#and the moment she realizes she’s being recorded she draws more lipstick on her face

[celestialmaison]

i think there’s something to be said about paramore’s first release since 2017 being about consequences, perception, anxiety and language.

when hayley sings “this is why i don’t leave the house” she never directly elaborates on what this is—it’s very purposefully (i think) left open to interpretation so whoever is listening can insert their own this without having to elaborate to anyone else. hayley has her own this, zac has his own this, and taylor has his own this. they share a few this’ and some of them are completely unique to each band member. “you say the coast is clear, but you won’t catch me out” can resonate with anyone again depending on what their this is and what coast they need to be cleared to feel safe to exit their safe space. hayley also doesn’t nail down what people should do with their opinions—their language—but she does suggest that you can shove it, scream it, or keep it depending on what it is meaning: use discretion before you speak (something far too many westerners in particular never learn how to do even into their old age moving on).

this is why orbits around this very real anxiety of experiencing consequences for (insert your own reason the song is neutral in certain aspects for a reason) and being perceived. hayley is out minding her business near the water when suddenly she’s aware that she’s being filmed, zac is restless even in his “home” bc he is constantly surveyed, taylor is having a peaceful (?) reflective moment on the roof and then there’s a camera and some people there like. even in the “middle of nowhere” they can’t get away from the media. and the scenes where the camera is the only thing watching them and the people are gone are so fucking important because even having a device that can record them around without someone to control it is unsettling for all three of them. they feel like they always have to perform and be on for others.

“one step beyond your door, might as well have been a free fall” is straightforward as all living fuck but it still hits. when hayley falls out of her “home” (where she appears to live alone and even has a completely different hairstyle from her classic red in the rest of the video and “draws her lipstick wider than her mouth” fake happy enthusiasts are living their best lives) there is no one there to catch her. when the scene cuts to taylor and zac, they catch her not once but twice. whenever they’re around, they always make sure to help her up again. and when the “filmmakers” (the media) record zac and taylor catching hayley, they tell them to do it again, and the band kinda just stands there for a moment like “why?” hayley fell because she was struggling with something, zac and taylor helped her stand up again, and now the media wants a replay, they want a recap about something possibly extremely personal with more details. the first time the boys catch hayley, it’s a darker close shot. the second time, it’s a lighter distanced shot. depending on who’s watching, it could look like anything. this is why hayley doesn’t leave the house, kids.

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden----Anonymity Ch.5 (NSFW!)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

'Cassandra's favorite', the other maids call you.

You can't tell if they mean it as a good or a bad thing. Hell, you can't even tell which of the two it really is.

Being her 'favorite' does not make you immune to harm in any way; bruises litter your shoulders and sides from when she grabs you too forcefully and cuts from her nails sting at your neck and stomach, renewed each time she comes to take a kiss.

None of that existed back when you were something of zero interest to her. On the other hand, she's told you several times you're 'a thing of beauty' --her thing of beauty-- and she won't let anything ruin a natural piece of art.

If you know anything about Cassandra, it is that she takes art very seriously. Your interpretation of the word greatly varies from hers, you're sure, but it doesn't change the fact she won't easily raise a sickle on you.

Cassandra won't break you. She won't let Daniela do so, either. Bela doesn't even care to hurt you. It means you're safe for now...

Unless Lady Dimitrescu decides you're best taken away from her daughter. Permanently. You don't dare meet her eyes, but you can feel them on you, scrutinizing, every night at dinner.

You're pretty sure she knows.

The thought sits heavy in your mind while you're cleaning bloodied steps off a corridor at three in the small hours of the morning, along with another maid. Adella is a quiet and hardworking one; the two of you make a good team and you know you'll be done in record time.

But it only takes a single moment for everything to go wrong.

Adella is hastily walking back to you with a bucket of fresh water in hand when you hear a different set of steps approach from the side. You make to warn her, but it's already too late.

The collision happens at the turn where the two passageways meet. As soon as you see black robes dripping wet you pray to whichever God will listen for mercy.

Because Cassandra has not been in a good mood all night and she is not the understanding type regardless.

Adella gasps and shakingly backs away, a waterfall of apologies spilling from her lips. Cassandra rolls her neck and draws her sickle, advancing on her slowly. She looks terrifying.

"Don't move now." she orders.

And you just- can't watch this. You don't know why, but the realization you cannot hits you like a speeding truck. You can't stand there while the the woman you frequently kiss cuts away at a girl you know is as good and compassionate as a human under your circumstances can possibly get.

You react.

Before you can even think how impossibly stupid you're being, you drop the mop in your hands and dash forward, crashing into Cassandra's form. Your right arm wraps around her waist and your left grips at her wrist like a vice. Your heart is pounding. You don't even know what you're saying;

"Cassandra, no! Please. Don't." Cold and rigid as she is, it may as well be a statue you're holding. "Cassandra, stop. Please." Once impulse dies down, you realize you've just signed your death wish for two seconds of playing hero.

And you thought you were smarter than that. Ha. But maybe, just maybe, part of you wants to die, so long as it's quick and painless.

With Cassandra, though, you doubt it. Especially with how lethal she sounds when she says:

"You. Disappear." You hear, rather than see, Adella scurrying off for her life. "As for you..."

You only register a blur, nausea, cold nails piercing at your neck, over already existing marks. You are shoved into the nearest wall so powerfully you can't breathe for all of ten seconds. It's a wonder you don't hear any cracks from within your body.

Cassandra is on you, her fingers harsh on your chin and breath chilly on your lips. "Good pets don't bark against their own masters. What made you so bold, hm?"

You don't answer, too busy summoning your mental strength for what comes next. The way her eyes and the lines of her pretty face have hardened, she looks nothing like the flirty girl who comes to steal kisses from you at random times during the night.

"Maybe I've been too nice to you. The first time you call my name and it's for some other maid?"

She looks like she wants to let out a bitter laugh, break something and slice you into stripes simultaneously. And then you realize; Cassandra is jealous.

It doesn't get any worse than that.

"Maybe I should make sure you never say anything again." The corner of her lips curls up in dark amusement as she talks. "You don't talk much, anyway."

Well. She did say she wouldn't let anyone ruin your looks. Never promised anything about what's on the inside.

You're shaking, even if her grasp doesn't leave much room to do so. Your brain is restlessly trying to come up with something to get you out of this mess-

"I'm of way more use to you with my tongue intact." you somehow manage to speak without stuttering. It makes you wonder where the hell this confidence came from.

Cassandra stills for a moment. Her grip eases the slightest amount, probably from surprise.

You wonder what the hell you're even doing, yourself, when you bring your hands to her sides and lean in, to the curve of her nice jawline. You've never kissed her neck before, but you remember from the times you've given her a massage that she's very sensitive around it.

Cautiously, you press your mouth to the soft spot under her ear.

She smells so good and her skin feels so smooth you're not exactly forcing yourself to kiss her. If you're going to be mutilated anyway, the part of you that must be severely messed up muses, you may as well take some pleasure for yourself beforehand. Who knows, it may change her mind along the way.

So you lick her there and suck over her faint pulse. You don't get any stimuli from her, at first.

Until her hand trails from your shoulder to your nape, urging you harder against her. It's the green light to keep going.

You put all your skill into it as you lavish her neck and collarbones with open-mouthed kisses. She's loose and moaning low in her throat now.

You can't tell why, but the sound echoes right though your adrenaline-induced system, tickles down your spinal cord to pool low in your stomach. You either had a kink for danger you never knew of, or you developed one in the castle.

Whatever the case, your fingers are working on the buttons of her outfit and she doesn't seem like stopping you has even crossed her mind.

When the robes barely hang onto her shoulders, Cassandra maneuvers you to the closest room, shuts the door and presses you against it. Hard. Your lips slide together hungrily. You taste wine on her tongue.

At this point, your hands are the only thing supporting her outfit on her. She looks too fucking sexy for words like this, half-undressed, lipstick smeared, so turned on and ready for you. But you also want to see more of her, so you let the black fabric drop.

She's getting impatient, though. Being more vocal, tugging your hand to the apex of her legs.

"Cassandra." you moan when you push the midnight lace of her panties aside and touch her. She's so wet.

Her mouth falls open in a soundless gasp, brows drawn softly. "Oh, you're lucky I like my name on your lips." she says, breathless.

You did start this trying to prove to her how useful your tongue can be attached to your body, however... so it's only fair that's how you finish it.

Finish her.

Cassandra looks dazed and confused when you kneel in front of her, but it's quickly replaced with a broken moan when you take her into your mouth. You revel in every single gasp you coax out of her, every minuscule shake of her perfect thighs.

She bites into her own hand when she reaches her peak, nails leaving four parallel marks on the wall.

You're gentlewomanly enough to pull her outfit up for her while she's coming down from her high. Your gaze takes its sweet time admiring the contours of her chest as you button it closed. She really is the most attractive girl you've ever seen, if you somehow don't take into consideration her body count.

"Good?" you ask when she opens her pretty eyes to look at you.

"It's not cute to be smug, plaything." Cassandra makes a soft grimace at you, though you can see the lazy, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of her lip. "But. I suppose your tongue has its uses to me, after all."

You gently push off the door to let her exit at her leisure. The movement makes you realize you won't really be able to move tomorrow, with how sore you already are.

To your surprise, Cassandra takes a moment longer in the room.

She turns back to you and raises her hands to your torso, then carefully adjusts your wrinkled shirt. Her long fingers smooth over the imperfections she caused...

And you don't know why after everything the two of you just did, it's this that feels the most intimate.

The same digits brush over your throat as she pulls away.

By the time your mind starts working right again, Cassandra is already gone. Absently, you trace over the weeping scratches on your neck.

-

-

Later, at the main hall of the castle...

"Oh, boo, look who's late again." Daniela rolls her eyes at Cassandra's fashionably delayed arrival.

"Surprise, surprise." Bela smirks, casually leaned against the side of the fireplace.

"Are you two done being insufferable or should I come by later?" Cassandra asks.

"And scar our ears and minds with another round of your 'oh's and 'ah's, sister? I think not." Daniela comments.

Bela raises an eyebrow in amusement. "Had a nice time?"

"You two have very active imaginations, you know? Tells a lot about you." Cassandra chuckles. "She was just giving me a massage. But do go on. Be thirsty. I can wait."

Daniela and Bela share a look, thrown off their game by the nonchalance.

Cassandra hides a smirk under her hood and steps out first, into the peerless dark.

[shelf-care]

Winter Nights

Wolverine x OC

Lipstick mark series Pt.2

| Part 1| 

So its snowing in south Texas! that never happens. My parents are panicking and I’m sitting here writing fan fiction to calm myself. What could go wrong? 

So Victor Creed shows up in this because I’m a pantser and I come up with ideas as I go and see if it works for the plot, (For this miniseries I hope it does.) I was also watching Kate and Leopold last night (It’s become a valentines tradition for me over the last few years.) And Liev was in it. So theres that. 

Rated PG-13

Mentions of sex, medical examination, a former abusive relationship, obsession with an individual, slight violence, touch starved wolverine. 

“Your mission Miss hope?” The woman in the white lab coat asked while holding a clipboard ad clicking a pen multiple times, it had to be some sort of nervous tick. Maddie tipped her head back, swallowing her saliva, she was clad in a sterile white medical gown, her red hair sprawled out on the also white pillow as another individual examined her. “My mission was to come into contact with the Man known as wolverine, or James Logan Howlett.” She took a breath, the cold instruments the nurse had been using caught her rather off guard. “And you succeeded in not only finding him, but you managed to get a sample of his DNA?” The woman jotted some notes on the clipboard now, keeping her eyes locked on Maddie. The redhead looked away, staring at the ceiling stark white and formless like everything else in the room. “I did.” The doctor nodded her head. “We’ll be taking those samples back to the lab to confirm that its him. Until they are conclusive, you are free to go.” The young woman nodded watched as swabs left the room, she rather did not want to know what they wanted to do with him.

_

Blankly staring at the roof above her, Maddie couldn’t keep that night from playing over and over again. He was indeed her target, but, something was stirring in her, affection most likely. It would die within a couple weeks like it did with the men following shortly after. She knew he would be harder to kill. But he’d fall like the rest. Eventually. She closed her eyes, then she felt her phone buzz next to her. She reached for it, a voice message was visible. Holding the device to her ear, she heard his voice. A voice that in all honesty she enjoyed. “Look, I’m not that great at stuff like this. But I got your note, the other one, the one with the lipstick,” He paused, thinking about what he’d say next. “I thought we got on pretty well the other night. Lemme know when you make it back to the bar.” The message was short, and pretty sweet. He did care, at least a tad. Maddie slid her lips in a grin, she recorded a new message for him. “I’d love to meet again, this Friday at the bar?”

_

She waited at the bar again, it was cold, snow was on its way. This time the meeting was for more pleasure than anything else since her job was done, but it wasn’t a bad things to keep up with a target. The door swung open among the mostly empty bar. The few patrons turned their heads at the sudden commotion. In walked a man who was tall, very tall. Blond hair cascading down his shoulders, while some of it was put in a half ponytail. A long trench coat and fur, was joined by it, making him look that more intimidating. He made his way to the bar and sat down, eyeing Maddie like she was his new meal. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He said keeping his sight on the bar ahead of him while he ordered himself a large glass of whatever was the strongest drink at the bar. Maddie rolled her eyes. “You here to babysit me creed?” She asked drawing invisible circles in the counter. “Here more on pleasure Miss Hope.” He looked her up and down again and licked his lips visibly so she’d see it for sure. He knew this made her one of two things. Hot and bothered, or pissed off. it pissed her off this time around, and Creed preferred it that way.  “I thought we were past this.” She turned fully to him now. “You might be.” He drank down half the mixture of bourbon, whisky and fireball and faced her, chest puffed in pride and confidence, a pointed and toothy grin showed itself. “But I sure as hell wasn’t girly.” He scoffed as his fist hit the bar making the redhead jump as he got her attention and everyone else’s in the bar as a matter of fact. “We were just getting good when you left.” A fire lit in her heart, anger and passion apparent in her face she took a moment to compose herself. “Victor, they removed you from my squad and as my partner because of your behavior towards me. That hit was the last straw and I won’t be coming back and I’m sure you know that.” Her tone was low and threatening, looking at him, she grasped the glass and slammed down the rest of the liquid before putting down a few dollars as a tip. Creed thought it was adorable when she was angry, and decided to take it as far as he could.

As she zipped up her jacket and made her way out, the large man grabbed her by the arm. “We’re done when I say we are,” He pulled her close to him, his breath brushing warm against her throat as his claw ran down her cheek. “And I’m not done talking to you.” His yellow eyes bored into hers, she felt her heartbeat quicken, she despised and loved this feeling, that’s what got her into this mess the first time. “I told you I was finished. You’ll get your chance with me another day.” She opened her hand to show her palm to him, illuminating a golden hue of color at the center and curving our like a flame, Creeds eyes didn’t change a bit, he seemed like he welcomed the challenge. “Sweetheart, if only you knew how much I craved that part of you.” He gave a guttural low laugh, daring her, as he smirked again, spurring her on. Seeing if she’d really follow through on her threat, which most of them were never hollow. “On any other occasion Creed, I’d let you have it.” She placed her hand on his fist that was still clenched around her arm. “But I’m not in the mood for playing nice.” His hand went visceral, veins becoming more visible as one could see the vitality of the large mutant being taken on by someone a third of his size. “Let me go.” He threatened as he began to feel his muscles failing him in his left arm. “You first.” She smiled, the grin widening as he raised his claws at her. but was too weak to do much else. She laughed and leaned into his ear whispering in a sensual voice, her chest touching his to pour more salt onto the wound. “I thought you craved this part of me.” He could feel himself become more drained the longer she stayed, he realized she wasn’t messing around this time, his grip loosened and she walked free, not another word was heard from Creed, and it would be like that till the next time those twos’ paths crossed. Creed was bent over the bar. He reached for his drink and it shook in his hold, and drank the rest fervently like he needed air, he watched as his hand shook like an elderly man and his hand similar to one too. “Babe’s been getting stronger.” He was captivated by the way her powers worked, he always had been.

 She was Outside, the wind howled and whipped the snow up, crating a curtain of nothing but white mist making visibility a little less than optimal. She pulled out her phone and started to text.

“Hey, the bar is full. Did you want to meet anywhere else for drinks?” She messaged him. Yes, it was a lie, but she didn’t want to be around Creed, for reasons that was obvious. She waited a few minutes till she saw the three dots pop up. “You wanna come to the trailer?” He asked bluntly. She shrugged. “Pick me up?” She shot back quickly. “Sure thing.” Was all he said back.

_

Maddie threw her head back against the mini sofa that was in the one room airstream. The warmth enveloping her as she sighed after her first sip of beer. The snow on her jacket seeping into the fabric further, making a chill run down her spine. “Thank you.” She said raising her head to look at him, happy to be warm. “Don’t mention it.” He said mirroring her actions. “I can’t believe you wanted to meet again.” She mentioned looking at him again, he was different from last time, but not. “I can’t either if I’m honest.” He sat on his bed across from her. There was a silence that fell between the two, but it was comfortable. “Sorry the bar didn’t work out.” Leaning forward trying to skirt the conversation along. “I’d rather be doing this.” He tilted his head referring to his drink. That made Maddie laugh through her nose a bit. “Really? You’d rather act like an old married couple than be out?” She teased him, but he looked at her for a moment. “Been there and done that.” She nodded. “I like this though. It’s nice.” She took another sip of her drink before throwing away the bottle in an open trash bin. “I never got to ask. What is it that you do?” She placed her palm under her chin and smiled, waiting for his answer. He played with his bottle, before drinking his as well. “What you saw the other night is what I’ve been doing for the last fifteen years.” He told her nodding and thinking about his past and his way of living. “I don’t remember much of what I did before.” Maddie looked at him, a blank face that he couldn’t make out, but made him curious. “You never told me what you did. How did someone like you wind up in this dump of a town?” He joked slightly but he wasn’t wrong, it was a little piece of nowhere. “I’m in military secret forces. I was stationed here, and have been here for the last three years.” She saw him tense at the subject. “You okay?” Her brows cocked at him becoming a little bit tense. She didn’t think he suspect anything, and she wasn’t outright lying about what she did. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He left it at that. She stood up and paced over to him, and sat down next to him. The mattress sinking beneath her. He looked at her not quite knowing what she was doing. She reached for his hand, and looked at him before she went any further. “You don’t seem fine.” She silently asked for permission and he let her have his hand. She traced his palm slowly and gently, comfort in every movement. He was starved of this type of affection. Most people were, but him more than others she found just from the way he acted. She laced her fingers in-between the spaces where his were not, interlocking their hands. He closed his eyes her for a split second, every curve, every bump, every imperfection written on her face made him want her more as he reveled in the feeling of them being so close. “Don’t do this to yourself.” He warned her, taking his hand out of hers, though she stopped him. “Don’t tell me what to do.” She was firm, but the firmness was met with a soft smile. Logans eyes studied her for a minute. No one had ever stopped him like that, not to his knowledge anyway. This time when he went to remove his hand she let him leave, but it was to place his hand under her chin and bring her closer, and there, their lips met, and he pushed her below him while she wrapped her hands around his neck and raked her hands through his hair, all while closing her eyes enjoying the warmth compared to the freezing outside.

_

While the campers light was dim, if one were close to it you could hear giggling, rocking, calling one another’s names in the dark, and a little obscene noises that you would only hear if you where right next to the airstream. Then there was the figure that stood a few feet away from the little camper, a figure that towered over most men. The same body that was blonde, and in the bar with Maddie that same night. “You made a big mistake girly,” He peered down at his still healing hand, it looked aged, like his hand was ten years older than the rest of his body. 

[iggy-licious]

One Shot: Tête à Tête

OK... This is super long and super indulgent, but if you want smut, you got it. 😈 Iggy terrorizes a journalist and turns the tables for something much better for both of them. NSFW.

I just finished it, and I can't look at it anymore without going insane. 🤪 Please excuse any writing glitches.

Thank you for reading and going along with my Iggy shenanigans. ❤️❤️❤️

---------------------------------------

“You see,” he chuckles softly, “this is why I fucking hate doing interviews.” He tosses his fedora onto a nearby chair, runs a hand through his jet-black, dyed hair, shakes his head in disdain, and fishes his Marlboros and lighter out of his pocket. He leers at me, cigarette hanging onto his pouty bottom lip for dear life, before he lights it. He takes a puff and exhales the smoke in my direction, his mouth gaping slightly in what I could imagine to be a slow, satisfied exhale in a more romantic setting.

But we’re at an impasse, facing off at opposite sides of an overstuffed hotel couch. I made the cardinal sin of asking if The Stooges might ever get back together. 

Iggy remains silent and continues to smoke while staring me down. His look is full of slow-simmering anger and curiosity, as if he’s given up on the interview and is studying me to find creative ways to get under my skin.

But little does he know, he’s already succeeded at that.

The man had proved to be a good-natured, but eccentric, raconteur, and I was captivated by his stories and energy earlier. His smoky liner and shadow couldn’t blunt the sparkle in his large eyes when he gushed about the experimental nature of his Zombie Birdhouse album. I had been nervous going into the interview, but he had won me over with his intelligence, passion, and mild flirtation. It was fair to say that I had been in danger of him short-circuiting my professionalism. Him and those eyes, the color of a clear Caribbean lagoon. 

But that was then. Now, it's his scornful vibe that holds me in thrall. It screams of the primal unpredictability that was his ace in his old band. This nicotine pause feels like a dam holding back a flood of turbulent emotions. In the current, painful silence, I’m acutely aware that he could roar to life in a second and drown me in a passionate diatribe of words. Or, he could decide he’s bored and kick me out at any time. These thoughts set my heart into overdrive for many reasons, both professional and personal.

He’s studying me with an emotionless poker face, but his eyes feel like they're boring into mine. Large, blue, graced with the pretty eyelashes that most people get from a mascara tube.

His eyes turn out to be his secret weapon. I find myself powerless, waiting for his next words. After our initial discussion I'm surprised he can be anything less than an open book. I silently pray that I’ll come up with something to say, something that draws him in again, something that gets this interview back on track. Something that brings back his lopsided grin and the happy fluttering of infatuated butterflies in my stomach, if I'm being honest with myself. 

“Do you smoke?” he asks, lightly pinching the cigarette between his fingers and holding it out to me. He raises an eyebrow and smirks. 

I feel like it’s some weird test, the final exam of our time together. Now or never. Do or die.

Lucky for me, I do smoke. “I’ll take it,” I say, realizing how exhausted I feel from the tense minutes that have just transpired. I hope for the best. I can’t afford to blow this interview.

His lips turn upward in a subtle smile as I smoke. 

I’ve passed the test. 

I suck on the cigarette hard, preferring the party of deadly chemicals in my lungs to the charged air that hung thick in the room a moment before. I close my eyes and exhale. When I open them again, I meet his gaze, which he abruptly drops to my full lips, painted with a red that complements my light brown skin. He inspects the smudge of my lipstick on his cigarette when I return it, before stubbing it out in an ashtray.

“You know,” he says, tracing a finger on the arm of the couch, “I think you’re a good interviewer, a good conversationalist. I’m just tired of the pop culture psychoanalysis bullshit that goes down in these interviews. Do you know what I mean? How about we just talk for a while? About anything.” 

“That sounds nice,” I venture. Part of me will look for any opening to steer back to the interview, but part of me certainly doesn’t mind getting to know Iggy better.

He hits the stop button on my tape recorder and then walks to the mini-fridge. “No recording, no journalist, no so-called ‘godfather of punk,’ just you and me and some beers,” he says while setting a six-pack on the coffee table.

I look longingly at my recorder, wondering what juicy confessions I might miss if we talk more informally. I wouldn't dare turn it on, though, while the connection we're rebuilding is so fragile. 

