#which oddly included the garage doors

[nerdierholler]

Soooo, super enjoying the recent power outages that have fried one (inexpensive) surge strip and one (not so inexpensive) battery back up. They did their job though and no computers have been fried but still. Usually the power is extremely reliable and I like our power company (I know, who says stuff like that) but our corner of the grid has been kinda wonky lately.

[elliescumslvt]

RUIN ME - Ellie Williams

Mechanic AU Ellie Williams x AFAB (assigned female at birth) reader. There is no use of Y/N, or a chosen name for the reader. 2.5k words

Content Includes: oral sex/cunnilingus (reader receiving), kissing, cursing, pet names (pretty, baby, ex), sub!reader + dom!ellie, and overall vivid descriptions of sexual activity.

A/N: I apologize for how long it took me to put out another one-shot. I hope to start writing more again soon. :D Please comment with any suggestions about how I can improve my writing, or characters!

My fingers grip the wheel as I turn into the garage. For the third time this month, my car has an issue. First was my brakes, then my spark plugs needed replacing, and now my oil needed refilling. I push down on the brakes with aggravation as I park the car. I twist the key out of the ignition with one hand, and my other flies to the door handle. My fingers curl around the plastic, and yank on it. I kick the door open, and slide my body out of the vehicle. An exasperated breath leaves my lips as I now push the door back into place. 

My feet work quickly on the dirtied concrete floor. I could hear grunting from across the garage, and assume it was my familiar mechanic. My previously furrowed brows lift as I walk around a car to see a woman with auburn brown hair. The person in question pushes themself out from underneath a Honda, and stands up. They brush off any dust collected onto their coveralls before looking down. 

“Hello? What's got you all riled up?” Her lip jerks into a smirk as she peers at my frustrated state with amusement. As I notice this, my eyes wander around the rest of her face. Freckles litter her skin in a way which almost contours her nose. Her hair is half pulled back into a small ponytail, and is ruffled around her forehead. Strands stick out in random directions, only effectively catching my attention for a moment. What distracts me more is the woman's striking sage eyes, and pink cracked lips. Overall she looks scruffy, but in an oddly appealing way. 

“I’m sorry-” My voice slices through the air with an intensity which wasn’t intended, “Is Jesse here? My car needs an oil fill.” Unbeknownst to me, my eyes were morphing into slits as I glared at the mechanic. Additionally my lips are pouty with anger, and my hips tilt with a similar sass. 

The woman only chuckles, and rips off a glove. My sight follows her hand as she wipes her forehead. “Sorry, but Jesse isn’t here today. I’d be happy to tell him that-” She sticks her hand out to point at me, as if to ask for my name.

“Doesn’t matter. I can’t wait until tomorrow.” I am fast to respond. Both hands of mine dart to my head, and push against my temples. I rub them in hopes to soothe my increasingly growing anxiety. 

The mechanic observes my stressed state, and takes a step forward. She rests a hand on my upper arm, and pushes the limb down gently. “No need to get your panties into a twist, ey?” Her tone is still one of amusement as she speaks, but now includes a hint of false comfort. 

Her eyes sparkle as her thumb starts to rub rhythmically on my forearm. 

“Lucky for you, I’m always happy to do extra work for pretty girls.” I watch as her lips stretch into a prideful smile. 

All of my facial muscles quickly relax, and my mouth gapes open slightly. “Oh uh, thank you-” My eyes wander down her coveralls and rest upon an embroidered name tag, “Ellie.” In comparison to just moments ago, my voice is a lot softer. I suddenly feel awkward, and apologetic for my previously uncalled for attitude. 

“Always my pleasure.” Ellie’s tongue passes over her lip as she talks. Her eyes momentarily glint with something devilish. She begins to walk over to my car, determination laced in her steps. Her short hair sways with the wind and I watch it intently as we cross the cement. 

I lean against my headlights as Ellie reaches down to grab the car hood edge. As she lifts it, I watch her muscles contort under the pressure. I shield my eyes immediately from the sight. However, my efforts prove fruitless. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand dive deep into the car front. I suck my lip to be between my teeth, and grind down on the flesh. Thoughts run wild in my head, and I curse internally. 

After a few moments, Ellie stands up straight. She lets out a heavy sigh, and stares at the engine with a perplexed expression. “The problem is definitely not your oil.” She confirms my growing suspicions with a solemn tone.

This time I curse aloud, and my lip returns to its previous position. If I wasn’t so enthralled with my self pity, I would have noticed Ellie tracing my mouth with an enticing look. “I can’t deal with this shit.” I mumble under my breath. My eyes search the floor frantically as I try to think of a solution. When my mind turns up blank, I look to the mechanic with extreme plead. 

“It’s alright..” She responds in a soothing tone before taking a short pause. Her brows lift almost as if she had a realization. “Let me give you a distraction” Ellies’ tone switches to something more sultry and all promising. 

I inspect her demeanor for a minute while I try to find the underlying meaning of her proposal. Her pupils are swollen and her irises sparke. The hands which had been on the vehicle now shake at her sides with anticipation. “What.. What do you mean?” I can not help to hide the intrigue in my voice. 

Her smile grows with a newfound confidence from my words. She moves fast, fueled by a secret determination. Soon enough, the car hood is slammed shut and she begins to pat the red aluminum. “C’mere pretty.” The words pass through her curved lips naturally, and cause a chill to pass over my spine.

I take a hesitant step forward, and slowly turn my body around. I use my hands to push down on the hood, which lifts me up. Ellies’ hands fly to my waist, and she assists me. Once I am sat, the mechanic inches closer to me. My legs are forced to spread open to allow her to stand between them. Surprisingly, her limbs never leave my form despite my stable condition. My face muscles lift into a shocked expression, and I’m left speechless.

“I have been non stop thinking about this ever since you walked your pretty ass over to me.” Ellie admits with a smug face. Her hands start to rub up and down over my hips, and a digit catches on my clothing. I watch her eyes trail over my curves and up to my awaiting face. 

I am practically frozen in a state of shock. My face undoubtedly exposes my uncertainty, though whether Ellie saw and chose to ignore it or was too ravished with me is unknown. In a pathetic attempt to speak, my mouth gapes open slightly. My company notices this in an instant, but only chuckles at my struggling. “Do you want me to stop? Because if not, you should know I only intend to ruin you.” She talks in such a sensual and commanding way that I cannot stop the groan that escapes me. 

At this, Ellie suddenly snaps. Her body pushes against mine and her mouth greets my lips. I am momentarily unmoving, but as her tongue runs along my bottom lip my consciousness slides back into place. I reciprocate her desperation as our lips slide together. Saliva soon coats our skin, only allowing us to kiss more effectively. My lips part open to gasp as a hand snakes around my neck, stabilizing me. Ellie uses her current height advantage as she pulls backwards to crane my neck. Our heads are essentially parallel as we collide. Her forgotten hand abruptly lands on my chest. She now gropes the fatty skin through fabric, her fingers applying rhythmical pressure. This entices a groan to rumble in my held throat. 

Our mouths never leave each other as she lifts a leg. A knee ends up between the middle of my thighs, but doesn’t move any closer to my core. Thoughtless in the kiss, I happily accept the bony intrusion. Ellie leans her body daringly harsher on mine, which forces my legs to spread even further. My hips allow this stretch, though it stings and is unfamiliar. I whine against the car enthusiast's lips. Our skin pleasantly vibrates against each other, and this time coaxes a moan from Ellie. Her tongue returns to my entrances, and pokes at it impatiently. As soon as my foggy brain senses this, my mouth moves to provide an entryway. The damp muscle presses against the fleshy roof, before the tip licks at it. I struggle to verbalize my pleasure since a hand is still wrapped tightly around my neck. Only weak guttural shaking presents itself. When Ellie feels this, she tightens her digits to squeeze even harder. 

Without warning, a knee shoves against my pulsing core. The sheer contrast of temperature in the skin creates an odd nerve rattling sensation. Her knee digs deeper before starting the move up and down. The polyester of her coveralls rubs against my thin clothing article. My thoughts become clouded with dirty sin.

Lost in pleasure, I lose momentum in the kiss. Ellie struggles to keep up the arousing clash of our lips alone. With a frustrated grumble, she pulls her head away from mine. Eyes flooded with lust glare at mine. “Can’t even handle my knee, Baby?” My cunt throbbing intensifies at her taunting words. “Such a pussy drunk whore.” She spits. I am not only shocked at the harsarity of her words, but also the reaction of my body. The degradation only adds to my overflowing pleasure. 

The combination of friction against my core and Ellies’ voice lures a loud whimper. A beating force in my groin becomes intoxicatingly present. I grind my hips down against her knee in desperation, my ass sliding along the car hood. As if overwhelmed by my pathetic display, Ellies' head falls into the crook of my neck. She lets out low grunts as she continues to grind her knee into me. Her lips are so close to my ears that I swear I am able to feel my drums quaking. They shake against my inner flesh, and rattle my mind. I am so bombarded with pleasing sensations that my eyes squeeze and I cry out into the garage. 

Her hand groping my breast falls off, and lands on the hood. She flexes her fingers before using the arm to steady herself. Now her leg thrusts are much faster and reach deeper between my legs. Soft cracked lips press against the skin under my ear. I squirm beneath Ellie, and my jaw goes slack, no longer preventing myself from expressing my bliss. “I… I’m-” My brain cannot fathom to form words as my nerves are being inflicted with such delight. 

“Aw, are you close?” Ellie teases. She speaks through low laughter, and the expulsion of air blows onto my neck. 

My core tightens with ecstasy. Filthy nothings leave me as I grow even closer to bliss than before. I can feel my arousal soak through the fabric of my pants and onto Ellie’s. Just as I am about to snap, Ellie’s leg retreats from between my thighs. She presses a feather light kiss on my neck pulse, before pulling away.

She watches my face contort into a distraught expression. A boisterous chuckle echoes throughout the garage as the mechanic tosses her head back. “I couldn’t end this so soon, could I?” Her lips morph into a taunting smile, and her head tilts slightly to the side. I frown in dismay at her obvious attempt to play innocent. 

There is a soft thud as she sets her foot onto the tar. A hand then slowly moves toward my face, and cups it. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” Ellie coos, her voice contradictingly soft in comparison to before. As she speaks, her knees start to bend. My eyes widen as I watch her slowly go down to crouch. Her face is now directly between my trembling thigh muscles, which slightly hang off the hood of the car. I can not bring myself to respond, as I am so shocked. Based on her previous statements, I anticipated Ellie to quickly get me off before fixing my car. However, that was everything but her intentions.

Rough hands travel to my waist, and experienced fingers work quickly to unbutton my pants. Her green eyes are narrowed into concentrated slits as she diligently unclothes me. Soon my pants are discarded somewhere on the cold flooring, my panties following. Her gaze twists into something more sinister as she stares at my dampened core. My folds glisten under the harsh overhead lights, and my clit is pink and throbbing. She observes my hole clenching around the air, and her lips turn into a frown. 

“El-” Just as I begin to say her name, Ellie’s face plants itself against my sex. Her tongue hungrily laps at my core, and her eyes flutter close as she admires the taste. On the contrary, my eyes grow wider. I pant out a curse, and my hands snake down into her hair. My fingers greedily pull at her auburn strands, pathetically attempting to pull her even closer. Abruptly, her muscle starts to drag up and down my folds. It gathers my juices before plunging inside of me. I moan at the impure sight of Ellie eating me out while I am sat atop my car. 

Her hands push down on my thighs, and pull them together. They cage her head in, though she seems to enjoy it. I highly doubt her ability to breathe, but she doesn’t seem to flinch. On the contrary, my entire body is shaking with delight. I cannot help but tighten my hold on her hair and yank her even closer. I don’t just need her against me, but enveloping my whole being. 

As my brain shivers with delight, it begins to dangerously wonder. If anyone were to stumble into the garage, they would be met with certainly a sight. One woman sat up on a car hood while another kneels before her and pleasures her. 

Ellie’s tongue works hard to bring me to my climax. My moans echo against the concrete walls. I suddenly feel her hum against me, which vibrates my wet folds. My core tightens and loosens uncomfortably, which causes my eyes to squeeze shut. 

“Come on, Baby. Cum on my face.” Ellie pulls her face just far enough from my sex to mumble. She speaks in such a soothing tone, that I feel I must comply. My orgasm washes over me, a slow calm wave. My nerves tingle underneath my skin as the sensation passes through. Heavy pants are the only sound being emitted from Ellie or I. Her eyes are wide and focused as she watches me.

 Once the climax has almost entirely run its course, Ellie finally draws her attention away from my lower body. Our eyes meet and we share a soft silent conversation. There is no doubt in my mind, and in hers, that I will be coming back to the garage again soon.

[bowieandqueen11]

Tobey!Peter Parker Dating A Plus Size Reader Would Include...

Request: Hello! I know I sent requests for "random request go!" so feel free to ignore me. I was just wondering - I was reading again your Spider-Man stuff (cause it is FANTASTIC <3 ) and I saw that in your note to "Andrew!Peter x Plus Size!Reader" you said that if anybody would ever want to, you'd be willing to write Tobey!Peter x Plus Size!Reader too. I was wondering if that's still the case. Cause if yes, I'd love to see it one day! No pressure of course, you can skip it if you want! Have a great day!

Oh my gosh lovely of course I will thank you so much, I didn't think anyone actually read those notes aha but I'm so happy you did!! Between Across the Spiderverse (which I still haven't seen yet I'm so slow!) and the Insomniac Spiderman trailer I am being well fed :)

Warning: mentions of blood/injury!

(I do not own Spider-Man or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @fmribeiro01.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

I'm not joking even THINKING about this as a concept is making me squeal because like?? Tobey Peter?? Omg. Absolutely adores you. 24/7, non stop heart eyes motherfcker. Be ready for him to give you looks of such gut wrenching love and vulnerability that you'll just want to squish his cheeks together and kiss his forehead like the puppy he is.

You were 100% Peter's childhood crush, no question asked. You were always invited around to Peter's birthday parties, where the two of you would be thick as thieves for the whole night. Even poor exasperated Harry would find it oddly adorable when it was time to give Petey his cake, and he would bashfully pull out the chair beside him at the table for you to scoot onto. He thought he was so slick, bless his heart, when he reached over to fix your wonky party hat with his tiny shaking fingers, or shyly looked over at the rim of uneven frosting towards you when Aunt May carried out the homemade cake and told him to make a wish. You were always the last one to be picked up, despite living right next door: Ben, the sly old fox, could see how enamoured Peter was. How he had the firmest grip he had ever seen his nephew squeeze out around your arm, and how Peter stood holding the present you had given him in his other hand, not even noticing it because he was too busy fervently nodding and being strung along by every word you would say.

Ben would stall your parents at the door, blocking the way in by pretending to lean on his elbow, and spouting off about whether he was going to paint the living room a periwinkle or an egg shell blue. When your parents finally started to get impatient, you kissed Peter on the side of his cheek and left with a big wave, not really noticing the way he was standing stock-still, his fingers tentatively touching the side of his face and his mouth agape, blubbering like a blow fish. May has never seen him run so fast up the staircase, but Peter's so desperate to curl up alone under his duvet and thank whatever he can think of for making his wish come true, touching the wet imprint of your lips with a revered awe. Eventually, his giggling gets so loud during the night, that Ben has to come out and close over his door so he and May can get at least a little sleep.

A lot of your teenage years is spent with you jumping over your chain link fence in the middle of the night to meet a very anxious looking Peter, whose face quickly grows into a bright smile when he pulls the latest edition of the comic series you've been share-reading out from behind his back. Sitting on the cold tile by his garage, the night would slowly weave diamond dust through the sky, and sparkling joy through the irises of Peter's eye as the two of you stuck your heads together and poured over the pages. Every so often he would have to blink away, pretending he was fixing his glasses because you would catch the side-eye look he was giving you.

By the end of the night, you've fallen asleep, slobbering onto Peter's shoulder. He hasn't moved an inch: as still as marble, and doing his best to hold his breath so he doesn't rustle you, and so he can memorise the way your gratifying weight feels against the side of his shoulder. So he can imprint into his mind how tender your skin feels against his burning neck. It's only when Aunt May comes out to shake the two of you awake from the school bus that he runs into the kitchen all flustered. He grabs his backpack, and says goodbye, but refuses to change his jumper because he can still feel your imprint against the coarse wool.

From time to time that day, you'll peer round the door of your locker to catch him leaning into his, so giddy he's almost vibrating on the spot, which is probably why he's so distracted he bangs his head on the metal top of his own locker door oops.

Lunch that afternoon is even worse! Sitting diagonal across from Peter, you slide into the table next to an already frustrated looking Harry, whose kicking Pete's feet under the table and making incredibly unsubtle raised eyebrow points your way. He's so sick of the way his best friend will spend every minute of his time with you just staring: peering over his fruit pot, blabbering incoherently to himself with ruddy cheeks when he passes you the salt and your pinkie fingers brush, looking at your reflection in his spoon, pretending to stretch his arms and yawn just so he can 'look around the room', which also just so happens to be only the part that you're sitting in. He just wants his friend to be happy, and honestly, he's kind of dumbstruck that the two of you aren't together already, considering his eyes light up like gold-struck dawn every time he sees you.

It's only when Flash Thompson passes by and knocks Peter's elbow out from under him that he finally stops staring over at you. Mainly because his eyes are too busy slamming into his lunch tray, and breaking the bridge of his glasses down hard against his nose. The spell you wisp around his heart is finally broken when the blood starts gushing down his nose, and you have to half-carry him to the medical office. He spends 50% of the time walking there apologising to you, and the other 50% of the time is spent trying to stop his fingers from clenching into your arm. You've tucked him into your side, holding half his torso against you so he can spend most of his effort on pinching his nose, but he doesn't even care that he's swallowing blood anymore, he's so focused on how close he's pressed up against you. The feeling only grows more fervent, more needy, until he's twitching his thighs against the nurse's table to try and get himself to calm down, when you stay with him for the rest of the period to try and wipe some of the blood away. The way you're so close to his lips, the way that your gentle fingers are dabbing so close to his mouth that he can feel his rushing breath brush against your hairs is making him go cross-eyed with how much he's trying to focus on you.

'You know...', you start after a minute, biting your bottom lip nervously as you continued to dab at peter's nostril. 'I have eyes, Petey.'

'I-I know that, silly', he says, his breath coming out in a confused gasp. 'Me too!'

'I- I know you've been looking at me. Because I've been looking at you, too.'

His heart seems to be slamming into the caged cavity of his ribs, and yet everything seems to simultaneously be standing still: caught in a hazy, gliding, wavering dream as you slowly... ever so slowly drop the cloth into the sink, and break through the few inches between the two of you to press your lips against his top one.

For a moment, Peter is so shocked all he can do is widen his eyes, not even processing that the thing he's spent every moment of his waking and sleeping life wishing for ever since he was a child was happening right now. He tries really hard to stop his whole body from shaking, as his silky lashes finally falter shut against the top of your cheeks and he tries to focus his whole attention on the way your plush lip seems to press so perfectly against his own. After a few seconds though, when he hears the clattering of trays fall to the floor and the darkness he was letting himself fall willingly down into seems a little harder to blink out of, he realises the sound was him.

You're worried you've upset him, or stepped too far, or misconstrued his intentions when Peter falls backwards off you, but that's quickly replaced by frantic concern when he starts sliding to the floor. Thankfully, your reflexes are almost as good as his, and you're quick to wrap your arm around his back and cradle his head against your breastbone before he can slam his head against the floor again. He has to spend the rest of the day lying in the office's bed waiting until Uncle Ben can pick him up, but it was completely worth it. As he gazes up at the inane, plastered ceiling, suddenly everything else in life seemed so silly and pointless. All he cared about was rubbing his pointer finger over the wet patch of your saliva still dotted against his bottom lip, his eyes filled with a million bursting stars as he saw beyond the ceiling and into the skies, thanking it for making his birthday wish come true.

The two of you move into his crumby apartment after high school, and honestly? It's the happiest time in Peter's life. Sure, it may be small, and the walls may be flaky and they may shake every time a train rolls past the tracks outside, but every time he comes home to them he's greeted by the memories of the two of you laying against them like when you were kids, falling asleep against each other's heads as you read into the night. Sure, Ditkovich may hound the two of you constantly for rent, and the afternoons may be drowned out by the sound of his friends playing poker a couple of doors over, but they were so easy to forget in the evenings when you turned on your slightly dented radio and made a flustered Peter dance with you across the room, not stopping until you had him held tightly in your arms and he was so embarrassed with his two left feet that he was hiding his head in the curve of your luscious neck.

And sure, you may have picked up pretty quickly that Peter was Spiderman, considering he keeps hopping out the balcony at random hours and leaves his suit sometimes crumpled at the bottom of the closet, but you love him. And he adores you more than anything any universe could throw at him. So life, for the most part, is good.

Honestly, it's so cosy living with him?? Peter literally has spider strength, so he adores it when you lie on top of him in your bed. After a while of just nattering peacefully to each other about your days, winding down by playing with each other's fingers and sneaking kisses through the brackets of your arms, he feels so at peace to feel your weight familiarly resting on top of him. This need increases tenfold after he loses Ben, I think there's something so comforting to him, to know and feel that you're still so close to him, that he can synch the anxious patter of his heart against your own. He's so sweet bless him. he gets so sleepy that his head keeps falling down on top of your own, but he's so quick to lift it up again. He blinks languidly, that honey-sweet, silvery smile shadowed only by the tempered glow of the warm moonlight drifting through the balcony as he tries desperately to keep himself awake, giving his full attention to you.

There's just something about drifting off to the sound of your voice, knowing that for once, he's safe. That he's wrapped up, looked after, comforted by the love of his life. It just feels really nice to be the one coddled from time to time.

Sometimes, you'll jolt awake in the dead of night by the sound of some strange, wistful whispering echoing from somewhere in the near empty room. It takes your brain a little whirring time to realise it's coming from the hand that's spooning your waist, and the nose that's pressed tightly against the back of your thigh. Turns out Peter spends a lot of his sleepless nights tracing over your stretch marks, nestling down your back and reverently dancing his fingers up and down the tiger stipes on your waist. Every so often, he would rub his nose against their aureate lines in a fond kiss, gingerly resting his cheek against your bare skin again as he tried not to wake you up. What really made your heart melt, though, was the way an awe-struck 'wow' would slip from his lips in such a reverential tone, that Peter became so overwhelmed and could do nothing else but leave a small kiss against the side of your leg, dotted by slick tears.

This man picks you up on his scooter after your shift at work, mainly because 1) you are a much better driver than him, and it actually gets home in one piece rather than being tangled under a car wheel somewhere, and 2) when he's super stressed he finds it so comforting to wrap his arms around your side and press his forehead tightly into your back, letting the whole world melt away until nothing but whirling air and the scent of you is left. He always arrives outside your office building ten minutes early, making your secretary laugh when she spots him straightening his best flowery tie in the reflection of the waste bin by the bench outside. He has his best suit on, freshly pressed, and is nervously stepping from foot to foot with a crumpled bouquet of roses in his hand, like a teenager waiting to ask his crush to prom.

Every. Single. Day. You honestly just wait for the secretary to buzz you so you can grab your coat and run outside; you know far too well that Peter either dumps his Spidey suit through the window, or just wears his proper suit underneath so he isn't late. Doesn't matter if he has to catch five buses from the Daily Bugle, or has to 'borrow' his moped from 'Joe's Pizza' to get there on time, he's always there. And he always wants to look his best for you, even though he's still so surprised that someone as ethereal as you would even bother to look his way that he has to shuffle a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dab at the sweat beading on his forehead.

