top ten luggage stores in venice go
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still thinking about gabriel mod in bomb rush cyberpunk.
mentally unwell, stewing, thinking, chewing
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God I want Hotch to be my sugar baby and wear the gucci ties I pick out for him and the cuff links with MY initials (bc duh he’s cuffed now) and I want to swindle a moving company into suddenly upgrading the couch and wheely chair and coffee machine in his office and I want him to find flowers delivered to said office all the time and to police stations throughout the country wherever he is I WILL SPOIL HIM
Omg yes<3333. I love the idea of sugar baby!hotch
You spoil him so so much. And at first he's a bit embarrassed and shy when you do. He gets all red and flushed! He's not used to being the one that is spoiled by someone else. And every time he sees something new show up in his office his heart flutters and he smiles so much all day<33. And when you refurnish his office he calls you because somehow he knows it was you (profiler skills and also because you asked him what his favourite colour is recently and the couch happens to be that colour) and he definitely tries to talk you into returning them when he sees them because "no no, this is too much. I can't accept these" but you're not having it and eventually you make him agree to it no matter how much he tries not to. He honestly loves the new furniture and when you ask him he quietly answers you with a shy "yes *blushes* very much. Thank you" and even though you can't see him you know he's looking down at the floor with a little smile<3. On cases he very much loves when he gets things from you. Because they're a bright light in all the darkness. It makes everything just a little (lot) better and it briefly takes his mind off of the case at hand and gives him a breath of fresh air that he desperately needs even if he doesn't realise it. It's hard for him to admit but he loves being spoiled by you. And it takes him awhile to get used to it. At first he definitely tries to return the sentiment by trying to spoil you as well but you quickly shut that down because he's your sugar baby. You're not...sugar partners...(he wants to be though 😂❤️). But he does get to spoil you on special occasions. Like a birthday or certain holidays. And he GLADLY wears things with your initials on them! He loves it actually. He gets very comfortable with being yours. (Also he definitely wants to know how you know where he's at if he hasn't told you yet lmao. "How do you know exactly where I'm at?" "I have my ways" he gives up on trying to figure it out) and when he asks how he can repay you since he can't go out and buy you new furniture too "well what can I do for you?" "A hug. Or snuggle with me. Or just eat something and get some sleep because you need it and we both know it" he's so stubborn at first because he wants to buy you everything too. But eventually he accepts it and loves it. He always gets flustered when you tell him how good he looks in his new tie<33. (And yes this man is very cuffed and very much loves it) Also 😂 "how did you get a moving company to do all this?" "I told you, I have my ways." If the team knows, Garcia definitely tells you where the team is at all times because she loves that her boss man has someone taking care of him<3. Like he deserves<3.
I never thought of sugar baby!hotch and now I need it.
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VII. Supposed to Be With You
(banner by @/itaeetwon)
Title: My Feet to Follow, and My Heart to Hold (Masterpost)
Rating: NSFW - minors dni
Genre: college!au, roomie!au, angst, s2l, the absolute slowest of burns
Pairing: Namjoon x female reader, unrequited Taehyung x reader
Beta'd by @/kookstempo, @/casuallyimagining, and @/toikiii - thank you endlessly!
Summary: You know a lot about the many types of love thanks to Kim Taehyung. You love him as the only person you see as “family”, you love him as your very best friend, and you love him as the beautiful, funny man he’s become. But when a twist of fate during your senior year has you rooming with his good friend Kim Namjoon, you just might find that you have plenty left to learn about love.
Lesson One: there are such things as a right way and a wrong way to love and to be loved.
//
You and Namjoon support each other through some tough days.
Section Warnings: language, dealing with loss, pov switch to Namjoon for a section or two
WC: 6k
The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake,
Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road
A gateless garden, and an open path:
My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.
- Journey | Edna St. Vincent Millay
Saturday November 10th
[9:22 AM] You: grocery run???
[9:36 AM] Tae Bear 🧸: ur just using me for my car 🙁
[9:37 AM] You: not true!!! i like when we go together and talk while we shop 🥺
[9:37 AM] You: the car is simply a bonus ☝️
[9:39 AM] Tae Bear 🧸: i mean do i rly want to go run errands this morning… no
[9:40 AM] You: you’re the worst
[9:43 AM] Tae Bear 🧸: text me later tho! and buy those chips? remember the good ones?
[9:45 AM] You: you’re literally insufferable 🙄
Officially on your own, you rise from the couch, coffee mug cooled and almost empty in your hand, and head back to your room to get dressed. When you’re ready, you place your coffee cup in the sink to deal with later and get your little wheely cart from the pantry. When you turn, Namjoon is in the living room, and you jump - just barely fighting back a shriek of surprise.
“God, you really are jumpy,” he laughs. “Are you ever just relaxed?”
“I startle easily!” you say defensively, laughing too.
“Are you getting groceries?” he asks, eyes catching on the cart in your hands.
“Yeah,” you say, following his gaze and looking down at your hands. “I was just on my way.”
“Can I go with you?” he asks, totally surprising you. “I need a few things.”
“Oh,” you say, still a little shocked by the question. “You can tell me what you need, if you want! I can grab it for you.”
“I’d rather join you,” he says, “as long as you don’t mind?”
You consider this. “No, I don’t mind,” you say, shrugging. “Do you need a few minutes?”
He shakes his head. “I can go now.”
It’s pleasant, walking through town together, pulling your little cart. It’s unseasonably warm, though the forecast claims you’re due for a frost that night and the next few days will stay cold. Namjoon talks easily with you as you collect produce, meats, and cheeses from the front section of the store. Overhead, the muzak plays 90’s hits that your mom used to love.
“You start on this side?” he asks, a little playful. “I always start on the other end.”
“I have a system,” you insist, smiling. “You’ll see. It’s very methodical.”
On the cereal row, your favorite brand seems to be low in stock. You stretch on your tippytoes, reaching, fingers just barely catching the corner of the box. It tips, then settles back where it was.
You know what’s coming, somehow, and you - the world’s jumpiest human - aren’t startled at all when you feel Namjoon’s warm body solidly against your back. One hand steadies you both by resting on your waist, the other reaches easily for the box you wanted.
There’s space between you again, too quickly, as he hands you the box. He avoids your gaze, like he’s not sure if he crossed a line or not.
“Be careful,” you tease, “or I’ll get spoiled and I’ll ask you to reach all the high places for me.”
He smiles. “It’s a curse I’ve lived with for a long time.”
You make your way, shivering, through the freezer sections, grabbing what you need. Namjoon carries a reusable bag of his own handful of items he’s picked up through the rows, so that he can pay for his separately.
Once you’re done, you check out and head home. Namjoon places a hand on the cart to pull it for you, and you shoulder him away.
“I’ve got it,” you insist.
He gives you an indulgent look. “You can let me pull the groceries, Y/N. It doesn’t have to mean anything you don’t want it to mean.”
This shames you into silence, and you move over to let him take the cart. You don’t feel like you deserve the patience he’s affording you.
“Don’t get all quiet on me, little cactus,” he says, eyeing you sideways. “Everything’s fine. We’re fine.”
What’s we? The only reason you don’t know is because you’re too cowardly to ask.
“What ever happened with your ex?” you ask, needing the subject to change. “We haven’t talked about that in a few weeks. Did you ever answer her?”
Beside you, Namjoon grimaces.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you say quickly. “I was just curious.”
“I answered her a while ago… back before Halloween. I told her I wasn’t interested in talking. She’s… been persistent.”
You frown. “Has she said what she wants?”
He shakes his head. “Just that she wants to see me, she wants to talk. I’ve pushed it - I know she’s got a reason - but she sticks to that story. She just wants to see me.”
You wrinkle your nose. “It doesn’t sound like she even knows.”
He purses his lips, annoyed with the situation. “That’s not it. She knows. She just can’t straight out say to me that she wants to see me to find out if I miss her or not.”
“Well…” you say carefully. You’re walking behind him a little, so you don’t have to see his face as you ask, “Do you?”
“I truly don’t,” he says, turning to look at you, something earnest and insistent in his voice. Like he needs you to believe him. “Trust me, it was toxic.”
You’re quiet for a minute, following his footsteps. “I think you can recognize the flaws in a relationship and still miss the person, though,” you say quietly. “I’m just saying. I wouldn’t judge you if you did, a little.”
“I don’t,” he says firmly.
You walk in silence, chastised. Then, you ask, “So she hasn’t given up?”
Namjoon shakes his head again.
“Let me talk to her for you,” you tease. “I’ll sort her out.”
He looks backwards at you now, smiling a little. “You’re not scary,” he disagrees.
You drop your jaw in pretend indignation. “I am scary!”
He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”
You pretend to gasp. “That is absolutely the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you pretend to pout, reaching out to give him a playful swat.
The apartment is in sight, and you’ve got Namjoon’s laugh ringing in your ears as you get close enough to the front steps to register that someone is sitting on them. Then you register the parked car along the sidewalk.
Your brain slowly puts two and two together.
Taehyung watches you two come closer, the groceries in tow. He looks serious, and as you get close enough to talk to him, you wonder anxiously if he’s here because something is wrong.
“Hi,” you say, a little breathlessly. He steps out of the way to let Namjoon up the stairs with the cart. “We were getting groceries.”
“I see that,” he says, voice just a touch flat. He looks between Namjoon and you. “I called you.”
“Oh,” you say, reaching immediately for your pocket. “I didn’t feel it go off. Sorry, Taetae.” You give him big, sad eyes. He cracks quickly, just like he always has.
“It’s okay,” he says, sounding more like himself. “I just wanted to see if you wanted to hang.”
“I definitely do,” you tell him. “Come up while I put the groceries away, and we can figure out a plan?”
He nods, following you up the stairs. In the kitchen, the cart sits in the middle of the kitchen, all of your items waiting for you. Namjoon is in the fridge, putting a few of his own things away.
You start pulling your own items out of the cart one by one, putting them where they go. You and Namjoon move around each other easily, like it’s choreographed. At one point, he gently takes a box from your hands and puts it up on the highest shelf for you. You smile at him in thanks.
Taehyung watches all of this silently from where he’s perched at the breakfast bar. When your groceries are put away, you face Taehyung and put your hands on your hips. “What do you wanna do?” you ask.
He shrugs easily, his eyes on his phone screen as he scrolls. “Don’t care. What were you gonna do before I showed up?”
Honestly? Probably hang out with Namjoon in the living room, read a little, do some homework, maybe watch a show.
“I’m going to get some writing done,” Namjoon says, even though nobody asked him. It’s like he wants you to know you can remove him from the equation. You have a feeling that hadn’t been his original plan, either.
“Just hang out,” you say, looking back at Taehyung. His messy hair falls over his eyes as he bends his head to look at his phone. “Wanna put on a show?”
You get comfortable on the couch. The familiarity sets in, the comfort of doing your normal thing, with your normal person, in your normal place. It’s so much less scary than foraying into uncharted territory with Namjoon.
But it’s stagnant, too.
“My parents said to tell you hi,” Taehyung informs you from his side of the couch. “They asked how you were.”
“Oh,” you say, looking over the top of your phone at him. “Hi! Tell them I’m good. I miss them! Tell your mom I miss her stew, like, badly.”
“I can’t tell her that,” Taehyung laughs. “She’ll make you some and tell me to drive there to get it for you.”
“I fail to see the problem,” you sniff. From behind Namjoon’s door, you hear the telltale sound of classical music.
You know what that means - the writing isn’t going well. On the other side of the door, he’s stuck.
Thursday November 15th
Your alarm on Thursday goes off way before it should. You tap the snooze button without looking, and then are baffled when the buzzing doesn’t stop. You actually open one eye to peek at the screen and see that Kris is calling you. Something must be wrong.
“Hello?” you answer groggily, clearing your throat.
“I am so sorry,” they say in greeting. “I am such an asshole for waking you up and I am such an asshole for what I’m about to ask you.”
You groan, already knowing what’s coming.
“Can you please - please please please please please - cover me at the store for like two hours later?” they beg.
“I’m in class until 4:30,” you tell them.
“That’s fine, I don’t need you until six.”
“You want me to close?” you yelp. “Kris!”
“I will owe you a hundred times over,” they say desperately.
You roll onto your back and close your eyes again, the phone pressed to your ear. “Fine,” you grumble finally, because you love Kris, and because you need the money.
You survive both your morning and afternoon classes, grabbing lunch with Taehyung in the caf between the two. After your afternoon class, you have a weird gap of time before Kris needs you at the store, so you head for the library and do a bit of work. When it’s nearly time, you pack up and head to the store. You’re nearly there when you feel your phone vibrate in your hand.
[5:51 PM] Namjoon: did you order dinner already? I’m leaving campus now
[5:51 PM] You: im covering kris at the bookstore until 8:30 :(
You watch his three dots appear, then vanish. Appear, then vanish. Appear… hover… then vanish.
[5:54 PM] Namjoon: want me to bring you something to eat?
You want to sink down onto the concrete path and melt into the ground. What is this absolutely boyfriend behavior, and why are the butterflies in your stomach having a rager over it?!
It’s like he knows you’ll be having a whole meltdown about it, because he follows up quickly.
[5:55 PM] Namjoon: it’s not a big deal i can grab something on campus for myself too and bring it over
[5:56 PM] You: i would really appreciate that :’) best roomie ever
[5:57 PM] You: that was NOT me roomie-zoning you!!! you can be best roomie ever AND ….whatever else lol
Sometimes you wonder who decided to let you ever leave your house. You deserve a trophy for being the most awkward human alive.
You can’t dwell on it, though, because you’re at the store and you have to clock in and take over the register. There’s always a bit of a rush around the dinner hours - more students are in the student center for dinner anyway and stop in for what they need, or opt to get crappy snacks instead of real dinner. You don’t judge.
It’s almost eight when you see Namjoon’s familiar shape in the door. He’s holding a bag of food and uses his shoulders to push the door open.
“You brought me sustenance?” you ask hopefully. Your stomach is growling.
“I did,” he tells you. He sets the bag on the counter and you dig into it immediately, pulling out the wrap he got for you.
“You are a god amongst men,” you tell him reverently. He beams at you, standing still practically in the doorway of the store. He shifts over when the bell above the door chimes, and a pretty girl with dark hair steps through. You don’t think anything of it until you watch the smile literally drop off of his face.
“I thought that was you,” she says, her voice hushed like she’s in church, and her eyes are on his. You shove another bite of your wrap into your mouth and sink further behind the cashier’s counter, praying for invisibility.
“Elyse,” he says, and you notice several that all of him has gone tight - his eyes, his shoulders, his fists, his voice. All of it becomes coiled, ready to spring. You resist the urge to say his name, even though it’s fighting its way out of your mouth, so strong is your urge to calm him. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just passing,” she says, sounding a little wounded. “I thought I saw you in here, so I came in. What are you doing here?”
You wait for him to implicate you, to indicate that he’s here to bring you food, spend time with you on the sly.
Instead, he says, “I lost my headphones again.”
A lie.
A lie that leaves you out.
The smile creeps over her face, fond and adoring. She shakes her head, hair swishing. “You’re such a mess, Namjoon.”
His eyes narrow, but he says nothing. The silence stretches between them, and finally he says, “What do you want, Elyse? You saw me and you came in why?”
Her eyebrows knit together; the hurt you’d heard in her voice shifts onto her face. “I just wanted to talk to you,” she says. “I’ve been trying to talk to you.”
He licks his lips, glances at you for the barest of seconds before facing her, arms crossing defensively over his chest.
“I’m aware,” he says dryly. “And I’ve been telling you no thanks. So, again… why are you here?”
Now the girl - Elyse, obviously - eyes you for the first time. You take another bite of your wrap, all innocence. For all she knows, you’re just the girl working the register at the school bookstore. She doesn’t know where you live… or what you’ve been doing with your roommate.
“Can we… go somewhere?”
He looks at her flatly in response.
“To talk,” she says, like she needed to explain, like he doesn’t completely get it.
“If you need to say something to me so badly,” he says, his voice scarily even, “you can do it right here.”
“I just…” she says, faltering, looking back at him, “I just wanted to know how you were, I guess. I’ve been… having a hard time, and I…” She glances at you again, like she’s embarrassed for this conversation to be witnessed - and honestly, you don’t blame her. “I guess I wondered if you were, too.” She looks at the floor, rubbing her arms self-consciously.
And here’s the thing… from an outside perspective, even though you’ve heard his side of this… you kind of believe her. Maybe he was right when he said she just needed to grow up a little.
“I’m sorry you’re struggling,” he says, his voice softening. “You know I don’t want that for you.”
“I know,” she whispers, looking up at him through her lashes.
Damn, you think. This girl is good.
“Honestly, Elyse,” he continues, his voice still soft, gentle, “I’ve been doing fine. I’ve been okay. Just… just writing, you know?”
She smiles again, a tiny smile. You can’t believe your amazing luck to be able to innocently witness this transaction, but you also feel for him - to have this conversation in front of you has to be killing him. You can’t imagine trying to have a conversation like this with Taehyung with Namjoon listening. But you can’t leave - you’re glued to the register, your mouth still full of a chicken-avocado wrap.
“Of course,” she says, smiling shyly up at him. “Always writing. But, Namjoon...” She heaves a sigh. You wish Kris was here to witness this with you, to help you dissect it later. “I guess… I wanted to talk to you because I’ve been… I’ve been thinking about us.”
Your eyes go wide and you look at Namjoon immediately for his reaction.
“There’s no ‘us’, Elyse,” he points out, so kindly, like he doesn’t want to hurt her and he knows he has to anyway. “You made sure of that.”
You almost gasp out loud, and you quickly stifle your reaction with another big bite of dinner.
She has the presence of mind to look cowed. “I know that,” she admits. “I just… I guess I’m not sure how I feel about it now. About how we left things. And like… if that’s just me, I guess it’s my problem. But I needed to know… if it was just me.”
You’re chewing furiously, and then the damndest thing happens. Namjoon looks right at you.
You hold his gaze, and wish you could call time-out, pull him aside, confer with him before he answers. Say what you need to say, you’d tell him, because you get it. As complicated as shit is with you and Taehyung... of course you get it.
You’re fully prepared for him to tell her that it’s not just her, or at least something kind of in the middle, like it’s complicated.
He surprises you.
“It’s just you,” he tells her, and he’s holding your gaze the whole time. Like he’s talking to you. “I’m not coming back, Elyse.”
The door opens behind her, and a group of girls come in, talking loudly to one another. It gives Elyse time to get her face right, you guess, because when you look back she’s managing to smile at him, though it’s clearly forced.
“Okay,” she says. “Thanks for telling me. If your mind’s made up… then I guess there’s nothing else to say here?” She makes it a question.
“There never was,” he says, and though his words are cutting, his voice is still kind. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
She nods, licks her lips, eyes on the ground, and then she heads for the door. The group of girls come up to the register to pay, and you catch Namjoon’s gaze over their heads.
“I’ll see you at home,” he says, not a question, and you nod, scanning their items blindly.
The rest of your shift crawls, uneventful and lonely, and when you finally clock out you’re dying to text Kris or literally anyone about the episode you just witnessed.
After you lock up, you head outside of the student center. It’s dark, and freezing, and you hike your jacket up around your neck.
A voice says your name and a hand reaches for your elbow. Every time Namjoon has startled you at the apartment and you’d jumped or dropped what you were holding pales in comparison to now; you shriek, so loud that some students further down the path turn around to check on you.
“Jesus,” Namjoon huffs, laughing. “It’s just me.”
“Don’t grab people!” you scold, heart pounding against your ribs. “Holy shit.”
“Sorry,” he says, kind of an afterthought. “Are you going home now?”
As you come down from the adrenaline rush, things start to piece together in your head. “Were you… did you wait for me? It’s been almost an hour!”
