Btw, to the anon who said that the books aren't that popular and I can just block the tags: it is both my fortune and misfortune to have run in very very honey nut queerio circles and I have had the books recommended to me by multiple people independent of each other, unasked-for. So no, they're not taking over the world, but tragically the QUILTBAG community is all over them and I cannae have peace.

HIGH SCHOOL AU

Keep in mind, not all of these are in my muses, but feel free to use the AU yourself or use them in asks, as long as one of mine is included

Ruby Rose - freshman and new to the Cheer Squad

Weiss Schnee - Student Council President, Chess Club, Fencing

Blake - Goth President of the Book Club, and the only member

Yang - used to be on the cheer squad, but left when the others turned bitchy. Now she's on the Boxing Team

Jaune - Mascot for the Beacon Kings and Weiss's assistant

Pyrrha - Weiss' other assistant, Track and Field star and on the Basketball team

Nora - on the Swim Team. She insists on wearing a sexy bikini instead of the school swim suit during practice and tournaments. The other members also wonder how she's so fast considering she's not really hydrodynamic

Ren - member of the Cooking Club, along with a side business giving orgasmic massages

Sun and his team - Sk8er Boys

Penny - ditzy President of the Robotics club. Usually wears her lab coat, but sometimes forgets to wear something underneath

Ciel - Vice President of the Robotics Club for all the mundane stuff like budgeting and keeping a spare change of clothes.

Oscar Pine - President of the Botany Club (on account of being the only one who volunteered)

Coco and Velvet - Fashion Club

Neon and Flynt - Theater kids and the school's local weed dealers

Cardin and his boys - Football Jocks

Cinder and Emerald - the popular Cheerleaders bullying Ruby for being the new and innocent girl

Mercury - former Football star, but after he lost his legs, he became the Water Boy. Now he's on the Track team with Prosthetics

Ozpin and Glynda - Principal and Vice Principal

Tai and Qrow - Coaches. Also another reason why Cinder and Emerald hate Ruby.

Roman - constantly annoyed Drama teacher

Neo - the Drama club's mime and nobody is really sure who or what she is. Student, teacher or otherwise. She's never in class and everyone is too scared to ask.

Winter Schnee - Chemistry and Biology teacher, fencing instructor.

Willow Schnee - School Nurse

Ironwood - Head of Security

Watts, Tyrian and Hazel - Janitors and IT

Salem - Librarian, Former Vice Principal and Principal Ozpin's ex. She got demoted for fucking a student. Everyone does it, but she got caught by the wrong person.

Sienna Khan - Principal of Whitefang Academy

Adam Taurus - Star Player of the White Fang Bulls, sports ace and Blake's ex-boyfriend

Ilia - on Whitefang's Swim Team

Developed with @pugsbone

Hey Mia! I know I bug you constantly about the Dad AU but I was wondering if you could explain the relationship dynamics and how the couples fit together?

Also I remember in one fic Niko saying it’s not cheating if it’s Marja. Please explain 👀

I am always willing to offer my thoughts 👀

(under the cut for length)

We all know that Joel is a love skeptic and puts his guard up because of his trust issues in relationships, so I wanted to give him someone who would understand and be patient with him. He and Milli are opposites on a lot of visual fronts (librarian vs. rockstar, small vs. tall, bubbly and outgoing vs. broody and edgy), but they are one of the definitions of "opposites attract" and the fact that they are just so in love with each other makes those differences so endearing.

Like Joel and Milli, Joonas and Kirsten are total visual opposites. Their personalities are a lot less opposite though. She loves pastel colors and he never parts from his black clothes, but they're both the same flavor of bubbly, outgoing, and fun-loving that there's never a dull moment between them. Kirsten loves a guy who can make her laugh and he was cracking the jokes from their very first meeting -- how could she resist him?

Niko and Jenna are probably the first couple of this group that are more alike than different. They were first crushing on each other because they were probably two of the only few kids in school who shared the emo/goth personality and interests. They were spending hours every night texting each other as love-struck teenagers, and they picked right back up where they left off as adults. They're one of the two couples who best fit the "soulmates" model.

The other soulmates are Olli and Riina, lifelong friends who knew every piece of each other's lives before they ever started dating. They're both high fantasy nerds and Olli loves Riina's medieval cosplays. Riina needed someone who loved her unconditionally and never expected from her any more than she could give in return, and she found that person in Olli. Having twins is also symbolic that their love was more than enough to handle the challenge of raising them.

Niko and Jenna knew what they were doing when they brought Tommi and Marja together. They have the same small-tall visual as Joel and Milli, but they're both equally very private people. Tommi was Marja's type from their first meeting, but his size combined with his calm and patient personality turn out to be comforts for her. He understands where she was coming from before their relationship, and he's quick to love Miikka as his own.

Aleksi and Laila never really seemed like a match. He's quiet, friendly, and hardworking, but she's loud, rude, and generally entitled to what she thinks she deserves in life. She came into their relationship with her bad reputation and just being around her almost brought Aleksi down with her. They're the only "high profile" couple in their pair, whereas the other guys married non-famous women, and that fame was a small contribution to the problems they had.

Aleksi and Hanna, on the other hand, were meant to be. Aleksi wasn't going to let any random girlfriend around Noah, but her background as a psychiatrist taught her how to connect to him and respect him as an autistic child. She knew he was a father and understood that there would be some some time before she met his son. She takes care of him on all the fronts that Laila neglected, and he returns the favor with all the love he can give.

