his face as he looked up to the knight.
“Yes…?”
Sergei shook his head in response. “Shepherd, it is unsightly for your wife to have to ask you how your writing is! These are loving words to someone who did everything to be by your side and was so very patient in bringing you up into the warrior you are now. On top of that, she fell in love with you despite all your shortcomings and this is how you thank her?”
Sorey couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult and he wasn’t the only one thinking it as he eyed the snickering Seraph party across the room. Rose, on the other hand, scratched the back of her head and just laughed nervously (again).
“Uh...yeah! Well, I mean, I care about you a lot I guess, so that’s why I’m just checking up on ya!”
Sorey was about to respond, but was yet again cut off by Sergei’s unnecessary loud voice, filled with a mix of emotion and (seemingly) feigned despair.
“The joys and happiness of young love…! Shepherd, how can you be so cruel to your wife as to not offer her your words of love and tenderness!”
At this point, Sorey just sighed and placed his hand on his forehead, but was quickly patted on the back by Sergei. With a yelp, he sat up straight again in his chair and side glanced the ever-watching knight.
“Shepherd. I don’t mean to force you to do this, but as a Knight, I must implore you to participate in this activity. This is an honor. Lastonbell is rejoicing for the coming of spring and it is tradition for everyone to write poetry to their loved ones. You so happened dropped by Lastonbell so conveniently, and what a joy that was for me to see you coming in with your wife with the flower petals just falling all around you two!”
At this, the snickering Seraphs could no longer hold their silence as Edna snorted. “That’s only because they were both excited to see a food cart-”
“Hey!” Rose interjected. “I’ve been living off of black stuff and Mikleo desserts, there was just no balance for a proper meal!”
Dezel scoffed. “Well, if you weren’t a glutton-”
“There, there,” Lailah interjected with a smile. “We have to give Sorey and Rose credit for handling such grueling battles with limited food choices.”
“And you know, if you tired of my desserts, you could have mentioned something, Rose,” Mikleo chipped in.
Edna rolled her eyes. “Anyone would rather drown and turn into a hellion before eating your food, Meebo. And yes, they would go in that order specifically.”
Mikleo whirled around. “Why does that even mat - you know what, just because I’m not good with hot foods, doesn’t mean I can’t try!”
“And make food that will probably kill our Shepherd and Squire which will probably maybe kill us? No thanks,” Edna responded with a deadpan expression.
“Guys…? Sounds like you guys are having a good time, but could you read what I uh...wrote for Rose?”
The sound of Sorey’s quiet voice across the room cut them from their conversation; it sounded pitiful and small and he almost look ashamed as he waved them over to his paper.
As they all gathered around the paper, Rose included, Lailah’s breathed an “oh my” as she quickly read the contents along with sparse snickers and sighs from the rest of the group. Sorey just face palmed as he received their reaction, and Sergei swooped in to take the paper, clearing his throat before reading it aloud.
“How the wind blows through your fine hair,
With so much beauty so graceful and fair.
The burdens you carry may bring you to tears,
But never fear, because I will always be here.”
A quiet stillness overcame the whole party as the words resounded in the air. The tension almost felt thick and overbearing as Sorey shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the sound of hearing his own creation being read aloud. After some time, Lailah cleared her throat and she smiled.
“...well, I thought that was pleasant.”
Dezel nodded. “I agree. I actually like that one.”
Edna snorted. “It’s not like you’re a wind seraph or anything.”
“Hey. The wind was mentioned and I think that’s valid enough.”
“But,” Mikleo interrupted, “this poem escalated so quickly. You went from describing her physical looks to something so deep really fast and it’s almost too quick. Like we all know Rose is tough and all, but there has to be some kind of distinction in between the second and third line to lead into the last two lines.”
“Way to kill the mood, Meebo,” Edna remarked.
“I’m just stating the facts!”
Sorey sighed and then smiled up at Mikleo. “Hey, wanna write my poem for me?”
Mikleo rolled his eyes. “As if. I don’t have a fake wife to please, you know.”
Sorey sighed and he slumped back on the chair, quickly eyeing Rose as he did so. To his surprise, she was staring at the paper which Sergei just read off of, and she nodded.
“...You know, I actually really liked-”
“Shepherd, this is all wrong!”
The knight whirled back to Sorey with a passion in his eyes and Sorey slightly scooted back from the intense emotions which radiated off of Sergei. He placed the paper on Sorey’s desk once more and accompanied it with one more paper, seemingly another poem.
“This,” Sergei began, “is my poem I wrote today. Something like this, full of passion and desire!”
