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finelinevogue · 3 years

Note

could you do some angsty smut please??

oh hell yeah we can. this is going to be 70srockstar!harry with roadie!y/n eekkkk! okay have fun;

Being the girlfriend of the most famous, golden boy rockstar was the craziest rollercoaster you’d ever ride.

For the past 6 months you’ve been touring with the one and only Harry Styles, living your life between helping on tour, drinking endless amounts of wine and smoking a hell of a lot of weed. The job had come past you at the perfect moment. Your dad happened to be best friends with the tour manager, Jeff Azoff, who’d spoken of their being a job opening for a roadie. You were employed to help set up the musical equipment and test out the instruments before the act went on at night, falling in love for the man you roadied for was just an add on. A beautiful bonus.

It was a lot more pressure being Harry’s girlfriend than people thought though. There was so much pressure to act a certain way and present yourself another way. Harry was so idolised and craved by millions and it put pressure on you to be a certain person for him. You loved him so much and you were so scared that he might one day realise that there was so much better than you - at least in your eyes. Someone extroverted. Someone musically talented. Someone who wasn’t a virgin.

Harry had never pressured you into anything sexual unless you were ready. Of course he was notorious for being an above star rating, when it came fo sex - thanks to all the articles published by the many men and women, sometimes both together, he had slept with. The sex reputation went hand-in-hand with his rock-n-roll aesthetic, so that part of him would never change. You’d only been with Harry for 4 of those 6 months, managing to fall for him very quickly, so you wondered just how he was coping without having had sex for that long. He usually had a different person each night to take backstage after his concert to play with how he wanted, hence how he built his reputation, but since you there had been no one.

Sex was such a big thing for Harry though, so you couldn’t help but feel like you were letting him down.

Currently, you were sat on his bed on the tour bus reading an article that had been published about your boyfriend last week. Your heart strings tugged as you read one section of the interview.

Interviewer: The new album, tell me about it.

Harry: It’s coming on slowly yeah. Just want this one to be perfect so, taking my time.

Interviewer: What would you say your biggest inspiration is for writing?

Harry: Changed on every project, to be honest man. Sometimes it’s about past relationships. Sometimes it’s about issues i’m going through. A lot of the time it’s about sex!

Interviewer: Yeah, dude, I have noticed that like every other song is about sex. Is that something you’re quite open about?

Harry: I think sex can be either something so beautiful or so passionate. Don’t believe in sad sex! But, um, yeah i’m always really honest lyrically when it comes to the songs about sex and I hope others see it as that too.

Interviewer: No it definitely does! Thanks Harry for your time and, um, keep on having sex so that third album breaks even more records!

Harry: Will do man!

It was easy to understand why you were upset. Harry’s biggest inspiration wasn’t possible for this album, because you were too nervous to let him have you. All of you. You felt a burden, as if you were holding him back from living his life and creating something so amazing. His past two albums had been such hits for songs such as ‘She’ and ‘Only Angel’, which were inspired by the intimate times with past lovers. There would only be sad songs if he wrote an album without any spice.

That’s why as soon as Harry came back on the bus, dressed in shorts and a shirt that was unbuttoned to see his toned chest, you jumped him and kissed him like your life depended on him. He was taken back by surprise, but welcomed your lips nevertheless.

Pulling back he mumbled some words against your lips, “Well this is a nice welcome back gift.” He chuckled at the eagerness of your lips and let his hands roam over your body - from your neck to your waist and over your ass. This man knew what he was doing.

“Harry?” You whispered, stopping your kiss and looking at his beautiful swollen red lips. He was a sight for sore eyes.

“Yeah baby?” He kept himself close to you and you could feel the stiffie that he’d developed pressing against your front.

“Can we… I’m.. If you…”

“What baby? Can tell me anything, y’know that.”

“Wanna have sex with you.” You told him the most simple virgin way ever, your face heating up when you saw him smirking down at you. You’d screwed yourself over here and were getting all shy and embarrassed about it.

“Hey, no. Don’t hide from me,” He drew your face back to his and kept his eyes on yours to provide you some familiar comfort, “you sure?”

“Mhm, yes.” You nodded affirmatively.

“It might hurt a little, okay? First time means that your cute little pussy is going to be really tight. Don’t even know whether you’ll be able to take me.” He taunted you, cupping his hands to your cheeks and brushing his thumbs carefully over your skin to ease your tension.

“I w-will.” You moused out, wanting to be this person for him.

“‘Course you can. You’re my best girl and I know you’ll fit perfectly for me, yeah?” He rhetorically asked pushing you back to the bed and letting you flop there. You watched him as he discarded his clothes, following his lead, until you were both naked in front of each other. You’d been this far before, but this time it felt different. It felt more lustful and exposed and nerve-wracking.

Harry bent down and started to kiss you from your belly upwards, leaving kisses everywhere until he reached your jaw where he bit more than he kisses. He loved seeing his marks being left behind on your skin, proving to everyone that you were his and his alone. His hands found comfort ins kneading and squeezing your breasts like dough, loving the way they were so soft and yet so hard beneath his warm hands. As he found your lips and divulged in your sweet tastes, you slunk your hand down and grabbed ahold of his cock, pumping him a few times to get him primed. You felt the trickles of pre-cum drip from his tip and it only excited you even more.

Taking your lead, Harry pushed one of his hands in between your bodies and started playing with your wet cunt, paying extra attention to your needy clit. He knew you loved it when his fingers got rough, so that’s exactly how he played. His tongue was battling against yours, whilst you both stimulated pleasure to one another. The wet and beautiful sounds filled the room, heightening your arousal - Harry could feel it too, his fingers becoming wetter with every circle and pump of his fingers.

“You ready, baby?” He asked carefully, plucking his lips away from yours with a wet sounding smack. You already looked fucked out and he had barely done anything to you yet.

“Y-yes.” You stumbled, so excited yet so nervous. You were finally going to give Harry what he had been missing for so long and you were also going to let yourself go, and divulge in something new and potentially life-changing.

He leant back and rubbed his own cock for a few strokes, before lining the tip of it with your opening. He teased your entrance, making you bite your lip in anticipation. He smiled down at you and mouthed the words ‘I love you’ without any sounds leaving his lips, before you did the same. The head of his cock started to push in, but you didn’t expect it to hurt as much as it did.

“Shit fuck, y’so tight baby. Need you to relax for me, okay?” He asked, pulling away so he could watch your body relax. You closed your eyes and took a deep breathe, reminding yourself that the best way to relax is not to think about the problem itself but oh how you’d feel when the problem’s fixed. You smiled and once Harry could see your shoulders un-tense, he, once again, pushed his cock into your opening. He hissed at the contact, obviously finding it so pleasurable even if it was only minimal contact, but you, you felt so much pain and soreness from absolutely nothing.

You couldn’t do this.

“It should just…” Harry tried a different angle, but your smile had disappeared and your whole range of emotions had resumed to flat and disappointed in yourself. “Maybe if I just..” Harry tried to hold your legs a little wider and guide his cock more firmly into your opening, but each time he couldn’t push past a certain point without your body rejecting him or your facial expressions telling him he should stop.

“St-stop Harry please.” You cried, bringing your hands up to cover your face as you let the tears flow freely. “Please stop.”

“O-okay. Just gonna…” And he slid out as much as he’d managed to get in, which was probably less than an inch. It hurt when he pulled away and your cunt felt like it was on fire. It stung and it didn’t feel right. You felt like a failure and an embarrassment.

You cried into your arms, letting harsh sobs take over your body. You chest felt tight and your eyes stung worse than your cunt did. God, you couldn’t even do one thing for him. You were the reason why he was having a hard time writing at the moment. You were the reason people would be disappointed to hear no sex inspired songs on the album. He might even have to use past experiences as inspiration, which made your heart curl with jealousy. You didn’t feel like you were enough for him, like you would ever be enough for him.

“I’m so sorry Harry,” You sat up from the bed, not wanting to look at him and his disappointed expression as he stay knelt on the bed - cock looking painfully hard still. You scrambled for your t-shirt and your joggers and then walked out of the room, across the bus’ narrow corridor, and into the bathroom.

You looked at yourself in then mirror and were disappointed at what, or who, you saw. Looking back at you was the person who couldn’t even have sex. You couldn’t give Harry what he deserved. You were a failure and it was stamped all over your body. You cried as you looked at yourself, until you couldn’t and you just slid down the wall and onto the floor. You wished for the Earth to just swallow you whole. You couldn’t stand being here when you were clearly broken and useless.

Harry would surely leave you for this. Why would he want to stay with someone who couldn’t even get their boyfriends dick in their pussy? Couldn’t give each other that pleasure? Harry had so many people in the past and surely with you gone he’d have so many people in the future. It would be selfish of you to stay. Harry had needs you completely appreciated that, but it would be just so difficult to let him go when he means so much to you.

There was a quiet knock at the door, which broke you from your cries and self-deprecating. “Y/N? Baby honey? Can I come in, please?”

“S-sorry. Yes of c-course.” You stood up quickly, thinking that he was wanting to be let in to go to the toilet or to have a cold shower go get rid of the hard-on that you’d put there. Too bad you couldn’t have taken it away.

You unlocked the door and shuffled past him, only for him to stop you. He shut the bathroom door behind him, leaving you both infinitely pressed together in the pathway on the bus. He had you pressed you up against the side of the wall and kept his arms at either side of you.

“Sweets—”

“Harry, please don’t say anything. I-I know what you’re thinking and—”

“Yeah? And what am I thinking?” He asked, not moving away from you. You held your cries the best you could and took a deep breathe to continue.

“I’m a disappointment. I-I i’m not good enough. I’m broken.” You choked out, knocking your head back against the wall from frustration.

“Stop it.” Harry ordered firmly, gripping your cheeks in his hands and forcing you to look at him. The look in his eyes was so hard to read, but he looked desperate and worried and hurt. You hated to think that you were the cause of any of those emotions. “Just stop.” Harry’s own eyes were starting to fill with tears too and you brought your own hand up to catch a few of them before they could fall.

“Don’t cry, please.” You begged, keeping your hand pressed to his cheek which he absolutely adored. He loved the feeling of your skin against his. He never wanted to not have it.

“Then don’t say things that hurt me, okay? Hearing you say those things about yourself absolutely breaks m’heart flower. Just because you were a bit too tight to take me today does not mean that you’re a disappointment or you’re a failure or that you’re not good enough. It hurts to think that you’d ever think I would think that, because - fuck -,” Harry pressed his forehead tight against yours and fanned his lips lips over yours. His closeness was everything. “I love you so much it scares me. My feelings for you are so strong and so real. I want your forever and something as trivial as sex is never going to make me want otherwise. Do you get that?”

“B-but the album?” You asked.

“What about the album?”

“I-in the recent magazine interview you said that sex is your biggest i-inspiration. I can’t be that for you.”

“Is that what this is all about? Because you think that my album isn’t coming together because i’m not having sex? Did you miss the part where I said I wanted this one to be perfect and I was taking m’time with it?”

“No.”

“Well I did say that, because it’s for you baby. The whole thing is going to be for you. Every melody. Every lyric. Every song. Just and all for you.” Both of you were silently crying now, absorbed in each others love and adoration for one another.

“I-I didn’t know.”

“Now you do. This album isn’t really for the charts or the awards. It’s for you, m’heart. I love you for a lot more than your body and its’ pleasures.”

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, taking all his words in and realising how irrationally you’d acted out afterwards.

“For what, sweetheart?”

“For even thinking that you’d be so shallow and cold-hearted.”

“You didn’t think that though, baby. I know you and so I know you didn’t. Your thoughts were based around your own insecurities, not to do with your small-thinking over me.” He explained to you, making you nod and kick your lips.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Well then we don’t deserve each other.”

“But i’ll keep you forever if you’d let me.”

“Looks like we’re together forever then, baby honey.”

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softprincesso · 3 years

Text

✨ HOW TO BECOME A WEALTHY MIDDLE AGED MAN✨

PT.2: Overview to understanding different saving/retirement methods, investments, and forms of income

Pt. 2.2 Overview of Investments

Welcome lovelies to (what I hope will be) a helpful series on gaining wealth and becoming financially literate and independent!

Disclaimer: Check other posts. It's too long to keep typing out.

Now comes (what I believe) is the fun part of money. Making it grow.

Investments are defined as “an asset or item acquired with the goal of generating income or appreciation.” Essentially, anything you purchase with the belief that in time it will be worth more. This includes the entire stock market, cryptocurrencies, art, real estate, jewelry, vintage coins, designer bags, etc. Of course, some of these take more time and each comes with some amount of risk. These variables change according to your strategy as an investor.

✨THINGS TO KEEP IN MIND✨

Begin as a Beginner

Do not overwhelm yourself during your financial literacy journey by trying to learn everything, all at once, while also trying it all out. The thing that creates the most confusion when learning is believing the lie that you can multitask well. Yes, start with a brief overview of the systems and institutions (what we are currently doing in the series) but literally all you need to start is definitions and a gist so that you can comprehend how they connect later on. Learning an entire world that has never been taught to you is going to take time, and I’m talking years. And then, when you think you have something down your going to mess up or read an article about how the stock you saw yesterday for $6 is now $1000 and you’re going to be frustrated (this happens a lot). But, If you want to learn about the stock market, focus on the stock market. Retirement still scares you, focus on that until you master it and have a plan. And for Christ’s (or whatever deity/person/universe you believe in) if you do not have a steady stream of income do not put your last pennies trying to get into crypto (or any investing truly). This is something to start after you have income, a savings, a retirement, and have paid off at least most debts.

Recommended sources to learn more:

Netflix has a great series called “Explained” where (you guessed it) they explain things. While I recommend every episode because you can never learn too much, there are ones specifically dedicated to the stock market, cryptocurrencies, and billionaires each that helps to uncomplicate the history and purpose of each of these things.

✨Let’s get started✨

The Stock Market

“Stock markets are real and electronic exchanges that enable the buying and selling of securities. The most popular include the NYSE, Nasdaq MarketSite, and Tokyo Stock Exchange.” Let me, let you, in on a little secret-the stock market is essentially fantasy football (sorry, my American is showing) but with companies. When you buy a security, you are betting that (in the long run or short run, depending on your strategy) that a certain company will perform well and gain profits, which in turn will gain you money on what you bet. There are two categories of players in the market which include the assets (the football players) and the investors (the betting public). Of the assets you can categorize further by what position they play on the field…

Stocks

Most well-known, but the riskiest. The “star” player that everyone hypes up and takes all the credit. Stocks are fractional pieces of publicly traded companies, and by buying a stock you own a relative size of that company. They are either “paying you” through growth (when their stock price rises) or through dividends (when they send you a piece of their profits directly).

Mutual Funds

Less known but a safer bet than single stocks. Popular among those in middle age. “Mutual funds are baskets of stocks or bonds. They come in all different shapes and sizes, from covering broad stock market indexes to focusing on specific sectors.” When you buy a mutual fund, you are saying that you believe on average that pile of stocks/bonds are going to do well, instead of betting on a single player. Usually they are actively managed by people who are trying to “beat” the market for you. Statistically good for the short term, long term are less effective than ETFs.

Index Funds: a subset of mutual funds that are passively managed and track indexes like an ETF but trade like a mutual fund (once at the end of the day and without reliance of supply and demand)

ETFs

Exchange traded funds. The up-and-coming underdog that’s gaining popularity. These are passively managed baskets of stocks and bonds that track over a specific index like the S&P 500. They work like stocks, being traded throughout the day, relying on supply and demand, while giving a lot of the advantages that mutual funds do. They also come with their own set of disadvantages but are still a great way to diversify a portfolio inexpensively.

Bonds

The reliable bench players you know you can put in to save a game. Great safe bets that can generate a steady income. Bonds work like a loan for a regular person, except for a company. You can loan your money to a company which will pay you a principal plus a fixed interest back every specified period. There are different types which come with different advantages and strategies, so make sure to read the fine print.

Commodities

Tangible goods that go into manufacturing-Gold, oil, metals, corn, soybeans, etc. A good defensive team to have in the game for a hedge against inflation or economic troubles. They trade in a commodity exchange. You can still access them through most brokers.

Source to look into for deeper understanding and questions: https://www.investopedia.com/terms/i/investment.asp

Easy way to get started quickly:

1. Create a brokerage account: There are lots of accounts to choose from, but I would go for accounts that have zero fees and no minimum, this is starting to become the norm but once upon a time you had to give a minimum investment of $5000 to get started. I personally use Charles Schwab and Robinhood. I love all of the tools and accounts Schwab has and Robinhood is just easy to use.

2. Sign up: this may take a day or two to finalize, especially with banks but it shouldn’t be a big deal

3. Connect a card or account to transfer funds

4. Buy your first security: I would start off with simply looking up beginner investments on google. I recommend either an ETF, index fund, or choose a company that you have an interest in because you will be more likely to keep up on their news

5. Tip: think long term as a beginner. Sure, once you start learning and understanding you can change your strategy to gain more in a shorter time, but this comes with much more risk. Do not be an idiot and sell all of your stock when you see your investment plummet nor sell as soon as you see it go up a little. The best advice for a beginner: Buy a stock and leave it alone (for YEARS)

Property/Real Estate

There are many ways to invest in real estate-you can buy a property, you can invest in a property fund, you can become a landlord,or you can flip a property. Again, depending on the strategy, will change the risk and reward you have taken on. All of these options are usually on the more cash heavy side but can reap a lot of rewards if done right.

Source to look into:

https://www.nerdwallet.com/article/investing/5-ways-to-invest-in-real-estate

Easy way to get started quickly:

1. Buy a real estate ETF or fund, you can just look this up on google or through your brokerage

2. OR you could look into buying a property near you and renting it out if you have that much cash (Make sure to do your research, this can get pretty complicated)

Art

Also considered property but until recently it was incredibly hard to invest in art without significant cash and contacts available. Now, there are platforms like Masterworks where you can buy a fraction of a piece like a stock of Monet and you get the rise in appreciation. However, it still is for those with money already available, I believe you have to invest a minimum of $2500 to get started on MW.

Sources to look into: https://www.investopedia.com/articles/pf/08/fine-art.asp

Crypto

Cryptocurrencies are digital currencies that are not backed by real or tangible assets or goods, but on the trust and value of the people that use them, and supply and demand. They can be traded like stocks on an exchange and are tracked with a digital ledger on the blockchain. The first cryptocurrency was Bitcoin and the rest that have followed are categorized as altcoins (alternative coins).

The stage of cryptocurrencies we are in is likened to the early 90s with the internet. Not a lot people truly understand the blockchain (the vast ledger space which contains every transaction made securely in encrypted “blocks” that are then “chained” together so that if one block is compromised the whole chain shuts it down.) It is decentralized and written simultaneously on thousands of super computers. The beauty of it is that if one ledger on one computer is somehow hacked or wrong the rest of the computers storing the ledger interrupt and either fix it or shut it down. A way to understand it is blockchain is to the internet as bitcoin is to a website, but the internet runs off people trusting the system, blockchain runs off trusting no one.

The currencies that run on blockchain can have a multitude of purposes, but bitcoin was really just the starting solution to fix the problem of trust on the internet. People wanted a secure, anonymous, untraceable way to spend money online, like cash is in the real world. And while for the most part it is just that, it isn’t completely anonymous. Like in the real world if you buy something from Mcd*nalds with cash that transaction is still recorded in their system and through a receipt. Your crypto transactions are recorded in the blockchain, but most people don’t even know how to access the ledger so for now any ill*cit purchases you make are pretty safe.

I HIGHLY recommend looking into a cryptocurrency course or training just because there is so much that goes into it and lots of details that can help you. This investment is incredibly risky and volatile! I only would suggest investing an amount you are completely comfortable to lose ALL of.

Sources to learn more:

https://www.investopedia.com/cryptocurrency-4427699

Easy to get started quickly (Please dear lord do your research first):

1. Sign up on a crypto exchange like Coinbase or Binance, some brokers (like Robinhood) also allow you to trade crypto but it’s a very limited selection

2. Do lots of research!! (I’m going to say it until you get it, and I don’t think you get it yet)

3. Think of it like stocks, if you read up on the coin and its purpose, and think that it’s going to be useful soon or in the future, then invest

4. Tip: the crypto market moves MUCH faster than the stock market and is much more sensitive. In just these last few days (literally hours) bitcoin was trading at $40,000+, the following day, for whatever reason (people got scared, people wanted to sell to get profits, etc.) it will barely hold $33,000. So, invest wisely!

This is very brief list of the main investments. There is still a lot of depth each of these goes into and especially with things like crypto, information changes 24/7. I hope you have learned by now that you should be continually learning as well. Instead of spending your morning looking at your Instagram feed of bum friends, dusty men, and “models” spend it reading the paper and catching up on the market. Follow investors and billionaires like you follow celebrities and see how much smarter you become. At the end of the day winners focus on winning, losers focus on winners.

With love,

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whelvenwings · 3 years

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Castiel's grace is missing, and Dean's frustrated - instead of looking for it, all Castiel wants to do is grow his flowers. Eventually, the two of them have to talk about it.

Read it below or here on AO3! Tags: Canon Divergent, Gardener!Cas, Cas' Grace

This fic was inspired by this wonderful art by saminzat, and written as part of the @spnreverse-promptchallenge!

It’s not Heaven. It’s not even close. It’s just a garden, where Castiel is growing things.

If it were Heaven, Castiel thinks, then Dean would be looking a lot happier, those wrinkles around his eyes all eased away. If it were Heaven, there would have been a break in the clouds overhead when Dean arrived.

If it were Heaven, the peach rose would be in bloom, not straggling all green and leggy and ungainly through the picket fence that Castiel had put up to help it grow.

Castiel puts down the secateurs he’s been using to prune the forsythia, and takes off his gardening gloves. He walks over to Dean, acutely aware of the fact that he’s wearing enough sunscreen to make his skin shine, the worn-thin, oversized blue t-shirt he found at a Goodwill that says Thyme to Garden, and a very large sunhat to protect the back of his neck.

Sunburn, he reminds himself, is more uncomfortable than the growing look of mixed amusement and judgement in Dean’s eyes. Even on a cloudy day, his skin will burn if he’s outside for a long time. Something he learned the hard way after becoming human.

“I thought you were researching a case,” Castiel says to Dean as he approaches.

“Done. Thought I’d come say hi.” Dean raises an eyebrow and a half-smile at him in greeting. “So, hi.”

Castiel stops a few feet from him and tips his hat a little further back on his head, so that Dean can clearly see his face.

“Hello,” he says. Dean takes in the hat, the t-shirt, the full gardening ensemble, with one sweeping gaze.

“Looking good,” Dean says.

Castiel looks down at himself, and then solemnly back to Dean.

“Thank you,” he says, with just enough irony in his tone to get Dean to smile. Or it would have been, usually, but today Dean’s expression is sinking back into hard lines. The greyish, muted light seems to lie heavy on him, putting a coldness in his eyes.

Castiel searches his face. Just as he’s about to say something more, Dean breaks their stare, glancing around at the plants nearest him as a light breeze ruffles at them.

“They’ve grown since last time you showed me,” Dean says. He’s holding himself strangely, his fists clenched. Castiel tilts his head to one side, and then looks around with Dean at the garden.