And now, for the last part 👀 (NSFW, of course)

Niko, Jenna, and Marja have basically been a throuple ever since the first relationship. In college, Marja helped Jenna come to the conclusion of her bisexual awakening. Even now, after she and Niko have gotten back together for good, he knows that they frequently sleep together and occasionally gets treated to surprise pics and videos when he's away from home. They've never been the kind of couple to shy away from a sexy threesome and when Tommi comes into the picture as Marja's boyfriend, they like to switch up the combinations.

in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas​ donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

*

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

       rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

               teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

 December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

       rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :(  :(

       rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

             teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

                     coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

 November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

    rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

         bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

               rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

 November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

 November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

     bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

           teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

     rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

          bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

*

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

*

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

*

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

        bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

              rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

     rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

    rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

I have a fetish for goth girls with tattoos over their body and who wear glasses so they look like the studious librarian who you know is naughty and kinky as fuck and she knows you know it but acts the part of the prim and proper librarian but gives you those little looks and gestures like she wants you to take her in her office, lock the door and have hot, sexy, dirty, primal, exhausting and pleasurable discussion about the Dewey Decimal System and slowly rides my cock. Are u up for a convo??

Stop harassing and fetishising goth/alt women. Stop asking them about their kinks. Stop assuming details about their sex lives. Stop telling them your Goth GF fantasies. Stop bothering them about their hair, makeup, tattoos, and piercings. Just stop.

ManyVids Interview

Tell us about your cult:

I am the High Priestess of the Cult of Yith. We are a cult that is dedicated to learning all there is about consensual sexual perversion and deviancy. We accept every kind of gender identity and expression and sexuality.  The main goal of our cult is to collectively have as many different kinds of sex and orgasms as possible for the sake of knowledge. We only condone fully consensual sexual interactions and fully condemn any kind of nonconsensual sexual act. The Yithians collect data on all the different kinds of sexual activities that our cult members are a part of and they add it to their grand libraries that hold knowledge from infinite places and times.

The Yithians are a species of highly evolved extraterrestrial (and sometimes terrestrial) beings who can  swap their consciousness with individual creatures through not only space, but also time. A Yithian living on prehistoric planet earth could potentially swap bodies with Genghis Khan, or Abraham Lincoln, or a random person living in the year 2045. They can swap their consciousness with creatures and beings from anywhere in the universe at any time. This is how I first came into contact with them. They must have taken control of my body in the past because I now exist in strange dreams that involve them. I understand that all they seek is knowledge and I’ve always seen knowledge as power, so I’ve created the Cult of Yith to use my own talents as a sexual deviant to help the Yithians gain knowledge about human sexuality. It’s very convoluted, I know. The bottom line is that if you join the Cult of Yith and you have interesting, fun, consensual, and unique sex eventually when the Yithians come back to Earth and claim their rightful place as rulers of the planet, we will be given the role of librarian in their grand libraries for our contributions. Plus your life will just be better with a religion that fully supports your odd kinks.

What role does music play in your life?

Music plays many different roles in my life. The biggest role music plays in my life is that of a way for me to communicate. Music is also a friend, an enemy, a religion, and many more things. I am almost always listening to music unless I am sleeping and I create music every single day. It has a near constant presence in my life. I create music for all the porn that I make. It may not be very good, but it’s something I made and that makes me proud. My favorite art has always been art that is provocative and socially conscious. I think in American society right now we need to be pushing for sex work to be more protected, socially and legally, and music is a great medium to do that. Music can be a wrapper for a message that makes a message an easier pill for humanity to swallow. I love to make music that focuses on and is influenced by sex work, intersectional feminism, and the rights of genderqueer people while theatrically wrapping it all up in a recognizable package, such as the imagery of a religion or cult. *hint hint nudge nudge* Music, and all art forms that I indulge in, are a way for me to unapologetically say what I want to say.

What do you see as the major issues facing the LGBTQ+ community in adult entertainment?

I think one of the most glaring issues faced by LGBTQ+ people in adult entertainment is the remaining stigma around trans and gay performers and the silence of many cis industry members about this topic. Performers and managers steer away from gay and trans people for a lot of different reasons and some of these reasons are direct reflections of a past that’s already been thoroughly gutted and exposed as idiotic and queerphobic. There are some very stark differences between how cis and trans performers in the adult entertainment industry are treated. For example, segregation between cis and trans women is alive and well on MyFreeCams to the extent that MyFreeCams doesn’t allow trans women to perform on their site even though they are supposedly a “women only” cam site. In their rules and wiki there is a lot of trans exclusionary language. On their wiki it says “Natural-born women” only and on their official site rules they say nothing about disallowing trans women, but they do say “No men.” So if a trans woman can get through the background check (Which I did because they don’t ask for a picture of your genitals) and gets banned from the site, what rule did she break? It’s pretty safe to assume she only broke the “No men” rule even though she isn’t a man. MyFreeCams won’t address the issue at all and when I got banned from their site my account was deleted, they took all the money I had earned during my show, and I never got a response as to “why” I was banned. Their silence protects them.

This is a really important issue because MyFreeCams is probably the biggest cam site in the world and they sponsor so many huge events and conventions related to sex work. So you’ll have safe spaces and events for MyFreeCams models that are essentially spaces and events for women, but trans women are excluded. MyFreeCams is a huge part of the industry and they should treat all women equally, we should demand better from the large companies that represent the different aspects of sex work. Just a reminder to all cis models on MyFreeCams, 40-50% of your hard earned money is going to supporting this behavior. I understand you might not have the privilege to leave, but that’s not stopping you from emailing MyFreeCams asking why trans women aren’t allowed, or from putting them on blast on social media. On other issues too, we should not be silent. When MyFreeCams is transphobic we need our cis allies to call them out and be loud because they don’t care about what trans people think. If you’re an ally and your manager is being homophobic don’t be silent, call them out. Homophobes and transphobes don’t care about queer people, they will mostly only listen to other cisgender straight people. Power structures are torn down from the top, not the bottom. Please help.