It's either that, or Peter scaring the bejesus out of you by picking you up with his webs. You'll just be minding your own business, walking down the sidewalk on your way back from your lunch break, only to be hoisted, screaming into the air and past an equally petrified looking pigeon. Peter does feel bad the first time he did this, since you were screaming the whole time he swung you, but you've settled into a better routine now. You've found it easier to watch the scattered tiles of churches and the blurred crests of building whiz by while you're holding on tightly to his waist, and your feet are firmly pressed on top of his own so he can keep you steady against him. I mean, you might still bury your head into his shoulder blade in absolute terror, but he makes it up to you by landing you down gracefully on top of your office a couple of minutes before you go back in.

The adrenaline from swinging about New York makes the kisses far more heated, and it's always helpful to have a little privacy when you pull the edge of his latex mask harshly up past the bridge of his nose and nearly knock him flying over the cornerstones with how fervidly you smash your lips against him. His arms instinctively come to wrap around you, and even he's grown a little more emboldened by the knowledge that you actually do love him and this isn't some cruel villain trick or high school prank, to open his mouth and press his tongue lovingly against yours. He never wants to let you go, so before he lets you go back to your job he gives you a tight hug, and presses a million warm little kisses in a treasure trail down the pulse point in your neck.

This man literally has like... two outfits, so he's constantly wearing your clothes! Surprise! You come home to find him sitting criss-cross on the bed, face bruised and tired worn from his latest clash with Doc Ock, but your sweatshirt tucked over him and lifted up against his cheeks like a little hidden koala bear. Surprise! You plan a surprise birthday party for him with Aunt May, only for him to turn up after work wearing one of your jumpers! It's just so snug, and homey, and it reminds Peter of when he was ten years old; when you came round to sleepover, and the two of you would crash on his mat after spending so long pouring through and excitedly talking about the new quantum theories in the science magazines he used to buy with his pocket money, Peter would shuffle up beside you. With a sharp breath, he would tentatively turn on his side and pray he wouldn't wake you up, curling into the foetal position. With a smile like dawn breaking through the soft tufts of a cloud, he would press his nose into your shoulder and just breathe you in, hoping he would never forget it as long as he lived.

This man loves to take you out dancing, mainly so he can grin wildly and show you off to every other customer in the restaurant. Every time he passes the waiter, or the Maitre d', he points wildly at your back and mouths ecstatically 'that's my Y/n!'. He legitimately pools all the money he's made from the photography, and from the pizza delivery together so he can take you to a fancy restaurant uptown. He feels so nervous when he gets up with that breathless smile and offers you his hand, but all his troubles just immediately melt away once he feels your hand brush over the strands of hair at the nape of his neck. He falls against you, easily caught just like he was all those years ago. Your fingers feel so soft, so perfect as they slot between his own, although his left hand never stops rubbing over the supple skin of your waist as he sways the two of you back and forth in time to the dream-like lullaby of the string quartet.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Wedding Invitations

Summary: Colter Shaw x Fe!Reader -> You and Colter have known each other since you were 15. He was there to help you once, and he's here to help you now.

Disclaimer: This may end up being a two parter. Light swearing, jerk exes, protective Colter, friends to lovers vibes kinda, little angst, sad fluff, cute fluff, happy-ish ending I guess. Not proof read.

Colter didn’t know what to do, exactly, when Reenie called him and said you needed him. 

All he knew was that within five minutes, he was turning back down the highway and headed straight for your home. 

A thousand and one things ran through Colter’s mind as he sped down the road. Were you in danger? Have you been hurt? How bad was it?

However, when Reenie called him back and explained what had happened, he felt his heart sink a little. 

The last time he had seen you, you had just started dating a guy. It seemed to be going well and you seemed happy enough. Last time he had talked to you, you were elbow deep in wedding invitations, asking him over the phone if he could make it since it was a lot easier than finding an address he’d be at long enough. 

And that was just last week. 

By the time Colter pulled up outside your home, the second car he usually saw in the background of your facetime, was gone. Your car was still there, so you were definitely home. 

Small lights led up the path to your home before the porch light lit up the deck. However, save for a lamp or two, no lights were on inside the house. 

He knocked, but no answer came. 

So he tried the garage door. 

It slid up instantly and when Colter got a look inside, it looked like someone had left in a hurry. Most of what was left was…wedding stuff. 

He had to force the door open, but it wasn’t long before he was inside the house. 

It smelt of you. Which was an odd comfort for him. 

It was like the perfect mixture of blueberry pie, cinnamon and…warmth. 

Colter made his way through the house, calling out your name. 

There was broken glass on the floor, with a can of unopened soda sat on the coffee table. It was no longer cold and most of the condensation was already sinking into the wood beneath it. 

Colter called out your name again. 

In the kitchen, he found…blueberry pie. 

A slight smile came to his face, before he continued to check the house. 

As he climbed the stairs, he began to hurry his steps, searching the rooms until from down the hallway, he spotted the open door to the bathroom.

The closer he walked, the clearer his view became. 

There you were. 

With your arms balanced on your propped up knees, your head was down and your eyes were closed, tears rolling hot down your cheeks. In your hands, you clutched onto a towel from where you’d dried your face earlier. 

Colter walked closer and waited for a moment by the door. 

“Well…this feels oddly familiar.”

You nodded, forcing yourself to look up. 

And Colter felt his heart break. 

You were still crying, but you just looked…beat. Ready to sleep. Ready to cry some more. Ready to just…fall. 

Maybe you already had. 

“Yeah. Kinda.”

Without a second thought, Colter rushed inside and came and sat beside you. He pulled you inside his side, and you moulded directly into him. You hadn’t realised how cold you were until you were met with the heat of his body and the warmth of his touch. 

With a head on his chest, he curled his hand around and placed it on top of your head, almost shielding you from the world. 

This wasn’t unlike almost twenty years ago when, after sneaking out to go to a friend’s party (despite the fact he’d already been pulled out of school), Colter found you. 

You’d both been partners in History class. And you’d had a small friendship, at least. This also included him knowing who you had a crush on, even if you wouldn’t tell him. 

So, when he had lost track of you at the party, only to find your crush making out with the girl who was meant to be your best friend, he knew why you had disappeared. At least, that was what he suspected. 

And he wasn’t wrong. 

He found you in the top floor bathroom which no-one went to since it was so far up, and if you were that desperate for the bathroom, you wouldn’t have made it to the top of the house. 

When he found you, you had been slumped down on the floor, crying your eyes out. 

However, compared to then, when your emotions and your voice were also uncontrollable and constant after such an early heart break…it was no longer like that. 

Or, at least, on the outside it wasn’t. 

When you spoke, despite the constant flowing tears, your voice was shaky but pressured to be even. And by the way you were clutching onto the towel in your hands, that told Colter it was taking everything in your to not break down. To not scream, or cry too loudly, to not sob, to not shake. 

However, that last one was becoming more difficult to control. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Colter asked, finding your eyes. 

“In a minute. Can you just keep hugging me?”

Colter nodded before pulling you closer, resting his chin on top of your head and squeezing your tighter in his arms. 

After a good ten minutes, your tears finally stilled long enough for you to take a deep breath and move back. 

“Thank you for coming.”

“You never have to thank me for coming to you.”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze for a moment before sitting up as best as you could. 

“I didn’t see it coming.”

Colter just sat and watched and listened as you told him everything that had happened. 

“I was at work, grading papers, when he called. He said to come home, instead of going to the wedding venue after work. We were going to sign the final papers. Everything had been confirmed, it was just a final formality.”

“I thought it was a little weird, but when I came home…all of his boxes were packed. And I mean…everything. Every record, every picture, every book, every…thing. It was all packed. Hell, it was even labelled!”

You had to laugh before you cried again. You touched a finger to your eyes, wiping a small tear away from the edge of your eye. 

“Apparently, he’d been feeling lost for a couple weeks. Weeks! He didn’t even say anything. He didn’t even…show anything. Everything was normal. We were happy. And…” you took a deep breath, but Colter just waited for you to continue. 

“And then he got a call. And I knew. He didn’t even answer it. Just…let it ring. It was so silent, Colter. Just knowing that he was moving on, had moved on before even moving out. I…didn’t even…we were meant to be getting married, Colter. We’ve been together for eight years and to just…leave…”

Colter rubbed his hand up and down your arm, feeling how cold you were. 

“How about I make you some tea? Reenie always says that can help? And maybe get you a sweater, you’re freezing.”

“After he left I just…I don’t even remember.”

Colter nodded, standing up before lowering his hands to help you up from the floor. 

Twenty minutes later, Colter had boiled the water and made you both a cup of tea before ordering food. 

He might not have gotten to see you often, but you’d both talked long enough over the years that he had learnt that when you graded papers you tended to get a little caught up and miss dinner. And considering what had transpired after you got home from work, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why your stomach was rumbling. 

It was also in those twenty minutes that Colter came to learn more about your now ex-fiance. 

He’d been feeling ‘lost’ for a few weeks, until he met a woman at work. She was a consultant that had come into town for a few days before flying back out to Sydney. Turned out they had grown up two towns apart when they were kids, so had a lot in common. They got to talking and…it grew from there. 

On the rare occasion work got caught up, he was actually with her. On dates, laughing and smiling and kissing and just…

“So, what happens now?”

“He’s moving to Sydney,” you told him. “His flight leaves tomorrow. All his boxes were being taken to a storage unit in town. His assistant is gonna make sure they’re shipped over.”

“Did he move them all out himself?”

You shook your head. “Movers came in. It’s odd…they knew my relationship was ending before I did.”

“I am sorry,” Colter told you. 

“What for? You didn’t suddenly break up with me, did you?”

“No, but I’m still sorry.”

“Thanks, Colt.”

You took his hand in yours for a moment, until the bell rang. 

“That’ll be the food. I’ll get it.” Colter said before standing, quickly kissing your forehead and disappearing down the hall and towards the front door. 

However, after five minutes of hearing distant talking, you heard the door shut. 

It took you a moment, but you looked behind you and followed the same path as Colter. The pizza box and bag of other items were by the door and Colter was…outside?

When Colter got to the door, the Pizza Guy was balancing the other random take-away bits on top. 

“Here, let me-”

“Thanks, man.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“25.”

“Here you go.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Yeah.”

However, as the Pizza Guy walked down the porch and back to his car, Colter spotted a slightly familiar car down the road and a somewhat familiar face walking towards the house. 

Leaving the food by the door, Colter walked outside immediately and headed straight for the guy. 

“Hey, no, turn around.”

“Excuse me?” The guy stopped in his tracks. 

It took him a moment to recognise the face in front of him. 

“C…Colter?”

“Hi, Jonathan. Turn around.”

“What-”

“You’re not welcome here.”

“This is my house!”

“No, this was your house.”

“Same thing.”

“Actually, it’s not. See, ‘is’ suggests that you still live here. However, considering you moved all your stuff out earlier today, I’d say that signifies enough to say you don’t live here anymore.”

“Can I at least talk to her?”

“And say what?” Colter asked, stopping Jonathan in his tracks. “That you’re sorry. She’s not gonna want to hear it.”

“How would you know what she wants? You don’t even see her!”

“That’s your excuse? That's because I don’t see her, I don’t know her? You’ve got to have a better come back than that. You know what, I’ll give you another shot. Tell me why I wouldn’t know what she wants.”

Jonathan took a moment, but when nothing came to him, he sighed. “Look, man. I just want to clear the air here and give back my key.”

“And you didn’t think to leave that behind when you packed up your stuff?”

“I just thought-”

“I can give it back to her.”

“I’d prefer-”

“You don’t get a say in this, Jonathan. You were the one to walk out. If you wanted out, you could have at least been a decent human and talk to her, rather than dumping all of this on her on a random Friday.” Colter explained before he paused. “Actually, not that random. On a Friday you were meant to sign off on your wedding venue.”

“Look, man, I already feel as bad as it is-”

“Good.”

Jonathan seemed to get a little offended at Colter’s bluntness. 

“Look, man-”

“If you think you’re getting off lightly here, you’re not. You broke her heart. You spent the last eight years together and in a few hours you end everything. You pack up your shit, you print out plane tickets, you tell her you’ve met someone else. Do you even know what you had?”

“Look, man-”

“Say ‘Look, man,” one more time and I’ll do her a favour and start throwing the punches she didn’t earlier.” Colter’s gaze darkened and he seemed to grow broader.

“Look-” Jonathan paused. “Colter. I understand you want to help her but this is really between herself and I.”

“Maybe.” Colter agreed. “Maybe before you pulled this crap but the second you hurt her, that was the second it became my business. Now, I’m sure your new girlfriend is lovely but Y/n? You’ll never meet anyone like her, ever. And you just let her go. Stupidly, might I add.”

“Jees, don’t hold back.” Jonathan tried to laugh. 

“Oh, I won’t.”

You watched the two men fall silent for a moment before speaking up. 

“Colter?”

Colter’s entire posture and gaze softened for a moment as he turned back and looked at you. 

“Yeah? Oh, yeah. Just..give me a minute?”

That was something you were thankful for. You and Colter sometimes never had to speak, you just knew what the other was thinking. 

However, Jonathan called your name. 

“Wait-”

“Fuck you, Jonathan!” you held up your middle finger, bringing the pizza box back inside  before closing the door. 

“She doesn’t have to speak to me like that?”

Colter had no words. Just a look, mostly made of confusion. 

“I think it’s best if you leave, and don’t come back.”

“Hey, hey, wait! Just wait a minute! I need to talk to her. I need to clear the air.”

Colter sighed. “I’ll do you this one kindness. Tell me what you want to tell her, and I will tell her. Because you’re not getting within ten feet of that house. Not after what you did.”

“It’s not like I cheated on her!”

“Except that you did.” Colter was finally getting Jonathan closer to his car, even if it was through physically moving him. 

“I waited until after I left to ask Jen to be my girlfriend.”

“Because that makes a difference?”

“It does!”

Colter sighed, “Jonathan, just do everyone a favour and shut up?”

“But-”

“Don’t come back here.”

It took a second but Jonathan finally got back into his car before handing the key over to Colter. “Just…tell her I never meant to hurt her.”

“Too late for that.”

Jonathan couldn’t say anything else so rolled up his window and drove off. 

Colter stood in the middle of the street for a few minutes watching his car roll down the street before turning the corner and heading for the highway. 

When he walked back inside, he found you sitting on the sofa. 

“What did he want?”

“To give you this back.”

You turned to look at Colter. It was the spare key to your house. 

“You can just leave it on the side.”

After a few minutes, Colter finally sat beside you on the sofa, handing you a soda. You lay your head on his shoulder and stared up at the TV screen. 

“I feel really crap.”

Colter nodded slightly. “I know Reenie would probably tell you to get up and, I don’t know, go out and get drunk but if you just want to eat junk food and fall asleep, I can support that. And then go out, if you want to do that too.”

You smiled for the first time since you came home. “Junk food and sleep sounds really good right now.”

“Okay then.”

It took a couple minutes to find a film before you both landed on an old showing of a classic hollywood movie. You couldn’t remember the title, but when you'd finished your food and talking to Colter about whatever case he’d been on before Reenie called him, you found yourself falling asleep. 

And when you woke up in the morning, something felt different. 

You weren’t in your bed. You weren’t in your bed with Jonathan. You were on the sofa. Snug in the crook of it. With half of your body on…a sleeping Colter. 

He looked so peaceful. 

The sun was still slowly coming up and by the clock on the wall, it was around seven thirty in the morning. Stupid body clock. 

You groaned a little and fell back into the warmth of Colter, your head on his chest. His grip on you tightened for a moment before it settled again and you found yourself just listening to the repetitive rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Every now and again, your mind would replay the events from the day before. Getting the call, coming home, watching the movers, listening to Jonathan’s voice telling you your future together was over, just like that. Waiting for them to leave whilst you remained in the bathroom, splashing your face with cold water and drying it. Getting the final knock on the bathroom door from one of the movers. Jonathan seemed to be searching for you for a moment and for a split second, you thought he was going to yell “wake up” as if you’d fallen asleep marking papers. But you hadn’t. It was real, and he was asking for his ring back. It took you a moment, and taking it off your finger felt foreign. Strange. Like an out of body experience. 

And then it was over. 

You were alone. 

In a home you thought was going to be yours and Jonathan’s. One where maybe you could start a family one day. 

But that was all shattered. 

Until Colter. 

When he walked into the bathroom, you had a flashback to being fifteen again and crying over a boy in a bathroom at a party. Except this time, you’d spend eight years of your life with this guy and your wedding invitations and seating chart and placements were all in storage in the garage. 

And when he hugged you…you knew it would be okay. 

You didn’t know if you’d be feeling better the next day, or the day after that or even in a week’s time. Eight years was a lot to throw away in the space of a couple of hours. 

But you knew it would be okay. 

Colter reassured you with that. 

By the time he woke up, him looking at you with a slightly dazed look, you both just lay there for a moment. 

“I’d apologise for falling asleep on you, but I don’t think I’m sorry. You’re a decent pillow.”

Colter chuckled. “Thanks.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, but also not.”

“Want breakfast?”

“Not right now.”

“I’ll make pancakes?”

“Eggs are in the fridge.”

Colter chuckled lightly at that before moving his arm from around your back, kissed your head, and slowly sat up. He couldn’t lie. He got a decent night's sleep often, but nothing like that. 

“Chocolate chips are in the cupboard.” You called out as he rounded the sofa and walked towards the kitchen. 

After a moment you heard; “Got em’.”

Colter stayed for two weeks. 

Mostly because he found a case in town nearby. But also because he rarely got to see you and he was helping you. 

It was tough, calling the caterers, the venue, the officiant, the florist. It was even tougher calling all the friends and family. 

Your family insisted on coming up to see you, but you reassured them you’d be okay. You’d come and see them soon, but until then you just needed some space. Some alone time. 

“And you don’t need alone time with me?” Colter asked. 

“You don’t ask questions like ‘how could you let this happen?’ and ‘what about my future grandbabies?’ and ‘you know your cousin’s wedding is coming up, we can always tell friends of the family Jonathan is on a business trip’.”

Colter looked a little confused. 

“One on my dad’s side. She’s not exactly…thrilled about single women when they could have had the whole ‘big white wedding’.”

Colter shrugged his shoulders, “I could always go with you.”

You laughed a little. “Colter, you don’t have to do that. Also, I’ve been trying to get out of going to that wedding for months. This gives me the perfect excuse.”

“Well, the offer’s always there.”

You smiled. “Thanks.”

“What about this one?” Colter asked, showing you a photo. 

“Put it in the maybe pile.”

You were hunting through all your photos to find ones to put in the now empty picture frames. After a week, Colter had found you going around the entire house at three in the morning, emptying all of the frames that held any pictures of yourself and Jonathan. 

By the time you finished, you carried the last of the boxes from the garage to the attic with Colter’s help. 

However, that just left the wedding stuff. 

“What do I do with it?”

“It’s extreme but you could burn it?”

You turned to Colter. “Did Reenie text you?”

“Yeah.” He admitted. 

You turned back to the box. “It’s not a terrible idea. Though, I don’t have anything to burn them in for such a big quantity. I do have a shredder. Yep, that’ll have to do.”

For the next two hours Colter handed you each placement card and wedding invitation to shred. 

And it was there, sitting behind your sofa on the floor, with Colter, shredding wedding invitations, that you knew you’d be okay. 

It might take a while, but you’d be okay. 

[catierambles]

Public Relations Ch.6

Pairing: Clark Kent/Superman x Charlotte Danvers (OFC)

WC 1239

Warnings: None

@kingliam2019 , @greensleeves888 , @peaches1958

Oddly enough, there were no pictures of the two of them the next morning either in print or online. Probably because the guy had shoved Clark and he could press charges for assault if he so chose if the pictures were printed. Charlotte prepared for the meeting with her Acquisitions department, Melissa making sure the mini fridge was stocked with water as Charlotte went over the proposal ahead of time to familiarize herself with the basics. It was solid enough, but she still had questions to which she knew they had the answers.

“Charlie,” She looked up at Melissa’s voice through the phone, “Mr. Daniels from Acquisitions is here for your meeting.”

“Send him in, Mel.” Charlotte said and looked over as the door swung open. “Jeff, thanks for looking into this for me.”

“No problem at all.” Jeff said, “May I ask why you want to acquire The Daily Planet?”

“We’re not in the communications business and I thought it would be good to branch out a bit.” She said and he gave her a look. “Besides, as far as I can tell, nothing is being done with it and I see the potential for growth.”

“It’s not to annoy Bruce Wayne?”

“Not entirely, although that is a pleasant side effect.” She said with a toothy grin and he snorted, shaking his head. “What did Wayne Enterprises say when you reached out?”

“They’re willing to give it up.” Jeff said simply, “But they want something in return.”

“Of course they do.” She said with a shrug, “They say what?”

“The wind farm in the Adirondacks.” He said, “They’re looking to go deeper into clean energy.”

“Yeah, they’ve been eyeing that one for a while now.” She said, “How’s it pan out?”

“I looked over the earnings reports for the last two years from The Daily Planet and the farm and they’re…roughly the same? Not exact because of fluctuations and differences in the market, but not too far off to where we’d take a significant hit.” Jeff said and she sighed, swiveling back and forth in her chair. “However, I share your assessment of potential in The Daily Planet. Physical print has been slowly but steadily dying the more people move online and while the Planet does have a website, it’s barebones and hardly maintained, more a backup than anything else.”

“Okay, what’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking we get a social media team in there, as well as a web development team. Strip the website down to its foundation and redo it. We also work on their social media presence, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, that kind of thing. Podcasts that are live-streamed, uploaded to their website, as well as put on podcast hosting services would go a long way. Put in place some kind of subscription service that takes the place of, or adds to, their newspaper home delivery service.”

“Podcasts of what?”

“Live interviews and discussions of current events.” Jeff said, “It would also cut down on their overhead as they wouldn’t have to wait for it to come out in print and spend the resources on that. Many people, myself included, like to listen to their news in audio form while doing something else rather than reading it. Not saying we get rid of their physical print altogether, just narrow the scope a bit.”

“Yeah, I have the Armageddon Update playing in the garage while I work on my cars.”

“Christopher Titus, really?”

“I like his comedy specials.” She said with a shrug. “What kind of growth are we looking at here?”

“Get the right person in front of the camera and behind the mic, either from in-house or outside, and we could see significant growth. The Daily Planet already has a fantastic reputation for integrity, we just need to capitalize on that and dropkick them into current times.” Jeff said and she put her hands on the top of her head, swinging back and forth in her chair as she ran the numbers in her head and thought about potential paths.

“I like it.” She said, “Do it. Work with Legal and the FCC. Start the process of swapping over ownership of the wind farm with the stipulation that they’re not going to go in and clean house. We don’t need any casualties here.”

“You got it.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He said, “Of course, we wouldn’t do all this restructuring of the Planet until the ink is dry.”

“Oh, of course.” Charlotte said, “And talks of it doesn’t leave this office. Don’t need Bruce catching wind of it, backing out of the deal, and doing it himself.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Jeff said.

“Okay, get on it. Let me know if you need anything.” Charlotte said and he gave her a brief salute, leaving her office. Reaching over, she pressed the button on her phone. “Mel, I’m thinking sushi for lunch, you want anything?”

“Oh, I’m craving eel.”

“One unagi don, you got it.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“No problem.”

“Oh, the shipping company from Berlin called while you were talking to Mr. Daniels. You should be getting delivery in the next couple of weeks, but they’ll let us know if there are any delays.”

“Fantastic, thank you.”

