#though my flannel is greener

[nordfjording]

ever find your true self 22 minutes into a horror comedy

[stitching-in-time]

Voyager rewatch s3 ep9: Future's End pt 2

Another episode where I sit there twirling my hair, kicking my feet, and grinning, having my happy Star Trek fun time. It's truly got it all: epic adventure, silly hijinks, time travel paradoxes, phaser shootouts, a cute romance subplot, heck, even a car chase! You could not ask for more.

It's also the ep that introduces the Doctor's moblie emitter, which is a huge deal for his character, and the show in general, now that he can leave sickbay like everyone else. It was honestly a genius move to have a villain use stolen 29th century holo technology to kidnap the Doctor, because not only do we have a workaround for how it can technically be accomplished, in spite of established limits of holodeck technology, we get to keep the emitter and use it forever without any temporal prime directive red tape. Slow clap for that one!

Also, what is up with Chakotay doing flirty flirt all the time in this story?! First with the Captain in the first part (typical, tbh), but then with B'Elanna in the second part! Was this a direction? Or just Beltran spicing things up for his own amusement? Idk, but it's a lot, and it feels weird with B'Elanna, especially when we straight up know he's down bad for Janeway.

And I gotta say, no alien on Star Trek has ever inspired me with visceral terror the way those flannel wearing white guys with guns in this one do. Even the Borg are pretend at the end of the day, but gun-toting rednecks are very real, and even though I know they're not going to kill off main characters, I still sit there thinking "get them out, get them out now!!" when they capture Chakotay and B'Elanna. Having the Doctor phaser those guys was a huge relief tbh!

This story feels more like a TV movie than a regular episode- being able to go to actual locations makes everything seem so much bigger. I mean, they drive past houses! They never just go down random streets on alien planets, because it's too expensive and time consuming to build just to be in the background, and here, we get all the little details of real places, atmosphere, sunshine! It's so great! All the colors look really saturated too, it's almost cartoonish, but not in a bad way. I honestly wonder if they used some kind of filters to make the trees greener and the sky bluer, or if LA really just looks like that. Star Trek tends to be very grey and beige, and I just love all the colors we see in this one.

There's so much here that's nostalgic- the flip phones! Rain Robinson's entire wardrobe! (Girl looks like she stepped out of the pages of Teen Vogue- every girl wanted to dress like her, she even had a VW van, which was very cool at the time.)

I really do like the little romantic subplot they gave to Tom and Rain. It was sweet that they bonded over being nerdy, and it was so lovely that they let Tom be genuine and not cheesy, finally. I love that they gave Rain a little speech recognizing how selfless and dutiful Tom actually is. (I think this episode is where little 10 year old me started to develop a crush on him- and here we are, 27 years later, and I'll still fight anyone who doesn't respect my cringefail nerd blorbo. I'm fine and normal, I promise!)

One thing I noticed on rewatching this, though, is that after the big car chase, when Tom and Rain have their little goodbye kiss, Tom walks away, and gets beamed back to Voyager, but, um... how is she supposed to get home?! Her van just got crashed into, and they're in the middle of the desert! You couldn't just get an Uber in those days! They left her stranded out on a desert road with no car, no food, no water! She's gonna die y'all! The least they can do after she helped them is beam her the hell back to town!! Lol wtf?!

This is one of those eps that's so much fun that you don't want it to end. But of course, our plucky Voyager crew stops Starling from taking the timeship back to the future, and prevents him from destroying the solar system. It's very satisfying knowing his greed is what gets him killed- if only billionaires always got what they deserved lol. And then they get to go back to their own time, but they have to go back to the Delta Quadrant- that pesky temporal prime directive! But we get treated to a final scene of all of the crew together in the mess hall, for the first time ever! I'm not sure if they're celebrating the Doctor's mobile emitter, or getting back to their own time, or what, but it's cute AF. Tom then calls Tuvok a freakasaurus (affectionate), and I'm just about to keel over from warm fuzzy feelings as the credits roll. I love this one so, so much!!

Tl;dr: A conclusion that lives up to the first part, this is an epic time travel story with all the fun, nostalgia, and excitement you could ask for. One of the series best, a true classic.

[sidekickjoey]

WIP Word Search Game

Rules: Share snippets of your work containing each of the words the previous poster selected for you (optional addition: if you can't find the word in your WIPs, or you simply don't have any WIPs, you can just write a sentence around the word)

Tagged by @daysarestranger- thank you so much <3 Please enjoy scenes from my big bang fic!!

My words: eye, away, think, green, date

EYE

He looks rather unlike himself tonight in the misty darkness. His hair is up, tied loosely with what looks to be a gray scrunchie. Instead of his signature Hellfire shirt or band tee and black pants, he is bundled up nicely in a red flannel and faded blue jeans. He might as well be dubbed the poster boy for small-town attire, if not for his tattoos and a smearing of what looks to be eyeliner around his eyes disorienting the whole look.

AWAY

The remaining shreds of his naiveté melted away in the years of hell that followed. In 1984, no one was there to save him when he was all that stood between the kids and a pack of bloodthirsty demodogs. No one came out and yelled ‘gotcha’ in between laughter when he laid bloodied and bruised on the floor of some underground Russian facility. By the time ’86 came around and he was faced with not only his own imminent death, but that of everyone around him and possibly the world, Steve was done hoping for miracles or happy endings.

THINK

“I think it would be cruel for them to not accept you,” he says back to Robin with as much earnestness as he can muster. “You’re like, wickedly smart. But, I also think we won’t know the verdict until you open the letter. Which you should do, by the way. Like, soon.”

GREEN

"The grass isn't always greener on the other side, Steven," his dad sneers, looking down on Steve. "It's about time you learned that instead of chasing these stupid pipe dreams of yours like some kid."

DATE

Steve Harrington had once loved apocalyptic movies. He didn’t stumble upon them often, too busy with baseball or basketball or a pretty date to sit for a full show. When he did though, they captivated him. They showed him a world in which even the most dire of circumstances could eventually work themselves out in the end. Happy endings could exist for anyone. As a boy who felt rather smothered by his oppressive father and the weight of expectations on him going into high school, it was a comforting concept. It was also incredibly naive. Steve stopped being naive in November of 1983.

Random tags: @xpaperheartso @steddieasitgoes @sidekick-hero @scoops-stevie

Your words are: Eat, grow, why, gentle, new

[talktomeinclexa]

More Than A Makeover

By: TalktomeinClexa

Rating: General Audience

Warning: None

Status: Complete

Summary: The Fab Five are tasked with helping baby gay Lexa Woods come out of her shell and shine. But maybe all the girl really needs is for someone to notice her. For example, a certain blonde camera operator on your favorite Reality TV Show.

***

The GMC’s engine purrs as the car passes the sign “Welcome to Polis.” It’s the first time Queer Eye comes to Maryland, and the excitement in the vehicle is palpable.

“So, Jonathan,” says Tan, “what are we doing?”

“Our heroine of the week is called Alexandria Woods. Goes by Lexa; sweet. Lexa is a student and a part-time waitress in a café. She lives here in Polis with her two cousins, Lincoln and Anya. She was nominated by Anya. Oh, God. I’m quoting verbatim: ‘Lexa is a baby gay who has a hard time getting out of her shell.’”

“Aw,” go the guys around, and Bobby’s hand comes resting on his heart.

“She works all the time to forget her loneliness and doesn’t know how to enjoy herself. She needs someone to help her see that she doesn’t have to be afraid to let people in. At the end of the week, Anya is having a birthday party, and she hopes that her cousin will have a date. Well, Lexa, we’ll see what we can do about you, honey. Right, guys? Oh, and there is a pic. She’s cute! Look at that, Tan. What do you think?”

“There needs to be a moratorium on flannel, but she’s definitely cute.”

“Look at those curls! I can’t wait to get my hands on them and see how we can tame this.”

Clarke’s ears perk up at the words. The previous episodes focused on a middle-aged man in an on-and-off relationship with his shower, a grandmother obsessed with her collection of dolls, and a young lawyer who kept looking at her cleavage while she was filming. A cute, shy lesbian? Sounds like heaven compared to those.

Pretending to want to show the future viewers what the girl looks like, she zooms on the picture attached to the summary. Cute doesn’t begin to cover it, and the “Wow” that escapes her will have to be removed in post-prod. Along with the Fab Five’s snickers. Jonathan isn’t wrong; there’s a lot of hair. Chestnut curls cover most of the picture and part of the young woman’s face. It’s not enough to hide the bright green eyes shining behind thick-rimmed glasses, and Clarke wants nothing more than to lose herself in them. Her bone structure is amazing, all flats and angles, with a jawline crafted by the gods and plump lips frozen in a smirk.

Interesting, she thinks. The girl does look shy, but with a mischievous side floating under the surface and waiting to be released. Oh, Lexa. I can’t wait to meet you.

--

As far as first encounters go, it’s not bad. Lexa is as shy as her cousin described her but not hostile or defensive. The camera seems to make her uncomfortable, though, so Clarke does her best to stay in the background. By the end of the second day, the number of zooms on her face borders on ridiculous, and the camera operator knows that she won’t hear the end of it once the editors notice.

Lexa slowly relaxes. She smiles more and even seems to be having a good time — frequent blushes aside. Her eyes meet Clarke’s whenever the blonde is not hidden behind her equipment, and they are even greener in real life.

She lets Jonathan straighten and braid her hair behind her head to reveal her face. It makes her look like a medieval warrior, and the artist in Clarke itches to paint her. The makeup is more of a struggle, and they settle on eyeliner for now. You can lead a horse to water and all that.

On the second day, Lexa listens to Antoni with rapt attention when the chef teaches her some new dishes, only using ingredients that won’t make a hole in her wallet. They all eat together every night, the discussion full of laughers and jokes, and the girl comes more alive with each passing day.

She agrees to let Tan take her shopping and only perfunctorily complains when he stops her from buying her 100th flannel shirt. She hesitates to get out of the fitting room when he chooses some nicer slacks and fit tops to compliment her figure, and Clarke turns off the camera. They can always reshoot it later. She wants to girl to have space to shine without getting pressured. And if the sweet man notices it, he doesn’t comment on it.

Letting Bobby redecorate is the funniest part of the show. Even Lincoln and Anya get excited like little kids when the house turns into a warmer, more organized version of what it was. The cousins get their separate spaces showcasing what they like, but the living room mashes the three styles in an elegant blend instead of the chaos it used to be. And Lexa’s bedroom, with the bookshelves and desk on one side and the brand-new waterbed on the other, in earthy, greenly tones… Clarke could live in it.

Keep Reading

[meruz]

i was gonna draw tonight but i dropped my tablet pen and the barrel of the pen broke off and flew somewhere underneath (??) my bed (?) and now i cant find it so I’m just gonna answer asks before bed instead. just some art asks and more mentions of infinity train LOL

What program and brushes do you use when making your art?

@ravki hi! part of this is in my FAQ but i’ll say it again anyways LOL: I use photoshop CC and have used photoshop for pretty much....my whole art career. I’ve dabbled in clip and paint tool sai in the past but photoshop is my true wife, we eloped away from her awful father adobe many years ago and are very happy together. 

as for brushes... I should prob put this info in my FAQ too lol,... my default brush set is actually free to download here! Tho I will say I also use steve ahn’s storyboarding brush sometimes and lately i’ve been using shiyoon kim’s brushes A TON. Shiyoon’s cost a couple bucks but they’re super worth it imo

How do you choose colors?

This is kind of a difficult one to describe from scratch but hmm.... I’ll put it this way. Generally when I go into coloring or painting something I already have some colors in mind. Like for a certain piece I know I want a bright green, or a magenta, or a dark blue in certain areas. A lot of the time I know a mood I want. So I’ll start with that core color tone and build around it. I’ll use an example from a recent piece

So you can see here that the first color I accessed was that bright cyan. So I start with that bright cyan and then bring in its “friends” in the form of analogous colors (shown below on the far left)

greens greys etc. THEN I know I want the characters to stand out against all the blue so I start laying down warm contrasting colors for them (middle group). the mat under them is orange, skin tones are warm, ryans flannel is red etc. then to get them to work together I work more cool colors into the shadows and slightly warmer (not too warm because its a cool img overall so in this case, greener LOL) colors into highlights. 

hope that makes sense? for me choosing colors is a lot about story and composition. If you know what you want to say, the mood you want to create, where you want to go, the path to get there becomes a lot clearer imo.

Have you ever considered making an art book?

I have! But I don’t think I currently have enough...original illustrations for one LOL? Not that an art book has to be all original work but if I were putting fanart in an art book...at that point I’d just make a fanzine. I’m making more original work lately though so maybe this year....? Who knows. For now, I do have a sketchbook up on gumroad. Hoping to do one of those next year too.

Any tips for keeping background drawings from getting super stiff, especially since things like interiors have a lot of straight lines?

This is a really interesting ask. Really great question that I don’t think gets asked enough - forgive me if I get a bit art school here but I drew up some examples.

First I think we have to investigate the assumption that straight lines make things stiff. That seems true on an instinctual level and certainly proves to be true very often But I don’t think its actually the straight lines themselves but the sort of arrangements and compositions they tend to dictate. Take this for instance.

pretty big difference, right? there’s a couple things that make a composition feel stiff and one of the most significant is lines that are perpendicular and parallel to the frame. it feels locked in and solid, like bricks. but the moment you shift these angles even a little the composition instantly becomes more dynamic because our innate senses of weight, gravity, and directionality can sense movement.

But it’s not just diagonals let’s take this one step further

when lines meet and terminate together those tangents can flatten and lock space so the best way to solve this is with overlap and complete intersection, forms continuing past or behind each other feel more layered and less like a flat mosaic... again, even in the simplest line drawings. So how do we apply this to a background?

ok I drew this really fast so its potentially not the best example but I think the idea is there. This space isn’t even particularly deep, it’s basically a room, a doorway, and a hallway behind it, and we’re not seeing that much of any of those things LOL. but when you draw an environmental object like a doorway in a way that lines up with the perpendicular and parallel lines of the canvas you’re automatically flattening it and making it look rigid.

and when you create tangents with objects and characters you flatten the space around them and make it difficult to tell what is actually in front or behind or if they’re on the same plane.

GOD I HOPE THIS MAKES SENSE. Anyways. avoid those things and you’ll instantly have less stiff bgs no matter what kind of bg you’re depicting.

I wanna mention however that this isn’t to say a stiff bg with flat space doesn’t have its purposes.

sometimes you want to create parallels and tangents. it can make characters feel closed in, trapped, regimented, part of a routine, etc. it’s also great for making a composition look ornamental (especially combined with symmetry).

directors like wes anderson can even use these compositional elements to make images feel uncanny or harrowing! its very versatile. I think the important thing is to just be aware of when you are making something rigid and when that’s the last thing you want to do. conscious choices.

Can you speak Tagalog?

@lemuelzero101​ I can! BUT NOT VERY WELL LOL ;;; both my parents are from Visayas! but they met and had me in the states lol so I’m pretty American born and raised. We go back to visit family on occasion but not regularly. My tagalog is mostly absorbed from listening to relatives at parties lol and my parents speak bisaya at home so I’m marginally better at that. Sorry to any filipinos out there hoping I’d be better educated, I’m like a little baby...

I do love meeting and talking to other filipinos online though, I grew up in an area that was relatively diverse but the asian population was small and the filipino population basically non-existent. I was like one of maybe 2 filipino kids in my highschool of 2000.

Apart from infinity train what shows are you watching now? Have you seen jujitsu kaisen?

Man this is gonna sound so boring but I haven’t watched a lot of tv lately.  It’s not really part of my daily routine. Let’s see... I was sort of watching Amphibia, Craig of the Creek, and the new Digimon Adventure 2020 but I keep falling off watching those for one reason or another. Also there’s a lot of episodes, it doesn’t feel like something I can just binge and be done with.

The last thing I binged was Succession. I want that show and Euphoria back so bad, when I’m done forcing all my friends to watch Infinity Train im cancelling my HBO subscription until Succession and Euphoria return so they know exactly what I’m on their list for LOL. 

I have not watched jujitsu kaisen but I’ve kept up with some of the sakuga news (I keep up with anime industry news and production info like x5 the amt i keep up with actual anime) for it and their compositing/editing looks dope. I’ve read the manga actually LOL or at least part of the beginning. I wasn’t super keen on the whole finger eating thing. Also to be honest I kinda feel like its the new Bleach and I never particularly cared about Bleach. Characters look nice enough tho. I wholeheartedly support jjk fans.

Thank you! Thank you @keznodzieja​! <3

And thank you anons who don’t watch infinity train LOL...it’s always nice to hear when people enjoy my fanart despite not knowing the source material because it lifts a little bit of the “oh god am I being annoying???” fear off my chest. But also I think you should watch infinity train because it’s really good I have no reservations recommending it.

[1engele]

daybreak | sal fisher x fem!reader - 2. math

Previous | Next

[warnings: cursing, mention of smoking, mention of household abuse of a teenager]

"what a plot twist you were."

—

The next day, you'd wakened with dry lungs and an even drier mouth.

It was true that smoking was bad for you—but it hadn't been as horrible as you'd thought. You'd try it again, but you couldn't see yourself becoming addicted.