“I know,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know. But I wanted to make sure I caught you.”
You take a few steps in the direction of home and he follows. You start walking together this way, you leading for once. “Why?” you ask him, genuinely curious.
He sighs, looks away from you as you cross campus together. “I wanted to tell you thank you.”
“For what?” you demand, flummoxed.
He runs his hand down the back of his neck, still avoiding your gaze.
Adorable, you think.
“For being there. For all that with Elyse.”
“Firstly,” you point out, “I did literally nothing except popcorn-gif. Secondly, if you think that was dramatic, you haven’t watched enough dramas with me. That was tame. No one even cried.”
He laughs, once. “Chances are she’s crying now.”
“What happens when the scene cuts away doesn’t count,” you tell him firmly. Then, a beat later you add, “You were admirably forth-coming with her.”
“Made me feel like shit,” he admits in a grumble. You reach out and pat his arm reassuringly.
“I’m sure it did,” you tell him. “But this has to be better than stringing her along or something.”
He gives you a hum of agreement. “Well, anyway. Thank you.”
“Namjoon,” you say seriously, “I didn’t do anything.”
“Y/N,” he says, equally serious. “You have no idea how that would have gone if you hadn’t been there. You being there saved my ass from telling her we could talk again, if it made her happy. It stopped me from getting swept away in nostalgia, or her magic powers that make me stupid. You… grounded me.”
This knocks you into silence. It feels big, like he’s telling you a lot more than he’s actually saying.
And, you get it. Because Namjoon makes you feel grounded, too.
You aren’t sure what to say. You want to say thanks, because it feels like he’s given you a compliment. You want to say you’re sorry that he had to stare her down and tell her no, when - probably - at least one, little part of him wanted to say yes.
Instead, you just ask, “Are you okay?”
He shoots you a grateful look. “Yeah,” he says, “I am. Thanks.”
“Stop thanking me,” you tease, smiling, elbowing him lightly.
He catches your wrist, tugging you closer as you walk. When you’re close enough, he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you tight through the last two city blocks.
Monday November 19th
You’ve walked to campus with Namjoon three Mondays in a row, so he waits for you this morning too, sipping his coffee at the breakfast bar patiently. As he watches the time pass, the time you normally leave together inching closer, he starts to get a little concerned.
He tries texting you - you coming to campus today? - but you don’t answer. Finally, with about ten minutes to spare, he caves and knocks on your closed bedroom door. He hears your voice respond, muffled, but he doesn’t catch what you say.
He inches the door open, and is surprised to find that not only are you not ready to go, you’re still just a lump under your blankets.
“Y/N?” he ventures. “Are you sick?”
There’s some movement up by your head as you move the comforter enough to peer at him. “No,” you tell him, your voice a bit gravelly from sleep. “But I’m not going to campus today. You can go without me.”
“You’re not sick?” he repeats, just to clarify. There’s a little part of his brain that wonders if this is a menstruation thing, but wouldn’t he have noticed days like this in the months before now?
“No,” you repeat, and pull the blanket back up to cover your ears.
He feels unsure, like maybe he shouldn’t just leave you here, at least without getting to the bottom of what’s going on.
“Are you… okay?” he asks, the same question you’d asked him before the weekend, when Elyse had tried to fucking blindside him and drown him in guilt.
“Mhm,” you say, and he waits for more, an explanation, a reassurance, anything. You give him nothing.
“Okay,” he says finally, when he’s about five minutes late and he can’t stand it anymore. “I’m going to class. You’ll be alright here?”
You give another hum of an answer. He leaves your door open as he leaves, like it’ll help.
Concern and guilt eat at him all the way through his morning class; he can barely concentrate. He doesn’t really have time to go home between class and his TA hours, but when his professor dismisses him, he finds himself lifting his bag off the ground by his chair and heading in the direction of the apartment.
The apartment is so quiet when he gets there that he feels a flash of relief - you’d gotten up and gone to class after all. But as he makes his way through the living room and peers into your room, it’s clear that you haven’t moved.
What is going on? he wonders.
“Y/N?” he says. There’s no movement, no indication that you heard him. He inches into your room, still unsure if you want him there, if he’s crossing boundaries, if he’s overstepping. “Hey, have you eaten or anything?”
Silence. He purses his lips. Words Elyse used to throw at him ring in his head - stop trying to fix it when I’m upset. I don’t want a solution, I want support. But as far as he knows, you haven’t moved all day. He goes into the kitchen and fills a glass with water and walks it back to your room determinedly.
When he gets close enough to set the glass down on your nightstand, he can see that you're awake, laying on your side, your eyes on the wall, unblinking.
He sets it down, watching your face carefully, and backs away. He’s about to give up and head out to the living room when he hears you, quiet as a breath, whisper, “Thank you.”
He pauses, turning back. “Can I…?” He falters, still so uncertain. “Can I stay with you?”
You don’t respond right away, the moment stretching heavy between you. Then, silent, you nod your head, just once. Something blooms in Namjoon’s chest, stretching and growing so that he feels his ribs must shift to make room for it. He circles around to the other side of the bed and gingerly sits, turning and stretching his long legs out, leaning back against your headboard.
You don’t move, you don’t talk, so neither does he. He just stays, and waits, and watches the slant of sunlight through your blinds crawl inch by inch across your bedroom wall. After about an hour of this, he rises, needing to move to get his phone out of his pocket. He stands, trying to get some circulation back in his legs, as he dials the department head.
“Hey,” he says, walking to your bedroom window and peering through the crack in the blinds. “I’m going to take a sick day today, okay? I didn’t have anyone scheduled… maybe Alec can take it if you need someone?”
He listens for a minute, then adds, “Yeah. Thanks, I appreciate you. Yeah, I should be fine for tomorrow. Okay. Sorry about that. Thanks again.”
When he turns back to you, you’ve actually rolled a little bit peering over your shoulder at him. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say.
He regards you seriously. “I… think I did,” he admits. “I just don’t understand exactly why yet.”
You don’t answer, your tongue sneaking out to wet your lips. Then you reach over and flip the corner of your comforter down on the empty side of the bed, an invitation.
He sits, as expected, sliding his legs under your blankets, and pulling the comforter up to his chest. He lays next to you for a few minutes, about six inches between your bodies. Then, emboldened, he scoots closer, rolls and wraps an arm around your middle, pulling you flush against his front. You stiffen for the barest of seconds, then melt back against him, letting out a deep breath. His hand rests against your stomach, and after a few minutes you shift to place your own hand against his, holding tight. Keeping him in place.
Namjoon might not know what’s going on with you today, he might not know the best thing to do to help you. But he knows he wants to do this - hold you close, wrap himself around you like a protective cocoon - until you tell him you don’t need it anymore.
He thinks he drifts off for a little; he wakes, groggy, from a half-sleep, his nose buried in your hair against the pillow, his hand slack against the mattress, still touching yours. The tightness in your shoulders tells him that you’re awake, and the blue glow from outside the window tells him the sun has set behind the buildings across the street.
He rolls a little and hugs you tight again, moving to press his face to the junction of your neck, gently. “I’m going to get up and make us something to eat,” he tells you.
“You can’t,” you tell him.
Puzzled, he asks, “Why can’t I?”
“Because I can’t save you from lighting the kitchen on fire,” you tell him seriously, and he’s so surprised that you’re joking right now that it startles a laugh out of him.
“I’ll do a better job this time,” he promises. “I’ll start smaller. You good with ramen?”
You hum. “The spicy one. With an egg.”
He smiles against your neck, and you shiver when it tickles. “Your wish is my command,” he tells you, starting to rise.
“Be careful,” you warn. “I’ll get used to this.”
“Nope,” he tells you, finally releasing your middle and scooting towards the edge of the bed. “Once you’re out of the bed, I go back to being normal.”
“Guess I’m never getting up, then,” you say wryly. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand - a call - and you ignore it. Namjoon leaves, making a point not to look at the screen. He knows who’s calling you, even without looking.
In the kitchen, the water’s not yet boiling when there’s suddenly a pounding on the door. Eyeing his pot of water over his shoulder, Namjoon walks over to open it, only to find Taehyung standing there holding a bag of take-out. The relief he feels actually surprises him, but he realizes instantly that he probably should have reached out to Taehyung in the first place, to ask if he knew what the fuck was up with your sudden day of silence.
“Thank god you’re here,” he blurts out, and watches as understanding crosses Taehyung’s face, followed by guilt.
“Ah,” Taehyung utters, upset. “I should have been here hours ago. Where is she? Has she eaten?”
Namjoon steps back to let him in. “She’s in bed,” he says. “She hasn’t moved all day - I was just heating up water for ramen for her.”
Taehyung sighs, sinking in on himself. “I’m glad you were here,” he says, so genuinely that it makes Namjoon feel sick with guilt, like he was taking part in a great deception. “I usually take care of her today. I fucked up. I didn’t realize what day it was until like half an hour ago.”
Namjoon nods at this, not sure what to say. Part of him wants to ask Taehyung for some answers; a bigger part of him would rather it come from you, when you’re ready. To give himself something to do, he moves into the kitchen to pour out half the water - he only needs to cook enough for himself, now.
Taehyung makes his way into your room, the food bag clutched in his hands. He doesn’t close the door, and Namjoon tries not to eavesdrop from the kitchen, but he can’t help but hear Taehyung tell you, in a voice that’s absolutely sorrowful, “I’m so sorry. I’m a fucking terrible friend.”
He doesn’t hear you reply, but Taehyung says, “Yes I am. I left you alone today.”
This time, Namjoon hears your reply. “I wasn’t alone,” you tell Taehyung firmly. “Namjoon was here.”
“Good,” Taehyung says, his voice muffled, like maybe he’s hugging you in there. “Good.”
Tuesday November 20th
Namjoon awakens to the smell of bacon. Confused, he pulls a tshirt over his head, and blearily peeks his face out of his bedroom. You’re bustling around the kitchen - something he’s literally never seen before - cooking a full-course breakfast.
“Y/N?” he ventures, and you whirl around, eyes wide, the spatula in your hand.
“Oh!” you say happily. “Come get some eggs!”
Namjoon doesn’t dare argue. He sits at the breakfast bar, still half asleep, trying to open his eyes all the way. You present him with a full mug of coffee, which he takes gratefully. Then, you load up a plate and slide it in front of him, and then you lean against the counter from the kitchen side, watching him intently.
“Yes?” he asks archly.
You take a deep breath. “I’m sure you have questions about yesterday,” you say seriously.
He lowers his coffee cup. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says quickly. “Don’t feel like you owe me an explanation. I’m just… I’m glad I could be there for you. I don’t need anything else.”
You look away from him, blinking suspiciously hard. He waits you out. When you face him again, there’s something steely in your expression.
“I have a hard time on the 19th,” you tell him. “Every year. It’s… an anniversary. For, um. For when I lost my parents.”
Namjoon’s appetite leaves him instantly. He feels himself lean forward, like he’s trying to get closer to you, like his body needs to wrap you up, just like he had yesterday. He murmurs your name, and you avoid his gaze again.
“Anyway,” you say brusquely, “thank you for staying with me. And trying to feed me. Normally Taehyung does that.”
He wasn’t here this time, something ugly inside Namjoon thinks.
Instead, he says, “You’re welcome. I’m glad I could… be there. I’m glad I was with you.”
Your gaze drops to the floor, then you seem to get it together and look up at him. “I am too,” you say, and the words sound heavy coming off your tongue. “So, really… thank you.”
Namjoon pauses. He wants to ask - he wants to know - but he’s afraid it’ll push you away. “Can I ask you something?” he ventures, finally.
You look back at him, clearly nervous. “I guess,” you say, clearly uneasy.
He grimaces a little, unsure of the choices he’s made. “Yesterday… should I have called someone?” There’s a pause, where Namjoon decides to say what he actually means. “Should I have called Taehyung? Would that have been the right thing to do?”
He watches you soften, eyes widening as you realize what he’s been worrying about. You set down the dish towel that had been in your hands and come around the breakfast bar so you can look at him unobstructed.
“No,” you tell him seriously, eyes on his. “No, you did exactly what I needed.”
“Okay,” he says, reaching for his fork to try and eat some of the eggs you’d made for him. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Namjoon,” you say seriously, and he looks back up at you, fork in hand. You shake your head, voice pleading with him to believe you. “There is not even a tiny part of me that wishes it was Taehyung with me yesterday instead of you. I promise. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says easily, taking a bite of egg. Does he believe you? He’s not sure. But he’s eager to move on; the topic’s uncomfortable. He knows he started it, but he really did want to know if he did the wrong thing. “Did you eat any, yet?”
You give him a little smile. “I was waiting for you,” you tell him. “I’ll make my plate now.”
You settle next to him, eggs and coffee cup both steaming, and you eat in silence. Namjoon can’t say what you’re thinking about, but his head is spinning. He’s thinking about how it had felt when you’d touched his hand in the bed yesterday, giving him the signal that you were okay with this, that you didn’t want him to move away.
He’s thinking about how when he’d opened the door and found Taehyung standing on the other side, he’d felt like the person who was supposed to be with you had arrived to make it right.
He’s thinking about how when Elyse sent his mind skittering towards old, bad habits, locking his eyes on yours had kept his feet firmly in the present.
He’s thinking about your hips under his hands in that damn halloween costume, almost a month ago, and how he hasn’t come even close to kissing you since then.
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baby i'll stay (heaven can wait) - Sam Winchester/Reader
read it on ao3.
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (vaguely s8).
Tags/Warnings: not-too-graphic smut, hunting-typical violence, witches using glamors, soft, loving, childhood friends-to-lovers, glass injuries.
Word Count: 14,729 (hence why it took so damn long lol)
Notes: howdyyyy. sorry for the brief absence, i was packing up some end-of-the-year things at home, finals, etc. this is for my dear friend and ultimate supporter @lacilou, who requested something that was so up my alley that i just HAD to write it. here ya goooo!
Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!
You had never seen Dean grovel before.
It started with some gentle offers, and then his pride caved, and he really started to dig in. If you played bait for the witch the three of you were currently hunting, Dean would, (in order), clean your weapons himself for a month, buy you dinner from your favorite place, and let you do at least one donut with Baby in the nearest empty lot. You planned to say yes either way, seeing as people were dying here—and it’s not like the three of you had any other options. But the longer you held out the more Dean added. You stewed on it, until even Sam offered up the passenger’s seat for two weeks. Once you’d amassed a good collection of favors the night before your hunt—
“Fine. I’ll do it,” you crossed your arms.
“God,” Dean cursed, and slumped forward against the table of your motel room in mock-exhaustion. “Only took you two fuckin’ days.”
Sam, who was leaning against the counter of your kitchenette, cooly twisted off the cap of his bottle and smirked around it. “You’re just mad cause’ she played you. Donuts in the Impala? Really?”
“I think that’s fair,” you spoke up, “What’s our witch’s name again?”
“Hermes,” Sam and Dean said, rolling their eyes in unison.
“Well—I’m the one who’s gonna have to be touched by this creep. That’s worth wheelies in the Impala, if you ask me,” you argued. On the motel bed in front of you, you were sorting through the suitcase that carried your entire life in it. There was supposed to be a nice night-out dress in here somewhere, but it’d probably been ruined by monster blood a millennia ago.
“Don’t even joke,” Dean warned, but he hesitated, like he’d been considering the Impala doing wheelies and mentally measuring how cool it’d be.
“You know…” Sam trailed off, and in the corner of your eye you watched him straighten up. “If this really bothers you, you don’t have to do it. We’ve found other outlets before—this one just so happens to be the easiest one. A harder solution never scared us off before.”
“Exactly,” you snapped the lid of your suitcase shut. “So I can handle an easy one, like you said. I’m complaining for the fun of it, I promise. A witch killing and robbing people is nothing new, and neither are creeps—so I’m not exactly intimidated.”
Stepping away from the bed, you presented your dress to the two. It was almost a little too plain, but you got out so little lately that anything, even willfully being seduced by a witch in a sleazy bar, sounded fun. Little things like that reminded you that the hunt was an adventure as much as it was a job. A pretty shitty adventure, maybe, but after the apocalypse optimism had become a need as much as it was a balm. You were stuck in another lousy motel room in another city you’d never seen. Yet, sometime in the next week you’d be terrifying Dean out of his skin doing donuts in his car, and Sam had been happy lately. You hoped it was your influence.
His concern for you, as usual, boosted your optimism well into next week. You were more of a realist by nature. But if your positive outlook was waking him up and following him to bed every night, yet again, you and Sam Winchester had established another unspoken cycle. You watched his back and he watched yours. Sam talked to you about how he felt and you talked to him, both out of fear of burdening Dean. He gushed about the books he liked and the science articles he read, you fell in love with him every time, and together you relied so heavily on the other that you doubted Sam could breathe if your lungs weren’t working. You saved him and he saved you until you owed each other eternally. It’d been that way since the first time your parents had dropped you off at Bobby Singer’s, when you’d befriended the only other hunter-kids you’d ever met.
A few years back, the horseman Death had called your relationship uniquely symbiotic. To this day, you still wondered what he’d really meant. Feeling Sam’s warm eyes catch yours over his drink almost gave you your answer. But like always, your train of thought chased the soft line of his bicep against his shirt sleeve or the dimple of his cheek instead. This time, Sam was comparing the neckline of the dress to your shirt, imagining you in it. Flushed, you folded it against your stomach and set it on top of your suitcase. You played with a hair tie on your wrist and reminded yourself that Sam wasn’t looking at you that way.
Dean whistled at the dress. “Man. Maybe we don’t even need the witch-killing spell,” he gave you an appreciative smile, “this guy’ll explode the minute he sees you.”
“That better be a compliment,” you glared at him, and for good measure, Sam swatted him on the back of the head.
“You’ll look just fine,” Sam assured, sounding unenthused.
It was your God-given job to keep him on his toes, so you flicked the bottom of his beer as you passed him and warned with a smile, “That better be a compliment too, Winchester, or you’re both in trouble.”
“Mom, Dad,” Dean whined, “please don’t flirt in front of me.”
In an instant, Sam slipped his bottlecap off the counter and you rolled your hairtie off your wrist. Dean had just collapsed face-first into his bed when both projectiles whizzed off him, ricocheting onto the carpet. You hadn’t realized Sam had moved at the same time until his bottlecap had popped off Dean’s head, startling you into bubbly, shoulder-shaking laughter. Sam didn’t laugh—he rarely did, not since he was a kid—but he smiled, and for now that worked for you.
“Tomorrow, you’ll get some kind of DNA off of our witch at the bar, we’ll do our spell, and we’ll follow you in the car to make sure you’re safe,” Sam decided, softening his voice. He said this mostly to himself, and you indulged him even if you knew your game plan, just because you knew it was a comfort to him to list it out for himself. Years of staying home while Dean and John were off hunting had narrowed his life into lists—of school assignments, of tasks to handle while they were gone—and he’d never grown out of it. You imagined it was why he was so meticulous. “Then, we’re clear.”
“People saved, things hunted,” you drawled, listing each on one hand, “family business—”
“—done,” Dean finished, giving a thumbs up where he was faceplanted in his bed. With that, he rolled over, turned off the bedside lamp, and flushed your room into cool darkness. “Night’.”
You and Sam chorused your goodnights to him. Then, Sam turned toward the window over the kitchenette, adjusted the salt there with the back of his hand, and closed the curtains to cut off the last slivers of moonlight.
As a hunter, it was in the job description that you had some precautions about the dark. With Sam there, across from you, you forgot all notions about being afraid. You enjoyed looking at him even more than the next girl did, but with darkness came a new depth of intimacy. Without sight, you could only collect context from the low timbre of his voice or his presence next to you. It was about feeling instead of seeing. And Sam, with the sweet way he said things and the gentle way he navigated the dark, was nothing but feeling.