“What is it with you and muscle cars?”

“I just think they’re pretty and they give me the happy tingles.”

“Yeah, I bet they do with the engines you put in them.” Melissa said and Charlotte cackled. “Also, Clark is basically a muscle car in human form, so that makes sense too.”

“Nah, he’s more a classic pickup truck.” She said, “Although he does like taking the Shelby out for a spin whenever he comes over.” She paused for a moment, thinking something over. “Hey, Mel, can you see if you can track down a 1954 Ford F100? The condition doesn’t matter, I’m going to fiddle with it anyway.”

“Not your usual flavor. Thinking about a present?”

“I’m flip-flopping the idea around.”

“Yeah, I’ll get on it. There’s bound to be one somewhere.”

“Thanks, doll. I’ll let you know when I order lunch.” She said and picked up her phone, bringing up the texts between her and Clark, typing in a message, and hitting send.

When’s your birthday?

June 18th why?

No reason ;)

Charlie.

Shush.

When’s yours?

July 10th

Marking it down. Dinner tonight?

Yeah, order in or go out?

I thought I’d make you something

That made a slow smile pull at her lips.

Oh yeah?

Yeah

My kitchen or yours?

Yours is better kitted out than mine

Thinking about it, she’s never actually been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis, although he has mentioned it. Conversation for another time.

Let me know what you need and I’ll get it delivered.

Rather it be a surprise. I’ll be over at around 6 to get a jump on it?

Sounds good to me. I’ll send you the code for the spare key lock box so you can get in if I’m not home yet.

Thank you 🙂

They texted off and on for the rest of the day, although he refused to say what he was making her no matter how many times she asked and she found herself looking forward to it. Charlotte didn’t often have time to make food, opting instead to order in, so this was a rare treat for her. And the fact that Clark wanted to cook her something himself was just adorable in and of its own.

[yourneighborhoodneighbor]

we're all hitchhiking in this car

(masterpost to my fics while ao3 is down) AO3

fic under the cut

Touya had to admit he wasn't hating backpacking with Keigo as much as he thought he would. 

When his boyfriend had suggested a backpacking trip for their end of year vacations he had been a bit skeptical. In the end, the blond had won him over by making the entirely valid point that they were both university students and therefore had to act like it, read: travel cheaply. 

Never mind that they both had almost ridiculous amounts of money, Touya from his parents and their very successful company of all kinds of equipment for first responders (from firefighters and paramedics to avalanche search and rescue specialists), and Keigo from his inheritance, which he had gotten full access to after turning 18 (before that, the money had been managed by Keigo´s butler, who had pretty much become the younger man´s father when his parents had passed in an accident when he was 6).

Yeah, Keigo´s incredibly valid argument was the only reason Touya had accepted, nothing to do with the other´s stupid cute face and excited expresion upon suggesting the idea, nothing at all shup up, Yumi.

Whatever the case, they had been at it for a few weeks already, and Touya could definitely say he had actually been enjoying most of it, particularly his boyfriend´s smiling face, though he would tell no one (except perhaps Keigo, just to see said smile again).

They had had some noteworthy experiences, especially while hitchhiking, including the guy who had driven them into the middle of nowhere and then mugged them under threat of a sledgehammer of all things before leaving them to walk back kilometers. At least the police had caught him afterwards, since apparently the guy was a repeat offender to hitchhikers.

This, however, had to be the single funniest experience that had happened to them so far, if only for the completely baffled expressions of the backseat passengers who, for once, were not them.

It had started as they were making their way out the city in Linz on foot in hopes of catching a ride once they were a ways away, having learned that hitchhiking inside cities was nearly impossible. They´d had all their stuff on them, obviously, so they had clearly looked like backpackers, making it a bit less surprising when a car pulled over next to them. The guy in the car rolled down his window to talk to them.

 “You guys heading to Salzburg?” He asked them in english. Touya looked at Keigo who looked back at him, then shook his head.

“Nah, we wanna head over to Bad Ischl,” he answered.

“You sure?” insisted the man.

“Yeah, we´re pretty sure, thanks,” answered Keigo this time.

“Salzburg is a beautiful city, lots to see! You should go to Salzburg!” said the oddly insistent man.

“We know, we´ve been, but we wanna head to Bad Ischl now. Very sure about it,” Touya was getting a bit unsettled by this man, but couldn't help but find the situation funny too, holding back a smirk. The driver huffed and looked down a bit dejectedly.

“Oh, alright then. Bye,” he said before driving away. Touya and Keigo went back to walking.

They barely had time to chuckle at each other about the weird encounter before they saw the car round back and pull up next to them again, the window already rolled down this time.

“Alright, Bad Ischl is fine, hop on,” the man gestured to the car door.

Touya exchanged glances with his boyfriend again, silently asking what he thought they should do. The blond just shrugged his shoulders a bit and took his backpack off, putting it in the trunk that the man had gotten out of the car to open.

“Okay then thanks!” he said as he got into the car. Touya followed shortly after, their driver shortly after him.

“We just have to make a quick stop three blocks from here,” the still unnamed man told them as he drove off. The boyfriends simply voiced their agreement.

Soon, they arrived at a garage and their driver got out, gesturing for them to do so as well. He took the keys out of the ignition and turned to them.

“You guys have a driver's license, right?” he asked seemingly out of the blue.

“Uh, yeah?” answered Keigo, who was closer to the man, not sure where this was going.

“Great! Here's the keys then, you take the car to Bad Ischl. Tank is full, just leave it parked somewhere legal, I'll pick it up. Give me your phone number so you can tell me where you left it,” the guy handed the keys to Keigo without a second thought or even asking for proof that he did actually own a driver´s license. 

Both younger men for their part were stumped. This guy was just going to give them his car? A seemingly new, expensive sports car? What?

“What.” voiced Touya in a deadpan tone.

“Oh, yeah, i need to get the car to Salzburg but can't take it, but just leave it in Bad Ischl, i'll get someone to take it the rest of the way. Here's my phone number, tell me when you get there,” explained the man, as he wasn't just giving two complete strangers his shiny new expensive car like it was normal.

“Alright… thanks…” said Keigo, taking the keys. The man smiled, bid them goodbye, and then just left. The younger men stood there for a minute, before the one with the Keigo shrugged again and got on the driver's side, the other one rounding the car to the shotgun seat.

They pulled out and started driving, silent for the first few minutes before Touya broke out laughing.

“Haha, that was, ha- that was weird right? It's not just me?” he said in between bouts of laughter. Keigo broke pretty soon after.

“Pfff, yeah no, that was definitely a weird one. Who does that??” he wheezed out. The boyfriends chuckled for a while more before the white haired one suddenly sat up straight in his seat.

“Do you think we´re transporting drugs? Or something?” he asked the other. There was quiet in the car as they both pondered.

“Well, we didn't see anything in the trunk, and if it's hidden, we can say this isn't our car, and we have the guy´s phone number, which would be something to give to the police as proof, so I don't think we have to worry about it too much.” Keigo stated. He didn't think there was something in the car, but if there was, he was fairly confident they could avoid trouble. If they even got caught. And that was only if there actually was something. Which he didn't think there was.

They settled down after that, turning on the radio and just chilling. Having the car to themselves for the whole way cut down on their travel time by a lot from what they ahd envisioned they would need hitching riddles, so they simply relaxed and chilled with some easy conversation between them.

Halfway to their destination they saw another two hitchhikers on the road. Well, they did have a car, so why not give them a lift? They pillow dover next to them.

“Hey, where are you guys heading?” Keigo asked, a chill smile on his face.

“Hi! We´re going to Köhl!” the taller of the two hitchhikers, a woman told them.

Keigo turned to look at Touya. That wasn't where they were headed at all, in fact it was pretty out of the way, but now that they had a car, the trip would be no problem on their schedule. Touya nodded after their silent conversation. Why the heck not.

“Well, we´re not headed there, but we can take you, hop on in!” The blond invited them while getting out of the car to open the trunk.

After exchanging thanks and names, they settled into some light conversation. Where were they all from, where were they heading, why did they choose Austria to travel to, and such. In a small lull in the conversation, Touya smirked deviously and turned to look at their two passengers.

“You know, we´re all hitchhiking in this car right now,” he told them. The other two just stared back in confusion.

“Oh yeah, this car isn't ours,” he told them, relishing in their faces of surprise and the beginnings of apprehension. Oh, how he would love to take a picture.

It was the man this time that dared speak first.

“Did you steal this car?!” he said, apparently not knowing if to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or try to jump out of the car immediately. Touya couldn't hold it in anymore and burst out laughing.

Keigo rolled his eyes at his gremlin boyfriend and slapped him in the back of the head without taking his eyes off the road.

“Ignore my idiot boyfriend, we did NOT steal this car, it was given to us,” he pacified the man, though internally he was also laughing. What could he say, he liked his boyfriend's humour, he just had more self control and sense for “diplomacy”, as his butler (dad, really) often told him.

Once Touya calmed down they both explained the situation, which had the other hitchhikers laughing along with them. The rest of the ride to Köhl was spent swapping funny, interesting or just downright weird travel stories, and soon enough they dropped the others up and headed to their own destination.

After fining parking for the car and texting the man, they headed to the hostel they would be staying at before walking around a bit, seeing as they still had a little while before it was dark, seeing as, even with their detour, they had arrived at Bad Ischl way earlier than they had imagined.

They bought themselves a drink and some lunch and pastries to go from a small cafe they found, and settled down on a bench in a beautiful park that had duck pond, just basking in each other's presence and waiting for the sunset to arrive, listening to birds flying around and the ducks swimming or waddling or just lying on the grass.

Once they were done eating, Touya leaned his head on Keigo´s shoulder. He couldn't believe this was his life, getting to simply spend time with his amazing boyfriend, doing things he never would have thought up or dared to do himself, and all with a man he loved and that loved him in return. 

“I love you, Kei. I love you, I love you, I love you,” he said, turning his face to look the other in the eyes. He was rewarded with another one of those smiles he would make and break the world for. He felt his breath catch in his throat. 

“Yeah? Well I love love love you even more!” the other replied, pulling him in for a hug.

There, in each other's arms, on a park bench in foreign country, the sun setting, birds chirping, the atmosphere calm, Touya thought he would hitchhike the entire world, if only he had Keigo by his side.

[inkyvendingmachine]

Stop Trying To Poach JDS Employees They Already Have A Job Playing Music For All Eternity They Don’t Need A Cult Membership For That Season 3, Episodes 7

💀 Call of Cthulhu: Haunted Hijinx Masterpost 💀 🎶 Call of Cthulhu Season Three Masterpost 🎶

Warning: This campaign is an edited version of Call of Cthulhu: Song and Dance scenario from the Tales of the Crescent City book. While a lot has been changed, there IS spoilers for it throughout these posts. 

hi.

I had fun this episode.

:)

ART CHANGES THIS SEASON!! @inkdemonapologist​ and I are collabing on all the art for these summery posts!! Shazz does lines, and I compose and colour the pieces.

Sammy and Jack have been thrown into some kind of very cold truck and driven off into the night. Peter has been able to keep up with them well enough, tracking the truck back to some restaurant where it looks like they’re going to hold the two for now. Or… do something to them there. Not the original place they had headed out to, oddly enough, but that didn’t mean they had any more time than before. Somewhere along this ride the boys managed to wake up some and even talk with Peter… Sammy included. The detective passes along a simple plan from Joey, which Sammy confirms that he was let in on already when Joey visited his dream, as well as an instruction to stall for as long as possible, before he hightails it back to his body to call up Joey and let him know where the music boys are being kept.

Meanwhile, said boys are finally escorted out of the truck, and the first question they’re met with is, “Aren’t you two composers?”

Sammy gives an off-handed “Sure,” but doesn’t really respond more than that. Neither of them are very aware right now, as they have just been pulled out of a pitch black refrigerator truck into a bright enough lit room that they’re thoroughly disorientated. Saxophone backs them up though, insisting of their skill. (He is not looking too hot after what Joey did to him before though.

Of course, words alone aren't gonna cut it, so Sammy and Jack are given the opportunity to prove their compositional skill. And... Sammy knows he'll be a lot better at stalling with music than words, so, with a small upright piano already in the room, he just goes and does what he does best: He plays music. He composes songs that have been digging their way into his head and plays them with such amazing skill that the entire room, filled with musicians, gangsters and even waitstaff, stops what they’re doing to just listen and stare. Jack is able to keep up with a borrowed violin, though takes Sammy’s amazing performance to try and scout for more info: he notices that a cultist who was showing up with… what looks like might have been a yellow book is waved off. The man in the room who’s dressed up the nicest kind of looks related to Y, but also is older. Perhaps the father we had heard about. And there’s only two exits; out some large garage doors, or through a different pair of heavy doors into an unknown building.

Sammy continues playing. He does not stop playing. He’s got them entranced, might as well make a distraction out of it. Also… it’s a nice distraction for himself too.

Meanwhile, Joey has gotten the information from Peter about the restaurant the boys are apparently being held at, including an idea of the layout. He tells Peter to meet him there, and instructs him to dress closely to what the wait staff look like, if he can. If he can’t… well uh,,, dress nice then! We need to at least get you through the door. Meanwhile, he likewise gets Henry dressed up, including concealing a gun on his person, and then calls up Allison to ask her to go, uh, somewhere completely different.

Basically, he now knows Y has the address of the last known place the three girls were staying. He needs Allison to get there first, beat them to the address and recover anything she possibly can. Or even better, warn the girls if they’re still there. But also like, if Joey doesn’t call her back in a few hours uh maybe can you swing by this place downtown and make sure we’re not all captured by the mafia? Great fantastic okay byeeeee,

The boys (Henry, Peter, and a Joey+Bendy combo) head to the restaurant. Peter is… over dressed for wait staff, but dressed well enough. Except for his hair. Joey fixes that.

The three manage to get in rather easily and grab a seat at a table, as Joey uses his words to talk the wait staff around into thinking they’re just some lucky dudes celebrating their success that night. Once sat down, he even orders a round of drinks and some appetizers, making sure the staff is clear of the table before starting to give his plan.

Basically, he’s going to make a big distraction. When that starts, Henry and Peter are going to do their best to blend in with the wait staff or use the confusion and slip to the back. Henry will go first since he can actually blend in somewhat, Peter will follow once there’s a grand amount of confusion started because it’s more likely he can just push past. And if everything is successful, Joey should be able to join them quickly. But if not, just grab Sammy and Jack and get the hell out of there. He can force his way out if he needs to.

While explaining all this, the trio notice the very well dressed man who looks related to Y make his way through the building and out into the street, followed by some lackeys. Alright, they don’t have much time left if someone like THAT feels like he’s no longer needed here.

With plan in place, Joey snatches up the untouched alcoholic drinks on the table, one in each hand, and puts on his mask. Playing the part of someone who might have already had too many drinks, he starts circling the room demanding why such a beautiful stage set up of instruments is being left so empty. What they need is some live music! Surely there’s a musician in here, a singer? Anyone? 

He starts pushing drinks into people's hands and drumming on tables and humming beats to popular songs… and it works. People can’t help but get into the music, anyone who’s even slightly musically inclined currently has a compulsion to follow along. Joey gets people dancing, singing, just covering all the bases, and soon has a musical riot at his fingertips.

With the staff scrambling to get the situation under control, Henry manages to slip to the back no problem and find the garage where Sammy is still playing his music. While he managed to visually blend in, when it comes to acting, he falls a bit short, usually more reliant on Joey being around to do the talking. Other staff show up and, without realizing it, back him up Henry’s claims; informing the band members that there's a whole musical shebang breaking out up front, and their instruments perhaps have been taken over by that crowed. It manages to get the room is cleared out down to the two music boys, Saxophone and one other mafia lackey… and Henry is on the chopping block again, with Saxophone is getting suspicious about why he’s still here.

It doesn’t help that maybe he wasn’t warned about the guy’s face melting off and reacted… not great to seeing that for the first time.

Peter is also able to sneak back in all the hustle, and once Joey feels like he has something that’s going to last started, he starts sneaking around to the back as well. The two make it to the heavy metal doors, looking out the window just in time to see Henry being approached by Saxophone… and not in the nicest of ways.

As soon as the melted man reaches out to grab Henry, rather sure now that he is NOT actually part of their cult, Sammy hits the most horrible chord he can on the piano and goes to jump up and punch the guy, though whiffs and is pushed to the side–

As Joey takes the musical beat as his cue to burst through the doors, immediately transforming into some new demonic version of Bendy’s original lurkery forms, but sculpted by Joey’s overactive imagination and new attachment to the stone… an ink demon, you could call it.

Nobody is uh, happy with this actually except for Joey and Bendy. But he does manage to get between Henry and the other guy while the rest of the group loses a good cut of sanity from seeing Joey transform into a monster of a toon. Of course, Saxophone isn’t pleased about this either, and when Joey goes to attack him, he manages to ink his way onto Joey instead, somehow pushing his goopy arms into Joey’s shoulders and starting to infect him with Yellow. Henry pulls out his gun and attempts to threaten him, but he really doesn’t seem to care. Okay, good to know. Gun might not do anything to these… yellow ink musicians…The other lackey that was still in the room is thoroughly not into Gun, and scooting towards the doors heading out through the front though! Basically just have Saxophone and his weird infectious Yellow to deal with now!

Sammy and Jack are joined by a Peter, and they run over to one of the garage doors to try and get it open. Jack struggles with it at first but gets the mechanical pull working. Sammy yells at the others to follow, let’s get out of here already! Peter has the locations of the cars so he can guide them and they start making their escape, though they’re distracted with the fight Joey and Saxophone are still mixed up in. Joey decides he’s no longer interested in playing with this man, and attempts to splat him with his claws.

And that’s exactly what happens. He turns into nothing but a yellow puddle on the ground, and the Ink Demon maniacally laughs at it, declaring how they should have listened before and to not touch what’s his.

AS ONE MIGHT EXPECT. NONE OF THE OTHER BOYS. ARE UHH DOING GOOD WITH THIS EITHER. 

Nor are they doing well with watching Joey melt back down into person shape while chasing to catch up to them. But with the door crinkled down behind them, and the last goon having run off, they manage to run out into the muggy night. Joey and Bendy manage to slip back down into a person-shaped form before they exit the shadows of the alleys, Henry scoops him up as he immediately starts to falter in keeping up with the rest of the group, and they get back to the cars unfollowed… and soon they’re all safe back to JDS.

Except… those wounds, from the claws, on Joey and Sammy? Do not look well. They look very yellow. And Joey is not doing well, suffering from the extreme pain the entire ride home curled up in the back over the music boys, biting into his sleeve to keep himself from crying or screaming in pain. Sammy ends up finding his mask and putting it back on during the ride, as well as info dumping in more and more incoherent rambling about the yellow king things they learned tonight.

Back at the studio, Jack attempts to help the boys… but he’s not doing too hot himself. Looking at Joey’s wounds, he manages to do a pretty good job at patching him up while he’s lying curled up on a cot. But perhaps this is only because he knows he can’t do too much to Joey right now. Bendy manages a pretty quick pop out of Joey, and also has some marks on his arms… but isn’t hearing music or feeling things to the extent that the other boys are?? So uh. Shrug, probably fine. Sammy on the other hand is now being haunted by this music once more… the wound isn’t super bad actually other than the Yellow, and Jack ends up thinking that maybe he can get some of the Yellow out of him? It’s a much smaller wound and, and Sammy’s arms are so important he needs those to work, getting it out now might be better in the long run…

…

It doesn’t go well. Sammy eventually gets a bandage, but his arm is perhaps more torn up than it was before… and there’s still yellow in it.

Joey has now had enough time to recover that he’s able to… talk. He gets Henry to call Allison and check in, let her know they are actually not captured by the Mafia. She’s managed to stop by the address he gave her, and has… quite a lot of stuff to talk about, but is also in no condition to chat tonight. Which is fine, neither is Joey. They’ll talk in the morning.

Also, if all the Yellow is still really in their heads in the morning, Sammy is going to ask if Henry can try and purify them like he did with the sign before… Or perhaps ask Prophet to see what he knows. It has been a while since they last talked with him…

Peter and Henry start to get themselves collected up to head out. Jack and Sammy talk about heading back to Jack’s place, but Joey refuses to leave the studio. After putting so much of himself into the Stone, he needs to be near it to be at his full mental strength. He is thoroughly convinced if he steps out of the one place where he has the entirety of his mind, he’s not going to be himself anymore, that the Yellow will seep in and take him over completely. Jack and Sammy end up staying with him, in his hidden room behind his office, where a proper bed has been made for all his late nights at work. Radio in background, lights left on, Sammy only manages to get to sleep because Joey promises to perform the dream spell and try to make sure they don’t completely suffer the entire night.

[Next Episode]

[Previous Episode]

[bubblesuga]

Sleep

“the world is brighter than the sun now that you’re here...” 

Summary: Yoongi has never felt more relaxed than he has while in your arms

W/C: 2,047

Genre: Fluff

Tags: brief mention of ass

A/N: Apparently I’m not done with this soft shit yet. Soft Yoongi kills me.

Yoongi’s feet carry him into the only room he knows will be empty. 

It was moving day and Yoongi was completely unprepared. Sure, he knew that he was basically going to be rebuilding his set up from the bottom to the top, he just didn’t realize that would also include constantly helping Hoseok and Namjoon with theirs as well. Yoongi prides himself on being quite knowledgeable about musical tech but sometimes it’s overwhelming.

He walks quickly, dodging people and ignoring the calls of his name because he knows he’ll get wrapped into helping someone else with some nonsensical tech ‘problem’, taking up even more time and raising his anxiety beyond what he can manage on his own. 

Sticking his master key into the door, he realizes it’s already unlocked. He grits his teeth for a moment and tries to think of another place where he could possibly get some peace and quiet. Unfortunately for him, he hears Jimin calling Yoongi’s name and it’s either entering this room or getting dragged away from his rest. 

The door slowly creaks open and he peeks inside, seeing that it’s dimly lit and quiet. What’s supposed to be a vocal practice room has yet to become so, the shell of a computer laying on the floor and a very tired intern sleeping beside it. 

Yoongi instantly smiles. 

You began working at the company a little less than 3 months ago, and you were learning fast. What would normally take people years to learn, you were consuming in weeks and Yoongi was impressed. You had signed on in an attempt to learn more about producing, which lead you to work with pdogg and Yoongi relatively closely. As a result, Yoongi’s first instinct isn’t to wake you up and tell you off for sleeping on the job. Instead, he lays beside you, mirroring your body. 

Your eyebrows are scrunched and a frown overtakes your lips, showing that you have been just as stressed as Yoongi. He reaches his hand forward to run his thumb along the crease in your brow but stops himself, his hand pulling back quickly. 

It’s definitely not the first time he’s thought about pressing a kiss to your forehead in an attempt to ease your mind. As you were helping pack away the recording equipment near the studio, Yoongi could see the way you blew air out of your mouth and attempted to wipe away your stress with the back of your hand. Then, Yoongi wanted to wrap his arms around you and reassure you that you were doing everything right. 

You stir and Yoongi scoots a little further away, the pout on your lip softening but the crease in your brow just as strong. 

Yoongi has always found you incredibly beautiful, but it baffles him that even in your sleep you somehow manage to look ethereal. 

He debates on waking you, hearing constant footsteps outside the door that caused him to worry that you’ll be caught sleeping-- or that he’ll be caught watching you. 

A sigh leaves his lips and he reaches over, resting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing softly, “____, it’s time to wake up.” 

You stir again, this time opening your eyes briefly. You gasp, jumping at the sight of Yoongi. He chuckles, “Be lucky I was the one who caught you and not someone else.” 