Rose picked up the paper from the desk and grimaced at the writing, trying to cover her expression of disinterest. Sighing, she began to read the contents aloud.
“Strong towers to protect me,
How I must wait and see,
What more you have in store.
This will never be a chore.”
Sergei smiled and nodded as Rose read off the lines, and to everyone’s displeasure, they all questioned the Knight’s preference taste (and writing skills). Mikleo cleared his throat.
“Rose...I hate to ask you to ask him this, but...is this about his duty as a knight and Pendrago? We’ve never seen Pendrago, but I’ve read a lot on it and this…”
Rose scratched her head as she posed the question to Sergei. “Did you really just write about your intense desire and love to your duty?”
Sergei’s eyes brightened up. “Yes, so insightful! Was it one of your seraphim that figured that out?”
No one dared to tell him they all figured it out; not that they had the chance as Sergei turned back to Sorey, who was attempting to stand up to leave. Sergei placed another paper in front of him, beaming as he looked down at him.
“Please, Shepherd. Try one more time. I am sure that there is something in your heart that can move the young lady here.”
“Amuse him,” Edna said, a sarcastic tone in her voice.
“Amuse him, or us?” Mikleo jabbed back.
Edna shrugged. “What’s the difference, at this point?”
Mikleo covered his mouth to repress his laughter, Sorey eyeing him. He shrugged in response.
“Sorry, Sorey. She has a point, for once.”
After a few more sarcastic remarks and comments, Sorey finally picked up his pen and wrote. He quickly wrote the words down and then stared at his work with mixed emotions.
As Sergei came by again and picked up the paper, he began to grin as he read the contents aloud.
“Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
There are many beautiful flowers,
But none that compare to you.”
Sergei continued to grin as he came up to Sorey and shook his hand, eyes beaming in pride.
“This one, Shepherd. You have truly captured your love and desire for your wife. It truly radiates with her name as well, and I’m so glad to have believed in your poem writing.”
Sorey shook Sergei’s hand in return, smiling, but grimacing a bit as the loyal knight chose one of the most rushed creations he had ever done. It was simple, too brash, and above all, terrible (in his eyes).
But above all the laughter from the rest of the party, the embarrassment of writing something so sappy to Rose, and behind his grimacing expression, Sorey felt happy. After all, he was quite proud with his pieces.
Tags: Case Fic, BDSM, Undercover as a Couple, Gentle Dom Castiel, Repressed Dean.
Warnings: Dean experiences sub-drop, no explicit homophobia but Dean is processing past homophobia he's been exposed to.
Summary:
While Sam is laid up in the bunker with a broken leg, he sends Dean and Cas out on a case Dean's pretty sure he could do blindfolded and with both hands tied behind his back. Little does he know those might be actual requirements...
Excerpt under the cut...
"“What the hell, Sam?” Dean asks, flinging his duffel bag down onto the bed, hand clenching down almost dangerously tight on his cell. At least he has a little post-check in privacy to storm around and make an ass of himself without worrying about what Cas would think, since Heaven’s softest touch is out there being waylaid by… Dean’s not actually sure what Miss Unnecessary Cleavage’s problem even is, just one more thing he’s feeling pissy about now.
“Yeah, I was wondering when I’d get this call.” Sam says, like he isn’t upending Dean’s life. At least he’s not laughing– or, he’s not laughing out loud, right this second. Maybe he got it all out of his system already. “You got the updates on the case, I take it?”
“A bondage club, man? With Cas? How did you think that one was gonna go? I’m supposed to walk in there with an angel in a gimp suit so we can lure out the ghost of William Friedkin’s Cruising?”
“I was definitely not picturing Cas in a ‘gimp suit’. Look… we don’t know who the ghost is, all we know–”
“All we know is, it’s haunting a bondage club and it only attacks men. Not one man who’s alone, not a man who’s with a woman, men, as in, men doing bondage things together. So either this is some dead gay sadist who’s forgotten how to respect a safeword, or some dead homophobe with extra hang-ups. Either way, I do not appreciate this!”
“Just see what you can find out by actually talking to people. I’m sending you info on the witnesses.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean hangs up, collapsing back onto the motel room’s one bed next to his upended duffel. He’d wanted two, even if Cas wasn’t planning on sleeping, but why should any part of this job go the way he wants it to?
Cas… how’s he going to explain any of this to Cas? The guy thinks the babysitter and the pizza man were a reliable source of information on human sexuality, and he isn’t exactly… cozy, with most sex stuff. Last time Dean took him to a ‘den of iniquity’... well, actually, it had briefly been a really good time, but not the way he’d planned, and this isn’t the same as that had been, this is– well, it’s different because they’re working.
