#i couldnt get the boy to kill me but i wore his jacket for the longest time!!!!!!!!!!!!

[rhymaes]

The Untamed (2019) // Anne Sexton

[realismomagico]

good "i couldnt get the boy to kill me but i wore his jacket for the longest time" afternoon

[cloudslou]

i couldnt get the boy to kill me, but i wore his jacket for the longest time

[ikusayu-no-hana]

that is SO 'i couldnt get the boy to kill me but i wore his jacket for the longest time' of yjh

[finalgirlbuffysummers]

re reading you are jeff. yes having a totally fine normal regular evening. 

[gczebos]

me, a gay who loves IT: ooh, I’m gonna order Crush by Richard Siken, his stuff is great

me, an emotionally unstable gay who has a crush on her best friend: h a...oh w O w...I am...haha...unwell

[gaysie]

rethinking the decision to put richard siken quotes RIGHT next to my bed because i am unhinging as we speak

[malcolmreeds]

... i couldnt get the boy to kill me, but i wore his jacket for the longest time.

[mlmvoidboy]

"I couldnt get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time"

"Okay so I'm the dragon, big deal"

"Forget the dragon, leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness"

"You do this, you do. You take the things you love and tear them apart"

"I wanted to fall down right there, but I knew you wouldn't catch me because you're dead"

"You are a fever I am learning to live with"

"I don't really blame you for being dead but you can't have your sweater back"

"I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I’d just as soon kill you myself"

"Do I have to tie your arms down? Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief"

"This is not harmless. You are not breathing"

"don't leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you"

"the parentheses all clicking shut behind you"

"I wanted to hurt you, but the victory is that I could not stomach it"

Crush by Richard Siken

[wheelsup]

moreid as a cheesy high school teen movie romance | headcannon

(this really got away from me, it is incredibly cheesy. derek and spencer are the same age (but one year apart) in this au. tw: mentions of anxiety, mentions of homophobia. 1.4k words because like i said, it got away from me)

spencer, a sophomore, shows up on the first day of school in one of derek’s junior-level classes. derek remembers him from the summer, when he had to come to school for off-season practice and spencer was there for chess club tournaments, he passed him a few times in the hall. he’s gotten taller since then, and his cheekbones have come in. he looks good. not like the awkward freshman he remembers.

spencer’s always getting called on in class, and derek can see him panicking every time he has to speak up.

each time spencer’s anxiety kicks up after he talks in class, derek leans over and tells him he did a good job. that he didn’t look as nervous as he felt.

spencer starts speaking up more in class, not just because derek’s reassuring him and easing his anxiety, but because he knows it will get the boy will talk to him. even if for just a moment.

after class one day, derek stops spencer as he’s walking home and asks for his phone number. he says it’s so they can talk about homework, but derek knows that it’s the only thing he won’t be texting reid for. spencer has to pretend his hands aren’t violently shaking when he types his number into derek’s phone, he’s afraid he’s going to drop it with how sweaty his palms feel.

spencer waits for derek to text him, but nothing comes through. two days go by without a message, and spencer’s stomach is turning inside out and he’s so sad. on the third day, derek finds him in the cafeteria at lunch and corners him, asking why he hasn’t been responding to his messages. 

“why haven’t you texted me back?”

“i never got a message?” 

“well i sent you like seven of them”

that’s when they figure out spencer gave him the wrong number. he was so nervous and shaky that he hit a zero where it should have been a one. both those boys spent three days thinking that their crush was unrequited. in reality, derek had sent him seven texts and spencer was crushing so hard he couldnt even type right. 

reid’s contact name is obviously pretty boy

spencer hates phones but he turns his notifications on just so he never misses a text

dereks mature and texts back normally, spencer is insecure and tries to wait to reply so he doesn’t look like he was waiting for a text

even though the mutual crush is so obvious, they still pretend like their texts are nothing to speak of. they’re nervous.

them staying up past midnight texting is just because they’re “buds”. derek telling spencer what his favorite movies are, which spencer saved onto his netflix list, and spencer sending derek song recommendations that he saves into a playlist, is definitely just “buddy” stuff. 

it’s the day before the big homecoming game, and derek’s going to start. he wore his letterman jacket around all week to show his pride, like football players are supposed to do the week leading up to the game.

it also rains really hard that day, and spencer shows up to class looking like a drowned puppy with his sweater completely soaked. he had to walk across the entire campus to make it to class, and he couldn’t avoid getting caught in the rain.

derek sees him, shivering and pale, and slips him his letterman jacket to wear in class. he does it so casually, like it wasn’t even a question for him to give it up, but, he’s nervous that spencer’s not gonna wanna wear it, even if he is fighting hypothermia. he has to actively try not to smile when spencer accepts the jacket.

it’s so much bigger than spencer is, and so, so warm. 

after class, spencer hands it back to him and thanks him for letting him wear it. derek tells him to hold on to it for now.

“aren’t you supposed to wear it for the game tomorrow?”