Your mother wasn't home, again. You were quick to understand that she worked longer shifts now and you wouldn't see her a whole lot.

Not like you cared. Michelle never really liked you all that well. You'd probably have been dumped on the street a long time ago had your father not legally obligated to pay child support.

You'd never known him. You weren't sure if you wanted to.

She doesn't use child support for your well-being. Probably uses it to continuously feed her crippling gambling addiction and buy more pointless flowers for the apartment.

You were nervous about today. You'd never been the new girl before—and you didn't know what to expect about these kids. You doubted they were as cool as people as Larry and Sal.

You showered and put on your boyfriend jeans—which had holes in the knees, but you couldn't bother to concern yourself whether or not that conflicted with the dress code or not— and your light grey hoodie. You added a flannel on top of that which was a little too big for you. Don't forget the white sneakers which you should probably replace.

You pocketed your flip phone and slung your bag over your shoulder. Stopping in front of the mirror, you passed a hand through your hair, decided it was adequate, and walked into the kitchen. You grabbed an apple—you never really found yourself hungry in the mornings. Besides, it wasn't like your mother was around to make sure you were fed—and left the apartment.

You locked the door behind you and shoved the keys into the front pocket of your bag afterward.

You met with Sal and Larry at the foot of the front steps of the apartments, like you'd agreed the day prior. You couldn't help but feel a little nervous as you opened the door and walked down the three stairs.

"Hey!" Larry greets you first.

"Hey, Larry," you smile weakly, as you're not fully awake yet, but it still means as much as a smile you'd give him when you were awake. You turn your eyes to Sal, waving shortly. You were momentarily startled when you realized he'd already been looking at you. "Hi, Sal."

"Hey," he says your name pleasantly. "How are you feeling?"

It was sweet that he was concerned about your well-being. "Alright. My lungs hurt."

He hooked a thumb around the strap of his bag and slid it up and down. His hands were pale and veiny. His nails were painted black and the polish was chipped in a few places. "Yeah. You did a shit-ton of coughing."

You open your mouth to reply, but before you can he meets your eyes. His head is inclined slightly downward, tilted a bit. He peers at you through the shadows of the mask. Lash-fringed, blue angel eyes bore through yours.

His eyes are opalescent. It's almost as if every time you look at them they were a different shade of blue.

You're sure your gazes hadn't connected for more than 3 seconds but the feeling that spawns inside of you from that short contact is slightly jarring. You don't necessarily comprehend what is stirring in your gut and you don't have time to because Larry's speaking breaks through your reverie.

He begins to talk about the chaos the first day of school would be. You quickly forget what had happened before.

But nothing had happened. It was nothing.

When you'd arrived at school after a little bit of walking, you, Larry, and Sal received your schedules together.

"Fuck me," you murmur, mostly to yourself, as you look down at your paper. "Math is first. This always happens to me."

Larry laughs loudly. "Yeah. That does suck. Mrs. Packerton looks like a walking corpse."

Sal jerks his head upward from his schedule. "That's fucked, Larry. She's an old lady."

"I don't care. Pretty sure she's secretly evil anyway."

Sal looks as though he's done reasoning with how harshly true Larry is most of the time. He shakes his head and looks back at you. "Well, if it's any consolation—I've also got math first. So, you know. We could go together," he pauses. "If you want."

You grin. "Yeah. Sure. At least I'll know someone there."

Larry flicks his eyes between the both of you before stopping them on Sal. "Hopefully you won't have Travis again," His eyebrows twitch. "He always has math first."

"Travis?" You echo curiously.

The two boys exchange a glance.

"Just a guy we know who-" Sal starts, hurrying to finish the sentence.

He was rushing so Larry wouldn't cut in and say something but it happened before he even had a chance. "He's a little fucker we know who gives Sal shit. 24/7. He makes my blood boil."

You furrow your eyebrows. "What- why? What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing," Sal replies. "Pretty sure he's really troubled. Not unlike the rest of us."

"Doesn't mean he should take it out on other people." Larry scoffs. "I know it bothers you, dude."

Sal doesn't reply—seems as though he's growing uncomfortable speaking about all of it.

"Hey, guys!"

A voice calls, having grown closer halfway through her sentence. You all turn towards it. A girl, leggy and taller than both you and Sal, with long locks and eyes greener than a spring clover. There was something homey in the way her chocolate brown hair brought warmth to her features.

A boy is beside her, with ginger hair with eyes a deep shade of the richest earth. His skin is pale and freckled. He carries himself with an air of bluntness and just a little bit awkwardly—his facial expression is very blank, you note.

"Hey, Ash. Shocked you aren't late," Larry grins.

"Ash" rolls her eyes at him and mirrors his expression. "You know Todd would never let that happen."

"No, I wouldn't." Todd deadpans.

Ash turns toward you after laughing enough to flash the white gleam of her teeth and a slight dimple in her cheek. "Hey!" She then says your name prettily and juts out her hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Ashley."

You don't ask her how she knows your name. Instead, you sincerely smile, take her hand and shake it. "Nice to meet you," you return, and then turn toward Todd. "You, too."

Todd is already an interesting character. He doesn't smile but his expression is cordial. "Welcome to Nockfell."

Your smile widens.

"Have you guys gotten your schedules yet?" Sal speaks up after having been quiet for a moment. He must've been reading over his schedule to himself.

"Oh! Yeah," Ashley opened her other hand, the one she hadn't shaken your hand with, and unfolded a now very crumpled piece of paper. She passed summer green over the list. "I've got biology."

Todd didn't even look at his list. "I have history."

Sal looks at you. His gaze easily levels with yours. "Looks like it's just me and you then."

Your face feels hot. "Haha," you suddenly feel nervous. "You're right. Sit beside me, okay?"

His eyebrows jump—that much you can tell by the way his eyes move. Tucking a strand of loose blue hair behind his ear, he replies: "Will do."

His ears are double pierced.

The bell's shrill ringing floods the halls. You wince, and you and Sal's eye contact is broken. Before that happens, though, you see Larry grinning to himself.

Weirdo, you think lightheartedly.

Everyone parts after that. Larry and Ash walk away together. They must both have biology, you thought. Todd leaves by himself to his respective class and you and Sal head towards math.

For a moment, the silence is unbearable. You've never been alone with a boy. Well, you weren't alone, just not in a group with other people. The noiselessness begins to bother you so you fleetingly think of something to say and blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

"The piercings," you say suddenly.

He turns his head toward you. You look up to him before looking straight. "What?"

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god, you thought. All I do is make a mockery of myself.

"I like them!" you add, hurriedly. "They're pierced twice. That's really cool. Looks good on you."

He laughs shyly. "Thanks. I like your shoes."

"My shoes?" You look down and laugh. They were so worn. "Why?" You continue to giggle. "They're falling apart at the seams, haha."

"That's the best kind of shoe," he retorts. He jerks his chin towards his sneakers, a muted shade of cornflower blue. "Look at mine. They barely fit and they're- like, super constricting. Also super ratty—but I can't seem to get rid of them."

You laugh with him. "They look better than mine, at least."

You're glad the ice was broken so fast. You liked him.

The class was boring and uninteresting as any math class would be. You do work. You glance over at Sal a few times throughout the class—not to cheat, just to see how he was fairing—and he was writing answers down with a quick response time and humble confidence within the drawl of his handwriting.

Alright, so he was smart. Not much of a surprise there. You could tell just how perceptive of a boy he was.

You stared hopelessly at an answer on your sheet you'd yet to fill out and twirled the pencil around in your fingers.

Suddenly, a pale hand with black nails has nimbly reached over and hastily circled what you assume was the correct answer to the question with his pencil. You look up to Sal in surprise and appreciation, who's already back in his seat as if nothing had happened.

You giggle before you can stop yourself when he raises a hand and raises a finger in front of the prosthetic's mouth, to tell you "shh."

Mrs. Packerton slowly pivots away from the chalkboard and passes her eyes over the class. You and Sal quickly break eye contact and look down on your papers. Sal's shoulders shake in your peripheral vision and you press your knuckles to your lips and force a bored expression on your paper.

Before the bell rang, you noticed a blond boy with tan skin and caramel eyes in front of you and Sal, occasionally shooting your friend bitter looks. It left a sour taste in your mouth, but you didn't mention it.

You find Ash and Larry before your next class. You think you've burst a blood vessel from how hard you'd laughed when you left the classroom.

"I thought I'd cracked a rib," Sal states over your laughter. as you walked up to Larry and Ashley.

Larry and Ashley exchange a look. Larry is the first to state the obvious. "What the hell happened to you two?"

You and Sal look toward each other and make eye contact. That's the last straw. You cover your mouth and try and hold it in.

"I-" Sal inhales. "It doesn't matter," he breathes out, an amused lilt in his tone. "How was class?"

"Bad," Larry and Ashley reply, in synchronization.

"Really?" You ask, surprised. "Biology can be fun."

"This biology isn't," Ashley sighs. "Not when you're just staring at cells and organisms for 20 minutes and then being expected to do work on it and understand what's happening."

"Well, math wasn't any better," you reply. "If it's any consolation—I don't think I got any answers right except for the one Sal did for me."

"I thought math was fine," Sal chimes in.

"That's because you're fucking Albert Einstein reincarnate," Larry squints. "Please have mercy on our mortal souls, Math God."

"Oh my god," Sal looks down. "Please don't make this into another nickname."

"I like it!" Ashley grins.

You know they're teasing but you can't find it in you to join in after he helped you out in class. Instead, you resign into silence and watch as countless students filter through the halls, bumping into each other as they pass and chatting with their peers.

Through the crowd, at the far end of the hall, you see him. The blond boy who'd been eying Sal in class. He was looking at him in the same way he had been then, with threat and resent shadowing his polished amber eyes.

It looks as if he's readying himself to approach.

You glance toward Larry, Sal, and Ashley. They seem occupied well enough, so you slip into the crowd and head towards who you've now pieced together to be: "Travis," you state, as you stand in front of him. "That's you, right?"

He regards you with distaste. "Do I know you?"

You suck your teeth. "No," you tell him your name. "I came to ask you something."

Despite himself and his embitterment, his eyes shine with hesitant curiosity. You take that as your answer. In spite of his stance over you and his general advantage of being bigger, you hold his gaze with blunt intent.

"What were you planning on doing when you walked over?"

"Why do you fucking care what I do?"

You shrug. "I don't know, Travis. I just think you need to learn how to pick your battles."

"Pick my fucking battles.. you know what? I think I will go over there-"

As he takes a step forward, you raise your hand and your palm roughly hits his chest, stopping him in his tracks—not because of strength (he's at an advantage, and he could easily walk right through) but because of the views he had, or rather—the views pushed upon him.

You saw the golden cross swinging off of his neck as soon as you approached. You'd also seen the gnarly black eye he wore on his face.

It was safe to assume he was being beaten at home and by a parent. And, most of the time.. when an adult is religious they will use several methods to further push it upon their child. Like sinner's guilt. And abuse.

If Travis' extremely religious guardian were to ever find out he'd harmed a girl, especially under the eyes of many others—it wouldn't turn out very well for him.

Yes, maybe you were being manipulative. But you were being manipulative for the good of both Sal and Travis.

"Step down," you advised. "This won't go very well."

You steadily meet his eyes. The stare between the two of you lasts for an even amount of time. Finally, he breaks that contact, jerks away with you, huffs, and walks his way around you and down the hall.

After that, you returned with the excuse of exchanging books from your locker, after Larry had asked you where you had wandered off to. No one seemed to have noticed Travis standing ominously at the end of the hall or your altercation with him.

At the end of school, you were beat. You said goodbye to both Ashley and Todd. Afterward, you, Larry, and Sal head for Addison's Apartments.

"You know, we don't have to go home yet," you say.

The boys turn to you curiously, as you kick a pebble as you walk along the side of the road. The beginnings of the sunset blossom in the sky—orange and fruity like tangerine jelly and amaranth pink like homemade strawberry frosting. like home. It fills you up inside and makes you feel so sweet.

"You guys wanna see a movie?"

Larry grins. "We don't have money."

"Who says we need money?"

When you'd arrived at the movie theater, all three of you had circled to the side exit. After a few moments of waiting suspiciously, an older couple exited through the doors. Larry caught the handle before it closed, and you brushed past them and quickly entered the theater. Before the doors closed, you heard them mumbling about "pesky children," or something.

Once you'd gotten in, you scanned each screening room and what movie the doors said it was playing.

You and Sal decided on a scary movie. Larry was not amused. Whatsoever. Apparently, horror is not his thing.

Before you entered, you frowned.

"We have no popcorn.."

In moments, Larry was reaching into a nearby trash can and pulling out an empty bucket that improbably had popcorn inside of it at some point in time. He then walked away, holding this empty popcorn bucket. It was so bizarre and you would have laughed had not been extremely confused.

"What.." Sal murmured, looking to you. "You think he'll come back?"

"I don't know where he would even be coming back from," You admitted.

It wasn't very long until he'd returned, with the empty bucket he'd taken from the trash now full of popcorn.

"Mandatory free refills," He said to your baffled face, pointing toward the poster on the wall above the trash can which read exactly what he'd just said. "You can never forget the hustle, kids."

"Oh my god," Sal mumbled and you barely heard him beneath Larry's laughter.

The movie was horribly made, and it still somehow scared the shit out of Larry. It may as well have been a comedy with how hard you'd laughed. Multiple other people in the theater had told you to shut Larry up but that was impossible when he was screaming every time a shadow would come on screen or the scene would change.

You, being between Larry and Sal, originally thought you'd had the best seat. You were wrong. Not only was Larry cowering into you and screaming directly in your ear, but Sal had simultaneously begun to throw popcorn at Larry's face to shut him up. That only resulted in popcorn. All over.

Needless to say, you left before the movie ended because of the fear of being escorted out by the employees.

"I'm never seeing a movie with you again," Sal squinted towards Larry. The three of you were now on the way back to the apartments. The night was thick and pearly moonlight bounced off old the white of his prosthetic face. "I think my eardrums are bleeding."

"It's the horror movies! This isn't my fault. Both of you ganged up on me and chose it."

You giggled to yourself.

Sal, beside you, suddenly stopped. "Wait, Y/N."

You stopped, and Larry halted a few feet away, as he'd been walking a bit ahead. Sal leaned forward and reached toward your face. Your body felt as though it had been zapped and you stood still.

He reached into your hair and pulled out a piece of popcorn.

"Huh." You said, dumbly. "How'd that get there?"

Larry's approaching footsteps were fast and leggy. He reached into Sal's hand, plucked the piece of popcorn between his fingers and fucking ate it.

"Jesus Christ, I can't do this anymore," Sal shook his head.

"What? It looked okay."

Recovering quickly from whatever had happened to you, you laughed.

You also inwardly denied what your body was feeling because you knew it was much too soon.

[mrswhozeewhatsis]

Perfect

A/N: I actually wrote something!! Hallelujah!! Special thanks to @negans-lucille-library for beta reading and putting up with all of my questions!!

Summary: Life with Dean is perfect.

Pairing: Dean x reader (I believe this reader is pretty gender neutral, so I hope some guys out there get to read this and enjoy it, too!)

Warnings: None, really. Mostly fluff. Bit of angst.

Word count: 3497 words

Prompt: For the @spnfanficpond's S14 Weekly Episode Challenge, week 19. I used one prompt. It will be bolded. Not listing it here because spoilers.

Two machetes swung in unison, lopping off two vampire heads and leaving you looking at the proud face of your husband as the bodies fell between you. A beam of sunlight burst through a broken board in the roof of the barn and lit up dust motes in the air around Dean’s head, making him look positively resplendent. You grinned at each other before each of you motioned over the other’s shoulder, and then both spun away, taking down two more vampires with almost synchronized movements. It was always like a dance, fighting with Dean. The two of you had fought together for so long now, you were one unit, just taking down monster after monster in fights that almost looked choreographed.

When the last vampire head hit the ground with a satisfying thump and the corresponding body slumped after it, you both heaved a satisfied sigh and smiled at each other. With a quiet nod, you separated, making sure the barn was completely clear of monsters, inside and out, then met again in the middle with a quick, chaste, kiss.

“I’d do better, but you have a little something right… about...” –you gestured at his cheek, then really all over his face– “well, everywhere, really,” you said with a grimace. “Don’t feel like turning into a vampire just because I wanted to kiss my husband.”

Dean pretended to try and kiss you messily, laughing when you pushed him away. “You mean, it’s not worth two days of puking your guts up with the vampire cure to give your hot-as-hell husband a proper kiss?” Letting you go, he wiped his machete off on the shirt of one of the headless bodies and then headed toward the water pump just outside the barn doors. “I must be losing my touch!” he joked as he began pumping to fill the trough below the faucet.

You joined him in cleaning both your weapons and yourselves, enjoying the clear spring air and bright sunshine warming your back, and soon you were able to safely risk showing your affection. As did every other part of you, your lips fit together perfectly. Dean kissed you so well, you wondered how you ever thought anyone else was any good at it. He took over all your senses, making little happy noises when your tongue slid against his, surrounding you with his arms, filling your nose with the scent of his aftershave and sweat, and leaving the taste of the pie he’d had with breakfast in your mouth. You finally came up for air, still trading little nibbly kisses until you both accepted that the hunt wasn’t done, yet, and you needed to finish it. You stayed in his arms an extra moment, foreheads touching, both reaffirming that you were still here - still alive - and uninjured after the fight.