Before I can panic, he frees a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from its tight ring of plastic and hands it to me. Then, after he nips into his can, he tells me the story of his first beer and the shenanigans he'd gotten into back in Michigan, before The Stooges. This segues into talk about his favorite German beers and stories of misbehavior in Europe with David Bowie.

Iggy makes me laugh with his cartoon voices and facial expressions. I watch the vaguely man-shaped earring in his right ear dance with the rubber contortions of his face.

With the second beer cans, we’ve moved closer together on the couch, and I’ve taken off my black pumps. I’m thankful that my skin color hides the flush in my cheeks from the fizzy intoxicant.

His jokes get louder and more blue. We're back in a good conversation groove again. I haven’t laughed this hard in ages. 

My professional conscience chided me for beer number two, but the wheaty nectar in the third can has drowned out that small voice. Iggy inches closer and tells me about growing up in a trailer. “If you can remember any of this shit, feel free to write about it,” he says. His laughter is a challenge and a taunt.

I will myself to remember, to sear the facts of his life into my brain. These anecdotes are gold, the kinds of things that can add meat to the pitiful skeleton of my story as it stands now.

I’m laughing, and I park my hand on his thigh. The black trousers can't hide the fact that his legs are well muscled from swimming and his onstage moves that defy the range of a normal human body.

Before I can stop myself, I’m slowly trailing my hand up and down his leg. 

“Mmm…” He purrs and moves closer, while wrapping an arm around me. He drains the last of his beer and takes mine before I can get a final sip. 

Our faces are close, and I see that the blue of his eyes has darkened. I’ve lost myself, drowning in those pretty cobalt pools until he smiles wickedly. 

His voice is a murmur. “This is more fun than an interview, isn’t it?”

"You got me there, Iggy," I say. My response comes easy and breathy, thanks to the beer and my simmering lust. 

He looks at me fondly. "Call me Jim. Just use Iggy for your story, OK?" 

"OK, Jim."

He cradles my face in both of his hands and brushes his lips against mine. Then I surrender to his roving tongue in the same way I hope to similarly give my body to him, now that professional pretense has been shattered by primal desire.

Since I'm off duty now, I take down the ponytail that was taming my curls and allow my hair to fall past my shoulders. 

He holds my gaze as a hungry smile spreads on his face and he twirls a strand of my hair around his finger. "She's come undone, huh?" He kisses me again, feasting on my mouth with his lips and his sure tongue. 

I’ve noticed the bulge in his pants has become bigger, and my mind flashes to all the reports I’ve heard of him whipping his notoriously large cock out during performances. The thought of his boldness, and the thought of exploring his magnificent body, both fan the flames that have caused my core to throb with insatiable hunger.

I pull him to me and unleash my passion with a sinful, lush kiss. My hands stroke his torso, his back, his hair. "Just as I thought…" He says in a hushed tone, "There's a beautiful, wild woman just below the surface. I'm glad to finally meet her." He cups my throat and transfers his electric passion to me through another kiss. 

When I pause to help him out of his black leather jacket, his breathing is shallow and his eyes are glazed with need. My body is feverish, anticipating our tryst. 

I remove his black t-shirt next, revealing his finely chiseled torso. Newspaper and magazine photos don’t do it justice. I explore his musculature with my hands and delight in the firm, tanned skin. 

Then he’s out of his red briefs and the pants in the blink of an eye. I gasp at how perfect he looks--the hard muscles and their sensuous, masculine curves, the broadness of his chest and shoulders, the long torso with marble-etched abs, the slimness of his waist, the swelling of his thighs and ass. It's the graceful, olympic body of a swimmer…or an agile, flexible rock god. 

Not to be outdone, his manhood is long, thick, and utterly enticing. I want to savor him as much as I want to be worshipped by him, consumed by his strong passion, filled exquisitely by his largesse.

He lowers me on the couch and in a velvet onslaught of kisses and gropes, he removes my clothes: denim jacket, tight black dress, underwear, and stockings.

His movements are slow and taken with great care as he kisses down my naked body. He is calm, indulgent, masterful. The out-of-control nature of Iggy gives way to a patient, capable lover who revels in the softness of my generous curves.

He straddles me and blazes a lusty trail down my body with his tongue. His hands firmly canvas my breasts and his thumbs then tease my nipples into rigid peaks. 

"So soft…" His voice trails as he bathes my nipples with the warmth of his mouth and tongue. 

I'm snaking my body against the weight of his, while my hands clutch his back. If I fuck up the interview and lose my job, I know our night together will still be totally worth it. 

He releases a nipple with a pop of his lips. "Be patient," he breathes out. "We'll get there."

"Let me guess, it'll be worth the wait?" I ask with an arch of my eyebrow. 

"Well, I don't like to brag…" 

We lock eyes before the kissing resumes. 

His body is warm against mine, and his low, guttural moans punctuate the silence from time to time. Our hands are so curious, so hungry. It's a joy to clutch his powerful back and feel the muscles there side and hitch with each caress he gives me. 

"Come with me?" He abruptly stands. He smiles with an expression that's both shy and seductive as he leads me to the bedroom. 

The light is on. His suitcase is open and its contents are disturbed, as though he was looking for the right outfit for our encounter. The floral bedspread is a bit wrinkled, and I assume he napped on top of it before I arrived. 

We kiss at the side of the bed, in a voracious dance of our lips that still doesn't feel like enough. My need is criminal. I blast the most obscene of intentions to him with my eyes, and he grunts in hungry understanding. 

He lowers me to the bed and straddles me. Being held captive by his muscular thighs and his hands framing my face feels natural, an old, unspoken agreement of longtime lovers. The way we delight in each other is instinctual. 

I lift my chin to kiss him. 

"Later," he says, placing a finger on my lips. "I'll be back."

He crawls down my body and spreads my legs. Then he coaxes a series of unholy moans out of me when he flattens his tongue to my entrance with a series of long ice cream licks, followed by his lips gently sucking on my clit. 

My breathing comes shallow. I can't formulate words to relay to him how good the meandering of his tongue feels, but my writhing and wailing cause him to chuckle gentle vibrations against my pussy, so I know he understands. 

He keeps a steady rhythm and sets my nerves aflame while my hips jerk with the timing of a metronome. I gasp at the tension building in my body, knowing the climax will be devastating. And when it comes, my body stutters into an exquisite live wire dance. 

I'm a sweaty, soaked mess when he informs me that another languid exploration awaits. "I want to make sure you're more than ready," murmurs. This time, it's not a tease, it's a show of care and concern. 

He kisses me with my scent before he resumes. 

I'm still high from the last orgasm, and I float in the ether as he takes his time. I imagine he must be aching to couple with me, but his actions don't betray his need. The defensive Iggy of the interview is gone, replaced by a tender romantic who keeps looking at me to monitor my satisfaction. 

The next climax untethers me from reality, but when he rests a hand on one of my shoulders and slowly guides himself inside of me, I am awakened to now, the universe that consists of the two of us aroused, embraced, and slowly coaxing each other into higher realms of sensation. At last we've found our way to an unbreakable give and take, guided by carnal desire. 

His baritone rumbles with whispered words that would've made me blush during the interview. I marvel at how a change of setting, and a change of attitude, makes all the difference. 

I clutch his back while our rolling motions lull me into a pleasurable dream state. 

His gaze is much softer than it was in the living room, and his eyes sparkle as he looks at me with fondness. I'm treated with the sight of his long eyelashes kissing his face every time he lowers his eyelids. It's nice, knowing that I'm seeing a side of him that few will ever see. 

"You're so fucking good Jim," I exhale, working my hips faster to receive more of his expert thrusts. He rewards me by going harder and deeper. My pussy flushes as each stroke takes me higher. 

"I'm almost there, too," he groans as his hips crash into mine. 

My breath is shallow, and my moans get caught in my throat as we fuck with abandon. The interview is the furthest thing from my mind; my job now is to give as good as I'm getting, and I'm giving it my all. I grab his ass as we pump recklessly. 

Before I know it, pleasure radiates out from my core at light speed, and Iggy howls at the strength of his climax. We've both been transformed, faces glistening with sweat and the satisfaction of well spent energy. 

He rolls onto his back, and I drape my body over his. 

"Incredible," he says while stroking my hair. 

He kisses my forehead and dons his eyeglasses, which were on his dresser, hiding to avoid betraying the soft nerd inside the fearless musician. "Now, back to business, doll. I'll let you finish the interview if I can ask you some questions first. For starters, where are you from?" 

My heart is still racing from our steamy actions, but it skips a beat when I realize I will get my story and not lose my job. 

I giggle and trace a finger on his chest before I start telling him the story of my life. 

[copias-thrall]

There’s Something About Mary

A day in the life of our crusty Mr. Goore

Mary POV chapter bc I want to and I can.

⬅️ Previous

*public masturbation, kinda*

Mary wakes up horny.

He must have been having a pleasant dream, because his cock is hard and throbbing where it rests heavy against his thigh. He shoves a hand down into his undone jeans to give his cock a squeeze—just for a moment of relief—and, as the touch wakes him up fully, he realizes he can hear the distinct sounds of sex from one of the rooms. A thump thump thump and a squeak squeak squeak, all punctuated with blatant moans.

Fuck it, he thinks, and he begins to jack it to the sex orchestra going on, not 10ft from where he lies on the couch. Once a place they sometimes took turns on, the couch has become Mary’s de facto room—a subtle punishment for his supposed defection. So, he has no qualms about masturbating in his room, and if any of the other guys have an issue with it, Mary has no problem making his display more public, just for spite.

He pauses only to spit in his hand when his dry palm begins to chafe. It doesn’t even matter when the noises from the other room cease (and later Mary will have to tease them about their staying power), Mary just scrolls through his mental Rolodex until he brings up the memory of his dick in between Suey’s tits, how they jiggled despite being held together, how shiny they became once covered in his jizz, and how she looked up at him as she contorted one to bring it up to her mouth to lap some off.

“Shit, shit,” he exclaims as the memory of her pink tongue lapping up his cum causes him to release. Some shoots up his bare chest, but most of it lands and pools in his belly button. Eyes still closed, his free hand shoots out and fumbles for the box of tissues on the table, encountering instead a stack of thin takeout napkins.

As he does his best to clean himself up with the napkins—whose integrity is suspect—he can hear the low rumble of male voices and a high, feminine giggle from the sex room. Just to be a jackass, he gets himself up so that he can have first dibs on the bathroom.

Making sure to lock the door behind him, Mary turns on the hot faucet, willing the water to warm up sooner than later. He takes the opportunity, while he waits, to piss in the toilet; it’s already open—toilet seat up—even though it’s supposed to put it down when they have guests. They’re out of TP again, so a roll of paper towels rests on the lid of the tank.

Once the water is warm enough, Mary uses a couple pieces from the roll to clean off the jizz drying and to give himself a brief wipe down. His face is still half crusty with makeup, and he’s tempted to just add to it, but he’s learned from hard experience how that can fuck up your face, so—even though it’s a goddamned pain—Mary washes his face. He even uses the harsh Dial hand soap, even though the acrid smell will get up into his nose for hours.

He thinks of the nice-smelling scrub Suey has and her drugstore face cream he sometimes rubs into his skin.

In the soap- and toothpaste-speckled mirror, he starts to apply his “Day Face” (as Suey calls it) from the communal box of makeup (his better stuff is in his backpack): a light dusting of white powder; some eyeliner all the way around; a dull, red lipstick; and black shadow on his cheekbones.

He’s just starting on his hair when there comes a pounding on the door

“Fucks’ sake. C’mon, Goore.”

Mary turns his head upside down in the sink basin so he can haphazardly splash some water into his hair.

“Fuck off, douchebag.”

He starts to work his fingers into his locks, coaxing the glue already in it to activate.

“She’s gotta pee, man.”

He fluffs his forelock in the mirror as his other hand searches for the blood tube in the box.

“We have a kitchen sink.”

A small voice tells him not to take his annoyance with his friends out on the girl, and he sighs.

“Stop being a di—”

The voice cuts off as Mary swings the door open. Brendan's angry face smooths into one of minor irritation. The girl—Lisa?—stands, thighs crushed together, in an oversized kitten t-shirt. She looks at Mary, wide-eyed; her gaze darts to his bare, wet chest before snapping back up.

“Lis,” he says, winking as he saunters out.

Her face crumples a little.

“Lizzy,” she says, and Mary’s stomach swoops a bit when he realizes he’s probably slept with her before.

He makes himself smile as she moves past him to the bathroom.

“That’s what I said: Liz.” He shoots her a finger gun at her as Brendan scowls at them both. When the door closes and Brendan is still glaring, Mary lets out a “What?”

“You sticking around for breakfast, man?”

Mary rolls his eyes. “I’m here, ain’t I?” He starts to paw through the plastic shelving drawers next to the couch for a shirt.

Brendan shrugs. “Thought your pussy-whipped ass might need to get back to that uptown princess of yours.”

He glares at Brendan. “Stop being dick.”

“She’s fucking slumming it, dude. I’m warning you.”

It’s not a new argument, so Mary just ignores him, instead trying to apply a bit of blood to the tip of his forelock using the heart compact Suey gave him.

Titus emerges from the shared room, yawning, in his terrible leopard print robe that’s way too short.

“Morning, asswipe,” he says to Mary as he walks by. “What’re we bitching about?”

Brendan says “uptown girl” as Mary says “nothing.”

Titus sighs.

“Jesus, Brendan. You gotta get over that. That’s Mary’s mistake to make.”

“You know what? Fuck this shit.” Mary starts getting his backpack in order.

“That’s right! Blow off another band meeting!” says Brendan, and Mary spins on his heel to stomp back.

He jabs a finger into his chest. “I’m here all the goddamned time, more than I am at her place. I come to every meeting you tell me about.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you about anything. You should just be here. You should be committed,” hisses Brendan.

“I’m going to make some toast,” says Titus as he swishes toward the kitchen.

Mary rifles through his plastic draws and slams a notebook and loose papers onto the table.

“There’s mine, dude. Lyrics. Composition. Where’s yours?”

Donnie and Jamie wander out of their room.

“Not this shit again. It’s too fucking early,” says Donnie.

Brendan vibrates. “What about funds, man? A social media presence? You think all that happens by magic?”

“So I’m supposed to write, and compose, and do the budget?” snarls Mary.

“Guys,” moans Jamie.

“And our Insta is shit, by the way.”

“Fuck. Can we not?” moans Donnie.

Mary again jabs a finger at Brendan. “Then tell him to can it. I’ve already been exiled to the couch. I don’t need him picking fights because he doesn’t like my girlfriend, who—by the way—has never fucking done anything wrong.”

“You haven’t been exil—” Jamie starts.

“We were supposed to fucking share those rooms,” Mary hisses as he gesticulates. “I pay the same amount of rent, and yet I come home one day to find all my stuff in a pile in the living room. I have to wait for you guys to stop playing video games because ‘this is shared space’ to fucking sleep.”

“We all agreed—”

“No. You guys agreed. I didn’t get shit to say about it. So you’ll forgive me if I’m not too fucking keen on being pleasant.”

They all stand there, glowering at each other until Donnie says, “I need to take a goddamned piss,” and finds the bathroom door locked. At his soft The fuck? the lock clicks, and Lizzy opens the door cautiously.

“I’m sorry. It just. Seemed like you guys were getting into it.”

Brendan sighs. “C’mon, babe. Let’s get your stuff.”

The fight isn’t a new one, and—with no resolution in sight—they all drop the subject so they can get on with the breakfast of eggs on toast Titus brings out and the subsequent band meeting. The Brick—a cheap, overworked laptop—is brought out so they can go over band business: the budget; the van maintenance and parking costs; the gig and practice schedule is outlined so that they can align their work shifts; new merch ideas are bandied about; and they talk about how to improve their digital sales.

Mary’s leg jiggles impatiently.

The meeting breaks nearly 5hrs later; Jamie goes back to sleep because he’s got the night shift at the Quik•Mart; Brendan heads out for his afternoon shift at Target; it’s Donnie’s day off, so he cues up Mario Kart; and Titus decides he’s going to go pound on the drums in the practice space they rent, since his dad pays his bills.

Mary has been saddled with stopping by the local record stores to see if any of their physical CDs have sold to prove he’s “committed,” even though he’s got the closing shift at Sixes & Sevens.

As he’s leaving the building, he encounters Brendan, who is leaning against the brick, smoking a cigarette. Mary’s fingers twitch.

“So you’re not coming back tonight, then.”

“We have band business?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

Brendan lets out a puff of smoke.

“You think I’m being a dick, but that girl does not care about you. She’s a tourist. Us—the band. That’s what’s real, Mary.”

Mary knows he should keep walking, but even after counting to 10, he’s still pissed, so he spins on his heel.

“You don’t know anything about her or her goddamned life.”

“Neither do you.” He finishes the smoke, then tosses it to the pavement to grind under his combat boot. “We’ll be here when it all explodes in your face, Goore. But you’re going to have to rebuild a lot of bridges.”

And then he’s off down the sidewalk. Mary stands there, seething, waiting until Brendan disappears round the corner since he’s also headed in that direction.

He’s not really in the best of moods when he hits up the first store, but by the 4th, he’s back to his plucky repartee. The owner of his favorite shop intimates that a vinyl version of their LP might sell much better than their DIY CD, and Mary enthusiastically thanks the dude as if it’s the first time such a concept has been considered.

The whole route honestly doesn’t even really take that much time at all—maybe 2 hours—so he chances stopping by Suey’s. Worst case, he’ll take a nap; best case, she’ll be there to bitch at him.

Like everything else today, however, circumstances are just not on his side, and he opens the door to her tiny fucking apartment to find it empty. The mail is bad again, and he rifles through it, plucking out anything that’s obviously junk to toss and anything that looks like a bill to put on her counter. There’s only a bowl in the sink, so he leaves it.

He’s hoping that she comes home before he has to leave—maybe she’ll even give him a blow job—as he wraps himself up in the afghan that smells slightly of her.

She doesn’t.

His alarm wakes him up at 4:15pm for his shift at 6. Groggily, he stumbles to the fridge to see what there is to eat, and finds a pot crammed in haphazardly amongst the other food items. Mary’s not really sure what he’s looking at—Suey tends to just throw shit together when she can’t be bothered, but most of the time it’s edible.

It ends up being some sort of cheesy potato stew and actually isn’t that bad. He eats the whole thing out of the pot before scrubbing it and the lone bowl clean. He waits as long as he dares to watch her come clomping tiredly through her door, but he really does have to leave. He leaves a kiss on her mirror after he reapplies his lipstick. (He should probably redo his face but: eh.)

Work is work. It starts slow—with Mary taking down the chairs and wiping off everything with the disinfectant spray. Sometimes Mary finds this kind of Zen—a time to hum out chords and roll around lyrics in his head—but today he’s just tired. It gets a little better when Mickey and the other bartender show up to do citrus prep. It’s a weekday, so there’s only a moderate crowd, and Mickey leaves them to it so he can do business manager-type things in his office.

And then there are the girls. Most of the girls who come to Sixes & Sevens aren’t the type to be put off by Mary’s whole shtick—and there are obviously the ones who come here expressly to flirt with him—so he has no qualms turning on his charms. Mickey lets him do it because customers are customers, and if girls want to come and spend money on drinks while they purr at Mary, who is Mickey to stop them? Len or Mika don’t give a shit because tips are pooled.

Used to be Mary could have his pick of a warm body for the evening—some girl (or occasionally some guy if Mary deemed him beefy enough) who’d take him to her nice-smelling, clean apartment … who’d let him spend the night on her soft, downy pillows after he pounded her into next year, before kicking him out at dawn. But now he’s got a girlfriend—one who makes sure he eats and yells at him to wash his face—waiting for him in her stale apartment with her flat, polyester pillows, and Mary hopes he’s not fool enough to fuck that up.

Not that his dick has gotten the memo.

No matter how many times Mary tells that fucker that he’s not going to fuck any of these women, his dick still twitches in interest whenever plump lips are wrapped around straws or fingertips trail over his hand. Tonight is especially bad for some reason, and Mary has to stick close to the walls of the bar so that no one can see his semi. A girl in a furry, white shrug seems particularly on his dick, and he does his best to flirt just enough for a good tip, but not enough for a proposition.

When he gets his break, Mary takes it out back in the alley by the dumpster. The air is chill, but it feels good after the humidity of the bar. He was hoping maybe his dick would go down, but it’s like it’s trying to spite him. Leaning his head back on the wall, he can’t help but close his eyes and run his palm lightly over the outline. It’s a fool’s errand—it’s not like he can get off without it showing on his pants—but that doesn’t stop him from touching.

A voice clears, and Mary startles. He’s out here by the rancid garbage so he can be alone, so he wasn’t really expecting to find anyone else.

“I can help you with that,” says the girl with the white fur that may or may not be real. She’s standing across from him, and he can see that she’s in a dress so simple that it must be hella expensive. She’s holding an unlit cigarette.

Mary jerks his hand away from his crotch, shifting so that he can surreptitiously adjust his jeans.

“The fuck are you doing out back here?”

She shrugs. “Needed to get away from my bitches. I love them but: drama city. You got a light?”

He knows it’s a ruse, but he still fumbles out his Zippo because he’s a goddamned gentleman. She, shockingly, takes the opportunity to move in closer to his body as he holds out the flame … close enough to blow the smoke of the first drag in his face.

“So,” she says, eyes darting down to his semi. “You want me suck that?” She gesticulates with her chin, posture nonchalant but eyes hungry.

His dick gives an answering throb, but he shrugs. “Nah. I got a girl.”

She looks at him, assessing, before half crossing her arms and taking another drag. Smoke pours out her nose.

“She’s not here.”

Mary doesn’t respond immediately, not knowing how to get out of this. She hasn’t said anything untrue. He’s horny, Suey’s not here, and she wants to suck his cock.

He reaches his hand up and taps his breast where he thinks his heart is.

“She’s here,” he says, and he’s glad Suey’s not present because hoo boy would she give him shit for that winner.

The girl just tilts her head at him, this time blowing smoke out the side of her mouth after she inhales. It occurs to Mary that he wants her cigarette more than his dick wants to be sucked. If she thinks this is some kind of elaborate game of hard to get, she’s sorely mistaken.

“You got a picture?”

“A … what?”

She gesticulates impatiently. “A picture. Of this girlfriend.”

Mary thinks, then pats around for his wallet, even though he only ever puts it in his back pocket. When she sees the wallet come out, she laughs.

“An actual picture? That’s old school.”

He shrugs as he rifles. “I’m on my break.” He doesn’t tell her that his ancient flip phone doesn’t take pictures. Well, not good ones.

The photo of Suey he has is relatively new—slipped in behind the old, worn one of his mum—but its edges are starting to soften. In the image, Suey stands, hip popped, as she gives him the finger with a snotty look on her face. She’s in one of her weird 90′s outfits—a micro mini and tied up band tee—and the cute pudge of her belly hangs over her waist band a little. Her hair is pushed back from her face because she’s just lifted up her sunglasses—there’s still a little mark on her nose where they were resting.

She hates this picture, but her attitude makes him smile.

“You gonna ogle it all night, Mary?”

Mary’s attention snaps back to the alley. He ignores the intimacy. Carefully, with a stern look on his face that he hopes conveys how much the photo is not to be fucked with, he hands the picture over.

White Fur looks at the picture for a long time. Then she looks up at him. She gives the image one more glance before handing it back to him.

“Yeah, ok,” she says as she crosses her arms again.

Mary tucks the photo back into his wallet.

“The fuck does that mean?” he scowls. He’s just about had it with people insulting Suey today, and some random-ass girl in a back alley is the last person he’d let get away with it, even if she is a fan.

She takes her last drag before flicking the stub in the direction of a dumpster.

“Dunno. You seem like the type to have some scene girl with more legs than brains hanging off your arm.”