He feels the familiar spark of happiness as he surveys his handiwork. Once, the place had been a sad little patch of chalky, lump-filled earth. Now the flowers drip off their stems like dewdrops, and the soil smells rich, and the leaves tremble their creaky little paths to follow the sun each day. Even the blossomless peach rose has strong roots.

Castiel glances back to Dean, and feels the warmth in his chest sputter out. Dean’s eyeing the plantlife with an expression that doesn’t seem impressed.

“It’s been a while since last time,” Castiel says.

“Yeah. Well, you know.” Dean looks distracted, frowning down at a squat little succulent plant. There’s something bothering him, obviously, and Castiel isn’t sure whether Dean wants to be asked about it or have it be left alone.

“You’re always welcome,” Castiel tries quietly. Dean seems to catch himself, shifting his expression to something more neutral as he turns back to Castiel.

“Yeah,” he says, not as though he particularly believes it, and – in a way that almost manages to seem genuine – not as though he particularly cares.

“You can stay,” Castiel says. “If you want. There’s plenty to do. If you’re not busy.”

Dean puts his hands into his pockets and looks around the garden again, this time with his eyes a little less sharp.

“Nah,” he says. “Nah, I don’t wanna spoil the fun.”

Spoil the fun? Castiel gives Dean a look that he hopes is eloquent, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“I dunno, man,” he says. “Anyway, it’s not really me, is it.”

He looks tired, Castiel thinks.

“Didn’t think it was you, either,” Dean adds after a half-beat. He reaches up unselfconsciously, and then seems to realise what he’s doing at the last moment, and awkwardly flicks the brim of Castiel’s hat with the back of one finger before taking a step away. “Didn’t think you’d ever go in for… you know. Whatever this is.”

Castiel can easily read that expression on Dean’s face. He’s seen it before, in other times, other places. The mixture of bravado and hurt and confusion had made sense when lives had been at stake and grand lies had been unfolding, but this – here, today, in among his roses and sunflowers, Castiel hadn’t expected it. Dean looks betrayed.

And Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He reaches up to his hat, just brushing the brim with the tips of his fingers in the same place Dean touched it.

“I need the hat,” he says. “To keep the sun off my neck.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Yeah.” He looks up at the sky, which is still an overcast grey.

“Even through clouds,” Castiel offers.

“Uh huh. Okay.”

Castiel squints at him.

“You seem angry,” he says. No more dancing around it. Predictably, Dean makes a face, as though the suggestion were ridiculous.

“Nah.”

“Dean.” Castiel fixes him with a look, and Dean shrugs.

“Whatever, man.”

“If something is wrong…” Castiel says.

“Listen, if coming out here and growing your little flowers and everything helps, then that’s fine,” he says. “It’s fine.”

There’s a but coming, and Castiel knows enough to wait for it. Dean looks aimlessly around at the burgeoning plants. His eyes trace the tangle of a buddleia, until he glances back to Castiel, who raises an eyebrow.

Dean’s front drops, the stiffness going out of his shoulders, his hands unclenching.

“But your grace, man,” he says. Castiel looks down at the ground. He should have expected this, he knew. But somehow hearing the words still takes him by surprise.

“What about it,” he says, in a tone that doesn’t really want an answer, but knows it’s going to get one.

Dean’s hands come up, palms facing out, asking a question without words at first.

“Seriously,” he manages after a moment. “What about it? It’s your grace, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel says.

“It’s gone,” Dean says.

“I know.”

“It’s been months.”

“I…” Castiel sighs. “Yes.”

“You told me it was just gone,” Dean says, ducking his chin slightly to catch Castiel’s eyes. “Like it was no big deal. And now all you do is spend time up here, planting flowers. Not even trying to look for it. I don’t get it, man. And whenever I try to bring it up, you just say –”

“It’s taken care of,” Castiel says, at the same time as Dean mouths the words along with him, his expression exasperated with a spiderweb of hurt threaded through.

“It’s your grace.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “I know it is. But it’s taken care of, Dean. I don’t want…”

He cuts himself off before he says too much, pressing his lips together.

Dean shakes his head. Castiel can see him battling with himself, trying to decide whether he wants to push harder. Castiel keeps his face neutral, hoping Dean will drop it.

“Don’t want what?” Dean says, though, and Castiel feels his heart sink. “You’re human, now. And you’re stuck that way until you get your grace back, but you won’t even…” Dean seems to run out of words. Castiel tries to think of something to say to divert the conversation, take them down a different track.

“I’m doing better at shaving,” he says. “And I’ve learned not to brush my teeth before drinking orange juice.”

Castiel can see the slight smile on Dean’s face, but it’s almost completely buried under the worry and the anger.

“Right,” Dean says.

“Dean…”

“I just don’t get it. The grace… if it’s lost, I can help with that. If it’s destroyed, I can try to help too, or… we’ll figure something out. Or if it’s safe, why won’t you tell me what happened with it?” The strain in Dean’s voice tells Castiel that they’re at the heart of it now, at the reason for the tight shoulders and the clipped answers and the judgemental eyes on his catmint and cosmos. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

Castiel stares at him helplessly. The answers are in the back of his throat, ready to be said, but he can’t open his mouth – can’t get them out. He feels his heart thudding, his human heart. He doesn’t know if he likes that feeling, if he wants it – perhaps not, no more than he wants sunburn, or the taste of orange juice after toothpaste, or blood on his palms when he catches himself on that peach rose’s thorns.

But there’s something he does want. And any chance at – at that – any chance at all, it’s worth the weight of being human. He made a choice and he knows he’d make it, the same one, over and over again.

He thinks it all, but he can’t say it. Dean watches him, angry and confused. Overhead, the clouds lumber their heavy bellies across the sky.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Dean says. Castiel looks away, and Dean takes a step closer. “Cas,” he says. “I swear to god.”

Castiel looks up at him, knowing his own tiredness is right there to be seen on his face – and his sadness, his hurt. Dean’s expression shifts, and he comes even closer.

“What did you do, man? Is it that bad?”

It’s easy to see Dean’s mind working, trying to piece everything together. He’s probably thinking demons, and deals, and treachery, all the things that they’ve been through before. Castiel doesn’t know how to explain to him that he’s wrong without telling him the whole truth. And he can’t tell the whole truth.

“Look,” Dean says, “we’ll figure it out. If you just tell me – tell me where it is, or what happened. Did someone do this? And what… what does all of this have to do with it…” He looks around again at the garden. Castiel closes his eyes for a second, lets the familiar feeling of being here fill him as much as he can let it – the warmth in his chest, the spark.

He knows he should try to talk about it, but he can’t. He can’t.

When he opens his eyes, Dean’s waiting, watching him. Castiel opens his mouth – but nothing comes out.

Dean’s face tightens again.

“Okay,” he says. “So it’s like that. Great, Cas.”

“Dean, it’s –”

“No, it’s fine,” Dean says, his tone taut with bitterness, but his face carefully unbothered. “That’s fine. Deal with it by yourself. That’s always gone so well. And meanwhile, me, I’ll just, what? Wait for you to give me the bad news, I guess. That’s great, Cas. Really. You know, you –”

“Stop,” Castiel asks.

And a little of the fight leaves Dean again. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but doesn’t know what. His face is half apology and half anger.

“It just…” he says. And then waves his hand, like it doesn’t matter anyway.

And it’s the simplicity of the hurt in that gesture that has Castiel throwing all his caution to the wind and saying,

“I don’t want it back.”

Dean stops moving. His eyes fix on Castiel.

“What?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s jaw is tight, but he manages to say again,

“I don’t want it back. My grace. I know where it is. But I don’t want it back.”

All of Dean’s carefully placed anger is gone, suddenly, in his shock. There’s no performance, no strategy, in the way that he steps closer and looks utterly bewildered.

“You don’t?” he says.

“No. I…” Castiel hesitates, and then says, “I took it out myself.”

“You what?”

Castiel lifts one shoulder, a little diffidently. It had been necessary, so he’d done it. As simple as that.

“Cas,” Dean says, and then seems to be at a loss. Castiel doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say, so far as he can see.

He’s made his choice. And if he ever regrets it, if he ever wishes things could be different, all he has to do is look at Dean and it pales to nothing.

“Cas… why?” Dean manages eventually, and Castiel breathes out.

He looks at Dean.

Dean stares right back at him, not understanding.

“Did someone make you?” Dean demands. “We can go and look for them, we can –”

“No,” Castiel says. “No. I chose to do it.”

“But Cas…”

“It’s –” Castiel presses his lips together again, trying not to let the expression look pained, even though there’s a flash of hurt through his chest at the thought of trying to say any of it aloud. Saying it would push the two of them, Dean and Castiel, towards a tipping point. A no-takebacks, no room for misunderstanding point. Sharp as a thorn.

And it’s the last thing Castiel wants.

Until they talk about it, anything seems possible. It almost feels real enough. But if they talk, it’ll all be over. Dean will tell him to take back his grace, and Castiel will have to leave. It’ll be over.

“You took it out. What would you do that for,” Dean says. When Castiel doesn’t reply, he reaches out and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says, the word harsh enough to compensate for the touch.

“It’s nothing,” Castiel says.

“Cas.”

“Really, it’s…” Castiel stops. The denial dies in his mouth. He swallows, his eyes on Dean, before he looked down. “I just want to be able to stay with you.”

The last two words are too much – all of it is too much – but they’re out his mouth before he can stop them. Castiel breathes out and waits to feel Dean’s hand loosen its grip, drop away in shock at the unwanted intensity. It’s too much. Castiel knows it’s too much.

But Dean’s hand is still on his shoulder.

“You want to be able to stay?” Dean says.

“Yes.” Castiel says it bluntly, to try to shave off the emotion, make it easier to talk about. Dean’s hand still doesn’t move. Castiel can feel each place Dean’s fingers are digging in slightly through the thin material of his t-shirt. His heart is pounding and he wants to be able to turn it off, quiet it down, hear Dean’s heart instead in the way he could when he had his grace. He wants it with a sudden acuteness, a pang of loss.

“But – you can,” Dean says. “Why would you think you needed to do this?”

Castiel can’t look back up at him.

“Cas,” Dean says.

There’s a band of pain squeezing tightly around Castiel’s chest. He can’t quite seem to get his breath, suddenly.

“I just thought I’d fit better this way,” he says.

“Fit better?” Now Dean moves his hand, pulls back, though he doesn’t go far. “What do you mean?”

“You’re human,” Castiel says. He looks up, meets Dean’s eyes. “Now I am too. I thought, maybe…”

He trails off. He can’t say more. He can’t talk about what he hopes for, what he wants. He can’t.

Dean’s hand is back on his shoulder and the touch is different, now, less insistent. Softer. Castiel can see the gentleness in Dean’s eyes, shy and uncertain, allowed to show just for a few moments.

“We don’t have to be the same,” Dean says.

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer.

“We’ve never been the same,” Dean says. “But we’re still good. Right?”

There are no words in Castiel’s mind, or none that make sense – or none that he can say aloud. He wishes he could give Dean the way that he feels, just drop it into Dean’s mind, show him without having to explain it. The feeling is yes, good, of course we’re good, but there’s more – there’s different things, things I want to be to you, ways I want to be with you. And not telling you feels more and more like lying with every passing day but I don’t know how to tell you without you being suddenly aware that I’ve been wanting you in a different way to how you want me for a very long time, and will you hate me for that? Will you think I’m a liar? Will you send me away? Could I bear that? Could I bear it? If you hated me, how could I bear it?

“I just,” Castiel says, “I just want to be able to stay.” It’s the only part of it that will come out of his mouth.

“You can,” Dean says. “You don’t need… damnit, Cas, you didn’t have to take your own grace out just to be able to stay.”

Castiel nods mutely. Dean’s hand squeezes Castiel’s shoulder.

“So you can put it back, right?” he says. “The grace. You can go get it and put it back?”

“I could.” It comes out more direct and harsh than Castiel intended, and Dean’s grip tightens.

“So…?” he says.

Castiel can’t meet his eyes. He looks to the side, around the garden that he’s created. The flowers that have unfurled for him, trusting, unfussy about what deep love and secrets he’s hiding. The leaves and shoots that grow steadily under the care of his hands, no matter who else those hands wish they could hold.

“Cas,” Dean says again, and gives another squeeze, and then lets go. “Your grace is you, man. All these months, it’s not like you’ve had a good time being human, is it?”

“It’s worth it.”

“Worth it?” Dean echoes.

“If it means we’re the same,” Castiel says. And his reasoning isn’t even clear to Castiel himself, now. It just feels as though if they’re both human, if they both are the same thing, there’s a chance they could both feel the same way, too – it makes no sense, and yet Castiel can’t imagine letting go of the thought.

“We don’t need to be the same,” Dean says, repeating himself with a look that’s crossed between confusion and concern.

“But I…”

Castiel stops talking, cuts himself off. Dean’s eyes search his face.

“You want to be?” Dean says, cautious, hazarding a guess. And when Castiel’s expression tells Dean he’s right, his face goes even more soft with surprise. “Why?”

There isn’t anything that Castiel can say in answer. No explanations he can give that will make sense outside his own mind. All he finds himself doing is looking at Dean – looking at him more openly than he has done in a long time, half tight-lipped and wanting the conversation to end, half hoping that Dean will finally piece it all together. He allows himself to stare, frankly and directly, pushing away the guilt and shame that push at him and tell him to look down, step away, move back, leave. He stares like he once used to all the time, letting down the walls.

There’s Dean, he thinks. There he is. Sometimes the feelings in Castiel grow so big and overwhelming that he forgets the shape of the man at the heart of them. The way Dean cares. The way Dean looks at him right back, matches him – when it comes down to it, never pretends it doesn’t matter to him when it does.

Dean’s mouth opens to form words, but he seems to stop himself. Castiel watches Dean swallow, and feels the familiar swoop and ache in his chest as all his crushing sky-sized love focuses into the smallness of the place on Dean’s throat that he wants to touch.

Dean goes to say something, and then stops.

Castiel looks down at Dean’s lips, and then back up again.

Is it wrong, how much he wants to kiss Dean? The feeling is pressing, immediate, alive. It’s in Castiel’s blood, in his bones. If Dean doesn’t want him too, in the same way, does that make the feeling wrong? Or would it just be acting on it, making Dean aware of it, that would be wrong? But the feeling is a background hum in everything Castiel does. He acts on it even when Dean isn’t with him. He acts on it all the time.

Every passing moment changes the gaze between them. Dean’s waiting for him to talk, not filling in the space with any words this time, but his face keeps sinking further into something that looks dangerously like realisation.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. If how he feels, or what he’s doing, is wrong, then he should look away. He should go away, leave Dean alone, find somewhere else to be. But he couldn’t, he can’t, not until he knows for sure that Dean doesn’t feel even slightly the same way – and he can’t ask, because as soon as he knows Dean doesn’t feel the same way, he’ll have to leave. The thoughts chase their tails in Castiel’s head and he stares and he stares at Dean and he hurts so much that he wants to hit his own chest just for the distraction of a simpler pain.

“You don’t know what?”

“I just don’t know, Dean.”

Dean is watching him carefully, his mouth slightly open, as though trying to figure out how to phrase something he wants to say. There’s a slight tinge of colour to his cheeks, too, Castiel notices.

“Uh,” Dean says. His mouth shapes a ‘w’ like the start of a question, and then closes again, and he frowns – but he doesn’t look away.

He almost knows, Castiel thinks. He’s almost understood. And as soon as Dean understands, it’s over. Unless he feels the same way, which he doesn’t. He can’t. We’re not the same. No matter how hard I try and how much I change, we’re not ever the same.

He needs to cauterise this conversation like a wound, stop all this from happening, but he can’t find the words. Dean’s still watching him. Castiel’s heart is thunder in his head, drowning out his thoughts.

“You look like the whole world’s falling apart,” Dean says eventually. “Not an exaggeration. ‘Cause I’ve seen your face when the world was actually falling apart.” Dean points vaguely with one finger towards Castiel’s face. “And it looked like that.”

Castiel nods mutely, and Dean sighs and glances sharply away, and then back again.

“Come on, Cas, jesus. Something’s up, so whatever it is, just tell me.” He looks at Castiel for a long time, and then he says it again. In a different voice, quieter, with a little rise at the end as though of hope or something equally as stupid for Castiel to consider. “Tell me.”

It’s said in a way that makes Castiel want to believe he’s asking for all the things Castiel wants to give.

Dean’s eyes are wide, too. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s asking.

And Castiel’s human heart is pounding at that tone in his voice, that look on his face, because it feels as though – tentatively – they could be talking about the same thing. The longer Castiel watches Dean’s face, the more he sees it. There are the little flickers of denial, uncertainty, in the way Dean’s eyes narrow for a half-moment. And then there again is the rise of hope in the depth of Dean’s gaze, the openness.

It’s so small and barely-there that Castiel can’t trust it. He can’t know how this ends. It’s a rope thrown into down into his well, though, and with no idea what waits for him at the top, he still puts his hand on it and wonders if he’s strong enough to begin to climb.

“I, um.” He starts to speak, and his voice is low and rough. When he pauses almost immediately, Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, licks his lips. Castiel searches for the words. “I tried staking that peach rose. But it didn’t do any good.”

Dean looks confused. He doesn’t even bother to look down at the rose, just keeps his eyes on Castiel.

“What…” he says.

“It just grew that way,” Castiel says. He can feel a lump in his throat. “Naturally. It wanted to grow that way.”

“Okay,” Dean says, as though slightly concerned for Castiel’s sanity.

“I think sometimes it’s just like that,” Castiel says. He meets Dean’s eyes. “You can try planting them in the place you want them. Cut them back. Put a stake through them.” He resists the sudden, unexpected urge to reach up and touch the place on his chest where, years ago, Dean buried a knife in his heart. He swallows. “But sometimes there are things you can’t control. And even if it’s not… not healthy, or pretty, or the way it’s supposed to go… that’s how they’ll grow. Just towards the place they want to be.”

Dean’s listening intently, but his eyes are clouded with confusion. He looks like he wants to say something, and then stops himself. Castiel can’t blame him for not understanding, when half the point is that he’s talking without getting to the point. He doesn’t want to get to that sharp-split point when his life takes one of two courses, when Dean says one of two things.

“Dean, I…” Castiel says, and his hand reaches out. Unconsciously, awkwardly, the straggling limb of a plant that has never grown the way it should have done. And Castiel goes to catch himself, to stop letting his fingers trail through the air reaching for a place they can’t go – but then Dean takes his hand.

Dean takes his hand, and holds onto it. Not sweetly, not softly. Hard. Like they’re at the top of a cliff and Dean’s afraid of losing his grip and having to watch Castiel fall alone.

Castiel can barely breathe. Against the odds his hand is being held by Dean. Against the way that his words desert him, against the thousands of reasons that the two of them shouldn’t have ever even met, let alone be standing here together in a garden. Against all of it, Castiel’s hand is squeezed tight in Dean’s.

There’s a part of Castiel that’s trying to pinch itself, that’s shaking its head in denial, but Dean’s grip is warm and real.

“Cas,” Dean says. “Do you…”

The question has no ending, but it’s Dean, so the answer is yes. Castiel nods.

Dean’s expression seems, with just the smallest of looks in his eyes, to break apart. He holds onto Castiel’s hand and says nothing, doesn’t move.

“And…” Castiel says, but his throat goes dry. He can do this. He has to do this. If he doesn’t now, he never will. He tries again. “And… you?”

Dean looks momentarily bewildered.

“Yeah, Cas,” he says.

Castiel feels himself go light, so suddenly his stomach flips.

Yeah, Cas, he hears in his head. Yeah, Cas.

On another day, when Castiel hadn’t just told Dean how he feels through a series of oblique angles – when Castiel’s hand wasn’t still being held in the rough warmth of Dean’s – Castiel might have been indignant at that tone in Dean’s voice. As though it had been obvious, when yes, half the time Dean was staring at him like he actually mattered, was ready to die for him – but the rest of the time Dean couldn’t look at him, was ready to die for anything.

Their hands swing a little between them. Just their arm muscles getting a little tired, and their hands moving together. Such a very little thing to happen, Castiel thinks. So very small. After all this time it’s just one hand in another, and it means absolutely crushingly everything, in the way that he’d known it would.

It’s happening, he thinks. It’s happening. We’re the same. We’re the same.

A little clutch of fear that he might change, one day. Wake up and be something else, unexpectedly. Grow again, in a direction Dean doesn’t –

Castiel breathes. It’s alright. He’s torn out his grace for this. He can be the person Dean needs. He can change himself again. Over and over, if needs be.

He holds Dean’s hand. Tight. He can always change again. He can make them the same again. Whatever it takes. For this, for the feeling of Dean's hand in his, it would be worth it, anything would be worth it. But –

Dean’s grip goes slack in his own.

“Wait,” Dean says. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Castiel says. He holds tighter. “Nothing.”

Dean’s hand drops Castiel’s. The loosening of his grip is a slow-motion whip crack across Castiel’s chest.

“No?” Dean says, looking at Castiel, asking with the single word whether Castiel doesn’t want anything that just happened. He puts his hands up just a little way, maybe a surrender, maybe just a gesture to show he isn’t touching.

“Wait,” Castiel says, his hand still in place, still reaching. It shows, then, he thinks to himself. That sickle-curve sharpness in his chest, the fear in him that he won’t always be able to fit himself to what Dean wants, it must show. Dean can see it. Castiel lifts his chin, tries to look as though he’s feeling incredibly happy, instead of just incredibly much. “Dean, why are you –”

“Cas…” Dean’s eyes are searching his face, looking for the place where something is wrong. Castiel wants to cut in, insist that nothing is wrong. Take Dean’s hand again, reach for more – he could reach for more, he thinks, and his heart twists, and his head feels light. He could reach for more. Dean might let him. Dean was holding his hand for a moment, there, by choice, as though it really meant something. Castiel’s mouth is dry.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel tries. But his stomach is sinking, even as he’s aching with the terrifying joy of the sudden opening of all the doors he’d always thought were closed for him.

Dean can see that he’s scared. Dean is going to figure it all out. And then those doors will close again.

“I mean…” Dean says. He blinks, shakes his head just slightly. Seems to remember where exactly he is, glancing around at Castiel’s garden. It’s all slipping out of Castiel’s grasp. They’re going to pretend as though the last two minutes never happened, Castiel can feel it.

It’s unbearable. It’s unbearable. The idea of having had it for barely a few seconds, and then losing it. Castiel reaches for words, for anything – something that will show Dean how much it all means to him, how far he’ll go to make it work.

“We’re both human,” he says, almost blurts. “I took out my grace. So we can be… so I can stay.”

Took out, he thinks to himself. What a clinical way to talk about the tearing, the self-destruction, the loss.

Dean just looks at him, mouth slightly open.

This is supposed to be the part where Dean argues, Castiel realises only when it doesn’t come. This is the part where Dean asks me what the hell I was thinking. Tells me to put the grace damn well back where it came from, and to stop making terrible decisions. And then I argue back, and tell him I’ll do what I want to do with my own grace, and I made this choice for him, and I’d do it again.