“Love you,” you whispered, looking through your lashes at the bright green of Dean’s eyes. They always seemed greener in the spring, somehow.

“Ditto,” he whispered back, before landing one last peck on your lips and smacking your ass playfully.

“You’re lucky I love you, or I would have told Sam how you watched that movie, and enjoyed it, a long time ago!” you teased as the two of you split up to head to Baby’s trunk and get cleaning supplies.

Walking ahead of you with those long legs, Dean turned around, walking backward for a step, and gasped loudly. “You wouldn’t!” he cried with eyes wide and his mouth turned into a pout, clearly knowing that you really wouldn’t, but playing your game, anyway.

“That’s right, I wouldn’t because I love you. Now, aren’t you lucky?” you scolded while still grinning.

He stopped you, cupping your face in his hands and kissing you, yet again. “Luckiest man in the world,” he echoed, before turning away and unlocking the trunk.

While Dean was digging through the trunk to find a matchbook to go with the can of gas you were holding, you saw something move out of the corner of your eye. Years of hunter awareness sent the hair on the back of your neck standing up while you searched the nearby tree line for another sign of movement. The barn was in the back forty of a farm abandoned at least a decade earlier, so wildlife of all kinds had taken over. The tree line was nothing more than just that: a line of trees that marked the edge of the farm. Over the years, bushes and smaller trees had filled in the gaps between the larger trees, making it a more formidable barrier. Where you guessed you might have been able to see through it years ago, now, it was overgrown and impenetrable. Except for the driveway the vampires had tamed, the grass in the surrounding fields was all knee-high and waving in the breeze. Figuring it was either one of the taller weeds in the grass or an animal, you convinced yourself to let it go as Dean slammed Baby’s trunk lid shut.

The barn had plenty of hay for kindling, but much of it had gotten wet from the holes in the roof. Dean was hauling bales and generally kicking up dust when you inhaled a bit and started sneezing uncontrollably.

“Head outside, honey, and I’ll finish up here,” Dean urged while you continued sniffling and sneezing. “Go use up some of those tissues you keep stashing in my car when you think I’m not looking!”

Not able to speak, you just nodded and headed back out into the sunshine, which started another round of sneezes. You were blowing your nose when you saw another bit of movement by the tree line. Keeping your eyes trained on the grass and bushes that had moved, you finished with the tissues and grabbed your gun from the holster on the back of your belt.

Gun trained in front of you, safety off, you slinked towards the tree line, keeping your eyes moving left to right, looking for another anomaly in the swaying of the grass and weeds. When you reached where you’d seen the movement, there were signs that someone had been standing there all around. Trampled grass, broken branches in the trees and bushes, and then footprints in the mud drew you further into the miniature jungle. You were almost out and on the other side when you were grabbed from behind, a hand put over your mouth to dampen your screams.

Whoever it was pulled you backward, knocking you off your feet so you stumbled. The body behind you spun you and pushed you up against a tree, knocking the gun from your hand in the process. You tried to shove an elbow back into their ribs, but it was caught, and you were pinned. Your mind swirled, going through the intel you’d gathered with Dean before the hunt. Both of you had been sure of the headcount, but obviously, you were wrong. One of them must have been away for a few days, but now they were home and pissed.

“Calm down, kiddo, I’m not a monster,” said a very familiar voice as you were pulled away from the tree, but still held tightly. “Just take a breath and relax and we can talk.”

A deep breath, a subtle shift in your body, and the picture in your mind became something almost like your husband, but not. Your muscles relaxed, trusting Dean no matter what was happening, even though your mind still whirled. Through the leaves of the trees and bushes, you saw your husband walk out of the barn, looking for something. Maybe looking for you.

“Of all the things I thought I might see when I walked into your dream, I really didn’t expect to see me.” The arms around you loosened and you whipped around to see a carbon copy of your husband standing there.

Well, almost a carbon copy. Different flannel. Different jeans. Fewer laugh lines around the mouth. Less unadulterated love and affection in the eyes.

“Dream?” you asked stupidly, looking back at your husband as he began searching for you around the barn. You didn’t want to believe it, but as you watched your husband in the distance, you saw the differences, the unreality. That didn’t stop your heart and mind from clinging to him, wanting nothing more than to go back to him.

The Dean next to you sighed. “Yeah, kiddo. I’m sorry, but it’s a dream. You got nabbed by a djinn. Sam’s off getting ingredients for the antidote, but I couldn’t just sit by and watch you dying, so I took some dream root.”

Your husband looked absolutely panicked as he ran towards another part of the tree line, searching for you. The sight pulled at your heart. How he missed your trail through the tall grass was a mystery. You’d have to tease him on his lack of tracking skills later when you got home, after the panic was over.

“I need to go let him know that I’m okay,” you whimpered, taking a step towards where your husband was beating back bushes looking for evidence of you.

Dean gently grabbed your elbow and stopped you. “No, kiddo, you really don’t. He’s not real.” With some effort, he turned you around so you were looking at him, this man who was so close, but not quite your husband. “I’m real, you’re real, and the crappy motel we’re asleep in out there in the real world, that’s real. But this is all crap. You can walk away from it all and come back to what’s real.”

Silent tears dripped down your cheeks. Your mind fought against it, but once the magic trick was revealed, you couldn’t go back to believing. Memories of working beside Dean for years, loving him quietly while he fought and died and came back and fought and died again… they rushed back in and overwhelmed you. Memories of a quiet confession of love, a small wedding, and a shared bed quickly took on the sepia tones of a fading dream. A sob ripped from your throat, and you covered your mouth with your hand to muffle it.

“So,” you croaked, sniffling through the tears, “everything… with him,” you nodded at your husband, still literally beating the bushes to find you, “all the…,” a sob stopped you until you could swallow it down, “all the everything with him, it was all a dream?” Turning back to the Dean in front of you, your heart ripped in two. “Just a stupid fucking dream?” His face twisted as he looked down to avoid your eyes, but he still nodded. “And now you’re telling me that I have to leave?” He nodded again, his eyes still on the ground instead of on you.

Your husband was getting closer. He’d see you in a minute. He’d hold you, and comfort you, and love you the way this Dean never would. You could go home with him, go back to the Bunker, where Sam and Eileen were teaching hunter classes to Jody’s girls and a few other new recruits. Jack and Cas were fixing Heaven but always visited for Sunday dinner. Eileen was pregnant, and you were going to be a godparent, and Dean had already built the crib and bought the biggest stuffed unicorn you’d ever seen. You could go home with him and live an entire lifetime with him and your family until the djinn poison took you.

“No,” you declared. “I don’t have to leave. It’s my choice. I can stay if I want. Even if I know it’s a dream, I can stay here.” Looking at the real man your husband was based on, you shook your head and stepped away from him. “Maybe it’s just a dream, but it’s my dream, and I’m staying.”

Your husband crashed through the bushes and finally caught sight of you, with another Dean holding your elbow in one hand. His gun came up, the safety clicked off, and you stepped in front of the real Dean. The move stopped him from firing but didn’t quell his confusion.

“What’s going on, babe? You know that’s not me, right?”

You nodded, tears still streaming down your face. “I know, but don’t shoot. Please don’t hurt him,” you begged. “Just trust me, okay?”

Pushing Dean’s hand from your arm, you walked toward your husband, arms outstretched. He pulled you close and hugged you tightly, gun still pointed somewhat at the other Dean, murmuring about how worried he’d been when he couldn’t find you.

“Who is this guy, anyway? What’s going on?” he asked you, talking into your hair as he held your head against his shoulder with one hand and continued watching his prey suspiciously.

You’d never felt as safe and loved as you did in Dean’s arms. It didn’t matter where in the world you were, or what was happening around you, in Dean’s embrace was your happy place. You’d do anything to stay there. Even die.

“Nothing you need to worry about, honey,” you reassured him, pulling away so you could look him in the eye. “He’s leaving and I’m staying with you. Till death parts us, and then beyond, like I promised.” Cupping his head with your hands, you kissed him, promising to uphold your vows with every fiber of your being.

“Even if it’s only a dream?” your husband asked, his eyes closed as he touched his forehead to yours.

The surprise that he would acknowledge it rocked you, but your decision stayed the same. Nodding, you glanced back at the other Dean – the real Dean – meaning to say goodbye. What you saw there made you pause: pain reflected in glassy eyes.

“It doesn’t have to be a dream,” he said, almost too quietly for you to hear.

You and your husband froze. “What did you say?” you replied, feeling your thoughts move too slowly to fully understand everything that was happening.

“I said,” Dean answered, taking a deep breath, “It doesn’t have to be a dream.”

Your husband felt you pulling away and tightened his hold on you, tugging your chin so you were looking him in the eye. “I love you, honey, and I love our life and we’re gonna live whatever the badass version of ‘happily ever after’ is, remember?” Tears blurred your view of your husband, but you could see the future with him so clearly. “Sammy and Eileen are gonna have their baby, and we’re gonna have the cutest damn niece or nephew ever, and Claire and Kaia are gonna get married, and we’re gonna do the robot at the reception and embarrass the crap outta them, and we’re gonna keep killing monsters until my knees get creaky and your back gives out, and then we’re gonna retire and help Garth with his monster rehab and teach hunter classes in the bunker, right? Maybe get a little house nearby with a porch we can sit on in the evenings and watch the sunset from our rocking chairs. That’s the plan, right?”

Foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, you both sniffled and nodded in agreement.

“Look, I can’t give you a niece or nephew, or a fancy wedding for the girls, or monster rehab and hunter classes,” Dean said from behind you, “but I can give you nights on Baby’s hood watching the stars, and bad jokes while I stitch you up, and the best bottom-shelf bourbon with a side of diner food after a bad hunt.”

Pulling away from your husband a little, you turned your head to hear Dean’s words.

“I can’t promise we’ll get a little house with a porch and a pair of rocking chairs, but I’ll chase the sunset with you in Baby any night you want. Or, if you want to stay in, we can cuddle on my memory foam and watch movies.”

The arms around you loosened, allowing you to turn around, and you could finally see the emotion in Dean’s eyes.

“I’ve wanted to be with you for so long, I can’t even tell you when it started. All I know is that I’ve always thought you deserved the best, and that’s not me.” He waved at your husband, who had let go of all of you except your hand. “He’s better than me, this world is better than me, and if he were real, if this were real, I’d let you go off and live this life without a single regret.” He shook his head, heaved a deep breath, and shrugged. “But it isn’t real – he isn’t real – and you’re not going to live happily ever after, you’re going to die, and I can’t do it. I can’t let you die if there’s anything I can do to stop it. So, this is me, asking for what I want: a future with you. A future where nothing is certain except that I’ll always do whatever I can to make you happy.”

The last link to the dream faded as you dropped your dream husband’s hand and stepped towards Dean. The world around you changed somehow, the colors turning once again to the sepia tones of the dream that it was.

“I always thought you didn’t think of me that way,” you said, your voice trembling with nerves.

“I’ve always thought of you that way,” Dean replied. “But you were so out of my league, I didn’t think you’d ever think of me like that!”

Staring into each other’s eyes, you both chuckled and then reached out towards each other, clasping your hands and moving closer together. Dean had the beginnings of a goofy smile, and you felt it matched on your own face.

“You really mean it? You really want to be with me?” you asked, needing to hear it just one more time.

“How about you shake off this dream and I show you for real?” Dean suggested, bending over, pulling your trusty knife from your boot, and handing it to you.

Holding the knife in your hand, you felt the rightness of it click into place. Dean had given you this knife shortly after you’d met. He’d picked it out with everything about you in mind. It had engravings on the blade and handle that you thought were beautiful, and the handle was a perfect size and shape for your hand. Looking at it, you marveled at how it was so perfectly you, perfectly Dean, and just all-around perfect. Dean had always loved you, and everything about the knife proved it.

“What do I need to do?”

Dean gestured towards his double standing opposite you.

The other Dean – your dream husband – began backing away. “Honey, no! It’s me! We can fix this! It will feel like a lifetime, but you’ll be safe here! No monsters can kill you here! Eileen’s gonna have a girl and that little warrior princess is gonna wrap me and Sammy around her little finger! There are gonna be tea parties! Don’t you want to see all of that?”

In his rambling, he slowed just enough that you were able to catch up to him and slam the knife into his gut. He doubled over, falling to the ground in a heap. As he bled out, still babbling about how life would have been perfect with him, the dream faded to black.

You woke with a gasp, Dean waking in a similar manner at the same time next to you. You both sat up, looking around the room and patting yourselves down. When your breathing settled, all the aches and pains from being strung up by the djinn slammed into you and you groaned.

“Oh, God, that hurts,” you complained, holding your neck where the thick gauze bandage was covering your wound. Looking down at yourself, you saw the dirty clothes and felt the skunky funk that came from being held captive in a dank basement for most of a day.

Gesturing to yourself in all your post-captivity glory, you commented to Dean, “Are you sure you still want to be with me? I mean, I’m not much of a prize.” Although you were supposedly joking, deep down you were giving Dean an out. Just in case he’d only said what he’d said to save your life, and not because he’d meant it.

Dean shifted on the bed until he was sitting right next to you and then carefully cupped your head with his hands so you could only see him.

“I will always want to be with you,” he said, solemnly looking into your eyes so you would see the truth of his words. “You are the best prize. Better than the prize in any cereal box.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t as flawlessly perfect as the kisses you had in your dream – your teeth clashed a little in the beginning, and Dean tasted a little like the chili lime beef jerky you didn’t like – but it was perfect for you.

[the-night-moves-writing]

Good For You

Dean Winchester X Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Takes place right after Swan song, Dean leaves the reader for Lisa and the apple pie life, after Sam's death

Warnings: General angst and sadness

Characters: Past Dean x Reader, (Platonic) Sam x Reader, Lisa (mentioned), Ben (mentioned)

Word count: 881

A/N: This is my first time writing anything for this so feedback is very appreciated

A/N 2: If you wanna part two let me know, i kinda tried to leave the ending open in case i wanted to come back but for now its a one shot.

Dean left me, I didn't leave him. All of this for her where the grass on the other side wasn't all that greener. I know what he just went through losing Sam but he forgets that I lost my best friend. All I ever wanted was stolen from me, by death, by her, so I guess he got what he always wanted.  Good for him. I'm so sorry that I could never be enough for him, how could Lisa, was it because of her son, Ben. Does he even remember me in his new life? I don't think so, but I hope it is everything he ever wanted. Dean’s life was agonizing where leaving me was better than staying. After working through the death of my bestfriend i had to work through this.

The stages of grief are a weird way to put it because Dean's not dead. That's what it was though, first denial. Those first couple of days were rough, not feeling anything. I thought I would wake up and he would still be there, him and my best friend. They didn't weren’t and when I would get up it would all hit me again. Like a train flying off the track and I was the conductor. Then the pain came next and it hurt. The man that told me we would get married someday, that told me he loved me left. I had no one to turn to so looking at pictures was the way that I coped with losing both of them. I couldn't figure out how to make the pain go away so I drank and drowned my sorrows.

The only thing at the bottom of that bottle was anger. I thought about going and finding him all the time. I thought that maybe i could fix it, whatever was wrong i could fix it but he was the one who wouldn't let me. I could knock on his door and drag him away from there, I could fix it if he gave me a chance. He didn't, but did it cross his mind to be even slightly sorry. Does he even care that he might be wrong? That we could work it out, but maybe if I shut my mouth and watched him leave and let him go would that be good for him? Did he have a blast dragging me along, crushing me and leaving me here. Was it all a game to him, my feelings, our relationship.

Then the depression kicked in. I wished during that time I had brushed my teeth more. Got out of bed and ate, was i really so dependent on him. This was sad. Maybe it was due to losing both of them on the same day. But I lost them, they were gone and I was still here. Still stuck here in this place of misery. Not having the ability to leave, there stuff was still here, his favorite flannel, his brother's favorite wallet I bought him for christmas.

Then the bargaining. Maybe just maybe I could give all of this back, if I gave it back he would explain. Maybe even contact her, could Lisa know why he left? I wish he would tell me I tried and there was nothing I could have done, but he didn't. Maybe he wants something, money, his old stuff, his brothers stuff. I just want to know why can't I know? Why won't he tell me? I'm not religious, never have been but I prayed during those weeks for both of them to come back. I don't even know who I was praying to. I just wanted them back even just for a moment.

Finally acceptance came through. I packed up all of their stuff and put it away. I moved on just like they both had. They were gone and I was here. This place was no longer painful. My house of cards had been rebuilt, and I did that all on my own. I packed a bag and left, back on the road. Back to where I belonged, just me, my Harley, and small towns across the country. I was a free person, out on the open road.

That was the best part of this time and it wasn't until he came charging back into my life that all of those now painful memories came flying out into the open. He came after me, after it was all said and done and he wanted my help. I will never forget the way he walked up to me and said “I still need your help”. I shook my head and left in disbelief. How could he do this come barreling back in after all of this time had gone by. He couldn't because I wouldn't let him, my walls were back up and I wouldn't tear them down to be hurt again. I've grown and learned too much to fall back into the person I once was. That would be good for me.