Mary thinks that’s a little uncharitable: he’s always been an equal-opportunity lay.

“She seems legit though,” the girl continues. “Makes sense.”

“Uh. Thanks?”

“Yeah, no problem.” She heads for the door, but stops to smirk at him. “Looks like I helped after all.”

As she swings back inside, Mary looks down to realize his hard-on is gone.

Mickey doesn’t cut him early, but he doesn’t make him stay past closing either. Even so, it’s still after 3am when he gets to Suey’s. The bills are gone from the counter, but there are no new dishes in the sink. He opens the fridge to find a pizza box crumpled into the top, balanced precariously on the other items. Mary takes it out and inhales the cold pizza right from the box; he knows they’re all for him because Suey fucking hates pepperoni. (Though it doesn’t escape his notice that she’s put one piece of pineapple in the center to mess with him.)

He leaves the box by the trash (he’ll flatten it tomorrow), and then makes his way to her bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, lest he incur her wrath.

When he finally wiggles into her twin bed in his boxers, he’s bone tired. His dick still kinda wants some action, but Mary thinks he’d probably just fall asleep in the middle, and Suey really would bite his head off if he woke her up for no reason. He wishes she’d just sleep nude, but finding her in one of his well-worn shirts is the next best thing. He doesn’t mean to wake her up, but he can’t help himself from running his hands all over her—this girl who sees him and not his “image.”

“Mare?” she says in a quiet, sleepy voice.

He kisses her head.

“Go back to sleep, baby doll.”

She doesn’t speak again, but she squirms around until she’s sprawled across his chest. He’d prefer to have her caught up in a little spoon, but having her pressed into him—body sleep warm—is nothing to wave a stick at.

This is all he wanted, anyway.

Next ➡️

[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake

Peggy and the real Agent Russel look into Miss Lake’s apartment, and find an unusual apology.

-

Both Peggy and Russel spent their mornings with a sketch artist, getting their memories of the mysterious woman’s face down on paper so they could be compared.  When the two drawings were finally placed side by side, Peggy was not at all surprised to see they could very well be the same person.  The woman who called herself ‘Kay’ had a pleasant oval face with a short, turned-up nose, the flawless skin Russel had already mentioned, and full lips that she accentuated with dramatic lipstick.  She was, Peggy observed, not so much strikingly beautiful in herself as somebody who knew her own good best features and how to emphasize them.

Dottie had been very much the same.

With that done, Peggy was finally able to stop by at a diner for some breakfast, though it was nearly lunch time and her stomach was growling fiercely.  Russel went with her.

“You’ve been eating all morning,” Peggy reminded him when he ordered the breakfast platter – bacon, eggs, sausages, potatoes, tomatoes, pancakes, and toast.

“I was in the trunk of my car for twenty-four hours, Agent Carter,” he replied.  “I could eat a horse.”

“I think you already did.  Have you called your wife?” Peggy asked.

He looked sheepish.  “I asked one of the police to do it for me.”

Mrs. Russel had probably loved that.  “How did that go?”

“I don’t know yet and I’m not sure I want to.”

“Mmm,” was all Peggy said.  It was a strange thing… men often treated their wives as foolish annoyances, yet at the same time they could be utterly terrified of them, as if women were less people than they were forces of nature.  “Well, perhaps you can consider it a learning experience.”

“Damned right,” Russel said.  Peggy wondered what he thought he’d learned.

“I suppose I’m going to have to go over the whole story of my interactions with Miss Underwood again,” Peggy remarked, as the waitress set their breakfasts on the table.  Oddly, it seemed less daunting now… as if telling it to the spy had been a reassuring practice run.

Russel cut himself a large square out of the edge of his pancakes and dipped it in syrup before stuffing it in his mouth.  “Save it for the next guy, Agent Carter,” he said around the mouthful.  “Call it a hunch but I think I’m about to be taken off this case.”

At least he was a realist, Peggy observed.  She sat quietly for a moment as he devoured sausages whole, then reached into her bag and took out the envelope.  “Agent Russel,” she said, “I believe our mutual friend may have given this to me.  Did she get it from you?”

He looked up at the envelope and frowned.  “I don’t think so.  What’s in it?”

“A piece of paper with six numbers on it,” Peggy replied.  “Seventy-nine, forty-seven, thirty-five, ninety-five, twenty-five, three.”  They had burned themselves into her brain.  She would never forget them, any more than she would have forgotten her own name.  “Does that mean anything to you?”

Russel shook his head.  “A code?” he suggested, and thought for a moment.  “Latitude and longitude?”

“It’s an island in Northern Canada, I already looked it up,” Peggy said.  “There’s nothing but sea ice for miles.”  Would that mean anything to him?  Did he know of her association with Steve?

He shrugged.  “The only thing I can suggest is call the Canadians and ask them to take a look.”

Not his, then… and he hadn’t known the name Olga Barynova.  Had the latter been a slip, or had ‘Kay’ deliberately fed her information?  And what in the world could be the meaning of the coordinates coming from a likely Soviet operative?  Before she placed any long-distance phone calls to Canada, Peggy really needed to find this woman.  The only question was, having done so, would they be able to get any information out of her?

Peggy had told Daniel where she’d be, so it wasn’t a surprise when one of the policemen came into the diner and approached their table.  “Agents?” he said.  “We traced that phone number.”

“Yes?” Peggy perked up.  She wouldn’t be surprised to find out it led to a pay phone, but that could at least be dusted for prints.

The man handed Agent Russel a piece of notepaper.  “It belongs to a room above the Botticelli Gardens nightclub on Hollywood Boulevard.  Some of the waitresses live up there.  The woman who keeps the records, Mrs. Lowe, said room four was rented to a woman named Katherine Lake.”

Agent Russel opened his mouth, but Peggy got there first.  “Did you show her the sketches?” she asked.

“That’s what I was going to ask,” said Russel.

“Not yet,” the policeman said.

“Then I’ll head over there at once,” said Peggy.

Russel nodded and held up a hand.  “Waitress!”  He snapped his fingers.  “Can I get the rest of this to go?”

“I thought you were being taken off the case,” Peggy reminded him.

“I’ve got a personal interest now.”

“Is that a personal interest in apprehending this Miss Lake, or a personal interest in avoiding your wife?”

“Bit of both,” he admitted.

He probably thought Peggy would need help with the investigation, she observed.  She just hoped he wouldn’t get too much in the way.

- 

The Botticelli Gardens was a located in a three-storey building designed to look from the outside like an Italian Villa, with red roofs, decorative columns, and a pair of under-watered cypress tress flanking the front doors.  At this time of day they were not yet open, so Peggy and Russel went around the side to the staff entrance and knocked.

The door opened to reveal a plump middle-aged woman of mixed racial ancestry, her frizzy dark hair only just contained in a bun at the back of her neck and a pair of cat-eye glasses perched precariously on her short nose.  Both Peggy and Russel held up their badges.

“Ned Russel, FBI,” he said.

“Peggy Carter, SSR,” Peggy added.  “Are you Mrs. Lowe?”

The woman heaved a sigh that suggested this was not the first time law enforcement had shown up on her doorstep this week.  “Yes, I’m Gladys Lowe,” she said.  “Now what?”

Peggy held up the sketch of Miss Lake.  “Do you know this woman?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lowe, not even surprised.  “That’s Kay Lake.  Arthur hired her about a week ago, but she didn’t turn up for work yesterday evening.  What’d she do?”

“Besides drugging me, robbing me, and leaving me locked in the trunk of my car?” asked Russel.

“Impersonating an FBI agent to gain access to classified information,” Peggy added.  “And possibly more, we’re not sure yet.  May we have a look at her room, please?”

Mrs. Lowe’s eyebrows rose and she whistled.  “She’s ambitious.  Most of them settle for petty theft.  Come in, she’s room four.  Are you going to impound her belongings?”  She was probably hoping to sell them.

“That depends on what we find, Mrs. Lowe,” said Peggy.

Mrs. Lowe showed them upstairs.  The second floor of the Botticelli Gardens was private party rooms for the VIP clientele, but the third was set aside as living quarters for the staff.  The rooms were tiny and cramped, with only one bathroom and one laundry for the lot of them.  Mrs. Lowe unlocked number four and Peggy followed Agent Russel inside.

It was empty.  There was a tiny bed, a nightstand, a small wardrobe, and a smaller vanity under the one grubby little window.  All the drawers and cupboard doors were open, to show that there was nothing in any of them.  The bedclothes were folded at the end of the mattress, so it was easy to see that there was likewise nothing under the bed.  The only thing in the room that would not have been there when Miss Lake moved in was a large brown paper bag on top of the folded sheets.

Peggy and Russel exchanged a glance.  “Mrs. Lowe,” said Peggy.  “Do you have any idea what might be in that bag?”

“No,” was the reply.

Russel edged forward and knocked it over.  It lay quietly on the mattress, showing no signs of being dangerous, and Peggy realized there was something written on it.  In block capitals, somebody had written: SORRY.

“Let me do it.  I have gloves,” said Peggy.  She pulled them out of her purse and put them on, then very carefully unfolded the top of the paper bag.  The first thing she saw inside was a leather folio… was that the one Lake had with her the other day?  Peggy pulled it out and opened it, and found it did indeed contain typed pages summarizing what was known about Dorothy Underwood.

“That’s mine,” said Russel.

“I expected as much,” Peggy put it on the bed and looked into the bag again.  “It appears your wallet and badge are in here, too, and a gun that I suspect is your service revolver.  We’ll have to get these dusted for prints.”

“Agreed,” Russel said.  “I’ll take them back to…”

“Ah-ah,” Peggy interrupted.  “I’ll take them back to the SSR and have it done there.  You’ve been taken off the case, remember?”

“Not officially yet,” he pointed out.

“But you’re sure it’s coming.”

Russel looked her over.  “Are you always this… intense, Agent Carter?”

“Always,” Peggy assured him, with a practiced deadpan.

Peggy called Daniel, and soon after the SSR arrived in force to take a proper, more thorough look at the room while Mrs. Lowe stood there frowning disapprovingly and threatening horrible fates on anybody who damaged the furniture.  Men covered everything with fingerprint powder and rapped on the floor, walls, and even the ceiling looking for secret hiding places.  They found none of the latter, but were able to obtain a reasonably good set of latent prints from the various drawers and the bedposts.  The size of these suggested they were a woman’s, or at least belonged to somebody with small hands.  There were also a couple of blonde hairs on the bedclothes.

Unfortunately, they had no suspect to compare these to.  Miss Lake probably knew that perfectly well.  They would have to actually capture her before they could prove anything.

While they were busy bagging the evidence, another policeman arrived, looking for Agent Russel.

“We’ve had a call from your office,” he explained.  “They want to talk to you.”

“I’m surprised it took them this long,” Russel sighed.  “All right, I’ll head over.”  He retrieved his hat from the hook on the back of the door of room four, and put it on.  “Good luck with the case, Agent Carter… and with Miss Underwood.”

“Thank you, Agent Russel,” said Peggy, and realized she actually felt a bit sorry for him.  It was true he’d been a terrible fool, but he’d never tried to deny that or pass the blame on to anybody else, and while he wanted to put off the consequences for as long as he could, he seemed to realize they were inevitable.  That was more than Peggy could say for a great many people she knew, male or female.  It was certainly more than she could say for herself in this mess with Dottie.

“Good luck with your wife,” she told him.

“Thanks.  I’ll need it,” he replied ruefully, and left the room.

Back in the SSR offices that evening, Peggy found an opportunity when nobody seemed to be watching, and brushed fingerprint dust over the mysterious envelope.  Several prints developed, and Peggy pulled out her own employee file so she could eliminate which ones were hers.   Quite a few of them were… but there were others that were not, and when she examined the actual page with the numbers, she found a print of the side of a hand where it had rested while drawing the star and circles, and a palm in the upper left corner where the other hand had steadied the page.

The prints were partial, and Peggy was not an expert… but the left thumb bore a set of four interrupted lines that looked very much like a thumbprint that had been taken from one of the drawer knobs in room four.

That seemed to settle it: the envelope had indeed been left by Miss Lake.  It had nothing to say, though, about the question of why.  Was this a trick, an attempt to send the SSR off on a wild goose chase so that Miss Lake could track down Dottie herself without their interference?  Or did the Soviets actually know where Captain America was?  And if they did, what were they planning to do about it?

[beca-mitchell]

life as we know it (1/1)

Summary: After Beca's miscarriage, the road to healing is a long one. Their first night out together in a while proves to be more difficult than expected.

Word count: 2.7k

continuation from this. Part of now i see daylight—an au series that explores beca and chloe’s lives together as if they had been childhood friends.

A/N: this universe is the work-product of hours of hc'ing with @asimplefavors, so just assume all ideas are things we've discussed. <3 in this universe, beca and chloe are high school sweethearts.

Warning for angst and mention/reference to a miscarriage.

read below or on AO3.

——————————

“I never want to be without you again.”

“I never left.”

“I know, but it felt like you did and that’s what hurt the most.”

Blinking at her reflection, Beca murmurs a quiet thanks at both her stylist and her make-up artist as they quietly mill about behind her packing up their things.

It feels odd, as it has for the past while, to be preparing to go out when it still feels like she ought to be grieving. The aches and pains—the physical ones—have long faded and she has been spending more time in the studio, slowly getting her bearings again. Though she is technically on a break from the album she had been working on before and during her pregnancy, she still thinks about the music she had been creating—the music she had anticipated being read just in time for their baby, but—

She inhales deeply.

Music has never felt more soothing or poignant.

Though she still shares her music with Chloe from time to time, there has been a very specific solitude she has received from simply immersing herself in music again.

But more than that—losing herself in the love she feels for Chloe, their life together, and their baby who didn’t make it, but who will forever be so, so loved and cherished. All of that, translated into music and memories to be cherished forever.

Beca attempts a smile at herself in the mirror.

Chloe’s quiet gasp draws Beca out of her musings.

“You look beautiful,” Chloe murmurs, pulling Beca towards her for a quick kiss. Beca finds it amusing that for how much Chloe hadn’t given a second thought about PDA in high school, Chloe is now the more reserved one between the two of them.

It’s charming.

“Wait,” Beca pleads, wanting to feel Chloe’s warmth against her for just a few seconds more. Her stylist can wait a few measly seconds. “There,” she mumbles against Chloe’s mouth, purposefully sliding her hand up Chloe’s back to send a shiver down Chloe’s spine. Pleased with her own ministrations, Beca pulls back, taking care to ensure that Chloe’s lipstick is as pristine as it was before.

“You two,” Beca’s make-up artist says lightly from where she’s packing up her things. “I’m not fixing anything,” she sing-songs.

Beca smiles up at her girifriend who returns the smile with equal energy. “There’s nothing to fix,” she promises, speaking directly to Chloe. “I’m going to have the best-looking woman on my arm.”

Chloe’s smile threatens to turn into a smirk, but she maintains innocence long enough. “Flatterer.”

Though Beca feels light at the moment, an undercurrent of nervous anticipation rushes through her. This is the first event she and Chloe are attending together ever since the miscarriage and though their relationship is pretty much back at where it was before everything nearly fell apart, it wasn’t without hard work and pain. One month after Chloe finally broke down in her arms, clutching at Beca with the desperation of somebody on the brink of total collapse--one month and eight joint therapy sessions later--Beca finally feels like she’s close to whole.

So while flirting with Chloe openly is only a mask to hide her nerves, she still thinks Chloe is the most beautiful woman she has ever laid eyes on. She softens her gaze, allowing herself to sink into the sensation of being so in love with the woman standing in front of her; it is gratefulness and happiness and passion all at once--Chloe, who has been there for everything, will continue to be there (so long as you let me, Chloe had said with tears in her eyes).

“What?” Chloe finally asks when she senses the change in Beca’s demeanor.

“Nothing,” Beca responds. She reaches out to hold Chloe’s hand. “I’m just happy.”

She’s telling the truth.

“Me too,” Chloe says.

Beca knows Chloe is telling the truth as well.

—————————— 

 The event is close-knit enough that Beca doesn’t feel any of the usual anxiety she feels whenever she goes to industry events. She can tell Chloe also feels a small measure of comfort having met many of the attendees as well. It is still surreal to both of them—Chloe more so than Beca—that this is their life now. By virtue of Beca's status as a celebrity and recording artist with a major label, they mingle regularly with celebrities. This event in particular is a moderately-sized event—honouring some of the older, well-respected music industry executives. It means the flashy celebrity turn-out is low to medium at best, which seemed like a fitting way to make a public appearance. Beca barely knows the honorees, but she supposes showing her face can’t hurt every now and then.

Her label’s president immediately swoops in front of her for a quick conversation. Chloe smiles and kisses her cheek, murmuring that she’ll come back with drinks.

In the past few weeks, Beca realizes then that she and Chloe hadn’t really spent too much time apart. It’s the only explanation for the loss she feels so keenly even though Chloe is just across the room.

“—Beca?”

Beca startles back to the present, flicking her eyes guiltily back to Tom who smiles at her knowingly. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “What, um—?”

“Never gets old, huh?” he asks, tipping his wine glass in her direction.

“What doesn’t?”

“Being in love.”

Beca feels the blush spread across her cheeks and down her neck all at once. “Oh, well, I don’t know if—” At his raised eyebrow, she shrugs helplessly and cuts herself off. “I don’t know where I’d be without her.”

“Well, behind every great artist,” he says lightly.

Chloe appears by Beca’s side again. “Is an even greater woman?” she asks with a pleasant lilt to her voice.

Beca grins, accepting the glass. “Took you long enough.”

“Well, I was going to say a great partner,” Tom corrects. He holds his hand out to shake Chloe’s hand. “Tom Mackay. A pleasure to meet you formally. Beca never shuts up about you.”

“He’s the big guy up there,” Beca clarifies for Chloe, talking over Tom.

“Chloe,” Chloe says after nudging Beca lightly with her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Tom.”

They are soon joined by a couple, Dan Freeman and his wife Robin.

"So, Chloe," Dan begins in a tone that already has Beca rolling her eyes. She’s never particularly enjoyed his company, but he’s such a solid sound engineer that she begrudgingly admires his talent and tolerates him at least half of the time. "This one is always spending time in the studio, especially recently.” He tilts his head towards Beca. “I bet you’ll be glad when she’s finally done with this album.”

Beca clears her throat. “I’m actually taking a break,” she reminds him stiffly. “Remember?” Chloe, for her part, has not tensed up uncomfortably next to Beca, but instead tucks her hand neatly into the crook of Beca’s elbow. A quick glance shows a gentle smile on Chloe’s face as her eyes flicker to Beca’s.

“I’m grateful for Beca all the time,” Chloe says simply.

Robin coos at them and leans into Dan. “Look at them, why can’t we be more like them?”

Beca tries not to smile too smugly at her coworker, but a small measure of self-satisfaction seeps through nonetheless.

“How long have you two been together again?”

“It’ll be seven years next month,” Beca replies, unable to resist smiling at Chloe again who beams back at her.

“I envy you,” Dan says, shaking his head. “You’re so young and you have so many opportunities to attend events like this. Don’t have to worry about staying out too late or finding a sitter for the little ones,” he jokes, nudging his wife with a playful smile.

Tom laughs at that. “I agree. It was impossible for me and Emily to find somebody to look after our rascals, but we did. I’m sure they would have enjoyed this thrilling event though,” he jokes. “Well, the joys of being a recording artist...at least your schedule is king and you can set up whatever you need with no super strict deadlines,” Tom directs at Beca with a wink. “As long as we still get those albums.”

“Stop pressuring them both of you,” Robin chides. “I’m sure you’ll make lovely parents,” Robin says graciously, directing an apologetic smile at both Chloe and Beca. “But I know that’s not always in everybody’s agenda—at least not really early on.”

For a moment, she struggles to breathe. Beca feels some of the air around her grow thick and stagnant. The shift happens in an instant. She tightens her grip around the stem of her glass and wills herself not to crush the fragile material in her fist. Chloe tenses next to her as well and Beca feels the brief tightening of Chloe’s fingers in the crook of her elbow.

——————————

“I think...with our history and everything that we’ve been through together...part of me is afraid that one day I’ll wake up and she won’t be there,” Chloe whispers. She can barely look at Beca while she says so, taking the brief silence as an opportunity to quickly swipe at the tears welling quickly in her eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Beca murmurs, trying to keep her voice steady despite the sharp pain that spreads through her chest. “I would never leave you.”

“But you almost did. We almost broke because of what happened.”

“I felt so guilty,” Beca explains even though the words are increasingly meaningless. So much of the misplaced guilt had been alleviated over the past few weeks. “I still do sometimes, but—”

“Beca, don’t,” Chloe pleads.

“But,” Beca continues, reaching out to hold Chloe’s hands. “It’s mostly because I know that I hurt you and I know that things still hurt, but I can’t imagine doing this whole life thing without you and I can’t believe that it feels like I almost threw it all away.”

“You didn’t,” Chloe promises. “We’re both working on it now and I know you’re trying. I’m trying, too.” Chloe twists her hands so she can hold Beca’s hands properly. “I love you so much.”

Beca sniffles, surprising herself. Laughing hollowly, she reaches up to quickly swipe away a few stray tears before immediately holding Chloe’s hands again. “I love you, too, Chlo.”

For a moment, they both forget that their therapist is sitting across from them.

They’ll get through it. "We'll get through this," Beca promises. "I'm sorry for ever making you think otherwise. Too lost in my own head." 

"Don't apologize for feeling things, Bec. I only ever wished I could take some of that worry away from you."

"We're going to get through this," Bece repeats, with conviction.

Chloe has no choice but to believe the love of her life.

—————————— 

There is a quiet pain in Chloe’s entire posture as she sits silently next to Beca at their designated table. The lights feel increasingly hot and jarring as they bear down on her. Though Chloe never shied away from the spotlight figuratively or literally, she somehow feels more put on the spot than ever.

The sudden reminder of what had happened such a short period of time ago—and the fact that she and Beca hadn’t even had the opportunity to tell anybody about Beca’s pregnancy before the miscarriage—sticks in her chest like a dagger through her heart.

She tries to focus on the food in front of her and the sound of the MC’s voice amid bursts of laughter, but none of that makes sense—it shouldn’t make sense, not when the flash of grief that rushes through her is immediately struck down by other warring emotions all threatening to burst free.

The fear she had felt when she had received the call from Beca—how Beca’s voice had trembled and hitched and wavered. The drive to the hospital and the energy it had taken to not tremble too badly so as to not get into an accident. Tears. Beca profusely apologizing for nothing and everything all at once, like she had any hand in what had happened.

And the distance—the distance that had stretched between them afterwards.

Apologies and declarations of love.

“Chlo,” Beca says softly. “Are you okay?”

Dragged back into the present moment, a rush of noise hits her as Chloe turns to Beca and quickly swipes at the tears that had formed. “Yeah,” she replies. “I think I’m just…” she trails off.

“Yeah, me too,” Beca murmurs. Her eyes reflect a similar pain. She glances around. “Want to...go?”

“Go? Go where?”

“Go home,” Beca says simply with a half shrug.

“Don’t you need to...be here?”

“I’d rather be at home with you.”

Chloe watches her for any trace of emotion that might indicate otherwise before she nods her head.

Together, they leave.

——————————

  “I’m pregnant,” Beca whispers, tears springing to her eyes. “I’m pregnant, oh my God.”

Chloe drops her plate into the sink, hastily wiping her hands off on the closest dishtowel. “Beca, what? What did you just say?”

Beca smiles through a hiccup or a sob. She can’t tell. “It worked,” she tries to explain with a shaky voice. “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh my God,” Chloe exclaims, immediately reaching out to hold Beca’s waist. Beca immediately notices the careful grip Chloe has on her already. “Oh my God, Bec, I—” Poor Chloe, completely overwhelmed, simply begins to cry.