What are your favorite fetishes? Are there any you got into thanks to making content? Any you keep for your private life and don’t film?

I think my favorite fetish is blasphemy targeted at Roman Catholicism. I got into blasphemy from doing private shows for ministers and active church goers who wanted me to really dig into their religion and basically replace their God with myself. I was raised Roman Catholic and I find the King James version of the bible to be very problematic and anti-queer, so I revel in the opportunity to tackle something that often puts me down. Whenever I do one of these shows I often start by detailing to my submissive the passages in the bible that condemn me as a trans woman, specifically the ones in deuteronomy, and explaining how their God wanted me to be in league with the devil by creating me this way. Then I will go on and explain how Satan and I are converting God’s own angels and humans against him by helping them to see the light of sexual deviancy. Then we do all kinds of naughty things in MY name instead of God’s name.

I find it refreshing and empowering to fight against something much more powerful than myself that actively oppresses me and people like me. The Catholic church is one such force and I revel in the opportunity to not only voice my opinions about the Christian mythos, but also to get someone who is a part of it to realize how anti-trans their own book can be. It is beneficial and positive for both me and the submissive and every single submissive I’ve done a blasphemy show with has returned more times than I can remember for the same experience.

Who are your: musical heroes, adult entertainment heroes, and political heroes, and why?

I don’t really have many heroes. I think some of my biggest influences when it comes to music and porn are Marilyn Manson and Natalie Mars. Marilyn Manson’s provocative style just really makes my inner goth girl squeal, and I think Natalie Mars is just so gosh darned physically talented. I wish I could take the things in my butt she does.

What is the most heartwarming thing you’ve ever seen?

That scene at the end of the Witch where the girl talks to the goat.

What is the most annoying question that people ask you?

It’s not a question, but I hate when guys want to talk about how they are straight, but they would still fuck me. Like, yeah… duh… if you were gay you would probably want to fuck a man?

What is something that a ton of people are obsessed with but you just don’t get the point of?

Ariana Grande

What sexual fantasy would you like to make a reality through making an adult vid?

I would love to recreate the exorcism scene from the Exorcist, but instead of Regan and two male priests I’ll be possessed and two sexy female nuns will fuck the devil out of me.

Say something to your fans:

I appreciate you all and if you respect and support me I respect and support you. <3

Fast 10:

The Best Topping/Ice Cream Combination Is:

Spaghettieis from Germany

One piece of entertainment I wish I could erase from my mind so that I could experience it for the first time again is:

The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion

If I could have an orgy with anyone on Earth it would be the following people:

Marilyn Manson (1994 version), Katie Marovich from CollegeHumor, and Peter Steele (Also 1994 version).

If you wanted to talk dirty to me you should say:

Describe giving me oral sex and then cuddling me.

The sexiest outfit I own is:

A lace bodysuit that one of my biggest supporters of the name Ser_Koopa bought me!

This sex toy I love and this sex toy I dislike:

I love my fleshlight and I’m not a fan of plastic prostate massagers.

If I could time travel I’d visit this era:

1994 for the metal or some time in the future when I’m not living way below the poverty line and I’m comfortable.

The best way to start the day is:

Yoga!

One thing I wish I knew more about is:

Stocks and investments

The one major sex tip I have for people is:

Communicate. It’s always a good idea to ask someone if they are ok during a sexual experience.

That’s Highly Offensive: 2018 Golden Globes

Y’all know I only wear all black all the time, so I find the fact that Hollywood is "uniting" against whatever tonight by wearing all black to be kind of a stupid way to pussy foot around the issue, but who asked me? This should have been a night when the carpet looked the way I think it should at all times, but honestly, a lot of stuff looked makeshift and cheap to me. And WHAT was with all the skirts-over-pants nonsense?? I thought that was over. Also, forgive the overuse of the funeral garb schtick but what choice did I have?

Wow. It's rare that the first look I see ends up being the worst dressed of the night, but Debra Messing has just taken the cake, eaten it, made another cake, eaten that, made another one, and took that too. I know it's cliché but MESSing says it all. #thefacesofmeth That emerald eyeshadow and those Elvira for Family Dollar false lashes!!  And WHAT is that dent in her forehead?? I’ll tell you what it is… bad Botox. Or Juvaderm. Or whatever expired baby bunny cartilage her dermo found in Karen Walker’s dumpster. Oh and also, she’s wearing the dress version of Liza’s putty kkk hood shoes and it’s  all HIGHLY offensive.

Kelly Clarkson- "From Justin to King Midas" if King Midas was a lizard...

Kristin Cavallari went as 1999 Oscars Angelina Jolie but with a ballerina's bun and I'm not ok with it.

I honestly have nothing bad to say about Tracee Ellis Ross’s outfit. The phrase ‘Charmin Noir’ comes to mind, but let’s not bc you know how much I love a turban/wrap!

Meryl Streep: You bore me to tears. I like your glasses.

It seems to be literally KILLING Giuliana Rancid that she can’t ask “Who are you wearing?” bc she is incapable of NOT pointing out the fact that she’s not asking that question to every person she's interviewed. And as always, she looks like the Queen from Antz but this year her skin is a particularly orange shade of Oscar Meyer all beef frank. She also has one of the most bulbous horse hair dino ponytails I’ve ever seen. She's like the anorexic version of Starla from Napoleon Dynamite. AND HER TAN LINES! I didn't know you got those from bottled self tanner...