You blink, your heart thudding in your chest loud enough for Yoongi to hear. For a moment he thinks it’s because you’ve seen him, but he remembers that he scared you awake. 

“What are you doing in my nap spot?” You question, a whiny tone to your voice that makes Yoongi’s heart flutter. 

“Arguably, you’re in my nap spot.” Yoongi bites back, trying to hide the way his cheeks turn red when you mirror him again. 

You giggle, “It’s both of our nap spot.” 

“Ah, does that mean you’re going back to sleep?” 

“No,” you shake your head, wiping away the sleep from your eyes, “I have to finish setting up the computer and making sure everything runs correctly.” 

Yoongi sits up, tugging the computer tower to him and plugging in all the wires to the correct input. You open your mouth to protest but Yoongi sends a glance your way and continues setting up. Funnily enough, he doesn’t mind helping you. Rather, he sometimes wonders if that’s what he was searching for in the first place. Maybe it wasn’t peace and quiet he wanted, maybe it was just your presence. 

“Y’know, you can’t keep doing my job for me. I’m going to have to learn some time,” you say after a few moments of watching Yoongi work, “how else am I going to become a badass producer like you?” 

Yoongi smiles shyly at the compliment, reaching backward and scratching behind his ear, a nervous habit he wishes he could get rid of. “I like helping you.” is the only thing he can bring himself to say. 

“Well, you can only help me so much, Mr. Min.” you point a finger in his direction, and Yoongi rolls his eyes as he continues to work. 

He stands up and turns on the tower and the monitor, allowing the computer to boot up and sitting back down beside you. He sits much closer to you than before, and takes notice in the way you don’t make an attempt to move. 

“All done.” he whispers softly, clearing his throat in the process. 

You nod, “Of course I fell asleep just before the easiest part.” 

“Eh, it’s okay,” before Yoongi realizes what he’s doing, he wraps an arm around your shoulder, “you needed the rest. It’s been a long day.” 

Again, you don’t move away from him. Instead, you rest your head on his shoulder and cuddle up closer to him. Something about the atmosphere of the small room makes Yoongi feel bold, and his hand rubs up and down your shoulder. Despite not knowing you for long, you’re the person who he finds the easiest to talk to. 

“It’s been a long day for you as well.” 

“Mhm, which is why I came to nap but you were already in here.” He teasingly reaches forward and pinches your nose, which causes you to push his hand away and clasp it in yours to prevent him from doing it again. Yoongi instantly prays you don’t notice the way his hand shakes in yours, but he realizes you do with the way your thumb moves to stroke his. 

“I’m not stopping you from napping,” she replies, “you can nap all you want.” 

In an oddly bold move, Yoongi grins, “Can I use you as a pillow?” 

You glance up at him, eyebrow raised, “What part of me?” 

Yoongi’s mouth runs dry at your question, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly while he tries to find an answer to your question. You don’t give him the chance, though, as you lay on your back and pull him down with you. 

With a giggle, you pull Yoongi’s head to your chest and softly run your fingers through the section of hair behind his ear. Yoongi wordlessly follows your lead, wrapping his arms around your midriff and trying to calm his breathing. The heat that radiates off your body causes Yoongi to flush, but at the same time he begins to slow his breathing. 

“Comfy?” you question. 

“Y- yes.” he responds, allowing himself to fall solely into you. The way your fingers run through his hair makes him feel like this is where he’s meant to be. It reminds him of the touch of a previous lover, who softly coaxed him to sleep after a night out. Yet, it’s different with you as well. Your nails are longer, they send chills down his spine, and the bare skin that resides in the V cut of your shirt seems to fit his face perfectly. 

With that, Yoongi feels himself drift off to sleep. 

~*~*~

“Should we wake them?” 

“No, they look cute... we can’t disturb that.” 

“They’re sleeping on the job, though. _____ could get in trouble if her manager sees her.” 

“Shh, Yoongi has been wanting this since she started here. Besides, we can overturn any manager here.” 

Yoongi can’t make out the voices that are whispering, and he can’t quite seem to pull himself out of his lull yet. Instead, he’s hyper aware of the way your breathing sounds in his ear, your heart beat softly thudding beneath your chest. 

He feels himself drifting back into the deep sleep he fell into, but a hand rests on his shoulder. 

“Hyung, it’s time to go home.” 

“I said not to wake them!” 

Yoongi is beginning to recognize the voices. Namjoon and Jimin are in the room, and Yoongi feels his nose scrunch. 

“Fuck off.” he murmurs against your chest, snuggling deeper into your soft skin. 

“Come on now, you can’t sleep on the studio floor all night.” Namjoon’s voice is low, and Yoongi feels you begin to move. 

“Are you coming home with us tonight?” Namjoon’s attention is now directed to you, and Yoongi decides it is best to open his eyes now. The same dim lighting greets him and he cranes his neck to see your face. 

You’re eyes are still closed but you open your mouth to speak, “Why would I be coming home with you guys?” 

“Because Yoongi is refusing to let go of you.” Jimin speaks commonsensically, though Yoongi can tell he’s teasing. 

You absentmindedly reach your hand to his hair again, “Shall I go home with you and continue our sleep there?” 

Yoongi nods, his chin against your chest, “I’d love that.” 

As the four of you exit the vocal room, Yoongi guides your sleepy figure into the elevator where you reach the parking garage. Jimin drives, the rest of the members already having left and made their way into their beds. On the drive home, Yoongi doesn’t let go of your hand. 

It’s unspoken, and although you haven’t done anything to confirm it, the two of you are aware of the change in your personal relationship. Something so simple--like falling asleep together, has caused Yoongi’s confidence to grow.

Though sleepiness is still clouding you two, Yoongi opens his mouth to speak for the first time since leaving the office, “Do you like me, _____?” 

You laugh, it’s soft and melodic, “No, I just followed you here to sleep in the big comfy bed.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to me,” Yoongi jokes, pulling back the duvet and slipping his shirt off his torso, “Here, that shirt and jeans can’t be comfortable to sleep in.” 

You nod, glancing back to the walk in closet. Yoongi nods, “You can change in there.” 

As you shut the closet door, Yoongi slips off his own jeans and slips beneath the covers. He reaches to the side and fluffs the pillow you’ll be using, then folding his arms beneath his head and watching the door for you to come out. 

When you enter into the main room again, Yoongi’s shirt doesn’t hang as low on you as he thought it would. It stops just below your ass, riding up when you bend down to place your folded clothes onto the chair in the corner. 

He tears his eyes away from your ass when you turn around, pulling but the duvet for you to slip beneath. 

You happily hop beside him, “Oh god you’re bed is soft. . .” 

Yoongi chuckles, “You’ll sleep well then.” 

You mirror his position, smiling softly, “I don’t think the bed is what will make me sleep well tonight.” 

He gnaws at his bottom lip, “What do you mean?” 

You don’t respond verbally, instead you lean forward and press a light, warm kiss to Yoongi’s lips. 

Immediately his body ignites in fire, his hand flying up to rest against your cheek. That’s as far as it goes, though, because the kiss is over just as quickly as it started. 

“Goodnight, Yoongi.” You whisper, reaching behind you and turning off the lamp on your side. 

Yoongi grins, feeling his stomach swarm with butterflies. You move to rest your head on his chest, intertwining your legs with his. Yoongi holds you tight, his face alight with joy, “Goodnight.” he whispers back. 

[1zashreena1]

Comfort Food

Taco/Female oc (plus size)

Please have this addled fever dream drabble

No porn, only soft. I can't breathe deeply enough to pant thru smut rn.

Gif credit @girlpornparadise

The knock wakes you up. You blink blearily around the little efficiency apartment while trying to remember which way is up. The tv is still on, it's just the little smart tv menu, so whatever voice you're hearing is definitely outside. 

It's also definitely male. 

Undeniably male. A soft rasp. Not so low as to be intimidating, but certainly intriguing.

Come to think of it, the grandma that you rented this teeny over-the-garage apartment from did say that she had a son who worked entirely too much. His own business.  Or something.

Your pajama pants aren't exactly clean, per se, but you're clothed, so it counts. He knocks again just as you get to the lock and slide the chained bolt back. The door swings open with its distinctive creeeeeeeeee-yip and…

Yeah. 

That is.

That is A MAN.

Holy jesus fuckin christ, Mary, and Abraham, too. What in the actual fuck.

First off, he's wearing flip flops. That should not be attractive. And plaid pajama pants. Also, categorically not sexy. A dark colored t shirt, the v-neck is displaying an impressive amount of ink in the form of neck tats that you have never before wanted to lick on a man. But above that is an absolutely gorgeous face with a chiseled jaw, full lips, salt and pepper stubble, high cheekbones, a long, straight nose, dark, bottomless eyes, and naturally perfect eyebrows. All set within tan skin and fetching laugh lines under a riot of black curls.

I am so fucked. 

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

"Hey, uh, I'm, I'm Taco, Marguerite's son. She said she hasn't seen you in a few days, thought you might be sick, so I made some soup." That delicious rasp sounds about as confused as you are. He thrusts the tupperware container at you with a gentle sloshing (Good grief, that must be original '70s) and you stare rudely.

His hands are fucking huge.

Your brain immediately supplies thoughts of finally meeting a man whose hands are big enough to cup your boobs. No! The nails are really short, but it's obvious he does manual labor. Taco's forearms are rippling with muscle and your fever addled libido is fascinated. Beyond that are stupidly broad shoulders--

And we're right back to the neck tats. 

"Hi," you croak unpleasantly with a wince. Hell, even Taco winces. Gamely, you push onward, "Sorry, I sound like shit. Not the best way to meet someone."

Taco takes in your bedraggled hair and baggy pajamas with a not so suppressed smirk, although compassion shimmers in those chocolate eyes. Oh no, please not with the bottomless brown eyes. He rumbles soothingly, "Nah, you're fine. Everybody gets sick, right?"

The soup is still hot and it feels good enough that you clutch it to your chest. It also feels good to have someone care for you. As if he can read your mind, Taco asks, "You alone out here? Mama said you moved here from way out east."

Coming from virtually anyone else this question would be highly suspect. Despite his hulking presence and intimidating ink, Taco feels oddly safe. Oh, he could definitely fuck somebody up, but it wouldn't be you. You're nodding before you realize it, "Yeah. I had to get away. Like, really far away."

Anything else is cut off by a coughing fit that doubles you over. Tears drip onto your tie dyed pants while you gasp for air. Taco takes the container back with his left hand while the right lands on your back. The lack of oxygen results in the floor magically elevating itself toward your face, until a strong arm wraps around your middle. 

"Hey, easy there. I got you." The reassurance is growled directly into your ear and how the hell can your nipples be so alert when you're, like, dying? Taco proceeds to pick you up and gently drop your limp form on the loveseat about five feet to the left. The old furniture sags when he sits, too, but the massive hand rubbing your back is a great distraction from worrying about if the flowered monstrosity might collapse. 

"Sorry," your voice sounds like you just survived a horror movie, two hours of screaming included. Taco is still rubbing your back and it feels really nice. He smells nice, too, like coffee and fabric softener. Are you snuggled into that mysteriously broad chest? Yep.

"While I certainly don't mind holding a beautiful woman," His chuckle vibrates beneath your palms (When did you start groping him? Why the fuck does he have such magnificent pecs?) Taco continues, "I don't wanna make you uncomfortable. I mean, we literally just met."

Oh shit, he's a gentleman, too?? You are so screwed.

"Uh, yeah, true. Sorry. And thank you. For the soup, and, you know, the whole picking me up." Looking up proves nearly fatal, those brown eyes are soft and warm. The laugh lines and sprinkling of silver at his temples only make him all the more handsome. You feel like he could be legitimately dangerous, but only in a fierce protector way.

"So, um. Look, I'm just downstairs, round the back if you need anything. More soup, tissues, another hug from a virtual stranger, whatevs." He shoots you a wink and then stands to go to the door. You can't help but laugh, he's not wrong.

"I might just take you up on that." Are you seriously flirting with a nasty head cold? But, those shoulders… 

His voice is soft as he steps outside and closes the door behind him, "Get some rest, chiquita."

---------- 

The soup is really fucking good.

[egcdeath]

a blip in the reader-verse

chapter 6: extra! extra! read all about it

series summary: a minor mistake causes a shift in the multiverse that only you have the capacity to fix.

chapter summary: you kept your friends close, and your enemy even closer.

pairing: politician!andy barber x journalist!reader, steve rogers x reader

word count: 4k

warnings: american politics, fake dating/marriage, angst at the end, heavy codependent behavior at the end

author’s note: i saw @jtargaryen18 post about politician!steve a while ago and must’ve internalized it because this chapter pretty much wrote itself. just a heads up: all of my political knowledge comes from political sitcoms, so sorry in advance if i get some things wrong. another warning is that there are still some very unhealthy relationship dynamics at play here, so promise me you won’t be like reader okay?

previous chapter / series masterlist

Is Andy Barber Really the Best for Our Nation’s Future?

Opinion

by Y/N L/N

Feb 7, 2021, 4:36 PM ET

After tonight’s debate, the question that’s begged is if Andrew Barber is truly fit to run our country. Although he’s clearly a front runner for his party’s nomination, he’s shown time and time again that he may actually be our weakest candidate.

His weaknesses were highlighted during the debate, with his dodged questions and vague answers. At this point in time, it’s hard to tell if Barber has a platform at all.

With Super Tuesday just around the corner, I ask you to reevaluate your support for Barber. Though a charming candidate, it seems that that’s all he has, his charm. His policies are weak, and borderline impossible, and he certainly isn’t the right person to become the most powerful man in the world.

—-

When you became conscious, you were no better than unconscious. Your eyes opened and were immediately met with a harshness from the sun peeking through a window. You shifted away from the brightness, body sinking into a memory foam mattress while your nude form rubbed against similarly soft sheets. You sleepily rubbed your eyes before they flitted throughout the room you were in. Observing an oddly clean, generic looking area, you’d quickly connected the dots that you were in a hotel room. A rather fancy one at that. 

Soft breathing came from next to you, and as you turned your head a bit more, you were met with the back of a fluffy and dark haired man. You weren’t completely sure, but judging by your history of finding your way to Steve, you’d assumed that it was some alternate form of your partner.

The man in bed next to you yawned, and haphazardly threw an arm in your direction, before rolling over to greet you, “morning sunshine,” he slurred sleepily.

The beard was a bit of a surprise to you. Though you’d begged and begged your Steve to keep it, he often refused for one reason or another. Seeing the man next to you who (what was now much clearer to you) a version of your boyfriend, was a rather pleasant surprise. 

“Morning,” you responded in an equally sleepy manner, ignoring the rhythmic vibration coming from your night stand.

“Mm, you should get that,” he mumbled, pressing a disoriented peck to the side of your head while you reached over to grab your phone, which you could now see was the perpetrator of the vibrations.

“Hello?” you asked into the phone.

“Are you dumb? Or are you fucking stupid?” Aaliyah’s voice scolded through the phone. “Do you know what kind of position you’ve put me in? This is a fucking mess, Y/N. All for some dick? How could you be so careless?! Jesus!”

“What are you talking about?” You glanced over at Andy, and sat up a bit, pulling the crisp blankets over your body in an attempt to retain some form of modesty.

“Don’t play dumb with me. You’re fucking Andy Barber, but you’re writing articles about him like you just watched him kill your dog. You realize that this puts all of us at risk, right? You’re gonna lose your job, I’m gonna lose my job since I decided to edit and publish your shit, and you and I will lose any sort of journalistic integrity we’ve ever had, or will have, for the rest of goddamn time! Seriously, you could’ve had anyone, but Andy Barber? Andrew fucking Barber?” she groaned over the line.

“Uh, I’ll uh, call you back,” you whispered.

“You’re joking right? Are you with him right now?”

“Aaliyah!”

“Oh my god, you’re with him right now. You’re a fucking mess,” she huffed before hanging up.

Why did the universe have to send you off to such a shitshow?

You rolled out of bed, and sulked into the bathroom, desperate to find out what was going on. While sitting on the toilet, you scrolled through the wall of notifications; tweets directed at you, messages from confused friends begging you to call them when you had a chance, and even the occasional concerned email. 

You grimaced as you read through each one of them, eventually clicking on the article that many seemed to be referencing, which included a paparazzi photo of you and this Andy Barber character entering a hotel together sometime in the late night to early morning, partnered with an article or two of your own criticizing him. At first, you wondered if he was some sort of celebrity, but what you ultimately found out was much worse. 

He was a politician. A senator who was running to be president.

You screamed into your hands, before tossing your phone aside, and starting a warm shower for yourself. Perhaps the shower could help jog your memory a bit. 

Stepping into the steamy chamber, and letting the water pelt down onto you did do wonders for you, and it gave you a moment of focus. With both your memories from this universe, along with the information you’d been given through your phone, you were able to piece a few aspects of the universe together.

You were a journalist, a popular one at that, Andy was Steve, but not Steve, and also a presidential candidate. Aaliyah was your editor, and a higher-up at the Times, and you were about to have your ass handed to you over an affair. At least Andy wasn’t married.

Your shower must’ve taken longer than you’d expected, as there was a soft knock on the door after some time. 

“Everything okay in there?” a slightly muffled voice asked.

“Yeah. Just peachy. Why aren’t you more worried about this?” you called back.

“I have a good publicist. And campaign manager. I just have a good team,” Andy paused briefly. “When you’re ready, room service is ready.”

----

Over aggressive mouthfuls of fresh fruit and bitter coffee, you conversed with Andy.

“How are we gonna fix this?” You questioned while setting down your fork.

“Well, it’s simple. We just have to find some kind of spin to this whole story. Maybe you were just interviewing me, or getting a soundbite from me.” “Why would you agree to get a soundbite from someone who clearly has it out for you?” You set your fork down, and crossed your arms over your white robe clad chest. 

“That’s a good question,” Andy nodded a bit, “a good question for someone else to answer.”

“Why don’t we let your publicist figure out how to play this?”

“I’d say I’m a bit of an expert at this at this point, but I’ll call my team.”

“You do that, I need to assess the damage to my career,” you huffed, moving to sit on the bed so that you could aggressively scroll on your phone in peace.

Andy called someone, and you patiently waited while he chatted with them. 

“Okay, Y/N. We can’t leave through the front, so my guy’s gonna pick us up in the garage. We have like, half an hour,” he tossed his phone aside, then maneuvered himself to get in bed with you, setting both hands down on either side of you, and placing a soft kiss on your lips. He slowly began to inch down your body, untying the belt of your robe as he did so, when you interrupted him.

“What do you think you’re doing, Andrew?”

“We have time.” He looked up at you.

“We are not doing this. What do you think got us into this mess in the first place?” you frowned, moving one of his hands so you could slide away from him. 

“Are you serious?”

“Yes! Why aren’t you taking this seriously! Do you realize that both of our careers are at stake here? I don’t want to lose my job because I’m having an affair with you. You shouldn’t want to lose a shot at office for a woman you’re not even with.”

“Come on, we’ve been doing this for almost a year, and you only have a problem with it now?”

“Yes! The public had no idea before! They’re going batshit now! And the worst part is that I’m the one taking the most heat,” you sighed, and Andy gave you a frown. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N. You know I didn’t want this to happen.”

“It’s kinda too late for sorries now.” 

——

You stepped out of your suite about five minutes after Andy left, suitcase in tow, blocky sunglasses on your face, and a heathered grey peacoat draped over your shoulders. Although you were stressed from the controversy you’d found yourself in, you couldn’t help but feel the buzz of excitement from having to hide from the paparazzi. At the same time, you felt quite bad for this version of yourself.

When you finally got out to the designated Cadillac, you asked for his driver to roll up the partition, like you’d done a million times before, then looked out of the tinted windows. The ride was pretty awkward, considering you were in no mood to talk to Andy, and Andy felt bad about the issues he’d imposed on you from his own carelessness. He set a cautious hand on top of yours, and though you were agitated, it did brighten your mood the slightest bit. 

After what felt like forever, you arrived at his campaign building, and you were ushered into a small, soundproof space, with a large and round pine table in the center of it. Surrounding the table was a very tired looking Aaliyah, and… Tony Stark? 

“How’s everyone’s weekend been?” Tony asked, breaking the ice as you and Andy settled into your seats.

“Are we really doing small talk right now?” Aaliyah deadpanned, “sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“Alright, straight to the elephant in the room then. You two were out spotted, big deal, happens all the time to politicians and their mistresses-“

“I’m not his mistress! You know this, Tony,” you huffed.

“Tony knew and not me?” Aaliyah gasped.

“Well-“ you began. 

“Save it.”

“It was on a very need-to-know basis,” you muttered.

“Back to what I was saying. I suggest that we don’t address it, unless addressed.”

“I don’t know if you’re dense, or what, but that’s the exact opposite of what we need to do. We have to get on top of this story before the story is that you,” Aaliyah gestured at you, “are packing your shit at the Times.”

The door shot open, and quickly closed. A slightly flustered blonde man stumbled through. “Sorry to interrupt,” he began.

Aaliyah rolled her eyes at this notion, muttering a ‘sure you are’ to herself. 

“We just finished polling numbers, and Andy, you’re up?” He projected the screen of his iPad onto a TV in the room, then passed the device over to Andy on his way to sit down.

“Thanks, Vis,” he gave him a curt nod.

“Why would our candidate allegedly hooking up with someone who hates him boost him in the polls?” Tony asked.

“Middle America loves a family man, you know that,” Vision said in a matter of faculty manner. “Andy has had a hard time connecting with that demographic because when they see him, they see an Elitist East-coaster.”

“Hooking up with a hot reporter does not make you a family man,” Aaliyah retorted.

“That brings me to my next point. If you don’t mind, I’d like to add a proposal of my own,” Vision stated, and received a shrug from the rest of the room. “Well, if we need to put a spin on this, the obvious choice is to explain that they’ve been seeing each other the whole time. Under wraps, of course. The photos the paparazzi received are not damning by any means, and look more romantic than sexual, to be quite frank. Y/N wrote those articles to throw the public off her scent, and she didn’t really believe anything she said, and Andy? He’s just a good, all American man who was tired of keeping his relationship under wraps. Everything’s to gain from this plan.”

“Well, I lose my journalistic integrity. That’s a pretty big loss to me. I may never work again,” you rubbed your forehead in a distraught manner.

“You won’t have to worry about working when you’re the First Lady. Think about it, if we can get votes from the swing states, we’ve secured enough electoral votes to have a Barber win. All over a little character rebrand.”

“Excuse me, the First Lady?” You nervously glanced between Vision and Aaliyah while you attempted to pick your jaw up from the floor.

“Well, yes. We can’t exactly get the full ‘family man’ look without Mr. Barber being a real husband.“

“Are we talking, real wedding?” Aaliyah questioned.

“Yes. You just have to be legally bound together for around four years, eight years tops. About twelve would be preferable, but I understand that not everything works out.”

“I don’t object to that,” Andy winked and nudged you a bit.

What a mess.

“Back to what I was saying, we’ll probably need about a two week PR period before we do a press briefing announcing the engagement. Give or take. During that time, we could have your publicist arrange all sorts of good photo ops for you two.”

“Either way, my career is ruined,” you sighed, and Andy set his hand on your back.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

“You don’t have to do that. We’re not currently standing in front of 30 cameras.”

“Well, we should prepare for when we are in front of 30 cameras.”

“Is it though?” Vision interjected, bringing you and Andy back from your aside. “We can just deflect, maybe have a few of your friends make articles about how what you did wasn’t all that bad.”