Beca looks incredibly alarmed at the display. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Chloe promises. “I’m just so happy.”

——————————

 “Chlo,” Beca murmurs as they lie together in bed, showered and refreshed.

Chloe hums, tucking her face further against Beca’s neck and holding her close. “What is it?”

“You know what I see in our future?”

Chloe shakes her head, ruffling her hair as it sticks to Beca’s shirt and skin.

“I think I can see us with two kids. A beautiful house with a backyard. Maybe close to the ocean. And every day when we wake up, it’ll be to the sound of them laughing and giggling as they jump on our bed. You get the side of the bed closer to the door because I’m not getting my spleen ruptured by them every morning.” Beca inhales. “And God, I know they’re going to be beautiful. Whether we adopt or whether we figure out another way, they’re going to be such beautiful, beautiful children to call our own and that’ll be because they have you to model themselves after. I am so lucky to have you by my side. I was so sad earlier, thinking about everything and how unfair life can be sometimes, but Chlo, I can’t imagine what life would be like without you and I want you to know how much I love you.”

Chloe thinks she’s crying and laughing by the time Beca finishes, but she doesn’t care because she is pulling Beca in for a slow, deep kiss that quickly becomes messy because Beca is whispering words of love into her mouth and tightly weaving her arms around Chloe’s back to hold her close. It is surreal how this feels—how incredibly close to Beca she feels then. It is then that the memory of their entire shared history (littered with all kinds of memories, both happy and sad) doesn’t feel quite so daunting anymore. Like clouds parting to reveal an incomparable warmth, Chloe envisions such a clear and probable future with Beca. As clearly as Beca has seen it, evidently.

They share the same future.

They’re in this together.

“I know that we’re going to be good parents,” Beca whispers, voice thick with emotion. "Like...the best." She rests her forehead against Chloe’s. “I know I’m going to be a good mom despite my own parents.”

“You are,” Chloe breathes out with the little air she has left in her lungs. “You are so, so—” Beca kisses her, interrupting her. Chloe huffs, placing her hand loosely on Beca's chest. “I wasn’t finished."

“I know. I just had to tell you that you’re going to be an incredible mother too. I’ve known this forever. Ever since we were kids even when I didn’t even understand what I was feeling. I just know because you’re Chloe Beale. Our kids are going to be beautiful because of you,” Beca repeats. “I know it.”

“And you.”

Beca closes her eyes. The silence that follows is heavy, rife with all the emotion shared between them in the past few minutes. “I believe you,” she says finally.

Chloe knows she’s telling the truth.

fin.

[mldrgrl]

The First New Year

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG Summary: @kateyes224 wanted an early season New Year’s Eve fic.  And you can’t get earlier than post-The Pilot.

If she hadn’t promised she would show up, she would have just stayed home.  Parties in general were never her thing and New Year’s Eve was the worst of them.  Inevitably, revelry would be taken too far and she wasn’t looking forward to a house full of inebriated strangers.  She had promised though, and so she would have to endure or break her word.

Knocking was useless and even the doorbell couldn’t be heard over the music and laughter from inside the house.  Cautiously, Scully opened the unlocked door to Ellen’s foyer and squeezed past a cluster of men sipping alcohol from plastic cups and arguing about upcoming Superbowl playoffs.  She snaked her way down the hall, past flanks of people; men in sweater vests and party hats, women in tight dresses and tiaras announcing HAPPY NEW YEAR and 1993 in glitter and gold.  She adjusted the folds of her trench coat a little tighter, feeling more out of place in her black turtleneck and wool trousers than when she first walked in.

Hoping to find Ellen, the kitchen was the first place she checked.  All she found there was more people, cases of wine and beer, and trays of assorted hors d'oeuvres that could feed an army.  Apparently all of Cathedral Heights was invited to tonight’s party.

Scully located Gene, Ellen’s husband, before she found Ellen.  He was holding court by the fireplace and lifted a glass in her direction when he saw her and waved her over.  Even though Gene was her best friend’s husband, she wasn’t exactly well-acquainted with him.  He was a corporate attorney, dedicated to his career and had little free time.  He made Ellen happy though, and that was all that mattered.

“Dana,” he said, drawing her in and kissing her lightly on the cheek.  “Good to see you.  This is Steve Wentworth and Tripp Lightfoot.  Steve just made partner this year.”

“Congratulations,” she said, forcing a smile.

“But, you haven’t even taken your coat off yet.”

“I just got here.”

“Dana and Ellen go back to Annapolis,” he explained.  “Isn’t that right?  You grew up on the same base?  Their father’s were Navy.”

“That’s right.”  She nodded in agreement and searched the room.  

“My Grandad went to West Point,” Tripp or Steve said.  She wasn’t sure which was which.

“Sorry, I just need to use the ladies room and then...”

“Past the kitchen.”

“Yes.”  She forced another smile and drifted away.  

Finally, she located Ellen at the back of the house in the enclosed porch at the back of the house.  Her friend and another woman were chatting and hanging coats on portable racks that were set up for the occasion.

“Dana!” Ellen cried, rushing over to hug her friend.  “Oh, I’m so glad you came.  I know you hate these things.  Linda, come and meet my oldest friend.”

“Good to meet you,” Linda said.  “El, I’m just going to use the phone in the den and check in with the babysitter.”

“Oh of course, of course.  Go in through the side, we locked the French doors to keep people from wandering in.”  Ellen took both of Dana’s hands and squeezed them.  “It is so good to see you.  It’s been too long.”

“I know.”

“Oh, but let me take your coat.  So how are you?  How’s the teaching going?”

Scully reluctantly shed her trench coat into Ellen’s waiting hands.  “Teaching is good,” she said.  “I’ve had a new assignment though.  Sort of.  On an as needed basis.  Field work.”

“Field work, that’s exciting.”

“It is, actually.”

Ellen hung Scully’s coat up on the rack with the others.  “Where’s Ethan?”

“Oh.”  Scully took a breath and then shook her head.  “Ethan isn’t...we broke up.”

“Oh, Dana.”  Ellen made a noise of dismay and her mouth drooped into a frown.  “What happened?”

“Nothing really happened, we just...didn’t really have time for each other anymore.”

“Well, I’m sure there are plenty of eligible bachelors here tonight, though I don’t even know half of them.  Mostly colleagues of Gene.”

“How’s Trent?” Scully was eager to change the subject from eligible bachelors.

“At Gene’s parents tonight, thankfully.  They got him one of those Gameboy things for Christmas and I honestly don’t know if it’s a godsend or an instrument of evil. It’s kept him out of my hair at times, but just try to take it out of his hands!”

“Mm.”  Scully nodded, but the struggles of parenting were foreign to her.  

“He loved those cars you got him though!  Your mom brought them to midnight mass, I hope she told you.”

“I know, I was sorry I couldn’t get them to you myself, it’s been a little hectic, but I’m glad he liked them.  My...partner suggested them.”

“Partner?  Part of the new assignment?”

“In a way.  I mean, I guess I don’t really know what to call him yet.”

“Him!  Is he attractive?”

Scully opened her mouth slightly and then paused.  Mulder was attractive, but she’d tried not to dwell on it or think too much about it.  But, he dressed well, he was always clean cut and shaven, and he smelled incredible.  He was also roguishly charming, which was a bad sign.  And given her track record with Daniel and Jack, she had made a vow never to find anyone she worked with attractive ever again.

“Yeah,” she finally said.  “I guess he’s...cute.”

“Cute is good.  Tell me more ab-“

“Ellen!” Gene called out to his wife and then he appeared around the door, leaning into the frame from the other side of the wall.  “Honey, sorry to interrupt.  Where’s the case of Coke?  I thought we left it in the fridge in the garage and I can’t find it.”

“Let me check.”  Ellen widened her eyes in feigned panic at Scully and smiled.  “Hostess duties call.  I want to know more about this cute partner of yours though.”

“I mean, there’s nothing really…”  Scully trailed off.  Ellen was distracted and already out the door.

With a sigh, Scully looked around the empty room.  It was just her and a hundred coats.  She opened up the small purse that was strapped across her chest and rested at her hip.  She’d only brought the essentials with her; her ID, her phone, her debit card, and a tube of lipstick in a small case.  She took the lipstick out and checked her face in the small mirror inside the case.  There was a smudge of mascara at the corner of her eye which she fixed with a fingertip and then she closed the case and put it back in her purse.

Steeling herself, Scully headed back to the kitchen and found herself a glass of wine to sip.  She wandered the first floor looking for someone, anyone she might know, but didn’t recognize anybody.  She didn’t know how to insert herself into conversations without being awkward and so she remained a wallflower, quietly observing from a corner.

“It’s Dana, right?”  Tripp or Steve from earlier sauntered up to her.

“Yes.”

“Tripp.  We met earlier.”

“Right.  You work with Gene.”

“I do.  Gene said you were in the FBI.  That’s got to be pretty exciting, even for a secretary.”

“I’m not a secretary.”

“Oh, I don’t mean you are.  I just mean, it’s the FBI.  Covert ops and all that.  Secret intel.  Everyone from the janitor to the head honcho probably has things they have to keep hush hush.”

“I see.”  Scully took a sip of her wine and tried not to look disengaged.

“So what do you do there?”

“I’m a Special Agent.”

Tripp whistled low.  “What does that mean exactly?  You’re a spy?”

“It means I’m licensed to carry a weapon and I’m trained to use it.”  She couldn’t help herself at being a little sarcastic, but it came out a little more flirtatious than she would’ve liked.

“I guess I should be on my best behavior, then.”

“Luckily, I’m off duty tonight.”

“That is lucky.”

Her phone rang in her purse just then and she took it out and looked at the screen.  She didn’t recognize the number, but she answered anyway.  Even if it was a wrong number, it was an opportunity to extricate herself from her current conversation and she wanted to snatch it up.  She raised an apologetic finger at Tripp and then turned away, covering her ear with the side of her wine glass to block out the noise of the room.

“Scully,” she said.

“Oh hey, Scully, I didn’t actually think you’d answer.”

“Mulder?”

“Guilty.”

“Is something wrong?  Is it a case?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at...a friend’s party.”

“I hate parties.”

She took a glance at Tripp and saw him sipping his beer and pondering the windows like he was pretending not to be interested in her conversation.  “Yes,” she answered.  “You and me both.”

“But, you’re at one?”

“Well…”

“Let me guess, you promised that friend you’d come and you’d rather be miserable than break a promise.”

She closed her eyes and her cheeks burned a little in embarrassment.  “Something like that, yes.”

“Well, I don’t want to bug you, I just wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?”

“I got your Christmas card.”

“My...Mulder, I sent that weeks ago.”

“Sometimes I get a little distracted and forget to open my mail.”

She laughed.  “And you chose 11 o’clock on New Year’s Eve to catch up?”

“I wasn’t doing anything else, so…”

“Well, you’re welcome.”

“Have a happy New Year, Scully.  I’ll let you get back to your party.  It sounds like...a party.”

“You have a happy New Year too, Mulder.”  She hung up the call and then stared at the phone in her hand for a few moments.

“Nothing urgent, I hope,” Tripp said, mildly.  “Our national security isn’t at risk, is it?”

“It could be.  I don’t work in that department.”

“So what department do you work in?”

“Pathology, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I’m sorry, could you excuse me?  I just realized I need to make another call.”

“Sure.”

Before she could talk herself out of what she was about to do, Scully hurried back to the sun porch to retrieve her coat.  Along the way, she dropped her half-empty wine glass off on a tray of other used glasses.  She found her trench coat fairly easily and swiped one of the many bottles of champagne off the counter in the kitchen, tucking it under her arm as she tied her jacket closed and slipped unnoticed out the door.

Traffic was light, but it still took almost forty minutes to get to Mulder’s apartment.  She had to stop a few times to consult her map and make sure she was making the right turns.  His block was tree-lined and quiet.  The apartment building was brick and stately.  A couple that were making their way out the front door let her in before she needed to buzz and she took the elevator to the fourth floor to search for number 42.  When she found it, she knocked lightly and then stepped back to wait.

“You’re not the pizza guy,” Mulder said when he opened his door.  He was barefoot, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt.  It was the most casual she’d seen him aside from his running clothes.

“Afraid not.”  She held up the bottle of champagne though and he took it from her by the neck.

“Won’t this be missed at the party?  Won’t you be missed as well?”

“Me and the champagne will go unnoticed.  And I figured, I kept my promise by showing up.  I never agreed to stay until midnight.”

“I like your logic.  Come in?”

For the first time, Scully stepped into Mulder’s apartment and took it all in.  It was dark and mismatched, but it still felt cozy.  It wasn’t quite the bachelor pad she was expecting, but she’d yet to see the kitchen or bathroom so she should probably reserve judgment.

“I was just watching Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve,” he said.

“Anything good?”

“Not really.  Should I pour this champagne now, or should we wait?”

Scully looked at her watch.  It was ten minutes to midnight.  “Pour it now,” she said.

“Sit down.  Make yourself at home.”

She took her coat off and hung it on the rack by the door.  Despite Mulder’s casual attire, she didn’t feel out of place here like she did at the party.  She unzipped her boots and took those off too.  Her socked feet slid precariously across his wood floor.  His couch was made of soft leather and she sank down into it.  A fish tank bubbled quietly next to her and she gazed at the tiny fish darting back and forth inside.

“Sorry I don’t have anything more formal,” Mulder said, coming into the room with two coffee mugs balanced in one hand and the champagne bottle in the other.  “I don’t entertain all that often.”

Scully chuckled as he handed her the mug with Marvin the Martian on the side and sat beside her.  The one he kept in his hand had the New York Knick’s logo on it.  He poured the champagne into her cup first and then his and she waited until he’d put the bottle down to clink their mugs together.

“Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers.”

They both took a sip.  Mulder licked his lips and then nodded.  “It’s good,” he said.

“I should tell you my godson loved the Hot Wheels you told me about.”

“I did?”  Mulder looked at her blankly and tilted his head in question.

“It’s okay, it was an offhand remark.  About hot toys of the season. I remembered it when I was shopping for him and...well, you should get the credit for it.”

“Oh.  How old is your godson?”

“Seven.”

“Yeah, that’s probably the prime target for the Hot Wheels market.”

Scully turned her attention to the TV and The Village People singing YMCA in low volume, interspersed with people screaming and dancing, waving noisemakers and blowing horns.  

“I hope you didn’t leave your party because of me,” Mulder said, suddenly.

“No, I left the party because of me,” she answered, after thinking it over for a few moments.

“Why’d you show up here?”

“I don’t know.  I didn’t really want to be at that party, but I also didn’t really want to be at home either.  And then you called and…”

“I’m a step above being alone.”  His chuckle echoed into his mug before he took another sip of champagne.

“It wasn’t that.  I don’t know what it was, actually, but it wasn’t that.”

They were both quiet again and Dick Clark announced a commercial break before the final countdown.  Scully looked at her watch again.  Four minutes to go.  Time seemed to fly by so quickly.

“Do you ever make resolutions?” she asked.

“Not really.  Do you?”

“Sometimes.  I can’t really think of anything this year, though.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.  Maybe it means you’re living the life you want to live.”

“Hm.”  She thought about that all through the commercial break.  She barely had enough time for friends or family this year, let alone a relationship.  Her work was both exhilarating and fulfilling, but was that enough?  She considered herself to be content and happy, but would she always feel that way?  Should she be making time for other people now before it was too late?

“Hey,” Mulder said, bumping her shoulder with his.  “Eight, seven, you’re missing it, four, three, two, one.  Happy new year!”

Scully snapped out of her reverie and joined him at number three.  They tapped their mugs together again and took longer sips of champagne as Auld Lang Syne began to play on TV.  The screen was filled with confetti and celebration.

“Scully?” Mulder said.

“Yeah?”

He leaned closer to her, hesitated for a second, and then placed a quick kiss on her cheek.  “Happy new year,” he said.

She stared down at his knees for a few moments and then reached up to touch the spot on her cheek where his lips had been.  “We can never be together,” she said.

“What?”

“I just...I should tell you that I can never date a coworker again, so…”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but…”

“I didn’t mean to give you a false impression, or...or…”

“I didn’t get any impression.”

“So that we’re clear.”

“Maybe it was me that-”

There was a knock on Mulder’s door that startled them both.  He cringed and then set his mug on the coffee table and pushed himself up from the couch.  She downed the rest of her champagne and pressed the back of her hand to her flaming cheeks, one at a time.

“You like sausage and pepperoni?” he asked, returning to the room with a pizza box in hand.

“I should probably…”

“I like working with you, Scully.  I just want to throw that out there because I think we both misread something tonight and...you’re right.  We can never be together because I like working with you too much.”

“Oh.”

“It was just a friendly kiss on the cheek is all.”

“You just want to be friends?”

“I kind of thought we already were.  Sort of.”

“We can be friends.”

“Okay.”  Mulder sat down again and made room on his coffee table for the pizza box.  “Well, would you like to share this pizza with me, as a friend?”

“I think I will take you up on that offer, yes.”

“In that case, I should get some plates.”

“Mulder.”  She touched his arm, keeping him in place next to her.  After a brief pause, she leaned in and kissed his cheek, trying not to think about how warm his skin felt or let her eyes droop as she breathed him in.  She could not be attracted to her partner, not now, not ever.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“Happy new year?”

He smiled, but she noticed that his eyes shifted down to her mouth and then back up again.  “So, friends?” he said.

“And partners.”

“That depends on how good of a spy you are.”

“Mulder, I’m not…”

He raised his brows at her and she lowered her eyes.

“I like working with you too,” she said.  “With you.  Not against you.  Not for any other reason than...the cases are interesting.  The work is interesting.  You’re…”

“Interesting?”

“Yeah.”

“Well…”  Mulder picked up his mug, but noticed she was empty and poured more champagne into hers.  “To 1993,” he said, raising his cup.

“To 1993.”

They tapped their mismatched mugs together and then Mulder got up to get the plates.

The End

[mikhailoist]

the things we left unsaid

Rowena’s death plays in his mind like a recording on repeat. She holds onto him, drawing him closer to her while his hand rests on the blade that presses against her stomach. He wants to pull away, toss that damned thing to the floor because they don’t need it — Rowena doesn’t need to die. (But she does.) She asks him that question, the one he’s still hearing hours later. The one he should’ve answered yes to.

“Will you let the world die, let your brother die, just so I can live?”

She knew that would be the only way to get through to him. Of course she did. That sneaky witch knew Sam better than almost anyone (even better than Dean, in some ways); she knew that Sam didn’t have it within him to let the world crumble beneath the weight of another apocalypse. That’s not who he is. It never has been. So if it was Rowena or the world, or Cas or the world, or anyone else or the world, it would always be in Sam’s blood to choose the world, every single time.

But now, as he squeezes his eyelids shut and sees the blood spreading across Rowena’s middle, sees her stepping over Hell’s edge while carrying the weight of a billion souls, Sam wonders why he couldn’t just have both.

He lowers his face into a pair of trembling hands. There are tears brimming at his eyelids — not the first wave of tears today, and he’s sure it won’t be the last. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, desperate to erase the memory from his mind. All that blood. The tear in the earth, slowly closing up over the fiery pit that swallowed Rowena whole. ”That’s my boy.”

“Sam.” Dean appears in the doorway of Sam’s bedroom, startling the younger brother. He lowers his hands into his lap and looks up, not bothering to hide his broken expression. Dean’s seen him worse for wear countless times, anyway.

“You okay?” the elder asks. He asked him the same question about an hour ago, when he came in here and attempted to give the routine you had no choice, at least we saved the world speech. Sam’s grateful for the gesture, he is, but he doesn’t want to hear it right now. He doesn’t want to think about how they saved the world yet again — and this time, it wasn’t their doing, anyways. It was Rowena. She’s the one who died to save them — to save the world.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asks, because he really doesn’t want to talk about Rowena right now. Not with Dean, not with anyone.

(He doesn’t want to talk about it because that would make her death real, and he doesn’t want it to be real yet. He just wants her here.)

“Gone,” is Dean’s vague answer. There’s a trace of venom in his voice, along with something else Sam can’t quite put his finger on. Dean’s doing a pretty good job at masking his feelings for Sam’s sake. He’ll give him credit for that.

“What do you mean gone?” Sam asks.

“Needs a break, I guess. You want something to drink?” Dean’s sudden eagerness to change the subject doesn’t go unnoticed by Sam. He knows something much bigger is going on between Dean and Cas (hell, you can just sense it when you stand beside the two of them), but if he’s being totally honest, he doesn’t give two shits right now. That’s Dean’s mess to clean up, and right now — well, right now, Sam’s got some problems of his own.

(He doesn’t say a word about it to Dean, but a sharp pain runs through his shoulder. The aches come and go, brought on by the Equalizer wound, no doubt. He barely gives it a second thought, however, not when the events of earlier are still the freshest wound he bears.)

“I’m okay,” Sam says. “I think I’ll probably just get some shut-eye.”

“Okay.” Dean turns to leave, but not without sparing one more concerned glance at his little brother. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Yeah.” Sam nods weakly. “I will.”

Dean leaves, and Sam falls back onto his mattress, the back of his head roughly hitting his pillow. He doesn’t have much energy left, so he falls asleep in his flannel and jeans, though it takes him a while. And even as unconsciousness wraps him up like a pitch, dark blanket, he still can’t shake the memory of a certain red-haired witch.

I’m sorry, Rowena, he thinks, as the tears dry on his face. I’m so, so sorry.

-

The pain only gets worse. Not just the pain of losing Rowena, but the pain in his shoulder, too.

He starts to avoid Dean, if only just a little bit. He tries not to make it too obvious that he’s hiding from his older brother, but he just doesn’t want him to worry. What used to be an injury that acted up once or twice a day now has him in constant agony, and sometimes, he needs to find a way to be alone so he can just cry, because it hurts so fucking much. He’s never felt anything like it. He’s been shot before — too many times to count, really — but for some reason, this is different. He supposes the wound was caused by a terribly angry, all-powerful villain, and maybe that’s why it doesn’t seem to be getting any better. The bullet was crafted by magic, but not just any magic — dark, evil magic that was meant to kill Jack, one of the only people Sam knew who could have rivaled Chuck.

But now, Jack’s gone, Rowena is still gone, and Sam is in so much pain he can barely breathe.

He makes up an excuse for Dean to get out of the bunker — “I’m hungry, can you get us some pizza?” — and barely takes notice of Dean’s disgruntled expression as the older brother walks out. As soon as he hears the door slam shut, Sam lets out the agonized gasp he’d been holding in for nearly an hour. He makes a beeline for the bathroom while his hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt. Once he reaches the mirror, he pushes the unbuttoned shirt down past his arms and recoils at the sight of his shoulder reflected by the glass.

The wound definitely looks infected. The hole where the bullet broke past his skin has turned a shade of deep red — like the color of blood, but darker. Thin lines of crimson extend from the wound and travel across his skin like spiderwebs, nearly coating his entire shoulder.

It’s nothing like he’s ever seen before, and it terrifies him.

Sam reaches up with one hand to gingerly touch his shoulder, but the moment skin meets skin, he’s overwhelmed with a pain that seems to set his body on fire. He doesn’t remember much of what happens during those next few seconds — he thinks he might have blacked out — but he knows for certain that touching the wound was like pulling a trigger. The second his hand makes contact, a gate in his mind busts open and he’s flooded with flashbacks of trauma, memories he’s tried his hardest to bury for years. He sees himself drinking demon blood. He sees a man in a crisp, white suit — a man he knows is not him, but gleefully wears his body. He sees Dean dying, he sees Cas and Jack dying, and—

There she is again.

”Goodbye, boys.”

Sam wakes up with a gasp on the floor of the bathroom. He’s not sure how he ended up on the ground, or even how long he was unconscious for, but he’s lucky enough Dean hasn’t come home yet. He sits up, pressing his back against the wall and pulling his knees to his chest. He can’t control the flow of tears that overtakes him once again, nor can he put a stop to the panic that wrecks his body.