“how about you wear it. give it back to me after i win.”

he blushes so hard and he’s so in love with derek, but spencer’s scared to wear it to school the next day.

nobody would say anything to derek, but the homophobic assholes could easily pick on spencer. they already ragged on him enough, he didn’t want to give them any more reasons. he tries it on and takes it off a hundred and one times in the mirror before going to school.

he ultimately doesn’t wear it to class.

it would just make him too easy of a target, and he wanted to so badly, but he’s scared of the bullies.

he’s also scared to face derek. he avoids him all day, hoping he doesn’t see that spencer didn’t wear it to class that day like he was supposed to. he avoids him in the hall. he hides in a seat in the back of the classroom.

it doesn’t work. derek turns around in the front row, eyes scanning for spencer. he’s absolutely crestfallen when he sees him, sans jacket. and spencer’s clearly been avoiding him today, and so he gets the message. spencer doesn’t like him like that.

the sun was out that day, and the wet grass field was gonna dry up in time for the big game, but derek’s whole world felt dark.

spencer tries to talk to him after class, but derek’s nowhere to be found. he texts him as he walks home alone and doesn’t get any response. spencer tries to convince himself derek’s just at practice, and he doesn’t have his phone on him, but he knows that practice doesn’t run that long.

it’s 7pm now. derek’s big game is about to start, and spencer’s sitting on his bed, staring at the ceiling and hoping he didn’t just ruin his chance. derek looks over the bleachers before the coin toss and he doesn’t see the only face he’s looking for.

bullies have taken so much from spencer, and he was letting them take his first (potential) boyfriend away from him too. spencer wants to stay in bed and cry, and he does for a bit, but if ever spencer was going to take a stance, he decided it should be now.

he shows up to the game five minutes before half time, just enough to see derek in action. he’s never seen anything so impressive. as the team is huddled up and the marching band is playing, derek by chance glances over the bleachers and sees reid. front row with that big jacket over his shoulders.

derek’s heart has left his body, ascended into the sky. he plays even better that second half, but he feels like he’s floating on air, even when he’s getting tackled and rammed.

reid, who has never seen a game of football in his life, is learning everything he can as it unfolds before him.

he’s clinging onto every play, cheering when derek does something good (really, the whole team did it, but to reid derek IS the whole team) and booing when the other team was up.

sometimes he doesn’t know what happened and why the crowd is cheering, but he cheers anyways.

the game is over and people are leaving but spencer is glued in place. the team lost and everyone’s disappointed, but spencer is the proudest he could ever be.

because the first derek does is walk off the field and towards the bleachers. to him.

they don’t kiss. not here. in front of all these prying eyes and bright lights, not in a place where they couldn’t savor it.

derek does hold spencer’s hand, though. it means everything that he came. it means more that he wore the jacket.

and he’s scared, too. he might be the school’s beloved football star, but this is the first boy he’s ever liked and he doesn’t know how to handle it.

they leave the game together. derek’s team is wondering where he went because he was supposed to come get drunk with them to forget the loss. but derek won tonight.

derek and spencer tell each other they might not know how to do this, but they wanna figure it out. it’s worth enduring a bit of pain for this much joy. the bullies couldn’t possibly kill off the butterflies in spencer’s stomach every time he even thought about derek.

they kiss at spencer’s front door, under his dimmed porch light. the world falls away around them, all that exists is derek’s hands caressing spencer’s face, and spencer’s arms wrapping around derek’s waist.

spencer keeps the letterman jacket. he’s going to wear it to class on monday.

taglist: @ellesgreenaway @suburban--gothic @sturmmhond @ssa-sarahsunshine @mediocre-writer @hotchgans @ssa-m-187 @calm-and-doctor @drayshadow @makaylajadewrites

[sixtyeightdays]

The Queen

She is not playing dolls. She is stalking the halls; living off thrill of the kill. Marinette can smell fear.

this mini speech drabble is inspired by HBIC by @unmaskedagain and The Pigtails Are Off by @para-dox-normal

WARNING: MILD VIOLENCE , SLIGHTLY GRAPHIC

Marinette left the class, after depositing ribbons into the hands of a few of her classmates.

Alya turned to face Nino, whose hat was still drawn down, covering the upper part of his face. 

‘What was that all about?’ She demanded. Nino sunk lower into his seat, casting a look towards Chloe, who huffed and stood up.

‘You all made a huge enemy today,’ she began.

Alix scoffed. ‘We’ve dealt with you a lot, we aren’t scared of you.’

This time, Sabrina spoke up, which clearly shocked the rest of the class who thought she was a spineless servant of Chloe’s.

There was a glint in her green eyes that wasn’t there earlier, making a shiver run down the class’ spines.

‘Oh, who said anything about Chloe?’

Now it was Juleka who spoke up, looking away from Rose who was grasping at her arm for answers.

‘You have no idea what kind of protection you just threw away.’

Ivan, fed up, slammed his fist into the table. ‘What the HELL are you guys even talking about?’

Nino looked up and smirked, which shocked Alya and made her take a step back, after noticing the sinister glint in his eyes.

‘You all are... new here. You don’t know how the Queen works.’