“Is it not a valid criticism of me that I was sleeping around with the person who I was also slandering?”

“Is it not possible to criticize someone you care about? In fact, helping someone learn how to improve can be very romantic,” Vision shrugged. 

There was a brief silence throughout the bunch while everyone pondered a counter argument. 

“That right there, that kind of insight is why we call you the Vision,” Tony shook his head and proudly clapped the man on his back.

“So it’s settled then? We’re really doing this?” You glanced around at your peers while Aaliyah spoke. “Any objections, love birds?”

Andy shrugged, “I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life with her.”

You, on the other hand, weren’t so sure. 

——

Barber and his Greatest Critic Break Bread Together on Friday

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Y/N L/N Announces She’s Not Resigning from Senior Position, and That She’s Been Seeing Barber!

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BREAKING! Barber Announces Relationship with Critic Y/N L/N

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Is L/Nber the Ship that Shows us How Relationships Are More Powerful than Politics?

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Our New Favorite Political Power Couple Showed Up Together at a Rally, and We Couldn’t Be More Excited.

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Barber 7 Points Ahead in the Polls, Leaving Loguidice and Kline Trailing Far Behind

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Was Y/N Really in the Wrong?

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“L/Nber” Celebrate Valentine’s Day Together 

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These L/Nber House Hunting Photos Are Giving Us Life!

read more

This was your reality for the next two weeks. The news cycle was filled with a plethora of articles about you, some criticizing you, some criticizing Andy, but most, supporting the two of you in your romantic endeavors. Unsurprisingly, the world loved a good story about two attractive people getting together. 

During this period, you didn’t particularly feel like leaving, though the thought had certainly crossed your mind. You just weren’t sure that you wanted to be dealing with those terrible symptoms again in the midst of an already stressful stage of your life. At the same time, it seemed like the universe was not going to be fair with your time in this reality. You were convinced that you were here for the long haul, or at least, until Andy proposed to you. 

Although it was a bit annoying, cameras around every corner, a watchful eye on everything that you or Andy even considered doing, you found yourself growing on Andy. In some ways, he was a bit more intense than Steve, whose personality had mellowed out a bit since the Snap.

This had been the first time in all of your travels where you felt like ‘Steve’ was the one pursuing you, and in all honesty, it made you feel good. Even if everything the two of you did had an aftertaste of artificiality.

You spent more and more time with him every day, staying together with him in hotels across the country, visiting local businesses with him to get the perfect photo op, and attending galas with donors. It seemed like in every candid photo of Andy, you weren’t too far behind. By the time the day of your proposal arrived, you weren’t even all that opposed to the marriage. 

When the proposal finally arrived, the two of you were sat inside a rather fancy restaurant, finishing up your meal when Andy settled on one knee in front of you, “Y/N,” he began, and you felt the all too familiar tremble of your watch on your wrist. 

You almost had to restrain yourself from exclaiming out loud. It’s not that you didn’t like Andy or anything, he’d genuinely grown on you. In the least cheesy way, it wasn’t him, but you. Being somewhere so unfamiliar for so long had begun to create a cumulative exhaustion that wore a bit more on you every day. Feeling homesick was an understatement.

You brought your hands up to your face, and gasped dramatically, squeezing your eyes shut to see if you could possibly produce a few tears, while mobile cameras and a few professional flashes were directed towards you. A few warm droplets slipped down your face, and for a moment you weren’t even sure how fake they were. It seemed like once they started, they couldn’t stop.

You missed Steve, your Steve, the man you’d fallen in love with. You missed your friends, teammates, and family. You missed the stability of knowing what the world held for you next. 

In the midst of Andy’s proposal, in what should’ve been the happiest moment of your life, all you could focus on was your overwhelming desire to have a sense of normalcy in your life once again. 

——

You woke up in a cold sweat, heart racing in your chest, and shaking your ribcage. You looked up to the ceiling of what you had grown to know was your room in the Compound, your real room, and felt your eyes well up in tears that stung you. 

You sat up, and took as deep of a breath as you could manage, when you noticed Wanda sitting by your bedside.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” she said softly, coming closer to you, offering you a glass of water before sitting at the foot of your bed. 

“Where’s Steve?” you asked, trying to gauge where you were. 

“Honey,” she sighed softly. “I’m so sorry. He’s still missing.”

Your lip trembled as you took a sip. You really were back home. 

“I know you’re hurting, but when you feel a little better, we’re going to Medbay. Banner decided that we should probably keep an eye on your vitals, but you were gone before we even had the chance to get you there.”

You gulped down the water, then set it on your bedside table, “so was that all just a dream or something? Why isn’t Steve back?” you huffed frustratedly.

“I don’t know why he isn’t back, but I don’t think you were dreaming. I was trying to watch your dreams, but I couldn’t read you, or your thoughts at all.”

“Hmm,” you mumbled, throwing your legs over the side of the bed, “let’s go.”

As you settled into the cold, and sterile medical facility you were hooked up to a plethora of monitors, and a cacophony of devices beeped as they read your physical state. 

You tuned out the words being spoken around you, zoning out and looking forward to your vital signs monitor. Your mind wandered to your last few thoughts in your previous reality, the desperation to come back, to see your estranged lover again. You couldn’t help but to feel disappointed, lamenting the fact that you’d found your way home, yet felt the ever present void in your heart where your Steve used to be.

“Y/N?” a voice asked you, and you glanced in its general direction. “What happened while you were out? What did you see? Did it work?” Bruce pelted you with questions.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it yet,” you sighed softly, bringing a hand up to your neck and rubbing it. “The watch worked though, I was definitely in other universes. I just couldn’t reach him. Bring him home. I failed.”

“Do you think he’s really out there?” Bruce whispered to Wanda hoping that you might not pick up on it.

“I’m… I don’t know. I just don’t know how likely it is that we’ll manage to find him,” she responded in a hushed tone. You bit back tears as she spoke, resuming your empty gaze on the pixelated green text of your heart rate on the monitor.

“I’m sorry, guys. I have to go back,” you interrupted. “I can’t give up on Steve yet. I know he wouldn’t give up on me.”

“Y/N, you could be gone for centuries before you find him, then return back here with no time passed at all, and possibly no Steve. You don’t deserve to take on all of that pain,” Wanda set a hand on your shoulder. “Steve would’ve wanted you to move on from him. To find happiness without him.”

“I can’t do that, Wanda. Without him I don’t even know who I am,” your voice trembled as you spoke. “He’s literally been my only tether through all of this.”

“I just don’t know that this is the best thing we could be doing. Sure, you’re physically fine, but it almost seems like you’re doing worse emotionally than you were before you left,” Bruce added.

“I’m not!” you sniffled before continuing. “I’m just tired from going to all those new places.”

Bruce and Wanda didn’t seem too convinced. “Don’t you guys believe in me? When have I let you down on a mission before? I’m gonna find him, okay? I’ll find him if it’s the last fucking thing I do,” you blubbered.

Wanda’s hand slid down your shoulder, and to the watch that was currently on your wrist.

“Don’t,” you uttered, swinging your opposite hand to grab onto your own wrist. You were aware that there was absolutely no way you could overpower her in taking the watch from you, but even in your minor hysterics, you were able to think fast enough to press the round button before the watch was able to be taken off of you.

You, and your wrist shook. Wrist shaking from the watch, and promise of sending you elsewhere, and you from a mixture of sobs and adrenaline. Though not the most ideal exit, it was an exit nonetheless.

You weren’t even sure if you cared that you were on good terms with your teammates anymore. 

You just needed to be with Steve again.

[holylulusworld]

End of a dream

Title: End of a dream

Square Filled: Free space (mechanic!Dean)

Ship: Mechanic!Dean x Reader

Characters: Sam Winchester, Ruby

Rating: Teen

Warnings: angst, unrequited love, mentions of divorce, mentions of cancer/aneurysm, loss of will to live, comforting, fluff, sadness, remorse, language

Summary: What happens when a dream ends?

Word Count: 2,4 k+

Written/Created for @spnaubingo​

2020 SPN AU BINGO Masterlist

What happens when a dream ends? What happens when the love of your life, the man you love since you were a six-year-old girl tells you he does not want to be a part of your life any longer?

“Y/N! Y/N, where are you! Sammy told you to sign the divorce papers over two weeks ago,” exasperated Dean runs upstairs to look for you. “Y/N.”

“I will sign the papers after the room stopped spinning,” you croak out, holding tight onto the pillow which used to be Dean’s. “I told Sam this morning I’ll sign the papers. I will not bother you any longer.”

“Why are you in bed at 2 pm on a Wednesday?” Dean steps closer, looking around the messy bedroom. “Did you clean lately? Sammy said you are sick, but the flu is no reason…”

You do not react, do not fight back and Dean’s stomach tightens seeing you are barely able to lift your head. “What’s wrong with you Y/N?”

“I’ll sign the papers. Do not worry, I am out of your hair soon. One way or another,” you close your eyes, hoping the headache will go away.

“Sam told me you are sick for two weeks. Did you see a doctor?” Stepping closer Dean glances at you, wondering why you do not react or give him a snarky comment like you used to do.

“Stop acting as if you would care, okay. Place the papers onto the bed and I sign anything when I feel a bit better.” Dean does not like you sound defeat nor is he used to you not giving him a piece of mind.

“Y/N, you need to see a doctor, today.” He is carefully touching your forehead, but you slap his hand away. “I am worried, sweetheart.”

“Sure, you are worried. Let’s face the truth, you give a shit on me Dean. You didn’t have a problem with telling me you want to divorce me a week after my best friend died,” you press the pillow close to your chest, holding back a sob. “Leave. If I die you have fewer problems to get rid of me.”

“Die? Y/N – What are you hiding from me?” Dean sounds genuinely worried, but you do not care if he’s worried or not. You lost all hope.

“I will die, that’s a matter of fact,” you clamp your mouth shut, not meeting Dean’s gaze. “There I said it, Dean. Go and party with the girls you want to meet up with. Maybe you can marry one of them sooner than expected.”

“Y/N, that’s not funny, okay. Let’s talk like adults and not make a terrible joke about dying and crap,” Dean hopes you will tell him you are joking but the way you lie on the bed, a shadow of your former self tells him it’s the hurtful truth.

“Doctor gave me two months, maybe three. If you are lucky you stressed me  enough and it is only two,” voice bitter you look at Dean, giving him a sad smile. “I will not fight for anything. Not the house or whatever you want. I don’t need it anyway.”

“Y/N,” Dean chokes out, kneeling on the bed, desperately grasping for your hand. “Please tell me it’s a lie. Tell me it’s a trick to get me back.”

“I am not cruel, Dean. I would never use tricks or lie to you to get your back. I know you don’t love me anymore, maybe you never did,” you sniffle silently.

“I want to talk to your doctor, Y/N. Please tell me the name and I’ll call to get to know more. There must be a way to save you…”

“She refused to have the surgery. Why? I need to know if it can save her life or not. 75 percent, that’s good – right?” 

Dean paces around the doctor's office, swallowing thickly when he gets to know you don’t want to live longer than needed, that there is nothing left in your life worth living and the surgery is no guarantee you will survive.

“I am sorry, Mr. Winchester,” your doctor sighs, rubbing her sore eyes. “I told your wife the surgery will save her life to at least 75 percent but she refused to even try. I am afraid she lost her will to live. In her condition, there is no guarantee she will recover. A patient needs the will to live, to fight.”

“Will to fight,” nodding silently Dean looks at the white stripe at his ring finger. “We are in the middle of a divorce.”

“I know, Mr. Winchester. Y/N told me she has no reason to fight. That all she dreamed of slipped through her fingers. I think she was ready to have a baby when you told her about divorce. She asked me about fertility and,” your doctor's voice cracks when she closes your file. “Doesn’t matter, Mr. Winchester.”

“The tumor, will kill her if you do not remove it – right?” Huffing Dean falls onto a chair in your doctor’s office.

“It adds pressure to an aneurysm in her head. The aneurysm itself is easy to remove, but the tumor will make things more difficult. We have to do it fast, within the next weeks, even better days before the tumor grows again,” silence fills the room when Dean gets back up to pace around the office again.

“I’ll talk to her, doc. She will have this goddamn surgery…”

“I signed the papers,” weakly pointing toward the papers on the nightstand you ignore Dean’s worried look. “You can go now. I called Ruby, she’ll help me prepare my funeral and all.”

“Son of a bitch, Y/N!” Dean yells, and you flinch at his harsh tone. “You will not die, okay. We will go to your doctor’s office and talk about options. She told me about the tumor, the aneurysm, and the surgery.”

“She had no right to do so,” you choke out, glaring at Dean with tired eyes. “It’s my life, I don’t want surgery and end up as a drooling invalid,” slowly you sit up, wrapping the blanket around your body. “Did she tell you there is a high chance I will end like that? Did she? No one would care about me and I’d end up at a care home, Dean. I don’t want this, so I’ll not have surgery.”

“Y/N, the doctor also said there is a 75 percent chance you’ll survive, and nothing will happen. Do not throw your life away only as I wanted to divorce you. I…I still love you. Life got between us, but this doesn’t mean I want you to die.”

“How merciful of you, Dean. It’s wonderful you do not want to see me dead,” sarcasm dripping from your lips you stare at the wedding band on your finger. 

“You removed it the day you said you want to leave. I did not even have the chance to process you will leave before you placed the ring onto the table. What you feel is not love, it’s pity. Go and leave me alone for the rest of my life as it’s what you wanted to do in the first place.”

“Y/N, come on,” Ruby tries to cheer you up while Sam looks at the file Dean gave him. If not on free terms, Dean wants to force you to have the surgery. “Just say yes.”

“I said no,” you glare at your friends, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’ve got enough, okay. My life never was easy but with Dean, I had hope. But…”

“Listen, you need to get over the break-up with my brother and fight for your life. Stop acting like a stubborn child. You have friends who are worried about you,” you slowly get up to stalk toward Sam, poking your finger into his chest.

“If you tell me how you get over the loss of the love of your life, of the man you love since you were a six-year-old kid, I’ll have the surgery. So, tell me, Samuel Winchester,” you look up at your friend, tears in your eyes, “how will I get over him?”

“Y/N,” Ruby wraps her arms around you, stroking your back, “please don’t give up, don’t leave us. I know you are scared, but we will be there for you.”

“That’s the problem, Ruby. I am not afraid to die, I am afraid to live…”

“I’ll not let you die,” Dean purses his lips, pointing toward a bunch of papers. “I’ll let Sammy call a judge to place you under a disability if I have to! You will have this surgery!”

“Why, Dean? As you feel something for me – doubtable,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “That feeling is you selfishly trying to assuage your guilt.”

“I will not let you die, period. You can willingly agree, or I swear I’ll drag your cute ass to the doctor and do it myself!” Dean clenches his jaw, looking down at you with watery eyes. “Please, sweetheart.”

“If I end up as a drooling invalid, you will have to pay for a nursing home,” you turn on your heels, stomping toward your bedroom, slamming the door shut.

“What if she dies? What if she ends up as a drooling invalid? What if this was the wrong decision and she’ll hate me? What if the doctor kills her?” Dean panics, pacing around the hallways whilst his brother and Ruby try to remain calm.

“Dean stop making me nervous! My best friend is in there, fighting for her life. Don’t make this even harder for me!” Ruby grits out. 

“That’s my wife, the woman I love in there,” Dean yells now, “I got all the right in the world to be nervous, scared, and to fucking panic!”

“Oddly, you are the one wanting to get rid of her! Why are you acting as if Y/N means shit to you now that she is close to dying? Weeks ago, you wanted to be free again, Winchester,” Ruby pushes against Dean’s chest, clearing at her boyfriend’s brother. “Y/N is the best thing ever happening to you, you douche!”

“I know,” Dean chokes out. “You don’t have to tell me so, Ruby. Y/N was always too good for me and a few months ago, I proofed I am not worth her love,” he downcasts his eyes, fiddling with his wedding band. “I lost a lot of money at the garage, had barely customers. The bank will take my garage, but I thought if I divorce Y/N and she gets the house before I am bankrupt, she can keep it.”

“What the actual fuck, Dean!” Sam yells now, glaring at his brother. “Why didn’t you tell us so? Why didn’t you ask for help instead of breaking Y/N’s heart? She thought you never loved her Dean, was ready to die!”

“I was ashamed, Sammy. I’ll lose Bobby’s garage, the one he gave to me, believing I’ll take good care of his business. I couldn’t tell Y/N that I will lose everything, including Baby. She would’ve tried to give me the money her granny gave her,” Dean grumbles, pressing one hand to his heart. “I didn’t want to drag her down with me, Sam. I had to hurt her to not ruin her life too.”

“You fucking idiot!” Sam punches his brother's nose, panting heavily. “We are family, Dean. If we need help, we stick together and help each other. I got money saved, so does Y/N and our parents. One word and we would’ve helped you.”

“I know…”

“How much do you need, Dean?” Ruby asks pressing a tissue to Dean’s nose. “Come on, jerk. Tell me.”

“Ten-thousand, maybe fifteen-thousand bucks,” Sam sighs, rubbing his forehead nervously. 

“Dean, dad has around 150,000 bucks, okay. He would gladly help you, just like me and Ruby. Hell, it’s a great investment. We help you out, get like 5 percent of your business and you’ll repair our cars for free,” Sam offers, knowing his brother is too proud to accept help. 

“You want to be my partner?” Dean’s eyes lit up when Sam places one hand onto his shoulder. 

“A silent one, only coming around to get his car fixed or to annoy his elder brother. Now cut the crap, send me the numbers and we will check everything over the weekend. You’ll not lose your business or your wife,” nodding Dean looks at the doctor who walks toward the small group.

“Mr. Winchester,” the doctor pants, “we made it. The tumor is gone, the aneurism fixed and as far as we know there is no damage. We will have to wait for her to wake up, but the surgery was a success.”

“Sweetheart,” sniffing Dean presses his lips to your hand, gently brushing the skin with his soft pillows. “I love you.”

“Dean?” coughing you look at Dean who squeezes your hand tightly. “Where am I? Did something happen?”

“You had surgery – remember? I mean, do you remember me?” you hum, knitting your brows together to remember the last days. “I am sorry, for everything. I never wanted to divorce you, Y/N. I messed up business and…”

“Is it out?” you look at Sam and Ruby who stand awkwardly in the room. “I mean, am I going to live?”

“Yes, and you will have to hear about the stunt your brilliant husband pulled, Y/N but this can wait. You’ll have to recover and meanwhile, I’ll kick Dean’s ass on your behalf,” Sam smirks, squeezing your shoulder.

“Unbelievable!” You toss a plate at Dean, almost hitting his head. “You could’ve talked to me, but no, Dean fucking Winchester prefers to leave me!”

“Sorry,” Dean ducks to not get hit by the next flying object, grinning as you grasp for a vase to throw it at his back. “I thought it’s for the best, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart my ass, Winchester! I’ll kick your ass when I feel better,” you threaten, throwing your phone at Dean who shrieks as you hit his ass. “Bingo!”

“Fuck, baby girl, stop throwing things at me. I said I am sorry, Y/N.” Dean dodges your next attack, crawling toward the coach to poke his head around the corner of the sofa.

“I am not done, not at all!” While you try to find anything to throw at Dean he sneaks toward you, to pick you up in bridal style. “Gotcha sweetheart,” he snickers, running upstairs to bring you away from any potential weapon.

“I swear, you will be the death of me, Winchester…”

Tags in reblog

Credit for Impala divider: @writeyourmindaway​

[ellewritesfix05]

Trick & Treat

Characters: Sam x Reader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: Fluff!

A/N: halloween fluff! This is based of this request by @marilynh21 . Hope you like it, sweets! ☺️💜

📸 cred: to rightful owners

Here’s my full Masterlist if you’d like to read more!☺️

Stepping out of the bunker, you adjust your favorite scarf around your neck. The leaves of the trees surrounding your new home are gathering on the ground; beautiful, warm colors dancing in your vision. A smile adorns your features, you’ve been waiting for this time of year for what feels like an eternity. As a hunter, there are only a handful of things that you need to be happy; your boyfriend, Sam, autumn, and a good book.

Unlike others you know, you don’t need eccentricities to fulfill you. You never have. That’s one of Sam’s favorite things about you - the fact that, despite everything you have to deal with, your happiness never truly falters. It’s infectious, he says, pure sunshine. Little does he know that’s not always the case. You have your moments, as everyone does, but when the man you love loves you back and happens to be one of the sweetest, smartest, kindest hunters in the world… it’s easy to let the bad things go and focus on the good.

You climb into the passenger seat of the blue Dodge Dart, one of Sam’s favorites from the bunker’s garage selection, and lean in to give Sam a kiss. His lips immediately curve upwards, he’s always so glad to see you. Just getting back from a week-long hunt with Dean, Sam wanted to take you out on a date to celebrate a good hunt. As the car exits the long driveway and turns into the highway, you look out the window, admiring the way all those reds, oranges, and yellows blur past you. You feel a warmth enveloping your hand, turning to see his fingers entangled in yours. He always did things like that, always needing to keep some sort of contact with you even if you weren’t exactly interacting in any other way. And you were more than happy to oblige, feeling an array of butterflies in your stomach every time.

It’s been nine months since you and Sam began dating; three weeks after you first met him, to be exact. Never one to hunt in groups, you’d found yourself in the position of saving him and his older brother when a couple werewolves got the drop on them. Shortly after witnessing an impressive show of skills and badassery, if you did say so yourself, Sam had asked for your number — in case either of you needed any help. Not long after parting ways, you found yourself texting the tall Winchester nearly 24/7. Three weeks later, you happened to be passing through Kansas which prompted him to ask you to go see a play at the Lebanon Community Theatre, and, well, the rest was history.

Now, you are inseparable and “insufferable,” according to Dean. Although their mother, Mary, definitely disagreed as she welcomed you into their family with wide-open arms.

Pulling into the cafe’s parking lot, Sam gives your hand a squeeze, “you okay, babe?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I was just remembering the night we met.”

“Ah, you mean the night you saved our asses?”

“Pretty much,” you laugh.

Climbing out of the car, Sam walks around to open your door and offers a hand to help you step out with him. Keeping a hold on your hand, he guides you to the entrance of the town’s little cafe. One of the perks of living close to a small town was the accessibility to quaint, personalized cafes like this one. The owner/barista knows you and Sam by now, since you always love to pass by for a coffee or hot chocolate before whatever Sam has planned for the rest of the evening.

You look out the window, smiling at the costumed children passing by on their way to the next business participating in the main street Halloween celebration. Before long, a steaming cup of coffee is placed in front of you and Sam. He tells you all about the hunt, a brand new witch that frankly couldn’t tell the difference between a rat’s brain and her own, and you laugh as he describes the ridiculous things she attempted against them which ultimately resulted in her own demise.

Soon enough, it’s dinner time and Sam takes you back to the car, which you find unusual since the restaurant he said you’d be dining at is only across the street. You arch an eyebrow in question at Sam and he smiles.

“Change of plans, we’re going back to the bunker.”

“Why…?” Now that you notice, he’s behaving rather oddly. Fidgeting and tripping over his words, in a very unlike-Sam manner. Well, unless he’s lying, but he wouldn’t lie to you… would he?

“Just, uh, I forgot my wallet.” His smile is nervous and you narrow your eyes in suspicion but shrug and comply anyway. Maybe the lack of sleep was catching up with him?