He just feels so guilty.

He never wanted Rowena to die. That was never a part of the plan. It all happened so fast — the original spell didn’t work out, and all of a sudden Rowena was carving her last resurrection seal out of her shoulder and placing a blade in Sam’s hand.

”It has to be you that kills me.”

She never should have died. It was never supposed to happen. Not like that.

And now, she’s all Sam can think about. The blood on her dress. All the souls from Hell pouring into her body, like she was nothing but a vessel that they would discard as soon as the crack in the earth closed up. (Which is surely what had happened — Rowena had said her body would crumble under the weight of the souls until nothing remained.)

But her death is not the only thing Sam remembers.

He winces as a new kind of pain blossoms in his chest, his heart longing for the bond he shared with the witch and all the things they left unsaid.

—

“Samuel,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

He rolled over on his side, his eyes adjusting to the dark room. As he squinted against the shadows, he could just make out Rowena’s head of scarlet hair, along with the lipstick smudged around the edges of her smile.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m awake.”

“You were pretty good at that,” Rowena commented, reaching over to trace a finger across Sam’s bare chest. He smiled a little sheepishly, his cheeks turning warm.

“You were better.”

“Can’t argue with you there, my boy,” she teased. “Maybe I ‘ought to teach you a thing or two.”

Sam fell quiet. As much as he wanted to capture Rowena’s lips in another kiss and go for a round two, something stopped him. It was like the blood in his veins froze, chilled by a fear he was sure he had kept locked away for years.

“Sam?” Rowena’s voice softened as soon as she realized something was wrong. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Yeah, I… I’m just—” He stopped with a frustrated sigh, because the words rested on the tip of his tongue and he just didn’t want to let them fall. He rolled over onto his back, glueing his eyes to the cracks in the ceiling.

Unfortunately for him, Rowena seemed to have the ability to read his mind. (Though he truly wouldn’t have been surprised if that was actually one of her powers, knowing her.)

“You think this should be a one time thing.”

Sam looked over at her. He could make out the expression on her face now, his eyes well adjusted to the darkness of midnight in the bunker. She didn’t look hurt or offended, which is what Sam might have expected, had the woman lying next to him been someone else. Rather, she looked understanding. Like she knew what was on his mind, and she saw it coming from a mile away.

“Everyone I’ve ever been with,” Sam said. “It hasn’t… it never ends well.”

“I’m not afraid of what might happen, Samuel,” Rowena replied. “Fate has already decided that you’ll be my undoing, hasn’t it?”

“Stop.” He turned his head away. “Can we… can we not talk about that? Please, I just…” His voice trailed off, the sudden whirlwind of emotions rendering him speechless. He couldn’t think about losing Rowena. Not right now. Not when they lay side-by-side, tangled up in his bed sheets, sweat drying on their skin. He could still taste her on his lips, and he craved more of it, but not just the sex. He craved the connection he felt with the witch. He craved the bond they shared, a bond he was sure he’d never shared with anyone else before.

He craved that feeling of their hearts intertwining, their bodies becoming one — like it was always meant to be this way.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t let himself fall in love again.

(Because everyone he fell in love with always died,

and if Rowena was fated to die at his hands?

Well, that made it even worse.)

“I’m not afraid of you, Sam,” Rowena whispered. She shifted her body closer to his, tentatively placing her head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. She was so small, so gentle, and yet at the same time, she was the only thing capable of setting his soul on fire. She was insufferable at times, with her snarky comments and witty remarks. She was playful grins and pure magic and stolen kisses at midnight, and here she was, relentless, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

Neither of them would ever admit it (if only they had, because just a few weeks later, she would be gone) — but they cared for each other, deeply. They wanted to love each other.

If Sam was capable of letting his walls down, and if Rowena realized that love was more than weakness, then maybe, just maybe, they would have.

—

Sam thinks he might be going crazy.

He decides to go out for a walk one evening, get some fresh air. Dean took a case in Sioux Falls with Jody — a little vampire issue, nothing too serious. He wanted Sam to tag along, but it’s been less than a week since Rowena died, and Sam doesn’t cope with tragedy the same way Dean does. While his brother lets off steam by chopping off vampire heads with a machete, Sam thinks a better way to heal might be to walk around town for a bit, maybe stop by a café for a late night cup of joe. He wants to take his mind off Rowena somehow, and killing monsters — seeing all that blood — he’ll just start seeing the blood that stained his hands after…

Stop, he thinks. He’s sitting at a booth in a tiny coffee shop, empty save for an awkward teenage couple getting to know each other over some iced lattes. Feeling suddenly restless, he grabs his coffee and high-tails it out of there, desperate to find something else to focus his attention on. Anything to get those memories out of his mind.

He rounds a corner and finds himself in an alleyway. He heaves a sigh, leaning against the brick wall. He can feel beads of sweat forming on his face and neck, and he tries to steady his breathing, tries not to think about it, about her.

The panic subsides after a few moments, maybe a few minutes, Sam isn’t really sure. When it passes, he straightens up and inhales deeply. He settles his gaze on Lebanon’s sunset, watching as the sun disappears from the sky and the clouds overhead are washed out with a shade of deep, dark blue. It’s a nice night, the air is clean, a cool breeze ruffles Sam’s hair and he thinks he’ll be okay. He will. He takes another deep breath before bringing his coffee to his lips.

“Samuel.”

The styrofoam cup slips out of his hand and hits his feet. Coffee splatters across his shoes, but Sam doesn’t care — because he heard her — it was her.

He heard Rowena’s voice, clear as day. It sounded like she was standing right next to him. But when he spins around to find her, he finds himself alone in the alleyway, and it hits him — she’s not there. She’s dead.

“Samuel, it’s me.”

Sam grabs onto the sides of his head, his nails digging into his scalp. Her voice, it sounds so real — but it’s just in his head. She’s not here. She’s dead. This isn’t real.

“Help me, Sam.”

“Stop,” Sam mutters. “Please, please, just stop. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”

The more he says those three words to himself, the quicker Rowena’s voice seems to fade. He can’t seem to breathe, his throat feels tight with the tears that threaten their arrival — but she’s not here. He’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse, but he doesn’t want to stick around here to find out. He should sleep, or call up Dean and check on how the hunt is going. Maybe he’ll text Cas — he hasn’t heard from the angel in a while, and Dean still hasn’t told him where he went — but Sam just needs a dose of reality.

Rowena’s voice? Not real. Not real. She’s dead.

(The pain that lights up his shoulders as Sam hurries home, leaving the discarded coffee cup behind?

Definitely real.)

—

Hearing her voice is only the beginning.

At first, he hears her every once in a while throughout the day. It starts out as a whisper, a breathy voice right by his ear — quiet, but clear enough that he knows it’s her. She’s usually just saying his name, asking him for help, wondering if he’s there. He knows it’s not real, though. It’s just some sort of fucked up way for his mind to relive the trauma of losing her. People see and hear the people they care about everywhere after they die.

(That’s what he told himself when Bobby died, and days later, Bobby showed up as a ghost.

But there’s no way Rowena’s a ghost.

He watched her fall into Hell — he saw the ground close up over her body.)

He tries to tune out her voice, but what starts out as a brief whisper turns into a daily struggle. He’s hearing her when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep. He hears her when he and Dean have burgers for lunch, or share a drink at the map table.

She’s still calling out to him when Sam forces himself to go on a hunt with Dean. It’s just a ghost thing, easy enough — but Sam’s so fucking sloppy and nearly gets himself and Dean killed because he just can’t get Rowena’s voice out of his head.

Dean’s worried about him. Sam can tell his brother is starting to notice that this is more than just grief. It’s getting to his head in a way that could be dangerous for the both of them.

But Sam doesn’t want to tell him.

(Because then he’ll have to admit that he’s losing his mind.)

And there’s something else, something that scares him a little more than the witch’s voice engraved in his brain. It’s the fact that his shoulder is in constant pain now, and the infection is starting to inch its way down his arm. Of course, Dean doesn’t know about this, because Sam keeps his arms hidden under layers of flannel. It’s okay — it’s not a big deal. It’s just a wound; it’ll heal. He doesn’t want Dean to worry more than he already is, about Cas, or about the fact that Chuck was in control of their lives this entire time and Sam doesn’t know how to tell Dean otherwise.

The wound seems to be more than just a wound, though. Sam isn’t just hearing voices anymore — he’s seeing things, too. He’ll look in the mirror and see himself dressed in white. He blinks and he’s back to normal, but he can’t shake the feeling that maybe — just maybe — that reflection was real.

Maybe the wound is trying to tell him something.

He sees the Mark of Cain show up on Dean’s forearm. He knows it’s not there, because they got that thing off years ago, but maybe it is there. Or it will be. Sam’s not really sure anymore.

And when he goes to sleep and sees himself, with black eyes, snapping his brother’s neck with a tilt of his head—

He knows it’s not real.

(Or does he?

It feels real.)

And yet, all of this — these images in his mind, the hallucinations that flash across his gaze for a fraction of a second, all accompanied with the pain in his shoulder — none of them prepare him for what he sees in his room at midnight, exactly two weeks following Rowena’s death.

He sits on the edge of his bed, his shirt heavy with sweat. He’s pretty sure Dean’s asleep and won’t barge in unannounced like he tends to do sometimes, so he peels the shirt off and tosses it to the floor. He cranes his head towards his shoulder, which is now nearly blackened, akin to a nasty bruise. He drops his head back, his face turned towards the ceiling. It’s hard to breathe through the pain — it’s worse tonight, a lot worse — but he tries. Inhale, exhale.

“Samuel.”

“No.” Sam squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “You’re not real.”

A hand rests against his, and Sam nearly jumps off the bed. He opens his eyes and whips his head around, and there she is — real and alive, sitting beside him on the mattress. There’s not a trace of death on her, no sign that she ever sacrificed herself to save the world. She greets him with a glowing smile, her eyes sparkling at him under lids coated with eyeshadow. Her hair is down, and it bounces off her shoulders like waves of fire. She’s so beautiful and she’s here.

“Rowena?” he whispers.

“That’s right,” she says. “I’m here, Sam.”

He should tell himself it isn’t real. He knows it isn’t, but right now, all he wants to do is shove that thought to the back of his mind. He wraps his arms around Rowena and pulls her to his chest. He can touch her, and she feels warm, which means there’s blood running through her veins, which means she’s alive.

“How…” Sam pulls away, but he keeps his hands on Rowena’s arms, desperate not to let go of her again. “How are you here?”

“Sam.” Rowena’s eyes soften. She reaches up and cups the side of his face with a gentle hand. She smiles at him, but her smile looks sad, so sad, and Sam’s heart drops.

It’s just another hallucination.

“You’re really dead,” Sam says. “Aren’t you?”

Rowena nods slowly. Sam drops his hands away from her arms and places them blindly on the mattress, unsure of what to do next. He’s not even sure what to think, because of course she’s not real, but she is. She’s here. He can feel her.

Why isn’t she real?

It’s not fair.

“Why…” Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t even try to stop the tears — he just lets them come. “Why is this happening to me?”

Rowena moves her hand away from his face and rests her palm against his wound. It’s the gentlest of touches, and Sam doesn’t even flinch. He’s just aware of her touch, and it fucks with his mind, because she’s here and she’s not, all at the same time.

“That’s some magic you’ve got running through your veins,” she says.

Sam looks at her. The tears have begun to cloud his vision, but he can still make out her expression. It’s one of curiosity. She’s intrigued. Careful not to put too much pressure on the wound, she moves her body towards Sam, peering down at his shoulder to get a closer look.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Sam says. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“I might have an idea.” Rowena looks back up at him. Her hands return to his face, and she brings their foreheads together with care. “I can help you, Samuel.”

“How?” Sam asks, his voice breaking. “You’re dead.”

“My body may be dead,” Rowena says, lowering her hands. “But my soul is very much alive.”

Sam pulls his head away to stare at her, bewildered. “What are you saying?”

“Samuel, this wound of yours — it’s defying all the laws of magic. I can feel its power all the way down here in Hell. It’s raw and untamed, and so strong.”

“You mean—” Sam protectively reaches for her hand, locking their fingers together. “You’re in Hell right now?”

As soon as the question slips past his lips, he knows how stupid it sounds.

Of course she’s in Hell.

She stepped over the edge to Hell, carrying the weight of every single damned soul to return to Hell. She’s in the worst place imaginable, a victim of endless torture — and yet, somehow she’s here too, safe, with Sam.

“I am,” Rowena says. “But something about this wound of yours has allowed me to come and speak with you. Like I said, it’s defying all the laws of magic. I can’t quite comprehend its power, but I can feel it opening gateways to other dimensions, doors to the past and to the future.”

Sam thinks back to everything he’s been seeing over the past couple of weeks, and it starts to make sense.

“I saw Dean with the Mark of Cain, even though we got rid of it years ago,” Sam says. “I saw… I saw myself, but it wasn’t me — it was Lucifer wearing my body. That happened years ago, too.”

“Sam.” Rowena gives his hand a squeeze. “I think Chuck may be planning something awful, and I have reason to believe the wound on your shoulder is trying to warn you about it.”

Together, they glance at his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, he’s able to silence the pain and notice something else instead.

He feels it.

There is magic running through his veins.

“What do I do, Rowena?” he asks, panic rising in his voice.

“I can help you,” she says. “I can teach you how to control it, understand what it all means. But I can’t do it from down here, Sam.”

“I’ll get you out,” Sam says. “There has to be a way.”

Rowena smiles. She lifts their still intertwined hands to her lips and places a warm kiss to the top of Sam’s knuckles.

“That’s my boy,” she whispers.

Sam can’t help himself. He’s overcome with too much emotion to handle — fear, confusion, love. So screw it — maybe it’s not real, maybe it’s a hallucination, or maybe Rowena is really here, using magic to speak to him from Hell. She sounds real, she feels real. And when he impulsively presses his lips against hers, kissing her like it’s the only thing he was made to do, he knows in his heart that she is real.

She kisses him back with reckless abandon, letting go of his hand so she can link her arms around his neck. Sam relishes in every moment, feeling her, loving her, because he never got to do it until it was too late.

“Rowena,” he mutters into the kiss. “I love you.”

“I know, Samuel,” she says.

She breaks the kiss, and Sam wonders why, until he sees that she’s fading. Her body is disappearing into oblivion, piece by piece, but that smile never leaves her face.

“I’ll come and get you,” Sam promises. “I will.”

The smile on Rowena’s face grows even wider, and there’s a knowing glint in her eye.

“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second.”

He blinks and she’s gone, but so is Sam’s fear. His shoulder hurts again, but he’s now completely aware of the magic coursing through his entire body. Rowena was right — it’s raw, untamed power, and he feels stronger now that he knows what the magic is trying to tell him.

“Thank you, Rowena,” he says to the empty room.

With a clear mind, Sam can start to formulate a plan. Rescue Rowena from Hell, somehow (it’s not impossible, he’s pulled off crazier feats before), and figure out what exactly this wound is trying to tell him. He should tell Dean. Now that he’s got it figured out, telling Dean doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

Before he stands up from the bed, Sam lifts a finger to his lips. He can still feel the aftermath of a very real kiss, and taste the lip gloss of a very real witch.

Despite all the words left unsaid, Sam is grateful he had a chance to see her again and tell her the only thing that matters—

—that he loves her, and he always will.

(And it won’t be the last time he says it, because he will see her again.)

[ravenbrenna09]

Unattainable - Chapter One - A Robbe/Sander Fic

LET’S TRY THIS AGAIN (thanks for deleting it Tumblr).

Summary: Sander is Instagram Famous and Robbe is his biggest fan. Someone like Sander would never notice someone like him… right?

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135918/chapters/52836538

...

I would like to thank @milanhendrickx because this AU has completely taken over my life from the moment that I first saw her gifset. Originally, this wasn't supposed to be as long it was. It was only intended to be a one-shot, but there was just too much that I wanted to include. So, as of right now, there are only two chapters that deal with the events shown in milanhendrickx's original gifset, but I could easily expand to include more.

Like, this was soooooooo much fun to write. I enjoyed it. 

There are some texts in this chapter. The formatting might be a little easier on AO3, but I’m going to make the texts Robbe sends to be bold and the messages that he receives to be italicized. I hope this makes it a little bit easier with the texting sections. 

...

The party drummed around him, music floating through the speakers that were on either side of the television.

It was a small gathering, a get-together of sorts to celebrate Senne and Zoë’s engagement in their brand-new apartment. The bride-to-be was on the other side of the room, the bright shiny ring on her finger as she let Amber take a look at it. Senne was talking with Milan and some of his friends from school, leaning against the wall with a beer in his grasp.

The girls teased Zoë endlessly, probably because of Zoë’s retelling of the proposal where she had asked Senne to marry her a week before he had meticulously planned to propose (Robbe and Milan had spent so much time trying to help him plan it perfectly that they had gaped, having all been out together; Robbe managed to get his phone out to record the actual proposal when Senne surprised her by getting down on one knee in the middle of the market), and the blonde’s cheeks were dusted pink in response to her friends’ teasing. 

Robbe glanced the room for his friends, who were over on the edge of the room, trying to fish out the details of Jens’ new boyfriend, who had been sneaking in and out of their four-bedroom apartment for weeks. Robbe wasn’t a part of it because he had run into Lucas in the kitchen with Noor as they made breakfast. The boy hadn’t said anything, simply grabbing a bottle of water and returning to Jens’ room (which was then followed by a yelp from Jens and much laughing). Later that evening, the black-haired man had sworn Robbe and Noor to secrecy. 

(Noor was the one who had slipped up on Jens having a boyfriend and Jens had mock-scolded her at three in the morning one night.)

Robbe glanced at his phone, upset that he hadn’t heard from his mom quite yet. He ran a hand through his hair, reminding himself that it was normal for the first couple of days in the institution as doctors did evaluations and checked things over. His mother had been going down again, not taking her medications daily and her meds weren’t working like they were supposed to. When Robbe was in high school, she had checked herself into an institution, being there for months before she had been able to come home. Now, she had checked herself back in.

His phone buzzed and he barely registered the fact that it had been an Instagram notification before someone wrapped their arms around his shoulders. 

“Hey,” it was Zoë, pressing a kiss against his cheek. She pulled back to stare at him, reaching up to wipe away the deep red lip imprint that she left in her wake. Robbe glanced at her, spotting the concerned look on her face. Ever since Robbe had gone to live with her and Milan, the three of them had remained close. Zoë and Milan had been there for him when he needed it the most and they hadn’t let him go. “Why are you looking so glum for?” she questioned, a smile growing on her lips. “It’s a celebration, Robbe.” 

“I’m sorry,” Robbe replied, straightening up on the arm of the couch. “I’m just worried about my mom.” 

Zoë gave him a comforting smile, squeezing his shoulders as she pulled back. “I know, but I promise that she’s in the best place in the world. Now, come on,” she spoke, extending her hands. 

“Come on what?” Robbe questioned, taking them. 

The blonde grinned, pulling him off the couch and towards the middle of the room. The furniture had been pushed aside to have a makeshift dance floor which is where his friends were all gathered. Robbe rolled his eyes as he realized Zoë’s intentions, wrapping his arms around the woman that he had always considered to be the closest thing that he would ever have to a sister and dancing with her. Once Robbe spun her, Zoë let out a laugh and landed against his chest. 

“Can I ask you something?” she questioned, stepping back to glance up at him, still swaying. 

Robbe nodded his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “Of course you can. I’ve learned my lesson. Never say no to the bride.” 

Zoë laughed, a nervous look crossing her face as she bit down on her bottom lip. Watching her getting so nervous instantly made Robbe nervous as well. Then, after a bit, Zoë gripped onto his shoulder as she let out a laugh, lighter and showing her nerves before she managed to form the words together. 

“Would it be okay if you walked me down the aisle?” Zoë questioned, her voice rushed and breathless. Robbe’s eyes widened as she continued, “With Milan, of course, I think he would be quite offended if I asked you and not him, but both of you are like family and since my dad is out of the picture and you’re practically like my little brother-”

“Zoë,” Robbe cut her off. She blinked up at him, the nervous look crossed back over her face. “Of course, I would love to walk you down the aisle.” 

Zoë grinned, throwing her arms around him and pressing another kiss to his cheek. She shrieked out a sorry and tried to wipe away the red lipstick once again before she moved back towards the girls that were demanding the bride-to-be’s attention. Robbe laughed, moving back to the couch now that the only reason he was off the couch had been dragged away. As he flopped down on the couch, pulling his phone from pocket and glancing down at the Instagram notification.

earthlingoddity has started a live broadcast

Glancing around the room, Robbe slid open the notification and kicking his volume down to mute. Within minutes, the broadcast was up, showing ‘earthlingoddity’ in a store, lightly banging his head as he sang a song or mumbled a song. Judging from the angle, someone else was holding the camera and possibly talking to the chat. Robbe couldn’t tell, but he could tell that a fond smile had already begun to form on his face as he watched the man move through the store, grabbing things and dumping them in the shopping cart as he talked, and sung, to the camera and whoever was behind it. 

The brunet wasn’t for sure how it had started, this intense fascination for a person that he had ever seen in person before. While scrolling through Instagram one day, Robbe had come across one of the numerous drawings that he had posted on his profile and had liked it. Then, upon seeing three or four more, he ended up on his profile and following him before proceeding to scroll through every single picture that he had ever posted. He didn’t leave a like on all of his posts (though, Robbe knew that he wanted to).

But, if Robbe hadn’t been aware that he liked guys and only guys, he was certain that earthlingoddity, or Sander, would’ve been the final nail in the metaphorical coffin. 

The man was beautiful, almost angelic, like the type of person that you wouldn’t have suspected could’ve ever possibly existed on Earth. His hair had been bleached to a bright white and bright green eyes. Somehow, in (almost) every photo that featured himself, he was wearing the same black leather jacket and his live video now was no exception. He smiled brightly at the camera as he talked and Robbe had been certain that his stomach was performing somersaults. 

Yeah, he definitely had a problem, Robbe decided as he typed “you’re amazing”. His response was quickly followed by the fast-moving chat and Robbe locked his phone as he heard heels approaching him. 

“Robbe,” someone spoke, a light begging tone in her voice. 

He glanced up to find Noor walking towards him. His roommate’s girlfriend was dressed in a black long sleeve shirt with a plunging neckline coupled with a dark red skirt. She had her black hair pushed behind her ears, exposing her black stud earrings, and her bangs were slightly pushed to the side. Robbe noticed that she wasn’t wearing a septum ring tonight which could only mean one thing. 

“Noor,” he spoke, already sitting up and already suspecting that she was going to ask. “Again?” 

On their first ‘date’ following a mad dash from a party all those years ago, Noor had taken Robbe to a secret spray-painting club that operated out of a warehouse that someone owned. Some of the members were from her school and a handful were other spray-painters around Antwerp. Robbe and Noor had been a fresh couple back then, having literally met in a bathroom hours before. It had been before Nick and the harsh words that Robbe had thrown in Nick’s face in fear of what it all meant. After Robbe was out and had apologized to her, the two of them became friends. Once Moyo and Noor started officially dating, it became apparent that she wouldn’t be leaving Robbe’s life anytime soon. 

As a result, she tended to bring Robbe with her to the underground painting ring when Moyo couldn’t go with her. 

“Please,” Noor spoke, folding her hands in front of him. She glanced at Moyo, who was still trying to get Jens’ to fess up with Aaron and now Amber had joined in the conversation. “Our anniversary is tomorrow and we’re going out with his parents after I get out of work. I won’t be able to go for a week so I have to make sure it’s all done tonight. I’m almost done, I promise that it won’t take that long. Plus, Moyo is meeting with his mom and his mom’s doctor in the morning and it’s supposed to be a surprise.” 

Robbe looked at her. “Why me?”