But Sam was back, he was back and had been topside for a while now. So I had a decision to make to go back or to turn, to be who I was or who I had become. The real question is what to do?

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: The Color of Home

A/N: *maniacal laughter* Managed to finish just before 5.4 like I wanted to! A bit of fluff before SE has us screaming tomorrow.

RATING: T WORD COUNT: 2598 WARNINGS: Spoilers for Shadowbringers through the end of Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Cross-posted to AO3

Aymeric returns later than intended one night, exhausted and worn from a long day politicking...and something is different about Synnove. Not bad, or wrong, just...different.

No doubt she'll tease him for his poor observation skills later. And the change, once he realizes what it is, is truly lovely.

----

Even with Limsa Lominsa and the western half of Vylbrand a mere bell behind Ishgard, dusk had already fully fallen by the time Aymeric teleported in front of the La Noscea house’s garden gate. He paused as he landed, legs unsteady not so much from aetherial travel as it was from sheer exhaustion. Up since before dawn after a restless night, to try and at least fit in some exercise before meetings had controlled the rest of his day, and not more to eat than a pastry with his breakfast tea and a single sandwich for lunch. He counted himself lucky, at least, that his last meeting of the day had only gone two bells beyond the usual Ishgardian dinner hour; a record, truly, especially for Count Dzemael on a tear.

Hells take that man.

Aymeric closed the gate behind him as he entered the yard, and trudged through the garden and around the house for the kitchen door. The lights on the ground floor were on, a cheery yellow in the darkening gloom, which meant Synnove was still awake, and hopefully nearly done with preparing dinner after her own long day at the Gate. Today was supposed to have been his turn to cook, and thankfully Synnove had merely chuckled at him and told him not to worry when he had claimed a ten-minute break and called her on the linkpearl.

The windows in the kitchen were thrown open, despite the bite of chill beginning to linger in the air; winter came late to Vylbrand. It also let the smell of dinner spill into the yard: buffalo stew, gently spiced for flavor rather than heat, and fresh baked bread. His stomach growled and the reminder of how long ago lunch had been had him picking up his pace until he could press down on the handle of the door, swing it open, and step inside.

The kitchen was pleasantly warm, the smell of bubbling stew even stronger, and Aymeric took a deep, appreciative breath as he shut the door and shrugged off his coat. Norlaise must have said something to Synnove long before he had been able to call her; a stew like this normally took hours of slow cooking to reach such perfection. A niggle of guilt hissed at the back of his mind, but he acknowledged and dismissed it; he would be able to return the favor for Synnove soon enough, after all.

The lady of the house was currently bent over, fetching the bread from the oven, and even as sluggish as he felt, he still shamelessly indulged in the sight of her canvas shorts pulled taut over the luscious curve of her buttocks before she stood back up. The tray with two beautifully crusty loaves was set aside, and Synnove turned on her heel with a grin as she pulled off her oven mitts. “Welcome home, Aymeric!” she said. “A little birdie told me it’s been a long day for you.”

“I believe I know the birdie’s name,” Aymeric laughed. “And it’s good to be home. The stew smells wonderful.”

“Just needs a few more minutes for the last of the vegetables to finish cooking,” his lady said, turning back to the stove and reaching for a wooden spoon to give the contents of her giant pot a careful stir.

Aymeric frowned slightly as she did so, tilting his head in puzzlement and setting his hands on his hips. There was…something different about her. Something he knew he should have caught whatever it was as soon as he had seen her, but Fury take him, his mind was refusing to work.

Synnove turned around once more and frowned herself as she took in his expression. “What’s wrong, love?”

There was no use lying. “Is something different with you?”

The frown turned into a playful smirk, amusement sparking in her eyes. “Darling, do I need to be a hypocrite?” she said, leaning back against the counter and crossing her arms, one eyebrow ticking upward.

“Considering how often I’m one regarding your own sleep and work habits, ‘tis only fair.”

Synnove laughed, his favorite sound in all the world, and said, “You work too long and too hard sometimes, my Aymeric. But, yes, I’ll grant you this: there is something different. Can you tell me what it is?” Her tone was light and lilting and dripping with mischief.

Aymeric was running off too much coffee and tea and not enough sleep; he knew his cognitive functioning was next to gone, it being why Norlaise had dragged him out of the office by his ear like he was one of her recalcitrant grandchildren as soon as Count Dzemael had finished darkening the halls of Parliament. He was at least forgiven for not immediately catching on to what was off about Synnove, at least, with a cheery dare like that.

She grinned a little wider at his continued confusion.

Her eyes were still as green as fine emeralds. Her skin was still healthy-golden bronze as it should always be, and not like the wan brown from stress and exhaustion when she had first returned from the First. Her favorite gloss stained her lips a blushing pink, slightly faded from day-long wear.

He dropped his gaze, still puzzled. Her shirt—his, once upon a time—was solid blue flannel, the color faded from true to powder over the years from repeated washings, the fabric sinfully soft, and the sleeves rolled to her elbows and top few buttons undone. Her simple sapphire pendant necklace, one of his gifts to her their first Starlight, glinted in the lamplight, the pendant hanging just below the hollow of her collarbones, and the bracelet upon which each of the carbuncles’ summoning foci was threaded still hung from her left wrist.

His gaze dropped further, his brow furrowing, and he heard his lady giggle as he took in the rest of her appearance. No obvious new additions to the arcanima tattoos, at least the ones visible on her forearms and the backs of her hands. Her nail lacquer was still green from the last time she had applied it, though it was beginning to chip in various spots from work and chores and hand-washing. She had on a pair of those awful, wonderful canvas shorts that were barely decent even by Lominsan standards, and showed off almost every mouthwatering ilm of her long, gorgeous legs. Her house shoes were the old, worn pair with embroidered carbuncles, one of Rereha’s—and Angharad’s, the needlework being hers—numerous joke gifts to Synnove over the years.

Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Aymeric raised his gaze back to her face, framed by her favorite style of Gyr Abanian braids. She giggled again and reached up to brush a loose strand of hair from her eyes, the mahogany and gree—

His mind skittered to a halt and his eyes went wide as realization finally hit him like a sledgehammer.

No. Not green, not the same color as lush grass in high summer. At least, not anymore.

The dyed ends of her hair were now blue.

“Sweetling, your hair,” he sputtered intelligently.

Synnove laughed at him outright now, low and husky and brushing across his ears like crushed velvet, and pushed off from the kitchen counter to stride the handful of paces forward and cup his face in her hands. As she brushed his cheeks with her thumbs, her eyes sparkling with delighted mischief, Aymeric reached up to gently grasp the end of the braid resting on her shoulder between his fingers, examining the new color of it with shocked wonder.

The green had been one of the first things he had noticed about her as he entered the Camp Dragonhead Intercessory all those years ago. Synnove had been turned away upon his arrival, talking in low tones with Heron, and the brilliant green among her dark brown tresses had been especially eye-catching against the formal grey of her assessor’s robe. Only her eyes had been greener, finer than any Ul’dahn emerald, alight with curiosity and interest as they had been introduced.

Now, the color that had reminded him of fresh spring grass had been replaced by a lovely hue similar to the cornflowers that had once carpeted Coerthan meadows in spring. Unlike the green that had been a uniform shade from both afar and up close, however, this blue seemed to shift beneath his scrutiny: the light caught on periwinkle, sapphire, ice. Familiar colors, that made her emerald gaze all the brighter and more piercing.

“Not that you aren’t as beautiful as ever, Synnove,” he said at last, “but…why?”

His lady laughed at him again, softer than before, and stroked his cheeks one last time before settling her hands on his shoulders. “Two reasons,” she said, wry. “First: I’d been using that shade of green for sixteen years; it was high time for a change of pace.”

Aymeric chuckled and inclined his head in concession. “A fair point,” he said, and brought the end of the braid to his lips to kiss. As he did so, Synnove’s eyes crinkled while a pleased smile pulled at her lips, a light flush dusting her cheeks; the sight caused him to grin in return, pride swelling in his chest. It was always a delight seeing how much joy she took from even the smallest of affectionate gestures.

“As for the second…” Synnove’s expression fell into pensiveness as she sighed quietly and glanced away, brow furrowing while gathering her thoughts. Aymeric frowned slightly, letting go of her braid to wrap an arm around her waist, loosely, but his lady nearly immediately took the invitation, leaning forward to bury her face in his chest with another sigh. Permission thus granted, he tightened his grip on her, and brought his other arm around her to hug her close, propping his chin atop her head, and waited.

Finally:

“I’d been thinking about it for a while,” Synnove said, her voice muffled. “Since we first returned from the First.”

Aymeric’s grip on his lady involuntarily tightened as he went rigid, before he forced himself to relax, drawing a hand up and down her spine in firm, comforting strokes—more for himself than her, for all that she melted into the touch. A lick of fiery rage coiled around his heart, hissing and spitting, not at Synnove but for her, as it had when she had slowly, hesitantly, spoke of what she and her sisters had experienced on the First. Of what she had endured. Of why she had appeared as if she was in the depths of aethershock even a sennight after returning, why she had startled so badly at the sound of cracking ice as they had taken a walk in the Pillars her third day home, why she had steadfastly refused to let salt anywhere near her food. But then, as now, the instinctive, protective anger wasn’t of use.

Synnove’s right hand slid off his shoulder and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her bending her arm in the way he knew she was about to slide that hand between them to rub at her sternum, right above her heart, the surest tell she had that she was remembering the weight of the Lightwardens’ aether. Ceasing his petting of her back, he gently caught her hand in his, and drew back enough to lift it and press his lips against her knuckles, then turning her hand over to kiss her palm.

His lady smiled at him, faint but genuine, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his chin in turn. “It didn’t feel right to make the change until we brought the rest of the Scions home,” she continued in a soft murmur, “not with so much at stake and so many unknowns. Better to wait, when that chapter was definitively closed.

“But on the First, there were times when I…I just missed the familiar. Everything was so different, in a way that wasn’t even when we traveled to Othard. Not just the sights and sounds and smells, but the very aether of that world, unsettlingly so. As if it should be familiar, but was just subtly…wrong. And I just wanted a little bit of home, even after I adapted to it.”

Synnove leaned into him again, and they resettled their limbs so that they were comfortably wrapped around one another. As Aymeric resumed rubbing her back, she rested her cheek on his heart and gave his torso a light squeeze, a comforting half-moment of pressure and warmth. “I thought about a few different options for a reminder of home when I’m far from Eorzea, even if just on the same star,” she said. “Mementos like a pressed flower from the garden, or a bag of spice from the markets, or a miniature portrait of you or Auntie. But physical items can be lost, or stolen, or destroyed.”

“Thus, the dye,” Aymeric said.

“Thus, the dye.” Synnove turned her head to prop her chin on his sternum, forcing him to pull back once more to meet her glittering eyes, and her slow smile was as radiant as any sunrise. “So that every time I looked in a mirror or a stray strand hung just in the corner of my eye, there would be a little bit of home with me.”

He had a niggling thought about why she had chosen the color—colors?—that she had…but he would rather like to hear the confirmation from her own lovely lips. “And the blue?” he said, voice light, though he wasn’t able to entirely hide his eager curiosity.

Her smile widened, affectionate and knowing, but she humored him nonetheless. “Well, I flatly refused to do anything multicolor,” she said, sly. “That would just be gauche.”

“You’re a hyur, not a bird of paradise,” Aymeric quipped.

“Precisely.” Synnove gave him a broad wink. “So, I picked blue, and with a bit of assistance from Rerenasu, managed to blend a dye that could accurately capture a few different hues. Periwinkle, for Ishgard. Sapphire, for House Borel. And a pale, icy blue,” here she paused to tap his nose with a forefinger, “for your eyes.”

Warmth suffused his chest, soft and happy and more than a little bit smug, and Aymeric found himself grinning down at his lady, charmed by her words, charmed by her, as he ever was. “I admit,” he said, quiet but pleased, “I quite like the idea of a little bit of myself traveling with you on your adventures, even if it’s merely as innocuous as a color.”

“I thought you might,” she murmured, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, her lips sweet and velvety. He tugged her closer and returned her kiss with the barest hint of teeth to nip at her, teasing until Synnove’s shoulders shook with laughter. They broke apart only long enough to rest their foreheads together and Aymeric let himself drown in the green of her eyes as she drank in the sight of him in turn, contentment settling over them like a comfortable blanket.

A flash of color came at the corner of his eye, followed by the chorus warbles of five carbuncles. Can we eat yet?

Synnove snorted, and Aymeric snickered, but they finally let go of another, and set to the task of finishing dinner preparations. And if he paused while setting the table, and filling plates, and tucking into his own meal to admire how mahogany now shaded into blue rather than green, well. Synnove, at least, did not hold it against him.

[daydreamingintheimpalax]

Looking out

Prompt: “Hey,” A says, sliding over on the bar stools to get B’s attention. “Don’t drink that. I think your date’s trying to drug you.”

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of possible drugging.

Dean X Reader

Dean didn't want to be here. He hated frat parties, he really did, piling a bunch of drunken college kids into the nearest college bar during rush season was the worst. He looked around, his whiskey glass half full in his hand. He preferred small groups, random nights with his buddies shooting pool or playing cards. 

He hated college bars. His frat was rushing, and so, he was stuck, stuck being here after having to be dragged by his best friend Nicky. The only thing that was keeping him here was her, Y/N.

She was sat a few tables down, with a guy he recognized from his house’s rival frat. Nicky had slept with his girlfriend last year and the guy along with his frat had hated them ever since. 

Todd slowly wrapped and arm around y/n, pulling her closer, she seemed to hesitate but didn't make a move to do anything about it. He knew she was single, and she was stunning, Dean would be lying if he said she didn't have him and every other guy on campus running crazy for her, but she wasn't easy, she didn't sleep around and she barely ever got white girl wasted unlike most of the girls in her fraternity. He admired her for it, it made her more attractive.

He'd spoken to her before, he was even paired up on a project with her in one class, he considered them friends, but he had a bit of a flirty reputation and he didn't want her thinking he saw her as another conquest so he kept his distance. 

He watched as they talked, he leaned in close whispering in her ear and Dean smirked at the grossed out look on her face that Todd didn't notice. Todd was a creep, he was gross and if the stories he heard had any truth, he feared a little for y/n. 

The bartender sat two new drinks in front of them and y/n mumbled something to him, Todd gave her a nod before both boys watched her walk to the ladies room. 

Dean looked back at Todd, one of his buddies coming up and patting him on the back, Todd have him a wink before subtlety grabbing something out of the other guys hand. Dean frowned, wondering if they were passing around drugs. He really hated frat parties. 

Before he knew what happened, Todd slipped y/n’s drink towards him, Dean couldn't tell what he was doing, he wasn't angled well enough to see, but he did notice him stir her drink before tossing away the stir stick. When he put her drink back, Dean didn't fail to notice it fizzle just a tad before it stopped.

You stared into the bathroom mirror, touching up your eyeliner, you really were dreading going back out there, the girls had gone off with their own eyes set on their targets and left you with Todd, you didn't think he was a horrible person, but he isn't your type, sitting with him all night had been a bore, all he talked about was the pranks they played on new pledges and drinking games they'd made up, plus you'd heard stories about him and weren't too keen on being another one night stand.

You sighed, you had noticed Dean earlier, he'd looked like he was as bored being here as you were, you half ass considered jumping into his Impala and having him take you out of here, at least you knew with Dean you'd be in for some fun, no matter what it was, plus you were friends, you knew he'd get you out of here if you really wanted him to.

You slowly made your way back to the bar, half hoping Todd would've found some other entertainment for the night and you'd be free to escape. Unlucky, that was not what happened. You sat back down in your seat, sending him a small smile while he shot you a wink. 

“Now it's my turn to empty the tank, be right back baby.” He stated, making his way towards the men's room, stopping to chit chat when a buddy of his stopped him. You were just happy for the few minutes of peace. 

You picked up your glass, ready to take a huge gulp of the only thing making this 'date’ bearable. Before you could though, Dean plopped himself into the seat previously occupied by shit for brains. 

“Hey.” He smiled widely, and suddenly your mood was uplifted. You smiled back at him, taking notice how much greener his eyes seemed in this dim lighting. 

“What do you want Winchester? I know you're not here just to talk. Getting lonely over on your side?” you teased him and he chuckled. 

“I hate frat parties, I don't like half these people, half the guys are losers who will do anything to get laid, and the girls well....they’re fun once in a while but after a while, you get bored of the same drunken girls and missionary sex with half the effort, or they end up barfing and you're stuck helping to get them home.” He shrugs, you practically choke out a laugh. “It’s too much work, I'm not a babysitter, if you can't handle your liquor, stay home.” He speaks and you chuckle. 

You nervously lift your glass again, needing a little more courage if you're going to have a conversation with Dean. Dean was one of the hottest boys in the frat house and all the girls knew it. So many of your own friends having tried it on with him, usually he didn't do much, it was very rare for him to have sex with them, most of the time, they'd fool around and he'd move on. The one positive about him was that at least he was clear about his intentions, unlike other jackasses in his frat. 

Just as you lifted your glass to your lips, Dean spoke, stopping you. 