The moment was brief, but Sam found your shoulder and followed it up to your temple, which he kissed. Like the lists, it was a ritual he’d never grown out of. And you never wanted him to. You could feel the warmth of his breath, of his hand, flushing through your whole body like the sweet-tasting humidity before a healthy storm.
“Goodnight, ____,” Sam murmured near your face. He was like you, so if the dark made you more honest then it made him more honest; Sam sounded like he loved you.
You leaned into the brief contact, squeezed his wrist, and resisted the surge of hope pressing up your throat. “Goodnight, Sam.”
_
It should’ve been sad, how happy you were to be out despite the circumstances, but you knew even the best covers had a sliver of truth to them—and tonight, you wanted to flirt, to feel pretty flirting, and to kill some damn witches. Being covered in monster grime didn’t make anybody feel beautiful, and suiting up in a skirt and wedges to masquerade as a fed didn’t count. The hunt rarely gave you an excuse for self-confidence. If this was one of those times, you weren’t about to let it pass by.
And truth be told, you’d been under fire for so long that one witch didn’t feel like much of a threat. You weren’t so stupid that you neglected to realize what Hermes was capable of. But after your five-hundredth witch in over fifteen years of hunting, the fear of danger was nothing more than a wisp of tension floating at your shoulder. If it bleeds, you can kill it, Dean always said. And witches definitely bled.
Knowing that Sam and Dean were watching your six, that wisp of anxiety disintegrated entirely. It was so natural to have them there, Sam on your right and Dean on your left, that you usually dreamt with each brother somewhere in your peripherals. Hazy flying dreams and late-to-school nightmares included. Well, the school nightmares were less strange—once upon a time, you’d really gone to school with Sam and Dean.
Your parents were hunters. That made you like any other sullen, directionless hunter kid in the business, desperate to follow in their parent’s footsteps but terrified of becoming anything like them. Most pure-bred hunters like you didn’t have the fortune of an Uncle Bobby, though. Looking back, you wished you’d had more time with your parents—but you were grateful for the days they dumped you on him. Around when you’d entered middle school, Bobby’s house had become something of a hunter daycare. He wasn’t big on the idea. Obviously. But Bobby melted like all grouchy old men inevitably did, and soon your days spent racing to get him books and spell ingredients overlapped with his days babysitting Sam and Dean.
Dean was two years your senior, and had usually been the bane of your existence. But you’d both existed in the strange place between a hunter and a liability for your parents, so together, you were eager to please, learn, and emulate. Dean had done this because he’d wanted to graduate to a full-on hunter, but you were content with bringing phones to Bobby and helping without being in the way. Sam was much of the same. He was… He was quiet and sweet and he’d cut out the gum Dean had put in your hair without wrecking it. He wrote school essays that were cool instead of boring, and made everything seem interesting and beautiful. Dean had embodied hunting to you, then, and Sam was the breathable living space between.
You loved Dean, and you’d learned a lot from him. But you lived and breathed Sam—and the new, exciting proposition of a home somewhere else—because of the ideas he represented. Being a hunter so young had gutted your faith, and Sam, somehow, had rerouted it all. He’d shown you that there were seams between hunts that you could use to find your footing. Bobby had taught you how to be smart, Dean had taught you how to be practical, and Sam had promised you that all of this wasn’t for nothing. You figured that was why all of the hunters you met were weapons more than people; Sam Winchester hadn’t cupped their face on Bobby Singer’s porch and kissed them like they were still human.
That’d been more than a decade ago, and you could still feel how the rain had made your hair cling to your face, how the shoulders of Sam’s sweater were damp from the weather. The kiss had been brief and childish and a little unmoored. And yet it’d carried you through everything, even the literal end of the world, Sam going in the cage… all of it. He’d been your living space.
That had been built on the rare weekends you happened to be at Bobby’s at the same time, so having a few months of school together bonded you for life. They purposefully forgot to mention that John was settling them in your town and your school, hoping to surprise you. In hindsight, it was a sweet gesture, but there was a bold line between your hunting life and your school life for a reason. High school was awful for you. Your parents’ deaths had left you as exposed as a bloody nerve. With no one else around, your foster family unaware of… the real world, and a valley between you and the life you used to know, hunting was all you’d had. You’d spiraled into it deeper than you ever had before. One misstep in the hallway had spilled all of your research books and spell ingredients out of your backpack, immediately casting you as your school’s new resident freak.
Neither of the boys knew about… the bullying. It was such a pathetic word. You never told them, probably because school was as much of a sore a subject for them as it was for you. So they’d turned up, gleaming with excitement, only for whatever image they had of you as some tough, unflinchable hunter to shatter.
You’d been eating lunch comfortably alone, fork in one hand and research book under the other. All at once your table was crowded with your grade’s most self-absorbed clique, all of them probing you, asking you questions, and giggling amongst each other even at your innocent answers. They stole your book and read it out loud to each other. They prodded at your backpack, searching for more joke material. It happened so often that you knew better than to lash out, as you’d done before—or react at all, as you’d done before—and resigned yourself to another ruined day.
Then, Dean’s hands had cooly landed on your shoulders. Hey, ____, Sam had greeted warmly from your right, and you remembered how he hadn’t bothered to hide his scowl. Are these jokers bothering you?
It was such a movie moment, a book moment, that the only thing you could call it was wish fulfillment. There’d been plenty of times when you’d wished they’d been there, or wished you could tell them about something that’d happened to you. But actually having it happen—Dean swooping in with that suave grin, Sam refusing to let you carry your own backpack…
You felt like you owed them. It was a small, easy kindness for them to pay, but after months of loneliness and alienation and absolute, incomprehensible loss, it’d been a surge of heat in an ocean of ice. Sudden and unexpected and life-giving.
Since then, you couldn’t remember a single time you hadn’t been in that same position. Standing there, with Sam and Dean on either side of you. As the Impala pulled up to the bar your witch often skulked, you looked reflexively to your left, and there was Dean in the driver’s seat. For once, you were upfront with him—Sam needed room in the back to perform the witch-killing spell.
“And you’re sure you can… hook him in?” Dean asked, gesturing blandly with one hand.
You bolstered yourself, so the smile you gave Dean was a bit more confident than you felt. “Well, his past victims have all looked like me. And, no offense, but I’ve been swindling guys like this since I was sixteen. I’m not too worried about that part.”
Sam sighed so deeply that you and Dean twisted to look at him. Realizing he’d done that out loud, he bumbled awkwardly over his own reaction and coughed. “Uh, yeah. But, uh, I’ll have to do the ingredients in order, so it might take a second after we get his DNA for the spell to go through. You’ll have to… to distract him, until then.” Sam flashed you a tight smile. “I’ll be fast, I promise. You won’t be stuck with that guy for long.”
“Good,” you said. The eye contact you were sharing suddenly felt purposeful. You eased yourself away from his gaze, though it was more of a lurch than a very casual, not-at-all tension-filled turn.
There was a brief lapse in the conversation that made your skin prickle from your spine to your neck. You could feel Dean’s smug amusement from behind his binoculars, simmering, which didn’t help. The focussed silence that usually settled over the three of you on stake-outs never came, so you rushed to fill it.
“...So,” you opened, “if our witch uses a glamor to make himself appear more enticing to each of his victims, then how can I be sure it’s him?”
“He’s gonna be the best-looking guy in the place,” Sam explained. He’d reined in whatever had bothered him earlier, apparently, because his tone became halted and professional.
Dean sprung up, whistling. “That’s how—there ya go, he’s right there.”
You leaned around Dean, trying to get some idea of what you were hunting, but his big ass binoculars were in the way. The witch was only just across the street, yet Dean adjusted the focus on the lenses, apparently aiming for a microscopic look. You lowered them from his face so you could see past them, and behind the eyepieces he was so flushed his freckles had disappeared.
“I mean…” Dean cleared his throat, but his blush only spread further. “Wow. Just. Wow, that’s a good-looking dude.”
You were already opening your mouth to tease him, but everything you’d planned to say, along with any idea of what your name was, where you were, and what you were doing, drained from your grip like a fistful of sand.
Wow. That was the only word you could remember. It occurred to you that Dean was seeing a totally different man because of the witch’s magic, and christ, were you thankful for it. You’d never hear the end of it if they saw what you were… enjoying. The witch pulled up the curb in a glittering white muscle car—which definitely added to whatever Dean was going through. But for you, it wasn’t the vintage Challenger or the shiny loafers, or… or the, um… the white blazer… or the crisp button-up under, uh, underneath… Or the witch’s face. Which was Sam’s face. No little changes to support your preferences in men. No beautification, supernatural glow or… anything else. Just Sam. Sam as he was right now, sitting in your backseat. Sam with his, uh… his face clean and happy… with… w-with his hair styled all nice, like he always styles it when you dress up…
He emerged from the car, facing away from you. He waved a hand at the parking meter and it fizzed out. The broad shape of his back rolled under his suit, panther muscle moving under pelt, and he turned toward the bar with the same grace. His movements were vaguely not-Sam, if you squinted. It was all too sly, and he walked like he wasn’t as tall as he was. But something in the glamor kept you from pressing that idea in your head. Your mind wanted to indulge the parts of him that did look like Sam much more, so any bumps in his mirage smoothed themselves over, perfecting the look. It was clever. Clever… and… and, um… wow…
You had a thought. “The, um…” you tried, “we…”
“Y/N,” the real Sam chided.
The binoculars you’d pulled away from Dean fumbled out of your hand at the closeness of his voice, and you scrambled to catch it, and so did Dean, but neither of you took your eyes away from the street. You ended up weirdly clutching it together, like the two of you were going to wrestle for the right to see the witch through the binoculars. If you were any more focused, you might have.
“Guys,” Sam said, unimpressed. “It’s just a glamor. Pull it together, please?”
“...Sam,” you tested the name in your mouth, “um, witch glamors, how do they work?”
“They’re projections of power. They make each person who looks at them see their ideal partner. Didn’t I tell you this already?”
“I-I know. Just.” You swallowed. “Do they, like, pull from people the person’s already met, or do they, uh… make it up? To suit the person.”
“Both. But it’s easier magic to just use people the victim already loves.” He stressed victim as pointedly as he could, reminding you of the role you’d be playing.
Dean pried his eyes away from the street. They slid over to you, and you immediately did not like the suspicious gleam waiting for you there. “Why? You see somebody you know?” He bounced his eyebrows.
“What? You? Oh, please,” you laughed. You blurted out the first person you could come up with. “He’s ...Leo. In Titanic. Who do you see?”
“Another time,” Dean dodged. You usually would never let him get away with a blatant conversation shift like that, but he was grinning to himself like he could see you bullshitting too. It made you nervous. “Go on and get in there so we can gank this chump.”
“Good luck,” Sam wished you from the backseat, sounding blunter than usual. “And remember—underneath all that, he’s a decaying, millennia-old skeleton murdering innocent women.”
“Got it. Reality check received,” you said. Taking the door’s handle, you shot the boys one last look to confirm they’d have your back, and ducked out of the Impala.
_
The bar was of a higher-end than you were used to, so it took some mental adjustment to prepare for your role. Usually, the barflies you tricked preferred rougher, meaner girls, and you got the feeling that wasn’t what fake-Sam—Hermes, you reminded yourself—was into. If he was going after married unfaithfuls, he probably enjoyed mature, deceptive women who talked a lot about all the money they had. It was weird to think of someone with Sam’s face being into that.
The few pieces of gold jewelry you owned rattled on your wrists as you approached the bar. It was eight, prime drinking time, so everyone who’d had a long day at work or a date filled every inch of the place. Anyone who could afford the obscene prices, at least. A few minutes after you entered, you glimpsed Dean dissolving into the crowd. Hermes immediately took an isolated booth in the corner, where it would be easiest for him to scope out women at the bar. You only caught a glimpse of him. He lounged back, ankle on his knee, the low whiskey-hued light stroking one side of his face. It was… very Sam. He could’ve been on the couch at home, sunk into the cushions and reading a book by lamplight. You tried to reign in the confusing elixir of anxiety and attraction brewing in your stomach.
So far, he’d already begun to sort his targets. His honed-in look was unmistakable on Sam’s face. You made sure to pass in front of the women he was eyeing, and silently applauded yourself when his gaze was hooked on your figure. He trailed your slow saunter over to the bar with those intense, paletted eyes, lingering on the wedding band you wore. Knowing it was Sam—thinking it was Sam both helped and made things a million times worse. Your thoughts wandered like they never did on hunts, heart pounding.
Focus, you hissed to yourself. You needed to get him to drink something, so Sam, your Sam, could use the DNA on the glass in his spell. After setting up your act with a few coy glances, you suppressed the sickness rolling in your gut and summoned the bartender. “Two drinks—one for me, and another for the gentleman in the booth there.”
You almost ordered him Sam’s favorite beer, then felt supremely weird about it when deciding on a pricey whiskey instead. Man, was this place just begging for you to blow some cash. And this hunt… was really begging you to look some unspoken feelings in the face. As you waited for the drink to be delivered, it settled on you what Sam had said before—that this witch was wearing the body of your ideal partner. You weren’t stupid, you knew that’s what this was, but the confirmation from magic of all things…
It’s easier to just use people the victim already loves, Sam had explained.
You knew you loved him. You’d known since you were kids. But that was only ever something you told to yourself—now, the universe was shouting it back to you. It’s not like this witch reached into your mind and knew to choose Sam to get under your skin the most. The glamor was an automatic sort of magic, that you could tell. And if it was automatic… then it was all real. Your ideal partner really was Sam. Not even some dramatized, romantic version of him. The authentic article. It welled up inside you right there in that stupid-expensive bar on your stupid-expensive stool, a surging flood of emotion that seized you and tethered you to the floor.
Those feelings were always followed by the phantom pressure of Sam’s broad, gentle hands on your face. Your first kiss with him must’ve been more than a decade ago. He’d been so nervous that his hands shook, and he hadn’t taken up bow-hunting yet so the pads of his fingers were still soft. You’d held his wrists and trembled too, but you were relieved and excited and warm with wild summer liking, face tacky with dried tears. The last day had been spent weapon training. You’d shot a gun for the first time, and it’d stabbed the reality of your life right through your ribs. You were gonna kill things. It was going to be your job to kill things. Sam had sat with you while you’d sobbed on Bobby’s porch, squeezing you against him even though it was storming like hell. He’d sat there until your sides ached from laughing and you weren’t so worried about everything.
Sam promised you’d go through all this together, and he’d been right. Of course you were in love with him.
Okay. Hunt. Danger. Witch. Focus. He’s a decaying, millennia-old skeleton, you reminded yourself.
But the hand brushing your bare shoulder was young, healthy, and familiar. Down to the bow-hunting callouses.
“Excuse me,” he greeted. His voice wasn’t purring with seduction or intent, as you’d imagined. It was just light, easy Sam. Like it’d been a bit since he’d seen you, and he’d just climbed out of the car to give you a secure hug and a kiss on the hair. The witch settled his glass on the bar between you, expression glittering with feigned curiosity. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it was kind of you to send over the drink. I wanted to say thank you.”
Maybe he was reaching into your mind to emulate Sam. Why would a thieving, money-hungry witch be so polite?
“Anytime,” you said, and found yourself responding like you were really talking to Sam. The witch’s smile broadened into his dimples; he wanted familiarity. “It’d be rude to leave such a cute guy without a drink on such a nice evening, don’t you think?”
“I think it’d be rude to leave a beautiful woman without company,” he agreed, eyes twinkling.
Unfortunately, your body wasn’t in hunting mode, as it should be. It was in act-normal-around-Sam mode, but “Sam” was actively flirting with you—so all of your nerves were going haywire. Your skin warmed in ways it never did for the men you won your dinner money from. Or any other man but one, period. An embarrassing, genuine giggle burst out of your chest. “I-I don’t mind,” you beamed.
“Hermes,” he said, offering you one giant hand to shake.
You gave it to him, and immediately he turned it over in his palm, lowered his face to your knuckles, and kissed them appreciatively.
“Y-Y/N,” you blurted, instead of your alias.
Dear god. Jesus Christ. What the fuck.
“Y/N. Really.” The witch repeated. Now he was turning up the sultriness. His voice was so nice and his hand was just like Sam’s and he—he even smelled like Sam.
“No. Uh. Y/N L/N, not Y/N Really,” you joked. Your full name. Out loud. Instead of your alias.
What the actual fuck.
“Forgive my asking,” and fake-Sam ran his thumb over your wedding band, his lips parted and his breath lingering on your hand. His voice was coated with want and humor. “But is there a Mr. Really?”
Fuck. Wait, yes. This was good. This was what you wanted.
You gathered yourself, but not too much, cause he seemed to like your clumsiness. Or maybe it gave him more incentive to kill you. “Yes,” you said, tip-toeing with your wording, “...does that bother you?”
Hermes just grinned and shook his head.
The witch gestured to the stool beside yours, and you nodded maybe a little too much. He claimed it, folding his legs uncomfortably because he was a bit too tall. It made you realize that the glamor worked even better (and harder) up close. All of the little details you loved about Sam—the slight crook of his left incisor where it’d almost been punched out a million times, the freckles under his collar and sleeves—loaded in. You swore they hadn’t been there before.
But, you still haven’t seen him drink from the cup. He wraps his hand loosely around the glass on the illuminated bartop, but otherwise doesn’t make a move, brushing his thigh against yours. You make up bland conversation about a long, arduous day at the wealthy company you work for. You complain a little bit about the doggy daycare your pure-bred Pomeranian goes to. When the bartender comes by, you tip him a good chunk of money right in front of Hermes. And if none of that is working, you bait him with the wedding ring and the cut of your dress.
It’s weird. It’s so fucking weird. But that’s kind of your life, so you’ve learned to accept the strangeness, and you enjoy the surface flirting with this millennia-year-old man who’s planning to kill you. While wearing the face of the love of your life.
You realize that you’ll probably never have this with the real Sam. Not the murder part, but the easy date night flirting—not without the cost of your friendship, or testing Sam’s feelings about relationships.
When you’re satisfied that he’s hooked, as Dean put it, you raise your second round of drinks together and toast to them. You make something up about good company, and Hermes drinks. He lets his hand cover your bare knee, drawing circles that set every hair on your body on end. After what feels like hours, you brush your nails against the hair at the base of his neck, lean in, and whisper in his ear, “Do you wanna get out of here?”
And with that sly, clever Sam smile, he agrees. But— “My place is close. May I walk you?”
“You may,” you reply, even if it’s a complete deviation from his M.O. The witch always takes his victims back to their own homes, that’s how he robs them. What, was he genuinely attracted to you? Was this a real hookup thing? Or, did he recognize your real name and planned to kill you? Knowing your luck, you’d put money on murder.
Instead of offering you his arm, the witch is gentle and sweet as he gives you his hand. Just before you slip away from your seats, you put his whiskey on the stool, away from the well-meaning bartender who might clean it. The second you make it out the door with Hermes, Dean skulks out of the crowd and drops the empty glass in a plastic bag. Now you’re on the clock. Either the boys get Hermes first, or Hermes gets you. No pressure.
When you get outside, the Impala’s parked elsewhere. You’re both bothered and comforted by that, because while it may mean that the boys are out of sight, your spell is being performed where prying eyes can’t see. That’s good.
Hermes gives your hand a playful squeeze. While you’ve held Sam’s hand before, those moments were always too fleeting for you to take in much. You imagine your mind, or Hermes’ glamor, is filling in the blanks for you. His fingers are long and his hold is encompassing, swallowing almost the whole of yours. You talk for the two of you, since it’s a part of his act to give as little information about himself as possible. He pretends to enjoy your conversation. It’s your mind’s greatest impression of an interested Sam, his brow furrowed, his head ducked in thought, his focus honed in on only what you have to say. The witch leans in close when he does speak, murmuring into your ear. He loves to touch your bare skin, so his hands linger on your shoulders and the exposed portion of your back. It’s all a tactic to win over your suspicion, you know that, but it’s Sam’s hands. It’s his hands and his voice and his face.