Kim stood up from his desk proudly, puffing his chest out. ‘I’ve been in this class one of the longest! 3 years!’

Nathaniel looked to him like he was stupid before shaking his head.

‘No. We have. I’ve been here 6 years, Chloe 5, Sabrina, 6, Juleka 5 and Marinette? 8.’ 

Juleka, Nino, Chloe and Sabina all spoke up in an oddly monotonous voice, walking towards the front of the class.

‘She is not playing dolls. She is stalking the halls; living off thrill of the kill. Marinette can smell fear.’

The class broke out into laughter. ‘Marinette? What can she do?’ Alya wiped a tear from her eye.

The others stared at her coolly and waited for them to stop laughing. Chloe stepped forwards and smiled.

The class was taken aback.

‘I don’t like any of you, so let me make this clear. Watch your back when you get to school tomorrow. Like Juleka said, you have no idea what kind of protection you just threw away. Marinette has been protecting you guys for ages, since the first minute you stepped into this school.’

‘Just because we don’t like you, doesn’t mean we’re evil enough to leave you..without a warning.’ Juleka smiled, cold flashing over her features.

‘I may be dumb, stupid, even. But I’m not that dumb to get on the wrong side of the Queen.’ Sabrina laughed.

Nathaniel made his way to the front before stepping next to Nino and in unison, they said;

‘Good luck. You’re going to need it.’

-

When Marinette reached home, she immediately shrugged off her regular grey jacket before digging into the closet to the item she had left behind for 3 years.

She reached to the black box sitting innocently at the back of her closet and pulled it out.

She opened it and unfolded the outfit that was inside, looking at it with a evil smile on her face.

Inside, there was black combat boots with silver studs, a black leather jacket with light pink and grey highlights and dark blue ripped jeans.

Marinette grabbed the clothes out and spent the night altering her old clothes, making it bigger and adding a small pocket in her jacket for Tikki to comfortably sit in.

The kwami knew of Marinette’s past of course, it was one of the first things the bluenette had confessed to the kwami about. Tikki was supportive of the old Marinette surfacing again. She was irritated by the way her class treatedher chosen, and wanted it to be over once and for all.

That hatchet was long forgotten, although the way Marinette ruled the school went unnoticed by the imbeciles in her class.

Marinette was--still is-- the Queen of her school. When she arrived in the beginning, she was not to be taken lightly and she earned her place at the top of the food chain.

There had aways been some sort of invisible barrier between the other students and Mlle. Bustier’s class. No one could get in, mainly due to Marinette’s influence.

Everyone in the school apart form that class knew about the Queen who sat in the sidelines. Marinette had some sort of protection over that class and if anything happened to them, you’d had to answer to her.

This made many of the students stay away, although they still made friends with the class.

-

The next morning, Marinette was early. Surprising, I know. But she knew her class always sat together in the courtyard until everyone arrived, and 15 minutes before school started, they would head up to the classroom.

If anything, Marinette felt rather relieved at not having to hide her status anymore. Word had spread, and there was whispering everywhere, glances at Mlle. Bustier’s table, who didn’t notice.

Alya heard many people whispering around her. 

‘I must say, I’ll be happy to see the Queen in action again. It was a golden era.’

‘I know right! I feel sorry for the poor people who invoked the wrath of the Queen though.’

The doors slammed open, ad a tall shadowy figure strutted in as if she owned the place. Lila regarded her carefully.

Once the shadowy figure took enough steps forward, she stopped. Light illuminating her features to reveal Marinette.

Gone was the happy go lucky expression on her face, replaced with a steely determination with no trace of her usual smile. 

Her hair, free from her signature pigtails, flowed freely down her back, wild, as if she just came back from the club with her boyfriend.

She wore her leather jacket and ripped jeans. She wasn’t even wearing a shirt, opting for a black sports bra. She zipped her jacket up till the bottom of her bra, before letting the sleeves of the jacket fall back on her shoulders.

She was wearing black pumps, almost 6 inches tall, which made the class’ jaws drop. Clumsy Marinette wearing heels? That almost spelled disaster.

The class could’ve sworn the temperature dropped as soon as she looked in their direction. A cold smile graced her lips, which were stained a blood red.

She lifted her right arm slowly, all the while still smirking at the class.

Everyone in the courtyard slowly raised their wrists, Nino and the others included. With sick dread pooling in their stomachs, the class noted with fear that everybody except them were wearing a red hair ribbon on their wrists.

They never took it off. Kim remembered asking Ondine why she wore it, even while swimming. She had looked to him before changing the subject hastily.

Alix recalled her brother, Jali, wearing one on his wrist, before Alix had gone to school at Francois Dupont.

Marinette walked slowly towards their class, swaying her hips with the aura of cool confidence surrounding her. Lila stuck out her foot to trip Marinette, who noticed and gave Lila a smile, before stepping directly on Lila’s toes, crushing it with her heel. 

Marinette grinded her heel into Lila’s foot, and she could barely keep herself from yelling. Soon, she did and the class turned on Marinette, screaming profanities at her. 