“Don’t drink that, I think your dates trying to drug you.” He warned, and you stared at him with wide eyes before staring at your drink. You looked back at him before speaking. 

“How do you know?” you frowned and he shrugged, “I don't for sure, but when you stepped away he grabbed your drink and I caught him stirring it, when he put it back, it was fizzling, I don’t trust it.” He stated simply, you softly nodded before setting it down.

“Oh, well thank you, means a lot that you told me.” You smile, he smiled back, looking at you with a hint of longing. 

“Yeah well, I wouldn't want to see anything bad happen to you.” He shrugs, before you can say anything, Todd is back, clearing his throat. 

“Excuse me, you mind leaving my date alone. We're trying to enjoy our drinks.” Todd speaks, glaring at Dean. Dean stands, meeting him eye to eye, he's slightly taller than Todd, and from campus gossip, Dean wasn't someone easily fucked with. He was tough.

“Sure thing Todd, try not to drug her next one yeah?” Dean smirks and he begins to walk away but Todd grabs him, pulling him back. 

“The fuck you say to me, Winchester?” He asks, squinting at Dean. Dean rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest and you can see the muscle he hides behind his flannels and leather jacket that's too big for his frame.

“Was I not clear enough” Dean sasses, before getting closer to his face. “Try. Not. To. Drug. Her. Next. Drink. Douchebag.” He smiles, “There, did you catch it that time?” He says sarcastically and the redness on Todd's face is comical.

“I didn't drug her drink, I don't do that!” Todd states furiously. He looks over at you and you shrug, “Baby don't listen to him, he's just jealous I got a date with you, everyone on campus knows one fuck Winchester has been dying to get in those panties since freshman year.” Todd laughs, Deans sarcastic smile disappearing and his face going blank, when his eyes meet Todd’s, it's clear he's angry. 

“Alright then, “ He speaks, he reaches over to the bar, grabbing your drink before handing it out to Todd. “If there's nothing in it, you won't mind drinking it yourself and giving her yours.” Dean shrugs, and Todd goes quiet, fidgeting before he gains his composure and speaks. 

“I don't like those fruity drinks, not my thing.” Todd smiles, winking over at you. You roll your eyes, before speaking. “Drink it, Todd. I'm not drinking that until you take the first sip, and make it a big one.” You raise an eyebrow, waiting. 

Todd never grabs it, instead, he huffs, running  a hand through his hair. “Fuck you, Winchester.” He snaps at Dean and Dean chuckles, “Nah, I don't swing that way, but thanks for the offer.” Dean winks and Todd runs off seething. 

Dean shakes his head, setting the drink back down, “Fucking twat.” He speaks, you chuckle before he looks back at you, smiling. 

“Sorry you had to deal with that.” You give him a small head shake, a silent signal not to worry, “It's not your fault, thanks for saving me.” You shrug and he nods before he gets up.

“I’m gonna head home, I think I've had enough entertainment for the night, enjoy your night, y/n.” He smiles, he begins to walk but you stop him.

“Hey Dean,” he stops and turns back to you, humming out, “Was what he said true?” you ask and he gives you a confused look. “About what?” he asks, barely having heard what he'd said to begin with. 

You get slightly shy, blushing slightly. “About uh, you know, wanting to get in my pants.” You ask, and he looks away, running a hand through his hair.

“Um, somewhat, not exactly.” He says honestly, half shrugging. You frown, giving him a confused look. 

“What do you mean somewhat?” You bite your lip, waiting for a response. 

He chuckles mostly to himself, pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth. “Well, he made it seem way more sexual, it's not like that. Some of the guys they uh, they know I've kinda been crushing on you since freshman year, but I never said anything about trying to get in your pants.” He states, a slight redness to his cheeks. 

You smile softly, “Oh, why didn't you say anything, or you know, ask me out?” You wonder, and he smirks, “I don't exactly have a great reputation, I figured you'd heard some stuff and wouldn't want to give me a chance, and I respect you too much to let people see us and think I just wanna get in your pants, you deserve better.” He shrugs and you smile widely. 

“Well, people can say and think what they want, I know you're a good guy, and if you wanted to ask me out, I'd be okay with that.” You shrug and his eyes light up. 

“really?” he asks and you nod. He softly laughs, “Well, in that case, would you like to get out of here, I know a good burger joint about 20 minutes away.” He raises a brow and you nod, “Hell yeah, let's go.” You grab your coat and purse before making your way towards the door. 

Just before they leave Dean turns to leave some cash on the counter for his drinks, and he catches Todd's eye, who's watching them enraged, Dean smiles, shooting him a wink before he turns back, walking out with y/n smiling widely at him.

[tysonrunningfox]

Two Night Stand: Part 5

Sometimes random things you dig up are what you write

00000

Masterpost (ao3 to come)

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Astrid stares at the mess in the bathroom for a moment, the door clicking shut behind her echoing in the damp space.  She nudges a soaking towel into the corner by the tub and wrinkles her nose at the way it sogs her sock. 

The stolen plunger is still in the middle of the room and she picks it up with hesitant fingertips and sets it by the thankfully functioning toilet. 

It’s a testament to how far their conversation just devolved that she can’t even focus on the fact that she just dealt mass property damage in the pursuit of breaking, entering, and using a stranger’s toilet. 

She bends down to pull her damp sock off and catches her reflection in the mirror over the sink. 

Hiccup is gross.  Of course.  All guys would want nothing more than a striptease, that’s obvious, he didn’t need to tell her that.  In fact, he just said a bunch of really obvious things and acted like it was brand new information.  He forgot to remind her that it’s snowing though, so he left a base uncovered. 

Base.  Like a baseball sex metaphor type base. 

Maybe there’s a reason aside from lack of birth control and women’s rights that people used to have a dozen kids to work the farm.  How much is there really to do when you’re locked in with someone for a long time?  And like Hiccup said, they already got high and made a pillow fort. 

And critiqued each other sexual performance because apparently, they couldn’t even go twenty-four hours ignoring the fact that they did, in fact, have sex with each other. 

She teeters, because she’s been standing here on one leg like an urban dwelling flamingo native to dysentery creek, halfway through taking her sock off, and when she catches her reflection again, she hates that she thinks Hiccup might have a point.  It’s not really an attractive pose—not that she has to be sexy at all times, that’s stupid, and part of the women’s rights issue that means she will not be having twelve kids to work any farm—but it still makes her pause. 

She shuffles over to the sink, drumming her fingertips on the edge of the porcelain and staring at her reflection like it knows something she doesn’t.  Are you there mirror-Astrid?  It’s me, Astrid, you’re currently in the bathroom mirror of the guy I attempted to have a one-night stand with but then I got snowed in and it’s a whole thing, laws have been broken, I critiqued his sex-technique, mirror-wisdom would be appreciated. 

Mirror-Astrid would shrug, if she weren’t dependent on real world motion to bend light, and the twinkle in her eye says something like ‘well, it would look hotter if you unbuttoned that oversized flannel more slowly while maintaining eye contact.’

Mirror-Astrid is the slut.  Maybe she’s been the slut this whole time. 

Maybe she has a point. 

She bites her lip, reaching for the top button of her shirt and popping it open slowly, cocking her hip to one side. 

And again, they’ve already gotten high and made a pillow fort and broke and entered and committed plunger-themed larceny.  What else is there to do, really?  She was right this morning, she cannot un-sex him, but having sex with him twice, well…they’ve already done it once. 

And it’s cold outside, if the furnace goes out they might have to generate body heat. 

They should practice, maybe. 

Ok, if the furnace were going to go out, it probably would have happened already, but it’s a secondary argument.  If she needs it.  He is a guy, and he didn’t have any problem getting interested in having sex with her last night. 

She fusses with her hair, pressing her bangs down against her forehead and then shoving them to the side when they don’t stay down.  It’s fine, her hair doesn’t matter, this is not a seduction, it’s a scientific endeavor. 

That’s it.  It’s an experiment. 

“Hey Hiccup,” she walks normally into the living room.  Or she tries to walk normally.  Usually, when she walks normally, she’s not thinking about walking normally, but nothing is usual about this situation so she’s doing her best. 

“What did you do to my shower?”  He asks without looking up from his laptop and she perches on the back of the couch above his shoulder, trying and failing to soften her glare, even though she wants something from him. 

“Nothing.”  She sighs, “I was thinking.” 

“That’s always dangerous.” 

“You know what?  Never mind, it’s stupid.”  She stands back up, glad that his personality just saved her from sounding stupid, for once. 

“No, sorry,” he closes his laptop and looks up at her upside down, head on the back of the couch, hair flopping away from eyes that look greener considering what she’s about to say, “stupid’s my favorite.  What’s up?” 

“I was just thinking,” she pauses, waiting for him to interrupt again, but sadly, he appears to have learned his lesson, at least momentarily, “so the hypothesis of our conversation is that a frank conversation with a mutual interest towards self-improvement would make us better lovers.” 

“Oh, so you can pull it off?” 

“Yes.”  She crosses her arms and leans on the couch again, “or no, it’s—I don’t think anyone can really pull it off, it’s kind of an awful word, but—”

“Are you back for more?”  He raises an eyebrow, and the expression is an understanding of an inside joke, like all their jokes aren’t inside jokes, considering the weather. 

He doesn’t mean it and it makes her blush. 

“Yes.”  She stares him down, direct like she was chatting with him.  Asking the clear question. 

“Ok, hmm, you were largely a very adequate lover, but I’m sure there are some minutiae I could help you finesse for a future time with someone else—”

“I think we should have sex again.  For science.”  She tucks her hair behind her ear and feels it sticking out.  But this isn’t a seduction, it’s the intro to a lab class.  Today, the lesson is practical.  Hands on.  Real-world applicable.  “Keep the lines of communication open, put some of what we just talked about into practice.” 

“I know that supposedly, all I need is friction, but I’m not sure I could take your well-intentioned critiques while trying to perform.”  He rolls his eyes, not taking her seriously, and she lets her hands drift back to the buttons on her shirt, letting her eyes bore into his as she pops the next one loose. 

His eyes flick down.  He licks his lips.  The way he’s looking at her is almost worth how silly she feels and she makes a note in her mental, sexual lab notebook.  It’s crisp and new, the blank paper feeling a little sexual under her mental pencil.  It’s new too, fresh out of the package. 

0.05mm lead.  Fine tip.  A precision instrument. 

Ok, too far.  Too far.  But there’s something sexual about new paper and she’s just leaning into it right now. 

“I’m just saying, before we trot out our miracle cure for sexual incompatibility, we should probably do some clinical trials.  It’s only responsible.”  She’s never seduced anyone before, especially not a one-night stand she ordered on the internet on the eve of a once in a century blizzard, but it feels good to speak medically again, even if it’s not a good metaphor. 

Clinical trials take months.  Years. 

“I mean, we haven’t even nailed down stock options yet.”  He’s nervous, and it’s infuriatingly obvious in his big green eyes, and it’s also infuriating, because he’s supposed to be a cocky dick that she literally ordered on the internet. 

“A dry run can’t hurt anything, it’s just compiling more data,” she pops another button open and he bites his lip, setting his laptop aside. 

“Well, not a dry run.  Hopefully.”  He smirks, half-honest, and she doesn’t want to know that he puts a smiley face on his oatmeal or that he’s worried about what she thinks of his leg, but she does, and she’s trying to make the best of it. 

“In a normal sexual situation, there should be some lead up, but considering everything, it’s ok for you to just kiss me.”  Her stomach twists at the creak in the floorboards when he stands up slowly, faking confidence behind the cracks she’s ignoring, because they make him an outlier she shouldn’t consider sampling. 

And he’s silent.  Bigger without words jostling his shoulders as his hand finds her waist, fingers bunching in her oversized shirt.  And he looks at her, gaze a steady confirmation before he kisses her, knee nudging between hers as he guides her backwards. 

“That’s good,” she pulls back enough to nod and he grins, too real again.  “The knee thing.” 

“Yeah?”  He follows as she takes a couple more steps back towards the bedroom, “I thought it was suggestive—”

“Please don’t explain every move to me.”  She kisses him, hands fisting in his collar. 

“They’re very nuanced though, I want to make sure you understand.”  His hand slides under her shirt, too warm against the small of her back.  And his knee nudges between her legs again and she trips on the edge of the rug, stumbling back into the doorframe.  “Shit, are you ok?” 

“I’m fine,” she rolls her shoulder.  Shake it off, Hofferson.  “Walking backwards while kissing is fine in movies, not so great in real life.” 

“Noted.”  He follows her into the bedroom, where unfortunately the bed is unmade. 

“Remember when I wanted to see your apartment?”  She asks, half-expecting to need to explain, because nothing outside of the last day feels real, especially with the buzzing under her skin when she thinks about what’s about to happen. 

“I had to put all my Bundy fan-club awards down the garbage disposal, of course I remember.”  He jokes, his voice deeper, breathing husky on the shell of her ear, and she shivers.  “I’m devastated.” 

“Well, a girl likes a clean place.  Makes you feel taken care of, I guess.”  She grabs the clean fitted sheet from the basket in the corner and starts putting it on the mattress.  “Also, women want to have sex with functional adults, a made bed is an easy first step.” 

“That hasn’t been my experience.”  He laughs and she rolls her eyes, tugging the sheet tight and tossing him the next layer. 

“You’ve had a different demographic thus far.” 

“No, I mean making a bed is like wrestling an eight-foot long, six-foot wide rectangular bear,” he throws the duvet over the flat sheet as she shoves the second pillow into its case, “might need a nap to rebuild strength and energy before the sex.” 

“Lay down then,” she shoves his shoulder a little too hard, refusing to feel guilty when he falls back on the bed, propping himself on his elbows. 

“Lights are on,” she refuses to let her voice shake, tilting her chin at the bulb above the bed as she pops open the next button of her shirt.  He watches, eyes flicking between her face and chest as another button comes undone. 

“You’re a quick study,” he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor before going for his belt. 

“You too,” she compliments, unbuttoning her pants and pushing them down with an unnecessary sway in her hips, trying not to smile when he licks his lips, pupils wide. 

She faces away from him, shrugging the shirt slowly off her shoulders, letting it fall against her heels.  She unhooks her bra and bends forward, letting it fall off of her arms as she tugs her underwear down, bending at the waist and trying not to feel stupid or cold or slow as she steps out of them. 

She looks over her shoulder at him, standing up at that glacial pace and turning to face him like an iceberg drifting past Greenland. 

He’s breathing hard, skinny chest heaving above the boxer briefs that are thankfully the only thing he’s still wearing.  His leg is on the floor and she’s not sure whether she’s supposed to look or not, so she keeps her focus on his face. 

“Is that…” she cocks her hip, then regrets it, unsure where to put her hands.  It’s cold.  He’s staring.  She wants to turn the lights off or to make a joke or to get under a blanket because it’s actually cold in here.  He should keep his place warmer, probably, and she should tell him, but she just got naked the slowest she ever has and she needs his opinion on it, because nothing makes sense.  “Is that more what you thinking of?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, too fast, and she almost tells him off for being cute when they’re trying to be scientific, “that was—yeah.  Good.  You really took my point and um…yeah.” 

“Honestly I just…moved slower—”

“Men are so stupid,” he sits up, waving his arms at her in something halfway summoning, “come here.  Now.  Please.  That’s not an order, I just—you, wow—”

“So, lights on, strip slowly is a real thing?”  She half jokes on her way to the bed, trying to frame how his eyes feel on her skin in terms of scientific understanding.  The mutual pursuit of knowledge.  Earnest commitment to research. 

“Men are dumb.”  He catches her waist with a long, warm arm and pulls her down into the bed, hovering over her as his lips latch onto her pulse-point, callused hand sweeping across her ribs. 

“Apparently.”  She moans when his thumb glances across her nipple and he leans up slightly to look at her face.  “What?” 

“Trying to discern real from faking it,” he teases, self-conscious, and her stomach twists at the still hand on her side that she so badly wants to be moving. 

“It’s going to be easier to get me off if you’re trying to,” she nods at him, “instead of reacting to imagined criticism.” 

“Oof,” he winces, scooting his hips away from her an inch, “that’s—while true, that’s also generally applicable to my failures as a person, which isn’t sexy to think about—”

“You’re not into being accidently insulted by people who just stripped for you?”  She jokes, reaching up instinctually to rub the back of his neck, his shoulders.  His ass, surprisingly taut under his boxers.  And the lights are on and goosebumps prickle up her stomach. 

“Accidentally?”  He’s a little too soft, a little too meek, and she tugs him back down to her by his hair. 

“Yes.”  She kisses him, and she was honest earlier.  He’s a good kisser, just how he’d be a good conversationalist if it weren’t being forced upon her as the only option.  It’s give and take, it’s soft lips and the hard edge of teeth.  It’s determination behind the acquiescence in his moan as his hand finds her breast and squeezes.  “That’s good.” 

“Yeah?”  He kisses down her neck, taking his time like he hadn’t the night before, his fingers curling around her waist and pulling her against him, his thigh between hers.  She hooks her leg around his hip and he groans into her neck, “that’s—”

“Not good?”  She starts to move her leg but he catches her thigh above her knee, pressing it closer to his side. 