“Because they know you,” Noor supplied, putting her hands on her hips. “And, besides, if I don’t show up with either one of you, I have to fight off some newbie with spray-paint who wants to hit on me.” She folded her hands in front of her again. “Please?”

Robbe let out a sigh and Noor grinned because she knew that she already won. 

… 

Upon arriving outside the old garage, Noor had practically forced the mask over his face before he even had the chance to ask for one. Once she had made sure that her own was secure, she stepped over to him, making sure the straps were tucked behind his ears and locked in place. The knock was simple and deliberate. After so many trips coming with her over the years, he had the knock memorized but he never came here of his own accord. 

Just like any other night, the garage was full of people. Robbe recognized the blue eyes of the man that had let them into the building. The man had made a joke about Noor ditching her boyfriend to which she rolled her eyes and pretended to not be offended before grabbing Robbe by the wrist and dragging him further into the large warehouse. There were a handful of vehicles along with the vast empty space, a handful of people here and there, and there was at least one person that had a camera, taking pictures of everything around them. 

Noor shifted the bag that she had been carrying up further on her shoulder. 

One artist that they passed had chosen the canvas to be one of the poles that held up the building. The person was switching from a can of spray paint to a paintbrush and palette that was balancing dangerously on his knee. Another had started an abstract painting on the floor, his space coordinated off by a bunch of backpacks that had to have been from the other painters. The entire life and feel of the warehouse had always made him smile, the support and the secrets brimming in the building. 

“Come,” Noor spoke, grabbing his arm and directing him further into the building, all the way to the back wall. There was a section of the wall that had already been spray-painted over. The section was a majority of a dark blue with a beautiful blend of blues and purples. There was only a section of the wall that had small white bursts against the blend. As he stared, Robbe could make out a handful of constellations that he couldn’t remember the name of. 

“Wow,” he mumbled.

“Do you like it?” she questioned, sounding insecure. 

“Of course I like it, it’s beautiful,” Robbe informed her. Even with the mask obscuring half of Noor’s face, he could tell that his friend was grinning from ear-to-ear. But, he couldn’t help but feel like there was more to the story. “Why are you so eager to finish this tonight?” he asked, curious. 

“Oh,” Noor spoke, her cheeks flushing. “Well, for our first date, Moyo and I had spent the night looking up at the stars. His mother used to always show him the constellations. We sat there forever just looking up at the stars and he was telling me the stories of them. I’m going to show him, but I know it’s not going to stay here on this wall forever so I was going to have a friend take a picture and print it out so we could keep it.”

Robbe smiled. 

“Too cheesy?” she questioned. 

“No,” Robbe replied, shaking his head. “I think it would be a perfect gift for Moyo.” 

Noor smiled.

The artist had a reference picture on her phone which she was meticulously following. In his initial visit to the warehouse, the two of them had sprayed a garage truck together. But, Robbe knew that he was here as moral support. As such, he sat on the floor, not far from her with his legs crossed beneath him and her bag of spray paint in front of him. Whenever her can of white paint ran out, he fetched her another from her bag. She must’ve known that she would need to use a lot because there were at least ten cans of white spray paint. 

Noor was meticulous, going a little at a time. Robbe knew that she was focused on the task at hand so while she was spray painting, Robbe was playing on his phone. There was a text from Moyo asking about any information about Jens’ boyfriend which Robbe ignored and informed him that they had made it to the warehouse safely. Jens sent him to let him know that he (and Moyo) had all arrived back at the apartment and that they were headed to bed. Once he had finished the text, his thumb instantly opened Instagram with the hopes that the live broadcast was still going on. 

To his disappointment, it wasn’t.  

So, he ended up playing a game. 

“Robbe,” Noor whined, tearing his attention away from his game. Robbe glanced up to his friend, who was standing on the top of the ladder that she had pulled over some time ago. She had reached the top of the mural now, the stars covered the entire mural except for one section in the upper hand corner. The ladder couldn’t go any further over, stuck by a pole. “How does it look?” 

Robbe gave her a look. “It looks beautiful, just like it did when you started nearly three hours ago.” 

“Three hours?!” she questioned, glancing at her phone. There’s a surprised look on her face as she filtered through what she presumed to be messages. “I didn’t realize it would take this long.”

“Noor,” Robbe spoke. “It’s fine. You just might have to deal with an angry boyfriend when you climb into bed in the middle of the night.” Noor chuckled, starting to climb off the ladder to move it. Robbe’s phone buzzed in his hand and he glanced down. It was an Instagram notification, but his tired brain doesn’t register it at first let alone read it. “How much do you have left to do?” he questioned, curious. 

“Just one more thing, I promise,” Noor admitted, locking the ladder in place. “And, this one won’t take three hours.” 

Robbe let out a laugh, shaking his head, as his phone vibrated against his palm. However, this time, it’s a text message from Jens, which he quickly opened, wondering why Jens was awake now. 

I just checked your room and you’re still not home.

Why are you still not home?

Noor has been pretty focused.

She’s finishing up now.

Why are you still awake?

Robbe, I know that I don’t need to tell you how sex works.

Oh, Lucas is there?

Tell him hi!

He says hello and that he’ll see you in the morning. 

When are you going to be home?

Thirty minutes to an hour?

Why?

So I don’t think someone’s breaking in?

Why would a burglar have a key?

We’re going to bed. 

Goodnight. 

Be quiet when you two come in.

We’ll be quiet.

I hope you didn’t wake up Moyo.

We didn’t. 

Unlike someone (*cough* Moyo *cough*), we can be quiet. 

Robbe let out a chuckle, glancing up when Noor’s boot tapped against his foot. She had pushed the ladder off to the side, exposing the entirety of the work. Her final touch had been a shooting star which was placed in the dead-center of the mural. He grinned at it. 

“Who’s still awake this late?” she questioned, placing the white cap back on the can. Robbe handed her the phone to show her the texts which she read through with a grin on her face. Robbe took the spray paint and placed it back in her bag with the other cans. Most of them were empty but Noor recycled them. Noor let out a laugh, her eyes scanning over the texts. 

“Noor?” 

The deep voice stirred both of their attention. Robbe glanced up, spotting the man standing behind him with a black hood over his head, obscuring his face in shadows. The man even had a black mask that covered his mouth, almost draping him completely in darkness and shadows. The only thing that stood out was his eyes but even those were partially obscured in the shadows. 

But, Noor seemed to recognize him, stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug. “Hey, how are you?” The man moved to respond, but Robbe’s phone vibrated in Noor’s hand, managed to get the attention of both of them. She glanced down, reading the screen, before handing the phone out to him.

Robbe’s breath knocked out of his throat at the sight of Mama on the screen. “I’ll be right back,” Robbe promised Noor, taking the phone and stepping away. He vaguely registered that he paused to take his mask off as he moved to a section of the warehouse that hadn’t been touched tonight. “Hi Mama,” he spoke, right before a yawn escaped his mouth. 

“I’m sorry, Robbe,” his mother spoke. “I just realized what time it was. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You didn’t wake me up,” Robbe spoke quickly. He glanced around, unsure what to tell his mother about what he had actually been doing. Noor was talking to her friend that had walked up to them, but she glanced at him, worried. His friends, including Noor, had been waiting as anxiously as he was for news about his mother. “I was just studying for a test that I have on Monday. Time got away from me.”

His mother let out a breath of relief. “That’s good. I meant to call you earlier, but I guess I must’ve fallen asleep without realizing it. How has the apartment been? Are the boys taking care of you?”

Robbe smiled. “Yeah, they are. How are you feeling?”

“I’m good. The doctors think that I’ll only be in a couple of weeks this time. They were talking about how they’ll have to change my meds again,” his mother spoke. “Will you visit me while I’m in here?” 

“Of course,” Robbe promised. “I will.” His mother let out a yawn. As much as Robbe didn’t want to get off the phone with his mother, he knew that she needed to get some sleep. “Mama, I’ve got to get to bed. I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?”

“Make it in the afternoon. I have a session with the doctor in the morning. I’ll ask when you can start visiting,” his mother spoke, sounding sleepy. Even though she couldn’t see, Robbe found himself nodding his head anyways. “Have a good night’s sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Robbe replied before hearing the dial tone. He let out a breath that he didn’t realize that he was even holding. His mom was okay and safe. 

“Is everything okay with your mom? Why was she calling so late?” It was Noor, appearing at his side with a concerned plastered on her face. Her bag was thrown over her shoulder and his brown jacket was bundled up in her arms. He took it from her, slipping it over his shoulders, as he nodded his head. 

“Yeah, she’s okay,” Robbe informed her. Noor let out a breath of relief, running her hand through her hair as she turned back around. Robbe glanced where she was looking, only to find the boy wrapped up in the black hoodie, leather jacket, and a mask to be taking a picture of Noor’s mural. “She meant to call me earlier and had fallen asleep. She didn’t realize what time it was until after I picked up.” 

“That’s good,” Noor replied. She reached out to take his arm. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

“What about your mural?” he questioned. 

Noor pointed a finger to the guy taking photos. “He’s going to print it out for me. He’s got a studio for everything that he’s into. I’ll get it sometime in the week.”

“Alright, let’s go home.” Robbe laughed, letting her pull him from the warehouse. As the two of them left arm-in-arm, the two talked about Robbe’s mom had talked to him about, unaware of the green eyes that staring at their backs.

It’s only later in the morning after Robbe is woken up to the sounds of Jens talking with Moyo in the kitchen, talking about making another vlog, after Robbe had groggily walked in on the two conversing over the coffee pot with a sleepy Noor at the table, that he realized that he had never checked the Instagram notification. As his roommates bickered and Noor sipped on her coffee, Robbe checked his phone. 

earthlingoddity has added to his story

It was a simple black picture, not showing anything other than a faint outline of where the platinum-haired man was vaguely standing. There was white text across the screen, diagonal and slanted: Do you ever see someone and just know they’re the one? 

…

When Moyo and Noor were finally able to have their anniversary celebration that weekend, the rest of the boys had vacated the apartment, leaving it to the happy couple of four years. Jens had hopped on the train to visit Lucas at his flat. Aaron had an exclusive party to go to Amber’s house. Robbe had wandered a bit where he could end up going, but he decided on texting Milan and ask if he could stay in the spare bedroom (which had been empty since Zoë had moved out). With Lisa out of the house with party plans and no third roommate, the two of them had the living room for the night and a bottle of alcohol passed between them. 

“How’s school?” Milan questioned. 

“Almost done,” Robbe admitted, letting out a sigh. His eyes flickered around the room, catching all the empty places where Zoë’s things once were.

“And?” Milan pressed. 

“And what?”

“Are there any cute boys?” Robbe chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t give me that look. As your gay-guru, I have the right to make sure that you are properly satisfied.” 

Robbe barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “There’s no one. I’m afraid that Jens is getting more action than I am right now. I think I’ve actually seen his boyfriend more than I’ve been seeing someone,” Robbe replied. 

“So no one? Not even one night flings?”

Robbe shrugged. There were a couple of one-night flings that he had over the years, but it had been a while since he had one himself. “Not for a bit.” 

“Well, you’re boring,” Milan deadpanned. 

Robbe scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “But, what about you, Milan? Have you finally decided to ask out that guy from the coffee shop or are beating you around the bush because you don’t want to get hurt?” 

Milan looked offended, holding his hand over his chest. “Excuse you, baby Robbe? As your gay-guru, you have no right to speak to me like that,” he started before the older man descended into laughter, almost falling off of the couch. He straightened up, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’m just waiting to make my move.”

“At a snail’s pace,” Robbe teased. Milan let out a gasp, getting up to go into the kitchen and fetch another bottle of vodka or wine. Whatever Milan decided. His phone buzzed in his lap and he glanced at it with a curious gaze. There was an Instagram notification from Noor (noor.bauwens has tagged you in a post) and Robbe was smiling before he had even opened the post. 

The post was simply a photo of Noor with Moyo in their apartment kitchen. Moyo was sitting in a chair, pressing a kiss to Noor’s cheek as she sat perched on his lap, her arms curled around his neck and one hand on his cheek. The framed photo of her spray painting masterpiece was being held up on both of them, partially cut off by the Instagram photo restrictions. The frame itself had been larger than Robbe had been expecting, but it could’ve easily been hung above their bed. Robbe was certain that he would be able to see it in person once he was able to go back into his apartment tomorrow morning (or afternoon, depending on how long his tequila/wine-induced hangover lasted). 

noor.bauwens: happy anniversary, my love. here’s to many more years and moments together. special thanks to @sterkerdanijzer for keeping me company while I stayed up too late to finish and to @earthlingoddity for taking the photo of my gift and framing it (and the photo credit) love you both <3

Wait… Robbe thought, his eyes staring at the second username tagged. Since when did Noor know him? Had she known him the entire time?

“Aww,” Milan had returned, leaning over Robbe’s shoulder and placing the bottle of wine on the table. The smaller boy jumped with a start and his friend gave him an apologetic grin. “That’s adorable. And, that’s a beautiful picture. Is that the mural that she dragged you to the warehouse to do?” 

“Yeah, it’s pretty amazing in person too,” Robbe replied, shaking his head. He posted a comment beneath the photo. 

sterkerdanijzer: glad to help; love you two <3 @noor.bauwens

“Oh? Maybe she’ll show me one day,” Milan spoke. “Want some wine?” Robbe gladly extended his glass to be filled before announcing that he had to go to the bathroom before they started the next episode. Milan had laughed, pouring his glass and Robbe had run off, sliding down the hall and forgetting his phone in the living room. As Robbe headed back into the living room, Milan shouted, “Hey, who’s earthlingoddity?”

“Huh?” Robbe questioned, stepping into the living room. The older man was sitting on the couch, his glass of wine in one hand and Robbe’s phone in the other with his legs curled beneath him. Robbe felt his eyes roll in his head. That’s what he gets for leaving his phone unattended with Milan in the room. As Robbe passed him, he snatched his phone from Milan’s grasp. “Milan, when we were roommates, you promised that you would stop looking through my phone.” 

Milan rolled his eyes, pulling up his phone and typing into the search bar. “Jokes on you, I can still find out who he is,” Milan teased. Robbe rolled his eyes, moving to start the next episode as he tucked his phone between his thigh and the couch. “Oh, he’s cute,” Milan spoke up, scrolling through his Instagram. “And, it looks like he’s quite popular. Wait, is this that Instagram guy you have a crush on?”

Robbe rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. I don’t have a crush on him. He’s an influential Instagram profile that just so happens to have a lot of interesting art.”

(It’s a lie, of course, because Robbe definitely has a crush on him, in the completely unattainable celebrity-crush kind of way.)

“Well,” Milan spoke, locking his phone and putting it down on the couch between them. “Well, either way, he followed you on Instagram.” 

“Huh?” Robbe blinked, his brain short-circuiting. There was no way in any universe that Sander, earthlingoddity, whichever you wanted to call him by, would follow Robbe of all people. Robbe wasn’t anything interesting, mostly being tagged in posts by his friends and random stuff with the boys. “What are you talking about?” 

Milan didn’t even glance away from the television as he took a sip of wine. “Robbe, did you even look at the notification?” 

Robbe pulled his phone out from between his thigh and the couch, pressing the lock button. There were a number of Instagram notifications now. There were a handful of comments and likes from their friends and family members. There was even a comment from Moyo’s mom, who had spent the better part of the past four years mumbling to Robbe that Noor was going to be her daughter-in-law someday. Robbe scrolled through the notifications until he found the one that Milan had mentioned. 

earthlingoddity started following you

As Robbe settled back into the couch, he felt a smile grow on his face. 

“Was I wrong?” Milan questioned, leaning towards him. 

Robbe scoffed, pink growing on his cheeks as he ducked his head. “Shut up.” 

Milan grinned, bright and toothy. “You do have a crush on him!” 

“Shut up, Milan!” 

… 

earthlingoddity sent you a message

Robbe didn’t know why he was so nervous, his thumb hovering over the notification. He knew that he was acting like a kid with an intense crush on a boy, his first real crush, and the very thought was ridiculous because Robbe had crushes before. Robbe had boyfriends before. Hell, Robbe had one-night stands that ended with him leaving in the dead of night, nervously trying to leave quietly so he wouldn’t be caught. He had experience with guys. So, why was he so nervous about a simple Instagram message?

Robbe didn’t know but it was beyond frustrating that this man, someone who Robbe had never even met before and had spent far too much time staring at his photos and his live-streams, had managed to have such a profound impact on him in such a short span of time. 

Pushing up from his bed, the topic of his essay forgotten and his mathematical proof half-finished, Robbe crossed his legs beneath him and nervously fiddled with his hair. He realized how ridiculous he was being. It wasn’t like Sander could see him through the camera of his phone. It was just a simple Instagram message. In fact, it probably had to do with Noor’s photo. 

Yeah, that’s all it was, Robbe decided, finally opening the message. 

That wasn’t what it was. 

You’re so beautiful.

I’m such a fan.

Robbe’s cheeks flushed as he stared down at the message, trying to figure out what to say in response. The first response that pops into Robbe’s mind is have you seen yourself? But, even though it was wholeheartedly true, Robbe decided quickly that he did not want to send that message. He did not want to have to admit how much time he’s looked at the selfies that Sander had posted a little too long since Robbe had started following him.

So, instead, he decided to answer the second half of his text.

You’re a fan? I literally check your Instagram every day. 

Shit.

I mean… like I see you on my feed every day. 

Please don’t take that a weird way.

Robbe spent the next couple of minutes, nervously tapping at his phone and refreshing the conversation. He could see that Sander was still online and there were nerves vibrating throughout every fiber of his being. His phone buzzed, bringing him back to the conversation. 

God, you’re so adorable :)

Robbe exhaled a breath of relief, his cheeks growing hotter by the second, and ran a hand through his hair as another message popped up. 

So, you’re a fan of mine?

Yeah.

Do you listen to David Bowie?

Yes, I listen to your Bowie playlist all the time.

God, Robbe thought, running his hand across his face and letting out a groan. The man must think that Robbe was a stalker or something, listening to his playlist and following his Spotify as well as basically stalking him on Instagram. His chat had flickered offline after he had sent his last message so Robbe knew that he hadn’t seen the message quite yet. Once his eyes had caught sight of the green bubble beside his profile picture, indicating that he had returned online, Robbe quickly added:

It’s a good playlist.

Oh really? I’m glad you like it.

It’s only the beginner playlist.

The beginner playlist?

When do I get permission to listen to the advanced set?

When you pass your first exam.

Oh? Is it difficult?

Extremely.

That’s going to be a lot of studying.

There’s a shout from Noor down the hall before the door to his bedroom was opening. Glancing at him, she blinked in surprise and Robbe glanced around. He was in the midst of all his books and notebooks from class, spread out around him like a disorganized tornado of papers and notes. She leaned against the door frame to his room and tilted her head, “How’s studying for your tests going?” 

“Non-existant,” Robbe admitted, locking his screen as she stepped into his room. He made space on his bed for her to sit down and she flopped down on his bed, crossing her feet beneath her. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing tonight?” she questioned. 

“Lucas and I talked about trying to figure out what to do for Jens’ birthday in a couple of months,” Robbe admitted, quietly despite the fact that he knew that Jens hadn’t been home yet. “Jens is going to his weekly dinner with his dad so it’s the only time that we’ll get the time to have an idea. Why?” 

“Britt’s been bugging me about going to dinner,” Noor admitted. 

“Britt?” Robbe questioned. “I thought you guys stopped talking years ago?” 

“Yeah, we did,” Noor replied, shrugging her shoulders as she looked over a sketch he made in the margins of his notes. “But, she messaged me the other day. I wanted to make amends or something. So, Moyo and I are going to meet her and her friend to hang out and catch up.”  

“And you’re asking me? Even with our history, Britt and I never really got along. I am Jens’ best friend so when the two of them broke up, I basically became scum of the Earth,” Robbe replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Then, it was only amplified when the two of us broke up.”  

Noor shrugged her shoulders. “While all completely true, I was thinking that you might come by and pick up Moyo and make some excuse for him to leave,” Noor admitted, turning towards him. “Britt never really cared for Moyo either and I don’t want him to have to be at a dinner where someone doesn’t want him there.”

“I want to be there,” Moyo spoke up, entering Robbe’s bedroom. The man was carrying a large plastic bag filled with cereal and was eating out of it. He stepped closer to Noor, who turned to him. “She’s your friend.”

“I know,” Noor admitted, reaching up to touch his hand. “But, I also know how she can get. Plus, she’s never been too keen on my boyfriends anyways. When I mentioned to her that we had gone a date the first time, I thought she was going to faint. The last thing I want is for you to be caught in the crossfire.” 

“I could show up and make an excuse to get you both out of there,” Robbe supplied. 

“That might work if the date ends up going badly that is. We’ll see,” Noor admitted, glancing at Robbe. “Britt and I were never really good at double dates.”

The front door slammed, followed by hasty movements. The shuffling continued down the hallway, towards them, until Jens appeared in the doorframe with Lucas’s lips pressed against his neck and his hand under his boyfriend’s shirt. After Robbe’s best friend spotted them, he stopped outside the door as Robbe was already reaching for his headphones on his nightstand. 

Jens glanced at them, a threatening look on his face as his eyes flickered between all of them, “Consider this a ten-minute warning to vacate the apartment or your complaints are invalid.” Lucas laughed before Jens is backing them into the latter’s bedroom across the hall, slamming the door behind him. 

Noor was already moving to get up, grabbing Moyo’s hand and leaving. “I’ll text you the restaurant,” Noor spoke. “I’m sure one of us will let you know when we’re ready for you to make an excuse. If it decides to happen at all.” Robbe nodded his head, giving her a thumbs-up as she closed the door to his bedroom. He turned his attention to connecting his headphones to his phone, starting up the music as soon as it was connected. Once the music had started wafting through the speakers, effectively blocking out any noise around him, Robbe turned back to his notes. 

His phone vibrated, remind him with a start and pulling him back fully to his phone, his homework abandoned once again. 

Sander. 

Who knows? Maybe you might be able to bribe the teacher.

Robbe smiled, his stomach churning in knots. It might’ve been a while since Robbe had been interested in a guy, and it might’ve been through text message, but this entire exchange felt like flirting. He almost wished that they were face-to-face so that way Robbe would know for sure. 

Should I dare to take that risk?

I’ll give you some advice later tonight.

If you want.

Robbe’s heart thumped in his chest, wishing that he didn’t have plans with Lucas (and possibly Aaron) for Jens’ party or possible plans with Noor and Moyo. But, he knew that they needed to work on the party, or at least have an idea, since they would have a limited amount of time to put it all together. So, he typed out his response.

I’d love to, but I have plans tonight. 

Ah, okay. 

Tomorrow?

Robbe couldn’t keep the grin off his face, biting down on his bottom lip in an attempt to smother it.

...

Concept: The Broooers are a famous YouTube vlog channel located in Antwerp that updates weekly and Sander has a crush on the brunet boy that has a wide range of facial expressions and an affinity for making a fool of himself (and looking beautiful while doing it).

[gaycrouton]

prompt, times mulder seen scully in her underwear before they got together

I’m not sure if someone in particular on here has a capital on the numbered short ficlets combined, but I love the style so much I wanted to try it out. Hope they don’t mind!

I

He was right. It probably wasn’t the first thought that should have come to his mind as his frightened, pretty new partner dropped her robe in the middle of his motel room, but it was. Reasonable, functional, and somehow enticing. A nude bra, beige or white maybe, that matched her panties perfectly.  The lights from the candle distorted the color as the flames flickered across her mosquito-bitten back, but he saw enough to confirm that the brief passing thought in his mind from earlier had been correct. It was too quick to be called a fantasy, too titillating to be called a passing thought, yet it brought him a great sense of satisfaction to know he’d pegged this new agent correctly.