Catherine Zeta Jones: I am still obsessed with CZJ even after recently rewatching Ocean’s Twelve for the first time since Cat and I fell asleep in the theater. Her face, her body, her dress, her earrings, her love for her thousand year old father in law… I am fully behind all of it!

Penelope Cruz: See above. #stunning

I don't know who this woman from Outlander is but I do know she better be on her way to audition at Tweetsie Railroad.

Connie Britton: NO.

Jessica Biel and J. Tim- don’t NO ONE CARE. I don’t know one person who watched ‘The Sinner’ (most people didn’t even know what I was talking about when I asked if they’d heard of it), so the fact that she is nominated is a testament to that Sexy Back money and nothing more. Just her talking about being a producer of the show is like… We get it…you’re the only one who would pay you to be an actress anymore. PS, your arms are fabulous.

Mandy Candy Moore: Olé!

Holy shit Diane Kruger looks amazing.

Unfortunately, Sarah Paulson is one of those I feel looks like she's in something cheap. Really cheap. Like she stole a leotard from the Xanadu Mourning collection and wrapped a table cloth around herself. And I can't say I love the choppiness of her bob.

Michele Williams- I’m still not over how ridiculous you looked on Dawson’s Creek, but your pixie has grown on me over the last few years but OHMYGOD what is that shelf in the back? Lloyd Christmas called…

Seth Myers looks like the singing sword and a foot had a baby and named it Cheremy.

Jamie Chung- First of all, why are you here? Secondly, you look like the winner of a ‘Grunge Bride’ themed stripper contest sponsored by Hefty in 2002. Those shoes….

Alexis Bledel- Let’s get this out of the way: I can’t stand you. You’re a mumbler with creepy Kewpie doll eyes and mouth. But as for what you’re wearing, GASP you’re not wearing solid black so you obviously don’t care about women!! But also, you must not care about yourself either because you look like one of Ariel’s sisters and Dionysus had a baby and it came out haunted.

Why is Dave Franco wearing so much rouge????

Alison Brie- Ok, you can channel Audrey Hepburn, I guess. Although her dress does resemble my senior prom dress from Cache. Oh wait- there’s a pants leg. You’re trash.

William H. Macy: Did Grubby die? That’s the only reason I can think of for Teddy Ruxpin to show up to the Golden Globes in all black…

Gal Gadot is clearly going to an audition for "A Chorus Line" after the Globes. Why else would she steal a maitre'd's jacket and cut it in half?

Saoirse Ronan looks perfect all around. I need all of it immediately, even though I’d look more like Bruce Villanche dressed in drag doing a David Bowie tribute than her svelte awesomeness…

Eva Longoria looks like a pregnant Sharpie.

It took me a solid 3 seconds & a glance at the caption to figure out I was looking at Halle Berry and not some mixed berry bag of Skittles from a prom themed episode of the CW’s Gossip Girl revival. And her bangs look gross and ridiculous. #whywontsheage??

I take it back: Reese Witherspoon looks like the pregnant Sharpie. Or maybe her daughter has decided to become a fashion designer and this was her first foray into an origami—inspired collection? #blacktobasics

Nicole Kidman (or Nicky Kickin it in the Moulin Rouge, as Jack McFarland calls her) looks flawless, as always. The one negative thing I will say is that I find flutter fly cap sleeves to be among the most offensive things in adult female fashion (mainly because the only humans that can pull them off are pre-teens, anorexics and Kate Moss (not that she’d ever wear them).

Viola Davis wins everything. Omg that hair and makeup and jewelry and dress. ⚰️⚰️⚰️

Did Zac-without-a-K Efron want people to mistake him for Milo Ventimiglia? Is that the reason for the mustache? Why is he even there? GASP! Are they already remaking High School Musical (because you know that’s in the works…) with him starring as Troy again?!? #prayerhands

Why exactly is Naomi Campbell at the Golden Globes, must less in a piece from the never-to-be-seen sketches Vivienne Westwood did for Guy Richie’s new pandering remake starring Madonna as Herlock Holmes?

Lily James- You are gorgeous perfection and I mean that because anyone that stars in a live action Disney remake is automatically on my shit list (I’m looking at you, Emmas Stone and Watson…) but what the actual hell are you wearing? You look like a Project Runway contestant’s submission on the theme “Maleficent’s entrance to the party.”

Octavia Spencer looks like the teacher who got to play Glinda’s role in a #metoo fundraising, high school production of Wicked after the lead was stricken with mono.

Greta Gerwig- I’m tempted to allow it, but only if you’re intentionally channeling Marchesa Luisa Casati.

Angelina Jolie- oh. my. god. I know I’m biased (as one of her long lost, adopted children she’s never acknowledged or heard of) but I cannot say one bad thing about this, especially since I’ve been in 100% Bombshell  Manual mode lately and anything with feathers or frills or femininity is giving me LIFE. #bestdressed

Elizabeth Moss: from Polly to Pollyana. Anyone that gets that is my lifelong friend and anyone that doesn’t please never talk to me again. But seriously honey, that waistline is not your friend.

Jessica Chastain- I think I love everything about this but am i crazy or does it make her look a little bulky? Tell me I’m crazy. I’m crazy. (Narrator: She was definitely crazy.)

omg Maggie Gyllenhaal is wearing the same Castle Greyskull, droopy-sleeve of wizard-vagine garment as Debra Messing! Is this a thing?? Gross. And those earrings are stupid too but I don’t know why.

Emilia Clarke is perfection (minus the bow but moving on) and I don’t even love GOT.

Geena Davis stole one of CZJ’S costumes from Chicago and i can’t say that I’m angry. I will say that I’m angry that the head designer at LOFT got hold of it and added a few of those filthy lace panels before she walked the red carpet, but since she still looks pretty flawless…I’LL ALLOW IT.