On the drive back to the bunker, the sun sets, turning the sky into a breathtaking fresco of orange, purple, and blue hues. Every time you look over at Sam and he catches your glance, he chuckles. You can’t figure out what the matter is with him, though now that you think about it, perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it’s Halloween, probably his least favorite holiday. Unfortunately, that’s where you both differ - you love Halloween, even if “everyday is Halloween” for you, as Sam once said. It’s a shame. You simply live for the holiday, the whole autumn season really, but Halloween is just always so fun. People carve pumpkins to make jack o'lanterns, the air always smells of apples, you watch your favorite movie, Ghostbusters, and the best part is everyone dresses up to go trick or treating or have fun at parties.

Well, everyone except for you. At least for this year. As much as you love to dress up, not being able to do so with anti-Halloween Sam kind of puts a damper on the whole thing. Where’s the fun in being the only one to dress up, especially when you were only supposed to go out for dinner and then back to the seclusion of the bunker? You love the place but the fact that it’s not exactly next door to the main town area makes the whole “going out on Halloween” thing not seem as fun.

Your train of thought is interrupted when Sam stops the car in front of the main entrance.

“Do you want me to wait here while you get your wallet?” You ask.

“Actually, would you mind getting it for me? I think I twisted my ankle and it kind of hurts to go down stairs,” Sam requests sheepishly.

Hesitatingly, you nod and head to the entrance. You look back over to Sam and he waves at you. Waving back, you go to enter the place. As soon as you do, you’re put off by the darkness inside. Even when you all go on a hunt together, there’s always at least one light on. Cursing under your breath you reach for your phone to turn on the flashlight app. You walk down the stairs carefully, and head for the big light switch at the bottom of the stairs. Pulling it down, the bunker buzzes and light slowly begins to illuminate the place.

You jump as voices yell “Surprise!” behind you. Bewildered, you turn to find your hunting family gathered on the steps between the war room and the library. Jack and Mary stand closest to you, both dressed as what you can only describe as wacky doctors, oversize stethoscope and giant head light included. Donna waves at you excitedly, standing next to Jody in their police uniforms. Dean, of course, has opted for a cowboy look, and somehow convinced Cas to do the same. While you’re speechless with joy and excitement at the sight before you, you can’t help but look for those beautiful hazel eyes you love so much.

You’re about to ask where he is when you hear his voice, “Happy Halloween, baby.”

You look over to your left, only to find Sam standing at the entrance of the hallway that leads to the garage. He walks towards you, the pack on his back jiggling along and you can barely contain the tears as he offers you a matching costume: a ghostbusters uniform.

You jump to his arms, giggling excitedly at the surprise you’ve just received. Sam twirls you in place and the group behind him smiles wholeheartedly. Setting you down, he leans towards you and captures your lips in a sweet, gentle kiss. You can hear “oooh’s” and a wolf-whistle, which make you chuckle against Sam’s lips.

“I can’t believe you did this,” you tell Sam as you fully take in everything they’d done. On the war table are 10 pumpkins, as well as carving tools. There is a large tub of water containing apples, presumably to get everyone bobbing for apples. On top of that, there are strings of lights with little orange pumpkins instead of lightbulbs, accompanied by black and orange streamers.

Sam places a hand on your lower back as he leans down to whisper, “anything for my love.”

The butterflies in your stomach are working overtime. You thank him silently and he places a kiss to your temple before you walk over to the rest of your hunting family. Hugs are exchanged, and the moment the group parts, you become even more excited as you see a full Thanksgiving-esque feast laid out on the library tables, which have been pushed together to fit everything and everyone. Your cheeks hurt from how wide your smile is but you don’t care. Just when you thought you wouldn’t have your Halloween, Sam had made sure you had everything you needed and wanted.

Running down the steps, you grab the Ghostbusters costume that Sam had placed down on the war table and hurry off to change. Once done, you head back to the library where Sam awaits, having saved a spot next to him for you. Chatter and Halloween music fill the room, everyone buzzing with excitement and joy as food is passed around and thoroughly enjoyed. Every time you look over at Sam, he smiles and grabs your hand, lifting it to his lips to lightly kiss your knuckles. As the night wears on, you can’t wait to get started on the games. Jack suggests starting with bobbing for apples and you jump at the chance. Not to brag, but you are freakishly good at it.

Everyone gathers around the war table and you prepare yourself to dunk your face in the tub. Grabbing your hair in one hand, you dive down and can hear clapping and wooing muffled by the water. Within seconds you emerge, red apple in your mouth only to find that everyone has moved out of your line of sight. Rubbing the water off your eyes, you turn to see where they went and freeze.

Right in front of you is Sam, the rest of the group behind him. He’s down on one knee, long fingers holding what seems to be an engagement ring. The group behind him smiles widely as they hold a sign that reads, “Marry me, Y/L”

Time slows down as you try to process the scene, teeth still firmly holding on to the apple in-between them. You look directly to Sam’s hazel eyes and see a sparkle like you’ve never seen before.

He smiles and starts, “Y/N, I mean it every time I say you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know we haven’t been together that long, and I know that, as hunters, our life expectancy isn’t the best… but, I also know that having someone like you in my life is all I’m ever going to need. I love everything about you. I-I love how peaceful you look when you sleep. I love the little dimple that forms on the side of your mouth when you’re concentrating on research. I love the way that you hum when you’re getting cereal in the mornings, and the fact that, no matter what, you always manage to stay my bright sunshine. I love you so much, and I would be honored to have the opportunity to spend the rest of my life by your side. So, please, tell me you want to spend the rest of your life with me, too.”

Sam’s hazel eyes are boring into yours, eagerly asking for an answer to his sudden proposal. You nod fervently and a sob escapes your lips as you let go of the apple in your mouth yell out “Yes!” in response.

Sam lets out a breadth he seems to have been holding, an expression of relief quickly followed by pure happiness paints his features as he stands in front of you. You stand on your tiptoes and press your lips to his. Sam wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you into his embrace, twirling you in place. The room erupts in cheers and excited claps. But they all seem muffled as all you can really feel, and register is Sam’s touch. His arms around you, his soft lips dancing with your own.

He breaks the kiss and lets you back down, reaching for your left hand to place the ring in your finger. You know most people would be looking closely at the ring right now, but all you can do is admire Sam. His hair hangs down, covering some of his face but you can still see the beaming smile, the glimmer of love in his eyes.

He stands upright and brings your hand to his lips once more, it’s then that you see the diamond sparkling in the bunker’s dim lighting. It’s simple, yet beautiful — a princess cut jewel with a gold band. It looks familiar, and it takes a moment to realize.

“Wait, is this… ?” You look over to Mary, who is widely smiling and nodding. It’s her ring, the one John gave to her all those years ago.

You shake your head and begin to take the ring off, “I-I can’t take this, Mary. It’s your-“

“Yes, you can!” Mary immediately places a hand on your own to stop you. “Like I told Sam, I couldn’t be happier that you’re joining our family and it’s important to me that you take the ring. You’re one of us now. I had no daughters to give a family heirloom to before, but now that I do, it means the world to let you have it.”

You look to Sam, who nods slightly, and immediately wrap your arms around Mary. You’ve heard everything about them, Sam told you their entire life story, so you understand just how important it is for both of them.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mary,” you whisper.

“Just take care of him, Y/N. He deserves to be happy.”

The rest of the night continues to become your favorite Halloween ever — the games, the laughter, the fact that Jack somehow managed to carve a pumpkin with you and Sam as the design.

But even then, none of this compares to the best part; you and Sam, taking tonight as your own. The beginning of a beautiful life together.

****

If you’d like to join any of my taglists, let me know which one here!

Forever Loves Taglist 🖤

@deanwanddamons / @hobby27 / @spnchick1996 / @briagallen / @downanddirtydean / @vicmc624 / @justanotherblonde23

Sam Darlings Taglist ♥️

@austin-winchester67 / @supernaturalgrandma / @stoneyggirl / @wiserainbowgirl

[jewish-space-laser]

Stand Back

Wow! I’ve only been back for a few hours, and there’s already been so, so much support. I missed you all. This piece is one of my favorites, inspired by my R&RHoF excitement last winter. My dear friend, @for-fucks-sake-h​ beta’d this for me, and I loved her then and I love her now! Thank you all for believing in me! If you enjoy this story, shoot me some feedback :) 7.5k words

xoxo Tile

“Harry, c’mon!” Millie whined, tugging at his sleeve when he didn’t bother looking away from the TV. “This isn’t fair and you know it!”

“Millie, fuck’s sake, I already told you that it’s just not possible,” He rolled his eyes, reluctantly looking over at his puppy-dog-eyed best friend. She’d been pestering him for the better part of the afternoon, and he was beginning to get frustrated. She was definitely going to ruin his surprise.

“I just don’t understand,” she pouted, “I’m the one who got you into Stevie’s music in the first place, maybe I should be the one inducting her next week.”

“Yeah, you can do the performance bit, too,” he chuckled, “I’m sure the audience would love to hear your off-pitch, dying-cat screeches. Stevie would love it, too. Instant record deal- oof!”

The pillow hit his stomach with more force than he had expected, but it did nothing to wipe the shit-eating grin off of his face. Millie whacked him on the thigh, and then once more for good measure, before chucking his throw pillow – her makeshift weapon – across the room.

“I didn’t want to see your performance anyway,” she grumbled, “you’ll probably sing Edge of Seventeen, because you’re too basic to sing anything else, and I’ve already seen you perform that one.”

Harry smirked at the memory. They had been fifteen, almost sixteen, and Millie had managed to smuggle a few bottles of cider from her father’s ‘special fridge’ in the garage. Harry had climbed the tree outside her window for the umpteenth time, and the two of them had spent the entire night looking up youtube videos of their favorite rock singers, their virgin livers drunk off of just a few sips of alcohol.

“The 1983 performance was better,” Harry argued, throwing his hands up in outrage.

“You’re taking the piss,” Millie scoffed, swatting his hand away from her laptop, “The 1981 performance is clearly better. Her dance moves are absolutely insane, and the audio quality is better.”

“Her dance moves are mediocre at best in this one,” Harry stated, nodding his head to the guitar beat anyway, “anyone could replicate those.”

“I’d like to see you try!” Millie challenged. The duo regarded each other for a long moment, waiting for the other to back down, and completely oblivious to the hearts in their eyes, still too young to understand what they were feeling.

“Alright then,” Harry giggled, standing up on her bed, obnoxiously singing along to the music blaring from her laptop. He tried to imitate Stevie’s high kicks, the bounce in her step, and swung his arms around as if he were draped in the singer’s white shawl. Millie couldn’t fight the peals of laughter that bubbled up in her throat. He looked completely absurd.

“Just like the white-winged dove!” Millie sang, hopping up on her bed to join Harry.

The two of them bounced until the song was almost over, their voices riddled with gasps and coughs as they tried to catch their breath. The fun had ended abruptly, with Millie’s mother swinging the door open, asking the two red-faced teenagers if they knew that it was past midnight.

“First of all, that was a great performance,” Harry teased, appreciating the way Millie’s eyes softened as she too reminisced their teenage years. She’d always been a sucker for happy memories, and Harry had quickly learned that they were the best way to calm her down or change the subject. Most of her happy memories included him, anyway. “Second of all, this time around, you won’t be grounded for a week.”

“Yeah, because you won’t let me be there!”

“Millie, I told you, I promised Gemma I would bring her along and I only get to have one guest,” he lied, “she’s my sister, I couldn’t say no.”

“You say no to her all the time, in fact, you love saying no to her,” she pointed out, “plus, I’m kind of like your sister. We’ve known each other just as long.”

Harry felt his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t the first time she had said something along those lines, brother and sister, but it still hurt. He was beginning to think that she would never feel the same way about him that he did about her.

It was a curse, really. He had the world falling at his feet, enough girls were interested in him, and he was successful. But it didn’t matter, did it? Not when the only person he wanted thought of him like a brother.

“Right, yeah,” he cleared his throat. He quickly stood up, mumbling something about getting them more tea, but really he just wanted to hide the burn of tears behind his eyelids. When he came back, Millie was squinting at the screen of her laptop, hunching over so her face was inches from the screen.

“I’m buying my own damn ticket,” she informed him.

Fuck, he thought.

“Okay, okay, stop,” he groaned, closing her laptop. Millie’s hands were still suspended in front of her, poised to type when he shut the computer in her lap. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but there’s a front row seat at the Hall of Fame with your name on it.”

“I KNEW IT!” She cried, shoving the laptop off of her legs and throwing her arms around his neck. “I knew you wouldn’t just leave me behind!”

Harry melted into the hug, winding his arms around her shoulders and back and subtly inhaling as he pressed his nose into her hair. She was practically vibrating with excitement, which made him grin with pride. It may not have been the surprise he had planned, but it was certainly the reaction he’d been expecting.

“You were making it really hard to lie to you,” he admitted, tugging her back when she tried to step out of their embrace. He wasn’t quite ready to let go of her yet. “I was going to tell you tomorrow at dinner, had a whole plan.”

“I’d say I’m sorry for forcing it out of you, but I’m not sorry in the slightest!” She wiggled out of his arms, successfully this time, and gave him a look of pure happiness that made his insides turn to putty. “Does this mean you’ll tell me what song you’re performing?”

Harry snickered, batting her hands away when she went to pinch his arm. He wasn’t about to reveal all of his surprises.

“Not a chance!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my god, turn this up!” Millie squealed, already reaching over to twist the volume knob on the dashboard.

“Oi!” Harry snapped, swatting her hand away with a steely glare. “What did I just tell you about touching m’ new car?”

“You told me not to make fingerprints on the window,” Millie crossed her arms over her chest, “you never said I couldn’t touch the radio.”

“It was implied,” Harry said through gritted teeth. Normally, Millie’s stubbornness was oddly charming, but today she was truly getting on his last nerve.

Harry had finally saved up enough money for a new car. Grueling ten-hour bakery shifts, babysitting jobs, yardwork, any penny he could get his hands on, had all finally been worth it. He didn’t technically have his license yet, since he was only sixteen, but nobody really paid attention once you got out into the country. Most kids knew how to drive anyway, one of the benefits of growing up in small English farmtown.

The car, which he had bought off of a classmate’s older brother, was a complete piece of shit, but that didn’t stop Harry from polishing every last surface, inside and out. It was a Mustang, and even though the front bumper was dented and it had chips in the paint, it was his pride and joy. He’d overheard a group of girls talking about how sexy it was that Brad Hannagan, his lab partner, had gotten a car. Apparently, he’d taken Allison Fishman to the next town over for dinner, and then they made out in his front seat. Harry wanted his car to be sexy, too.

There was really only one girl he wanted to impress though, and she was currently spilling granola bar crumbs onto his leather seats.

“Millie!” He whined. “You’re getting everything all messy!”

“You’re being so anal, H,” she had just shoved the rest of her bar into her mouth, so her voice came out muffled and garbled, “this is supposed to be fun! Our first ride together in your new car.”

“It is rather special, huh,” Harry nodded thoughtfully, “how do I look in the driver’s seat?”

“Honestly?” She raised an eyebrow. “You look… kinda hot. But do not let that go to your head or else I’ll - ohmygod! Harry, seriously turn it up, it’s Stevie Nicks!”

This time, he didn’t complain when Millie reached over and pressed three different buttons on his dashboard, because the girl he liked thought he was attractive, his windows were rolled all the way down, and the chorus of Stand Back was blaring through his speakers.

This feeling was worth every window smudge, crumb on his seat, and unwelcome dashboard push, he thought. Especially if it meant seeing Millie like this: long hair blowing out the window, head thrown back with her eyes closed, and feet tapping along to her favorite song.

It was a miracle he could keep his eyes on the road.

Harry was going to sing Stand Back. He knew it, Stevie knew it, almost the entire crew backstage knew it, but Millie was still in the dark. It was her favorite song, and he had every intention of putting on a show for her.

He was already dressed in his suit. He’d chosen another custom-made Gucci, a deep matte black fabric with metallic bronze flowers twisting up his torso and down his legs. He’d even let the makeup artist apply some matching bronze eyeshadow to his face, something he’d always wanted to try out. His shoes were plain, black with a bit of a lifted heel, and his only other accessory was a bronze colored tambourine. This was a Stevie Nicks tribute, after all, it wouldn’t be complete without her signature instrument.

The moment he stepped on stage, he knew his outfit choice was a hit. He hadn’t even started his speech before the familiar screaming started, but he’d grown used to the high pitched noise.

He hadn’t been able to meet with Millie beforehand, but it was hard to look away from her now (not that keeping his eyes off of her had ever been easy for him). She was sitting in the front row with a proud smile on her face, and a sinfully tight silver dress on her body, and Jesus Christ she looked incredible. He gave her a lopsided smirk before squinting his eyes into the lights over the audience.

The moment the first notes of the song echoed from the speakers lining the walls, Millie’s jaw dropped lower than Harry had ever seen. He smirked at her, licking his lips cockily as he started bobbing his head. The cheers from the crowd only spurred him on. He took his bottom lip between his teeth, never looking away from his best friend.

“No one looks, I walk by, just an invitation would have been just fine,” he crooned, unable to stop himself from tapping his feet to the rhythm.

He’d opted out of playing the guitar during the performance, wanting to focus more on his vocals. He tore his eyes away from Millie, who was still watching him in awe. This song was for her, but there was still an entire venue crowded with thousands of people, and this was the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He’d rather fling himself from the Empire State Building than give a poor performance.

“Stand back, stand back,” he ripped the mic from its stand, prancing across the stage and flipping the hair out of his eyes with a dramatic snap of his neck, “in the middle of my room, I did not, hear from you….”

“La la la la la la la, la la,” he closed his eyes as he turned his back to the crowd, seeing the bright bronze and burnt orange visuals on the screen through his eyelids.

He knew he absolutely killed the performance, if the whoops and hollers were any indication. He could hear the cheers, see people dancing, see her dancing. She seemed to have befriended the woman next to her, as they were both shouting out the lyrics along with him with their hips bumping.

“Take me home….” Harry belted, his voice turning grainy the longer he held the note. When the music finally faded out, he let out a low chuckle into the microphone, relieved to have done the song justice.

It took several minutes for the applause to die down enough for him to speak, and by the time it did, he had no idea what to say.

“Ehm, hello New York!” He called into the microphone, clearing his throat. “It’s an honor to be here.”

Writing a speech about Stevie was the easiest thing he’d ever done. All he had to do was be honest, after all; she was an inspiration, a legend. The definition of a powerful woman. The kind of person who supports young struggling artists, can whip out a killer song in less than an hour, who dedicates her life to bringing melody and emotion to her fans. A poet. A magician.

Giving the speech was another story. The sweat on his back was making the fabric of his undershirt stick to his skin in the most suffocating manner, and Millie’s burning stare had all but caused his brain to short circuit. She’d looked at him like that just once before. He thought about it often, usually when he was alone with his hands shoved between his thighs.

Millie was four drinks in.

Harry knew this because he’d been counting. He had gone to enough parties with her to know that she got a bit… loose once she’d had a few, and he’d taken it upon himself to keep her away from every man who dared look in her direction.

“Stop shooting daggers at everyone, H,” she’d complained, “I wanna dance with someone, but you’re scaring them off. They probably think you’re my boyfriend.”

Good, he’d thought.

“Mills, the men here look sleazy as fuck,” he’d said sternly, “I’m not letting you rub yourself all over some chav.”

“Well, I need to rub myself all over someone, or I swear I’ll lose my mind,” she giggled, her eyelids more hooded than usual as she leaned up against the bar, “you know how I get when I drink.”

Maybe he wouldn’t have normally responded in the way that he did, but he’d had a few to drink himself. The words were pouring out of him before he could stop them, his filter broken down by the whisky double he’d choked down earlier.

“Y’could dance on me.”

Millie hummed, slowly raking her eyes over him from his shoes to the stray curl on his forehead. Instead of giving him an answer, she leaned over the bar to whisper something to the bartender.

He wanted to kick himself. She’d said it time and time again: he was like a brother to her. He started running excuses through his head, things he could say to break the tension and make her forget that he’d ever uttered the words.

“Now that’s an idea,” she finally said, carelessly dropping a bill onto the counter beside her. Harry raised his eyebrows, shocked. When the shots she ordered appeared by her elbow, she slid one over to Harry wordlessly. He took it without hesitation, the burn of tequila tickling his lips long after the bitter taste faded away.

“A good idea?” He asked, cocking his head to the side. “Or a bad one?”

She had never looked at him like this before. Harry had long ago memorized every facial expression she’d ever thrown at him, and prided himself in being able to read her like a book, but this was brand new territory. Her eyes, which were normally bright enough to blind him, had darkened. She was looking at him like she could see right through his clothes… like maybe she wanted to see right through his clothes.

“Why don’t we find out?”

It had taken him weeks to stop dreaming about the way Millie’s ass had felt pressed against him, or how dewy her skin had felt as he ran his hands over it, but now it was all rushing back. Not even the bright spotlight could disguise the fire in her eyes. She wanted him.

But he couldn’t think about that night at the club, not unless he wanted to pop a boner in front of thousands of attentive onlookers. He delivered his speech perfectly, but on the inside his stomach was twisting and tangling into knots, and he hadn’t been able to look at Millie throughout the entire thing.

The rest was a blur. The deafening roar of applause as Stevie came on. The brief hug he shared with her as he passed the microphone to her. The hand he placed on the older woman’s back while a video montage played on the giant screen. More applause. Millie’s eyes.

By the time he made it offstage, all he wanted to do was shove his hand down the front of his trousers, but he still had one more surprise he had to follow through with. With his back pressed against the wall and a twitching hand on his stomach, he took a few deep, heavy breaths. He needed to calm the fuck down, or he was going to blow his load the moment he saw her in that dress.

“Shit,” he exhaled, closing his eyes.

He wasn’t near as composed as he wanted to be, but one of his security guards would be leading Millie backstage any second. He’d arranged for her to meet Stevie, something he knew she’d been wanting since they were children.

“Harry!”

He looked over to see his best friend galloping towards him, his frazzled looking security guard trailing after her.

“Sorry we’re late,” the man apologized, adjusting the walkie-talkie that was clipped to his belt, “she ran ahead and went the wrong way, so we had to backtrack and ended up getting lost.”

“That sounds about right- oof!” Millie clearly hadn’t pumped the brakes, barreling straight into him. If he hadn’t been against the wall, the two of them would have ended up on the floor. “You can take the rest of the night off, Dave.”

His guard didn’t argue, quickly spinning on his heel and leaving the pair to themselves. She’d glued herself to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his waist as she swayed them back and forth.

“Missed you,” she mumbled.

“Just saw you last week, Mills.”

“Yeah, too long,” she nodded. Harry liked the way the tip of her nose rubbed against his dress shirt.

He chuckled fondly, gently easing her back with his hands on her shoulders. “How’d you like my song?”

“H, I can’t even describe how incredible it was. Like… I’ll be honest,” she blushed, “you looked… kind of hot. But do not let that go to your head, or else I’ll chop off your bollocks.”

Suddenly, he was fifteen again, bouncing all over her bed and getting her in trouble. He was sixteen, preening as Millie complimented him from the passenger’s seat. He was twenty-two, filled with euphoria as they moved on the dance floor. He was twenty-five, looking at her silver dress and feeling the overwhelming need to kiss her.

She was peering up at him like she might want him to, wide eyes and tiny smile, but one glance over her shoulder told him that there were more important things on the agenda. Stevie was walking towards them slowly, her ridiculously tall heels causing her to teeter with each step she took.

“Don’t kill me,” Harry said quickly, “I have one more surprise.”

“Harry, what- OHMYGOD!”

Millie had thrown her hands over her face, cupping them against her mouth and nose. The moment Stevie came into her view, tears burned at the corners of her eyes and a few fell down her cheeks.