“You know what?” Hermes surveys the street, and peaks into the alleyway nearest you, weighing your options like it’s not obvious where he’s going to drag you. Come on. “Let’s take this shortcut here.” He gives you a devouring look, “I don’t want us to wait any longer than we have to.”
“The suspicious, dark alleyway?” You joke. Just a few more minutes. Almost there. It’s gotta be.
Fake-Sam’s smile is fond, and with the same quiet resolution that Sam brings to everything, he parts from your hand to wrap his arm around your waist. He cups your side and brings you against him. His arm is the perfect shelter from the chilly night, bleeding with body heat and the homey scent of the man you love.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he purrs, and admittedly, that’s when you start to panic.
Not because he was edging you into a creepy alley—alleys, in the hunting life, were familiar territory. Or because you realized you were about to fight him. That was more than routine to hunting; it was hunting itself. What made you panic was your own willpower here. You could cut down a thousand evil witches a day, but nothing in this world could make you put that knife to Sam’s throat. Not death, not hell, not heaven. All of them had tried. Every one of them had failed.
This wasn’t Sam. You knew that. The difference was palpable. But it was close enough to make you hesitate, and you were dreading what that could mean.
“Alright, hero,” you flirted. “Lead the way.”
He teased your waist with a squeeze, then began the slow, intimate walk he imagined you were hoping for. The witch started to chat about how much he loved the city, how lively the people were. Bullshitting. Trying to settle your anxiety—so you were open to attack. Well. If he was so hellbent on cornering you now, all you could do was drag it out for as long as you could. You snuggled close to him, and pretended to admire the night sky between the towering downtown buildings.
The two of you passed the back end of a business’s warehouse. Its windows were thin-paned and close by, shimmering with neon light the closer you came to it. You made bubbly, flirty conversation, and calculated in your head when would be the perfect time to smash the glass and attack him with it.
He must’ve had the same idea.
You woke up two seconds later, glass in your hair, in your dress, and prickling painfully between you and the icy concrete floor. The warehouse ceiling floated overhead. Streams of moonlight poured through the uneven shape of the now-destroyed window. It took you but a breath to register this, then you were rolling onto your hands and snatching up the biggest shard that had survived your crash. In an instant you were heaving yourself to your feet and plotting: just a little more time, they just need a little more time, all you had to do was distract.
A long shadow fell over the glass debris. This was the part where your adrenaline would kick in, but a hot, ugly dose of fear joined it. That was Sam. You were fighting Sam. No, y-you—you weren’t—
“Well, isn’t this special,” Hermes cooed. He strolled toward you, the glass crunching under his loafers to the beat of his lazy walk. Everything but his smile was obscured by the dark. “The Winchester whore. I’ve heard of you. I have to say, I’m a little—”
“—disappointed? Let me guess: I’m shorter than you thought, prettier than expected, yadda yadda,” you filled in for him. “G-god, can’t any of you losers find different scripts?”
You knew the shard wouldn’t do much, but you’d hoped having it out in front of you would make you feel better. It didn’t. Hermes stepped into a shaft of light, illuminating Sam, with his hair in his eyes and a curious, calculating turn to his lip. It was straight out of any pink-hued day of your teenage years. Like he’d just found something fascinating in a book he was reading, and was beckoning you over to share it with you. And if it came down to it, you’d have to make him bleed if you wanted out of here.
“Fine. We’ll skip the pretense, then,” Hermes bargained, and with a wave of his hand you were slammed back-first into the nearest product shelves.
Pain exploded across your back, whiting out all else. You dropped a whole foot to the floor and collapsed there, pathetically gripping the closest table to find the courage to stand up. You couldn’t. Every deep breath you took seized your ribcage like a snapped trap. Shuddering in place there, you heard Hermes step across the glass, coming closer. Closer. Come on, Sam, you thought. For a moment, just a moment, you were truly afraid of him.
But this was Sam’s face. Out of all the faces you could see the moment before it all went dark, you’d be glad if it was his. The fear lightened. You lifted your face to meet his, snarling. Hermes waved his hand, and in one great cacophony, like a chandelier dragging itself across the floor, the broken glass fluttered up in a swirling cloud and hung in the air around you like stars. Deadly, jagged stars.
“One less thorn in my side,” he decided, and the hand—a copy of the love of your life’s hand, closed into a vicious fist. The shards whistled.
Hermes exploded into smoke.
The glass hung in the air for a moment more, then rained down on the floor again, shattering into powder. You flinched away and jerked to cover your head, and when all was quiet, and Hermes’ smoke was dissolved in the wind, you rolled onto your side and let out the breath you’d been holding.
People saved. Things hunted. Fuck, your back hurt.
You laid there for a moment longer, having fun pitying yourself, when a sharp cry of your name echoed down the alley outside. It took you a second to gather enough breath to holler back, “In here, Dean!”
Dean sprinted clear past the window, then backtracked so hard he almost tripped. “Y/N,” he sighed. Relief could’ve bowled him over at that moment.
As he charged through the broken window and swung his gun at the dark, you sat up, aiming to smile. You couldn’t really do it. “The witch is dead. Sam got him. High five?”
Dean hesitated, but after stashing his pistol in his waistband and taking stock of your injuries, he gave your raised hand a light smack and opened his arms. The gesture alone made all your injuries feel numbed. “Alright. Up and attem’. Let’s get you some Barbie bandaids and a big dinner, huh? You deserve it.”
“Hell yeah,” you breathed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Without hesitation, Dean scooped you onto your feet, brushed the hair stuck to your bloody forehead aside, and started to guide you toward your exit. After a long beat of you laying your head on him and soaking in everything that's happened, Dean murmured, “The witch didn’t look a thing like DiCaprio, did he?”
You watched your footing instead of Dean’s face. “No. No, he didn’t.”
_
After the bigger chunks of glass were taken out of your skin, you took a quick, wince-filled shower, and toweled your hair on the motel bed you shared with Sam. The glass was surprisingly the least annoying part of fighting the witch; what had really fucked you up were the bruises, which were blooming all along your back in shelf-shaped rectangles. Your injuries were pretty light for a witch hunt, though, so you contented yourself with being alive in a pair of snuggly pajamas.
It was well past eight by now, so the rooms adjacent to yours were quiet, and the road outside threw occasional beams of light across your bedspreads. You always loved the motels on the outskirts of town more than their inner-city counterparts. Though they were usually more run-down, the sounds of tires whisking on asphalt and frogs croaking in the weeds comforted you. Dean rarely let you keep the windows open, but he wasn’t about to snipe at his poor, injured best friend, so you arranged the salt on the sill in neat lines and soaked in the midnight breeze. In safer times, you and the boys might’ve had a bonfire at Bobby’s on a night like this.
Dean left the bathroom light on and propped it open enough to see by. He lapsed into his post-hunt ritual in the half-dark, chattering about your success, while Sam perched in a chair and didn’t speak.
He’d succumbed to an unnerved, unbroken silence once you promised him on the drive back that you’d live. A couple of throws and one window weren’t going to kill you. There was no chance in hell that he couldn’t sense that the witch was eating at you for different reasons, though. If he could tell the route a car had taken while blindfolded, then honing his sensitivities to the daily shifts in your mood was child’s play. But if you pushed him to let it go, he would, because he respected your limits—you just weren’t looking forward to having that conversation.
Dean chattered constantly, like he usually did when something was wrong in the air between the three of you. He’d even tried to hold a conversation with you through the bathroom door while you showered, for god’s sake. When you emerged, hissing at every pinch in your back tissue, Dean was waiting with clothes, a careful smile, and a medkit. His brother was still silent, though he’d jumped up from his seat.
“Sam?” You worked up the courage to say. “Could—would you mind, uh, helping me with my back? There’s… still a lot of pieces I couldn’t get.”
“Uh… Dean can.” Sam drilled his eyes through your room’s door, hunching into the collar of the jacket he hadn’t removed yet. “M’ gonna walk. I need to clear my head,” he sighed, snappishly, and poured all his willpower into not scrambling out the door as fast as he could. It whipped shut behind him too quickly for you to say anything back.
“...Okay. Well. Sucky job, huh?” Dean said. You heard him pop open the medkit and dip the mattress behind you, so you shuffled back a bit and carefully lifted the fabric of your shirt covering your back.
“Yeah,” you muttered. Sam’s shadow flew past your window and disappeared in long, curt steps towards the cicadas chirping by the roadside. You leaned further and further to chase his figure by the porch lights, but Dean gently reeled you back so he could start in on the tinier fragments.
“You helped a lot of people today,” Dean said, trying to goad you back to the conversation. You could hear in his pauses how worried he was about his brother, but you both knew that it was better to give Sam time to simmer, then return.
“Oh, just women willing to cheat on their husbands,” you rolled your eyes.
Dean braced his hand on your shoulder, and gave you a little warning squeeze every time he was going to pull one of the pieces out. The bloody glass tinking into the tin and your sharp winces soon formed a shaky rhythm. “Still people,” he pointed out. You didn’t reply, simmering in the thrum of his voice and the burn of your bruises.
When Dean started putting antibiotics on the cuts and loading them up with Barbie bandaids, as promised, you blurted out: “You think I upset Sam?”
You were hoping for a doubtful laugh or even some kind of scoff, like Dean found it hard that Sam could ever be mad at you, because that’s how his world worked. He needled the two of you all the time for how inseparable you were. You were you and Sam was Sam, mingled too closely for anyone else to squeeze in the middle. Usually, if you asked Dean something like that, he’d shrug. You’d know better than me, pal.
Instead, Dean released a deep breath from his nose. He did it like that so often now that you could recognize it, which unsettled you, since it was Dean’s withholding-sigh. You could usually pry just about anything out of him, but he had this wall that he hit sometimes with Sam. Brother confidentiality or whatever. You could respect that—when things didn’t involve you potentially upsetting Sam.
“Dean,” you tried again, “did I do something wrong? I feel like you’re not telling me everything here.”
He tore open another bandaid with his teeth and choose not to speak. It was enough to tell you that Dean knew he shouldn’t intervene, even if he wanted to.
You glanced over your shoulder to look at him. “Dean. C’mon. How many favors do you two knuckleheads owe me after today?”
Dean counted them in his head, closed his eyes, and cursed. “Don’t make me say it, Y/N. You’re a smart girl. You can’t be this blind.”
“Dean.”
“You don’t get it. Sam will be pissed with me.” He snapped the med-kit closed.
“If he gives you shit for it, you know I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell him that I coerced you and everything, that I cornered you,” you goaded. To make your argument even harder to ignore, you whipped down your shirt and rolled around to face him, your eyes big and bleeding with heart. “Sam is clearly upset. All I want to do is help him.”
Dean’s arms hung at his sides. His tells were small, but for a second there, you could’ve sworn you’d loosened his resolve enough. Instead, he shut you down with a short glare. “...Show me your shoulder.”
You held there for a moment, unmoving and stern, just to press how serious this was to you. If you’d done something to hurt Sam’s feelings, all three of you knew the lengths you’d go to make it up to him. And Dean keeping the reason why so close to his chest could only go two ways—either it was so light and petty that it wasn’t worth mentioning, or it was too terrible to voice. Only one of those ended with Sam nursing an infected wound for months. Few emotional appeals would reach Dean’s ears, but you thought he and his brother deserved someone who fought to right any grievances made against them.
With two fingers, you yanked your collar to one side. Sitting in the meat at the curve of your neck was a fat gauze bandage as wide as three fingers. Dean tested the edges with his thumb while you jabbed, “It’s fine. The stitches didn’t get messed up in the shower.”
“And the painkillers?” Dean checked.
“Working,” you answered. “Now, tell me what’s up. You can’t lie to me for shit.”
Again, you expected an awkward wince or a reluctant grimace from him. And again, Dean surprised you. He sighed deep into his shoulders, cupped the unmarred side of your neck, and shocked you into place with a burning, deathly serious look. “...Son of a bitch, fine! This is a big deal to me, okay? I’m breaking my brother’s trust here—but only because I think it’ll be better for the both of you, capiche?”
You nodded just as gravely. “What is it?”
“Sam…” Dean held you in place for a second more, then drifted out of your orbit, following his thoughts and hesitation in a circle around your hotel room. You let him think, a slow ugly sickness building in your throat. “Sam has feelings for you, okay? He’s—he’s had them for a while. So long that it’s insane to me that you haven’t noticed it yet—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you laughed. “Dean, please, I’m really worried about him. I don’t have time to mess around right now.”
Dean’s flailing arms dropped to his sides. He just stood there looking helpless, waiting. Waiting more.
“...Dean.” The name tasted like oncoming tears. You straightened up and steeled yourself, pressing into every new, stinging wound at your posture’s disposal. “This is… now y-you’re just being mean. You know how I feel about this.”
“I’m…” his hand fumbled upwards, like he thought about calling upon a higher power for help here, then remembered how that’d turned out last time. “Y/N, I’m not messing with you here. Sam has been crazy about you since we were kids.”
You believed him. It took some pacing, some crazed muttering, and some hard, labored breaths, but eventually you broke out of your trance and realized you believed him.
Dean nudged his chin at you, waiting for a response.
Pathetically, you said: “W-why?”
“Pardon?”
You summoned your best glare. “Level with me here. Just. Why?”
“Why the hell would I know?” Dean sputtered. He shrugged up to his ears, smiling a bit, like this was as grand a mystery to him as it was to you. “All I know is that he’d burn this world to the ground for you. Everything today… with you playing bait, and everything… It freaks him out, your scrapes. I mean, it freaks me out too, but I know you can handle yourself. It’s… I dunno, he’s mushier. It’s more personal to him.”
You thunked down on the closest surface, which could've been a hot stove for all you cared; numbing tingles rolled all the way up your arms and legs. Usually, you had a good reign on your own feelings, but now they galloped free too fast for you to catch. Exhaustion’s sweeter cousin barrelled you over. Shock and relief and love and terror each took their own swing at you, until you sat there with your hands limp in your lap, feeling like you’d laid down on the sidewalk and all of your feelings had lined up to kick you around. For the first time in your life you sat down and cried at the drop of a hat. It was fucking awesome.
A bubbly laugh rolled out of you. “Me too. I-I do too. Holy shit, am I over-reacting or what?”
Dean’s warm hand rubbed a spot on your arm the glass hadn’t touched. “Uh, maybe a bit. But I guess you’ve both waited a long time, so Sam’ll probably think it’s… sweet, or some bullshit like that.”
Another laugh surprised its way out of you. “Shut the hell up. God, you were right—I’m so blind. Do you think… Should I…? Sam, he’s still mad.”
Dean paused, enjoying how panic and delight warred on your face. “Not mad. More like…” he searched for the word, beaming slyly, “...jealous.”
_
Sam returned to a buzzing, eager silence in the motel. The second he had inched the door shut behind him, sheepish and looking like it, Dean shoved on his driving boots. You noticed how Sam was careful to catch your eye just once, otherwise entertaining himself with the pattern of the carpet. He at least seemed a touch more clear-headed. Sam had always loved a good, breezy walk; one of a million of his quirks that you loved too much to forget.
“Alright,” Dean scooped up the Impala’s keys, flicking the lapels of his jacket. “I owe Y/N her favorite dinner, like I promised. You want anything while I’m out?”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Her favorite place is at least an hour and a half from here,” he said, because of course he remembered that.
His brother shrugged. “I’m in the mood to drive. Cabin fever n’ all. See you nerds in,” he was not at all subtle when checking the clock in your room, or smiling about his results: “...three hours. Ciao.”
“It’ll be cold by—” Sam started, but Dean had already sauntered passed him, swinging his keyring in one hand. His whistling carried all the way out to the lot, and quietly you wondered how long he’d been wanting to tell you what he had.
Sam was forced to turn to you. His displeasure from before had slowly melted into embarrassment, but he wasn’t about to show it. He made a helpless gesture at the door like, welp, there goes that, and the elixir of liking in your chest shook loose a giggle. A real giggle. At least you could be embarrassed together.
Since sleeping on your back was off the table for the next week of your life, you’d gotten comfy on your stomach. With Sam gone, you had the room go completely diagonal on your shared bed, angling toward the dingy colored light of the TV. Dean had put on some random soap opera you weren’t a fan of, but tonight you thought of nothing but one thing. Sam has feelings for you, Dean had said. He’d burn this world to the ground for you, Dean had said.
Repeating them to yourself felt like writing the words down and holding up the paper by Sam’s face—weighing those images against the man you knew. You’d… guessed. Hoped is more accurate. But to see those words in action, moving and breathing in a person, totally blew you out of the water. Dean was right; you were dumb as hell for not seeing it before. Sam teetered on his heels in front of you. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, hiding behind his bangs and forcing himself to stand still. When you shied away to look at the TV, you could feel his gaze devouring you in every dose he could manage. Searching and memorizing. Every time you were occupied, Sam admired the soft curve of your back in your sleep shirt, your swept hair, your shorts, the exposed skin of your neck, your face.
Still, you’d hoped and only hoped for so long. You believed Dean. But you couldn’t bring yourself to understand that it was possible in the first place.
While you watched the television and panicked over what to say to him, Sam toed off his shoes and hung his jacket on the nearest chair. After a moment of hanging in the middle of your room, directionless, he followed his heart to your bedside.
“You feelin’ better?” He dipped the mattress just beside you, your side pressed against his night-chilled back.
You shuffled up onto your elbows, smiling at him with such vibrancy and realness that Sam flushed up to his ears. “I’m all good,” you promised, and it was the truth. “Happy to rid the world of another tie-wearing evil.”
That earned a dry smile. You carried through it, buoyed by everything except thought. “Only got three stitches this time,” you told him, sounding smug, and pulled down your collar to show him the bandage.
All your mind wanted to do was take a shovel out of the Impala and bury yourself off the edge of the highway, but the unbridled joy in your body didn’t care. It brimmed over everything else. The heady, healthy foam of it conquered every other feeling. Your nervousness, your terror, your anxiety. You couldn’t believe that you were just sitting here and talking about nothing. The truth was giddy in your ribcage, like good news you couldn’t keep from him any longer. Sam recieved it so rarely.
Sam just stared at you. You could only make out one side of his face in the dark, the cheek painted with the waltzing colors of the soap opera on the screen. Blues and peaches and warm grays. He was bent so close to you that you could keep your head comfortably sunk into your pillow, and you did, studying him as he studied you. The longer he took you in the more he seemed to relax. One of his hands flexed against the mattress, bringing him back to the world the two of you shared. Your exchange went on for so long that the hand on your open collar went slack, and so did Sam’s jaw. Dean was gone and the two of you were in the safe realm of the dark again—usually, Sam would reach out and brush his hand down your back, squeeze your arm, or kiss your forehead.
“If you’re good, then… good,” he said, distantly. “I’m beat. Let me help you move, huh?”
“Okay,” you hummed.
Even as Sam stood, his face chased yours, one side of a magnet seeking its counterpart. He hovered as you shuffled onto your calves, then pulled back the covers for you to worm under without disturbing your torn skin. You only had so much time to say something—and after so long, nothing could keep you from telling him. Not if you were sure he still felt the same way. You hesitated to lay down, and Sam, sensing your need to speak, paused too.
“Oh,” Sam realized. “I’d almost… forgot. Can I…?”
He waved to your forehead, and before he could retreat out of awkwardness, you convinced yourself to nod. Sam went as far as cupping your arm, then wavered. It was just cute, now. “You can,” you murmured between you, “go ahead.”