As always, Lena Headey looks like the drunk, badass aunt who was a groupie before falling into acting so I love her even more than when she gets drunk and sets people on fire on tv. The dress does look like something a goth would make to wear to a Renaissance fair, but who cares when she looks that cool in it?

I love Margot Robbie more than almost anyone in Hollywood today (even though she stole my life’s dream of playing Tonya Harding. Seriously, I’d started writing a short right before they announced that movie and I’m not even kidding), but I can’t say i know exactly what she was going for with this look… an Elsa-possessed mistletoe over her womb to subtly announce she’s expecting? A tribute to the portion of Fantasia where fairies ice skate to ‘Waltz of the Flowers’ as a nod to the ice goddess she plays in ‘I, Tonya?’ I’ve been staring at it for a few minutes now and can honestly say I have no clue.

Gwendolyn Christie- I have no idea what you are wearing but I do know that I am obsessed with your GOT character so you have my permission to do whatever you please.

Kerry Washington unfortunately looks like some anorexic basic at her junior prom. And those floral net booties are what a leprechaun wears to a funeral. wtf. Oh but her hair is on point.

Kate Hudson- Je refuse.

Chris Hemsworth can do no wrong even in a suit made from a brocade table cloth and VELVETEEN shoes so don’t even worry about it, honey.

Michelle Pfeiffer- omg i am heartbroken over how matronly you look!! As anyone who knows me knows, my mother could pass as your identical twin, so I take it kind of personally when you show up on the red carpet dressed as Marian the librarian’s widowed sister, Ovarian.

Zoe Kravtiz- Sweetie, it’s already been done and its name was Natalie Portman. A chunky, funky  emerald earring does make you look like Audrey Hepburn's edgy cousin though. Whatever- you still look gorgeous and I love you.

Kendall Jenner- There are so many things wrong with your look, much less your existence, but I’ll just sum it up with this: T. STRAPPED. POINTY. TOED. SHOES. Also, lay off the brow botox before you look like Debra Messing, or worse, Kylie Jenner. #gasp

Sarah Jessica Parker literally went as her character from Hocus Pocus attending a funeral.

Isabelle Huppert wins the night! Nope, spoke too soon. Her dress has those damned flutter sleeves on it too! What IS that? It’s trash, is what it is…

Roseanne Barr forgot to put a dress over her Spanx…

Ok, that's all I got. I barely watched any of the actual show bc I can't with most of those self important a-holes, so I can't comment on anything "exciting" or "interesting" that might have happened. Let me know if I missed anything highly offensive🥂