“Oh my,” Stevie cooed, stepping close and placing her hands on the younger girl’s elbows, “I know Harry’s a handful, but there’s no need to cry!”

“Heeeey,” he whined, but it fell on deaf ears.

He stood to the side and watched his best friend tell her idol about all of the amazing memories she had with her music. She told Stevie about the first time she played Landslide at her fourth grade piano recital, how she’d listened Edge of Seventeen on repeat for hours on her last night of being sixteen, how she’d written an essay about Leather and Lace for her creative writing class at uni. Millie’s hands were flying all over the place, clutching at her chest, in the air above her head, wound around Stevie in a secure hug. He’d done this for her, and there was no better feeling.

“Harry talks about you constantly,” Stevie smiled. Harry widened his eyes at her.

“Oh he does, does he?” Millie pursed her lips teasingly. “Hopefully nothing too horrible.”

“On the contrary,” Stevie’s eyes twinkled mischievously. Harry shook his head subtly. He’d given her a long and detailed monologue of his feelings for Millie during a particularly vulnerable songwriting session, but they had never mentioned it again. “He’s said only good things. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Harry’s chest deflated with relief. He was going to send a very long, scolding text to Stevie later on this week.

When it was time to part ways, Harry left the two women alone to say their goodbyes while he made sure there was a car for him and Millie. They’d arranged for her to stay in his guest room, and all of her bags were already there. By the time she was walking over to him, mascara streaking down her face and a sad little smile on her lips, he was ready to have her all to himself.

“How’d I do?” He grinned, scooping her into his arms as she let out a shaky sob.

“I’m,” she let out a hiccup, “so happy!”

“Oh, Mills,” he cooed, rubbing a hand over her shoulder blade, “let’s go home, yeah? I can make you some tea?”

“Mhm,” she whimpered.

The pair began walking towards the back exit, clinging to each other. It made it harder to walk, being pressed together so tightly, but the thought of letting go didn’t sit well them them .

“My emotional Millie,” he hummed, “always so teary.”

“Shut up, Harry!” She cried as she slid into the car. He quickly followed, watching her buckle herself in and kick off her heels. “I can’t help it!”

“Didn’t mean it as an insult, babe,” the term of endearment slipped out before he could stop it, “means you’ve got a big heart. It’s sweet.”

“If anyone in this car is sweet, it’s you,” she sighed, “first, you fly me here all the way from London. Then, you perform my favorite song, and then you introduce me to Stevie Nicks… my absolute, complete, legendary-“

“It was nothing,” he said quietly, knowing that she’d never stop unless he cut her off. Millie scoffed, but he was telling the truth. He’d do anything for her, and if it made her happy, it didn’t feel like a chore.

“Nothing my arse.”

Millie had felt like she was high from all of the excitement, but the way Harry was looking at her was sobering. Despite the sharpness of his cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw, he looked soft, the pine green of his eyes turning to velvet.

“Why are you looking at me… like that?” She asked softly.

“Like what?” He mimicked the tone of her voice.

“Like…” she paused, gulping against a dry throat, “like you’re thinking about kissing me?”

“I am thinking about it,” he admitted, “I’m constantly thinking about it.”

She didn’t say a word, turning her head away and staring out the window. With anyone else, he would have been offended, but Millie was a deep thinker. She always took a bit longer to process things, lost in her own head. He twiddled his thumbs as they sat in silence for the rest of the drive.

He knew he couldn’t take it back. He probably shouldn’t have said it in the first place, but it was as if everything he loved about Millie had been amplified tonight. Hell, he’d just inducted a rock legend into the Hall of Fame, and all he thought about all night was her. She was in his head, in his heart, running through his veins, completely ransacking any rational thought he might have.

When the car stopped in front of his building, Millie was swinging her door open and marching across the lawn before he’d even gotten himself unbuckled. He quickly thanked the driver, scurrying after her like a madman, making sure to grab her forgotten heels before the car rolled away.

She had already walked into his apartment building, using the little fob he’d given her when he started renting in New York. His two level loft had an entrance on the first level, which is where he found her standing when he finally caught up. She was tapping one foot impatiently at his locked door.

“Mills….” he cleared his throat as he dug the house keys from his pocket, “I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t mean it?” She hissed.

“No, no,” he rushed, “I meant it. I just, I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

Once again, he was met with no response. Millie pushed the door open as soon as it was unlocked, and he could hear her stomping up the stairs. He sighed, fighting the pinprick of tears that threatened to form.

Harry didn’t know why she was reacting this way. Sure, she’d told him just last week that she was like a sister to him, but the way she’d undressed him with her eyes earlier had given him some hope. Maybe he’d just imagined it, conjured it up in his head to cope with his desperate need for her.

As much as he wanted to follow her up the stairs, he knew it was a bad idea. She was angry with him, and he couldn’t figure out why, but leaving her alone to simmer down had always been the best course of action.

“Harry, what the fuck!”

Harry’s eyes widened. This was his first day back to school after missing an entire week, and he realized with horror that he’d forgotten to text Millie about breaking his leg.

“You just vanish for an entire week, and then you show up to homeroom with… with bloody crutches?”

“‘M sorry,” he ducked his head, “I fell off my bike last weekend, and we had to stay in Manchester for a bit to get everything settled. I swear I didn’t mean to worry you-”

“Worry me,” his friend rolled her eyes. They were only thirteen years old, but Millie was more terrifying than most adults when she was well and truly angry. “Understatement of the century. I went by your house, and nearly organized a search party when nobody was home! Have you even checked your phone?”

He hadn’t.

“You know what? If not texting me is so easy, why don’t we just never speak again?”

“Mills,” he groaned, voice cracking slightly. They’d both noticed that his voice was starting to get a little bit deeper, and normally she’d tease the hell out of him for a voice crack like that, but she wasn’t in the mood. “I said I was sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t change how scared I was when you didn’t answer me!” She huffed, storming off. Just as he went to follow her, the bell rung, meaning he was already going to be late. With an irritated moan, he hobbled his way to his first class, hoping to god his teacher would let his tardiness slide when she saw his crutches.

She had, and later that night, Millie’s flailing pre-teen limbs fell through his bedroom window, eyes filling with tears and apologies leaking from her mouth.

“I thought about it all day, and once I calmed down… I just missed you.”

He chugged an entire glass of water before slamming it on his counter, taking a deep breath. His ears perked up at the sound of footsteps in his hallway, so he turned around to look at her. She was still in her dress, but had wiped off her makeup. He swears she’d never looked more beautiful.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” she said sheepishly.

“I’m sorry for-”

“No,” she gulped, “you don’t owe me any apologies. I was just… surprised.”

Harry nodded, not knowing what to say. He watched his feet, wiggling his toes awkwardly as an uncomfortable silence fell over them. Millie was shuffling around as well, debating whether or not she wanted to ask the question she’d been wanting to ask for years. Eventually, she couldn’t contain it anymore.

“How long have you been in love with me?”

Her voice was loud, but the volume isn’t what startled Harry. Sure, Millie had always been straightforward, fearless when it came to confrontation, but they’d never had a conversation like this. People had teased them as kids, telling them that boys and girls couldn’t be just friends, but they’d let the comments roll off of their backs.

“I… I-” he stuttered, his tongue suddenly feeling like an anvil in his mouth.

“You… don’t hide it well,” she divulged, looking at anything but him, “you’ve always been like an open book to me.”

“I’ve… yeah,” he choked out, “I, um, most of my life, I think.”

She started crying, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. He wanted to go over and hold her, like he usually did when she cried, but it was as if he was stepping into cement, absolutely rooted where he stood.

“Most of your life,” she echoed.

Harry rubbed a hand over his face, his skin feverish and beginning to bead with sweat. He needed to get out of his suit.

“I- you, yeah,” he croaked, robotically moving across the room to slip his blazer over one of the kitchen chairs. His legs felt like jelly, as if he’d completely forgotten how to walk.

“H,” she whimpered, “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Why didn’t you ever say that you knew?”

Millie sucked in a breath, fiddling with the sequins on her dress. “I wasn’t completely sure. I mean, I was pretty sure, but then you’d talk about going on dates with other people, or… just, I had my doubts. But then tonight….”

“I was pretty obvious tonight,” he chuckled humorlessly, clearing his throat and scratching at his jaw, “and I never told you because… well look at us. We’ve never been this uncomfortable around each other.”

“H-”

“There were a few times I almost told you,” he gulped, “but… the timing was never right. You’d be in a relationship, or I’d be out on tour. It never lined up.”

This time, when Millie let out a sob, Harry didn’t hesitate to tuck her under his arm.

“You’re such a wanker,” she bawled, pressing her forehead into the skin between his sparrow tattoos, “obviously I love you too.”

Harry couldn’t breath. Had his heart stopped beating? Was he alive? Maybe he was hallucinating. The girl he loved, his best friend, was currently pressing her entire body against him, and she apparently felt the same way he did.

“How long?”  He asked.

“Most of my life,” Millie giggled.

“Fuck,” Harry wept, licking the tears away from his lips, “we’ve wasted so much time. Could have been together ages ago.”

She looked up at his face with a watery smile. “We’re here now. Still wanna kiss me?”

Harry leaned down and mashed his lips to hers in one fluid motion, loving the way it felt to have her like this. Millie was pushing herself closer, the pressure of the kiss making them both smile. She tasted like salty teardrops and toothpaste, and he probably smelled like a gym locker after loping around the stage, but neither of them minded, completely captivated by the feeling of finally moving their mouths together.

Once the floodgates had been opened, there was no way of stopping it. What had been a sweet, almost innocent embrace, was suddenly rough and desperate. Their soft touches were now strong and unyielding, calculated movements gave way to impulse and speed. They were like a river breaking free of its dam; calm waters growing higher and stronger until the tension became too much, cracking the barrier and releasing every single pent up drop. They were white-capped waves, beautiful and chaotic as they crashed against each other.

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” Millie heaved, clenching her fist around the fabric of his shirt while he nipped at her jaw.

“‘Bout kissing me?”

“No, I mean, yes- oh!” She yelped, hissing through gritted teeth as Harry licked over the spot he’d bitten into her neck. “Yeah, b-but, also about what it would feel like to have sex with you.”

He’d been ignoring his semi since he walked off stage earlier in the night, but the moment she spoke, he could feel his cock chub up in his trousers, the blood rushing below his belt making him a bit dizzy.  

“Thought about that too,” he was hunched over as far as his back would allow, his craving to taste the skin below her collarbones much stronger than the strain on his spine.

“We should probably do it then, yeah?”

Harry moaned. He had been suppressing his inappropriate thoughts about the way she looked since the moment he saw her in the crowd, but now he could let them roam freely. He wanted to gather her hair into his fists, peel the dress off of her body, absolutely ruin her lipstick (he was a little bit disappointed that she’d wiped it off). He couldn’t wait to make his fantasy a reality.

“We probably should,” he agreed, pushing the strap of her dress down her arm, “only if you want.”

“Obviously I do, bloody bellend,” she said impatiently, undoing the buttons on his dress shirt, “god, this outfit was so sexy tonight. When you were singing, all I could think about was how bad I wanted you to fuck me.”

“I know,” Harry smirked, “saw the look on your face when I was done. Nearly got a boner during my speech.”

“The sex eyes can’t be tamed,” she shrugged, finally unfastening the last button under his navel. She tugged the material from the waistband of his trousers and pushed it off of his shoulders.

“Don’t want you to tame ‘em,” he growled, moving closer to her when the zipper of her dress snagged under his fingertips, “want you to keep the sex eyes on, and get this fucking dress off!”

When he finally got the zipper down, he practically ripped it away from her body, tugging it roughly over her hips and letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. Millie didn’t even have time to step out of it before Harry was lifting her bridal style.

“Don’t you fucking dare drop me!” She shrieked, lightly swatting his shoulder when he set her down on top of his kitchen table.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mills.”

She opened her mouth to tell him off again, but her train of thought completely derailed when he got on his knees and sucked her clit through her underwear. She couldn’t suppress her moans, especially as he swept the flimsy fabric to the side and really dug in, tongue licking over every bit of her and calloused fingers plucking at her clit.

Millie sighed feverishly. The rough texture of his fingers and the smooth wetness of his mouth felt practically angelic, while the sounds filling his kitchen were sinful. Wet pops of his lips and hollow slurps when he suctioned his cheeks in wre driving her hellishly insane.

“I can’t come like this,” she panted, “I want to see your face.”

He pulled off of her, leaving one last kitten-lick to her folds before rising to his feet. His lips were swollen and shiny as he undid the zip on his trousers, quickly stripping the bronze and black fabric from his legs. He pressed his erection against Millie’s sopping core, letting her soak into the fabric of his boxers. Everything was warm and wet and smooth, just like he’d always imagined.

“Let me fuck you,” he pleaded.

“Condom?” She asked, feeling her walls twitch as if they were trying to guide Harry’s cock inside on its own. “‘M not on the pill….”

“Right,” he swallowed harshly, “Okay, yeah. I’ve got to run upstairs and get one.”

“I’ll stay right here,” Millie promised, peeling her undergarments off the moment he was out of sight.

Whenever she pictured having sex with Harry, it was romantic; white sheets and fluffy pillows, a warm summer breeze, maybe even some scented candles and music. She certainly hadn’t imagined it happening on the hard wood of his kitchen table, but in a way, it was even more perfect.

Their friendship, their relationship was unique. They were two people who had spent the better parts of their lives dancing around each other, orbiting like two planets, feeling the weight of the gravity but never touching. It was only fitting that their first time together was unconventional.

Harry practically sprinted back into the kitchen, wincing at how cold the tile felt against his bare feet. However, he didn’t focus on that long, too distracted by the skin Millie had revealed in his absence.

She was laying down still, and her exposed breasts fell slightly to the sides, their undersides resting on top of her ribcage. She’d splayed her legs open upon seeing him, giving him his first unobstructed view of her heat.

“Christ,” he wheezed, “let me just….”

He ripped the condom package open with his teeth, slipping the clear latex from its confines and pinching it his fingers while he ripped his briefs from his body. He rolled it on slowly, almost teasingly, when he noticed Millie watching with an attentive gaze.

“Ready?” He hummed.

“Please, H,” she nodded, wiggling her hips in anticipation.

He gave her a breathtaking smile before pushing inside. She was so slick that he managed to push all the way in with one single stroke, causing Millie’s back to arch off of the table. Harry’s knees nearly gave out when she clenched around him, so he gripped her thighs and locked them around his hips to keep himself steady.

This had to be his favorite position.

From where he was standing, he could see the entire expanse of her body, laid out so prettily against his table. He could watch himself push in and out of her, seeing how his cock glistened with her wetness all the way down to the base, admire the way the flesh of her hips creased as they bent to accommodate him, watch her breasts bounce and jiggle with every thrust. If he leaned forward just the slightest amount, maybe he could even reach up to roll her nipples between his fingers.

Millie loved it, too. She liked the way Harry’s stomach muscles concave with each flex, the rapid snap of his hips affecting every nerve in his body. She absolutely loved watching a red flush creep up his chest and neck, the black ink of his tattoos standing out even more against the rosiness. Most of all, she liked watching his face. It was almost as if he didn’t know where he wanted to look most, his blown-out pupils flickering over every inch of her body.

The smell of sex wafted over them, sweet, sensual, and uniquely theirs. Their bodies were sticky with sweat as they slapped together, filling the loft with wet claps and breathy moans. It was raw, carnal, a complete release of the tension they’d been holding in for years.

When Millie was close, Harry dropped one of her legs to play with her clit, knowing that he’d find his release the second she found hers. Her lips were mouthing his name, but no sound came out. He watched, utterly bewitched, as her fingers curled into her palms and a strangled moan fell from her throat.

She gushed her release onto him, and he felt it drip down the fronts of his thighs as she tightened around his cock. He’d never made a woman squirt this much before. Profanities poured from his lips as he felt his balls clench, cumming into the condom with so much force that he had to bend over and rest his torso over hers to keep from falling over. His face was nuzzled into Millie’s breasts.

It was Harry who broke the silence after several minutes of shallow breathing. “Well, fuck, Mills.”

“Holy cow,” she coughed, “okay, first of all, I need some water, second, we’re doing that again immediately.”

He chuckled into her skin, nipping at her breast playfully before standing upright and looking between them. They’d made quite a mess of themselves, not that he minded.

Millie slid off the table, walking her shaky legs over to the sink, where she stuck her entire head under the faucet. Harry smiled to himself; seemingly, nothing had changed about their dynamic. He was afraid that professing his love for her might change the way they acted around each other, but she was just as silly as she’d always been.

“Millie, no! That’s so unsanitary,” a twenty-year-old Harry complained. Millie had just stuck her entire head into the unisex bathroom sink, chugging at the stream of water, “this is a karaoke bar, probably germs everywhere.”

“I was thirsty,” she informed him, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth, “and there’s only one more person in front of me. How am I supposed to sing Stevie Nicks with a dry throat?”

“How are you supposed to sing Stevie Nicks when your voice sounds like a police siren?” He countered with a smirk. His best friend crossed her arms over her chest in offense.

“We can’t all be professional singers, you knob,” she bit out, swinging the door open with more force than necessary. She’d only had a drink or two, but Harry drank enough to make the room spin.

“‘M not a knob,” he muttered to himself as he followed after her.

“You sure are!” Millie called over her shoulder.

When it was time for her to take the stage, Harry made sure that his seat was all the way up front and his phone camera was at the ready. Millie had always been a horrible singer, but that had never stopped her. He couldn’t wait to post the video to his private instagram in the morning.

“Stand back, stand back!” She screeched, flipping Harry the bird when he started laughing, “in the middle of my room, I did not, hear from you!”

Her hair was flopping all over the place, hips moving back and forth while she hopped up and down. He wished he’d gone up there with her, wanting to wrap an arm over her shoulder or put his hands on her waist.

“I would cry… la la la la la la la, la la….”

He was in a perpetual state of wanting to be near her. It felt like it was part of his identity at this point. His name was Harry, he had curly hair, he wore tight jeans, and he wanted to be touching Millie.

Twenty-five year old Harry wished he could go back in time and tell his younger self that he’d get to touch her, whenever he wanted and for however long he wanted. He’d held her close while they showered together, placed a hand on the small of her back while she sifted through his dresser for pajamas to wear, and had her sprawled over his chest while she slept in his arms.

He closed his eyes, a smile never leaving his face as he imagined having her at twenty-six, twenty-seven, thirty. Maybe even fifty, sixty, and seventy. Trips down memory lane are much more enjoyable when there’s a future.