Lila’s toes were now bent in ways that shouldn’t have been possible, a sickening purple color. Surprisingly, no blood was exiting the toes, and Marinette internally rolled her eyes at how careless the class thought she was.

She whispered to Lila, although the whole courtyard heard.

‘You wanna fake an injury, Lila? I’ll give you an injury.’

Alya snarled and tried to slap Marinette.

‘What is wrong with you, you bitch!’ Her hand swung out, intending to meet Marinette’s face. And though no one blinked, Marinette’s hand caught Alya’s. Her fingers wrapped around Alya’s wrist almost seductively, before she smiled.

The smile reminded of the class of the old times, when Marinette used to have fun with the class, laughing her heart out when Kim snorted milk out of his nose.

That was how the class knew Marinette enjoyed breaking Alya’s wrist.

The bluenette squeezed Alya’s wrist with surprising strength, causing Alya to let go of the phone clenched in her hand, letting it fall to the floor, where Alya’s wallpaper glowed for a soft moment, showing Alya, with an arm wrapped around Marinette, before the bluenette stepped on the phone like she did with Lila, causing the screen to shatter and Alya to call out in anguish.

That call turned into a scream as the class watched Marinette mercilessly twist Alya’s wrist, breaking it with one resonating snap.

Marinette let go and watched amusedly as Alya flailed around, grasping her broken wrist in her fine one.

Marinette watched it all with a smile on her face, an exact replica of the happy, warm smile she gave when she hung out with her friends.

The class looked around and realised that none of the students around them looked the least bit shocked when the situation was occurring.

Adrien let out a quick breath. This was what Chloe meant by Queen.

And as Marinette turned to fix her cold eyes on the class, they knew they was done for.

-

Sabrina watched from afar with Chloe, smiling sickeningly as everyone in the class took their turn to get something of theirs broken.

Marinette saved Adrien for last. He smiled charmingly at Marinette, inching backwards, trying to use the fact that she had a crush on him in his favor. As Marinette paused, he exhaled quickly, thinking it was over.

Marinette took a step back. If she were to hurt Adrien, his father would most certainly murder her and Marinette wasn’t willing to waste more time on the blonde model than she already had.

Until Adrien called out.

‘Mari this isn’t you! Come bACK TO US!’

The courtyard swiveled their heads to look at the boy and no one flinched as her heel found his stomach.

There was a smile on Marinette’s face even after Adrien lost consciousness. 

its kind of a bad ending but i couldnt think of how to end it with and im sorry bc its kind of violent but i think this is okay for now

[rhymaes]

me, thinking about how they chose to end FOX’s early 2000′s drama series House M.D.: my god, they made it a ghost story,,,,,,This was always going to happen. She’s been dead since the beginning. And every minute without him i waited alone: for my death, for his ghost. Death is not romantic. he is dying. that fact is one-dimensional, a black-note on an empty staff. I loved you completely. And you loved me the same. That's all. The rest is confetti. This story happened a long time ago...It is already over. Nothing can be done to change it. Sometimes a ghost is a ghost but other times a ghost is the prominent absence of a ghost. Go on, haunt me then!...Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! Whatever souls are made of, his & mine are the same. I’ll take care of you. it’s rotten work. not to me. not if it’s you. You’re going to die in your best friend’s arms. And you play along because it’s funny, because it’s written down, you’ve memorized it, it’s all you know. When it comes down to it everything is about ghosts except ghosts, which are about love. So did I. I don’t know. I wish that part wasn’t in it. A haunting just means something you can no longer outrun. Ghosts are almost always figures for something you think should be gone, but isn’t. That’s it. A haunting just means that a trace of the past has come back. The ghost almost always announces some disruption in the order of time; the ghost is history itself, perceived as a problem; the disturbing persistence of history into the present. It is history that refuses to go away.

[lluviagf]

🌻!!

quiero conocer a alguien q me haga sentir como el richard siken se sintió cuando dijo i couldnt get the boy to kill me but i wore his jacket for the longest time y sorry about the blood in your mouth i wish it was mine y he was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand y youre in a car with a beautif-

[torsamors]

CANNOT stop thinking abt jonmartin in the apocalypse....and i cannot stop thinking about the richard siken quote ‘i couldnt get the boy to kill me, but i wore his jacket for the longest time’ in the context of apocalypse jonmartin

[stressedlady]

2,5k of god knows how to call this Enjoltaire fic...

The Portrait

He didn't want to be there. The light, the colorful dresses the ladies around him wore, the alcohol he had been practically forced to drink...he felt dizzy and slightly confused.

However, the blond wasn't going back home by any means. He had had a fight with his father and was not willing to give that bastard the satisfaction of thinking that he was dependent of him in any way.

How had Enjolras ended in that famous brothel? Well, in the second he told Courfeyrac that he couldnt return home for the night his friend dragged him and  Combeferre to the Moulin Rouge. They stared  for a while at the beautiful ladies dancing for a while, both of his friends were quite interested but Enjolras face expressed nothing more than indifference, deep resignation and anger.

"This is inmoral." declared the blond.

"That's what a priest would say, and you hate the clergy..."  replied Courfeyrac with a wide smile.