What This Post Is About?Have you ever dreamed of having the skills and confidence to pick up girls in any social situation?Are you sick and tired of being afraid to approach an attractive, interesting woman?Have you ever wanted to impress your friends with how easily you can strike up a meaningful conversation with a woman, anywhere, anytime?Well this post was created for just that purpose!With 101 Ways to Break the Ice, you’ll learn the necessary skills needed to:Confidently approach any girl and engage in conversationDeliver witty lines to attract and hold her attentionHave a meaningful interaction that’ll intrigue and delight herGain that vital edge in your social interactions with the opposite sexThis incredibly useful post, which draws from the more comprehensive teachings available in Jon Sinn's ‘Seduction Roadmap’ program, is jam-packed with dozens of specifically categorized opening lines and ice-breakers that are so simple and yet so effective...and will help you to captivate your audience and increase their willingness to be with you.The post is divided into 3 categories:1. Functional lines are the easiest ones to remember! People are more likely to respond to these because they are simple questions that any decent human would respond to.2. Complimentary lines are a little bit more romantic since they focus on the girl and will most likely make her blush.3. Observational lines are based on the situation, so you'll need to be observant to what opportunities are around you to use these lines.While you can jump around the post to find your favorites, I highly suggest reading it from beginning to end so you don’t miss out on any lines.Finally, the post ends with an important chapter detailing the most common mistakes to avoid when chatting up ladies.The beauty of 101 Ways to Break the Ice is that it is so easy to use! Immediately you can start incorporating these valuable techniques into any social situation to see just how effective they really are!The key here is that women are far more likely to respond to ice-breakers that are genuine, witty and different, as opposed to, cheesy pick-up lines that merely insult their intelligence and make you look desperate and boring.I will teach you the difference between this:BAD: “Did you know that they changed the alphabet? They put ‘U and ‘I’ together...And this:GOOD: “You have the most incredible ‘girl-next-door’ look about you. I just had to come meet you.”...and a whole lot more!After all, talking to a beautiful girl is easy...once you know how!2: FUNCTIONAL LINESFunctional lines focus on asking for basic information that almost guarantees a response. You can use these anywhere!Where is the nearest Starbucks?Weird question... you don't happen to know the best place to see the stars around here do you?Where is the restroom in here?Sorry to bother you, but what is that you're having? I always get the same thing and I'm looking to switch it up and that looks fantastic.Where's the best place to party tonight?Do you have the correct time? I think my phone is being weird.Where can I get into trouble around here?Where's the best place to catch a cab around here?You happen to know what time the subway arrives?Excuse me, are the police very good runners in this town?You guys happen to have any gum or mints? My breath is an atrocity.Are there any 24-hour coffee shops around here?You happen to know anywhere around here I can get a good cookie?Would you be so kind as to direct me to the most pretentious club in the area?I'm trying to show my friends something fun but I need a book of matches, you happen to have any?My friend wants to smoke but has no lighter, can I borrow one?Do you know what time this place closes?Do you happen to know if there are any afterhours bars or clubs around here?Pardon me, where is the best place to see boobies at this time of night?Do you happen to know if there are any eighties bars around here?Maybe you guys can help me, I seem to have lost my friends, have you seen anyone who looks like....I'm looking for hot Goth girls, do you know if they exist?Where around here has the cheapest beer?Do these sunglasses make my butt look big?You guys have any idea what's good here?This is kind of strange, but you guys look cool, so I thought I'd ask. I really want to talk to that girl, and I have no idea what to say. What do you think I should go with?Where's the best place near here to get a good steak?Where's the best place to go to meet girls?Where do the really promiscuous girls around here hang out?Which way to the Misty Mountains?(Wearing a latching watch or bracelet) Would you mind helping me, I can't seem to get this latched with one hand.3: COMPLIMENTARY LINESYou are already looking at her so focus on what she’s wearing or what her style is and use it to get the conversation started. She’ll be impressed by your compliment and attention to details.You have a great look.Excuse me, did you intentionally match the hardware on your shoes and purse because that's very impressive.I love how you matched your makeup and your nail polish. Is that a Birkin bag? It’s fabulous.(If you see red soled heels/shoes) I normally don't like tall heels, but I noticed you're wearing Christian Louboutins because when you walk the red on our soles have more room to flash. They look terribly classy.You're so cute. I'd be kicking myself if I didn't come over and say hi. My name is...You've probably heard this a lot, but I still have to tell you, you walk in heels like most girls walk in sneakers.(If you see a scarf with skulls) Excuse me, that's a great scarf. Is it Alexander McQueen?Are you in fashion? That outfit is very Avant Garde.I don't know if it's your feet or those shoes, but I can't help but think that when women spend a ton of money on shoes, that's what they hope is going to happen.Your tan is magnificent; I'm finding it hard to think when your skin is in my line of vision.You have beautiful eyes... especially the left one.I love your ponytail, most girls just look lazy with their hair up, but on you it really shows off your neck and jawline. Is that intentional?Your outfit is awesome; you look like you just stepped out of a music video.You have the most incredible girl-next-door look about you. I had to come meet you.You look like the queen of all strippers.You have fantastic eye contact. It's kind of intimidating.Those stockings are really cool. Do they tear much?I love those glasses. You've got a whole sexy librarian thing going on. It's really working for you.You look like a schoolgirl who never leaves the principles office.You can't be from around here. Your sense of style is amazing; are you from New York?You have great arms—the muscle definition is really impressive. Can I feel? (Don't wait for answer.)Your hair is so shiny—you look like you stepped out of a shampoo commercial.I couldn't help notice how you just (whatever cool thing they just did). You're like the honey badger, you don't give a shit.I hope I'm not bothering you but... You look like someone I was afraid I'd never meet.4: OBSERVATIONAL LINESBe observational! These openers are not so much questions directed at the girl but rather statements designed to get her to open up to you. For this chapter, you must often be loud enough to ensure she hears you.(When a girl is looking at choices) That's the best one.(Look at the girl, then double take and tilt your head as though seeing someone you recognize, bringing your hand up to point, then looking away as though not sure.)