“Very good.”  He kisses her collarbone, her nipple, breathing hard against her sternum.  “It’s like you want me closer,” he shudders when she drags her fingernails up his back, “good move.  All good moves.” 

“You too, this is good.”  She reaches between them, fumbling under the waistband of his boxer briefs, “I don’t mind the stubble.”  She groans when he drags his chin against her neck, kissing under her jaw.  She grabs his length and he stiffens, forehead on her collarbone as his expected groan comes out as a whine.  “What?” 

“You’re very direct,” he catches her wrist with a firmness that makes her core twitch.  “It’s—I like it, don’t get me wrong here, I’m a stupid, friction-obsessed man and that feels—you’re naked—and you—”

“It’s distracting,” she lets go, pulling her hand out of his boxers and letting it rest on her lower stomach, flirting with the juncture between her legs. 

“Yes,” he kisses her, “and that’s not a bad thing, I’m just trying to focus.” 

“On?”  She flirts.  She doesn’t have to, but she does.  And he presses his leg against her core and his breath is hot against her neck and maybe talking is what sex has needed this entire time. 

Talking and a quick-witted tongue on her chest, and long, callused fingers dipping between her legs.  Soft, auburn hair tickling her neck as she arches under the contact. 

“Don’t…don’t say anything about a dry run right now, I…will kill you.”  She grips his shoulders, heel dragging down his short calf and back onto the bed as he almost gets it right, the sizzling contact just off epicenter. 

“Wouldn’t make sense, anyway.”  He kisses her neck, her cheek, his smirk like a brand against her skin as he swipes just past where he should. 

“Just—up, ok?  And to the right?”  She doesn’t want to sound irritated, but it’s irritating to have things feel so good and almost great.  He adjusts, over-adjusts really, and she reaches down to grab his hand and direct him, her fingers over his.  “There, it’s just—like…”

“This?”  He mimics her motion and she squints her eyes shut, her knees clenching on his hips as she nods.  “Am I—I mean is this getting you to…where you need?”  He’s awkward, and earnest, and arousal flares in her chest like an errant spark. 

“I mean it takes a minute.”  She gets out, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.  He smells like breaking and entering and a stupid high day in a pillow fort and she tries to focus on his fingers and how they’re trying to build style into the method she prescribed him. 

They aren’t marching, they’re dancing, adding his own flair to steps she’d thought were set in stone.  

And the lights are on, and he’s watching her like a gauge.  Like something independent, instead of as a reflection of himself.  And he kisses her lips and her cheek and a finger dips into her, long and agile but impatient too. 

“Can I, I mean, I was under the impression that you were going to be critiquing—unless—”

“No critiques necessary,” she eeks out, biting her lip and pressing back against his touch.  She feels spectated, but knowing why helps.  He wants to see her.  He wants to study her falling apart, like it’s a phenomenon, and the thought makes her toes curl as his pupils widen and he kisses her neck, her chest, looking up for her reaction between. 

He slows down. 

“Don’t go easy on me, it’s obviously not working—”

“It just takes a bit,” she snaps, grabbing his wrist and pressing his hand closer, “it’s slower, it takes a minute, it was…you were on the right track.” 

“How long is the track?”  He kisses her jaw and her neck, his hips nudging against hers.  He groans when she wraps her leg back around his hips and she feels her own chest, letting the feeling bloom in her stomach. 

“As long as it is.”  She tries to be grumpy.  It half works.  He twitches when she grabs his length again, his groan shuddering against her neck as his hand falters. 

Two long fingers dip inside of her then and she gasps, grabbing his upper arm. 

“Is that—”

“Don’t stop.”  She tries not to squirm, tries not to mess up the angle he has, what feels like the whole length of his fingers stroking against what she has to believe is her G-spot, more obvious than it ever has been, like banter is foreplay.  Like his very presence is foreplay.  Like this was inevitable.  Like he is inevitable.  “You found…”

He rubs it. 

She regrets ever arguing with an engineer, double entendre implied. 

“Is that?” 

“Don’t stop,” she clenches his arm, probably too tight, but there’s no time to think about that because he’s kissing her, stubble and lip and tongue and hand doing that again and again and again. 

“Might have to, if you keep that grip.”  He kisses her cheek and she arches into it, because his hand is unraveling her like she’s grandma’s first sweater attempt and he’s warm and earnest. 

She reaches down to touch herself and he gasps like it’s been ripped out of him.  She bites her lip, leaning into the warmth, which yanks the cord to get his hand moving again, and then it’s here and they’re kissing and she feels her throat going hoarse before she knows he’s kissing her.  And he doesn’t stop kissing, or petting, or holding. 

And this is the worst idea she’s ever had. 

“You didn’t want me to explain my moves,” he kisses her cheek.  Her ear.  His other hand cradles her neck so sweetly, tilting it as he kisses and where was this last night.  Where was this when she needed him. 

“Explain them.” She’d say he was wrong if she needs to.  She’d say anything.  His fingers are thrusting and she’s rubbing and she can’t breathe and every time she bucks up, his hips press back down against hers like a promise. 

“Well, I’m um…” He pauses.  She kisses his chin because it’s what she can reach.  His rhythm falters and she bites her lip.  “Well, I uh…think I found your G-spot.” 

She nods. 

He gets so red that she could light a fire on his face and she digs her heel into the back of his thigh. 

“Is that a yes?” 

She nods. She hits his shoulder with her free hand, doubling down as he strokes. 

“We are communicating,” he kisses her, “I need a yes—”

“Yes,” she yelps, “more.  Yes.  Don’t stop.  Asshole.”  She squeaks out, and he’s kissing her.  Everywhere. And his hand in her is moving, his thumb joining hers on her clit and when she opens her eyes, there’s something in his gaze. 

He’s committed.  He’s tuned in. 

“You’ve told me, emphatically I might add,” he presses her clit for a second, suddenly at home in the mastery he’d only hoped for a second ago, “to not tell you about my moves.”

“You had moves you didn’t tell me about?”  She struggles to sound indignant when he’s touching her like this.  When he’s devoted like this.  When he’s redeeming himself, sure with this kind of frantic, earnest energy. 

It hits all at once. 

She clings to his shoulders, crying out a bit too loud, glad for the empty apartment as his fingers stroke deep.  And human.  And he’s close and real and she’s trying not to remember that this is nothing, a fling, a one-night stand, an addendum to a one-time thing.

And he’s hard.  And that was great.  And she wants him. 

She wants something.  That’s easier. 

She wants parts of him.  Now. 

“Was that..?”  He kisses her forehead, his arms wrapping around her. 

And he holds her, that’s a point in his favor.  He held her last night and he holds her again and she wants to compliment him and for once, there’s no gateway. 

“Nothing fake,” she says as a truth and a comfort and his hand finds her core again, perfectly lazy, hesitantly in something close to awe.  “Condom.  Now.” 

“But my redemption—”

“On track,” she rolls to the side, digging in the bedside table for the reel of condoms she found earlier. 

“But you—”

“I did,” she cups his face, pulling him close with an arm around his waist, “do you ever stop talking?” 

“Not in living memory.”  He touches that spot within her again and she shivers, ankles crossed behind his back.  “Can I have some room to move?”  He kisses the hollow of her throat, and his voice is relieved and she reaches to stroke him with a pleasure-lazy vengeance.  “Astrid, I—”  

“Hiccup,” she settles on his name, because she doesn’t know how else to communicate, even if it ends in him staring at her, through her, into her. 

“For science,” he lines himself up and she bites her lip. 

“It’s just good practice at this point.” 

[themoonandotherslikeit]

The Girl in The Photograph, and The Boy in The Darkness 

After spending the last five years dreaming about your best friends older brother, seeing him in a bar on the lowest night of your life surprised you at best. Between his heavy gaze and the three shots you’d downed you were ready to make some mad decisions. At least that’s what you thought, until the badass guy in the cool car met your eyes and everything else melted away. Maybe it wouldn’t matter that you were inexperienced, maybe it wouldn’t matter that in your mind, he was perfect, maybe for once you could let go and climb into his car, regardless of the consequences, regardless of what was right, or what was smart, because that’s what you do when Dean Winchester offers you his hand. Right?

Square Filled: Free Space! 

Prompt: DeanxReader first kiss :) 

Pairing: DeanxInexperienced!Reader 

Created for: @spndeanbingo and requested by @impossiblegirlposts 

Rating: T

Tags/Warnings: Virgin!Reader, first kiss, fluff, language, alluding to violence

Word Count: 3,799

Authors Note: This is a request for the wonderful @impossiblegirlposts thanks for requesting me! The fic takes place within the first season of the show. So Dean is 26 here. Just for your FYI. 

You’d known Dean Winchester since you were a senior in high school, when he and Sam rolled into town for a job. You immediately got close to Sam, he was sweet and smart, and he understood you in a way that other guys couldn’t. He wanted to stay in town, despite his fathers insistence that he moved around constantly. You’d never quite understood why it pissed John Winchester off so much that Sam wanted to be more than a guy with a gun in a car. 

You’d never forget the night that he told you everything. You sat, leaning against the wall with your legs crossed. He sat on the bed across from you, wringing his hands, because he knew he shouldn’t say anything. It was too risky. You could flip out, but he was your best friend.

“Just tell me, Sam. Spit it out for God sakes.” 

“Y/N.” He exhaled your name weakly. “I just don’t know how to say it. You’re going to think I’m insane.” 

“Cool. I spent the last year watching Pretty Woman every night. I know every word. We all have a thing.” 

“It isn’t like that. It’s not the same.” He said meeting your eyes with a small smile. 

“Seriously, Sam. Every word. Don’t make me show you.” You threaten, pointing a finger at him, before your tone softens. “Come on, Sam. You’re my best friend. You gave me your flannel when I bled through my pants, please don’t get all weird on me now.” 

Sam smiled, his dimples coming out from the corners of his mouth. “Fine, but you’re not allowed to think I’m crazy.”

“Scouts honor.” 

“My family... hunts monsters.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Like....Bigfoot?”

“No.” He sighed and shook his head. “Like.. I don’t know. Ghosts?”

“Like The Exorcist?”

“Well... Yeah kind of, but not just ghosts. Werewolves, vampires, Ghouls... all that shit that goes bump in the night. We find them and kill them.” He said, the words spilling out of his lips like he’d been holding his breath. Maybe he was. 

“Wow.”

“Wow?”

“It’s just that, uh, very few people surprise me.” You say with a smile. “Pretty Woman.” You do a dramatic bow from your seated position before looking at him through your hair. “You’re being serious, aren’t you, Sam?”

“I am.” 

“So you and your hot older brother and your hot Dad... hunt monsters.”

“Gross, you didn’t just call them hot.” 

You shrug. “You’re hot, too, don’t be offended.” 

“Yeah. We hunt monsters.” 

You meet his eyes. “Okay.” 

He stayed with you your entire senior year. He wanted a consistent senior year so he could get into Stanford, so your mom let him sleep on the floor of your bedroom. You would stay up all night talking, and as he told you stories of Dean, you started to fall in love with the rugged older brother of Sam Winchester. 

Sam painted him as a hero, evil blood on his hands, motor oil on his shirt, and sweat on his brow. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for his younger brother. Nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice. 

You imagine that there wasn’t any way he could live up to your expectation, to what you dreamed him to be. Yet, when you closed your eyes at night you could imagine his green eyes staring into your soul.

You’d met him only the once, when his Dad dropped Sam off. 

“Take care of my little brother.” He grunted, his green eyes damp at the edges. 

“I think he can take care of himself.”

“Right.” 

You didn’t know then, about the monsters. 

The day that Sam left for Stanford you cried way too much. 

“I didn’t think we were going to do this, Y/N.” 

“We weren’t.” You admitted, smiling through your tears. “I’m just going to miss you.”

“I’ll call every day.” He promised, pulling you into one more big hug. 

You started at an all girls college, and you did talk to Sam every night, at first. But then he met a girl, like they always did. Men like The Winchesters didn’t bother with girls like you. Not that there was anything wrong with you, but you weren’t Jessica. Not with those bedroom eyes, and award winning smile. She could move mountains with her hips, and you were captain of the debate team. 

Time flew by, and on the night before your graduation you realized that you never got any of it. You tried Sams phone number, but it was disconnected, and you sat in the parking lot of your college, empty. 

You pulled off your cap, and tossed it to the ground before heading to the bar off campus. You slid up to the bar rail and leaned into it in your black, slinky, graduation dress. You gestured for a shot, or maybe five. You’d never been kissed. The closest you had to a date was when Sam Winchester took you out for ice cream, but he was basically a brother, so that certainly didn’t count. 

You down two shots before a thick body dropped down next to you on the barstool. You grab for the third shot before a chuckle erupted from the throat of the stranger next to you. “Slow down, Sweetheart. Where’s the fire?”

You turn to briskly tell the guy to fuck off, but as your mouth opened to speak your breath hitched in your throat. Your eyes locked with the mossy green eyes that you’d seen only once in person, but a thousand times in your head. They were greener than Sams, but still familiar. “Dean Winchester?” You ask, before you can stop yourself.

“Uh, yeah.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do I know you?” His pink lips curled into a smile, and your heart began to race .

“I was Sams friend. From his senior year?”

“Wait...” A wrinkle curled onto Deans forehead, his eyebrows rolling together. “Oh shit, Y/N? Damn you grew up.” He chuckled. 

You can feel heat inch up your collarbones onto your neck, and cheeks. You look at your lap. “Yeah. Five years will do that.” 

“Right.” You can feel his eyes on you.

“I, uh... have you heard from Sam? It’s been awhile.” 

“Yeah, actually. He’s here with me.” 

“Oh.” Your heart rate picked up again at the idea of seeing your best friend, but when you look back at Dean you see that he’s leaning in close to you. 

“What’re you so dressed up for?” He gestured to the graduation outfit you’d spent two weeks on. 

“College graduation.” 

“Wow, a college girl. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Sammy had smart friends.” Dean tilted his head to the side, his grin growing on his cheeks. “Celebrating then?”

“Something like that.” You were getting your voice back, the shots you downed finally sending warmth through your bloodstream. 

“Want to make some bad decisions?” He asked suddenly. He was so close that his breath was on your neck, tickling it. 

You could’ve passed out right there, your head felt light enough. You swallow your third shot and you nod quickly, not wanting to let your voice give away how nervous you were. When else would you get a chance like that? To be with the Dean Winchester. You grinned to yourself, hearing Sams voice in your head. “God that’s so fucking gross. He’s my brother. He’s just a guy. You do know that right?” No. You didn’t know that, but you were damn ready to find out. 

Dean tossed down some cash on the bar top, and rested his hand on your lower back to lead you out of the bar. You walked into the cool Spring night air. The wind picked up your hair, and Dean glanced at you with a smirk. You could see lust in his eyes and it made your stomach flip. You knew it couldn’t go far. You were a virgin, in every way, and you weren’t really prepared to take too big of a leap. 

He walked you to the car. The car. The Impala. It was their fathers before Deans ,and it was beautiful. You weren’t a car girl, but somehow you knew it was something special. It fit Dean perfectly, with its slick, dark exterior. There was something sexy and dangerous about it that got your heart racing. You swallowed hard as he opened the door. 

“‘M lady.” 

Good God.

You smiled at him and hoped it looked effortless as you slid into the passenger seat. He walked around the side of the car and slid into the drivers seat. “Alright. Back to my place?” He eyed you. 

Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure exactly why you were surprised. This was Dean Winchester. He didn’t really seem like the kind that liked to talk. Even though you imagined it in your head. He’d wrap his arm around you and you’d stare at the night sky, talking until the sun came up, but that was a notion of a child. You weren’t a child anymore. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

He put the car in gear and started to drive, his fingers tapping the steering wheel along to one of his cassette tapes. The sound of your heartbeat in your ears was enough to drown out any music that was playing.

“Hey, you good?” Dean asked, his hand resting on your thigh. 

You thought you might throw up, but after a few deep breaths you peel your eyes away from his calloused hands rubbing circles on your bare thigh for long enough to meet his green eyes. “Great.” You said, forcing a smile. 

“You sure? You’re not feeling sick from those shots, are you?”

Oh god, he thinks I’m going to puke in the car. “No. I’m not going to puke in the car.” Great job, Y/N. Ugh! He’s going to let you out and tell you he changed his mind. You fucking blew it.

“Glad you’re feeling okay.” He smiled, patting your thigh, before bringing his fingers to your hair instead.

Hmm. 

Your head was spinning as he drove. 

“So,” he glanced at you again. “What’d you study, college girl?”

“Music.” 

He grinned widely. “Rock star, huh?”

“Classical music.” You grinned back at him. Talking about your music always helped. You could picture your fingers curled around your bow, warming up, and a breath of peace came over you. 

“Classic... rock?” He asked, sheepishly.

You grinned back. “I did to a cover of Carry on My Wayward Son with my violin. If that counts.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, Kansas is a classic. It counts.” 

He put the car in park in front of an old, ratty motel. The calm was quickly coming out of your pores in a cold sweat. Were you really going to go into a motel with Dean Winchester? 

“Shit.” He whispered, squinting at the motel.

“What?”

“Sammy... he’s... he’s in the room. Fuck. I’m sorry, Y/N. I can ask him to beat it for a bit.”