But Dean isn’t saying anything. He’s just staring. And Castiel stares, too. He can’t argue back when Dean hasn’t started the fight. He can’t push back if Dean never pushed forward. So they stand in silence. The clouds overhead roll on, oblivious to the hearts frantically pounding so far beneath them.

“Cas,” Dean says, and he says it differently to how he’s supposed to – quietly, carefully, handling the name like it’s made of something delicate. “I don’t know what you want me to say, man.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Castiel says.

“But you… you did that…”

Castiel watches him mutely.

“Why?” Dean asks.

So many answers. To be like you. To be near you. To show you I can change for you. Castiel opens his mouth and tries not to say too much.

“For – this,” Castiel says, managing to stop himself saying, for you.

“This?”

“This,” Castiel says, holding Dean’s gaze.

Dean holds his gaze.

“But it – ah. Jesus, Cas, this is hard to talk about.”

Castiel nods. He doesn’t want to let it go – feels sick at the idea of Dean just dropping the subject, and heading back inside, leaving the garden and forgetting all about what they’d said to each other. Chalking it up as somewhere he’d never go again. Too much baggage, too heavy, not worth it.

Dean puffs out his cheeks, though, and breathes out sharply, and says,

“It’s just that, hell, man, you never had to take the grace out to have… you know… anything you wanted out of me.” Dean looks uncertain as he says the last part, as though a little disbelieving that Castiel could want anything from him in particular. “You know that. Right?”

His voice is so different. So gentle in a way that Castiel only barely recognises from the most private of moments they’ve shared. Castiel is suddenly so intensely aware that they’re the only two in the garden, alone with each other. No one else to see them or hear them or judge what they say to each other. It’s a thought that gives him courage.

“I’ve changed for you since the beginning,” Castiel says. Dean opens his mouth, and then closes it, his eyes troubled. Castiel watches him, thinking. “Or –” he starts, as a new thought occurs to him. “Or, changed because of you, at least.”

Dean still looks confused, as though he doesn’t really see the difference. To Castiel, though, it feels clear as day. He changed because he met Dean – without that meeting, he would still be the angel he’d always been. But when he thought about it, the person he changed for was himself. Because it had felt right. Because it felt, period, and that was what he’d wanted.

It loops round and round perfectly in Castiel’s mind. Meeting Dean, the push Castiel needed to start running. And knowing Dean, now, the pull Castiel needs to keep changing, stay with him, stay together.

“I just thought,” Castiel says, when Dean stays silent, “if I could be human like you, then maybe you’d… maybe we could be the same. And stay that way.”

“And you want that,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“Because…”

“Because,” Castiel says, a little taken aback, “I want… this.”

“But why’d we have to be the same for that? I mean – this?” Dean frowns, as though almost losing track of what he’s trying to say. They’re trying to talk all around it without using any words that are too big.

“Why…” Castiel trails off as he considers the question.

Dean shrugs, in a way that battles to look uncaring and ends up looking heartfelt.

“But… we need to be the same,” Castiel says. He wants them to be close like two leaves on a tree. Closer, two petals on a flower. No, closer still, not even two things. Just one, one plant, growing strong. He wants them that close, that inseparable, after so long being forced apart by fate and circumstance. No would-be gods or divine powers could set them apart if they were one thing. The same.

“But we aren’t the same, Cas,” Dean says, so quietly that Castiel only just hears it over the little burst of breeze that briefly ruffles over them.

Castiel feels his chest clench.

“I’m trying…” he says.

“No, I mean – I mean we can’t be,” Dean says. “I mean, we aren’t, ‘cause we’re… you know… two different people. There it is, you know? Different people. We can’t be exactly the same.”

“But…” Castiel starts, and the word comes out sounding almost angry, so he checks himself and looks down. “But,” he starts again, “if I can just…”

“C’mon,” Dean says, the smallest of smiles softening one side of his mouth. “You wouldn’t really want two of me running around the place, would you?”

“That’s not how I meant it,” Castiel answers, his voice serious, but with a lightness in his eyes to acknowledge Dean’s brush with humour.

“Come to think of it, though,” Dean says, “I’d get a lot more work done on the car if there were two of me. And we could harmonise on Zepp tracks. Maybe you are onto something.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, though he can feel his heart lifting just seeing Dean reaching out for him, trying to make him smile.

“I wouldn’t let you share my toothbrush, though, no way.” Dean looks around the garden. “And this would have to go. Hate to break it to you, but no way are you digging around in the dirt for hours if you’re me. Not unless there’s something to salt and burn at the end of it.”

“I know,” Castiel says, and the words sound little and obstinate, but his hands relax. Dean is looking at him like he gets it – like he sees that curling fear inside Castiel, the one that can’t let them be two different and separate things that just happen by the grace of luck to be next to each other. Because luck runs out, and they both know it. The only way to be sure of staying together, the fear says, is to be so much the same as to be one thing.

But it’s impossible. Castiel can’t be Dean. And Dean’s right, too, because Castiel doesn’t really want to be. He doesn’t want to give up gardening. He doesn’t want to work on Dean’s car. He doesn’t want to share a toothbrush.

He wants to spend time growing things. He wants his own hands in the dirt. He wants – he wants Dean, in the way that he has done since meeting Dean. And he wants to keep wanting.

Even if he didn’t want it, it’s what is. They’re two plants next to each other. Hoping not to be uprooted, hoping for sun, hoping for kind hands that stake them upright and water them even when they won’t flower. Always at the mercy of whatever storms might come, however hard Castiel tries to tangle himself together with Dean, camouflage with him, become just the same.

There are plants that do that, Castiel remembers. Plants that tangle and blend with other plants. They’re weeds. They choke out the first plant, cut off all its light and food until it dies. Two things can’t become one thing without loss. And Castiel doesn’t want to lose Dean – and, he realises quite suddenly, he also doesn’t want to lose himself. There’s so much he wants to do.

Things he might be able to do.

He looks at Dean, who’s watching him piece it all together, giving him time in silence, or maybe just struggling to find more words. But either way, Dean is still here. Dean is in front of him. A moment ago, they were hand in hand.

They could be again.

“You good?” Dean asks, seeming to sense Castiel come to a conclusion.

“Yes,” Castiel says. Dean visibly relaxes, shoulders easing under his coat. Castiel wants to put his hands on those shoulders. He wants to reach out. He wants to touch. He wants, wants, wants, and it feels like still growing, it feels like still changing, it feels like being alive. Like being himself.

He wants to hear Dean’s heartbeat. He wants his grace back. With a sudden absolute certainty, Castiel feels how much he wants his grace back.

He meets Dean’s eyes, and says simply,

“It’s here.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow, catching Castiel’s mood without his meaning.

“It’s here?”

“My grace,” Castiel says. “You were asking where it was. It’s here.”

“Here?” Dean looks confused.

Castiel can feel his mood unfurling, the parts of himself that he’s pushed away and hidden – the parts that have known all along he wants his grace back – finally allowed to breathe, finally being given what they need. He turns his attention to his garden, bending down next to the peach rose that has been so wilfully refusing to blossom.

“I didn’t expect anything to grow when I buried it here,” Castiel says to Dean, over his shoulder. “But then the first flowers came, and so I bought more, and then I put in the fence, and – it helped, being able to come here.” He puts out his hand towards the peach rose, speaking meditatively, almost not quite to Dean at all.

His fingertips brush the tightly closed buds, the sharpness of the thorns. Castiel lets that want for his grace rise up in him, unafraid of the feeling now that he knows it can be acted on. He closes his eyes, and feels for his grace.

It’s right there, waiting for him.

Brilliant and electric. Fast, so fast, and all colours, colours so bright they hiss and spit as they rocket up the stem of the peach rose and through Castiel’s fingers, filling his body with a fierce familiar hum. Castiel breathes in and smells every flower in the garden at once and the breeze and the tang of sap and the rich wetness of the soil and there, behind him, Dean. He breathes out ozone, heady.

He can feel the hat on his head, the way it rests on each hair. He can feel Dean’s closeness, the way the atoms of air jumble between them.

He can feel the sunshine on his face when it finally breaks through the clouds overhead.

The world is turning beneath his feet as it should. The plants around him are creaking as they grow. Dean is breathing a little quicker than usual, and Dean’s heartbeat – there it is. That sound Castiel has missed since the day he tore out his grace. Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud. Castiel closes his eyes more tightly and focuses in on it, loses himself briefly in its rhythm.

“Cas?” Dean says. His voice has all the layers Castiel can hear as an angel. Richer, deeper. He can hear the roughness that comes from the light scarring in Dean’s throat after years of hunting, calling out warnings and yelling in shock. He can hear the exact pitch at which Dean ends the single word, the note that means it’s a question and it’s shy and it’s hopeful and Dean is trying to hide all of it.

The sun is bright when Castiel opens his eyes. There on the peach rose, at the tip of the stem through which he drew out his grace from the earth, is a full-blossom flower. Blushing petals unfurled, just waiting to be looked at, to be touched. Castiel reaches up a finger, and presses it to the velvet centre.

He stands up, and turns to Dean, who’s looking at him with something in his eyes that’s just the same. Newly unfurled, wanting touch.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean’s face relaxes.

“Here all along, huh.” Dean says. “Damn it, Cas. And there was me, worrying where to find it for no goddamn reason.” The words are irritable but Dean’s tone is a betrayal of them, because it’s so gentle, so serious. Serious enough that Castiel doesn’t feel silly when he takes a step forward, closer to Dean.

He meets Dean’s eyes silently, asking a question.

“You still…?” Dean says.

Still what exactly, Castiel wonders. Still want this? Still want you? Still look at you and think about how anything else I’ve tried to care about felt like trying to follow a script written for a part I was never meant to play, but with you caring grows up without me even trying like a wild rose in good earth?

The answer to all of it is yes. It’s Dean, after all. The answer is yes.

Castiel doesn’t use words to say it. Dean barely used them to ask the question, it was all in his eyes and the way he’s still holding his arms slightly out to the sides as though hoping to have a reason to put them around someone, and so Castiel gives him a reason.

The closeness – Castiel has always thought it might be jarring, if it ever happened, to be in Dean’s space like this. Something he’s wanted for so long and imagined so many times that the reality would be strange. But it’s not strange, it’s – it’s just a little slow, and hushed. It’s so quiet in the garden as they come together. Hand touching hand. Then arms reaching up. Castiel’s eyes tracing the lines of Dean’s face, finally having time to do it in as much time as he chooses, because Dean’s going a pleased shade of red under his gaze.

“I, uh,” Dean says, his voice a little hoarse. Castiel tilts his head at a slight angle. “I, uh. I don’t know how to do this. When it’s you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I – I don’t know if you want me to…” Dean’s eyes drop to Castiel’s lips. Through angel’s eyes, Castiel can see the slight tremor in him, the way he leans in just a little and then pulls back, the way his muscles are tightening in uncertainty.

“Yes,” says Castiel simply. He reaches up, and tilts his hat back.

“But you… it’s…” Dean looks at him helplessly.

And Castiel thinks perhaps he understands. This thing between them, the way that Castiel feels, it’s – it’s alive, it’s wider and deeper than the sky. It’s everything. And they’re supposed to, what, kiss about it? As though it were the end of a fairy tale? The end of a second date?

But then, they’ve done all the rest of it before. They’ve done blood and big choices. They’ve done hands grasping for each other against every rule, against all the smart money. And now there’s just this.

There’s just Castiel leaning forwards, and seeing relief and happiness break through on Dean’s face like sunshine for a second, before they kiss.

Castiel feels his wings unfurl.

It’s still not Heaven. It’s not even close. But – Castiel pulls back, and sees the expression on Dean’s face, the way his eyes are wide and unbelieving and so, so happy. But it’s a place, where Castiel is growing things.

#whelvenwingsfic #destiel #destiel fic #ahh I managed to finish it in time!! I'm so glad #I started this thinking it was gonna be something tiny and all fluff #and then this came out #what can you do #thank you so much to the mods for running the challenge #and to the artist for submitting such lovely art #and to sam wanderingcas for being herself in my vicinity

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cloudy-minded-idiot · 3 years

Text

secrets

pairing: Shuri x reader

warnings: none that I could think of

word count: ~2,200 words

a/n: requested by @junajackson. sorry that it took me so long to write this! between uni and having to evacuate my appartment for a while, I really didn’t have a lot of freetime to write. I hope you like it :)

summary: shuri comes to visit the avengers compound, and your teammates dicover that you’ve been secretly dating the Wakandan princess for a while now.

The sun was already starting to rise by the time you returned to the compound, bathing the sky in a light pink hue. It was a pretty sight for your sore eyes. You felt drained, the way you often did after a mission. You had been gone for almost a week without being able to contact anyone, getting very little sleep as you had to fight your way out of one mess after the other. Ultimately, the mission was a success but exhausted as you were, you didn’t have it in you to celebrate.

You were welcomed back by an agent who briefly reminded you when your mission report would be due. You muttered out a confirmation and made a beeline for your room, stripping yourself from your dirty clothes and jumping under the shower. Cleaning up made you feel a lot better, and the warm water did wonders for your aching muscles. Dressed in something comfortable, you walked to your bedroom, ready to call it a day and catch some sleep. You had barely covered yourself with a blanket when a disembodied voice interrupted the tranquility of your room.

“Mr. Stark has requested your presence in the common room.”

Burying your head in your pillow, you let out a groan.

“Do I have to?”

Even to your own ears, your voice sounded whiney. The AI refrained from commenting on that, though.

“Mr. Stark is giving you five minutes to get to the common room and advises you to make yourself look presentable.”

Grumbling out some incoherent swear words, you stumbled out of bed and slowly got changed and pulled on some shoes. After assuring your hair looked alright, you made the small track to the common room. Tony looked up when you entered but, seeing your glare, refrained from making whatever stupid comment he had on the tip of his tongue.

Silently he passed you a cup of coffee which you received with a grateful nod. Taking a sip of the dark fluid, you let its warmth and the caffeine wash over you.

“How was your mission?” Tony asked tentatively, almost as if scared you would snap at him.

“Long and exhausting. I had to ditch my phone and comms the first day and barely had time to sleep or eat,” you took another long sip of your drink before throwing him a side glance, “I really hope for the sake of you that this is important.”

Tony was quick to assure you that it was, perhaps fearing that you would lose your cool otherwise. And yes, you were tired, but you were not irrational. The worst you would do is hit him in the arm and cuss him out, maybe prank him, later on, to get even.

“Important visitors are arriving from Wakanda today. We’re doing a bit of collaborative work on a new suit, improve some of my technology, etcetera. I need someone to show them around while I’m at a meeting with Fury. Think you’re up for that?”

You visibly perked up once you heard about Wakanda. You were more than familiar with their technology. After all, you were dating the head of their science and information department, although Tony didn’t know that. No one on the team did. After all, it hadn’t been until very recently that Wakanda decided to open up to the world and share its knowledge and technology. So, naturally, secrecy had to be part of the deal at the beginning of your relationship. And since then, you had just never found the time or the opportunity to broach the subject.

“I think I'll manage.”

Tony patted your shoulder with a grateful nod.

“Good. I know you’re tired, but I'll owe you one after this,” he said, distractedly checking his watch as he spoke, “I gotta run. Can’t keep Fury waiting any longer. Tell the Wakandans I'll be back by lunchtime. Keep them entertained until then, alright?”

At your affirmation, Tony thanked you and left you alone in the common room. You made yourself a second cup of coffee, already feeling better than before. That might also have something to do with the excitement of knowing your girlfriend might be coming to visit. After all, she was the head of the technology and information exchange program, so it would only make sense for her to be the one arriving today.

When FRIDAY alerted you that the Wakandan jet was preparing to land, you were out of your seat and down at the landing lane in no time. Some agents threw you weird looks, but you couldn’t care less. The plane had just shut off its engine when you arrived, waiting a couple of feet away to leave enough space for the small boarding ramp.

First to step off the jet, were two Dora Milaje carrying their standard sonic spear and serious expressions. The two warriors remained at either side of the door, eyeing the terrain with watchful eyes. Your own were fixed on the door while practically bouncing on the back of your feet in anticipation. As soon as you recognized the silhouette of your girlfriend in the doorway, you couldn’t help the big goofy smile that came to your face.

Her eyes trailed over the small airport before finally landing on you. Face lighting up, she matched your grin with one of her own. It had been so long since you had last seen Shuri in person, your heart stammered a bit just at the sight of her. The Wakandan princess quickly descended the ramp, immediately engulfing you in a hug that you returned just as fiercely.

“I was not sure you would be here when I arrived,” she admitted, releasing you just enough so that she could really look at your face, “I haven’t heard from you since you left for your mission a week ago.”

She gave you a playfully reproachful look, causing you to grimaced sheepishly.

“I just came back an hour ago. I would have called, but sadly my phone was one of the few casualties of my mission. Anyways,” stepping back a little, you cleared your throat and jokingly bowed slightly before your girlfriend, continuing in a mockingly formal tone.

“Princess Shuri, I have the honor to officially welcome you and the Dora Milaje to the Avengers Compound. Sadly, Mr. Stark will not be available for the next hours. Until then, I can offer you a tour of the parameters, if you like?”

You held out your hand in silent offer.

She bowed her head in thanks, lightly putting her hand on yours.

“Why thank you, we would appreciate that very much.”

Unable to keep up the show any longer, you both started to giggle before you motioned for her to come along.cHolding hands, you walked her through the most important parts of the compound, ending the tour in the main lab that Tony liked to use. Shuri looked around with an appraising gaze, silently evaluating the different pieces of equipment and machinery as you leaned against the table in the center of the room.

“Not as good as what I have at home, but it will do,” was her verdict, and you laughed slightly.

“Don’t tell Tony that, or he might be tempted to renovate again. He likes to pride himself on having the best of everything.”

“Oh, but he has already admitted that I have the better tech, has he not? Or I wouldn’t be here.”

“True,” you conceded, “So what do you guys have planned? You’re not going to make him a vibranium suit, are you?”

She shook her head, joining you on your side of the table, “We were more thinking along the line of nanotechnology. Something like my brother's Black Panther suit. Easy to carry around, quick to put on. Much more practical.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, trying to sound nonchalant as you asked your next question.

“So, how long do you suppose this would take?”

She hummed, taking a couple of steps closer to you.

“Two, three days at most,” she said, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling your closer, “But for you, I might stretch it out a little. Give us more time together.”

You smiled adoringly at her, leaning in to press a long kiss to her lips. She returned it eagerly, letting out a content sigh. You really had missed her, more than you could ever put into words. And obviously, that sentiment was shared. After a few moments, you pulled apart to catch your breath, resting your foreheads together, breath mingling in the space between you. You stayed like that for a while, just content to hold each other and be close again.

“Almost forgot, I have something for you,” she whispered after a minute, releasing you to reach into her pocket.

“Oh, uh, I didn’t get you any gifts,” you muttered out, a bit embarrassed. She dismissed your worry with a shake of her head. Taking your hand in hers, she slid something onto your wrist. Shuri watched you with anticipation as you slowly realized what it was.

“You made me a Kimoyo bracelet?”

Your eyes were probably wide as saucers, a finger tentatively trailing over the engravings on the vibranium beads. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her nod.

“It’s easier for me to contact you with this than on one of your old school grandpa phones, and I thought it might be useful to you on your missions. It’s no big deal, really.”

She shrugged at the end, trying to play this gesture off. You looked up at her in wonder, quite aware that despite her words, this was, in fact, quite a big deal. For one, vibranium was really expensive. For another, Wakandans weren’t known for just handing out Kimoyo beads to anyone. This not only demonstrated how much she trusted you but also that she believed that the two of you were in this for the long run. Your adoration must have shown on your face because Shuri immediately groaned.

“Oh no, I know that look. Don’t you start getting sentimental on me,” she warned you without any malice. You smiled at her softly, unable to do anything about your expression.

“I won’t, I promise.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, overdramatically throwing her hands up in the air.

“You’re already doing it. Alright, I’m outta here.”

The Wakandan princess turned to go, but you gently took her hand and pulled her back into an embrace.

“I love you, Shuri,” you told her, your voice conveying all the emotions you felt. Her expression softened at your admission, and she leaned in to give you a small kiss.

“I love you, too, you big sap.”

“What's going on here?”

Both of you blinked in confusion, slowly turning to look at the door without letting go of each other. In the entrance of the lab, staring at you with faces ranging from shock to confusion and surprise, stood Tony, Steve, and Natasha.

You cleared your throat, feeling your face heat up, and slowly let go of Shuri, still keeping one of her hands in yours.

“Hey, what are you guys doing here?”

Steve was the one that spoke up, vaguely gesturing towards your girlfriend.

“We came to formally welcome the Princess.”

“Looks like Y/n has done enough welcoming for us all,” Natasha muttered, only snickering when Steve sent her a reproachful look for her comment. Tony was still regarding you flabbergasted.

“You,” Tony took off his ever-present sunglasses motioning between you and Shuri, “And her? Since when?”

“Shuri and I have been dating for almost a year now.”

“A year?” Tony repeated incredulously

“Back when Wakanda ‘s borders were still closed to the world,” Shuri sonfirmed, “With all the secrecy surrounding our technology, Y/n and I thought it would be best to keep our relationship secret too.”

“And after that, I just didn’t know how to tell you guys,” you added sincerely.

Tony looked as though he was about to ask more questions, but luckily Cap intervened, flashing you a smile.

“Well, I’m happy for you two. You look like you're happy together.”

Shuri squeezed your hand encouragingly, knowing how nervous you had been, not knowing how the team would react. Having the Captain’s blessing, even if you didn’t really need it, was appreciated.

“Thanks, Steve.”

“At least this explains why you’ve been having so many late-night phone calls. Good for you,” Natasha teased you, her words having the desired effect of making you groan in embarrassment.

“I guess I’m happy for you, too,” Tony admitted reluctantly after being prompted byone of Steve's stern looks, “But I'll be much happier after your girlfriend helps me with my suit. So shoo, out of the lab. Play time's over, let's get working.”

The billionaire made a motion for you all to leave, Natasha and Steve complying readily, saying their goodbyes to Shuri. Rolling your eyes, you followed his demand as well, but not without leaning in to kiss Shuri’s cheek.

“I'm beat anyways. I haven’t slept in a minute.”

She released your hand with one last small squeeze.

“Get some rest. I'll see you later.”

You were barely out of the lab when, much to Tony’s dismay, you heard Shuri brag about her own lab's much better equipment. You still had a fond smile on your face by the time you finally laid down in your bed.

___________________________________________

taglist: @fireflyglass @madamevirgo @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @penparkz

#shuri x reader #marvel reader insert #request

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hellothere-generalangsty · 3 years

Note

Hello doll, it's Minty! 💚 I saw your requests are open and I simply had to dance into your inbox! I would adore a Bad Batch Western AU fix with Crosshair and the sentence prompt "If that wound doesn't kill you, then I will". I love you friend! 💚💛💚💛💚

Crosshair – Dust and Blood (TBB Western AU)

Summary: Every story need a beginning, a middle, and an end. This is the beginning, and it starts with a man who calls himself Crosshair.

From the sentence prompts:

22. “If that wound doesn’t kill you, then I will.”