(Yelling upon any disappointment) This always happens to me!I just can't get this song out of my head. Oh wait, (removing ear buds) that's better.You guys look like you'd know where to get drugs.(Kneeling next to a girl to tie your shoe) My knots always go the wrong way.The line between hipster and douchebag is so thin these days.Your outfit is so tastefully provocative; teach me your hipster ways.What do girls prefer, devil-may-care hair or devil-may-care attitude?(For a girl studying but seemingly distracted) It's so hard to focus on schoolwork when you're supposed to.(Sitting next to a girl at the airport) Don't you just wish you were going to Vegas?(In Vegas, or anywhere everyone is dressed up, next to a girl who is dressed down) Wow, everyone is so done up.(Next to a girl who is really dressed up) Wow, who are you trying to impress?Interesting decor in here, I wonder what period it is!(At a birthday or New Year’s party) I wonder how many candles/balloons/hats there are in here. I need to find a rain man.This is a great song—I wonder who the artist is.(Based on what song is playing) Omg... Do you guys love Lady GaGa/Ke$ha/Beyonce as much as I do?(Girl in produce section) How do I know when is ripe?(If you see a birthday girl) Happy birthday!(In a library or a loud environment, type on your phone) Hello, my name is (then hand her the phone, go back and forth. Also works well with the deaf)(In a very old place) I heard this place is haunted.(If you see a girl looking at guy) I think he's wearing Spanx.(If you see a girl looking at flamboyantly dressed guy) That guy is... FABULOUS!(In an art museum) I heard they have an exhibit of art done by animals. (When she says "really?" Stare at her, and then slowly shake your head)(If you see a girl looking at trashy girl) She looks like she's looking for a guy to take her to TGI Fridays.(If you see a bored looking girl) You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here(If you see a girl alone and looking around) Your friends wander off?(If you see a classy group) My friends are all talking about sports, so I thought I'd come meet you since you are classy and intelligent looking. I hope that's not too weird.(If you see a big group) You guys look like a lot of fun, what's the occasion?(If you see a girl who obviously dislikes another girl) You think she’s wearing anything under that skirt? My money’s on herpes.(If you see a classy girl in high heels) You look like you should be holding a Cosmo.(If you see a girl texting while friends talk) Hey! No texting your boyfriend during girls’ night.(If you see a girl looking at guys) Which one is your favorite?(If you see a bored looking girl with fun friends) Are you the DD? You look like your friends are several drinks ahead of you.(If you see a girl who has just been approached) Do you think that line works on anybody?(If you see a girl looking at badly dressed girl) What do you think she was thinking when she bought those shoes?(If you see a girl who is getting eye contact from guys) I think he likes you.(If you see a tiny skinny girl) You're so tiny and delicate. You go to steakhouses and order salad, don't you?(If you see girl looking sad) You look like your unicorn died.5: MISCELLANEOUS LINESEven if it’s not the best idea, a man should have the balls to be able to just go introduce himself. ‘Hello my name is...’(If you get eye contact and a smile) You're terribly cute, I wanted to meet you, I'm ...How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice.(Have a restaurant opinion argument): My friend and I are having a disagreement, help us out: Rolls or cornbread? Chicken or beef? Salmon or tuna? If you're at a steakhouse, is it ok to order something other than steak?Please tell my friend that putting ketchup on his mashed potatoes is gross.Who would win in a fight between Chris Brown and Beyoncé?What's the best pickup line you've ever heard, because I want to meet you, and I'd like to use that one.(If you see a cute friendly looking girl) I choose you Pikachu!WHAT THE HELL DO I DO NOW?By now, 101 Ways to Break the Ice has given you some ideas on how to get the conversations started.However, successfully luring her in is only the first step – there’s so much more to learn, especially if you want to:- Get her to respond positively to your calls or text messages- Have women genuinely want to be around you and spend time with you- Ensure a second date!For example, it’s important to know how to avoid the 3 most common mistakes most men make when chatting up ladies.Over the years, and through thousands of failed attempts and dismal conversations, I’ve honed my skills to teach men the secrets of attraction.When you understand the principles of dating and attraction, you can turn it on whenever you want. Not only will you never be alone, but you will also be able to get the kind of girlfriend you’ve always wanted.I’ve narrowed down the top 3 reasons for failure when chatting up the ladies, using this simple acronym, ICE:Interrogation,Centering the Convo on Yourself, andExaggerating the Truth.Mistake #1 – InterrogationYou’re innocently asking her questions in an attempt to keep the conversation going and to find out more about her. When you notice that the welcoming, intriguing girl who loved your opening line has suddenly turned cold and a little dismissive.So what happened??A common mistake most men make is that they inadvertently turn a natural conversation into an inquisition, bombarding the poor girl with question after question.A conversation needs to be natural...it needs fluidity, and once you know this and can do it naturally without making her feel like she’s being cross-examined, you’ll find her a lot more receptive and inviting.Mistake #2 – Centering the Conversation Around YouWhile it’s great to share your interests, your likes and dislikes, beware of hijacking the conversation and talking almost exclusively about yourself. This makes you look a little selfish and can alienate the lady.Example (Bad):Guy: “So, what's your favorite food?”Girl: “Oh, I like Italian.”Guy: “Me too. I prefer Chinese food though, especially from the Szechuan region – the spiciness has just the right kick. It’s my favorite food to cook actually.”Example (Good):Guy: “So, what's your favorite food?”Girl: “Oh, I like Italian.”Guy: “Me too. I love Chinese though. Have you been to any good Italian restaurants around here?”By focusing on some topics that she enjoys, without crossing into ‘Mistake #1,’ you’ll find that the conversation has a much more natural flow to it, thus greatly increasing your chances of success.Mistake #3 – Exaggerating the TruthPeople frequently lie about themselves in order to keep the conversation going and make a good impression. While this may seem like a good idea – it isn't.With a little practice and by using the tips and strategies in this post, you’ll have greater success and will feel more comfortable simply being yourself.Remember, she’s far more likely to be attracted to the real you!Meeting and talking to new people, especially good-looking, elegant women, can be tough.But having the skills and confidence to do it...and do it right...can be life-changing!Sincerely Yours,SimonP.S. Here's another related article on the topic: The 7 Most DEADLY Conversation Mistakes YOU Probably Make With Women (... And What To Do About It) via /r/dating_advice