“No.” You smile weakly. Maybe it was for the best. “That’s okay. You can just... maybe we should say hi?”

He eyed you. “No offense, but if I bring you in there I won’t get a second for myself, because.. well Sam is a softy. I don’t think he’d give up the chance to catch up.” 

He wants me to himself. What will I do alone with Dean Winchester? It didn’t matter, because Sam was in the room. Sam was your saving grace in the end. 

Dean turned to you slowly and put his hand on the back of your neck. “You’re a classy chick.” He said quietly. 

“Thank.. thank you?” You raised an eyebrow. 

“I hate to ask but... what about in here?”

In the Impala?! In the sex mobile? Oh my god. I can’t. No fucking way. 

You met his eyes and found yourself shrugging. The alcohol made your head tingle and you couldn’t think straight when he was that close to you. You could smell his skin. His aftershave smelled like mint and his lips were so full. You closed your eyes, clamping them shut, as his hand rested against your cheek. His thumb stroked your cheek bone gently, and you opened your eyes to find his baring into your soul. 

Even in the darkness, you could make out every eyelash, every freckle, and every shade of green that danced around his pupil. He was so beautiful. He literally took your breath away. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He echoed in a whisper, his nose brushing against yours. His breath was warm against your lips. You’d read about it in books. The moment before a kiss, when your body would scream out for your partners touch. It all seemed like a little much, a little dramatic. You were wrong, it wasn’t dramatic, or too much, it was everything, and fuck were you happy to be wrong. 

His free hand tickled down your arm with gentle fingertips, like a cool breeze. His hand snaked around your body, pulling you closer. You were almost in his lap, his hand on your back. His palm was flat against your spine. His eyes flickered to yours before closing. He leaned in, only a second away from closing the space between you when you stop breathing. 

It was like your heart stopped. Like time slowed to a screeching halt. 

“Dean.” You say before you can stop yourself.

“Huh? What? You okay?” He leaned back, alarmed. “Did I...?”

“No.” You stopped him, resting your hands on his chest. “I just.. fuck I can’t believe I’m doing this.” You ran your fingers through your hair anxiously. “I just... I haven’t.. done this before.”

“In a car?” He tilted his head to the side.

“What? No. I mean.. yeah no. Not in a car.. or uh.. anywhere.”

His eyebrows raised, and his hand slid off your back in shock. “You’re a virgin?”

“To say the least.” Embarrassment rolled up your skin, and you wished with everything that you could curl up into yourself and disappear. 

“Damn.” He exhaled. “Didn’t know they made those anymore.” 

“Really?” You eyed him, a bit annoyed. You knew, from Sams stories, that he didn’t have much tact. “Seriously?”

“Sorry.” He laughed, breathlessly. “I’m just surprised. Did you and Sammy never?”

“What? No. Gross. He was like my brother.” 

Dean smiled a little. It looked genuine. Not like he was poking fun. The corners of his eyes wrinkled and he scratched the back of his head. “That’s good to hear. That’s real good to hear.” 

“Dean I... I’m not just a virgin.” You sighed. “I... I’ve never even kissed anyone. God it sounds pathetic. I’m twenty-four years old and I’ve never been kissed.” 

His eyes landed on you seriously. “Never?”

“Never.” 

You half expect him to laugh in your face. You half expect him to run outside, and grab Sam. You half expect yourself to bust into tears but instead he nodded. “And you were going to spend your first kiss...with me?”

“Yes.” You say, sadly. Your voice hitching in your throat. 

“Okay.” He whispered, putting the car back into gear. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, sadly. You didn’t want him to take you back to the bar. You wanted to just get out. You wanted to call a cab and go home, and shame spiral into a pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream. 

“Just trust me.” He said, offering you a smile, even though his eyes were serious. 

You sat back and tried to enjoy the ride, your eyes never moving from Dean. You could see his lip twitch like he was thinking. Like he was trying to think out loud, but not let you in on his secrets. “Dean...” 

“Hey, we’re here.” He said quickly, pulling over. 

You look around, squinting. In your time staring at him you didn’t notice that he’d driven you off into bum fuck nowhere. “Is this where you come to kill me?”

He laughed, louder than you expected, causing you to jump. “Shit. No, Y/N. Nobody is getting killed.” He eyed you before pressing his lips together. “You don’t... shit.. he did. Didn’t he?”

“He did... what?”

“He told you.”

“Told me what?”

He groaned. “Everything. He told you everything, didn’t he?”

You avoid his eyes, not wanting to get Sam into trouble. “Yeah. He did.” 

“And you still came with me?”

Your eyes flickered to his again. “Dean, he told me everything. Which means I know all about you.”

“And you still came...” He looked like the air got knocked out of him, as he swung the door open. He met you on your side, opening the door. “‘Mere.” 

You take the hand he’s offering a let him pull you out of the car. “What are we doing here?”

He pulled you to the front of the car, and put a hand on either side of your hips, hoisting you up until you sat on the hood of the car. You look at him surprised, realizing that he probably took you to this secluded location to ravish you, and heat crept up your skin again. 

“Wait.” He said, quietly. He came back a moment later with a couple of beers. “Here ya go.” He offered you one. 

You took it eagerly. Anything to quiet your mind. “Trying to liquor me up?” You joke.

“What? No...” He scratched the back of his head. 

“Then what?”

He turned his chin up and pointed. 

You follow his finger and your eyes are met with an endless stretch of dark, starlight sky. They were a thousand fireflies, glitter sprinkles on a New Years cupcake, a dozen candles on a church alter, and the flecks of gold in Deans eyes. The sight of all the twinkling, pale lights, against the black velvet sky took your breath away. You press your hand to your chest. “It’s... its so beautiful.” 

Your feel his fingers curled around yours in an instant. They squeeze gently. “Look.” He whispered, leaning in. His breath was warm against your ear, causing chills to creep up your spine, and the hair on the back of your neck to stand up. “Make a wish.” He said, pointing to a shooting star. It drug across the sky, and you close your eyes tightly. 

I want you to kiss me.

And he does. Before you can open your eyes you can feel the most gentle brush against your bottom lip. It was warm, and soft. Not like what you’d expect from someone with hands as rough as the one curled around your fingers. At first you weren’t sure if you really felt it. It was so gentle. Your lips stayed barely open, your cheeks flushed. “Dean...” You whispered.

“Yes?” You can feel his nose pressed to yours. 

“Kiss me again.”

He didn’t have to be asked. His hand reached for your cheek, holding you like something that was precious. Something that could be broken, and he brushed his lips against yours, a little harder this time. There was no question in your mind. You were kissing Dean Winchester. You could taste his beer on your lips, and you let him show you the way. He moved slowly his lips running along yours in a pucker and a release. 

You can feel yourself melting against him, as your arm moves around his shoulder. Your fingers grip his flannel in your hand. You can feel him smile against your lips, and it was so fucking exhilarating. 

His tongue ran along your bottom lip. It was warm, soft, and slick against your dry lips. Your mouth opened a bit wider, letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His tongue slipped into your mouth before you could even think about it. It touched yours, and electricity shot through you. 

Dean pulled you closer to him, letting his tongue explore your mouth. He bit gently on your bottom lip, and fuck it was so much better than in your dreams. His hands ran down your back, through your hair, gripping the back of your neck. He was gentle but insistent. He was a great teacher, and just when you thought it would be too much, that you’d melt away into nothing, like the shooting star in the deep night sky, he released your lips. His forehead pressed to yours and he smiled. You were both breathing hard and his eyes flickered to yours. 

“Sorry. I planned on waiting... but you just... looking up at the sky you were just so beautiful... I couldn’t not kiss you. Didn’t mean to cross a line.” 

You pulled away a bit and smiled, sheepishly. “There wasn’t a line.” You admitted. 

“Sammy really told you about me?”

“He talked about you every day.”

He reached forward and ran his thumb around your bottom lip. “He talked about you, too. When he would call. When he’d send postcards.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He did?”

“Mhm.” He said letting out a sigh. He reached into his wallet.

“This wasn’t one of those dates, Dean.” You teased him, eyeing his wallet.

He rolled his eyes and opened the wallet, from behind his ID he pulled out an old, folded photograph and he slid it to you. 

You take the photo and unfold it, once, twice. You stare at the photograph. It was old, and wrinkled, and obviously looked at hundreds of times. It was you. A Polaroid that Sam had taken on that first Summer break. You had a flower in your hair and you were laughing. 

“You’ve had this the whole time?” You asked him, peeling your eyes up from the picture to his soft, vulnerable eyes. 

“Yeah. He sent it to me with a post card saying he was sorry. He said he had to try. That you made him want to try for more, and I don’t know... maybe you made me want more, too.” 

Your eyes sting and you laugh a bit. “I dreamed about you every night, Dean.” 

“I dreamed about you, too.” He said quietly, reaching out to touch your cheek again, before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours for the third time. 

Dean Winchester owned your first three kisses, and if you had anything to say about it he would own every kiss for the rest of your life. The photograph felt heavy in your hand, as you opened your mouth, inviting him into you, inviting him closer, so you could melt into him like rain into the snow. And in the wake of the weight of the photo, you just hoped that you could live up to the girl in the picture, because he was sure living up to the man from your dreams. But he was Dean Winchester, after all, and you didn’t really expect anything else but exactly what he was all along. 

[southsidewrites]

“Why exactly do you need to find four-leaf clovers at 2AM?”

SHAMROCK SHENANIGANS: A RIVERDALE ST. PATRICK’S DAY DRABBLE COLLECTION

“Why exactly do you need to find four-leaf clovers at 2AM?”

Bughead & Sweet Pea  || Requested by @theheavycrown || 1122 Words

Sweet Pea woke up to the sound of banging on his door.  He flew into action, sliding out of bed and grabbing his pocketknife. Within seconds, he was at the door, weapon at the ready.  Then, the banging started again, this time with shouting.

“Open the door, Sweet Pea, it’s important!”

Jughead Jones. With a groan, Sweet Pea pocketed his knife and unlocked the door.  As soon as he pulled it open, Jughead was rushing in, a frenzied look on his face.

“What can I help you with, Jughead?” Sweet Pea asked sleepily.  Blinking away his exhaustion, he glanced at the clock on the microwave.  It was two in the morning, and whatever it was, he wanted nothing to do with it.

“I need your help with something,” he said, a little breathless. “Something important.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Sweet Pea said boredly.  He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What is it?”

“Four-leaf clovers,” Jughead said, finally catching his breath and giving Sweet Pea a steady look. “I need to find a four-leaf clover—as many as I can, really.”

Sweet Pea’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head confusedly. “Why exactly do you need to find four-leaf clovers at 2AM?”

“Well, um, you see—”

“Does this have anything to do with the dance next week.”

Jughead’s cheeks flushed red, and he stammered out a reply. “Maybe.”

Sweet Pea sighed, uncrossing his arms and flopping onto the couch. “Elaborate.”

“Well, you see, you know I’ve been wanting to ask out Betty for a while now, and I think this is the perfect opportunity to do it.” He looked down at his friend with a small smile. “But, I—um—”

“You’re afraid she won’t say yes?” Sweet Pea asked, confused. “Why would you think that?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter why!” Jughead exclaimed, grabbing at his beanie anxiously. “All that matters is that I’m kind of nervous, and I could use all the luck I can get.  Tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s Day, so what better time to go find some four-leaf clovers for a little extra luck?”

“Tomorrow?” Sweet Pea glanced at the clock. “You mean today?”

Jughead tossed his hands in the air with exasperation. “Are you going to help me or not, Sweet Pea?”

Sweet Pea sighed, his shoulders heaving. “Fine, I’ll help you.  Just give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

~

The grass was cold and damp beneath Jughead’s knees.  He and Sweet Pea had been scouring the park for hours, searching every inch of earth for a four-leaf clover.  Each of them was equipped with nothing but a flashlight and a ziplock baggie in case one appeared.

“Any luck yet?” Sweet Pea asked, shifting his flashlight so that he was holding it against his body with his elbow. “Cause I’ve got absolutely nothing over here.”

“No, still nothing,” Jughead sighed.  He bit back a yawn, his vision starting to blur with the lack of sleep. “Lots of normal three-leaf ones, but those are useless.”

“Same here.” With a groan, Sweet Pea rolled over, flopping back on the wet grass. “Why are you so caught up on this, man?  Do you really need luck to ask Betty to the dance?  I mean, even if it weren’t obvious that she’s just as into you as you’re into her, you’re a—” His voice caught, and he made a face like the words tasted bad. “You’re a charming enough guy.”

Jughead barked out a laugh, rolling over to lie on the grass with Sweet Pea. “Sweet Pea, did you just call me a charming enough guy?”

“Nope,” he replied, pulling his phone out of the pocket to check the time. “I surely did not.”

He rolled his eyes, smiling slightly. “Alright, Sweet Pea, whatever you say.” Jughead absentmindedly pulled up fistfuls of grass, looking up at the stars as he fought to keep his eyes open.  Both boys were silent for a moment, just watching the stars and the few wispy clouds drifting across the moonlit sky.

Then, Jughead broke the silence. “So, you really think I don’t need the extra luck.”

“Nah,” Sweet Pa yawned heavily. “But I do think we need to get our asses to bed before the sun rises.”

“You’re probably right,” Jughead agreed.  With another long yawn, he pushed himself up on his elbows, not even caring how wet the grass had made him.

“Damn, dude, you sure did a number on the grass,” Sweet Pea observed, hauling himself to his feet.  With one hand, he reached down to help Jughead up.  Jughead didn’t take his hand, though.  Instead, he was staring at the little pile of grass he had yanked up.

“Sweet Pea, is that—”

Sweet Pea’s eyes narrowed, and he looked down at the pile of dirt, grass, and leaves. “No fucking way.”

Sitting at the top of the pile, perfectly plucked from the ground, was a four-leaf clover. With a wide grin, Jughead picked it up, cradling it almost delicately. “I can’t believe it.”

Shaking his head, Sweet Pea’s lips curved into an amused grin. “Looks like you just might get lucky after all, Jones.”

~

With his lucky clover stashed in the pocket of his flannel shirt, Jughead strode into Pop’s. He and Betty had been planning to meet to work on the Blue & Gold, but he had other plans.  She was already there when he got there, and she had already ordered his usual.

“Hey, Betts,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking along with his beating heart. “How’s it going?”

“Really good!” She smiled brightly as she looked up at him.  She had on a shamrock sweater that made her eyes look greener than usual. “Happy St. Patrick’s Day, by the way.”

“You, too.” He sat down across from her, taking a steadying breath.  With a shaky hand, he picked up a fry and popped it into his mouth. “Hey, Betty, there’s, um, something I wanted to ask you.”

Betty’s lips curved into a soft grin, and she seemed to be biting back a wider smile. “Of course, Jug.  What’s up?”

“Would you maybe want to—” He took a deep breath, and the rest of his words rushed out in a stream. “Go to the dance with me next week?”

Her smile widened, and she was nodding before he even finished the question. “Absolutely, Juggie.  I would love to.”

Jughead’s face broke into an excited grin. “Really?”

“Of course, really,” she laughed.  She reached across the table and took his hand in hers. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

With one hand, he fingered at the pocket of his shirt, feeling the outline of the little clover hiding within. “I guess it’s my lucky day.”