Sam dropped a brief kiss on the side of your face, then turned tail for the bathroom to get ready for bed. You had this whole fantasy in your mind of Sam letting his lips linger, burning the shape and feel of them into your soul like you wanted him to, but the two of you hadn’t breached this territory in years. Both of you were terrified of it. Before you could let that fear control you, you blurted out:
“He looked like you.”
Sam’s figure twisted toward you in the dark. “Huh?”
You cleared your throat, which burned front to back with need and apprehension. “The witch, Sam. He looked like you. To me.”
Sam couldn’t look at you dead-on without light, but he tried. Those hungry eyes, hungry for safety and closeness, scraped down your outline. Then again, testing the groves they’d dug. Sam was reminding himself of all the blood he’d seen before, driving back in the Impala and pulling glass out of your jacket with slippery, trembling hands. He deflated. He started toward you, then deflated again.
“He did that to you, with my face—” Sam bleeds.
Before he can start to spiral, you rope in his hand and squeeze it through his sleeve. It’s big and enveloping, just like Hermes’ was, but there’s so much more that the magic just couldn’t replicate. He has a mole on his wrist you’d forgotten about and these subtle veins that bump under your thumbs. His knuckles are strong and feel almost welded, but underneath all that you can feel how gentle he’s worked to be. How much he’s still scared of himself. His mind may be enclosed with good intentions, but Sam had always thought of his body as something that didn’t fully belong to him. Even if the witch didn’t possess him, to Sam, the used goods, the meat suit, it feels like it. And the last thing he’d want his possessed body to do is hurt you. Manipulate you.
“Shh,” you soothed. “No. You’re missing what I’m trying to say. The witch… his glamor made me see the most p-perfect—the best man my mind would come up with.”
Sam just stared. You squeezed his fingers, willing him to understand. His other hand, chilled by his walk, wound slowly over your shoulder. His two leading fingertips lingered over the square white bandage at the junction of your neck. Though he was repulsed by what he thought was his own handiwork, you pressed closer, chasing the rough pads of his bowhunting calluses no matter how much it stung.
“Sam,” you said, sternly.
He just shook his head, ripping his free hand back. Sam pressed: “When he hit you, he looked like me.”
You wound your tether to him ever closer, growing bolder, bringing his hand into the warmth of your chest, entwined against your collarbones. The tears surged into your lashes, but you resisted them with a shake of your head. “It made it easier,” you laughed without mirth. “When he was flirting with me, but at the end, too, yeah. Is that fucked up?”
Sam breathed short from his nose. “Yeah, a bit. But you know I’d never—”
“That’s not even a question. Of course you wouldn’t,” you swore to him. Since the humor was teasing into his voice again, you joined it with your own, pressing your face into his arm. “But, um. If you were jealous of him, well. You should know that there’s really no contest.”
Another long, draining silence haunted you from overhead for a moment, and Sam swayed in place, his hand dropping suddenly on your shoulder. For balance? Was he really… winded? Floored? The show on beside you faded to black, submerging you both in inky, sightless dark. You could feel it in his hands now—Sam was quivering with disbelief. His broad palm scoped up your neck. His hand parted from yours between you, palming across your shoulder. They joined seamlessly together on each of your cheeks, cupping your face just like they had before. You rose into the touch, following him up, until you were standing between his socks at your bedside with your face in his hands. They were still pretty cold; but warming up, and fast. Just like before, you softened all over and held steady to his wrists.
Sam swallowed. “Dean told you?”
“Yeah,” you choked, afraid of what your voice was capable of. “Don’t be mad at him. Or jealous of some stupid witch. There’s… you have to know by now, that nobody even holds a candle to you, right?”
Sam laughed breathlessly. His long thumbs caressed your skin, your under-eyes, weighing the feel of you and your closeness like it’d be taken from him any minute. His left hand pressed even closer, and you met the scar there with your cheekbone. This is real, you promised him.
“Me too,” he gushed, and the sound poured right out of him just as yours did, overboiling with joy. “For you. Nobody, Y/N, this whole time, nobody compares.”
Real happiness was so new to you that the two of you hovered there, waiting for it to be ripped away. Your face ached, from smiling, from crying, from bruising, and it strained your chest a bit to laugh. You surged into Sam and let it all go anyway. Giggling uncomfortably rattled the injuries on your back, but any ache you felt was soothed by Sam's broad hand in your hair, stroking it away from your face. He was still chilly from his walk. There was a small building heat in the middle of his chest, so you squeezed even closer to meet it and found a leaching embrace instead. The pressure of him all around you could’ve put you in tears again. It hadn’t been long since you’d hugged him, but you could feel that love this time—the way Sam swayed with you in his arms, the way he kept pawing your neck to bring you closer and closer. Like the feeling of you laughing in tandem with him wasn’t enough. He needed to absorb you, be you, for you to be close enough to satisfy him.
He was careful to watch the injuries on your back, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to palm your bruised shoulder blades, to drag his nails down your glass-pocked spine, to squeeze you as close as possible no matter how much your material body hurt. A button on his shirt was digging into your cheek and his chin was poking your head. But it didn’t matter—he was the real deal, imperfections and all, just how you liked him. Loved him.
“Nobody?” You murmured, in disbelief.
Sam shook his head. “Nobody, Y/N. Not anyone.”
Nothing could pull you away from him then, so you didn’t bother to arrange yourself comfortably to kiss him. His face was so close to yours that you could breathe only him and the old books he smelled like. You knew that the second you kissed him that it’d be all over—forever marrying your visions of living to him, and giving your lifeblood a name. It was dangerous in this business to give your reason for living legs and a heart. But Sam’s sleepy eyes had closed and his pulsed swished under your hand, and you knew it was decades too late for that.
Your palms dropped to his chest, and Sam pinned them between you, ducking his head low enough to ache and searing you hard against him. It should’ve been awkward and cramped. You forgot that as you melted into the smell of him, a slab of chocolate in the sun. The kiss should’ve been cursed, since the angels swore he was, that you would be too. If it was, then cursed was warmth and love and closeness. Safe at last! Your body sobbed into the kiss. It all felt silly; like you could’ve done this ages ago.
Sam burst into snickers. You did too, against his mouth, and between peals of laughter you tried to scold him, “Shhh, you big idiot—” but Sam just shushed you back and kissed you again.
He dipped his head like actors in the movies did, intense-eyed and deeply fond, which made you flush and giggle harder. You both gave lose attempts at more sweet pecks, only to absolutely lose it when Sam almost knocked the lamp off the bedside table. Eventually, you were giggling too hard and stumbling too much to kiss properly at all. This didn’t intimidate Sam, who cleverly angled your cheek with his thumbs and kissed where you weren’t laughing. You squealed and wiggled for an escape that wasn’t actually alluring to you at all. Each time Sam caught you on the brow or the corner of your lip, you’d giggle and squirm away, only to float back into his orbit again. Parallelling the millions of games you’d played together as kids; tag, hide and seek, marco polo. Just another chase. Just another step in your infinite cycle.
“Really,” you said, eventually. An embarrassed heat prickled through your entire face. “Nobody compares to me. You really think that?”
“How many more times would you like me to say it?” Sam asked. He did this with both of your hands closed in one of his, his tone clever and sincere. “Not anyone.”
“You… you cheeseball,” you accused, and Sam’s mouth snapped closed to suppress another bubbly chuckle. It’d been ages since you’d gotten him to laugh so hard, so you were gluttonous off it and determined to steal more. “This whole time, you’ve been running around with this schoolyard crush on me… Man, this is quality blackmail material. Did you gush about me in your diary? Write Mr. Sam L/N in all of your notebooks?”
In the stark darkness, Sam again inclined his face over yours. “Did you?”
“No,” you blurted, a little too fast. “...It was Mrs. Y/N Winchester, obviously. It’s different.”
Sam just shook his head, charmed. You could feel him standing there across from you, admiring you in the silence, and it slammed on you like a ton of bricks that Sam must’ve done that before. A couple of times, at least. Just looked at you because he liked you so much. Any flirty confidence you’d built up was overpowered by a wave of shyness.
You rushed to fill the loving silence. “But. About the comparison thing… Good. I-I’m, I’m happy. I always wanted… I always wanted to be your… your first choice, I guess. Is that selfish?”
Sam hummed a no, and again his hand floated up to your face to warm your cheek. It filled you with so much want that your knees nearly buckled. Flustered out of your mind, you rambled: “I wasn’t a fan of Ruby, or, uh, that Becky girl from the convention, or the doctor chick in Iowa…”
He rumbled your name. “I don’t want to talk about them,” he murmured, amused, and kissed you once. When Sam parted from you, the silky lilt of his whisper in your ear flushed your belly with need. “I want to talk about you. And I definitely want to kiss you.”
“Sam…” you murmured. He dipped in for another warm, wet kiss, that instantly wiped your ability to create thought. You had to hold onto his shirt to steady yourself, and by then Sam had paused to not interrupt you. “I-I just…” you scrambled for anything to say, made honest by the dark, “I remember how you looked at them. I imagined how your hands must’ve felt on them… how theirs felt on you. I-I know I’m killing the moment here, but I need you to know—I was, I was out of my mind with jealousy, Sam. I—yeah.”
The hold on him grounded you, and again a second time when his hand settled over yours. Sam brought his arm around your waist, which made you realize how much he’d held you versus how much you’d held him. It was a disappointing ratio, so you welded him closer and snuggled your arms under his shoulders, letting your hands praise the unwinding slopes of his back.
A pleasant sigh seeped out of him, which broke into a careful chuckle. “I’m gonna be honest with you—pretty much nothing could ruin this for me right now,” Sam admitted. Which really meant something, because the chances of this being ruined by just about anything were 80-20. “I’ve wanted this since I was like, twelve. I guess you could say I wasn’t a fan of that waiter in Kansas, or your date to junior prom, or even Dean.”
You choked on your own laugh. “C’mon. You’ve got to be kidding me. Your brother, Sam? That man does not wash his underwear.”
Sam’s weighty shoulders shrugged against your cheek. You could feel his smile against your hair, that slight dimple in his cheek…“He always gets the girl. N’ the others… I don’t know.” Plainly and clearly, he turned into your embrace to speak face to face, “It’s you. It’s always been you. But I’ve never been brave enough to say it.”
You had no clue how to respond to that. A winning lottery ticket could be dropped in your lap, hell could close its gates forever, the angels could finally decide to leave you alone, and you’d know exactly what to say. Holy shit, maybe. Or even a tasteful, what the fuck. But what was good enough for Sam? What words could you say to make him happier than he just made you? You’d never been as sincere or as well-spoken as him, but he deserved that and more.
“I’m just glad we’re saying it now,” you murmured, your throat tight with building tears. Whatever channel was playing illuminated more of your face to him in a frame of white, and there Sam seemed to absorb everything you couldn’t put into words.
His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “How long have you been sitting on this?”
“Since our first kiss,” you flushed. “So, uh, fifteen years?”
You could sense Sam’s smug grin coming from a mile away. He always glanced aside beforehand, like he knew he was about deliver a clever blow. “Sixteen,” he boasted. “When we almost shocked ourselves to death taking apart that old Ford in Bobby’s salvage yard—you taught me what an intercooler was, and I was so impressed I wanted you to be my girlfriend.”
“Sixteen whole years,” you scoffed. Just for emphasis, you gave Sam a little push, and he dropped down to sit on your mattress. Without question, he left room for you between his legs and you flushed down to your toes taking up that space. “You gotta beat me at everything, don’t you?”
“Maybe. But I hear it’s gentlemanly to let your girlfriend win every once in a while,” Sam hummed.
That was an obvious challenge put down just for you. It was all too easy for you to rise to the bait and fluster all at once, since Sam knew how to engineer his bets just for you. The divide between your friendship before and your relationship now was a web more than it was a line, so dipping a knee in his lap on the bed was easier than you would’ve thought. Leaning in and smoothing your hands around his neck was not. Sam’s breath hitched in his chest, which you relished in. All these little reactions he always had—they were all because of you. His shyness, his cute hesitation, his miserable attempts at being neutral.
“Well, I,” you clarified, walking two of your fingers up his collar, “hear that it’s gentlemanly to ask her out first.”
Sam really was a dork, because just a little physical flirting had his hands flitting without direction around your middle. Every time your fingers took a further step up his neck, his breathing grew deeper, straining for composure he wouldn’t ever find. Not on your watch. When you finally stole the kiss you’d been itching to take, Sam’s eyes fluttered shut and his hands scuttled to find a place on your waist, wracked with shyness. He really didn’t want to mess this up. It was a sweet notion, if it was even possible in the first place.
Eventually, they found their hold on your hips. You hovered in his space, soaking up the feel of him in the dark as his fingertips memorized you, cataloged you, admired you. Sam’s chin tilted up, silently asking for permission as his hands hovered at the edge of your shirt. Your kiss was all the answer he needed. Gently, his fingers slid under your shirt, where they stoked the sensitive skin of your belly just for the sake of feeling you.
“Would you be my girlfriend?” Sam whispered. He was nervous and everything, as if there was a universe where you would ever turn him down.
The hands you’d braced on Sam’s shoulders pressed closer, taking in the texture of his shirt and the muscle underneath it, until one of your warm palms had snuck underneath his collar to press flat to his back. Sam released a low hissing breath. You met him with a deep, meaningful, possessive kiss, tickling your nails against the top of his spine.
“I’m all yours,” you promised, and Sam’s whole body sunk in relief.
He made a desperate sort of gesture along the bottom of your back, avoiding your bandages but wanting you closer, deeper, nearer to him. Emboldened by his obvious yearning, you offered your knee over his thigh. Sam invited you closer. Anxiety swirled in your gut, but the touch of him was merciful and yielding; he’d do only what you wanted to do. This was Sam. You’d never felt safer, so you sunk comfortably into the bowl of his lap.
You kissed him in long pecks at first, the soft bulb of your nose pressing into his cheek. His lips were soft and plush and warm, and the deeper you tasted them the more they drove from you. Any rigid fear left in your chest dissolved at his touch. That’s what he must’ve been waiting for, because he put his arms around you only once you untensed, and with all the urgency of too-in-love teenagers, you embraced. Sam slotted your chests together. You cupped his neck and roamed his hair, crushing him closer until you could feel his firm middle flatten to yours. A low wanting sigh rattled out of him. It was so authentic and distinctly Sam that you felt foolish for ever seeing a thing in the witch’s glamor. This was Sam, with his gentleness, his fear of his strength, his hesitation to take what he wanted. You were proud of your choice of words: you were all his, because this Sam was definitely all yours. This was the Sam you knew.
It occurred to you just how much you’d dreamed of this before. Reality surpassed expectation with ease, purely because there was so much you hadn’t considered. Often, you’d dissolve into gooey daydreams of kissing him or making him happy, only to come out of them scolding yourself for feeding your feelings. Your unreciprocated feelings. But there were dreams you couldn’t control and times where you’d indulged yourself more than usual. Even then, though, you always kept Sam’s emotions out of the way. You’d dream of getting home late from work—in the “normal” world you’d never share—and crawling into his arms, sleepy, or vice versa. You’d dream of going for long drives with him and snuggling with him in the Impala. But you were always the one who said those three scary words to him, while he simply existed as he always did. If you puppeteered Sam into saying it, then you were taking a machete to any notion that your fantasies could be real—and making Sam lie in order to please you.
What you hadn’t considered was what would happen if Sam did say I love you, and, even better: if he meant it.
Sam murmurs it as you’re admiring him in the dark. His eyes had fallen closed and his head had tilted back, receptive to your touch. You loved to touch his face; you warmed his lap, cupped his cheeks, stroked the smooth back of your hand against his temple, and pushed the hair from his forehead in the cool motel darkness. Every once in a while the headlights of a car would give you a glimpse at him, and each time Sam’s gaze would almost be too much.
You whisper it back, thankful for the boldness the dark gives you, and feel something blaze hot inside you when his mouth drags down your cheek to your jaw. They’re deep and punctuating kisses. You’re reminded again of the sinking acceptance you’d felt when Hermes’ shadow had fallen over you. For a second, you’d thought that was gonna be it. Sam would’ve never known the truth, and would’ve ended up in that warehouse instead, picking the glass out of unresponsive skin. And though you’d survived today… Tomorrow, a reaper would have a million opportunities to take what had only just been sown.
You bunched your hands in Sam’s shirt, sounding urgent. “...Let me show you how much.”
Sam hung there for a moment, weighing the silence between your bodies. Weighing the space between them, and how much of it left there was. “You want that?” He asked. Sam made it sound like you were asking to stick your hand in a shark tank. “You’re… you’re sure?”
Your hand on Sam’s cheek turned over, so you were stroking your softer knuckles against his skin. You nodded, realized he couldn’t see it, and pressed in to brush your noses together. Sam’s head tilted all the way back to meet yours when you prayed: “I’m sure. I… I waited a long time to be close to you, so… I’m not gonna waste a second more.”
A breath rasped out of him in understanding. Like everything else in your life, this could be taken from you. Sam’s fingers crept up the back of your shirt, sliding around for where the bandages began and ended. He confessed, “Me either.”
His kiss drew deeper, more lovesick, chasing each one to their full depth. Your hands shyly migrated to the buttons of his flannel and smoothed there. He nodded, flattening his hand to the small of your back, and after that you didn’t have to wonder once how Sam felt about you. It was outlined clearly for you in Sam’s handwriting. He showed it in the absorbing nature of each of his kisses; how he nosed every new inch of your skin, taking care to declothe you the right and patient way; how aware he was of your bruises and bites. When you’re clothesless, he runs both of his hands down your arms and just feels you in the dark. Sam gives you the same courtesy. When you help him out of his last layer, your hands smooth against his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his neck, but the contact still isn’t enough—you need to be closer. You drag him into another gapless embrace, and Sam is already there, eager to pull you in. His hands knead you with purpose. Your hips, your waist, your stomach, are squeezed until every part of you feels raw and achy and alive. She’s real, Sam’s body sighs. Another surging, dizzying kiss has you dragging your nails down his back, tasting every puckered scar and raised laceration from his shoulders to his obliques. He’s plush and warm and firm and right, a missing piece finally filled.
With his arms around you, you kiss him breathless and thumb open the button of his jeans. Your spine tingles in delight the second your fingers are hooked in his belt loops. The butterflies in your belly are birds by the time his jeans are past his hips, and when you’re on your knees in front of him, Sam’s calloused palms exploring your neck and your hair, the bruises and cuts on your back are just a memory.
“You don’t have to—” Sam starts.
The smile on your face is a bit too clever. “I know.” You frame his waist in your hands, pressing both thumbs into the divots of his hips. Sliding downward to find his boxers, you can feel his legs trembling at your touch, the skin there prickling as it’s exposed inch by inch. You press a lingering kiss to his waistband that makes Sam’s breath hitch in his throat. “Just helping you out of these,” you smile innocently, plucking the edge of his boxers. “I’ll have my fun with you like this when your brother isn’t coming back in an hour.”
“O-okay,” Sam agrees, and even in the dark you can tell he’s grinning.
When he’s nude, Sam finds your hand in the dark and brings you to stand with him. Again, you’re slotted into place in his arms, skin tacky with building sweat and cooled by the open window. His face and neck are blazing with a blush. You push the back of your hand against it, feeling him, all of him, in the honesty of the dark. His face lowers to yours, and again you’re met with the impression that the moment he kisses you, you’re his—curse and angels and demons and all.
You accept it with nothing but bliss.