"Well, my arguments are quite different, this poor girls are treated like objects to play with by those rich men because they need their dirty money to survive in this society who shames them as if they criminals. Some of them are probably being forced to work here and have to give the most of their earnings to someone else"  He sighed. "And we are just contributing this injustice by coming to this place."

"Hell, now I feel guilty" snorted Courfeyrac, considering his friend’s words. But seconds later a man who was about their age approached them.  

"Goodnight, Monsieur Courfeyrac" said the man with bright blue eyes and curly black hair. "I just came to say hello before leaving, I see you are in company, I don't want to bother you."

Saying this, his eyes went in a fast gaze from the lad he already knew to the one wearing glasses and to the blond. He smirked at Enjolras' serius face before turning his eyes back to Courfeyrac.

"Grantaire! Goodnight my friend. Don't leave yet, it's uncommon to see you out of your study, and sober..."

"Well, I wanted to take a break from all the comissions and projects, leave the oil paints aside for a couple of hours." He sighed. "But it seems that I've grown used to be alone or with very little company and now this much people and noise is overwhelming."

"Do not lie, you've never been a friend of crowds." He said with a grin. "Let me introduce you to my friends: Monsieur Combeferre, Monsieur Enjolras, this is Grantaire, one of the most brilliant artists of Paris."

Grantaire laughed "Oh, you are the one who lies to them. I don't even reach the rating of artist. Now I should leave to home and get drunk, nice to meet you..."

"Wait!" exclaimed Courfeyrac. "Would you mind to take my friend, Enjolras, with you?" The artist raised his eyebrows, and the blond one frowned. "He wants to do the morally right thing and leave this place but of he is left alone in the streets he will probably get killed by some robber, you are leaving and if you are not in company, you'll probably drink youself to death. Am I wrong?"

Grantaire looked at Enjolras again, trying to scrutinise his beautiful features with the dim light of the place. Then answered smiling "Not at all."

"Then it's done, Enjolras, you may go with Monsieur Grantaire." he said, practically pushing Enjolras off of his chair. "Wait, what?" sputtered Enjolras out of confusion.

"Just follow me, unless you want to stay here." Indicated the artist, with a smirk.

The atmosphere into the Moulin Rouge was really heavy, people flooded every single room and it was so warm that it was hard not to feel dizy. But the two young men went through and, when they crossed the main entrance and stepped into the cold empty streets, they sighed of relief.

  "Would you want me to scort you home? This streets are dangerous at night and, without any intention of offending you, sir, you don't seem very able to defending yourself..."

"Being true, going home is the last thing I'd like to do tonight and, trust me" the blond boy raised slightly the lap of his jacket, showing the artist a small revolver he had in a inside pocket, his face turning serious "I'm not as naïve and helpless as I may seem."

"Good" replied Grantaire quite surpraised "Then, may I invite you to spend the night at my apartment? I mean, chatting and that stuff..."

"Won't I bother you?" Asked Enjolras a bit concerned. "You said you had work to do and, well, you look pretty tired."

"If I go back home alone I'll probably get drunk and stay awake until the alcohol beats me down which may happen around four in the morning...so I would be rather pleased to have company.” he smirked. “And more if it's company of a man who wanted to get out of a brothel because he thought it was inmoral." They had already headed to the artist's flat. "And, don't take me wrong but I'm dying in desires to paint you a portrait, you are really beautiful."  

Enjolras blushed slightly but remained composed. “It’s okay for me...”

Grantaire’s flat wasn't the most luxurious or tidy place he had ever been into but, Enjolras thought, was much better than to stay at the Moulin Rouge. The flat was composed by two big rooms. The first one, in which you entered from the front door, was a kind of small and pretty precarious kitchen. There were a small table with two chairs, a wooden old cupboard in a corner and a firewood kitchen, everything surprisingly clean if you let the five empty wine bottles on the table go unnoticed. Grantaire guided Enjolras to the next chamber and inmediately mumbled something like "Sorry for the mess, I wasn't specting any visit tonight..."

That room was a bedroom, livingroom and studio all together. The funiture was composed by a single person bed in a corner in front of one of the big windows which pierced two of the walls, a desk which filled the space next to the bed and in another corner there was a old wardrobe.  The rest of the stuff were basicaly art supplies. Big white canvases and stands were splayed across the place, paintbrushes of every sizes and textures and a lot paint could be found everywhere in that chamber. Some finished portraits and paintings rested in a corner against the wall and some others, unfinished, filled the stands.

Enjolras entered in the room, followed by his host, and after looking at the composition the previous elements formed, he drived his attention to the finished and ongoing paintings. Portraits of some men who, by the way they looked, would pass as what his father would call a 'respetable gentleman' and he would define as an 'elitist bastard', some still alives and one or two religion themed paintings.

"These are really good." said the guest as Grantaire setled the necesary material to paint the blond boy.