Word Count: ≈1535 words

CW/ TW: Angst? Idk if you could say it’s angsty - it’s not happy that’s for sure but angsty? Idk anyway; western stuff, wounds/ injuries, (death) threats, pain, scars, blood

Tags: @mintywriteswritings @chaoticvampirejedi @loth-wolffe @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s (thank you again for the help!) @dusk-dawn-and-stars @tacticalsparkles @imalovernotahater @canwestayinthisdream @wakeupjackthisisntfair @namesmox @badbatch-simp24 @lightning-wolffe @maddieskywalker @for-the-love-of-clones @m-e-w-117 @99squad @equalityforcats

@ladykatakuri @firelordillyria @andiebell2023

Notes: This is so exciting for me you can’t even imagine; thank you Minty for the request! I’m really happy to dive a bit more into the stories of the boys, and Crosshair’s arc is one I’m really happy to explore ^^

Also feel free to check Little One – Highly Suspect (you’ll find out a lot of their songs help me dive into that AU)

Dust.

This is how everything started, and how everything would end. He knew it the moment he jumped down his horse, a grimace of pain twisting his face as the dry coat of blood on his ribs ripped open once again. He tried to take a deep breath but stopped halfway, the pumping in his head becoming too strong to focus on anything else. He almost tripped on his feet, grabbing the beige mane of his companion to keep himself up; which made the horse neigh.

“Sorry, pal.” He barely muttered, unable to do more than loosen up his grip a bit.

Above him, an old sign falling into pieces, and a barely readable inscription on it; bleached by the constant exposure to the sun and the occasional rains.

Marauder Valley.

He walked through the entrance of the abandoned village – if one could call it a village – and wandered next to his horse, looking for shelter and a new shirt. His was tainted with red; dark and dried, smelling like iron and sweat. His wound wasn't bleeding too much anymore, but he could still feel a thin dash dripping against his skin when he was turning around or raising his arm.

It took him a few minutes to find the abandoned saloon, and the sight made him hum in a mixture of disgust and relief. A thick coat of dust was laying on the floor, and most of the bottles and tables were left to be; frozen in the middle of their usual occupations. A deck of cards was spread on one of them, and he came closer to take a better look.

Poker. And it was a good hand. Whoever played it knew what they were doing.

The wooden floor was lightly creaking under his feet as he walked around; and hadn’t it be for the few footsteps he was leaving behind, no one could have guessed he came here. He took a small hallway, leading to a few unsanitary rooms – barely big enough for a bed and a chair for most of them – and looked under the beds for a medical wallet or something he could use to patch himself up. His head was spinning a bit, but the clicking of a gun’s chamber and the cold metal tickling the back of his neck felt more important in the moment.

“If that wound doesn’t kill you, then I will.”

He slowly turned around, hands barely raised to show he intended no harm, and came face to face with a lady; probably in her mid-forties, small and chubby, and visibly determined to fulfil her promise.

“I need a doctor.”

“You won’t find any ‘round here.”

“Then a drink will do.” he shrugged, unimpressed.

“We’re going out and get you a drink then.”

She moved the cannon of her gun toward the main room, letting him open the way. He went in with the hope of getting some rest and medicine, and got back outside empty-handed and under the threat of an armed lady; bathed by the burning sunrays of a hot afternoon, in the middle of nowhere.

Nothing had changed during his little visit in the saloon but his state. He tripped on his feet, unable to focus on the stairs and the figure next to him, and fell on his knees next to his horse. The pain was getting worse; stinging and burning, the sensation of warm blood dripping from his open wound and straining his shirt even more; and the headache, the heat, the shivers-

“Alright, sit down.”

He dropped his weight on his behind, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Stay here. And don’t faint!” the woman warned as she walked away from him, disappearing behind the horse. His head felt too heavy, his veins pumping too hard to let him think straight. He let himself lay back against the dusty wooden floor, closing his eyes under the bright light burning above him.

He woke up when cold water splashed his face, making him jolt and grimace in pain.

“ Told you not to faint.”

“I didn’t.” he groaned, trying to sit again, the coat of blood ripping itself a bit as he did.

“Feel like y’can walk?” she looked down at him with a sort of irritated worry. He nodded, grabbing the guardrail to get up, slowly. “Good. Follow me.”

He stumbled a bit, trying to catch up with the woman. He thought he could handle it; he had gone through a lot to get here, and it couldn’t be worse than what he had left behind.

Or maybe it could be.

The loud thud of a body falling on the ground caught the woman’s attention, and as she turned around, a sigh escaped from between her lips.

“Great… Now I have to get the big guy.”

Waking up was painful, sudden. His ribs were on fire, his eye stinging – though the light was filtering through old curtains – and the remaining of his headache was still blurring his vision. He didn’t noticed the comfort of the mattress right away, neither the voices filling the room he was in.

“Ha, coming back to us. Told ya ‘t would work.” A deep voice commented in a smile.

“And that?” the woman’s voice asked, and he guessed she was pointing at his wounded ribs. He brushed the tips of his fingers against his own torso, realizing he was bare skin and wrapped in a bandage.

“Can’t do miracles. ‘Have to rest for a few days, go easy with manual tasks for a while.”

He let out a groan when he heard the recommendation, and tried to move his arms to push himself up and sit in the bed.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the voice advised in a laugh, “Unless ya want to open that wound ‘gain.”

He blinked a few times, and managed to see who was talking to him; a man, tall and visibly strong, dressed with dirty clothes and a squared shirt – probably a farmer. A scar was covering the side of his bald head and reached his left eye. The man was neither scary nor impressive, and seemed friendly enough.

He abandoned the idea of sitting, letting go of the light pressure he had put on his elbows and falling down against the mattress. His head gently buried itself in the pillow, and he let out a long, tired sigh.

“Who’re you?” he muttered in his breath, turning his head their way to look at them.

“’Name’s Cid,” the woman told him, “and he’s the big guy.”

“You know that’s not my name.” the man chuckled, and his voice filled the room with warmth and amusement as he looked at Cid.

“Don’t know your name, and couldn’t care less about it.” she shrugged.

“And you are?” the big guy asked, shifting his attention back to him.

He had expected the question, and he knew the simple answer would be to give his name. But he couldn’t stand the sound of it anymore, and his spite told him to go for that one instead. After all, it was “made for him”.

“Crosshair.”

“Well then, welcome to Marauder Valley Crosshair.” The man smiled at him.

He didn’t feel like returning the gesture, but nodded nonetheless, out of respect and gratitude for their help. He scanned the room, bringing a hand to his face; a light grimace twisting his mouth as he felt the skin stretching on the side of his body.

His fingers ran against his scar around his eye, trying to sooth the stinging pain. It was still recent, bright red, not quite blending in with his warm skintone.

“Well, ‘gotta leave now,” the big guy smiled, grabbing his hat in hand as he walked toward the door, “but if you need anything, I won’t be far.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cid pushed him out of the room, following his steps, “we know. You,” she pointed to Crosshair, “don’t play stupid, stay in bed.”

And on these words, she dragged the door behind her, slamming it before her heeled steps hit the apparent stairs outside the room. Crosshair stared at the door for a moment, contemplating once again getting up, but he was tired, and the bed was comfortable; and these people didn’t seem to want him any harm.

He didn’t seem to want any harm either, right, “Crosshair”?

He groaned faintly at the thought, and his hand dropped from his face to his chest, barely grabbing the thin blanket above him. He was far from him; from them, and now he just needed to sleep the pain away.

Sleep the pain away. Sleep.

Don’t let them get to you. Because they will get to you.

He will find you, you know he will.

They did this to you. They will do worse.

You know that, don’t you, Crosshair?

He let out a frustrated sigh at the thoughts, and slowly turned his head to look at the window. The sun was shining bright behind the curtains, and he could see the dust floating in the rays of light filtering through. It was peaceful.

For now he was safe, far away in a lost, abandoned town, in the middle of nowhere.

For now.

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb #tbb western au #mesa writes #yousa request mesa #crosshair #western crosshair #i forgot the tags when I posted it lmao #minty 🤠#hope you'll enjoy it!#sw tbb #star wars the bad batch #sw #tbb crosshair

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comfortwriting · 3 years

Text

Whatever It Takes - F.W

Part 3 of the ‘Call Out My Name’ series, inspired by the song ‘Whatever It Takes’ by Life House.

Part 1, Part 2

A/N: Ahhh here it is, sorry for the long wait! The finale of my first mini series, I hope you lovelies enjoy and thank you for the support!<33

Warnings: Mentions of sex, smut, fluff, angst, jealously and swearing.

Pulling away from the kiss you couldn’t process what you had done, trying to catch your breath your glassy eyes got lost in Fred's. The last time you kissed him felt like forever ago and just like that, you were back to square one; hungry for him.

You looked at your feet and sighed “meet me at my apartment, go now and don’t let my parents see you” you ordered him “we’ll... talk things through.”

Before you managed to pick up your box and go back downstairs to you parents, Fred grabbed your wrist and kissed your hand “you won’t regret this.”

Once you met him in your apartment, the two of you were up all night talking things through; Fred mostly apologising and explaining that you were the one all along. Although you were seeing someone else, it felt right to be with Fred, the kiss felt right, everything felt somewhat perfectly in place.

You finished writing the letter to your now ex-boyfriend, explaining that you couldn’t and didn’t want to be with him anymore and that you were sorry, you hoped it would be enough for him to accept.

After keeping your re-lighting of an old flame with Fred secret for the first few months, when you finally decided to break the news your parents and your sister weren’t over the moon - and your now ex-boyfriend was heartbroken and hated Fred with a burning passion; cursing the two of you.

The Weasleys on the other hand, were all delighted and so excited to welcome you back into their life and warm home. Molly and Arthur promised your parents that they would do anything and everything to ensure that you would be happy and safe with their son.

George ran towards you and held you tight into his warm embrace, crying with happiness that he could have his best friend back that he wouldn’t need to hide from anyone anymore; you could finally meet up and go out for lunch together every week which you had missed so much.

Fred knew that making things right, fixing things wouldn’t be easy, he had to prove himself to your family, he needed to show you how much he loved you after everything he had done - he also had to deal with the other people you had slept with whilst he was busy playing house.

“Well I still don’t like him.” Your father muttered under his breath sitting with you on the sofa, flicking through the Daily Prophet.

Fred was standing behind the door, listening in to everything that was being said.

“You don’t have to like him dad, but I’m happy with him and you need to accept that.” You defended your boyfriend.

Your dad glared at the paper and flicked the page “as long as you don’t bloody marry the fella.”

Fred’s heart dropped.

You giggled and sighed, standing up to get yourself a drink “maybe I will.”

A strangled smile fell from your face

What kills me that I hurt you this way

The worst part is that I didn't even know

Now there's a million reasons for you to go

But if you can find a reason to stay

Fred took a hold of your hand, the two of you resting beside the fire in your apartment listening to some muggle music.

“What time is it?” You asked, looking through the window, noticing the sunset.

“It’s seven o’clock” Fred replied staring at the clock, planting a kiss on your hand.

You stood up slowly and smiled at Fred “I’ve got to get ready” you replied, walking into your bedroom.

Fred realised that since his absence you had gained quite the following of male friends and a flock of admirers, tonight you were going out for a business dinner with your boss from the ministry to discuss a promotion.

Fred felt quite secure until he realised that Percy and other members of the ministry wouldn’t be there, Fred trusted you, but after the way he had treated you - he felt like you could fall through his fingers.

Zipping your dress up and applying the last of your powder, Fred walked into the bedroom leaning against the door frame.

His eyes searching your body and admiring how stunning you looked and how lucky he was to have you.

You’d by lying if you said you truly trusted Fred, you didn’t, he had a lot to prove and you were giving him a chance.

You learned from your mistakes the many times you put him first before your friends and your future, all because you were dating now doesn’t mean that you had to put everything on hold.

You remained independent and your wariness around Fred often made him feel like you could never trust him again, but you could and you would, all in good time.

“Are you sure you don’t need to me to come?” Fred asked, wanting to protect you.

“I’m sure.” You smiled, then thanking him for the offer.

“You look beautiful.” Fred compliment you.

Pecking Fred on the lips you grabbed some Floo Powder, Fred debated silently in his head whether or not to follow you, but he stayed at home and pondered.

After the successful business dinner you arrived home with a big smile on your face, Fred was laid in bed ‘reading’.

You walked into the bathroom, removing your makeup and made your way to the bedroom, undressing yourself, all the while responding to many of Fred's questions about your evening and the man who was your boss.

Fred searched your beautiful body and couldn’t help but bite his lip whilst watching you strip down to your underwear, you chuckled at him and shook your head.

Sitting on the bed next to Fred, he started to kiss your neck, telling you how beautiful you looked and for the first time in years the two of you made love. You were a lot more confident than you used to be and Fred noticed, you took control and went wild riding him.

Recovering from your orgasm, Fred held you from behind acting as the big spoon. You could sense that something was bothering your boyfriend and you didn’t want to tip toe around the tension so you asked him directly.

“Is everything okay, Freddie?” you traced circles into his arm that was wrapped around your waist.

Fred hesitated for a moment, but answered “how many people have you slept with?”

You could feel your face burning up “what does it matter love?”

“I just always remember being... you know.”

Letting out a light hearted chuckle you turned over to face Fred. “Yes, I did sleep with other people, Fred. We weren’t together for a long while.”

“How many?” Fred asked, sounding slightly worried.

“Why does it matter? It doesn’t define or change me as a person.”

Fred sighed “it’s just, I heard a lot of talk from other men.. women.. they were right with their accounts of you, they too had a good time.”

You stroked Fred’s cheek “I don’t care what they’ve said, you shouldn’t either; I only want and love you - you only get me like this.” you paused for a moment “not that it matters but more than you.” you joked, making Fred laugh.

I'll do whatever it takes

To turn this around

I know what's at stake

I know that I've let you down

And if you give me a chance

Believe that I can change

I'll keep us together

Whatever it takes

Over the years with your promotion, work at the ministry got harder, the hours got longer and the stacks of paper work got higher. You were drowning in the pressure.

Fred and George’s business was doing incredibly well and they were busy too - but you made things work and you were looking to buy a house and move out of your apartment.

Almost landing on your arse from being spat out the fire place, covered from head to toe in soot Fred chuckled at the sight of you and outstretched his hand, helping you up.

You weren’t expecting him to be home so early, he was always working overtime as you chose to work on weekends instead of the extra few hours on weekdays. You were lucky to get a whole evening alone with Fred, let alone a whole day.

“Follow me, love” he smiled.

Holding Fred’s hand, he walked you into the bathroom. The whole room lit up from tea light candles, the bath filled with warm water and colourful bubbles sitting on the surface and floated in the air.

Fred dragged his hand across the water, moving the bubbles, in the water floated delicate red Roses.

“Oh Fred” you smiled up at him, your eyes sparkling “this is the most special thing anyone has ever done for me.”

Fred felt his heart skip a beat, finally feeling like he had done something right. He helped you get undressed and get into the bath, allowing the warm water to pull you under.

Fred turned around to leave the room but you stopped him.

“why don’t you join me?” You smiled, splashing the water, teasing him.

Fred bit his lip and smiled “the food isn’t going to cook itself”

You let out a chuckle “you’re a wizard–“

Fred blushed, remembering what his mother once told him. “Just because you're allowed to use magic now does not mean you have to whip your wands out for everything.”

Whilst you finished off in your stunning, romantic bath you got dressed into the comfy clothes laid out for you on the sink counter, little did you know, Fred was slaving away in the kitchen finishing up on the meal he had been cooking.

Walking into the dim lit dining room the smell of spaghetti filled the room, the table had your plate of food resting on the mat, with a glass of fire whiskey and a rose resting in a vase in the middle of the table.

You felt incredibly flattered, yet under dressed in the comfy oversized clothes Fred had picked out for you.

Fred admired your look and pulled out your chair.

“Fred, this is incredible—“ you noticed the cooking book on the kitchen worktop. “You did all this without magic!?”

Fred nodded and smiled shyly “I wanted to make an effort, you deserve that and so much more.”

The two of you talked about your day at work, Fred and his brother increasing sales, you talking about Percy and his jealousy towards your promotion.

You both laughed and held hands over the table, you felt like finally everything had fallen into place, you had finally got what you wanted - the love of your life to have and to hold.

“By the way, you’d make a brilliant chef” you complimented, pointing to your empty plate.

Muggle love songs suddenly came on through the radio and rose petals slowly rained down from the ceiling out of nowhere, you couldn’t believe your eyes or the amount of effort Fred had put into this evening.

Fred took a hold of your hand and pulled you into the heart of the living room, holding you close to him, both of you dancing along to the music. You could feel Fred’s heart thump against your ear, pulling away from him you gave him a concerned look.

“Fred, are you okay?” You asked, trying your best not to sour such an incredible evening.

Fred took a deep breath and got down on one knee, pulling out a box from his back pocket. He lifted the top off the box and the most gorgeous ring sparkled against the lights, Fred smiled and looked into your eyes.

“Y/N, from the moment I first saw you, you made me feel things I didn’t know I was capable of. I want to make you feel those things too, I promise. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Your eyes welled up with tears of happiness, you couldn’t believe the boy you fell for all those years ago at Hogwarts would be on his knees, proposing to you.

“It took your dad a lot of thought and consideration just to let me do this tonight, Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me?” Fred breathed out, his heart still thumping.

“Yes, yes Freddie” you cried, holding out your hand “I would love to.”

She said if we're gonna make this work

You gotta let me inside even though it hurts

Don't hide the broken parts that I need to see

She said like it or not it's the way it's gotta be

You've gotta love yourself if you can ever love me

After the wedding there was talk about the two of you, some said you made a big mistake - calling you a mug, saying that Fred was punching above and you were only with him because you felt sorry for him.

The two of you were aware of the chat and often heard it when you were out in Diagon Alley, you didn’t let it bother you because it was only talk - but all of this ‘talk’ was beating Fred down; making him feel insecure and like he was useless.

“Oh Fred please relax, it’s not a big deal” you tried to reassure him, stroking his head.

“It’s a big deal to me, you know how I feel about men speaking to you that way.”

One of the men you had a one night stand with many moons ago spotted you in the leaky cauldron with Fred and approached you, asking why you never called him back. Fred was mortified and felt threatened by this man.

“We’re married Fred, if we’re going to make this work, you need to tell me what’s bothering you so we can work through it.”

Fred put his head in his hands and sighed “I just feel like you deserve better, all these men you were with, they’re so much better than I am.”

You sighed and got Fred to look you in the eyes “Don’t be silly Fred, they aren’t better than you at all. I decided to be with you for a reason - after everything that happened, you need to forgive yourself Fred.”

Fred stayed silent and wiped away his tears with his sleeve. “How can I forgive myself for hurting you?” He croaked.

You sat beside him in bed and rubbed his back “because I’ve forgiven you for everything that happened, I want us to be happy, to not care about what others think.”

Fred cried even more, feeling like a weight had been lifted off him. “You’ve forgiven me?”

“Of course I did, Freddie” You smiled, kissing his cheek “I married you for a reason, not because everyone else was doing it. I want to carry your child one day.”

I'll do whatever it takes

To turn this around

I know what's at stake

I know that I've let you down

And if you give me a chance

And give me a break

I'll keep us together

You took it upon yourself to get you and George to see a muggle couples counsellor, you had read about them in plenty muggle magazines and decided it would be the best - not just for your marriage but for Fred.

Seeing him constantly panic and overthink broke your heart, you wanted this to be a healthy and stable relationship and you both loved one another so much to make it work.

At first the sessions started at one session a week, and then as the months went by it became once every two weeks, and then once per month when you were both making progress.

The first bout of sessions usually started with the counsellor asking questions, getting the two of you to have sessions alone and to talk to one another towards the end.

“I’m just scared that she’ll realise there’s there’s other who are much better than me and they’ll treat her better.” Fred opened up nervously.

“I just wish he would forgive himself, I’ve forgiven him - I did a long time ago - I want him to be able to move forward with me.” You teared up.

After six months you were able to spend sessions together talking to one another, and being able to bask in the progress the two of you had made.

Fred felt more secure and didn’t panic about you suddenly disappearing.

You and George would often talk about it over your lunch dates, you would learn more about your husband and how much he struggled when you were gone, and being able to talk about it made you closer to your best friend who was now your brother in law. You felt incredibly secure and loved by his family.

Through the months of November, December and January, you and Fred had been spending plenty of the winter evenings keeping one another warm; trying for a baby.

Pondering around the bathroom nervously while Fred was messing around in the living room trying to bake some muggle muffins, you picked up and test and smiled widely.

Walking into the kitchen you leaned against the door frame and smiled at Fred, watching him getting frustrated with the cooking book and measurements of ingredients.

“Getting annoyed are you, Mr or should I say Daddy Weasley?” You smirked.

Fred startled by your voice pulled a questioning face at you “Daddy Weasley?”

You pulled the test from your back pocket and waved it in your hand, beaming at your husband.

“Wait...you’re?” Fred’s had a surprised expression on his face, you could see the tears forming in his eyes.

You nodded your head and could feel your tears forming too “positive.”

I know you deserve much better

Remember the time I told you the way that I felt

And that I'd be lost without you and never find myself

Let's hold onto each other above everything else

Start over, start over

“I cannot believe he’s got you up the bloody duff!” Your dad scolded, helping you around your new house.

“It was a mutual decision, we decided we wanted to, together.” You defended your husband, finally sitting down on the sofa to catch your breath.

“Well now you’ve got his kid no other man will want you and you’re tied to him forever now, whether you like it or not.”

You sighed, starting to feel frustrated and angry. Fred could head your fathers cruel words and felt like he would never fit your fathers expectations.

“When will you realise that me and Fred are happy together? I know he hurt me and I know that you’re upset about it, but it’s been years! Please can you just forgive him, dad? I did.” You pleaded, the added on stress causing the baby to kick out inside of you.

Sitting in front of Fred in the bath, he washed your hair for you with a cup as you couldn’t bend all the way back from your big bump.

“He’ll never accept me” Fred muttered in a low sad voice.

You have Fred a sorrowful smile “I don’t care Fred. He wants me to be happy and I am.” You covered your eyes from the flowing water.

Fred felt relieved knowing that your father wouldn’t influence the way you felt about him, knowing that your love for him was pure.

“I love you” he whispered, massaging your scalp.

“I love you too” you smiled, feeling another kick “and this little one loves you too”

I'll do whatever it takes

To turn this around

I know what's at stake

I know that I've let you down

And if you give me a chance

Believe that I can change

I'll keep us together

Whatever it takes

You and your four year old daughter were in the garden potting some beautiful plants in your parents garden, your father was sitting with Fred in the kitchen, the two of them watching you and the little one.

Your father smiled, his granddaughter patting the soil and cheering as she planted some more seeds, her long and beautiful ginger hair flowing in the wind.

“You’ve created a beautiful little family, you and my daughter.” Your father said to Fred, taking a sip of his drink.

Fred shuffled in his seat, the tension in the air was nothing short of awkward but it meant a lot to him knowing that his father in law finally had something good to say.