He guides your knees back to the bed again, this time supporting your thighs as you lift yourself up. Your whole body reacts like before, surging into him and purring deep in your throat. You loop your arms around his shoulders in a claiming sort of way, and where your skin meets it sticks and melts together. Dragging you in around the middle, Sam hoisted you into his lap and moaned into your kiss; you slot right onto him, knees tight to his thighs and your chest pressed to his. You have the slightest advantage over him like this, your shadow falling on him. Sam’s eyes flutter shut and he sucks down breath after breath, his hair in his eyes, illuminated in slivers by the television. Something about it just makes you wetter. When you push further into him, there’s a glide between your bodies that makes Sam groan.
“Sh, sh, be careful of your back,” he warns. “Could you—could you hand me my wallet?”
You pat his chest, forehead pressed to his, and answer with a laugh instead: “I’ve got the pill?”
A shift goes through Sam’s entire body, radiating up from his lap. He shuffles his hips, lips parted, and you can feel his excitement pounding in his chest. “Atta girl,” he decides, smirking. “That’s good too.”
Flushed from head-to-toe with heat, you cup Sam’s neck and meet him kiss for kiss. During, you find him between you and tilt in your hips, finally asking the silent question. Sam’s fingers scramble across your thighs, your sides, and around your back. He hangs there, trying to pin down how real this is. This is really happening, his heaving chest says. She’s right here in front of me. A wet, passionate kiss balms his worries. He gives you the littlest nod. That's all it takes for Sam to be met with new, plush territory. You pant into each other’s mouths, fingers digging into flesh, hips dying to sink further in, hanging on the precipice, and when Sam’s certain that you’re ready, that this is really what you want, he presses your thighs down.
A desperate sigh seeps from his mouth to yours, like there's no better place to be in the world than inside you. Something needy and high slips from your lips. For a long time, all either of you can do is bask in it, in each other, breathing hard and shivering. Sam hugs you—genuinely hugs you—against him. There’s a thought somewhere in your mind that you should be nervous at all the lines you’re crossing here, but… Any day of the week you could rub your cheek into Sam’s shoulder like this. It’s a new song, but familiar notes dance all the way through it. The motel room is silent but for the barely-there hum of the TV and the crickets outside, so Sam’s heart under your ear booms. You soak in the familiar sound of it.
“I love you,” you tell him, and Sam hushes it back so fast your voices overlap, then again, “so much—so, so much—” as he starts to move.
Your whole lower half rolls with him, a boat on a wave. An urgent, keening yes squeals out of you the second Sam encourages you down again. It's more than good, than perfect, and entwined so closely like this, you can hear every thought and whim swirling around his mind—can read him better than you ever could before. You feel foolish. How much earlier could you have had this, if you hadn’t been so afraid? There were a million times in your life where you could’ve told Sam. Before the cage, when the apocalypse started, when Dean died and you were stranded with only each other. You latch onto him as you find your rhythm, a hand in his hair, nails in his shoulders, seared as close to him as you can be. Sam gasps your name; happy.
I have him now, you remind yourself. And I’m more than happy with that.
_
tags: @lacilou
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We actually stand around the antivirus displays with the Mac users just waiting for someone to ask.
Linux User at Best Buy [Explained]
Transcript Under the Cut
Salesman: Interested in updating your antivirus software?
Cueball: Oh, I wouldn't need any of that -
[In a spiky speech bubble.]
Cueball: I run Linux.
[Cueball does a backflip onto a motorcycle.]
Flip
[Cueball performs a wheelie on the motorcycle.]
[Cueball does a hard, donut turn on the motorcycle, kicking up dirt into the salesman's face.]
[Cueball speeds off on the motorcycle, leaving the salesman in a cloud of black exhaust.]
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a new chapter
summary: a new year has arrived in Hawkins, Indiana. I shall show you different months and interactions that our Byers sibling will be having. we will watch as she goes through the ups and downs of dealing with this new trauma. will she eventually come to terms and slowly start to recover and process everything?
WC: 4.1K
warnings: depression, ED mention
A/N: ALL THE STORIES CAN BE FOUND UNDER THE TAG- The Byers Harrington Story-
this is where i’m gonna be a bit worried about my writing because it’s fully just my imagination working at whatever speed it can. i’m not sure how many of these in betweens i’m gonna do, i want to try and do a couple for each month. i already have the last in between planned and after that one it will lead into season2. i hope everyone enjoys these little stories.
previous chapter next chapter
January 5, 1984
“Mom, do you think you can get me a job here?” you asked while picking a lollipop from the display rack.
Joyce was organizing items behind the counter, and you were sitting on the checkout counter at Mendel’s. You were a bit bored at home so you felt like following Joyce for the next few hours of work.
It’s only been about three months since you quit, sorry, since you were fired from Lenny’s pizza. It was nice to have a break from working, focus on school, and you can freely be depressed in your room. Your sleeping was still not great, even with the weed you would buy from Eddie, but it didn’t help all the time. You were also on a tolerance break right now so you didn’t get too used to the drug and its effects. Plus, you didn’t want Joyce to find out, she was starting to get suspicious of your behavior, “Honey, did you get sprayed by a skunk?”
Anyway, you’ve enjoyed not working and all that, but you need to sum up all the money you can get your grubby hands on. You aren’t a big spender anyway, but still, you want to save up money for the future. Five months of paychecks, two a month, $3.75 an hour, it’s not a lot in the long run. You would look in the paper and check if anyone was hiring, see if something caught your eye. You may be a little desperate for a job, but you still have standards. You didn’t want to work in food again, you’re kinda worried about Carol or Tommy H showing up wherever you're working and making a scene. You thought retail would be the next best thing, always good to have different job variations.
“I don’t know honey, business isn’t exactly busy,” Joyce huffed from the ground where she was sitting.
“I know, but I’m just asking for a part-time job. Maybe I’ll get a second job when summer comes around,” you looked around the empty general store while the two of you were having this conversation.
Joyce stood from her seat behind the counter and looked over your hunched figure on the counter. You were sucking on the lollipop and just staring out the glass windows and looking out to the empty main street. You looked to the different stores that might be hiring. Sally’s Sugars and Sweets Bakery, Johnson’s Formal Attire, Hawkin’s Post, etc.
None of them caught your interest as you scanned the store signs. You sighed, maybe you could see if the library needs attendants, maybe City Hall could use interns or something. Maybe you could be a newspaper girl, Jonathan does that on the weekends.
“Honey, why don’t you just use this time to focus on yourself? You look like you could use it.”
“What does that mean?” you replied a bit timidly.
“Well I- I’m just saying you should spend time with your friends. You know, Steve sometimes calls for you.”
That got your head perked up. You already knew this information, but something in Joyce’s voice got your interest. The way she said Steve’s name and how he calls for you, no one else, just you in the Byers’ household, she was playing coy. Also, you could tell she was warming up to Steve and his new presence around the house and with you, Will also didn’t seem to mind, Jonathan though… “I know, it’s just sometimes I end up third wheeling him and Nancy, also Jonathan doesn’t like Steve, so I try to keep them separated from each other.”
“I know honey. What about that girl from school? Jonathan tells me that you’re together during lunch and after school sometimes.”
Robin. The two of you have been getting a little closer after your first study session. At first, you still tried to keep your distance a little, worried if you get attached to her, she’ll be dragged into this terrible predicament. But then her bright smiles and chipper attitude started to crack at the brick wall you placed around your heart, and each day the two of you hung out, a new crack would form in the wall. Eventually, you just gave up the cold facade and welcomed her in openly, but still trying to refrain from mentioning anything to do with the Upside Down and all that stuff.
“I’m- I’m just nervous. What if she’s just a school friend?”
“School friend? What?”
“You know, someone you hang out with only at school. It’s a line you don’t want to cross ‘cause some people are completely different outside of school, like a whole new personality.”
Joyce was looking at you like you were a bit crazy with this whole “school friends” explanation.
Her brows were furrowed with the crease in the middle, her head cocked to the side and her lips were puckered. She was leaning a hip against the counter while her hands rested in the pockets of her work shirt.
Her hair was longer now, her bangs more grown out and the ends of her hair now touched her shoulders. She looked healthier, a bit happier after just these past few months. That twinkle in her eyes was back, it may still be a bit dulled, but it was shining again. That’s all that mattered.
You on the other hand. Your hair was disheveled most days or just thrown into a pony or low bun to tame the rat's nest. Your clothes were rumpled and mismatched, but not in your usual way, more in a ‘throwing on the first piece of clothing that you grabbed off the floor because you couldn’t bother putting in effort’ way. Your skin was growing ghostly white from not going outside unless needed, like school, or walking into the woods so you could smoke freely. The bags under your eyes were growing and the dark circles were starting to look like someone punched your eyes in a fight. You’ve probably lost some weight, your appetite comes and goes, sometimes you could eat three meals a day, or sometimes you would just eat breakfast and just chug water the rest of the day.
Joyce removed a hand from a pocket and gently tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear. Anytime she did the action you felt like a child like you were pulled back in time. It felt like she was protecting you from the outside world, wanting to keep you safe and wrapped tightly in bubble wrap. Like she wasn’t witnessing her daughter slowly destroy her body and mind because of something horrific that no one should ever experience. Like you weren’t staring into the eyes of the woman who birthed and raised you with such hollow emotions tucked behind your corneas.
No, the simple motion of the hair being tucked behind your ear brought dreams and childhood innocents.
“Honey, I just want to make sure that you’re okay. I don’t want to push you to do something that you don’t feel comfortable with, but I just want to see you happy. That’s all a mother could ask of her children after all.”
You felt yourself getting choked up, “I know mom,” you whispered.
The both of you are just gazing at each other with tears growing, but not yet falling over. It felt like a switch of who was taking care of who, when Will was missing it was you and Jonathan worried over Joyce and watching as she was slipping. But now you were slowly losing a hold on yourself and Joyce was trying to show that she was here for you. You know Jonathan and Will would also be there for you, but you tried to keep this side of yourself hidden from them, you don’t want them to worry about you.
“You know, you’re the best mom anyone could ask for,” you sniffled.
Joyce gave a slight chuckle at that, “coming from you, that’s the best compliment I could ever hear.”
The both of you just shared in choked giggles until the bell from above the door signaled a customer. You hopped off the counter and stared over the top of the small aisles to try and see who entered the store. With a quick look outside the windows, you were able to see the beige Hawkins Police truck before you saw the mystery person.
“Hi Hopper,” Joyce exclaimed.
You turned in the direction that Joyce was looking and saw as Hopper walked closer to the counter the both of you have been at for the past hour and a half. He held his hat in his hands and gave both of you a welcoming smile, “Hello Byers.”
“Everything good at the station Hopper?” you asked, making polite conversation.
“You know Hawkins, pretty quiet.”
“Right.”
You all knew that wasn’t true, but at least you weren’t the only one choosing to be a little delusional about everything.
Hopper hit your arm with his hat in a playful gesture and grinned at you, “actually I have something that you might like back.”
Your eyes widened and you stood a bit taller. You completely forgot about the rifle. Nancy took Lonnie’s revolver for herself and you had other stuff clouding your mind that you just forgot the rifle you took from the shed. Not like you planned on going hunting or whatever, but at least with the rifle back home you knew there was some protection for the four of you.
“I checked your house to see if anyone was home to take it, but all of you are out.”
“Well, I was planning to head home soon, if you give me a ride I’ll take it.”
Hopper looked from you to Joyce behind you and gave her a ‘is that okay?’ look. You turned to see what her response would be, well you already knew, “yeah, that’s fine. I don’t want her riding out too late anyway.”
Hopper nodded his head. You looked between the two adults and noticed the looks they shared, mostly Hopper’s gaze. It peeked a bit of curiosity inside of you, but you weren’t one to meddle in other people’s business.
“How’s Will doing?” Hopper spoke after a cough.
“Um, he’s- he’s okay. He seems like he’s getting back to his normal self,” Joyce supplied.
You wanted to interject and say something, like how sometimes you could hear Will’s cries through the walls late at night when you couldn’t sleep and no one else should be awake. Or how sometimes the two of you run into each other in the kitchen and the both of you would just eat cereal at the table together. Sometimes when you couldn’t sleep you would go outside in the backyard and lay down on the grass and just stare at the stars, and sometimes Will would end up joining you. You two had each other in the dead of night when everyone else had peaceful dreams, the two of you had nightmares that sunk into your skin making it hard to fall back asleep.
“(Y/n), honey, are you ready to leave?”
You blinked a few times and realized you zoned off for a moment as Joyce and Hopper continued their conversation. You turned to Joyce and her expression was blinking like a sign showing that she was worried about you. You then make a glance at Hopper and he looked just as concerned.
“Yeah, sorry. I’ll see you later mom.”
“See ya, honey.”
…
You and Hopper drove in silence for a while. Neither of you not knowing what type of topic of conversation the other would be interested in. The radio was playing some AC/DC song, something as background noise. Hopper had the windows done just a crack allowing for the cool late winter air into the truck, it felt refreshing.
You noticed the way that Hopper was tapping his fingers against the wheel, either in rhythm with the song or just a mindless motion, you didn’t know. He was rubbing his free hand across his facial hair and then went back to rest it against the windowsill. While you sat in your seat you were twiddling with your fingers in your lap and looking out the window, watching as the trees and buildings whizzed past the moving vehicle.
“Hey, um…I know I probably sound like a broken record, but, are you okay? You’ve just seemed a bit out of it lately.”
You look away from the moving scenery and over to Hopper. He took a glance your way when you didn’t say anything right away and you noted the way his brows furrowed just a little in the middle and the concern pooling in his warm eyes. You were debating in your head if you should tell the truth. When people have been asking if you’re okay, you mostly just say “I’m fine” and they would just accept the answer. But you weren’t fine, and you did want to talk to someone about it, but you didn’t want to add any extra concern to anyone, and it’s not like you can go to a therapist.
You let out a sigh and looked to Hopper’s side profile, “if I tell you, can you not tell my mom?”
You noticed the way Hopper’s mouth opened a bit like he was gonna say something before the thoughts formed, “ah…Why- why would you not want me to tell your mom?”
“Well, she’s already worried about Will, and she does notice that I’m a little different now, but I don’t want her to know the extent of it.”
It was silent, you allowed Hopper to think about what you said. You want to talk about this stuff with someone you trust, someone who won’t judge you. You know your family wouldn’t judge you for anything, you and Steve were still getting used to your new friendship, you and Nancy were friendly but…eh, and it’s not like you could dump this stuff on the kids. Hopper was the only adult other than Joyce that you trusted.
When the truck pulled up to the house and Hopper shut the engine off, you turned to him. He was rubbing his facial hair again and then turned his attention to your waiting gaze.
“Let’s talk in the house.”
You felt a tiny smile on your lips.
The both of you slammed the doors close and Hopper grabbed the rifle from his trunk. With your keys, you unlocked the door and walked to the kitchen. You started to pull out stuff to make a sandwich and grabbed a coke from the fridge.
“You want anything to eat, I could make a sandwich or something?”
You called out to Hopper who was still in the living room. You didn’t hear a verbal response so you looked up and saw as he walked into the kitchen and just sat at the little table.
“I’m fine, (Y/n).”
You just nodded and when you finished making your sandwich you put everything back and sat in the seat across from Hopper. The air was slowly building in tension, the tension mostly coming from you because you were suddenly deciding if this was a bad idea.
Hopper speaking broke through your loud decision-making thoughts, “what’s going on (Y/n)?”
You kept your head down and just stared at the sandwich you made and tapped your nails on the plate or the table. Running your teeth along your bottom lip you looked at Hopper, he was leaning forward and had his arms on the table with his hands clasped together. His hat was also off, it allowed for you to stare freely at his face.
“Well, I-I…you know how me, Jonathan, and Nancy along with Steve went up against the Demogorgon?”
“I do, also I remember telling you and Jonathan not to do that.”
You just gave a cheeky smile at the comment, “well you can thank Nancy for bringing the idea back.”
“Anyway, so I’ve been having these nightmares, and this was before the attack. I had one the night we went looking for the monster the first time.”
“The first time?” Hopper questioned.
“Yeah, we went into the woods. I know it probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but we’re dumb kids.”
Hopper breathed a laugh at the statement. It made you smile for a moment.
“So these nightmares, how bad are they?” Hopper asked after a few seconds.
“Umm, on a scale of 1-10 I would say that they sit around 10 for 10.”
Hopper gave a solemn nodding at your answer.
You continued to just stare at the sandwich, you don’t even know why you made it, you had no appetite while talking about this. You just huffed a sigh out through your nose.
“Do…Do you want to talk about what happens? In your dre-nightmares.”
You were hesitant, but after a few seconds, you gave a timid nod to Hopper. He didn’t say anything or move closer to you, he let you take your time in formulating your thoughts and kept a good distance so you didn’t feel suffocated.
“It’s kinda always the same format, someone else and I are running away from the monster, and then it would get to them first. It was like it was taunting me, enjoying that I was witnessing it rip this person to shreds and I would just freeze from fear and stare as the life drained from their eyes. And then when it was satisfied it would drop their body onto the floor and stalk towards me as I was shaking and coward against the wall or in a corner. It would lean in close with its flowered face and open allowing for me to stare at the rows of teeth within and then it would get me, but that’s when I wake up. And I’m a cold sweat and shaking when I wake up and I wouldn’t be able to go back to bed. I would be up until my body just collapses from exhaustion.”
The tension in the air you felt earlier dissipated and all you felt now was a form of exhaustion but it wasn’t in the air or from Hopper, it was you. Just talking about them made your body feel like it was running laps without stopping until your legs just gave out. You heard the creaking of the chair and looked at Hopper who now moved to the seat next to you instead of across from you.
“Do you take any sleeping pills to try and sleep?”
‘Weed’ you answered in your head, “yea, they worked for a little, but it still wouldn’t help,” you half lied out loud.
“If you could, well want really, could you tell me who is usually running with you?”
You hesitated a bit in this part. Yeah, it would be fine if you said Joyce or Jonathan, but mentioning Steve or Hopper, to Hopper, you weren’t sure if it would be weird for him. You don’t know how Hopper would feel if you just said ‘hey sometimes I dream that you get eaten by a monster and I can’t do anything but watch’ you don’t want to scare him off, but he asked and you need to talk.
“Sometimes it’s Jonathan, especially how I remember the scene that played out in the house. Where it pinned him down and stood over him, drooling like he was dinner. Other times it’s Joyce, but not often luckily. Um, for this next one could you not mention it to anyone, like at all?”
Hopper looked a bit worried and confused but nodded his head.
“Sometimes- Sometimes the person I’m with is Steve. And as we’re running he’s always protecting me and that’s how he got killed and I can’t even do anything.”
“Harrington? Why- Are you two close or something?”
“It's a- It's a new development you could say,” you muttered.
“Is there anyone else in these scenarios? You seem a bit hesitant.”
You turned your gaze on Hopper and tried to see if this silent answering of just your eyes could answer his question. It seemed he understood, but not exactly, so you cleared your throat and said, “actually the only other person in these scenarios is…its-its you, Hopper. I sometimes watch you get ripped apart before my eyes.”
Hopper looked taken aback by this information you laid out for him. You just told Chief Hopper, a man who you didn’t converse with before this crazy government stuff, that sometimes you watch him get killed. Maybe your subconscious was trying to say something, maybe you were starting to latch onto Hopper because he was the only older male figure in your life at the moment. A.K.A, daddy issues.
“Hey,” Hopper quietly said, he tapped your hand on the table to draw your attention.
You kept your head tilted low so you looked up a bit with your brows raising. You were gnawing on your bottom lip anxiously because you weren’t sure what he was going to say. You weren’t trying to overstep any boundaries, you didn’t want Hopper to stop checking in with your family because of your disturbing nightmares.
“These are just nightmares, dreams. They aren’t real.”