"Thank you, but those are mostly commisions, I actuallyi hate them. They are unoriginal, and ordinary, but is what rich people like to put in their walls covered with silk... and a man needs to eat."  he sighed with a resignated smile, staring at Enjolras who had turned to him. He set a wooden stool which Enjolras had not even seen and approached the blond to take his jacket and hat and put them aside. But first he pointed at the jacket, smirking.

"Your weapon is still here, are you sure you trust me enough to stay unarmed?" Enjolras giggled in a way that made the other man grin sweetly.

"Keep that thing away from me, please. I would hate to fire that crap if is not for a really good reason."

"Okay, then I won’t give you any good reasons." said the artist with a smirk and pointed the stool. “Could you, please, sit here however you like and talk as much as you want?”

“Of course.” Enjolras hummed, doing as he was told, a bit confused but smiling pleasantly and watching the artist disappear behind a canvas of 1m x  50 cm "And what would you like to paint then?" The answer was simple, "Whatever the hell I want and however the hell I want. For example, now I want to paint you like the fine marble you seem to be combined with the impression I get of you as you talk."

" ...great" said Enjolras. The man of dark curls had awaken his curiosity.

"So, l'm curious, why would you think going to the Moulin Rouge is immoral, if I may ask?"

"Well, first of all..." he described a long list of reasons which could perfectly answered Grantaire's question: the public shaming and the terrible treatment fo the costumers to the women who worked there, the miserable pay they had, how ephemeral was their work and so on. He went on his ranting for a half an hour or so, the artist painting his features serious and quite focused. Was surprised that the boy was aware of the injustices of the world surrounding him and was not afraid to put them down in words. However, a sudden doubt crossed his mind.

"Okay, I understand, our society is hypocritical and unfair but..." he lifted his eyes from the canvas and set them on the boy's bright blue eyes. "why the hell should you care at all? "

Enjolras' expression turned serious, but not of anger or anoyance, but with the severity of a man who speaks of his beliefs. His blue eyes seemed to be filled with passion, and so did his voice. "Because I am unable to turn my back to the misery in which a big part of the french citizens is living,  I can't spend a hundred francs in a coat while there are families starving in the streets of Paris, and will never think myself or anyone better or supperior because of how rich or powerful they are."  His words were frivolous and he knew it, but were as honest as a drunk man's. Later he smiled, looking into the artist's eyes. "I believe that all men and women on earth are created equal and shall live in freedom, and I will fight for it."

Grantaires eyes were wide open, staring at the man in front of him. Enjolras wasn't a god or an angel like he had thought at first, he was something he felt more distant and foreign, an idealist with the will to change the world, to make it better.

"Yours is a lost cause, my friend." The artist finally said, hiding himself back again behind the canvas, sighing. "You know it, don't you?"

"Probably, but I don't care, I will defend it with my life." he replied. 'You'll die young, then.' Grantaire thought to himself, feeling a sharp sting in his heart.

The conversation went on quite normal, Enjolras told Grantaire why he didn't want to go home and why he had argued with his dad. The artist told him about the pedant rich old men, their arrogant wives and even more arrogant descendency who commisioned him and how much he hated them. He also talked about his younger sister and how smart she was. They enjoyed their time together and around six in the morning, when the sun had just started rising, painting the sky of beautiful yellow, orange and pink-ish colours and filling the room in which both young men were with a warm light, the portrait was finished.

"Done, come and see."

Enjolras stood up and walked next to the artist.

He looked at the painting and his eyes sparkled like stars, but remained silent.  "Well, do you like it?"

In the painting, his clothes were quite different. He wasn't wearing a white shirt and an expensive vest, made with the finest fabrics, but some more modest, a plane white shirt with puffed sleeves and a red vest. There was a detail Enjolras loved and which made him smile warmly: in his chest there was pinned a cockade with the colours of the French flag.  This was a common accessory for French revolutionaries and rebels, who Enjolras admired and respected. In the portrait he looked quite calm, with a smile, but his eyes sparkled with passion and decission. His blond curls and pale skin seemed to have their own light because around him, over the dark background, a light like the ones around gods and angels had in classicist paintings surrounded him.

"I love it, it's...perfect." Enjolras said out of pure joy. Grantaire observed him tenderly and  felt his heart pounding in his chest when Enjolras set a hand on his shoulder  "You are a really good artist, Grantaire." 

"Thanks, and you a really good model." Answered his compliment. Both of them were slightly blushing, staring at each other. When he noticed this,  Enjolras' cheeks turned completely pink and turned his sight to the canvas again.

 "And how much will it be?" asked suddenly the blond.

"How much will it be, what?" Grantaire looked confused.

"The portrait..."

"Oh, you don't have to pay me."

Enjolras jumped in the place "No way, I can't have you up this late, painting me  and later giving you nothing in return!"

"Of course you can, I'm doing this mostly for fun, and you have stayed there, awake, as I painted. I am not rich but I can afford to paint with no ecconomical profit in return."

"I don't care, I want to pay you." answered Enjolras stubbonrly.

"I won't take any money or anything material." said the artist with a smirk . "I swear the is no need to pay me, Enjolras."