And yeah, he thought, revelling in the tickle of her soft snores as they puffed into his skin, there was definitely going to be a future.

~~~

Thank you for reading, if you’ve made it this far! Leave me a message, I’d love to know your thoughts <3

xoxo Tile

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 11 paragraph xiii

The painting was wrapped and tied, and Boris had tucked it under his arm and—taking a last draw on his cigarette—had stepped around to the driver’s side and was about to get in the car when, behind us, a casual and friendly-sounding American voice said, “Merry Christmas.” I turned. There were three of them, two lazy-walking middle-aged men drifting along a bit bemusedly with the air of having come to do us a favor—it was Boris they were addressing, not me, they seemed glad to see him—and, skittering slightly in front of them, the Asian boy. His white coat was not a kitchen worker’s coat at all but some asymmetrical thing made out of white wool about an inch thick; and he was shivering and practically blue-lipped with fright. He was unarmed, or seemed to be, which was good, because what I mainly noticed about the other two—big guys, all business—was blued handgun metal glinting in the sleazy fluorescents. Even then, I didn’t get it— the friendly voice had thrown me; I thought they’d caught the boy and were bringing him to us—until I looked over at Boris and saw how still he’d gone, chalk-white. “Sorry to do this to you,” said the American to Boris, though he didn’t sound sorry—if anything, pleased. He was broadshouldered and bored-looking, in a soft gray coat, and despite his age there was something petulant and cherubic about him, overly ripe, soft white hands and a soft managerial blandness. Boris—cigarette in mouth—stood frozen. “Martin.” “Yeah, hey!” said Martin genially, as the other guy—gray blond thug in a pea coat, coarse features out of Nordic folklore—ambled straight up to Boris, and, after grappling around at Boris’s waistband, took his gun and passed it over to Martin. In my confusion I looked at the boy in the white coat but it was like he’d been struck on the head with a hammer, he didn’t seem any more amused or edified by any of this than I was. “I know this sucks for you,” said Martin—“but. Wow.” The low key voice was a shocking contrast to the eyes, which were like a puff adder’s. “Hey. Sucks for me too. Frits and I were at Pim’s, we weren’t expecting to get out. Nasty weather, eh? Where’s our white Christmas?” “What are you doing here?” said Boris, who despite his overly still air was as afraid as I’d ever seen him. “What do you think?” Jocular shrug. “I’m surprised as you, if it makes any difference. Never would have thought Sascha had the balls to call in Horst on this. But—hey, fuck-up like this, who else could he call, I guess? Let’s have it,” he said, with an affable tick of the gun, and with a rush of horror I realized he was pointing the gun at Boris, gesturing with the gun at the felt-wrapped package in Boris’s hands. “Come on. Give it over.” “No,” said Boris sharply, shaking the hair from his eyes. Martin blinked, with a sort of befuddled whimsy. “What’s that you say?” “No.” “What?” Martin laughed. “No? Are you kidding me?” “Boris! Give it to them!” I stammered, as I stood frozen in horror, as the one named Frits put his pistol to Boris’s temple and then caught Boris by the hair and pulled his head back so sharply he groaned. “I know,” said Martin amicably, with a collegial glance at me, as if to say: hey, these Russians—nuts, am I right? “Come on,” he said to Boris. “Let’s have it.” Again Boris moaned, as the guy yanked his hair once more, and from across the car threw me an unmistakeable look—which I understood just as plainly as if he’d spoken the words aloud, an urgent and very specific cut of the eyes straight from our shoplifting days: run for it, Potter, go. “Boris,” I said, after a disbelieving pause, “please, just give it to them,” but Boris only moaned again, despairingly, as Frits jammed the gun hard under his chin and Martin stepped forward to take the painting from him. “Excellent. Thanks for that,” he said bemusedly, tucking his gun under his arm and beginning to pluck and fumble with the string, which Boris had tied in an obstinate little knot. “Cool.” His fingers weren’t working very well, and up close, when he’d reached to take the painting, I’d seen why: he was high as a kite.

“Anyway—” Martin glanced behind him, as if wanting to include absent friends on the joke, then back with another bemused shrug—“sorry. Take them over there, Frits,” he said, still busy with the painting, nodding at a shadowy, dungeon-like corner of the garage, darker than the rest, and when Frits turned partly from Boris to gesture at me with the gun—come on, come on, you too—I realized, cold with horror, what Boris had known was going to happen from the moment he saw them: why he’d wanted me to run for it, or at least to try. But in the half-moment as Frits was motioning to me with the gun, we’d all lost track of Boris, whose cigarette flew out in a shower of sparks. Frits screamed and slapped his cheek, then stumbled back grappling at his collar where it had lodged against his neck. In the same instant Martin—distracted with the painting, directly across from me—looked up, and I was still looking at him blankly across the roof of the car when I heard it, to my right, three fast cracks which made us both turn quickly to the side. With the fourth (flinching, eyes closed) a warm spray of blood thumped across the car roof and struck me in the face and when I opened my eyes again the Asian kid was stepping back horrified and drawing a hand down his front in a bloody smear like a butcher’s apron and I was staring at a lighted sign Beetaalautomaat op where Boris’s head had been; blood was pouring from under the car and Boris was on the ground on his elbows, feet going, he was trying to scramble up from the floor, I couldn’t tell if he was hurt or not and I must have run around to him without thinking because the next thing I knew I was on the other side of the car and trying to help him up, blood everywhere, Frits was a mess, slumped against the car with a baseball-sized hole in the side of his head, and I’d just noticed Frits’s gun lying on the ground when I heard Boris exclaim sharply and there was Martin, tight-eyed with blood on his sleeve, hand clamped to his arm and fumbling to bring up his gun. It had happened before it even happened, like a skip in a DVD throwing me forward in time, because I have no memory at all of picking the pistol off the floor, only of a kick so hard it threw my arm in the air, I didn’t really hear the bang until I felt the kick and the casing flew back and hit me in the face and I shot again, eyes half-closed against the noise and my arm jolting with every shot, the trigger had a resistance to it, a stiffness, like pulling some tooheavy door latch, car windows popping and Martin with an arm coming up, exploding safety glass and chunks of concrete flying out a pillar and I’d got Martin in the shoulder, the soft gray cloth was drenched and dark, a spreading dark stain, cordite smell and deafening echo that drove me so deep inside my skull that it was less like actual sound striking my eardrums than a wall slamming down hard in my mind and driving me back into some hard internal blackness from childhood, and Martin’s viper eyes met mine and he was slumped forward with the gun propped on the roof of the car when I shot again and hit him above the eye, red burst that made me flinch and then, somewhere behind me, I heard the sound of running feet slapping on concrete —the boy, white coat running to the exit ramp with the painting under his arm, he was running up the ramp to the street, echoes reverberating in the tiled space and I almost shot at him only somehow it was a completely different moment and I was facing away from the car, I was doubled over with my hands on my knees and the gun was on the ground, I had no memory of dropping it although the sound was there, it was clattering to the floor and it kept on clattering and I was still hearing the echoes and feeling the vibration of the gun up my arm, retching and doubled over, with Frits’s blood crawling and curling on my tongue.

Out of the darkness the sound of feet running, and again I could not see, or move, everything black at the edges and I was falling even though I wasn’t because somehow I was sitting on a low stretch of tiled wall with my head between my knees looking down at clear red spit, or vomit, on the shiny, epoxy-painted concrete between my shoes and Boris, there was Boris, winded and breathless and bloody, running back in, his voice was coming from a million miles off, Potter, are you all right? he’s gone, I couldn’t catch him, he got away. I drew my palm down my face and looked at the red smear on my hand. Boris was still talking to me with some urgency but even though he was shaking my shoulder it was mostly mouth movements and nonsense through soundproof glass. The smoke from the fired gun was oddly the same bracing ammonia smell of Manhattan thunderstorms and wet city pavements. Robin’s egg speckles on the door of a pale blue Mini. Nearer, creeping dark from under Boris’s car, a glossy satin pool three feet wide was spreading and inching forward like an amoeba, and I wondered how long before it reached my shoe and what I would do when it did. Hard, but without anger, Boris cuffed me with his closed fist on the side of the head: an impersonal clout, no heat about it at all. It was as if he were performing CPR. “Come on,” he said. “Your specs,” he said with a short nod. My glasses—blood-smeared, unbroken—lay on the ground by my foot. I didn’t remember them falling off. Boris picked them up himself, wiped them on his own sleeve, and handed them to me. “Come on,” he said, catching my arm, pulling me up. His voice was level and soothing although he was splattered with blood and I could feel his hands shaking. “All over now. You saved us.” The gunshot had set off my tinnitus like a swarm of locusts buzzing in my ears. “You did good. Now—over here. Hurry.” He led me behind the glassed-in office, which was locked and dark. My camel’s-hair coat had blood on it, and Boris took it off me like an attendant at a coat check, and turned it inside out and draped it over a concrete post. “You will have to get rid of this thing,” he said, with a violent shudder. “Shirt too. Not now—later. Now—” opening a door, crowding in behind me, flipping on a light—“come on.” Dank bathroom, stinking of urinal cakes and urine. No sink, only a bare water spigot and a drain in the floor. “Quick, quick,” said Boris, turning the faucet full pressure. “Not perfection. Just—yeow!” grimacing as he stuck his head under the spout, splashing his face, scrubbing it palm down— “Your arm,” I found myself saying. He was holding it wrong. “Yes yes—” cold water flying everywhere, coming up for air—“he winged me, not bad, only a nick—oh God—” spitting and spluttering—“I should have listened to you. You tried to say! Boris, you said, someone back there! In the kitchen! But did I listen to you? Pay attention? No. That little fucker—the Chinese kid—that was Sascha’s boyfriend! Woo, Goo, I cannot remember his name. Aah—” sticking his head under the faucet again, burbling for a moment as the water streamed over his face—“—bloo! you saved us Potter, I thought we were dead.…”

Standing back, he scrubbed his hands over his face, bright red and dripping. “Okay,” he said, wiping the water out of his eyes, slinging it away, then steering me to the pounding faucet, “now, you. Head under—yes yes, cold!” Pushing me under when I flinched. “Sorry! I know! Hands, face—” Water like ice, choking, it was going up my nose, I’d never felt anything so cold but it brought me around a bit. “Quick, quick,” said Boris, hauling me up. “Suit—dark—doesn’t show. Nothing we can do about the shirt, collar up, here, let me do it. Scarf is in the car, yes? You can wind it around your neck? No no—forget it—” I was shivering, grabbing for my coat, teeth ringing with cold, my whole upper body was soaked through—“well, go ahead, you’ll freeze, just keep it turned to lining side out.” “Your arm.” Though his coat was dark and the light was bad I saw the burnt skid at his bicep, black wool sticky with blood. “Forget it. Is nothing. My God, Potter—” starting back to the car—half running, me hurrying to keep up, panicked at the thought of losing him, of being left. “Martin! That bastard is a bad diabetic, I have been hoping he would die for years. Grateful Dead, I owe you too!” he said, tucking the snub nose in his pocket, then—from the handkerchief pocket of his suit—drawing a bag of white powder which he opened and tossed down in a spray. “There,” he said, dusting his hands off with a lurching back step; he was ash white, his pupils were fixed and even when he looked up at me, he seemed not to see me. “That is all they will be looking for. Martin will be carrying too, all junked up, did you notice? That was why he was so slow— him and Frits too. They were not expecting that call—not expecting to go to work tonight. God—” squeezing his eyes shut—“we were lucky.” Sweaty, dead pale, wiping his forehead. “Martin knows me, he knows what I carry, he was not expecting me to have that other gun and you—they were not thinking of you at all. Get in the car,” he said. “No no—” catching my arm; I was following him to the driver’s side like a sleepwalker—“not there, it’s a mess. Oh—” stopping, cold, an eternity passing in the flickering greenish light— before wobbling around for his own gun on the floor, which he wiped clean with a cloth from his pocket and—holding it carefully, between the cloth— dropped on the ground. “Whew,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “That will confuse them. They will be trying to trace that thing for years.” He stopped, holding his nicked arm with one hand: he looked me up and down. “Can you drive?” I couldn’t answer. Glazed, dizzy, trembling. My heart, after the collision and freeze of the moment, had begun to pound with hard, sharp, painful blows like a fist striking in the center of my chest. Quickly, Boris shook his head, made a tch tch sound. “Other side,” he said, when I, feet moving of their own accord, followed him again. “No no—” leading me back around, opening the front passenger door and giving me a little shove. Drenched. Shivering. Nauseated. On the floor: pack of Stimorol gum. Road map: Frankfurt Offenbach Hanau. Boris had circled around to the car, checking it out. Then, gingerly, he came back to the driver’s side—weaving a bit; trying not to step in blood— and sat behind the wheel and held it with both hands and took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, on a long exhale, talking to himself like a pilot about to take off on a mission. “Buckle up. You too. Brake lights working? Tail lights?” Patting his pockets, sliding up the seat, turning the heater up to High. “Plenty of gas—good. Heated seats too—will warm us up. We can’t be stopped,” he explained. “Because I cannot drive.” All sorts of tiny noises: creak of seat leather, water ticking from my wet sleeve. “Can’t drive?” I said, in the intense ringing silence. “Well, I can.” Defensively. “I have. I—” starting up the car, backing out with his arm along the seat—“well, why do you think I have a driver? Am I this fancy? No. I do have—” upheld forefinger—“drunk-driving conviction.” I closed my eyes to keep from seeing the slumped bloody mass as we

drove past it. “So, you see, if they stop me they will run me in and this is what we do not want to happen.” I could barely hear what he was saying over the fierce buzzing in my head. “You will have to help me out. Like—watch for street signs and keep me from driving in bus lanes. The cycle paths are red here, you are not supposed to drive on them either so help me watch for those too.”

On the Overtoom again, heading back into Amsterdam: Locksmith Sleutelkluis, Vacatures, Digitaal Printen, Haji Telecom, Onbeperkt Genieten, Arabic letters, lights streaking, it was like a nightmare, I was never going to get off this fucking road. “God, I better slow down,” said Boris somberly. He looked glassy and wrecked. “Trajectcontrole. Help me watch for signs.” Blood smear on my cuff. Big fat drops. “Trajectcontrole. That means some machine tells the police you are speeding. They drive unmarked cars, a lot of them, and sometimes they will follow a while before they stop you although—we are lucky—not much traffic out this way tonight. Weekend, I guess, and holiday. This is not exactly Happy Christmas neighborhood out here if you get me. You understand what just happened, don’t you?” said Boris, heaving for breath and scrubbing his nose hard with a gasping sound. “No.” Somebody else talking, not me. “Well—Horst. Both those guys were Horst’s. Frits is maybe only person in Amsterdam he knew to call on such short notice but Martin—fuck.” He was speaking very fast and erratically, so fast he could barely get the words out, and his eyes were flat and staring. “Who even knew Martin was in town? You know how Horst and Martin met, don’t you?” he said, half-glancing at me. “Mental home! Fancy California mental home! ‘Hotel California,’ Horst used to call it! That was back when Horst’s family was still talking to him. Horst was in for rehab but Martin was in because he is really, truly nuts. Like, eyestabber kind of nuts. I have seen Martin do things I really do not like to talk about. I—” “Your arm.” It was hurting him; I could see the tears glittering in his eyes. Boris made a face. “Nyah. This is zero. This is nothing. Aah,” he said, lifting his elbow up so I could wrap the phone charger cable around his arm— I’d yanked it out, wrapped it twice above the wound, tied it tight as I could —“smart you. Good precaution. Thanks! Although, no need really. Just a graze—more bruised than anything, I think. Good this coat is so thick! Clean it out—some antibyotic and something for pain—I’ll be fine. I—” deep shuddering breath—“I need to find Gyuri and Cherry. I hope they went straight to Blake’s. Dima—Dima needs a heads-up too, about the mess in there. He will not be happy—there will be cops, big headache—but it will look random. There is nothing to tie him to this.” Headlights sweeping past. Blood pounding in my ears. There weren’t many cars on the road but every one that passed made me flinch. Boris moaned and dragged his palm across his face. He was saying something, very speedy and agitated. “What?” “I said—this is a mess. I am still figuring it out.” Voice staccato and cracked. “Because this is what I am wondering now—maybe I am wrong, maybe I am paranoid—but maybe Horst knew all along? That Sascha took the picture? Only Sascha brought the picture out of Germany and tries to borrow money on it behind Horst’s back. And then when things go wrong—Sascha panics—who else could he call? of course, I am just thinking out loud, maybe Horst didn’t know Sascha took it, maybe he would never have known if Sascha hadn’t been so careless and dumb as to—Goddamn this fucking ring road,” said Boris suddenly. We had gotten off the Overtoom and were circling around. “Which is the direction I want? Turn on the Nav.” “I—” fumbling around, incomprehensible words, menu I couldn’t read, Geheugen, Plaats, turning the dial, different menu, Gevarieerd, Achtergrond. “Oh, hell. We will try this one. God, that was close,” said Boris, taking the turn a little too fast and sloppy. “You have some minerals, Potter. Frits—Frits was out of it, nodding practically, but Martin, my God. Then you—? Coming around so brave? Hurrah! I did not even think of you there. But there you were! Say you never handled a firearm before?” “No.” Wet black streets. “Well, let me tell you something that will maybe sound funny? But—is a compliment. You shoot like a girl. You know why is a compliment? Because,” said Boris, with a giddy, feverish slur in his voice, “in situation of threat,

male who never fired weapon before and female who never fired weapon before? The female—so Bobo used to say—is much more likely to drop her mark. Most men? want to look tough, have seen too much movies, get too impatient and pop their shot off too fast—Shit,” said Boris suddenly, slamming on the brakes. “What?” “We don’t want this.” “Don’t want what?” “This street is closed.” Throwing the car in reverse. Backing down the street. Construction. Fences with bulldozers behind them, empty buildings with blue plastic tarps in the windows. Stacks of piping, cement blocks, graffiti in Dutch.

“What are we going to do?” I said, in the paralyzed silence that followed, after we’d turned down a different street that seemed to have no streetlights at all. “Well—no bridge here that we can cross. And that’s a dead end, so…” “No, I mean what are we going to do.” “About what?” “I—” My teeth were chattering so hard I could barely get the words out. “Boris, we’re fucked.” “No! We are not. Grozdan’s gun—” awkwardly he patted his coat pocket —“I’ll drop it in the canal. They can’t trace it back to me, if they can’t trace it back to him? And—nothing else to tie us. Because my gun? Clean. No serial. Even the car tires are new! I’ll get the car to Gyuri and he’ll change them tonight. Look here,” said Boris, when I didn’t answer, “don’t worry! We are safe! Shall I say it again? S-A-F-E” (spelling it out clumsily on four fingers). Hitting a pothole, I flinched, unconsciously, a startle reaction, hands flying up to my face. “And why, more than anything? Because we are old friends—because we trust each other. And because—oh God, there’s a cop, let me slow down.” Staring at my shoes. Shoes shoes shoes. All I could think, when I’d put them on a few hours before I hadn’t killed anybody. “Because—Potter, Potter, think about this. Listen for one moment please. What if I was a stranger—someone you did not know or trust? If you were driving from garage now with stranger? Then your life would be chained with a stranger’s forever. You would need to be very very careful with this person, long as you live.” Cold hands, cold feet. Snackbar, Supermarkt, spotlit pyramids of fruit and candy, Verkoop Gestart! “Your life—your freedom—resting on a stranger’s loyalty? In that case? Yes. Worry. Absolutely. You would be in very big trouble. But—no one knows of this thing but us. Not even Gyuri!” Unable to speak, I shook my head vigorously at this, trying to catch my breath. “Who? China Boy?” Boris made a disgusted noise. “Who’s he going to tell? He is underage and not here legally. He does not speak any proper language.” “Boris”—leaning forward slightly; I felt like I was going to pass out —“he’s got the painting.” “Ah.” Boris grimaced with pain. “That is gone, I’m afraid.” “What?” “For good, maybe. I am sick over that—sick in my heart. Because, I hate to say it—Woo, Goo, what’s his name? After what he saw—? All he will think about is himself. Scared to death! People dead! Deportation! He does not want to be involved. Forget about the picture. He has no idea of its true value. And if he finds himself in any kind of fix with the cops? Rather than spend one day in jail even? All he will want is to get rid of it. So—” he shrugged woozily—“let’s hope he does get away, the little shit. Otherwise very good chance the ptitsa will end up thrown in canal—burned.” Streetlights glinting off the hoods of parked cars. I felt disincarnate, cut loose from myself. How it would feel to be back in my body again I couldn’t imagine. We were back in the old city, cobblestone rattle, nocturne monochrome straight out of Aert van der Neer with the seventeenth century pressing close on either side and silver coins dancing on black canal water. “Ach, this is closed,” groaned Boris, jerking to a stop again, backing up the car, “we must find another way.” “Do you know where we are?” “Yes—of course,” said Boris, with a sort of scary disconnected cheerfulness. “That’s your canal over there. The Herengracht.” “Which canal?” “Amsterdam is an easy city to get around,” Boris said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “In the old city all you have to do is follow the canals until—Oh, God, they closed this off too.” Tonal gradations. Weirdly enlivened darks. The small ghostly moon above the bell gables was so tiny it looked like the moon of a different planet, hazed and occult, spooky clouds lit with just the barest tinge of blue and brown.

“Don’t worry, this happens all the time. They are always building something here. Big construction messes. All this—I think is for a new subway line or something. Everyone is annoyed by it. Many accusations of fraud, yah yah. Same in every city, no?” His voice was so blurry he sounded drunk. “Roadwork everywhere, politicians getting rich? That is why everyone rides a bike, it is quicker, only, I am sorry, I am not riding a bicycle anywhere one week before Christmas. Oh no—” narrow bridge, dead halt behind a line of cars—“are we moving?” “I—” We were stopped on a pedestrian footbridge. Visible pink drops on the rain-splashed windows. People walking back and forth not a foot away. “Get out of the car and look. Oh, hang on,” he said impatiently before I could pull myself together; throwing the car into Park, getting out himself. I saw his floodlit back in the headlights, formal and staged-looking amidst billows of exhaust. “Van,” he said, throwing himself back in the car. Slamming the door. Taking a deep breath, bracing his arms out straight against the steering wheel. “What is he doing?” Glancing side to side, panicked, half expecting some random pedestrian to notice the bloodstains, rush at the car, bang at the windows, throw open the door. “How should I know? There are too many cars in this fucking city. Look,” said Boris—sweating and pale in the lurid tail lights of the car in front of us; more cars had pulled up behind, we were trapped—“who knows how long we will be here. We are only few blocks from your hotel. Better you should get out and walk.” “I—” Was it the lights of the car in front of us that made the water drops on the windshield look quite so red? He made an impatient flicking movement of the hand. “Potter, just go,” he said. “I don’t know what is going on with this van up here. I’m afraid the traffic police will show up. Better for us both if we are not together just now. Herengracht—you cannot miss it. The canals here run in circles, you know that, don’t you? Just go that way—” he pointed—“you will find it.” “What about your arm?” “It’s nothing! I’d take off my coat to show you except is too much trouble. Now go. I have to talk to Cherry.” Pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I may have to leave town for a little while—” “What?” “—but if we don’t speak for a bit, don’t worry, I know where you are. Best if you don’t try to call me or get in touch. I’ll be back soon as I can. Everything will be okay. Go—clean up—scarf around the neck, up high—we will speak soon. Don’t look so pale and ill! Do you have anything on you? Do you need something?” “What?” Scrabbling in his pocket. “Here, take this.” Glassine envelope with a smeared stamp. “Not too much, it is very very pure. Size of a match head. No more. And when you wake up, it will not be quite so bad. Now, remember—” dialing his phone; I was very conscious of his heavy breathing—“keep your scarf high up at your neck and walk on the dark side of the street as much as you can. Go!” he shouted when still I sat there, so loudly that I saw a man on the pedestrian walk of the bridge turn to look. “Hurry up! Cherry,” he said, slumping back in his seat in visible relief and beginning to babble hoarsely in Ukrainian as I exited the car—feeling lurid and exposed in the ghastly wash of headlights from the stalled vehicles—and walked back over the bridge, the way we’d come. My last sight of him, he was talking on the phone with the window rolled down and leaning out, in extravagant clouds of auto fume, to see what was going on with the stalled van ahead.

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[uni-life-tips]

Lock Up and Remember Your Keys

his isn't just a Uni-tip or anything...but more of a life-tip. Learn to lock-up your place before bed and learn to carry your keys with you whenever you're out of your place.

Growing up I remember that my parents were always super paranoid about locking up our house before bed every night. They would literally walk around the house, checking all of the doors and windows before they went to bed every single night. I remember a time when my sibling and I slept in our parent's room with them ('cuz our rooms were being used by guests or something) and I remember our family settling into bed for the night only to have my mom bolt out of bed beside me and run down the stairs. I followed her to see what was going on and it turns out she ran downstairs to check to see if she had locked the door to the garage...which she had already done previously. She then wandered over to the kitchen and shut the window tightly before going back to bed. Neither one of my parents ever told us about the nightly ritual of checking all of the doors and windows, but it was something I picked up on from watching them do it every night.

When I went away for University I realized that locking the door behind me was a habit I had adopted from my parents. It was a habit that didn't make me very popular with my roommates. We lived in a co-ed dorm complex that heavily emphasized an open-door policy to "make new friends". My roommates were just like me, fresh out of high school and looking forward to our first time living away from our parents. That was where our similarities ended. I was doing my best to be a responsible adult and that included ensuring the door to my living space was always closed and locked. Anyone that wanted to come in either had their own key or would knock and wait to be invited in. This mentality made me very unpopular and my roommates consistently complained about me to the Housing Authority, claiming that I was maliciously locking them out of our suite every night. My defense was simple: "you have a key--use it" but they would whine and scream that carrying their keys around 24/7 was inconvenient for them and they demanded that I stop closing/locking my doors. I moved out partway through the year, paying a premium to live with fewer/no roommates. I couldn't live with people that refused to lock-up or carry their keys around.

A little over a month after I moved out a letter from the Housing Authority and the Head of the University and whatever circulated. Apparently, there had been a sexual assault on campus-grounds in the dorms and the adult authorities were now insisting that people should be locking their doors and that the open-door policy was ridiculous. Apparenty, a girl in the dorm complex I had moved out of had decided to take a nap in her room--with her door open. A male visitor of another person living on the same floor had walked by on their way out and taken liberties with the napping girl. Note, I'm not saying that the girl deserved it for not locking up in this post--the asshole that chose to take liberties with anyone without consent is clearly the one in the wrong here. I'm not condemning the girl for opting to follow the open-door policy and I'm not saying or implying that she deserved what happened to her because she didn't lock up. Please don't turn it into that sort of debate in my inbox.

Over my years in University I eventually befriended some of the other people that lived on that floor that I had moved out of in the middle of my 1st year. Everyone I had encountered from back then acted oddly. A lot of the ones that had complained about me for being responsible refused to look me in the eye and a handful of the ones that were neutral or friendly toward me when I lived there actually asked me to move back in to "fix" things. I still don't know all the details of what happened after I left, but I've been told that "the place went to shit" after I left.

My roommates were always the loud sort and I was always telling them to turn their music down or to take their partying elsewhere because I lived there too and I was studying in my room etc. Without me there, the partying and loudness was just one problem. The three roommates I left were also HUGE proponents of the open door policy. One even had keys made for no less than 3 of her flings--so 3 random people living elsewhere had keys to the floor, keys to the suite and her bedroom, and basically access to all of the common areas. Pots, pans, and toilet paper constantly went missing from common areas--apparently squirreled away by my former roommate's flings from other floors/dorm complexes.

I have had friends living off-campus tell me about how they've had their place broken into. One of my friends never used to bother locking up before bed until they woke up to find a drunk stranger raiding their fridge at 4 in the morning. Another begged me to devise a mechanism to put a padlock on their fridge to prevent a frequent (live-in) partner of their roommate's from stealing everyone's food. Locking up would have solved a lot of their problems.

Over the years I established 2 conscious habits for myself: 1) Always lock the doors and windows especially if i was going to sleep or going to be away from my place for a while. The people that belong there have a key and anyone else can knock and ask for permission to come in. 2) I always had my key on my person. I'd seen far too many people shivering under a bath-towel (and nothing else) during fire evacuations/drills and I knew I didn't want to be the unfortunate soul that had to run around in naught but a towel, trying to track down the dorm head to let them into their room afterwards. Lock-out fees are expensive and if I had $25 to blow on lock-outs I would have used it to buy myself better food.

Checking doors and windows before leaving or sleeping is a good habit to get into. Carrying your keys at all times is also a good habit.