Real, it felt weird, but you had to mention this detail, “Hopper, I know this sounds crazy, but sometimes when I do have dreams they manifest in some way or another. When I first dreamt of being chased by the Demogorgon I pictured it with the flowering head and rows of teeth, I didn’t even know what it looked like, Nancy didn’t even describe it to me. And another dream, Steve was in it and he was giving me a gift, a piece of jewelry, and for Christmas, he said a similar line from the dream and gave me a ring. It’s not like I think I’m psychic or whatever, but with these dreams or nightmares, I get worried that they’ll come true somehow.”
Your body started to lightly tremble and your vision was blurring around the edges, the tears were coming. Distracted by your anxious state you didn’t pay attention to Hopper and his actions. All you felt was the slight shift in the air from his movement, heard the chair move and his feet taking steps. Then you felt his hands on your upper arms moving you into a standing position, and then he pulled you into a hug. It took you by surprise for a moment, but then your arms moved into action and you wrapped them around Hopper’s waist, and just lightly, barely anything, you clenched some of his uniform into your fingers and held on.
One hand moved to the back of your head to keep you pressed against his chest and the other was resting high on your back and was moving between your shoulder blades in a comforting motion. You felt the hard pressure of his chin soon resting on the crown of your head. The tears kept slipping from your closed eyes, but it wasn’t because of your nightmares. No, it was because, for the first time, you felt like you had a father. The only time Lonnie ever touched you was to give you an undeserving beating, whether it was because of a stupid accident or cause he was drunk, he never even gave you even one hug you could remember.
Hopper, a man who mostly kept to himself, a man who somehow became a welcoming presence in your life, and a man who could have just ignored your paranoid and tired behavior. Hopper was someone who was comforting you because he knew you trusted him and just needed someone to listen and just be there for you.
“Hey, it’s gonna be okay.”
He whispered these kind reassurances into your hair and with each one spoken, you lessened in your shaking and your tears were drying. Soon when all you had was tear streaks and a few hiccups escaping from your mouth you loosened in the holding of Hopper’s arms. He moved his hands back to your upper arms and leaned back to look you in the face.
“Thanks, Hopper, I really needed that.”
He gave you a reassuring smile and rubbed his thumbs over your clothed arms, “anytime kid.”
“I’m here for you whenever you need me.”
-------------
taglist: @heartyhope / @preciousbabypeter / @dessmxsworld / @piper3113 / @animiacorn / @burn1ngw00d / @drxwstxrkxy / @m-rae23 / @noisyeggsmoneystatesman / @yournan69 / @thats-s0-ravenn / @ameliabs-world / @mayonesavegana / @gracella0709 / @gengen64 / @alecmores / @choclate32 / @stvrdustalexx
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Can you do bay bots Crosshairs, hound, wheelie, and hotrod hc's to having a friend with a serious/never really jokes around attitude, but when they do tell a joke it's super hilarious and everyone laughs at it.
Ps. If transformers were real, what vehicle would you want yours to turn into? And autobot or decepticon?
Crosshairs:
He was never expecting it. Which is probably what made it even more hilarious. He was starting to think his friend might be boring, he was still happy to be their friend but he didn't need another Prime in the group.
After hearing the kind of jokes they are capable of he tries to get them to say more. He tries to set up comedic moments trying to make them say something. Or he'll just ask them to say another one.
If they have more jokes hidden away he thinks they should be shared. Especially since before he thought they were boring, now he knows they have hidden potential he wants to see everything they have. He wants to hear all their jokes.
Hound:
He thinks they are hilarious, and have the perfect timing. He's glad they save themselves for the perfect moment, it makes them funnier. He knows some mechs that try too hard to be funny, so it's refreshing to find a bot the isn't a try hard and is just naturally funny at the perfect times.
He thought of himself as the comedic of the group, always have the perfect one liner. But after hearing them, he knows they are much funnier than him.
He's ok with not being the funniest. They deserve their title because they really make him release a big belly laugh, and that is what a real comedian can do. He'll continue with his little quips and puns, but he likes that another bot can really entertain the whole group.
Wheelie:
He was starting to think they may be a dud. Sure serious is a type of personality but he knew too many mechs like that already.
Then he heard them tell a hilarious joke. Now he thinks they are mysterious. They act so casual, yet have all this hidden humor stored away? Now they are really interesting to him. He likes to stick by their side, hoping to hear another, and get a sneak peak into their mysterious mind.
In fact, now he starts to like them a lot more than the other bots. They are now more entertaining to him.
Hot Rod:
It feels good to laugh. Being at war was tiring and hard, so it felt good to have a real side hurting laugh.
He was glad they had such good humor. He wasn't expecting it from them, but that just added to the humorous effect and made it better.
He now looked at them fondly and looked forward to the next joke. He wasn't going to push them for one, forced jokes were never funny. Surprise jokes always got a natural reaction. But he felt a little happier, having a friend in the group that could really make him laugh made him happy, and he was glad they were a part of his team.
P.S. If they were real I'd want any car. BUT if I do get a choice I have two car choices, one is the Lamborghini murcielago LP640 (in green), because I have loved it since I was a kid. And the second choice would be a Lexus RC F Sport. Because I am now in love with the Lexus brand, they are beautiful and fantastic cars and I really really want a Lexus. I adore my current car, but when I can I will be buying a Lexus.
And I am an Autobot all the way. I even have an Autobot insignia tattooed on my arm.
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mettaton and children. now
BUT OF COURSE I LOVE CHILDREN!! WHY WOULDN’T I? THEY'RE SOME OF THE TELEVISION’S MOST DEVOTED FANS! WITH SO MUCH FREE TIME AND WHIMSY ON THEIR HANDS, IT'S NO WONDER THAT EVERY DAY, RIGHT ON THE DOT, THEY TUNE IN TO MY SHOW... FOR FAMILY-FRIENDLY, AMUSING, AND BLOODTHIRSTY TIMES! DON’T BELIEVE ME? JUST ASK... ANY ONE OF THEM!
...That’s a camera! Yo, am I on... TV?
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
Yo, that's so cool!! Everyone can see me! Hi, mom! ... Oh, man, I forgot I’m not supposed to be out... Maybe I can get a ski mask somewhere? Uh, hey, do you have any ski masks?
SKI MASKS? IN SNOWDIN? WHY?
My mom told me I had to be back quick after my errand... She’s gonna be mad if she sees the paparazzi swarmed me first! You better be careful or she’ll have your hide, ha ha!
MY, MY. A FAN SUCH AS YOURSELF... OR AT LEAST, SOMEONE IN MY SHOW’S TARGET DEMOGRAPHIC... FAILS TO RECOGNIZE MY METALLIC FORM OUT IN THE LIGHT? ALTHOUGH I SUPPOSE THE SNOW'S SHEEN... MAKES IT HARDER TO LOOK AT ME. SURELY YOU CAN AT LEAST RECOGNIZE MY SILHOUETTE! I'M THE SQUARE THAT APPEARS IN YOUR TV SOMETIMES. WITH FLASHING LIGHTS AS A FACE AND A WHEELY THING UNDERNEATH. SOUND FAMILIAR?
Uh... Either way, you look super cool, mister!
THAT'S RIGHT! DON’T WORRY ABOUT NOT HAVING WATCHED MY SHOW, DARLING. NOT ONLY DOES IT PLAY EVERY DAY, AT THE SAME TIME, FOREVER... BUT, THERE'S NO OTHER SHOWS ON MY CHANNEL. SO I GOT THE EMPTY SPACES TO BE FILLED WITH MY SHOW’S RERUNS. NOW YOU CAN WATCH MTT TV ON THE GO, NO MATTER WHAT TELEVISION SET YOUR JOURNEYS TAKE YOU TO!
That's cool! Can I go now, mister MTT TV?
WHAT?? HEY, NO--- *COUGHS* *ROBOTICALLY* ERR, WHERE’RE YOU HEADING TODAY?
Miss QC’s Shop! That’s, uh, on the west-most part of Snowdin Town. If I help dust Miss QC’s shelves today, I get a free bicicle!
HOW FINE AND DANDY! A LOCAL BUSINESS!I MIND IF I TAG ALONG?
Sure! Why not?
THAT'S RIGHT, YOUR LOCAL DAZZLING STAR LOVES EATING OUT AT PLACES THAT ARE PRIVATELY OWNED! AND TODAY I’LL BRING TO YOU AN EVEN SPECIAL-ER OFFER! PURCHASE A BICICLE AT MISS QC’S SHOP... AND GET A FREE STARFAIT AT MTT-BRAND BURGER EMPORIUM IN RETURN! MAKE SURE TO TAKE THE ELEVATORS SO YOU’RE NOT TOO STARVING... BUT EVEN THEN, I’M SURE YOU’LL STILL BE TEMPTED BY OUR GLAMOUROUS, SEQUIN-SPECKLED FOODS... WHEN YOU STAGGER UP TO OUR SLIGHTLY DAMP DOUBLE DOORS! YOU CAN'T GET THESE DEALS ANYWHERE ELSE! (STAMPS VERIFYING PURCHASE AVAILABLE AT QC’S SHOP UPON REQUEST)
I don't know Miss QC very well, but... I dunno if she’ll appreciate the free advertising...
DON’T BE RIDICULOUS. EVERYBODY LOVES BEING SHOUTED OUT BY FAMOUS PEOPLE.
You’re famous?
OH COME ON.
Ha ha! Yo, I was just joking!
HA HA HA. IS THIS WHAT THEY CALL BEING A LITTLE SCAMP? AH, YOUTH. (IF ONLY I COULD RECALL BEING SO PRECOCIOUS...)
...?
HERE’S ANOTHER DEAL. I BUY THE BICICLE FOR YOU. YOU WATCH MY SHOW! HOW’S THAT SOUND.
I don’t need you to buy me an excuse to watch more television, sir!
(MTT TV DOES NOT CONDONE MINDLESS CONSUMPTION OF ENTERTAINMENT, LEST IT BECOME ADDICTIVE, ESPECIALLY YOUTH. THIS IS WHY ALL METTATON COMMERCIAL BREAKS INVOLVE THIRTY MINUTES OF METTATON SCAMPERING THROUGH FIELDS OF GRASS, SPONSORED BY METTATON.)
Hey, are you listening to me! (whispering) I said, as long as you edit out my face! And make my voice really deep.
(WHISPERING) SURE! WHAT DO YOU WANT TO LOOK LIKE INSTEAD?
... Have you heard of this cool person named Captain Undyne?
WHY, YES I HAVE, DARLING! IN FACT... AFTER I BUY YOU THIS BICICLE, I THINK I’VE GOT A KEY RIGHT TO HER HOUSE! METAPHORICALLY.
REALLY?!
YEP, SHE LOVES ME. I’M SURE SHE’D ALSO LOVE CO-STARRING WITH YOU!
Well--- I--- *coughs* *lizardly* ...Maybe someday soon, yo! For now... I’ve got to bring groceries back home. The reason Captain Undyne’s so great... is because she never breaks promises! She’d do the same if she were me.
THAT’S FINE BY ME! I DON’T NEED ANY EXCUSES TO CONVINCE HER TO PLAY MORE TOTALLY TRIVIA! THANKS FOR THE GREAT IDEA, UH...
Haha, you’re welcome, mister...
METTATON. JUST METTATON, NO TV. THAT’S MY COMPANY.
Okay! See you!
AND SEE YOU IN FIVE MINUTES AFTER I’M DONE BEING VIRTUOUS IN THIS SHOP, VIEWERS~
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'Letting them sleep when they should be awake' and/or 'Staying awake just in case they have a nightmare' from the sleeping prompts owo - @clxckwork-sun-n-moon
So I went a little ham with this one! Enjoy!! (that's why it took me nearly 12 hours to answer your ask ksjdlhafkljshdf)
Here's the Ao3 link -> Here!
and below the cut is the Tumblr version!
Title: Better with Company Part 2 | Words: 1'667
Better with Company Part 2
Eclipse’s apartment had changed ever so slightly since your last couple visits. Things seemed a little more organized, and the biggest change was furniture was moved and his room now contained a bed. He didn’t need that, but you weren’t about to mention that.
“Did you get another desk chair?”
Because of course the spare chair by his work desk was the more important change in the room. His original desk chair is still there, a simple wheelie chair, the kind you would find in an underfunded office space. Meanwhile the new chair beside it (also having wheels) is plush and comfortable looking. There was even a neck rest on it. A neck rest that Eclipse would be way too tall to use.
“Yes, I did! When we spend time together we have a habit of taking work home with us. Many times working at the same desk for hours at a time! So I got you a chair.”
Most times prior when that happened you had been sitting, and Eclipse opted for standing. Now if you so choose both of you could sit and work side by side. Though you subtly wished there was still only one chair, because if Eclipse sat first you knew exactly where you would find a seat.
“That’s so thoughtful! You didn’t have to!”
“I wanted to, not to worry!”
A warm smile eases softly onto your features. He was so good to you, he had no reason to be this kind. You two weren’t together, and you had only been coworkers for a few months now! You were still practically brand new, but you can’t deny how well the two of you clicked. Being around him was easy, you didn’t have to try. It seemed to be the same for him as well. There was no effort in your relationship, everything was as if you’d known each other for years and not just months.
“So when did you get the chair?”
“Hmm… Last you were here was one week ago, I believe I got it the following Wednesday.”
“Oh wow. Really? I- Wow! Thank you.”
Stop hyper fixating on the chair, there were better things to talk about. More important things to talk about, such as why he had purchased a whole bed despite not needing it. At least the chair made sense, you spent a good amount of time there. Several hours at a time were spent there, simply enjoying each others company and talking for hours.
“Are you hungry?”
You attention snaps back to reality, Eclipse just asked you a question and you had to answer.
“Yes, but I could just order some food and pick it up downstairs. It’s no issue, I know you probably don’t typically keep food in your apartment.”
“Nonsense! I have some for you!”
The smile from before grows even further, a dusting of pink now hitting your cheeks. Was he really adding things to his apartment for you? A chair, a bed, and even some food? These weren’t things an animatronic would typically have. A chair, normal. A bed… Less so. Food? Definitely not normal.
“You really don’t have to do all this for me! I only come over sometimes after all. I would hate to burden you…”
Eclipse shakes his head, and takes your hands into his. A tight and comforting squeeze follows the action.
“I do this because I want to. I enjoy your company! Simple as that, and I want you to be comfortable when we spend time together.”
“But going as far as to buy food? What if I don’t come one week?”
“You don’t pack lunches for work, I could simply bring you a lunch.”
Your face feels like it’s on fire now. You’re sure that if you could see yourself you would be glowing like the sunset on a summers day. A bright a vibrant colour to match even the most ruby of reds.
“Y-You really don’t have to do that! It’s okay! I can- I can take care of myself, really! But- but uhm… Since you have it… I suppose let’s not waste it. What did you buy?”
Eclipse shows you to his new food cupboard. It’s thankfully not a lot, and most of it is snacks. You recognize every single brand in there, all of these you’ve eaten while at work before. Some of them you recall Eclipse asking you about. Nothing in the cupboard is especially perishable. Nothing to worry about. Thankfully. You grab something small to satisfy for now and then claim a spot on the couch beside Eclipse. The two of you invading the others personal space happily.
While you eat your chosen snack of the night, you suggest doing a small round of 20 questions. Though you knew that both of you would get distracted before ever reaching 20. The first few questions Eclipse asks you are mostly about your preferences on things. He asks about foods, drinks, if you generally liked warmer or colder temperatures, if there were textures you didn’t like, sounds that weren’t pleasant, and a few other things. The answers roll off your tongue easily. Then it’s your turn to ask him some questions.
You knew he had brothers, they were mentioned before but you didn’t pry much then as it was more in passing they were mentioned. You knew their names at least.
“Oh, my brothers? They’re agents too, Dawn and Dusk. However, they’re field agents and live across the city from us. They’re in the sister city connected to us.”
“So they’re the ones who get to go out and do undercover stuff? Like you see in the movies?”
“My brother Sun does that part mostly. He dresses the part too!”
“I’m picturing a full suit and fancy clothes 24/7. Am I close?”
“Exactly!”
Giggles erupt from your throat, you clap your hands together a bit to stim the excitement down a little. Of course he was! That little bit sparks joy, and then Eclipse continues talking about them. Telling you what Moon does, mentioning how both Sun and Moon have their own person too and how he didn’t understand why neither of them made a move. You understood why Moon didn’t make a move with Robin, the whole Rivalry thing and being coworkers (like you and Eclipse aren’t?) but you didn’t understand why Sun didn’t make a move. They were already neighbours!
You continue making light hearted fun of Sun and Moon for a bit. Then Eclipse has an idea, an idea that you absolutely want to go along with. He takes his phone out and you lean a little closer to him as he takes a selfie of the two of you. Promptly sending a playful message afterwards mentioning you were staying the night at his place. You ask if you can send a message, and Eclipse shrugs in a ‘why not’ manner before handing you the phone. You had the perfect thing to add, a winky face. More giggles escape you uncontrollably and Eclipse joins in upon seeing your addition.
A couple more conversation topics come and go, you grab a few more snacks as the hours trail by. At some point Eclipse put on a movie, but you don’t remember it due to well… Falling asleep beside Eclipse on the couch. That would explain why he had been talking less, he was letting you fall asleep. Credit to him where it due however, he was successful in doing so.
—
Eclipse waited a couple minutes to make sure you really were asleep. As soon as he confirmed it, he had a mission. Move you to the bed without waking you up. This was the only time being so close together was proving to be a problem. Two of his arms were already around you, but with how you had fallen asleep a good half of you was leaning on him. Maybe if he picked you up first it would be the best move, he would simply have to stand up after that.
Deciding this was his best option, with the arms already around you he pushed you up gently and then scooped your legs up with his other arms. So far, so good. You were in his arms and still asleep. He’s about to stand up and in act part two of the plan when your asleep form shifts and cuddles into him. His inner mechanisms whirr at the action, his metaphorical heart sang from the action. He still needed to get you to bed however, despite how much as he wanted to stay like this the entire night. So he gets up and enters his bedroom, the bed is still freshly made and ready.
You’re delicately put under the covers and then tucked in. Plan successfully completed, now he could- You near instantly whimper at the loss of contact, turning over and hugging the blanket. Eclipse didn’t take this into account. What if you had a nightmare? He couldn’t just leave you here all night. That decides it for him, he’ll stay by you just in case a nightmare does happen. Then he can either wake you up or comfort you. Eclipse eases his way onto the other side of the bed and sits down. For a moment he entertains the idea of pulling you close again, but maybe you wouldn’t appreciate that. Not while you slept.
You however manage to completely end his internal debate. Unconscious you rolls over once more and grabs at his waist. All his arms fly up in surprise, then he settles down once more. Okay… Maybe you would have been okay with it, or you would also be surprised once you wake up. Either way, he smiles down at you and a hand gently plays with your hair. No nightmares would find their way to you tonight, after all! He was on nightmare duty. A very real job, and definitely not just a reason to stay close to you. Right? Right.
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You'd think a big, spiked behemoth like the Future Shock Cerberus would have packed some serious firepower, wouldn't you? Nope. You and your passenger each got nothing but a dinky flamethrower that barely reached beyond the chassis and couldn't singe the wings off of a mosquito. In fact, the Cerberus' weapons were more prone to damaging itself than its aggressor, and you couldn't even switch to handheld weapons as a backup. Nevertheless, it still looked totally badass, especially flying through the sky at the hands of someone who had mastered the shunt boost.