"But-"

"Look, just come back, that will be enough. Come back, pose for me again... I don't know if you can tell but I'm a pretty lonely man and some company won't make me any bad. Only if you want, I mean." he looked quite nervous and embarassed by his own request. "You can't take your portrait with you yet, the oil paint takes a week or so to get dry, you should come to pick it next Sunday."

"I can come earlier if you'd like..." said Enjolras tentatively as he took his jacket and was scolted by Grantaire to the front door.

"Whenever you want, I'm always here."

"Is tomorrow okay? I have some work to do today but I'll be free tomorrow."

Grantaire smiled widely, noticing that the boy had liked him a bit.

"Yes, tomorrow will do."

Enjolras reached out to give the artist the traditional French kiss-on-each-cheek, which took Grantaire quite out of guard. "See you tomorrow, then." and he left. 

Grantaire sighed, walked back to his bedroom and turned stood in front of the finished portrait, wondering if such a beautiful creature was real or that boy was just fruit of his imagination and the last hours had been a dream or a illusion. Maybe he had met an angel or a god, a son of Apollo, or Apollo himself, perhaps.

He put his hands into his pockets, before empty, and hummed when he felt four small heavy objects inside his left pocket. Grantaire took them and couldn't help feeling surprised as he looked at the four 20 franc gold coins on his hand. He rapidly deduced that Enjolras had put them there while giving him the two kisses. He smirked.

"That little motherf-"

[idreamofhazel]

All Work, No Play

Requested by @murielthemagicalgirl​: Reader crushes hard on Sam and works from time to time together with the boys. And she's introverted and a usually mature and serious person. But when she accidentally sees Sam without his shirt she gets hella flustered and awkward and Dean grins from ear to ear and teases her because of it until she confesses maybe that she indeed likes his brother, not knowing that said is standing behind her

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: just fluff

Your machete sliced cleanly through the neck of a falling vampire. As the body thumped to the floor, you drug the blade across your jacket with two quick swipes.

“You’re going to need some tide pens for that.” Dean Winchester stood behind you, chuckling to himself.

A quick glance around the room showed you that the last of the nest was fallen. The bloody mess had splattered and pooled on the victorian rug beneath your feet. There might have been some pieces of salvageable furniture elsewhere in the house but none in this room. Four dead vampires had stained the parlor with red. It was very Addam’s Family meets The Walking Dead. You picked up the arms of a vampire who fell across the velvet footrest and drug it across the floor. You dropped her on top of the one you just killed and headed for another one.

“What’s up with the pile? Or vamp-ile, if you will.” Dean couldn’t contain the pleasure he derived from coming up with that joke.

You dumped another body in your pile. Out of the corner of your eye, Sam knudged Dean with his shoulder and began to help you with the clean up task. When you thought no one could see your face, you smiled to yourself. You appreciated the help.

“I never knew a hunter that could smile about their work like that.” Dean was suddenly beside you, his voice in your ear.

“I never knew a hunter that cracked so many jokes on the job,” you said.

“Jokes keep the sanity alive, sweetheart.”

“Dean,” Sam chided from across the room.

“She’s worked with us enough times to know my style,” Dean said.

“And you’ve worked with me enough to know mine,” you shot back.

That elicited a smug smile from Sam.

Your cheeks grew hot as Sam looked at you with pride. Your cleverness was instantly cut back. No matter how confident you were, one look from Sam turned you into a stuttering mess.

“I know you won’t come celebrate with us,” Dean said, “All work, no play. It’s really sad.”

“I’ll go.” You faced the opposite direction of the Winchesters, bagging a vampire head. You could feel their wide eyes on the back of your head.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to take your notes or, or clean your knives?” Sam didn’t mean his question as a jab.

You smiled at his memory of your habits before turning around. “No. I’ll just do it tomorrow. Come on,” you said, slipping your knife into your boot and throwing the garbage bag full of heads over your shoulder, “It’s time to have some fun. Let’s party. Or whatever you do.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance as you walked out the stained glass door. The tattered blanket covering the glass gave up and fell to the floor as the lock clicked into place. Dean mouthed Fun?; Sam shrugged. Sam had never seen you with a drink in your hand, let alone in a bar. The thought of it made him worry that something else was going on. He’d have to ask you when Dean wasn’t around.

Being in a bar was an uncomfortable experience. You could handle hunting challenges with tact and grace but the dynamics of the drinking scene disoriented you. You alternated your attention between the stray threads on your shirt and taking sips of your jack and coke. Dean played pool for gas money while Sam sat next to you, finishing his second beer.

“So, honestly,” Sam said, “What made you decide to come out here? You trying to prove something to Dean?”

His smile was teasing and overwhelming.

“Uh, no. I,” you began, your cheeks growing hot, “I guess I-”

“Hey Sam!” Dean called out. You both turned your heads to the sound. Dean motioned Sam over from across the bar, “New game! Teams!”

“Hold that thought,” Sam said apologetically.

He took off towards the pool table, leaving you with the rest of your answer hanging on the tip of your tongue. The Winchester Pool Games lasted as long as Dean felt a winning streak. You’d have to explain another night, whenever you ran into Sam and Dean again.