[betterlving]

skylight.

draw a line in my life. i fly 13 hours across the world curled into a plane seat watching the sun rise and set and rise again, like god is flicking a light switch on and off. i try not to cry as i look out the window and think about best friends, think about laughing together in the morning, at night, at dusk and dawn and always and forever. am i forgetting how it felt?

i don’t remember flying into seattle except the skyline. my heart always beats different on the west coast. my bag comes late, i stand in a security line for 40 minutes, i take three different trains, i pee after holding it for 15 hours. i run through an airport full of bearded hipsters wearing flannel on flights to alaska. i sit on the floor and eat salt and vinegar chips, i board a flight to portland. i haven’t spoken to another human being in over 15 hours. i wear a sweatshirt in the summer and i smell like sweat. yet i love traveling.

isn’t it lovely, i’ll never hold you. i land in portland and smile when i see my family again- the first time i’ve seen the three of them together in over 6 months. we drive through portland and it’s green, greener than i’ve seen in a while. there are bridges over rivers (there are moments of collapse) and the sky is blue, the weather tame- everyone on the streets is tattooed and doing something a hipster would do: drinking beer, walking a dog down the street, reading a book.

i think about los angeles and the never ending sunshine. the dirty streets with flat roofed buildings, about the winding coast and the fog that cools the air in the morning and burns off throughout the day. i think about the sunshine and smiling and blue skies, i think about traffic on the 405 and the 101 and the 5 and the 10. i don’t want to go home. i want to live among pine trees and palm trees where the world seems quieter, calmer, more in a state of peace. i don’t want to have to make another decision ever again and i think if i flew 5 hours every day i wouldn’t mind, i wouldn’t mind living in another dimension.

i think about san diego, about the buildings on the water, about my aunt’s small house in a neighborhood i’ve only visited twice but has always felt like home to me. why i love you enough to say it. sometimes i cry when i listen to certain songs not because they’re sad or because one minute and thirty eight seconds isn’t long enough- just because they remind me so much of the hot sand and the way my heart felt. i love you like it’s the old days- windows down driving north, santa cruz and then san francisco and inside jokes, laughter, the best days on earth. 

what do i have to be nervous for? i visited seattle once. my uncle who is only related to me by marriage has family that live on an island where they grow corn and drink root beer and talk to me like they’ve known me my whole life. i’m on my way, i’m wandering. there is something clear and definitive about the pacific northwest even though i’ve been twice, only in the summer, never in the grey. i don’t know how grey it really gets and though i’m a little too afraid to find out, i sort of want to test the waters.

suddenly i find i’ve got darkness on my mind. the winter bears down over me and this year was anger, this year was so angry. i was angry and i know that’s weak. there was so much longing for something i didn’t have and something that was so far away from me. i wasn’t living up to expectations and i was trying my best but at the end of the day i was a monster, screaming and yelling with no other ways to release my emotions but to be furious all the time. drowning out my sadness with anger. i didn’t want to be hopeless again, didn’t want to lie in bed all day and do nothing but i had hope, i had such big hopes for the future but the future was so far away. 

i smoked weed in the spring. left the door to my basement open and lit up outside, looking at the planes flying by overhead and the green branches tangling the wall. whatever you’re feeling is natural. i smiled more, i made it through to the summer. i flew to connecticut, slept in a hundred degree dorm, made friends, laughed harder than i have in a long time. whatever you’re feeling is alright. i tried not to cry when i left and flew back home, alone, not excited to see my family.

low light at dawn. i fly 13 hours across the world and get off a plane in a country where everything is written in characters that i can’t understand. i hug my best friend for the first time in two years and the next three weeks blend together too fast but they’re what i needed, there’s no way to say that they aren’t. we went to the beach one day. i stood in the water and thought about california all the way across the pacific, thought about the atlantic two hours away from my house, in virginia, not somewhere i think of as home. home is standing in the water in kamakura, in japan, with someone i love. i got this feeling like i’ll always love you. 

but it ends. days later, i drive over a bridge from oregon to washington while the sun sets purple pink orange and then indigo. i sit in the grass while a deer sits two feet away from me, sniffing curiously. mount hood is visible in the distance, the moon a thin white crescent in the sky. when everything turns black and the distance disappears, the stars shine overhead like they’re promising me i’ll be back soon. i haven’t seen the stars in months. leave your light on. 

[sodkey]

Alright, I meant to make this post yesterday (and ofc now I’m rewriting from earlier), but I really want to talk about what I’m trying to do in regards to Harold’s design.

He is still, overall, going to have the same style + vibe be given off from his outfit. I just want a refreshed look to signify the change he has gone through in his life and be recognizable as being part of the second chapter of his journey.

I’m keeping his round glasses. Those are here to stay. While I want his style to remain serious, I still want that element of dorkiness that we know and love.

In regards to his top... This is where I’m a little stumped. I am keeping to earthy tones and button-ups for this (although a tightly-knitted sweater was VERY tempting), but I’m not sure if I want to keep the green shirt and change his style of wearing it or change the shirt and keep his style of wearing it.

I think his style of wearing a button-up is very much him and I’m scared that changing it may take away from his character. However, the same could be said for the shirt.

I do kind of connect that green shirt to OWOSENPAI now, though. He keeps it throughout the last installment, but he is still majorly under OWOSENPAI’s influence up until the end (wink wink).

The flannel he was wearing during his livestream yesterday I was really digging as a point on inspiration.

While having it open wouldn’t be much like Harold, I do wonder if having an exposed undershirt would be a good idea. I probably wouldn’t do yellow for him, but... I don’t know, I’ll play around with the concept until I figure it out.

Definitely would be having some color adjust be done to the shirt as well, to give it greener tones overall.

I’m unsure of whether, when tucked, the shirt would be billowed out or kept straight by shirt garters. My guess is that having it billowed out would might fit him best, but just a tad neater than the below example.

I do kind of like the idea of him switching out the green shirt for green pants too, like these:

Not a full picture, but I think you get the idea.

Other things I’ve been thinking about is whether he would wear high-rise khaki pants or not, whether he would wear boots or sneakers, and how to present him him as thinking more clearly.

Right now, I’m thinking his hair is going to be much shorter and his beard is gonna be a bit better kept. He’s still going to look a bit scruffy, particularly through having messy hair, but definitely appearing a little more kept together than before.

I don’t have any other notes for this right now, so here you go. :)

[destroyyourbinder]

rethinking butch while doing my laundry in buckets at 8 PM

You know, I never thought there would be anything on this earth that could make me re-think my commitment to pants over skirts and dresses, a vow I had made to myself over and over again since my childhood days of being crammed into tights and lace, but doing my laundry in a series of five gallon buckets in the bathtub of our dingy apartment was it.

I was thinking yesterday, while staring into our shared closet and remembering when I had a purple closet full of clothes that I had to tug at, clothes that I tried to ignore that they existed even when I was wearing them, that I probably haven't worn a skirt outside of a Halloween costume in almost fifteen years. When I moved out of my parents' house I ditched my last one, a vintage skirt that had always stayed on its hanger, part of a pair with a yellow blazer that I had loved but didn't fit anymore. I felt vindicated, but a bit lost, as if a high school presentation was going to leap out of the void at any time and make me regret my decision. I didn't bring any skirts with me here, to the city; it felt daring and somehow pathetic at the same time, a sign of how stunted my life had been that it seemed like a bold move at all. It was a tiny hop into the deep end of a lesbian kiddie pool. Skirts do lurk around the corner at any old thrift store, but somehow I felt like there was no going back; I had banished them, and they would not return.

My girlfriend and I share most of our clothes, as we're close in size-- she's a bit broader, I'm a bit taller-- and our clothing tastes are pretty similar. She has her favorites, and I have mine, and we don't tend to share pants or shoes due to the particulars of how we wear them out, but the rest are a big indeterminately owned mass of potential dress options. The thing is is that she's supposed to be a "man"; she still lives a life where she doesn't tell people she's detransitioned, generally, and most people take her to be outright male or a trans man. I'm not supposed to be a man; I don't pass except maybe from afar and behind, and I assume I mostly come across as tired and dumpy and gay. I don't really know if people notice that our shirts and shorts and socks swap between and across us. Maybe they're too confused by the other things going on with us to see that one. When we worked together doing early morning stocking we used to fuck with people, we'd switch our jackets and hats every so often and see who we could fool, which was way too many people at way too close a range for a pair of human beings supposed to be at the opposite poles of Gender. Nobody was particularly apologetic about it either when they mistook us, even though that kind of outright misgendering is supposed to be a major faux pas. They usually just laughed in a way that indicated that, well, of course. I laugh in the same way when people tell me that Trans Men are Men, that everyone treats them just like any other male person, that nobody knows they aren't male, that they never experienced sexism and never will, that the gap between them and A Woman is incomprehensibly large. A waiter's never handed me the check at the diner when I was out with a dude, but they do it all the time when I'm with my girlfriend, and then she has to use the men's room after dinner.

I've somehow gotten more "masculine" since I stopped seeing myself as transgender, which I think might surprise people who know nothing about the process of desisting or reidentifying or detransition, but doesn't surprise women who have been through this. I feel a lot less neurotic about wearing men's clothes, about buzzing my hair off, about being hairy elsewhere and not hiding it, about stepping out into the world as an unacceptable female person, uncontained and unbridled, edging in on men's turf. The stakes aren't quite as high, now, honestly, even though they're higher than they have been before. I don't have my family to fall back on if I lose my job due to being an unrepentant dyke, but now that I'm not in her house, I don't worry about my mother discovering my secrets, including that I'm not the daughter she wanted me to be. I'm scared to go out after 7 PM if I can't sufficiently cover up the fact that I'm female, but my entire sense of self worth isn't riding on whether or not someone perceives my ham-handed attempts at not-being-female correctly. I worry about my rent, but I don't worry about where exactly it is men pull up their socks to on their legs, and I don't worry about whether I'm not really worthy of living if I can't do it right, because I don't worry about if I'm not really a man or just a fuck-up of a woman, and I don't worry about whether or not a fuck-up of a woman is the worst thing I could possibly be. Well, I worry about it sometimes, still, because it matters to other people, even if I don't think it matters to me. But I've stopped trying to compensate for my fuck-ups by wearing the right earrings with my undercut, or hiding my breasts under a binder, hidden under a blouse. I can leave the house without having twenty thousand insecurities about the masculinity or femininity of my leg hair growth pattern or the color-contrast of my lips. So I leave the house in shit my nine year old self would probably appreciate: a flannel, a shirt with a cat on it, yellow pants with functioning pockets. I try to take stupid thoughts about whether the pocket style of said pants makes my butt look girly the same way I took my skirts, which is to chuck them out in honor of living a life without gender neuroses.

They always say that gender is culturally contextual, limited to time and place, and while we all pay lip service to that in some way or another when we get mad that our favorite historical figure got parsed as one thing or another, I think we all like to think we would be butch lesbians or trans men or whatever it is we are in another life, that we probably wouldn't have ended up like our great-grandmothers but something like female husbands, passing soldiers and sailors, instead. I spent a lot of time as a kid wondering why the hell girls did this or that, wasn't it harder, it's so stupid; I felt so betrayed when I hit middle school, and everyone was tripping over their purses, pursed lips in candy-sparkle lipgloss, on the way to idolize boys. I wanted to be among boys, I wanted to be a boy, somehow at the same time I thought girls were stupid for admiring them in the other way. I think a lot of us carry this into adulthood; we figure femininity's a bunch of dumb crap we can't be bothered to do, and besides we're unsuited for it, constitutionally incapable of hoisting a tube of fabric above our pooch. We escaped from it because we kept our heads (non) straight or maybe because it wicked off us like pink droplets on a Teflon pan, which we definitely use to make burgers with and not cute hors d’oeuvres. We know what a dress means and how it works, and we know how it makes us feel, and we know we would never wear it, not on a desert island nor to our sister's wedding.

After washing my clothes in a bucket, I don't think you should do disservice to your grandmothers like that. I had to sit on one of my other buckets-- there are three in this clothes washing system-- and think for a bit about what the hell I was doing with all this gender and anti-gender shit, what the fuck I was doing with my life at all. Because the thought I had, which surprised me, was that pants are fucking bullshit. They're fucking bullshit when you wash your clothes by hand, which is what generations of women did before me. My value system got turned upside down; I spent my whole life thinking skirts and dresses were frilly nonsense, floofery intended to hold women back from participating in the world, an "easy access" hole to parts I didn't want to exist. And it's not like that isn't true: women's dresses and skirts have been artificially cumbersome throughout history, full of engineered contraptions to enhance women's decorative-sexual living-pornography value, whether literally stuffed with metal cages and yards of fluff or whether tightly drafted to form a second skin. When you can't fucking sit down or lift your legs or bend over it's a problem, when your teeth chatter in the winter on your way to school it's a problem, when you can't be a lawyer or a senator without wearing the appropriate kind of Leg Tube it's a problem. It was a problem when my mom put me in a velvet thing that rested just above my knees, and I wasn't allowed to play or even spread my legs while I was in it, lest I render myself an obscene five year old girl. But the Leg Tube isn't the problem, it's all the other shit, and I had never taken that seriously, never really dug into it, until I had to confront the inconvenience of manually sloshing around my pants for ten minutes.

I had confused symbolism for reality. I thought I was done with that, over that, now that I was out of the trans shit. I was living in some patriarchal dollhouse, and I had thought I busted out, but now I'm in another one, better maybe, but just as artificial, because the grass being greener over here all hinged on having a washing machine. When do I get to leave? I am suddenly afraid I'll spend my life in an infinite nested universe of misogynist fuckery, having existential crises about the fridge or maybe the carpet next.

I guess my girlfriend and I got into what you might call "urban homesteading" by accident. We didn't set out to do this out of convictions or philosophy, it was mostly because we were cheap, and also we're lazy in a certain kind of baffling ADHD way where it's easier to make a curtain with your two damn hands than navigate thirty, fifty pages of advertising-merchandising to find one that will ship to your house for not-sixteen-dollars . Car insurance in this town is absurd, so we just don't have a vehicle. We also don't turn on the heat in the winter, or the air conditioning in the summer. We bake bread, make yogurt, make shampoo, wash out and reuse plastic zipper bags, don't flush the toilet for stretches of time. Clothes get patches upon patches, breadcrumbs go in a jar, there are lots of systems for a lot of things that nobody really thinks about anymore. My dad told me his family used to sleep on the porch of their farmhouse in the summer; I can't do that here, but it comes to mind anyway. He was from that kind of people where you did it yourself or you didn't do it at all, German farm folk born in nineteen-oh-something; my mom was from people that didn't do it at all, her father too drunk to give a shit, her mother feeding her seven kids out of cans. There's a weird mix of shame and pride when you end up doing your laundry in buckets, dual gene lines, dual angel-devils sitting on my shoulders: someone clapping me on the back for my resourcefulness, a job well done, and someone asking me why the hell I stooped to this when there's a washer in the basement, didn't I work hard so you didn't have to live this way.

We saw it on YouTube and thought we could save some money on electricity or water because our landlord isn't going to replace our 30-plus years old washing machine anytime soon. I thought maybe doing it in the buckets would help my busted brain a little, 'cause I could do it every couple days, fifteen minutes at a time, instead of in big piles once a week. I like shit I can touch or otherwise it doesn't feel real, I can't keep track of it, it feels like the sort of work women with tight lips and long nails do and they make their lips tighter when I can’t hack it. There could be a system, tangible, clothes I can see in places where they belong, hands on a plunger pushing soap and water and fabric up and down, you can tell if they got clean yet or not if you open the lid. I don't like dumping them in a machine, an unknown hole of productivity, input-output, assembly line nonsense. I'm not productive anyway, so what do I care?

When you're doing your laundry by hand like this something occurs to you, which is that this is a lot of work, and maybe you don't want to be doing this all the time, so you should be careful with how dirty your clothes get. I realized real quick I wasn't going to be doing this every day, and that it would be wasteful, worse than the water usage of some old-ass washer to try. You start realizing how dumb it is to wear your clothes once and only once before you wash them, as you plunge up and down, up and down. It occurs to you that ten minutes is a pretty long amount of time, even though you're in your late twenties and winter just showed up again and you keep wondering where the hell the time goes anymore. You start resenting how stupid and arbitrary it is that you're supposed to be squeaky clean in public, that stains and wear are unacceptable, that they mean anything at all about anybody except that they live a life and entropy exists. You think that if you have to put this much arm power into washing your clothes, then how much power has to go into a damn washer, and you start thinking about the arms that shovel coal out of the ground, into rail-cars, into boilers. You start getting real mad about how much shit the world puts people through just so clothes can get clean and floors can get clean and skin can get clean and nothing will look like it's ever been touched except by a very conscientious housewife. Your brain starts contriving things while your arms are going, like some wild-haired inventor, like maybe if you had an underlayer of clothing all the time you could just wash that and the outer layer would be allowed to get dirty for a while. Brilliant! And then you feel stupid because well, that's what we always did until you could dump your shit into an electric machine, and then they raised the standards to keep women busy doing something they didn't need to do. It occurs to you that pants are dumb because they're heavy and sopping wet, one big lump of fabric, and you can't wear an underlayer unless it's really cold outside. It occurs to you that pants are not worth it unless you are doing certain kinds of manual labor all the time or you need to protect your legs. You understand why the women in YouTube videos about washing your clothes in buckets are really mad at their husbands and sons, and some generational rage takes hold of your arms as you agitate the clothes in the bucket. Why do men get to be dirty in their stupid pants. Why do women have to clean them. You never want to hear anybody talk about fashion ever again. You never want to hear anybody talk about the gender of clothes again unless they've wrung out denim in anger and they're willing to wring a man's neck the same. Now you get to drain the bucket. Now you get to refill the bucket with clean water and agitate again. Now you get to drain the bucket and press the water out of your clothes with the full bucket. Now you get to hang up your clothes over your tub.

When I stopped seeing myself as transgender I told myself I would consider very carefully the value of anything I did, and I would let practicality and ethics dictate my life rather than sucking up to gender, to men, to the women pandering to them and afraid I wasn't going to. It's taken me some wild places, for real, and I didn't think it would take me to a place where I was questioning wearing pants. But given this, I find myself all the same cringing at wearing a skirt or something else other than those damn pants, other than the thing that men wear and women fought for, willing to violate my newfound guiding forces... and for what? Butch cred? Womanly pride? Can't I just shove it all in the washing machine and stop thinking about this? Do I need to live in the woods to tie something around my waist and get on with my life? If I've learned anything there's really nothing neutral when it comes to gender shit, and no matter how far you get in processing the patriarchy there's always something else at the bottom of a bucket, a broom, a sink strainer. How many years worth of women have had these thoughts while scrubbing something, however they cut their fucking hair? I try to focus more on that these days, rather than what I call myself or what pronoun I use. My grandmother, my mother, all those girls in my class who I thought were big idiots, the women out there bigger and badder and butcher than me, the trans men I envied for living in my dream world, all these female people I defined myself against all these years, we all end up here, staring into a drain, hoping the man won't crush us. When does it end? I want it to end. I'm done spinning my head in circles about the cut of my jeans, whether I wear jeans at all, and I hope you are too.