She’d been sternly lecturing him and he’d been hanging off of every word. He couldn’t remember another instance of someone shooting his theory to shit being so exciting. Something about the no-nonsense manner of her voice, the way her eyebrow cocked as if inviting him to disagree with her, the way she seemed to enjoy the back and forth as much as he did – he wasn’t sure what about this workplace conversation had him raking his eyes over her body and thinking what was under the unflattering suit she wore like armour as soon as she turned around.

What he did know now was that he’d pictured it perfectly.

Good to know.

II

He really would’ve taken Scully as the type to wear an undershirt. That theory was shot to hell as he stared straight down the top of her sagging blouse and he was given a perfect view of her round breasts encased in a light pink bra, the little bow in between reminding him how much of a gift this really was.

Dana Scully

He only got to look for the same amount of time it took her to write those two words underneath his own sloppy signature on the expense report, not that he was trying to look. He’d just been staring in that direction when she bent over in front of him to sign the form, the cap of the pen gripped lazily between two ruby red lips.

He could see what he hadn’t last time. Freckles. Little tiny dots littering her chest. When he looked up he knew he’d see matching ones on the bridge of her nose, regardless of how much she tried to hide them. What he saw was his suspicions confirmed, and a pair of amused, yet chastising, blue eyes boring into his.

He coughed nervously and mumbled, “I’m sorry.” His eyes darted around the room as if pretending that’s what they’d been doing the whole time. He just hoped whoever got to see that present unwrapped it carefully.

She extended her hand out to him and he took the pen she was offering back. “Have a nice weekend, Mulder,” she replied in a teasing tone, jovial but not wanting to reward him. He held his breath until he heard the sound of her heels become a faint echo.

He tried to not focus on whatever, whoever, she was going to that inspired her to curl her hair today and wear a nice, lacy, pink bra.

Her lipstick was still on the cap of his pen, and though he partially wanted to preserve the imprint, he couldn’t stop his finger from darting out and watching the creamy mark transfer from the plastic of the pen onto the pad of his skin. Pulling back, he stared mesmerized by the bit of coral smudge.

A little bit of Scully on his fingertips. And, in the ultimate act of juvenile longing, he kissed his own finger to feel what her lipstick would feel on his mouth – traces of an exchange that never happened.

In the real world, that is.

III

Peanut Butter and Jelly, Night and Day, Scully Screaming and Mulder Running, some things just naturally went together. Tonight was no different. He’d just gotten into his pyjamas, or more accurately - stripped into his pyjamas-, when he heard an uncharacteristically high-pitched scream come from the otherside of the adjoining door. “Scully?” he yelled in concern.

“Mulder!” she shouted in response.

He didn’t need much more than that to burst into her room, gun blazing and alert. Mulder swept his eyes across the room and ultimately landed on Scully’s form. She was in the corner of the room, naked minus a pair of dark blue panties. Her breasts were being firmly held by her hands, inadvertently exaggerating her cleavage, as she precariously sat on an end table.

His heart dropped as he feared the worst. A screaming Scully was never good, but a nearly-naked screaming Scully scared him worse. He turned and started stomping around the room, expecting to see a man hiding in some corner - his attempt to attack Scully thwarted and now he was trying to leave.

He’d kill him.

…but he couldn’t find anything. He turned back to Scully and urgently asked, “What happened, Scully?”

“There’s a snake in my bed!” she whispered, pointing urgently while sliding slowly off the table, keeping one arm and hand securing her chest.

His eyes accidentally slid down as she did this and he, for the millionth time but none as viscerally as this, appreciated her toned body. She was sculpted like a statue and had to turn away quickly before embarrassing himself.

Lowering his gun, he nodded and made his way towards her mattress, slowly drawing back the sheets until he was met with a dangerous looking, but non-lethal, common snake. He chuckled softly before grabbing the snake by the middle. “Mulder, no!” she lurched, grabbing his shoulder lightly.

“Scully, this is just a garden snake,” he laughed, bringing it to the door and tossing it onto the gravel before closing the door and turning around. He almost ran over Scully, who’d come up behind him quietly as his apparent back-up even though she was scared herself.

They were closer than either of them had anticipated and he realized he was just as naked as she was. She was apparently noticing that too as her eyes were focused lower than they’d ever been during office hours. “Are you okay?” he asked, making her eyes comically shoot back up to his as a blush spread across her cheeks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I thought it was worse,” she chuckled self consciously, bringing her other hand back up to her chest to give herself more coverage, bringing Mulder’s gaze along with it.

She must’ve been getting ready for bed because her face was devoid of all makeup and he could smell some faint moisturizer on her. She must’ve lotioned her whole body too because she seemed to be absolutely glistening under the dim lamp light emanating from the bedside.

“N-no, don’t be sorry. I’m um, I’m glad to help,” he offered lamely.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “Oh-uh,” she started, turning around. “Sorry, I called you in while I was practically naked,” she apologized.

Or at least, he thinks that’s what she said, because as she left to grab her robe, all he could focus on was the way her underwear wasn’t full coverage. The sides of her rounded ass were visible as she walked over and that, combined with the elegance of her exposed back, had him crossing his hands in front of himself as he refused her apology and ran into his room.

He wished her a goodnight before closing the door, and he laid in bed that night and  wondered if she had any idea the effect she had on him.

IV

She’d been staying at his apartment for the past two days because they were repainting her apartment. This morning she insisted it wasn’t fair that she was eating all his food and not paying him back, so, despite his adamance she didn’t need to, she was off on a run to the store.

In their newfound routine, something he found simple joy in, it became an unspoken rule that she’d shower first and he’d go in after her. He loved it because the steam in the shower just heightened the smell of her floral shampoo and he felt engulfed in her scent.

So after she left, he made his way to the bathroom, stripping carelessly as he went. When he closed the door behind him, he turned to the towel rack and was stunned to see a thin, strappy bra hanging next to his striped towel. Staying dead silent for a moment to make absolutely sure she was gone, despite having just witnessed her leave himself. When he was confident she was gone, he picked up the scrap of fabric and felt it in his hands. Part of him felt like a kid again, finding small clues to the intricacies of womanhood that were still a mystery to him.

This was Scully’s bra.

This bra had touched her naked breasts.

And now it was in his hands.

He gently hand his hands over the cups and tried to commit the size difference to memory. She was on the smaller size, but they were bountiful nonetheless. He’d spent hours thinking about them and imagining what they’d look like, and now he had a piece of the puzzle in his very hands.

He noticed part of the underwire, if that’s what it’s called, was sticking out from the middle and he realized all the times in the past few weeks he’d seen her grabbing at the middle of her chest and tugging was because the wire had been poking her.

34B, he noted on the side band. He contemplated if she’d find it weird if he bought her a new bra. He felt bad if this one was causing her pain – it had to have been a favorite if she kept insisting on wearing it despite the pain. He decided the worst thing she could do was call him a pervert, it wouldn’t be the first time. Hell, after spending two nights here and accidentally catching sight of his morning wood both times, it honestly couldn’t be that bad. He just had to decide what kind to get her.

He spent the entire shower thinking about what type would fit her best before, quite literally, coming to the decision to get her another black, strappy one.

V

108 degrees. Record setting in the state and they just happened to be on a case in the area to be able to experience it. Hot enough to make any person sleep in their underwear.

Sometimes he forgot Scully fell under the category of ‘any person’ since he didn’t categorize her that way himself.

It was that slip up which caused him to be so taken aback when he walked into her motel room, without knocking as he’d later chastise himself for, and saw her sprawled on the bed in a forest green bra and deep purple underwear. The sight alone made him hard as a rock and lose all ability to think rationally.

He was about to apologize when he realized the lights in the room were off and she was sound asleep, the even rise and fall of her chest signalling she had probably been for a while now.

He felt his foot yearning to step forward and get a better look, but instead he turned around and closed the door as softly as he could. She’d done five autopsies back to back today. The last thing she deserved was her partner coming into her room and ogling her nearly-naked sleeping form.

She didn’t deserve to have him muffling her name in his fist as he came all over the shower tiles while thinking of her, but he only had so much willpower.

Green was his favorite color on her, after all.

VI

She didn’t close the door and all the sudden he was a horny teenage boy again.

This situation had occurred with varying frequency through the seven years of their partnership; they came over to her place to finish a report, watch a movie, eat something, whatever it may be. “I’m just going to change into something more comfortable. Make yourself at home,” she’d say as she made her way down the hall into her bedroom, closing the door behind her as he tried to imagine what was happening behind the mahogany that blocked his view.

There was no imagining this time and his brain was short circuiting from it.

He watched as she walked into her bedroom, not sparing the door a second glance, as she grabbed the bottom hem of her sweater and whipped it over her head, revealing she hadn’t been wearing more than a thin white bra underneath it all day. He felt like he needed to turn around, but he was frozen in place.

She then grabbed the stretchy hem of her skirt and pulled it down her legs, bending over as she did so so he got a full look at her rounded ass.

A thong.

A fucking white little thong.

He felt all the blood in his body rush to his groin as he watched Aphrodite herself make the most mundane task seem highly erotic. He knew he was gaping as she reached behind her back and unclasp her bra, revealing more skin to him than he ever remembered seeing under favorable circumstances.

He knew that he should probably leave, avert his gaze, fucking anything other than stand here and let his hard on tent his pants like a cartoon.

But she’d never left the door open before and if there was one thing Fox Mulder did, it was look for signs. He realized she was staring in front of a mirror and he couldn’t stop himself from looking.

Pink, perfect ovals with taut, hardened tips reflected back at him on top of her creamy heavy breasts. He swore this was the image men wanted to be their last. This was what pure heaven was like. He felt his eyes flutter lightly from pure arousal as he bit his lip, thanking whatever god was out there that allowed him to be blessed with this visage.

As he looked up a little more, he realized this thanks were just being directed to the god in the other room as Scully stared straight back at him through the mirror. A coy, self-satisfied smile playing on her lips.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, she turned around - not caring to conceal her fully revealed breasts from his attention - as she closed the door. He swore to god she even winked at him, the very last thing he saw before she disappeared behind the wooden door.

She came out in her silk pyjamas with no mentioning of the mini-strip tease. She let him see what she wanted him to see under her terms. Terms he was more than willing to follow.

[morganweir]

this is the first day of my life

ship: serica

tags: college au, first date.

Read it on ao3

@ericajonesweek

Erica sits forward in her seat, sipping at her milkshake with a delicacy that is more so that she can make eyes at Sarah rather than for preserving her lipstick. An oreo shake from Harvey’s is her college budget splurge of this week, but it’s damn well worth it; it’s the only thing that doesn’t feel like it goes to ash in her mouth besides blood, and she and Sarah both are on a blood budget. Rory’s blood budget is always controlled by two human-adjacent boyfriends, so it’s not like he has to have much self control about it. Anyway, as much as Sarah can snack on just about anything and it tastes just like it did when she bled blood of her own, everything just tastes bad to Erica these days.

Well, except milkshakes and other little beauties of their kind.

“So, what about your other professors?” Erica asks when there’s a still in Sarah’s flow of speaking, though she’s just been letting it wash over her thus far. She knows all of Sarah’s business anyway; it’s not like they don’t talk to each other every single day while roaming around the apartment between classes and shifts. Sarah keeps talking, the words buzzing in Erica’s head without processing at all. She doesn’t put any of her focus into listening, just sipping at her milkshake emptily.

Instead, she just looks at Sarah. Sarah Elizabeth Fox, she of pretty eyes and a sweet smile, she of endless crushes that everyone from Ethan Morgan to Jesse Black has on her, who probably has no idea how Erica feels about her. It’s not really that bad. Erica has always loved Sarah like breathing, a natural reaction to a need inside of her that Ethan would probably be better able to describe than she is, being a psych major and all. She’s just an arts major, and even that’s related to Sarah; the first real person she ever tried to draw was Sarah on Sarah’s second day at Whitechapel Middle. After that attempt, she could never make herself stop trying to get better.

She looks at Sarah and something inside of her knows that she has come home, that this is the place where she can sit down for a spell, unburden her load.

She stirs her milkshake absently with the straw, wanting to lace her fingers with Sarah’s but not knowing how to start. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve held hands, not even close, but she doesn’t know how to start anything. She can’t impose on Sarah, can’t be that predatory lesbian, even if Sarah is bi, even if Sarah is comfortable with her, even if Sarah loves her and says it and means it, even if.

Sarah reaches out for her and Erica allows it, gratefully slipping her fingers between Sarah’s as her shoulders relax and she feels calm again.

“What’s on your mind, Eri?” Sarah asks, playing with Erica’s fingertips. That calms her in a way that isn’t calming at all, just another thing for her mind to set itself against, to buzz against, to ferment in.

“You, I guess,” she says honestly, quirking a smile. She won’t explain if Sarah asks, which Sarah knows, so she’s not worried about it. She says things like this a lot, even if it’s weird.

“Me? Well, I would prefer you think of me and not your other girlfriends,” Sarah says with a smirk, one fanged canine showing. Erica hears the record scratch in her head as tears her hand away from Sarah’s, eyes narrowing. There’s no way that Sarah would just call them girlfriends, no way she would use that word when she knows what they both are, no way that Sarah would do the straight girl thing that every gay girl with an unfortunate crush feels rip through her soul every single time. She stands out of her seat, not looking at the way Sarah is looking at her, and rushes out of the Harvey’s. She doesn’t pour on any vampire speed, can’t afford for any humans to see her in their college town, but she isn’t exactly tame about her walking speed either.

She’s halfway across the street when Sarah catches up with her, which kinda defeats the purpose of storming off at all. She doesn’t speak until they’re safely across the crosswalk, pulling Erica down the street a little to sit on one of the public benches that aren’t occupied by random people.

“Eri, what did I say? Are you okay?” Sarah asks, her hand still wrapped around Erica’s forearm like she’s afraid that Erica will run away again. She’s deeply considering doing it anyway, snatching herself away and saying fuck it to the entire city, vamping her way all the way back to the apartment to pack up her shit and find somewhere else to be. Maybe America would suit her - she’s always heard good things about gays in New York. She could probably make it to New York before nightfall.

“Eri?” Sarah asks again, her hand slipping so that she can hold Erica’s hand. Erica can’t hold back her flinch.

“Why did you call us girlfriends? Why do you always have to be that girl?” Erica asks bitterly, looking out into the road rather than at Sarah. She doesn’t want to watch the realization on Sarah’s face, doesn’t want to watch the way that the other girl knows her, even if it takes her a minute sometimes. She’s surprised when Sarah huffs a laugh, is even more surprised when she turns and catches the look of the bitter twist on Sarah’s mouth, the rolling of Sarah’s eyes and the wrinkle of her nose.

“Wow. I really thought… I guess I got everything wrong, huh? Sorry for assuming things were the way I wanted them to be, Eri. I’ll see you at home, okay? Sorry for the misunderstanding,” Sarah says, her bitterness curling around the last word like acrid smoke, black and burning. Sarah takes her hand away and it takes Erica a moment to process, but she’s snatching Sarah back before the other girl even makes her way off of the bench. She can’t help but look at her with wide eyes.

“Was… was that a date?” she asks, hating the way that her voice cracks. Sarah looks at her with narrowed eyes, head tilted.

“Only if you wanted it to be, Erica. I thought… I really thought we’d been dating for a while,” she admits, a gust of air turning the air white around her mouth. Neither of them need to breathe, but they both still keep the habit. She wants to kiss Sarah breathless and keep kissing her, kiss her forever.

“Can I get a do-over?” she asks instead, quirking a half of a smile. Sarah looks at her half hopeful and half something else entirely. Erica isn’t confident enough to call the look anything related to love, so she’ll call it fondness instead.

“As many as you want,” Sarah answers, and Erica smiles.

“I’ll take twenty first dates, please, and maybe twenty more.”

[sea-side-scribbles]

Fanfiction: Sympathy For A Downer

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737214/chapters/55288288

Chapter 7: 

Nick remained on his couch, being all confused, realizing he must’ve completely misjudged the situation. Nobody had ever run away from his approach like this. But now he couldn’t dwell over it, he had to go find his inspiration and he already knew where he would look for it. He even dispraised himself for being so stupid and forgetting about something so obvious. To be fair, it had been a long time ago since he last visited her and he didn’t know if she still knew him. At some point she had simply stopped to visit him and he couldn’t remember if there was something he did to her. Well, he would find out today.

Some time later he ascended a plain stairwell and ringed a bell by an unremarkable door that actually led to a palace of dreams he hadn’t seen from inside for a long time. She didn’t show up, so he ringed again, asking himself if she still lived here. Or perhaps she had another visitor, that was more likely. 

Finally, the door opened and she stood before him, beautiful as always, in her skinny dress, shiny black leather pants and high heels, completed with bright red lipstick: Sally Boyle. She seemed to be a bit out of breath. For a moment she gave him a worried look, then her expression turned into surprise.

„Nick, I haven’t seen you in ages!“

„That’s a bloody shame, isn’t it?“,  he responded, hoping she would agree. To his relieve, she gave a wide smile and said: „You’re damn right baby, come in!“

And so he returned to her palace, that was still as impressive as he remembered it. Sally didn’t hesitate to put her arm around him, leading him to the living room, right through her lab, where she created all her wonderful candy.

„So, is there anything you want to forget or do you simply want to let your mind wander?“, she asked him while they strode through her house. Her tiny hand stroked his back, and she whispered right into his ear. 

„Uh..“, he laughed nervously. „It’s a bit of both…“

She let him to the big couch and made him sit down, pressing him right into the cushions with one hand on his chest. Then she knelt above him and took a glass vial from the table. Suddenly, Nick held out a hand. 

„Careful with this, I want to keep this moment in good memory.“ he said with decision.

Sally instead pursed her lips in an adorable way.

„You don’t want to try my special? Is this why you didn’t come back? Because you don’t like my candy anymore?“ She looked very sad and Nick could’ve slapped himself for ruining her mood.

„No, Sally luv, that’s ridiculous! I missed all your stuff. I…“, he stopped, searching for words to say. „Look, forget what I said, I’m very much of an idiot today, that’s why I need you.“

Sally’s face lightened up again.

„Don’t worry, special Sally is right here to save your day. Say aah…“

Nick obeyed and soon he felt a pleasant tickle on his tongue. He had actually wanted to be more careful with the drugs, but first, he never had any problems with Sally’s specials and second, he couldn’t say no to her anyway. He noticed, that the colors around him turned much brighter and the room was dominated by a giant…

„…rainbow“, he muttered.

Sally chuckled. „How did you know?“ Her voice sounded like it was fading into another dimension. He felt her hand on his cheek and he tried to lift his arm to pull her closer but he was too tired to move.

„You’ll have the most wonderful dreams…“, he heard Sally’s soft voice whisper, before he fell asleep.

Waking up, he was alone and still a bit foggy in his head. But the rainbow he had danced on in his dream was gone. He got up to look for Sally and left the room on wobbly legs. It was like he heard voices from afar. Could be illusions, or another customer. He leaned on the doorframe and peeked around the corner with curiosity to find out who was demanding Sally’s attention. At first he noticed that the customer was much taller than her, then he saw the proper suit, the dark curly hair, the familiar face, and then he only watched in bewilderment how she stretched her neck and placed a kiss on his lips, how they both remained like that for a long time until they finally parted and how Sally stroked his chest with one hand and whispered lovely words into his ear while he couldn’t turn his gaze from her, until he suddenly looked up and his and Nick’s eyes met. Sally turned around to see what was going on.

„Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you…“, Nick stuttered and hastily made his way to the exit. „Thanks for the mind-blowing adventure Sally.“ When he passed by her he pulled her closer and kissed her too, drawing it out while Arthur stood right besides him. Then he let go of her and left the room without looking back.

Descending the stairs he wondered why he even made such a big fuss about it. It was completely normal for Sally to welcome everyone in her palace and sometimes offering more than just candy. But why should a downer come to her, if it wasn’t for personal reasons? Nick was able to put one and one together after all: First, Arthur ran away from his kiss and now he was here snogging with Sally and melting away in her hands. That looked like a clear situation to him. 

Standing outside, huffing and puffing, he said goodbye to his inspiration, if he wanted to create a happy song, that is. What was left for him to do?

He saw a second possibility, even though it was much more complicated. That made it more exciting though. In addition, he needed a distraction right now, or else he would have another breakdown right before Sally’s house.

So he made his way to Bates’ Music Shop, avoiding the front door and instead sneaking to the back of the shop and trying the door there. As expected, it was open. Good girl. Sneaking into the storage room, he soon found a woman with teased black hair searching for something in a box. When she heard his footsteps, she turned around and made a little jump.

„Helly, Kitty,“ Nick purred.

„Nick Nightbearer“, she shouted. „Uh..Barenighter!“

Nick chuckled. „You’re cute when you’re stuttering, baby.“ 

He stretched out an arm and leaned above her while she stared at him with wide eyes.

„How about closing the shop earlier today?“

„Uh…“, Kitty said and seemed to think hard. „…Relay? Yeah… we have some of those in the shop…“ She was about to run off into the shop, but Nick took her arm to stop her.

„No, no, I mean…we don’t we find a place for just the two of us?“

„Cymbals? Yes, we have those too…“ She wanted to go again but Nick still had her arm. 

„Kitty, do you have drum sticks in your ears today? I’m asking if you wanna sh…“

in this moment he heard footsteps and realized why Kitty had stared at him with a troubled expression the whole time. „…shoot.“

„Who are you talking to, Kitty?“ Bates’ voice sounded menacing.

„Quick, hide,“ she hissed and shoved him under a table that was covered by a blanked.

„It was just a customer, darling“, she then said to Bates who just came in.

„Really?“, he asked suspiciously. „And since when do they use the back door?“

„Some of them do…You know, they never read the „No Entrance“ signs, no matter how big I make them…“

While Kitty was keeping her husband busy, Nick set himself in motion and crouched along the table, until he cautiously came out behind Bates and sneaked into the shop.

„I thought I heard this voice before“, he heard Bates say before he quietly closed the door to the storage and turned around with a triumphant smile on his face.

The smile froze as he saw that the shop was filled with people who were dressed just like him, even the women. A banner decorated the ceiling, that said „Nick Lightbearer Convention“ and Nick suddenly had a bad feeling about this. They stared at him and he stared right back, fearing he would never make it to the exit in one piece. Then a woman started to yell, pointing a finger at him and a stampede broke loose. Nick yelled too and ran back to the storage room, but the door only opened for a short gap and behind that he saw the grinning face of Bates.

„I knew it! Nick Lightbearer himself, what an honor. I hope you have fun at your own convention!“

„Come on Bates, let me out! They’ll rip me apart!“, Nick begged, but the other man didn’t move.

„Darling, let him out, he didn’t do anything bad,“ he heard Kitty plead for him.

„Oh, he’s completely innocent, isn’t he? Funny though that the bloke who criticized his last record was found dead in the park last night!“

„What are you talking about?“, Nick shouted in desperation.

„It’s true, the man you pretend to be is the man you are inside. Lovely day for it!“

„You can’t be serious“, Nick shrieked as the door slammed shut and he heard the key turning around. Nick dashed against the door but it had no effect.

Meanwhile the mob of fans came closer. 

Nick pressed himself against the door, staring helplessly at the mass that came upon him, until his survival instinct took the lead and he started to run towards them, hoping in panic that he could make it through. Crashing against the mob it felt like an avalanche rolled over him, one that consisted entirely out of arms, with hands that grabbed him from everywhere. He kept tearing himself out of their grips, ignoring the sound of ripping cloth, flailing around and kicking and carving himself a way with his elbows. More than once he was about to drown in the masses and he could barely breathe anyway. When he finally made it out, he was completely exhausted, crawling out of the shop on all fours and not looking back. 