“You’ve proven yourself to me, Fred. I’m sorry it took so long for me to warm up to you and the idea of you being with my daughter, when your little girl gets older you’ll understand why. Seeing how happy she is, having that little one in my life - you can’t put a price on that.”

Your father extended his hand out to Fred, slowly smiling at him. Fred paused for a moment and shook his hand, smiling back at him.

“Shall we go out there and help?” Fred smiled “they look like they could use some help.”

Your father nodded his head “I would like, Fred.”

The two of them walked outside together, joining you and your daughter. Looking up at your father and Fred smiling at one another you felt your heart flutter, the two men in your life that you loved more than anything were finally on the same page.

You could finally move forward as a family, the only thing you’ve ever wanted.

You were Fred’s girl.

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #hogwarts #HP #Weasley #x reader #imagines #oneshots #fluff #light smut #george weasley #weasley x reader

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jae-daddy · 3 years

Text

Duff (4)

jaebum au series

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight masterlist

pairing: im jaebum x reader genre: angst, smut, cheating, CEO! i guess too now plot: you are the duff, and guys use you to get close to your bestfriend, turns out jaebum was no exception. but as time goes on the tension between you and your bestfriend’s unoffical boyfriend grows a/n: it so late, I'm literally seeing double rn... hope y’all like it! <3 not edited.

Life is brimming with lessons that teach you how to live without being naive and a fool.

You were already taught a few lessons by life, as it made you jump through endless hoops burning with malicious flames waiting to scorch your skin at slightest touch.

So you found it fair to hold yourself as intelligent and mature.

Therefore, you trusted your conclusion to ignore whatever happened in the elevator with Im Jaebum.

What was said, what was done; none of it mattered.

An important lesson you’ve learnt is people say and do crazy things when they are riding high a shot of adrenaline.

Jaebum’s near-death experience led him to say things that he would not on a normal day. It was only because he was scared that he did. And everyone wants to die an honest man. You were certain if it were Paul in the elevator instead of you, Jaebum might have confessed something outrageous to him too.

So that was not the reason why you were staring at the two males in front of you as they spoke absolute nonsense to you. You already knew not to take what happened in that tiny metal box seriously. Instead, it was another life lesson you knew that made you stare at them as if they had grown two heads: everything has a price.

“Not everyone gets an opportunity like this, y/n,” Paul spoke, a second away from begging on his knees.

You shook your head in distaste, this was not part of the plan. Actually, there was no plan, but if you had one, this would definitely not be it. This was not how you imagined your lottery internship to turn out.

“Paul, I am flattered the company believes me to be capable of such an important role,” you breathed, trying to keep a polite smile as your eyes bounced between the bald man and the smirking jerk. “However, I do not think I would be suitable for this role. I made it clear in my internship contract that I will not have my studies affected by this opportunity. Unfortunately, being the secretary of the -”

“I’m sorry to stop you, y/n,” Paul cut you off, not apologetic at all. You bit your cheeks to hold back a sneer. “We have thought about this through, and believe it to be the best plan of action to take right now. Mr Im is new to this company and is temporary, and while we have made a public announcement, he is still on trial.

“We could get someone in a fixed-term confidential contract, but that’s too complicated.”

Your brows furrowed as you disagreed with that, but you didn't say anything.

“The remaining time left in your contract and Mr Im’s trial period match up perfectly. You already have secretarially role in the company, so you already know the ups and downs, the tricks and tips, so we really believe this is the best way. And about your studies, the summer break began last week. However, if you believe this to be in violation of your contract, we will compensate.”

“Compensate?” You rose an eyebrow, payment would be better than slaving away for free.

“Pay you, just like any other employee,” Paul smiled happily. Finally seeing some indication of interest from your side. He added, proudly, “with all employee benefits.”

You bit your lip in deep thought.

You mentally weighed the pros and cons.

There were pros, so many pros; a better resume, money, free coffee and healthcare, etc. But the con, the big con stared at you in bold, italics, highlighted in large red fonts: you’d be working for Im Jaebum.

If this was someone else you would have said yes the moment they offered it, even without the benefits. But with Im Jaebum, things got complicated.

You weren’t sure if he could maintain the professional relationship between the two of you. And if you were being completely honest, you didn’t know if you could maintain it too.

Even now, with Paul standing at one end of the table, and Jaebum settled on the long side. Your mind couldn’t help thinking about how short your skirt was, and how easy it would be for Jaebum to bend you over the wooden table, and make you a moaning mess.

It would be quite difficult to maintain professionalism when you’d be spending time alone with him. Or maybe, he would use his position to make you suffer. He might end up not coming to work at all, have you do all his work, and just show up to sign and show his face.

So much could go wrong with working for Im Jaebum.

And you also had to consider the fact that you hadn’t talked to him since the elevator incident.

You haven’t been to Heather’s place, too busy with the piled up assignments all due within the last two weeks. The twenty hours of weekly internship didn’t give you any freed up time either. You didn’t get an opportunity to see Heather, or her boyfriend, Im Jaebum, to have a talk.

“Oh come on, y/n,” Jaebum smiled at you, making your blood boil instantly. This was the first thing he said to you in the past two weeks and somehow managed to be an arrogant shit-eater when he did. Your glare didn’t make his smile falter as he sang, “It’ll be fun.”

No way. You thought. There is no way you would be able to work for that self-centred, cocky, incredibly hot jerk.

“We’ll cover your fees.” Paul stopped you before the no on the tip of your tongue tumbled out. You stared at him in shock, as he looked at you expectedly.

“My university fees?” You asked, shocked.

“Yes, all of it.” He nodded.

That’s a lot.

Your eyes fell on Jaebum who smirked at you as if he had the whole entire world at his feet's disposal, and maybe he truly did. He had something similar to that power if the company was willing to go to such extents to make him stay.

The pros were really starting to outweigh the annoying, irritating con.

“Fine,” you licked your lips, with a sigh. “I’m in.”

Paul almost jumped in his place with excitement, “Thank you, y/n! Thank you so much!”

Paul walked out swiftly muttering something about going to the HR and having a contract formed immediately. Your eyes followed him as he left, remaining on the doors that closed behind him.

You could feel his gaze burning the side of your face, and it truly felt as if you were about to combust.

“What?” You snarked, turning towards him annoyed.

Jaebum just snickered as he swirled side to side, carefree, on his chair, “Why are you always so mad, love?”

You rolled your eyes getting up, “I guess this meeting is over.”

“I didn’t dismiss you, y/n,” Jaebum said, stopping his playful actions.

“You’re not my boss until I sign that piece of paper, so,” you gave him a middle finger with a tight smile before walking out the office.

You could hear his light laughter follow you, but you ignored it.

You stopped in your tracks as you remembered something and entered the room once again. Jaebum looked up at you, surprised, before smiling brightly, “Welcome back.”

You cursed yourself for returning after such an amazing exit, but there were more pressing matters than your pride.

“Have you told Heather about what happened?” You closed the door behind you, making sure no one could hear you.

Jaebum’s eyes danced with amusement, as he shrugged, drawling, “What happened?”

“In the elevator, Jaebum,” you gritted through your teeth as you stepped closer towards him.

Jaebum’s smiled only grew as he frowned with feigned innocence, “I can’t seem to remember, maybe if you could help me remember.”

His lazy gaze fell to your lips before meeting your eyes again. A spark ignited deep inside you, and you told yourself it was anger; it was an annoyance.

You clicked your jaw as you smacked your hands onto the desk, leaning over it. Jaebum watched you, carefully, not intimidated a bit, only amused.

Your eyes narrowed at him, before you smiled sweetly, “You were holding my hand and crying like a child.”

Jaebum hissed, unaffected, as he tsked, “I can’t seem to remember that.”

“Did you tell her or not?” You groaned, your annoyance at peak.

What you would do to this man if you got a chance. He wouldn’t be smiling like that, he’d be begging you for forgiveness, for release.

Jaebum smirked as if he could read your mind, “No, I didn't.”

“Good,” you nodded, gulping as his eyes watched you with unsettling darkness. “Don’t.”

He rose his eyebrow, before nodding, “As you wish, y/n.”

You turned and felt his gaze watch you as you walked out. You felt it lower, watching your hips as it swayed side to side. Your hand gripped the cool handle as your shoulders sagged slightly.

You let out a low sigh, “Thanks.”

You disappeared behind the door before Jaebum could reply.

“Babe!” Heather sang as her long limbs fell over you loosely. You laughed, as you helped her sit straight. She leaned against you again, snuggling her face into your neck as she hugged you, “I love the way you smell, baby!”

You chuckled as you patted her red matted hair soiled with glitter and sweat at the back of the Uber, “Thanks Heather, I like how you smell too.”

“Don’t lie,” you could hear her pout, and it only made you smile. “You always make fun of my feet.”

“But that’s only after the gym or a hike, Heather,” you told her, as you brushed the hair off her face.

Heather was completely wasted tonight.

She was already drunk by the time you walked into the club. Jaebum wasn’t anywhere to be found, and you found her with a group of her “friends” that you didn’t like.

They would always make her drink too much, give her a little white sugar, and let her waste her platinum card on those low lives.

You didn’t like the way the guys would touch her as she slumped back onto the couch unable to see straight. You didn’t like the way the girls sitting around would not help her, instead, encourage her to be worse.

You were mad when you were pulling her away from the crowd and towards the bathroom when you had found Jaebum. He had just got to the club himself but was ready to leave as soon as he saw the state Heather was in.

He sat on the other side of Heather, holding her purse, as Heather held you from the middle seat.

Heather mumbled something in return and you couldn’t understand it.

“By that red letterbox is fine,” you told the Uber driver as he slowed down.

Jaebum got out first, and you helped Heather onto his back before getting out. You turned to the driver, giving him a small smile, “Thank you.”

“No problem, have a good night,” he said, already accepting a new ride.

“You too,” you said, as you closed the door. You turned to Jaebum, with Heather hanging her head over his shoulder. Her long ember curls falling down his chest as he grunted and halted her up.

“Woah, stop,” Heather moaned, heaving.

Jaebum looked at you with terror in his eyes, and you laughed at him, “Come on, let’s get this party animal into bed.”

“Is this where you live?” Jaebum asked as you led him up the small walk to the door.

You snorted and shook your head, “No, this is Heather’s home.”

Jaebum rose his eyebrows, and you continued, as you unlocked the doors,

“Her parents don’t live in this house anymore, so Heather skips between here and the apartment.”

You turned the lights on and took in the home that greeted you.

“They love sure love red, huh?” Jaebum commented, taking in the red couch, red feature wall, and red details spread over the living room and kitchen.

You laughed at that, agreeing with him. The Blacks sure did take pride in their red-haired heritage, and didn’t hide the fact that it was family’s favourite colour, “Mrs Black was going through an interior design phase.”

“Thank god it was just a phase,” Jaebum snickered, making you turn to him with a pointed look as you tried to hide the smile.

“She wasn’t too bad,” you replied and began walking towards Heather’s room.

Jaebum followed behind you, grunting as he adjusted Heather on his back, “No, she was just too red.”

You rolled your eyes as you opened her bedroom door and walked towards the bed. You pulled down the covers and Jaebum gently set her down. You took off her shoes, and earrings carefully.

Jaebum didn’t say anything and just watched you as you walked around the room getting out her nightshirt, and face-cleansing products.

“Why are you looking at me, Jaebum?” You asked, not looking at him. Instead, you pumped out the cleanser on a pad and gently took off the makeup from her face.

“Is there a problem?” Jaebum asked back, making you snort.

You gently turned her face and began the other side, “Yes, it’s making me nervous. I can feel you judging me.”

He was probably thinking what everyone else seemed to think when they saw you and Heather. They never saw the whole you both had for each other, how you would do anything for one another. All they saw was Heather in all her brilliance, beauty and wealth, and you, as her second, her side-kick.

“I’m not judging you,” he replied instantly.

Something about the way he said it made you believe him. You bit your lip, as folded the dirty make-up pads and put them on the side table.

“Then what are you doing?” You took a wet towel, wiping her face. You patted it dry and misted some toner and moisturiser. You turned back and met Jaebum’s eyes that remained on you, “Why are you looking at me?”

“There’s nothing else to look at,” he simply shrugged.

You rolled your eyes and pointed to the wall covered with photos of Heather through the years. Most of them had you in them, celebrating every holiday, and some photos from random days when the sun was shining brightly.

Jaebum stared at the wall as if noticing it for the first time. He got up and slowly walked up towards it. He took in the photos for a while, a small chuckle leaving him sometimes, “How did you two become friends?”

You smiled at the memory, “She saved me.”

You stared at your gorgeous friend, as she got up slightly. She searched around, her eyes disappearing as she smiled spotting you, “Oh, you’re here, y/n. I was going to the store on Wednesday.”

She trailed off, falling back into her pillow dozing off again.

“Her hangover is going to kill her tomorrow,” you turned to Jaebum with a tight smile, as you held up the nightshirt, “I’m going to change her.”

Jaebum instantly turned on his heels and walked out, closing the doors behind him.

You walked out to the smell of coffee and Jaebum sitting at the kitchen counter with two mugs in front of him. You furrowed your eyebrows as you settled on the chair in front of him, “Is this poisoned?”

Jaebum snorted rolling his eyes.

You blew the coffee before sipping it. It was still searing hot, so you placed it down on the counter, and turned towards Jaebum.

You took in his midnight hair pushed back, revealing his forehead. You didn’t know you could find someone’s forehead so sexy, but after seeing his hair down while he was at work, you had to admit it was hot. His piercings that were normally missing during office hours had returned too, a few missing.

You frowned your eyes focusing on his nose and eyebrows, “Why aren’t you wearing all your piercings?”

“It’s a nuisance putting it on and off,” Jaebum shrugged, before pointing to his lips, his tongue coming out to flick the sliver hoop, “Just wore my favourite.”

You held your breath, as the image of the cool metal against your lips, flicked by your tongue, gently tugged by your teeth invaded your mind. Your cheeks heated but you continued like nothing was happening to your body.

“Do you have piercings anywhere else?”

Jaebum smirked, “If you’re into pierced nipples, I can get them done for you.”

You groaned, a ridiculous smile on your face as you shook your head, “Can you ever have a conversation without being a prick?”

“A prick?” he gasped, “that’s a bit harsh. I would say I’m more of a flirt.”

“Oh, so you know? This is a conscious decision. You wake up every day and decide to be the bane of my existence.”

“I do wake up every morning and think of you,” Jaebum smiled at you. He chuckled, seeing you roll your eyes at him.

“You’re ridiculous,” you snorted. Jaebum simply shrugged, smiling.

Something beeped from the kitchen and Jaebum got up. You watched him walk over to the stove and turn it off. He reached for a mug before looking through the drawers for something.

You narrowed your eyes watching him, “What are you looking for?”

“Uh... a strainer?” He turned back to you, scratching the back his head. “I don’t know what it’s called.”

Your heart melted at how adorable he looked standing there, confused and unsure. The smile on his lips was so beautiful as he watched you, waiting for you.

“The second drawer over there,” you pointed, not looking at him as your cheeks tinted rosy again.

Jaebum murmured thanks, before using it to drain the liquid from the pot and into the cup, “It’s a hangover tea. My mum makes it for me every time I get too drunk.”

“You live with your mum?” You asked. Jaebum peered back at you a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah, but I rarely ever get to see her.”

“Why’s that?” You frowned. The way Jaebum talked about her, the lightness in his voice and the softness of his smile, told you how much he adored his mother.

Jaebum shrugged before giving you a cheeky smile, “My house is too big.”

You laughed at that. You were not expecting that at all. You heard Jaebum’s low chuckle as you sobered up.

“What about you?” He asked as placed the cup onto a tray with a glass of water and two tablets he found next to the refrigerator. “Do you live alone?”

“Yup,” you nodded, before frowning, “Not even a pet.”

“No pets?” He asked, sympathetic.

You nodded, “I’m scared of animals. It doesn’t matter what size, or how well-trained, or what the animal is. I am terrified of them all the same.”

Jaebum gasped as if you had confessed to a murder, “What is wrong with you?”

“Wow, I thought this was a safe place,” you mumbled before taking a sip from your coffee that had cooled down. You hummed at the taste, he made good coffee.

“What about your parents?” Jaebum asked, making you stiffen. “Where do they live?”

You remained quiet.

You opened your mouth to tell him what you always told anyone who asks. It wasn’t that you were embarrassed or thought it was something to hide. You didn’t want people in your business and telling them to mind their business when they asked only piked up their interest more.

So you opened your mouth to tell him what you’ve been telling everyone for the past five years, “I don’t live with them.”

Normally you would follow up with something about living here was better for your education or future jobs. You would say something, an excuse, that was reason enough for many young people to move out of their parents home. But what you said surprised you, “I don’t talk to them anymore.”

“Oh,” was all Jaebum said. “That’s cool too.”

You peered up at him with a frown. You took in his relaxed gaze, the smile on his face just like it there was a minute ago. There was no sympathy, no pity. There was no spike in interest or anything.

He really didn’t want to pry. He didn't want to know why unless you told him. He only took as much as you could allow him.

Suddenly there was an iridescent pond shimmering in your chest. It swirled, making your whole body feel alive as you took in Im Jaebum. It felt as if your entire body was one cell, one tiny speck of dust caught in the breeze of Im Jaebum, and it didn’t mind.

You gulped, your body and mind acting quicker than you could control, “They couldn’t stand the sight of at me after they found out I was still doing something I promised I wouldn’t do anymore.”

The faces of your parents appeared in front of your eyes. The shock, anger, the disappointment on their face as they found you lying in a pool of your urine and vomit. The horror in their eyes, their desperateness as they shook your body, pleading for you to reply.

“They didn't kick me out. I left,” you ran a hand through your hair, as you let out a heavy sigh. You thought of the letter you wrote them, the way they had cried when they came to the hospital to meet you during those months, “I couldn’t hurt them anymore.”

“Do you think you would ever go meet them again?” You looked up to Jaebum watching you. You were thankful for the lack of pity in his eyes as he kept his gaze on you.

You sighed again, and it came out as a little laugh, “One day I will.”

You nodded, as you met his eyes. He smiled at you softly, and you smiled back as you scrunched your nose to stop the tears from threatening you, “When I am good enough, I will.”

“I hope that day comes soon.”

You didn’t realise Jaebum had come this close to you as you were talking. He leaned against the counter between you, his eyes intently taking you in. He folded his hands on the dark marble, his face leaning half-way over the counter.

You watched him back.

He was so beautiful.

You huffed out a smile as you shook your head at him. Jaebum instantly changed, leaning back, the playfulness in his eyes glinting once again as he rose an eyebrow in question.

“You’re not too bad, you know?” You smiled at him, before adding, “When you’re acting like a normal human being at least.”

Jaebum laughed at that before giving you a mocking smirk, “You’re not too bad yourself, y/n.”

You grinned about to say thank you, when he added, “When you’re not acting like a stick is stuck up your ass at least.”

“What an asshole,” you shook your head, laughing at him.

Jaebum beamed back, his eyes shining, “What a bitch.”

You took in the dark flecks in his eyes. You noticed their velvety blackness absorbing all light around it, but something else existed in those captivating eyes of his eyes. They didn’t get dragged away into the twilight of his gaze.

Instead, it shone brightly. It glistened, it was golden, white and sparkled like a starry night. It dragged you in, it made you want to lean close to him.

It made you want to place your lips on his and see how that shimmering halo swirled as he pulled you in closer. It made you want to reach for him, to place your hand on his soft cheeks. It made you want to walk around the counter and hug him in the middle of the kitchen littered with red embellishments.

Jaebum’s smile curled into an easy smirk as he winked at you before turning around. He picked up the tray with a cup of tea, a glass of water and Panadol, as walked towards the door the red-haired beauty was sleeping in.

Everything had a price.

Somewhere deep within your heart was a corner buried so deeply in the darkness you had forgotten it existed. The room was cold, dark, and there was nothing. Nothing except for a lone candle standing in the middle of the emptiness.

There had been nothing there for an eternity, and it was almost like magic. It almost felt like a trick of the eye, but then it happened again.

A flame, a spark, flickering at the tip of the candle; it sparked again.

This time it caught on. It burned, slowly getting brighter and livelier.

You watched Jaebum disappear behind the door of Heather’s room.

A sharp ache twisted your heart as you saw his broad back enter the dark room she was sleeping in.

The flame spreading over the wick twisted in shades of ember, their shadows dancing over the room.

You saw a word, you saw a face.

You knew the price for this feeling tugging, craving to grow bigger in your heart. You walked into the room, hidden in a deep corner of your heart. The ivory trail of your dress dragged on the dusty floor, turning brown with every step.

You didn’t look at the walls, you didn’t take in the shapes of the flames.

You took sharp, clear steps. You reached the candle, the flame reflecting softly against you. You closed your eyes, took in a deep breath and exhaled, blowing out the candle.

The flame was gone.

The candle extinguished, the room engulfed in darkness, once again.

You looked to the wall, the photo was no longer there but the image there was burnt into your mind.

The price of this feeling was too expensive.

It was too precious, and you couldn’t afford it.

224 notes · View notes

vanilla-vivillon · 3 years

Text

On November 14th Zoya and Nikolai had welcomed there third child into this world

Prince Koloda Grigori Nazyalensky 5Koda for short

He had warm brown skin and a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks

he had inherited his fathers blond locks in cute ringlets

And had the deep watchful brown eyes Zoya remembered her father had

He was rather quiet

And now that Myca was five and Nazariy was three

They could actually have an opinion about a new sibling

“How come he has blond hair? I want blonde hair!” Nazariy whined pulled at an ebony lock

Nikolai, Myca, and Nazariy were in Koda’s nursery

Nikolai wanted to let Zoya rest

And he adored his sons but saints they were annoying and Zoya needed a break

“Ask Aunt Genya to tailor your hair then” Myca swiftly replied

A new habit of Mycas was trying to fix Nazariys complaints

It seems Myca hasn’t realized that Nazariy like many three year olds complains for the sake of complaining

“Hey Dad I have a question” Myca stated

“What’s up Myca?” Nikolai had been to infatuated with Koda to fully Pay attention to his other sons

Nikolai felt the guilt creep in

The Old King mostly ignored Nikolai his entire upbringing

It was always Vasily

Nikolai swore that he would never make his children feel like that

“What’s up Myca?” Nikolai asked

“Why did you give Koda the middle name Grigori?” Myca wondered

“After an old friend me and Mommy had” Nikolai gave an easy reaponse

Apparently bored of complaining Nazariy piped up “who’s this friend?”

“A bear” Nikolai said with a wink

“Now way!” Myca explained as Nazariys eyes went wide

“You can’t be friends with a bear!” Myca stated

“Well if you don’t believe... I don’t think I can tell you the story...” Nikolai said feigning indecision

“What! No! We believe you Daddy! Please tell us the story” Nazariy begged glaring at Myca

“Well it started with a sandstorm....”

