#maybe I’ll write a book someday

[audhdnight]

Okay friends gather round because I’m here to talk about porn (this will be a long post).

Specifically, why it needs to be safer instead of banned, why it’s not inherently harmful, and how a lot of the harm associated with it is straight up prejudice.

I recently got drawn into an argument about this (i know, I should know better, but I guess this time I didn’t). People love to talk about how the porn industry is harmful because it’s “addictive” which makes it dangerous, or because it makes men do bad things.

I want to say first that this is just feeding into the “all men are inherently bad and violent” shit which I do NOT support because it is not true. A lot of men in patriarchal society are violent, yes, but only because that society tells those men they can have whatever they want, they can take it if we won’t give it to them, and there are no consequences for this behavior. This apathy is conditioned. If you never hold a man accountable for his actions and the ways in which he exploits others, OF COURSE he’s going to hurt people. This issue exist less with women because societally, women are conditioned to give of themselves to the point of burnout, to always place other people’s (most often specifically men’s) wants and needs and preferences over their own. Not because women are biologically less violent or selfish.

Now, there is something to be said about the ways in which certain kinds of pornography portray sexual relationships. In heterosexual male-centered porn, the woman is, more often than not, merely a vessel for his pleasure. She does what he wants, in the positions he wants, because he is the focus. This kind of porn is often characterized by a POV that makes it look as if you’re watching through the male actor’s eyes.

This kind of porn, especially if it is a man or boy’s introduction to sexual relationships/pleasure, can encourage them to see all women this way. If you teach a boy that women are meant to serve his whims because that’s just what women are for, of course he’s going to continue seeking out this kind of media. This is an example of societal prejudice and how it influences everything we do. It does not mean that pornography makes men misogynists.

The second point I want to discuss involves why I say we need reform and laws that keep people safe from exploitation, not a ban on pornography as a whole.

When I told the people I was arguing with that this is what I personally advocate for, they tried to say that I was admitting porn is bad, “because it hurts people.” One man said that I couldn’t possibly dismiss the experiences of real people hurt by the porn industry by saying porn isn’t harmful.

I want to make it exceptionally clear that I am absolutely not dismissing anyone’s experiences. I am well aware that many people are hurt by the modern pornography industry and have been for as long as sex work has existed. But I also want to make it clear that this is not because sex work is bad. It is because people get trafficked, and people often feel like they have no other options because of economic and life circumstances. Some people who entered the industry willingly, who even enjoy their work (crazy concept, I know) end up leaving because they were pressured into certain acts that they weren’t comfortable with. Some people get recorded without their consent. Some people have to leave because of harassment (and yes, sexual harassment IS a thing, even for sex workers). Some people feel like it is a path they will enjoy, but discover it’s not a kind of work they want to do. Some people find it incredibly draining. Some people’s coworkers make for an unpleasant or even unsafe work environment.

There are hundred of reasons someone might leave sex work or be harmed by the people they work with. This doesn’t mean that the work itself is morally wrong. Which is why I say that we need laws in place that protect sex workers from exploitation, and we need people in place to actually enforce those laws (rather than the slew of pedophiles and rapists we have in office right now, or the police officers who let traffickers off the hook for bribery - the financial kind and the human kind).

My third point involves the lack of any scientific backing for the claims that pornography is inherently harmful. While anecdotal evidence absolutely has a place in the discussion, and we should never dismiss someone who was hurt in their time in the industry, this is not scientific. Neither are sermons, unfortunately for most of the people I talk to about this. Usually when I ask for a study backing their claims - just one single peer reviewed study - I am offered this:

The very first thing I want to point out about this paper is that it is not a study. It is essentially a personal interest essay. Just because a work references other works does not make it credible. The man who wrote this paper is a religious fanatic, first of all, and while his Phd does actually appear to be real (oftentimes I get referenced to people with fake doctorates) that does not automatically make any words he writes factual. Several of the footnotes include links that look pretty legit but actually lead nowhere. A couple are just surveys where they asked religious families if their children struggled with mental health consequences from pornography, which is again anecdotal evidence at best, and definitely not a peer reviewed, credible source.

Secondly, if you read this paper you may notice that in a few places Fagan claims part of the mental toll pornography takes on teens is the shame and guilt it creates. Gee, can anyone guess why a sexually repressed teenager in a conservative Christian purity culture home might feel ashamed of indulging in sexual pleasure?? My personal “porn addiction” guilt went away when I realized that I wasn’t hurting anyone by watching it, and my sexual pleasure was not sinful or dirty. What fixed my mental turmoil was letting go of the shame, not letting go of the thing that made me happy.

All of this is to say that the shame and guilt around teens watching porn does not come from the pornography itself, but from the adults around us who tell us we are dirty rotten sinners who are going to burn in hell for wanting to feel good.

Fagan also talks about the consequences of pornography on children, without ever addressing the fact that this is harmful because usually if a child is viewing porn, it is in the context of grooming. I’m not advocating for showing your young child pornography obviously (please don’t do that) but it feels incredibly irresponsible to say that we need to ban porn because “if a child is groomed with it that hurts the child”. In his list of reasons why pornography is harmful to children, Fagan also includes things like it can be upsetting for a child to overhear their parent engaging in “phone sex”. Surely I’m not the only one wondering what that actually has to do with porn…?

Now, I’m not saying that no one is ever engaging with pornography to a point of harm. But this is still an issue of misattributed blame. If someone is watching porn in excess, using it as a coping mechanism of some kind, that is a problem that has very little to do with the porn they’re watching. People fill holes of emotional and physical needs in all sorts of different ways. My cousin ended up on crutches because she went through a rough breakup and dealt with it by running. She overdid it too many times and injured herself, but no one would ever say that means we have to ban running.

My main point is that safe, consensual sex work is not harmful. If consenting adults wish to have sex, play sexual games, record themselves, watch a recording of another consenting adult, or do literally any other kind of sexual activity - that is perfectly okay. We don’t need to shame them or condemn them for wanting to feel pleasure or for working a job in which they bring other people pleasure. This is purity culture bullshit.

And on the subject of teens - it is literally the most natural thing in the word for a teenager to feel curious about their bodies and desires and to want to explore that. Again, I’m not advocating for showing your teenager pornography, but If they find it themselves that’s a wonderful opportunity to have discussions with them about safe sex, boundaries, consent, and all the things. You can even talk to them about it before they seek out the porn. You can teach them about masturbation, and let them know that these desires are not shameful or bad or dirty.

I’m also really tired of certain people insisting that porn is “addictive” because it produces dopamine in the brain. Wanting to feel good is not a crime for fuck’s sake.

[brother-emperors]

Every time you draw Crassus smiling it makes me want to eat the nearest drywall but like in a really good way

thank you, every time I read about him laughing or making a joke, I also want to eat drywall

here’s another one of him smiling from the vault of really old rough drafts for comics I will draw Someday™️

[oxfordelise]

Isolation is not safety, it is death.

If no one knows you’re alive, you aren’t.

If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, it does make a sound; but does it matter?

[dawn-moths]

me and my mom were talking about something tonight and she looked at me and said “do you ever think about starting a blog?” and in my mind it was suddenly that meme of that guy standing in the corner at a party being like ‘they don’t know that i…’ and i was just thinking like “she doesn’t know that i write anime erotica and post it online for people to read” lol

[littlelovelyspiderling]

Ok.. I just need this to be said. I would TOTALLY read a novel you wrote. With your own characters and plot and whatnot. I love your writing style and the way you describe the scene at hand and the characters within it *chefs kiss* I feel like I could fall in love with your characters and be immersed in the story for sure! 🥰☺️🌟❤️

oh STOP omg 🥰 you are too kind! i would love to write a novel someday but i’ve just never had the endurance to finish a story on that scale from beginning to end 🙃

i have a whole plot for a young adult book completely planned out and about 6 chapters written that i’d love to finish one day i just get distracted very easily & wind up working on things like fanfic instead 😅 i try not to put to much pressure on myself & just allow my brain to focus on the thing that’s currently bringing me the most joy, which right now is spideytorch fluff lol

thank you so much for your nice words, so happy you enjoy my work 😘

[deadpoppet]

All the shitty Pinocchio media that came out this year has reignited my interest in an old OC of mine whom I never knew what to really do with because I could never settle on an origin/setting/story for him.

I’ve figured out that “Weird-Funny Guy who comes across different people/situations of the week” is def the type of storytelling he’d work best in. Episodic enough to where I could just naturally write characters interacting with one another while also working on world building as I go.

[saintartemis]

Someday I'm going to write a book about working in museums and have an entire chapter dedicated to the weird things people have said to or have asked me. On second thought maybe I’ll make that the whole book.

[buckets-and-trees]

Obsidian Stain and Sin

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark Ari Levinson x Female!Reader, soft!dark Curtis Everett x Female!Reader, Ari x Reader x Curtis Word Count: 8.1k Summary: You've thought of getting your first tattoo for quite a while. When you walk into Obsidian Stain Studio, you experience services beyond anything you bargained for.

Content/Warnings: tattooing/needles, DUBIOUS CONSENT, explicit smut, semi-public sex, vaginal fingering, kissing, anal play/rimming (female receiving), eating it from behind, vaginal intercourse, unprotected sex, praise kink, innocence kink, corruption kink, size kink, manhandling, fade to black/abrupt ending

Author Notes: I've had this idea all summer. I've been eager to write it, but literally the muse only kept teasing me with it until literally about six hours ago when she said, WE'RE DOING THIS, AND WE'RE DOING THIS NOW, so it's almost late/maybe it's still you're birthday week for a hot minute in some time zone, but I'm slipping this to you @stargazingfangirl18 for your Birthday Bonenanza! Literally, when I tell you that when you originally tagged me in the announcement, and I read over the myriad of prompts, I thought, "Oh, wow, this is so tattoo Curtis and Ari coded, it HAS TO happen for Siri's birthday..." that's really how my brain thought it was finally going to get the jump on working on this. But then no. Then that other Steve story happened, and I was stoked about that. Then the new chapter for Nomad Steve, and I thought, ah well, still fun stuff, maybe someday this, and then AT THE LAST MOMENT, Muse pulled a plot twist. So here's some ruinous hoe shit. Multiple dialogue prompts from the challenge are used here, and you'll find them in bold.

A/N 2: Shout out to @vonalyn for a few convos hashing out some of this concept!

You are surprised by the tinkling of a classic bell hanging over the door that rings pleasantly as you enter the tattoo parlor.

A man behind the reception desk immediately looks up to greet you. He doesn’t shoot you a phony, business-y smile, but his demeanor is still warm and approachable. “Welcome,” he greets you. “Walk-in or appointment?” he asks.

“Um, walk-in,” you manage. In a black t-shirt with shoulders that are nearly bursting through the fabric, lush hair and beard, and striking blue eyes, he’s more than an impressive specimen. “If you’ve got an opening?” you quickly add.

“Sure, we can take you,” he says. His gaze flicks to a scheduling book in front of him on the counter. “A couple of the boys are on break or about to finish up with other clients. Your first time here, yes?”

You nod. “First tattoo ever.”

“Oh,” he says, and his eyes brighten. “Even better. Let’s get you booked in.”

He takes your name, email, and phone number to set up a profile for you in their system. There are some electronic consent forms that he takes you through and has you agree to and sign on an iPad, and then he takes asks a few questions about what you’re interested in.

“Based off what you have in mind, Curtis might be the best artist, but he won’t be finished for maybe an hour.”

“Ah,” you look at your watch. It was a bit of an impromptu idea for you to drop in to get the tattoo this afternoon, and you had time, but you had probably been foolish thinking a walk-in was any sort of good idea.

“But,” he interjects, “I’ve got two other guys who are excellent, and either one of them should be ready to take you pretty soon. Take a seat just over there, and I’ll go check in with them and get a call on time for you. I’ll also grab you a drink. Pick your poison - we’ve got water or Coke products.”

You give him your preference, and he nods and smiles.

“Right then, sit tight, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He disappears around the corner, and you do as you’ve been told and take a seat on one of the black leather couches in the lobby.

Now you have time to really take in your surroundings. The walls are black with white moldings at the floor and ceiling, and the hardwood floors are a warm walnut. Everything is dark but clean. Classic but clearly in line with current trends. On the wall behind the desk, there’s a gorgeous, white-lettered feature with shop name - Obsidian Stain Studio - that’s sleek and impressive. On the wall next to you, there are ten framed pieces of art on the wall in a mix of sizes, some of them hand-drawn artwork, and the rest photos of finished tattoos on skin.

You’re nervous but determined not to be, so you cross your legs and try to keep your anxious energy limited to just running your fingers back and forth over the edge of your phone. Looking at the different designs on the wall does serve to capture your attention, though, and quell your nerves slightly.

The man working reception returns and hands you the drink. “We should have you back there in a chair in ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Great,” you respond, and the nerves kick up a notch, but it’s with a surge of excitement.

This is happening.

You take a sip of your drink, grateful for something to occupy your hands. The cool liquid helps soothe your nerves a bit. As you wait, you observe a few other clients entering and leaving the shop checking in or paying as they leave. Some sport fresh bandages, while others are clearly here for consultations, clutching sketches or reference photos.

The buzzing of tattoo machines creates a constant backdrop of sound, occasionally punctuated by muffled laughter or conversation from the back rooms. The atmosphere is more relaxed than you expected, nineties music underscoring it all.

As you wait, a couple emerges from behind the partition separating the lobby from the work area. They're both grinning, the woman cradling her forearm gently. Her companion is animatedly discussing something with her, gesturing excitedly. You catch a glimpse of fresh ink on her skin as they pass – a vibrant butterfly with intricate, colorful wings.

The sight makes your heart race a little faster. Soon, that'll be you walking out with fresh art on your body. The thought is both thrilling and slightly terrifying.

But you won’t be walking out with a friend or partner.

Your gaze wanders back to the artwork on the walls. One piece in particular catches your eye – an intricate mandala design with flowing lines and delicate detail. You find yourself drawn to its symmetry and complexity.

"Which one’s got your attention?" a voice asks, startling you from your reverie. You look up to see someone you can only describe as a lion of a man standing before you. All of his attention is focused on you like you’re his next prey. He towers over you with a mane of golden brown hair that’s grown out to tuck nicely behind his ears and curls out at his neck. He’s got a broad chest and shoulders covered in a denim shirt with a few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. You can see peeks of ink mingled with some chest hair as well as intricate designs over his forearms. His dark blue eyes are zeroed in on you in a way that both unsettles and steadies you at the same time.