You sucked your jack and coke dry, staring down the barrel of the straw until the last drop was gone. Dean whooped behind you. Maybe it was time to join the fun.

You grabbed a handful of peanuts, swung around on your stool, and hopped off. Sam was leaning over the pool table, the arch of his back displayed gracefully. He adjusted his pool stick with deliberation, his shirt hovering over the edge of the table, his hair falling over his cheek. He hit the cue ball with accuracy, sinking in two of the opponent’s with one strike, then stood proudly.

The other two men grimaced, unaware that Sam had such precision. There was a fair amount of money on the line.

You wandered over to a table with a satisfactory view of the game. Sam winked at you as one of their opponents tried to sink a ball but grumbled when he missed. The alcohol in your system gave you the sense to smile back with a laugh.

The stolen glances continued and ended when Dean declared victory with a sunken eight ball. They had played four games and won each of them. Sam bought three victory beers and handed one to you. Your eyes fell to the floor as the confidence you had wore off.

By the end of the beers, exhaustion had creeped up on all of you. You unanimously declared the night over, getting up to leave the bar in unison. Dean grabbed your shoulder from behind before you reached the door. Sam kept walking.

“Hey, you’re staying at the same motel as us, right?” he said, glancing over as Sam walked out the door.

“Yeah, why?”

“Can you come to our room? I wanna talk to you about something. I’ll send you a text when we’re decent.” He added a smirk but his request seemed off.

“Uhh, sure.”

“Cool.” Dean patted your shoulder then let his hand fall as he took off after Sam.

He left you standing in the middle of the bar without an explanation but with a hoard of questions. A deep voice slurred from across the bar. “You all alone now?”

There could only be about two reasons why Dean would ask you to his room. One, he was going to play a prank, or two, he or both Winchesters had been keeping a secret from you that had life-or-death ramifications.

The voice called out again. “He-eey you wanna drank I sayd?”

You were in the mood for none of it. You stalked out the door, letting it bang loudly behind you. Dean, or both, would hear it from you if one of them had decided to do something stupid again like sell their souls.

The text came shortly after you brushed your teeth and changed into sweats. You knocked four times on the thin, wooden door and waited. Dean took a long time to answer for someone who was expecting a guest.

The door flew open and instead of Dean’s face, Sam’s bare chest greeted you.

“Hey Y/N, what’s up?” Sam said.

“I, uh, Dean said he’d be here, but I guess I, I heard wrong. Sorry.” You kept your eyes anywhere but on his freshly showered six-pack. You noticed his pajama pants were plaid but you had to be careful where you looked there, too. You looked up but darted when you met his eyes. Then you moved down to his feet. They were bare.

“You can come in and wait for him if you want.” Sam was acting nonchalant. Way too nonchalant.

“No that’s ok.” You turned on your heels and fled.

Well that was stupid! Could you have handled that situation any more poorly!

“Hey Y/N!” Dean.

You stopped next to a row of vending machines, the light from their displays revealing Dean’s smug face.

“You said to meet you in your room. I went to your room. You were not there.”

“Well I’m here.”

You glowered at him. “I think you know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do.”

You threw back your head and sighed. “You knew Sam would be there by himself.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because he was shirtless when he opened the door!”

Dean chuckled to himself. “I can’t say anything about what Sam chooses to do when I’m not there.”

Your cheeks grew hot again. “That’s not the point!” you sighed, “I can tell by the look on your face that you orchestrated this whole set up.”

“Set up for what?”

“You know exactly what.”

“Ooh, because you have a massive crush on my little brother?”

“Yes! Fine! Ok? And you knew he’d be there, probably shirtless, and you knew I’d answer the door completely unprepared and make myself look like an idiot!”

“You didn’t look like an idiot, Y/N,” Sam said.

Sam.

You spun around. Now he wore a gray t-shirt paired with his sneakers and a facetious grin.

“Why are you here!” you cried.

He chuckled. “I wanted to get a snack.” He gestured towards the machines.

“I’m sorry.” You shook your head. “I didn’t really know what was going on.”

“So you don’t actually have a massive crush on me?”

“Well I-”

“Because that would be disappointing,” Sam said. His eyes never wavered from your face.

Your heart picked up speed as if it were going to fly out of your throat and the butterflies in your stomach felt more like a flock of hummingbirds.

Sam reached his hand for your elbow and pulled you close. You didn’t protest.

“I’ve actually waited a long time to do this,” he whispered to you.  

“Me too,” you breathed out.

Sam responded with a beaming smile before his lips met yours. The kiss wasn’t perfect; there were nose bumps, but it was everything you imagined it would be. You melted. Sam was a great kisser.

“Uh guys, I’m still here,” Dean said.

Sam didn’t stop so neither did you. You wiggled your arm out of his hold and waved Dean off. This is what he wanted after all, for you and Sam to finally admit your feelings for one another. How it was happening was all his fault really. You felt Sam smile against your lips and you mirrored him, putting your arms around his neck and pulling him closer, basking in the glow of an off-brand soda machine and a blinking vacancy sign. Having fun was the best decision you ever made.

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