Sasquatches were a common sight among friends and crew, because a giant jumping monster truck is something everyone can enjoy. I went with the Apocalypse variant, because the Future Shock was a little too weird, even for me. Strangely, GTA monster trucks were never much good at crushing cars, typically pushing them around and occasionally toppling over instead, but at least the Sasquatch could jump on top of them like Goombas. I wonder if it was a subtle metaphor for IRL monster truck shows moving away from car crushing and shifting to racing and stunt-themed events. As long as I can still BUY THE WHOLE SEAT BUT ONLY NEED THE EDGE SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY
The Wastelander was such a goofy thing. It was used in scripted missions as a vehicle transport, but there was no way to actually transport vehicles with it in regular gameplay, so you were just left with this oversized hauler that took up two lanes. When we pulled it out of the garage, it was usually to ford one of the western rivers or to bring an obnoxiously huge vehicle to a car meet.
Sometimes I thought about buying a Technical just for the fun of it, but I could never justify the purchase, because I didn't need it and the Insurgent did everything it could do. Then the Technical Aqua was introduced, which solved the dilemma cleanly. Once it was in the water and not getting the barrels hung up on streetlights and pieces of geometry, it was a good time. The game really could have used more things to do in the water on the main map.
Most of the special vehicles that came with the Import/Export update were used to test and try out new features on cars, like the Phantom Wedge's plow, or in this case, the Rocket Voltic's jet engine. This car was literally just a Voltic with a rocket engine installed in the back. It took a little while for it to recharge, but back then, we didn't care and just had a good time with it. Even after newer and better vehicles with rocket boosts were released, the Rocket Voltic still had a niche in baiting griefers hiding in passive mode into taking a ride and being forcibly ejected without a parachute 400 feet above the ground.
To this day, the Ruiner 2000 remains the single most expensive land vehicle in the game at 5.7 million GTA-bucks, or 4.3 million with the trade discount. That's on top of the 2.5 million you needed for the office and warehouse to store it. All those millions didn't really seem worth it until years later, when it was discovered to be one of the best ways to bully Oppressors. The Ruiner 2000 was nothing special by today's standards, with only eight missiles, a jump function, and a parachute, but owning one opened up access to the Fully Loaded VIP job. Fully Loaded gave the player who started it a unique Ruiner 2000 with infinite missiles, Mobile Operations Center armor, and immunity to missile lock-on, in addition to turning off police for everyone in the session for 20 minutes. Seeing those two words pop up was like hearing Gabriel blow the trumpets, and every crew member in the session knew it was time to bring about the griefer's personal Götterdämmerung.
The last Ruiner in my collection is this one here. The ability for muscle cars to wheelie was added to the game a few years after it came out on PC, breathing new life into the class by adding a traversal option, so I needed a Ruiner that didn't date back to 2015. Much more care was put into its appearance, with true white crew paint, glass t-top panels, and a drink in the cupholder for that extra lived-in touch. It was my daily driver for quite some time and eventually retired to a place of honor next to my nightclub's office, where it could still be part of my GTA life up until the very end.
One of my all-time favorite IRL cars is the Ford RS200, a 600HP monster masquerading as a quirky '80s grocery getter to the untrained eye. GTA paid respects to its Group B origins with the GB200, and the conversion was pretty darn faithful. It was a little pokey at the top end because it was released during the developers' obsession with "advanced" handling flags that only served to hamper performance, but that didn't stop me from throwing it down the dirt roads and beaches all day.
The Brawler was another obscure off-road sports car that only a game like GTA would feature. It was based on the Local Motors Rally Fighter, a lifted limited-production car powered by a Corvette motor. It was just as fast as its real-life counterpart, but in a twist of fate the Rally Fighter is likely much safer to drive as the Brawler was infamous for having brakes made of gas station toilet paper. You needed a co-driver to watch the trail well in advance or you'd be parking it in a ditch, which was a fate worse than death in the dark ages of 2015, well before the ability to dismiss personal vehicles was added.
Sometimes you just want a truck. The Caracara 4x4 was added to the game well after the original Caracara failed to sate demand for an F-150 Raptor, and it was an apology well accepted, with great aesthetics and capability. I'm not really a fan of CCSB trucks in real life, but the four seats were welcome here because I drove this thing everywhere. Lots of other people did too, and the Caracara 4x4 was a regular sight in public lobbies well after it faded out of being the new hotness. Flying in the face of memes about American truck owners, people who drove trucks in GTA were almost always total bros and very chill. It spoke volumes about someone's personality when, in a game full of multi-million-dollar exotics and futuristic wondercars, they chose to drive a good ol' pickup truck.
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The urge to go “i deserve a little treat” and then buy a bunch of things i arguably don’t *really* need (like the arteza gouache paint and watercolor pencils for faceups and a rolling cart thing to organize my desk) is strong today. Like...i don’t even have a good place to store said wheely cart thing. I bought a desk with drawers so it wouldn’t be a mess but i am apparently just incapable of not having a messy desk ><
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Call me a hedonist...
...but i dont think there is any tragic beauty in forcing urself to be uncomfortable when there is an easily accessible solution to that discomfort. Like. I get that being able to adapt to rough circumstances is good, and that a lil short-term discomfort for the sake of long-term growth is the way to go. But discomfort that only saps ur energy and makes things just a bit more difficult than they have to be, just to prove a point or to perform toughness is bullshit and kinda sad. Like. You can actually get a stool to sit on when taking a shower without needing a medical reason for it, u can lower down the blinds when the sun gets in ur eyes, u can!!!! In fact!!! Get a wheelie bag for groceries or everyday life bc u dont like how the weight fucks up ur back. And u know what, for every person who says fuck what people say I'm gonna actually buy a cheap portable a/c so i dont get overheated when walking, it normalizes seeking accommodations and accessibility for people who actually, non-optionally need them to survive.
There is too much discomfort in my everyday reality for me to invite new easily-avoidable frustrations into my life. My spoons are limited, why would i waste it on trying to prove a pointless point?
I crave, and will facilitate, comfort and ease and simple joys in my everyday bc suffering is not a badge of honor, there is no altar to martyr myself on that will help me gain any kind of meaningful recognition or growth. There is only living, and trying to thrive within it.
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I sold my car for gas money. I really didn't think this through...
"Pfffffffft.
"Nice job, bozo. Bet you're wheely regrettin' that, ain't ya? Wishin' ya cared more about it?
"But hey, maybe ya can buy a new car or somethin'. Make a cute 'lil dingy one that won't need so much gas."
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Well there's some strange fellows and he thinks it might be damned that's what it is and a little Dan usually talks a little more but he did change and he's saying what's wrong with it and it's not too happy with the answer is he probably built it but people are saying did they get my car idea and then see why even these guys will build them all the time he didn't make the back end beefy or put in anything to keep it from ripping it apart with the torsion and on the cars they have that and he's going wow that's interesting so he's going to look and then you have to reinforce it and you can reinforce that it'll be okay but the front end needs work you have this little dinky coupling holding up all that weight in the engine's forward instant wow you know but really it might hold it and you need to test that joint separately you can do it in the laboratory and imitate the force and this guy I can't do it without hurting yourself you do like 15 wheelies to see if it does anything cuz eventually going to do a really a wheelie. There's other things to announce but what a crazy bike
-and yes other people are criticizing it but they're saying that my husband's idea is good so putting Dan's work out there as an example of how to do up the vehicle and leave the transmission in and use the shifter and what to watch out for the front end has to be beefy as hell and he said that you could put a bigger plate on and you could you have to put a good size steel pipe and you have to put a receiver like we were talking about and you can glue it in and you could weld it the welding doesn't affect the glue that much but it's better just to use the weld and bolt them on they said not to weld it if you're using the glue and probably that size you want to weld it and you make a few passes and it works and you want to insert it in and you want to puddle with a couple of holes it's true so we are watching that kind of thing but wow that's that's big and boy everything was fine we have records of going 400 with ease and about 700 if you want to risk it it's very fast machine and that's what people need and it looks radical it is radical you can put some sort of cover on it but kind of that's what takes the time
-the reason is here is a probably is happening out there and they want more of it instead of being stopped and they're going ahead with it and then those exhaust pipes to not meet dot standards at all they would for a car like my husband but not for that and there was a stock exhaust it's before the rear wheel and he had it like that and it was too low and it was hitting so we changed it it wasn't much quieter now
-worse this thing's work and he says it but it's been pushed into moving along but we have a lot to announce and there are purchases made today and they're big and important and these guys know about it and they want to talk about it and it's going on now one of the things she bought actually we bought and it was Olympus and Thor and Freya were several companies we've been talking about and talking to for ages one of them is Morrison Knutson a huge construction company with giant machines they're coming out of there and we don't want them to so every time we can always say we're going to buy less and they say you know and they say yes and they keep doing it so we sat down with him today and we bought 50% of the company I said if the assets leave we're going to hold on to what we have and you'll split the company in two and they said okay. We also hinted that we may hold on to the rest. It's a very big company and they build cities mostly commercial style buildings and commercial style rentals and commercial style condos it's steel and brick mortar masonry concrete and more mostly concrete and steel we're getting going on building structures now
-we also purchased a very large company and it is out west it's Bechtel at 40% and it is in our possession and we have several offices all over the world that are allocated as ours they are trying to approach and they're not making it huge numbers giant giant armies are falling doing it and they suck it they suck at it and we are possessing 50% of the heavy equipment and we will hold on to it and they're thinking of selling the rest of the company cuz they suck the wind
*West valley Bank phone number 20 on Earth and they decided to sell 60% to us that's controlling share so we're holding all the banks and we devised a system we have security and they call and we're moving on it there are several hundred Bank attempts robbery bank account we stopped most of them they're about 5 million branches half of them are closed and it's not that bad that's not many most of them thought my husband's money or mine was in it.
*Bank of the Ozarks and it's number 30 and it is 70% that we purchased it for today and once again we have the banks in the secure positions we are moving a few out of the Midwest most businesses we buy we relocate from the Midwest most of the places closing down and we need to do it more rapidly
*Swiss bank it's number 7 globally we have only 30% but we're securing the banks because we do not want people to take the banks and it's important and it's a big Bank this bank has branches all over the place it's about 40 million of them and it's very large and my husband doesn't have money there but I do and several cities Atlanta DC New York La San Diego San Francisco at Wichita and that weird trading company at the Great lakes City and that's about it and he has money in Westphalia and people know where that is that's where he was Rhode Island Massachusetts
*Wichita the bank of Wichita and it is what the song is about because people say their money is in there and it's a big bank it's number 50 it's not that many branches most of them are in the midwest itself there's several Banks like that in Europe it's mostly in Europe and it is a division of Swiss bank no Bank of Switzerland but we only have 10%, it's not much at all but we have to secure the banks and by the end of the week we'll probably have all the banks and there's more too and yeah they're trying to engage us with the max and the max don't care and they're trying to engage us with you which won't happen not on a grand scale
*included in the Wichita Bank was Bank of Wells Fargo it's actually a subsidiary of Wells Fargo but we have 80% of Wells Fargo yeah and therefore a controlling share over Bank of Wichita and that's why they're up in arms Wells Fargo is global is number three.
*Northern Bank it's like number 70 and we have only a few million branches but it is the Midwest again and we're securing it now and we guard against Russia's on the bank regard against people taking of this accounts and we protected against computer attack a lot of people will to try and grab us but they're not going to
*wachovia Bank 70% signed today is probably number four yes it is a huge bank it's all over the world and my husband had money in it and several locations in New England including Canada Day so we're going to try and get it to him after a while and you people are ridiculous you don't want to be a benefactor or anything so we shall but we are concerned about this Bank number four is pretty big and we have a number three and there's only a few other Banks and yeah Wells Fargo is number three and the two big ones that gigantic they're the biggest on Earth and we have some interest in them but we're not going to mention how much inspire agreement the next we have several Banks wrapped into one
*there are banks like Bank of Boston but they're part of Bank of America and they're very big but Bank of America is number five and sold us 70% and we have a controlling share and we are locking the banks down make sure that everyone's money is safe there's way too much going on chick Henry chicanery and yes Ken has fun in there they're going to mess with it to try and say it's us and we're going to halt it like we've been halting it for my husband and he is pleased with it it's not much money but there's a ton of activity there this bank is gigantic even though it is number five it's everywhere and they specialize in a different area and they're banking is not the biggest as a result it's in home mortgages they have about 50% of them on Earth and we're going to carry the mortgages and we will talk to people about it and we have programs like short sale we have programs to delay payments on the mortgage we have programs to renegotiate the mortgage sometimes for lesser interest because we didn't buy the debt as much as people think and you really shouldn't because these days half of them drop out cuz they disappear so we're going to do that this company is enormous they have other holdings and investments like land probably 20% of the earth's land and we have a big portion of it
*other companies we purchased finally well this one's a big one we've been waiting forever Holly Davidson and Dan gets it now probably not yet still looking around trying to start a fight and he suddenly see something oh it's Harley Davidson and yeah Harley Davidson has a research and development division and we have 75% of the company but the remaining 25% are separate factories but we worked out a deal that there would be involved in any changes so take place so my husband says I want them up there first thing in the morning 6:00 a.m. we can do r&d and these stitch frame and the saying go blow it out your ass no way and my husband says I'd never make it up there I never make it anywhere at 6:00 a.m. and they're correct. So now they want to go there and they're saying no it doesn't work on us and it says good thank God I don't even think dunkin' donuts is open that early down here and it's true it's not mac daddy says ready to work too this is so boring and nasty and assholes it's like looking at an a****** opening and closing probably is what it is cuz that's what Dave said with his computer God damn it how could we miss this and why am I saying it so my nephew says why am I here and who am I. But we want to know is where the stupid door is and the one he says it's in Prometheus opens that way but doesn't look it so we're going to check it out cuz that's one of them. Mat Daddy says. And bja has been trying to find it good that'll help us and he continues that it's true it's it's hardly worth having to do it. Our ideas are good and there's a decent too and we want to put it into r&d and he wants to do a study on what's happened so far with the automatic shut off s*** and the idiot refuses and substitute it with EMP discharge it's like a small spark plug you know that's great it's fuse to the frame and put a couple so they've done testing an r&d and they were compiler report and we can meet at the r&d factory it's a great idea and we can pick and choose ideas to go through first but he says that's priority and all of these morlock one it out they don't want to deal with it having their own people to the stupid s*** to them they don't have any selective. So he agrees and we're going to check that out really big company we waited for a long time to try for it and now it's reality and it's sooner than he thought and he's shocked he's kind of in a days as he usually is probably be that way after the firstborn. I'm getting my Harley gear I'm going to have Harley helmets Harley jackets Harley pants I can dress up and all that stuff and use it and he can't he says oh you don't want to meet me at like the vasani no or the better yet the circus I do my little act and I'll roll it out right up on the sidewalk yeah I might want to do that. I'll be part of the ex that's a great idea I can be like somewhere large like six four so I'm laughing saying you're a jerk whole bunch of these ladies could get up there had enough of this crap it's not funny you're riding and ride out to his trailer is saying don't give me a s*** and they won't. Alarm just want to say stuff so we're going to publish now you want to put it here and they'll get it out there
Hera
Continuing on Harley-Davidson and yeah we bought 10 Banks and we mentioned five the other 10 are below 50 in their numbering but they're important one of them are funded money in and when our daughter and it's like westfalia oh like wachovia okay there's another one that we purchased it's in the top rankings are number seven US Bank it's only 40% but the rest will come to us and we are securing it. And another bank it's a commercial Bank it's really an investment firm but they have some banking it's mostly investments it's fidelity Tim Doyle has still 20% and we want 80% no we have 60%, the other is bja and they're going to Duke it out and Tim Doyle is going to be surprised. They already have the pipes going and it's for losses that the pseudo empire has suffered and they're kind of on crack because they're playing Scottish music. And if you don't get into. They don't get it they will. Our son paid the bill today so we're happy with that and he forgot to take a picture but he has a receipt and he can take a picture here kind of sucks but they did it to him who slept too with the proof is in his hands and people say deposit it and we know if you did or not and we're pretty sure he did it's a pain in the ass to hold on to so it's already cleared.
Harley-Davidson is a huge company I guess we're going to publish it will get back to it in a moment
Thor Freya
Olympus
It's Harley and David's son and my husband is not David's son but they're going to see his they're going to say he is because they have tests of his blood it looks similar and he looks bigger but he was small like an egg yeah so that's how it goes I guess
Hera
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i’m back.
maybe i only come here when i want to kill myself, or maybe it’s just because i have nothing better to do, but im back.
today was definitely a day. i’m really sick of all the shit i cop for simply being myself. i can’t use the correct bathroom because i get stared at and talked at in both. usually i just keep my head down and do what i need to do and leave, but i got stopped by a man today who just could not stop staring. i took out my headphones and just loudly forced out a “what.” and he seemed to fuck off. i’m just trying to piss at work
on the topic of work, i don’t know how much longer i can take this job. sure, it’s theoretically easy. make drinks. but getting taxed a third of my pay isn’t easy. being talked to like i’m five isn’t easy. not being taken seriously isn’t easy. i have a reputation for sticking up for myself in front of customers, because you cannot pay me sixteen dollars eighty an hour and expect me to stand there and take it. i don’t make enough money to pay my rent. i don’t make enough money to buy groceries each week. i skip meals often, i take out of date things from work. they do not pay me enough to live, so you bet im not going to stand there and take it. but my anger has always been a problem, especially growing up. and while im no longer violent, i often physically cannot control myself. my expressions, my tone, my words. anger controls me. it makes me see nothing except for my shaking hands and the nearest bin or fridge door to kick closed.
i had a nervous breakdown out in the hallway behind the back room. took an extra twenty minutes on my half an hour break, cried the whole time. i haven’t cried in a while.
i had my headphones in all day. took one out to hear myself if i called out a drink, but otherwise i will not be talking, thanks.
had a second (and more explosive) breakdown near the dumpsters. there was nobody out there, so nobody could see my embarrassing little hissy fit. throwing trash bags into the dumpster and kicking around the wheelie bin i had brought with me. yelling and swearing and crying. i always do a bin run toward the end of the night, though tonight coincidentally was right after someone forcibly broke the lock on the front door of our cafe because they thought that closed fucking doors and an empty cafe means we want to dirty all our tools just for you, because you want a coffee. after hours, you cannot convince me to be nice to a customer. if we are closed and you barge in through a LOCKED DOOR, i’m telling you to get the fuck out.
i know my anger looks stupid from the outside. i know i look like that one autistic kid in the class that got really angry and everyone laughed at.
coming from a childhood of being laughed at because i was a girl and girls can’t get angry, growing and transitioning to the angry tranny, and then being stuck in this stage of pre-hormones and post social transition just means i look like im forcing it. i know my coworkers think im a freak, i can tell.
i’m a lot to talk about.
i want to rip my skin off. i want to cut out my throat. stamp on my voice box until it sounds the way i want it to. claw at my body, beat it and cut it until it fits the shape of me. i can’t live like this anymore. i’m tired of being an absolute joke.
i can’t tell if it’s because of my age, my height, the general fact that i’m transgender, or whatever the fuck it could be; but whatever it is is causing everyone around me not to take me seriously.
i want to give them something to take me seriously about. step in front of an oncoming train, stab myself in the guts in the back room at starbucks. slice up my thighs, cut off a limb, just something. if i’m hurting like this and all everyone can see is a joke, what’s the point?
how do i cry for help without crying for help? how do i get people to see me as a person?
how do i become seen at all? do i have to become another statistic to be taken seriously?
do i have to take my own life for people to realise im struggling? to realise that not being able to afford to live, to afford to go to the doctors for birth control, having my antidepressants taken away, my chance at testosterone kicked into the closet, that being invisible has ruined my life? how much do i have to be hurting before people see it as genuine? or will i always be seen as a fake?
i had previously moved my knife out of my bathroom and back into my kitchen drawer. i know i am impulsive, so i moved it.
that, and i needed it to cut up tomatoes and onions.
today makes me want to kill myself. i’m going through some kind of episode. only thing keeping me going is a convention i booked next april. if it sucks, im killing myself afterward.
thanks. goodnight.
fuck you.
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