You point at the mandala, and the man smiles. “That’s one of Steve’s. He says you’re here for your first tattoo.”

“He… wait, is that Steve?” You nod and glance over at the man at the front desk who’s now consulting with an older man and showing him a few designs.

“Yep, he owns the place and loves to work the front almost as much as the back with the rest of us. I’m Ari, by the way.” He puts his hand out, inviting you to shake hands.

You push up from the couch, stand, and offer your hand for the shake. It’s engulfed easily by his big, warm, calloused hand.

“I’m the one who’s going to make your first time special.”

Your heart stutters and your face flushes. He didn’t just… your mind races. Did he?

He chuckles and drops your hand quickly. “Follow me,” he says and turns and begins striding into the back.

You fall into step behind Ari, your eyes inevitably drawn to his broad shoulders and the confident swagger in his step. The back area is an open space divided into several stations with partial walls, each with its own tattoo chair and equipment, creating semi-private booths. Ari leads you to one in the back corner.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to the chair.

You perch on the edge, your nerves returning full force. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and ink.

He pulls up a rolling stool and sits, leaning in close. "So, tell me about this tattoo you want."

You explain your idea - a simple constellation of stars for your zodiac sign - watching as his blue eyes light up with interest. He nods along, occasionally asking questions or offering suggestions. His enthusiasm is infectious, and you find yourself relaxing despite the butterflies in your stomach.

"Alright, I think I know what you're after," Ari says, reaching for a sketchpad. "Let me rough out a design for you."

You watch, mesmerized, as Ari's hand moves swiftly across the paper. His brow furrows in concentration, and you find yourself studying the angles of his face, the way his beard accentuates his strong jaw. Within minutes, he presents you with a design that takes your breath away.

"What do you think?" he asks, a hint of pride in his voice.

The constellation is there, just as you imagined, but Ari has added subtle details that elevate it beyond your expectations. Delicate lines connect the stars, and a hint of shadowing gives the piece depth and movement.

"It's perfect," you breathe, unable to take your eyes off the sketch.

Ari grins, clearly pleased with your reaction. "Great. Now, let's talk placement."

You indicate the spot you've chosen - your inner wrist. Ari nods approvingly. "Good choice. Nice and visible, but easy to cover if needed. Mind if I take a look?"

You extend your arm, and Ari gently takes your wrist in his large hands. His touch is surprisingly soft as he examines the area, his fingers tracing the spot where your tattoo will soon be. You can't help but notice the contrast between his rough, inked skin and your own unmarked flesh.

"Nice canvas," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Skin's good here. This'll work well." He looks up, catching your eye. "Ready to get started?"

You nod, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling in your chest.

“You’re a sweet, innocent thing, aren’t you?”

You open your mouth but shut it again, unsure how to respond, and he brushes his thumb over the pulse on your inner wrist, and you think you see his eyes darken.

He releases your wrist and turns to prepare his equipment. You’re frozen in place, but luckily that’s fine as it’s not necessary for you to move. You watch as he efficiently sets up his station, laying out ink caps, adjusting his machine, and pulling on a fresh pair of black latex gloves. The buzz of the tattoo machine as he tests it sends a jolt of excitement and nervousness through you.

"Alright, I'm going to clean the area now," he says, swabbing your wrist.

His touch is clinical now, professional, as he prepares your skin. The cool antiseptic makes you shiver slightly.

"Cold?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"A little," you admit.

"Don't worry, I’ll have you warm soon enough," he says with a wink that makes your cheeks flush.

Ari places the stencil on your wrist, pressing it gently to transfer the design. When he peels it away, you see the outline of your constellation on your skin for the first time. It sends a thrill through you - this is really happening.

"Make sure you’re happy with the placement before we start," he instructs. "This is your last chance to change your mind."

You focus to examine the design on your skin more closely, heart racing. It looks even better than you imagined.

"It's perfect," you say, unable to keep the excitement from your voice.

Ari grins. "Alright then, let's make it permanent. You ready?"

You nod, settling back into the chair and extending your arm.

Ari takes your arm gently, positioning it just so on the armrest. "Now, I need you to stay as still as possible," he says, his voice low and soothing. "It's going to hurt a bit, especially at first. But I promise, I'll be as gentle as I can."

The buzz of the machine fills your ears as Ari brings the needle to your skin. You hold your breath, bracing for the pain.

The first touch of the needle is a sharp, burning sensation that makes you wince. Ari pauses, his eyes flicking to your face. "You okay?"

You nod, determined. "I'm fine. Keep going."

“Move an inch, and you’ll be sorry.”

You open your mouth wordlessly again, and he laughs.

“Only joking. I know you’re going to be a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You bite your lip and nod, something fluttering in your stomach, mixing wickedly with your nerves and the uncertainty around this man who skirts between being casual, soothing your nerves, concentration on his craft, and making these comments that insinuate and evoke wholly inappropriate thoughts.

He smiles, then concentrates back on your wrist and resumes his work. Gradually, the initial shock of pain fades into a more manageable discomfort. You find yourself relaxing, mesmerized by the steady movement of Ari's hand and the way the muscles in his biceps move and flex.

As Ari continues, your eyes shift to his face. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his blue eyes focused intently on your skin. There's something mesmerizing about watching him work, seeing the care and precision he puts into every line. The buzz of the machine becomes almost soothing, a constant backdrop to the occasional murmur of voices from other stations.

"So," Ari says after a while, breaking the silence without looking up from his work, "what made you decide to get your first tattoo today?"

You hesitate, unsure how much to share. "It's… kind of a long story."

Ari glances up, a small smile playing on his lips. "We've got time. I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."

You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as the needle hits a sensitive spot. "I've been thinking about it for a while. But today… today felt like it was finally the day to take the leap."

"Spontaneous decision, huh? Those can be the best kind."

You nod, feeling the heat creep up your neck. "I guess I just wanted to do something for myself. Something permanent.”

Ari nods thoughtfully, his eyes still focused on your wrist. "Sometimes we need a physical reminder of the changes we're making inside," he says softly. "Something to look at and think, 'Yeah, I did that. I made that choice.'"

His words resonate with you, and you find yourself relaxing further. The pain has faded to a dull, almost pleasant sensation.

"So, what's your story?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you. "How did you get into tattooing?"

Ari chuckles, pausing to wipe away excess ink. "Now that's definitely a long story. But the short version? I was a troubled kid, got into some bad stuff. Tattooing saved me, gave me a purpose."

He glances up, meeting your eyes. "There's something powerful about creating permanent art on someone's body.”

The words send another thrill through your body and you nod, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at his intense gaze. "I can see that," you manage to say.

Ari returns his attention to your wrist, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's intimate, you know? Creating something that becomes a part of someone forever."

The word 'intimate' hangs in the air between you, charged with unspoken tension. You're acutely aware of the warmth of his hand on your skin, the gentle pressure as he works.

“You’re the one Steve says I nearly got to mark for the first time,” a new voice startles you, and you jump slightly in your chair.

Ari tsks, but his left hand had been holding your arm down firmly.

The other man chuckles. “Sorry, sugar.”

He steps closer, coming into Ari’s booth. He looks to be slightly taller than Ari, and a shade leaner, but he’s still built with more muscles than the common man. His hair is dark, shorn close to his head, and a dark beard covers his angular jaw. Ice blue eyes pierce into you, and you fight hard to suppress an actual shiver running down your spine.

"Curtis," Ari says without looking up, his tone a mix of amusement and mild irritation. "Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to interrupt?"

Curtis leans against the partition, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement draws your attention to the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. He’s got more ink than Ari.

"Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Steve said we had a noteworthy first-timer."

You feel your face flush, unsure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. Curtis's gaze is intense, almost predatory, as he looks you over.

"Well, now you've seen," Ari says, his voice tight. "Don't you have your own client to attend to?"

Curtis huffs. "Just finished up. Thought I'd come say hello." He turns his attention back to you. "How're you holding up, sweetheart? Ari treating you right?"

You nod, finding your voice. "He's been great," you manage to say, your voice a bit shaky. "It doesn't hurt as much as I expected."

Curtis grins, a glint in his eye. "Oh, Ari knows how to make it feel good, doesn't he?"

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks at the innuendo. Ari's hand tightens slightly on your wrist, and you see his jaw clench.

"Curtis," Ari says, his tone a clear warning.

Curtis holds up his hands. "Alright, alright. I can take a hint." He fixes his gaze once again on your face. "Maybe next time you'll let me be the one to mark you up. Lot more skin still to explore."

With that, he stalks away, leaving a charged atmosphere in his wake. You can feel the tension radiating off Ari as he resumes his work on your tattoo, his jaw clenched.

“Sorry about that,” Ari says after a moment, his voice low. "Curtis can be… intense."

You nod, still feeling flustered from the encounter. "It's okay," you manage to say, trying to calm your racing heart.

Ari looks up at you, his blue eyes searching your face. "You alright? Need a break?"

You shake your head. "No, I'm fine. Let's keep going."

He nods, returning his attention to your wrist. The buzz of the machine fills the silence between you once more. You try to focus on the sensation, the slight sting as the needle moves across your skin, rather than the lingering tension in the air.

After a few minutes, Ari speaks again. "You know, you don't have to let anyone pressure you into anything you're not comfortable with. Not here, not anywhere."

His words surprise you, and you meet his gaze. There's a protective glint in his eye, but he quickly returns his attention to your wrist. Ari's movements become more deliberate, almost possessive, as he continues working on your tattoo. The tension in the air is palpable, and you find yourself hyper-aware of every point of contact between your skin and his.

"Almost done," he murmurs after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all. "Just a few more touches."

You watch as he adds the final details, marveling at how the constellation seems to come to life on your skin. When he finally sits back, setting down the machine, you can't help but gasp.

"It's beautiful," you breathe.

Ari's eyes meet yours, a mixture of pride and something deeper in his gaze. “It suits you perfectly."

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words. Ari gently wipes away the last traces of excess ink, revealing the full beauty of your new tattoo. The stars seem to shimmer on your skin, the delicate lines connecting them creating a sense of movement and depth.

"Now, let's get this wrapped up and I'll go over the aftercare instructions with you," Ari says, reaching for a roll of clear film.

As he carefully covers your new tattoo, his fingers brush against your skin, sending little sparks of electricity through you. You can't help but notice how his large hands handle your wrist with such care and precision.

"There," he says, smoothing down the edges of the wrap. "All protected."

Ari walks you to the front, and your heart races when you see Steve and Curtis speaking quietly with their heads together. Ari clears his throat, and at the sight of you, Curtis nods, rakes his gaze over you once more. “Come back soon, sugar.”

You feel a shiver run down your spine at Curtis's words, but Ari's steady presence beside you helps ground you. Steve steps forward, a warm smile on his face.

"How did it go?" he asks, his eyes flickering to your wrapped wrist.

"It was amazing," you reply, unable to keep the excitement from your voice. "Ari did an incredible job." You extend your wrist, showing off your new tattoo.

Steve nods approvingly. "Beautiful work. Ari’s one of our best. Let's get you checked out."

As Steve begins to ring up your work, Ari leans against the counter beside you. His arm brushes against yours, and you're acutely aware of his proximity.

"Remember," he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear, "take care of it. It's a part of you now."

You nod, shyly meeting his intense gaze, looking up at him through your lashes. "I will," you promise, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ari's eyes soften, and he reaches out, his fingers ghosting over the edge of the wrap on your wrist. "Good girl," he murmurs, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

Steve clears his throat, breaking the moment. "All set," he says, handing you a receipt. "We hope to see you again soon."

You nod, suddenly feeling flustered. "Thank you," you manage to say, gathering your things.

As you turn to leave, Ari's hand catches your elbow gently. "Wait," he says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a small business card and presses it into your hand. "In case you have any questions about the aftercare. Or anything else."

Your fingers brush as you take the card, and you feel a jolt of electricity at the contact. You look down at the card, noting the personal cell phone number scrawled on it. "Thank you."

Ari's blue eyes lock with yours, intense and filled with unspoken promise.

You barely seem to turn away, but somehow manage to break off from the eye contact, and quickly rush out of Obsidian Stain Studio.

You keep Ari’s business card, but as the weeks go by, you don’t use it.

After a couple of months, you move the card from the spot next to where you keep your keys where you see it every day, into the top drawer of your desk. Out of frequent sight, but not out of mind completely.

It’s a solid six months before you return to Obsidian Stain again, but ultimately you do. The bell jingles above your head as you step inside.

The tattoo on your wrist had healed beautifully, and you loved seeing it on your skin. You had decided fairly soon afterwards that you wanted another tattoo, but even after saving up for your next one, it had taken you longer to decide whether to return Obsidian or not, the experience with Ari and encounters with Curtis leaving you torn between terrified and desperately curious to go back.

Ultimately the allure was too strong to deny.

But, more logically, although finally going in to get your first tattoo had been on a whim, you had been very thorough in narrowing down and exploring your options for months before. You knew they were one of the best in your area, especially for the style you wanted, and the price point you knew you could afford while still ensuring quality.

Unwilling to make an appointment, though, you were going to gamble on a walk-in again.

No one was immediately at the front desk, but at the sound of the bell, Steve quickly appears. “Welcome back,” he said, a broad grin on his face.

“Walk-in?” you ask, and remind him of your name.

“Oh, I remember you.” Steve beckons you forward. “Let me see that wrist,” he says.

You offer your arm with pride, and he smiles warmly.

“Looks good. You hit us on a slow day, perfect for a walk in. I’ll get you booked in, and then I’ll take you right back.”

You feel a mix of excitement and nervousness as Steve leads you to the back. The familiar scent of antiseptic and ink fills your nostrils, bringing back memories of your last visit. Your eyes scan the room, half hoping and half dreading to see a certain tattooist.

"Curtis is free right now," Steve says, guiding you to a station. "He'll take good care of you."

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Curtis's name. You remember his intense gaze, his bold words from your last visit. Part of you is disappointed it's not Ari, but another part is intrigued.

Curtis looks up as you approach, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well, well. Look who's back," he says, his ice blue eyes locking onto yours.

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling very exposed under his gaze. "Hi," you manage evenly.

Curtis's eyes rake over you. "I was hoping you'd come back to us," he says, his voice low and smooth. "What can I do for you today, sugar?"

You begin to explain the design you have in mind - a delicate, line art floral piece. As you talk, Curtis listens intently, occasionally nodding or asking questions. His focus is entirely on you, making you feel both nervous and oddly thrilled.

“And where do you want it?” he finally asks.