Nazariy was four now and his testing date was coming up

His mother and father were off on a two month emergency peace visit with the Shu

And Naza was glad

It started at Breakfast

He was doing what he usually would do

Try to get Koda to laugh

Annoy Myca

The usual

But when Myca got the last cup of orange juice Naza thought it was unfair

He wished he could make that cup tip over and spill over Mycas kefta

It was so unfair Myca could train at The Little Palace and Nazariy couldn’t

He felt something deep inside him

Something odd and funny

That thing that came whenever he saw Mom or Dad praise Myca at summoning

Nazariy always ignored it

But now Nazariy directed the weird feeling towards his older brothers juice

“What the-”the orange juice tipped over and spilled on Mycas homework

“Delano is gonna kill me! We need these for the big project!” Myca exclaimed while trying to dry it with wind

A tiny part of Nazariy felt bad

But he should’ve given me that orange juice

Nazariy learned he could do many things

Like push someone to trip

Or float a cookie over to him

And one day he wanted to try something bigger

Nazariy and his brothers were strictly forbidden from going into the meeting room

He didn’t know why

But the thrill of trouble made him want to do it more

He found some Kerch etherrealki to help him

When you needed a job done Amani Patel was the girl to talk to

She gave him easy enough plans to get in and was able to sneak inside

It was a cozy room with plush leather sofas and a display case of alcohol

Nazariy wandered around a bit

It had a fireplace he was able to set ablaze using his newfound abilities

By now Nazariy figured out that he was a Squaller

But he hadn’t told anyone yet

He would eventually but for now this was just a him thing

Nazariy didn’t have a lot of secrets

So it was nice to have one

He started looking around and it seemed like a normal looking living room

Some cards

A fireplace

Dreadfully boring

But what was real interesting was an odd contraption

It must’ve been one of David Kostyk’s inventions

It had a yellow horn and a disk in a box

And Nazairy gave in to the urge to touch it

He started poking around at it and nothing seemed to happen

Until it started playing music

“Wooooow” Nazariy said astonished as smooth jazz began to play

He got on the table and started jumping up and down dancing

Nazariy then started creating some wind causing the cards and checkers to fly up(like that one scene In Matilda)

The breeze was nice

“You having a dance party Nazariy?”

Nazariy instantly dropped everything and turned towards the door

There stood his parents and the triumvirate mouths agape

Nazariy looked at his father the speaker In question

“I thought you would be gone for three more weeks” Nazariy stuttered sneaking glances at his mother to see how much trouble he’s in

Blue eyes wide and mouth agape the Queen seemed to stunned to talk

“Yeah, Makhi was more agreeable then we thought” Genya replied agasht

In fact the only one who seemed unfazed was David Kostyk

He nonchalantly went an turned off the weird music box

Adrik Zhabin seemed to regain his composure

Nazariy and Adrik never really got along

Nazariy was the type who enjoyed a good ruckous

And Adrik was the type who despised shenanigans

“You aren’t allowed to be in here” Adrik glared “And I hope you know your the one who’s going to clean this up”

“Oh come on, the kid was just having fun!” Tamar said picking Nazariy up and placing him off the table

“He ruined by poetry” Tolya sighed staring at the mess of a bookshelf

Books were torn and haphazard around the room

“Is that really a travesty” Nazariy murmured under his breath

It seemed everyone was still in shock

Especially his mother

She regained her composure

“So your also a Squaller?” Zoya questioned

But she wasn’t happy either

“Uhhhhhhhh...” Nazariy squeaked

“A prince doesn’t stutter Nazariy” Zoya scolded raising a brow

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m Grisha” Nazariy stated now raising his head and straightening his back

Nazariy couldn’t read his mother

She didn’t look mad

But she definitely wasn’t happy

At that Nikolai picked up Nazariy

“You couldn’t have a nice and easy testing to find out huh?” Nikolai laughed

Whenever his dad laughed Nazariy had to laugh to

They were quite close those two

While Myca and his father could have trouble sometimes

Nazariy was always easier

Whiny Nikolai could handle

But dead serious was trickier

“He wants to keep us on our toes”Tamar replied smoothly

Zoya who seemed to be done deliberating exclaimed “Everyone out except Nikolai and Nazariy”

Everyone shuffled out of the room shooting him putting looks

And patting him on the back

Once the door closed Zoya turned her eyes on him

They weren’t silver so it wasn’t like she was enraged

“How long have you known?” Zoya questioned

Nikolai stood behind Nazariy

In times like this when Nazariy messes up his dad was kinda like his lawyer

“Three weeks”

“And does anyone else know?” Nikolai asked

Nazariy shook his head “not even Myca"

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Zoya wondered

“I don’t know” Nazariy replied to quickly

Zoya raised a brow

“Well.... it’s just” Nazariy started grasping for words “I don’t really have a lot of me things that are just mine... now I always have to share everything with Koda and Mycas always super busy. I was gonna tell you i swear!”

His parents exchanged glances

“We’re not mad Nazariy” His father finally said

“But we want you to know you can tell us anything” Zoya finished

“Okay Mommy” Nazariy said with a smile

I can’t even pretend I’m doing this for anyone but myself. I don’t know if anyone actually reads these but yolo lol.

As always, my ask box is open and I take any Grishaverse requests

36 notes · View notes

zmediaoutlet · 4 years

Text

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.

#fffr #wincest #weecest #first time #long fic #my writing #--seriously this one also went too long #but idk it felt right this way

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leftonraed · 3 years

Text

The Night We Met - Episode 3

pairing : Taehyung x OC genre : bodyguard!au, singleparent!au, idol!au word count : 2.3k summary — Taehyung has a talk with his father. He also starts to catch feelings. Prologue | ep.1 | ep.2 | ep.3 | ep.4 | ep.5 | ep.6 | ep.7

You park the car neatly along the sidewalk. When the engine dies down, nothing else can be heard beside the subdued tweeting in the trees nearby playing with the agreeable silence the upscale neighbourhood is plunged in.

A cold wind blows on your face as you step out of the vehicle. There are leaves everywhere, covering the ground with hues of brown, red, orange and yellow. You walk around the car and see Taehyung adjusting Hina’s beanie and gloves while she waits patiently.

With a quick nod, you let him know the vicinity is clear and show you’re ready to escort them to his parents’ house.

He wraps her hand in his and leads the way. You keep a small distance behind. He stops in front of a tall front gate and rings the bell. You keep looking both ways until it opens and they are inside.

Taehyung notices his father at the other end of the path, waving and smiling warmly. He gestures back but gets surprised when the little girl lets go of his hand.

“Hina! Come back!” He orders as she runs away, giggling, towards the big piles of leaves gathered at the foot of the old tree in the garden.

“Go. I’ll watch her.” He hears you quietly saying right next to his ear, the sudden proximity making his heart jump hard.

“But-” He mumbles, flustered.

“She’ll join you after.”

Taehyung heads to his father reluctantly, gazing steadily at Hina making a mess around herself.

“Don’t worry about it,” grins the older man. “It’s been a while since we’ve heard someone laugh in here.”

“She never listens to him,” he complains and it reminds his father of his son’s childhood days.

He stops at the doorstep. “Did you ever?” Taehyung stares at him dumbstruck. “I’m just kidding. Come. Is your friend joining us?”

He looks back where you’re standing ramrod straight, fixing Hina with an attentive look.

“She’s watching her.”

Taehyung welcomes the warmth of the house with contentment and starts getting rid of the thick layers he’s dressed himself in. The fire crackling in the living-room is the sole sound and source of light inside. He follows his father.

“It’s getting colder this week. I’m heating up tea.”

Taehyung offers a soft smile.

“So?” His father looks at him pointedly, sitting next to him.

“What?”

“You think I don’t know what’s between the two of you?”

Taehyung frowns, taken aback. “What?”

“I’m no fool. I know you like her.”

“B-but- I mean- No- It’s not what you think!”

His father chuckles the more he gets mixed up. “I’m just messing with you. What’s with that face you’re making?”

Taehyung pouts, feeling his cheeks warming up.

“I didn’t catch her name.”

“______.” He answers softly. “She’s Seojun’s replacement.”

“She seems reliable and… one-of-a-kind.”

“She is,” he trails to himself and gets a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m sure she has you under her thumb.”

Taehyung crosses his arms, slightly upset. “That’s not even true.” He opens one eye and catches him stifling a snicker. “Stop it!”

“Still so easy to get you worked up I see.”

Silence comes again and their smiles die down.

“How’s mom?”

He hears his father’s intake of air, trying to come up with an answer. “I don’t really know... She started eating again.” He looks at his son, “I guess she’s getting better. But I don’t know what this really means. I don’t think we’ll ever get over what happened.”

Taehyung keeps staring into space, at a loss for words. He can hear Hina’s laughter from the outside and his heart tightens as chaotic thoughts fill his mind.

“Maybe-”

“Hm?”

Taehyung sounds unsure about what he’s about to say. “I was thinking- If I left Hina here… It’d help?”

“We miss her terribly,” he sighs. “She does bring a lot of happiness. She looks so much like him. And you.” His father smiles tenderly. “But she grew attached to you. And we know why. I think you’re her best solution.”

“I just wan’ help mom and you get well fast.”

“I know. I know... Don’t worry too much over us, you already have a lot on your plate. We look after each other and- to know Hina and you have each other, it helps us feel better.”

A part of him feels relieved about keeping Hina home but he can’t ignore the heaviness in his chest the longer he thinks of his parents on their own with their sorrow.

Taehyung lets out a breathy chuckle. “ You know she-… She’s started to call me ‘daddy’ and-” he sees his father gazing back. “I don’t really know how to react.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

“Then, it shouldn’t tick over in your mind. As long as she feels safe and you’re still managing… things… Cause you are, right?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung promptly reassures him. His mouth stretches in a small grin. “I- I get a lot of help back there.”

“I’m sure you do.” His father reaches for his shoulder, smiling as well. “I’m serious, Taehyung. No need to get concerned about anything. We got this. All of us.”

They share a look, simple, yet holding so much more.

The kettle’s suddenly whistling, prompting the old man on his feet.

“Get’em inside. I’ll go wake you mom.”

Taehyung stands up and heads to the entrance. He opens the door and is a little surprised to see you already there, assisting Hina in climbing up the stairs.

The tip of her nose has turned pink and he can feel the freshness of her palms through the fabric when she hugs his leg. He hurries her inside after getting her shoes off.

He steps aside to let you in.

“Oh, wait…” He suddenly says. You look back, caught off guard as you watch him reach for the top of your head. “You have a leaf stuck in your hair.”

The moment is short but feels drawn out. His fingers are delicate in their motions, you can even feel him lightly combing your hair before he abruptly stops when he catches you staring back intently.

His cheeks warm up yet again. “Done.”

“I suggest you get in before we all freeze to death.” His father puts an end to your staring contest.

You both look away and watch Hina hugging her grandmother who just came down the stairs. She meets your eyes, surprised.

“Mom, this is ______.”

________________________________________

Taehyung’s not sure what to think of your closeness with Hina. It’s as if he feels obliged to feel bad about you watching her while he’s working on his new songs either in studios or shows venues when you’re only paid to keep any harm from her and not play babysitter. He still remembers that one day he firmly told her not to use walls as a written medium and started drawing on your body after you've told her she could and showed the tattoo on your thigh.

He was both befuddled and surprised to note that particularity. And he hates how stoical you always seem to be about everything. He wants to be able to read your mind but you’ve never indulged him. He gets more curious about your opinion of him as a performer.

As grateful he is for your presence, he’s come to realise, after only a couple of months in your company, its impact on their relationship. It’s not as if you’ve been trying to create any particular bond with his niece, yet you’ve managed to get Hina to ask after you when you’re nowhere to be seen. He never feels jealous about it, it simply makes him smile. He’d even find himself missing you oftentimes.

Today’s Wednesday and it’s awfully quiet this afternoon.

Taehyung’s scrolling endlessly through movies and dramas when Hina comes plopping down on the couch, face first, next to him.

“Are you bored ?” He smiles at her and playfully taps her bum.

Another minute passes by and he turns off the T.V. to grab his phone. It’s seven pm.

“Wanna go see ______?”

Hina pulls herself straight up at the mention of your name and squeals a little ‘yes’ as if he’s just had the best idea ever.

“Let’s go get prepared.”

Not long after, they’re already on their way to the gym where you’re always spending your free time on his days off. It’s not a long walk by foot. He knows he’s taking risks but he doesn’t feel like driving.

With Hina in one arm, he pushes open the front door. The air inside is thick and heavy with the smell of sweat. Music’s blasting, although low enough for him to hear the fit man greeting him at the entrance.

Taehyung adjusts his sunglasses on his fringe. “I’m looking for _______. We agreed to meet.” He lies.

“Wait here, I’ll go get her.”

“Thank you.”

He watches the man walk around a corner. He lets Hina sit back on the counter to ease his arm tired after holding her the whole walk.

“_______!” She exclaims, which has Taehyung looking where she’s pointing.

He spots you a few feet away walking in his direction and chatting with another man. He’s staring back quietly and feels satisfied when he notices the surprise in your eyes for a split second at their sight.

He feels Hina tugging at his collar to get back in his arms. She waves at you excitedly when you’re near. The man in your company stops behind to chat with another person crossing his way.

“Hi,” you hear Taehyung breath. He hopes you don’t notice his staring.

Your outfit isn’t much different from what you usually wear at home when you work out but your chest is glowing with your effort enticingly and your hair sticking to the flushed skin of your neck. Your worked up expression makes his stomach feel tingly.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uhm- We… Hina wanted to see you.”

“That’s really stupid of you.” You frown a little. “What if something happened on your way here? Or if someone recognised you?”

Taehyung feels himself warming up at your worry.

“We took care of it. Hina, show her,” he smiles proudly and raises a finger to tap and have his sunglasses falling down on his nose. Your gaze shifts back and forth to his cheeky smile and Hina who’s keeping a tight tiny hand on hers, obviously too big for her, clearly playing along.

“Secwet.” She hushes.

You pinch your lips not to let yourself get endeared by her.

“______?” The stranger suddenly says.

Taehyung’s eyes instantly look at his hand cupping your waist to fit himself between you and the counter. He notes he’s barely taller than him but his physique is near perfection. You do nothing to take his hand off of you. His smile dies a little.

“New friends?”

“Uhm-,” you turn your head to glance at him quickly, “Shownu, this is Taehyung. And his niece.” You gesture between them. “Taehyung, Hina, Shownu. He owns that gym.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Shownu doesn’t seem to recognise him as he swipes his hand on his shorts and offers it. Taehyung shakes it shortly and nods. “You should come someday. We’re offering fifty percent off of membership and the first month is free.”

“Now’s not a great time.”

“Why not?”

You shake your head at Shownu. “Why are you being so nosy?”

“I’m just asking.”

Taehyung intervenes. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Great.” He smiles and stretches a hand to pinch Hina’s cheek lightly but she leans away on Taehyung’s shoulder. He grips your shoulder, looking down at you. “Have to go. I’ll text you about the thing, okay?”

You nod.

Taehyung watches you watching him walking away. He can’t help but compare himself to him and wonder if he’s your type. It itches him to know more about the two of you but he knows better. You catch him and he grins a tight-lipped smile.

_______________________________________

The walk back home is quiet. Hina’s happy about not having to wear those gigantic glasses anymore and bounces her way in front of you.

“Don’t get surprised if you’re making headlines tomorrow.”

Taehyung turns around to see you staring blankly at him, “what are you talking about?”

“I’m sure someone’s already spotted you. You’re surely all over the internet.” You say pointedly.

“Uh- No, that’s impossible.” He quickly interjects. “I was careful. And it’s too dark now.”

“You don’t know them. They’re crazy.” You suddenly breathe very closely to his face. “They’re everywhere and watching everything you do. Seojun told me all about them.”

Taehyung freezes, uneasy. “Hina!” He calls when she starts to get a little too far. “Why are you saying these things? It's scary.”

“It’ll be your fault.” You close your eyes, slightly pouting.

He picks her up when she’s at his feet. He frowns,“stop saying that.”

“Then don’t go out without telling me.”

“Alright, I got it!”

Hina looks back and forth between you two.

“Maybe, we’re being followed.”

He’s getting a little alarmed. “You think?”

“I don’t know.” You walk closer and closer until your chest presses against his arm. “The best thing we could do... would be to pretend to be a family? Taking a walk?” You drag out.

“Eh?”

You grin a little lopsided smile at his funny expression. “Yeah, like this.” You sneak an arm around his, tightening him more to yourself.

Taehyung doesn’t know how to react to your sudden move. Hina stretches her tiny hand to cup your cheek and he notices a glint of satisfaction in your eyes. “Bu- but, you’re sweaty.”

“What did you expect, fetching me from the gym?” You jerk your body away.

“No, no, no! I take it back!”

You shake your head at him and he looks away when you don’t, trying to contain himself.

////////////////////////////!\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Feedback is much appreciated Reblog if you wish to read more

#taehyung scenarios #bts scenarios #bts smut #Taehyung smut #bts angst #taehyung angst #bts fluff #taehyung fluff #bts imagines #taehyung x reader #taehyung x oc #taehyung x y/n #bts reactions

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youidiotprince · 3 years

Text

A Very Merry Ca$hqu€€ns Christmas

“No, Nora! Stay out!” Ava yelled from floor, scrambling to shield her nearly wrapped gift from Nora’s curious gaze. Nora had announced her presence with a quiet knock as she pushed open the door, hoping to catch Ava off guard and glimpse her gift.

“Why can’t I see, hm? If the present isn’t for me. . .” Nora teased, crossing her arms over her chest, feet still planted in the open doorway.

“Because I…” Ava floundered for an explanation that wouldn’t incriminate her, but she couldn’t string together the words. “Just because! It’ll ruin it either way, so you just have to get out.”

“If you say so.” Nora turned to leave, but as she closed the door behind her, she added, “I’m taking this as confirmation that you’re my Secret Santa, though.”

“Nora,” Ava groaned, grabbing the nearest item and throwing it at the now-closed door. When it fluttered to the ground only a foot or so in front of where she sat, she realized it was the glittery green bow she still had to stick atop her present. She’d opted for a more classic look, with red and white striped wrapping paper, thick and shiny, a purchase she’d splurged on for her gifts this year because she’d always liked the crisp lines and folds the more expensive papers made when wrapping. Nora’s gift, which she’d already put under the tree earlier that day, was wrapped in snowman-covered paper, something she’d had leftover from the year before, and maybe the year before that.

Ava peeled the backing from the sticky part of the bow and placed it, perfectly centered where the lines of ribbon intersected on top of her rectangular package. She could faintly hear the tinkling bells of the festive music Nora had just started playing, and she knew that was her cue to hurry it up.

With the package cradled under her arm, she left her room and called out to Nora, “Hey girl, what do you need me to do?”

Nora rounded the corner from the kitchen and eyed Ava’s now perfectly wrapped gift. “Ooh, that looks gorgeous,” Nora said with a mischievous look. “I can’t wait to open it.”

“Yeah, you wish,” Ava taunted with a smile. She placed her gift under the tree and brushed her hands clean of it. “Have you heard from the others yet?”

“Mm, they’re both on their way, they should be here any minute.”

The girls busied themselves plating the snacks they’d prepared and the cookies they’d baked until they heard a knock at the door, the thuds sounding in time with the cheesy Christmas carol playing over the speaker.

“Merry Friendsmas!” Mailin and Fatou shouted together, smiles spread almost as wide as their arms. Mailin modeled a headband with reindeer antlers stuck on top and red makeup on the tip of her nose, and Fatou wore a red and green patterned sweater trimmed with glittery tinsel around the neck, the wrists, and the bottom hem. They both held up their presents, Fatou’s in a wintery blue and silver giftbag and Mailin’s wrapped in what looked like newspaper or scrap paper of some sort. They’d dressed on theme, matching Nora’s all red look paired with a Santa hat and Ava’s cozy plaid Christmas pajamas. After a quiet beat during which they took in all their different looks, the girls erupted in excited chatter all at once, talking over each other in order to compliment and dissect their different outfits.

“That must be so itchy,” Nora told Fatou as Fatou told Ava how much she envied her cozy attire.

“Your nose!” Ava exclaimed to Mailin as she reached out almost close enough to touch it before Mailin flinched away.

“No, don’t ruin it yet. I forgot the lipstick at home,” Mailin admitted sheepishly. “Although it looks like I could just borrow Nora’s.” Nora puckered her red lips in response. She backed out of the way so they all could come in and make themselves comfy. They left their coats and boots in the entryway.

“Mulled wine, anyone?” Nora asked from the kitchen as Mailin and Fatou added their gifts to the pile in the main room and sat on the couch next to Ava. “I’ll be having hot chocolate, so that’s an option too.”

Ava and Fatou shared a look before Fatou answered for both of them, “Two mulled wines, please.”

“Oh wait, I’ll come help,” Mailin said as she leapt up from the couch and joined Nora in the kitchen. “Also, I’ll have a hot chocolate.”

Once they brought the drinks out to the others, they all settled into their easy rhythm, talking about the little details of their lives that had happened since they’d last seen each other, recounting some of their best and worst holiday memories before they met each other. Nora opened up about the year that her mother hadn’t gotten anyone any gifts and Kiki, trying to fix everything, went out and bought Nora a box of colored pencils and a coloring book and Zoe a bracelet-making kit with the small amount of money she had. It hadn’t been much but it had meant the world to both of them. Zoe made each of the sisters a bracelet, and she wondered if Kiki or Zoe still had theirs. Fatou shared that one of the best presents she ever received was a book about marine biology with lots of pictures of marine life. She told them that her brother made fun of her endlessly about it, but he was always looking over her shoulder as she’d read through it.

When they felt like they’d run out of stories, they sang carols and karaoke in pairs until Zoe hollered from her room for them to quiet down, and while the singing might have stopped, they didn’t actually adjust their volume much. Eventually, feeling like a little kid who’d been trying their best to wait patiently for the chance to open presents but who just couldn’t hold it in any longer, Ava admitted, “Girls, I can’t take it anymore. We need to do the gift exchange already.”

“Oh, you’re right!” Mailin gasped, as if she’d completely forgotten about the main event of the evening.

Nora clapped and then wiggled her fingers together excitedly, looking slowly at each of her friends. “Who wants to go first?”

“I will,” Fatou said, straining to reach the gift she’d left with the others. She finally snagged the handle with the tip of her finger, so she pulled it over and sat back upright. “Okay, drumroll please.” The girls started pounding their fists on their legs or on the floor, whichever was closer. “This is for… Ava!” Fatou held the gift out to her with a flourish, beaming.

“Chibi,” Ava said warmly, taking the decently sized bag from Fatou’s hand. It was stuffed with white tissue paper which Ava crumpled into a ball and handed to Nora, who was collecting the trash. Beneath all of that was the edge of a sleek black frame, which Ava pulled out carefully. The frame enclosed a photo of the stars in the night sky with a date underneath: October 2, 2020. Ava brushed her fingertips over the glass, hovering just above so as not leave a smudge.

“It’s a print of the constellations on the first day we all hung out together, when we stole that money,” Fatou blurted. “I know you’ve been looking for things to decorate the place with, and that day is so important to me, to us. This seemed like a good gift because we both love the universe and space and astrology so much.”