Ch.1 First Meeting

Palettes POV Today was the day, my first day at Under High and to tell the truth I was really nervous. I've never made friends in my ealry junior or even elementary years but then again I didn't really need to cause i was okay on my own even though I am really clumsy. I only ever made one friend, but he moved away a while ago. Ink: Palette sweety are you up? P: Yea mom I am. In fact I barely got any sleep last night due to first day jitters, which would explain the sall bags under my eyes. Great way to show up to one's first day of classes. I sigh. Soon I finish putting on my blue sweater over my green T-shirt along wih my jeans and run downstairs to eat breakfast. Ink: I made pancakes on your first day. Huh? Palette are you okay? P: Oh, yea just nervous is all. Don't worry mom I'm alright. By the way did dad already go to work? Ink: Yes, he did. Palettes maybe after school you get some rest. P: Sure mom. Thanks Soon I grab my back back, sling it over my shoulders and head out the door to classes. As I arrive I notice just how big the school really is and check my schedule. I had biology first in room 213. I enter the school gates and soon start wondering around looking for my class following the jumbers above the classroom doors, but I just couldn't find my class. I was going to be late on my first day and that on top of not sleeping last night would just amount to one of the best days ever. Soon I start to speed walk, however having no sleep last night my vision starts to blur and as I turn the corner I accidently bumb into someone and fall right onto my butt. P: Ouch. OMG I'm so sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Are you okay? G: Yea I'm fine, how about you? Slowly I look up to see who I've hit. And reach out to the hand he extended out to me. P: I'm also okay. I say hesistantly. As I continue to stare I notice just how hot the guy was. He was tall and a little pale as he totally rocks a white hoodie with a red scarf around his neck, all the while his glasses made him look like some kind of a sexy librarian. Holy did I just say sexy, what is going on with me. Soon my face starts to burn a little. G: Well since we're both good maybe you could give me my hand back. I stare down to see I'm still holding his hand. P: Oh sorry, sorry I retract my hand back and hold it behind me clenching my other hand. My face all the while getting hotter. G: It's alright, no need to apologize. P: Ummmm thanks G: Hehe no problem. The names Goth. P: Palette G: guess we dont need to shake hands since we pretty much got that done P: yea i guess so hehe G: Are you lost by any chance? P: yea actually I'm looking for bio room 213 G: Oh thats actually down the hall to the left and after 3 classrooms you turn right P: Oh thanks G: No problem. Eventually you get used to things around here P: Hehe I hope so, I'm already clumsy enough as it is Soon the school bell rings. P: Oh no I'm gonna be late to class G: Then you better get going P: Bye Goth I wave goodbye and run down the hall to class. As I enter I find a quiet spot in the back of the class near the window. I bring out all my book and open the first chapter and soo the lesson starts. Halfway through the lesson I look out the window and notice Goth in gym class. He was wearing the white and red school gym jersey and was playing soccer. Wow he was actually really good too. I see him take a shot and plant the ball into the net, his teammates cheer and as they lift him up he botices me staring at him. I quickly turn my face back to me book hoping he didn't notice. Soon the bell rings and I head off to my next class. This time it was much easier to find my math class. I sit down in a seat next to the window and as I pull out my textbook I notice Goth taking the seat next to mine. P: Goth! G: Yes Palette P: Your in my math class! G: It seems so. What coincidence P: Yea it seems so..... I slowly turn my head to look into my book in order to hide my blushing face. What is happening to me, why am I felling this way? Am I sick? What do I do? G: Hey Palette you okay? P: Huh? Oh yea I'm fine Soon the lesson begins and I concentrate on the lesson which helps me from being distracted by Goth's good looks. Soon the lunch bell rings and I quickly bolt off. It was probably rude of my to not say anything to Goth but I just couldn't handle it. The feelings welling up inside is something I've never felt before and it was starting to take it toll on me. I head to my locker to grab my lunch and I start looking for a place to enjoy my moms specialty bento box. That's my mom, loves foreign food. I head up to the roof where theres usually no one around and I take a seat. As soon as I started to eat a voice behind my caused my to jump a bit. G: Hey Palette, mind if I join? P: H-H-Hi Goth...no I don't mind G: Great cause to tell the truth, it'd be a little lonely eating my lunch by myself. P: Wait you don't have any friends? G: No I don't, I'm actually pretty new here too. I have a few aquantances like the guys from soccer, but you know they all have thier own groups and cliches This actually surprised me. I'd have though a guy like Goth would have tons of friends. P: So you wanna be my friend? G: Yea, I mean cause since you and I seem to have no friends around P: Do I look that lonely? G: Oh sorry did that offend you? P: Hehe no its just I've only had one friend my entire life and I kinda like being on my own G: Really? P: Yea, but I guess I wouldn't mind you being my friend G: That's good cause if you decline I don't think I'll ever meet anyone else more interesting P: Interesting? G: Yea especially the way we first met P: Hehe I guess your right I look down at my food and smile. Soon I look up at the sky and another feeling enters my soul. It feels warm. I guess Goth being my friend would be really nice. Soon I finish my lunch and so does Goth, so we decide to walk around the school in order for me to know it better. G: This is the art room and over here is the cafeteria... P: Where would the bathrooms be? G: Good question there are four boy bathrooms two on the lower floor and two on the second. There one over there and there one by the English room As I look over to where Goth was pointing I accidently trip on a loose tile. I close my eyes prepared to hit the floor but then feel someone holding onto my arms. Goth had caught me. He had one arm hold my arm and the other holding the back of my head pushing it in towards his chest. Being in this position causes my face to burn and my heart to almost burst. G: Are you okay Palette? P: Y-Y-Yea I'm f-fine. Goth then helps me get on my feet and we continue walking as I place my fist over my chest holding in my breathe trying to calm down. Goth continues to describe the school holding my hand. He never gave back my hand and just continued to hold it making sure I wouldn't fall again. He even told me where the nurses room was. I had a feeling I'd be visiting the nurse pretty often. Soon the school bell rings and Goth let's go of my hand and waves goodbye to go to his class. I wave as well, however now my hand feels empty and I start to miss the feeling of having his hand in mine. Hours go by and still I stare at my hand missing that feeling. The end of the day comes and I start to head home, but by the gate I see Goth standing there. He looks over and I wave at him. He waves back and the empty feeling in my soul instantly disappears. G: Hey Palette, you wanna walk home together? P: Sure! I say that with more enthusiasm then I'd like to. As we walk home I stop in front of my house. P: This is my stop. G: Wow really, I actually pretty close to you then. P: Really where? Goth the walks two houses down. G: Here!! Soon we wave goodbye and I enter my house. I greet both my parents and go upstairs to my room. I place my back pack down and then my mom enters to ask me how my day was. I tell her that I made a friend and I also ask her about my wierd feelings and experiences. She makes makes a surprised face then starts to laugh. I ask here what she's laughing about and she tells me in three words. Ink: You're in LOVE She then leaves all the while trying to hold in her excitement. I only sit there dumbfounded. I was in love. No way. No way, no way, no way. I fall back onto my bed. I can feel my face heating up again. I take my pillow and hold to my face trying to cool it down. Then I tuck in my legs and roll around on my bed. Nothing made the feeling go away. So instead I decided to sleep and to just let tomorrow's me handle this love problem. ---------------------------------------Omg first time writing a story fanfic. Pls dont judge and hope u guys like. Healthy critism is allowed since help is a wonderful thing. Characters belong to thier respected owners.