You trace an area of your other arm - opposite of the one with your inked-up wrist — moving your above, over, and below the crook of your elbow.

“Hmm,” he hums. “You sure?”

Your eyes shoot to his. “Yes?” an edge of hesitation now in your voice at his query.

He narrows his eyes slightly, then shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

“No. A piece like this could work well there, but that’s not where you want me to put this.”

“It… isn’t?”

“No, it should go here,” he says, and he reaches out and brushes his fingers lightly over your ribs instead, causing you to shiver.

He gestures for you to take a seat in the chair. As you settle in, Curtis rolls his stool closer, leaning in. "Now, this is going to be a bit more intense than your wrist. You sure you're ready for it?"

You nod, trying to project confidence despite the nervous flutter in your stomach. "I'm ready."

Curtis grins, a predatory glint in his eye. "That's what I want to hear from that pretty mouth. Now just sit tight and wait for me while I draw something up.”

Your heart races as you lean back in the chair, Curtis's words echoing in your mind, causing heat to pool in your core. You watch, mesmerized by the intensity of his focus. After a few minutes, he turns back to you, holding up the sketch.

"What do you think?" he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. The design is beautiful - delicate flowers and vines intertwining in a way that would perfectly follow the curve of your ribs.

"It's perfect," you breathe, unable to take your eyes off the design.

Curtis smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction. "Alright then, let's get started. I'm going to need you to lift your shirt for me."

Your cheeks flush as you slowly raise the hem of your shirt, exposing your ribs. Curtis's eyes darken as they roam over your skin.

"Beautiful canvas," he murmurs, his voice low and husky.

You feel exposed, knowing your own soft belly and imperfections, but he looks at you in a way that has your head spinning, it’s a hunger that’s almost reverent.

“Better if you take your shirt off for me, sugar,” he says, his tone firm.

Head swirling, you don’t think to refuse, just do as you’re told. With trembling hands, you pull your shirt over your head, feeling incredibly vulnerable as you sit there in just your bra. Curtis's eyes roam over your exposed skin, a look of satisfaction on his face.

"That's better," he says, his voice low and approving. "Now, let's get you positioned just right."

His hands, surprisingly gentle, guide you to lie back and slightly to the side. You shiver as his fingers trail along your ribs, mapping out where the tattoo will go.

"Nervous?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

He already knows the answer, but you nod, not trusting your voice.

Curtis leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. "Don't worry, sugar. I'll take good care of you."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words. He chuckles softly, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

Curtis begins to clean and prepare your skin, his touch clinical yet somehow still intimate. You try to steady your breathing, hyperaware of every point of contact between his hands and your body.

"Now, this is going to hurt more than your wrist did," Curtis warns, his voice low. "But I know you can take it. You're tougher than you look, aren't you, sugar?"

You nod, steeling yourself for the pain. The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the air, and then you feel the first bite of the needle against your skin. You gasp, your body tensing.

"Breathe," Curtis instructs, his free hand coming to rest on your hip, grounding you. "That's it, nice and steady."

As he works, Curtis surprisingly stokes and then keeps up a steady stream of conversation. Mostly it’s inquiry after inquiry, forcing you to focus on finding words, but his deep voice also helps to distract you from the pain. He asks about your life, your interests. You find yourself opening up, sharing more than you intended about your life, your dreams, your fears. His voice continues to provide the counterpoint to the buzz of the tattoo machine.

"You're doing so well," Curtis murmurs, his eyes flicking up to meet yours before returning to his work. "Such a good girl for me."

The praise sends a shiver through you, and you bite your lip to stifle a small moan. Curtis notices, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"Sensitive, aren't you?" he says, his voice low. "I like that."

Your cheeks flush, but you can't deny the thrill his words send through you. The pain of the tattoo blends into the sensations he’s evoking as his hands move with practiced precision across your skin.

"So, sugar, what made you come back for more ink?" he asks, his eyes flicking up to meet yours before returning to his work.

You take a shaky breath before answering. "I loved how the first one turned out. And… I guess I wanted to experience it again."

Curtis chuckles, darkly. "Addictive, isn't it? The pain, the permanence... the intimacy of it all."

His words make your heart race, and you're acutely aware of how close he is, how vulnerable you are beneath his hands.

"Speaking of your first time," Curtis continues, the steadying hand that had been at your waist ghosting just a little lower, "Ari seemed quite taken with you. Did you ever give him a call?"

The question catches you off guard, and you feel a flush creep up your neck. "No, I… I didn't," you admit softly.

Curtis's hand stills for a moment, and he looks up at you, his ice blue eyes intense. "No? Now that's interesting. Why not, sugar?"

You swallow hard, unsure how to answer, yet unable to stop the words from flowing. "I... I guess I was nervous," you finally say.

A slow smile spreads across Curtis's face. "Nervous? Of Ari? Or of what you felt?”

Your cheeks flush at his perceptiveness. "Both, maybe," you whisper.

“Or maybe you were waiting for something else?" His hand resumes its work, but the touch his anchor hand seems more deliberate now, each movement charged with unspoken intent.

"I don't know what you mean.”

Curtis chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends shivers down your spine. "I think you do, sugar. I think you knew exactly what you were doing when you came back here today."

His words hang in the air between you, charged with tension. You can't bring yourself to deny it, can't even find your voice to respond. Curtis seems to take your silence as confirmation.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the silence as Curtis returns his focus to your ribs. You try to steady your breathing, acutely aware of every point of contact between his skin and yours. The pain of the tattoo blends with the heat pooling in your core, creating a heady mix of sensations.

"Tattoo nearly done," Curtis says after what feels like hours.

You let out a shaky breath, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over you. The intense experience is coming to an end, but part you that scares you doesn't want it to.

"Just a few more touches," Curtis murmurs, his eyes focused intently on your skin, and the buzz of the machine continues for a few more minutes.

"There we go," Curtis murmurs. He wipes away the excess ink, then sits back to admire his work. His eyes roam over your exposed skin, a mixture of professional pride and something darker in his gaze. "Want to take a look?"

You nod, not trusting your voice. Curtis helps you sit up, steadying you with a hand on your lower back as you move to face the mirror. Your breath catches in your throat as you see the intricate design now adorning your ribs. The delicate flowers and vines seem to bloom across your skin, following the curves of your body perfectly.

"It's perfect," you whisper, unable to take your eyes off the mirror.

Curtis's smile widens, and his eyes darken. "Of course it is. I knew exactly what you needed."

His words send another shiver through you, but then suddenly you feel the heat of him too close, and he’s pressed right up against your back, planting his large hands on your hips and caging you in.

"You're trembling," Curtis murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you steady against him. "Are you scared, sugar?"

You can't find your voice to answer, your heart pounding in your chest. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - his broad chest against your back, his strong hands on your hips, the heat of him seeping through your skin.

"Or maybe," he continues, his voice low and dark, "you're excited."

One of his hands slides up your side, carefully avoiding the fresh tattoo, until it comes to rest just below your breast. Your breath hitches, and you see your pupils dilate in the mirror's reflection.

"That's what I thought," Curtis says, satisfaction clear in his tone. "You've been thinking about this, haven't you? Since the moment you walked in.”

You can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of ink and something uniquely him. Your heart races, a mix of excitement and nervousness coursing through you.

"Tell me, sugar," Curtis murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "Did you come back here hoping to see Ari? Or were you hoping it would be me?"

You swallow hard, your mind spinning. "I… I don't know," you manage to whisper.

Curtis chuckles, the sound low and dark. "I think you do know. I think you've been thinking about this for months." His hands slide up and down your sides, careful to avoid the fresh tattoo. "Thinking about what it would be like if you came back. If you let yourself give in."

Your breath hitches. “No.”

“No?” he challenges. His right hand, still gloved, audaciously slips past your waistband and down the front of your panties to cup your pussy. He laughs softly, discovering a growing wetness there. “Yes.”

You gasp as Curtis's hand begins to stroke your most intimate area, your body betraying you with its response. Your mind races, torn between the thrill of his touch and the shock at how quickly things have escalated.

"Wait," you manage to breathe out, your voice shaky. "We shouldn't…"

Curtis pauses, his hand stilling but not withdrawing. "Why not?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Your body is telling me a different story, sugar."

You're acutely aware of how exposed you are, standing there in just your bra with Curtis pressed against your back, his hand between your legs. The mirror reflects your flushed face and wide eyes, Curtis's intense gaze locked on you.

"Someone could walk in," you whisper, a weak protest even to your own ears.

Curtis chuckles darkly. "They could.”

Your mind is spinning, caught between the intense sensations and the voice in your head screaming that this is wrong, that you shouldn't be doing this here, now, with him. But your body betrays you, responding eagerly to his touch.

"Curtis," you manage to whisper, your voice shaky, and tears springing up in your eyes. "We can’t—"

"Shh," he soothes, his free hand coming up to gently grip your throat. Not choking, just holding. "Don't overthink it, sugar. Just feel."

His fingers continue their exploration, finding your clit and circling it slowly. You bite back a moan, plant your hands on the mirror, and your hips rock back against him.

“Fuck, knew you wanted this,” he speaks directly into your ear.

You whimper and shake your head, but then his hand moves up to cover your mouth. “Gotta keep more quiet than that unless you want someone else to join us, sugar.”

Your eyes desperately seek his in the mirror, fear flashing in them, and the tears begin to spill over. There’s a predatory glint in his icy blue gaze.

His fingers continue their skilled ministrations, drawing forth sensations you've never experienced before. Your body betrays you, responding eagerly to his touch despite your mind's protests. You're caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions - fear, excitement, shame, and an overwhelming, undeniable pleasure.

"Look at yourself," Curtis commands softly, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. "See how beautiful you are like this."

You force yourself to look, to really see yourself - flushed cheeks, wide eyes, chest heaving with each ragged breath. Curtis behind you, his large frame dwarfing yours, his hand between your legs, the other still gently but firmly covering your mouth.

Curtis's eyes meet yours in the mirror, his gaze intense and predatory. The fear in your eyes seems to excite him further, his grip on you tightening slightly.

"Don't worry, sugar," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “I knew all those pretty tears were just for show, you want this just as badly as I do, andI've got you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and arousal coursing through you. You're acutely aware of how vulnerable you are, how easily he could overpower you if he wanted to. And yet, there's a part of you that thrills at the danger, at the forbidden nature of what's happening.

Curtis's fingers continue their skilled exploration, drawing involuntary gasps and moans from you that are muffled by his hand. Each deliberate movement sends waves of sensation coursing through your body, igniting a fire that you never expected to feel. Your body continues to betray you, responding to his touch despite your mind's protests, creating a tumultuous conflict within you. The thrill of the moment is undeniable, yet a flicker of apprehension lingers in the background, whispering the dangers of being caught in such an intimate entanglement, making it impossible to pull away.

"Damn, that’s a pretty sight,” a familiar voice jolts you nearly out of your skin, and you whip your head around to see Ari looming in the entry.

Curtis stops only for a moment and looks over his shoulder at the other man. "Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to interrupt?"

Ari shrugs, all nonchalance, and palms the large bulge pressing at the front of his jeans.

Your heart races, caught between exhilaration and apprehension. The sight of Ari standing there, a blend of curiosity, mischief, and lust in his eyes, adds an element of unpredictability that excites and terrifies you.

Curtis grunts, then says, “I’m not stopping, but I’ll share.”

Your jaw would have dropped to the floor in that moment had Curtis’s hand not been holding it in place, securing your response and anchoring you to the present. The idea of a threesome, tantalizing yet fraught with risk, swirls in your mind. How did this escalate so quickly? The thought of being discovered sends a shiver down your spine, but the allure of the forbidden is intoxicating, pulling you deeper into the moment.

You sob, overwhelmed and afraid, but it’s muffled as Curtis turns your body around with him, his grip firm yet reassuring His fingers are still moving, relentless and sure, and you can hardly focus on anything else. Your mind races through the possibilities, the dangerous thrill of being discovered adding an exhilarating layer to the encounter. Would Ari join in, or would he simply stand by and watch, adding to the intensity of the moment? The idea of indulging in such a forbidden experience fills you with a mix of dread and excitement, as if you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to leap into the unknown.

Ari pulls a privacy curtain you had failed to notice across the opening to the booth before taking the few short steps to close the distance between you. This sudden shield from prying eyes heightens the anticipation, transforming the atmosphere into one charged with desire and unspoken possibilities. Ari traces the back of his forefinger down the column of your throat, down your sternum, between your breasts, and then circles around the expanse of your new tattoo, eyes roaming over the beautiful design.

Not to be forgotten, Curtis tweaks your clit, cracking the pleasure that had been mounting like a whip, demanding an orgasm from your body, and you tremble in his arms as you cling to him. Each flick of his fingers sends shivers through you, igniting a fiery response that leaves you gasping for more.

“Knew you were such a good girl,” Ari praises, and your chest surges from his praise, his low, sultry voice invading your mind. Then, he unzips his jeans, the sound echoing in the booth like a promise yet to be fulfilled. He goes to sit on the black leather chair, pushing his pants and boxer briefs down around his ankles, revealing the enticing sight of his big, throbbing cock.

Curtis lifts you with ease and places you in Ari's lap. The transition is seamless, and you find yourself enveloped in the warmth of Ari's embrace. His hands instinctively find their way to your hips, grounding you as you settle in. With Curtis standing close, the dynamic continues to shift and evolve. You can feel the heat radiating from both men, each one eager to exact pleasure, and you hope the fire doesn’t consume you completely.

“Take off your bra,” Ari directs you.

Your eyes widen over his immediate demands, but, nervous as you still are, you don’t hesitate to do as he says. His hands on your hips hold you steady while you reach around to unclasp, and then you let it drop and fall away, biting your lip. Ari groans appreciatively, and grinds your core against his cock. You let out a shuddering breath at the friction, but it’s a singular sensation for only a moment, because then Ari dips his head and takes one of your breasts into his hot, wet mouth, and you gasp. Your fingers tangle immediately into his hair, looking for some kind of anchor.

Vaguely you hear the rustle of fabric from Curtis close behind you, and then you feel the heat of his now naked chest press against your back. He nips lightly at your neck, but then pulls back slightly. He rucks your loose skirt up over your hips, but then he rips the fabric of your panties right off, and you yelp in surprise.

Ari’s quick to muffle your sound by shifting his lips from your breast to your mouth, but his lips and tongue are no less eager, and the kiss is delicious and demanding, and you’re easily almost completely lost in him again. But Curtis has also discarded his gloves, and now his warm, calloused hands move slowly up your thighs before squeezing your hips, then start to knead the flesh of your round ass.