“Fatou, this is incredible.” Ava’s voice was full of genuine awe. “Seriously, this is perfect, I love it so much. We should all have one of these, honestly.” Nora and Mailin were craning their necks to get a better look, so Ava passed the print to them. As they admired it, Ava turned to Fatou. There was no way Fatou could know just how much this meant to her. How lame and lonely and insecure she felt before as she tried to rebuild her life here without a solid friend group, how difficult it was to watch other people find these friend groups that seemed like they’d last for life while Ava had paper thin friendships that were haunted by the words of her bullies, the doubts and fears they’d implanted in her. Ava felt as though this group of girls, this group of best friends, had finally allowed her to embrace herself with the confidence she had only ever faked before. Fatou couldn’t know how much that day meant to her in particular, but still, it felt like maybe she did, at least a little bit. “Thank you, Fatou. Really.”

“You’re welcome, Ava,” she said as she rested her head on Ava’s shoulder and snuggled closer, patting Ava’s knee tenderly.

After a few moments, Ava offered, “Okay, I’ll go next, and we can just go whoever receives the gift can give the next one? If that works out.” Everybody nodded so Ava grabbed her gift and settled back down on the couch. “Okay, this lovely, award-winning wrapping is for none other than… Mailin.”

“I get the best wrapped one,” Mailin said as she excitedly took the present from Ava and shook it next to her ear. When she brought it back down in front of her, she hesitated. “I almost don’t want to open it! But alas,” she said, and with that she ripped open the paper to reveal a jewelry box with a brand label printed on it that she’d never heard of. When she lifted the lid, she saw two sets of earrings, one set of green and blue tie-dye rectangular pendants with “climate” engraved in one and “justice” engraved in the other and one set of large globe earrings.

“They’re made from completely recycled materials, and the proceeds went to a campaign for climate justice here in Germany. And they just seemed so you,” Ava explained, motioning between the new earrings and the earrings Mailin was currently wearing, which were big candy canes dangling from her ears.

“No, these are awesome, I’ve been trying to develop my collection of fun earrings. These are fun and make a statement. Thank you. Okay, my turn.” Mailin jumped up to grab her newspaper package. “Special eco-friendly wrapping,” she boasted. “Hope you enjoy.” With that, she handed the gift off to Nora without much ceremony, which added its own bit of surprise.

“For me? Ah, okay, I’m excited,” Nora said as she tore into the newspaper. Underneath it all was a thick stack of shipping labels, some used and some unused. The used ones were obviously an attempt at recycling, which Nora appreciated. The sticker at the top of the stack already had a note on it, which must have been written by Mailin, as it said, “Coupon for free shipping label retrieval and delivery for a year. Ask and you will receive.”

“Those are what you used to do your drawings on when you left them around the city, right? I know you’ve probably worn yourself out with all the drawings you’ve done for our shirts, but as a token of appreciation for all of that, I will provide you with shipping label sticker things whenever you need them.” Mailin finished her explanation with a proud smile.

“This is really thoughtful, Mailin. I’ll definitely take you up on this coupon offer,” Nora said with a wink. She then turned to Fatou. “So it’s just you and me,” Nora joked, handing her gift off to Fatou.

“This box is light, I wonder what it could be,” Fatou said as she ripped off the paper. She was only teasing Nora about the weight of the box, but when she opened it all the way and looked inside, it really was empty. Just completely empty. Fatou looked up, confused, and made eye contact with Ava. Ava’s stomach lurched. It couldn’t be. Had Nora forgotten a gift? She wouldn’t do that to Fatou, would she? And if she had forgotten, why would she just wrap an empty box? She hated herself for thinking it, but after everything she’d been through, she couldn’t keep the thought away that maybe this was a prank, that maybe Nora’s friendship with all of them was some kind of prank. It was just a nagging thought in the back of her mind, it couldn’t possibly be true, but she still couldn’t ignore it, not completely.

At the same time, Fatou and Ava turned to look at Nora, trying to work out what exactly was going on, but she was engrossed in something on her phone, her lips turning up into a smile. How could she be so callous?

“Nora,” Fatou started, voice quiet and hesitant. Before she could say more, three phones buzzed with a new message, and Nora looked up, smile growing. Fatou had planned to ignore the text, but now she was suspicious. She grabbed her phone from her pocket and opened the message, her phone redirecting her to WhatsApp. There, in the ca$hqu€€ns groupchat, was a collection of stickers, some actual photos and some drawings, of axolotls. The drawings had the axolotls pulling funny facial expressions, emoting in different ways. A smile here, a frown there, a wink and a stuck-out tongue. Fatou felt Ava exhale beside her.

“I’m sorry for the empty box, I wanted to give you something to unwrap even though the gift was virtual, but my timing ended up being kind of off with that one,” Nora said, sheepish. “And they’re not exactly emojis, but they’re close, right?”

“My axolotl emoji,” Fatou said almost dreamily.

“Nora, these are awesome,” Mailin chimed in from beside her.

“Thanks. If you want any other facial expressions, just let me know.”

A content silence stretched between the girls, everyone feeling comfortable and warm, processing the gifts they’d just given and received.

“Guys, this was so great, I… you don’t understand how happy I am right now. You guys are the best.” Ava’s heart swelled with something that felt like pride, maybe, that these were the people she chose, that these were the people who chose her. Of course Nora wouldn’t let any of them down like that, not on purpose. None of them would. They all loved and respected each other too much. “The ca$hqu€€ns were written in the stars, you guys. We were fated.”

At Ava’s moment of vulnerability, all of the girls rushed to wrap her in the tightest group hug, falling all over each other and ending up in a messy pile of cuddles. Limbs tangled and faces smushed, and when they finally started to pull away a bit, Mailin took one look at Ava’s cheek and sighed.

“Oh no, I smeared my nose on your cheek.”

#alteradventcalendar #druck #druck fic #cashqueens #ava pereira #fatou jallow #nora machwitz #mailin richter

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withoneheadlight · 4 years

Text

Kinda want to make us happen (so stop smiling at me like that)

"Okay. What would you go for, then?"

"I don't know. Johansson, maybe? I like that one" says Steve, thoughtful, dropping down next to Billy, his back against the boiling side of the Camaro" Ooor-oh! Williamson! That one sounds good. Steve Williamson. What do you think?"

"Weird." Billy taps his cigarette butt with his thumb, blowing the ash, "I think it sounds weird. And I don't know why you want to change it, if all of those rhyme with the one you already have”

Steve rolls his eyes. The screams from the pool come gusty, like the wind that has risen from the east. The kids are already more than fifteen minutes late.

"Let's see. You try. I'm sure you'll have a knack for it"

Billy should get mad about his haughty tone, but what he feels instead is that tone describing a line that travels straight down from the hollow of his throat to just below his navel. The wind has extinguished his cigarette when he brings it to his lips. He throws it. Steals Steve's.

"Hey!"

"I don't know" he hits a puff, pretends to ignore him "I like the one you have. Sounds good. Ha-rring-ton. HaaaarringTON ”

"You only like it because you use it to harass me"

Billy can't help but smile. Wide. Cheeky.

"Maybe"

Billy shouldn't know about this last name thing. It's not like he and Steve have anything remotely close to that kind of familiarity. They are not friends or anything. Most of the time Billy only gets to see him like this, in passing. An almost daily coincidence. On days like today, waiting for the kids around a cigarette. On the days Steve stops by the gas station during Billy's shift to refuel the BMW. When he sees him in the distance, walking by, like those people you see only in the movies. Sunglasses on. White, pristine Nikes, a smile more expensive than all the money Billy will ever have in his hands. Million-dollar Steve Harrington, with his million-dollar smile. Completely unattainable for someone like Billy.

Because, that’s it, people like Steve Harrington happen to people like Billy Hargrove only in passing. And he knows, he knows, but he can't help but force those coincidences a little sometimes, push them into happening, like dropping by the Mall to fetch an ice cream on the Scoops –even if it really does have the best stuff in town–, accidentally catching a conversation ("Dingus. I vote for dingus. That’s your new last name" and "Thank you, Robin. I'm glad you're taking it so seriously" and "I take it seriously. Steve Dingus. Think about it"). And Billy is curious now. As he always is, inevitably, about all things regarding Steve Harrington.

"And why do you want to change it?"

"I'm gonna-" Steve hesitates. Draws a long, curved line with his shoe, staining the tip with the dusty ocher dirt of the gravel "I'm gonna leave"

It's a curious thing. One moment it feels like there's plenty of air filling your lungs, and the next, you have nothing.

"From Hawkins?"

"Eh? No. No” Steve takes a deep breath, “Only from my parent’s house”

Billy doesn't know if when your heart skips a beat you can ever get it back, but if not, Steve Harrington owes him this one.

But he sounds cool, perfectly collected when he speaks again. A long, hard-learned ability.

"And the last name thing?"

“My father– He's always saying this shit,” he sighs, makes his voice even more serious, rounds it in an exaggerated imitation of his father “This –You're not worthy to carry the Harrington name– shit. So."

Billy knows a lot about asshole fathers and never meeting impossible expectations. If he could, he would erase every trace of Neil off himself, even if he's not sure how much would be left after that.

"Yeah"

He hands him the cigarette and Steve accepts it with a small smile.

"It will cost me almost everything I have. But, you know, is worth it"

Billy frowns.

"Don't you have like, a shitload of money?"

"Not if I leave" Steve shrugs, turns his head in the direction of the pool, throat working "If you leave casa Harrington, you leave casa Harrington for good. No car, no inheritance, no nothing. We’re not– in the best terms right now. My father and I"

Billy wants to know about that too–he wants to know everything– but it seems like too much to ask.

Steve's head lulls down. The wind picks up momentum over the curve of his back, ruffles his hair in a whirlpool. He puffs on the cigarette.

It's the closest Billy is ever going to get to his lips.

"Well, welcome then, to bottom of the bottom of the social scale. I’m sure you’re gonna enjoy yourself down here, surrounded by the poor and the unprivileged “

He means it as a joke, but realizes he has screwed up the moment the words leave his lips. Steve’s face twists into something sad and ashamed and Billy is a fucking asshole that needs to stop and think before opening his big, stupid mouth.

"I guess so," he says, lips pressed thin. And God, Billy is like a fucking elephant, stepping on every delicate thing. He should know better than making it worst.

Fuck.

Because is not as he can’t imagine the reason why Steve wants to get away from Robert Harrington. Why he needs to stop being someone so small under such a large shadow. Because Steve it’s not like that. It’s not some selfish and self-centered prick. Steve is caring and protective and so, so good.

And Billy is totally gone for him.

"You can have mine" he says, and immediately wants to smack himself in the head because though you were gonna start thinking before speaking, Hargrove.

Steve looks at him, curious and a bit confused. Billy inhales. Deep.

"Can what?"

"My last name" he says, because Steve is looking at him intently, and there’s nothing he can do now "I hate it. You can have it if you want”

And Jesus, he feels so stupid right now. It’s like he can’t control his fucking mouth when he's around Steve, like he’s still seventeen and trying so hard to impress him. Fishes inside his back pocket for the pack of cigarettes. He can see Steve’s smile growing in the corner of his eye. And ok. That’s ok. Billy is a big-mouthed asshole. But Steve is smiling now, so ok.

At least he made it better.

"I don't think Steve Hargrove sounds very cool either, truth be told"

But it does. It does. And Billy is turning red, warmth spreading through his face, burning on the tips of his ears.

"It’s better than Johansson"

"That’s true" He does this thing he does sometimes, this thing of fixing his eyes on Billy and instantly looking away, elusive, and Billy's body tightens as if ready to hunt him down, thrumming with the blind impulse of reach after him. In this distance, he can see all the moles that dot his skin, delicate and beautiful, the long to touch them hurts at his fingertips.

"How are you going to do it?"

“No fucking idea,” he shrugs. “I guess I can stay at Dustin's for a few days and try to come up with something from there. I don't really have anything planned. I just want–". He doesn't say it, like he’s not able to find the words. Like it’s less formed thought and more feeling. But there’s no need because Billy knows them all. He has an interminable list of them. It starts with freedom, with independence, with never again. He yelled them all at his father when he got away last year. Max is the only reason he hasn’t flown from Hawkins yet.

Well, not the only reason. Just the only that’s not a fucking dream.

“No fucking idea” Steve repeats like an echo, huffs a laugh that comes out ragged. Nervous. Like he’s caught up in that thought. How are you gonna do it?.

And Billy is an adult now. Shouldn’t be losing his self-control around a boy like this anymore. Even if that boy is Steve Harrington. Should be able to stop his fucking mouth for fuck’s sake.

But he asks, anyway.

"Wanna crash at my place?"

“Uh?”

Steve’s brow furrows. Most days it ain’t easy to tell apart the color of his eyes, irises so dark they mix with the pupils, but the sun is sinking low now, golden light brightening them lighter, a soft shade of brown. Billy tries not to think about how impossible he is, how out of reach even like this, so close to him, side to side, their bodies brushing.

"While you figure it out, I mean. Or, you know, I could use a roommate, share the rent, once you regain some money, I mean”

It's a stupid offer and he knows it, because people like Steve Harrington never really happen to people like Billy Hargrove, only like this, the luck to steal a few moments, a coincidence.

"Really?" Steve asks with something completely, disarmingly unexpected. Something like hope.

He gets up, looks at Billy like he’s trying to decipher something.

"No. Not really. Didn't you just hear me, Harrington?” He says, uses his best unrepentant asshole tone. Lights another cigarette “I'm wasn't by any means inviting you or something"

And Steve smiles smiles smiles. And Billy has never-ever wanted to kiss someone so much, and for so long, and be able to hold himself back.

"Jesus, Hargrove" Steve breathes out a laugh, and he's beaming, and Billy doesn't have the slightest idea how he managed to do that "Is there anything you are not willing to give me?"

And he’s kidding, of course he is, but the words hit like a blow, straight to his solar plexus and Billy is not fast enough, he wasn’t prepared. So when he lowers his head, he’s sure Steve has seen it all, right there in his eyes.

Everything.

He lights the cigarette, fills his lungs till he feels them burning.

"You take it or what?"

"I take it" he says. Low and soft like it is something intended only for Billy to hear "And, you’re right, by the way”

“Uh?”

“It sounds better the more I think about it"

(This is how it goes:

Steve never gets to change it.

He moves in with Billy. Needs the money because (“No, no, no. You’re not gonna pay for all our food ¿You want me to die of embarrassment? Wait. Wait. Don’t answer that") so he postpones it because, there's no rush, really (“And you keep calling me HAAaarrrrington, so feels a bit like a waste”) it was one those in-the-heat-of-the-moment kind of decisions anyway so (“No. It was no childish. You’re an asshole. Ok, well. Yeah. That I can accept. It was not the most practical) it ends up on undefined hiatus.

And then they start joking about it. Billy calls him “Mr. Hargrove” (“Good morning, Mr. Hargrove” or “Wanna go to the movies tonight, Mr. Hargrove?” or “You forgot to do the dishes yesterday, Mr. Hargrove, that's five bucks to the forgotten-dishes jar, Mr. Hargrove”) and Steve uses his, when replies, in a fairly accurate impersonation (“You owe like, twenty dollars to that jar, Harrington. So you are not to speak”) and keeps on using it against him on a regular basis (“Gosh, Harrington, you're such softie. And think that you used to be such a hard-ass on High School” every time Max convinces him to take her shopping).

And, truth be told, Steve never hated it that much. Kind of loves it, now that his father hasn’t power over him anymore, now that it's Billy who uses it, rides the letters like a wave, HarrignTON, piling up the syllables like in a roller coaster. When he says,

“I’m glad you’re here with me, Harrington” falling asleep against his shoulder on the couch.

When he says,

“I miss you, Harrington. This is so boring without you” that time Steve took the kids on a camping trip for a whole week.

When he says,

“I can’t stop myself from kissing you anymore, Harrington. So this is your chance to step away”

They hyphenate, at the end.

There are a lot of Hs and Rs and Gs, that they share, and Steve wants them all.

They toss a coin in the air.

“Are you sure you haven’t cheated, pretty boy? You look too smug to not be lying”

“Why would I? But we can switch, if you want to”

“Nah, I think it sounds pretty good, actually” Billy says. Kisses him “Better the more I think about it”)

#dumb boys being dumb #dumb writers being even dumber #harringrove #harringrove fic #steve harrington #Billy Hargrove #billy x steve #Steve x Billy #xharringrove

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innittowinit · 3 years

Text

Clair de Lune, L. 32

Summary:

Tommy has a nightmare about Wilbur's death and Ghostbur comforts him

YOOO just to be clear this is an AU that was created before cannon ghostbur and schlatt so all you need to know for this fic is that Wilbur is a ghost that haunts the sleepy bois, he's from the 1700's or something and he was murdered.

Not tagged MCD as a warning because Wil is technically still a character but his death is described a bit so stay safe!

Word count: 1536

Google doc with more info on this au

AO3

The air was bitter and cold, cracks in the walls seethed with a breeze that never seemed to go away, it helped in the summer months when the homes felt like a sauna but on a late December evening like tonight, all it did was remind the townsfolk that they weren’t nearly as wealthy as those who wouldn’t be worrying about this.

After having served his time, on account of slandering a wealthy businessman in a song, he had made the decision to invite the gentleman over to have dinner and hopefully reconcile. Bad blood was never a good thing to have with someone, especially not the rich, and even if the intent was not to suddenly become good friends, Wilbur still felt it was important to be civil with him. While the point of his song had been to humour the situation, he still recognised that it had offended the man to the point of wanting legal action to be made.

Unfortunately Wil had been the only one to feel this way.

He had placed down his own food first before going back to the kitchen to get the gentleman’s meal. In hindsight this had been a horrible decision, giving an easy way for him to spike his food with no witnesses at all. That had definitely been easier than planned, perhaps Wil was just too trusting. He had just assumed that now that he had been punished all resentment had faded into what was a potential reconciliation.

The poison hadn’t taken long to fall into place, half way through the dinner Wil would start coughing, only for that to turn into long, breathless gasp, until eventually he was left scraping at his neck trying to grasp for some air as if it were a privilege.

The man watched with humour as Wil suffered, tears streaming down his face as he focused every inch of his energy into his breathing, not fully able to comprehend what was happening until a knife was pressed against his neck, blade cold and sharp as a swift swipe let out all the pressure in his body and left him to fall to the floor.

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

Tommy swung up in bed, arms flailing around the blankets, as if he was searching for physical evidence that Wilbur was okay. Heart pounding and sweat glazing his forehead, he spun his head around the room, as if he was scanning for either Wilbur or the scumbag who had killed him. Knowing Wil was a ghost hurt. Even though they could still communicate through a range of media, even though he could still physically hug him if he possessed someone, it wasn’t the same. He knew Wilbur had been hurt and that just didn’t feel right. He didn’t want to accept that the Ghost who they had lovingly welcomed into the family was hurt by someone, he loved him too much to really accept that as a reality.

It took a solid ten minutes before he calmed down from his frenzy, left just to breathe heavily, rested against the bed frame as if he had just run a marathon.

Despite the fact that he had never known Wilbur in life, since he had learned of his tragic demise, he hadn’t been able to get the horrible thoughts out of his mind, it was like a curse. Wilbur was like a big brother to him, even if he wasn’t exactly alive they could speak easily through spirit boxes and voice recorders and when he was too tired to try and manipulate radio waves, he would sometimes knock things off of counters and shelves to make his presence known.

Learning guitar from a ghost had been surprisingly easy, he had a video tutorial of some song playing and every now and then Wil would pause the video to talk through the spirit box, sometimes giving tips and other times just straight up teasing Tommy for being bad at playing the guitar.

Wiping his teary eyes, trying to remind himself that even though Wilbur was dead, even though he had gone through something bad, he was still there (Not even in those ‘he’s with us in spirit’ facebook post kind of ways, Wilbur had been haunting them, he was quite literally still around) he reached for the spirit box, switching it on and leaning back in his bed as relief washed over him.

There was something about knowing that Wil could freely talk through that, that comforted him. It reminded him that Wil was okay, he had been poisoned, he had been stabbed, but he was okay.

“Wilbur?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes, waiting for the ghost to make his presence known.

Every now and then Wil would go off to mess with Minx or the lunch club, during the night, paired with Schlatt of course, Tommy hoped to God that tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

“Nightmare?” The box spoke back at him, he nodded.

It was hard to talk to the spirit box sometimes, Wil could only talk in a couple words with that, that’s why they had started the family tradition of Wilbur possessing one of them each Friday so they could have some actual time with him instead of mainly one sided conversations.

Today wasn’t a Friday but Tommy wished it was.

“Techno.. Techno won't mind if you use his body.. You can still take control when he’s sleeping right? I just need to hear you talk for real..”

By now, Tommy was sitting upright in his bed, knees pulled up into his chest. They’d been through this exact situation so many time’s that Tommy had even set up a mirror near his bed since sometimes Wilbur showed up in them, He wasn’t showing up today though.

“Yeah. Wait.”

As always, the spirit box was choppy and left room for interpretation as Tommy nodded and tried to think about anything other than the frightening thoughts of death in his head. Tomorrow was a Week-day, that’s why he’d chosen Techno, he would no doubt be pissed that he had missed a chunk of sleep but being sleepy at school had far fewer consequences than being sleepy at work, which would happen if Tommy asked Wil to possess Phil.

After a while of Tommy staring at his ceiling, ‘Techno’ peeked his head into the door and walked over to Tommy’s bed, sitting down next to him.

“It’s Wilbur, you know that right?” Wil smiled, Techno’s glasses -which Wil still needed to wear while possessing him- glinting against the moonlight.

Nodding, Tommy leant his head onto Wilbur’s shoulder, hands wrapping around him and squeezing with as much force as he could muster.

“I shouldn’t miss you this much. I didn’t even know you. Wil, it must have hurt so much”

Wilbur just nodded and stroked his hair as he whispered reassurances and kind words, there was no certain way to fix this, the fact of the matter that Wilbur had died and he probably shouldn’t have let a 16 year old know the fully gruesome details of his death but that being said it was all readily available online and sure enough he would have eventually found out anyway. Wilbur much preferred being the one to tell him himself rather than him reading a blog post made by a teenager that was probably way too into true crime to accurately report what happened.

He supposed what attracted those kinds of people was that he had led a fairly eccentric life, only to be killed and the killer to never be caught.

Wil had always thought his killer to be obvious but the justice system had not been very good in those days, in many ways it still wasn’t very good.

“It did hurt Tommy. I was so scared that was going to be the end of everything but y’know what? If I hadn’t died like that, I might not have ever met you or Phil or Techno. If I had died up in some other city, since I did like to travel a lot, I might have never thought to mess with you guys. If that hadn’t happened I wouldn’t have the family I have now”

“But you hur-”

“That was hundreds of years ago Toms, I hardly remember it”

Liar. He thought about it every time he saw people using cleaning chemicals or cooking with knives.

“Tommy you’re a good kid. You’re empathetic, that’s really good, but you can only die once and that’s never going to happen to me again, okay?”

Tommy nodded into his chest

“Do you wanna watch that movie you like? I know I can’t really fix how you feel about what happened but sometimes a distraction helps” “Up’s good. Let’s watch Up”

Ironically, Tommy had fallen asleep right after the wife died but Wil hoped that would give him some closure since it was a very nice film. Not wanting to wake the boy, after him already having such a rough night, he didn’t bother taking Techno back to his own room, leaving his body to sleep next to Tommy as he watched the rest of the movie alone.