Crouching through the door he almost fell unconscious at the sight of an even bigger crowd of people that stood outside. Everyone who was still a fan of his must’ve been there, looking at him how he pulled himself up at the doorframe. Perhaps they would’ve taken him for another Lookalike, but he gave himself away when he lost his nerve and ran with the last bit of his strength. He was certain that the avalanche he had caused now was definitely fatal. No street was safe, so he hid in a trash bin and didn’t make any sound for a very long time, until it was so calm and quiet that he assumed that the mass had rolled by.

Crawling out of the bin he saw that his fancy rags were shredded and dirty, so he definitely needed new clothes. As fate willed, his other fancy rads were still in his hotel suite and on the way to the hotel he found the Convention right at the street he needed to follow. 

Surrendering to his fate, he slumped down on a bench, guessing he had to wait until the end of the Convention until he could go into a warm and comfy room again. Curling his fingers into his hair, he noticed that it was also completely destroyed. He couldn’t walk around like this! Looking around in desperation he saw another Wellie already approaching him, about to displease him for his inappropriate clothing. Nick looked at the other man’s clean suit and came to a conclusion. He let the Wellie come. 

„Sir, you shouldn’t be dressed like that.“

„Pardon?“ Nick acted deaf.

The other man stepped closer and seconds later he had a syringe in his stomach and collapsed.

„No worries,“ Nick assured the other citizens that strolled by. „Just a Joy overdose, I’ll bring him back home.“ No one questioned it, easy answers to problems always were the best.

Nick threw the man over his shoulder and carried him into a back alley where could switch clothes unseen. With the torn rags the Wellie only looked like a Convention guest who had overdone it. Nick eyed himself, content with his new outfit. Maybe a bit too tame, but therefore live-saving. Before he could go back to the hotel though he had to make another even harder step. His hair and his face, both could still give him away.  This day didn’t spare him anything, he thought to himself. Did he really have to do this? He didn’t even remove his wig to sleep, he wasn’t himself without it. But the longer he pondered over it the more it seemed that he had no chance. 

With a really unpleasant feeling in his stomach he removed the wig and placed it next to the Wellie. Then he took the mask. The cold air on his skin felt rather strange, taking him way back. He had already forgotten how it felt to have no mask on his face. He didn’t even know the time all of this started. Was it ten years ago? Nick wasn’t even popular yet when they became the law. And then Joy came. The person he had been before Joy was someone Nick didn’t know anymore. Even Arthur kept the mask. 

Arthur…better not think about Arthur, Nick told himself and swapped his mask with the one of the Wellie. Goodbye Lightbearer mustache. The urge to get into the hotel suite was much stronger now.

Funny how things go, Arthur thought, running down the stairs from Sally’s home. „You came back to her to apologize, because you’ve been a complete arse to her and she surprises you by being not mad at all. She’s saying all these wonderful things you had wished her to say when you meet her again, she’s lovely and sweet and even kisses you with passion - and then it all turns out to be another bloody lie, it turns out that you had all the right to be an arse, that there’s always someone better than you to kiss and to spice things up, this kind of people seems to be the only one you ever meet and they’re always going to be an utter disappointment. 

Arthur didn’t make a pause until he was back in his hideout. He ignored that his face was all wet.

Congratulations, Arthur! The only one who ever cared about you was the one you abandoned in Germany!

[latibulx]

WHO IN YOUR OTP... { we doing ships tho b/c idkwhatyourotpsareotl gaeul & yugyeom }

WHO IN YOUR OTP

1- Eats the last slice of pizza and is playfully ignored by the other until they apologize?

That's Yugyeom, I can see him teasing Gaeul like this and she'd totally playfully sulk and ignore him until she'd hear a proper apology. Or he might tickle her until she stops ignoring him.

2 - Gets into more fights with other people? Does the other care for them?

I can't see either of them getting into physical fights; however, they seem to both have a stubborn side that might bring them into "fights with words". Maybe it's because they both read a lot of books and they know of the power of words. But they definitely care for each other if they see them all angry and annoyed because of an argument.

3 - Tries new things that the other recommends and hates them but pretends to like them for the other’s sake?

I don't like this question because I don't think it's healthy to pretend to like something just for someone else's sake, in any kind of relationship. So I know I couldn't bring my muses to force themselves to like something that they actually hate. Anyway, Yugyeom and Gaeul are both bookworms, on the same page. Winks winks.

4 - Snores? What does the other think about it?

Does Yugyeom snore? If he does, Gaeul would be amused by it and record him to later tease him.

5 - Wakes up first? Is there a reason why?

I'd say that on weekdays, both wake up around the same time because of work. And on weekends, it depends of who's more tired but they do enjoy sleeping in and lazying in bed.

6 - Is horrible with technology? Does the other help them out with it?

Gaeul has a clumsy side in her but not to the point where she is horrible with technology. Not sure about Yugyeom, but of course they'd help each other out (after watching them struggle for five good minutes).

7 - Is first to apologize after an argument?

Gaeul. Not because she is always in the wrong when they argue but simply because she is terrified of losing someone else, someone she's close to and has opened up to. Apologies would slip past her lips before she even realizes it. That girl has got some self-work to do.

8 - Is the clean freak? Does the other live like a slob or do they just not care as much about cleaning as the other?

(In which I don't know enough about Yugyeom to reply). Basically, Gaeul's apartment = stacked books everywhere. And two cats.

9 - Falls asleep first? Does the other usually stay up or go to sleep soon after?

It depends of who's more tired, but the other usually goes to sleep soon after unless they're too caught up in a book or writing.

10 - Goes out of the way to impress the other? What do they do? What does the other think?

I think that Yugeom and Gaeul are pretty simple people. They don't expect much of life because they've experienced too many disappointments and false hope and pain. So they're content with what they have - and they even feel lucky to be able to experience it together. But, sometimes, they'd just surprise the other with a spontaneous trip or a random gift. Little things that mean the world to them.

11 - Sings Christmas carols in the middle of summer? Does the other sing-along or are they annoyed?

Gaeul, definitely. She loves Christmas and she's totally ready for it in July, haha. I think Yugyeom might be annoyed by it, no matter how adorable she looks belting out to "Jingle Bells".

12 - Constantly quotes memes/vines? Does the other understand them?

Maybe Yugyeom? If he has lost this little spark when he is reading, I imagine he has been watching a good amount of memes and vines on the internet to distract himself - which Gaeul really doesn't understand.

13 - Pranks the other? What do they do?

Both, oh my god. They're that annoying couple who always find ways to prank each other. Nothing harmful though - a fake spider in between the pages of a book, salt in the coffee instead of sugar etc.

14 - Gets angry for weird/bad reasons? How does the other make it up to them or do they just leave them be?

So far, from what I've been reading about Yugyeom, it seems lile he's got a lot of pent up frustration? About his job, about not becoming an author. So, I feel like eventually it'd impact his mood and have him get angry for minor things. Gaeul would let him calm down, she'd let the storm pass and give him the space he needs. She'd wait until he's the one to come to her and only then would she talk about it.

15 - Calls/Texts first?

It depends, it's never the same one. Gaeul always has a lot of fun/random thoughts to share but Yugyeom never hesitates to shoot her a text first or even call her whenever he feels like it.

16 - Is more jealous? Do they tell the other or not?

Hmm... Yugyeom, perhaps? Although Gaeul can be jealous when it's a bad dah and her insecurities are just yelling at her face. But it seems like Yugyeom has got a lot on his plate as well. They wouldn't tell the other but... I feel like they'd just know when their partner is in a particular kind of mood.

17 - Plans all the dates?

We love equality in this house so, both. Not at the same time, but it's never always Yugyeom because Gaeul also wants to surprise him and plan a full day date and make him happy.

18 - Starts stupid arguments? How does the other deal with them?

Both. It's never harmful or really strong arguments that end up with these two being upset but it's like they both enjoy the challenge. It's like their minds are being stimulated.

19 - Has to explain the joke? Does the other get it immediately after it’s explained?

I think they're on the same wavelength when it comes to jokes so there's no explanation needed. And if it's needed, they get it immediately. Or they'd pretend not to, just to annoy the other. Which leads to a stupid arguments, then a tickle fight. And smooches.

20 - Watches more T.V.? Does the other watch it with them? If not, what do they do?

Yugyeom does. Although Gaeul does love her romantic drama and movies, she has more often than not her head in a book. And if she's not watching TV by his side, then she's reading by his side, shifting position every so often.

21 - Can’t stand 3 seconds without the other?

They are both independent adults who can spend a moment without their lover. They're not traumatized like Yibo and Wonbin.

22 - Is a great artist? Do they draw the other or gift them some of their works?

Both are great writers! They just need to find faith back in their dream and talent!! Though I'm laughing at the thought of them writing fanfictions about each other and offering them afterwards.

23 - Is shameless about anything they say or do? How does the other react?

Well, Yugyeom doesn't seem that shameless, but he does have that kind of honesty that never fails to surprise Gaeul, sometimes in good ways and other times in bad ways.

24 - Still sleeps with a plush? What does the other think?

Gaeul has a plush from her deceased little brother but she doesn't sleep with it. It's kept somewhere in her room - on top of a stack of books. But she has her two cats. I doubt Yugyeom minds them, unless things are getting heated.

25 - Has a better fashion sense?

Nothing against Yugyeom, but Gaeul. She always wears colorful clothes, especially dresses and skirts. She does enjoy jeans and other kind of pants but not as much. In the past it was rare to see her wear dark colors but, after one too many losses, she has gotten more of dull colored clothes. But she always adds a touch of color, usually with her shoes and lipstick.

[ for @fxndingsolace ]

[beca-mitchell]

anon asked: can you write number 40 or 52 please ?? thanks !

how about something that kind of involves both + a bonus social media au?

40. Hiding/hoping not to be caught kiss + 52. Accidentally Witnessed kiss

sealed with a kiss

word count: 1,198

summary: Famous!Bechloe AU: Beca and Chloe’s relationship is...a secret. Kind of. Anyway, now they’re going on tour together.

It’s kind of their little secret. 

Kind of...because well -

It’s born out of quite a number of personal reasons and business decisions, but ultimately, Beca and Chloe prefer that their world stays private...well as private as it can, without the interference of the outside world.

Beca enjoys reading the theories.

Chloe loves the way Beca cackles at the more outlandish ones.

Both of them hate the fake dates and gossip magazines, but they play a little game of who gets a higher score in terms of dating. It’s kind of fun and until it stops being fun and they grow weary of hiding out in the open, this is how it is. 

Despite it all, their PDA is personal and completely off limits. It’s why Chloe has to force herself to wait in Beca’s dressing room (when it’s available) whenever Beca presents or performs at an award show, or when Beca receives an award. She can’t celebrate properly until -

“Thank God,” Chloe mumbles, throwing her arms around Beca’s neck and pulling her in for a bruising kiss. Beca’s award is tossed haphazardly onto the closet couch before sure hands are holding her waist and steering her towards the nearest wall.

“We have about ten seconds before the runner...comes by again to...for the...engrave the award...thing,” Beca finishes once Chloe’s lips descend onto her jaw, then her neck.

“Figure something out,” Chloe says lightly, as if her hands aren’t wandering up Beca’s back and fingering the zipper she finds. She tilts Beca’s head back towards hers and slides her lips leisurely against Beca’s, relishing the feeling of how soft Beca’s lips feel against hers. It’s slow, languid, and everything Chloe’s been missing since she got back from New York and only managed to make it to the show with a few minutes to spare.

Beca’s hand comes up to cup Chloe’s neck, sliding into soft hair. She holds Chloe against her, just for a few seconds because sometimes it does feel like these moments are all they have these days, living so far apart, on opposite coasts.

And like that, their bubble is broken by sharp raps on the door. Chloe pushes off the wall and thumbs the corner of Beca’s mouth, smiling upon seeing the smudge of lipstick.

“I’ll wait here,” she murmurs, pecking Beca on the nose.

So their story is that...there really isn’t a story behind this particular choice. They don’t feel particularly compelled to publicly address their relationship.

That had been a year ago.

Their relationship - and lack thereof - according to Aubrey, is one of the worst kept secrets in Hollywood. Fans eat it up, talk shows use it to poke fun at them, and tabloids use it as fodder to either tear them down or bring them up.

In any case, they’re still sort of careful about how they maintain their public personas. Beca thinks that it’s been about two and a half years of pure bliss after she pulled her head out of her ass and figured out how to tell Chloe how much she meant to her.

They’re best friends, as far as anybody else is concerned. People that know are respectful and understanding. People that don’t know are equally respectful and understanding most of the time.

Now, they’re prepping for a talkshow interview together - the first one they’ve ever had.

Prepping is a loose term for what they’re actually doing while their managers are otherwise occupied.

Chloe had been playfully tying Beca’s hair into elaborate braids while Beca read out fake interview questions, both trying to trip the other up. Tiring of her task quickly, Chloe opts instead to engage in a more fun activity: sitting on Beca’s lap instead and kissing her.

"They’re going to be back soon,” Beca mumbles, though her hands rest loosely on Chloe’s hips. “Like...really soon, dude.” She doesn’t make any other indication that they should stop and chases after Chloe’s mouth when she sighs and pulls away.

“You’re right,” Chloe murmurs, though she can’t resist one last brush against Beca’s mouth.

Unbeknownst to them, there had been a few light taps at the door, signalling the return of Aubrey, Amy, and Seth whereby one out of that party of three was quite surprised to see Chloe Beale affectionately running a hand through Beca Mitchell’s hair and getting off her lap.

Seth glances around, trying to make eye contact with both Aubrey and Amy, neither of whom seem particularly concerned that their clients were getting pretty cozy.

He clears his throat, making his way towards the two women, now preoccupied with touching up their make-up calmly.

“I just had a quick run through with questions I’m going to ask the two of you,” Seth says, handing them a couple flashcards. Your managers okay-ed them.”

Chloe takes the cards and sifts through them, nodding at each question while Beca simply takes the cards and lets her hand hang loosely by her side. She smiles at Seth. “Are these finalized questions? Ask Chloe about Broadway and all the drama that those thespians engage in. She was always meant to be a recording artist,” Beca says, sighing dramatically.

Chloe rolls her eyes, but laughs anyway. "Beca is such a liar. She knows I loved Broadway, but I practically grew up on that stage and I wanted to reach a wider audience."

Beca stifles the playful grin that threatens to overtake her face. "Yes, she realized not everybody could afford those crazy prices,” Beca tells Seth helpfully. “We’re talking Hamilton levels, here.”

Seth’s eyes flit between them. "You two know each other well?” he asks, as if he hadn’t just caught them.

Beca glances over her shoulder where Aubrey and Amy are fiddling with their devices. "Off the record, right? Since the show hasn’t started and all." Beca asks unnecessarily.

Seth leans forward, almost eagerly. He chances a glance at Chloe, typically the one to break a serious moment. Instead, she looks at her feet, as if shy, suddenly. "Of course," he promises.

"We're friends with benefits. Have been for a while. I…won’t say how long, but you could probably venture a guess."

"Seriously?" Seth is rendered speechless and mildly uncomfortable. “What - I had no…"

Chloe punches Beca in the shoulder. “Holy shit,” she exclaims. “Beca loves torturing people because she is a child. I’m so sorry she said that,” Chloe says sincerely, eyes wide as they turn to Seth. Beca looks like she’s trying very hard not to burst into laughter.

"Oh. Okay. So you’re just friends.”

There’s a moment of silence.

"Okay, no," Chloe says, drawing out the syllable. "We're dating!"

Beca laughs at that, full-bodied and exuberant. It’s quite possibly a side Seth can’t recall seeing…ever, ever since these two women entered the harsh spotlight of the entertainment industry.

Seth never does get to ask them whether it’s the truth, but he figures since every interviewer and every magazine speculates about their relationship, he can join in on the ribbing.

(In fact, Beca’s manager, Amy had encouraged it. Chloe’s manager, Aubrey had merely huffed and gestured with a wave of her hand as if to proceed.)

They’re just best friends, after all.

[khhunniewriting]

Special Guest

MNET staff were on high alert when they saw a black van pulling into the parking lot that was for their staff. It looked like one of the vans celebrities got driven around in. When the door opened you offered your best smile and greeted them with a shy voice. “Hello, sorry for interrupting.”

The staff members who had been lucky enough to be outside at the moment immediately approached you with kind words and greetings. One of the cameramen followed as well and filmed the moment. 

You were the lead dancer of a popular girl group that many men around the world described as multi-talented. After the Idol Star Athletics Championships, you showcased your gymnastics talents and in previous variety shows you had shown your drawing abilities and even your vocal range.

They knew you were Kiseok’s girlfriend. After the news got out there were some comments but nothing too bad was said. They imagined he had called you here. “Are you looking for him? We can call him out immediately.” One of the staff got his radio to call it in but you stopped him. 

“That’s okay, I just came to bring this for team AOMG.” You pointed to the bags of snacks that you had boughten. Kiseok had texted you earlier to let you know that the filming would go on later than usual so you decided to support him and his team by bringing them something. “Can you take it to them?” you asked.

“Why don’t you bring it to him?” The staff saw an opportunity to film a special guest scene. 

You hesitated for a bit but after much help from the MNET staff, you were out of the van. They only allowed you to carry one bag while a staff member carried the rest. The camera followed behind you as you walked through hallways you had seen on television.

When you got to the room that was labeled AOMG you asked the staff to go first. “Can you please go first” you whispered to him. You were afraid Kiseok might be in the middle of his creative process and be mad at the interruption. 

The staff nodded, he knocked twice before opening the door and sticking his head in. “You have a special guest.”

“Special gues?” G2, ONE, and BewhY immediately sat up asking with anticipation. Gray and Kiseok, on the other hand, looked confused. “Who is it” Gray asked.

You pushed the door so it would open wider and reveal yourself. “Hello everyone, I brought snacks.”

Kiseok broke out into a smile seeing you come through the door was like a god sent gift. He had been feeling tired and ready to call it a day but now that he saw you he was energized. “Jagiya” he got up to hug you but the bag was in the way. He took it from you and pushed it to Gray. 

“Oppa” you smiled happily to see his reaction. 

The MNET staff gave the guys the rest of the snacks you had brought. Their eyes sparkled as they unpacked the food and placed it on the table in front of them.

“Is this really all for us?” ONE asked.

You nodded, “Yes help yourselves.

“Thanks, Noona” G2 thanked you.

“You’re welcome,” you giggled. “But, you don’t have to call me that. I’m actually younger than most of you.” It was common for people to think you were Kiseok’s age so you were used to this type of mix up. 

“Jagiya you didn’t have to come,” Kiseok held you close to him even while sitting. He had his arm over your shoulders making you sit as close as possible.

“You say that but you won’t let go of her.” Gray was used to this scene, it happened often at AOMG. Kiseok always tried to play it cool around you when in fact he was beyond happy to have you by his side. WIth both of your busy schedules, it meant a lot to him that you looked for him whenever you could. 

Gray’s comment was enough to make you hide your face in the palms of your hands. 

Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Gray got up and opened the door revealing Dok2. “What are you all doing in here?”

“Kiseok’s girlfriend brought us some snacks.” After letting him in Gray pointed over at you. “Joonkyung this is Y/N, Y/N this is Joonkyung.”

“Hello,” you greeted him in a very low voice. It was your first time meeting Dok2 so you were a bit shy and he had no trouble pointing that out. “You’re actually a lot shyer than when you are on television.”

You nodded.

“That’s just because all of you are here. When we’re alone she get’s pretty loud.” Kiseok smirked and the guys all laughed at the underlying sexual insinuation. 

The statement sounded perfectly normal to you. However, looking around at their expressions lead you to believe you had missed something. G2 was hollering as BewhY shook Kiseok’s hand. ONE avoided making eye contact with you entirely. 

Gray nudged Dok2 and pointed out your obliviousness. “Y/N you look so lost.” Gray didn’t know how someone as innocent as you wound up with Kiseok who was an expert when it came to sexual innuendos. 

“I am,” you responded honestly. “Did I miss something again?” You let got of Kiseok and sat at the edge of your seat, leaning towards Gray. He always teased you but at least he gave you answers.

“Seriously Y/N blink twice if Kiseok is keeping you against your will.” 

“Gray!” you shouted in desperation before going back to Kiseok. You held onto his hand for comfort, “Oppa tell him to stop teasing me.” Your voice came out low and wavered because of Dok2′s presence.

But he was no help. “See, she can be loud.” Kiseok continued his fun but still took you into consideration. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head. “It’s okay baby.”

"I bet everyone wonders how you two got together in the first place,” Gray continued to tease you. He knew you would forget your shyness and start talking comfortably if he pushed you a bit more.

The other men in the room all nodded in agreement. “I’m more curious how you can be an idol.” Dok2 didn’t mean it in a bad way, he was just curious. “Don’t they make you go on variety shows?”

“Yeah but the other members talk well so they cover for me. All I have to do is sing, dance, and show my other talents.”

“What other talents?”

“Well I did gymnastics when I was little so I’m very flexible. Anything with my body I can do.”

“She really is,” Kiseok smirked once again as the guys all tried to refrain from taking your statement in a sexual manner. You smiled at Kiseok thankful for his vouching of your talent. Of course, you thought he was just being a good supportive boyfriend. 

Gray’s palm went to his face, “You’re doing it again Y/N.”

“What?” You looked over at Kiseok who had the greasiest smile you had ever seen. “What did I do now? Why are you smiling like that?”

Dok2 cleared his throat as he tried to keep a straight face. “I think I’m going to go back with my team. It was nice meeting you Y/N.” He couldn’t help but smile at the end before exiting the small room.

When you looked over at the other three they were pretending to not see you. They continued to eat but you could still see ONE’s red face. “Is it something I said?” you asked Kiseok very seriously.

He shook his head. He loved this side of you and never wanted you to change. “Nothing’s wrong baby girl.” He brought your hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it. “Don’t ever change.”

Now you were the one with the read face.

You were thankful that the cameramen didn’t record your awkward moments in the waiting room. It was enough that they were following you and Kiseok as he took you back to your car.

“It’s already this late?” You were surprised to see that outside the sky had become dark and the night grew colder. You shivered in your thin cardigan as the winds picked up.

“Hold on,” Kiseok stopped you from walking further and let go of your hand so he could take his jacket off and slip it onto your shoulders like a gentleman.

Your smile grew wider and brighter at his gesture. He truly was a good boyfriend to you. “Thanks, Oppa.” You held his hand once more and continued to walk through the parking lot with him. 

When you got to your van Kiseok opened the door for you and greeted your manager who stayed in his seat waiting for you to hop in. You still had one more stop before your day was over. The cameraman filmed Kiseok as he helped you into the van. 

“Oppa how much longer will you be here?” You hadn’t left yet and already you missed him.

“it’s going to be a while.” 

You pouted.

“Why don’t you go to my house and wait for me. Even if you fall asleep Oppa will wake you up.”

Your hand went to cover your mouth as you gasped. The other hand hit Kiseok in the chest lightly. “Oppa how can you say that when we are being recorded.”

Kiseok chuckled, “You understood that time?”

“Of course, even I know this much.”

Kiseok broke out into full on laughter. “Then you will wait for me?” 

You gave a slight nod, wary of the camera.

“Good, then give me a kiss goodbye.”

“Not like this,” you shook your head not wanting to kiss him in front of the camera. 

Kiseok had no intention of letting you leave without giving him a kiss. “I can solve it.” He jumped into the van with you and closed the door, disappearing behind the heavily tinted doors. 

Seconds later he came back out with a bit of your lipstick on the corner of his lips. He waved goodbye as your can pulled out of the parking lot. 

When he got back to the AOMG room ONE pointed it out to him. “Hyung what is that on your lips?”

“Woah are you bleeding?” Gray asked before getting a second look and realizing what it was. “It’s lipstick.”

Kiseok swiped at his lips with his thumb and saw that there really was some of your red lipstick there. “I told you she’s not shy when we’re alone.”

-end-

A/N: I love writing for this man.