Curtis places a hand between your shoulders and pushes you forward, coaxing you against Ari’s chest. Ari takes the hint and leans back in the reclined chair, pulling you with him. This exposes your most intimate parts to Curtis, and he spreads you open, then presses his tongue flat against your cunt, eliciting a moan that, luckily, is swallowed up by Ari, who’s still eagerly kissing you, and now kneading your breasts in his large hands. Curtis continues to lick and lap at your cunt, but then his tongue begins to move up, and then suddenly he’s tonguing the tight rosebud of your ass, and you whimper and freeze.

Ari stops when you stop, pulling away to look at your face and assess the situation.

Curtis teases you with his tongue for another moment before pausing to pull away as well.

“Not a virgin,” he guesses, “but never had anyone play with your ass, have you, sugar?”

You close your eyes and try to take a steadying breath, your, “no,” soft and barely audible.

“Do you want him to stop?” Ari asks, and you can feel him studying your face.

Your mind is racing, but you remain frozen, unsure of what to say.

Ari brings one hand up to stroke your cheek. You lean into his touch and open your eyes again, but still don’t speak.

“Keep going,” he says to Curtis, and Curtis does.

While Curtis works your tightest hole with his tongue, still splaying your cheeks open, Ari reaches down to slip two fingers into your dripping cunt, and you eagerly rock your hips for more. Ari smiles, then brings you down with his other hand to kiss you again.

When you’re positively humping his hand, Ari pulls back from kissing you again with a darker laugh than you expected, but you’re so far gone between them, you think of stopping or slowing at all now.

“Open your eyes,” he commands.

But it doesn’t register.

He withdraws your fingers and slaps your pussy, making you gasp and groan, and your eyes whip open.

His dark blue irises are barely visible, pupils blown wide with lust, and it just cause another surge of electricity to run through you to your core.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

And then it’s his cock nudging at your entrance.

“Ari,” you groan.

“Since that first fucking minute I saw you in the lobby,” he says. He taps his cock aggressively against your swollen clit, and you keen for him. “Knew you were an innocent little thing, and I wanted to absolutely ruin you.”

You bite your lip, unable to look away from him, and think of that day, too.

“We both wanted to ruin you,” Curtis adds. And his finger takes over where his tongue had been, working gently but insistently into your ass.

You moan softly, but the two men hear it and exchange a glance over your shoulder. Ari looks pleased.

“I didn’t touch you that day, only teased you, enticed you. I knew you’d be back,” he growls. “Shame I didn’t have you on my chair again, but that wasn’t going to stop me.”

He pushes your lips back to his for another devouring kiss, but it’s brief.

“You’re desperate to be filled up, aren’t you?” he asks.

Closing your eyes again, you whimper and drop your forehead to his, but your answer is undeniable. “Yes.”

“You didn’t have to wait this long, but we won’t punish you for that. We’re patient men.”

“It only gave us more time to think of all the ways we’ll take you apart, sugar,” Curtis murmurs against your shoulder, then presses open-mouthed kisses against your hot skin there.

And then Ari is slipping his cock inside of your cunt, slow, insistent, and doesn’t stop until he’s into the hilt, pushing all the air out of your lungs. He’s so big it feels like he’s everywhere, and it takes you concentrating on making your lungs work again to suck in deep breaths, impossibly full of him.

But as full as you feel, it wasn’t everything. Because while Ari was slipping his cock inside you, Curtis had removed his fingers, and now his thick cock was splitting you open and finding room in a hole that had never been filled before, and it was unfamiliar pain, but already pressing into impossible pleasure, and really, you had to press your palms to the leather on either side of Ari’s head and focus on breathing and only breathing if you were going to survive this.

And then they both began to move.

In and out and in and out and inandout.

And you were sure you were going to black out or bliss out from how full you were and all the sensations surging through your body and –

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I make no apologies for this. Send me your medical bills as needed.

[storm-angel989]

*spotify ad voice* want a break from the angst?

Jkjk, maybe if you've got some time/energy, Vox or Val's (your choice!) daughter is going through her clingy teenager phase and needs to be pried away from her dad if he wants to get any sort of work done

Hi there,

This request LITERALLY made me laugh- thank you! I needed that in my day today! I haven’t quit writing angst (or any of the other requests in my inbox) but this break is well needed!

Enjoy!

<3 Mandy

His parenting books said it was normal. 

And so did Vel. She swore up and down that all teenagers went through a clingy phase. He would have asked Val for his opinion as well, but he doubted the man had any expertise in the field of child rearing. Or any experience with children, for that matter. He wished he could ask her mother- but phone calls to heaven weren't exactly possible.  

As Vox sat at his desk, staring at his ever growing inbox, he wished his daughter could give him just a few extra hours of quiet. Just enough time to catch up so he didn’t…..

“Daddy, I’m home from school!” Reader’s voice interrupted his thoughts. 

Out of habit, Vox stood up and she jumped into his arms as she hugged him tightly. He hugged her back and she chatted excitedly about her day. He tried to listen and focus on the project at hand, but found himself unable to do both. Frustration as the clock ticked, every second passing closing the gap between the present and the deadlines. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“Hey baby? Daddy has a meeting tonight and Uncle Val is going to watch you for a little while. Why don’t you and I get a little treat before then? We could both use a break.”

“But Daddy, my homework needs to get done, and we always do my homework together,” she insisted. 

“Sometimes you do your homework in Uncle Val’s office,” he reminded her gently. “I know it’s different, but would ice cream make up for it?” 

He watched her face light up and she nodded. Quickly, she shoved her laptop back into her backpack and swung it over her shoulder before taking his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze as he led her downstairs and out to the limo. 

As Vox suspected, the ice cream did its job and exactly sixty minutes later he settled her in Valentino’s office, her laptop open.

“She’s settled,” Valentino said as he strode behind Vox. “Go on, I’ll help her with her homework should the need arise. Get some work done, Vox.” 

Six hours, one rocking playlist and an empty inbox later, Vox walked into the penthouse. Not to his surprise, the TV was on low and curled up on the couch, tucked between Valentino and Velvette was his daughter. 

“Did she eat?” Vox asked softly as he leaned on the back of the couch. 

“No, she wasn’t hungry- someone let her have three scoops of ice cream before dinner,” Velette hissed quietly in response. 

Vox bit back a grin and leaned forward as he lifted her into his arms. To his relief, she didn’t wake up, but snuggled against him in her sleep. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he carried her to her bed and tucked her under the covers.

“Daddy?” she asked sleepily as he pulled the blanket over her.

“Go to sleep baby, Daddy’s here. I love you,” he said softly. 

To his relief, she snuggled under and in moments, her breathing slowed. As he carefully retreated from her bedroom, the thought crossed his mind. 

He would miss this someday.

[youcalledmebabe]

webgott pretty please!

75. “I’m going for a swim. Do you wanna join me?” (preferably it’s joe who asks. if you are so inclined. 🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂)

send me a pairing and a number and I’ll write you a Drabble

happy Webgott Wednesday yna!! enjoy some hot pygmalion summer Webgott. full disclosure this will 10000% be a fic someday.

Waves crash onto the shore. David can just barely make them out from the porch of the summer house. The moon shines bright tonight but his vision isn’t what it used to be; all the straining to see his journal in the dark in Europe has caught up with him. Or maybe he’s just getting old. Twenty-six tomorrow.

He lights a cigarette and takes a contemplative puff. Laughter and chatter filter out through the windows. It seems nobody has noticed the guest of honor has absconded.

The screen door creaks open and David sighs. Please don’t be his mother. He glances up to see Joe, offering him a glass.

“Water,” Joe says. “You’ve been mainlining gin all night.”

David takes a sip and pats the step next to him. When Joe sits, he offers him a drag of his cigarette. Joe doesn’t give it back.

“People keep asking me if I’m Bobby.”

David grins. He supposes Joe does have the reediness of the Kennedys but one word out of his mouth would disabuse anybody of that notion. “My roommate from Harvard. He’s in Hyannis for the summer. But maybe you’ll get to meet him.”

“You really think I’m gonna stick around the whole summer?” Joe says, but it’s a half-hearted barb. He’d come to Long Island at David’s request, had endured a week of the Websters already and earned the affection—if not approval— of everybody but his father. And David hadn’t even managed that in twenty-six years, so he could hardly fault Joe for it.

“Maybe,” David hums and lights another cigarette.

David watches Joe smoke his cigarette, how his face looks marble under the moonlight. Age is doing him nothing but favors. He feels a little guilty for not being completely honest with Joe.

“I lured you here,” he blurts out. “Under false pretenses.”

Joe stubs out his cigarette, amusement flickering in his expression. “I miss you and I want you to come to my summer home was a pretense?”

“Well, no. But it wasn’t the entire truth.”David sighs and takes a drag. “My parents want me to get engaged this summer. Or to go to law school. ‘War Hero’ got me through 1946 and Harvard student got me through now but my mother needs a new accomplishment of mine to brag about at her functions.”

“Just go to law school, Web, Jesus. You talk enough for it.”

David shakes his head. “Bobby’s going but…it’s not for me. I want to write. Lawyers have to actually work.”

Joe flicks his arm. “You’re a spoiled brat.”

“I invited you out here because I want you to get engaged.”

“So that’s why you tried to marry me off to Ann the second I walked through the door,” Joe muses.

“If you marry some wealthy heiress, your life is set, Joe. And we’ll see each other every summer. Maybe even during the year, depending on who the lucky bride is.”

Joe smirks. “I want no part of this life. You’re all crazy. If I were a writer like you I’d write some great piece on this place.”

“Very Nick Carraway,” David says, frowning. Joe was supposed to want to marry rich.

Joe snaps his fingers. “Gatsby.”

David stares at him, surprised he remembered. But then, he shouldn’t be surprised. Joe had read it too, and Joe had a great memory. So sharp, so intelligent.

“You look like you want to kiss me. Just because I get your little book joke. You’re so easy.”

“Maybe,” David sighs. “But it wouldn’t be very ethical to do while I’m trying to marry you off.”

Joe snorts. “None of these women want to marry a cab driver from San Francisco.”

But what if they did? David knows plenty of rebellious young women, plenty of fathers who would be indulgent enough to let Joe slide into the family. If David could just teach him how to walk the walk, talk the talk, he’d be in.

“I bet that I can get a girl to want to marry you. Probably more than one. I’ll teach you to be a perfect gentleman. It’ll be like Pygmalion.”

David would do Pygmalion right though. There was absolutely no danger of him falling in love with Joe. A bit of fooling around in Austria wasn’t love; Joe had made that very clear. And David was much older and wiser now. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“Whatever that means. We can talk about it in the morning. Speaking of luring,” Joe says. “Can’t believe you haven’t tried to get me in the ocean yet.”

The truth is David doesn’t entirely trust them to be around each other in a state of undress. He glances out at the water, waves pushing into the shore. It does look inviting, and so do Joe’s eyes. But his party persists inside.

Joe sheds his jacket and loosens his bow tie, scowling. He stalks down the steps. “I’m going for a swim. If you want to join me.”

“Well when you ask so nicely, how can I say no?” David retorts, but he’s taking off his own jacket and running after Joe anyway.

By the time they reach the beach, Joe’s only in his trousers. David’s itching for him to take them off; to see moonlit skin.

“You hate swimming. You just want to see me naked,” David says. “Now who’s easy?”

“Nobody hates swimming, Web. It’s just that nobody else is as weird about it as you.”

David grins at him. How he’s missed Joe’s affectionate ribbing. It just doesn’t read the same in a letter. A whole summer of Joe’s teasing; a whole lifetime of summers if he can just get Joe to marry one of Ann’s ditsy friends, or maybe one of the women being offered up to him. “I’m so glad you came.”

Joe waves a hand. “Just here for a free vacation,” he says, but he’s smiling back, and inching closer.

“Kenyon? Kenyon! Come inside. You need to say goodbye to the Gilmores.”

David turns and squints at the porch. His mother is framed by the lights, martini glass in hand. He looks back at Joe and the water longingly.

“Duty calls, Kenyon,” Joe says but his expression softens. “Come meet me back out here when the party is over. We’ll go for a birthday swim.”

“You’ll be okay out here alone?” David asks.

“Survived a war, Web. What the fuck could go wrong in rich person USA?”

Plenty, David wants to say, but it’s mostly psychological. Joe will be fine. He nods at Joe and slouches back up the beach to a woman his parents want him to marry, already counting the seconds until he can be in the water with Joe.

[bluewasthecolor]

How You Get the Girl

Word Count: 3117

Warnings: None

A/N: Getting back into my writing era, I guess. This is for @lana-del-reys-gf because apparently this is something she wanted me to write and I (being the unbelievably kind and generous human that I am) happily obliged. Obviously, it's also for anyone else who wants to read it. As always, let me know if you like it and what other requests you have!

“G, wait.” You grab your best friend’s hand, stopping her before she can drag you into the bar. Georgia looks back at you with knit eyebrows. “I’m not sure about this. I don’t want them to think I’m trying to ruin your team bonding time.”

“Oh my god, Y/N.” She groans, tugging on your hand. You refuse to budge. “I already cleared it with the girls, they’re happy to have you. Who wouldn’t be excited to spend an evening with the Y/N Y/L/N, after all? Come on, idiot.”

With that, you allow her to lead you inside and to a booth filled with her Bayern teammates. They greet you, introducing themselves one by one (although you already know all of their names from playing against them at both the club and international levels for so long), and then settle into easy conversation. You observe, still not wanting to intrude on their time together despite Georgia’s insistence that you wouldn’t be. It’s nice to be on the outside for once, actually. You’ve been with Barcelona for so long that it’s impossible for you to feel like a stranger with those girls and while that’s usually a nice feeling it can get a bit overwhelming. They all know you so well that it’s impossible for you to be on the outside. Seeing a different team dynamic than the one you’re used to is unfamiliar but refreshing. 

“Hey, Y/N, wanna help me grab another round of drinks?” Sydney interrupts your train of thought, extending her hand to you. You allow yourself to be pulled to your feet and accompany her to the bar. 

“I noticed you getting a little quiet there and wanted a chance to get to know you on my own.” She explains as you walk side by side. You’re not complaining–Sydney’s gorgeous and you’ve been sneaking glances at her all night. 

“Ask me anything, I’m an open book.” You smile at your feet, appreciating the German’s genuine tone. 

“How did you and Georgia meet, exactly? You’re American and play for Barcelona, so I’m not exactly seeing the connection there.” She asks after you place your orders. 