-----

“Why the fuck am I in your bed?”

“...I had a nightmare?”

#wilbur soot #ghostbur #fanfic #tommyinnit #hurt/ comfort #nightmares

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namfine · 4 years

Text

Motherlode | Namjoon x Reader | Gold Rush AU | Part 1

❂ pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader

❂ word count: 5k

❂ summary: Following the death of your father in 1849, you travel across the United States in search of finding gold in California. There you stumble upon a young geology professor eager to find his way in the world as well.

❂ tags: 18+, smut, virgin reader, first time sex, oral sex (fem receiving), foreplay, light dirty talk, falling in love, mutual feelings, gold rush au, time period au, alternate universe, outdoor sex? (they’re in a tent so?), smut with plot

❂ part: 1 of 2

Part 2

❂ a/n: Hello everyone, Admin Zesty here! This is the first in a two part series of a new alternate universe set in the California Gold Rush with our dearest Namjoon. I’ll update this and post the next chapter when it’s finished. Hope you enjoy!

- ☆.｡.:* Zesty .｡.:*☆

The sunrises out here really were beautiful. That gave you something to look forward to each day, at least. You urged your horse forward, eager to catch up to the rest of the caravan. It was just a few more miles until you reached the border of California and then a bit more to reach the American River. You had made it. For the first time in a long time, you felt a glimmer of hope.

The trek across America had been harder than you expected. You had been so overcome with grief from the death of your father that you had leapt at the opportunity to find riches in the unexplored west after James Marshall found that massive gold nugget. New York had nothing for you now, it’s only purpose serving as a stark reminder that you had no one left in the world to look out for you. Only mean neighbors who trusted your bookshop owning father on his peculiar way of raising a young lady.

“I do oppose young ladies learning how to read, it’s quite unbecoming.”

“If you keep encouraging those debates, Mr. Y/L/N, you’re going to raise her to have a mind of her own!”

“Ugh, did you see what Y/N was wearing around the store the other evening? Pantaloons!”

You shoved down the memories. Yes, leaving New York after the death of your father had been surprisingly easy.

The sun finally tipped over the horizon and flashed in your eyes. You pulled down your cap, careful to keep your hair tucked under it in an effort to block the sun. It was dangerous for a single young lady without a male relative or husband to travel alone. With no known family left, you had done the only thing you knew to avoid it: became a boy.

As a boy you were inconspicuous, you could easily slide under the radar. Men stopped paying attention to you and the streets were safer at night. Your last night in New York all it took was a pair of scissors and a quick raid of your father’s closet and you were ready to go. But now, five months into the journey, your hair was starting to get long again and you knew your face well enough to know that if you didn’t pin your hair, it would soon be easy to tell. You had lost your knife a few months back and sorely felt the loss.

“How are the pains?” A soft voice drew you from your thoughts and you turned to see the minister’s wife astride her sorrel mare beside you. As one of the few women in the group, she had the ability to move quietly when she needed to. She was older than you and had a kind face. Her and her husband were heading to California to spread the gospel of the lord and had been kind enough to let you tag along with their group on the journey. Most of which were practicers of religion or men hoping to find riches for their families. The caravan totaled to about 25 people and of them all, she was the only one that knew you were a girl.

She’d figured it out quickly, given the fact that your period the first month on the road had been brutal. She had recognized your pain, offered you some herbs, and didn’t ask any questions.

When you offered an explanation later, stating how you wanted the opportunity and safety only a man’s appearance could offer, she said you didn’t need to explain. That your reasonings were your own and she understood what would happen if you were discovered. Of the freedom that could be taken from you and the things that could be forced upon you in an instant.

And that was that. Your companionship had grown from there, simple but welcomed.

“They’re better,” you respond. “Thank you for the herbs.”

The woman smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Have you figured out what you’re going to do when you get there?”

You tightened your resolve and flashed her a smile. “I’m gonna kick the West’s ass.”

***

It turns out, the West’s ass didn’t want to be kicked. By the time you had reached the base on the American River parts of your group had dwindled down. The minister and his wife stayed with you and the other panners for a few days before continuing on their journey to San Francisco leaving you, for the first time on this journey, completely and utterly alone.

The base was huge, an expedition set up by a mean old man who called himself The Warden. What his real name was, no one knew. You had that in common with him at least, having kept your true name secret to all who you’d encountered.

It was now, standing in his massive tent surrounded by his men, that the sinking feeling of being a woman in disguise in a camp filled with rascals settled in. If any one were to discover you, god knows what would happen.

“How old are you anyway, boy?” The warden asked. He was standing behind his desk. On it was a map of the American with circles indicating where gold had been found. “You’re a scrawny fella.”

“Sixteen, sir.” 23. But tall, for a girl and well past marriageable age in your neighbors opinions.

The older man scoffed, stroking his mustache. “And you out here searchin’ for riches, son? Gonna blow it all on hookers and booze, I betcha.” The men around him laughed. You kept your face neutral.

“Something like that, sir.”

“Well,” he took a swig from the metal mug. “All walks of life are welcome here. We’re all runnin’ from somethin’ and searchin’ for the-” he held up a finger “-one thing that will help us escape.” He put down the mug and grabbed a piece of paper from his desk, careful to avoid smudging the ink on the map. “Sign here and you can start tomorrow.”

You looked at the paper. Lucky for you, your father had believed that everyone, regardless of gender should be taught to read. You couldn’t say the same for the parents of other girls your age. He had also taught you to be wary of a contract. “What is it?”

“An agreement, boy. You sign away 60 days of honest work to me, panning for gold and helping assemble my mine. After that, I’ll let you pan here for free. Anything you find, you keep.”

Seems fair.

“What if I find something before my days are up?”

He looked at you. “Then it’s mine. I’m letting you sleep here and eat our food, I gotta pay for it all somehow and aren’t we all in this for profit?”

Touche.

“Deal.”

***

The days were long and the work was hard. Regardless, you found yourself quickly settling into a routine at the camp. You started most mornings down by the river, panning for gold. The cool water managed to balance out the hot sun and compared to the noisy streets of New York, you were loving the sounds of the birds and the wind.

In the afternoons you would sometimes continue panning or they would send you into the mines to help clear paths. You hated it down there. There was something unnerving about going deep into the earth and digging into her crevices. The air smelled damp and the only light was the lanterns that were hung haphazardly along the walls. You tried to avoid this work as much as possible.

On the eighth day of your sentence your routine was broken by a disturbance on the outskirts of the main base. A young professor had arrived a few days earlier and you had paid him little mind, as did most of the other miners. Still, it seemed his time of going unnoticed was over.

“What did you say about my gold?” An angry man had the lanky professor by his collar and up against a tree, two of his friends closing in on either side.

The professor waved his arms in surrender, trying desperately to fix whatever it was he seemed to have started. You stopped along the path along with a few other panners to observe and a small crowd gathered shortly.

“I merely spoke the truth,” The professor said, his voice even and calm. “What you have there isn’t gold at all. It’s pyrite. You trading it for time off his sentence seems hardly fair considering it's pretty much worthless.”

You shook your head at his honesty in such a compromising position. What an idiot.

“Look,” The panner said, tightening his grip on the professor's collar. “ I may not have some fancy degree from some big college but I’ve been working these waters a lot longer than you, boy, and I know gold when I see it.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make, when you don’t know the differences. I hardly blame you.”

Your mouth dropped open. The men around you shifted on their feet, sensing a scuffle.

The man fumed. “Are you calling me a liar?”

The professor looked down at his collar at the spot where the man gripped his collar before tracing the man’s arm with his eyes slowly back to his face.

Oh god, you thought. Please don’t say it.

“I don’t think you’re a liar,” the professor stated.

Oh, good. He has some sense at least.

“Just an idiot.”

Here we go.

The man pulled back his other fist, his friends egging him on, ready to throw the punch. The professor shot another one of his goofy grins and this time you could have sworn it was in your direction. You stared at him in abject confusion.

“Stop!” A shout rang out across the group and everyone froze. “What’s going on here?”

You turned to see the warden fast approaching, his usual squad hot on his heels. “Men, release the professor and explain!”

The man holding the professor’s collar dropped it and the professor brushed off his shirt, giving him another small smile. “This here smart guy,” the assailant started. “Was accusin’ me of lyin’. Sayin’ that I was rippin’ ole Jimmy off with a piece of . . . uh. . .” he looked at the professor.

The professor leaned forward. “Pyrite,” he supplied.

“Ah, yeah,” the man continued. “Pyrite! He said I was rippin’ Jimmy off with a piece of this here Pyrite!”

The warden looked up at the heaven’s like he was hoping today would be his last day on earth. “Could I see the mineral in question?”

The man supplied the gem out of his pocket and handed it to the warden. The crowd stood on their tiptoes as he examined it, eager to see the verdict. The professor didn’t show any emotion, merely crossed his arms in quiet confidence. You studied his movements.

The warden turned the piece over in his hands, examining the mineral before bringing it to his mouth and biting down. When he was satisfied he turned toward the assailant.

“The professor accused you of lyin’ not because he thought you were,” the warden began, startlingly calm. “But because he knew you were a FUCKING IDIOT!” The warden threw the stone against the tree, mere inches past the assailants head who cowered at the tone. “That is pyrite you imbecile!”

The crowd burst into conversation. Some laughed and others stated their opinions on the matter but your eyes stayed glued to the young professor. He watched you for a minute in response before turning to address the warden who was explaining his position to his lackeys. You moved closer so you could hear better, eager to learn more about the strange man who had appeared on the base. You had to admit, he was handsome but the pretty ones always brought trouble.

“Gentlemen, this is Professor Kim,” the warden introduced the young man to his group. They all nodded and introduced themselves in return but you didn’t bother to remember their names. “He is visitin’ us from a University overseas. Here to assist in discoverin’ where to best find the most valuable of Earth’s metals. He’s a . . . uhh. . . geographer or somethin’,” the warden explained. “Studies dirt and the like.”

“Geologist,” Professor Kim corrected. “A mining geologist to be specific. I study the extractions of mineral resources from the Earth.”

The group stared at him.

“Rocks,” he sighed, defeated. “I study rocks.”

A chorus of ‘Ahh’s’ broke out amongst the men. You stifled a laugh. You may not have traveled much but growing up in your father’s bookshop you had read a lot and even you knew what a geologist was.

“Regardless,” the warden continued, casting a dismissive hand in the Professor’s direction. “The higher ups seem hell bent on makin’ sure he makes progress in his work and comes out with as few - er - scratches as possible.”

Professor Kim tilted his head. “I would also very much appreciate that.”

“That being said,” the warden turned around looking over the crowd. “You there, boy!” The warden pointed in your direction. Surprised, you looked behind you. No one was there. You looked back at him, pointing at yourself.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” the warden spat. “You’re to assist the professor during his time here. Make sure he has everythin’ he needs and most of all, make sure he stays out of trouble.”

The warden turned on his heel to leave, clearly believing the matter to be settled.

You chased after him, as the crowd began to disperse, struggling to maintain your composure and keep your cool. “Sir, with all due respect I need to be on the rive-”

“Look, boy, I don’t have time to deal with this. You heard my command,” He turned lowering himself closer to your face. He reeked of body odor and whiskey and you struggled not to cover your nose. “-and my command is law. You signed that there contract, you work for me. And I say: you’re to be assistin’ the professor for the rest of his time here, and that’s that.” He spun on his heel and was gone. In a few short minutes the crowd was fully gone, leaving only you and the young professor.

Defeated, you cursed under your breath, not sure what you had done to deserve this. You were supposed to be out here finding gold, getting rich, and starting a new life far away from your troubles in the East and now you were supposed to babysit some yippy foreign professor because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

You finally turned to face Professor Kim. He raised an eyebrow in your direction and flashed a big smile, unaware the damage he was causing to your patience. He was tall, wearing a simple loose long sleeved white shirt tucked into snug pants. He had enough sense, it seemed, to leave behind the suit jacket and hat but had chosen to keep the suspenders. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Ever the gentleman.

“Look,” you addressed him directly for the first time. “I don’t have time to be your babysitter. I need to find some gold and get the hell out of this shithole. So, I’d appreciate it if you could keep yourself out of trouble.”

He sized you up, eyeing your garb with an intelligence that was completely different from the bumbling professor he had been mere minutes before. He raised his eyes to meet your own and you struggled to not falter under his gaze. His eyebrow quirked again, a sly smile on his lips. “You have quite the dirty mouth for a lady.”

You froze, fighting the urge to touch your cap. It’s still there, you’re okay. You could feel the wrappings on your chest and knew that they were intact as well. How did he . . .?

“I don’t know to what you are referring,” you kept your tone calm and cool.

“Don’t fret,” he responded, brushing off your glare. “I don’t think anyone else here has noticed.”

That did it. You grabbed his arm and pulled him along behind you, dodging the panners and workers that flitted about searching for the one thing that could make their lives less miserable. Finding a quiet alley between two tents you pushed him against the wall. The professor put his hands up in surrender, his eyes wide in surprise.

“Okay, talk,” you whispered. You were surrounded by chaos but who knew who may overhear. “How did you figure it out? Did someone tell you?” The minister’s wife?

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, no one told me. It’s just-”

You shook his shoulders, your brow furrowed. Here he was laughing when your future was literally at stake. “It’s just what?!”

He stopped laughing and looked at you. Really looked at you, his expression serious. “It’s just . . . you’re too pretty to be a boy. I could tell right away.”

Shocked, you released his arms and took a step back.

“It’s a miracle no one else has figured it out, really,” he continued. “Your walk is all wrong. You still walk like a lady, pretending there’s an invisible string that holds you up from your head. If you want to be believable, you have to walk pelvis first-” he demonstrated pushing his pelvis out and bending his knees before motioning at his stance “-like this.”

You snorted. “Well, it’s gotten me this far.”

“Well,” he replied, straightening himself up and brushing some dirt off his pants. It didn’t really help, he was still covered. “To be fair, you’re surrounded by idiots.”

You laughed. He was right there.

The professor held out his hand. “You can call me Namjoon.”

You looked at his outstretched hand for a second before relunctantly shaking it back.

“Y/N”

***

“So what is it you even do?” You asked bright and early the next morning. You had reported to Namjoon’s tent, as commanded, and stood there watching as he shoved some strange looking tools into his bag.

“My job,” he began, holding up a paintbrush. “Is to discover what minerals exactly are in the area around here and to learn as much about gold and how to find it as possible in the next few weeks.”

“And how,” you asked, watching him toss a few shovels into his bag. “Are you going to do that?”

“Well, my dear little guardian,” he tightened the latches on the bag and threw it over his shoulder, “why don’t you come along to find out?”

You followed him to a spot on the southern tip of a branch in the American river. From here the base appeared tiny and peaceful, the tents gently swaying in the breeze. It was another perfectly sunny day and you readjusted your cap to wipe the sweat off your brow as you struggled to keep up. The professor may have appeared slim and studious but clearly, the man had some muscle on his bones because he was booking it up the trail.

Namjoon stopped when he reached a curve in the river far away from the other panners and plopped his bag on the ground.

“What do you know about gold, Y/N?” he asked, unlatching the bag to pull out a pan.

“That you can sell it and get a lot of money.”

Namjoon laughed. It was a pleasant sound that held none of the malicious intent you sometimes heard in the laughter of other men. Namjoon’s laugh was carefree and seemed to convey true joy. You liked it.

“Aye, yeah. You can indeed sell it and get a lot of money. Especially nowadays.” He dipped the pan into the running water, scooping up some of the grit down at the bottom and beginning to sift through it. “I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about gold. Like, where it comes from?”

“Isn’t that your job?” You remarked, sitting on a rock beside him, careful to avoid wet spots. He was mesmerizing to watch, the way his hands dipped in and out of the water, his long fingers searching through the grit when he thought he saw something that caught his eye.

“Come on, Y/N, give me something to work with here.”

You sighed, giving in. “A lot of gold is found in water. It’s malleable, hence why the warden bit the stone yesterday to prove that it wasn’t gold. Uhhh . . . it’s yellow?”

Namjoon chuckled as he made a selection from his pan. He held it up so that you could see the reflective deep yellow surface. The sun bounced off the metal making it hard to look anywhere but the gold that Namjoon had found in literally ten minutes.

“This,” Namjoon began. “Is true gold. Do you know how I can tell?”

You shook your head. Namjoon turned the rock over in his hands.

“One, as you already said, hardness.” He took a nail and flecked off a piece of the small rock. “See how it just scraped off there? That’s a telltale sign.”

“Second, smell. Pyrite sometimes has a slight sulfur smell when rubbed. Gold will not.” He handed you the gold. You turned it over in your hands before bringing it to your nose and inhaling. Nothing.

You met Namjoon’s eyes. “Nothing.”

“Third,” he continued. “Shape. Gold, as you can see is a small malleable lump. Pyrite, like the one yesterday, is larger and more cube-like in structure. More impressive to look at but, less money when sold.”

You nodded and handed the gold back to Namjoon. “How much would you estimate that piece to be worth? If you had to take your best guess?”

“Well,” Namjoon began. “I’m no jeweler. I’m better at finding the minerals than pricing them but if I had to hazard a guess . . . .huh. . . It’s quite a few ounces, at least. Honestly, quite a nifty little chunk there. I’d say possibly upwards of $500?”

Your jaw dropped open. “$500?”

Namjoon shrugged. “I mean, it’s a guess.”

“Holy shit!” That was more money than your father made in three months. You would know, you helped with the books.

“Well, anyway, that’s gold.” Namjoon shoved the gem in his pocket and stood up.

You darted up after him. “Wait, a second! That’s it! What are you going to do with that? Give it to the warden?”

Namjoon smirked at you. “I don’t work for the warden. I’m going to keep it. I need it for research anyway, that’s why I brought you here. Now, we study it.”

You stared at him. Shocked that he could care so little for the fiscal amount of the stone in his pocket. Namjoon, oblivious as normal, merely scooped his belongings into his bag and motioned for you to follow. “Come along, Y/N. We have a long day of documenting ahead of us.”

***

Life as Namjoon’s assistant wasn’t the worst thing ever. Most days would start with you both checking specific points around the river for gold, pyrite, and other expensive minerals. He would bring along a sketchbook and draw the most interesting ones or make a list of the scenarios in which they were found. You followed suit and eventually took over this part of the job for him, since your drawing was exponentially better.

If you were being honest with yourself, it was fun work. Namjoon was great company and always had a variety of fun stories to tell. You couldn’t believe the places he’d been, the environment in which he had grown up, and the people he had met along the way.

“Y’know,” he said one day after finishing a story about a strange magician he had met on the streets of Singapore. He was bent over his desk, scribbling notes into a leather bound book. You were on the opposite side of the room, drawing some of the gold specimens you had gathered that day. The candles were low and the sun setting, providing a warm, evening glow inside the tent. You looked over at him, ink smudged on his chin and hair tousled from his messing. “You’ve had miraculous adventures yourself. Growing up in New York City? Traveling across the entire continent of North America, essentially alone, in search of a new future?” He looked up from his notebook, meeting your eyes from across the room. “It’s pretty impressive stuff.”

You shrugged, breaking eye contact to continue your sketch. “Not really. It was just survival.”

“That’s all adventures are, really,” he murmured, returning to his work. “Surviving.”

***

It was late one evening and the camp had finally quieted down. Namjoon had fallen asleep hours ago covered in a blanket in his favorite chair next to the crackling fire while reading through some manuscripts. You were still awake, concentrating hard on a drawing you had started on a piece of pyrite the two of you had unearthed earlier. You were trying to get the cube like structure of the crystals perfect and it just wasn’t working.

Frustrated, you pressed too hard on your graphite snapping the tip. You flung it across the room with a noise of exasperation and nearly jumped out of your chair at the deep rumble of laughter that followed.

Your head turned to find Namjoon staring at you from across the room, his eyes half lidded with sleep and his hair in it’s permanently mussed state. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been up for awhile.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? I could have brought you some tea.”

“I like watching you work. It’s . . .” he seemed to be searching for the right word. “Mesmerizing.”

You averted your eyes to the floor struggling to keep the blush that had crept up into your cheeks from his view. You hoped he wouldn’t notice in the dim lighting. “I can’t imagine it’s all that interesting.”

“Believe me, it is.”

You met his eyes again and struggled to calm the rapid pace of your heart. When did Namjoon become so handsome? And why was he saying such things?

“Anyway,” you started, standing up from the desk. “It’s getting late and I should be getting to bed.”

“Would you like me to walk you back?” he asked, making to move.

You laughed. “Wouldn’t people find it strange that you’re walking your young male apprentice back to his tent late at night? Don’t want people to think you’re out here doing anything scandalous.”

He smiled at you. “Oh, I’m already a scoundrel in many ways, Y/N.”

You didn’t answer him but hid the smile it caused as you packed up your belongings and bid him farewell.

You pondered your relationship with him the entire walk across camp to your meager tent. With Namjoon, you could be yourself. He didn’t reprimand you for your use of ‘unladylike language’ or tell you to cross your legs when you sat. He also didn’t mind that you wore men's clothes or could outread him in a flat out race. He respected you enough to keep your secret and didn’t treat you any different when the two of you were alone in his tent, allowing you to assist in the work just as much as he.

It was amazing how fast acquaintances turned to friends in the West.

***

“I’m going into the mines today,” Namjoon announced one day, taking a long sip of his tea. He sat in a chair by his desk, flipping through one of his journals. You weren’t sure exactly what it was he was doing but you would be willing to bet money he was searching for some image of a cool rock you sketched a week ago.

“Why on earth would you willingly go into that shithole?”

Namjoon shot you a look before resuming his search. “That shithole, as you so eloquently put it, has apparently yielded some strange stone that the warden wants me to inspect. See if it’s worth any money.

You scoffed. Of course, the warden was searching for a profit, as usual. “Do you want me to come?”

Namjoon laughed. “Want? Yes. Need? No. You stay up here and keep checking the rivers for more pyrite or gold. See if you can find any more samples on the American. I won’t be long, and then I’ll join you.”

***

The hours passed slowly without Namjoon’s conversation. You didn’t think you would ever miss his incessant chatter about rocks and whatever cool facts he could spout on command, yet here you were. You were almost done checking the southernmost point of the American for any recent discoveries from the panners when the earth began to quiver.

You quickly gripped a nearby tree as the shaking intensified, small cracks breaking through the surface nearby. Men screamed as the earth let out another massive quake, and in the distance you could see the tents swaying back and forth. You had felt some minor earthquakes on your journey over, but nothing as huge as this.

In a few seconds the earth settled, resuming her quiet existence, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. You couldn’t wait to see Namjoon later and listen to him ramble on about tectonic plates and the earth’s molten core and whatever other nonsense you had grown fond of.

You stopped in your tracks. When had you grown fond of anything that ridiculous man did?

The realization of your feelings hit you like a wall and you barely moved out of the way in time as a group of men ran towards the camp.

“Hurry!” One of them shouts at you. “Pull yourself together, boy! The mine is collapsing! We need to get those people out!”

You blink, coming out of your stupor. The mine is collapsing?

Your eyes widened.

Namjoon is in the mine.

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