“I actually played for City a ways back. We met there and something just clicked–she’s been my best friend ever since. I wanted her to come to Barca with Lucy and Keira last year but that clearly didn’t work out.” 

“I mean, it worked out for us.” Sydney jokes, nudging you. “G’s been a beast here. You should think about making a move - Munich’s a pretty cool city. Would you ever consider that? Leaving Barcelona, I mean?”

“Maybe someday, but not now. The team chemistry is unbelievable, you know? It feels like home and that’s a hard thing to find.” You surprise yourself with your honesty. Something about Sydney just makes you feel instantly at ease. “But tell me something about you. I feel like I’m doing all the talking here.”

“What do you wanna know? I’ll give you three questions.”

“What’s your favorite place in the world?”

“That’s too easy, even you should know that and we just met tonight. Munich. It’s my home.”

“Fair, fair.” You nod to yourself. “A harder question this time, then. What would be your perfect date?”

“I’m easy to please, honestly. Dinner, a walk, something with time for plenty of conversation. Last question.”

“Can I have your number?” The German woman is clearly surprised by this, but she smiles and gestures to your phone. You hand it to her and she puts her number in. 

“I’ll be expecting a text.” She winks at you and turns to head back to the booth, drinks in hand. You trail behind her, unsure of how a night out with Georgia and her teammates led to you getting Sydney Lohmann’s number. This was not at all how you’d expected the evening to go, but you weren’t exactly complaining. 

One Week Later

“Y/N! Get off your phone and join the fun!” Mapi teases from her spot on the couch, lunging to grab your phone from your hand. You dodge her, but in the process find yourself rolling onto the floor.

“You have been on that phone a lot lately, Y/N.” Keira chimes in. “Who are you talking to on that thing?”

“Sydney.”

“Sydney?”

“Lohmann.”

“As in the one that plays for Bayern?” This is Mapi again, her voice incredulous. You nod, blushing. “Y/N, I can’t believe you! I thought you were just visiting Georgia when you went to Munich but you were getting yourself a girl. And here I thought I was the slut of Barca.”

Mapi’s final comment earns her a shove, but in reality, her comments don’t bother you all that much. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but you’ve found yourself falling for Sydney quicker than you thought possible. She’s witty and kind and if you could talk to her 24 hours a day you would. Just as you’re thinking this, your phone buzzes.

Syd: Y/N? Still there?

Syd: You’ve gone dark on me

Y/N: Sorry, got pulled away there. 

Syd: All good. I had an idea while you were gone, though.

Y/N: Care to share?

Syd: Well, I’ve got some time off coming up…

Y/N: …?

Syd: And I was thinking that maybe I could come visit you

Syd: Only if you’re up for it, of course

Y/N: Are you serious?

Y/N: I would love that.

You can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face as you continue to text Sydney about her upcoming visit. The noise of your teammates fades into the background and she is all you can focus on. The fact that she’s so willing to come see you after only one in-person conversation adds a level of attractiveness to her persona that is new to you. You’re not used to women being so invested in spending time with you but it’s a welcome unfamiliarity. 

“Y/N, we’re going to get gelato, let’s go!” Ingrid’s voice pulls you from your thoughts and you look up to see your friends gathered at the door, looking at you expectantly. You scramble to join them, pulling your shoes and jacket on haphazardly. You slip your phone into your pocket, wanting to focus wholly on your team for the remainder of the night, but Sydney doesn’t leave your mind once.

Three Weeks Later

You shift nervously at the kitchen counter, trying not to let your anxiety get the best of you. Your eyes are locked on the door and you can’t seem to do anything other than wait. She’ll be here any minute and all of your attempts at distraction have failed. You’re not even sure why you’re so nervous–it’s not like this is your first time meeting and the two of you text practically nonstop. Still, though, this will be your first date (and, in true sapphic fashion, it will extend through the weekend as you insisted she stay with you instead of at a hotel). At this point, Sydney knows you better than most but you can’t shake your worries that when she arrives she’ll regret everything. 

All of this goes out the window when the door to your flat opens, however. You’ve intentionally left it unlocked and instructed her to let herself in, wanting to avoid the awkwardness of having to greet her at the door. Sydney walks in looking as though she’s just come from a spa rather than the airport, skin glowing and not a hair out of place. She stops in front of you and you have to remind yourself how to speak.

“You’re here.” Is all you can manage to say, a smile spreading across your face. She smiles back at you and nods, stepping closer to you. 

“I’m here.” She murmurs, grabbing your hands and pressing her forehead to yours. The sudden contact makes you inconceivably nervous, causing you to squirm out of her grasp.

“So!” Your voice is overly loud, compensating for the nerves you’re feeling. “I guess I should give you a tour of the place. This is the kitchen, obviously, and that’s the living room,” You make an awkward sweeping gesture in that direction. “I set up the sofa bed for you–it’s actually pretty comfortable. The bathroom’s over there and if you need anything else just let me know.” You begin to back slowly towards your room. “I’m gonna, um, go get ready now. Bye”

“Y/N?” Sydney stops you before you can shut your door. You look at her slowly, praying you haven’t somehow already messed this up, but a smirk is playing at her lips. “Pick you up at 6.”

-

Six o’clock comes much quicker than you anticipated and, before you know it, Sydney is knocking on your bedroom door. You swing it open to find her looking even more radiant than earlier in the day if that’s possible. Her brown hair is loose around her shoulders and she’s dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. The simplicity suits her and will be perfect for your evening plans.

“I wasn’t sure what to wear since you refused to tell me where we’re going, so I had to guess.” She grumbles as you drag her out the door, grabbing the bag you had packed earlier. 

“You look perfect.” You reassure her, still not giving up any details about the date you have planned. Since the city is yours, it only seemed natural that you take the reins on planning your date, although Sydney had attempted to make an argument that she could show you parts of the city you’d never seen before (you were doubtful). The result of your careful planning means that much of your anxiety has dissipated. For the most part, you know what to expect for the rest of the evening and that fact alone brings you relief.  

After walking a ways, you arrive at a small park with a view overlooking the city. You lead Sydney to an empty spot in the grass and spread out the picnic blanket you’d stashed in the bag. She sits, pulling you down along with her. You immediately busy yourself with unpacking the meal you’d brought, not wanting to ruin the moment, but as it turns out you don’t have to worry. The silence is broken by Sydney’s laugh. You look at her, confused.

“Sorry, I’m not laughing at you.” She explains. “You just—you brought all my favorite snacks. I wasn’t sure what to say.”

“You sound surprised.” You say, raising your eyebrows. “You don’t think I pay attention to what you tell me?”

“No, it’s not that! I’ve just never had anyone plan such a specific date for me and I was…nervous I think? Not because of you! I mean, yes because of you, but, like, in a good way.” Sydney’s rambling proves to you that her nerves are just as high as yours and this makes you feel infinitely better–and instills you with a new sense of confidence. 

You lean forward, pulling the German in for a kiss and effectively shutting her up. It’s the first hat you share and it’s everything you’ve been waiting for. The second that your lips meet you know that it will be the first of many, not only tonight but for many months–years, even–going forward.

Later, when you return to your apartment, you linger in the doorway to your bedroom watching Sydney bustle about. She’s unpacking and getting water and somehow it’s all just so perfect. You’d set up the sofa bed for her, not wanting to be presumptuous, but all of your worries have gone out the window. Now all you want is for her to be the one sleeping next to you.

“Syd.” Your voice startles her and she looks up at you. “Do you wanna–you don’t have to–but would you want to sleep in my room, um, with me?”

“In your room.” A smirk is slowly spreading across Sydney’s face as she walks towards you. “With you. In your bed? I thought you’d never ask. I thought I was going to be banished to the sofa forever.”

“Shut up,” You can’t help the smile that creeps into your voice as you take her hand and lead her into your room. This is certainly going to be a very good night. 

Three Months Later

“I can’t just up and leave, Sydney! I have people here–a home here. I would never ask you to leave Munich for me.” You resist the urge to throw yourself face down onto the sofa as you pace, in the midst of a heated argument with your girlfriend.

“I don’t understand though, it’s not like I’m asking you to give everything up. Bayern made an offer, I’m just saying it would make a lot of sense. G is here and your family is back in the States anyways, so it’s not like you’d be losing much by moving.” You can hear Sydney sigh through the phone. “I want to be with you but this whole long-distance thing is hard, Y/N.”

This argument has been going on for the past week, ever since you were approached about a possible transfer to Bayern. You didn’t really even consider the offer but when you told Sydney she seemed to think that you should accept it. You can’t see yourself leaving Barcelona anytime in the near future, long-distance or not. 

“I know it’s hard, Syd. I know that. I miss you like crazy but I can’t leave my home.”

“So what do you suggest? We just keep doing long distance forever?” The bite in Sydney’s voice is unmissable and you wince slightly.

“I don’t know–I mean, no. Not forever. We’ll figure something out but I can’t leave right now. I’m not sure how else to explain it to you.”

“Let me know when you have a plan.” 

It’s clear that the German woman has become checked out of your relationship all in a matter of seconds and you know it will be easier for both of you if you don’t prolong the inevitable any further. 

“I think…” You pause, willing yourself to think of another solution. “I think we both need some space. Maybe this is it for us.”

“Yeah. Maybe it is.” Sydney’s voice has turned cold and there’s a distinct lack of emotions behind her words. “I guess this is goodbye.”

And with that, after the three blissful months you’d spent together, Sydney hangs up the phone, taking your heart along with her. In a rush of emotion, the tears you’d been holding in since your argument started begin to flow. You weren’t together for all that long, but even in the short months of your relationship, it became glaringly obvious that Sydney knows you better than anyone else–better, even, than Georgia. She listened and asked questions and was so unbelievably genuine that you often found yourself in disbelief that someone this perfect wanted you. You had just lost all of that. Everything you’d built, everything you had yet to build, was crumbling around you in a matter of moments.

One Week Later

A sudden knock on your door wakes you from your nap and you roll over to look at the clock, confused about who could be trying to visit you right now. It’s your one day off and you’re fairly certain that you’ve made it clear to Mapi that if she even thinks about dragging you to some coffee shop you’ll kill her. It’s been a week since the breakup but your schedule has been so busy that you really haven’t had time to wallow–today is the day you’d set aside for that. Somebody, however, seems to have different plans. Groggily you stumble to the front door and open it–the person on your doorstep isn’t Mapi or Keira or any other of your Barcelona teammates, but someone much more shocking. 

“Can I come in?” Sydney is soaked from the downpour outside and looks as frazzled as you feel. You stand to the side, letting her walk into your apartment. She sees herself over to the couch and sits down. You opt to stand in the kitchen, wary of why she’s here (both in your apartment and in Barcelona in general). 

“What are you doing here, Sydney?” You ask, arms folded against your chest. “You couldn’t have given me a little warning?”

“I’m sorry, I just–I had to see you.” The midfielder’s voice is shaky and as you look at her longer you can see just how red and puffy her eyes are. She’s been crying. “The way things ended between us, I just couldn’t bear it. I don’t want us to be over.”

“Well, me neither, but you made it pretty clear that if I don’t move to Munich we’re doomed.” As you speak, you move to sit next to her on the couch. “Unless that’s changed?”

“I still think living in different countries isn’t ideal–” Sydney starts, and with her words, your hopes deflate.

“So nothing’s changed then.” You cut her off, voice flat.

“You didn’t let me finish. I do think it would be easier if we were in the same place.” She takes your hand as she says this, and you don’t pull away. “But if I have to choose between what’s easy and what I want, I’m choosing what I want every time. Especially if what I want is you.”

“Okay, but Syd, you were right before. This whole long-distance thing is really really hard. There has to be something to make it easier, right?” You look at her almost pleadingly, hoping she’s come up with some sort of solution.

“I mean, I do have an idea.” Your ears perk up at Sydney’s words, “It’s not perfect but it might work. In the off-season, we find a place together–I don’t care where but I think for both of our sakes it might be best if it’s not Munich or Barcelona. Or we both evenly split time between the two cities? Either way, we’re always together. During our seasons we see each other every chance we can. It will still be hard but I think we can do it. What do you think?”

Instead of answering, you pull Sydney into you as a response. As her lips meet yours you are reminded of your first kiss, all those months ago on your first date. This kiss is different–you’re much more familiar with one another now, for one–but you get that same feeling as you did on that night. This kiss is indicative of much more than what is right in front of you. It’s indicative of everything to come.

[connorsnothereeither]

So like, a while ago I did a little update on the Brink fics, and I figured it was worth giving a kinda sad update on my other Fable fics as well.

At this stage, there are no plans to continue or finish Your Skin Beneath My Teeth (the second book in the Blood series).

I know this is probably disappointing, because I know a lot of people really loved the Vampire AU. But from a personal writing level, I’m just sort of unhappy with the direction of the books, and I don’t have the time to commit to rewriting them. I’m not invested enough in my own story, and while that’s a shame, I don’t know if there’s much I can do without just giving myself time to stew on it.

There’s also a logistical side to things as well. Fable is coming to an end in less than a month. I feel like it’ll probably take me months to finish the Brink series still first, which are the fics I’m personally more passionate about. And at a certain point, I don’t want Fable to be the only thing that consumes my writing for the next year+. Not to mention the time I want to dedicate to other SMPs and creative projects I’m involved in, like Cantripped, Bound SMP, and Terramortis, with even more stuff in the works.

On top of all that like… I’m just a guy, ya know. I’m a full time student, work part-time most days of the week, commute between 2 major cities regularly, and I have other things that just deserve my time more.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been in fandoms for years, I know it’s shitty when fics you enjoy never get an ending. But I hope that like, people get where I’m coming from with discontinuing it, I guess.

Besides, there is, technically, an ending for Blood. I’ve had the ending written since the end of the first book (it’s just getting there that’s the problem) and so if people would like, as some sort of closure for the story, I would be happy to release that here on Tumblr or on my Kofi or something. Maybe I’ll make a follow up post with a poll.

I might as well mention that there is likewise no plan to “finish” the Band AU, but since that was always a collection of one-shots, there was never really a plan or end for any of it. It was always kinda disjointed without an end in sight lol.

I’m not saying that I’m NEVER going to go back to these fics. Just that it’s unlikely. But who knows, maybe someday I’ll crawl out of the dirt to finish them-

If you did only follow my Fable fics for the Blood books though, I’m sure some elements of my other fan works might appeal to you, if you want to give them a go! The horror/contemplations of humanity are the key theme of Brink, and the mystery/thriller, high stakes political conflict mixed with interpersonal melodrama is the focus of Cascading Skies, my new Bound fic. And of course those and so many more things are just key elements to like all of my storytelling my canon characters lol. But if none of that ticks your boxes, it was great to have y’all along for the bloody vampire ride :D

Anyway this was me getting sappy about setting aside a project I worked really hard on lol. Sometimes you gotta do that and sometimes that’s okay, and that’s an attitude I struggle with but am getting better at. I know don’t owe y’all any kind of explanation for this, I could have just stopped and let it die, but I wanted to give one. More for me personally really; I needed to say something about it publicly to like… fully cement in my mind what I decided on a long time ago. Anyway, catch y’all later when I’m not incredibly tired, and hopefully with a more silly goofy post ✌️

[ihni]

(Got stuck writing a longer fic, so thought I'd challenge myself to write something shorter. Asked @callieb to open a random book and read me a word to use as a prompt, and the word was "taxi")

~~~

Steve sighed deeply as he slowed the BMW into a crawl, rolling down the driver’s side window so he could try to talk some sense into the drunk blond who was stumbling down the middle of the road, going in entirely the wrong direction.

“Where are you going?”

Billy must have heard the car coming because he didn’t seem surprised at the sudden voice. He didn’t even look up as he threw his arm out and pointed loosely at the road in front of them. “Going to my boyfr … going … going to my girlfriend’s house.”

Fighting back a smile, Steve cleared his throat. “Really? Where does she live?”

“Lo … loss. Loss Nora. That’s … that’s her name.”

“Her name is Nora?”

“No!” Billy exclaimed in drunk exasperation, gesturing wildly with his arms and almost toppling over. After righting himself, he finally turned to the car. “She lives in Nora. Her name is –“ He saw who was driving, and his face split in a big grin. “– Steve! Hey!”

“Hey,” Steve said, smiling, as Billy ambled up to the car and all but fell in through the window to pat clumsily at Steve’s face. “So you were at Maddy’s party, huh?” Frowning, Billy seemed to be thinking hard before nodding. “Got a bit drunk, did you?”

Billy let out a non-committal grunt and leaned heavily on the car door. “Got keg king.”

“Really,” Steve deadpanned. “I never would have guessed.”

“But I didn’t get … a crown. Or maybe I lost it.” He stuck out his bottom lip, which wobbled precariously. “Lost Steve.”

That made Steve snort, despite everything. “What a coincidence, because I lost someone at the party too.”

Billy’s eyes widened. “Who?”

“My boyfriend,” Steve said, pointedly. “Who can’t handle his liquor after that time when his little sister shot him full of some weird tranquilizer.”

Billy squinted at him, before saying, slowly, “I … have a sister.”

“You do,” Steve confirmed. When no other reaction was forthcoming, he added, “Anyway, my boyfriend apparently forgot that I was his designated driver tonight, and instead chose to try to walk home. In the complete wrong direction, I might add.” He watched how blue eyes tried to process this information, and waited patiently for some kind of reaction.

“Desi… dess … de– driver?”

“Designated driver, yes.”

“De–”

”Taxi. I’m his taxi.”

Billy’s eyes lit up at that. “Can you drive me … to my boyf– girlfriend Steve’s house?”

Steve laughed. “That, I can. Come on in.”

What followed was a brief chaotic minute where Billy first tried to climb in through the open window, before Steve convinced him to go around the car instead. He even opened the passenger’s side door for him.

When Billy dropped down in the seat, he sighed happily and turned his head so he was watching Steve with a dopey smile on his face. “You’re so pretty.”

Steve, who was busy trying to fasten his boyfriend’s seatbelt, snorted. “You keep saying that. Keep it up, and someday I’ll believe you.” His reply was a hand on his head, patting him awkwardly and then fingers carding through his hair, messing it up.

“Pretty.”

“Okay then. Wanna go home?”

A grimace. “No.”

“I mean, do you wanna go to my place?”

“Yeah.” Billy leaned towards him until he could put his head on Steve’s shoulder, almost falling out of his seatbelt but with one arm still stuck under it. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his hose buried in Steve’s jacket. “Drive me to Steve’s house, taxi-man.”

[supernaturalscribe67]

Just Like Mama Used to Make

Words: 6,178

POV: 1st & 3rd Person

Pairing: John x Son!Reader - Dean/Sam x Brother!Reader [Platonic]

Warning(s): Language, John Winchester, Fluff, Mention of Childhood Trauma, Mention of Death, I think that's it??

Summary: Taking inspiration from his father, the reader starts his very own journal. For his first entry, he recalls some of the memories that shaped him into the hunter that he has become.

Request:

Hello, hope you are having a good day/night

I was wondering if I could request John/Dean/Sam Winchester reaction to having a brother who looks like their mother and picked up hunting like breathing?

@xweirdo101x

A/N: My very first request! It kind of got away from me, but I really hope that I was able to do your request justice. Hope you like it!~

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Hello

Hey!

Dear Diary

SEPTEMBER 2014

To be honest, I have no idea how to start something like this. I was never one for writing, nor have I been one who can easily express my emotions. I guess I got that trait from the Winchester side of my family. Still, I have thought a lot about Dad’s journal lately. The things that he wrote down. It’s not detailed. It’s nowhere near what it was like growing up with him, but it still provides Dean, Sammy, and me with some information and nostalgia from time to time.

So, I figured ‘Why the Hell not’, I might as well write down some things in my own journal. I’m going to die someday anyway, and I want people to read this and be able to see what my life was like. From the good times that I spent with my family to the bad times when I lost my family. Hell, maybe this journal will get me into a history book someday when someone else discovers the Men of Letters Bunker. Who knows. Maybe I’ll be famous after I die, or perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. 

This journal has already turned into a clusterfuck. I don’t even know what to write about. I can’t even think of things to write about. Should I say things about my life? Should I just write down random things I think of throughout the day? I don’t know how to do it. Even when I look at Dad’s journal for inspiration, there’s nothing to inspire in it. A lot of it is notes on how to kill monsters and other stuff is just a bunch of personal bullshit he was going through. 

Well, we were all going through it.

I guess I’ll start by writing down some of the memories I’ve had. If I don’t like it, then I’ll throw this journal away and start another one. I don’t want future historians to think of me as some scatterbrained moron, despite what Sammy and Dean say at times. If you’re reading this now, I’m actually the smartest Winchester brother. Don’t believe a thing Sam and Dean say. I’m the brains of the operations and our day-to-day lives. I’ve saved them more times than I could count. 

Then again, they’ve probably saved me just as much. 

Alright, I’m getting side-tracked. I guess I’ll just start writing. 

Should I introduce myself first before I do so? 

My name is (Y/N) Winchester. I’m a hunter. 

This is my story (God, that was terrible)

AUGUST 1991

I remember the first time I mentioned to my father that I wanted to be a hunter, just like him. I was six years old. Dad didn’t take it very kindly. He yelled, a lot. Screamed sometimes. I never truly understood why he would always get so upset whenever I would ask him to teach me how to hunt. 

It wasn’t until I was a man that I understood why. 

I look just like my mother. 

I don’t know how I could have been so blind all those years. I have her hair. I have her face. I have her smile. All of these things have been said by my father before. Not necessarily when he was sober. I was always the one person that reminded my Dad of his wife. Of my mother. I think a part of him wanted to keep me safe, just so he could always look at me and remember what she looked like. Even when I was a child, though, I could see the hurt behind his eyes every once in a while when he would look at me. It made me feel guilty. 

Still does. 

I know that none of it is my fault, that he made himself hurt. 

Still… 

For months, I would ask my Dad to teach me about hunting. To teach me about the monsters that crept through the darkness. Each time I asked, he would reject my request and I would get scolded for asking such a stupid question. 

So, one night, around the age of seven or eight (one of the two, I can’t remember exactly), I decided that school wasn’t very important. There were occasions when I snuck out of classes to go to the library of whatever town we were in at the time to search the limited amount of lore books that they had. There were times when I got caught by Dean before I was able to sneak out. Other times it was by Sammy. Sometimes, my father would get a call from the school because I had been reported missing. 

I was a problem child, as you could tell. 

It’s not that I hated school. 

It just wasn’t my favorite. 

And I wanted to hunt. 

So, anyway…from town to town, I would skip class, go to the library, and learn everything that I could learn about hunting if there was anything to learn. Sometimes, I would ask Dean questions. Sometimes he would answer, other times he told me to not worry about it and to mind my own business. It used to hurt whenever Dean would reject any of the questions that I would ask, but I know now that it was so he didn’t get in trouble with Dad. I remember giving him a hard time about it, about not answering me. Dean, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry for being a jerk. 

Then again, Dean, if you’re reading this, you shouldn’t be reading this and expect some glitter to appear in your body wash. 

No one knew about my secret research. No one knew the reason behind my skipping classes. I would constantly make up lies, most of them being about how much I hated moving around and just wanted to rebel against my father. Typical kid stuff. 

It wasn’t until August of 1991, when I was ten years old, that I was finally able to put that research to use.

(Y/N) stared down at the paper that rested on a notebook in his lap. His eyes were wide and filled with stress, fingers tangled in his short hair, his back slouched ever so slightly. Dean sat a couple of inches away from him near the end of the bed, his homework in his lap, while Sam leaned against the headboard, a book in his hands that he had gotten from the school library. Dean looked up from his work, noticing the look of despair on his brother’s face before he glanced down at his worksheet. Dean grimaced and let out a hiss. 

“Multiplying fractions?” He asked, a hint of sympathy in his tone. 

Without looking up, (Y/N) gave a short nod. Dean pressed his lips together in a thin line before he set his pencil down beside him. 

“Do you need help?” Dean offered. 

(Y/N) lifted his head and looked at his older brother, giving a small, soundless nod. Dean offered a smile as he moved closer to him so that they were sitting next to one another. Dean craned his neck to be able to look at the paper, tilting his head as he studied the equations. 

“Which one are you having problems with?” He asked. 

“All of them,” (Y/N) answered. 

Dean snorted. “Okay, so, it’s easy-” 

“Wow, Dean thinks math is easy?” Sam mumbled, a smirk playing on his lips. 

Dean lifted his head and glared at Sam. “Shut up, bitch,” 

Sam shot a bitch-face towards Dean. “You shut up, jerk,” he retorted. 

(Y/N) let out a frustrated grunt. “Will both of you assholes shut up!? I don’t understand this!” His voice was filled with annoyance and desperation. 

Dean and Sam shot their brother a look. Sam rolled his eyes as he returned to the book. Dean looked back down at the paper, mumbling an apology under his breath. He then began to help (Y/N) with his homework, walking him through all of the problems that he had. (Y/N) still felt as if Dean was speaking in a foreign language, but he could understand the homework a little easier. 

When the paper was halfway finished, the door to the motel room suddenly burst open, causing the three brothers to jump, their eyes wide as they turned and looked at the person who had just entered. John stormed into the room, slamming the door behind him. He stomped over to the couch that sat in front of the small television set and plopped down on it. He ran his hands down his face and let a small growl emit from his throat. 

Dean, Sam, and (Y/N) shared a glance, almost as if they were communicating telepathically. After a while, Dean and Sam both turned their attention toward their brother, their eyes locked on his. After looking back and forth between the two, (Y/N) let out a soundless sigh as he set his homework beside him. He moved off of the bed and padded across the aged carpet to the couch. Slowly, he walked around the sofa so that he could see his father. 

John looked tired. Dark circles were prominent underneath his eyes. One of his legs was propped up on the couch while the other lay bent in front of him. His elbow rested on the arm of the sofa, his cheek placed against his right hand as he stared at the television in front of him. Nothing played. When (Y/N) came into view, John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye for a brief moment. He said nothing. 

“Hey, Dad,” (Y/N) greeted. “Um…how were the, uh, interviews with the victims’ families?” 

John shook his head. “Not great, kid,” he grumbled. 

“No?” 

“No.” 

As (Y/N) stared at his father, he timidly moved over to the couch. John hesitantly moved his leg as (Y/N) sat down next to him. 

“Did you…learn anything?” 

“Why aren’t you boys in bed?” John grunted. 

“We’re finishing our homework.” 

“Then shouldn’t you be working on it?”

(Y/N)’s shoulders slouched. “I just…wanted to see how it went is all…” 

“You want to know how it went?” John’s voice got deeper. “You really want to know how it went? Fucking terrible. That’s how it went,” John straightened himself out on the couch before he stood up. He began to pace around the room, his tone of voice getting more and more irritable. “I thought I had a good fucking lead going. All of the victims went to the same fucking bookstore a couple of days before their deaths and got the same book. Seems like a fucking coincidence, right? Then I go to the goddamn bookstore to see what the book was and all it was was something called Aradia or some shit like that. Some type of foreign book bullshit, I don’t fucking know.” 

(Y/N) furrowed his brows as John continued to rant. He looked down and away from his father. He got lost, deep in thought, the words that John was speaking irrelevant to him now. Finally, he turned back to him, kneeling on the couch as he raised his brows. 

“Did you say Aradia?” He questioned in the middle of John’s rant. 

John stopped pacing around the room as he looked back at (Y/N). Dean and Sam’s attention immediately turned to him, their eyes wide. John’s jaw was clenched, the anger and irritation still emanating from him. “Yeah,” he replied deeply. 

“Aradia…” (Y/N) trailed before he shook his head. “That’s not a foreign book, Dad! That’s only the first half of the title. The full title is Aradia or the Gospel of the Witches. It was one of the most influential pieces of literature in the nineteenth century to witches! You’re dealing with a witch!” (Y/N)’s eyes widened as a smile appeared on his face. 

John’s expression went from furious to confusion. He narrowed his eyes. “How do you know about that book?” He questioned. 

“I read about it in a library a little bit ago.” (Y/N) answered quickly. 

John pressed his tongue into his cheek as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at Sam and Dean, who were still staring with wide eyes at their brother, and then back at (Y/N). He ran a hand down his face stressfully. 

“You boys finish your homework,” he mumbled as he walked towards the door. “I have to make a call.” 

Without allowing anyone to respond, John left the motel room, closing the door behind him a little gentler than when he entered. (Y/N)’s smile faded as he watched his father leave, his shoulders dropping. The three brothers sat in silence for a minute before they looked at one another. 

“Come on,” Dean said as he patted the spot on the bed next to him. “Let’s finish these math problems.” 

Even though Dad never told me, I knew I was right. I knew it was a witch that he had dealt with. We didn’t even get to go to school the next day. He had found and killed her before I was able to turn in that math homework. What a waste of time. 

I would like to think that Dad was proud of me in that situation, but he never said anything. He never brought it up again as far as I can remember. It was something that he had put in the past, along with all of the other hunts that we had been on. However, even if he wasn’t proud of me back then, I was proud of myself. Proud that I was able to help my Dad even if I wasn’t beside him when he took that bitch down. 

God, I hate witches. 

MAY 1993

I didn’t touch a gun until I was twelve years old. By that point, I had stopped begging Dad to teach me how to hunt, because it seemed that the only answer I was going to be getting was ‘No’. I figured that I would go to the next best person for the job. 

I had to ask Dean. 

Dean was very protective of Sammy and me when we were younger. He still is super protective of us, even in our ripe old ages. But because of how protective he could get, he was very hesitant about teaching me how to shoot a gun. However, with Dad talking about Dean going on hunts with him more and more by then, I knew that I would be left alone with Sammy. I used the excuse that I needed to learn how to shoot a gun eventually so that I could protect the two of us when we were by ourselves. I couldn’t be expected to be safe when the only two people who knew how to shoot were away. 

That reasoning caught Dean’s attention. 

After the fifth or sixth time asking him, Dean had finally agreed. A couple of days passed and, when Dad was a couple of towns away gathering information for a hunt, Dean and I skipped school. Shocking, right? I think Dean used the excuse that I hadn’t been feeling well and he had to take care of me. He even wrote out a fake doctor’s note and everything. Back then, you could get away with a handwritten note. I’m not too sure if you could now. 

Once Sammy had been dropped off at school that day, Dean and I walked to a creek a couple of miles away from the school. He had set up a couple of cans on a log, some recycled stuff that he had picked up along the way. He had brought one of Dad’s small handguns with him. When he gave it to me, it felt so surreal. So different. 

I never really understood what the big fuss was about, though. 

Shooting a gun was easy. 

“No, you can’t have your hand that low! You have it that low and the gun is going to come out of your hand when you shoot it,” Dean grumbled. 

Dean took (Y/N)’s hand in his and adjusted it so that it fits perfectly onto the grip of the handgun. He then took his other hand and placed it on top of the one that was already on the gun. (Y/N) furrowed his brows as he looked at the way his hands nestled against one another. 

“This doesn’t feel right.” He said. “Why can’t I just hold it with one hand like the cops do in the movies?” 

“Because you’re twelve, dummy. You’re not in your forties and have years of experience under your belt,” Dean rolled his eyes. “And that is exactly how you should hold it if you don’t want to get hit in the face with your weapon after you fire it.” 

(Y/N) listened intently to what his brother was saying, giving him a small nod before he straightened his back up. 

“Stop.” Dean held up a hand. 

(Y/N) shot Dean a confused look. “What?” 

“You’re standing wrong.” 

“I’m standing wrong…” 

“Yeah, here,” Dean walked over, pressing his hand against the top of (Y/N)’s back ever so slightly, leaning him forward. “If you have your back too straight, then you’re more likely to fall backward. You also,” Dean kicked (Y/N)’s feet apart. “Need to have your feet apart. Keeps you more ground.”

(Y/N) looked down at the ground for a moment, taking in the appearance and feel of his stance. The way his back leaned forward and the way his legs were spread. He nodded. 

“Okay, now I shoot?” 

“Is your safety off?” 

“Safety?” 

Dean sighed, moving back over to him. He took the gun from (Y/N)’s grasp and flashed the left side of the gun. “You see this little trigger?” When Dean received a nod from his brother, he continued. “If it’s facing side-to-side, that means the safety is on. That means the gun won’t fire. All you have to do is flick this little switch,” Dean turned the safety off. “Once it’s up and down, then that means it’s ready to fire.” He handed the gun back to (Y/N). “Now, get back into position.” 

(Y/N) glanced down at the safety mechanism on the gun for a moment before he nodded. He got back into the position that he was in, spreading his legs apart the same length Dean had and slouching his back forward ever so slightly. Once he received a nod of approval from Dean, (Y/N) lifted his arms, cocking his head to the side. He aimed at the can farthest to the left. He closed his left eye and placed his finger on the trigger. 

“Stop!” Dean said more abruptly. 

(Y/N) jumped and moved his finger off the trigger, standing up straighter to face Dean. “What!?” He asked exasperatedly. 

Dean shook his head. “You can’t have one eye closed.” 

“Why not? Snipers do it!” 

“Because snipers are far enough away from combat. They need to look through a scope to get a good shot. You, on the other hand, are feet away from whatever monster you’re dealing with. What happens when you’re facing more than one monster? You leave yourself open to being taken out on your left.” Dean’s tone was stern, yet calm. His arms were crossed over his chest. 

Slowly, (Y/N) nodded as he grasped an understanding of Dean’s thinking. “Both eyes open?” 

“Both eyes open.” Dean backed up a bit. “Back into position.” 

(Y/N) let out a shaky breath before resuming his position. Legs spread, back bent, arms up, head tilted, both eyes open. His goal was to hit the used can of peaches that sat on the outside of the log. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest from anxiousness and anticipation. He was surprised the gun wasn’t shaking in his grasp. 

His eyes were on the cartoon peaches that were etched onto the label of the can. More specifically, the pit that sat in the center of the peach. He wanted to hit the pit. He never moved his eyes from the pit as he took a deep breath, his shoulders rising. Finally, as he exhaled, his shoulders dropping, he pulled the trigger. 

The can flew into the air and seemed to dramatically and unceremoniously fall into the creek. A small splash echoed in (Y/N)’s ears, accompanied by the ringing of the gunshot. 

One thing that (Y/N) noted was that his hands ached, both from the vice grip he had on the gun and the recoil that he hadn’t expected. Sure, Dean had informed him about it before, but he wasn’t sure how it would feel. His hands would definitely bruise. 

(Y/N) lowered the gun, looking over at his brother to see that Dean wore a stunned expression on his face. Dean’s mouth hung open as his eyes were glued to the can that lay in the flowing water. (Y/N) watched in silence as Dean walked over to the can. He reached down and picked it up by the opening, wincing from the heat of the bullet hole before he swapped hands. He studied the can. It seemed like too much time had passed before he turned the can so (Y/N) could see. 

(Y/N) had gotten it on his first try. 

The bullet hole? 

Right in the pit. 

(Y/N) raised his brows, a mixture of pride and surprise coursing through him. A wide smile appeared on his face. Similarly, a smirk appeared on Dean’s lips. Dean chuckled before he tossed the can into the water. 

“Beginner’s luck,” he said, brushing his hands onto his jeans. “Let’s see if you can hit the other ones.” 

I shot through the rest of the cans, the same as I had done for that can of peaches. Not to toot my own horn, but I was a natural when it came to a pistol. I don’t mean to sound egotistic about this, but Dean can back up any statement that I’m making about this story. 

I could tell that Dean was proud of me that day. He never said he was, but the way he looked at me and the way he treated me afterward told me things that words couldn’t. It’s hard to describe, but it almost felt like he had gained some respect for me that day. It felt good. Even as I am writing about this story, I can’t keep the smile off my face. I always looked up at Dean, so it feels great to think that I had done something to bring a smile to his stupid face. 

My hands hurt like hell after it was all said and done. I had gotten a couple of bruises near the thumb on my right hand that I brushed off to my Dad as something that I had picked up when I got into a fight at school. Dean had backed me up when Dad got on my ass about it. Dad told me that I had to get along with the other kids so I didn’t give the wrong impression at the schools I went to. It wasn’t like they would remember me anyway. Of course, I didn’t tell him that. I knew when to bite my tongue. 

Dad never found out about the shooting practice. I get a feeling that he had a sneaking suspicion as soon as he took me to practice himself years later, but I never told him about it. I never told him that Dean had been the one to teach me how to stand correctly, or where to find the safety of a gun. I know that he knew it was Dean. A part of me wonders if Dean ever got in trouble for it, or if it was something that Dad even brought up. I would never ask Dean about it now, though. 

Some things are best to be left in the past.

 

NOVEMBER 1999

By the time I turned eighteen, I had already been on several hunts with Dad and Dean. The majority of the time, though, I would stay back and watch Sammy. Even though he was a teenager and had the capability of taking care of himself, Dad expressed that he was still a kid and needed to be looked after. A part of me thought it was bullshit at the time, but another part of me was glad that I was able to spend time with my younger brother. 

Now, I know the real reason behind my staying with Sammy was because some of the hunts that Dad and Dean went on were ‘rough’. A little ‘too hard’ for me. 

Dad didn’t want to lose the son that reminded him of his wife. 

At least, that was what Dean told me, and I believe him. 

It was a blessing and a curse, come to think of it. There were times that I stayed behind and Dad called me up, needing me to do some research for the case that they were working on. He had said it would be faster if someone was working on the research while he and Dean were out taking interviews. In the end, it was more efficient. I would gather the necessary information and hand it off to him and they would be back at the motel a lot quicker than if they had been the ones to look up the information. 

That was the system that we worked with for a while. After a couple of months, Dad informed me that he didn’t want me to do the research anymore. He wanted Sammy to be the one to do it. I remember him saying that Sammy needed to focus more on the hunting aspect of his life. That school was just a waste of time at that point. He was old enough to get into it. 

Sammy hated the idea when I told him. He loved school. He was always such a nerd. Still is. An even bigger nerd if you can believe it. I knew how much school meant to him, and I didn’t want him to be discouraged from doing his schoolwork. He shouldn’t have been forced to do anything that he didn’t want to. So, I decided that I was going to do the research and just tell Dad that he had been the one to do it. Sammy was thankful. 

That was until Dad called. 

Dad wasn't as stupid as I took him for most of the time. He knew that Sammy hadn’t done any of the research, that I was the one that did it all. By the time he and Dean got back, he gave Sammy a verbal lashing. I tried to defend him, but nothing worked. In the end, Sammy gave in. He would do the research for the next hunt. 

Like clockwork, when the next hunt rolled around, with Sammy and I staying back at the motel, Dad had called. He had given Sammy the information that he needed to research and we headed off to the local library. Once we got the necessary books, we took them back to the motel and he began to work. 

I could tell that it wasn’t going well.

Sam sat at the small table near the motel room door, two books placed in front of him. His back was slouched as he looked from one book to another, flipping through pages frantically. He had been going at it for several hours by then, evident by the bags that were present underneath his eyes and the redness around his pupils. (Y/N) sat on the couch, watching some old western show. Now and then he would look at his little brother. He could see how tired and stressed he was about the entire situation. (Y/N) had never seen Sam that stressed out before, even when he was studying for a test in one of his AP classes. 

Eventually, Sam pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, lowering his head, as if accepting defeat. (Y/N) studied his movements, and, after he saw that he had not moved in a while, he decided the best thing to do was to help him out. He picked up the remote and turned off the television before tossing it aside. He stood from his spot on the couch and walked over to the table. He grabbed the spare chair, pulled it beside Sam, and sat down. 

“Having some trouble?” He questioned. 

Sam’s shoulders rose and fell as a sigh escaped his lips. He removed his hands from his face and placed them into his lengthy hair. His eyes were cast down towards the table. He stayed in the same position for some time before he looked up at (Y/N). 

“No,” he answered, pulling the books towards him. “I’m fine.” 

“You don’t look fine.” 

“I said ‘I’m fine’,” Sam repeated through gritted teeth. 

(Y/N) studied him with an expressionless face. Sam kept his eyes down, looking from one book to another. (Y/N) was able to see the stress that was emitted from his brother even better with how close he was sitting. He took one look at the books before he shook his head. 

“I’m sorry Dad’s making you do this.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t be doing this alone the first time…” he trailed. “But if Dad found out I helped you-” 

“You’d get in trouble, and so would I. Yeah, I know.” 

(Y/N) pursed his lips. “You know, it took me a little over a year to get comfortable with translating Latin. I sometimes screw up from time to time.” 

“Still?” 

“Yeah, still,” he chuckled. “That’s why I got something that helps me out now and again.” 

With that, (Y/N) stood from his spot on the chair and waltzed over to the bed in the far corner of the room. Beside the bed sat his black duffel bag. He picked it up and placed it on the bed. He began to rummage through it, sorting through clothes and weapons that rested at the bottom. Wedged into the corner of his bag sat a book. He picked it up and brought it over to the table. He took a seat next to Sam once more and placed the book in front of him. 

Sam furrowed his brows as he studied the cover. It was a Latin-English translation book. It looked rather similar to the one that he had picked up at the library. The only difference was the color of the cover was a little faded and, along the outside of the book, between all of the pages, were multi-colored Post-it notes. Each Post-it note had different letter combinations on it, as well as notes written on some of them. Sam opened the cover and he raised his brows when he saw that the first page was replaced by a notebook-sized piece of paper, taped to the front page. There were multiple words in English on the left side with their corresponding Latin translation on the right. 

“What’s this?” Sam asked. 

“It’s a translation book I picked up a couple of years back at a bookstore. I figured since there were going to be a lot of things that needed translating, then I was going to have to make it easier for myself to find the words. The only problem is that most of these translation books are so damn compressed that it’s hard to find certain words without getting blurry vision. So, I took the liberty to mark down all of the times when the letters change in the words. For example, when the words that start with ‘AB’ transfer to words that start with ‘AC’. It always made it easier to find. Plus, I made a page at the beginning about common words that I have found in my research so that it would be easier to translate them.” 

As (Y/N) explained, he gestured with his hand toward the book. Sam listened intently, taking in all of the information that he was given, nodding his head. Once (Y/N) was done talking, Sam looked down at the book and then back up at him. 

“You did all this?” 

“Yeah,” (Y/N) chuckled. “Crazy, right?” 

Sam snorted. “Yeah. Wish you put that much effort into your homework when you were still in school.” 

“Hey,” (Y/N) leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands in mock surrender. “School was fine and all, but this is something I enjoy, and I’m good at it. I’m good at hunting research and you’re good in school.” 

“And what’s Dean good at?” 

“Being a pain in the ass.” 

Sam smiled widely, his dimples more prominent than (Y/N) had seen in a while. After a beat or two of silence, the smile faded as he looked down.

“I wish Dad could see that I’m good at school.” 

The corner of (Y/N)’s mouth curved downward. It was his turn to look down at the table. He reached over and placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder comfortingly. “I know, kiddo,” he mumbled. “But Dean and I both see how much of a nerd you are. Don’t worry.” 

A smile returned to Sam’s face, but it wasn’t as happy as the last one. They sat in silence for a little bit before (Y/N) lowered his hand and Sam moved back to the books. 

“You got it from here?” (Y/N) questioned. 

“Yeah, I got it,” 

“Great,” (Y/N) said as he stood from his seat and patted Sam on the back. “Call me over if you need anything.” 

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to call you over when I get to the part about multiplying fractions.” 

(Y/N) glared at Sam and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” 

“No, no I’m not.” 

Sammy still teases me to this day about not knowing how to multiply fractions. Even though it was decades ago at this point, he still likes to tease me about it. Little shit. 

With my help, Sammy was able to get the translations done a lot faster than he expected. I remember seeing the relief on his face when he had finished. Poor kid was so exhausted. Dad was more than pleased when he called and asked about it. Dad never found out that I had helped him out a bit, and neither Sammy nor I were planning on telling him. I just wanted Sammy to have an easier time than I did when I was first learning about research, specifically translations. 

In the end, I would have to say that Sammy is better than me when it comes to research. He’s taken the reigns on many different hunts because of how proficient he is with technology. I’m good with old-fashioned ways of research, but Sammy’s the nerd when it comes to computers. 

Sammy has told me once or twice, though, that I was the one that helped him the most when it came to his knowledge of research. That, without my help, he wouldn’t have been as good at it as he is now. 

I call bullshit. Sammy has always been a smart kid. 

He could do anything he put his mind to. 

SEPTEMBER 2014

This is all I can write at the moment. Dean called me to the kitchen a couple of minutes ago saying that dinner was ready. I need to wrap this up before he or Sammy comes in here and sees what I’m doing. I know that I would get endlessly teased about keeping a ‘diary’. I need to make sure to hide this in a good enough place where neither of them will find it if they go snooping through my room. 

Sam, Dean, if you guys are reading this, I’ll get you back. 

But if you’re going to read it, I just want to let you know that I love you guys. 

Not that I’m into chick-flick moments or anything. 

I’m just glad that I have you guys as my brothers. No one could ask for a better family than you two. 

Okay, that was cheesy. I wish I wasn’t writing this in pen so I could erase it. 

Dammit. 

I’m not too sure how to end this, so I guess I’ll just write again sometime when I can. Perhaps I could do like Dad did in his journal and write about all of the new monsters we have discovered over the years. Or maybe write more memories down. This journal is going to be so cluttered that no one is going to want to read it. There’s no way I’m going to get famous from this. 

Dean just called me to the kitchen again. 

Until next time. 

Happy hunting. (That was stupid, think of something better).

WE LOVE YOU TOO - SAM + DEAN

[scar-crossedlvrs]

I have an idea... I'm not sure you'd like it, but I love your writing, so I thought I'd give it a shot - what if Carlos S/O's ex ( who are now distant friends ) shows up at their place, totally hammered after a really tough situation and out of pity/friendship and fear hes going to drunk drive she lets him stay on the couch for the night.

Meanwhile, Carlos is trying to be understanding but is having a hard time hiding his annoyance and jealousy? Could be fluff or smut- :) up to you

Carlos Oliveira - Only Yours

i’m flattered that you love my writing!! hearing compliments like that are the reason i keep going!! anyway i definitely loved this idea and went with fluff on this but idk part 2 smut someday???

ft an unnamed blonde hair blue eyed ex bf.

“Babe I think there’s someone at the door.” 

Carlos’ voice coming from the next room is the only thing that tears you from the book in your lap, and you finally can hear the inconsistent knocking on the front door. Your eyes slide to the clock on the mantle, glowing a faint 11:30 pm.

It was late. Too late for a visitor.

“I’ll see who it is.” you sigh, marking your place in your book and traipsing to the front door as another string of haphazard knocks come from the other side. 

The door swings open, and the first thing that you notice is the reek of alcohol, whiskey breath from the figure in the doorway. Familiar icy eyes that you hadn’t seen in months stare at you, the man drunk beyond comprehension. 

“What are you doing? It’s nearly midnight.”

Your arms cross as you speak, brows furrowed in a mixture of concern and annoyance. His head tilts, seemingly confused. “Can’t visit an old friend?” the blonde’s words are slurring as he sways in his spot. 

“Not at midnight and definitely not after months of no contact.” 

He was a mess and you couldn’t help but worry about how he had managed to get here, or why exactly he was here.

“ ‘m sorry ‘bout that. Been busy. Jus’ wanna talk. Need a friend right now.” 

Your eyes soften slightly, and open your mouth to speak when a possessive arm wraps around your waist. 

“Everything okay over here?” Carlos’ voice is in your ear now. “I was getting worried.”

He’s speaking directly to you, eyes trained on your face and you take a moment to glance up at him with a nod. “You remember…?” You gesture to the door as you speak.

“Yeah, we met last time.” His arm tightens around you as he glances at the drunken man finally, giving him a stiff nod in greeting. 

“He’s gonna stay here tonight.” Your words seem to surprise both of them, but you continue before either man could protest. “We’ve got a pretty comfy couch, and I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

Unable to argue with you, Carlos helped you to get the drunk man into the living room and onto the couch. As amiable as he was being, you could easily tell he wasn’t exactly happy with the situation at hand. His eyes stayed glued to you as you took the time to help the blonde male get his jacket and shoes off without hurting himself. 

“Thanks.” He said with a sheepish grin, leaning back on the couch with a content grunt. 

“I’ve got some extra blankets and pillows in the bedroom, just wait here.” You reply, heading off down the hallway to find the stash of spare bedding somewhere in your bedroom closet.

You’re digging through the closet when the bedroom door closes behind you. A soft smirk pulls across your lips, as Carlos sulks across the room. It’s obvious that he wants to say something by the amount of pacing he’s doing. “You’re upset.” You say, turning with an armful of bedding in your arms. “You’re really bad at hiding it when you are.”

“No.” His answer is short and sharp, and you give him a knowing look. “Okay fine, maybe a little bit. You can’t blame me though.”

“There’s nothing to be worried about.” “So you’re telling me if my ex-girlfriend showed up here late at night claiming she wanted to talk, you’d be okay with it? You’d be okay if I let her stay here?”

His arms cross as you can feel his eyes on you. You let out a soft breath, dropping the blanket onto the bed with a sigh. “He’s drunk and a lot more harmless here than he would be driving home. I’d hope you’d consider the same if you were in my position.” You reply, slowly taking a few steps around the bed in order to close the distance between the two of you. Fingers find purchase on his crossed forearms, hoping that he’d relax under your touch. “Plus you didn’t have an issue when we had met him for drinks last time.”

You could feel the muscles tense under your fingertips. “That’s different.” His eyes avoided your gaze, “We were in public with other friends. And it was before everyone started talking about how they thought you were going to spend an eternity with him.”

There it was, the source of his annoyance. You sigh softly, moving your hands from his crossed arms to the sides of his face, pulling his eyes to yours gently. 

“You have absolutely nothing to worry about, Carlos.” Your voice is soft and reassuring. “That was years ago, plus might I remind you I’m the one who broke things off.”

His arms relax a little falling to his sides, and you take a moment to guide them around your waist before resting your hands back on his face. Instinctively, Carlos tightens his arms around you. 

“I love you, can’t help but worry that someone’s coming to snatch you away.” he says, still grouchy. 

“There’s nobody else for me but you.” You pull his face closer, placing a sweet kiss on his lips which finally makes him smile. “I’ll prove it if I have to, just as soon as I’m done dealing with our guest.”

You let go of his face and move to collect the spare bedding once more. There’s a grunt as Carlos tightens his arms around you once again. 

“I’ll deal with it, you get to wait here and think about how you’re gonna prove it.”

He lets go of you with a cheeky wink, obviously feeling better. 

Just what had you gotten yourself into now?

[another-identityofmine]

Please can you write a little longer fanfiction about the reader being new at Humes high school and the teacher gives Elvis the task to show her around on the school and they develop a romance❤

—Someday, We’ll be together—

Summary: Reader just moved to Tupelo, and not so familiar with this foreign place. Elvis, volunteering, helps you know better of his home town.

Author’s note: hello, my regular customer. I swear, you gon be family to the shop soon 😭.This is, probably kinda shorter than what you meant, and if it is. Just tell me and I’ll be happy to write a part two or more! This is so cute, and I could just hug your creative brain, ah!I’m literally so so sorry for letting you wait this long. I swear, I’m probably sick with procrastination… but that’s no excuse. I’m really sorry, hun.

warnings: nothing at all, just some fluff and such. Also, I didn’t really uh, do any research so pardon me if some things sound inaccurate with Tupelo or any of that.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Being the new girl inside a new school and town was making your cheeks dark scarlet enough, but being late on the first day of school is just making your head hot.

Gripping your books to your chest, as the rough corners of the edges nudge into your wrists, you approach to a closed door. The door’s thick, faded brown with a flimsy title mat that reads, “Room 34.” You take a deep breath, fluttering your eyes closed and prepare yourself. Pressing your palm to the cool, rough wood, you push open and hold your breath.

Greeted with a wrinkled, depressed face of the old teacher, Mrs. Rothe. A dark shade of purple that’s displayed on her thin lips, and lines of boredom that’s around her eyes and cheeks. “Class, this is Y/N, Y/L. Please make her feel welcome, for she is new.” She rolls her dull blue eyes, and turns her front to the class. You smile weakly and also turn, gripping the books to your chest tighter with your sweaty palms. Your eyes trail over the groaned and heavy faces of the pupils. Dull, tedious, and bland.

You purse your lips, awkward but expected until your sight catches a bright face. Your eyes trail over his glowing features. His greasy hair, darkish blonde hair that’s molded just right but somewhat floppy over his forehead. A fine nose that’s planted just right in the middle, and compliments his shining blue “windows to the soul.” A bubbly warm feeling erupts into your chest, but you furrow your eyebrows as you see his eyes darting besides you.

“Ms. Y/l/n, ahem. Are you present?” A creaky voice interrupts your observation and you quickly whip your head to Ms. Rothe. She huffs and waves a bone thin arm in the air, “please take a seat.” You nod, and walk down the aisle between students. You can just feel eyes boring into you as you trail down. Finding a dusty old desk next to a wiry figure of a boy, and a neat, straight posture of a girl.

Plopping down, you suddenly frown. Ms. Rothe instructs the class while writing directions on the chalk board, but it’s not even the sound of the scraping chalk against the green material that makes you slightly upset. You realize that you sit behind the handsome boy that you met eyes with. You’ll have to say hi of course, but maybe in a few days. You don’t want to seem too desperate.

•••••••••••••••••••

When Mrs. Rothe finally stops talking, the clock ticks and shines for brunch break. You hear the excited and sudden shuffling around you, finally making some type of noise inside the empty classroom. The educator raises a hand up and the class grows silent. You just observe and watch.

“Now, now, before anything. I’d like a show of hands to help guide our newest student Y/N, around the quarters.” She croaks out tiredly and over it. You can’t help but bury your face into your palms and softly groan in embarrassment.

Silence. “Anyone?” Mrs. Rothe scoffs out, looking around the classroom to find no limbs or arms up with enthusiasm. You finally pull your face out of your hands and watch along the class to also find that too.

Until a slim, long arm raises up high and mighty, your eyes fixated on the features of the simple arm. “Here, ah’d be more than happy to help out Ms. Y/l/n.” A smooth as honey, southern drawl speaks out. Your eyes widen at the way his accent makes your last name sound, and you feel warmth upon your cheeks.

Your eyes find in meet with his. The same eyes from just earlier, that’s bright and smiling. Not only does his toothy grin spread wide and gorgeous, but the way his eyes light up with just welcoming joy.

“Ah, of course, Elvis, please and thank you, lead her along and show her what’s our daily routine.” Mrs. Rothe sighs out and you can hear the tease and snickers of the other students. “Teacher’s pet” and such being thrown around as the class rushes out.

When the class is finally out on the grass of the play and break field, the eager “tourist” pops up and approaches you. His broad shoulders, and tall frame catch you off guard a bit, but you regain consciousness.

”well, c’mon now, I’ll show ya around.” He smiles and hums and turns his back. But then he immediately halts and looks back at you. “Sorry, mah bad, I’m Elvis Presley.” He blurts out, slightly embarrassed on his small mistake. He brings out his hand and you smile. You take it and both hands interact with a gingerly firm shake.

“Uh once again, I’m Y/N and as you already know I’m new here.” You smile and giggle quietly. He nods and smiles, those round apple cheeks on those high cheekbones are displayed once again, “well, now that we got that outta the way. W-Wanna tour now?” He stammers out, and you can tell that he’s a bit of shy one on the outside. Probably a loud little ball of trouble behind closed doors.

••••••••••••••

The day lingers by, completely different from what you expected. You weren’t alone or isolated awkwardly in any way, instead being greeted so sweetly. You now know where all the bathrooms are, and which water fountain is the best to use. Elvis showed you around real good and you’re surprised that he doesn’t charge you for the tour.

Lunch time rings around and here you were being guided with gentle interlocked hands, through the field. He walks ahead, searching just carefully for his spot. He nearly walks so fast that you can’t keep up.

Finally finding your place beneath a rusty, creaky metal bench. Sitting beneath the rails of rows of seats, and he finally draws out a long huff. “This is my favorite spot.” He smiles out, before ruffling through his lunch box. Elvis then pauses and furrows his eyebrows when you sit besides him empty handed, and timid.

“Uh, did you forget your lunch, y/n?” He frowns and glanced at your empty lap and your embarrassed frown. You only drop your head and clear your throat, clearly not wanting to say anything to make you seem anything less of middle class.

Elvis quickly nudges you softly with his elbow to yours, and pulls out a sandwich wrapped perfectly in yesterday’s newspaper. “Here, c’mon, have some of mine.” He hums out without any hesitation. Before you can even open your lips to protest, he shakes his head and unwraps his sandwich from the wrapping. “It’s peanut budder and jelly, mah favorite.”

He places half of the sweet bread into your palms and smiles over to you, “go on now, c’mon, you can’t just leave some good food on your hands now, will ya?” He smiles out dorkyly, making you giggle and shake your head.

“No, no, of course not.” You snicker and quickly take ahold of your bread and press them to your lips. “Thank you, Elvis.” You smile out and smoothly scoot over to him, chewing on your half of bread.

From just that moment, he knew. From just watching your nervous and unconfident smile earlier in class, and now here with a cute nerdy smile on your lips.

Someday, we’ll be together.

••••••••••••••

Author’s note: it’s finally out…yup! I know it’s probably not really him, because I’d feel he’d be more shy but honestly I felt so so bad for letting you wait hella long.